If Teddy Roosevelt were Russian, he'd be me

Russian Easter: us and them

2011-04-26T01:36:00.004-04:00

This weekend, Aleksandr Dugin published a fiercely patriotic article about the Russian Easter. Here are the excerpts that I translated:

"Christian faith is the Russian faith. They will object: Orthodoxy is a universalist Church open to all of mankind. To identify it with Russians is to restrict its meaning, relegating it to the status of a national religion. There is a notion of the "heresy of filetism", i.e. the "love for one's people". For the enemies of Orthodoxy - especially those among Western Christians - this is the central argument against Byzantium and against Rus'. [...] But what are they to us, those who abolished the sacred Julian Calendar, those who give up the very basis of Orthodoxy for the the needs of the Uniates...What are they to us, my friends..."

[...]

"In the Russian Easter there is the resurrected nature of the world, our nature, mother-desert, luxurious, like a lady, like a virgin, like a universal acute painful comfort. Suffer with us, die with us, kill with us, sing with us, come with us, disappear in us, be buried with us, fast with us, prostrate yourselves with us, disappear with us, love with us, hate with us, in order to be resurrected with us, to enter the Russian Easter, the great Passover of Christ."

"The fact that Russians are a great people is an axiom, it cannot be proven, since it does not require proof. True greatness does not humiliate others, does not make them less significant. Just as the resurrection does not kill them, does not trample them, but saves them. True greatness elevates everything it touches. There is no hatred toward it, only delight, joy, merriment, and love. This is dancing greatness."

I photographed fellow Russians participating in an Easter cross procession here in North America:

Христос воскресе!

2011-04-24T15:32:00.004-04:00

Dreaming of space

2011-04-22T02:58:00.003-04:00

Yura: Dreaming of Space

Once upon a time, I regularly created artwork. I freelanced, had a number of things published, and won a couple of competitions -- nothing major, but certainly enough to feel a reasonable sense of accomplishment. Then Plan B gradually pushed out Plan A, and now I struggle to find time to simply practice.

I struggle, but I won't give up.

Though quite rare, my "skill recovery" normally occurs when I convince myself to use weekends, also known as dissertation-writing time, for something equally solitary, but arguably more enjoyable. Two weeks ago, I decided that, fueled by my late Soviet nostalgia, the 50th anniversary of Yuri Gagarin's space flight on April 12th was a good enough reason to illustrate.

I drew young Yura in a pioneer uniform, much like the one I wore myself as a child, clutching onto a toy airplane; behind him -- a destroyed city. After all, illustration should be straightforward, and Gagarin grew up during the Second World War, developing a keen interest in aviation early on.

Yet, despite my attempt to be literal, the image turned out somewhat ambivalent and maybe even a bit dystopian. While a non-Russian would likely make some sort of an expected and rather boring comment about the nature of the Soviet regime, I simply blame the chosen media -- black conté crayons, charcoal, pencil, and a touch of scarlet acrylic paint.

Or maybe it's Gagarin's token smile -- more enigmatic than that of Mona Lisa.

The triumph of mediocrity: Lysacek's gold

2010-02-19T16:15:00.020-05:00

During the Cold War, sports was one of the ways to demonstrate ideological superiority on both sides of the Iron Curtain. Growing up in Moscow at the tail end of the Soviet era, I remember that Olympic-level coaches visited elementary schools around the country and hand-picked kids they deemed suitable for international competitions.

They often chose me: at that time, my athletic body type was complemented by being extremely thin. The selection process was thorough: once the coaches determined that I were likely to grow beyond 5 feet tall, for example, based on my parents' genetics, they rejected me for disciplines like gymnastics and diving. But, as a result of Soviet athletic zeal -- combined with my mother's emphasis on education and fitness -- I got to participate in a variety of sports: swimming, tennis, badminton, cross country skiing, table tennis (!), and, of course, figure skating, among others. And, while neither my family, nor I had an interest in sports beyond health benefits, I still have fond memories of this part of my childhood.

The latter is one of the reasons why I have a bit of an interest in contemporary Russian figure skating. So much so, that I've already once defended this discipline in a (heavily edited) letter to Time magazine.

Needless to say, I was furious at the results of 2010 Olympic men's figure skating finals -- Evgeniy Plyuschenko's silver and Evan Lysacek's undeserved gold.

Soviet vanitas. Photo by me.
First, Russians are not the only ones perplexed by the dumbed-down state of this sport. In The Night They Killed Figure Skating, Canadian legend Elvis Stojko wrote:

"Sorry, Evan Lysacek.

You’re a great skater and all.

But that wasn’t Olympic champion material.

In Thursday night’s men’s free skate, Lysacek skated slow and his jumps weren’t close to the technical ability of defending Olympic champion Evgeni Plushenko.

[...]

...the judges’ scoring was ridiculous.

Because of it, the sport took a step backward. Brian Boitano did the same thing, technically, in 1988. There are junior skaters who can skate that same program."

Second, my opinion is not a result of rabid Russian patriotism. For example, I am fan of shooting and skiing at the same time! Unfortunately, and -- admittedly -- the Russian biathlon team has been, well, seriously sucking this year, and other, no doubt, worthy athletes won. I can only hope that Russians perform better on the home turf @ Sochi-2014.

More important, the winter Olympic Games are a competition, which, by and large, exhibits European prowess (with due credit given to East Asians). As such, it is one of the last venues, in which European culture isn't continuously clobbered over the head with anti-Western modern-day "liberal" agenda. In fact, the very title of my blog refers to Theodore Roosevelt, because that Great Man and I both believe(d) in cooperation and friendly competition between the Great Powers.

I even feel a bit of pan-Slavism toward my Slavic Brothers. Slovakia's win against the celebrated Team Russia (which, by the way, still has the highest number of competition victories, historically), even if in a shoot-out, demonstrates one of the best Slavic cultural qualities -- endurance and perseverance.

No, Plyushchenko's silver was not a result of a massive anti-Russian conspiracy, though much of the Western media has been noticeably gloating since. Rather, last night's figure skating judging was a systemtic affirmation of mediocrity. Lysacek's well performed routine without truly difficult acrobatics was a solid average, no more.

Elvis Stojko argued that:

"The naysayers believe the quadruple does not need to be included to succeed at these Olympics [...] However, this is a sport where the element of risk is needed. Boring is the program without the challenge."

But, should I really be surprised? In an environment, where the Hollywood Assembly Line churns out expensive, boring remakes and sequels, why shouldn't a polished, uninteresting 20-year old figure skating remake of a routine be praised?

Contemporary North American culture not only caters to, but also -- promotes the lowest common denominator through that winning combination of bread and circuses.

As some of us know.

Women, who get famous through deliberately leaked home-made porn, are designated "fashion icons". Barely literate rappers are called great "artists". Hell, why pick on rappers, when college graduates everywhere seriously lack grammar, syntax, and, gasp!, spelling? I'm used to student emails greeting me with "yo". Basic historic facts that were taken for granted just a few decades ago -- like, when the Mona Lisa was painted -- are no longer common knowledge.

Even when it comes to the Olympic competition itself, Russian-Armenian journalist Zarbabian emphasized the gradual dumbing down of the official musical themes chosen over the years.

And, speaking of Hollywood, I don't think I've ever seen a dating show, where the potential couple discussed a book they liked. One book? A best-selling author? No? Really?

So, perhaps, I need to amend my initial assertion: that gold was very much deserved.

Say "yes" to the welfare state

2010-01-22T03:06:00.013-05:00

When critics mention chronic overspending in North America, they normally do so in the context of the housing market or expensive "toys". What should also be high up on the list of living beyond one's means is weddings. I've always found North American wedding culture ridiculous based on acquaintances' stories and working in a flower shop as an undergraduate student years ago. In fact, I occasionally got into arguments with defenders of the said culture (women, of course). My opponents claimed that huge contemporary weddings go all the way back to the time when their historic ancestors invited an entire village to celebrate the occasion. They seem to have missed the fact that those ancestors of theirs probably did not visit the bank for a loan, while they were falling behind on their mortgage.

Having caught a few wedding reality shows over the past couple of years ("Say "Yes" to the Dress" dominates TLC lately, while "Rich Bridge, Poor Bride" is broadcast daily on Slice), my opinion has been reinforced tenfold. Instigated by the woman, no doubt, many happy couples on these shows mention that it was "well worth it" to spend thousands of dollars beyond their already drastically expanded budget because "it's their one special day", or, worse, "the most important day of their lives". It's not terrible, of course, that people still choose to get married considering the skyrocketing divorce rates in the West. However, statements of this nature are a little too reminiscent of those who consider high school graduation (and, by extention, high school glory days) the "second most important day of their life". That is to say, the shows' participants act like they deserve a lifetime achievement award for throwing a huge party for themselves (and going into debt because of it).

I believe in recycling my own illustrations.
The women on these reality shows make it clear to me that they're "my fellow females" in name and biology only. Most of them mention how they've dreamt of "being a princess on their wedding day ever since they were little girls". I can never figure out whether they are repeating a trite expression when the cameras are rolling, or whether they truly feel this way. I've loved classic European fairy tales growing up, and I sure do enjoy pink nail polish. In other words, T34s (!) aside, I'm somewhat of a girly girl too, but those televized confessions leave me baffled.

So, these women want to pay more than what they are able to afford for a dress they'll only wear once -- why should I care? I care, or, rather, I am bothered by this, because their mentality is far-reaching. One of the most disturbing aspects of "Rich Bride, Poor Bride" involves balancing the budget. Most of the time, whenever a couple comes in under budget on a certain part of their wedding, like flowers, the woman (always, the woman!) suggests that the newly saved money should be spent elsewhere immediately. The concept of saving it, instead, is as alien to these women as their desire to be a "princess" is -- to me.

Much has been written on the direct relationship between women's right to vote and the size of government. Scandinavian "social democracies" have a high percentage of female "public servants" -- and a staggering income tax rate. If this is how irresponsibly the majority of women approaches the financing of their own wedding, is it really any surprise that welfare states (relying on strangers' taxpayer money) function the way they do?

"United under the folds of the tricolor..."

2010-01-09T14:54:00.018-05:00

Peter von Wrangel, the Black Baron (1878-1928)

A Baltic German, an imperial officer, a White Army leader, a Crimean administrator, an émigré, and one hell of an inspirational patriotic writer.

"[...] The moment that the Bolsheviks laid hands on the executive power, Russia, as a national entity, ceased to exist. Even the name which served to describe it disappeared. [...] Yet, in spite of it all, Russia still exists as a nation. Immediately after the Bolsheviks seized the reins of power, a few men, stirred by love for their country and jealous for its greatness and glory, raised the national flag that had fallen in the mud. They were men of every class and condition of life, of the most varied ages and political views. [...] They were all united by the same warm love of their country, and the same desire to sacrifice themselves for her.

Such, in November 1917, was the birth of the White Army. It was the incarnation of the national sentiment, of the revolt of Russian patriotism. United under the folds of the tricolor, they fought from that time for the national cause. [...] Its way of fighting has altered; the outward forms which properly belong to armies had gone; but the idea which directed its making has remained untouched.

What is this idea? It is life devoted to the fatherland, eagerness to save her at the expense of life itself, a passionate desire to tear the red flag down from the Kremlin and hoist in its place the National flag. [...]

Six years have passed since the day when we left our native soil. By painful work the Russian Army gains its bread, enduring affronts and humiliations. But in spite of all its privations and misfortunes it has not lost its faith in the approaching triumpth in the sacred cause. Slowly the eyes of Europe are being opened to the real meaning of Bolshevism. The nations of Europe are beginning to understand the danger of the Red madness, of the risk the world of civilization runs in the existence of an international hot-bed which uses the immense resources of our land to keep up its destructive work. The heart of our country has been quickened by the forces of sanity; they will grow and cannot be stopped. We are no longer alone in our struggle."

1927, Speech @ Brussels

In the very least, teaching undergrads about the Black Baron inspired me to play with my toy soldiers and a camera!

You've been randomly selected...

2009-12-25T23:47:00.000-05:00

No, I did not become the lucky recipient of a million dollars through Nigerian email spam. However, a young Nigerian's failed attempt at terrorism on a Northwest flight to Detroit seems rather timely today.

A reasonably frequent flyer, I've gone through many expected inconveniences of modern-day air travel, including baggage lost for days and baggage lost for weeks, eight-hour delays, full baggage searches, and canceled flights. This year, I've even gotten used to having my temperature taken by genderless swine flu-chasers in white biohazard suits.

When going through security, I seal my "liquids and gels" in advance, remove my jacket and shoes, and take out my laptop -- all to be placed in separate bins, naturally. Yesterday, I did not trigger any alarms, and neither did my carry-on. Yet, I got selected for a random security check without cause.

The latter is somewhere between a mild pat-down one gets when actually setting off a metal detector and a full-blown strip search. It's a polite spit in the face. A bit of public embarrassment, a mild abuse of authority, but with a cherry of political correctness on top. After all, airport security seems to "respect my feelings as a woman and a human", as a certain musician once said.

So, my personal Bestower of Safety (female, of course) even inquired if I "had any body part that hurt", before proceeding to thoroughly determine that I, in fact, did not hide any weapons of mass destruction in my bra. And, I'm not quite sure what pulling my jeans' waist so far away from my body so as to reveal the pattern on my underwear had to do with terrorism prevention. But, maybe I simply lack the intellectual capacity necessary to grasp the mysteries of airport security rituals, so I politely complied.

In the end, all I wanted to know was the selection criteria. "Every fourth female", said this shining example of professionalism and asked, "So, are we cool, yo"? I haven't seen my family in six months and had a flight to catch, "Yes, but rather inappropriate".

Not a contradiction.

Best of all, I paid $54.33 for this masochistic present to self: $45.00 (!) of my airfare went to Canada Airport Improvement Fee, and $9.33 -- to Air Travellers Security Charge (ATSC). The latter certainly seems like money well spent on stopping islamofascists in North America.

Merry Christmas!

"...Soviet bastards have destroyed Russia"

2009-12-16T00:25:00.016-05:00

Despite being absolutely fed up with graduate school, I somehow still enjoy the subject of early Soviet print culture. One of the reasons for my resilience (!) is the fact that I occasionally come across gems like the following:

“In your journal you mock the Tsarist ministers and the Tsar in such a way that you show your stupidity. You have done nothing in the past ten years to show your intelligence. What good, and for whom, has the Soviet power brought? Industry has dropped to nothing. Unemployment has increased by 100%. We workers were never without fish in Astrakhan’, and now we don’t see it anymore. Where did the fish go, dear comrades? Where is the gold of Russia? All the workers know that Soviet bastards have destroyed Russia. You show in your journal that the Tsar’s ministers drank a lot, but at least they were doing their job. Now everyone drinks and steals and does nothing. Everywhere they sit in other peoples’ places...Dear comrades, you should learn from the bourgeoisie, not mock them...I ask you to print this letter in your magazine. It is of greater interest than all your caricatures. Our Moscow workers will read it with pleasure.” (Astrakhan’ workers, a letter to Gudok newspaper, Apr-1927)

(Jennifer Clibbon, The Soviet Press and Grass-roots Organization: The Rabkor Movement, NEP to the First Five-Year Plan (PhD thesis, University of Toronto manuscripts, 1993). Emphasis -- mine.)

This letter shouldn't come as a surprise to other "junior scholars" (pardon the pretentiousness) in modern Russian history. However, I think it is important to demonstrate things like this to my fellow alternative right-wingers, as it shows dissent amongst the lower social echelons within the first years of the Bolshevik regime.

Russia for Russians?

2009-12-10T00:34:00.003-05:00

The slogan "Russia for Russians" is normally associated with political groups, which the media describes as extreme right-wing and xenophobic. After all, by the virtue of being an empire, Russia is multiethnic, and my being Russo-Georgian is a case in point. Yet, unlike most contemporary European inverted societies with an imperial heritage, Russia is officially guided by the majority-based Slavic traditions and a broader European culture, by and large.

In other words, it's still okay to say "Merry Christmas!" in public.

The results of the most recent 20-23-Nov-2009 study conducted by the independent Levada center and published in Gazeta.ru, are somewhat telling about Russian citizens' stance on this subject. 32% of Russians, indeed, associate the slogan with fascism. 36%, however, believe that the government should "reasonably" adhere to this idea. 18% support it in its entirety -- this number is up 3% since last October.

Sociologists argue that, in the very least, fewer and fewer people ignore this issue: 9% of respondents were not interested in the question, in comparison to 12% last year, while 5% were undecided, in contrast to 6% in the same period. Specific questions provide a better picture, yet: 61% of Russian citizens believes that the government must "limit the migrant flow" -- up 9% from the previous year. The number of those who negatively view migrants from the former USSR also rose by 4% this year.

At the same time, it is important to note that in October 2008, only 25% considered "Russia for Russians" fascistic, as compared to this year's 32%. The latter is up a whopping 14% since 2003. Likewise, the number of reasonable supporters -- 36% -- is down from 42%.

Overall, human rights activists describe these latest statistics as generally healthy social polarization, because the question had become the focus of an open public discussion.

Even so, the data may be read in another way too. The total number of citizens, who support the dominant culture in the Russian Federation, is 54%. This unquestionable majority substantially exceeds those opposed to "Russia for Russians" or, at least, its negative connotation. Without a doubt, this majority has been affected by a number of factors, including the widely promoted Putin-Medvedev demographic program, news reports about the losing battle to hold onto the Russian Far East or the Islamification of Western Europe, and simply witnessing the rising number of Central Asian guest workers on city streets.

And, in contrast to the majorities of the West, this 54% likely won't stay silent.

Slaughtering a (ManBear)Pig

2009-12-05T00:30:00.004-05:00

I don't watch much television.

Most of the time, it constitutes background noise as I cook or perform other tasks that don't require excessive cranial prowess. With anywhere between one and three jobs and my doctorate-in-progress, I've perfected the art of multitasking and should consider doing infomercials on the subject (speaking of television). Work out while listening to Japanese language mp3s? You've got it. No wonder I wake up severely sleep-deprived with a high-pitched voice in my head repeating, "Hidoi kao shiteru!" -- "I look awful!".

Russian television I do miss, however. Having lived in Moscow for nearly three months this autumn, I've experienced real journalism and political talk shows to die for. These simply don't exist in North America.

Amusing, isn't it? Every few months yet another independent (as opposed to independent-thinking) international organization releases a study, in which it basically describes the Russian media as terrible government lackeys. Lackeys or not, Russian state channels are nearly virginal when it comes to the North American style of political correctness. As a result, these channels broadcast The Great Global Warming Swindle, openly and frequently discuss the Islamification of Europe, inverted Western societies, dropping European birth rates, and the death of the West in general.

In fact, the release of yet another statistical accusation targeting the Russian media a few days ago made me smirk in light of the painfully missing coverage of Climategate in North America. Evidently, the waste of millions taxpayer dollars is not important enough a story for, uhhh, independent "liberal" media to cover, but a bicycle-powered "green" (get it?!?!?) Christmas tree for the upcoming Copenhagen ManBearPig summit -- is!

The Hunt for Red October (the chocolate factory)

2009-10-31T15:29:00.202-04:00

Back in my Art History days, many advanced graduate students focused on the Italian Renaissance not only because of their strange penchant for Michelangelo's meaty, gender-neutral sybils, but also because they got to conduct research in a warm, sunny place.

The artillery of snowflakes that persistently bombarded my eyelashes on the way to Red October (Krasny Oktyabr' / Красный Октябрь) reminded me of the fact that I could've made more climate-friendly choices too. At the same time, a tour of a chocolate factory, the scent of which filled my nostrills as soon as I left Krasnosel'skaya station, was much more in tune with Halloween pop culture than the handful of pitiful "gothic" events advertised around town.

Moscow simply hasn't been sufficiently Westernized for a proper celebration of Samhain. The Slavic variant thereof -- Christmas Eve -- only seems to be remembered at antique exhibitions and sales (which I've been profusely attending, for some reason) with many overpriced porcelain statuettes of Vakula riding the Devil. I even briefly considered an all-night walk with Bulgakov's house (a more cultured version of a zombie walk, in my book!) starting at 1 am sharp, but I normally expect Woland to play lighhearted pranks on me, not potentially cause pneumonia at below-freezing temperatures.

That made the chocolate factory a solid compromise. Would one of the loud, annoying visitors get sucked into the machinery and turn into human filling? Or, would the cute Shishkin-painted bear family from the century-old Mishka Kosolapy chocolate brand SUDDENLY! leave the wrappers and turn into giant blood-thirsty beasts? Oh, the possibilities...

That...and, uh, a little thing called a doctoral dissertation. Hunting for Red October is not an exaggerated statement. During this research trip, I've been able to easily obtain a number of sources, the existence of which I couldn't even fathom. By contrast, I've been having a difficult time piecing together the type of information that should have been readily available.

The latter includes various details about well-known chocolate brands, which anyone writing on consumer culture in 1920s Russia should not avoid, even those foolish enough not to be occasional chocoholics. And, since I often pretentiously walk around the house failing to sing Buck-Tick, "Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh, give me チョコレート (chokoreeeto)!!!", you know where I stand.

The long road to Red October started by freezing at the unheated federal economic archive and the state archive of the Russian Federation, continued onto various exhibitions, like the fabulous packaging museum, and involved creatively gaining extended access to the art fund of the former Leninka, digging through the Moscow city archive, and, of course, many a busy signal on the other end of the phone line. I certainly didn't anticipate that wearing lab rat gear, tasting half-manufactured chocolate, and observing tired-looking women with forearms that look like they just gave cows a pregnancy test would result in obtaining useful information. Only in Russia?

The chocolate and cocoa museum at Red October features the story of chocolate beginning with its discovery and focuses on Russia's long-established, albeit reinvented brands: Krasny Oktyabr', Babaevsky, and Rot Front. Krasny Oktyabr', for instance, was originally created by one of the many German Badasses who significantly contributed to Russian culture (Empress Sophie Friederike Auguste Badass being my favorite). Ferdinand Theodor von Einem (Эйнемъ) first opened a candy shop on Arbat street in 1851, then expanded into an Einem Partnership factory, which was nationalized shortly after the 1917 Bolshevik takeover and renamed to its current manifestation. Some remnats of that early Soviet period demonstrate a move away from pseudo-Victorian pre-revolutionary imagery toward Communist experimentation like this Red Army Star caramel, not to mention all the famous branding for the large overarching state trust Mosselprom created by Mayakovsky and Rodchenko. Exhibits from the later period include items commemorating everything from space dogs Belka and Strelka to a number of Communist Party Congresses, undoubtedly sweeter than the originals.

Mosselprom's chocolate sales girl
The museum gave me a few information gems that I could not find anywhere else, now coming to a dissertation chapter near you. And, perhaps, next time I could combine this softer, tastier, academically friendly side of Halloween with a zombie walk through the factory. Although, I don't think that flying bits of gelatin wounds are all that hygenic, even if they're crafted with as much love as Red October chocolate.

