Makeshift Mentality

How many Israelis does it take to fix a leaky ceiling?

Two Israeli maintenance guys working on the dripping coming from above my bed. Sorry for the blurriness.

Last night came the first true rain of the season, and it came hard. It was raining cats and homeless, as some might say. I was at an outdoor bar when it started to really come down. Many Israelis huddled under tarps, thinking they might melt. Others did rain dances as they embraced the rain’s true significance: An end to a very rough drought season and the start of… well… whatever they call the mildly less hot season that comes after drought season.

As the rain ensued, everyone at the outdoor bars made their way to the indoor bars. The lines to these clubs started to grow and grow and grow, eventually becoming giant blobs of soaked, anxious Israelis. People started becoming ultra-aggressive to try to get in, tugging at the bouncer and clawing their way to the front. If you’ve ever tried to get on a crowded bus in Israel, you know exactly what type of aggression I’m referring to. By looking at the strip of bars that makes up the “namal” (aka, the port), you would have thought one of two things: either the port was sinking and the clubs were the life rafts, or the Messiah was on a bar crawl.

My guy friends and I decided to take the “Titanic” approach and use the “women and children first” rule to get into the club. We grabbed our cute, now soaking wet, girl friends and shoved them to the front. (We left the children behind to guard the alcohol). And after a few bROke Hebrew words from the girls to the bouncers, we were quickly in.

But the club was empty. What the hell? The line made it seem like the club was hosting a Jonas Brothers concert, yet inside it wasn't filled anywhere near capacity. These Israeli pricks. These sick, twisted club owners and bouncers were more focused on creating a facade of fun than letting in cold, wet, hopeless Israelis and tourists who just wanted to have a successful night out. I’m actually pretending to give a shit. I really didn’t care. I was already inside and warm. Survival of the fittest.

Anyway, the real trouble began at home. On the whole, Israelis have this sort of makeshift mentality. If something serves its purpose for the time being, it’s good enough for them. So, yes, the makeshift housing that is my apartment served quite well for the dry season. But now that it’s virtually monsooning outside, I think it’s time to prevent my ceiling from perpetual leaking.

Early this morning, I felt a bead hit my blanket. I was sleeping so I ignored it. A few seconds later, another hit in the exact same spot. I tried shifting, but the beads were now hitting quicker and quicker, creating vibrations throughout my bed. I looked up, and sure enough it was raining in my room. Damnet.

But I was just too tired to care. So I moved my bed, and fell back asleep.

When I reawakened this afternoon, I was angry. Not necessarily because of the Everglades that had formed next to my bed (I was actually quite excited to buy some crocs and fish and charge admission), but because I knew I would have to deal with our repair guy. His name is Etai. Two months ago, we told Etai about our ant problem and our broken air conditioner. He said he would be right back to fix them. We’re still waiting.

Etai is pretty much in hibernation unless a pretty girl asks for assistance. Then he’s the most productive man alive. But I don’t have anything to offer him. Unless, by chance, Etai happens to get his kicks from scrawny American guys dressed in Delta “underwear” that was accidentally bought on sale at the mall (see “Don’t Get Your Panties in a Jumble!”). But that doesn't seem likely.

Sure enough, Etai didn’t show up.

But two other maintenance men did. And they came fast. It was like a Jimmy John’s commercial in that a few seconds after I made the phone call, they were at my door. I couldn’t believe how prepared they were. Almost like they knew the housing complaints were going to come as hard as the first rains that brought them. They came in with smiles and ladders, and before I even finished my breakfast, they were gone.

Holy shit. That was fast!

But a little too fast…

I don’t know much about maintenance work, but I do know that preventing a ceiling from long term leakage takes some work. Perhaps some plaster. Perhaps some caulk. Perhaps some research to accurately pinpoint the source from which the water is coming. But anything beyond makeshift.

But I was too impressed with how quickly maintenance responded to my complaint that I wasn’t thinking about any of this. For the rest of breakfast I couldn’t help but place Israel on a pedestal. It was amazing. Imagine all the possibilities for Israel -- I thought to myself -- if Israelis were this punctual and seemingly productive with all their priorities. They already have one of the strongest militaries in the world, but imagine all the other fields they could lead in. It made me smile.

After breakfast I walked over to see my new, proud, world-renowned water-resistant ceiling that was made for me in record time by two productive Israelis.

I looked up and…. Oh, fuck.

How many Israelis does it take to fix a leaky ceiling?

Apparently more than two…

My new cardboard roof

Don't Get Your Panties in a Jumble!

Beach season is nearing its end for Israelis, but I’m just getting into wardrobe.

