Friday, September 28, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #17: Kids These Days


Ahh that'll never get old. Dated? Oh incredibly, but I imagine it was about five minutes after it came out. Old, however? Never. Moving on...I got to bed fairly late last Saturday because, well, you know I was out hittin them Russian nightclubs, a shot of vodka every time they played a Gogol Bordello song.* Well it was either that or I actually got back home around 11pm and then was sitting at home catching up on the latest season of Louie. One of the two for sure. Not sure which though. Crazy, crazy night.

I have nothing snide to say about this man. He is absolutely wonderful.
I did originally want to put a Gogol Bordello picture here but honestly even the least ridiculous picture of him I could find seemed just way, way too broad and outrageous for a blog that, comparatively, enjoys showing an iota of self-restraint.
Point being, I was tired and hoped to get a good night's rest seeing as tomorrow was Sunday, the lord's day, the sabbath. Instead I am woken up fairly early by incredibly loud music being blasted outside my window and squeals of joy and merriment from little kids in the courtyard below.

You are by far the literary character I most identify with.
Bill Murray, that is. I mean, honestly, have you heard about the things he's done? That guy cannot be real.
On a Bill Murry related tangent I am quite upset that I shall no longer be in Russia come February if only so that I could post the same blog entry twice and have it be seen as cute and creative rather than just lazy.
Apparently there was some concert-y fun morning day thing going on for children and it just so happened that it was occurring right outside my window. But I mean I am not here to complain - St. Petersburg once the fall sets in can start to become a dreary town with its many a cold, rainy, cloudy days, so the sound of jubilant youngsters was a very refreshing wake-up call. Its the music that was being played that caused a double take in me because, well, when one things children one thinks:

*shudders*
Or, with the slightly older and slightly less developmentally advanced, one thinks:

A note of clarification: by that first slightly I mean slightly, and by that second slightly I mean significantly.
Less often though one tends to think of this:

He does birthday parties and bar mitzvahs too! Horrifying, horrifying birthday parties and bar mitzvahs!
And yet that is exactly what I woke up to on Sunday morning: Tom Waits' voice. Now let me be clear here in case you don't know this about me (and considering that this gets brought up fairly often, unless you are one of those strange page hits I get from Germany every once in a while** you probably already know) I really love Tom Waits. Absolutely adore him.*** Which makes waking up to his music, in Russia, coupled with the sound of children squealing to be one of the most bizarre and surreal and easily bordering on the nightmarish were I not so pleased with it, experiences of my life. I want to imagine this wasn't a fluke. I want to disregard that this song may actually appear in the soundtrack for the first Shrek film (which begs the question what the hell a song with lyrics like: "I like my town, with a little drop of poison / Nobody knows, they're lining up to go insane" doing in a children's film?) and just imagine that this is what life in Russia has done to these 5 and 10 year olds - harden them all into profound, dark little bastards who only derive pleasure from smoking, drinking, standing on a cold bleak September morning in the rain, and listening to Tom Waits being blasted from a speaker. I want to imagine that the only faults they find in songs like "The Piano Has Been Drinking" and "Bad Liver and a Broken Heart" is that Waits does not go far enough to accurately describe their existence. I want to imagine Waits playing a seeding St. Pete nightclub filled with 4 year olds drinking bourbon straight out of bottles. For the last number Waits invites them all on stage where he gets down on his knees and, arms wrapped around their shoulders, sways with them as they all sing "Hoist That Rag" and "Innocent When You Dream". And yet, nevertheless, there are people who tell you there is no such thing as paradise on Earth.


*Disclaimer: blogger.com, all blogger.com affiliated, and come to think of it this writer himself, as well, strongly, strongly discourage playing the aforementioned shots game as almost any human being attempting to do that in a Russian nightclub would undoubtedly be dead within a half-hour. 

** In which case: Guten Morgen! Freut mich, Ihre Bekanntschaft zu machen. Schraubenschlüssel teutonischen Rittern Apfelkern glücklich lebensbejahend grüne Lüge Löffel ablecken diese Untergang Parodien sind ziemlich komisch. Send your mistranslation complaints to google.com!

***
I still don't love Hell Broke Luce as a song, I'm sorry Nick - if you're reading this out there - I just, I can't get into it as music I get that the lyrics are powerful I don't argue that but - honestly I could easily sustain a many hour conversation about Tom Waits and by could I mean have. Nonetheless we best have some more Waits jam sessions when I get back - if only to scare the neighbors. 

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #16: Rhetorically Inquisitive

Went to dinner a few nights ago in this pretty nice place. As with many a places there is, theoretically, indoor and outdoor seating though considering the climate of Petersburg I have to imagine the outdoor seating is closed 11 to 11 1/2 months of the year.

That's actually how the outdoor dining patio looks in late September.
Still I suppose at this time of year the outdoor dining option still theoretically exists and so when we got there the hostess asked us "Inside or Outside?" and being the adventurous souls that we are said "Outside" to which the hostess reacted with what was either incredibly strong shock or a small, in that case probably unrelated, aneurism. But, well, the customer is always right so she led us outside to a lovely view of our surroundings, a space heater plus blankets at our table to keep us warm, and a generally more tranquil environment compared to the hustle and bustle of the inside of the restaurant and I have to say, hostess be damned, it was actually absolutely lovely.

Oh don't judge me Tim!
I love that his face is one of the first things to pop up on a Google image search for incredulous.
At least for the first 10-15 minutes before the realization of this is the evening in late September in St. Petersburg which means it is freaking cold, coupled with the fact that dinner is not a 5-10 minute ordeal. But we were brave, we were adventurous - what is a semester in Russia, after all, without suffering? How could we ever hope to reach the heights of our great Russian models our Pushkin's, our Dostoevsky's, our more contemporary batshit Nabokov's without some suffering. And so we pondered. And so we sat.

"Am I smart enough to write Lolita now?" his eyes said with forlorn.
At least for another 10-15 minutes before saying fuck it lets go inside. Okay, truth be told I was the one who said fuck it let's go inside but when you combine that with the knowledge that I was the one who also first decided yeah let's sit outside the whole of this story becomes a good bit more embarrassing for me than when I just ascribe decisions and actions to some quantity of "we". And so we were relocated into the wonderful, pristine comfort of four walls and a roof and as we were sitting down we caught a glimpse of the hostess laughing in the background. That is definitely one point for her.

