Luke Ford

There are some bloggers who are writers, but not many.

I watched the conference feed for hours and read every related blog post I could find.

Typing ain’t writing. These guys are dull (I applaud Rabbi Gil Student for saying that Jewish bloggers aren’t a community, they hold widely disparate allegiances).

There was a guy interviewing bloggers for the live feed. I wanted to punch him in the face, he was so clueless. He’d obviously not read the people he was questioning.

He asked one blogger: "What have you done that is significant?"

There’s nothing wrong with that question, but the guy was so annoying I wanted to turn it around and ask him, "What have you done that is significant?"

This is the only thing that held my attention (incidentally it is about the only piece I could find by a bloke — Robert J. Avrech — who makes his living writing):

I turn to Treppenwitz and say: “This just sweeps away all that post-Zionist poison, doesn’t it?”

Treppenwitz says: “If you’re not moved by what’s going on here, then you probably have no heartbeat.”

I place my hand over my heart. It’s pounding away like a Ginger Baker solo.

This is Your Land

Treppenwitz nudges me: “Bibi is on his way.”

Secret Service agents are quietly fanning out in the terminal. Oh man, talk about central casting. These guys are tall, toned and chiseled. They are wearing those dopey short sleeved safari jacket—call Michael Kors, puh-lease!— with nice fat bulges under their armpits. Hey, just like in the movies, they cup their ears and whisper into their mikes.

I’ll be it’s something like: “Hey, Yossie, did ya catch the cute soldier girl with the blond dreads?”

I ask Treppenwitz if I can take a picture of the hard guys or whether that bit of fandom will get me shot. These guys actually look, oh, I dunno, like they can do some serious killing and then go out and have a pizza.

Treppenwitz says: “Better not.”

Hence, no pic of the guys with guns.

Bibi Netanyahu enters. The crowd roars.

Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu, Israel’s next Prime Minister.

Me: “He’s gonna be the next Prime Minister, right?”
Trepp: “He better be.”

Bibi says: “You all come from great countries. The United States is a great country…”

I’m nodding my head: Well sure, it’s the good ol’ U.S.A.

Bibi continues: “Great Britain is a great country…”

I’m like: Eh, not so great.

Bibi adds: “Canada is a great country.”

I roll my eyeballs: What-ever.

Bibi goes in for the kill: “But this is your country!”

The soldiers come forward, we all rise and sing the Israeli national anthem, The Hatikvah, The Hope.

Singing The Hatikvah

I never saw Babe Ruth hit a home run. Never heard the crowd roar as the ball sailed over the fence, never saw the faces of little kids as the mighty Bambino lumbered round the bases.

But this is what it must have felt like.

My heart is stampeding in my chest and my vision is blurred.

This is my land and I am home.