Cozy Moments

This Blog is History

2007-03-01T17:23:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-21T05:10:00.000+11:00

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

2006-06-08T12:26:00.000+11:00

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!

2006-06-03T16:48:00.000+11:00

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

2006-06-02T17:51:00.000+11:00

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

2006-06-02T17:44:00.000+11:00

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

2006-05-29T16:12:00.000+11:00

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!

2006-05-27T18:20:00.000+11:00

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

2006-05-26T11:43:00.001+11:00

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?

2006-05-26T11:43:00.000+11:00

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.

It's still cold here, guys

2006-05-26T11:40:00.000+11:00

I used to assure Americans that it gets hot in Vladivostok during the summer. Sure, it’s colder than a witch’s tit during winter, but it really heats up, gets humid in the summer. I need to revise this assessment. It is now May 25th and its legitimately cold outside, as it has been for most of the month. There is also no warm or hot water throughout the city. I still haven’t figured out how to properly convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, but it’s 9 degrees Celsius outside and windy. (Vlad is a notoriously windy city especially if you’re on the upper end of one of these goddamn mountains or of course down by the sea.) I think God may have forgotten to shine the sun on this poor part of Russia for the summer. I know a cloud constantly lingers over my head…

Alcohol: Problem or Solution?

2006-05-26T11:35:00.000+11:00

I would now like to address an old debate I often have among friends and foes. I hear all this loud talk about an “alcohol problem” (“He’s got an alcohol problem” or “You’ve got an alcohol problem”) but few bother to mention that alcohol is actually a solution for many people. Think about how many situations alcohol makes less awkward. It binds us. And it brings together people who would otherwise refuse to exist in the same room. It makes us tighter with our own friends. The way Russians drink reinforces this. With vodka, they do shots from a community bottle, usually around a table of food. And they all do their shot at the same time.

There is no doubt alcoholism can be a bad affliction, but so can insomnia, and for many insomniacs who would otherwise have to go on heavy medication, alcohol serves as their soporific. Also, people forget to mention the main reason why people drink: because it’s Fun. Isn’t that a good enough reason to do something? It’s not only fun, it’s funny. How many laughable hours do we spend reminiscing over drunken episodes? (“Do you remember when Grueter got attacked by that stripper in West Palm?”) Christ, in a world gone mad, alcohol seems almost boringly sane.

If only the Normals would just leave us drinkers alone. Why is it that you never see the pro-alcohol crowd harassing teetotalers for their refusal to drink? Because we respect freedom of choice, are open-minded and know it’d be a waste of time, that’s why. But anti-alcohol zealots are notoriously judgmental and can never seem to mind their own business. The phrase ‘piss off’ comes to mind whenever I hear someone tell me that I drink ‘too much’. When a female MP accused Winston Churchill of being drunk on the floor of parliament his retort was something like: “Well madam, yes I am drunk, but tomorrow I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be ugly.”

Woody Allen said that 80 percent of success is showing up. Well, I show up - it’s always the non-drinkers who are coming down with colds and calling things off. I used to frequently get the flu growing up, but I honestly don’t think I’ve had it once since I started drinking. I almost never get colds either. Alcohol kills all the bad stuff. I’m serious about this. Alcoholics are usually workaholics too, a fact that is always suppressed. I see people won’t shut up about Christopher Hitchens’ supposed drinking problem, yet he remains one of, if not the most prolific writer in America. And the quality of his writing (regardless of whether you agree with him or not) remains top-notch, a reality almost nobody would dispute. Most of his opponents are simply too illiterate to even appreciate his superior literary talents. His enemies cannot defeat him in debate (fact), so they try to disparage him as a drunk who doesn’t think straight. They need to grow up.

Those who deny that alcohol and drugs trigger creativity simply refuse to consider the overwhelming evidence. Just look at all the great writers and thinkers who were and are alcoholics and drug addicts. Freud advocated cocaine use. Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Kerouac were total lushes. Of course, drugs and alcohol fueled Hunter Thompson’s best work. Russia’s Gogol was a drug fiend; Pushkin, an alki. And those are just a few names. Think about how many public speeches and debates are improved and maintained because of a few bracers drank beforehand. I myself delivered a rather satisfactory speech at a graduate school academic conference just after skillfully downing some scotch in the men’s bathroom. I was a nervous wreck before that scotch. (This is precisely why Jeeves and Bertie turned Gussie Fink-Nottle’s daily orange juice into a nice, strong screwdriver. He had to give a speech and had been moping around the house citing extreme anxiety. And of course the Jeeves-inspired solution worked well…too well as far as concerns poor Bertram.)

Now, obviously, there is a thin line between functional and dysfunctional dipsomania, but never forget that the functional alcoholics of the world are a booming minority. They even have their own magazine called The Modern Drunkard, edited by Frank Kelly Rich, a great writer himself. We exist and will never go away, so get used to it and put an end to the dim lectures.

Note: Credit is owed to Scott Vickers, an old drinking buddy who can double fist with the best of them, for this mini-article

I might have known

2006-05-25T15:10:00.000+11:00

Lost in thought on my way to my fav fast food joint (called ‘Kentucky’ – they sell decent, cheap chicken burgers), I arrive before realizing I would have to purge a ton of gas from my system first in order to eat. Kentucky is blaring Green Day’s “Holiday” so I think about sucking it up because I sort of like that song and don’t want to miss it, but I decide to keep walking around until the time is right. I take a right on Aleutskaya Street, another right on Svetlanskaya, pass Studio Café, the Versailles Hotel, even go as far as the Chinese restaurant near Hotel Equator before doubling back down Pogranichnaya Street and up Fokina to Kentucky.

It turns out I have no reason to be sad over missing that Green Day song. When I return, “Holiday” is still playing, even though it is about 20 minutes later. Having lived here for awhile, I immediately figure they have the song on a loop and are - almost unconsciously - playing it over and over like kids do at frat parties, usually drunk girls who have long stopped giving a fuck about what other people think. I sit and eat in amazement as nobody even seems to notice, never mind care or be bothered by it.

A couple years ago this section of Fokina Street - where Kentucky and some other nice restaurants reign - was converted into a nice promenade where people now sit and stroll around, drink beer with Kentucky often blaring music out into the street. (Cutely, they call this sub-street “Arbat” named after the famous Arbat Street in Moscow - they all secretly would rather be living in Moscow.) I remember one time they had this awful techno song on repeat; nobody complained or said anything of course, but then the CD started to skip! I thought maybe, just maybe, someone might finally raise an eyebrow. Nope. Nothing. I eventually had to get up and walk away because I couldn’t take it any longer. Doesn’t anything, besides the Chinese, piss these people off?

Reuters and Grueters

2006-05-19T20:47:00.000+11:00

I have this theory that people constantly misspell my name "Mark Grueter" because of Reuters News Service. Like most of my theories, it is absurd, but hear it out: Since boyhood, teachers, coaches and others frequently write out my last name as Greuter, even after they had seen the actual spelling. Things like this usually don't bother me but this mistke does because it never goes away and strikes me as illogical. The pronunciation of Grueter is something like 'Groo-tur' or 'Groo-dur' depending on your mood. So it would make no phonetic sense to put the 'e' before the 'u' unless perhaps you are for some reason thinking of spelling out the word 'grew', although that just seems bizarre. I would ask people why they spelled it Greuter instead of Grueter and they just say, "I don't know." And so recently it occurred to me that Reuters News Service, if not the actual cause, may be contributing to this mistake. People unconsciously assimilate "Reuters" into their brains and because it's an unusual word combination but is similar to "Grueter" and thus we get Greuter. Well, cut it out everyone because Reuter is pronounced 'Roy-tur' so you have no excuse.

Anti-alcohol propaganda of Moscow Times

2006-05-17T13:50:00.000+11:00

The Moscow Times argues today that the cause of Russia’s falling population (of 700,000 per year) is alcohol. The solution: get rid of alcohol. Ah, if it were only that simple. Forget about the HIV epidemic, drugs, pollution, lack of access to medication, sheer poverty and all those other things that gradually kill people. Nevermind people fleeing the country for more prosperous lands.

And why not consider the cause of extreme alcohol abuse? So many Russians turn to heavy consumption out of desperation and poverty. Killing themselves with booze is often preferable to living without it. People drink to live, to deal with all the everyday bullshit which plagues every society. Trying to get people to moderate consumption is a much better solution. How to do that? Improve the social and economic conditions so that working class Russians are living better. American men are heavy drinkers also, but they live longer because they generally have much better lives (and much better booze). There’s a thought. How many Russians die because of drinking shit alcohol?

As far as improving living conditions, in Vladivostok, for starters, they might think about keeping the water on all year round instead of arbitrarily and periodically shutting it off for no apparent reason. They might think about lowering prices of consumer goods, addressing the traffic epidemic, taking care of the people instead of dressing up the city for foreigners or for when some bigshot from Moscow visits.

Snake bite

2006-05-17T11:34:00.000+11:00

Apparently not all ex-pats here are big fans of my work either. One guy called me a “snake” the other night. He first said that I have a “cold heart” but I quickly corrected him by noting, though I’m not a doctor, I was fairly certain my heart is the same temperature as everyone else’s. Then he said I have a “black heart” (a point on which I had to correct him again) before finally settling for the reptilian image.

He has this idea that one shouldn’t be allowed to criticize a place where one chooses to live. So if I choose to live in New York, New York is off limits but, say, Massachusetts is fair game. One would think this notion, if anything, would work better the other way around. Generally, we are more aware of things that are happening where we live as compared to other places...

Putin to Women: Breed

2006-05-11T18:05:00.000+11:00

Putin has finally come up with a way to solve the ongoing reverse population crisis in Russia. Instead of addressing pressing issues such as mass emigration, infant mortality, alcoholism and pollution, Putin is now encouraging Russians to simply breed more. That'll do the trick. He proposes an increase in stipends given to mothers and an additional stipend given to mothers who bear a second child. I asked someone what the current stipend is and she said it was 80 rubles per month, which wouldn't even get you a Big Mac. The new proposed numbers are much higher, but will see what actually pans out for the average Russian. I honestly hope the scheme works, but its just so desperate it's pretty sad.

Objective Nonsense

2006-05-11T13:58:00.000+11:00

I noticed this week that Dmitry Peskov, Kremlin deputy spokesman dismissed Dick Cheney's criticisms of Russia as highly "subjective" as if saying that alone means anything at all or as if Russian officials are themselves completely 'objective'. The recent spat between Putin and Bush reveals an annoying Russian tendency to simple-mindedly reject anything they render as "subjective," even without bothering to explain how it is subjective.

I get this baffling complaint with my magazine: my articles are 'subjective'. I mean, so what? And? Are you suggesting that yours are objective or that objective journalism actually exists? Yes they are. I forgot for a moment Russia hasn't learned from a Hunter Thompson; it apparently hasn't been influenced by French and post-modern theory either. All experience is necessarily subjective but that doesn't we cannot strive to find common ground or truth. The point is that lazily dismissing something as 'subjective' is useless if the issues themselves aren't being directly addressed. I'm no fan of Cheney or Bush but they brought up specific criticisms of Russia that went entirely unanswered.

I Protest...On a trip to Moscow

2006-04-28T14:49:00.000+11:00

On US State Department dime, I flew to Moscow last week. The flight from Vlad to the capital takes roughly 10 hours, which is just about how long it takes to fly from New York to Moscow – goes to show how truly massive Russia is, area-wise (population, on the other hand, is only 140 million: something’s got to give).

