This Blog is History

Ladies and Gentlemen, this blog has passed its dying day. It started in Russia, and ended in Russia. I am back in the God-fearing country of America.

A Pitchfork Peasant attacks Cozy Moments

Some hick who identifies himself as Reed Johnson from American Councils (that org, that enemy of freedom) wrote a letter to my editors at the eXile asking them to publish his response to my critique of American Councils (in the pages of the eXile). The great Mark Ames of the eXile forwarded me Reed's email letter, so I decided to confront this latter-day bozo. Here's the exchange:

Dear Editors:
I would be grateful if you would run the letter below in your next issue. Thank you in advance.

Reed Johnson

Dear Sirs,
For the sake of full disclosure, I have never met Mark Grueter ("Sniffed out at American Councils"), nor was I involved in the "sniffing out" in which his personal hygiene apparently didn't pass olfactory muster. I do, however, know the people he maligned in his weak attempt at some pseudo-Hunter Thompson journalistic "style" and I can certainly agree - he stinks.

For the sake of fuller disclosure, I have recently resigned from American Councils after a number of years working there (no, Mark - I wasn't fired). Judging by the petulant tone, the real motivation of Grueter's eXpose of nefarious free educational exchanges for Russian students was that Marky wasn't asked out to play. But I'm glad he is standing up to injustice where he sees it (even it is only after he's been 'let go.') Now that you've some free time, champ, maybe you should get on to saving the free world with your blog. Judging by the shrill tone of these online manifestos, I would hazard that Coleman's joke about foreign objects in the lower intestinal tract hit Grueter too close to home. I could address the 'substance' of your article, but it was substance-free enough to make Nancy Reagan swoon. You spent most of your space attacking a salad. Buck up and be a man.

Apparently Grueter needs a real cause - perhaps the readers of eXile could suggest one for him. Web research reveals that Grueter once considered quitting his job to work for Pat Robertson's presidential campaign. Attaboy (except you have to get a job first, buddy).

Grueter considers absurd that anyone might judge a country by its expatriate. For the sake of Mark Greuter, myself and fellow Americans, I certainly hope he's right.


Reed,

Nice try, asshole. Did you think Ames would let you weasel your letter in without tipping me off? Typical cowardly move by American Councils to not confront me directly…

I see the original worms couldn't even speak for themselves. What, were you nominated as the spokesman for that sad group? Pretty pathetic since you appear to be illiterate. You can't even get your attempted smears right, Reed. Pat Robertson ran for President when I was 10 years old. God, you're hopeless. This is not something I'd normally make fun of you for, Reed, as illiteracy is a serious problem, but you tried to publish a very cheap and dirty (though transparently frivolous) attack on me and I do have a pulse, Reed, I don't take these things sitting down.

Oh, that was real clever about me attacking a salad - I can just picture poor, stupid Gabriel's face turning red as he read it. Are you really that dumb or do you simply enjoy playing the role? Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I've seen your little email, "champ", so you might as well turn tail and return to the rock you've been hiding behind. And tell the bastards at American Councils to contact me directly, anytime.

Mark

I'm still waiting for a reply. Hey Reed, are you still out there? Are you still reading my online manifestos? And where yo friends at? You know, Matthew and Gabriel and the gang. Are they able to write at all for themselves?

By the way, buddy, I have a job, buddy, so don't worry 'bout me, champ. What a relief it was to get released from that fascist outfit called American Councils...Jesus, how the hell did you put up with that shit for so many years?

As for my personal hygiene, Reed, well, close friends will insist that you could eat a meal off of me. Not that I would ever offer you meal, Reed, but I'm just saying.

Yes, Russians, please don't judge America based on your impressions of me. Most Americans, like Reed Johnson for example, are not nearly as bright as I am. You might get the wrong impression and then be disappointed - if you ever visit America - by all the idiots you encounter there.

On a more serious note, if anyone is interested in what is wrong with the "substance" of American Councils, they are free to visit The Krai magazine, www.thekrai.com to read "American Councils for American Propaganda".

Reed Johnson, illiterate as he is, apparently found this article too difficult to read. But that's just Reed. I assure you the piece is accessible, coherent and well-written as usual.