Monday, September 24, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #15: The One Where They Went To The Flea Market And No Other References To Friends Were Ever Made In This Blog Because I Mean Like...I Have Nothing Against Friends And I Get People Like It...I Don't Begrudge Them That...The Rachel As A Haircut Is A Really Interesting Cultural Artifact, I Suppose...And Of Course I Love Kudrow I Just I Guess Never Really Clicked With It, Wrong Time In My Life Maybe. But I Mean Its Nice So Yeah Enjoy It, I'm Glad You Do, Honest I Am*

See how I come through on promises? Truth be told I was sitting here not really sure what to write and was considering writing about something else, while, in true writer-ly / jewish fashion made sure to complain and lament this fact to my friend who, ever so logically suggested I write about the flea market like I said I would. Its embarrassing but likewise true that at that moment in time I had genuinely forgotten that that is how I ended my last post but you, of course, don't need to know that so to keep the narrative flowing just uhh one second here.

Aaaand poof you've forgotten! Forgotten what you ask? Uhh nothing...nothing at all just uhh don't scroll up.
And when I say forgotten I don't mean because of that little gizmo thing I just mean because you, and I, and the world just got so, so lost in Tommy Lee Jones' dreamy 5 o'clock shadow wrinkles.
Tommy Lee Jones' Dreamy 5 O'Clock Shadow Wrinkles(c) is, by the way, my favorite eau de toilette.
...So I got to the flea market! It was a really massive one that stretched on as far as the eye can see and then some. All filled with these little booths full of clothing and chachkis and perfumes and well everything imaginable. There were also some stray dogs wandering around but, you know, so it goes I suppose. As with all flea markets prices were certainly negotiable and said negotiability seemed quite strongly encouraged by all involved. I have to say I was impressed when some of my friends with very limited Russian were able to barter some items down. I, being the meek and timid soul that I am (as ever so clearly is displayed by each and every post in this blog), didn't particularly want to engage the Ruskies in haggling but prices as a whole seemed quite cheap so I didn't find that too much of a problem.

See like that is kind of a strange image for me but nobody else seemed to mind whatsoever. Sometimes even in the city proper, in the main part of Petersburg, you'll find a few. They're never aggressive or anything but still one tends to have a bit of a reaction to it. Maybe that just subtly shows what a 1st world privileged capitalist I am.
Like everything in this post-communist hellscape the flea market seemed to be broken down into two different sections of capitalist superiority and inferiority: The flea market 1% who had their things in sturdier looking structures on sidewalk that was actually paved, and then the flea market masses who had their things in little tents and tarps on this dirt/mud sort of field which I imagine all US shantytowns of the days of yore looked exactly like.

Its a regular Hooverville I tells you!
The dirt field part was inexplicably fairly wet/muddy even though I couldn't recall any rainstorm in the past few days which begs the question of how ridiculously muddy it will be during the actual rainy seasons. If that was the state of things at a dry time I truly cannot fathom how a person will be able to walk around it at all once we get a little more moisture. Now most people looked at clothing, looked at knick-knacks, looked at, well, the logic things to look at when you are in a foreign country at a flea market - the types of things specific to the country and that you would not be able to find otherwise. I, of course, gravitated towards the guy selling music and dvds - things I could easily get back in the States but of course not in bizarre Russian versions. CDs, at least the bootleg ones they were selling here, certainly gave you a bang for your buck as each CD was inexplicably filled with close to 200 songs (as opposed to, you know, 10-15 on a regular CD). They were selling artist's whole discographies in 2-CD bundles for about $3 a CD. Something tells me those artists will see a lot of the profits from each of those sales. I bought a 2-CD set of Russian singer-songwriter Vladimir Vysotsky and was very pleased with my purchase. They also had DVDs, including many TV shows on DVD from Breaking Bad to Mad Men to Luck. Luck was by far my favorite and not only because I make sure a different executive from HBO wakes up ala the classic morning bedhead scene from The Godfather until they bring back the damn show!

This is all cute and adorable but that baby's version of Last Tango in Paris is by far the most disturbing thing I have ever seen in my life. Interestingly enough, though, still directed by Bertolucci and the girl still played by Schneider.
Depraved, depraved stuff.
It was also my favorite because of the inexplicable translation of the name Luck into Фарт which in English would sound like Fart. If that isn't bizarre/confusing enough the word Фарт as far as I know does not exist in the Russian language so this isn't a case of "oh isn't that funny the word for Luck in Russian is Фарт." The word for luck is удача, I have absolutely no idea whatsoever how that title came about, what that word means, and what it means in relation to the show. I mean, I suppose, a series with leads like Hoffman, Farina, Nolte, and Gambon (all around the 70 mark at least) might have some unintentional flatulence but I really doubt/really hope that was not what they were going for.

If you want to see this guy talk about fucking prostitutes and beat a young man to death with an ashtray watch Luck!
Take that childhood.
Spoiler alert I suppose though honestly I mean you might tell yourself you'll watch it eventually but lets be honest nobody is ever going to watch Luck.
So I got home content with my CD purchase only to open it and find 2 of the same CD in the case. I mean for $6 that is still a ton of songs but regardless disappointing. Must have been the curse of the Del Torro babushka. (See I told you I'd bring it full circle...god I'm clever)


*I suppose, in retrospect, or not really in retrospect as I have yet to publish this post (as in I am not editing it after the fact) everything after the words flea market would probably have made a better asterisk post than being included in the title but no, damn it, I am going to keep it as part of the title cause people like the gimmick of a long title and I will ride that, if you would be so kind as to indulge me in one more horse related bit of humor, one trick pony all the way to the glue factory.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #14: Like Alice in Wonderland if Lewis Carroll was tripping acid [while tripping acid] while writing it

I ventured back into the St. Petesrburg subway this weekend....why did I venture back into the St. Petersburg subway this weekend?
If only it was just carny folk!


So everything goes quite smoothly at first. Scan my card, get into the subway just fine, take a 90 minute escalator down, the train arrives within two minutes - all is good. But then there I am innocently standing on the train, minding my own business when, at the other end of the train car I see her. You may now turn on the random clip of scary music I found on youtube.