I love traveling but I hate to travel, meaning that the process itself is annoying and often agonizing. I cannot sleep sitting up so I always try to drink on planes. In fact, I nearly missed the departing flight because of a serious snafu that takes place at the Vladivostok airport. My “boarding time” was listed as 1:30pm for a flight leaving at 2pm. I was busy pounding beer waiting for 1:30 to roll around before suddenly realizing things had gone wrong. 1:30 had passed and my gate had closed; I didn’t recognize any faces anymore. Evidently, 1:30 was really the cutoff time for boarding rather than the actual ‘boarding time’ as was printed on my ticket. They let me on anyway, solely because of my American passport. They brought a special bus around to bring me to the plane; I was the last person to board and was immediately outed as an American.

Straightaway I asked three different flight attendants for booze. They all insisted that they don’t have any alcohol on this ‘Vladivostok Air’ craft. What the fuck? Do the Saudis own the controlling share in this piece-of-shit airline?

(It is sad to say but I fear Russia is becoming a teetotaler nation. I find it hard to believe myself but the evidence is overwhelming. President Putin is as short and sober as they come and I think his ascetic style is trickling down to the rest of society. In September 2005, when I flew to Vlad from Seoul on Korean Air, the lovely Korean stewardesses happily served several rounds of Hite beer - and that was only a 2-hour flight.)

So I dried up, passed on the opportunity to watch a translated version of the overrated ‘Meet the Fockers’ and instead chose to live vicariously through the drug-sodden memoirs of Mark Ames and Matt Taibbi via their excellent book, Sex, Drugs and Libel in the New Russia. It’s one of the best, funniest, most honest reads I’ve come across in a long time. It’s a unique compilation of backstories on how their Moscow-based newspaper the eXile got started, interspersed with related articles from the newspaper itself. The book features serious criticism of various American and Russian individuals and organizations and also serves as a tell-all for Taibbi and Ames: their heroin and speed consumption, advocacy of Russian girls over American ones, an expose on the cowardly morons who tried to bring them down, etc. etc. Both are exceptionally strong and effective men of the pen.

Anyway, knowing no alcohol would be served on the return flight, I prepared by downing 8 pints at the terminal café. I was exhausted as it was, so I actually passed out during the takeoff, completely avoiding that nail-biting moment when I’m always convinced the jet will take a dive and we’ll all burn to a hideous death. I was only knocked out for a bit though, coming to when it was still possible to see the metropolis below.

I spent the rest of the flight arguing with my stomach, which took it upon itself to berate and badger me with criticism. It got so loud and heated we received censorious looks from fellow passengers. If only I had been given 3 or 4 more drinks, I could’ve put the bilious bastard to sleep.

Postscript: I want to thank Nelson Thacker for recently giving me a liter of Johnnie Walker Black, surrendering what was his payment for performing in a television commercial. Also, special and boisterous thanks to Bostonians Greg and Angela Holahan who Express-Mailed me the Gillette Cold Fusion razor, packages of Boxer Briefs, a 200ml bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, a 50ml bottle of Glenfiddich, a 50ml bottle of The Balvenie (single malt, single barrel), a 50ml bottle of The Balvenie (single malt, double barrel) and of course my medicine, for I suffer from a bad heart. (I could’ve used the shooters on those grim flights, goddamnit.)

Metropolitan Kirill's Flawless Logic

2006-04-08T16:05:00.000+11:00

Reading the Moscow News recently, I was disgusted to see leading religious Russian quack Metropolitan Kirill (his parents named him simply Kirill but then he moved to the big city) citing "liberalism" as the cause of racist crimes. The assertion from this "top Orthodox cleric" runs as follows:

We cannot accept the mocking of the sacred, abortion, homosexuality, euthanasia, the exploitation of national feelings and other similar kinds of behavior, which are often defended as human rights.

You cannot complain about a rise in xenophobia at a time when we allow a person to destroy the sacred, spit on his fatherland and destroy his own culture without being stopped by right-thinking people. This person will go and kill someone else, on the basis of race, or of faith.

I say 'assertion' because there is no actual argument here. There's no logic at all. What exactly does he mean? That xenophobia is an appropriate response to criticism of religious beliefs? His solution to the problem of attacks against foreigners and minorities is to ban "abortion, homosexuality, euthanasia, the exploitation of national feelings and other similar kinds of behavior" like, say, wearing a rubber. This doesn't make a damn bit of sense. At least when Pat Buchanan delivers his extreme Christian views he tries to follow some pattern of logic. Poor boy Kirill appears to lack the most basic reasoning skills available. Let us hope his evil gibberish doesn't resonate with the populace.

The curious case of Jill Carroll

2006-04-05T13:43:00.000+11:00

I am astonished by what I see as an insufficient amount of media commentary (in the US anyway) on the Jill Carroll case. Held hostage by a Muslim terrorist group for months, she comes out swinging, not at her captors, but at the US government. As a response, the only thing Americans - including her father - can think to say is that she must have been brainwashed. Yeah, that's right, ignore the substance of her comments if they are in any way unpleasant to you.

Not only at the end of her captivity (in that infamous propaganda tape) did Carroll criticize Bush and America for conducting a disastrous war that has and will only lead to more violence. She continued her assault on the war immediately after her release.

Psychological trauma and/or statements made under duress notwithstanding, one should not be so quick to dismiss the forceful and articulate comments and criticisms she made just after her release. How can we know for sure what she meant and what she didn't? She has remained quiet with her family over the past few days, but it'll be interesting to see what she eventually has to say about it all. She certainly has put on weight, which is proof that she was at least well-nourished.

I'm not expecting her to again defend her abductors and the mujahadeen, as she was apparently forced at gunpoint to do, but we might consider whether or not she'll continue her critique of the American invasion of Iraq, and it matters to me at least what she has to say.

A Bilious Insult

2006-04-05T12:03:00.000+11:00

The ex-pat element here in Vlad is a small universe of assorted drifters who all pretty much know or know of each other. But it's better described as a highly dysfunctional family rather than a tightly-knit community. Backstabbing and ugly rumor-mongering pervade the whole scene. I go out for drinks with a couple these ex-pats and one of them says to me, "Hey, I heard you were a lightweight [drinking term]." Man, what the fuck are you talking about? After a bit of grilling I find out who it was that hurled this bilious charge at me. I have never been so grossly offended in my entire life. A guy invites me over to his house, pushes rich, foreign booze on me and then prances around town telling people I can't hold the stuff? No etiquette, man, no manners.

I felt so scandalized that, after a few days of brooding, I decide to confront the bastard, even though it's such an obviously fatuous situation. The accuser denies the whole thing as "absolute nonsense" (he's a product of the British Empire), saying that he would never even speak in such terms. He admits to only having said we got drunk together, which is an admittance of nothing at all of course. I even called my informant to tell him that his name had been revealed - he seemed a bit melancholic. Anyway, someone is lying. But who? And why?

You Should Be More Careful

2006-03-30T16:50:00.000+11:00

I will positively deck the next person who says, "Be careful" (or some variation on that theme) to me. It is a useless and I think sinister thing to say to someone. Several people have been uttering these ominous words to me and I don't appreciate it at all. When I ask Why (should I be more careful), the answer is usually just a repeat of the advice/warning/threat, as if that's supposed to make it better.

These dark words are what the thugs said to Marina Litvinovich after they beat her up in the streets of Moscow: "You need to be more careful, Marina."

Litvinovich had the invidious nerve to work as an aid to Garry Kasparov. Kasparov, mostly known in Russia for his chess-playing prowess, is currently trying to unseat President Putin through an organization called United Civil Front. Kasparov has been travelling all over the country trying to draw attention to the corruption of the current administration. He is frequently heckled and harassed by apologists for the Kremlin, such as the Nashi movement, which as far as I can tell is a group of young brown shorts. These little thugs try to eliminate all political dissent.

Sometimes I think it's best to do the opposite of what you are told, that is, if you know what's good for you.

Proud Mary is a turning and rolling like a ring-ding

2006-03-29T13:01:00.000+11:00

I have found out some more information about my would-be assailants. The scoundrels might not actually be "skinheads" per se but they certainly share the same sinister and primitive thought that "foreigners" are a menace to Russia. Through my backchannel, I have challenged the enemies to an open debate, so long as the threat of violence be taken completely off the table. I suspect, however, not having confidence in their ability to argue, the atavistic ones will instead try to stomp me out with more threats and violence.

In the meantime, I have taken several measures. For one thing, The United States Consulate and the Russian Police have been notified, names have been given. The hammer of justice looms.

I've also completely changed my identity to that of a well-known American clown (see photo). You'll notice that I'm armed.

"The thing was a walkover. It was the old story. Brains tell. The untutored savage jumps about howling threats and calling for dirty work at close quarters, and the canny scion of a more enlightened race just stays away and lets him have it at long range with his artillery, causing him to look a bit of an ass." - Lord Havershot, from Laughing Gas

Bad Noise

2006-03-25T17:46:00.000+10:00

Sorry I haven't written in awhile. There's a lot of bad noise all around me. I received a threat today through a backchannel. It goes like this: you're in danger; some skinheads found your articles and are planning to kick your ass in the street, at night.

I don't write this to scare anyone, nor am I being overly dramatic. These threats are real and not the product of paranoid delusions. At the same time, I have many built-in protections and nothing at all has happened to me (yet).

I'm confiding this information solely for the record, so that if something nasty does indeed happen to me, you might know where to start looking. I like to think that I've at least attracted the right sort of enemy. If I want anyone against me, it's the neo-Nazis of our world.

Death to Fascism.

The Fix is In

2006-03-03T16:22:00.000+10:00

I logged into my Yahoo email account yesterday: all of my messages, in every folder, are gone. They've "disappeared." Years of famous and notorious letters flushed down the fucking Internet toilet. My Address book: erased as well. So this is how it begins, huh? When I disappear I hope some of you will remember this day. Cozy Moments cannot be muzzled, but it can certainly be choked...

Review of Smashed, now online

2006-03-02T18:23:00.000+10:00

The Modern Drunkard is the funniest magazine I've ever read. The editor, Frank Rich, combines his wit with an extensive knowledge of history, literature and, of course, booze. Well, in their September/October 2005 issue they were kind enough to publish a book review of mine,which is now online.

Not sure how to explain the lag other than to say that it's the Modern Drunkard, man - they don't need to explain themselves if they're off getting cocked. Much funnier than my piece, by the way, is a great column entitled Diary of Dipsomaniac, penned by an English Gentleman named Giles Humbert III. Rely upon it.

and then 8 minutes later, Nelson shows up...

2006-03-02T16:45:00.000+10:00

Up until this past Monday, my droog Nelson had been living his life 8 minutes behind everyone else’s…for at least five months. I don’t have a cell phone, so we often meet up at set times, usually outside. He had frequently been about ten minutes late to our gatherings, but I never said anything, usually because I was content with a beer in hand. Finally, the other day, I did say something because, instead of a beer, I have a hacking cough and don’t care to be outside for any longer than is absolutely necessary.

We are supposed to meet at 6:30 pm (to walk to some dinner party at 7) and he shows up at 6:38 pm, at which point I throw my arms in the air and then point to my watch. At first, he doubts me, shows me his watch which reads 6:30 on the dot, and says my watch must be fast. I immediately prove him wrong, and that’s when he reveals that he had always just assumed everybody else was early. “I was wondering why everyone at my office goes to lunch ten minutes early.” In disbelief, I say, ‘don’t you have the time on your computer?’ “Yeah, I just thought it was fast.” He kept wondering why Russians would text message or call him wondering where he was, even though, according to his own internal thought, he was only 1 minute late for the meeting.

Putin Insists Adults be Treated as Children

2006-02-22T15:52:00.000+10:00

I wasn't surprised to see President Putin side with Muslim fanatics in the recent controversy over cartoons published in Denmark. The Christian president is against the cartoons and against the Danish government for "allowing" the 'toons to be published in the first place. The Russian President doesn't appear to know that publications in many other countries are not censored by their governments.

