Maybe it is Just a Case of Denial
 

There was a time, in years gone by, when I was an easy target for every charity that needed a volunteer. If the Children of the World needed a cheerleader, then I would get my bucket, stand on the street corner and collect money for them. The same went for the Red Cross, neighborhood bake sales and battered women's shelters. I marched for everybody. Eventually, I felt pretty much burned out, a condition only exacerbated when I was asked to serve as a committee-woman by B'nai Brith, the national Jewish organization, and on the board of the Atlanta Jewish Welfare Federation. I could not believe the care and effort expended in finding money for black children who were then able to attend summer camp, or for the layettes that the charity hospital in Atlanta purchased to send welfare children home with nice wardrobes.  And these very same Jewish Federations advertise that the children of Latino mothers won't lack for anything. They arrange and pay for English lessons for her many children, born across the border, and provide the new immigrants with food, housing, and hospital care. Further, these liberal Jewish groups at the same time allow Jewish Day Schools and Community Centers to close for lack of funding!

My own daughter, who has three babies in a Jewish Day school in Atlanta is paying a tab of $37,000 to keep them in there. I think that books are included, but they're really not old enough to read yet. Outrageous! How many other mothers are forced to work another forty hours a week just to be able to afford to see their children get a good education? Certainly not the non-Jewish parent who never has to give it a thought that a Jewish organization is giving her child a scholarship. Over time, my anger with these midguided liberal leftists has grown. I am angry with fellow Jews who are clueless; Jews who haven't given a single thought to the fact that so many of their own, in Israel and here in America, need their charity. They want to tend everybody's garden except their own. I, like so many others, only have limited free time. So, reality forced me to the conclusion that although it was nice to help the arts and all the cultural and city programs that asked for help, to do so would have burned me out completely and emptied my pocketbook within a very short period of time. Therefore, my approach changed; from then on, I decided whenever a black church felt the need to invite a Jewish day school to a weekend retreat, I’d send a check to the Jewish school to cover part of the expense of hosting them. So far, it's never happened. I cannot ever recall any Christian or Muslim organization raising anything to sponsor a Jewish child.  Recently, I went to Saint John's Hospital in Santa Monica. So many of the names on the plaque honouring their sponsors were Jewish. Yet, how many of these very same people have donated to a hospital in Israel? Actually, I sometimes wonder where all the money comes from to fill my mailbox on a daily basis with return address stickers, greeting cards, get well cards, seasonal and holiday cards, and, oh, let's not forget, those Easter or Xmas stickers (although neither is a big day around my house). Where do they find the funds to send out embossed cards of birds in flight, puppies at play or angels? Am I supposed to feel great remorse and write a larger check whenever I'm sent pictures of children with harelips, eyes bulging and stomachs distended from disease and starvation, or women with dead or dying babies at their breasts? I wonder how much of the donation check actually gets through, or does it go to pay bloated executive salaries? Sorry, I meant "administrative expenses".

How crass of me to even remember, when being solicited for a donation to UNICEF, that they hate Israel and anything Jewish. These organizations are anti-Semitic, anti-Zionist and anti-Israel. Actually, the same goes for the Red Cross. And all too often, many of the children that I am supposed to send money to in these third world countries are baby Muslims who will be educated to grow up and kill the Zionists wherever they find them. Jews founded and led the NAACP and were at the forefront of the civil rights movement. And didn't we all support them? And what about the United Negro College Fund? Wasn't "a mind a terrible thing to waste"? We gave there, too. Is it asking too much for just a smidgen of support from members of these same groups, or their offspring, many of whom benefited from our contributions, but never give back?  Recently, I had occasion to meet that amazing woman, Dr. Wafa Sultana, whose comments about the Arabs during an interview on the Arab television station Al-Jazeera were like "the shot heard around the world." One of her more insightful comments, concerning her childhood, is etched on my brain permanently. She related how, as a child growing up in Syria, she was taught that whatever happens in the world, it is the fault of the Jews: "I drop a dish in my kitchen, the Jews are behind it." Arab children are still being taught this today. I guess if it snows in Gaza, then it's because of the Jews. “Send money"? Why?