Goodbye to All Dogs: a walk on the wild side

I don’t know if it was because of that anti-dog post I did last week or what but I was just nearly ripped to shreds by a pack of canines. And they weren’t just dogs; they were German Shepherds straight from of hell – savage, filthy and trained to kill. This is serious. I haven’t once felt in any real danger in this city, until now. It was terrifying. Humans can usually be reasoned with, and you always know they’ll never try to tear you to pieces with long, sharp teeth.

What happened was, I decided try a new route home. I live on the side of a mountain and right behind me - further up the mountain - laborers are conducting what appears to be some sort of construction project. Anyway, there are more roads and apartment buildings up there, so instead of walking around the mountain along the semi-civilized valley paths like everyone else does, I decided to walk over the mountain. With the aid of several stairwells, I actually made it over the mountain just fine. I could see my place now, was close enough to hit it with a rock.

The trouble began when I came upon the laborers. The work zone was dirty and savage. I noticed two dogs curled up, sleeping just outside of a couple of rusted over tin boxes which probably serve as sleeping grounds for the grimy workers. I had wandered into a fucking time capsule, and this was 20 yards from where I live. For some reason, I thought I could walk by the dogs undetected in my attempt to find the fastest way home. Looking back, I cannot believe how reckless and stupid this move was. Just when I thought I had snuck by, the animals awoke and began barking ferociously. I whipped out my Mace gun, thinking this was no heroic way to die. They started to run toward me but were jerked back by their chains. I’m a lucky bastard. If even one of them hadn’t been chained…

What made it all the more horrible was that I couldn’t see a way out of the predicament. I was stuck on top of series of precipitous slopes, walking all over broken glass and garbage. There was simply no way to scale the walls downward to my building. But I had to get away from those damn dogs, the barking quickly became intolerable. And I thought there was a good chance they’d break free of their chains and I’d be finished.

After some very fast and risky acrobatic climbs and leaps, I finally made it down to a spot where I knew I could walk the rest of the way home. But then there was another Hell Dog waiting for me about thirty feet away, in the direction of where I needed to go. And this blasted mutt was unchained. I pulled out the Mace again and a standoff ensued. I fired a warning shot. He was barking madly but nevertheless stayed stationary. I figured if I walked in his direction an ugly battle would certainly ensue so I tried walking in the other direction even though, again, it appeared to be a dead end. I walked on top of this cement wall. It was odd because people could see me and I could see them, but there was no way for me to reach them. It was somewhat like that scene in Ghostbusters when Rick Moranis, also running away from a “dog”, finally reaches a glass-plated restaurant but cannot get inside. By this point, I looked about as disheveled as Rick Moranis too.

Eventually, I came upon a couple of black-earth peasants burning some trash. I asked them how to get down and they said the only way was to follow some dirt road away from the university and my place, around a different side of the mountain. They were right.

There are several series walls that appear to have been built to keep people away from certain buildings and such (along with guard dogs as back-up), but why? And where the christ did that third dog come from? I had never seen that dog before and he was right by the opening of my building. In fact, after I went around and came toward my building, I had the Mace gun out thinking for sure that wretched beast would be in the same spot, but by then he had already retreated to the recesses of hell.

That’s the thing about Vlad. You’re walking along in a nice, civilized area, then you make one wrong turn and quickly wind up in a war zone, a gigantic trash dump or the most vile bathroom that has ever been seen outside of Dante’s Inferno. The main streets have been cleaned up okay, but few care to speak about what lies behind the façade. The abject poverty and filth, shit and piss that permeate the whole city. Savages of both human and canine variety that lurk around every corner.

I for one have had enough of these dumb chums of our world that contribute nothing to society other than providing companionship for losers. Security dogs? No way. They just end up attacking innocents like me, and biting little children. Every time I hear about a dog being gobbled up by some right-thinking crocodile in Florida, well, I cheer. What do they do? Aside from pissing and shitting all over the place, they jump all over you squealing and barking their heads off. They never can seem mind their own business, can they? They’re incredibly stupid animals. I think the Chinese and Koreans have it right: let’s eat our dogs! (Incidentally, I think I actually did eat dog this year. John Drinkwater and I went to the only North Korean restaurant in town – called Pyonyang – and ordered “meat” that tasted very chewy, but decent nonetheless.)

Nabbed by the Police!