Recently, two Russian newspapers were permanently shut down, not for depicting "Mohammed" (what did Mohammed do when the mountain did not come to him? Why, he went to the mountain of course) in a negative light, but just for bothering to depict him at all (and actually, it was in a positive light). How rude and offensive of them.

What's my take? Let's see. How's this? The evil scumbags who use those cartoons as pretext for murder, violence and destruction behave like little sinister babies. Instead of responding to juvenile behavior with a stern, adult rebuke, Putin insists we must answer the cries of the spoiled children with an apology for the enlightened practice of free speech!

By apologizing, we continue to treat these religious crackpots-hellbent-on-staging- temper tantrums as children. If you treat an adult as if he were a child, he will likely behave as if he were in fact a child. As I've tried to explain before Putin treats his own citizens as if they were children, so again it's not surprising he wishes to treat everyone else's the same way.

One might think Putin's brutally executed war in Chechnya reveals him to be a hater of Muslims. But perhaps that's only true in practice, for Putin has for now hopped on the 'insensitivity' bandwagon. You don't "heal" religious differences, by the way, by appeasing the most extreme elements. Christians and Jews have been getting mocked for years, and though many detest it, they don't resort to barbarically burning down embassies as a response.

It's a shame I have to deprogramme otherwise intelligent students who intially buy the line being peddled on the 'need to not offend' as if it were that simple, and as if the only thing that mattered in the world was that nobody ever be offended by anything. Putins says "we" must not "provoke" the children. We must not upset the children. What we will tell the children?!

Fortunately, Christopher Hitchens has now published two masterful defenses of free speech in the face of barbaric thuggery, which helps those of us in the minority counter the cowardly and stupid contentions of the can't we all just get along bunch.

Droppin' Science like Galileo Dropped an Orange

2006-02-16T15:40:00.000+10:00

Moscow News reports that a Russian political “scientist” is predicting that the US will bomb Iran in a few months. My response: who cares? What could possibly give this clown more insight into the situation than anybody else? His status as a scientist?

Russians use the term ‘scientist’ far too loosely. It seems anyone with an advanced education in their respective field is a ‘scientist’ and indeed an expert regardless if the field is politics or biology, journalism or physics. This confuses the distinction between the physical sciences - which deal in objective criteria, tangible, incontrovertible facts, testable theories and experiments - and the social sciences, humanities, history, etc., which are highly contentious battlegrounds that rely far more heavily on subjective renderings and perpetual reinterpretation. The latter fields, including political “science,” are more accurately described as arts rather than sciences.

Science is predicated on the accepted idea that one interpretation or objective fact can be reached regarding a given situation. The entire scientific community, for instance, assures us that the earth’s temperature is rising. (The implications of this phenomenon and the question of how best to deal with it, of course, spill over into the realm of politics, but that is neither here nor there.) On the contrary, is there even one consensus opinion among the political science community? Does a political science community even exist? And do you have to be a political scientist per se in order to be a regarded as a serious political thinker, like you would have to be a marine biologist in order to weigh in on a complicated question concerning marine biology? Of course not.

We don’t even consider an economist a ‘scientist’ – he is simply an economist because, no matter how brilliant or well-educated he may be, it is impossible for him to separate his values and subjective experiences from his economic theories and prescriptions. Ideology almost always plays a role.

Is it not essential that this distinction be drawn? There’s an intellectually judicious reason why terms like “right-wing geologist” or “the Marxist engineer,” are absurd as opposed to “left-wing journalist” or “neo-liberal economist,” which sound perfectly natural. Even for thinkers like Richard Dawkins and Noam Chomsky we know how to distinguish between their works in various fields. It is reasonable to believe, as many do, that Chomsky is a brilliant linguist but a lousy political thinker. Same with Dawkins: one may admire his work as a physicist but dismiss his outspoken promotion of atheism. At the same time, the other way around doesn’t quite work as well: I’ve never heard of anyone who simultaneously believes Chomsky is a great political thinker but a know-nothing when it comes to linguistics.

Vodka and the Silliness of Tradition

2006-02-16T15:35:00.000+10:00

I was reading an essay on vodka in the literary journal Granta. The Russian author explains why vodka is supposed to be consumed from a glass – and as a shot - and only that way. The reasoning for this is so stupid it bears repeating.

Alarmed by how westerners ‘cut’ their vodka with juice, soda and/or ice, the troubled author explains that vodka was invented sometime in the 15th century as a medicine for “bad colds and dodgy stomachs” (yeah right). You were to shoot it down like you would, say, cough syrup. “Medicine isn’t drunk to be savored, after all; you swallow it down in one gulp, wash it down with water, and wait for the healing effects to begin.”

First he compares vodka to cough, anti-indigestion and anti-constipation medicines but then he asserts: “A good vodka is designed to be the purest alcoholic drink on earth. Any additives, even ice cubes, immediately ruin its character.” Character? C’mon, this isn’t single-malt scotch we’re talking about. Even the best bottle of vodka is sheer rot gut compared to, say, Johnnie Walker Blue or The Glenlivet, two drinks you are supposed to savor.

How could ice cubes, by the way, adversely affect the “purity” of the drink when water is obviously more pure than any vodka? Emotion and an attachment to tradition win out over reason in this case.

Also, the author insists that vodka cannot – I repeat, cannot – be consumed from the bottle or from a flask. “You need a proper glass, which makes it easier, faster, and less unpleasant.” (Of course, it doesn’t have to be unpleasant at all if you simply mix it.) He then tells us a story about how he (the journalist) and a thirsty government minister once clandestinely drove deep into the forest to consume a couple bottles of vodka on the sly but then turned around in defeat, having consumed nothing, after realizing they had forgotten glasses from which to do shots from. Poor fools. Would such a minor setback honestly deter any sane drinker?

And if the stuff is so foul that you need to down it before you can even taste it, then why make fatuous boasts about the “purity” of the stuff, as if it’s some sort of crisp, pristine liquid which refreshes the body and soul?

The main point that many Russians don’t understand is that traditions, like rules, are meant to be broken and amended. It is appropriate for people of good sense to experiment with the ways in which we consume various goods and substances. Wouldn’t it be boring if everyone drank the same thing in the same way, all the time? Yes it is; I now know from experience. There’s no logical reason why you or I should not feel free to cut our vodka with cranberry juice, even if the former is mere medicine and not a high quality spirit, and even if the practice offends Russians and their sacred way of consuming the only alcoholic beverage they call their own – even though it isn’t their own: it was invented by the Poles.

People should obviously be open to new ways of drinking. Taste is more important than tradition.

(All this explains an evening I recently spent with a couple Russians during which I attempted to share quality tequila - which had been shipped to me - with them. It was a washout. They couldn’t just sip it with ice. It was as if they didn’t know how to drink it. They insisted on doing shots of it, before very quickly switching over to vodka. I thought I was giving them a treat, but they didn’t appreciate it at all. A painful scene.)

The sad fact is that most Russians cannot afford to buy anything beyond vodka and beer, which is probably the real reason why these boring traditions drone on. Whisky and rum are more expensive here than in the west and therefore out of the question; champagne and wine are reserved for special occasions (because they’re expensive). I can’t even make a White Russian because Kahlua is too expensive for middle class living…

Does the KGB have an image problem?

2006-02-15T16:29:00.000+10:00

Who would've ever thought the KGB (now known as the FSB) would worry about its image? This, according to Vladivostok News:

'Primorye's Federal Security Service, or FSB, announced a contest for the best literary work praising activities of FSB. The secretive service will select the works which "will depict a positive character of a FSB official, his daily challenges and family life as well retirement issues", a statement from Russia's Federal Security Service said. Televised and newspaper reports, as well as literary stories, songs, movies and art works are all welcomed until the deadline of Oct.1, 2006, FSB officials said.'

This sounds like one of Bush's attempts to pump up America's image abroad by sending a bunch of losers overseas (like Karen Hughes) to talk about how wonderful America really is. But I don't know if the CIA or FBI would ever go to such a depraved and laughable extent as to sponsor a literary contest encouraging poets to sing its praises...this is straight out of Kim Jong Il's book, except the latter would probably pen the literary effort himself.

The Jill Carroll Conspiracy Theory

2006-02-02T19:13:00.000+10:00

Like everyone else, I was appalled to see journalist Jill Carroll on television the other day, weeping and worse yet, hooded. The story was particularly poignant for me to read about after I learned she is the same age as I: 28.

I mentioned this sordid case to a Russian acquaintance of mine. His response: "The US has her. They've set the whole thing up, manufacturing whatever phony terrorist organization supposedly threatens her."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"They're doing this to gain sympathy and to create anger toward terrorists."

"So why would she be crying on TV?"

"Well, she actually thinks she's in the hands of real terrorists. The US is also doing this to punish Jill Carroll for writing critically of the American war."

Is this bad taste or just crazy or both?

Cover-up in Vladivostok Fire

2006-01-25T17:47:00.000+10:00

Cozy Moments published a piece in The Moscow Times today, on the recent fire down the street.

Unfortunately, the editors cut out a section where I discuss the alleged conspiracy to cover-up the number killed in the fire. Offically, only nine people died. But eye witnesses claim the number is actually much higher. According to my sources, a total 48 people died, which, if true, is a huge scandal perpetrated by the government and media. I have to say, I believe it. The fire raged for hours and buildings like this particular one are always cluttered with people during the middle of the day. Police were observed cleaning up bodies - both in and around the building - well into the evening.

Russia Has No Ice

2006-01-20T17:55:00.000+10:00

There’s no ice in Russia. One might think ice cubes or even just chunks of ice (why do we have “cubes” anyway, and not, say, half-eggshells?) would be easy to come by in Siberia. They are not. Nobody puts ice in their drinks here. It is simply not done. Russians don’t see the point. For non-alcoholic drinks, I frankly don’t see the point either. How is it that lemonade tastes better with ice rather than just refrigerated? I never bought that, but for alcohol it’s quite different. Anyone with any experience at all around a bar knows how essential ice – and having tons of it – is to the whole enterprise.

After Dan McCarthy mailed me a couple bottles of tequila, I searched the city for ice cube trays or for bags of ice – for anything. But found nothing. Then, a young Russian friend said he had an ice cube tray and would bring over a bunch of ice for us to drink the tequila. He showed up with a small bag of tiny, little icicles – the entire bag amounted to the equivalent of about 3 ice cubes. I was baffled. He clearly doesn’t have an ice cube tray; so what does he have to make those little things? I never followed up on it.

About a month later, Greg Holahan sent me a cornucopia of small bottles of scotch and bourbon. Johnnie Walker was represented, as was Jimmy Beam, The Balvenie made a single malt appearance and I think there was a Jack Daniels in there for balance. I don’t fully remember because I drank them all right away and didn’t even think about ice. It was nice.

However, reflecting on this while thinking about the future, I realize that it would still be sound to have some ice around should some generous soul express mail a bottle of The Famous Grouse or what have you to Mark Grueter at the University of Vladivostok, 41 Gogola Street.

(In a Christmas package from my brother and sister-in-law chock full of many useful (i.e. thermal underwear) and stimulating (i.e. Curb, season four) items, alcohol was strangely absent.)

You’ll be happy to know that I finally found ice cube trays today. Actually, they found me because I had effectively given up the search. There’s a fairly new supermarket in the city which is nice even by western standards. It trumps all the others, and I noticed today they carry an extensive number of imported goods (the beer section alone…). So, the only ice cube trays I’ve ever found in Russia are not even Russian. The two I picked up today are Made in Turkey.