She was a woman in her 70s, maybe 80s. Her back bent forward at least a full 90 degrees, possibly even more and, slowly but surely, she hobbled her way across the car and, while doing so, never stopped - not for a single moment - shaking her head in a circle. I couldn't tell if it was disease related or religious (seemingly religious, if I had to venture a guess) but I could tell without a doubt that it was the sort of thing that haunted the nightmares of the Guillermo Del Toros and William Friedkins of this world. It was probably this strange form of street performance coupled with immense pity that caused a lot of people on the subway to give her some money. It was simultaneously fascinating and horrifying. And, comedy aside, surely there is something incredibly tragic and upsetting to be said about an elderly woman having to do something along these lines to have enough to survive. Yes I am in Petersburg and decadence can be found just about everywhere but that's definitely not the way much, much more than just the other half lives.
*sigh* Well this image isn't all too delightful anymore after that little bit now is it?
At that moment, though, such contemplative and lofty thoughts about poverty and wealth and capitalism and greed weren't in the forefront of my mind what with the slightly more urgent thought of "Dear god, she's coming this way." And, well, the thing with subway cars is that they are fairly linear in their manner of construction. So if you see a person walking from one end of it while you are at the other end it is more or less unavoidable that they would end up walking right, directly, straight at you. And so, obeying the laws of physics, she proceeded to do likewise. And I ever so calmly freaked the hell out. Now screaming, "DEAR GOD ITS THE SHEDEVIL WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!" while fairly typical for a NYC subway ride would probably be less well received in St. Pete. And so instead I calmly moved aside, started staring directly at a wall, and tried to occupy myself with fun little song lyrics while willing myself not to turn around again no matter how strong the temptation. I mean it wasn't really as if I wanted to stare at this physically and/or mentally and/or religiously ill woman so much as that temptation we all get to maybe, just maybe, take a wee peek* at an eclipse when it comes around. Oh how we know we shouldn't! Oh how we, rationally, know how damaging it is to look! But the desire - the desire is certainly there.

Stupid blind lemurs - didn't construct special sunglasses for themselves to stare at the eclipse.
These are the reasons we humans are allowed to eat other animals!

When I turned around to look she was gone. Or so I thought. When I glanced over at the next car over I saw that she had entered that one and the (scroll back up and turn the music on again, damn it!) entire process began again - this time, however, moving away (mercifully moving away) rather than towards me. I began to contemplate how that might be symbolic of something or another, possibly, but then I heard my stop, shrugged, and went off to the magical world of the outskirts of St. Petersburg and its massive flea market! [See, now if I decide to actually write about the flea market next it will almost look like this was planned and not just some sort of abrupt ending to a story for which I couldn't think of a nice narrative button for. Of course then I'll have to remember to cleverly make some reference back to this story at the end of that flea market one so the whole thing comes together. Eh if worst comes to worst I suppose I can finish writing that one and then sneak in some sort of additional line into this story so then when you go back and try to find where the reference was as you missed it the first time lo and behold it shall be here! This will all probably be deleted as well so the writing as a whole seems better constructed and at least marginally less meandering....yup that sounds like a good plan Ian, a good plan, indeed.]

In my mind, I'm both George AND Lenny!

*I have defeated you, most ingenious of twitter bots!**

** If you have no idea what I am talking about and have not already completely dismissed everything I say as totally nonsensical (we'll come to that point soon enough I assure you) then I would excitingly like to turn your attention to what is without a doubt my favorite usage of twitter in the whole world. Some absolutely brilliant scholarly mind who deserves some sort of award immediately came up with a twitter account that he named Stealth Mountain. The account has but one purpose: find people who write the term "sneak peak" when they almost surely meant "sneak peek" and send them an automated message saying "I think you mean 'sneak peek'" http://twitter.com/StealthMountain - if that isn't wonderful enough in and of itself the twitter account also has a list of the responses people send him (almost all of which are some angry, confused version of "Who the hell are you? Shut the fuck up!") https://twitter.com/stealthmountain/favorites I believe accomplishing one single grand work like this is a more than productive use of one's lifetime.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #13: Produce Galore

Petersburg has a lot of (what I suppose we back in the states would call) corner stores / general stores. This isn't an observation I make lightly along the ho-hum lines of Oh well would you look at that I didn't think there would be another general store just two blocks from the last one. Isn't that marginally curious? Rather I make it in with a sense of deep gravitas and paranoia akin to Holy shit! What in God's name could posses a people to have such an inexplicably large quantity of general stores? How is any of this even marginally fiscally lucrative? Clearly these are all fronts. If I go into the wrong one and buy the incorrect item I will almost certainly be killed by a member of the Russian mafia...but I am so damn thirsty! At which point I usually begin to hyperventilate.

That's actually a picture of a guy who walked into the wrong store not somebody hyperventilating.
In actuality, though, I'd love to know the back-story behind this picture. We should have a caption contest!
"Avraham! Are you looking at our son's tuition bill again? Oy!" Oh I'm rich.
Yeah nevermind scratch the contest, I just won.
On the street I live on, only counting the ones on the side of the street where my house is located, there is one big produce store and two smaller ones. Three on one side of one street. Three!*

Lovely mom and pop operated little produce store or a front for savage Russian mobsters? You decide!

Unlike most pictures on this blog which are simply a fun little visual aid to break up my paragraphs and also help distract you from the fact that almost nothing of substance is being written**, this one deserves to be reflected upon. First of all the 3 items that are so prominently featured above are not, as one may imagine, a "greatest hits" of the General Store, rather they - that is, to clarify, wine, vodka, and cigarettes - make up around half of everything on sale in any one given store. You might think I am exaggerating but I assure you if anything I am making a conservative estimate.

Secondly let us examine that 24. I don't know why they say it about New York because frankly if the signs are not lying Petersburg seems to be the city that truly never sleeps. Everywhere there are signs of "Open 24 hours". Which begs the question who could possibly need wine, cigarettes, and vodka every day of the week in the middle of the night? Which is immediately answered by myself when I remember which country I am currently residing in. No wonder a lot of art history majors like to come here.

BOOYAH! Take that art history majors!...Hmm? What am I majoring in you ask?...Shut your dirty mouth, you bastard!

Whether they are actually open 24 hours I am not sure as, granted, I have never actually attempted to test out whether I can truly buy a potato and some cognac at 4am on a Tuesday. In fact I have been told that some of those places are not really open 24 hours and have "24 hour" signs purely because they think it is hip to have such a sign.

Cause if there is one thing that just oozes cool it is a place with an Open 24 Hours sign.
If that is in fact true I find that piece of information to be even more dumbfounding and fascinating than having 3 general stores on a single block and can't help but wonder what horrific piece of cultural miscommunication must have occurred for Russia to embrace the "24/7" sign as a leading symbol of modernity and progress.

This could have all been avoided...
...with just a few of these.

* There was actually a fourth that recently closed in case three isn't enough for you to think this is a story worth telling. Though really if three isn't enough what the hell do you want from me? What kind of insane grand expectations do you have for the amount of groceries on one block in St. Petersburg? If this does not meet your expectations for a haphazardly constructed rambling blog I really think that is something you should talk about in group.

**This is, of course, the technique Sir*** JK Rowling famously deployed at the start of each chapter of her heptalogy to similarly distract readers from the fact that almost nothing of substance was being written. *leans back in a rocking chair and listens to the sound of at least half of his readers permanently closing this website* *reflects for a moment* Worth it.

