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About Tel Aviv

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

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We hit a snag at the intersection of HaRav Kook and HaShalom. A truck broke down. Of course, it’s blocking the whole road. I’m sitting there, fuming. I could’ve been at the café on HaGolan, sipping a latte, but nooo, I’m stuck here. I’m about to lose it when I see a guy in a bright orange vest. He’s just standing there, doing absolutely nothing. I’m like, “Dude, you’re getting paid to fix this!”

Citing rescued hostage, captive soldier’s mom says women were held as slaves