Notes on Postal Activities

2006-01-20T17:52:00.000+10:00

There’s something about the Russian post office that inspires me to write. Yesterday I went there to pick up a couple packages, fully prepared to wait in line for an hour, though certainly not eager to do so. (I always bring something with me now, like a book or something to eat or drink while I’m standing there. The Russians must find this odd because after I whip the stuff out they look at me like ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ and they themselves never do anything but stand there and patiently wait. They seem to be uncomfortable eating in public while standing up. The Post Office is for mail, not for eating. A strange people.)

To receive a package, you have to fill out and bring the gray slip of paper the mailman drops off notifying you of the package’s existence back at one of the offices. It asks for your passport number, the date of your passport, where you got the passport from, where you’re registered here in Russia, things of that nature. It’s the weakest representation of paper I’ve ever seen. It looks 18th century. It wouldn’t last two seconds against the dullest butter knife. I filled mine out before leaving my digs.

So, I waited for about 45 minutes and now it was my turn. I hand the woman the notorious slip of paper along with my passport and immediately she complains that I fucked up the slip of paper because I filled it out with a red pen. A red pen! I was back in 3rd grade. Instead of behaving like a sane person and making an exception to a pointless bureaucratic prejudice against the color red, she made me fill out a new sheet. And actually, I had two slips that day, so I had to redo both. She insisted on black ink only. But before that, she had to redo the clerical side of the sheet, too. She tried to throw away the slips soiled with red; I was able to grab one away from her before she could do so. It lies next to me as I write this. A souvenir, though I doubt it’ll last long; the material is so cheap it’s bound to wither away within a year. I’m not kidding. The Pony Express would sneer at it. Perhaps framing it might make it last longer? That’s what I’ll do.

Anyway, I have ten people waiting behind me (and I mean right behind me, looking over my shoulder; Russians don’t observe the space rule we have in America for whoever’s actually ‘up’), ready to tear the foreigner to shreds for being so stupid as to write with a red pen. I swear I heard tongues clicking with disapproval. I was so pissed off at the idiot clerk I could be heard sputtering ‘fucking ridiculous’ repeatedly, out loud – though not loudly, I should say, in my defense. The next revolution will begin in the post office.

Note for those who’d like to send me something (this is a great scheme, eh? Move to Russia and get a bunch of free stuff from those who pity you…): Unless you send your package via Global Express Mail, I have to pick it up at a post office that is about a half a mile away from me, all of which I have to walk. The trek is rather grueling during the winter. Steep, slick slopes; treacherous winds. So if you cannot imagine yourself walking .5 miles with whatever you’re sending me, assume I cannot either. Also, if packages are not sent via Express Mail, they take at least one month to get here. Usually 5 or 6 weeks, whereas Global Express Mail only takes one week and is delivered directly to me.

Definite Fire Code Violations

2006-01-17T14:32:00.000+10:00

Yesterday, as many of you know, there was a fire in Vladivostok which caused people to jump out of windows - ala 9/11 - to a certain death. All told, 9 dead. As it was, this happened at the end of the same street that I both live and work on. It's a three minute walk and I can see the building from the university.

This event shouldn't surprise anyone, since it's obvious Russia doesn't observe any real fire safety practices. In this particular building, there are no emergency exits and no fire extinguishers, no means of escape whatsoever. The top floor of the building was a disaster-trap waiting to happen.

"Officials said that some stairwells in the building were blocked by gates, hampering rescue efforts, and witnesses said some of the victims -- mostly young women -- jumped or fell after desperately holding onto windowsills or other objects on the exterior of the nine-story building."

As I wrote about in my article for The Krai, Russians have a maddening tendency to block entranceways in an attempt to control the flow of human traffic. Elevators constantly break and stairwells are arbitrarily shut down. I can just picture thousands of screaming students trying to run out of a burning university only to be jammed on the way out because only one of the 8 fucking doors was left unlocked.

In the original Cozy Moments essay, I quoted my friend Nelson Thacker who essentially predicted yesterday's tragedy. This was from an email he wrote in August:

For the past few days, absolutely nothing anyone has said to me has been true. I can just about ignore everything everyone says and it will make no difference in my life or anyone else’s. I don’t think most people intend to lie. It’s just that everyone leaves the door wide open for last-second scheduling, and then they can’t figure out why I go nuts. For instance, I go to my private English lesson and sit around waiting before I realize my student isn’t coming. I ask the director, “Where’s Andre?” She says, “Oh, we meant to tell you, he can’t come today.” I walk out in a huff but I can’t leave the building because the elevator has stopped working and the gate leading to the stairs has been locked (definite fire code violations!)…

Will anyone in a position of power learn anything from this outrage? I seriously doubt it. Fire safety regulations for the most part don't exist. The ones that do are unenforced. They couldn't even bring the goddamn firetrucks in because the building was surrounded by cars...

Another part of the story you probably won't hear about is that one of the firemen got his ass kicked - to the point where he might even be dead - by an angry public. They didn't think he was doing enough to help. But really, there was nothing he or anyone else could do because of the impossible circumstances laid to begin with.

Assorted Curios

2006-01-16T17:28:00.000+10:00

THE GREATEST THING SINCE SLICED BREAD

"How can you eat that without bread?"

"Why, what do you mean?" replies Cozy Moments.

"I mean, how can you eat a meal without bread?"

"I don't follow the logic."

"A meal is not a meal, unless it is eaten with bread."

Russian men have to have bread with their meals. And there's no real reason why, other than tradition. They grew up understanding that bread was to be consumed with meals and that's that. The bread doesn't have to be any good, it just has to be there. Is there any rational or dietic reason why one must have a piece of bread with chicken cutlet or a piece of fish? No, of course not.

Also, as I've been pointing out for years, bread is not sold in slices here; you just buy the whole loaf, usually unwrapped. So the expression, "It's the greatest invention since sliced bread" doesn't carry much weight here...

DON'T FUCK A FOREIGNER

It has been brought to my attention that it is bad form to have babies with foreigners. The paranoia is to such an extent that Russian women refuse to give their kids 'western-sounding' names lest others think they got knocked up by some drunken sailor. A rash of dark-skinned kids has recently infected the city, embarassing a people who pride themselves on their milky white skin and pure genes...

Holiday Post-Mortem: to the bitter end

2006-01-09T14:34:00.000+10:00

Eeeek. Ooo whoo. I’m awake.

Just after “Christmas,” I sunk into a drunken coma, beep beep, instructing friends to pull me out only after all the silly holidays were over. In Russia, the entire first week of January is a holiday culminating in yet another celebration of “Christmas” on January 7.

Twisted Jesus, beats the piss out of me why we double up on something as awful as xmas – something to do with medieval calendars I think – but nobody here cares, and neither do I.

There are still some tattered remnants of the holidays scattered around. Bent fir trees there, a bedraggled Santa and Pater Christmas here, an exhausted reindeer puttering, many smashed bottles on the streets, etc. but they’re moving on out, yes, by God, they’re moving on out alright. No more stale and childish traditions of dance and song. No more worthless trinkets to exchange and re-gift. No more fake smiles and feigned wishes for a happy new year. (If I hear the expression Snovvim Godeim – which means ‘happy new year’ just one more time, I will fucking kill someone.) Finally we can all go back to being honest in our misery again. Straight faces all around, what?

Yes, I wish you all a great 2006. May your dreams be shattered and lives destroyed and all your goals made a laughingstock to everyone who knows you.

Goddamnit! I’ve just been told that today is a holiday too. Seriously. My medication is trapped at the fucking Post Office and these bastards are milking and choking this thing to a certain death. Ah, shit...

Holiday Killer

2005-12-27T16:56:00.000+10:00

Walking through the center of the city on Xmas day, I encounter two reindeer and a camel, with people flailing about. An actual camel. The cornerstone of any celebration of Jesus Christ. Subsequent research reveals the existence of a breed of camel called "Bactrian," native to the colder climates of Central Asia. Why they flew the bastard over to Vlad outside of its circus potential, I cannot say, but these camel grow fur coats in winter and possess two humps (which are filled with fat, not water) rather than one. Will the camel now, along with reindeer, be usurped by Christians as a symbol of their religion?

I had just fled a party where I had nearly been compelled to hum a few bars of a ruddy Christmas Carol. I had to awkwardly but bravely bolt from the room, after patiently listening to some preacher give us his rap on 'giving' and 'receiving'. I would allow myself to be an observer of this spectacle, but not a participant.

The day after Xmas I couldn't help but teach Christopher Hitchens's recent anti-Christmas screed on Slate: "God Damn them. God Damn them everyone," he concludes his elegant rant against Christmas enthusiasts. Which I must admit didn't do much to quench the giddy holiday thirsts of 20 year-olds. What a way to end a semester, with some light-hearted stuff about "insecure" and "stupid Christians" peddling their honky bullshit to us on "pregnant virgins" and "miraculous births." Was the screening of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas not enough to shock them, with Dr. Gonzo retching his guts all over a fucking toilet bowl? How much longer can I keep this up? What's the score here? I mean, what comes next?

The Krai Goes Out Round the World

2005-12-23T17:13:00.000+10:00

Awake, beloved! Awake, for the morning of the bowl of night has flung the stone that puts The Krai to flight. Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of The Krai has but a little way To fly --- and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing: www.thekrai.com

Hunter Thompson, Stop Smiling Magazine and Chronic Insomnia

2005-12-10T13:46:00.000+10:00

Michael Helke, my editor and friend at Stop Smiling magazine, has done Cozy Moments the huge favor of mailing us the DVD of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." As you doubtless recall, I’ve been teaching some of Hunter Thompson's works to an interested public and now I think this will sufficiently complete the lesson. It happens to be “The Criterion Collection” edition of the DVD, which means nothing in itself except that it evidently does imply something: namely that the discs are stocked with an assortment of extra nuggets including a short, oldie documentary of Thompson, the film’s star Johnny Depp reading some of Thompson’s correspondence, and a somewhat muted showing of the movie while Thompson provides disturbing color commentary in the background.

For measure and balance, Helke threw in Issue #22 of Stop Smiling: “The Downfall of American Publishing” which features the best spread on Thompson I’ve ever seen and is an excellent read for many other reasons as well. I remember it being good (and not only because I’m quoted in it on page 110, in connection to Me Three) but had forgotten just how fucking good it is. Casually reading it again for the first time since it came out in August, I’ve accidentally picked up several ideas for my own magazine project here. It has helped clear and straighten out my mind during an especially confusing and tough and uncosy moment. For instance, I’ve been pressured to do “market research” but have stumbled to find a clever rebuttal and even opened myself up to the possibility. But then I come across this interview in Stop Smiling with David Rosenthal, publisher/editor at Simon & Schuster in New York, who was asked by the editors specifically what he thought about market research: “It does [stifle creativity] because you’re living by democratic tyranny. Having worked at magazines, I can tell you focus groups get it wrong as much as they get it right…I’d rather trust my gut and trust the feelings of my author, my staff and whatnot.” Of course. Jesus Christ, what was I thinking even entertaining the idea of imposing that deplorable business concept onto a creative enterprise? We have to set the goddamn agenda not stick our fingers in the air to see which way the cruel winds are blowing.

I’ve also been pressured to have “rubrics” for the magazine. When the Russians first started asking me about this rubric stuff I had no idea what the fuck they were talking about. It turns out they’re talking about ‘categories’ or subjects or parameters for the magazine. When I answer that the magazine won’t have any rubrics because I don’t really believe in that sort of thing, because I was entirely uncertain who would actually hand in copy and what that copy would be, because nothing should be off limits and because our focus should be on producing quality stories/writing regardless of subject matter, people walk away baffled. In Stop Smiling, historian Douglas Brinkley reflects on Hunter Thompson’s attitude toward a related debate: ‘He never liked categorizations…One of his great joys was that nobody in bookstores knew where to put his books. I used to give him reports like, “I saw Fear and Loathing in Sociology.” Or, “Today it’s in Politics.” And then somebody would put it in Fiction. They’d move it around. He enjoyed that because it showed he had a maverick spirit.” Thompson himself stated the point more directly when he defined Gonzo Journalism as a personalized style of “reporting” that essentially believes both fiction and journalism to be “artificial categories.” The best essays are hybrids that don’t fall easily into any “rubric.”