A long-distance relationship

2009-10-23T09:57:00.119-04:00

Lately, more and more people have been asking me for directions. Shocking myself but not thinking twice, I've been able to give them accurately, in most cases.

An uncultured sea of outsiders from the periphery moves to the center in an attempt to conquer it. It's no different here. Cartographic proficiency is not expected. Yet, I once was the real deal -- a rooted Muscovite, as Russians say, born and raised. I suppose this means that I'm now passing for that real deal once again.

Fifteen years after leaving for good.

The ladies of Moscow
Perhaps it's the fact that I've (temporarily!) dropped the socially necessary, yet occasionally uncomfortable, often dishonest, and certainly ill-fitting North American how-are-you-I'm-well-thanks-how-are-you? facial expression. And, maybe it's my ever-present high heels, which I wear in Canada too. In fact, I pride myself on perfecting stiletto hopping over puddles and cracks in the pavement. Only now I walk faster and more from-the-hip, as women should (and as womyn-historians say we shouldn't). These heels have even contributed to Moscow-style fitness, involving endless self-imposed escalator stair climbs, skillfully maneuvering -- laptop-over-shoulder -- around, uh, less fit ladies on the breathless way up.

@ one of my many "offices" / caffeination stations in Moscow
And I've become a regular in smoking sections at caffeination stations too, not because I don't start feeling rather nauseated after a half hour, but because there's no difference in air quality in non-smoking sections. The latter is combined with fearlessly, carelessly jaywalking across the road, too many grocery bags in hand -- only to end up on the white line as reckless Muscovite drivers pass me by in both directions at twice the speed limit.

I've always idealized Moscow as my city. A living city, it grows organically with a great mishmash of architectural styles and people, and yet is so quintessentially representative of the Russian Empire. In fact, large urban centers I liked well beyond their tourist attractions reminded me of Moscow in some way -- Rome's chaos, noise level, and bad drivers, and Tokyo's sheer human mass in proper black suits -- they are alive too.

At the same time, my recent memories of my city also involved playing tourist: two vacations three years apart. Theaters, dining, museums -- leisure, even if active, is too euphemized to represent life. Careful! This third visit -- another three years later -- gave me just what I wished for. Packed subways, rude clerks who refuse to exchange slightly folded dollar bills, endless rain, angry underpaid public employees, and, yes, general chaos, noise level, and bad drivers too, of course.

Toronto is too rotten to be forgiven for such failures even to a small degree, while my first North American home (mine and Winnie the Pooh's, to be more exact), Winnipeg, is simply too suburban. Yet, somehow Moscow manages to get away with everything. It's like Any and All of Your Boyfriends who always seem to fail at perfection. Or, like a puppy, who jumped onto your brand new couch with dirty paws (or worse), but, unlike Any and All of Your Boyfriends, doesn't know any better.

Though, perhaps, Moscow's been considerate of me as well, and that is why I've been able to practice extreme jaywalking, and that is why I've been fitting in.

Just as I'm about to leave again.

A small case of mistaken identity

2009-10-11T03:43:00.033-04:00

I diligently spent my Saturday at the former Lenin Library -- now the Russian State Library -- still fondly referred to as "Leninka". Until my laptop battery ran out, that is. Some of the government-funded research institutions I've been visiting are ill-equipped for contemporary technological uses. At others, grim archivists respond with one word -- "crisis" -- to my futile question about recharging, evidently in reference to saving on utilities under uncertain economic conditions.

As I headed to stand in line for an extremely overpriced cappuccino (to do my part in alleviating the said crisis!) in central Moscow, I began encountering various signs of patriotism. First, I saw a number of thin, nonchalantly chain-smoking youth donning military-styled caps, wrapped in giant white-blue-and-red flags. Then -- a couple of excited fashionable ladies with smaller flags as well as a group of emo teenagers in scarves with the same color scheme.

Perhaps it was the advertisement for Edinaya Rossiya party in white-blue-and-red that led me to link all this activity to today's Moscow City Duma elections. The campaign banner covered an entire side of a building where New and Old Arbat split, as late afternoon sun rays flooded its leader's -- Putin's larger-than-life photograph with divine light.

"Could all the people I just saw be part of the status quo-supporting Nashi movement that I've read about? Am I witnessing urban political activism in action?"

Further, I passed by two athletic males in dark bomber jackets, their military pants tucked into combat boots, and, later yet, a non-descript adolescent with a sun wheel awkwardly drawn onto his brown faux-leather bag with a black permanent marker.

"Are these extreme right-wing nationalists? Will I be able to photograph something curious?"

...

"Will they kick my ass if I do?"

It was not until I successfully consumed the somewhat-botched-but-still-overpriced cappuccino and got onto the subway, as my laptop bag attempted to travel by itself pulled by the human deluge, that I (embarrassingly!) discovered the actual reason for all this commotion.

They were all simply going to a soccer match.

A_typical blogger

2009-10-07T07:39:00.061-04:00

My unimaginative stereotype of a blogger has always been one of a scrawny über-geek, sitting alone in a dimly lit cafe, scarf-over-neck, and attempting to sound, uh, all Nietzschean-and-shit. However, I don't quite fit this image, if only because I'm neither scrawny, nor a regular blogger. But, at the moment, I am actually writing from a coffee shop for the first time ever. And, I'm wearing something close to...argyle (although, my cleavage somewhat makes up for it!).

Giant statues of Nietzsche are kind of hard-to-come-by in Moscow, so I've uploaded his sort-of-BFF, Dostoevsky. Although, I've never seen him without birds, as if he deemed himself St. Francis!

This momentary weakness is a result of consecutively dealing with more (poorly alliterated) bureaucratic bullshit at a certain federal archive and then a certain major library here in Moscow than usual. No, I'm not referring to the lack of heat at freezing temperatures outside, arbitrary schedules, smoking indoors, damaged and missing files, malfunctioning machinery, three-hour subway commutes, and the like.

Since my arrival from North America, I've been faithfully visiting these facilities every weekday -- with an occasional Saturday spent at the library and many an evening consumed by tweaking all my simultaneously translated notes. So, I've largely gotten accustomed to all the joys of attempting to contribute to the capital-H History of my Motherland, even if merely in a dissertation format.

The characters inhabiting all the various federal archives would make an odd fairytale. One woman with a well-kept mullet is not a benign closet retro-rocker, but is more like an evil stepmother (who masquerades as a benign closet retro-rocker). By contrast, another woman in large, thick glasses and an even larger MuMu threw me off with her moustache and thick, opaque, yellow fingernails of a deadman. She turned out to be helpful and polite, much like the Fairy Godmother.

I am not about to compare myself to Cinderella-of-the-archives (despite "outstereotyping" my own stereotype today) -- not because I resemble GI Joe's Baroness much more instead, but, rather, because there are so many other characters who won't fit in either.

What to make of the excessively talkative storage staff member, eager to inform me of her husband's drinking problems, her daughter's "tramp stamp" tattoo, her fried-bleached-blonde-perm technique, and her vacation from twenty-five years ago? And what of the militia security guard? He looks like an inept, underweight and giant-moustached movie cop, diligently compares my pass to my passport letter-by-letter, and loudly complains about "the Jews stealing all the heat in the building".

My research is about to take me to a number of municipal archives. I'm sure that their characters will be just as colorful. Although, perhaps I should wait until the city turns the heat on: doubling-my-socks-to-avoid-pneumonia doesn't mix well with high heels.

Sans titre

2009-10-04T14:45:00.014-04:00

I've been living in my birth-town, Moscow, for over a month. Yet, I've been unable to produce one measly travelogue.

Of course, I've been blogging elsewhere (albeit, very infrequently) in general, and, the amount of time I spend in front of the computer screen in my regular life due to work and dissertation research turns me off the idea. More important, my other trips abroad, whether to the Old World or the Orient, have been rigorous, but leisurely.

By contrast, neither the smoke-filled stairwells, rusty 1950s elevators, and the lack of heat in various storage facilities of the federal archives of the Russian Federation, nor the daily multi-hour commutes in sardine can-packed subway trains, while being regularly smacked by my laptop bag and impatient travellers alike, feels all that...well....leisurely.

And yet, this megalopolis, in which Starbucks is 3x as expensive as in North America, but which the Old Arbat pigeon polulation can somehow afford, deserves a few raw blog-style sketches. Besides, I plan to revist Patriarshy ponds soon, and I'd rather not anger the mysterious foreigner, who's undoubtedly been back people-watching since his last stay -- at least once or twice.

Cell phone exorcism

2009-06-21T21:26:00.117-04:00

"Your phone is possessed", concluded a customer service agent at the first of the the two wireless Provider store locations I visited yesterday evening. She held my old Razr, as the digits "6...6...6" appeared on the screen.

Evidently, my phone was dialing the number of the beast.

By itself.

Again.

The device had been very adamant about reaching its Master all day, any time I opened it, which is how I reluctantly ended up at that store.

At first, I thought it was a wireless glitch: the Provider's other services are not exactly reliable. I tried calling tech support, but failed: getting through the automated options, as the Crazr stubbornly dialed "666", was impossible.

I recharged the device.

"6...6...6".

I replaced the battery.

The sixes were resilient.

More amused than irritated, I decided to send a text message describing the "LOLz" to a fellow fan of heavy metal thunder and, consequenty, all things diabolical. However, the combination of my typing attempt and the phone's satanic dialing resulted in the word "porn". I probably would have even permitted the device to continue its Bulgakovite pursuit, but undermining my token SMS eloquence with juvenile vulgarity was one "6" too many!

The agent struggled, as the Razr fought for life, refusing to be turned off and continually accessing the web as well as the camera. Eventually triumphant, she (the agent, not the Razr) recommended that I take it to a central store and submit it for repair.

There, a second Provider employee was equally perplexed, "I have never seen anything like this, and I have no idea what could be causing it".

"Not 'what', but 'who'!", I bit my tongue and whipped out a credit card.

And, even though I did not encounter a mysterious Germanic foreigner or a rotten-green Japanese lady from Miike's One Missed Call, I suspiciously glance at my new phone more often than usual.

Playing with firecrackers

2009-06-14T02:50:00.000-04:00

One of the main reasons for my visit to Japan was Buck-Tick.

This firecracker of a band had kept me both sane and entertained during the gruelling studies for my comprehensive PhD examinations, blasted motivating exercise tunes, and provided me with mellow wind-down music after late evenings at work. Recently, I've successfully completed that hellish academic rite of passage, improved my abs of steel, and even gotten back into traditional drawing. And, now that our misguided and intrusive local government forced all businesses to charge for plastic bags, the Memento Mori tour bag has become quite handy.

Is there anything Buck-Tick can't do?

I started this blog a week ago, edited it almost daily, but could not bring myself to publish it. Why has it taken me so long to pin down a brief record of a simple concert experience? Perfectionism? Laziness? A genetic Russo-Kartvelian susceptibility to be overwhelmed by Japan's exoticism, perhaps, not unlike Boris Akunin?

I have been listening to rock music since childhood, and, after exploring many dozens of bands, I'd like to think that I’ve developed a fairly discerning taste. With it, however, it has become progressively more difficult to find something new and worthwhile. Not too long ago (!) I discovered Bee-Tee's twenty-five years of material – the necessary critical mass, which pushed me to visit Japan.

A definitive sign of musical worth – the kind of worth that evades description!

If I were to tally up all the costs associated with concert tickets, air and train fare, accommodations, and, of course, merchandise, then this trip becomes the most expensive band-focused endeavor I've ever undertaken, even trumping last year's United Metal Maniacs in Germany. And, I'd do it again in a drumbeat.

I must've entered my late 20s in an entirely socially unacceptable way.

The 17.v.2009 Kumamoto concert and 24.v.2009 Hiroshima performance were polar opposites. A week apart, the former dumped stormy rain water onto my no longer painstakingly straightened hair, while the latter had not a cloud in the sky. Kein Problem: my curls, curves, and an "American Nightmare" dress made me stand out beyond being the only white woman in the audience in Kumamoto. (I was the only white woman at the Hiroshima concert too, but I opted for more modest black.)

Getting there was tougher than my ab workouts: a direct, twelve-hour trip to Narita; frantic luggage storage; a bus to Haneda; a domestic flight, and, of course, substantial sleep deprivation. I don't know if Sakurai likes Poe, but surprisingly huge, menacing black ravens seemed to follow me around Kumamoto. In addition to palm tree-bending storm and my first Buck-Tick concert, this southern city introduced me to endless mall arcades and a famous castle.

Having climbed the Alpine Salzburg fortress last year, I entered this castle with a smirk, but exited in awe. Despite the meticulously landscaped grounds, it was not difficult to imagine them covered in excessive flora, making the edifice seem even more impenetrable, as it had once been during the days of the Satsuma rebellion.

I was (willingly!) "double-scalped" for the 17.v fan club tickets months in advance by FDJP.com, a steep, but reliable purchasing service. So, I got to see the concert up close from the 7th row and shamelessly waltzed my Western booty to the front whenever the strict, but compact-sized bouncers were not looking.

I suppose, being a North American fan, I should also be particularly impressed by my unexpectedly superb guitar-pick-grabbing skills. After all, Buck-Tick Zone claims that obtaining autographs and the like from the band is extremely rare.

Getting to the Hiroshima concert involved a different kind of dedication: a 5-hour train ride on two Shinkansen from Tokyo; a mad rush to eat and a madder rush to leave my things and freshen up at the hotel prior to check-in time; a regional train on the JR West Sanyo line (thanks, Wikipedia station listings!); and wandering through Hatsukaichi suburbia with every environmentalist's worst nightmare - multiple Google map pages in at least two languages.

There, a broken Anglo-Japanese request for directions at a local 7-11 led to a friendly couple giving me a ride directly to the Sakura Pia venue. Afterward, a random fellow BT fan, Chiaki, led me all the way to the JR station through near-total darkness, despite the language barrier. Finally, unfolding the map turned into more courteous direction-giving during next morning's brief sight-seeing venture. Every time. A-Bomb-Dome-City truly became the most welcoming place in my Japanese experience. Even local turtles resembled the camaraderie between three tank drivers from a famous enemy - Soviet - WWII song.

In contrast to Kumamoto, I bought the Hiroshima tickets from Lawson late and on a whim and, as a result, sat far back. This time, I was able to take in The Spectacle in its entirety: Imai's token rhythmic stomping, the "Memento Mori" nightmarish video sequence, Sakurai's theatrical limp with a cane – worthy of timeless, unholy Woland transplanted to an equally timeless, holy Mount Misen...

The most surprising aspect of live Buck-Tick was not Acchan's newly grown facial hair, unfortunately reminiscent of Johnny Depp. (Johnny is no match for the Most Stunning Man in the World!) Rather, it was the fact that the band played almost the entire new album consecutively, with the exception of leaving "Galaxy" for one of the two encores and playing the perfect blend of rock and dance – "Baby, I Want You" – instead. Again, my rocker seniority did not save me from utter confusion. At least, while the set was identical in both cases, the encores differed. For example, "Romance" in Kumamoto was replaced by "Alice in Wonder Underground" in Hiroshima.

Any band that can make me, a seasoned metalhead, who avoids clubs like communism, get up, do the "hippy-hippy-shake", and dance my heels off for two hours non-stop, has earned my money and respect. Oh, and, above all – the motivation to engage in rigorous air miles collecting in order to attempt this insanity all over again.

Japan Rock-out Tour!

2009-06-01T17:14:00.138-04:00

For a seasoned rock fan, I attend very few shows. In fact, prior to my recent trip, the last one involved Iron Maiden in Montreal just about a year ago. Embarrassing, no? I have good reasons for this near-lack of rocking out, however.

Considering that this past year involved many an-80-hour week with my job(s) and my seemingly (?!) misguided decision to pursue a PhD, I've decided to reward myself with a visit to Japan. The latter was also geared toward getting my strong interest in that country's pop culture (music and film) out of my system. Alas, the opposite had occurred!

Three shows, three cities (Kumamoto and Hiroshima in the southwest and Morioka in the northeast), two bands (Buck-Tick and Sex Machineguns) in one week (!): Japan had the effect of viagra in my rock world! I shopped for records and visited the tiny, hole-in-the-wall, and all the more quaint metal bar, Godz, in Tokyo, the following week. Twice. On both counts.

Veteran J-rockers Buck-Tick deserve their own blog entry. So, I proceed with the second band, which I lovingly call "'Sexy' Machineguns".

Sex...Machineguns!

In light of Anchang's unfortunate tendency to replace band members, including the last stellar lineup with Panther, I decided to catch these mainstream power/thrash/speed/glam, comical, "shrederrific", and generally over-the-top metallers prior to any more drastic changes.

Picking a fairly little (300,000) town of Morioka in a northern Iwate prefecture was geared toward seeing the "Sexies" in an intimate setting - second row of a small, smoke-filled club, towering over the majority of fans. There was another unplanned benefit. Not only war Morioka gorgeous - with its rock-splitting cherry tree and castle park, but the Shizukuishi resort area and lake Goshoko were both pristine and almost people-free this time of the year.

The ticket was purchased at Lawson (a convenience store chain) prior to the trip, and seating was all-floor. I am unsure whether my being the only Westerner among the fans helped me push to the front without any problems. The band only played a couple of songs from their latest, Cameron, like the single Hitozuma Killer. So, I got to enjoy all the expected "hits", including total rockers like Aijin 28 and German Power. When he played the latter, Anchang, as cartoon-cute as ever, pronounced "Russian power" with a thick accent. I was tempted to point the finger at myself. "Come on...Canada kara kimashita! Roshiajin desu! Be impressed!", I mentally repeated carefully memorized lines.

The stage show was both highly entertaining and bizarre. All the members wore matching band jerseys and performed tricks throughout – well-choreographed and perfectly in sync. These larger-than-life moves, popularized in the 1980s, looked odd, yet dedicated on a small club stage. Anchang's solos both impressed with their technical virtuosity (more than anticipated!) and flashy visuals.

Sex Machineguns also had the tendency to play multiple songs in a row, then talk. A lot. Too much! Especially the rather aggressive, tiny Shingo ☆ with his all-too-silly blond spikes, which soon fell apart from sweat. Based on the band members' and fans' laughter, I'm sure these intermissions were very entertaining. I, on the other hand, knowing only a few polite words and numbers in Japanese, stood "looking like a ram staring at a new gate", as we, Roshiajin, say. A complete idiot, in other words. So, when Anchang described the fiasco with EMI Music Japan, I was very proud of myself.

While my lack of linguistic prowess was expected, the metal etiquette was not. First, just as the band performed in sync, so did the fans. They often chanted and gestured "Sex Machineguns". In sync. Yes, apparently, there is a pseudo-sign language gesture for the band's name. Second, specific parts of specific songs led to other (specific!) kind of gestures. Again, in sync. They occasionally headbanged too - from side to side only - no windmilling action there! I sure do hope that my traditional fist-pumping, horn-throwing, and full-on head-banging did not translate into, "This band sucks!", because I enjoyed the performance immensely!

Finally, the lack of scene insignia at a mainstream concert did not surprise me, nor did all the school girls in summer dresses. But, a grandmother with cotton balls instead of ear plugs?! This grandmother turned out to be better prepared than I was: I experienced ringing and muffled hearing for days after the show, despite my vast rocking experience. I am now very curious as to what the metal etiquette at underground shows is like.

Tokyo metal bar, Godz

Yasuyuki of Abigail / Barbatos / Cut Throat / Tiger Junkies / (live) Sigh fame (and sporting a very stylish BASTARDATOR shirt), graciously introduced me to the Tokyo metal bar, Godz, in Shinjuku. The latter operates from 7 pm to 5 am, has a decent record collection, and a giant TV screen. The drinks, however, are expensive. And, North Americans not used to smoke-filled environments, like me, will suffer!

As soon as I walked into this bar, I was impressed by the fact that many of its patrons looked like regular business people. The music selection, unfortunately, featured poor mainstream bands: Yasuyuki commented that it gets more underground as the night progresses. The choices seemed to have been indicative of the regulars and the bartender. One exceptional patron in a sharp gray suit and with even sharper cheekbones exhibited good taste with a Faith No More request. We, the fatigued representatives of kvlt, left prior to hearing our own, and thus did not get to "stoooop the chemical invaaaaaaasion!"

Visiting central Tokyo a few days later, I snuck into Godz again for one drink. This time, the bar met me with old school thrash blasting through the speakers and the new Iron Maiden documentary, Flight 666, lighting up the screen. So, I got to reminisce about last year's Toronto concert and my tortured article on "Rime"!

Memento mori: a canine obituary

2009-03-07T17:25:00.007-05:00

Varg, the German shepherd, was my living-vicariously-through-someone-else pet-from-distance after the Big Move to Toronto. Fulfilling the sensibilities of a teenage metalhead, Varg, the discarded and unwanted shelter dog, was adopted and named after a controversial Scandinavian musician. When his canine namesake first met me and let me live, I knew it was love at first sight. (The latter concept is always possible with dogs and never - with people.)

Today Varg journeyed to Valhalla, where, I hope, he can now carry beautiful valkyries on his back. He may not have been a real wolf, but he was more than worthy.

Varg, the German shepherd (not the musician), was very militant (like the musician)...with raccoons and alpha-male pit bulls. Yet, at the same time, he was incredibly gentle with a certain small, but fierce dachshund. (...That is, after the infamous introductory paw-flip that sent the said dachshund up into the air and made him spin a full 360. Varg just didn't recognize his German Volk right away.)

The historian in me wonders whether (post-)industrial advancement, which, in part, completely sanitized death, has damaged our ability to deal with it. Having frequent, direct, and normalized contact with death, our European predecessors practiced memento mori. I, on the other hand, will just have to settle for listening to Buck-Tick's album with the same title and allow that band's dark humor make me feel a little less rotten. Deo volente.

"Varg-bit-hard". R.I.P., Varg.

Putin's pro-natalism meets format television

2009-01-15T00:19:00.107-05:00

Close to the end of his second term, the now-former president Vladimir Putin publicly began to emphasize the severity of the demographic crisis in the Russian Federation. The media often describes Putin as the man who had brought short-term stability to that country through oil and gas revenue. Journalists also argue that his main goal is to reclaim the so-called great power status for Russia within the international arena. Yet, as Putin himself had announced, the state's efforts may only be sustained by a healthy population growth. (See my May-06 blog No Children. No Future.)

Instead, the opposite is true. After the collapse of the USSR, millions of ethnic Russians remained in the former Soviet republics - from the Baltic to Kazakhstan. More important, Russia's death rate (in part - a result of alcohol-, tobacco-, and pollution-related factors) significantly exceeds its birth rate. Combined with a Gastarbeiter-migrant flood from the former non-Slavic Soviet territories and beyond, the state became rather alarmed (its seeming lack of effort to repatriate those ethnic Russians notwithstanding).

