It’s not what you may be thinking . . . it’s just a visit, and by only two of the ten members of the expatriate Feenstra family. Unexpectedly, it’s Mom Anneesa and son Wesley who have made the long trek back to their lifetime home in Saskatchewan, Canada, to surprise Anneesa’s parents.

After an exhausting journey, changing flights in Turkey, they arrived somewhere in Canada — presumably at the Saskatoon Airport — where they were met by the previously mysterious oldest son, whose name we now know is Ben, and who was in on the big secret.

Then there was a long drive through the still-wintry countryside with a stop for lunch, and a drive-through at “something Russia doesn’t have” (Anneesa’s words): one of Tim Horton’s chain of famous coffee shops. They also made time to drop by a sporting goods store, where they looked at jeans and other clothing items, and Wesley showed off his new sneakers. It made me wonder if they’d thought to get those hard-to-find size 15s for Arend . . . but they didn’t mention it.

Needless to say, the reunion was a loud and emotional one with Anneesa’s parents, and at some point the filming stopped to allow everyone to catch up, and finally to get some much-needed sleep.

*. *. *

The second installment began a day or two later, with brothers Ben and Wesley renovating a bathroom at their grandparents’ farmhouse. We finally learn that the main reason for the trip is that the older couple are preparing to sell their farm and make a “life change” — presumably retiring to a less strenuous lifestyle — and Anneesa wanted desperately to see one more time the home in which she had grown up, and to help her folks with the transition.

Filming time has been limited since their arrival as Anneesa frankly admits she is not used to being the one in front of the camera . . . not to mention the fact that they’ve been busy just being together. But taking a little time out, the grandparents did treat everyone to a local hockey game.

We next are introduced to other members of the family: Anneesa’s two older sisters, who similarly had no idea she was coming to visit but had arrived for what they thought was a routine visit to their parents’ home. And for me, a comment by one of the women, as she hugged her baby sister for the first time in over a year, perfectly answers a question that has been in my mind since the day the Feenstras arrived in Moscow: What about the family they’ve left behind? And that sister’s comment was:

Second only to the overriding issue of what the future holds for the eight children now living in Russia, the most baffling question has been how they could leave their two families (including their eldest son) behind, not knowing whether they would ever see each other again. And, observing the obvious closeness of this family, I still don’t know the answer.

*. *. *

Thus far, there has been no indication as to how long Anneesa and Wesley will be staying in Canada, and I’m hoping there will be more details soon, or at least when they return to Russia and recap their adventure.

In the meantime, I remain curious — and more than a little surprised — as to how this trip was possible at all. The Feenstras’ legal status in Russia is still that of “temporary residency,” and I would have thought . . . although admittedly I don’t know for sure . . . that they would be under some out-of-country travel restrictions. Perhaps their celebrity standing, and the fact that they were leaving eight members in Russia to ensure their return, had something to do with it.

As with Arend’s trip to Georgia with daughters Cora and Ariana last month, this is great propaganda for the Russian government . . . a visible sign to the world that emigrating there might not be such a bad idea after all. Nevertheless, I’m happy that this reunion was possible for them.

I do have to wonder — although another person’s financial situation would normally be none of my business — who covered their travel costs. The cheapest flight I found for a round-trip from Moscow to Saskatoon via Turkish Airlines was $2,800 per person.

Still, I’m glad that Anneesa was able to see her parents and sisters once more, and I wish them a great visit and safe return. Looking forward to the next installments, I am, as always . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/9/25

I believe my readers (all eight or ten of you) will be excited to know that I am just about to eat my first Spotted Dick.

All right, children . . . that’s enough snickering. You know perfectly well, from the tales of my recent obsession with all things British, that this is what I mean:

I had long ago spotted this item in my local supermarket in suburban Washington, D.C., but was frankly too embarrassed to pick it up, walk around with it in plain sight in my cart, and then have to face the cashier at the front of the store.

I’ve tried ordering it from the market where I now shop, having moved to another part of the country, but apparently the good people of the southern U.S. are not into Spotted Dick. I consider that to be their loss.