***I have to imagine she's been knighted by now.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #12: Because I Am Too Damn Lazy To Write Anything Part 2

And so here is the epic conclusion to:

Knopka (The Button): A Recently Unearthed True Story written by Nikolai Gogol, told by the Beadle of the ------ Church (Translated from the Russian by Ian Buksunski)

“Vanya! Friend!” Ivan Khomanovich shouted out jubilantly over the crowd, “I have come to pick up my majestic overcoat!”
    “Oh how wonderfully impressed our most respectable Ivan Khomanovich will be with Vanya’s workmanship on his most regal of overcoats. Vanya, show Ivan Khomanovich what we have done,” Vasilisa Shponka called out, quickly trying to associate herself as closely as possible to Vanya and his newfound fame.
    “Oh, but certainly,” Vanya said retrieving that most sensational of overcoats, “I spent especially long making sure it would be perfect for you, Ivan Khomanovich.” And with that Vanya gave Ivan Khomanovich his most spectacular overcoat.
    “Hmm, why yes, yes this is quite well done indeed,” Ivan Khomanovich ever so mildly exclaimed, careful to hide his excitement as the showings of emotional intensity are not fit for a man as prestigious as Ivan Khomanovich. “This stitching will serve most adequately and I’ll be sure to stay away from that accursed sign post - may the devil take it! - from now on. But this mending, this shall certainly work why-” and here Ivan Khomanovich paused. And why, you may be asking yourself, dear reader, did our upstanding Ivan Khomanovich pause so abruptly in such a manner unbecoming to his most admirable perfection? Well you see, it was at that moment, that Ivan Khomanovich noticed something utterly horrific! The top button - that top, most wonderful of gold buttons - that button all the world saw most prominently when Ivan Khomanovich walked into the room - that button that unequivocally showed the world and all who inhabit it what an astounding man our dear Ivan Khomanovich was - was missing! And here our wonderful Ivan Khomanovich arrived at an impasse, for, you see, though he proclaimed the buttons to be from the capital, and though he proclaimed the buttons to be gold, they were in fact simply painted golden, bought only a few towns over. Well, even a man as magnificent as Ivan Khomanovich can tell a small fib on the rarest of occasions - so rare in fact that were anybody to know of but one such fib the shock may have sent them to an early grave. And so Ivan Khomanovich, knowing that he could not afford to buy a replacement gold button and knowing furthermore that were he to buy another button and paint it golden all the town would know that he had not bought an actual gold button, in all his compassion for those around him, wanting to spare our frail townsfolk from the distress of finding out he had told the most innocent, inconsequential - and why worry them over something so inconsequential? - of white lies, stood there pondering the most tactful and diplomatic of ways to solve this ever so delicate problem.
    “Thief!” Ivan Khomanovich shouted at the top of his lungs. “Scoundrel! Thief! Tailor Vanya has swindled me of my gold button! Come everyone, look! My beautiful gold button, that you all admire so, my gift from the Prince himself, it has been stolen! Even the rotten Jews from whom I except such things have never dared con me like this - even they have the most miniscule sense of decency! But this, this most worthless of men, does not fear the wrath of our Lord for such a heinous crime! Fellow townspeople, you have known me long, I do not lie, help me retrieve what is mine from this savage brute!”
    “What?” Vanya said with shock and fear, “what are you talking about? The button was right there - the button was right there the whole time!”
    “Then where is it now?” Vasilisa Shponka screamed, “I always knew you were a worthless pig! Now give our great Ivan Khomanovich back his glorious gold button, you louse!”
    And so the townspeople advanced upon Vanya.
    “But all that I have done, all that I have made! Look at my finery, look at my goods! I have the hands of an angel! Why do you no longer revere them?”
    “Liar!” “Scammer!” “Shameless, worthless, son of a mule!” the townspeople continued to shout as they further closed in on Vanya.
    “You know me to be just! You know me to be good! Get the bastard who stole my button! Let him feel the holy justice for his sins!” our venerable Ivan Khomanovich exclaimed, so wholly committed was he to sparing the townspeople from any grief or suffering over his smallest of lies. 
    And as the people finally closed in around him, the fervent demands for the button becoming stronger and stronger, why by then Vanya could not stand it any longer and, collapsing on the floor, immediately died.
    When the people had regained their composure, our inhumanly humane Ivan Khomanovich said, with a warmth in his voice and heart that could melt away all the ice and snow of our most brutal winters, “This man deserves a proper burial.” And, with the help of a few others, proceeded to lift up the body to move to a temporary storage place.
    But, just as they lifted the body, Ivan Khomanovich saw something glitter on the ground right beneath where the body had fallen. Letting go of Vanya, who proceeded in the most tactless of fashions to fall back down on the floor, Ivan Khomanovich gracefully fell on his knees and there he discovered his missing golden button.
    “That despicable rat!” he shrieked and with the most satisfying of smirks - so relieved was he that he could spare everyone else the distraught of finding out that most tangential and unnecessary of truths - showed everybody that he had found his button. And oh what a wonderful time it was for all in J----l! The excitement of this discovery so great, that nobody even noticed as that most vile of men from before, slipped out the door.

    And so things returned to normal in J----l. The town found a new tailor who sewed back on Ivan Khomanovich’s fantastic golden button, Vanya was buried and forgotten, Lizaveta continued to lick people’s spoons (though less successfully by the day as people grew wise to her spoon-licking ways), and our commendable Ivan Khomanovich continued to stroll the town in his beautiful overcoat, with its brilliant gold buttons, receiving all the honor and respect a man as infallible as he deserves. 
    Oh, but what a world, we live in! What a cruel and crazy world, where temptation hides around every corner! Where in the shadows lurk men most cruel and vile! Where our townsfolk can be mesmerized and lead to the devil simply through attractive wears! Is this the kind of world, dear reader, you believe we should live in? I dare even say this is not the kind of world a writer should ever transcribe to page - even in the most awful recesses of fictional writing! And shame on all of those who do write about such things - those people are not worth but the fingernail of a true man! And yet, just as our great Ivan Khomanovich, I cannot lie. No! I could never lie to you because, though it hurts me more than you could ever imagine to say this, we do live in such a world. Such things happen in this world - and often at that!  All we can do is look towards our great men - look towards your own Ivan Khomanovich, if you are blessed enough to know one - and try to live our lives with but one, one-hundredth of the virtue they do! Why just yesterday, an unspeakable tragedy befell our Ivan Khomanovich. As he walked down the street he clipped his coat on that awful signpost and, without his noticing, off popped his glorious golden button. But look! See with what dignity he continues to walk, thinking never of himself - only of others! And plotting, mercifully plotting, just who he could (rightfully!) blame so as to spare the people sorrow, pain, and heartbreak. What a man! What a man!