I didn’t bring much with me. Just two duffel bags: one of electronics and one of clothes. So I'm consequently doing laundry once a week. And I hate it. Every opportunity I have to avoid spending a day trying to read the illegible Hebrew instructions on a package of detergent designed to look like a package of chocolate ice cream so that kids will convince their parents to buy it but instead trick me into eating a few spoonfuls causing me to burp up bubbles for the rest of the week, I’ll gladly take. So in order to stop from regularly attending the laundromat, I decided to buy more underwear…

My first stop was the “shook.” For those unfamiliar with the shook, it’s the major outdoor market where everything is cheaper, but at the cost of swarming flies. So I’m not sure why I thought this would be a good place to shop for my underwear. Maybe it’s because there’s something enticing about buying discounted boxers. That with every step you take in this sweltering heat, you feel good knowing that your undercarriage is as Jewish as you are. If I’m going to chintz on my shirts and pants, there’s no reason my undergarments should be left out.

Anyway, upon arriving at the shook, I only found these obnoxious boxers. Really obnoxious. Like tight stretchy boxers with little glistening beads sequenced along the lining. You just, by the way, witnessed the first time I’ve ever used the words “boxers” and “glistening beads sequenced” in the same sentence. But it was only a matter of time in Israel.

I stood at the underwear stand for about 15 minutes staring at my options. The Israelis were yelling at me to buy or move on. But I was weighing out the pros and cons in my head:

Pro -- I wouldn’t have to shop for underwear anymore;
Con -- I would have to say I bargained for underwear.
Pro -- I could get three for $3;
Con -- I would have to wear them.
Pro -- I won’t have to do laundry as often;
Con -- I would have to wash them first.

My final verdict: Yes. This is definitely worth it.

But as I opened my wallet to buy the goods, I was bROke. So it was back to my apartment for some cash, and back to the drawing board.

I decided to check out the mall to see what it had. It would be more expensive than the shook, but at least I wouldn’t have the promise of a musical number from “All That Jazz” occurring in my pants.

I walked in, and had no idea where to even begin. So I stopped to ask the cute barista at The Coffee Bean.

“Eefo underwear?” I asked.

Despite being bROke Hebrew, “Eefo underwear” sounded much cooler than saying, “Excuse me ma’am, but can you please tell me where the ‘Arse’-free underwear shop is?”

She pointed me to the Delta store. It had a shamrock for a logo. Maybe I’d get lucky. I went inside and saw some numbers written on the wall. “A sale?!” I rushed over to the underwear section. I double-checked with three different people to make sure I was in the male underwear section. They laughed but said, Yes. You never can be too sure here.

Anyway, I then found out that it was indeed a sale: Buy one at full price, get the second half off. Of course I jumped at the opportunity to buy two packs of three boxers each. The last two packages at that. I quickly grabbed them. They were my size, pre-packaged and looked like they were of solid color (not sequenced with beads). Good enough for me; I was in and out with no hesitation.

Though, upon arriving home, I wish I hadn’t impulse underwear shopped. I opened the packages and my chin hit the floor. I couldn’t believe it. No description needed, just look at what I bought…



My first reaction was to sue Delta for false advertisement. This wasn’t underwear! This was a Medieval torture device. One of those contraptions that slowly killed you by starting at the testicles. All it was missing were the metal spikes. But I’m sure I could buy those separately at the shook.

The last time I wore anything remotely resembling this strange “underwear” was in 5th grade when I dressed up as Quail Man for Halloween. But even then I was only wearing “whitey-tighteys.” These weren’t “whitey-tighteys.” They were on a whole other level. They were “tighty-tightys”… with a face-lift.

But I could no longer return the tighty-tightys to the store. I probably could have before I did a reenactment of Tom Cruise’s Risky Business dance. But now it was too late. So I was only left with one option: Become an Israeli. I must embrace these undergarments. Show them off whenever and wherever I could: In the mall. On the beach. At the “namal” by the beach. Maybe I’ll even talk to some Israelis about starting a club:

Topic for Week One: Finding a pair in pink.
Topic for Week Two: Stretching in areas densely populated with tourists.
Topic for Week Three: Properly perming your chest hair to accompany your undies.

Now, I try to make my posts have some sort of final message about Israeli culture and lifestyle; a message that connects cultures east and west, all the while trying to bring the content of my posts to a level beyond mediocrity. And this post is no different. So with that said, my important, relevant, insightful message that everyone should take away is this:

Israeli underwear fucking sucks.

As I was walking out of Delta, the cashier had some final words that I didn't remember until now:

“Be careful about how you wash them,” she said. “They tend to shrink.”

I’m never doing laundry again…

I've Got Mixed Feelings About My Love-Hate Relationships...

