And the List Continues

Remember the seafood-flavoured chips category?



We have an addition:

Yeah, those are caviar. Because nothinge says "refined tastes" like a bag of Lays.

But in all seriousness, caviar is everywhere here and cheap. Not to sound like a douchbag or anything, but I'm kinda getting sick of cheap caviar and champagne.

I actually mean that statement.

This Message Will Self-Destruct

As once so well-said in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure: Strange things are afoot at the Circle-K

A couple months ago, the skeleton of an apartment they are building next door to us caught fire. It was not such a big deal, since there was no one and nothing for the fire to really hurt.

Down below the building was a park and a convenience store, so people brought their kids out to the playground, with grandparents and teenagers alike sitting with beers and watching the crackle and burn until the Moscow Fire Department (Official Slogan: "The MFD:You Actually Don't Have to Bribe Us") showed up

And it was a pretty nice afternoon, and the first snowflakes of the season came down in the form of a sprinkling of white ash. People made videos and took pictures with their cellphones, and wondered how they'd get the hoses up there.

It was surreal, but kind of cozy it its own way. And Kira managed to get a great shot of it from my bedroom window.

But then two days ago there was this:

about two blocks away.

Coincidence? Or location-specific firebombings aimed at and Kira me for our potential international spy status?

Yeah, no, but probably more the coincidence thing.

Gang Warfare

If one had to divide my neighbourhood up into those groups who wield power, this could easily be done. See, my side of the street is run by a little group we’ll call the “Jets,” while the land across the street, where transit shack is, belongs to the “Sharks.”
And it's fiercely competitive. I mean, there’s nothing more than a street dividing those rabid beasts, and the meridian in the middle is like international waters--it belongs to whoever gets there first. And these guys were born on the street: lanky, broad shoulders, sharp eyes. They just take what they want--no begging for them.
So the other night, I’m walking from the ticket booth toward the transit shelter when I see three or four Jets, lounging on the meridian in their dark, dirty fur coats. They’re sneering, practically snarling in the direction of the four Sharks across the way. The Sharks throw their heads back, pacing uneasily, one eye on the enemy at all times. I reach the transit shelter, but continue to watch. It’s got that feeling of something that’s just gonna happen, you know?

And I’m right--suddenly I see the leader of the Sharks lunge past me and onto the meridian. He’s moving so fast he’s little more than a blur but I KNOW it’s him, because of his sandy fur coat, the tail lost in a fight long ago. Behind the leader follows his gang, just as fast, just as ferocious, teeth bared, wanting what is theirs. There is grappling, snarling, white teeth sinking into flesh, and inhuman yowls. From my distance I think I see blood in the snow.

And then it’s over, just as quickly as it began. A whimper or two and the Jets cross the traffic back to their turf, into the thick birch, out of sight. The Sharks stand panting in the territory that is now theirs. Proud and standing tall. For tonight.

This will all happen again, soon enough.

The ones who live at the metro station have it so posh compared to this; people feeding them, warm doorways. If I were a stray dog, that's where I'd be. Wouldn't want to lose a tail.

Everybody Really IS Talking About It

“So the United States has a new president!”
All my students want to discuss this, their belief being that I am close enough to American to give them perspective on the issue.
They’re right.
“Yes they do.” I say. “He’s very exciting.”
“Yes, he’s very smart. Very much better than Gay-or-gee Boosh” (their regular pronunciation, not mine). George W. is widely mocked here, so just about anyone is a better representative for your nation than Bush. Four monkeys playing Hungry-Hungry-Hippo are a better representative for your nation than Bush. Obama for Bush is like a Mercedes for a pogo stick in the international eye.
“And it is interesting--” they say with some discomfort. “He is…not white.”
Yep.
They don’t know how to phrase this observation, and I don’t blame them. See, I know that racial relations in Russian are not as…advanced one would like them to be. For the most part, I find individuals to be polite and generally open, but in a city of some fifteen million, I have seen maybe two dozen black people since I arrived four months ago. So I’m not hoping for any great examples of modern racial relations. That’s just how it is, here. It’s not racist, per say, but the issue of black vs. white is just…not there in an obvious sense. It doesn’t need to be in a vastly white and asian land.
Still, these are English lessons they need. The wrong word would only suggest racial issues where there may in fact be none. Case in point:
“I know this word from music and movies,” says one student, proud of his cultural savvy. “I know: We can say he is a “nigger president.”
Nope. Nope. You cannot say that.
I should pause to explain here that the word “nigger” sounds very much like one of the Russian words for “dark (skinned).” So much so that when I try to stress the differences in pronunciation between “nyeger“ and “nigger,” my students can’t seem to hear it. To them, it just sounds like an accent-affliction of the word “dark (skinned)” and they find my horror completely confusing, if not comical.
“So ‘nigger’ is okay, but ‘nyegger’ is bad?”
Nope. Other way around. But avoid both.
Then a good minute and a half of those sentences repeated. But finally they get it.
“So what should I say if someone is nyegger?”
“You say they are black.”
Shocked, horrified looks all around.
“No?! You call them ‘black‘?!”
“Um, yes.”
“Oh you don’t say that in Russian. Is very, very not good thing to say in Russian. You don’t call anyone ‘black’. I cannot. Is there anything else I can say?”
“African-American.”
“He is from Africa?”
“No”
“Then why ‘African’?”
And I have absolutely no acceptable answer to this question. They’re right. There is something degrading about that. An American with a qualifier. So, linguistic politics in hand, I offer the following advice:
“Just say ‘black’. Or nothing. Nothing would be good.”
“So why do I hear this word “nyegger’ all the time in music if I can’t say it?”
I give the “nigger”/”fag”/”Jew” lecture, and tell them that it is okay to say this if you are of the group, but not okay if you are outside it.
“Why do you have a word you can’t use?”
“Well--don’t you have a bad word for ‘Chechnyan’” I ask, simultaneously terrified to bring up one of the touchiest political subjects this side of NATO.
“No. Just ‘Chechnyan‘.”
I call total bullshit.
“Really?” I ask. So if no Chechnyans were around, and you wanted to talk about them badly, you call them Chechnyan?”
“Oh, I see. There are lots of words then, if you want to be rude,” and I get a list of no less than five things you can derogatively call someone from Chechnya.