Similar insights from Lewis Lapham, who will soon retire from Harper’s Magazine – again in Stop Smiling - have given me the confidence to stick with a plan to make mine a magazine for writers, rather than something directed from the top down, or “an editor’s magazine” as Lapham calls it. He also ends his interview by noting that he prefers essays written in the first person – yea, me too. You’ll see some of this reflected in the first humble little installment of Krai Magazine, which I promise will be online soon. The point is to get away from traditional reporting and the old way of thinking.

Helke also sent me their latest edition, “The Auteur Issue”, which funnily enough, though obviously about film, hammers home some comparable thoughts: keeping money men out of the creative process (point made by Terry Gilliam), celebrating productions that rely on personalities rather than those that affect objectivity, etc., though I’ve just begun my perusal so that’s all I can add for now.

In case you’re still not impressed, Helke colored his package with a DVD set of the complete first season of HBO’s "Curb your Enthusiasm," which all refined citizens of culture and taste know is the best television show, perhaps in history. Between Larry David and Wodehouse, if I’m kicked out of this country, at least I’ll be laughing at the would-be bouncers in the process.

Indeed, with all the generosity and goodwill I’ve been receiving from American friends, I sometimes wonder why I ever left New York, esp. since I’ve been getting so many menacing vibes on this side of the world. The cable flashes the message across the ocean, “Mark is losing his illusions.” The minders and snitches in and around the administration where I teach are a singularly grotesque horde of primitive and vindictive control freaks who watch over me as if I were some dyspeptic antelope. (I expound on this theme - of antelopes - in my opening essay for Krai.) If it weren’t for certain students (who are all that matter anyway), the job would be absolutely unbearable and I’d crack. Cozy Moments will never be muzzled, but I do get the real feeling that I could be booted from this place soon. The Fear has officially taken hold. Putin is putting the smackdown on foreigners because he thinks we might undermine his authority by “meddling” in domestic politics. See latest news about him tossing out NGOs. Sorry, but I find it impossibly unhealthy to avoid talking politics with my, say, International Relations students. If that’s meddling then lock me up with Khodorkovsky right now. And if Putin’s actually worried about someone as meager and harmless as me, I’m afraid he’s got more problems than any of us…

The other day I went off on some bilious harangue about the traffic problem in this city, which is created largely by an insane policy that compels cars who get in fender benders or more severe accidents to stay put in the middle of the road or wherever they happen to be and wait for the police to come along to conduct an investigation. Apparently, they think the only way to determine who is at fault is to keep the cars exactly where they are no matter how minor the incident or how inconvenient it is for everyone else, causing thousands to suffer needless anxiety and despair every day as we worry about tardiness, while trapped in some cramped bus. Anyway, a student interrupted my screed, “Mark, how long are you staying in Russia?” “Until I get thrown out,” I snapped back. I guess we’ll soon find out who is more paranoid, me or the dear leader of this nation.

I’ve been having nightmares where Russians who look like they’re possessed by a sort of Circus-Demon lurch and chase me in the streets, goggle-eyed, incoherently aggressive, like they're on a bad acid trip. It’s the old story: I run away, but can’t seem to avoid them. I even threw a hot dog at one of these sick imps. That’s when I am sleeping, which is an increasingly rare occurrence. I can be sleepy all day, but by 11pm, my mind starts racing with all sorts of badness. Can someone please send me some fucking Xanax?

Cozy Moments, by the way, received an email from a perfect but amiable stranger who encouraged us to open this blog to reader comments. Interpreting this as a brave Hegelian moment, I will no longer stand in the way of the world’s destiny. We are open to experimentation. Just keep in mind my nervous system. I’m liable to hit back with streams of invective at the slightest provocation.

P.G. Wodehouse's Finest Creation: Introduced

2005-12-04T15:56:00.000+10:00

As some of you know, this website is in part an homage to the greatest comic writer in history, P.G. Wodehouse, and his finest creation, a character called Psmith. Well, this week I tried Wodehouse on my American Studies class. I gave them a short story called "The Clicking of Cuthbert" as a sort of sighting shot, a test-run. Written in 1914, "Cuthbert" is a tale that pits golfers against "the Cultured" of Wood Hills Club as the two sides compete for control over rules. "This division, always acute, had attained now to the dimensions of a Schism." The makers of "Caddyshack" had to have had this farce in mind, as it's essentially the same idea: putting earthier elements of society against snobs and the supposedly high-minded, where the earthy elements always come out on top.

Anyway, the girls loved it. It was a great feeling, as we lounged around and reminisced over our favorite lines. So, I've decided that we're going to read an entire Wodehouse novel, namely a little number called Psmith, Journalist, which is quite possibly the funniest book of all time, as Psmith exposes and undermines the gangs of New York, in his own ludicrous way. It's available online, for free, and I encourage everyone to print the thing out and read along with us, if you know what's good for you.

"The man in the street would not have known it, but a great crisis was imminent in New York journalism."

Cozy Moments Takes a Digger

2005-11-29T15:40:00.000+10:00

My face came crashing down the other night, nearly putting an end to the entire Cozy Moments franchise. Yes, I smacked some of the best features I possess straight into the jagged, dirty pavement, incurring multiple wounds. The one on my upper lip is particularly deep and irksome, though this picture does little justice to express that.

Thankfully, I have an unusually solid bone structure, which always allows me to rally against breaks and brain damage. Such a comparable flop would’ve completely incapacitated lesser men – I’m sure of that. About three years ago, walking the streets of lower Manhattan, I was brutally struck on the top of the head by a speeding icicle. Nasty dagger knocked me out for about 30 seconds, but I got up, flicked a speck of snow off my coat, and carried on. Then I read online the next day about how people have actually been killed from such falling frosticles; I am made of sterner stuff. X-rays establish that my skull is not “thick” however, just hard. My immune system in general is an astonishing machine, as I practically never get sick, despite a debatably sickening lifestyle. This fact was once again on miraculous display the other night outside the “Bottomless Barrel” in Vladivostok – a roadhouse/strip club of the lower orders down near the embankment – a place known to attract the dregs of the underworld at night.

I was either running away from hooligans or they were running away from me, but either way I ended up taking a monumental digger over some infernally misplaced stone. It was the first time I’ve ever fallen down in Russia, which had been somewhat of a record actually, considering how icy, hilly and bumpy this place is.

Ah! Don’t worry about my face. It will be back to the old form in no time. For now, a certain balm provides relief. Who told you to take a balm? Have you ever used a balm before? Do you know what a balm can do?

Nevertheless, the whispers fly round the clubs: “Is Mark okay? Will Mark make it?” The answer is yes, despite my friend Alex Urevick’s callous theory that I’m possessed by a deathwish:

Death has got something to be said for it;
There’s no need to get out of bed for it;
Wherever you may be,
They bring it to you, free!

That was Kingsley Amis, having a laugh at the expense of…mmm…anyone who cannot see the humor of it all. No, Alex, just because I am, like most Americans, “dying beyond my means,” does not mean that I actually hope to die.

Selling Off California: Why South America should purchase the Golden State

2005-11-26T16:54:00.000+10:00

And perhaps Texas too, while they’re at. If the world made economic sense and land and resources per person were divvied up with an understanding of proportionality, then South American governments would collaborate on a proposal to buy California from the United States. The Golden State, as it were, is already teeming with many Mexican and Southern American natives and these population trends are increasing dramatically; so the battle for California (and Texas) will probably be won by the US’s neighbors anyway, eventually. Instead of losing the state while getting nothing for it in the future, the US should be willing to receive an enormous cash payment for the sale, now. Call it a modern-day Louisiana Purchase, or, if you will, the Great Western Bargain.

Sound stupid? I thought so.

Nevertheless, Slate saw it fit to publish a comparable gem in 2003 called "Selling Off Siberia: Why China should purchase the Russian Far East" written by Kim Iskyan who is the “head of research at MDM Bank in Moscow.” Switch all the appropriate names around above and you have Iskyan’s exact argument regarding Siberian Russia and China.

Regardless of what one might think of the provocation of selling off the RFE, Iskyan undermines his entire case anyway, from start to finish, by relying on inaccurate information and hyperbolic rhetoric in order to make it. For instance, we are told that “China controlled most of what is now the RFE until the 1850s…” - that is quite simply false. While China did govern much of what is now the Amur region (a relatively small area that includes my old city, Blagoveschensk) and while many Chinese people did live in the RFE, Russia’s presence as both occupier and governor of what we now consider the RFE has been dominant since the 17th century; and before that there were only loose collections of aboriginal tribes. Iskyan loses almost all credibility on this blunder alone.

Next. “Periodic power shortages plunge large swaths of the RFE into Arctic darkness every winter – an eight-month long exercise in frostbite that makes North Dakota seem balmy by comparison.” Why North Dakota?? Anyway, this sentence is written to suggest that “large swaths” of the RFE are without “power” for eight months a year, is it not? Well, here’s the situation told from someone (namely, Me) who has actually lived in the RFE for over two years, and I’ll let you determine for yourself the accuracy or honesty of Iskyan’s claims: nowadays, most areas of the RFE have both electricity and heat throughout the winter. If and when electricity fades, it is for short periods of time and is fairly easy to adapt to. Heat is almost never shut off, except in certain poor villages that are under-prepared for the imposing challenges of winter – but even that’s rare. Moreover, the RFE is no colder than many other regions throughout the country, so if the RFE is participating in an “eight-month-long exercise in frostbite” (which we’re not – the winter is more like six months) then so are Russians in regions Iskyan does not simultaneously advocate selling - so then what’s the point of mentioning it as an “argument” in favor of selling? It’s desperate.

I could go on but why should anyone even consider the argument at all if Iskyan cannot get the most basic facts right? If there’s a decent case to be made, Iskyan would not feel the need to “sex up” the information for an unsuspecting public. On the other hand, if Iskyan is simply ignorant and has never even visited the region, then he obviously has no business writing such an article and Slate should be ashamed of itself for publishing such hack writing.

The Gillette Company Plays a Cruel Joke on the Most Undeserving Victim

2005-11-25T17:48:00.000+10:00

As referenced in my last post, my friend Dan mailed me four four-packs of the normally superior Gillette Mach 3 Turbo blades. I have sad news: the bally things are defective. It was hard for me to believe at first. Baffled and somewhat frantic, I thought something might be wrong with my beard since I'd been using a dull blade for so long, but that theory ultimately doesn't make any sense. To confirm the fact that I had indeed received a batch of bad blades, however improbable that sounds, I gave one to a friend to try: he said he didn't even bother trying to finish the job with it - the experience was just too painful. I even made a point to try at least one blade from all four packs, but they're somehow all bad.

I asked my friend Dan if he bought them on the street or something. He said no, he got them in a supermarket, in Manhattan, in the village. So, it doesn't make a damn bit of sense. Cozy Moments is sad. Cozy Moments is angry. Cozy Moments's face hurts.