Why is it that the Palestinians expect the West to help them, when they have been unwilling to recover the billions of aid dollars that Yasser Arafat stole from them over the years? And why is it that the Palestinians expect the West to help them when their fellow Muslims in oil-rich Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iran and Dubai, among others, have not stepped forward to assist their poor co-Arabists and co-religionists? The West continues to feed them funds without demanding even a basic accountability. When will the West realize that so-called humanitarian aid goes largely into the pockets of a select few, for the salaries of killers posing as policemen and for weapons that kill Jews? Actually, I think they do realize it. As apathy is the hallmark of the West, I, like any sensible Jew with a memory should, can only conclude that they just don't care.

Send them my money? I don't think so.

 

Transfer the Arabs, Not the Jews

Several years ago, when I lived in Israel, I met Ra'anan Gissin, one of the brightest men I have ever interviewed. At that time, he was the spokesperson for the IDF. In 1993, Ra'anan took me into Lebanon as a journalist during Operation Accountability. Since then, he has assumed the role of spokesperson for the Prime Minister's Office. Nowadays, whenever I turn on the television, I see Ra'anan explaining Israel's standpoint. Many times, I agreed with his thoughts and quite often with the prime minister's actions. That, however, didn't last too long. The prime minister whom Gissin was representing began to change before my very eyes into the lap dog for American and European governments just as everyone preceding him had done. Eventually, I wrote a column about both Ariel Sharon and Shimon Peres requesting that they be tested for dementia. So, it was with great interest that I attended an appearance Gissin made at a Los Angeles synagogue; he had been brought in to explain what is happening in Israel now that Ehud Olmert has taken over. I came, I listened, but left unimpressed with the policies of the government or with the man, Ehud Olmert, the new Kadima leader. Perhaps, it is the images of black-helmeted soldiers on horseback assaulting Jewish residents of Amona that remain seared in my memory. However, as repugnant as the scenes of Israeli citizens being forcibly ejected from their homes were, under the dubious leadership of Olmert, I fear that the "powers that be" in Israel are aiming for a new low.

I just don't understand the rush to unilaterally withdraw from the West Bank. Why make this the focus of the new government's agenda? I am sure there is a reason, somewhere. And why should Olmert's plan of withdrawal to the so-called "final borders" precede the American presidential election of November 2008? Maybe because the Israeli government thinks there is no one on the American political horizon who will be as good a friend as President George Bush? With friends like Bush, Condoleezza Rice and, let's not forget, Colin Powell, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Dennis Ross and Martin Indyk, among others, Israel will never need enemies. However, given the new climate he works in, I was encouraged to hear Gissin speak with the old attitude I remembered when it came to ferreting out terrorists. "We make house calls without being in Gaza and leave a message... that terrorism can be dangerous to your health." He continued, "We will continue to pursue terrorists wherever we find them. Jews have to run in order to stay in one place." Yet now, Israel is governed by a self-serving leaders who react when one of the inept leaders of the US or the EU snaps his or her fingers and says, "Jump!” by asking, "How high?" What really needs to be asked is: How and why did Israel turn into a Banana Republic? So, we sat there listening while Gissin said, "It's not enough to be right. You have to be smart in your dealings with the Arab world. Everything that can't be dealt with in their culture, in the Arab mind, has to be an Israeli conspiracy.” However, I think that while Israel was being 'smart' and giving in to their demands and coddling Yasser Arafat, Arab schoolchildren were being taught to hate Israel and learning the glories of suicide bombings so they could go to meet their 72 virgins. Israel's children ought to have been learning the need for keeping their country safe, because the rest of the world sure hasn't seemed to care much about protecting Jews or Israel during the past 20 years. That will continue to be true into the distant future, with the likes of Mr. Jimmy Carter perpetuating the world's negative thinking about Jews while disregarding any criticism of their darling PLO and Hamas. I listened with great interest while Gissin spoke of the disproportionate numbers of Arabs who would be taking over the population in ten years time if they were part of Israel. The philosophy of the new government is that it would be dangerous for the people who were living in the settlements. Okay, I'll go along with that. Therefore, the present government is all for paring down to make secure borders. Their attitude is: "Take the best and leave the rest.” Except, they mean cutting out the Jewish settlements. My belief is that "transfer" is not the dirty word it once was. Particularly since Jews are now applying that principle to other Jews. Dozens of countries have done it to millions of people quite openly, without United Nations emergency meetings or resolutions. One way or another, in many places, but never in Israel. Virtually every Arab country did so to their Jewish populations, many of whom could trace their families back in those lands for thousands of years. They left with nothing except one suitcase, without payment for their homes, businesses or possessions, and few raised their voices in protest. That same United Nations was silent. So, the precedent is clearly established in modern times. The new Israeli government has said, "The fence is only one solution. Most of the successful action is based on intelligence that prevents homicide bombers from getting to the wall. House calls... not threats. The first thing we must do is create the separation of ourselves from the Palestinians. We cannot leave the Trojan Horse inside the fence.” Good point, but way too late. My thinking is that the fence ought to include the entire state of Israel, moving the Arabs into any of their 22 nations, where I am sure they will be much happier (except that they have this "thing" about killing Jews and taking over their land).