It is not uncommon for the modern government to be actively involved in promoting pro-natalism, most overtly in an immediate postwar setting. (See Mary Louise Roberts' article "The Dead and the Unborn: French Pronatalism and the Abortion Law of 1920", for example.) A new state may also require a growing population to physically sustain its industry and mentally uphold its ideals. (See David Hoffman's Stalinist Values: The Cultural Norms of Soviet Modernity, 1917-1941 about state advocacy of strong, patriarchal families in the 1930s.) What, then, was Putin's solution to the Russian demographic crisis?

Most immediately, the now-former president's pro-natalist program involved various types of financial benefits granted to new and future mothers. While critics scoffed at the program's long-term effects, there was a spike in the Russian birth rate last year. Less obviously, the state has been attempting to construct and promote a new Russian identity through various means, including the consolidation of history teaching in schools. (One has to consider that from the mid-1930s and until 1991, Soviet schools taught a curious blend of ethnocultural patriotism and dialectic materialism. By contrast, many texts published in the 1990s went too far in the opposite direction.) Most recently, a plethora of blockbuster films regarding accepted patriotic subjects, including Alexander Nevsky and the Polish invasion of Moscow in 1612, has been released.

Yet, I wondered whether the state would use mass cultural methodology to address the subject of children more directly. And, it did!

While post-Soviet Russian television had borrowed much from its North American counterpart, including the proliferation of reality content, it also exhibits certain differences. For example, one of the most popular types of content to broadcast is a series, which is essentially an extended film with no possibility of a sequel. This format ranges from as few as four to as many as sixteen episodes. Expectedly, all such series are driven by plot and advertising alike. Here, Russia's "serious" film actors and A-list celebrities frequently play major roles. So, their star power combined with exciting, unrealistic plots, is capable of attracting a wide audience.

One such four-part series is Atonement - Starting All Over. Marta. (Искупление - Начать сначала. Марта.) - an over-the-top, sappy "chick-flick". Maria Poroshina (known to the North American audiences through her role in Night Watch and Day Watch) plays Marta. An attractive, successful forty-something, this woman evaluates her life: she recalls that success did not come easily: abandoned by her husband, she spent years in poverty. One of the ways in which she had earned money was through...........surrogate motherhood. Not once. Not twice. THREE TIMES: repopulating the early post-communist Russia one surrogate baby at a time.

Throughout the series, Marta and her best friend debate the pros and cons of being a surrogate mother and have endless discussions about the biological gift of motherhood and the joy of raising children. She searches for the three that she had once carried to term for other parents and tries to have a baby of her own. Most important, Marta reconnects with the prince charming from her past, who uses martial art skills (!) he evidently picked up in Soviet-era Afghanistan (!) to teach the bad guys a lesson or two (or THREE?!). The ending is, of course, very happy.

This particularly terrible example of Russian format television was created by a Russo-Ukrainian production and distribution company, Star Media. One of its major partners is Russia's most prominent state-owned television, the First Channel. The connection between such exaggerated case of pro-natalism is not only conceivable but also - likely.

Whether this type of mass cultural propaganda ends up contributing to the aversion of a demographic catastrophe remains to be seen. I just hope that the Russian state's next effort involves a better screen play.

Sex...machineguns!

2008-12-18T22:52:00.011-05:00

Anchang. Sex Machineguns.

A clever man once proclaimed that he needed no instructions to know how to rock. I, on the other hand, need no instructions to know how to contribute to my illustration Rockfolio! :)

There is a God of Death on my bookshelf!

2008-12-06T22:25:00.057-05:00

Actually, there are four!

Amidst tirelessly attempting to complete the readings of the fifty-some books for my cultural history PhD minor, my collection (!) grew. In the past couple of months, I've been: reading all about the boundaries of commodification (apparently - a negative term!) and the evils of capitalism (!) that most scholars emphasize in a sustained ideological assault on my brain; memorizing disturbing amounts of information about 19th century sewing machines and farming equipment; finding out all about American coffins, managerial patterns, and female working class fashions in the early 20th century; most of all - learning that I apparently have the obligation to spend my hard-earned dollars using my social conscience (read: fitting the left definition of morality). Strangely, all these texts did not preclude me from desiring more Ryuks. Fusing Marx and Freud, scholars call it "commodity fetishism". So, my apparently immoral purchase of this doll doesn't save rainforests, cure AIDS, or ban sweatshops. But, his carnivorous grin sure is cute!

Ryuk is a God of Death from a popular manga-turned anime-turned movie-turned endless merchandise Death Note. My only miniscule feeling of guilt comes from the seeming incompatibility of my age and such a childish interest. Of course, this interest speaks to the sheer success of Japanese cross-platform media production and cross-border marketing. Interestingly, the mighty resource, Wikipedia, suggests that the notion of a God of Death, as loosely referenced in Death Note, actually came to Japan from the West in the 19th century. And, here I am, consuming this God of Death in the West through a Japanese lens. Remember those evils of globalist capitalism in all their multivalent glory! (More specifically, "hypercapitalism" via the web, according to those aforementioned scholars.)

I've never considered myself a collector, despite owning hundreds of (largely heavy metal) CDs. The closest I've come to this coveted status is the multiple Orthodox and Catholic miniature icon reproductions, which happen to sit on my other bookshelf. (I am way ahead of you: I don't consider myself a book collector either, despite certain noticeable patterns!) Or, perhaps, my Russian tin soldiers qualify. In contrast to the icons and the soldiers, I've actively sought out Ryuk. My strategy even included transparent gift hints (including this one)!

Stranger yet, I've never been interested in other anime-related media. Sure, like any aware film fan, I enjoy a Japanese comedy or two: some would say that I have a curious sense of humor when it comes to over-the-top splatterific gore as administered by a huggable drill bra (!) in Machine Girl. But that's where it ends. I swear.

So, what is it about this God of Death that leaves me wanting to "collect them all"? His wobbly yellow eyes? His insatiable appetite for..........red apples? Perhaps, the fur around his neck subliminally reminds me of those fashionable twenty thousand shirtwaist worker women who went on strike in New York in 1909-1910, as my readings tell me.

Salmon, death of the West, and Eco's runaway beard

2008-10-18T19:14:00.029-04:00

I didn't even recognize him until he began speaking, shaved face and all. He seems to really dislike publicity photos and has a Baudrillard-like attitude toward the media. The presenters greedily emphasized that Travels in Hyperreality predated Simulacra and Simulation. I wasn't surprised, considering how the latter is academically privileged over the former across the board.

Attending a lecture by Umberto Eco has been on my "top ten things to do before I die" list ever since I was introduced to his work in 1998. A decade later, I had purchased and consumed all of his fiction, read a large bulk of his cultural criticism, starting from his republished PhD thesis on medieval aesthetics, and took a crack at some of his strictly academic work in the field of semiotics.

Even my teenage days of standing in line in subzero midwestern temperatures to get concert tickets and be "rokken-like-dokken" couldn't match my literary fandom in this case. I changed my schedule and worked two full shifts with an hour of sleep in between in order to attend this event. Then I withstood the strategic, repeated bag-kicking and foot-stomping attack by an angry old lady, who evidently wanted our seats.

During this round table discussion, Eco focused on some of his more recent essays from the Turning Back the Clock collection. His talk included issues of technology: degrading from Vista to XP and politics: using 19th century methods to solve 21st century concerns. He took multiple jabs at Berlusconi and urged for a bilateral solution to the problem of migration and ethnic replacement in Europe.

The most surprising part of the lecture was not this scholar's runaway beard, but rather his demeanor. Beyond the level of cosmopolitan erudition, one of the most stand-out aspects of Eco's fiction is his subtle, clever sense of humor. I wasn't expecting it to translate well into the live environment with spontaneous audience questions. After all, some of my other literary favorites like Zoschenko and Iskander are also funny men. Yet, at least according to the Soviet rumor mill, they are publicly known to have unpleasant, dreary personalities. Charming and quick-witted, this Italian academic destroyed my expecations by having the audience laughing out loud throughout the entire lecture.

In the true, but inadvertent spirit of turning back the clock, I recycled an old illustration of mine to make Eco a thank-you postcard. I took away some hair, but the token beard stayed!

A tiny T-34

2008-09-28T22:52:00.007-04:00

When I saw this little guy, he reminded me of my favorite tank. Just like the Soviet T34, he looks crude, sturdy, and is about to (hopefully!) consume that technologically advanced fly.

*If you thought that I was feeling totally zen as a result of not only taking, but also posting a nature-lovin', tree-huggin', water bottle-recyclin' photograph of a frog, I trust that my tank analogy totally destroyed your initial assumption.

Shock-worker

2008-09-28T17:33:00.006-04:00

It's been several months since I've even looked at this blog, and my never-updated personal website has been down inexplicably for two weeks. (Web hosting money well spent! And there I was thinking of redesigning it.) I'm amidst transcribing a lengthy interview regarding the unofficial Soviet rock (unfortunately, not metal specifically) music publications for one of my multiple jobs in the pre-"dissertating" stage. Stalinist shock-worker style.

I have an irreconcilable attitude toward being swept into Russia's irreconcilable history by the mere fact of having been born at the USSR's epicenter nearly twenty-eight years ago. Nonetheless, I've always admired the 30s Stakhanovite shock workers, despite having read many a book on Stalinist economics by "free" and Gulag laborers alike. And, it is not so much the peculiar brand of an ambitious work ethic than is motivating, but rather the fact that it fits my lifestyle.

The only way I can maintain the crazy train (not the Ozzy kind) pace that I've signed myself up for is by subscribing to the udarnik technique. So, whereas a normal PhD student would spread the work over a few days, with sleep and socializing-with-other-humans breaks in between, I am going to do this entire job in one go. By choice and no longer by choice.

Whereas the man who mined one hundred and two tonnes of coal in five hours and forty-five minutes may inspire me to do the same via Microsoft Word, the strange reason I came back to the blog has to do with Sex Machineguns. With the help of the Google translator, I've been reading Anchang's blog for the past week (naturally, during my well earned Stakhanovite breaks). Presumably as a result of the automated translator's limitations and my cliched perception, some of the entries sound like haikus. What I really enjoy about his blog (apart from the multiple photos of objects great and small that carry a heavy metal significance), is the fact that this Japanese rock celebrity manages to keep things succinct, frequent, entertaining, sufficiently personal, yet private at the same time (as his status would require). I'm neither succinct, Japanese, nor a celebrity (phew!), but perhaps the South-East Asian rockstar public diary is just what I need to balance out Alexey Stakhanov.

Old Don Cemetery (Moscow).

2008-03-07T11:45:00.005-05:00

HERE TODAY, GONE TOMORROW OR FORGOTTEN DEATH
Boris Akunin (Grigori Chkhartishvili)
Excerpt from the Cemetery Tales.
2004.
Translation: mine ©

I feel genuine revulsion toward functioning Moscow cemeteries. They resemble bleeding chunks of meat torn off the living. Black striped buses arrive; they speak too quietly there and cry too loudly, while the choir prelude wails four times a day in the crematorium assembly line, and a formal lady in a mourning dress instructs with a set voice, “Approach one by one, say your goodbyes”.

If by accident and out of sheer curiosity you had ended up at Nikolo-Arkhangelskoe, Vostryakovskoe, or Khovanskoe cemeteries, get out of there and do not look back – or else you will be frightened by the endless wasteyards reaching the horizon, embedded with grey and black rocks; you will suffocate from the distinct greasy air, go deaf from the ringing silence, and you will want to live eternally, to live at any cost, only to avoid turning into a pile of ashes among the maggots of the columbarium or disintegrating into proteins, fats, and carbons under the flowerbed zero seven measuring one point eight.

New cemeteries will explain nothing to you about life and death; they will only baffle, frighten, and confuse you. To hell with them, let them chomp with their granite-concrete jaws behind the perimeter highway, while we better head to Zemlyanoy town, to Old Don Cemetery, for, in my opinion, no other place in all of our beautiful and mysterious city is more beautiful and mysterious.

Old Don Cemetery is completely unlike the contemporary giants of the funeral industry: the latter are paved with asphalt, while here the paths are covered with leaves; the latter are filled with dust-covered grass, while here mountain ash and pussy willow grow; a concrete slab inscribed, “Natalie, dearest daughter, why did you abandon us?” lies in the latter, while here an angel stands holding an open book, where it reads, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”.

Only you must not wander to New Don Cemetery by mistake, which is located nearby, behind the red cogged wall. It will lure you with the onion domes of the church, but it is a wolf in sheep’s skin – renovated Crematorium #1. And in front of the gates you will be met by smiling Sergey Andreevich Muromtsev, the chairman of the First State Duma. Do not believe this happy prince, who, like a little bee, absorbed all the honey of the short-lived Russian Europeanism with his life (1850-1910) and quietly passed away prior to the arrival of troubles, perhaps fully convinced of the Russian parliament’s victory and of gradually accumulating pleasant neighbors – private-docents and defense attorneys. Alas – he is instead surrounded entirely by the Stalin prize laureates, communist brigadiers, aeronauts, and honored constructors of the RSFSR. Time will pass, and their tombstones with sputniks, compasses, and stars will also turn into historic exoticism. Only not for my generation.

You and I must to go further, into the other gates, crowned with a tall bell tower. Moscow that I love is buried there. Buried, but not dead.

The very first time I felt that she is alive was in the early days of my youth, when I worked in a quiet institution, located close to the Don monastery, and I visited the ancient graves with my colleagues for the purpose of drinking the poor-tasting, but strong wine “Agdam”. We made the habit of sitting on a wooden bench across from the dusty bas-relief with Saint Sergey Radonezhskiy, Peresvet and Oslyaba (he is still there, never returning to the wall of the restored Church of Christ the Savior), snacking on the sweet monastery apples to complement this Azeri hemlock, and the conversation inconceivably flowed from the last album by the band Sparks (or what else did we all listen to back in the day?) to Saltychikha and from super rifle jeans to Chaadaev.

Petr Yakovlich rested not too far away from the coveted bench. His grave informed his descendents of the one fact only about the man, who would have been Brutus in Rome and Pericles in Athens, “Ended his life on April 14, 1856” – and this caused us to speculate.

And as for Saltychikha, time saved neither a single word, nor a single letter on her tombstone. Moscow landowner Dariya Nikolaevna Saltykova, who tortured one hundred serfs to death – really existed – this is the only fact that the grave confirmed. But it is impossible to define monsters; the content of their soul is dark and mystifying, and the most appropriate testament to a monster — an unspoken truth, which looks like a bare grey obelisk, whose silhouette is reminiscent of an aspen spike, impaled into the ground.

Five feet away from the final resting place of the Russian contemporary of Marquis de Sade, a peculiar stone tree, which looks like a snag-covered cross, grows out of the ground – a masonic symbol to the memory of lieutenant Baskakov, who died in the year 1794. No additional information is provided – a pity.

The inscriptions and the awkward poems on the gravestones – a fascinating, completely non-monotonous reading. This is nothing less than an attempt to materialize and eternalize emotion, and, in fact, not an unsuccessful attempt – those who mourn are long gone, but their mourning remains:

“Here rests a young man and a servant of God Nikolai.
God summoned him from this world and its troubles to paradise.”

(From his inconsolable parents to the honorable citizen Nikolai Grachev.)

Or an entirely clumsy verse, but all the more piercing:

“Let these beloved remains rest in the bowels of the earth,
Let the soul soar in skies so blue,
But I remain here in tears for you”.

(It is already impossible to discern who dedicated this and to whom.)

Yet my favorite epitaph, gracing the tombstone of princess Shakhovskaya, is not touching, but vengeful: “Passed away as a result of doctor Snegirev’s surgery”.

Where are you, doctor Snegirev? Is your grave still around? Doubtful, I say. Yet here, at the Old Don Cemetery, you are still remembered, even if not in a good way.

Twenty years ago, when I came here almost every day, very few people visited this overgrown, half-forgotten cemetery. Only the connoisseurs of Moscow history would bring guests of the capital here in order to give them a taste of the most important cemetery sight – a black bronze Christ, extended full-height in the niche of the monastery wall. Even back then the flowers never ran out at the feet of the Savior, while I was never partial to this testament to the Russian moderne – it is too delicate and bon-ton.

I am guilty – I do not like sightseeing. Evidently, due to the fact that these sights are too polished by the gaze, and because everything is already known about them, no mystery remains. One can locate a certain number of the acclaimed names on the Don graveyard signs: historian Klyuchevskiy, poet Maykov, architect Beauvais, Cossack Ilovayskiy XII, but the absolute majority of the local deceased did not make themselves well-known in any shape or form. The famed and celebrated were buried in St. Petersburg in that day and age, while this was Moscow, a province. The flamboyance of the individual tombstones must not mislead you – this is a testament to the wealth, not the success in life. God knows how many failed careers and insatiable ambitions are buried at the Old Don’s. You glance at all this peeling heraldry and
half-erased titles and recall the Danish king Erik the Memorable, whose resonant nickname remains, yet history somehow did not remember the reasons why his contemporaries considered him so memorable.

No one needs my elect few except for me. Their names did not resonate, while they lived, and when they died, nothing of theirs except for a stone on a grave remains in this world. Miss Ekaterina Beznosova, 72 years of age, who died in 1823 in the eighth hour after midnight and state advisor Gavriil Stepanovich Karnovich, who always led an exemplary, truly Christian life, mystifies me with the riddle of his vanished existence. This sentiment is most succinctly expressed in Igor Burdonov’s haiku “A Little-Known Fact”:

They all died –
People, who lived in the Russian state
In August of the year 1864.

They truly did die – those who fasted, made visits, read “Provincial Moscow News”, and disparaged the cunning Disraeli. Yet I feel consumed by an acute and therefore an unmistakable feeling that they are somewhere near, that it is possible to reach them; only I do not know how to catch the time that slipped away, how to grasp the edge of a mystery.

And this very edge is so near – one more try, and you can seize it, it seems. An elbow is close…

I compose novels about the XIX century, attempting to put into them the most important concept – the sensation of time slipping away. I inhabit my invented Russia with characters, whose names and last names are somewhat frequently borrowed from the Old Don tombstones. I do not know myself what I am trying to achieve by doing so – either pull those, who are no longer here, out of their graves, or to sneak into their lives myself.

Urban development. Mikhail Veller.

2007-10-06T23:09:00.002-04:00

Mikhail Veller.
Excerpt from The Last Great Chance.
2006.
Translation: mine ©

14. Urban Development

This feature is demonstrated fully and with amazing directness in the appearance of Russian cities.

Russian cities are astonishingly unattractive. They are nondescript. They are not even cities from the point of view of architecture and aesthetic spatial organization. They are simply an accumulation of buildings for the purpose of life and work. These buildings are set in every which way, based on the financial means and the logic of the labor process.

You know, we usually don’t notice this, don’t see it. We were born and live here, grow up and love – “This is our motherland, sonny boy…” You must visit the cities of the world – not brilliant capitals, but rather various cities and towns, in order to ruin your mood because of your destiny. It’s harmful, harmful to allow Russians abroad!...

The best, the most convenient example – Moscow-“the-beautiful”. We are not talking about outskirt, sleeper districts – they are equally faceless and outwardly talent-lacking, pitiful, and cookie-cutter all over Russia. Dwellings for crowds of cheap labor. But – look at the center! Meaningless piling of each and every trend, style, storey, purpose, a complete and utter lack of coordination of the space between the buildings, blocks, alleys, a disorganized alternation of facings, store windows, asphalt, and tiles. Everyone barged in with his structure in any way he could, not giving a damn about the neighbors, with which nothing could be done anyway.

The idea of Moscow as a city is a horde, pile, overcrowding, clutter, apathy towards those who and which are nearby; above all – the desire to rip off and assert one’s own interest, the power of money above any power, chaos as the principle of life.

Take a look at the historic cobble stone of the Red Square – look at the waves, by the means of which the first, most important, grand distance of the Empire marches on! What – is it really impossible to even it out like a table? The utter horror of the VIP box seats – Red Square’s waves. And if this – a continuous sloping pothole – isn’t visible on TV – so to hell with it, let’s leave it as is! – then what else can one expect?...Can the public really respect itself with such a pothole?

So there you have your piss-covered entrances and broken bottles. And thugs.

And until the first faces of the country – yes, just like back in the day, only for real! – come out with actual brooms and participate in subbotniks, while the punks littering all over the city get prosecuted in an orderly fashion…Eh, empty words…

Deliberately flawed reasoning. State’s armored military machinery is no longer capable of participating in Red Square parades, due to the fact that Manezhnaya Square had been thoroughly tunneled by an underground shopping center; the tanks would simply fall through into it. And this underground shopping center largely belongs to (or is it – in part? Or does it rake off plenty?) Moscow mayor Luzhkov, which means that it’s absolutely impossible to challenge this trade, since it’s too profitable.

Private business money is more valuable than the power and pride of the nation.

And this is the nation’s folk? This is whoring trash.

A city, like nothing else, embodies the system-forming instinct of the people. The city is not a pile of houses. It is a system, created out of buildings and the space between them in their congruency and interrelation. The creation of the city as a system is a skill and an independent art form.

The city – is when vertical and horizontal lines of buildings and the space between them in the aggregate are that very totality, which a simple sum, a simple place-conjunction of houses and blocks is not.

The city is intentionality, an organism, a painting and a sculpture per se, self-value.

The only city in the Empire is St. Petersburg. It was built by Italians – the best architects in the world at that time. They knew, and consequently tsars understood – a city is a single whole, its system reflects the nation’s system, its systematic spirit.

Italy, Germany, Spain, France, England, Austria are filled with cities. Russia is not.

And let’s do without arrogance. Pride must be constructive. Negation of one’s own negative traits is the most certain way toward their development and furthermore – toward our very own harm and demise.

An organized space means: we are together, a united community, of one fate, each other’s defenders and helpers, together we are better and stronger rather than alone and apart. It is therefore not surprising that only the citizens of Leningrad were known in the USSR for their goodwill, decency, honesty, pride without arrogance, and an overall embodied blueprint of virtue.

SHOW ME YOUR CITY – I’LL UNDERSTAND YOUR SOUL.

Semper studeo

2007-08-18T16:03:00.001-04:00

Four years in university to obtain a balance between a practical and creative profession resulted in complete lack of motivation for any type of personal artistic pursuits [spanning beyond near-carpal tunnel from 40 hours a week on the computer], upon obtaining some semblance [roughly speaking, of course] of the said profession.

Two more academic years spent seeking to balance out the technically oriented career with the impractical, yet oh-so-enjoyable-gosh-darn-it intellectual pursuits solely led to gaining the ability to name-drop a graduate degree at a martini party. [And I don't even like martinis or attend parties.]

Up next - 5+ more years of yet another advanced graduate degree to be largely used as an ego-boost via earning the title Dr. and, more important, adding another tag to my eMail signature?

You told me so, didn't you?

Beyond English pigdogs' comprehension...

2007-07-03T14:13:00.001-04:00

...and mine too, for that matter.