Today, my favorite Moroccan, French, Israeli, screenwriter, brain surgeon, whatever friend with that wilderness of chest hair came into the Chaos Films office. You might remember him as Michele, the guy who pretty much called me and everybody else at the Lebanon film premier “shlubbs.” If you don’t remember him, read the post “Underdressed to Kill.” But that post doesn't nearly do his character justice. As you'll soon find out, he is highly animated, extremely stubborn, and just one of those all-around characters that you know G-d created to watch while eating a bucket of popcorn. Anyway, he came into the office today for a meeting, and of course things got heated…

There’s this film production market called "Berlinale," to which Michele has been wanting to pitch his story The Syrian. If accepted to Berlinale, there's a very high probability that Michele's story will get some sort of distribution deal. Many big name actors and filmmakers attend the market to hear about all the new movie ideas. And even though The Syrian script sucks, the story may actually be good enough for him to pitch on its own. However, before anyone can attend Berlinale, they need to be accepted.

It's the responsibility of the storyteller to understand what Berlinale is and how the application process works. It's crucial, in fact. After all, they are the ones who need to perfectly fill out the application, hand it on to an initial producer (my boss Avi), and then proceed to convince other producers at the market to fund his or her story.

Michele has no experience in the movie industry. However, it’s important to note that he acts like he does. So he comes to the office today, demanding that the Berlinale application for his script The Syrian be completed in time. The application is due in a week. It requires about 15 pages worth of intricately worded essays. In English. And up until today, Michele, of course, had never seen a copy of the form.

Michele has these hopes and dreams and illusions. And what those illusions tell him is that he’s going to be the next big storyteller to come out of Hollywood, despite living in the Middle East, knowing limited English, and refusing to do any required work.

It was myself, Michele and Avi in the meeting today. Michele came up with the idea to mark the initials of the person who would complete various elements of the application. Fine. That may actually be a good way for us to progress on a form in which we have absolutely no chance of finishing by next Thursday. We start scrolling down, and I see him vigorously writing initials in his red pen. He goes through 3 pages in about 30 seconds, and then hands me the form:

It reads: S.F., S.F., S.F., S.F., A.B., A.B., S.F., A.B., S.F., M.I., S.F.

He assigned me to about 70% of an application which I knew 0% about. The one section with Michele’s "M.I." initials next to it was the Writer’s Contact Information. Wow, thanks for the contribution. He generously assigned Avi and I the tasks of answering the form's following questions (taken nearly verbatim from the document, but not in the same order):

1) What do you hope to get out of the Berlinale Co-Production Market? (S.F.)
2) Why should this film be an international co-production? (S.F.)
3) How do you want to set up the film as an international co-production? (S.F.)
4) Which positions are open to potential co-producers/partners? (S.F.)
5) Have you participated in or applied for any other co-production market(s)
or any development and/or training initiatives with this project? (Please name) (S.F.)
6) Treatment (5-8 pages) (S.F.) (Still don’t know what the hell this means, by the way)
7) Script Excerpt (5 pages) (S.F.)
8) Synopsis (25 lines) (S.F.)
9) Company Profile (A.B.)
10) Financiers/Partners already confirmed (A.B.)
11) Writer’s name (Please write in crayon) (M.I.)

There are also required (*) aspects of the form like “Director’s Note and Visual Concept (25 lines)”; “Director’s Biography/Filmography (5-7 lines)”; and “Main Cast” that Michele elected to answer with a simple “N/A.”

I think more fitting initials for Michele should be: M.I.A.

After M.I.A. presented us with this foolproof plan of how he was going to submit this application professionally and on-time to Berlinale, Avi calmly flipped. At first Michele started yelling because he couldn’t understand why this couldn’t be done in one week. Then Avi started yelling back because he couldn’t understand how one could possibly think that this could be done in one week. There was no director, no cast, no crew, a shitty script, and a man who had no other answers but to point the finger at everybody else.

“We’ve had plenty of time to fill out!” M.I.A. yelled. “Why do you now tell me of all these things!”

Eventually the yelling became too heated and difficult to continue in English. They were really only speaking English because I was in the room. But when the content of the argument became much bigger than me, they switched back and forth between Hebrew and French.

I understood various words of the argument, helping me keep up with what they were saying. I heard words like impossible, idiot, and my favorite, Scott. I forget, but I hope they weren’t using them all in the same sentence.

Anyway, after sitting there awkwardly for about 10 minutes, Avi sits back in his chair and starts speaking English. He was speaking to Michele, but now also indirectly to me:

“Filmmaking is a very tedious process. You can’t cut corners in this industry. If you are not prepared to submit a project, you need to be patient. You can’t rush the process. Everything takes time, Michele, if you want to do it right. It’s like a diamond cutter. People can tell when a diamond is fake and when it is very well done. All the small things show. Filmmaking is the same. You can’t come in here not prepared and expect everything to be good. It’s your story and your vision. Scott can help you word stuff and I can help you pitch it. But ultimately, it’s going to have to be you.”