As I was walking home last night, I got picked up by the police. It seemed to bother them that I cut their jeep off when aggressively strolling over a crosswalk. But the ostensible reason for the interrogation was that I had a beer in my hand. It’s illegal to drink in the streets, they said. It was intensely funny to observe how quickly they jumped out of that jeep. I wasn’t afraid at all; I knew all would be well as soon as I whipped out my US passport. They couldn’t believe I was American. I had one of those mugger black winter hats on (it was damn cold last night), a black jacket, black pants and was drinking a black-canned beer.

These boys were looking for some action. I had the feeling that had I been Russian they might have beaten the living shit out of me.

As it was, it turned out to be a rather happy affair. After he realized I’m American, the head guy started laughing and never stopped. The two other boys remained quiet but agreeable in their manner. They told me to get into the jeep. I asked if I should dump the beer. They said no, bring it with you. They said they would drive me home. So there I am sitting in the back of this police jeep with a full, strong beer in my hand and silent Eddy sitting to my right.

The head guy was sitting shotgun; he was very jovial, asking me questions, laughing and such, so I decided to take a sip of the beer to see how it’d go over. My instincts were right: nobody said a word about it. So I kept drinking and indeed finished the beer by the time we got back to my place. My persecutor hosts turned out to be really nice guys.

The story doesn’t end there. As soon as they dropped me off, I doubled back because I wanted to pick up a few things at a nearby 24-hour supermarket. This stunt had them all laughing. What are you doing? Where are you going? I need to go to the supermarket. For a brief moment, I feared I had crossed the line and that now I’d be taken down to the station and horsewhipped. The moment passed. Instead, they offered to drive me to the supermarket, and did. They then sped off in search of a real criminal.

Couple notes here:

1. I’ve noticed that police selectively invoke this phony ‘no drinking outside’ law whenever it’s convenient. The fact is Russians drink outside here all the time, all over the place. It’s impossible to spend a day here, walking around, on the buses, etc. and not see dozens of people drinking bottles and cans of beers and cocktails. We walk by police all the time with beer in the hand. I think it’s when they have it out for someone, when they target someone (for whatever reason) that we hear all this large talk about no drinking in the streets.

2. The politsia-militsia mystery: the guys who picked me up identified themselves as politsia rather than the standard militsia, suggesting perhaps that there is a difference between the two. Non-Russian speakers might already recognize the two words: police and militia, except that in America the militias are those guys that play around the woods and occasionally blow up buildings. In Russia, the militsia are the federal police force (which is why, for instance, Alex in A Clockwork Orange refers to cops as “millicents”). I’m still trying to figure out exactly what the difference between militsia and politsia is, assuming there is a difference. I called around and got mixed answers from Russians. Someone said the politsia are the city or regional police and the militsia are the federal police. Someone else said they’re basically the same thing except that they have “different organizational structures.” A few people suggested this actually. Someone else said that there’s no difference at all, that the politsia don’t actually exist and that the guy I spoke with only said he was politsia (and not militsia) because I’m American. It’s all rather confusing. I could have sworn those guys were dressed differently than all of the militsia flatfoots I had previously dealt with.

I was going to wait to post this until I found out for sure, but got tired of all the mixed responses, and am hoping someone who knows what’s what reads this and puts me wise.

Why American Councils Had to Die

I have a new article in the eXile today

It's no John Dolanesque masterpiece but it's a start

Also a follow-up in The Krai

Hey Bank of America: Fuck You

Well, they’ve done it again. The Greedheads at Bank of America have frozen my assets (all 200 dollars of them) because their system detected my account was being accessed from a – gasp – foreign country. I know this because it happened to me a couple months ago and that was their baffling explanation. (Apparently, BOA caters to the Great Majority of God-Fearing Americans who scarcely leave their hometowns, never mind the country.) When I finally got through to the right representative I gave it to her slowly: “I live in Vladivostok. I will again be using ATM machines here to access my account. Nobody has stolen my card and fled for eastern Russia. Please make a note of this so it doesn’t happen again.” The woman assured it wouldn’t. You, ma’am, are a liar.

When it happened the first time I didn’t know what the hell was happening. It sent me into a crazed panic because I had no other money at the time. I became so paranoid, so quickly, that I was convinced either the US or Russian government was after me. I was compelled to borrow money from friends here and then have a Western Union wire transfer sent from America. The 15 hour time difference between here and NYC makes it extremely difficult for me to call BOA during business hours and find the right representative. It’s also very expensive. It took several days of calls, much waiting, and talks with multiple reps before I was able to get the block on the account removed.