When I did an online search of one upscale local market, they didn’t know what I was talking about either; however, this is what came up as possible acceptable substitutes:

I thought about trying the “Creamy Dreamy” just for fun, but got hung up on wondering what twisted artificial intelligence thought the Spot Shot stain remover, Cat’s Pride kitty litter, extra-large Dude Wipes (use your imagination), and Always Discreet incontinence panties might be in the same category as a sponge pudding. (“Sponge,” by the way, being Britain’s name for a light, airy cake, which actually does make sense.)

But recently, I discovered that Amazon — yes, good old “Whatever it is we’ve got it and if we haven’t got it we’ll get it for you” Amazon — carries a different brand of it:

Now we know that Spotted Dick is a “steamed pud.” I’m sure you’ve figured out that a “pud” is short for “pudding” . . . but did you also know that, to the British, the term “pudding” covers a wide range of desserts, whereas in America a pudding is a thick, gloppy, viscous, milk-based dessert, and other desserts have their own specific names, like “pie,” “cake,” or “cookie.” (Actually, I believe a British cookie is called a “biscuit,” but that’s a whole other issue.)

Do you see why I’m so intrigued by the British? They speak an entirely different language!

Anyway, I was delighted to find that Aunty has a Spotted Dick (restrain yourselves, please), and I hastened to order just a single two-pack to satisfy my curiosity. When it arrived the very next day, I read the package, which turned out to be an education in itself.

The instructions were simple enough: remove the foil top from one cup of S.D., nuke on high (1,100-watt microwave) for 30 seconds, invert cup into bowl, squeeze and lift the little cup off the pudding, and enjoy. Okay . . . got it.

It was the list of ingredients that left me gobsmacked (there I go again!). You see, in the U.S., our laws require all ingredients in prepared foods to be listed in a specific way; but it is assumed that we don’t necessarily need — or want — to know what each ingredient is, or what it is likely to do to our bodies. Not the natural stuff, like flour, sugar, or milk . . . but those mysterious last items, like “xanthan gum.”

And I don’t know whether it’s also required by British law, or perhaps Aunty just decided to do it on her own, but the package from my Spotted Dick contained far more detail than I had ever expected (or hoped) to see. Allow me to elucidate:

After all of the recognizable ingredients, which are real food, we have Sodium Bicarbonate and Disodium Diphosphate. These are identified as “raising agents.” The first one I know as “baking soda”; the second one was, until today, a complete mystery. Actually, I think they should be called “rising” agents, not “raising,” because they obviously are responsible for making the batter “rise” when heated. “Raise,” I believe, is a transitive verb, which means it must take an object, so what are they supposed to be raising . . . the dead? I think not.

Anyway, on to that Xanthan Gum, which turns out to be a “stabilizer.” That’s good . . . because there’s nothing worse than an unstable Spotted Dick.

Next came Calcium Chloride, which is identified as a “firming agent.” Actually, I would have thought that was some sort of fitness trainer, or perhaps a miracle face cream, but what do I know?

For preservatives, we have Sorbic Acid and Alcohol. Aha! Now we’re getting somewhere. I know several people who are well preserved with alcohol, but they don’t usually bother adding it to food; there are much quicker ways . . .

At this point, it gets even more confusing, so I’ll copy it for you, verbatim, from the package:

“Acidity Regulator (Lactic Acid), Natural Flavouring, Emulsifiers (Mono- and Diglycerides of Fatty Acids, Polyglycerol Esters of Fatty Acids, Non Soy Lecithin.”

Discounting the natural flavoring (don’t even get me started on the differences in spelling of that word), the rest of the list seems to indicate that the manufacturers add fatty acids and esters of fatty acids, but first they make sure they’ve included an “acidity regulator” to . . . well . . . presumably to regulate all those fatty acids, including Ester’s (whoever she is).

And if that Lecithin is “non soy,” then why won’t they tell us where it does come from? Don’t we need to know that as well? It could be from eggs, and if you’re vegan, that would be a problem.

