My remarks last month, expressing empathy with suicide bombers, had been misinterpreted by the tabloids as meaning sympathy and approval. Hellooooo, tabloids: I like the suicide bombers, I don't LIKE them.

It was, therefore, with some trepidation that I travelled from Jerusalem to the checkpoint out to Bethlehem and the Occupied Territories.

The morning was cold and wet and added to the gloom of Palestine. Imagine, if you will, the difficulty one must have striking a match in this dreadful weather, let alone how it bollixes up fuses and C-4.

I would challenge anyone to spend a few days here and see the contrasts between modern Israel and its affluent citizens and the third world of Palestine. Go on. I double-dog dare you.

The blame lies with both sides - I know that - but the ordinary Palestinian has to live in this third world while most Israelis never go there.

In Israel, the armed forces have F16 fighter planes, helicopter gun-ships, tanks, even nuclear weapons.

In football, they have "the bomb," and in baseball they have "the sacrifice."

The disparity was pointed out to me by a civil society group in Bethlehem, when I asked why Palestinians used suicide bombers.

"Tell the US to round up Israel's weapons and give them to us. That suicide fad will be lamer than the macarena," was the response.

Someone has reminded me that Samson was the first suicide attacker, and the first SuperCuts customer.

Wrath of God

As we talked at our first meeting in Bethlehem the room shook and the earth roared - a 5.6 magnitude earthquake, the first in 10 years, struck causing us to run out of the building and wait.

We were lucky there was no more wrath from God that day.

We met up with some al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade terrorists after lurking guiltily at Mel's drive-in in Manger Square waiting for them to arrive. The assistant manager told us to leave, so we cruised the strip in Mohammed's bitchin' Peugeot.

We were taken to a safe Christian house, where two bearded, shaded, skull-capped men, one with a black Kalashnikov, sat on a sofa near a huge velvet wall hanging of Jesus the Good Shepherd, overlooking an 18 wheeler. One wore a Sturgis t-shirt. His "old lady" angrily sized me up through her burqqa, her eyes peering at my Palestinian flag tube top and "Born to Explode" tattoo.

They had heard about my remarks and were pleased that I understood the reasons why they were terrorists, even "proud" of me. This was spine-chilling. And the chill didn't stop with my spine. It sent a trembly, tingly sensation throughout my torso, forcing me to throw my head back and murmur softly.

A quick cigarette, and back to the fact-finding.

More re-assuring was the statement that they now accepted that Israel had a right to exist and their campaign would stop when Israel withdrew to its 1967 borders, removed settlements and returned Jerusalem to the Palestinians, and removed the padlock from the Tel Aviv water treatment plant.

Someone informs me that the Lone Ranger was the first masked shooter.

National heroes

We visited the family of a suicide bomber. The stories of indoctrination of little children right through their schooldays didn't seem to apply here; my hosts tell me that Israeli opression has forced the local madrassa school board to lay off several truant officers.

The brothers of Mohamed showed no signs of this and his mother claimed she had no idea her son was planning this until the al-Aqsa Brigade delivered his "Class of '04" letterman's jacket.

It is certainly true that suicide bombers are regarded as national heroes here, but what else do they have - the local football team has been embarrassingly mired in the second division since trading midfielder Ali Salim to Damascus United for a case of semtex and rocket launcher to be named later. Cry me a river, Red Sox fans.

Why do they choose civilian targets? Because there is no way of getting at military targets. Duhhh!

Someone informs me that Eddie Money was the first person to get Two Tickets to Paradise.

We visited the spot where the Angel Gabriel "came down" to the shepherds in their fields and drove back to Jerusalem atop a velvet unicorn as a rainbow formed over the golden city - surely one of the most beautiful places on earth. Then the heebs showed up, and oops, "there goes the neighborhood."

Here is another paragraph.

The next day back in Israel, I couldn't find anyone who was willing to see why the Palestinians resorted to suicide attacks. So right away, that tells you where these types are coming from.

Some of the Israeli arguments had truth in them, but it was all so negative. So I split, because hey, like going to sit there and take a bunch of negative truth argument shit from some Zionists.

Until, late in the day, we met a single mother whose 15-year-old daughter had been killed in the local supermarket by an 18-year-old female suicide bomber.

Grief-stricken, she had tried to contact the bomber's family, only to find they were "proud" of their daughter. If only more Jews would be proud of their dead spawn for being who they are, instead of laying guilt trips about SATs and grad school admissions.

But then she received a letter from a Palestinian mother expressing her condolences and asking for a meeting. Her young, civilian son had been killed by an Israeli soldier. They were going to meet.

I left this woman feeling that there was the first sign of reconciliation. I also hoped she didn't notice the Palestinian mother's loud ticking noises.