Flying Carpet

2007-06-03T23:45:00.001-04:00

Yuri Mamleev.
1965.
Translation - mine.
Note to self: This was fun. I must do this again.

Ma Raisa Mikhailovna - who had light, austere, frozen eyes and the same kind of a gaze - bought herself a rug. She did not obtain it with ease. Hopping along, she hurried home, lifting the rug high up toward the sky.

At home, the rug was hung on the wall with a death grip. After looking at it, her distant relative Maria - a fat woman, whose head resembled that of a toad - lifted her arms and screamed, "Ga-ga-ga!". She always spoke this way in positive situations. Slapping her butt, Raisa Mikhailovna went into the kitchen - to fry. Something lively and brisk merrily crackled on the frying pan. Water simmered in the tap and in Maria's head. This was her day off and, sprawling on the couch, she counted her fingers, which to her seemed like shadows.

She fumbled around herself with this shadow and, finding matches, lit up.

Three-year old toddler Andryusha - Raisa Mikhailovna's son, all white and honey-like - thoughtfully frolicked on the floor. No one else was around: Andryusha's father was away on a business trip.

Hiccuping, Maria walked into the kitchen like an idol spilling dough.

-I will be back, - she said.

-Yes, yes - Raisa Mikhailovna bustled about the stove.

Half an hour later, the housewife came into the room, where her little boy frolicked about. Then she stopped, as if witnessing a dreadful miracle.

With a happy glow in his eyes, Andryushenka was consumed by cutting up the new rug with scissors. He had not gotten very far - due to the childhood lack of strength - but the thing was ruined. Ma was petrified. It seemed that even her mouth could not open. Her eyes turned wet. Finally, with an expression of irrevocable determination, she approached the little one. Her face began to resemble that of Zeus.

-What did you do?! - words disgorged out of her mouth.

-Whatcha mean? - the boy smiled cheerfully.

His blond curls fluttered over his forehead.

Ma ripped the scissors out of his hands.

-Take that, take that, take that! - mother shrieked ferociously, her face shrunk, as she heavily jumped up and down on one spot. In a rage, she was hitting the little one's hands with scissors. He was screaming, as an oven that came to life would scream, but his screams only inflamed ma. The child's hands turned red and, benumbed by horror, he did not even attempt to hide them: he only retracted them to his chest, and they hung there like dirt rags.

With every blow they turned more and more boneless and hazy, like puddles.

-The rug...the rug! - ma shouted, and her gaze became harder and harder.

She imagined that there was no more rug and was herself ready to transform into that rug, just so it could still exist.

-You must appreciate things, you must appreciate things, fool! - she yelled at the child.

Maria returned. She evaluated the scene with a heavy gaze and decided that nothing existed, except for herself. She then flopped onto the couch and began caressing her stomach.

-Where, where did the birds...fly to?! - she occasionally muttered in her sleep.

Meanwhile, Raisa Mikhailovna's initial wrath slowly cooled. "What will father say, after all, the rug is no more, no more!" - she only shook her head.

Andryusha, on the other hand, did not stop wailing, choking from pain. He fell onto the floor and was rolling on the carpet.

-Stop, stop crying this very minute; I don't want to see your tears! - Raisa Mikhailovna screamed at her son.

She no longer battered him with scissors, but instead merely pushed him with her foot lightly, like a ball, when he unusually squealed from pain or from memories.

-Kick him like a football, like a football, - Maria purred in her sleep, sorting out a dream.

Raisa Mikhailovna began tidying up the house: cleaning the floors and scrubbing the washrooms. She did so four, five times a day, even if the floor glistened like a mirror after the first time. She scrubbed each little corner of the floor and every stain on the toilet, monotonously and in order to prolong her existence. Her days were normally spent like this, until her husband, a qualified technician, returned home.

And now, having left the little one alone, she commenced her rambunctious task.

Two thoughts occupied her head: whether it was still possible to save the rug, and whether Adryusha would stop screaming. She was completely confused about the first one, and chagrined, she began to feel dizzy. Yet gradually a slight pity towards Andryusha began displacing everything else: he still overstrained himself just the same. But she continued scrubbing the toilet in the washroom - almost with her face. Occasionally, it appeared that she could see her own reflection - there in the water.

Finally, dropping everything, she walked into the room. Maria gently snored on the couch. In her sleep, Maria managed to amuse herself with children's play blocks, which lay around her body. Unconscious, she placed them all over her gut. In this manner, an entire palace overlooked her stomach. And in her thoughts she saw an angel, which - at the same time - she did not see.

-Give me your hands, - uttered Raisa Mikhailovna to Andryusha.

She glimpsed at them and became horrified.

His wrists - pudgy and little, just like those of any three year-old, turned into red, leaking goo.

-How could I! - she screamed.

Fear for her child instantly filled her from head to toe. "It's nothing serious, really, - she thought, - but we must go to the doctor's...Who knows what could happen...Oh, woe is me." She woke dreaming Maria up with a shove.

-Ga-ga-ga! - the latter shouted, drowsily waking and shaking her white-haired head.

-Ga-ga-ga! - Raisa Mikhailovna shouted her down, lowering her head close to Maria. - This is not "ga-ga-ga", but rather Andryusha is in pain; we are taking him to the doctor.

Maria dressed in discontent. "Oh, woe is me, woe is me", - Raisa Mikhailovna thrashed about anxiously. Andryusha suddenly became terribly valuable, significantly more valuable than the rug. They quickly got ready to leave. Besshumov, their neighbor, stopped by, disturbed by the child's screams, which he mistook for an air raid siren. Chewing paper and bellowing about the discrepancy, he drowsily vanished.

On the way to the doctor's, Maria began to cry.

-What's wrong? - Raisa Mikhailovna asked her.

-I feel sorry for Andryusha, - the latter answered.

She also felt sorry for her thoughts, which spiraled around her forehead like butterflies. Children's hospital was murky, and inside people in white robes were austere, almost like guns.

Raisa Mikhailovna was ordered to pick up the kid later, when they called her on the telephone. The next day she discovered that she was not permitted to visit her sick child: the hospital was now under quarantine.

Dumbstruck, Raisa Mikhailovna wandered around the apartment for hours. "At least it's good that my husband will not be returning soon", - she thought. When she called the hospital, they answered her curtly, "Everything that needs to be done, will be done". Maria alone was cheerful. She told their neighbor Besshumov that the child will still die, but that Raisa Mikhailovna should only be delighted because of it. When Besshumov asked what she meant by that, as he chewed paper, Maria mysteriously smiled and answered only that there will be more light. She found light everywhere, but at the same time she cried from the constant presence of gloom. Although, she cried in a special way, without crying inside her soul, therefore her tears rolled down as if she were made of iron.

A little blackened old lady appeared from nowhere; glancing at everything with round eyes, she said that she liked darkness...

Raisa Mikhailovna still felt sick about the destroyed rug and, not knowing what to do with it, rolled it into an arm rest for the couch. "At least it found a purpose", - she told herself.

...The hospital was light and empty. Andryusha cried the entire time. "This will not hurt you anymore", - a tall and clever doctor told him. And so, the little one was carefully anesthetized prior to removing both of his wrists (almost all of the bones inside were broken and crushed into pieces by the scissors' blows, and this was the only way to prevent gangrene). Therefore, after the wrists were cut off, Andryusha felt very light; only when he was bandaged up, he waved his little stumps and gaped, "But where are my hands?". And he did not even cry.

...When ma picked up her little one from the hospital, wrinkled in a smile and insentience, at first she did not understand anything. She kept attempting to untie the bandages and to check whether the hands were still there or not. A cab took them home, as if they returned from a holiday. Maria undressed the child and, quacking, dragged him to play hide-and-seek. She kept smiling into the window with her scarecrow face, which became shaggy in an alien way. During hide-and-seek she fell asleep and again saw an angel, which, at the same time, she did not see. Andryusha licked her drowsy, sepulchral nose and waved his stumps, as if to say "hello". "Where are my hands, mommy", - he languished and trailed behind his mom like a shadow, no matter where she went. Raisa Mikhailovna scrubbed the floor. Maria's snoring came from the kitchen, convinced that her stomach was bloating.

The clock was ticking.

Soon the boy must be fed - now he could not eat by himself, just like when he was a one-year old.

Raisa Mikhailovna moved a stool with her foot and went into the washroom. A washtub rattled. Raisa Mikhailovna hanged herself. "I cannot take this anymore, no more", - she only had time to say to herself, as she climbed on top of a chair.

Having just woken up, Maria looked into the washroom. Groaning, she learned everything and decided she wanted to skip with Andryushenka. Relatives and neighbors gathered slowly. Andryusha was not bored and kept asking the entire time, "Where are my hands and my mommy?" He was not allowed to go into the washroom. A certain physicist solved his problems in the kitchen, not too far from the corpse.

Maria indistinctly gossiped with Besshumov. And once again, the little blackened old lady with round eyes appeared from nowhere. She said that there was nothing terrible in the fact that Andryusha's hands vanished, or in the fact that his mother died...

-There is nothing, nothing terrible about this, - she reiterated.

But there in her eyes a certain other, supreme kind of fear was reflected, which, however, had no relation to this world, nor the events in question. Yet to all things earthly, this gloom, this fear, was, possibly, a light. And, emanating from the bottomless fear in her eyes, this light cleansed the surroundings.

-Yes, yes, there is nothing terrible about this... - the walls muttered. Only Andryusha's cries were torn away from all things existent.

-Ga-ga-ga! - Maria screamed on top of her lungs.

Vox pop

2007-05-13T22:07:00.001-04:00

In the past month, I've been reading a lot of Veller's musings regarding the rapid deterioration of the Russian language, so a more-blunt-than-usual sign [this normally includes shining examples of grammatical errors in advertisements by corporate giants such as Adobe or Global!] of the same process in the already-simplified-as-fuck English and in an advertising format earned a deserved smirk.

And a raised eyebrow.

Of course.

Of course!

As I walked past the Royal Ontario Museum last week, I noted a considerably sized poster for the current Ancient Peru Unearthed: Golden Treasures of a Lost Civilization exhibition. Its creators deemed it necessary to promote this renowned institution to the proverbial younger crowd with a single word. Bold, easily legible, light-colored font against a dark background - much larger than the rest of the advertising copy and more noticeable than the faded image of a token Peruvian gold artifact - the poster's typographic hierarchy could've earned a first-year graphic design student a solid A.

Its marketing strategy, however - not so much.

What lone verbal signifier could possibly transfer the exhibition's cultural significance and simultaneously entice those little hungry young brains?

Bling, of course!

1054/1517

2007-03-10T21:02:00.000-05:00

If eastern orthodoxy is about community, then why do I feel so uncomfortable in its presence, and why would I rather light my candles alone? Perhaps I really am a catholic, or worse yet - a protestant.

The horror.

Cities

2006-10-02T02:23:00.001-04:00

"Do you love her?"

"I miss the people..."

"But do you love her?"

"You realize that everyone outside of Warsaw calls it a whore, because it's been invaded multiple times?"

"A typical example of provincial envy towards all things metropolitan. So?"

"Yeah, in a way I do."

"Funny how I called it a "she". I..."

"Of course, this city IS a woman! Its symbol is a bare-breasted sword-carrying mermaid, for fuck's sakes! Haven't you seen my dad's car?"

"I am fully aware of that, but nonetheless..."

"You know its legend..."

"Yeah, I've heard it from you many times; I'm too tired to hear it again.... I can't even recall Moscow's respective legend right now....myself. Fucking embarrassing! I mean, I know it rests on seven hills, that it was founded by prince Dolgorukij, and that its first written mention dates back to 1147. Hails to Soviet-styled 5th grade history education! I even remember Tbilisi's myth better: a prince on a falcon hunt was impressed with hot springs in the area..."

"So you've told me."

"And what about the myth of Georgia's birth itself? About God...and, hahah, wine? When people..."

"Not again. Why are we talking about this?"

"I....miss...Moscow. A lot. A-fucking-lot. After my trip I didn't feel it until recently. I decided to give myself a break the other night and allowed myself two chapters of vanity reading - Mamleev's new novel, to be exact. Every time he mentioned locations I recently visited, I, all of a sudden, felt....not a lump in my throat, but more like....restless nostalgia...towards the city. Not culture, not childhood, but the city. I was even motivated enough to stay up beyond 2 am writing a postcard to a friend of mine, because Katerina is a "silly dumb-dumb" and refuses to use the internet."

"Weird. That only happens to me when I watch videos."

"Anyway, "Moskva" is a feminine pronoun in Russian, but I don't know if I'd call this city a "she". My love is not directed at a maternal figure: it's giant, wild, and, damn it - hectic as hell! All three of these I really dislike, yet I feel entirely comfortable there......Have you ever felt like you had to prove yourself to a city?"

"?"

"Almost four years, and it still seems like I need to prove myself to Toronto on a daily basis. My mother always talks of her three lives - Tbilisi, Moscow, Winnipeg. It occurred to me that I have three lives as well - Moscow, Winnipeg, and now - Toronto. This Babylon shares many standard metropolitan qualities with Moscow, yet it is only Moscow I can forgive. I don't feel like I need to prove myself to her...to it."

"Please don't get that "made in Moscow" tattoo..."

"Haha, the only one I'd ever consider if I were to desecrate my body in that way? That, or a large realistic back-piece portrait of my great-grandfather, huh?"

"Not "huh", but "ugh"!"

"You know, that popular higher-end crime novelist I always mention to you - Akunin? One of his series occurs in a contemporary setting and features...uhm, how should I put this, a descendant of his earlier personage, who happens to be my embodiment of (literary) male perfection..."

"Bleh..."

"...and who apparently moved to England around the time of the revolution. So this young Brit - Nicholas is quite in touch with his Russian roots and travels to Moscow only to find himself in various types of trouble. The first couple of novels contain lengthy descriptions of Nicholas' need to prove himself to the new city, which is not always welcoming in the least. Akunin just about personifies it, actually, but not quite. That'd be too simple."

"The Georgian dude, right?"

"Yeah, Akunin is his Japanese pseudonym. Hah, I just realized: he keeps referring to his character as "Magistr", because the guy has a Master's degree. As a felow "Magistr", I guess I view Toronto the way Nicholas does Moscow. But, in the back of his mind, Nicholas knows Moscow will accept him. It has to."

SpyWear Burka [or] Stupid White Bitches Are All the Same

2006-09-16T02:17:00.000-04:00

Midnight. One of the busiest streets in the downtown area. People are just heading out - it's a Friday night after all. My friend and I are walking towards a subway station. I'm glad the night is about to end early, and I could finally catch up on some of the sleep lost this busy week.

Suddenly we get approached by a black male seemingly in his early thirties, no taller than 5'8-5'9, clad in copper-colored loose clothing and a ball cap.

"Yo, yo, pretty girl", he heads directly towards me.

I don't even look in his direction.

"Want some drugs?", he continues bluntly.

"Please, don't say anything", I hope my friend is telepathic. "Or at least pretend you don't speak English".

"We don't do drugs, heh!", she boldly responds instead.

Genius.

"Yo, pretty girl, want some drugs?", he insists, yet his demeanor immediately changes from friendly to caustic.

"Pretty white girls get drugs from me every night!!", he continues.

"Why would "pretty white girls" get drugs from you every night?", I want him to humor me.

"BECAUSE I FUCK 'EM!", he almost yells.

"YOU THINK DRUGS ARE FREE?!?! I FUCK PRETTY WHITE GIRLS EVERY NIGHT FOR DRUGS!!!"

I shrug and keep walking, leaving him yelling in the background.

We reach the subway station, stop, chat for a few minutes. Mandatory girly hugs ensue.

My friend politely wonders, "should I walk you home, or are you going to be okay?"

"No need, I walk here every night, I'll be fine!"

She finally leaves, and I head home.

I always walk fast.

In fact, I get rather irritated when I am forced to maneuver around a certain class of people I refer to as "sleeping beauties".

I also whip out my phone. Immediately.

I call a trusted person, because the incident amused me to no end. After all, maybe he isn't aware of the fact that "pretty white girls like me get fucked for drugs. Every day."

Does he think it was a threat?

He thinks there was not much I could do.

I hang up the phone. The drug dealer dives out on my left. Immediately.

"It's you again", he sneers.

"Are you following me?"

We are several blocks away from the initial meeting point.

"STUPID WHITE BITCH! I AM NOT FUCKING FOLLOWING YOU!"

I walk faster.

"ALL STUPID WHITE BITCHES ARE THE SAME!"

People raise eyebrows.

"If you don't leave me alone, I will call the police".

Originality didn't seem like the correct choice of words.

"YOU STUPID WHITE BITCH!!!!!!! ALL STUPID WHITE BITCHES ARE THE SAME!!!!!!! YOU HATE BLACKS!!!!!!!! MICHAEL JACKSON, KOBE BRYANT!!!!!!!"

We are getting further away from the heavily populated part of town.

"STUPID WHITE BITCH, YOU SHOULD BE SCARED!!!!!!!!"

This area, usually busy with police cars at all hours of the day and night, is deserted.

"YOU THINK YOU'RE SAFE??????!!!!!!"

I really doubt those hookers on the corner will be of much help.

He suddenly crosses the street, but walks parallel to me. He continues yelling.

"STUPID WHITE BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!", he approaches random passers-by and points in my direction.

He yells unintelligibly and disappears in the shadows of a park, avoided by every local after sunset. He seems to be quite familiar with the neighborhood.

Am I shaking?

I am home.

I feel uncomfortable.

I ask a security guard to join me as I walk my dog.

After hearing my story, this guard jokingly advises me to wear a burka for disguise.

Maybe I should.

Must Cry over Broken Heels?

2006-07-10T23:41:00.000-04:00

Last week my mother e-mailed me a link to an article in Moskovsky Komsomolets regarding the pitiful condition of current positioning of the sexes. Nope! No post-Foucauldian gender theory here. Thank God. That type of publication would have been even more suspicious than my mother’s current kick of bombarding me with various relationship commentaries to both my work and home addresses.

The article was written by a 24-year old Russian female journalist who linked the fact that she is not married - no, not single, but rather - not married, to the masculinized self-representation of modern career-oriented women. Typical? Not quite.

Aesthetics were not an issue – the author herself and her case studies appeared to be the canon of femininity – form-fitting clothing, heels, makeup, hair. Instead, it is their actions this 24-year old defined as problematic. She listed her love for soccer, healthy food by choice, not by diet, her mechanical expertise, and most of all - her ability to stay clear-headed and rational in most stressful and upsetting situations, rather than breaking down and crying, as masculine and therefore unappealing to men.

The conversational tone of her article considered, this journalist failed to determine how non-excessive projection of these qualities amounts to becoming solely “one of the boys” and therefore romantically repulsive. Additionally, I must mention that she entirely avoided the subject of masculine feminization, granted it mainly applied to North America and exceeded the scope of her article, but would have been somewhat referentially useful.

Adequately grounded or not, this journalist’s principal conclusion stated that men not only understandably prefer women who posses classic “housewife” culinary, cleaning, and caring skills, but less understandably - those who are weak and evidently irrational, as a rule. This conclusion seemed to exceed a basic psychological presumption regarding males’ need to feel more intelligent and physically stronger than their female companions. After all, the author listed females’ love for chocolate and occasional public breakdowns, even if over a broken heel, as average female characteristics.

She went on to attend a class, in which she learned more about such standard behavior and faced the test of attracting a number of random men, specifically trained for this purpose. As a result, she discovered that cars and sports should not be the subject of conversation, and that mystery is preferred over honesty and candor.

Are marriage proposals soon to follow this “feminized” personality adjustment?

I found this article silly. Of course.

I kept the social context in mind: after all, Slavic women were never faced with not one, but two waves of feminist movements, as did those in North America. As a result, they’ve become a curious mixture by retaining all the necessary traits of a domestic goddess and femme fatale and gaining a cutthroat career woman status almost a century ago. But, but. Despite the lighthearted, yet nonetheless somewhat naïve premise, this article bothered me. I started with scoffing, but ended with a raised eyebrow and a hum.

Perhaps there is some, no - quite a bit of truth to the author’s assumption. The fact that men may prefer women who are fragile, if not weak, is not far-fetched. But why, why would they feel turned off by a woman who shares their interest in sports and understands technical terminology when they discuss cars? How can a sincere common interest exhibited moderately – no baggy clothing or butchy beer-guzzling here – possibly be interpreted negatively? Do men dislike the idea of being able to watch every single soccer game during a tournament, sans constant nagging, and then discuss the result gushing spit with someone who understands their reason for idiotic joy or blinding rage?

One man I asked told me that occasional nagging is healthy. It makes him feel needed. Another man I did not ask is dating the most irrational, exceptionally dramatic, brittle in every sense of the word, and therefore nauseating creature I’ve ever encountered. He must enjoy rollercoaster rides at least a tiny bit!

Because of its inconclusiveness, I cannot get this mistakenly primitive article out of my head. Perhaps I will even poll more men in order to reach a strictly defined explanation, although I doubt that it would help. Or maybe I should sign up for a certain class too...

Moscow, I miss you already

2006-06-15T01:30:00.000-04:00

No children. No future.

2006-05-18T02:04:00.001-04:00

Last week our President Putin (I am allowed to refer to him as "our" - my second claret-and-gold passport is comfortably curled up on top over the stark black Canadian proof of citizenship on my book shelf.) gave an official address to the nation. "For whom are we doing all this?", it began. V.V. chose to focus the majority of his speech on the dismal state of demographics in the Russian Federation during the past number of years. After all, the net decrease in Russian population exceeded 600,000 in the past year alone. He went on to propose an elaborate plan in a pragmatic, all-too-pragmatic, attempt to rectify the situation. This plan included improved social services for new mothers, doubled funding for the second child in the family as well as a substantial amount of capital - 250,000 roubles in the form of investments into the child's future education, downpayments for real estate, among others.

Critics were quick to point out the obvious - the potential for a dramatic increase in the number of orphans upon the plan's implementation, as a result of women hunting for the attractive financial offer. According to others, V.V.'s methodology was fault-ridden, as his reform would only displace already planned births to an earlier time period and thereby cause an additional gap in future population. They also suggested that significant economic changes were mandatory, because birth rates allegedly increase when the masses are certain of their financial stability.

None, however, noted that Europe experiences similar demographic decline to a lesser extent, despite positive economic factors, and that, in contrast, it is the so-called "third world" countries and their immigrants into Europe that maintain healthy-to-heavy reproductive rates, resulting in ethnic replacement of the populus in traditionally European locales. None seemed to have instead suggested to shift the focus onto cultural reform as the key supplemental factor to transforming Russia's demographic catastrophy. This reform would include patriotic stimuli, from historic glorification to reintroduction of current national hero-making, backed by a powerful, strictly defined moral system rooted in Russia's Eastern Orthodoxy, which would primarily include the reassertion of traditional gender roles with a particular focus paid to a woman's biologically-oriented destiny.