Avi actually speaks really good English. So that grammar wasn’t too far from how he legitimately talks.

“Scott, will you please leave the room. I need to speak to Michele in Hebrew now,” he continued, in similar fashion to how a mobster might send away a young child before performing a hit.

I gladly left.

The yelling presumed on the other side of the door. But I wasn't listening. I sat at my computer, hearing only the replayed words from Avi’s mini speech. They really resonated with me. So many people are like Michele when it comes to the film industry. Everyone thinks it’s easy and that they can become a famous Hollywood figure overnight. Including myself at times. We are all looking for our 15 minutes. But working at this office -- seeing how Avi conducts business and takes on projects -- I’m learning a lot about the filmmaking profession. Profession being the key word. It’s tedious, stressful, and most of all, unstable. But this is precisely what I think drives me most to want to continue in this field. The most insignificant results are emphasized a million times because of the work it takes to get there. People are so proud when they complete even the shittiest 5-minute film ever uploaded onto YouTube. And with good reason.

As I was witnessing the highs and lows of Michele and Avi’s relationship, I immediately understood the relationship I have to develop with the film industry if I want to survive. It has to be nothing short of love-hate. If it's all love -- like the relationship most have with the film industry -- then we all become walking/talking Micheles.

For the past week and a half I’ve been working with a former BBC employee, named Ben, on the pitch of a documentary feature film. He’s been working to edit a 3-minute teaser, and I’ve been writing the document that we plan on sending to PBS, BBC and some French and Israel financers. The story is about the dramatic exodus of the Jews of Algeria in the 1960s, told through the eyes and music of Maurice El Medioni, the 2007 winner of BBC’s World Music Award. The documentary is much more complex than this. But that’s what the pitch and trailer are for.

Anyway, after about 20 hours spent on the actual writing of the 3-page pitch, and another 15 hours researching methods to properly pitch it to these big wigs, I’m fed up. So now it’s time for you guys to do the assistant producing…

The link at the bottom of this post will bring you to the pitch. I posted it on my other Web site as I couldn't figure out how to attach a Word document to this blog. It's only the text, which is really all I care about. But give me your input: Can you envision the story? What changes would you make to the narrative? Would you grant our production money – roughly $50,000 – to make the film (keeping in mind that you work for one of the aforementioned production companies)?

Your suggestions and honesty can only help us. We haven’t sent anything yet. As I am now immune to tiny details, it’s up to you to catch the nitty gritty stuff that may get us turned away. Don’t hold back. Because if this project gets proper funding, Ben and I get assistant producer credits as well as creative input into the final cut. But we’re not so concerned about that now. Instead, we spent a good portion of the day discussing how much this project has made us hate the 2007 winner of BBC’s World Music Award – Maurice El Medioni.

But to tie all this stuff together, I want to go back to the Michele fiasco…

I was sitting at my desk working on this Maurice project, when 45 minutes later Michele walks out of Avi’s office with a big smile on his face.

“Uh-oh,” I thought to myself.

He walks over to my desk with the Berlinale form in hand.

“Avi says we can finish this in about 12 hours,” M.I.A. said. “So I’m gonna call and e-mail you this weekend to complete!”

On my tombstone, instead of carving in my name, please just use a red pen and write my initials:

(S.F.)

Click here for the pitch. Its working title is "Maghreb Vista." Again, pay no attention to the formatting. Look forward to your comments.

Lost in Transliteration

My eNgLisH is bROke, but my Hebrew is worse. For three weeks prior to my internship, I was in an ulpan class for five hours a day. The word “ulpan,” I’ve learned to discover, is just a fancier name for “complete waste of time.” In three weeks I’ve learned only three words: kafe, Anglit and zayin. Which translate to: coffee, English and penis. You know… the essentials.

Anyway, it’s not such a big deal not knowing any Hebrew. I’m able to get around just fine with English. Like today, when I had to stop at the currency exchange to convert my dollars to Shekels…


So I was walking down Alenbi St., looking for the best exchange rates, when I spotted the store pictured above. (Study the photo as it will be referred to often in the upcoming story). The double-sided sign sitting on the stoop of the entrance really enticed me to exchange my money here.

“I wanna get cange,” I said.

The teller looked confused.

“What?” he asked.
“I wanna get cange.”
“What’s this cange?” he asked.
“You know, converting my American dollars to Shekels,” I replied.
“You mean change?” he said.
“No, cange. Like your sign says.”
“I do not understand.”
“Hold on one sec,” I replied.

I went back outside and looked at the sign again. But my attention went from the double-sided sign to the sign at the bottom of the window. I looked at it closely, and then went back inside.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I would like to get some chang.”
“Change?”
“Yeah, chang.”
“I don’t understand what you mean chang. Where you from?”
“America.”
“Is word chang in English?”
“Yeah, but it is usually associated with the Asian culture.”
“So why would have chang here?” he asked.
“I dunno. But it’s advertised outside.”
“Would you like change?” He sounded frustrated.
“Hold on just one more sec.”