I don’t offer this story in a lesson in racism: only as a lesson in the underground politics of words. While the political importance of “nigger” is perfectly apparent to us, they find the slight of word odd, if not foolish. From the outside, it all looks so silly. But to label them with an actual colour? Well that crosses a line, in their mind.
In the end, all I cam out of this with was the realisation that to hold someone hostage with a misplaced vowel, an added consonant, a change in articulation, is insane.
But we all do it, in our own forms.

Give the People What They Want

Every other day a handful of new flyers are plastered to the inside walls of my “secure” building. Mostly they are for pizza and sushi delivery. Occasionally, they are for “Internet Access IN THIS BUILDING!” which is, incidentally, not at all available, so I’ve gotten used to ignoring them.

But this one stood out for me:



Let’s forget, for a moment, the creepy cartoon tweaker delivering my pizza. Let us look instead, at the heading of the flyer.
Allow me to translate:

DONATELLO: PIZZA/COFFEE

Well those are two things I love! And two things that I have wanted to combine at least none times in my life! Genius.

Also, if you look on the back:

They can deliver cigarettes with your pizza/beer/coffee delivery.

Gordon Ramsey, Wolfgang Puck, Common Sense: y’all just got bitchslapped.

5 Minutes in Homesickness

Here in Russia, I’m sitting on someone else’s furniture while across the ocean somebody else sits on mine, each of us living for the time being on somebody else’s turf. I flip through pictures of home on my computer for awhile, of goodbye parties and family and a wedding from before I left. I try to use my brain to write something, anything, but it’s like trying to carve a turkey with a butter knife; not enough strength, too dull.

Instead I lie back, stare at the ceiling, and wonder what the fuck everyone I ever knew is doing.
I cross the room and stare into the mirror, thinking that this is the youngest I will ever be, probably the best I will ever look, and think how absurd it is, youth to flourishing for nothing more than a computer monitor and Soviet-era wallpaper.

I move the Christmas cards from the window sill and crank open the cutainless window (Where are all the curtains in Russia?) I feel the cold rush of air hit my face but it’s not cold enough. I want something that hits me like an icy wall, something that freezes the water in every pore, something to wake me up. This is just not cold enough.

Since I can’t find anything to wake me up, I need something to put me to sleep. I meander to the fridge and open the freezer (there’s that cold). I pull out the shared vodka, and pour two fingers into one of the tiny tea cups. Pickles, as a chaser, on the little saucer. Cheese and bread. And then I amble with my sad buffet back to the bedroom. An hour passes, with the vodka, with the food, with Kurt Vonnegut. One more vodka.

In the corner of my eye the monitor watches me. I stare back, at the white document, the black cursor blinking at me expectantly. I shut the computer with a click.

No writing will get done, tonight. It's too quiet.

I Probably Got a Virus Just Opening This

But whatever.

If you're anything like me, you just love those scam-spam e-mails claiming hardship and insisting that you are to be a political saviour. And if you are in Russia and regularly use Russian sites, this is what they look like:

Good day,I am Nikolay Sintsov,personal assistant to Mikhail
Khodorkovsky,once rated asthe richest man in Russia and owner of YUKOS OIL
(Russian largest oilcompany),chairman CEO: Menatep SBP Bank (a well reputable
financial institutionwith its branches all over the world).