I’m not as worried this time and will not go through that agonizing process again until I get back to America because I have a bunch of money coming my way from my university (well, hopefully) very soon and they pay me in cash. Dear Bank of America, if you’re out there and you see this blog entry, will you please do me the kind favor of removing that goddamned block on my account? Thanks kindly, Mark Grueter.

I never opened an account with BOA. It was originally Fleet but then Fleet was bought out by BOA. I never had any trouble with Fleet, but BOA is a constant pain in the ass. When I was in Russia with the Peace Corps for two years, my account was still being managed by Fleet and I always used the ATM machines here in Russia with complete success. Several months ago The Moscow Times wired me 100 bucks for a little article I did for them, and BOA arbitrarily stole 25 dollars of that and passed it off as a “service fee.” Don’t they understand that’s how the newspaper pays its writers? The paper doesn’t even give you the option to receive a check as an alternative. They only pay out by wiring money so what I am supposed to do? Just accept the fact that BOA will always steal a cut of it?

Also, BOA has this needlessly elaborate Passcode system on the Internet that you need to master to view your account. I’ve only managed to make it through a couple times. I have sent scathing emails to their anonymous computer representatives with all of my complaints (they still haven’t given me that 25 dollars back despite my reasoned argument). They have one of those systems which prevent you from replying. So I send these detailed, clearly written screeds their way and receive some two line response that in no way even attempts to adequately address my questions and concerns. Those motherfuckers! Recently, I received a haughtily clichéd reply about how they will not tolerate crude language. Crude! They’re putting their customer’s life in danger overseas and they’re calling me crude?

A Pint of Dog

It’s 6:30 in the morning and I’ve been up all night. I was just watching the morning news and saw a report about how they’re now selling beer for dogs in the US. At least, I think I did. Jesus, leave it to an American to come up with this idea. The stuff is called Happy Trail Ale or Happy Tall Ale; I’m a little groggy and couldn’t exactly tell. They even showed a dog drinking the brew – the fat woman owner of the dog had poured it into a glass cup for him. I know Americans love their dogs and are always looking for ways to get closer to them, but is this really the answer? Seducing canines? (I was once shown an I-net video of a girl at Duke University having actual sex with her dog.) Ah, but it turns out this particular beer is non-alcoholic. So then, what is the point? Apparently the makers just wanted their dogs to feel a part of the family…or something. How many years will pass, I wonder, before lame quips about Fido getting drunk finally become stale?

It is of course ridiculous how people dote on their dogs. They dress them up in costumes and sweaters, spend thousands on medical bills and grooming. Some of these types are friends and family of mine. Many people prefer the company of their own dogs over actual humans, even their own siblings and spouses. PG Wodehouse used to call dogs and cats “dumb chums” (even though he himself was a dog fan) because of the unthinking companionship they provide. I personally think they’re a pain in the ass. The weepy feelings I once had toward pets as a boy have left us. I especially hate those tall, freak poodles one sees on the Upper East Side of New York. I have a vivid memory of wanting to kick one of those poodles in particular for a reason I couldn’t fully explain.

Nabbed at La Trattoria!

John Drinkwater and I were stone cold busted last night at La Trattoria after we attempted to run out on the bill. What happened was, Drinkwater folded. He couldn’t bear the shrieking that trailed behind us, even though he knew we would’ve gotten away.

It all started when Drinkwater suggested we eat at La Trattoria off Svetlanskaya Street because he wanted to review it for his newspaper. I agreed to go even though I thought it an odd idea to strike at 10:30 on a Friday night. The restaurant is fairly nice but there was nobody in it. I suppose it’s one of these places that is simply propped up by mafia. We both ordered the lasagna and waited for it over a couple shots of vodka. And waited. About 45 minutes after we ordered, they brought out two curious looking plates of food. Their version of “lasagna” was a dish of melted cheese mixed with square ham bits. It was lousy shit.