A National Idea

2006-05-07T19:00:00.001-04:00

Komsomol'skaya Pravda.
12-Oct-2005
Searching for a National Idea.
http://www.kp.ru/daily/23594/45470/print/
Translation: mine.

Writer Mikhail Veller: Maybe we should swap the Kuril islands for Crimea and implement a Christian dictatorship.

Having completed his new book The Last Great Chance, this renowed author visited Komsomol'skaya Pravda and told us what this chance entails.

-Mikhail Iosifovich, please tells us - are all of us rossiyane (Note: Russian citizens) or Russians?

-Russians, of course! Because the Russian nation is collective in origin. Even "Moscow", rather than being Slavic, is a Finno-Ugric word "Moskova". Here we have Mordovians, Turkic peoples, Caucasians, and guys of northern Germanic-Scandinavian descent. All of this had been melted together and became the Russian peoples. All great nations have always been collective. Even the concept of "Russians" only emerged under Ivan the Terrible.

-Then why didn't Russians melt Ukraine into their pot? Or at least tiny Estonia?

-Had the Soviet Union existed for another thousand years, then one may have anticipated the assimilation of all people. Because when a person was worth anything or wanted to have a good career in the Russian Empire or in the Soviet Union, he inevitably underwent russification. Everything passed through the Russian language, Russian culture, Russian capital. The Baltics were joined to the Russian Empire somewhat late. And the Soviet Union led rather sparing national politics there.

-What about Ukraine?

-Well, Ukraine is not simply russified, this was the original Rus' - Kievan. If it weren't for the Tartar-Mongolian invasion, this would have been a unified pot of culturally equal slavic principalities. And as a result, all of this would have been baked into a single state, like a layered cake.

-Why did the Empire collapse?

-Because it exhausted itself. Keep in mind that Russia was initially created via the force of weapons, as were all empires in history. Not otherwise. For a thousand years our national idea was the unification of principalities, then the takeover of new territories, then - their "digestion".

And then all of a sudden, the Empire informed all of its subjects that it just so happens that imperial politics are bad, and we are giving up on them. What was there left to do? Only let itself dissipate.

A thief must be jailed

-And what now?

-And now everyone rushed to create a new national idea. But you cannot just make one up. It has to be natural, a problem projected onto psychology of the people.

This problem is yet to be posed. We are offered the following: let us live comfortably with our bellies full, dear Russians. Thanks a lot. Consumerism cannot embody a national idea. Then it's more beneficial to steal a bunch of goods and say - okay, guys, I think I've fulfilled my idea!

Even a mouse wants a good life - to live in a warm burrow with a full granary and to comfortably produce its offspring. Therefore today's idea is simply that of a mouse.

-In that case, please suggest to us something more interesting.

-Russia's national idea can only arise with departure of liberalism, which is the cause of Europe's current demise. An accelerated demise. Because liberalism states: everyone is equal and identical.

In a normal country, however, a murderer hangs, a thief is jailed, a hard worker lives well, while a lazy worker lives poorly. And the one who does not work at all gets the hell out, without stinking up the country or mooching off the welfare system. Or goes to live in a shelter. Into reservations.

-One who does not work, does not get to eat?

-Yes, something like that. As a result, liberalism cultivates parasitism. Not unlike the Roman Empire - bread and entertainment. Where is this empire now? Modern social parasites in Europe are the classic Roman plebeians, who do not wish to work, but wish to lives in accordance with their desires. They demand this via demonstrations. And the government flirts with them, because it wants votes.

-Exactly. People vote for this type of government. Therefore, they must like it.

-Russian people are not fully spoiled by this. They have a different idea. I doubt that you'd print it...

-...well, now we'd certainly have to print it.

-We'll see. To quote a vendor [I met] by the subway - she will be completely satisfied, when oligarchs and parliamentarians are strung up on light posts along the street. That's the kind of national idea that's blooming from below.

Europe will sell us out

-Is Russia not Europe?

-No, it is not Europe, because the very posing of the question garners doubts. No one asks: is Germany - Europe?

-Do you seriously believe that this [concept] is good for Russia?

-Forty years ago it would have been very bad - that we are not Europe. Today - it is good. Today this is our chance. If we were to join Europe, we would not have a single chance left.

When we say that we want to be part of Europe, we really mean that we want to be wealthy and live freely. At the same time we don't want to change our mentality. We do not feel insecure about all things Russian in front of all things French and German.

And if we do join them, do you really think that our mentality would immediately change? No. This [union] will only result in diminished customs control at the border. This is only beneficial to those who send oil, gas, forestry products, and metal to the West.

It, however, is not beneficial to the rest, because our manufacturing sector cannot handle a competion with Europe. We will ultimately become a source of natural resources and nothing more.

-But is it not better to sell ourselves to Europe than be swallowed by China?

-China will compromise with Europe. Europe does not want to fight or even save itself from complete islamification. And when Europe is face to face with a powerful totalitarian state armed to its teeth, it’ll hand Siberia over to China, and that’ll be the end of it. Back in the day, it handed the Czech Republic over to Hitler. Europe does not give a damn about Russian interests.

-Then maybe America will save us?

-Riiiight! America is also afraid of China. But America does not need Europe as a competitor. America would prefer to have Russia against China and Europe. Therefore in reality, Russia is a strategic partner for America.

-But for now it looks like we are better friends with China against the U.S.A...

-That’s just for show. America does not have any territorial grievances with Russia. No ideologic disagreements. Russia does not participate in anything that would outright horrify America. And further more, it is America, not Europe and China, that above all respects power. Russia’s nuclear arsenal is still present. And for the U.S.A. this is a big argument in our favor.

Eastern Orthodoxy must have fists

-What specifically should our national idea involve?

-The preservation of the Christian civilization.

-What are we going to do with muslims, jews, and atheists? Send them to Siberia too?

-They don’t have to be sent anywhere. And no one should be baptized by force either. By “Christianity” I don't refer to the type of religious worship, but rather - societal values. But they are loosened. Why did Christianity conquer ancient Rome? Because Rome became liberal and allowed everything. While Christianity said – none of this crap. This you have to do, but that will send you to hell. Christians had a definite set of values – what is good, and what is evil.

Europe and Russia no longer follow them. This is why Islam is winning. It has definite values. Islam tells you what is allowed and what is not.

This is why, among others, Russia needs an Eastern Orthodox reform. Orthodoxy must become a living religion, rather than a ritual, as it is now, when bureaucrats hold candles next to their lenten mugs, while yawning priests stand nearby, having successfully purchased a candle factory for the occasion.

-What should we do in particular?

-We must walk one step ahead of destiny. It is unnecessary to wait for inevitability. Kuril islands are already lost for Russia. Today we have absolutely no useful purpose for them. We don’t have the money or a reason to maintain serious bases there. And today we can still bargain for these islands, but in 15 years they will be gone free of charge.

The same applies to East Prussia - Kaliningrad region. Its residents don't need Russia. If the EU tells them, "Hey guys, have dual citizenship, have social welfare up to our standards"; oh my God, what a celebration this would cause! Today we can still rent East Prussia to Germans for 49 years. And milk German blood and gold with tankers thanks to this [transaction]. But in 15 years it will leave on its own, and nothing will get milked.

-You are suggesting that we give them away....

-I am suggesting that we receive the maximum out of what we can hope for. These territories are suitcases without handles for us, regardless.

-But when Abkhazia cries out to us, "Hey guys, we are your brothers, we want to live in Russia", for some reason we think, "What would Georgia and Europe say?" Who gives a damn about what Georgia and Europe would say! All that they can really do is freeze our guys' bank accounts in the West. Well, then, we just need to warn our guys - let them return their money to Russia. Otherwise it will be too late.

-What else are you offering to trade?

-Eastern Russia. It is not ours. Only 145 years had passed since Vladivostok's foundation. We need to give up this stuff as concession to the Japanese and the Koreans against China. We need to create a standard brawl between one type of barbarians against the other on our borders. This is how all shrewed governments acted.

However, that, which is ours and is located nearby, becomes part of Russia, without giving a damn about political correctness.

-Crimea, for example...

-Crimea first and foremost! They need to have a referendum. People, of course, will vote for unification with Russia. Then Moscow imposes a visa regime, which must be satisfied. And then there will be a celebration that will greatly exceed that in East Prussia after its return to Germans.

All skin, but no kielbasa

-What will then happen to the organization of the state?

-For now, it has to be a dictatorship, I'm afraid.

-And democracy is absolutely impossible?

-Democarcy is an optimal speed for a car. But when you are stuck in mud, you need extreme measures in order to get back on the road.

-It seems that certain individuals already scream that we almost have a "bloody regime"

-What regime? Please. Our dictatorship is like kielbasa - we've got the skin, but not the kielbasa itself.

-Who will elect the first dicator? The government or the people?

-Representatives of all parties and movements are locked up for a week. They are not allowed to come out, until they elect someone. Otherwise in France we easily find pedigree-lacking corsican Napoleon, while here we get Ryurikovich - prince Trubetskoy, who does not at all show up to Senatsky square during the Decembrists' rebellion.

-Does the dictator have to be Russian?

-Ideally, it's better for him to be Russian and Christian. But, you know, if he really needs to, he can get baptized himself.

-Wouldn't all of this result in ordinary fascism?

-There are 10-12 chances out of 100 that we will reach a dictatorship of a fascistic nature, and this will be very bad.

-What is your dictatorship like?

-Constitutional. My dictator is an unconditional ruler. Not a tyrant, but rather the highest executive person in possession of emergency powers and specific targets for the duration of a rigidly defined term. If you don't leave on the day your term ends - you are outside of the law, have no civil rights, and are an enemy of the people.

-This sounds like GKChP (Note: leaders of 1991 Russian coup)

-GKChP is the diminution of people's rights and the expansionof authorities' rights. A constitutional dictatorship, in contrast, is the rights' reduction of the very bureaucratic apparatus in question. Because in this case the will of the people directly transforms into action via the dictator's will, instead of being skewed when passing the bureaucratic ladder along the way. It is the bureaucrat, who loses his rights.

-And then we will become the greatest country in the world?

-Greater than America - doubtful. America is like a combined world team. It is difficult to compete with such. With China as well. That, however, which was once Europe, can exist in Russia in its best manifestation, once Germany and France no longer exist. It's most important for people to live like people. Throughout history our nobility and later the party elite lived like Europeans, while the rest of the people - like Russian "aboriginals". Essentially, there have always been two peoples within Russia. Euro-Russians and simply Russians. Today this must no longer be the case.

A Cup of Hemlock to Call Our Own

2006-03-20T02:45:00.002-05:00

It is 1:00 am. I am in bed. Sharikov is too, grumpy from his midnight bath. He is trying to sleep. I am not. Instead I review modal verbs - nothing too complicated at this hour - and memorize German vocabulary. I am determined.

beliebt

bequem

Besichtingung

This late-night motivation reaches its limits at a 20-minute mark.

"Forget it", I sigh, "I haven't read anything for the sheer pleasure of reading in months". The book-a-week rule of my undergrad days is certainly forsaken, but this self-educational masochism implemented at odd hours of the night is bordering on ridiculous, even by my standards.

I pick up Veller's Kassandra, recommended by I. many moons ago, purchased somewhat fewer moons ago, and started around the same time. It is

A book about the world, in which you live,
and about its end, -
and about you,
in whom this world lives,
and about your immortality

Contrary to certain snooty critics, who are not too keen on his considerable sales and therefore, gasp, popularity - evidently a major "no-no" in the elite literary circles, I enjoy his humorous fiction. I enjoy his brief asides into the Death of the West even more. I. recommended Kassandra to me precisely for its focused non-fictional, quasi-philosophic, culturally critical purpose.

We, the Concerned, the Hopeless, and therefore the Angry typically represent this Death in light of the past hundred years of history. A little Hegelianism and a lot of Delayed Suicide. Simply put, we civilized ourselves to Death. We discuss this issue to death too. We cannot function in any other way, because We are the Concerned.

Like I said.

I finally said I wanted a new perspective, as a result of these ongoing morbid exchanges. I got it - before I even got to it.

I've only read the first forty pages - one tenth of a compact book that boldly aims to analyze the cultural evolution of man and his society; a book that begins almost as a paraphrase of the tired joke about the chicken crossing the road, "interpreted" by various philosophers; only here the chicken is human.

Between the brief synopsis that commences with the Greeks but exasparatedly ends with Nietzsche and the analysis of societal units like family or state, Veller references Socrates' life-long goal to determine why people act - choose to act - wrongly, despite their knowledge otherwise. Then in a manner expected of Veller's humor, he concludes that we all know how this endeavor ended.

He proceeds to demonstrate casual examples of sluggishly suicidal behavior in men as obvious as a smoking habit or sleep-deprived, workaholic stroke at the age of 45. Even clearly dysfunctional relationships such as the girl loves wife-beating alcoholic asshole A, although she has the option of being with nice-guy-with-a-good-job B scenario qualify. Veller's examples are presented in the context of happiness, defined fairly well by every human according to his specific needs, yet rarely attained. Veller therefore probes the often out-of-sync nature of morality and action because he too wants to know why men act against their better judgement.

I do not.

At least not under such generic circumstances. His conflation of morality and maximized aptitude for survival is also problematic, however my interest lies elsewhere: the empirical validity of Veller's observations regarding the suicidal drive of an individual can easily be extended to the collective suicide of a culture. This is not a clean abstraction by any means: in each of the author's examples, the person in question is aware of the detrimental nature of his actions, while cultural self-destruction seems to largely be an incognizant occurrence, until its signs are too blatant to ignore. Furthermore, this murder-of-self is not a result of losing animal survival insticts, but rather the inability to react due to the lack of overt danger signs.

For example, a rapidly spreading epidemic can be one of such signs. Its fatal effects can be countered with increased procreation to reverse population decline and to preserve the genofund. However, this solution will only be partial until the nature of the disease and consequently the methods of preventing its spread are discovered, advertised, and implemented.

What if no such warnings exist? What if the relatively high standard of living translates into misleading assumptions about demographics? What if those communally designated to proclaim otherwise do no such thing? What if in addition to the illusion of well-being, a culture slowly loses its defining pillars, while its carriers are systematically taught collective self-abasement as the principal value?

The delayed suicide drive of a single individual united with this cancerous group mentality produces a concoction much more lethal than the Concerned anticipated, and it is consumed just as willingly as Socrates' hemlock. Is this the conclusion that Kassandra will reach?

I might not find out until the next midnight linguistic pursuit.

Revolutionary Vampire Hunters of the World Choose Nokia Cellphones

2006-02-28T01:31:00.001-05:00

Last night, as I was about to close the irritating MSN Today pop-up window after signing onto the instant messenger, I caught the mention of last year's Russian fantasy blockbuster Night Watch with the corner of my eye. I was aware of the fact that the movie is currently being released in theaters around North America, but the amount of press it is receiving is a surprise nonetheless. After all, it is one of the best Hollywood mimicry films that Russia had ever produced, rather than the "artsy foreign film" stereotype that the West is more accustomed to.

More specifically, MSN's pop-up window featured a review of Night Watch by Angela Baldassarre. I present her article below in its entirety:

Entertaining fantasy film
Night Watch (3 out of 5 stars)
Starring Konstantin Khabensky and Aleksei Chadov. Directed by Timur Bekmambetov.

Comparing Timur Bekmambetov’s “Night Watch” to Russian films of the past, you can’t help but notice a sea of change in Russian cinema. Whereas films like “Russian Ark,” “Burnt by the Sun” and “Prisoner of the Mountains” drew on Russian history and literature, “Night Watch” is inspired by comic books, video games, and fantasy films. And with audiences making “Night Watch” the #1 box-office movie of all time in Russia, it appears the nation is embracing the change.

The film rests on the premise that among regular humans live people called “Others” who have supernatural powers. These “Others” side with either the forces of light or the forces of dark. Centuries ago, after a cataclysmic battle, the two sides signed a truce. Since then, the day is the realm of the light forces, akin to angels, who protect the world from the dark forces that rule the night, who are essentially vampires. Move to modern Moscow, and enter Anton (Konstantin Khabensky), an unwitting “Other” who joins the “Night Watch” — a kind of supernatural police force. While in charge of saving a young boy from vampires, Anton upsets the balance of power and sets off a chain reaction of epic proportions. If you’re confused enough by the back-story, then the plot of the film, involving shape-shifters, a cursed woman and a vortex that threatens to break the truce between light and dark, might not be worth getting into.

But “Night Watch” is a film worth getting into. It obviously owes much of its mythology to “The Lord of the Rings,” with an art direction that resembles the bloody comic-noir of “Blade,” but director Bekmambetov injects dollops of original style — with the help of one of the biggest budgets in Russian film history. From his swooping camera, to ghostly computer effects, to video game sequences, and an ingenious flipbook animation sequence, “Night Watch” is cool and creative. As is the trend with films of this ilk, it’s heavy on atmospherics and chilly on emotion. Khabensky, in particular, is nearly a zombie in shaggy hair and sunglasses. One surprise is that given all the Other-worldly atmosphere (and requisite heavy metal score), “Night Watch” is light on action, something that might disappoint North American audiences. Yet the film does end in a sort of cliffhanger that certainly leaves room for further installments, and maybe more action to come.

“Night Watch” is an entertaining fantasy film, one that benefits from its Russian perspective while still feeling familiar enough for most fans of the genre. More importantly, Bekmambetov’s cultural coup may be a sign of cooler things to come in the stodgy former Soviet Union.

The principal reason for citing a complete movie review is clear enough: it happens to be one of the most blantantly stupid articles I have ever read. I know nothing about Miss Bald-ass-arre, but her iditiotic commentary gives me no desire to change this fact. I am fairly confident, however, that she happens to be a critic of Hollywood movies, rather than an actual film scholar. The latter implies a thorough understanding of the genre.

The former does not.

This author's mention of a "heavy metal" soundtrack that Night Watch supposedly uses is a tell-tale sign of the utterly oblivious nature of the rest of her review. Apparently generic downtuned, chunky guitars are the only requirement for "heavy metal", just as technologically advanced special effects constitute an entire "cultural coup" for one of the largest and oldest countries in the world! And it just so happens that it is Miss Bald-ass-arre herself who took note of this revolutionary transformation - she deemed herself Cruiser Aurora for Russian film, no less!

In reality, she is the equivalent of a pimple-faced scrawny International Relations college student, whose uniform includes Fidel's hat, "class war" patches (nevermind that his father is a CEO of a medium-sized corporation) and New Democratic Party pins (Vladimir did not have the luxury of Crest White Strips like Jack!) and a growing collection of Che Guevara t-shirts in various colors, which he proudly wears on his daily trips to Starbucks, where he discusses Hegel or Sudanese torture methods over four-dollar coffees.

He missed the boat, while this misplaced Cruiser Aurora sank even before it fired blanks. Miss Bald-ass-arre's recipe for a cinematic paradigm shift is simple: a foreign "entertaining fantasy film" with "ghostly computer effects" that seems "familiar enough" to your average spoiled North American Attention Deficit Disorder teen - the kind of teen our Starbucks Marxist was two years ago, in fact. She almost makes Bekmambetov sound like the new Eisenstein.

I take that back.

I don't think Miss Bald-ass-arre knows who Eisenstein is.

Furthermore, I don't think Miss Bald-ass-arre knows much about her profession, vocation, calling. She calls Soviet film "stodgy".

STODGY.

Stodgy?!

Stodgy - in stark contrast to the kind of market research-based, substance-lacking, shit-in-a-cookie-cutter eyecandy that the Hollywood machine had been churning out for over thirty years?

Similar computerized eyecandy within Night Watch does place it closer to the filmic ideal described above, but its fantastic story line is too complicated, according to Miss Bald-ass-arre. To quote Canada's recent inept Liberal Party attack ads: "We did not make this up":

"If you’re confused enough by the back-story, then the plot of the film....might not be worth getting into", Miss Bald-ass-arre reassures the viewer. "Night Watch is light on action, something that might disappoint North American audiences", she continues. In other words, if you are too dumb or bored (I am sorry - you have A.D.D.) to follow a 114-minute movie about vampires and their hunters with too few explosions, you may still find it "cool and creative". Then you can prove to all your Starbucks comrades that you are for real - you just saw a foreign film.

A non-stodgy foreign film!

(Shouldn't stodgy films temper your steel character, comrade?)

Naturally, Miss Bald-ass-arre is in possession of vast knowledge regarding the stodgy filmic multitude produced in the Soviet Union over the seventy four years of its existence. She is obviously saving all the examples for the publication of her future revolutionary oeuvre on the "cultural coup" d'état that the Russian "nation is embracing", all thanks to the move towards Hollywood within Night Watch!

I can only guess what type of film qualifies as "stodgy" in the author's misguided view. In the 1980's, for instance, USSR released such movies as Heart of a Dog, Little Vera, Cold Summer of 1953, and Come and See. These highly acclaimed works are widely studied and are available for purchase in large video stores. Of course, Miss Bald-ass-arre must be more informed than successful corporations and university professors.

In the 1970's, we were bombarded with Irony of Fate, Afonja, Kindza-Dza, Twelve Chairs, Stalker, and Solaris. Twelve Chairs inspired Mel Brooks thirty years ago, while Solaris led to the recent Hollywood remake. Evidently, stodgy movies often function in an inspirational capacity. Curiously enough, North American press christined the new Clooney-starred Solaris a remake of a Russian novel and film, shamefully mistaking famed Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky for famed Polish author Stanislaw Lem.

Close enough, they were both from the Eastern Bloc!

Was it you who penned that article too, Miss Bald-ass-arre?

Moving further in reversed chronological direction, in the 1960's the Soviet state filmed the likes of Diamond Arm, Hussar's Ballad, and Lady with a Dog, followed by 1950's Ballad of a Soldier and Carnival Night. The latter along with Diamond Arm remain timeless comedy classics.

Enough, enough! We're almost at the height of stodgy stalinist social realism! Did they even have cameras in the Soviet Union at the time?

Let's ask Starbucks' clientele.

He pulls Fidel's hat over his eyes. His comrades shrug.

Let's tell them. Let's tell her too.

Despite the total devastation of the Great Patriotic War, in the early 1940's and late 1930's, Sergei Eisenstein filmed Alexandre Nevsky and Ivan the Terrible, respectively. Not only do they represent a focal point of basic film studies and can be obtained in remastered DVD format at your local HMV, but they are also frequently shown and viewed on television - if you've been feeling particularly stodgy, that is!

In the 1920's too, Eistenstein struck again with Battleship Potemkin along side Dziga Vertov and his Man with a Movie Camera. Both are consistently considered to be some of the most important films of all time, and their ongoing eighty-year old analysis even crosses over into other disciplines - from the history of photography to various cultural studies.

Is this resume reasonably substantial, Miss Bald-ass-arre?

I do have to disappoint you with the absence of computer effects or video game sequences that the "nation is embracing" as a "cultural coup", although there is a scene with a self-animated film camera in Vertov's project - "cool and creative" enough for the birth of modern cinema? Scholars around the world happen to think so.

