Media Medicine: The Mediator of the Mid-East

By Captain Arthur Samuel Swift

As I sit at my bar stool at St. Maggie’s in the great seaport of New York, with my Sony M679 Microcassette Recorder in my pocket at the ready to gaff my every thought, I promise to keep from having too many of mixologist Arthur Benoit’s marvelous cosmopolitan cocktails.
“Why yes, if you would keep track for me, Arthur my good man it would be grand,” I say to this master of liquidity, “remind me when I have reached, say, six of them.”

As the trunk load of Cuban cigars in the hold of the Liberian tanker under my charge, Noaea Candae, turned out to just be an aromatic smoke screen to fool the US Customs official’s dogs from the scent of more valuable product from Colombia, I am far more restricted in my travels. I have grown accustomed to the ankle bracelet supplied me by Judge Judy S. Prudence, of the Second Circuit Court.

Along with strolling the perimeter of an area bounded by Water and South Streets and the Brooklyn Bridge and the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, I watch much television, read many periodicals and swim the internet at my room in the Merchant Marine Hotel.

So, with this second of the seven cocktails that Arthur will measure for me, let me say that from what I have seen on the nightly news, this situation in the Middle East, seems to be a simple one to cure. The presence of TV cameras is proven to change people’s wicked ways. Witness the fact that this fellow Ozzy Ozbourne, who they say was so hopped up on drugs that he used to chew on baseball bats during his musical performances, now is telling his children (as a result of the MTV cameras) to not do drugs and save themselves for marriage.

Consider what would happen if we forced Yasir Arafat to have three MTV cameramen record his and his family’s every domestic nuance. It might go something like this.

“Yes, Suha, my dear. Yes, the cell phone seems to be working well today,” says the PLO leader as he maneuvers to avoid the camera. “For dinner, you know the usual, hummus and pita, maybe some lamb,” as a camera catches up with him hiding in the shower stall.
“No wait, I feel like something a little better than that. How about if you pop by that nice Moishe’s down the street and get some of those lovely matzo balls and chicken soup,” he says as he smiles directly into the lens. “And, mmm, a nice brisket, too. That would be great. I just love Jewish food.”

Consider what would happen at Ariel Sharon’s place.
“Just a second,” says the leader of Israel as he answers the front door. “Oh yes, young fellow, thank you for delivering my videos for this evening. It is so difficult leading a country. I really need these to relax tonight. Let me make certain that you have gotten my order correct,” he says as he looks into the bag, turning toward the videographer.

“What is this? Exodus and Crossing Delancy? Heh, heh, no, no, I asked for the Omar Sharif special that you are advertising. You know, Lawrence of Arabia, Dr. Zhivago,” he says while turning to the delivery boy and saying in a near whisper. “Throw in Funny Girl too, would you?”
Why this sort of media exposure might lead to Arafat and Sharon forming their own Boy Band, named something like En Nile or Itzhak Street Boys or maybe Bare Naked Really Old Ugly Guys.

Of course, to start they would have to do cover versions of popular songs, like Savage Garden’s I Knew I Loved You or Creed’s With Arms Wide Open maybe even Third Eye Blind’s Never Let You Go. I would hazard that they would be big hits.

“Yes Arthur, my good man, I would indeed like another. Number six is it?” I say to my favorite spirit dispenser, “Thank you, remember that my magic number is eight.”

If not an international mega-group for Sharon and Arafat, perhaps they could sit down with Vince McMahon at The World Wrestling Federation (one of my favorites). Think of it, a No Holds Bared, Winner Take All Three Round Match for control of The West Bank.

“In this corner, at five feet nine inches tall. 230 pounds, from the great state of Palestine, wearing the checkered trunks, The Rammer from Ramallah, Yasir Arafat. And in this corner, at five feet eight inches tall, 310 pounds, from Jerusalem, wearing the Star of David trunks, The Strong Arm of Armageddon, Ariel Sharon.”

Hulk Hogan and the Rock would be nothing in comparison. Why I would spend an entire month’s worth of shore pay to get the Pay Per View at the Merchant Marine Hotel.