So, here is what I believe:

Jordan is the real homeland of the so-called Palestinians. Many of them are in Israel because King Hussein expelled them from Jordan in 1971 or because they returned from Tunis when Israel allowed them to come back (another huge mistake!). Jordan is a poor country and an empty country. Why can't consideration be given to making the so-called Palestinians pledge allegiance to the king of Jordan for the next 50 years? Oh, I forgot, the new king wants nothing to do with "them" and refuses outright to extend an open door to the PLO... I mean, the Palestinians. He knows they may be fellow Arabs, but trained to be killing machines, they are not trusted by any Arab state; they tend to attempt a takeover everywhere they go. Don't forget that they now constitute the majority of the Jordanian population, too. Many years ago, I visited Brazil. Their president was building a new city called Brasilia, literally in the jungle. It was created because Rio had become impossibly overcrowded. El Presidente thought that creating a new capital and forcing the politicians to live and work there would create something beautiful and bring relief to Rio's population challenges. In a sense, he concluded, "If we build it, they will come.” It took years of overcoming incredible challenges, but today it is a thriving place. The city of Brasilia, which, despite initial problems, is now a success, sets a precedent and teaches lessons from which we may all learn.  So, I propose a similar Brasilia, this time in Jordan. It can be called "Palestinia" (or "Intifada" for all I care), with funding from the EU, perhaps, and from the Arab world, which, I am certain, would love to chip in, to help their brothers as they have done so charitably in the past. Let it be built with American products and Israeli know-how. And look at all that cheap labor within the Islamic "nation"; they could finally find some meaningful employment building their very own homeland. It might give them something to do other than sitting around smoking that laughing pipe, burning tires and devising new ways to kill innocent people and get their 72 virgins. Yeah, right.

 

What is he reaching for?

 We did go back stage and say good-bye and actually, they were very nice. I found out that they were playing the girls soccer team the following day that was also staying in the hotel. Of course, nobody knew about this either. And, I said I’d meet them at the field. Frankly, they were so English I couldn’t understand half of what they said.  That’s why a couple of nights later when my phone rang in Atlanta and my daughter came into my room shouting, “The who are on the phone!…Talk to Keith Moon!!!” Not wanting to embarrass myself too much I found myself asking, “Are you the one in the red polyester suit who kept jumping up and down? Or, the one with the white pants and messy hair and torn shirt that was such a fashion statement, who was shouting into the microphone.” Again, not understanding that funny English accent, the kids told me he was the drummer who was inviting me to come and see him in Dallas where they were playing next. I keep a packed suitcase, but when it comes to men, I also have a rule I try not to break. I never want to become involved with any man who wears more make-up, who has longer hair, or has a smaller tushie. They had all three. Footnote: Just to give you an idea of what a Moran I still am when it comes to this subject. When I sent my synopsis about The Who over to famous author, Mark Bego to give me his opinion of my proposed book, he wrote back with his suggestions. One of them concerned Keith Moon and my alleged “sort of” involvement with him. He loved the content. However, he did mention to me that at this time period, 1980, it would have been difficult to meet Keith Moon, as he was already dead for two years. So, I called my daughter Dana, all grown up now, and relayed to her his comment. There was a ten second pause while I think she was suppressing laughter and Dana said, “He’s right…you never met Keith Moon…it was Kenny Jones who was calling you.” Go know…It’s not easy being a sex goddess.