The Gillette Company should consider this earnest plea an open letter, and I urge them to do the right thing and compensate for my losses: I propose a 100% discount on all Gillette products for the rest of my life - a reasonable and moderate settlement to this awful case. I look forward to hearing your response, Gillette. Sincerely pissed off, Cozy Moments

Saint Dan

2005-11-17T17:02:00.000+10:00

Forget Mother Teresa, Paul of Tarsus, and all those other quacks. The real saint on the scene is Dan McCarthy, who just express-mailed me two handsome bottles of Sauza tequila along with heaps of Starbucks coffee, Mach 3 Turbo blades and other assorted gems. I cannot tell you how much of treat it is now for me to drink fine tequila. I had been drinking only cheap beer and vodka ever since I long-ago ran out of scotch picked up at duty-free shops on the way here.

If youse send a package USPS express mail, the Russian postal counterparts bring it straight to my place and it takes just a week to arrive. If youse send it only via first-class mail, it’ll take 3 or 4 weeks and the rogues at the post office deliver only a slip of paper at that, informing me of the package's arrival and that if I care to pick it up, I have to hike over to their dingy establishment and wait in line with the masses for an hour. This requires clearing my frantic schedule for an afternoon and becoming infuriated all over again about how it takes 10 minutes for the clerk to process a letter headed two towns over. So, cheers to Dan for being the first (and hopefully not the last) person ever to send me an express mail package in Russia. Cozy Moments crys tears of euphoria.

"Borat" on MTV

2005-11-17T14:34:00.000+10:00

So I was able to watch most of the European MTV Video Music Awards, notoriously hosted by Sacha Baron Cohen playing “Borat.” And a very good thing too. My favorite part was when Borat went out back to show us his “entourage” which consisted of, among other Wacky elements, old Soviet-era woman (called bahbushkas in Russian) standing around a sort of campfire. I asked some Russians what they thought of Borat’s performance and most were just baffled by it. Some thought Borat actually was Kazak and so they obviously couldn’t “get” any of the humor or understand that he was indirectly mocking Russian culture, along with Kazakhstan proper. Some Russians knew it was an act but found it unfunny nonetheless - humorlessly pointing out that Kazakhstan is actually a prosperous country now and so Borat’s bag is simply a misrepresentation. Moreover, it’s impolite. "Exactly," I countered. "It’s intentionally impolite. Cultural insensitivity for the sake of laughs is the point." (Though it works better, of course, when you place Borat in America and observe how people respond to him and display their own ignorance by actually taking him at face value.)

My suspicion that Borat as host might prove offensive to post-Soviet countries was laughably confirmed by the Kazak government, by the way, who played right into the joke by issuing a series of petty, paranoid and vindictive statements about it - ironically reinforcing Borat’s irreverent portrayal of their culture as backward and small.

Praise for Cozy Moments comes pouring in

2005-11-12T15:55:00.000+10:00

The reviews are in: the cry goes out round the castle battlements 'Cozy Moments intends to keep the old flag flying!'

"I really enjoy reading your Cozy Moments...You have a wonderful way of adding water to dirt; of glossing yourself with mud like a playful little piggy. You write so energetically about Russian porn, and your lectures about drunken men convey the passion of an unbridled thespian. Plus, you repeatedly slap piety on the bum, until her cheeks burn with a toasty shade of crimson. Fun!" - Suzanne Wexler, Montreal, Canada

"Hilarious" – Marilyn Parker, New York City

"Great stuff" – Anna Akbari, New York City

"Amazing" - Chris Paladino, Chicago

"Compelling reading" – Tyler Gore, New York City

"Hits the spot" – Dan McCarthy, New York City

"Nifty" - John Drinkwater, London

"Quite amusing" - Sarah Stodola, Me Three

"I never thought I'd live to hear myself tell anyone, 'Have fun in Siberia,' but here we are..." - Michael Helke, Stop Smiling

You LIE like Trotsky!

2005-11-11T18:37:00.000+10:00

There's a saying in Russian, "You lie like Trotsky!" and I don't think its intended as a compliment. There's also a tradition in Russia never to criticize the Motherland in the company of foreigners: bad form, what? I found these two things out after accusing a fractious class of mine of hypocrisy for bashing all of the particulars of America without bothering to look at their own backyards (as if they had backyards). They'll tell you everything about Hurricane Katrina and the slums of Harlem while remaining perfectly silent about the horrible traffic problem in Vladivostok or, say, the poverty. If challenged on these or other subjects, they'll even passionately defend their country. As most people know, I'm no big fan of America either but this is just absurd. Patriotism run amok. Anyway, after being told about the 'non-dissent in front of foreigners' bit I said something like, "Well, what about Trotsky?" and they all, of course, laughed. "You know, we have an expression for people like you."

Day of Revolution

2005-11-07T17:19:00.000+10:00

Down the street in the center square, the Communist Party and its sympathizers are currently celebrating the 88th anniversary of their great revolution. Today, November 7, had been a holiday commemorating the event up until last year when the Russian government moved the 'day off' to November 4 and changed the name to "Unity" day as an attempt to heal wounds or something. Not that it mattered. Young people have ceased to remember (or never knew in the first place) what the hell the holiday was for anyway.

It was still fitting for me that Nelson and I were momentarily detained in Pokrovsky "Park" this weekend, and searched for, among other things, guns. MN Pokrovsky was for some time an official Marxist historian so they named a park in Vladivostok - one known for being dangerous and pointlessly unlit - after him. We didn't have any guns so it was a grave disappointment all around, but we noticed the posse of Barney Feifs even neglected to ticket us (or worse) for having 'open containers' of beer on our persons - a new prohibitive law in Russia similar to America except that it is, for whatever reason, never enforced.

Throwback Coffee

2005-11-03T19:26:00.000+10:00

Ever heard of “Instant” Coffee? It’s the stuff you just dump into a cup and pour hot water over. I believe it was still available in the early 80s. In Siberia, it’s widespread because the price difference between “instant” coffee and the real muck is totally out of whack. For instance, you can buy a cup of instant coffee at a café for a quarter whereas a freshly brewed cup will cost at least two dollars; in a city with an average salary of $275 per month, that qualifies as a distinction with a difference.

One of the first items I purchased in Russia was a coffeemaker – a weird English one called Scarlett – because I knew how dependent I had become on caffeine. I was the pet of my local Starbucks in NYC. Throve on the red-eyes.

However, this automatic crud isn’t all that bad or all that different in terms of taste. (I still haven’t decided if it actually contains caffeine or if I’ve just convinced myself that it does, but...) I’ll still splurge on a prissy steam-pressed every once in awhile, but for the most part I’ve settled on pebbles of Maxwell House to anchor me through the backbreaking day.

You just get caught up in the lifestyle of those around you I guess. For instance, hot water isn’t usually available, so I’ll just go without a shower, and cover it up like everyone else. My brother-at-arms Nelson Thacker - who has been living in Vladivostok for awhile - has gotten to the point where he actually re-uses the same piece of tattered floss every day. He goes on for several weeks with a single string as if it were some brave banner beneath which his ancestors had often fought and won. And since Thack lives in an international dormitory in which a woman frequently swings by to clean his room, he has to hide the relevant thread from her so that the officious lass won’t throw it away…

The Naked Channel

2005-10-27T18:22:00.000+11:00

Flicking through the local TV I came upon a sex scene: man and woman performing an assortment of acts in and beside a swimming pool. I was stunned and exhilarated: Russian porn! And though not exactly hardcore, it wasn't exactly softcore either. I guess it's "Double-X". Whatever, it was great. The first bit of filth I've seen on a tv or computer screen since leaving the States. And this was on public tv, not cable, free for all. If you're ever in Vlad, it's channel 22.

My enjoyment, however, became somewhat clouded when I recognized the porn actor in the scene from some of his other classics: he's an American. The film then cut to dialogue and, though translated into Russian, I could hear the English in the background. What the fuck? Russians are importing cheesy American porn flicks? Why? I mean, they can't make their own shitty ones? Obviously, like other countries, they import and translate our high quality Hollywood-produced movies. But this just doesn't make any sense. Russia: have some self-respect and make your own smut for chrissakes.

Anyway, despite many conservative tendencies and a small resurgence of religion, Russians are by and large more liberal than Americans when it comes to sex. I was in a mall the other day and spotted what appeared to be a naked woman. Anon, it was just a stripped-down female mannequin, but she looked real because the manufacturer had for some reason added nipples to her breasts, complete with the appropriate shades of color. It was an abomination. I explained to a friend that something like that would never appear in an American mall, or anywhere in America for that matter. Little Billy or Sally might see it and get confusing thoughts. But the Russians don't think twice about stuff like that.

What drives Americans to be so prudish about sex? Is it only religion or is there something else that drives people mad? I'm proud to see that vigorous atheism is still thriving in Russia. My comrade, Slava Shirokov, who is now studying at NYU, just sent me an email that contained the following bit: "Did you know that they make students read the bible in sociology classes here? I was shocked. I would burn it in front of teachers. They should not be allowed to assign that book. Education is supposed to be insulated from prejudice and religious propaganda. This is not the 15th century..."

Hear, hear. Good thing Fulbright didn't ship your ass off to some awful, Bible-thumping southern school, Slava. Though I would hope and imagine that the bible is being read at NYU for the same reason one might read Mein Kampf or some other disagreeable screed: because it's relevant in some ways. I too hate religion as much as the next intelligent person, but I think we should read the bible: Know thy enemy and all that sort of thing. The great atheist scientist Richard Dawkins has a new book coming out on religion called "The Root of All Evil" and I cannot wait to devour it. Arguing with religious folk (particularly "Jesus Christers") is a favorite pasttime of mine.

Yeah, we have porn in Vlad so ha ha ha to all my spiritual friends back home...

Goodbye to Borsch

2005-10-27T15:21:00.000+11:00

In the original Cozy Moments essay, I reported my curious discovery that an otherwise respectable Russian restaurant refuses to offer its patrons Borsch (even though the stuff is listed on the menu). I've since been giving the serious matter a proper investigation. A friendly waitress tells me that there is "no demand for it" so they don't bother cooking up batches. This seems to me impossible for many reasons, the first being that, if well-made, Borsch is extremely good. But there's no sense in arguing in a situation like this (and anyway, one should never confuse the unusual with the impossible).

I pitch the suspicious 'no demand' explanation to my students, and most of them aren't buying it either. Conspiracy theories surface. The first plausible idea is that it is very time-consuming to cook Borsch (true) and that it's difficult to make (not true; even I cooked it once) and so the chefs are just being lazy. But this is a boring theory. There has to be something deeper. Something dark and twisted at the core. And so there is:

It turns out Borsch is actually of Ukrainian origin, but most people just assume it's Russian because Ukraine was part of Russia for so long. However, Kiev has been bucking Moscow lately, moving further and further away from Russia, culturally, politically and economically. And Russians don't like this trend at all. Thus, many Russians are standing up and taking action against the ungrateful Ukrainian bastards: by boycotting their Borsch. An act of "total" retaliation, like the Hell's Angels would've done it. Developing...

Russia, Alaska, and the Moon

2005-10-22T18:51:00.000+11:00

Two conspiracy theories have been brought to my attention: one is that Russia only rented Alaska to America - for 70 years - and so we ought to have given the damn place back years ago; and the other is that Americans never really walked on the moon - that the whole event was faked.

The latter theory (the no-moonwalk bit) is not as 'out there' as you might think - it is well-publicized in American media and it at least seems logically or theoretically possible: Cold War-crazed America had to do something fast to respond to the Soviets being the first in space. We had to trump the Russians somehow. What better way than to "walk" on the moon? Yeah, that's it. We walked on the moon. See. Also, the US flag in the images constantly blows in the wind even though there cannot be any wind on the atmosphere-free moon. Right. And there's a lot more to it if you care to perform a simple Google search.

Anon, it's all bullshit, unless of course you rely on the obsessive meanderings of a "self-taught engineer" from New Jersey named Ralph Rene as authoritative along with his support network which doubles as the Hare Krishna crackpot cult.