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #11: Because I Am Too Damn Lazy To Write Anything Part 1

We're reading some Gogol in our literature course here so I though this would be as opportune a time as any to present what I can safely say without the slightest bit of exaggeration is a little known 21st century masterpiece. The fact that it was written by me (as a final project for a Russian Classics course I took last year) probably only helps further solidify it as a true masterpiece as I am incredibly humble. It is a bit long so I'll split it up into two parts which will be helpful both to you as you will not have to process all of the intricacies and beauty of the text at once, and to me as well as I will not have to think of anything original to write for a few days / I will have a few days to think of something original to write. Once more I suppose I am destroying the 'movie magic' and should probably say I wrote this right now - for you! - but just like a severely deranged Daniel Day Lewis blurring the line between method acting and schizophrenic nervous breakdown, I cannot tell a lie.

Drinking your abolition-of-slavery milkshake in theaters everywhere November 16th.

Knopka (The Button)
: A Recently Unearthed True Story written by Nikolai Gogol, told by the Beadle of the ------ Church (Translated from the Russian by Ian Buksunski)

Part 1


    On V----y street, in the town of J----l, located in the province of K----k, just west of the M----g hills lived the tailor Vanya. There also lived a blacksmith, an artist, and Lizaveta who enjoyed sneaking up on people and licking their spoons at mealtime, always exclaiming with joyous satisfaction, “Your soup is strong and hearty today, blacksmith!” But that is not the point, no, that is far from it! The tailor, you see, he is the point! So why don’t we get back to that?
    Vanya - for you see though Vanya most certainly had a patronymic, as all those born in this world inevitably have, he had been known as Vanya for so long that were one to inquire to the fellow townsfolk “Why I do not know of tailor Vanya’s patronymic, would you be so gracious as to help me out?” they would lapse into deep thought and then often forget entirely and start talking about the price of hay or how drink at the local bar tastes more diluted by the day, and even if you were to go to Vanya himself and somehow work into the conversation a question of that sort without coming off as impolite - as such questions can often seem - even he would be taken aback by such a query, for so long has he been known simply as Vanya, that he would start thinking on the question and, after much contemplation, go off to the graveyard in search of his father’s grave but, always returning without a word, go right back to sewing as if he had forgotten the whole thing - was sitting in his workshop, mending a beautiful black overcoat, with large gold-colored buttons for Ivan Khomanovich, the town’s police chief. Ah, if only every town could have a man as proper, as dignified, as loyal and good as Ivan Khomanovich. “Real gold, these buttons are” he would always say “a present from the capital!” and who would dare not believe such an upstanding man, in such a fashionable overcoat! To extol his many virtues would be an impossibility for any one man, so let us allow his remarkable coat to speak for itself.

    As Vanya sat and mended that remarkable piece of cloth, a most vile man - from where he entered, may god himself take my soul and all that I love if I lie, I do not know, perhaps he burrowed in from underground as the Jews are known to do in their thieving, bartering ways - appeared, dressed in rags so filthy and shabby I dare not even describe them for fear of upsetting you, my dignified reader. This most vile man then proceeded to slither up to Vanya and whispered “How would you like to have the hands of an angel?”
    Quite understandably perplexed, as one would be if they were asked such a strange question, Vanya asked “Who are you?”
    “Why I?” the man quizzically inquired, feigning insult at not being recognized, “I am myself and you are yourself. We are each ourselves! Are we not? And after that, what other questions could we possibly have? You are Vanya, are you not?”
    “Yes,” Vanya answered with some hesitation.
    “And I am I - not Vanya - and for our purposes on this Earth what more would we ever need to know? Now tell me, Vanya, proud tailor of J----l, I inquire again would you like to have the hands of an angel?”
    “Well I suppose that-”
    “To make the finest suits and dresses from scratch! Embroidering the most beautiful and complex of patters in mere minutes. To be seen as a God for your craft, for your masterful artwork, to be-”
    “Yes, I want it, I want it all! The years I have toiled here, trying to scrape by enough to live. The decades I have honed my craft in an attempt to master this most obtuse of art forms. You think people notice a stitching? You think Vasilisa Shponka  cares when you mend her grandmother’s worn shawl for the umpteenth time? No respect, no adoration - only hatred if you do wrong. Give me it, give me all of it! I want to be able to create wearable perfection - I want to bring dignity to the people through my attire. Let them revere me and let me make them people of reverence!”
    “Very well,” the man said with that most unsettling of twinkles in his eyes - that unique twinkle in which more worldly men would instantaneously recognize the unmistakable glimmer of a devil - that twinkle which would send wiser men running for the hills and never looking back - like that farmhand Sergei who was chased from the bedroom of the young maiden Katerina by her father, returned one day early from his trip to the Caucuses, pure hatred in his heart and a pitchfork in his hand - but Vanya did not see, moreover by this time Vanya could not see, so blinded was he by his desires. And so when the man said, in the most casual of tones (the kind reserved only for the closest of friends on a cool summer night when the tea is warm, the pie is fresh and the crop is good), “but I shall need a small…keepsake so as to make our exchange official.” Vanya, without giving it but one single thought, agreed. And, with that done, the man left in as mysterious of a fashion as he had arrived.

    And so Vanya sewed. Oh, how he sewed! And so he continued to sew throughout the morning, past the midday, and through the afternoon and even when Praskovya said “Tailor Vanya, the dinner stew is ready!” even then Vanya continued to sew - and though there would be days that Vanya would work into the night, never, in all his life on this Earth, had Vanya missed a dinner when Praskovya’s delicious stew was being served.     And so, in this manner, having missed Praskovya’s stew, Vanya continued to sew with an intensity and speed he had never in his life dreamed possible. Within the first hour, in fact, he had already mended his entire week’s worth of garments - and my, you should have seen how they were mended, how beautifully he stitched the fabric back together and patched up the holes and rips. And yet even when he had finished all of his work, he did not stop! His hands - as if possessed by all that is good in this world - started crafting together, from absolutely nothing but the fabric and the needle, beautiful new coats and shirts and pants and socks in all the latest styles and fashions. By the time he decided to take a break - just as the sun was starting to rise and everybody else in J----l was starting to get ready for the grueling day ahead - he had already completed dozens of brand new pieces of attire.
    Lying down to sleep Vanya thought, “Finally, I shall get the respect I deserve,” and with that most pleasant of thoughts Vanya rolled over onto his stomach, scratched his right ankle with a deep sigh of satisfaction, and fell asleep.