Arnold!

 Once, Arnold Swartznegger and I sat next to each other. It was for an entire evening at the Milton Berle Celebrity tournament in LaCosta. I had been invited as a guest of the Cancer society, which was sponsoring the tournament with Mr. Berle. We were at this event because Milton Berles’ wife had recently died of breast cancer. The celebrity golf tournament was held to raise money for the breast cancer foundation in honor of his recently deceased wife. So, with that in mind, I thought it very tacky when Uncle Miltie, brought this woman with him as his date. He then introduced her to the crowd as his ‘interior designer.’ For heavens sake, his wife had just died, all her friends were there and he brought in his designer/date? I don’t remember too much of the evening but, I do recall that she was tall and a little zaftig, about forty-five years his junior. I believe she was very blond and wearing a low cut red dress, red stockings and red shoes. So out of style. Anyway, it wasn’t long after that when I read in the newspapers that he had married her.  A few years later, I ran in to Miltie and invited him to be a guest on my television show. He accepted and gave me his home number to call and give him the date of the show. When I called, I got his wife the ‘debutant’ on the phone.  She quizzed me why was I calling.  Then she became hostile and said something about not allowing him to go on cable shows.  She was really terrible and I kept thinking that she reminded me of something out of a Jackie Collins novel as one of the Hollywood Wives who have no life or identity unless they are Mrs. Somebody. Mr. Berle has always been polite and very nice to me when we met, but I’ve seen him be lewd to casual strangers. He is truly the epitome of the dirty old man. Once, I was meeting Patricia Marchino for lunch.  She had recently been divorced from Armand Marchano of GUESS jeans. Patricia is very French and refined. Since he was sitting next to us, I introduced Patricia to him. She however, was totally oblivious as to him or his legend reputation. One of the things, I gather, was his reputation for having the biggest sexual organ in Hollywood. For some godly reason, he kept bringing that into his conversation and Patricia, who was only understanding half of what he had to say, told him she thought him to be a disgusting dirty old man. He thought that very funny. We didn’t. Anyway, since she was so French and totally oblivious to the nuances that were being directed at her it didn’t go any further. But, to tell the truth, it shattered my image of the “Uncle Miltie” that I remember staying up late as a little girl to watch on television. Somehow, “Milties” older brother took a liking to me and invited me to join their table for the dinner that evening, Since he was long past driving age and at that time, I believe, one year younger than G-d, he picked me up in a golf cart and we headed towards the dinner. That is where I first saw Arnold Swartznegger. What a force. The man doesn’t walk into a room, he swaggers. Truly. Anyway, that was in the early nineties and I’m sure that memorable moment for me is less than a blurb for him. Since those years, our paths have passed, completely unmemorable for him, but ah, they will linger in my memory. I always especially like our chance encounters at a restaurant we both have lunch, Café Roma in Beverly Hills when he’s with Rolf Mouller. Both are mountain of men. Rolf, like Arnold, was Mr. Universe a few times, and neither has lost his looks or sex appeal. It took me a year of working out schedules, but I was finally able to get Rolf as a guest on my show. It was shortly after he filmed The Gladiator. Remember the ‘big guy’ who was the friend of Russell Crowe? That was he. I remember the introduction that day quite well. I looked across the set at this gorgeous man and said, “I know the reason I do this show. In fact, if I forget to ask questions you women, and men, (if you live in West Hollywood) can just look”. Anyway, back to “Arnold.” As mentioned, our paths cross quite often at “our restaurant”, Café Roma. I sit at my usual table and he, in the corner at the “power table” with his industry friends. One beautiful day in Southern California, we were sitting at our respective tables. My table was within ten feet of his and we were facing to toward each other. I couldn’t resist. His buddies couldn’t see me because we were sitting behind them. So, I winked at Arnold.  He winked back at me with a smile.  I threw him a kiss.  He blew back three kisses.  After that I mouthed the words "I love you." He mouthed back "I love you more." After that there were more mouth kisses blown back and forth through the air between the both of us. All in good fun. However, eventually it captured the attention of one of his tablemates who turned to look at me and said, “What in the hell are you doing?” Arnold smiled and said, within my hearing distance, “That woman is coming on to me. They all do. They don’t let me breath.” Then he leaned back, laughed and said, “I can’t help it. It’s a curse.” Listening to this, I caught the eye of his buddy and mouthed the words, "It's in his head." And I circled my head with my finger and shook my head “No”.  His buddy then said, "You're really after me, aren't you?" And I said, "Yeah, I just love men with beards." Then, everybody laughed.