I walked back outside. And after rescanning the two signs, I looked up at the sign above the store. “Ahhh... Change” I mumbled under my breath, suddenly now realizing what the teller was talking about.

“I’d like to get some change,” I said with a smile on my face as I slapped a hundred dollar bill on the counter.

The teller stared at me for a couple of seconds.

“You’re an ignorant moron.”

Alright, so he may not have said that. And I have to admit, much of that story was embellished. And by embellished I mean completely fabricated. But you probably picked up on that when I said I slapped a hundred dollar bill on the counter. Everyone knows my wallet has never seen a hundred. But seriously, there's a bigger issue at hand. As frustrating as it is speaking with Israelis – whether it be trying to practice your Hebrew or just getting by in their hurried English – they make more of an effort with language than we do. I feel it’s a moral responsibility to learn the native tongue of the country one’s living in. But I haven’t taken any initiative. After the three-week ulpan class finished, I haven’t looked at any notes whatsoever. I loaded the Rosetta Stone Hebrew disc onto my computer, but I have yet to install it. So if the teller actually would have called me an “ignorant moron,” he would have been right.

The point is: Israelis’ bROke eNgLiSh is light years ahead of any bROke language Americans fail to learn. The fact that they even have a sign in another language – even if "change" is spelled three different ways – is a significant advancement from anything I’ve seen in the States. We’re spoiled in that every other culture revolves around our needs, and we don’t take the time or exert the energy to reciprocate when we have the opportunity. This is exactly what so many foreigners have a problem with when it comes to American culture, and I think our culture really needs to cange.

So after I’ve completely mastered all the dirty words in Hebrew, I’m going to continue to practice my Eevreet…

Wash. Rinse. Repeat sparingly.

Things in Tel Aviv are always under construction. It’s not that there are huge skyscrapers that always need repairing. But rather, the Israelis are counterconstructive, so to speak. Anyway, they are doing some digging and repairs on our building, and warned us that the water would be shut-off from midnight until five in the morning.

Now when an Israeli says midnight to five AM, what that usually means is 2:30 until about 9 AM. They’re always late. At least when it comes to things that absolutely, positively have to be done on time. Last night everyone was prepared for a midnight cut-off. To be safe, many even planned to have all their water needs finished by 11:30. But nobody was prepared for a 10:30 cut-off. The water was shut off an hour and a half early! But it was my fault for not anticipating this. After all, at some point the construction workers had to make up for their perpetual tardiness.

Israel has a water shortage. This shouldn’t come to a surprise since it’s in the middle of the desert. But the past years have been especially bad. Many of the crops have been ruined because of drought, which in turn largely affects their agricultural production. (More about this here.)

Locals are used to limiting their water intake. They grow up practicing habits like turning off their faucets mid-brush or eating grapes without washing them. Unlike Americans who take two 30-minute steaming hot showers per day. When the bathroom mirrors fog up, Americans see this as an obstacle preventing them from staring at themselves, while Israelis see it as a chance to collect and drink the condensation.

Anyway, you can only imagine the apocalyptic crisis that must have occurred in our Anglo-dominated building when the water was cut short an hour and a half early. Chaos. “The water is out?! OMG!” some yelled. “I still have to brush my teeth!” others panicked. I too was upset, as I was quite dehydrated from running around the building screaming about not having water.

But none of these situations were as serious as poor Michelle’s. Michelle had just returned from a long jog on the beach. She smelled. And as she heated up the water and prepared for her shower, she was denied her basic right to cleanliness.

“I may not be able to go to work tomorrow,” she worried. But that didn’t make much sense. Israelis, mainly the religious, go days without showering or wearing deodorant. If anything, a nice bath may be considered a health violation here.

But since there was absolutely no way of knowing when the water would be turned back on, we improvised. We grabbed two water bottles that my friend had in his refrigerator, and planned to bathe Michelle. She quickly eliminated the idea of a full-body wash due to the fact that two guys were conducting this operation. Actually, really only one; I was more taking pictures. Which also didn’t help our plea for a full frontal wash. But her hair was the most important thing that needed to be cleaned. And due to the amount of hair she had, there wouldn’t have been enough water for her body anyway.

She tilted her head back and my friend started washing. And as he was scrubbing, I couldn’t help but think of Adam Sandler’s Israeli character, The Zohan. “I just want to make people silky-smooth!” I kept quoting in my head as I watched my non-Israeli (yet now honorary Israeli) friend masterfully wash Michelle’s hair with two bottles of water. I was witnessing Middle Eastern magic.

"The Zohan" washes Michelle's hair with a water bottle in the sink because of the building's early H2O shut-off.