The first theory (the Alaska/70-year routine) strikes me as even more preposterous. You don't just lease out chunks of land the size of Alaska. (I don't think you do anyway.) I told my young Russian friend who informed me of this popular Russian notion that such a deal, if true, would be unprecedented in world history. And if there's any merit to it, then why the hell aren't Russians demanding to have Alaska back? And, oh yea, is the even one shred of evidence to support the theory?

No, this has to be leftover Soviet propaganda. The fact is, Russia had to beg the US Congress to buy Alaska. The Russians needed the money, but we didn't see the use of the land at the time. Congress mocked Alaska as "Seward's Icebox" since it was Secretary of State William Seward who wanted it and eventually made the deal happen. At least, that's what the loony, recorded, mainstream history tells us.

And this dismissal is from someone (me) who is much more 'open' than most to conspiracy theories and who happens to think that, yes, JFK certainly was killed via conspiracy, for instance. Gore Vidal observed that the people who are the most adamantly opposed to conspiracy theories are invariably the conspirators.

But one should draw the line in the icebox somewhere. With its Moon and Alaska theories, Russian folklore appears to be wrong twice, unless anyone cares to email me with solid evidence to the contrary.

Buy Me Three Literary Journal, Issue #2: Do it NOW!

2005-10-20T16:44:00.000+11:00

Last month, Sarah Stodola and I released the second issue of Me Three, which we co-edited and produced, like the first one. I put the entire reputation of "Cozy Moments" on the line when in insisting that the 96 page-long literary journal is easily worth the measly $9 we're charging. John Drinkwater's knockabout act (on page 80) alone will satisfy the most jaded critic.

So, to purchase a copy, please click here

For now, read this Exclusive clip of my humble essay on Gore Vidal, which appears in Me Three Issue 2:

Vidal Against the Galileans
by Mark Grueter

In Gore Vidal’s historical novel, Julian, we are perpetually reminded of how the late 4th century Roman emperor of the same name refused to refer to Christians as such and instead derisively called them “Galileans” because “Galilee is where he came from.” “He” as in Jesus Christ, the man who was then being worshipped as God by a burgeoning population of Romans. (Julian, in order to stress Christianity’s exaltation of corpses, also referred to all churches as “charnel houses.”) Indeed, Julian’s two predecessors, Constantine and Constantius, were the first emperors to embrace Christianity and by the end of the century, despite Julian’s aims to the contrary, Christianity was not only the official religion of Rome, but the only religion free from state persecution.

With the New Testament written only a couple centuries prior, the swift march of Christians from an obscure, backwater sect to the conquerors of Rome remains a historical curiosity. Julian, who weaned himself on anti-Christian philosophers such as Porphyry, essentially represented the final hope for those seeking to prevent the spread and dominance of this young religion. Julian chose not to call Christians by what they called themselves because the very term implies they are in fact followers of a King or Lord; he also, no doubt, enjoyed the discomfort he created with his “Galilean” sneer. (For anyone interested, Julian’s polemic, Against the Galileans, has been updated and translated into English.)

Vidal’s novel assumes as true the notion that Julian’s failure to thwart Christianity was by no means inevitable. Julian himself worshipped the ancient gods of Mithras – which led him, among other things, to think it was his destiny to follow in the footsteps of Alexander and conquer Persia. Had he not been so misguided by his own faith, the novel’s remorseful tone suggests, Julian would have lived to effectively counter the Christians and solidify a secular Roman state where multiple religions and forms of unbelief prevailed.

Most writing on literary provocateur Gore Vidal highlights his critique of American foreign policy and politics, and while that theme certainly dominates Vidal’s oeuvre, it could be argued that his critique of religion plays an equally forceful role. In addition to the celebrated Julian, several other novels, including Creator, Messiah, Kalki, Live From Golgotha, along with numerous essays (where Vidal coined the abusive terms “sky-godders” and “Jesus Christers” in referencing the faithful) serve to underscore the point. Even his historical novels, which chronicle America’s history and conversion from republic to empire, take repeated swipes at religion. For instance, in Burr we learn not only that America’s founders were not Christian, but that Thomas Jefferson’s original draft of the Declaration of Independence did not include any mention of a “Creator” – that part was added by Congress. In Lincoln we are told that the 16th president of the same name once wrote a pamphlet attacking Christianity but was convinced by friends to burn it. And comparisons between Rome and America, overt and subliminal, abound. With links to sex, religion and empire, these strands more or less define the entire Vidal project...

To read the rest of this Meditation, I'm afraid you'll have to pay for the bright little sheet

Gonzo Introduced

2005-10-20T15:05:00.000+11:00

I taught "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" today and the girls loved it, though one said it was at times needlessly and "primitively" rude and offense, like when Thompson refers to Governor Louis Nunn as a "swinish neo-Nazi hack." (This usually bright girl who didn't quite get the joke carried on further, arguing that there's never a good excuse to be offensive - a notion I find ludicrous). But the rest of them, I could tell, felt absolutely liberated by the experience. They're not typically taught texts in English with lines like, "What the fuck do you want?" spoken by a grizzled, hungover man yelling out of his hotel room. And, just like us, they are thrilled by the rawness of the work. "That finished us in the Pendennis."

P.S. I showed them some of Ralph Steadman's "foul renderings" and the aforementioned girl shouted, "An Englishman drew that?" Yes, my dear, not all Englishmen are prissy. She had this cute idea that the English are somehow opposed to vulgarity...

The Menace of Feminism Knows No Bounds

2005-10-20T14:54:00.000+11:00

Quote of the Week

From a young Russian acquaintance:

"If you want to find a good Russian wife now you have to go to the country. Girls in Vladivostok are becoming too independent. They say they don't want kids; they don't want to cook…I hate it."

Reflections on a Ravaged High School Basketball Career

2005-10-20T14:41:00.000+11:00

Well, my whole offensive attack hinged on an ability to penetrate the lane; and I found this extremely difficult to do, nay, impossible to do against a well-executed zone defense...

One-Third of a Man

2005-10-15T15:20:00.000+11:00

I wake up this morning and notice a plastic bag full of piss sitting next to my bed. Second nature leads me to simply pick the bag up, walk outside and place it in the dumpster, where it belongs. I think there are roughly two types of people in this world – those who are alarmed by urine bags sitting beside their beds and those who are not. I was not. Whatever ghastly episode resulted in piss being placed in plastic bags, I just assume remain wholly unaware. In America, I may have raised an eyebrow, even in New York. But here, it’s best to just go with the mindless flow. My limbs intact, pulse beating, the bed itself as dry as could be, no apparent cuts or abrasions, what the hell, right?

* * *

Near the center of the city, there lives a chap who appears to have been CUT IN HALF ("I've got the cut ½ blues") at some point in his miserable career (actually, that's charitable: about two-thirds of him is missing). One day he asks me to buy him a beer. It’s the least I can do for a man who looks like he ought to be dead 500 years ago. "Two Golden Barrels please. Strong." If he asks me to crack the bottle on his head, I’ll gladly wind up and unload. Look at him. Nothing exists below the crotch. I call him The One-Third Man. "You're not half the man he is! No, I mean, seriously, you're literally not half the man as he..." Imagine being told that. And just like the bums in New York this poor bastard somehow fits in perfectly, despite being almost completely ignored.

Because it's all blasé to the people of the Russian Far East who are mostly descendants of outcasts, namely dissidents and criminals (dissidents), which is one reason why I like it here. Or to put it another way: "This part of Russia for three centuries accumulated different categories of people who had one common trait – they represented opposition to central power," writes Sergei Chugrov in Russia’s Far East: A Region at Risk. The body politic, unlike western Russia, still votes heavily for "non-conformist" political parties. Vlad specifically is targeted for the same reasons New York is sought out: to escape the conservative conformism of more provincial towns and cities. To live as freely as possible, to fuck around, to create, and/or to make money.

It's easier to think radically than to behave radically. "A lot of people are content to talk about the Redistribution of Property," notes Psmith. "I go out and do it." That's the attitude of enterprising people here. "Get her!" says Dan Akroyd's character in Ghostbusters, Dr. Raymond Stantz. Bill Murray's Venkman would not subsequently mock Ray if that had been a Russian flick. In America, we read about The Frontier as a dusty bygone era. Here, we still live in pioneering, Darwinian conditions.

* * *

It thrills my battered old heart to announce the hiring of my good friend, the brilliant Slava Shirokov, as editor of the Russian side of our magazine, Krai (pronounced "cry"). The original Russian editor was compelled to step down, so I offered Slava the job, despite his being in New York this year. There is absolutely nobody anywhere who I'd rather work with on this project.

We're currently working on the following stories, among others: rising fuel prices in American and Russia, the failure of US aid organizations in Russia, the destruction of the environment that will result from the building of an oil pipeline from Lake Baikal to Vlad, the missionary churches in Vlad, Ukraine’s "Orange Revolution," and the recent film festival in Vlad.

Five Years Later

2005-10-11T16:25:00.000+11:00

I step outside for a smoke and a pint-sized bozo turns to me. I don’t actually understand what he says – since this is my first day in Siberia in over three years – but catch the universal ‘gotta light?’ gesture. Though still a bit dazed and displaced, I unflinchingly hand him my worn pack of matches. The bozo makes two or three noble attempts to strike a flame before cursing and returning the pack. I can sympathize. I prefer butane lighters or at least cigar or box matches myself and feel sorry that I’m not able to come to the aid of the party. (Joe Camel and The Marlboro Man sell their packs of cigarettes for less than a dollar here, by the way, and still apparently coin a profit. So who’s pocketing the extra $6.50 per pack in New York?)

This is a forgettable enough incident until one discovers that Russians themselves do not produce or use packs of matches. They only sell lighters and box matches here. No wonder our seasoned smoker of perhaps forty grueling winters had no luck with my pack of matches: there’s a strong probability he has never encountered such a thing. Packs of foreign origin can be found in hotels and restaurants but only rarely and since most Russians never visit those places, pack matches might as well not exist at all. Even in the urban, port and border city of Vladivostok – where I now live – they are very hard to come by.

One thing you might expect to find easily is borsch, the renowned Russian soup. Not so. My office is located within the confines of a hotel. Conveniently stationed on my floor is a rather decentish Russian restaurant with menu offerings that run several pages. Innocently ordering borsch the first day before being told that they don’t have any, I now make it a point to order the muck even if I’m not in the mood. It’s on the menu. And each day I’m told they don’t have it, or whatever. I have no problem obtaining any other item from the menu – an array of soups, salads, fish, chicken and beef dishes – but the restauranteur draws the line at borsch. (Asking questions like Why? here is usually a fruitless exercise, I find. For instance, in an increasingly modernized city teeming with things like DSL Internet Centers, hip coffee shops and cafes, Lexus cars and busy, clean supermarkets how is it possible that the great majority of residents still cannot rely on having hot water in their homes? Ask that question and you get nothing but a series of half-baked excuses.) I tell the waitresses that when the borsch finally arrives we ought to have a celebration...