SOURCE OF FUNDS:I have a profiling amount in an excess of US$40.5M, which I
seek you to accommodate for me. You will be rewarded with 40% of the total sum
for your partnership. Can you handle this?As his personal assistant, I was
authorized to transfer money of an American oil merchant for his last oil deal
with my boss Mikhail Khodorkovsky.The funds have since left
the shores of America to a European private financial institution where
the final crediting is to be carried out.While I was on the process, my boss got
arrested for his involvement inpolitics by financing the leading and opposing
political parties (the Union ofRight Forces, led by Boris Nemtsov, and Yabloko,
a liberal/social democraticparty led by Gregor Yavlinsky), which posed as a
threat to President VladimirPutin's second Tenure as Russian president. Since
then, I have placed on hold all transactions concerning this amount. You can
catch more of the story on this website:http://www.yukos.com/http://news.ft.com/cms/4bb9612a-d254-11d8-b661-00000e2511c8.htmlhttp://www.hoovers.com/yukos/--ID__53700--/free-co-factsheet.xhtmlhttp://newsfromrussia.com/main/2003/11/13/51215.htmlYOUR
ROLE:All I need from you is to stand as the beneficiary of the above mentioned
sumand I will re-profile the funds with your data, which will enable
thefinancial firm transfer the sum to you. I have decided to use this sum
torelocate to the American continent and never to be connected to any of
MikhailKhodorkovsky conglomerates, presently I am in Burkina faso, West
Africa,for ahide out,as it's a remote country. The transaction has to be
concluded as soon and as I confirm your readiness toproceed with me, I will
provide you with details.My private email below;http://ca.mc521.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=nikolay_sintsov1@whipmail.com
or http://ca.mc521.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=nikolay_sintsov30@yahoo.inThank
you very much.
Regards,Mr.Nikolay Sintsov

I get emailed this at least three times a day. No joke.
Now which is more persuasive: the heartbeaking tale of political woe, or the bad grammar?

Everyone e-mail now. With just your computer, you can help right the wrongs and make the world a better place.
And make 16.2m dollars.
Or, you can play solitaire.
Both good, equally profitable choices.

An Up-to-the-Minute Report from Moscow

Hello all, from Moscow's finest black-lit, cubist-accented, 1950's-style diner that specializes in Morrocan food and hookah. And house music.

I will not go so far out on a limb as to assume that it is Moscow's only black-lit, cubist-accented, 1950's-style diner specializing in Morrocan food, hookah, and house music. That can't be said for sure.

And I return from the washroom with only one thought on my mind-- Why in the name of all that is Russian do the toilets have two flushing mechanisms? How am I supposed to use these both?!

I am at a loss and don't know who to ask.

Suggestions welcome.

Five Minutes in "I'm an Idiot"

I exit my apartment elevator to a woman coming into our "lobby" (that's a bare concrete room with mailboxes and a torn chunk of rug to all you Westerners. Yes! A rug! Nice...)

The woman has with her three animals. Logic forces me to assume that these are three dogs but one could just as probably be a horse, while the other two less probably have dog faces buried somewhere in those tiny fur-ball bodies.

As she tries to untangle the three leashes she is talking away to the creatures in Russian--clip clip clip--just talking away, Russian word after Russian word.

As I make my way to the door I smile to myself. That's so weird of her, I think. Dogs can't understand Russian.

I then immediately make a mental note to tell Kira we can't buy anymore of the cheap vodka. Clearly, that crap eats at your brain.

How We Came to Live with a Mouse

Not to be one of those people who is always talking about her pets, but Mashka did absolutely the funniest thing last month.

She grew balls.
Little hairy kitten balls.

For two days of denial, Kira called Mashka “he” while I steadfastly refused to acknowledge the little kitty testicles. I couldn’t even look at him for a bit--I felt so betrayed, like this was knowledge he perhaps should have disclosed. But no, he just went about chasing tinfoil and licking the faucet without dropping this balls-bomb on us and making us look stupid.

But I finally came to accept that we have a little boy in the house.

Still, he needed a name change, because “Mashka” is “little Maria” in Russian, so after about a week of me calling him “Balls” we decided on “Mmishka,” Russian for “mouse,” because it wasn’t such a change, because he really is very tiny for his age, and because now we have a “Koshka” and a “Mmishka” or “Cat” and “Mouse” in Russian.

I chose not to include a picture of kitten testes. You are welcome.

Yes I am Alive, but This Guy is Not

Vacation in Russia just ended this week.

Posting will resume tomorrow.

But I can offer you a cliffhanger:

kitten balls

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, some funny news out of Russia for your Friday:

Woman kills her husband with killer divan:

A woman, who became a widow as she attempted to teach a lesson to her lazy
husband, was convicted at a St. Petersburg court. The woman literally killed the
man with a divan.

The court brought down a conditional sentence for the period of one year
against Vera Lukyanova, 55, and found the woman guilty of involuntary
manslaughter, Fontanka.ru reports with a reference to the press service of the
St. Petersburg Office of the Public Prosecutor.

The tragedy occurred in the summer of 2008. The man had a hangover in the
morning after he had drunk too much alcohol the day before. His wife was
infuriated with her husband’s behavior. In a fit of anger she kicked the
convertible divan, on which the man was resting, and the divan folded into two
and gripped the man in a vice.

Forensic experts said that the man died instantly: the strong springs
of the killer-divan broke the man’s ribs and even his spine.