Moving on, at about 11:45 PM, about 15 minutes after finishing Michelle’s Israeli wash and 15 minutes before the water was supposed to be turned off, I returned to my room. I was still very thirsty, and forgetting that the water was shut-off, I turned on the faucet to get a drink. And of course, the water started to flow. I ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower. That was flowing too. Everyone started to come out of their rooms: “The water is back on!”

In my last post I talked about the very relaxed approach of an Israeli. We figured that since the water was turned off at 10:30, there was no predicting the next time it will be turned back on. So we panicked and tried to make the best of our situation, as most Westerners do. But had we just relaxed and waited a bit longer, the water would have been working fine; Michelle could have taken a full-body shower and I wouldn’t have been mentally preparing myself for another Yom Kippur fast. Patience is an essential skill to have as a developing Israeli.

But still, at least for one night we were able to convince an American girl to only use two bottles of water to wash her hair. I’m seriously putting in a bid to the Israeli government to receive some sort of Environmental Metal of Honor…

Underdressed to Kill

Yesterday was my first day of work at Chaos Films. And to say the least, it was somewhat chaotic. Within the first hours I was given the assignment to read, analyze and discuss a script that the company will be submitting to Berlinale (link for more info) in order to get the story developed. The script is called The Syrian, and, honestly, the script doesn't do the story justice.

Anyway, more from this in future posts. My boss, Avi, told me and the screenwriter of The Syrian, Michele (the guy's way of spelling it), to attend the premier of an Israeli film called Lebanon. He gave us his tickets, and the two of us were entering a world of Israeli film in which neither of us were familiar with. (Lebanon is a film that takes place entirely inside an Israeli tank. I highly recommend seeking it out in a few months in America. Here's an article about it.)

Michele, a 40+ year-old French Moroccan who is struggling to keep his feet grounded with his new script, picked me up to attend the premier. I was wearing black pants with a nice polo, but he was dressed much finer. He had black slacks, polished black shoes, and a black button-down exposing an Israeli wilderness of chest hair. When we were younger and sent away to have trees planted in Israel, I didn’t realize they were being planted on his chest. He looked and acted like his screenplay had already hit it big.

“You’re not dressed well enough,” he said to me upon entering his silver convertible.
“What do you mean? I think I look nice.”
“You need button-down. None of these, howdoyousay, T-shirts.”
“Well, it’s too late now. It’s gonna have to do.”
“Ehhhh. I guess. People will just think you’re somebody’s son.”

If there’s anything I both appreciate and loathe about Israeli culture it’s that there’s never a standard for dress, yet people will always make a brutally honest comment about your wardrobe.

We were the first ones to arrive, despite being late. But that was OK because we had infinite access to the free food and drink offered. As we stuffed ourselves, more and more people began to arrive. Supposedly many of them were famous. But as I was looking for these famous people, I couldn’t tell any of them apart. Everyone was wearing house clothes. Even, as Michele pointed out, the famous ones. This was a premier, right??

“Am I still too underdressed?” I asked Michele somewhat rhetorically.
“No, no. Everyone here looks so shlubby. I hate it. I hate that about Israel. When I was younger and used to dress up for school because it made me feel good, my teachers used to ask me if I was getting married.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I think because of the army. The army makes us so disciplined that afterward nobody cares to dress up. It’s completely the opposite of America. Nobody, not even the janitor, would dare not dress up to a movie premier.”

At first, I couldn’t tell if this was something I liked or disliked about Israeli society. The only people that really dressed up were the main people of the film, and of course Michele. On one hand (the hand that Michele wanted to slap everyone with), Israeli’s don’t take much anything, aside from the army, seriously. They’re never on time, they rarely dress up, and their lunch breaks range as long as their workdays. However, they’re more relaxed. They stressed enough throughout their services that now they feel an obligation to relax. And being relaxed works for them in the long run as they have somehow created a first-world country in a third-world environment.

Furthermore, being underdressed isn’t a big deal because they don’t judge one another as critically as we do in America. Never once at this huge (yet small in comparison) premier did I hear any sort of Joan Rivers-type characters yell “Who are you wearing?!” The superficial society that has enveloped America doesn’t exist here.

We entered the theater and there I sat: In Israel, next to a French Moroccan, who wrote a script called The Syrian, watching a war movie called Lebanon.

And then I began to chuckle to myself as I realized how lucky I was to be in the situation I was in, as well as what I was going to wear to work tomorrow…

It was a good first day.

(Some pictures of the premier below)

The actors of "Lebanon" dressed somewhat nicely.

Some important studio executives dressed very nicely.

The other famous "shlubbs" of the Israeli entertainment industry.