I was already pissed at having to wait for so long, and this put me over the edge. They were prepared to charge us over 600 rubles, almost 30 dollars for the “lasagna” dishes alone. It was total bullshit so I whispered to Drinkwater, “Let’s make a run for it.” Surprisingly, he went along with it. He’s generally a law-abiding type, but I think he was a bit drunk and for some reason he didn’t think they’d come after us. I knew they’d chase us, but went for it anyway, if only for the thrill. We grabbed our coats and dashed for the exit. We had a good head start, were out the door and up the hill toward the main drag. I could hear all the bad noise behind us, but knew that if we ran at full speed we’d eventually be in the clear. We were, after all, being chased by female waitresses. Suddenly, Drinkwater screamed out, “We have to stop!” I screamed even louder, “No!” but it was too late. He quickly shifted gears into reverse and went to face the music. I kept running away at top speed, coward that I am. I ducked around the other side of the building and waited for Drinkwater to emerge. I jumped him on the street about five minutes later. Ashen-faced, he said he coughed up 1000 rubles for the bill. He said he needed some strong beer and I couldn’t have agreed more. He was angry with me and couldn’t understand why I would keep running after he stopped.

Galahad Threepwood noted that his brother Clarence (Lord Ickenham) was a nice chap but also an awful conspirator in that he couldn’t be relied upon as an ally in any scheme involving shrewd duplicity, no matter what the greater good. Drinkwater is a great guy but not always a good conspirator. He’s a churchgoer and has this moral consciousness that often gets in the way. But what he doesn’t realize is that we were in the right, morally. That restaurant is an absolute scandal. They should have given us 1000 rubles. I argued this point to him but he wouldn’t have it.

Two old friends of mine used to do this all the time – run out on restaurant bills, especially when they were in Cape Cod during summer. I believe they called it “dine and dash.” They didn’t do it because the food/service was bad or because they didn’t have any money. They did it purely for the thrill. Their method was quite simple. One would leave and pull the car around to the front door. When positioned, the other would stand up and walk out at a good clip. They would then speed off rather recklessly regardless if anyone was after them or not. I saw them in action. I was complicit in a few of these stupid stunts when I visited them in the Cape. It was rather fun though. We laughed our asses off as we raced away and as I vowed never to hang out with them ever again.

'No Fault' auto insurance is for wimps

I was in minor car accident the other day. Rules of the road aren’t entirely clear here, so these things are very common. The colleague of mine who got us into the accident said this was her third in three months. I could see it coming a mile away as we were heading straight for an oncoming car. It was a like a game of chicken except the participants didn’t know they were playing. Both parties jerked their cars leftward at the last second, but this wasn’t enough to prevent us from slamming into the back of some guy’s mini-van.

In Russia, drivers who get into accidents are supposed to leave their cars at the scene until the cops arrive, esp. if there is a dispute. This causes major traffic headaches but the concept of ‘no fault’ auto insurance hasn’t dawned on these people, so whoever’s fault it is is vital. In our case however, there was no dispute. This colleague of mine knew it was her fault and didn’t waste any time putting up a fight. Instead, she just handed 500 rubles to the guy and he seemed satisfied. The dent in his already banged up rig wasn’t so bad - 500 rublee ought to cover the repairs he’s probably not going to make anyway. I like it though. Quick justice. Just handing someone a wad of cash in such situations is standard practice, an unspoken rule that most people simply accept.

What does it all mean?

I don’t know how best to explain this, so I’ll just say it: the other day, I couldn’t sign my name. Like mechanically, I couldn’t figure it out. I had suddenly forgotten how to do it. It was the ‘G’ that tripped me up. It happened at a bad time too because I had just given a talk to about 50 high school students from all around the region. For some reason, they asked me to sign my John Hancock on the chalkboard. I got through the Mark with relative ease, began to compose the G, stopped, wracked my brain for a couple seconds and realized I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t remember how I signed my name, even though this is something I do all the time. The kids let me off easy. I think they felt for me. I eventually rallied and was able to autograph their notebooks, but not without a struggle. My hands were shaking and I botched many of the attempts. I really like the way I sign my name too. Whether in America or Russia, I almost always get a comment from whoever sees it. I guess the result is highly unusual, even illegible, but to me it looks clear and is actually a thing of beauty. But not on that day. I just wonder what those kids made of that scene. ‘The guy can’t even write his own name in his own language?’ I was the first American they had ever met and probably the only American most of them will ever meet.