Author Shlomi Harif – Home

Yes, Tom DeLay has exited. As he said, ‘stage right.’ As in ‘conservative?’ Yes. As in, correct? No, I think. Like Richard Nixon, the appearance of honor in the face of retreat is no different. He may wave the peace sign, may declare his innocence, but just because he’s left on his own power doesn’t mean the handcuffs and ignominities of a body cavity search are not far behind.

He has shown us the depths to which politicians will sink to delieve the depravity of peer pressure. And his eventual contributions to the underpaid prison labor of our Great State of Texas will bear the final truth to his mealymouthed exhortations of honesty in the face of Truth.

JPost fans, stand fast. This is critical of your power base.

Israel, yet again, has screwed up. We have shown that we are willing to count innocent Palestinian dead as more important than Israelis.

Sure, the women and children that died in the last 12 hours were innocent, victims of artilllery shells that would have better served in hitting farther inland. But they didn’t, and their relatives’ nightmares, and mine, will reflect that horrific, tragic loss.

When Israelis die, there’s a flurry of candy distribution on the Gaza street. Yesterday, there was sorrow.

Their celebration is ignored; their sorrow is a cause for our reflection.

Whenever innocents are lost, on either side, it is a time for sorrow and mourning.

Israel would do well to mourn with their Palestinian enemies, just as it would mourn the loss of a family brutally cut own by a Passover bomber who devestated a family during their holiday celebration. And then turn back, with tears and resolution both writ large upon their faces, to cut out the cancer of terrorism from the face of the grieving, Palestinian face.

I’m watching Liz Taylor’s discussion with Larry King Live, hearing all the horrible things said about Elizabeth Taylor, and being bombarded by Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s new baby.

It’s amazing, with the millions being killed in Congo, the many hundreds of thousands in Darfur, AIDS, hunger, poverty and reality, that a sleazy photographer can make over a million dollars by taking a picture of a newborn baby and its parents against the family’s wishes. Or that a movie star, whatever her history, is declared dead, insane, or demented.

In the NPR-sponsored project, “This, I Believe,” people, famous and plebian, talk about what moves them, what is at the core of their belief. I believe in the baselessness of the commercial media, their ability to search for the paying story, no matter how base, so long as it sells.

Fortunately, I also believe in the concept of ‘Tikkun Olam,’ the fixing of the world. I believe that for every despicable, amoral, money-grubbing person, there is at least one person trying to solve an important problem facing the world.

I hope the good guys win. And I hope Elizabeth gets to enjoy her new career, and Angelina and Brad their new son, without having to deal with vultures masquerading as ‘the press.’

I’ve been appearing recently in a column by a rather engaging reporter named James Rogers. It’s nice to have one’s opinions solicited. It’s not as if I’ve been lacking in that respect. I suggest checking out his blog; he’s got a lot of crisp things to say.

The furor over the movie version of the Da Vinci Code is pretty funny. Calling a book of fiction heresy strikes even religious Catholic friends of mine as funny.

“Oh, yeah, we keep our albino monks under SPF 200, but for a good contribution into the plate I can let you talk with one,” one friend said. [5/21 postscript: There is a monk named Silas @ the NYC office!]

My writing groups are up in arms about the poor quality of the writing as well. There are analytical pages about Dan Brown’ questionable style and grammatical manglings.

I think a good escapist movie is a great thing to see. And no one ever accused Barbara Cartland of amazing writing.

Entertainment should not be confused with reality. No matter how close some morons might believe the resemblance.

I’m off to a business trip tomorrow and wanted to treat myself to dry cleaning and pre-ironed shirts every morning while away, so I took my load on Tuesday to my local dry cleaner. I dumped the pile of shirts and pants on the counter.

The attendant looked at the pile, then mournfully at me. “Sir,” she said, with a Mexican accent, “I can take your clothing, but it won’t be ready for at least four days.”

The sign outside read “same day cleaning,” and the usual turnaround was about 36 hours. I cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s the pressers,” she said. “They left Monday morning and never came back.” She pointed to a “Help Wanted” sign displayed prominently in the window. “No pressers at all. We just got back Saturday’s dry cleaning. Don’t just take my word for it,” she said as I thanked her for my candor and scooped up my clothes, “is everywhere. Everyone running.”

Two other dry cleaners also had help wanted signs, and I stopped by the next day, hoping to avoid expensive hotel cleaners, with my load at a local family chain. They too had a ‘Help Wanted’ sign on the door.

“Any chance of getting this done by Friday?” I asked.

The clean-cut young man behind the counter nodded confidently. “Not a problem,” he said. “After five today if you liked.”

“So you’ve got no problems with pressers?”

“Nope,” he replied. We’re doing just fine.”

I left lighter in arms and full of hope. Came back this afternoon to pick up the clothes.

“You still have the sign up,” I said to the young Hispanic woman behind the counter. “How’s the work in the back?”

She shrugged.

Then another young man, from the same owning family I think, wriggled past her in a vain attempt to catch an incoming phone call. He was sweating, and there were people crawling all around the hanging rails of bagged laundry in the next room.

“I’m glad you were able to keep your workers,” I said to the man. “I had problems at other stores.”

He gave me a tired look. “It’s quiet in the back right now,” he said. “There’s no one working in the back. And the conveyor belt is broken, so we have to pull everything off by hand.” He wiped sweat from his face. “But we’re only down two pressers for tomorrow and,” he pointed at the sign, “maybe some others will come back.”

I assume by “others” he means ‘low-paid, hiding from the INS’ kind of others, and not the unemployed citizen or eager high schooler others.

“Don’ worry,” my cashier said as she handed me the bill. “My sister come back tomorrow.”

“One down,” the man said. “I just have to find one more.”

The rumors around town are rife with planned raids at public schools, illegal immigrant detention camps south of Waco, and general fear.

I wonder if my pre-Holocaust parents felt similarly to the missing pressers. At least I’m pretty sure their end will be less certain than that of my parents.

Q: What do you get when you hire a right-wing commentator and a reporter to the White House?
A: A Common Porter. Someone to shoulder the burden of “Message of the Day” for a debased chief executive.

On this Pesach holiday, let’s remember:

• Holocaust survivors freed from slave labor
• Freedom for women and African-Americans
• Liberation of gays, lesbians and transexuals from the shackles of shame

Still enslaved and yearning for freedom:

• The poor and disadvantaged in Israel and abroad
• Humans suffering under the chains of despotic slavery
• Peaceful Palestinians and Iraqis chafing with the desire to live their lives in dignity and peace