The Fundamentalist Cookbook

Thank G-d for Shabbat because I’m beat. From Sunday morning to Thursday evening I’ve been touring the north: hiking through the Golan Heights and the Grottos, swimming in the Kenneret, eating with the Druze people, and praying in the Ultra-Orthodox town of Tzfat. (Some pictures below). But combined, none of these even hold a candle to the exhausting conversation we had with a 60+ year-old kibbutz founder on the Israel-Lebanese border…



A discussion of general politics is always tiring. You have to hear and respect the endless opinions of everyone involved, all the while trying to formulate your own opinions and recall facts to contribute to the conversation. And if any of these aspects aren’t in their sharpest forms, you’re automatically a “dumbass.” Well, when it comes to Israeli politics, every element is heightened. And when discussing such politics for over 2 hours, let’s just say it takes the “fun” out of “fundamentalism.”

I know in my last post I said I wouldn't be concentrating too heavily on Israeli/Middle Eastern politics, so let me do my best to tell you this story without getting too Jerusalem Post-y...

About 80 kids from around the world arrive on the Israel-Lebanese border. We’re sitting atop one of the tallest Israeli hills in the Golan, looking across the border at all the Lebanese residential houses below. They stretch nearly endlessly. They look nice and well constructed. However, then an old Israeli man with a beard up to his eyeballs comes forth and tells us to look closer at the houses.

“What’s missing?” he asked us.

Nobody answered.

“Windows,” he said. “None of these houses have windows because they are Hezbollah bunkers.” He told us that as far as our eyes could see, every single “nice” looking house was merely a façade. People live in them, yes, but they are members and supporters of the Hezbollah. These houses hold ammunition, guns, and hatred toward Jews. And it’s only a matter of time until these houses, once again, become war zones.

“Well how come we’re not in danger atop this hill?” someone asked.

It’s because of their discipline, the Israeli man sort of yelled at us. Nobody is going to fire at us unless the Hezbollah has organized an attack. If someone freely fires from their home, the Hezbollah will kill them. It’s ironic that their obedience to Islamic fundamentalism makes it OK to kill Jews in large quantities, but not on an individual basis.

Anyway, we then got into this long conversation about how we were currently on a military base as well as a kibbutz, and discussed when the next time Lebanon might fire at this hill. He said he was fired at in 2006, just narrowly being blown to bits by a Lebanese tank. But I couldn’t focus on the content of the politics in which we were talking. I was too distracted by this old man. For every question he was asked, he yelled the answer. I don’t know why, but he did. And it wasn’t just his way of talking. He was so passionate about Israel that any question we asked him was turned into an ignorant one. How dumb are you that you don’t know the answer to that?? Aren’t you a Jew??? People were afraid to ask him questions for fear of being humiliated. And with good reason; as people asked more and more political questions, his answers became more and more obnoxious.

The questions were interrupted by a bell and Arabic chants from the other side of the border. It was prayer time for the Islamic Lebanese, and while it was a pretty sound, it was ugly because it was rooted in fundamentalism. I thought of a question to ask at this moment. People were asking complex political questions which we angering him, so I thought I would ask an innocent question to see what reaction I would get. He kept talking about how much he loved this hill, but never said why. So, naturally I asked him, “What makes you love this hill so much?”

He stopped pacing, and looked me dead in the eyes. I saw his face turn read through his thick Israeli beard.

“How long have you been here?!”
“About a month.”
“Well look at this hill! How do you not see its beauty?!”
“Well,” I replied, “I don’t like your neighbors.”

Some chuckled, but he didn’t. He got angrier and started yelling. Yelling more than he did for any other answer, or answer to come.

“You know what, I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you! But one day when the Christians kick you out of the United States, you’ll have a home here! And you’ll have a home because of people like me! I love this land because it’s MINE! And if I don’t love it here, then someone else will be atop this hill! And if not me, then maybe my Arab neighbors! For all I’m concerned, Hitler was the last man who’s going to exterminate the Jews! Next question!!”

Whoa. A simple “The cherries are delicious here” would have sufficed. But then again, I knew I wasn’t going to get that answer.

He answered my question with his passion and pride, not with a tangible: A very Israeli approach to taking questions. And I liked his answer, but only because I agreed with him. Had I not believed in the state of Israel or the power of the Jewish people, then I would have thought he was crazy. Or perhaps, a radical. Hell, I thought that anyway. Which, unfortunately, made me understand the passion of the terrorists across the border. While what they do can never be understood by a sane global citizen, I can see how they’re brainwashed into becoming killing machines. They have leaders more than double intense as this old Israeli man telling young Arab kids that Israel and Jerusalem is theirs and that the Jew is standing in the way. I was only with this old man for a couple of hours, and even though I didn’t like how he yelled at everyone and belittled our Judaism, by the end of it I felt proud and passionate to be here and to be helping the land of Israel. These Arab kids are born into such radicalism and brainwashed into only asking questions like “How do we best kill the Jew?!” as opposed to “Why must the Jews die exactly??” They don't even realize that they're the waves of a vicious cycle.