After completing this tutorial in nutritional chemistry (if there is such a thing, because it actually sounds like an oxymoron to me), I then noticed a section in all capital letters, beginning with “CAUTION.” Well, I’m not stupid, so of course I went on reading because my life might be in danger here:

“CAUTION: REMOVE ALL THE FOIL LID BEFORE HEATING IN THE MICROWAVE. IF ANY FOIL REMAINS [there should be a comma at this point, but there isn’t – ed. note] DECANT INTO A BOWL. PUDDING WILL BE HOT AND STEAMY.”

That is, if the piece of foil hasn’t caused your microwave to explode, in which case you’ve got bigger problems than a steamy hot pudding.

God, I love the British!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/8/25

P.S. Just ate my first Spotted Dick, and the verdict is . . .

The Soviet-style mass roundups — not in Russia, but in the United States — of “undesirables” for deportation to foreign penal colonies isn’t horrific enough. Nor, apparently, is the refusal — in blatant violation of a federal court order — to bring back those who were actually legally in the country to begin with.

Now — in a revolting display of pandering to a man who, in the guise of president, has already created a worldwide economic and political conflagration that would have made Emperor Nero look like a pussycat — the U.S. Supreme Court has refused to reverse the illegal actions, and has actually extended the lower court’s ordered deadline for the deportee’s return.

I am, of course, talking about the case of Salvadoran national Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia.

Despite the fact that White House attorneys have conceded that Abrego Garcia’s deportation occurred “because of an administrative error” (and where have we heard that excuse recently?), the Justice Department (DOJ) is claiming that any such order from the Supreme Court requiring his return would be “unprecedented.”

According to Solicitor General D. John Sauer in a Supreme Court filing yesterday: “Even amidst a deluge of unlawful injunctions, this order is remarkable. The Constitution charges the president, not federal district courts, with the conduct of foreign diplomacy and protecting the nation against foreign terrorists, including by effectuating their removal. While the United States concedes that removal to El Salvador was an administrative error … that does not license district courts to seize control over foreign relations, treat the executive branch as a subordinate diplomat, and demand that the United States let a member of a foreign terrorist organization into America tonight.” [John Fritze and Devan Cole, CNN, April 7, 2025.]

Well, that certainly sounds authoritative . . . but that doesn’t make it entirely correct. And it doesn’t take an attorney, a lifelong student of the U.S. Constitution, or even a merely reasonably intelligent civilian such as myself to punch holes in that argument.

So, where to begin? How about this one: We’re not actually talking about “foreign relations” in this case, are we? There are no treaties, no trade agreements, no negotiations to end a war, no matters of dispute between our government and a second country. This is a simple case of yet another Trump administration fuck-up (don’t forget SignalGate) — this one yanking an innocent man from his family, forcing him onto a plane back to a country where his life is in jeopardy and from which he fled and received asylum in the U.S., and now refusing to bring him back because it is . . . what? . . . Difficult? Embarrassing? A bother?

Oh, and that “foreign terrorist” tag the DOJ hung on him? It’s been disproven. Abrego Garcia has lived in the United States since 2019 under a ruling by an immigration judge that he could not be deported to El Salvador because a gang there was “targeting him and threatening him with death because of his family’s pupusa business.” No connection to any terrorist organization or other gang was ever proven against him. And, for the past six years, he has regularly checked in with immigration officials, and has never been charged with a crime. So . . . another untruth. [Id.]

Third, in this case it is not the courts that are trying to “seize control over foreign relations [or] treat the executive branch as a subordinate diplomat.” On the contrary, it is the executive branch that has usurped the powers of the judiciary by repeatedly ignoring and overruling federal court orders, which seems to me a blatant violation of the separation of powers of the three branches of the U.S. government as provided in the Constitution.

In a perfect imitation of his boss, Trump adviser Stephen Miller posted on social media last week — referring to U.S. Judge Paula Xinis’ order to return Abrego Garcia to the United States:

“Marxist judge now thinks she’s president of El Salvador.” [Id.]

White House Protocol #4,378: When in doubt — and absent actual facts — just start name-calling.