    And so Vanya would have slept for at least half a day, so exhausted was he by this most grueling and inspired day of work. But this half-day sleep was not meant to be because just a few hours later, Vanya awoke to the sound of murmuring excitement. Stretching lazily in his bed, Vanya rubbed his tired eyes and slowly arose to investigate the source of that which had most unpleasantly roused him from his slumber.
    Wandering towards his work bench, Vanya saw that a whole group of townspeople had gathered around his pile of mended clothing. “Tailor Vanya,” Vasilisa Shponka called when she saw him approaching, “my dress! What you have done with my dress is simply remarkable. Look, look how the large rip from that damn splintered signpost - why do we not just get rid of the thing, constantly people are getting caught on it and how sharp and dangerous it is for all the children running by, down with the whole forsaken thing I say! - but look, see how you mended the tear? No you do not see? Why of course you do not see for that is how well you fixed it up! Why nobody would ever even consider that this is not how the dress looked when it was first bought. How brilliant you are with that needle. Why even Pirogov - ‘ey, you! Pirogov! Yes you why are you staring at me who else would I be calling at with the name of Pirogov - come over here! Why even Pirogov who has eyes that can spot a bird the size of your smallest thimble, a whole kilometer away with easy - Pirogov tell me does this dress not look brand new?”     “As if the receipt was still being written up as we speak,” Pirogov answered with that most gentlemanly of tact.
    “As if the receipt was still being written up as we speak, he says! And truer words, let me tell you Vanya, have never been spoken. This, this is absolutely amazing! Thank you so much for fixing my dress.”
    And to that day, sweeter words, Vanya had never heard. But they did not stop then. One by one everybody who was there marveled to Vanya about how spectacular their clothing looked and for that brief period of time Vanya felt like he was in heaven, like he had finally gotten all that he wanted in life, like he was whole.
    When the last person was finished praising Vanya, and the group started getting ready to leave, Vanya, with the slyest of smiles on his face, took out the pile of clothing he had created the previous evening. Even if everyone in the room suddenly sprouted a tail and started turning into a donkey the gasp of shock would not have been nearly as loud as it was when they saw that clothing.
    “Tailor Vanya!” they exclaimed with shock, “where did you get all of those most beautiful of things?”
    “Why this?” Vanya responded feigning surprise and continued, putting forth his best effort at modesty “I just sewed it last night.”
    At hearing this the excitement of the crowd simply could not be contained anymore. “Why Vanya you are simply a God!” “Never in my life have I seen anything to rival this!” “Why even those most thrifty and vile of Jews would shell out their gold for something this remarkable!” And in such a manner people continued to exclaim for the next two hours and who but God himself knows how much longer they would have continued - maybe to this day, they would still be standing there marveling over Vanya’s creations - had not at that moment Ivan Khomanovich walked through the front door to pick up his most brilliant of overcoats.

Check back Tuesday for the exciting conclusion of Knopka (The Button): A Recently Unearthed True Story written by Nikolai Gogol, told by the Beadle of the ------ Church (Translated from the Russian by Ian Buksunski)

Friday, September 14, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #10: How To Fit In

A brief note before we dive into this entry. It has taken a bit of time to publish this one - I often enough have a few ready in advanced but because none of them are time specific I can sprinkle on some movie magic and pretend that the events of whichever post goes up that day are more or less "Live!" - it is a trick us folks here in Hollywood use. This entry, however, makes reference to things that, if you are also here with me, are clearly from over a week ago. I hate to be the one to spoil the illusion but those late night talk shows aren't really filmed at midnight either.
WHAT DIDN'T YOU LIE TO ME ABOUT YOU RED HEADED BASTARD?!?

Anyway, without further ado let me transport you back to the world of last Monday through my beautifully written prose.

So I'm walking down the street to our start of the year orientation at the University. All my professors will be there, the entire school's faculty and student body will be there, class photos will be taken - its a big day.

Say сыыыыыыыр!

But what do I have to worry about? I'm cool, I'm hip, I've got it all together - I have the necessary paperwork, I'm listening to my ipod while walking to the university, I've got about an hour to make a 40 minute walk - everything is clicking. Until, that is, I remember that I forgot to put on deodorant before heading out the door.

And I wasn't smart enough to invest in whatever the hell this is.

Thoughts start swirling round my head: Crisis! Panic! Disaster! What will happen now if I sweat? Dear god! Worrying about sweating is causing me to start sweating. Oh fate what a cruel, cruel mistress you are. Luckily for me I spot a beacon of hope on the horizon. Salvation: a pharmacy.

Who am I to question the form in which the Messiah chooses to present himself?

Quickly I run in only to discover that everything in the store is locked behind glass. I try communicating to the pharmacist that I want to buy some deodorant - any deodorant - whatever she recommends I don't care! But she tells me to point out specifically what I want. I see the word Nivea, point at it and a few dollars later am out on the street, deodorant in hand. "Success!" I think. But here another problem presents itself: How to apply said deodorant? No bathrooms around to pop into. Since I spent some time in the store I am kind of cutting it close getting there so I can't just go to a bathroom in the University (and besides I am not 100% positive where the bathrooms are in the building (plus, of course, I want to apply it before walking the few kilometers to the university)). And so I do what any rational human being would do at that moment: Open the deodorant and, while walking down one of the busiest streets of St. Petersburg, start awkwardly attempting to apply it* (bookbag on my back, sweater and cell phone in one hand, stick of deodorant in the other). Slowly but surely I get it done. In the process I manage to drop my cell phone on the ground - a man with confused compassion and pity in his heart picking it up for me.

Stop showing off you little punk - its not as easy as it looks.
Sidenote: top 3 ways google suggests fininsh the phrase "Man Applying..."
1. Man Applying Deodorant 2. Man Applying Condom 3. Old Man Applying Walmart

And so I walk to the university. Cool, hip, having it all together, ready for orientation with a smile on my face and the, if necessary, ever so clever answer of "I am just happy to see you but yes that is a stick of Russian Nivea deodorant in my pocket."


*I wasn't kidding before when I said no more half-measures.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #9: Water, Water Everywhere But Not A Drop to Drink

Did you know, that St. Petersburg has more canals and bridges than Venice? Its true! Somebody told me so once so it has to be and if it isn't well now I've put it out there on the interwebs so feel free to quote this blog as a research source if that ever happens to be a piece of information you require.*

Okay well there is definitely at least one for sure.

Did you also know that it is highly inadvisable to drink the water in St. Petersburg as it is known to contain a lot of Giardia - a parasite that can lead to diarrhea/vomiting/other general pleasantries of that nature that most rational human begins enjoy avoiding?

Okay well there is definitely at least one for sure.