* * *

While the primary reason for my move to Russia remains that of starting up a magazine I am so far spending most of my time teaching at the University of Vladivostok. It’s hard not to get fired up about this when you have free reign to teach Twain, Mencken, Edmund Wilson, Walter Lippmann, Orwell, Wodehouse, Vidal, Hunter Thompson, Paglia and Hitchens to provocatively clad and eager 20 and 21 year-old girls. For some reason, almost all my students are female. (One feisty young thing tells me how much of an ass I am for thinking Wodehouse qualifies as High Art – struck dumb by the fascinating idea that a girl in these parts might actually be familiar with my hero, Psmith, I’m incapable of registering a coherent rebuttal.) These girls speak better English than many of my associates back home. Students of International Relations, American Studies and English writing composition, they aren’t the sort that will tolerate a distracted professor intent on winging it through a semester so that he can concentrate on other interests, no matter how American he happens to be. They are tough, unforgiving and if you’re not prepared, they’ll sniff out the weakness and take aim for the jugular. And not all my students, I admit, are particularly thrilled with my readings: I’m facing potential uprisings in at least two courses. Lipmann’s “Taking a Chance,” kills in one class, but bombs in another. With no other material and nothing else to say, sensing growing rancor from the cheap seats, I’m compelled to end the failed class twenty minutes early, irritable and somewhat disgraced.

It’s like stand-up comedy: coming up with material/routine, improvising, dealing with unpredictable audiences, arguing/bickering with your audience, just plain bullshitting, and then acting a complete clown when all else fails. The importance of entertaining students cannot be overestated. Some of my quips work, like when I ask a class to name some words they have in Russian which we don’t have in English, one girl cites their famous forest in Siberia, Taiga. I score thundering rhetorical points with the audience by immediately noting the flaw in her argument: that it’s an entirely unfair proposition since we don’t have a Siberia in which to host this forest, so naturally we don’t have an original word for it and are content to settle for an approximation of the Russian word should we ever see it relevant to mention the bally forest at all. Another time I make mock of the claim that naturally-occurring carbonated rivers exist in Russia (and that these fizzy waters cure diseases); I believe I dissuaded a few minds as a result. On the other hand, one day I suddenly think it’ll be funny to open my 8:30 am class by asking a girl in the front row what time she went to bed last night, how many hours of sleep she generally needs, then following up with my own rather strong views on the subject. The group didn’t laugh at all; I guess it was too dry or weird for them – the stony reaction to the bit left me reeling. I probably looked like Larry David in one of his lower moments on Curb.

(All this reminds me: with printing challenges and limited to I-net searches, I’m in serious need of material. If anyone is willing to mail me essays from some of the writers above, or anyone else you think I might be able to use, please contact me. The clearer the writing, the better; short stories are welcome but entire novels are useless.)

* * *

One cannot start-up a magazine overnight, particularly with a project as ambitious as ours: a contingent of Russians and Americans intent on producing a bilingual journal of quality stories that will appeal to natives of both countries and beyond. The working title, by the way, is Krai which is a Russian word transliterated into English. My idea, so I take responsibility for it. If you’re waiting for an explanation of it you can keep waiting, because it will not be forthcoming. Not now anyway.

I’m indebted to my friend and formidable colleague Jeff Lindstrom for taking the risk to fund this venture and for giving me the opportunity to lead it, but several factors now complicate. For example, I have one writer working on a story about how construction of the oil pipeline from Lake Baikal to a town near Vladivostok (scheduled for completion by 2009) will adversely affect a particular Marine Reserve – an area of land protected by government to preserve the natural habitat - of exceptional beauty. But she is seriously concerned about whether or not we will actually be able to publish the story and get away with it. She tells me something dark and a bit cryptic about how ecological groups who raise similar concerns are being silenced. By the government? By pro-business lobbies? By whom? I’m still not sure. Well, of course, we are going to do these stories anyway and then see what happens. However, not that I was naïve about potential press suppression going in, to actually sit here and consider how real this threat of censorship/reprisals seem from both government and non-government elements is more unnerving than I thought it would be. Most Russians I talk to wholeheartedly agree with Putin’s decision to ban ABC from Russia after the network aired an interview with a Chechen rebel leader. A Russian working at the US Consulate here in Vladivostok tells me that I might avoid running critical stories of certain individuals unless I don’t mind receiving phone calls in the middle of the night from someone who will explain to me that my face is “prettier than it ought to be.” Yet, we have no plans to run such stories, so what gives?

Another consideration is that we’re probably not even all that free to criticize America or the American presence in Russia, either. Cannot the consulate, if they decide I’m a nuisance, find a way to send me packing under some bogus pretense? As Jeff and I discuss this thought, we both fall silent for a moment and then move on to another topic.

I do suspect – despite all the menacing vibes to the contrary - these so-called threats are overblown, at least for the moment. We haven’t published anything yet and have no immediate plans to attack any governments or government officials or even the dreaded Mafioso. But the dominant attitude here seems to be one of creepy preemption: ‘listen, don’t even think about writing that’ – and all this before breakfast. Regardless, the main concern for the magazine is standard: wondering whether or not certain stories will alienate certain advertisers; and this is something I prefer not to even think about since it goes against everything I believe in: one should print the honest truth and damn the consequences – an idea that works better in theory than in practice.

* * *

I am writing this on October 5th, just over five years since moving to the small city of Blagoveschensk as a Peace Corps volunteer. “Blago” is 36 hours by train northwest of “Vlad” and is separated from China only by the Amur river. The significance of the day is not lost on me. I am stationed in Blago with another Peace Corps guy named Greg Pfleger. Both of us fresh out of college (where Greg roomed with George Prescott Bush – Jeb’s son - at Rice University), we have much to relate to and bond over during those first and difficult months. However, on the 5th, Greg’s birthday, a communication snafu leads me to become hopelessly lost trying to find his apartment so that we can drink and leads him to miserably down a bottle of vodka by himself – with absolutely nobody to talk to anywhere – while waiting for me to (not) show up. It is a sad and lonely time and a reminder of how difficult it can be to live here, but the episode also sheds light on how far one can go with a little grit. Greg, utterly confused and adrift only five years ago, is now fluent in Russian, married to a Russian girl, living in D.C. working for the State Department. This after a stint at the London School of Economics – Russian Studies. Greg and I now dislike each other for reasons that are irrelevant here, and we no longer speak, but I admire him nonetheless, and the case inspires.

Two guys in particular, Nelson Thacker and Slava Shirokov, both of whom I also met five years ago, have made my re-transition to Russian life a relatively smooth one. First, Nelson: I’d be nothing but a bleating sheep roaming the mountainsides without Thacker’s presence in Vlad - one of my best friends on any continent, a man of wit and generosity, and perhaps the finest drinking buddy anyone can ask for. “This is a great place to be irresponsible,” he confides, referencing the women, the booze and his theory that it’s much easier to skip out on things here, to cancel appointments and such, because few people care enough. He stands firm with his view that girls in Vlad are better-looking than anywhere in America. Nelson can always be relied upon for offbeat commentary and comic insight on practically every subject. Asked by Russians to explain the semantic difference between 'efficient' and 'effective' (since Russians use the same word for both), Thacker simply says that his first girlfriend once told him that his performance in the sack was "efficient" but "ineffective."

Within an email sent to me right before I left NYC, Nelson vents some of his frustrations with Russia:

For the past few days, absolutely nothing anyone has said to me has been true. I can just about ignore everything everyone says and it will make no difference in my life or anyone else’s. I don’t think most people intend to lie. It’s just that everyone leaves the door wide open for last-second scheduling, and then they can’t figure out why I go nuts. For instance, I go to my private English lesson and sit around waiting before I realize my student isn’t coming. I ask the director, “Where’s Andre?” She says, “Oh, we meant to tell you, he can’t come today.” I walk out in a huff but I can’t leave the building because the elevator has stopped working and the gate leading to the stairs has been locked (definite fire code violations!)…

I don’t want to turn this into an occasion for boorish complaining – and Thacker, I have to insist, is correctly regarded as a very kind, decent and tolerant person, the last guy to ever bitch and moan. However, I personally find the lack of warm water issue particularly trying and impossible to ignore. We usually don’t have any at all but sometimes it appears only to disappear at the worst possible moments, which is more maddening than knowing for certain it won’t be there. Cold showers on a hot summer day are fine but we’re in the 50’s now and it’ll start to get really cold here, fast.

After experiencing the Vlad airport scene, these living conditions should not surprise. If you fly here and feel as though, right before landing, you’re about to come crashing into an abandoned and ramshackle rural town, that’s because you are – the airport is actually in a village called Artyom, just north of Vlad proper. Driving into the city I’m immediately struck by the copious amounts of black exhaust that pour out of some of the vehicles. I’m told this gas is harmless, but I don’t buy it.

The benefit of all this and much more is that it makes you tough and scrappy (or passive and homesick, if you’re a quitter). I have to fight to get my laundry done, battle to have photocopies made, to get on buses, etc. And just when I think I have something figured out, I get whacked upside the head all over again. NYC girls who whine about being semi-molested on the subway ought to come here for a week to broaden the mind. The stuff that goes on back home is for kids. The body contact here, especially on buses, is astonishing, yet nobody seems to care all that much. Fat, old women literally push me around every day and I just have to wince and bear it while resisting the urge to knock a block off. There’s something to be said for the value of struggle, of being forced to cope. Life is not going to get any easier for a man like me, best to accept that.

Slava Shirokov is a Fulbright scholar currently working on a Masters at New York University. He and I have our own accidental exchange program. After we meet in Blago, he leaves in 2001 to do a year at the University of Nebraska, returning in 2002 just before I ride back home to the states. Now, ten days after he lands in NYC I takeoff for Vlad, where he has been living for over a year. Trading places, jobs even. Fortunately, through all this, we have had plenty of time during the lags to break bread and wine. It’s a good thing for his sake that I am able to show him around NYC and tell him what’s what about the culture. Though an especially intelligent and talented person, Slava grew up in a small, isolated Russian village and has never quite experienced anything like New York. One day, we walk through Central Park passing a pond with swamp-like elements and he asks me, “Do people swim there?” “Frog-people, maybe,” I answer. “Oh, you mean Chinese?” he shoots back, impish grin playing about the lips.

He is joking, of course, and consciously needling The American Sensitivity and political correctness; he doesn’t have a genuinely racist bone in his body, but either way that shit won’t fly in the liberal capital, nor should it. He knows; he learns quickly, but finds the whole situation funny just the same (and so do I, frankly). Earlier that day we walk past Gay Street in the West Village, so Slava whips out his camera, thinking perhaps the rubes back home will find this amusing. My first reaction is to smother the attempt as soon as possible, but I allow it after realizing there aren’t many witnesses around. Later that night his musings on girls and marriage strike a female friend of mine as outdated and sexist, though mostly forgivable given the fact that he’s a foreigner. Though I long ago abandoned callow flirtations with racism and sexism, none of this bothers me personally, partially because I know Slava well enough to understand his sense of humor and also know the general Russian attitude toward the Chinese, partially because I share his sense of humor and partially because it’s almost impossible to offend me. But I’m not like other liberal New Yorkers in that sense.

You may be wondering, finally, how Shirokov helps me in Vlad. At his beckoning I’m sure, his girlfriend Olya and brother Ivan are incredibly gracious to me. Both have me over for dinner, we go out for food, drinks and both check in frequently. I ask myself, how many 18 and 20 year-old New Yorkers would happily cook a full meal for a complete stranger? I only wish my friends in New York are half as hospitable toward Slava. (Not that he needs the support nearly as much as I do, as he’s one of the most resourceful guys I’ve ever met, but still…) He’s also letting me borrow some of his winter clothes, which is key actually, as good clothes here are at western prices and above.

* * *

I end with more evidence to indict pharmaceutical companies. The intensely popular drug Omeprazole - some of you may know it under its brand name, Prilosec - is sold in America for about 70 cents per twenty mg pill, over-the-counter. Here, it is sold for 7 cents per twenty mg pill, which means that Procter and Gamble are charging at the very least ten times above the cost of production in America, for their Prilosec. It’s not even as if American consumers have any other choice since the generic version of the drug is not available at all. This is a scandal, plain and simple, but of course our governors are paid to protect big drug companies and so obviously nothing will ever be done about this.