And that, my fellow Americans, is the mentality of the people running our country. Or rather, running it into the ground.

But when DOJ attorney Erez Reuveni was asked under oath why Abrego Garcia couldn’t be returned to the U.S., and he didn’t have a cogent response, he said honestly:

“The first thing I did when I got this case on my desk is ask my clients the same question.” [Id.]

Not incidentally, both Reuven and his supervisor have since been placed on leave. Welcome to George Orwell’s 1984.

*. *. *.

If you had told me a year ago that this is where we would be today, I would have laughed at you. I’m not laughing now.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/8/25

Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine – April 4, 2025. An early spring weekend. Children are enjoying time with their friends and families in a playground. Nearby, a birthday party is in progress; in a restaurant, a group of adults attend a beauty industry seminar . . .

. . . until the cluster bombs hit, leaving 20 civilians — 9 of them children — dead, and more than 70 others seriously wounded.

Twenty innocent civilian lives — again, NINE of them CHILDREN — wiped out in a brutal attack on civilian infrastructure . . . all while Vladimir Putin sanctimoniously continues to insist that he wants nothing more than peace.

The Russian military has claimed that the restaurant was hosting a meeting of military units and foreign advisers, making it a legitimate target . . . despite all evidence to the contrary. And according to Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov, speaking at a press briefing today (which also happens to be the first designated day of mourning for the victims in Kryvyi Rih):

“ . . . no strikes are carried out on social facilities and social infrastructure.” [RFE/RL, April 7, 2025.]

United Nations human rights chief Volker Turk had this to say:

“The use of an explosive weapon with wide area effects by the Russian Federation in a densely populated area — and without any apparent military presence — demonstrates a reckless disregard for civilian life. Even if the Russian authorities had had information that military personnel could be present, the mode and circumstances of attack may constitute an indiscriminate attack.” [Id.]

So what would Vladimir Putin have us believe . . . that the civilians were merely collateral damage, so they don’t count?

If you are hearing echoes of Josef Stalin and Adolph Hitler, be assured . . . you are not imagining things.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/7/25

As most of my readers — all six or eight of them — are Americans, let me explain. David Mitchell is a British actor/comedian whom I have only recently discovered through the magic of BritBox TV, which I received as a gift from a friend this past Christmas. (The gift was a subscription to BritBox . . . not David Mitchell himself tied up with a big red bow. Although that would have been nice too.)

So there I was, mindlessly scrolling through the list of British shows I’ve never heard of before, in search of something that didn’t involve serial killers, psychopaths, or incestuous relationships. And there was an advert (that’s British for “ad”) for a new show titled, simply, “Ludwig,” starring this rather ordinary-looking chap with a graying beard, a hairline disturbingly reminiscent of Adolph Hitler, and absolutely mesmerizing dark eyes. I had already missed the first three episodes, so I hastened to catch up.

A brief synopsis: Oddly enough, the principal protagonist, played by Mitchell, is not named Ludwig; he is, instead, James: a brilliant mathematician and puzzle-solver, rather quirky and introverted (a gross understatement), whose identical twin brother — a more normal fellow named John who is a police inspector — has mysteriously disappeared, leaving a warning note for his wife and son to do the same instead of taking them with him.

But rather than take the hint, the wife engages her brother-in-law to try to find John, because he’s smarter than the entire Cambridge Police Department, and because she’s afraid to let them in on John’s secret, which she doesn’t know in any event.

So James — shy, nervous, slightly OCD, and with no crime-solving expertise whatsoever — takes on the persona of his brother and . . . although by the third episode he still has no clue as to his sibling’s whereabouts . . . begins solving other crimes for the police, using his skills as a puzzle-solver.

Well, by this time, I am irretrievably hooked on this completely improbable premise. But this is a weekly show, so I have to wait until the following Thursday for the fourth episode . . . and I still have no idea why the show is even called “Ludwig,” other than the fact that its background music consists mainly of Beethoven compositions: specifically, his Fifth Symphony (BA-BA-BA-BUM!), and “Ode to Joy” from the Ninth, used alternately depending on the mood the directors are trying to set for the specific scene.