Do you?

Regardless of seemingly typical ignorance of an entertainment critic, Night Watch is a somewhat above-average fantasy film created for pure entertainment purposes. It obviously aims for Hollywood, which it achieves by drawing from Lord of the Rings' battle scenes, as Miss Bald-ass-arre correctly notes, countless generic vampire movies, and maybe even Ghostbusters, with a more modest budget, funded by overt Nokia and Nescafe ads throughout. She incorrectly (surprise!) states that Night Watch is inspired by comic books and video games, which may be the case visually, but its literal source is not a comic book, but a novel by Sergei Luk'ianenko.

In addition to technological prowess, Night Watch also features original moments in the style of classic Soviet traditional animation, thematically tied to an actual Soviet cartoon of considerable fame - House Gnome Kuzia, which one of the main characters watches on television.

Therefore despite the attempt to adapt Hollywood to Russian sensibilities, Night Watch does not venture beyond its genre and makes no claims to doing so. It certainly makes no claims to cultural revolutions. We'll leave that to Tarkovsky and Eisenstein.

("We'll leave that to Mao!", our International Relations student begs to differ.)

And we'll leave quality film reviews to someone other than Miss Bald-ass-arre.

A Nameday or a Coffin on Wheels

2006-02-12T01:32:00.001-05:00

Every year on January 27th I celebrate my nameday. While namedays are an integral part of Christian belief, it seems that in this day and age Slavs, both Orthodox and Catholic, are most familiar with this tradition. In contrast, many local Christians, regardless of their background, react with a polite clueless smile and a blank stare when asked. In Russian specifically, this celebration is customarily called an "angel's day", referring to a “guardian angel”, of course, although defined properly, it is a "saint's day" instead.

Who gets to have a nameday?

As long as one's given name possesses certain hagiographic relevance, one is bound to qualify. Of course, several Christian names are rather common and are shared by more than one saint - Catherine, for example. In turn, such nominal popularity translates into numerous calendar days dedicated to various saint Catherines. In this case, her mere mortal namesake must choose the closest date following her birthday as her official nameday.

In the olden days, when masculinity was not penalized, when women actually had concern for fulfilling their biological roles, and when honor had a higher price tag than life, namedays held greater value than the most selfish holiday of all – a birthday. Recently I unintentionally came across a material testament to this convention, when I was looking through my extremely disorganized photographic collection - a collection of proofs, rather than fewer professional prints I’ve produced, to be precise, stored in often-mislabeled envelopes. This was a usual search for certain live shots from a metal festival I had attended a couple of years ago. Instead, the first plastic container I checked included several pre-Revolutionary family photographs - the only ones my mother allowed me to grab from home, because they were duplicates.

"You'll get the rest when I die", she explained.

She has always been rather morbid.

I also came across a clear plastic sleeve used to store a single fragile sheet of paper yellowed with age. It was folded in half, because it was too large for the sleeve, and because I was too disrespectful to find the time to purchase something more suitable. I noticed the elaborate inked imperial emblem glued to the back of the sheet – Russia’s two-headed eagle with various heraldic symbols drawn inside its wings. It only took a century to abolish it and to reintroduce it, to strip it of its coats of arms and to cynically and at the same time affectionately call it “the chicken”. The “chicken’s” appearance is just as outdated as the more elaborate alphabet used inside the page. We simplified that too.

Dead letters revealed the document’s content: this was a hand-written telegram receipt - that much I remembered - dated 10:45 am of July 25th, 1907. Wide, easily legible despite the outdated alphabet, hundred-year old pencil (!) strokes revealed the occasion - my great-grandfather's wedding felicitations mailed by his brother. He also sent good wishes to an undisclosed female for the occasion of her angel's day.

I quickly searched the online Eastern Orthodox nameday database to determine which family member the wishes were meant for. There was only one suitable candidate - Olympiada, my great-great-grandmother. She was a quintessential citizen of the Great Russian Empire - a Belorussian woman who lived in Georgia. She had piercing blue eyes, big hair, and wore frilly dresses. Her nameday was on August 7th.

Growing up, her grandson - my gradfather too upheld our ancestral spirit by emphasizing the continued importance of a nameday.

"Your great-grandmother Nadia – the one who attended Sorbonne – do you know where that is, Ninochka? In Paris!"

My mother was a fairly late second child, so my grandfather seemed even older than a regular grandfather would. His countless stories about an erased culture that a normal Soviet child had little comprehension of outside the context of Marxist class struggle made it seem even more so. Of course, at this age, children consider thirty-year olds to be quite elderly.

"Were you aware of the fact that Sorbonne was one of the most prestigious educational institutions in Europe, Ninochka? Even more prestigious for a woman and a Russian citizen. Before the Revolution, naturally."

"She was beautiful and spoke flawless French, you know. Taught it too. And in her old age she walked around with a cane with the grace of a queen."

I was then told that this almost-royal great-grandmother of mine entertained her guests in a more grandiose manner than her birthday celebrations. I did not mind the continued focus on this concept: what little girl would complain about one additional reason to receive regularly scheduled gifts and loads of attention?

Nearly two decades later and an ocean away, only close relatives and friends convey their nameday wishes to me and perhaps offer a present or two. Someday I might attempt to elevate this date's status in my life, but this year I simply decided to visit the church and greet Saint Nina, the Enlightener of Georgia and my personal intercessor. When I first began attending, I was pleasantly surprised to find her taking up a prominent position on the south wall, next to a number of other female saints and in the close vicinity of our last czar - recently canonized Nicholas II.

Clad in lengthy garments of a standard female saint in fresco format, she carries the living grapevine cross with which she singlehandedly christianized the ancient land of Georgia - Sakartvelo, around the time of Rome's official acceptance of Christianity; her peaceful, even stoic face gazes far ahead and looks nothing like me. In contrast to many saints, Nina did not die a dreadful tortured death of a martyr, but instead joined the One whose teachings she earnestly propagated in her old age, after a life full of good news and good deeds.

Not like me at all.

Nonetheless, I decided to visit her and to let her know that she still speaks for Georgians around the world, even if not full-blooded, even if mostly Russian, like me. She and I not only share our culture and our name, but so did my grandfather’s wife – grandmother Nina – a woman I had never met. Beautiful like her mother Nadia, she too spoke and taught the language of aristocracy, but was born too late to attend distinguished European schools. And there was one other Nina in our family's recent history - Olympiada’s second daughter, who evidently died in early childhood, as my unfinished genealogical tree indicates.

My good intentions did not crystallize until two weeks later. I blamed my busy, awkward work schedule, drastically fluctuating weather patterns, and everything in between. "At least I made it at all". I chose a quiet Sunday evening, knowing the church would not be full of nosey fanatics, overheated by their massive numbers and religious zeal. I chose an ankle-length skirt and properly covered my hair, thereby reluctantly equating myself to the plethora of Muslim females in the downtown Toronto as well as to Saint Nina herself. I checked my wallet for change to buy candles. I walked in.

I stormed out ten minutes later.

Not even.

There was a coffin in the very middle of the church, and there was a dead man inside it! Not that coffins serve many other purposes, excluding the misguided vampire subculture, whose members enjoy using them as bedding (Sleep Country may discover an entirely new market opportunity here!), but I certainly did not expect to find one during a public service. And not on the night I planned to pay homage to my famed guardian.

To make matters worse, this coffin was on wheels! My astonishment quickly turned into rather inappropriately timed and uncontrollable humor, as I immediately recalled childhood jokes about coffins on wheels. I then blasphemously imagined this coffin rolling through the church like a bumper car. By itself. I also developed an unsettling feeling that the inhabitant of the coffin-on-wheels, which was apparently fashioned out of expensive red wood, will rise any second now and join the evening mass. Like Lazarus or a generic zombie. Do clerical living dead abound in horror film culture?

I should ask the vampires.

This one wore what looked like a bishop’s crown and clutched a small bible and a large cross – signs of his ministry - in each hand. His face was concealed by a cloth, which was periodically removed by the parish members, who evidently arrived to pay their tribute by kissing his forehead and his hand. Did they know him personally, or was this another sign of their fanatic devotion, which usually includes slobbering all over every icon in sight, expensive candles, high intensity workouts consisting of the sign of the cross and ground-level bows on repeat, and last but not least – actively correcting every individual in their path who allegedly fails to follow the ritual impeccably.

“We are not that different”, - I tried to convince myself. “I am here to light a candle for a two-dimensional depiction of my guardian saint, while they kiss the old dead man’s hands as if they were relics, and relics belong to saints.”

Most relics of interest are also several hundred years old. So how long has this deceased been inside the church? One day? Two? Three?!

Despite the absence of electric lighting, I stood close enough to notice how rigid and frozen the man’s hands appeared as he grasped his insignia.

I then recalled my last year’s visit to the touring Body Worlds II exhibition of the works created by German “plastinator” Gunter von Hagens. It was not the artfully dismembered corpses, including a female with a five-month old fetus inside her eviscerated womb, or the ability to see certain specimen’s real faces that disturbed me. It was their hands. Waxy complexion with shrunken skin to reveal long, yellowish, chipped fingernails. Precisely like the lifeless cleric’s hands. The hands that zealous churchgoers were currently slobbering over - transferring living saliva drops to the tiny dead gray hairs protruding from the cleric’s fingers and in turn ingesting dead man’s arid epithelials mixed with previously deposited fanatical spit.

Perhaps those jokes about coffins-on-wheels were not jokes? Perhaps they were stories meant to scare children!

Flickering candlelight’s mystical accents on the gold-plated iconostasis and the otherwordly liturgical songs I usually live for now seemed ominous and a suitable counterpart to this ritual of death. Suddenly, the entire scene turned into a vision of Bosch’s Ghent version of Christ Carrying the Cross: an endless horde of mad bulging eyes, oily gangrenous flesh, greasy hair, putrid teeth, with no room left to breathe.

I could not breathe either. I dashed toward the exist near the south wall, receiving mob’s disapproval along the way despite my clear effort to tippy toe, made an even quicker apologetically distorted sign of the cross as my eyes met Saint Nina, and hopped down the stairs out into the cold winter night.

Saint Nina did not seem to mind my escape. Her expression even appeared indifferent, but she was probably just preoccupied with overseeing the cleric’s lengthy entrance into the next world.

Next time I will visit her on an “off” day.

Canadian democrazy in action

2006-01-14T19:33:00.001-05:00

The issue that irritates me the most about the current Canadian federal election process is not:

the generally apolitical voters' ignorance regarding the basic platform of each party and electoral decision-making based on rumor

the almost omnipresent belief that the government needs to become even more of a babysitter to it subjects than it already is and the consequent sense of false entitlement that this belief brings along

the wide-spread hatred for self-achieved financial success and the notion that it needs to be penalized

the shameless and childish mudslinging and fear tactics in advertisements on the part of the party in power

the hypocritical assumption that there is a single
set of Canadian values, conveniently defined by the ruling party, that every Canadian possesses, but that current opposition does not, which makes this opposition anti-Canadian

the blatant America-bashing on the part of the ruling party

...but rather the fact that almost every district profiled on Toronto / Greater Toronto Area radio stations seems to contain a member from the Communist and the Marxist-Leninist parties running for election. Expectedly, each of these homo (hopefully) sapiens spews regurgitated Robinhood vomit from the Manifesto that even Jack "Lenin" Layton himself would not dream of.

Embarrassing.

Из Торонто с Рождеством

2006-01-08T22:34:00.001-05:00

"Женщина! Женщина! Ну дайте же пройти!"

"Ну не неси ж ты их так! Ща ваааще мне глаза выколишь!"

Нет, друзья мои, мы находимся не на рынке и не в метро, а в Свято-Троицкой Русской Православной Зарубежной Церкви, расположенной на улице Генри города Торонто, в утро седьмого января. Это значит, что данное организованное столпотворение конечно же происходит в честь православного Рождества. Католичестко-протестантское Рождество мы-то уже с успехом и политкорректно отпраздновали вместе с Ханукой, Рамаданом, языческим Зимним Солнцестоянием и Коммерческим Сумасшествием в торговых центрах под знаменем общепринятых "Счасливых Праздников!".

Очередь выливается на улицу, дышать нечем, а до гардероба не доползти; вот и стой, потей и молись как миленький. Батюшки не видно - за морем голов не видно ничего, и слышно только урывками из-за нескончаемого движения и гомона. Так что молодого человека, так сердобольно заботящегося о своем зрении, очень можно понять: а вам понравилось бы если бы ваша собственная жена чуть не выколола бы вам оба глаза с помощью дюжины пахучих восковых свечей? То-то же! Находчивая дамочка видимо решила упомянуть сразу всех - самого Христа, святых, родственников присудствующих и усопших - большой все-таки праздник. И она не одна. Все вперед и вперед. С воинственными факелами. К причастию еще не приступили, а новорожденного человекабога уже делят.

"Попробуй продвинуться вперед! Не забудь узнать про причастие детей!"

Сразу же чувствуются маленькие ручонки, с усилиями протискивающиеся в направлении иконостаса, отчаянно отталкивающиеся от выдающихся животов рядом стоящих разодетых толстых дядек и тетек, и маленькие ножки, наступающие на мои пропитанные солью сапоги по колено. Боли меньше, чем от каблуков тех же толстых дядек и тетек. Детей пытаюсь не раздавить. Поля чьей-то очень широкой, очень экстравагантной шляпы, с выбивающимися явно ненатуральными кудрями явно ненатуралной блондинки чуть ли не заезжают мне в глаз. Будущего окулиста понимаю все лучше. И еще. И еще.

"Во имя Отца и Сына и Святаго Духа..."

Какие там крестные знамения! Врастаю к стену у входа. По всем иконографическим признакам на этой стене должен быть изображен Страшный Суд. Ведь взгляд грешника, покидающего церковь, как раз направлен в сторону западной стены, и напоминание о нашем конечном предназначении оставляет четкий отпечаток в его мыслях. Хитро рассчитали мудрые церковные отцы. Несмотря на пятидесятилетний с лишним возраст Свято-Троицкого храма, здешняя западная стена пока нерасписана, но я все равно чувствую себя как в пекле.

Старушки-кликушки в беретках поверх растрепавшихся седых прядей, в толстых рейтузах, в старомодных ботах, которые уже никто не носит, в бесформенных юбках и жилетках темно-синих тонов поверх белых блузок ловко маневрируют между потными прихожанами. Во время обычных служб они моляться на коленях, пытаются слюняво облобызать все иконы представленные в храме и главное - строго отчитывают тех, кто по их понятиям ведет себя как-то не так. А сегодня такой ответственный день - нужно не только быть особенно бдительными, но и зажечь столько же свечек, сколько и неосторожная дамочка со жмурящимся мужем.

Сорок лет назад эти старушки наверно точно также порхали на партсобраниях. В тех-же жилетках, с тем же фанатизмом. А их родители могли бы даже быть причастны к тем, кто виновен (или просто ответственен?) в репрессиях моего прадеда протопресвитера Иоанна и его семьи в тридцать восьмом. А теперь прадед причислен к лику новомученников российских - во всяком случае он того более чем заслуживает.

Но зачем же все так отрицательно? Может быть я злорадствую от атмосферно напоминающего о себе Апокалипсиса за моей спиной, или от того, что
провожу наш православный семейный праздник вдали от родственников? Ведь родители старушек в жилетках так же могли эмигрировать во время войны, и тогдашние девочки были рождены уже здесь, говорят с легким акцентом, но чтут культуру лучше нас с вами. Такие тоже встречаются и нередко. Может, несмотря на потную, тесную неловкость и случайную грубость церковного сборища все присудствующие также пришли поклониться нашему святому событию, а значит нашей культуре? И в эту минуту мы все мимолетно, но все же едины, и может это единство перед Богом и есть Рождество?

3234

2006-01-01T17:59:00.001-05:00

I like things that shoot. I wear Russian soldiers' patches. I joke that my favorite car is a tank. I'm no military buff, but I enjoy healthy amounts of historic controversy. I love men in uniform, as every real female should. Most important, I am one of those few romantics who still believe that it is dolce et decorum pro patria mori - if the cause is worthy, of course. After all, bellum and bellus do share the stem.

My family history is not particularly militaristic. My Georgian grandfather used his engineering and architectural training to construct bomb shelters during the Second World War. My Russian grandfather spent this war fighting in the navy, though his fondest memories include partying with Americans in northern city Murmansk at the beginning of the war. The latter's son, my uncle, was the only family member to have a successful military career out of his own volition. He was even stationed in one of the most dangerous places on earth - Afghanistan. USSR's participation in this war is justifiably comparable to America's Vietnam, cause- and consequence-wise.

The 9th Company is a film directed and starred by Fedor Bondarchuk about the first Afghan war - its unresolved completion, to be exact. It was released in September 2005 and became an instant highly acclaimed blockbuster. At the same time, this blockbuster status damaged its artistic reputation. For this reason I was quite hesitant about viewing 9th Company. Every review I had read sang accolades to its theme, because this is one of the first films to focus on this war, despite the fact that the last Soviet troops evacuated at the end of the 1980's - a testament to the issue's controversy. That is where the praise ended and criticism began - reviews in mk.ru and gazeta.ru in particular both claimed that the film cut corners, left the characters compactly two-dimensional, and tied the ends into a neat little package, like any true Hollywood aspiration should. Word of mouth, however, had something different to report - in fact, a couple of invidiuals even claimed that the film was so difficult to stomach, that they were unable to sleep afterwards. The weight and the diversity of opinions combined began to overpower the value of 9th Company and made me question whether it was to live up to any of the expectations - good or bad.

The film is loosely historic and covers the end of the first ten year-long Afghan war during the 1987-1989 period. It follows a group of young men from the time they enlist in the army, throughout their brutal training in Uzbekistan, and to their central participation in the Soviet military operations in the region in order to "rid the friendly Afghan nation of imperialism". In Afghanistan itself, the boys are ordered to defend a conquered mountainous territory at the height of 3,234 meters, unaware that the poorly orchestrated war is over, and the troops are being withdrawan, all but their own unit. It has its predictable moments - a physically scarred and psychologically damaged trainee commander, a local whore, or a soldier's first accidental kill. Perhaps such aspects are necessary to demonstrate the non-exceptional, every-man nature of the war's participants.

In the beginning of the movie, a young soldier interrupts a teacher's explanation of Afghanistan's geography, history, religious and multi-ethnic makeup, "Does it really matter whom we fucking waste?"

"Never in the history of the country had Afghanistan been conquered", the teacher replies.

This sense of impending doom in his voice sets the mood for the entire film, even prior to the massacre. Some of the scenes are at least comparable or exceed the brutality of those in the landing in Normandy introduction in another blockbuster like Saving Private Ryan. The neverending rows of the fiercely approaching mujahideen, as the remaining young Soviet soldiers unsuccessfully attempt to fight them off, resemble the army of ghost warriors sprung from seeds in the myth of the Golden Fleece, only these warriors' current relevance is too close for comfort. The knowledge that this war was not only lost by the Soviets, but also entirely meaningless is responsible for the additional psychological enhancement of gore. There is nothing sweet about USSR's 15,000+ deaths, nor did they have much to do with the Fatherland. While there are no sleepless nights to report on my part, the film succeeds in leaving one feeling quite perturbed.

Taking the bull by the horns (of plentitude)

2005-12-24T00:50:00.001-05:00

Last month I had written a short review of Canongate's new series - updated creative stories rooted in age-old myths and produced by the current literary superstars like Atwood and Pelevin, in which I had focused on the latter author. Essentially, this was review of a review, based on my previous familiarity with other works by Pelevin, since his Helmet of Horror was not yet available in the Russian bookstores I frequent. (Frequent is a euphemism, because this bookstore chain is located up in north Toronto and is not easily accessible.) Having finally ventured into this frostbitten wilderness and purchased the book, I must say that I am impressed.

Perhaps my reaction can be explained by the fact that I have further invested myself in modern cultural theory since my last less satisfying reading of Pelevin's publications, such as Chapaev and Emptiness or Generation P a number of years ago. Or perhaps this kreatiff about Theseus and the Minotaur, as Viktor refers to it, really is a short, funny, and enjoyable read; its initial simplicity soon transformed into theoretic complexity by the middle of the story.

First and foremost Pelevin's new release is another consistent showcase of his sophisticated humor and postmodern trickery. Both aspects situate the updated myth in our here-and-now. This is not to say that this book does not posses cultural longevity like cheap mystery novels, but that Pelevin deliberately emphasizes his stylistic methodology. As anticipated, this methodology engulfs the story - from the characters' conversations to the the direction of the plot itself.

At first, the labyrinth embodies the co-existence of different realities pertinent to each participant. In their turn, they manage to interact in real time in cyberspace - after all, the world wide web is not a far stretch from from the intricate pathways of the original labyrinth outlined in Greek mythology. Pelevin lightly mocks our technologically oriented culture by giving them amusing chatroom names like Monstradamus, UGLI 666, and Nutscracker. He even describes a person named Sliff_zoSSchitan, who only communicates in a specific type of Russian internet slang, which focuses on profanity, deliberate spelling errors, and never writing words the same way twice. This chatroom also possesses all the required traits of a typical internet community - a man who knows everything about everything, a religious freak, and a web romance, while Minotaur's servants are thought to be the moderators. Even smilies abound.

In contrast to the bombardment of advanced up-to-date technology, certain personal labyrinths embody rather different realities, whether it be an ancient Minoan setting or a gothic cathedral. The puzzling inscriptions found within the latter are almost reminiscent of a simplified version of the Name of the Rose.

Pelevin's caricature of the current strains of Western civilization is quite welcomed. For example, as the master of the labyrinth, the Minotaur is also known as Asterisk. However, since it is politically incorrect to refer to the Minotaur as simply Minotaur, the second name - Asterisk should be used. It is additionally politically incorrect to use the name Asterisk; therefore in this case, the name Minotaur should be used. Consequently, the general rule is that each of the names can be used, but only when the other name is meant, respectively. This caricature is also a clear demonstration of the disconnect between the signifier and what it represents. Such eyebrow-raising humor seems to be Pelevin's choice method for introducing token postmodern notions into the specificity of his new novel: "When I hear the word "discourse", I grad my simulacrum", Monstradamus, the know-it-all character states facetiously during a complex discussion regarding the nature of the Helmet of Horror, worn by Minotaur.

The Helmet's characteristics determine the understanding of the labyrinth for the trapped. It appears to be an intricate machine comprised of curiously named components, such as the horns of plentitude, the labyrinth-separator, the lattice of now, and so on. For example, the labyrinth-separator is responsible for the divisions between the past, present, and future, while the bubbles of hope indirectly cause a flood of impressions. The complex interaction between the Helmet's components define Minotaur's existence and therefore affect his domain and its unwilling inhabitants. When searching for a way out, these inhabitants engage in lengthy analyses of issues like virtual reality animation or attempt to determine how the Helmet is able to exist inside its own component. The Helmet of Horror splits that very singularity, which is, into that very multiplicity, which is not.