Therefore most people - especially of the tourist variety - end up drinking a lot of bottled water. Prices of it vary - I've gotten a 2L bottle from a convenience store around where I live for about $1.60 and I've gotten a .33mL bottle from a coffee shop on the city's main street for about $4.30 - but you really start appreciating something so incredibly basic and essential when you have to take a second and actually plan out where the next one is coming from as opposed to just scratching your stomach wandering over to the sink and wrapping your mouth around the facet.

You ungrateful privileged bastard!

Some people, understandable not wanting to pay over $4 for a small bottle of water, argue that they might as well buy alcohol because, hey, it is cheaper. Which is a perfectly fine argument to make if it is 10 at night and we are sitting in a bar and we want to drink and somebody proposes we have a really crazy night by starting off with a round of bottled water. But when that argument is broached during a 1pm lunch at some little cafe, I grow slightly more incredulous to it.

Its hard to tell from this angle but that is actually a bottle of Evian.

I understand that it is the sort of expense one doesn't really encounter at home - maybe not the sort of thing one worked into their budget calculations - but it is also the sort of thing one (quite literally)  cannot live without.** Maybe somebody drinks more, maybe somebody drinks less but when I am thirsty I want water, and I don't think there is any amount of shots that will quench it (maybe an amount that will make me forget I am thirsty but that seems more like a temporary delay than an outright solution). Are the prices ridiculous? Surely. Would I rather risk getting a stomach parasite? Maybe if there are enough shots in me (oh...I think I just figured out the rationale of that argument). Until that time comes, however, I raise my overpriced Bon Aqua to you, dear reader, and say bottoms up!

*And they say you don't learn anything here - all these little stories and factual tidbits would make delightful cocktail party conversation! Absolutely delightful!
** As opposed to "I just can't live without hulu and netflix instant!" God knows it isn't a life I would want to live but, in and of itself, it probably wouldn't kill me.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #8: Way Down in the Hole

Hailing from New York City (or as we cool natives call it NYC)* I was quite familiar with the concept of a subway system before I got here.

And people think it is difficult to use!
The metro system (see how sophisticated and European I sound now?) here, however,  is a good deal different from the one back home. First and foremost it is a lot smaller.
A tad simpler.
It is also significantly more beautiful than the NYC subway system and by significantly more beautiful I mean the stations are actually beautiful and not that they are simply beautiful compared to the NYC stations as that statement might simply imply that the stations are not filled with rats and graffiti.

First of all: not beautiful. Second of all I know this station and somebody has clearly retouched this photograph more than one would a model in a magazine

Holy fucking shit is that a subway station or some Persian prince's palace?!?
Can you tell which one is which? I'll give you a hint the New York one doesn't have massive intricately designed columns and chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Also the New York one has big English letters in the upper right hand corner so come on that was pretty much a freebie. The Petersburg system is also a lot more efficient than the one in New York - you never have to wait for a train more than 2 minutes. The only real downside of the Petersburg system is that the trains all seem to be conveniently located in the bowls of hell. Entering a train station is really only half the battle as you then have to get to the train itself often times located one, or two, or even three absurdly long escalators down. And, maybe I just haven't traveled during peak rush hours but what is really fascinating is that 99 out of every 100 people seem perfectly content to stand on these 3-5 minute escalators without ever thinking maybe I have somewhere to go and could start slowly walking so as to reach my destination within the next year or so.

I had immense difficulty finding any picture that gave a true approximation of the length of one of these.
Suffice to say it is damn long.
The deepest station is located a mere 105 meters underground. To give an approximation of that stand up at street level and if you are pretty tall (say about 6 feet) imagine the height of your body underground. Now imagine that multiplied over 57 times. And, of course, one has to repeat the escalator debacle going back out of the station. So a three minute train ride miraculously becomes a 15 minute one before your eyes. Its like magic!
...horrible, horrible magic
But at least I can call somebody to complain - cursing everyone around me in my secret language: English. Strangely/wonderfully enough, even though we are so deep underground, cell phones seem to work in the subways - which is a lot more than can be said of the NYC ones. Hell my TMobile service seems to break down pretty much anywhere with walls let alone underground. My theory is that the subways are located so deep underground that they are almost at the surface, on the other side of the world. Most of my friends with any knowledge of science seem to strongly argue against that hypothesis citing some b.s. about magma and the earth's core that I am sure is in the same realm of big wig mumbo-jumbo they use to try and confuse people into thinking we "descended" from monkeys. So I ask you dear reader to please keep your ears open and on the ready at all times. Next time I am in the subway, to test out my little hypothesis, I will try to yell as loudly as I can. You might not be able to see Russia from your house, but maybe you'll be able to hear it.

Clearly it is the other way around I mean for the love of god have you turned on MTV in the last decade?!?

* "The City", "The Big Apple", "The City That Never Sleeps" and, of course, "I don't give a shit what any official government document says if you are from Staten Island you are not from New York!"

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #7: The Context Of This Post Is Currently Unavailable Pending Bureacratic Oversight. The Page You Have Requested Will Be Approved/Denied Permanent Internet Status Within 3-30 Business Days After All Appropriate Paperwork And Bloodwork Have Been Submitted. We In Absolutely No Way Thank You For Your Patience In This Matter.

Ah bureaucracy. I think it was Humphrey Bogart who first called bureaucracy the stuff dreams are desecrated of but they changed it in the final script because it didn't sound all too catchy.

Cause that's what the kids crave in these hip, fresh blogs they read - really shitty jokes on quotes from films of the early 1940s..."Fuck yeah! You tell 'em!" I can already hear teenagers all around the globe screaming.

Bureaucracy in every country is a pain in the ass. In Russia it is likewise a pain in the ass if said pain was preceded by two colonoscopies in a row.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD ALL HE WANTED TO DO WAS BUY SOME STAMPS!
One would imagine after the ridiculous ordeal getting here* everything would be a little smoother once they were finally in Russia. One would imagine incorrectly. One has to carry a copy of their passport and visas with them at all times. Almost any task that carries with it even the whiff of something slightly official, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, requires your original passport. Which in some cases is perfectly understandable - fraud and things of that nature are fairly common here so it makes sense that rules are strict for our own protection (I'm not here to scream about how everything should be completely libertarian). In other cases, however...not so much.