Are you with me so far?

No? Well, you’d better catch up, because we’re off again . . .

*. *. *

By S1/E4 (Season 1, Episode 4, in case you’re not into TV serials), I have decided that David Mitchell — the real one, not the fictitious James, or John, or Ludwig — is my kind of guy. His facial expressions, while mostly serious or even totally blank, are hilarious and spot-on (another Britishism — I’m really getting into those). And he’s sweet. But more importantly, he’s very smart and he corrects people . . . little factual errors, or incorrect suppositions, and — my personal favorite — their grammar!

Okay, I know I’m basing this on the Ludwig character and imparting that imaginary person’s traits to a real-life individual. But don’t we all do that? Haven’t you ever believed that, say, John Wayne was an honest-to-goodness cowboy hero? So just stay with me here, because I’m coming to the good part.

*. *. *

Now it’s between Thursdays, I’m waiting for the next segment of “Ludwig,” and I’ve already watched every episode of 23 seasons of “Midsomer Murders” so many times I actually remember who the incestuous, psychopathic mass murderer is in every single one. So I go program-surfing again, and I feel the need for a laugh, and I settle on some sort of comedy-quiz-panel show called “Would I Lie To You?” And in the picture accompanying the description of the show, I spot a familiar face.

(Don’t all raise your hands at once; you know I’m going to say it’s David Mitchell.)

*. *. *

I’m not ordinarily a huge fan of quiz shows because, whether I know the answer or not, I find it frustrating to (a) not actually win the prize when I’m right, or (b) be proven inadequately informed, yet again, when I’m wrong. But — come on, now! — it’s David Mitchell, so I have to give it a go. And there are multiple seasons of this show, so maybe there’s something to it.

And by the end of the first half-hour segment, I’m laughing so hard I’m practically wetting myself.

Quick tutorial: There is, of course, a moderator (Rob Brydon), plus two panels of three celebrities each: the regular two team captains — David Mitchell and Lee Mack — and a rotation of four celebrity guest panelists. They are given the most ludicrous situations to describe and enlarge upon as though they were true, and the opposing team tries to determine truth from lies.

It sounds simplistic . . . and, in fact, it is. But these people are so quick, so funny, and so unfiltered, that they get themselves into uproarious exchanges having nothing whatsoever to do with anything. Yet — and just when you’re thinking none of it is true and it’s all just a load of tosh (British again) — one of the stories turns out to actually be . . . true.

And I think to myself: “My God, I’ve led a really dull life!”

I mean, seriously. I’ve had some bizarre experiences over the years — some genuinely funny, others merely embarrassing (haven’t we all?) And I’ve even written about a few of them. But it’s a wonder some of the people on this show haven’t been locked away years ago, for their own safety.

And yet it’s not slapstick. Somehow, British people manage to make even the most outrageous insults sound like compliments, leaving you wondering what just happened. Either it’s an innate part of their charm, or they’re all complete hypocrites . . . but whatever it is, it works for me.

Now, the guest panelists consist of a wide variety of personality types: some perfectly normal (whatever that is), others a bit on the wild side. And in the midst of all of the verbal mayhem sits one who looks and speaks more like an Oxford professor than an actor: straight-faced, mostly serious (even when he’s joking), correcting other panelists’ errors, and occasionally — but not too often — cracking up.

And that, of course, is David Mitchell.

So I’d like to thank him for coming into my life at exactly the right time — when I most needed a few good belly laughs. It’s a scary world out there, and sometimes I just have to shut down the news reports, grab a snack and a beverage, and tune into a couple of hours of BritBox to rescue me. Because otherwise, I’d be in a rubber room by now.

It’s cheaper than therapy, you can do it by yourself or with a friend, and you don’t need a prescription for it. I highly recommend it.

Thank you, David.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/7/25

Imagine that you are a citizen of a country that has been invaded by a much larger, stronger aggressor, and have barely managed to survive bombardments, missile and drone attacks, and the incursion of land forces in order to escape to another country — a safe place where you can be sheltered until the war ends and you are able to return to your home to begin rebuilding.