Elvis Presley: I Swear To G-d!!

So, when the thought of Elvis Presley came into my head, my first thought was, “I don’t have any pictures to prove it.” But, I swear to G-d, it really happened! It was sometime around my senior year in high school. (You could pull my fingernails out but the exact time shall remain nameless.) I do remember though that I had a brand new, silver blue Cadillac convertible and a quartet of four girlfriends who used to cat around with me in it. Elvis was appearing that evening at the Roxy Theatre in Atlanta, Georgia, which was my childhood home. Out here, in Los Angeles, it’s a pretty common thing to see stars everywhere you go.  But in that nameless year in Atlanta, Elvis Presley coming into town was a major event. Not to me of course. I was too cool. And, truly, I think that I was the only teen-ager in America who thought that he was a red-necked yokel. But, I did like his music. My girlfriends had been plotting for an entire week how we were going to meet him. That’s how we came to be hanging around the hotel he was staying at. Except, it was my car, which was parked outside of his hotel that got the attention. That and five really, really cute southern girls who were sitting in it. Anyway, shortly after I parked the car, a couple other redneck types came out.  My friends, who were in the Elvis know, knew these guys were from the band of Elvis! It wasn’t too difficult to strike up a conversation with them. One of them, I think who turned out to be the piano player, said, “Well, looky, looky what we got here! Do y’all know where we can catch a cab to the place where Elvis is going to be playing tonight? We’re strangers here and we shore would like some pretty little girls like you to show us some of that Hotlanta hospitality that we keep hearing about?” They leered into the convertible for a few more minutes.  Even then, I didn’t particularly like really, really southern boys. But, these guys were from Elvis’ band! So, before they could change their minds, my friends quickly offered these three Elvis guys a ride. G-d knows how we squished them in the car, but we did and, I know they were loving it. It was a short ride over to the Roxy. But, when one of the guys got out of the car, he said, “ I can’t get you all in.” Then, I was sure he was looking straight at me, and he said, “Since you drove us over, come on backstage tonight. I’ll get you in.” I didn’t think I’d actually do that since I had a date.  A sort of blind date. Remember the guy who’d call up and say “Remember me from last summer,” and you’d think he was the cute guy from the pool?  When in actually, he would turn out to be the geek you would have never gone out with?  Well, that’s who I had made a date that night to go with.  So, that evening, when he picked me up at my home, the Elvis invitation was very much on my mind. Especially, since the concert was the biggest thing to be going on in town. Probably for the whole year. My date had bought tickets to the show!!! I began to dress three hours before he picked me up.  I picked out a red chiffon tight dress that flared out at the bottom with matching lace that hung out beneath the bottom of the dress. Then I put on red shantung high heels and sparkly matching earrings. I could easily pass for nineteen instead of the sixteen that I actually was! I knew I was totally cool.By the time “Harold” had found parking and we walked in, the place was packed. I definitely stood out.  Everyone else my age that was at the Roxy that night, was wearing jeans and sneakers. We walked in and found our seats, and I began to formulate my plan. It wasn’t nice, but I really did think that I’d be back to my seat before the show started and none would be the wiser. So, I excused myself to go to the restroom and headed toward the backstage entrance. Once there, I found myself surrounded by teenagers like myself trying to get backstage. Since I didn’t look like anyone else there and was dressed nice, people made a path for me when I said, “Excuse me, excuse me, I have to get passed you.” Within a few minutes, I blinked and I was backstage…escorted by the usher who thought I was somehow part of the show…yeah right…There was an excitement all around me and people were getting ready with the lighting, stage positioning, etc. The piano or guitar player, who I had given a ride to a few hours earlier, recognized me. He actually made a beeline to come over and say hello. About that time, Elvis came by and, the band guy said, “Let me introduce you!” It’s been enough years that I don’t remember everything. But I do remember my first impression of Elvis.  