Towards the myth's completion, Pelevin almost slips into being Prigov. His characters' apparently random and entirely insane exclamations at the time of the myth's climax are highly reminiscent of Prigov's mammoth poetic oeuvre in its totality. Prigov's authorial penchant for assuming different personas in his literary and visual projects is somewhat publicized, yet Russia's original postmodernist must not have anticipated that his Dmitri Becomes X formula would be sabotaged and transformed into Viktor Becomes Dmitri.

And if Viktor becomes Dmitri and maybe even Umberto for a split second, then who becomes Theseus, and where is Ariadna?

:-)

Vladimir's choice

2005-12-06T18:52:00.001-05:00

The head of Russia's islamic committee urges to replace the current two-headed imperial eagle because it "corresponds to an entirely different spiritual reality". Apparently, mister Jemal is insulted by the crosses on the eagles' crowns and feels that a multicultural society cannot maintain religiously specific national insignia. Duma's politicians had already addressed this issue previously, citing that in this case the cross does not represent an exclusively religious symbol. In fact, renowned muslim expert Primakov confirms that this type of cross is also located within the muslim culture.

Religious minorities are not the only ones expressing their discontent. More "progressive" social contingent, mainly atheists, want all references to "God" removed. They find Russian anthem's lyrics such as the "land kept by God" unacceptable in a modern secular state. Not unlike Duma's clever defense of the cross, the Russian Orthodox Church is a powerful body closely tied to the government, despite official separation, and as such need not take such requests seriously. Perhaps a result of my own ignorance and my disdain for the Patriarch & Co. notwithstanding, the latter sounds like a case of extremely bored mimicry of similar debates intrinsic to the American society just as much as the remnants of our recent atheist soviet past.

Is the so-called rise of nationalistic feeling in Russia, seemingly dormant far too long, yet feared by many as a result of its presupposed ethnic implications, linked to this somewhat unexpected (at least in my eyes) idea surge? Do the minorities within the Russian state find this moment particularly opportune in light of the government's upholding of the fashionable tolerance principles such as Rodina party's ban from Moscow's municipal election due to its allegedly discriminatory slogans? More specifically, are muslim clerics' requests to remove integral symbols of Russian culture from its official symbology going to now be used as leverage in religious conflicts, such as the ongoing north Caucasus wars? Are we ready to ultimately give up Russia's heart, Moscow - the third Rome, little by little the way we gave up our second Rome, Constantinople, five hundred years ago?

Much earlier - a thousand years ago, our premier ruler and saint, Prince Vladimir, defined the future course for young Rus. A shrewd pagan seeking unification of his people via monotheism, he interviewed several representatives of different religions in his chambers. Rejecting Jews, muslims, and Catholics, Vladimir accepted Byzantine Orthodoxy. Romanticism of this ancient legend aside, eastern Christianity and its traditions have stayed in our blood for centuries, even despite the 74 years of imposed godless communism. Now the requests to modify our national insignia resemble distant mosquito buzzing.

The article I initially quoted concurrs that Russia maintains "Byzantinism in politics, "wild" capitalism in economy and soviet obedience among the people". Ironically and as if to support its latter premise, it is collectively credited to Gazeta.ru.

Reference: http://www.gazeta.ru/comments/2005/12/06_e_491342.shtml

A failed pop-cultural vaccination

2005-11-27T22:57:00.001-05:00

So-called 'free newspapers' that mainly survive on advertisement and are available on every corner tend to make my stomach polically upset, which is the reason for my usual avoidance. As I walked past one of such newspaper stands a couple of weeks ago, I noticed Floria Sigismondi's face on the front cover and had to break the pattern and pick up the issue of Toronto's NOW from November 11, 2005 and read Kevin Temple's article regarding Floria's career and her new photographic publication Immune.

This curiosity was rooted in my early interest in Floria's work: back around 1997, as I struggled with learning HTML, my fan site was one of the first unofficial tributes to this artist. I admired her video work for Manson and Bowie and found her fashion photography to be quite unique. Floria also was a bit of an inspiration - after all, she went to the same art school my friends attended, and look at her now!.

At the same time, I dared to call her a less shocking, repackaged Witkin rip-off. I must emphasize that in my book everyone in possession of a remotely similar style is a Witkin rip-off, which in turn makes everyone and Joel-Peter himself an Arbus rip-off. Naturally, I exaggerate, but my gods must maintain their Olympic pedestals.

Years went by, the brief life of a virtual fan art gallery had run its course, and I lost track and interest in following Floria's projects. Yet there she is on the cover of a politically unsound pop-cultural magazine. This magazine informs me that Floria's career is booming more than ever, which prompted her recent move from Toronto to Los Angeles, where she barely has any time to spend with her husband and baby daughter due to excessive work demands. NOW also details her second photography book.

Author Temple presents a short synopsis of some of the works included in this new release - as much as a two-page newspaper spread would allow. In particular, he describes one of the photographs as:

"A female manikin (sic) posed naked, revealing her enhanced body with four breasts (doubles her pleasure) and spikes running down her spine, an added defense to compensate for her missing right hand"

Despite the article's limits, this attempt at visual analysis could and should have acquired further depth. Do the doubled breasts double the mannequin's pleasure or ours - that of the voyeur? If the spikes are defense mechanisms - spine extensions tearing through skin to counterbalance the disrupted bodily totality, then could the mannequin function as a cyborg? On the artist's website this same figure mechanically rises from behind a cityscape depicted from below, not unlike Rodchenko's early 1920's famous balconies featured on the Left Front of the Arts cover. Floria's photographic training points in the direction of purposeful referentiality. The mannequin becomes a modernist triumph - the fusion of man and machine. At the same time, the spikes appear to be organic - this animates the perfect one-size-fits-all artificial human canon and transports it into the 21st century.

Is the absent elaboration a sign of the author's misguided writing or Floria's self-unawareness? I read further. The artist proceeds to comment on a "futuristic family who's been numbed by society" and is "eating media", because they've been "fed and brainwashed". The family's heads are large white blobs with holes, because Floria "wanted to see if you took away expression and eyes, could you still get emotion?"

While the mass-produced seriality of consumerist humans floats at the surface, had I seen the photographs prior to reading her comments, my initial concern would have been with whether the subjects are able to return the gaze. That is to say, do the holes where the eyes should be provide this family with any kind of agency in contrast to lacking any indication of sight at all? Are they aware that they are being visually consumed just as they themselves consume the media? Even more obviously, where is the sense of cognizance regarding being the producer of this very media by which this family had been brainwashed?

Last year New York artist Nikki Lee, famous for her photographic documentation of infiltrating various subcultures, gave a talk at the University of Toronto. While I was not present at the event, I learned that Nikki avoided discussing certain obvious implications of her work for no other reason than a somewhat poor preparation. This alleged lack of responsible self-awareness is inexcusable for a photographer who holds a Master's of Fine Art from a prestigious American institution and undoubtedly encountered the same types of questions while she earned it. Are her poignant candid photographes subconscious to a much greater degree than initially assumed, and does the same then apply to Floria?

Perhaps what I seek is located in Floria's book, but I currently only have her website accessible. An artist statement detailing the apparent sophistication of her work would do, but I find none. Nothing, nothing at all. Lacking evidence for the contrary, we the fans inadvertently transform into Subliminal Floria's Futuristic Family, getting a little more infected with mass media through the artist's aesthetically pleasing visuals, as a result of her attempts to vaccinate us against it.

You can decide for yourselves by checking out http://www.floriasigismondi.com

An article about an article that never was

2005-11-18T02:50:00.001-05:00

I am not a professional journalist, nor do I aspire to be, though I consider some of my more polished essays and critiques to be of at least above-average quality.

Ever since my (now-deleted) succinct and colloquial Sucks to be you, France entry, I've been attempting to write a well researched, lengthy editorial regarding the immigrant riots. I read dozens of articles from all over the globe and saved a draft in my blog. I investigated the rioters' demographics - ethnicity, religion, and immigration status, looked into the type of social services and welfare rates available to them, and compared it to the rest of Western Europe, particularly Germany. I proceeded to look at the response tactics - both by the average citizens, and the government and analyzed the latter's currently implemented policies and future political aspirations. I paid close attention to the vastly ranging media coverage these events produced. The more I read, the more links I added to this unpublished draft, but recorded very little of my own thought.

As days went by, I began to question the seemingly subconscious deterrent that has been impeding my progress on the editorial. Sloth? Fatigue? During this period my free time was spent on commencing work on several artworks, posting other rants, and updating my website. The French draft, on the other hand, remained in its pristine state. I've ceased adding reference links as well, despite the fact that I regularly read the news. Then I just stopped reading.

There were little to no reports of the Frenchmen's retribution for "reversed colonization". Perhaps the media failed to report such acts of righteous vengeance in fear of instigating further cultural hatred? Perhaps the French were at least adequately defending themselves, as their government sold them out with promises of even better social support to fund the rioters' chain-pot-smoking habits, joke sentencing, and inadequate damage control in hopes of reelection?

Perhaps not.

Somewhere between the male lion and a sloth...

2005-11-13T00:15:00.001-05:00

....on Discovery channel's laziest animals list must lie the male dachshund.

................

................

First name: Polygraph (Polygraphovich)
Last name: Sharikov
Former names: Buster
Formal address: Comrade
Age: 3
Occupation: Cat Exterminator
Status: Castrated. Adopted.
Favorite activities: When not sleeping or yawning, comrade Sharikov enjoys replacing cats with squirrels or swans and sorting the garbage.

Ordnung muß sein? This German's motto is Schlaf über alles!

Philanthrop-o-meter

2005-11-11T02:40:00.001-05:00

I was recently asked whether I wanted to contribute to a charitable donation for Christmas via my department. The donations will allegedly go to those proverbial "inner city kids, who have nothing". I am unsure whether in this case majority rules, and I would be forced to contribute regardless of my opinion, or whether the decisions would be made on an individual basis. Likewise, I am unsure as to how I should go about not coming across as the Meanest Woman in the World by declining, and whether I should even be concerned if such a perception were to arise.

I've always been somewhat intrigued by the fairly related (oxy)moronic notion of forced volunteering, which I had initially encountered in high school. Having only been in Canada for a couple of years at that point, I was astonished to find out that 150 hours of volunteering were part of the requirement for the International Baccalaureate program. For the first time in my life shockingly my academic achievements alone were insufficient (of course, that was before grad school entry ;)).

Even those who do not participate in such activities for an immediate purpose like a program requirement are fully aware of the resume benefits that an act like this would provide afterwards. The obvious positive effects of "forced volunteering" aside, we could at least choose another title for it - the lack of financial gain is not enough reason to maintain its current name.

During my first years in Canada, I was similarly shocked to see just how much fundraising was done for just about every imaginable cause. Unimaginable, yet real causes included encountering parents in an attempt to raise money for their children's dance classes! Most of the time I would not even answer the phone calls or open the door, and if I did, my negative response incurred angry looks or even commentary. One of the more recent examples includes:

"Welcome to Tim Horton's. Would you like to donate a dollar to the Tsunami victims"?

"No, thanks"

"?!"

"Can I buy a coffee in peace and not get harrassed about donations?" - Okay, I thought that one, which doesn't make it any less valid.

Would you like to buy a bracelet to fight lupus?

Would you like to sponsor a child through World Vision? What about the Christian Children's Fund? What about United Way? What about..........

And if you indeed would like to sponsor such a child for the mere price of a cup of coffee a day, you aren't even given the choice of the child's location! Apparently, feeling greater affinity towards a youngster from a related culture is unacceptable!

The biggest mass hypnosis donation mockery is, of course, Live Aid. It is particularly infuriating to witness financial demands from the likes of Russia due to its membership in the G8, while it cannot feed its own. And it gives, it gives! Remants of tearing a shirt (skin) off your back and starving yourself - a standard Soviet mentality - is alive and well, while third world dictatorial moochers continue perfecting their beggary skills.

In general, Canadians pay high enough (~30%) taxes to cover many of these causes (whether or not we'd like our money to be spent in such a way) - so when a country's leader decides to increase financial aid drawn from these taxes towards [insert a third world disaster here] and you are approached to donate further, a raised eyebrow response is to be expected in the very least.

Even considering our taxes, there are a number of causes towards which I would not mind contributing. The common thread shared by these selected causes is the fact that they embody a personal interest - dog shelters and hereditary familial ailments, for example. I also do have an interest in helping children, however, I would a) bypass an organization and b) focus on slavic children in orphanages only. Such charitable financial support out of personal engagement is directly pertinent to complex political and economic structures within a given state, which involve the way in which issues like social welfare, healthcare, and tax designation are dealt with, and is clearly beyond the scope or purpose of this rant.

It suffices to say that for every cause there is bound to be someone interested; hence personal engagement leads to improved results due to heightened motivation - the kind that cannot possible arise out of a guilt trip. More often than not, those individuals agitating for saving the world most ardently and accusing everyone else around them of "selfishness" also demonstrate the greatest lack of concern for their personal microcosm - even something as simple as giving up your seat to an old woman on public transportation. And I would much rather "start with the man in the mirror"! (Tee hee hee!)

Commissioned postmodernism

2005-11-01T00:50:00.001-05:00

"When I hear the word discourse, I grab my simulacrum" - Victor Pelevin's facetiousness never fails, including his new Helmet of Horror. Having been released this past week, the book features eight characters, with names like Monstradamus, trapped in separate labyrinth rooms (not unlike Saw II, which also shares its release date!). They know not what they are and await Theseus the Liberator, while Minotaur, crowned with the Helmet of Horror, a source of illusions and false impressions, lurks in the shadows.

The most engaging aspect of the book is not Pelevin's expected mastery of dialogue or his equally expected application of just about every authorial trick a good self-[mocking]-respecting postmodernist shares, but the fact that it pertains to an ongoing series published by UK's Canongate. The series focuses on reestablishing famous age-old myths by modern literary classics - from Umberto Eco (!) to Margaret Atwood. Atwood's Penelopiad customarily offers agency to Odyssey's quintessential faithful wife Penelope. She must've grown rather bored in those twenty years after all!

Despite the obvious danger of turning this act of Retelling into an instant cliche, Canongate's clever marketing technique is at least worth looking into. Or not.

Into the enemy's territory!

2005-10-18T16:16:00.001-04:00

This dude just came by:

http://www.lewisreford.com/

Didn't realize that party candidates themselves participated in canvassing. Major props to this conservative representative for venturing into the enemy's territory - i.e. the downtown.

This, however, does explain the NDP flyers I've located on my doorstep before. Too bad Jack Layton himself doesn't taint his hands by communicating with the "common man" he claims to represent in this manner - that way I would at least be able to get some poignant feedback on his feelings regarding his being "commie scum" and will keep accidentally referring to him as "Mr. Lenin".

Former Soviet "borderlands"

2005-10-08T18:09:00.001-04:00

This week I came across (purely accidentally) an interview conducted by Dominika Cosic with a Russian political scientist and Putin's advisor Gleb Pavlovsky for Wprost.

Not surprisingly, the interviewer brought up Belorus. While it is customary to bash Lukaschenko, Pavlovsky mentioned a crucial point: Belorus' economy has been steadily growing by 5% annually, not due to the expected export of natural resources (as in the case of Russia), but via the manufacturing and services industries! He admitted that the main receptacle of Belorussian exports is Russia, however this is partially based on the fact that the rest of Europe had decided to ostracize Belorus for ideological reasons and left it without much choice. He then expectedly warned against American/W. European democrazy exportation (as in the case of Ukraine election funding or even Iraq) and underscored the small respresentability of the new Belorussian opposition.

More important, Pavlovsky then emphasized the emotionality, which characterizes the current Polish foreign policy towards Russia (throughout the Kwasnievski / Putin rule), in contrast to the Walesa / Yeltsin period. He demonstrated this via maintained stereotype-based anti-Russian attitude in the Polish press, whereas Russia has no such anti-Polish attitudes.

This emotionality particularly affects the issue of the planned Russo-German gas pipeline: he explained that the pipeline is not a method of political circumscription (this is not the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, part II!), but a result of sober decisions with economic gain in mind, in which Poland is not even in question - for better or for worse.

The second issue that Pavlovsky attributed to irrationally driven foreign policy is the Katyn question and the current halt in the investigation procedures. He reminded the interviewer that Yeltsin already officially apologized for this particular example of Stalin's brutality - should every consecutive Russian leader be obliged to do the same? Historic tolerance is an essential democratic tool, and Kwasniewski initiated the ongoing faux pas.

Pavlovsky concluded that the current Russo-Polish relationship is classified by a vacuum, which explains the unnecessarily extended focus on the recent incident of the Russian teenagers' beatings in Poland / Polish diplomats' and journalists' beatings in Russia. If real issues are to be resolved, then two-sided discussions are more productive than historic grievances!

Theory in practice

2005-09-29T02:30:00.001-04:00

First I nearly get killed by a giant airborne black backpack, which fell within two feet of me from the fifth floor of a building I walked past, due to someone's exotic eviction techniques. (*This reminded me of dear Winnipeg and its lengthy True Frostbitten Collosal Prairie Icicles Falling Off Roofs season and my vast expertise in this somewhat related field. If Zeus were Canadian, he'd certainly prefer those over lightning bolts.)

Then I end up working into wee hours of morning oooooooooooooovertime on a project that'll surely result in dreams of Swan Lake. Only instead of youthful ballerinas gracefully mastering the stage, I shall picture a colorful array of logos for various yellow pages companies. It is time to test the theory....

September 26th, 2005

2005-09-27T01:07:00.001-04:00

I illustrated today at work. Drew by hand with further additions in Illustrator and Photoshop. For nearly seven hours. Cartoons. CARTOONS!!

Our office had a single pencil in its possession. And no pencil sharpner. I used an exacto knife, risking serious injury. And a red ink pen instead of a black one. I barely remembered the necessity of nourishment, while everyone else spent at least an hour on choosing a takeout location, deciding on and consuming the edible time-killers and work-avoiders. Whether this invitation-in-progress ends up being used is irrelevant.

Cue a daunting reminder of how much happier I'd be if I were to do this all the time.

Of course, I don't think that the world is ready for a Nina frolicking with bunnies in the fields of daisies and would much rather deal with the expected, if not mandatory "piss off, motherfucker" demeanor. So perhaps a limit of half a dozen colors, a single font, and software that leads much to be desired, shouldn't be too unwelcome after all.

Black, gold, white

2005-09-16T01:27:00.001-04:00

In between projects at work I accidentally and shockingly came across a Russian Orthodox patriotic right-wing website: http://www.pravaya.ru/. Shockingly in a "pleasantly surprised" type of way. Already found a ton of things of interest - from a nice book review of a Russian translation of a Barthes publication to links to other patriotic sites of similar nature. For example: http://www.fap.ru/ - discussions of famous Russian battle anniversaries, like the upcoming Kulikovo, and histories of specific icons, Russian patriotic resources: http://www.rossija.info/index.html or the Russian Imperial Movement: http://www.rus-imperia.com/ (These are the true Russian colors!)

Conservative, patriotic, AND Orthodox? Sign me up!

Considering that I've spent the past few weeks closely following various up-and-coming unfortunately left-wing young politicians out of sheer curiosity, I'm extremely pleased that I've located so much current likemindedness on the same day.

Off-color commentary on color "revolutions"?

2005-09-01T01:16:00.001-04:00

Was reading a not-too-reputable (in my view) ePublication utro.ru today and came across an interview with political scientist Mikhail Leont'ev, in which he made a number of curious comments in regards to the post-Soviet space and consequently the countries that had hosted recent "color revolutions", the Baltics, as well as the relatively "new" states of central Europe such as the Czech Republic, Hungary, and Poland "to a certain extent". Interestingly, he classified most as artificial and having no basis for existence other than the self-establishment of the new nationalistically-minded elites. He used Kievan "dislike" of Russia as such an example and located the foundation for this type of nationalism in, and I quote, "the dumb contrasting of themselves to Russia. After all, they have nothing else!"

Furthermore, Leont'ev highlighted the type of special status that Georgia enjoyed as a Soviet republic due to having rather favorable climatic and financial market factors (tourism and export of goods such as tea, tangerines, wine, and tobacco). With the fall of the USSR, Georgia had been left in shambles; by extension, without its massive neighbor Russia, Leont'iev's prognosis for Georgia was highly negative. He noted that its reliance on American aid as the means of underscoring itself as an entity separate from Russia, is too near-sighted, because Americans are only interested in using Georgia as a transit zone and a pawn in political manipulation (implying countries that truly matter on the world scale, i.e. Russia.).

One could question the man's background, motives, and most important - funding in order to situate this somewhat extreme analysis. This is not my concern. It suffices to state that I am in agreement with a somewhat more moderate variation of this view. It, however, is somewhat bothersome, that Leont'ev lumped countries that had been part of other empires (hence his emphasis on a search of an ethnic identity) like that of Austro-Hungary (or the Russian empire itself) for most of their existence with others, like Poland, which although had been part of the Russo-Germanic power struggle for a considerable time period, had also functioned as an empire itself.

As much as I gloat at his "scholarization" of what I always refer to as the chihuahua syndrome (the smaller and less important is the country (see Baltics)), the louder it has to proclaim its nationalistic values, real or perceived), Leont'ev seemed to have left the justification for a country's existence unclear. That is to say, ethnicity, one of the primary bases for state formation (in the "Old World"), translating into customs - cultural and religious, does not seem to satisfy his requirements for a "non-artificial" country (particularly in the cases of a nation, whose core values were maintained, rather than being assimilated into those of its ruler.)

Zombie attaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

2005-08-25T01:40:00.001-04:00

She certainly looked like a zombie. Must've been the coke.

Alas, I'm not going to praise Tankard, though I do fully aknowledge both their genius and the cheese(cake) factor. In fact, today the mood has been oscillating to the vile depths of the most rotten abyss worthy of a mediocre cookie monster-vocaled death metal band's lyrics. You know, that usual people suck, and I do(n't) give a fuck deal. By the end of the day, this sort of (all too frequent) disposition can only arrive at one logical conclusion: sheer apathy. The latter cannot possibly presuppose a bloggerific entry or any entry at all!

Despite my shudder-inducing lapse into Rand-like objectivist reasoning, I did want to record the fact that today I got attacked by a bum! A female bum, no less! A black female bum! Anywhere between the ages of 25 and 50! High as a kite! Filthy!

Before you begin salivating at the thought of an exciting injury earned, for voyeuristic reasons, or simply because you cannot stomach me (haha, and you're still reading this!!), I have none to report at this time. Simply put, I was on my way from work, tuning out the outside world to the sounds of Swedish music. Conveniently enough, the outside world was in dire need of being tuned out following a hectic corporate day at work and other personal disappointments. A half hour+ walk clad in a tight ankle-length skirt and considerable platforms did not contribute to the trip's enjoyment.