We were a group of 80 kids, afraid to ask an old Israeli man any question we desired for fear of a mere harsh reaction. And we are the ones who have the choice, education and ability to question our world. Hezbollah kids don't. Their questions become much more narrow when death is on the line. And as long as radicals and fundamentalists exist in the world, forbidding people to freely ask and act upon the questions they so desire, peace will never be a tangible ideal.

Oy. This shit is exhausting me... Nap time.

Scatch & Sniff Here: The first post

In the same tradition as dogs smelling other dogs' butts to greet and learn more about them, I too believe that smelling a city is getting to know it. I was greeted in Brussels with the sweet smells of chocolate, to Rome with mozzarella and basil, and now to Tel Aviv with cat poop and urine-soaked homeless people.

Wait, what?

How dare you say that about Israel, the homeland of the Jewish people and our ancestors in which we’ve fought and fought and struggled to upkeep; the anchor of the Middle East where Western society collides with East; and the land of Zionism, science, technology, education, military, religion, social divide, medicine, political triumph and struggle, economics, agriculture, immigration, and milk & honey.

So where do YOU get off, Scott Frankel, that YOU of all people can speak illy of the biggest “bang for your buck” country of southwest Asia?!

That’s the point. The purpose of bROke eNgLisH isn’t to directly discuss Israel’s politics, it’s depiction in media or it’s place in a modern, globalized world. This blog is dedicated to the cat poop of the country, so to speak. The small components of this small land. Everything from the way air conditioners drip on you while walking down King George St. to the reason chick peas will one day out-value the Shekel. This gives the country an important and comprehensible personality – one that’s immensely different from what most see on television or in the papers. And today’s first topic of discussion: cat poop, urine-soaked homeless people, and the smells of Israel’s major urban center.

There was once a rat problem in Israel. The British solved that by introducing cats. Now there’s a fucking cat problem. And I’m reminded of this every time I leave my apartment, often just narrowly avoiding a hekshered “Welcome to Tel Aviv” turd basket left by Felix, Garfield, Sylvester and the other neighborhood cats on my front steps. Often times I wake up to the pitter-patter of soft footsteps above me. There’s a hole in the plaster above my bed, allowing the sounds from the tin can they call a roof to be emphasized. So when the cats climb and purr around above me, I often find myself lying still in the dead of night legitimately believing that a panther or other large cat has made its way from the Congo to kill me for being a dog lover. It's only a matter of time before the stench accumulates from above, literally haunting my sleep.

But in terms of smells, cat poop isn’t nearly as bad as the homeless men and women who line the city. The cats and homeless are friends here. They understand each other’s language. They dig through the trash together, sleep under the benches together, and even shop for the same colognes together. I know there are homeless people everywhere, but I didn’t quite imagine such a large number in Tel Aviv. Or maybe it just seems that way because Tel Aviv is small and there’s a proportionate amount. Anyway, there’s this huge contrast between the homeless and the fashionable, yuppie, fast-paced city goers who are transforming Tel Aviv into—as writer David Kaufman puts it— the “Mediterranean’s New Capital of Cool.” (Link it.) To one extent, the homeless are lazy. Actually, to many extents. Some sit outside all day with their hands out and heads down in hopes of exploiting religion for a Shekel or two. Others are talentless street musicians who have been known to fall asleep at their guitars. But all of whom smell of cheap vodka, urine, and rotten Schnitzel, tainting the smell and image of a thriving city.

On King George St., a cat nears me in the foreground as a homeless men begs for money in the back.

But the smells of cats and homeless men act primarily as metaphors.

Before arriving here I had a different image of what Tel Aviv really was. When you’re proud to be among a group of people (whether it have religious affiliations or not) you hold everything it has to offer in a higher light. Especially its home base. Coming to Israel six years ago on a youth tour, I was blinded by all the realities of what it actually meant to live here. We were sheltered, young tourists excited to meet other Americans, swim in the Dead Sea and eat falafel. So when I returned to the States after a six-week tour, I really didn’t pay attention to Israel’s living conditions. It was a false utopia of Jewish ideals and customs.

Such is what I’m loving about being in Tel Aviv today: I’m able to experience this different side of Israel. One that’s vulnerable. One that brushes religion aside whilst being submerged in it. And one that’s real. This is the best way to understand a people and a belief, and the best way to better define myself as a developing Jew and human being. Religion isn’t all about G-d and the nitty-gritty customs and rituals the Holy scripture may or may not tell one to practice. It’s about what’s real and tangible. And sometimes that means sniffing a homeless man or stepping in cat feces.

Through the upcoming months I look forward to sharing with you what being Israeli is really about.