No Paul I'm not going to revert to the gold standard!*
*I'll just invest all of my earnings purely in gold and once all monetary systems collapse I'll be rich! Rich I tell you!
The one that really got my goat was the process for getting a library card for our university. Seems simple enough doesn't it? You are a student in a school so you go to the school's library, show your normal school identification and are given a card for the library (while, preferably, being complimented on how studious you are and given a cute little spiel about how kids are not hard workers anymore like they used to be). If only. Instead you have to fill out and sign two separate slips of paper, go to a specific bank about 3/4ths of a kilometer from the university, give them said slips of paper (along with a strangely specific nominal fee of 54 rubles - about a $1.70), be told that you have to provide your passport and visa along with the pieces of papers, take out copies of your passport and visa, be told that they can only be the originals and you have to come back the next day, and leave the bank with the exciting prospect of getting to do all of that again tomorrow. Can anyone explain to me why my passport is needed to get a library card? What possible grand schemes of fraud might I commit after impersonating someone so as to pay $1.70 to get their university-specific library card? This is why people plagiarize. These are the sorts of things illiteracy is born from. (I have to do what to get a library card? Just pour me another drink and teach my how to hold a hat while you play a tambourine on the streets - I just don't give a shit anymore.) 

This show is nothing but a crazed, delusional utopia!

But, alas, I am studious, I have a resolve, I'll, begrudgingly, go back to the bank in the near future and try again but, honestly, if there is another problem I'll just go ahead and stick to wikipedia.


*Having to get an invitation from a university, having to fill out a visa form then ship it off with said invitation and your passport, as well as your blood work to show you are HIV negative. Paying an exuberant fee to get said visa (about $220 to get it within 12 business days and $330 to expedite it to 4 business days). Getting only a single entry visa and then having to have it switched to a multi-entry visa once you entry the country. Having to once again provide HIV-negative blood work this time to the university you are studying at. You though there was going to be something funny here didn't you? You though Oh Ian always leaving a cute little tidbit for us at the end of the post so just when we think it is done there is one more piece of delightful humor awaiting us. What a swell fellow he is! And then this is what you get. You know why? Because there is nothing funny about bureaucracy. It takes up time, it takes up money, it takes up my will to live and a pox on all who are directly or indirectly involved with it! THERE SHALL BE NO MORE HUMOR UNTIL I DON'T HAVE TO CANCEL ALL MY PLANS FOR THE DAY IF I WANT TO GO TO THE DMV - YOU HEAR THAT WORLD LEADERS?!? NO MORE!**

**Oh I could never stay mad at you, my dear, meek, loyal, trusted reader. The leaders knew that, that's why they called my bluff and oh, much to my chagrin, I folded immediately. I apologize for my behavior (and simultaneously attempt to placate you) with the following picture.

That is so ridiculously adorable. I don't even remember what I was talking about anymore but who the hell could care cause I mean come on look at it. It is a cat covered in red ribbon! What more could you want?

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #6: Ian: 1

I had my first run in with a seedier side of St. Pete* today....and I totally kicked its ass!
If I eventually end up seriously injured or murdered here this is going to look very sardonically hilarious. I'm fairly certain in any work by Pushkin or Gogol I'd probably be dead before this was even published.

So I was walking to university this morning (I always want to write to school - it just seems to be easier to write "to school" than "to university." "To university" just sounds too clunky or too British, though there is certainly nothing wrong with the latter) at a decently quick pace, listening to my iPod and such, when a man approached me. Apparently this man was incredibly happy to see me as he proceeded to put one hand on my shoulder and another somewhere near my torso and then ask me for directions to the nearest subway. I told him I wasn't from around here, moved slightly away from him and picked up my pace. Now, maybe I just have a cynical view of humanity, but it seems to me that when you come up to the one person, on a busy street, with headphones on and ask them for directions (in the process put your hands on his/her body - if there is one things the Russians are not particularly known for it is being touchy feel-y with strangers), there may be an ulterior motive at play.
Maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe he was just hitting on me, in which case how do you say "Straight but absolutely flattered" in Russian?

I turn the corner and check my pockets. Empty?!? Oh no wait they were empty to begin with, never mind. See I got up that morning too lazy to spend another day dragging myself around the city in jeans. So I put on my sweatpants and, feeling the pockets were too easy to pick, put all of my electronics and wallet into my book bag. So while he may have still gotten into my pocket, he was probably immensely disappointed to find nothing there but a Nantucket Home pack of tissues.
Which, granted, are quite adorable and convenient so I thank him for not taking them as a conciliation prize.

Had I been wearing jeans my wallet would have certainly been in them and chances are pretty good that in the 10 seconds or so it took me to realize what was happening, he (and by extension my wallet) would have been long gone. So I suppose, once again, the day is saved by me having a complete and utter disregard for the most basic of fashion sense and caring for my own personal comfort above all else. Clearly, its people like me that caused this great republic to collapse.

*
Not to be confused with the risqué religious-themed Harlequin romance novel The Seedier Side of Saint Sebastian which I am writing for Pendant. (In bookstores everywhere Fall 2013)

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Petersburgian Case File #5: The Dapper Era of the Draper Has Never Left St. Pete

The Russians may not be in love with Americans as a people but they sure love our language.* As such transliterations are a huge thing here. All over the place you will see various English words written out using Cyrillic letters. Essentially it is the same word just with a faux Russian accent added onto it. And one might think that just saying the word in English (that is, saying the word properly) would suffice but 3 times out of 5 they'll just stare at you with a blank expression.

I don't have a particularly witty caption for this I just really wanted to share this picture.
The result of these transliterations are more often than not pretty hilarious - there is just something really funny about having to pronounce the word muffin "maf-fyen". My favorite one, however, is the city's biggest chain of coffee shops - their version of Starbucks: Coffee House!


Behold how primitive and not green and white it's logo is!
So the first word is, simply enough, кофе (phonetically: kofe) - they sound similar, and Russians use the same word as English speakers so that is perfectly fine. It is part 2 of 2 where problems start to arise. The Russian word for house is дом (phonetically: dom). Keenly observant followers of this blog may notice that the letters following кофе in the picture above look dissimilar to the letters in the word дом. хауз phonetically sounds like hauz or basically an accented, slightly stupid pronunciation of the English word house. In and of itself that is fairly amusing but the reason it really gets me is that whenever I see хауз and pronounce it in Russian I can't help but think of Peggy, from Mad Men, screaming PIZZA HAUZ! And so that delightful image floods into my mind whenever I pass by one of these. Soon enough the sheen will wear off and Elizabeth Moss will become the bane of my existence - haunting my every dream with her barbaric scream of pizza hauz. [God knows Fred Armisen is already one of the banes of my existence...She was married to him, isn't that so weird?...Ugh Portlandia is a television show...*glares angrily while muttering under my breath* Fred Armisen]


Ugh just look at him, damn it! ARMISEEEEEN!!!
Until that day comes I will be utterly delighted by every кофе хауз I pass by, smiling uncontrollably at what I imagine Russians assume is the spirit of capitalism and the comforting 21st century knowledge that a semi-decently prepared cup of coffee could be mine with only a step through the door. Personally I think the real reason is a bit more profound but we can just keep that between you and me.


*Our language being American because in America you speak American, damn it or the terrorists have won!