As I was bordering on solipsism, she approached, after a failed attempt of harassing those walking in front of me. Life in Babylon, or any other metropolis for that matter, forces any- and everyone, to get used to the homeless. One's reaction to the grown muscular 25-year old men sporting brand new Nikes and begging for money will spawn a myriad of justified complaints and thus shall be avoided. The same applies to the potential discussion about the vast availability of social services in Canada, funded by your tax money and mine, which just about eliminate the reasons for such existence. Furthermore, the ridiculous act of apologizing for not providing any money to many of these homeless is nonetheless preferred over angry exclamations of "get a job!" or a more blunt "fuck off!" It simply serves as the method of avoiding the chance of having various weaponry pulled on you.

And so I turned down my music and prepared to make just this kind of an apology. Instead, she charged at me, screaming, "Miss! I have a problem, miss! Miss!! I have a problem!" and proceeded to grab my right arm. I tried to shake her off me, as my platforms implied a size advantage, but that made her grab on to me tighter, nearly piercing my forearm with her nails. I at least challenged her vocal attack, suprisingly sans profanity, as I continued to shake her off.

The zombie must've noticed the police car parked a block away near a convenience store, or she just saw another approaching "Miss!!" to resolve her "problem", because she let go of my arm. I could think of nothing better than to return to the aforementioned musical global tune-out as I approached my house.

There I washed my hands thoroughly. My arms too. Take that, Lady Macbeth!

Paging carpal tunnel OR a strange diasporal church program

2005-08-13T05:40:00.001-04:00

I barely manage to catch the last train to get home, after what seemed like a gazillion billion hours of overtime (thanks to my eye allergies combined with a variety of equally useless eyedrops and lack of breaks, nourishment, and sleep), but instead of dropping on the bed half-dead (and crushing my poor dachshund in the process), I sign online! And type some more! And email jokes to people! And read news sites! And drink tea! And worst of all - check the church schedule, to see whether I can make it tomorrow!

Last time I went to church was two weeks ago and two thousand miles away. My tiny Winnipeg church is really an entire post in itself. I just wanted to mention that at that particular time, we had a personal service for an anniversary of the passing away of my grandfather, and as usual, I spent the entire time analyzing the limited resources of the (artistic) program, which made the effort and imagery collected itself all the more...charming. I realized that there was an icon out of sync with the rest of the program in one of the top rows of the iconostatis: the Old Testament Trinity somehow got placed within an entirely christological set of imagery.

Every program is planned, but the image did not fit chronologically or feast-wise (although I am no expert on the latter), so I mentioned this inconsistency to the priest. He seemed puzzled too, because apparently those icons were placed there by a Serbian (?) monk, who had to have known what he was doing.

This short conversation yet again made me realize that I really have no one to discuss these issues with. Art history students? Old ladies in church? As if there are any Byzantinists out there who are additionally interested in program development in contemporary Russian Orthodox Church (and Russian Church Outside of Russia)............

Funny how this remains at the forefront of my thoughts, yet I had resolved to study modernism........................I'm too in love with Rodchenko to just give him up!

1950s

2005-08-10T03:05:00.001-04:00

As I was reading the ton of fiction I usually try to gobble up on vacation to make
up for time lost otherwise, I came across a statement, which suggested that people in the south speak (live) faster than people in the north. For example, Eeeeeeeestooooooooooooooniiiiiaaaaaaaaaaans speak slower than Italians and the Spanish. (Where does this leave us?!) This was right up the alley of linguistic games that I often play in my head (example: monstro -> demonstrate, dico -> indictment) and therefore had to be noted for further observation.

The above was probably one of the only memorable aspects of the combined reading I had done, excepting Voinovich's Fur Hat (the collection, not the short story alone), some of which I had already read, I soon realized. (A nice change from the usual sense of doom in terms of the inability to grasp an "adequate" amount of literary culture.)

In contrast, I've watched a whole bunch of Russian films, THREE (!!) of which were EXCELLENT: (Unfortunately, both recent movies based on Akunin's novels were sub par - too Hollywoodized and trivialized; even some of the acting by the stellar cast (i.e.
Menshikov) plainly sucked.) Dreaming of Space (literally: Cosmos as a Premonition),
Harvest Time, and Koktebel. All three were quite recent - released between 2003-2005, and as I'm just now finding out, all three expectedly are prestigious award winners. (Note to self: I should really do the English subtitles for these festivals. ;-)

The 1950's must be a popular subject nowadays, since the first two dealt with this decade. Dreaming of Space covered the period between the launching of the first sputnik(s) to Gagarin's pioneering voyage into space, while Harvest Time focused on a family living in a small village/kolkhoz. The plot in both cases was overtly subjugated to impressive cinematography and implied narrative interweaving: in the first film, the trope of space was remarkably emphasized by remaining on the periphery of the majority of the plot.

A naive young cook nicknamed Konyok ("Horsey"), who lives in a town on the USSR/Norwegian border, meets and becomes enthralled with German (Herman), who listens to forbidden Western radio stations, studies languages, and boxes. This almost turns into an innocent version of Single White Female (!).

German dreams of escaping the country and as part of his multiple audacious plans, which include seducing Konyok's girlfriend ("...He kissed me....DOWN THERE!"),
he disguises them by informing Konyok, who at this point even dresses like German, that he is involved in top-secret spaceship pilot testing. German soon attempts to swim after a docked Western ship and fails to catch up. Konyok decides to try his luck at space exploration and heads to Kustanay. During the train ride, he makes a brief acquaintance with a young military man with a warm smile named Yuri.

The film concludes with documentary footage of the Red Square parade in Yuri Gagarin's honor soon after his historic flight in space and flips back to fiction as it shows Konyok running after Yuri's car.

This fusion of documentary/fictional visual interweaving creates the tension between
the assumed factuality or lack thereof of each kind of film and raises further implications in regards to such fusion - its seamless, rather than collage patchwork-like nature. This fusion as well as German's myth-turned reality along with Konyok's own mythologizing (with German standing in as the mythic, non-existent
symbol of his desire) should be considered against the background of stagnant Soviet social realism and its rotten comic modernity.

Because it deals with the same decade, Harvest Time cannot help but raise a number of similar issues found in Dreaming of Space. On its own, the cinematography makes this film a masterpiece. It is narrated from the point of view of the deceased (as we later find out) son, who speaks about his award-winning combine-operating mother, his WWII crippled father, and his slightly older ~7 year old brother.

The entire project is disguised as "home video" (for this reason many photographs are included) - a skillfully shot documentary; consequently, there is little-to-none dialogue between the characters, and the film largely relies on visual factors. The boy's mother is the only female combine-driver in the region; her excellent performance always gets her the first annual farming prize - the exceedingly symbolic red Marx/Engels/Lenin flag, while her dream is to win a little bit of fabric - second and third prizes. Due to the presence of mice, mending and resewing the flag become her obsession. Her husband, who lost both of his legs in the war, slips into nothingness from alcoholism - not from the lack of work or his disability, but from the lack of love.

Idols - communist (the flag), christian (prayer), and pagan (bird sacrifice) define and dominate the simple, extreme poverty-ridden life of this average kolkhoz family. Similar to the documentary inclusion of Gagarin in Dreaming of Space, Harvest Time's format enhances the presupposed documentary truthfulness of the film, not unlike the living myths at the end of the Stalinist era, while the high quality of the cinematography continues to undermine this gained factuality. However, the cycle is not continuous - the film is concluded with a scene where the flag, or what is now left of it, is employed as a bandana by a teenage girl who sports cut-off jean shorts and a trendy USSR tshirt. The myth is finally dead.

Yay, I ran out of steam before even getting to Koktebel, and lo' and behold - another excellent movie seen tonight!! Who would've thought that the life of old women in a forgotten, electricity-lacking village would be so damn interesting?!

Since when am I writing so many half-assed film reviews? It's okay though, I'll make up for this by watching nothing and sticking to occasional CSI for the next many months.

I know, I know, I wouldn't read all this either...

Danelia and Monty Python?!

2005-07-29T03:30:00.001-04:00

Three months out of grad school - I must be dumbing down at accelerated rates: I've been unable to force myself to study for anything substantial, though, I *have* been busy with other things. A good lesson of what not to do on a vacation. To be fair, however, I have gone through a third of my German textbook and read a couple of modern classics for *gasp* fun.

I've also been watching quite a few Russian classic films (yes, I said FILMS) - old and new, including the recent and highly acclaimed The Tuner. Even though the largely black and white surrealist (Lynch-rips-off-Arbus twins, for example) articism is to be appreciated both visually and theatrically (the scene with the ever-so-Germanesque Lina climing down the spiral staircase in her shiny black heels and a vintage skirt alone was worth it!), the 2.5+ hours of footage was redundant.

As I was watching the amazingly pants-pissing-hilarious Kindza-dza for the first time (I'm no movie buff), I discovered the eerie resemblance between John Cleese in the Monty Python's Holy Grail and Yuri Yakovlev, which even included costumes.

GAH!!! Georgy Danelia conspiracy theories?!

Resonance and the Ancient of Days

2005-07-25T04:59:00.001-04:00

I had just finished Galina Scherbakova's The Story of Ustinia Sobakina, Who Did Not Exist, which only took me a few hours, just like in the good old days. I would have preferred not to have read another book by her, even despite her praiseworthy writing skills and her cultural status. Scherbakova's work is too sentimental, if not nostalgic, and therefore qualifies to be called a "chick novel" (of the upper literary echelons, mind you), capable of having quite the depressing effect on its reader.

(As a slight tangent - I would also file Ulitskaja's work into the same category, and ironically enough, I will probably be reading yet another one of hers soon enough. )

Scherbakova needs to be dug out from beneath the pile of linguistic, no, convention-based uselessness.

I shall avoid going into detail in regards to the ways this chick novel compilation resonated with me, because I maintain my refusal to make this any more personal than it needs to be. (I'm sure a few slip-ups will occur here and there for shock value alone!) I just wanted to comment on a short part that stood out. Of course, almost every piece of literature contains such sections, and their number is directly proportional to the quality of the work.

The section of interest described the fading thoughts of an elderly dementia-ridden woman who was left to die in the middle of nowhere by her own loving daughter and then picked up by some local farmers. One of such prolonged thoughts was based on her feelings of empathy, if not pity for God. This notion automatically invoked Byzantine idea of the humanizing of Christ for the layity in the visual culture. Here, however, the woman felt pity for God the Father (an image of the Ancient of Days from, say, a medieval Macedonian church, is very appropriate).

She pictured Him faced with the grand problem of creating Man in his own image, yet out of Nothing. The difficulty of the endeavor was magnified by the fact that God, the Ancient of Days, began sculpting Man out of wet clay, and so she felt pity for this Old Man, because it must have been extremely difficult creating all those little creases that people's hands have and their nails. This is why, she thought, God had decided to give people the ability to reproduce themselves (not as a result of the "original sin"!), rather than having to recreate the task Himself over and over again.

Silly demented old woman.

"America, f*ck yeah!" and Soviet "imperialism" in Central Asia

2005-07-12T04:20:00.001-04:00

Less than 48 hours in the historic parts of the north-eastern US on the weekend, 20+ of which were spent on the road: a shameful lack of time to reassure one's (okay, mine!) "culturedness". At least my kultness had been proven more than adequate!

In addition to the landscape (though not quite as gorgeous a drive (I should say "ride", not "drive", as I drive rarely, period) through Wisconsin), I was yet again impressed by American patriotism. Almost every car sported stickers, most commonly and expectedly the "support our troops" kind and of course, flags - a lot of flags. The only time I see such numbers of patriotic memorabilia here in Canada is on Canada day and on Canada day only. In fact, at any given time I notice more "gay pride" insignia.

This simple observation reassured my preference for the American model of immigration, for example, as opposed to that of Canada - we all remember our junior high social studies classes and being taught (if this sort of thing can even qualify for being educational) that Canada exceeds the US because it has a cultural "mosaic" and integration, as opposed to the American "melting pot" and assimilation. It should be noted that both of these North American countries regretably prefer pop instead of time-tested culture, what little of it these youngsters do have in comparison to mother Europe. At least in the case of the US, however, beer and mindless mass (often sporting and/or hyperrealistic) spectacles of choice are supplemented by a greater sense of unity and national allegiance than what we see in the Babylonian city of Toronto.

On the way back from "America, f*ck yeah!" I finally finished Chingiz Aitmatov's (a Kyrgyz author) errr.....Executioner's Block - I have no idea how else to translate the title of this late Soviet novel into English. My mother bought it for me along with his other best seller when she visited me here in May, because it seemed like I had read just about everything worth reading offered in the local Russian bookstore we visited. I was not familiar with this author, and frankly the novel was just above mediocre, although its ending would make a great Hollywood flick. I was particularly annoyed by the Bulgakovesque (I am aware of the fact that he is not the only author to have done this, but at least he was the best) inclusion of a thematic "time warp" back to the mental torment of Pontius Pilate after his decision in regards to Christ.

The reason I mention this, other than to rant about the fact that I used to read a book a week back in the good old days, is the fact that I have just come across an interview with Aitmatov in Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Apparently he now resides in Brussels and plays quite the diplomat. I was intrigued by his praise of Russian/Soviet "imperialism" and the benefits that it brought to the former Soviet asiatic republics - a breath of fresh air in contrast to the bullsh*t we have been fed for the past two years by the simpleton Western media like the Washington Post and such (re: Georgia, Ukraine vs Russia). His frank late Soviet nostalgia likewise reminded me of my own plight. In the case of the younger generation, however, this nostalgia is doubled- mourning the loss and the inability to experience this loss to a fuller extent.

7 signs of Russianness

2005-06-23T05:22:00.001-04:00

This is really retarded of me to write now, because I don't think I can last much longer. It's 1:30 am, I've been losing a lot of sleep for the past week, and I'm seemingly getting sick. <-AVOIDIG RUN-ONS -> The latter is not a surprise, considering that half of the department is in full sneeze mode, and that I have no immune system. Workouts, carrots, no alcohol, and here we are.

One of my favorite newspapers, Izvestia(.ru), published an article in regards to the the traits that make a Russian - well, a Russian (please, no vodka/polar bear/communism jokes). Before I get into the article, I feel the need to explain that I prefer Izvestia over most other publications (excluding Gazeta(.ru), because of its surprisingly patriotic bias. (It is also quite impressive because it covers more general Western issues, which are no longer considered politically correct to discuss in the actual West. ) In constrast, most other Russian papers are highly and overtly politically and socially critical (insert angry rant on the faulty "Western" perception of the alleged censorship in the Russian press here). My own nationalistic leanings (admittedly somewhat mythic) lead to much disappointment due to the lack of patriotism on the part of both Russians at home and abroad, even in contrast to other slavic nations.

This is not the time nor the place to get into types of nationalism of the Old World (based on ethnicity) verus that of the New World realities (based on citizenship), though it should be said that what I call the "chihuahua syndrome" is of obvious importance (the smaller the country, the greater the self-defense mechanism expressed via nationalistic tendencies). (Unfortunately, Russians still do not realize the violent demographic changes comparable to medieval plagues that are currently occurring and the consequent noticeable country size change likely to come.) Of course, the political turbulence of the past 100 years has also made us too cynical and apathetic as a nation, leading to decreased love of the Fatherland. This is the reason why I am pleased with a slight lean towards patriotic youth movements within the country and the potential improvements they may bring about.

Returning to the specifics at hand - I just noticed that Izvestia's website is too slow to cooperate, which means that I won't be able to recall the entire article. It suffices to state that its points were somewhat primitive - grouping through language, blood, religion et alia. Many of these groupings were expectedly limited by the author or dismissed entirely. One of the main issues linked to this obvious list and completely ignored is the fact that Russian seems to be the only language that I am aware of, in which there is a distinction between Russian (Russkij) and a citizen of Russia (Rossijanin). However, the author did make a somewhat related distinction between Russian-speaking (Russkojazychnyj) and Russian - a term used increasingly abroad for obvious reasons. I am unaware of the word's (Rossijanin) etymology and the origins of this distinction, but I strongly suspect that it too is based on the geo-historic limits of our Empire.

Second (I believe this was the author's conclusion), I was a bit puzzled by the author's suggestion that we, as Russians, must adapt and change our souls, which he describes as too open and easily susceptible to being hurt, in order to survive. In addition to the fact that the assumption of our collective possession of a thing called a Russian soul is in direct contradiction to his earlier cosmopolitan points (I guess there is hope for him yet!) , the proposition to artificially self-modify was bothersome, as it suggested the removal of the properties that distinguish us as a nationality. The author ignored the past century and the effects of communism, which has made Russians much less trusting and open than their prior ("original"?) state - therefore, he should've suggested a return to this very state instead.

Third, my quest to self-situate as a Russian is another consequence. There is a tension between my incomplete ethnic Russianness and my patriotism (including my Orthodoxy); the tension is inscreased by my emigre status - its decreased awareness of the factuality of life in Russia-as-it-really-is (in the modernist sense) and its simultaneous heightened purist and fierce preservation of Russian culture-as-it-should-be. (" ")

Dot. Dot. Dot. Time to sleep.

The indifferent bishop

2005-06-19T17:25:00.002-04:00

I lied.

I ended up going to church today after all, despite the inconveniences described below. Of course, I only attended half the service, which today amounted to one and a half hours (plus a half hour walk each way in stilettos (okay, they are only 1.5 inches high and are actually comfortable; must be the fact that I purchased them in a small German-Canadian town))!

I didn't realize that this is Pentecost Sunday, so for a second there the presence of the bishop was a tad unexpected. I am assuming that he is one of Canada's bishops of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia, because I am fairly sure that there is only one archbishop in North America, and he is situated in NY. This bishop had a rather telling expression of total disregard on his face (of course, I could be wrong, and it could've been a face of a righteously fatigued man, tirelessly serving *JEEBUS* during such an important holiday.) Although my insulting presumption is further supported by the fact that he could not be heard without a microphone (!! Do I sense a televangelical future for this servant of god?!).

Our usual priest, despite his somewhat condescending paternalistic front, has an amazing tenor, sings the entire mass, and theatrically addresses the crowd with the strength of his own voice. On that note, given the right mood, I'll take Byzantine signing in old slavonic over genre-comparable metal any day (tee!). Of course, hearing it LIVE makes all the difference.

This bishop did have two things going for him - he wore an impressive bejeweled crown, not unlike those of Byzantine emperors, but without the "dangly thingies"; he also possessed a long well-groomed signature beard. Mind you, most Russian priests prefer to sport long hair and beards (a la crustified deathmetallers, plus the showers) , which by that alone places them above clean-shaven nerdy Catholics. Our priests also exceed the latter due to their ability to marry, up to a certain rank; I wouldn't be around, if this were not the case for my ancestors. As another aside - I recently discovered that my great-great priestly grandfather had a PhD in theology, at the time when most clergy did not, and consequently when this degree had more value than, perhaps, it does now. (I hope he isn't offended by my incessant usage of "JEEBUS" or any number of metal-related complications!)

This clerical celebrity attracted quite the crowd, which made moving and breathing more difficult than usual under these circumstances (I particularly enjoyed being hit in the face with giant hats, adorning the fashionable not-always-pink-"flamingos", with peroxide blonde coiffure reaching the ceiling) , not to mention imaginative parking techniques rivaling those of Moscow. Here I should note, that even though I hardly know anyone in this church, despite near-regular attendance for almost a year, I've begun classifying its members via mimetic appearance. Most notably, today's list included many of the usual suspects - the 6-foot tall red-haired Russian Britney Spears with cute "cankles", the Cancerman from the X-Files, and a now-shaggy-haired (a real shame!) Robert Downey Jr.; as always, the attendance was sprinkled with a few Putins of all ages.

On the way back from the packed, elbow-pushing mass, some men in a truck attempted to pick me up. Ahh, that pseudo-conservative church-going attire and its appeal! As far as pickups this week are concerned, we also have the Stalone-speaking black man who approached me in the park to inform me that I had a "nice dog", followed by "you are nice too!", or the two individuals who proceeded to lecture me on my worthlessness as an object of female worship, because I did not return their "well, HELLO THERE!!". None of them compare to the recent prize recepient, however, "Tell me where you work, and I'll stalk you". Where art thou, O Knight, I finally bought some dog repellent!

Finally, I've managed to overcome the temptation of going to Timmy's. I NEVER EVER drank coffee before moving to Toronto; this "never" turned into "a couple of times a week" upon relocation, then into "I'm trying to stay awake"....Funny, as it used to put me to sleep back in the day. At least I'm not doing so badly as far as bad habits are concerned otherwise.

Alright, time to indulge comrade Sharikoff in squirrel-chasing and find some pigeons to pose as dragons (yeah, I won't explain that one).

2005-06-18T18:28:00.000-04:00

Now that my dog and I are done chasing squirrels, and it's too cold for him to harass white swans in the waters of the ultra-polluted lake Ontario (which requires a mandatory shampoo bath, as he absorbs the delightful smells of rotten algae, sewage, and god-knows-what-else), I'm trying to decide whether to attend church tonight.

Evening services are more serene, because, as opposed to Sundays, hordes of new Russians wearing cheap Turkish leather jackets and massive bling-bling slavic-style (they must find think their gold matches the icons) are out socializing; they are also shorter, as standing around for two hours in a non-airconditioned-heated-by-hundreds-of-candles sacred space doesn't feel all that spiritual.

I also skipped last week's service due to attending a rather laughable Russian "festival", where teenage female attendees deemed it necessary to be clad like hookers, with approving parents gazing tenderly at their liberated offspring nearby. (Russian goths looked classic as well - black lipstick is NOT supposed to stain your teeth, boys, unless you are going for an authentic medieval look. Your hygene certainly pointed in that direction.... ;)) At least I bought some decently priced DVD's.

I apologize for cutting this short, dear diary, but I just realized that I'm almost out of my beloved sour green apples. The situation must be resolved at once!

Be alert and be vigilant

2005-06-16T05:03:00.001-04:00

It's almost 2 am, and I've just come home from work. (Thank you, "dog repellent" for making me feel a tad safer, and even a greater thank you to the assorted prostitutes of both genders (and genders in disguise!) on my walk from the subway for being somewhat more obvious targets for harassment.)

So, as I registered for this "dear-eDiary-for-the-world-to-see" yesterday, I couldn't help but think of the futility of this endeavor, considering that this will be linked to my site. As a result, I won't be able to criticize misbehaved friends (tee hee), condescending coworkers, the academia (damn you, U of T!); more importantly, the limits of my political and cultural views shall be kept at bay (through no wish of my own, mind you).

Paranoia-cha-cha-CHA!!! aside, I [rhetorically] wonder whether a non-censored (i.e. sans big brother consequences) form of communication is at all possible? Compromise and speaking in puzzles gets tiring. You're still an inspiration, Iron Felix. :(

Three months or less?

2005-06-14T04:22:00.001-04:00

Taking bets as to how long this would last, as a replacement to message boards, perhaps?....

But for now, pop cultural temptation - here I come! :)