Like KBilly's Super Sounds of the Seventies, "The Hits Just Keep on Coming"*

On Saturday, I got locked out of my apartment. I had left my keys in the pocket of my jacket at The Limey's house when we went there to use a hot shower (current estimated date of hot water-return? July eighth.) So I was locked out for a whole day while Portage went to get her registration completed (four days late, but who cares? Not the Russian authorites, apparently).
I realise I forgot my keys when I am already at my home metro station, and TL isn't even home to pass them off if I did want to trek 40 minutes back.

I decide to wait out Portage and her spare set of keys, although knowing Russian registration to be what it is, there is no telling how many hours that just might be.

I decide to go into the mobster-looking restaurant a few blocks away I'm always joking about but have never been into. I walk in and...picture it: The place is definitely empty, and decorated with the always-classy cast of Goodfellas in mind (there is a coloured-light covered rockwall complete with an indoor waterfall. No lie.) And only one occupied table, seating no fewer than ten men in silk suits, eating a big meal and drinking vodka. They all turn to look "Come sit down! Have a drink!" They shout accross the dancefloor (of course there's a dancefloor). I mumble something completely incoherent, do a stilettoed about-face, and haul ass out of there. Even I'm not that up for adventure.

Okay, so accross the park meridian, to the other side of the double lane street to a diner I once noticed. On my way there, a guy slows his car to eyeball me and offer me a ride. Not quite so weird in Russia, but still...weird. I shake my head and keep walking but he keeps calling out to me. Weird guy behind me, I make it to the diner, climb the steps, and notice the sign on the heavy wooden door: "Closed Saturdays."
Wha...?

Tired of walking, tired of heat, I park my but on the steps for a few seconds. As I stand to leave, who comes running accross the parking lot but weird dude, waving a set of keys?! Oh it's his restaurant? You don't say? And he's happy to let me in and make me something to eat? Super...

Thanks but no, and I'm off walking again. Four minutes down the road, and a car pulls up next to me. Now, you know who this is. He drives slowly next to now stony and completely unresponsive me as I walk, urging me to meet him somewhere for a coffe, for a talk, etc. Then, true story, he pulls up half onto the sidewalk still imploring me for a date, for my phone number, for whatever.
"Miss!" he says "Please, don't be afraid to come out with me! Don't be afraid! I'm telling you, I'm normal!"

Dude. You are driving on the sidewalk to get the attention of some girl you don't know and who doesn't want to know you. You. Are. Not. Normal.

As Portage later put it, if you have to say you're normal, obviously, something suggests you are not...

I made it to the short cut, and hung out in the (non-street facing) park by my flat until Portage got back (mercifully quickly)

Some other highlights of my week?
- My home internet access is gone (mysteriously disappeared, really)
- I had a rather expensive class cancellation
- The metre in my old apartment was "misread." For nine months. That's gonna cost us.
- My summer vacation is cancelled
- Lost my sunglasses again
- The Limey is set to leave for Japan...



I am thisclose to some sort of animal sacrifice, I swear to
whatever god can get me out of this bad run...

Some good stuff has been going down too. As soon as Portage uploads her pics, you'll know all about them.
Until then, it's my blog and I reserve the right to sulk.





*If you don't get that reference: it's Resevoir Dogs. And I pity you.