I remember thinking that he had a bad complexion and no hair on his chest. That was in the days when men were allowed to have hairy chests. Before they began to shave it off and pose for GQ. He was going on in literally seconds and didn’t seem a bit rushed. It was as though we were meeting someplace where he had all the time in the world. This was in the days before he wore his beaded and sequin outfits. Anyway, I don’t remember too much of what he was wearing.  He was; however, very respectful if that is a word that is used today? He shook my hand, and looked at me intently and said politely, “Nice meeting you”.  “I heard all about how nice you gals were to my band and helping them get here today.”  I think he wanted to say more but about that time he was distracted when there was a little commotion going on outside.  A group of girls surged for the door shouting, “Just a piece of his shirt! Just a piece of his shirt!” We heard it and laughed. I was thinking how silly they were.  Suddenly, the music started and he and I were standing side by side waiting for his queue to go on. The queue came and Elvis walked out on the stage.  The crowd roared! I, during this time, had completely forgotten that Harold was somewhere out there. I don’t think I particularly cared either. I was getting into the whole Elvis thing. Me, almost on the stage with Elvis!! He had moved to within a few feet of me and was down on one knee ready to sing, “You Ain’t Nothin But a Hound Dawg!” and I blurted out in my best hillbilly accent, “Ohhhh Elvis, just a piece of your shirt!”  Somehow that struck him as very funny.  He got up and walked a few feet away from where I was standing backstage, grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me! It all happened in seconds and I stood there dumbfounded thinking, “Nobody is going to believe this!” Not much later, his show ended and he walked off. The crowd was wild and I had forgotten all about my date, but remembered my girlfriends were somewhere in the crowd. The audience was emptying and I knew I wanted them to see me…so, I peeked out around the curtain…a little and then…a little more. I have always been terribly near-sighted and before I knew it, I was halfway on the stage! And still hadn’t seen any friends.  Like an idiot, I was standing there when I heard my name shouted, “Arlene!! It’s you! How did you get back there!!?”  Four or five of my friends were down front and begging me to get them backstage. I smiled, waived to them, and then walked backstage while loving every moment of it. Again, I saw one of the guys in the band. Not Elvis, but the piano guy. Or, was he the guitar player? Anyway, he invited me to go over with him to a local club in the Royal Peacock where the cast was having a party.  I said “sure”, and we drove over. Once there, it was a total mob scene. I became lost from the guy from the band ten minutes after arriving, but saw a few people that I knew anyway. One of which gave me a ride home. But, not until a few hours later. It was fun!  I had a great time, and none of them knew that I was only sixteen years old! Except, my mother did! The forgotten Harold had not forgotten me. And rightly so! He had driven to my house after the show, woken up my mom and told her that I was “lost”.  He also told her that the last he had seen of me was when I was heading to the backstage door and “You know those terrible show people.”  By the time I arrived home at two-thirty in the morning, my mother, Mollie the terrible, was standing by the front door. Man, was she mad! Foolishly I tried to lie to the woman who could see though steel doors and she grounded me for a month. When I walked in the door, she was on the phone with the police, calling them to have Elvis picked up for abducting a minor. Of course, if I remember correctly, he liked them young. Wasn’t Pricilla fourteen when she married him?

So, here I am, heading to the 16^th floor at the Hilton. All ready to be intelligent and profound with a man whom I even spent a couple of hours reading about, so as not to appear totally illiterate. Especially since his famous quote is, “To remain silent and indifferent is the greatest sin of all.” All of this had me thinking, I better be a goooood talker when I met with this man. But, to tell the truth, when I looked into his soulful eyes, I forgot everything. I do remember though, his being very reluctant to speak about himself. So, here I was, with probably one of the most interesting men in the world, and I was talking about myself. Which, actually is one of the topics I don't mind discussing.  He wanted to find out what made me tick.  And that folks, was a trait that I found, in this man, very sexy. They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Well on that alone I'd give Mr. Weisel a Nobel Peace Prize. His are awesome and tell everything found in his books and more.