Then imagine receiving an email notice from your host country — which you have considered to be your safe haven, your guardian angel, your savior — that you have just seven days to pack up and get out, and where you go and how you manage it are your own problem.

And it was two days after April Fool’s Day, so you’re pretty sure it’s not some sort of a sick joke.

Well, thanks to the Washington Brain Trust, that’s exactly what happened last week to a number of Ukrainians — legally in the U.S. under a Biden-administration humanitarian parole program — who had nowhere to go and no time to make arrangements for themselves and their families.

The message, which was designated a “notice of termination of parole,” said simply: “It is time for you to leave the United States. . . . Do not attempt to remain in the United States — the federal government will find you.” [Jessica Dean and Kaanita Iyer, CNN, April 5, 2025.]

The fact that the notice was followed the next day by another email advising that the first one had been sent “in error” can never erase the trauma that the recipients endured when they believed that their lives were once again being upended. They were told the second time around that “no action will be taken . . . the terms of your parole as originally issued remain unchanged at this time.” [Id.]

“ . . . at this time.”

In light of the mass deportation of migrants being undertaken by the Trump administration at this very moment, the initial message must have seemed doubly threatening. And which one should they believe? Even if the second notice — the correction — is true, what does it mean by “at this time”? What might happen tomorrow, or next week?

The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) has now confirmed that the “parole program has not been terminated,” and stated that there are no plans to end the program. But the psychological damage has already been done.

According to Angela Boelens, president and founder of IA NICE, an organization created to help sponsor Ukrainian families: “This shocked everyone that received this.” She spoke of two women — one with an infant and the other pregnant — who contacted them and “were just immediately terrorized. They were crying, calling their sponsors, saying, ‘What did I do?’” [Id.]

Boelens said, “It’s actually left us with more questions than what we had before. We’re asking ourselves as sponsors and as a community, you know, ‘Who wrote this letter? Why was it written in such harsh terms?’” [Id.]

“Who?” and “why?” indeed!

*. *. *

Coming, as it has, on the heels of SignalGate, wherein — just in case any reader has actually been able to forget that unprecedented disaster — a reporter was mistakenly included on a conference call with top defense and security officials concerning an imminent attack on Houthi rebels in Yemen, who knows what to believe any longer . . . other than the fact that the inmates are actually running the asylum in Washington!

And you think the “Cuckoo’s Nest” was scary?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/6/25

Just hours after posting my regular weekly status report on Russia’s political hostages today, I was saddened to read of yet another U.S. citizen being held for alleged criminal violations. And this case presents a different twist, as the prisoner has now been forcibly admitted to a Russian psychiatric hospital.

In a country where criminal charges are frequently concocted out of thin air for political purposes, it is difficult — and sometimes impossible — to separate fact from fiction. But here is what is known about Joseph Tater.

He was arrested in August of 2024 following a confrontation in an upscale Moscow hotel (unnamed). He allegedly became abusive and “behaved aggressively” when asked to see his documents. He was refused accommodation at the hotel, and police were called; he later is said to have grabbed the arm of a police officer, which constitutes assault. [Associated Press, April 6, 2025.]

According to Russia’s TASS news agency, at a court hearing in September, Tater claimed to have come to Russia seeking political asylum because he was being persecuted by the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). He was scheduled to stand trial on April 14th of this year on charges of assaulting a police officer, which carries a maximum sentence of five years’ imprisonment. [Id.]

The tale gets a big murky here. A Moscow court has ordered Tater admitted “non-voluntarily” to a psychiatric hospital on the basis of a medical evaluation on March 15th, when doctors described him as displaying signs of “tension, impulsivity, persecutory delusions, and lack of self-awareness regarding his condition.” [Id.]

Yet TASS had previously reported that he had been released from pretrial detention at the end of March. The two reports are obviously contradictory, and it is unclear when the court’s decision was actually rendered, or whether he ever was released at all.

In any event, Tater is reportedly now living in the hell of a Russian psychiatric ward — a common practice in Soviet times that, according to human rights groups, is being increasingly employed by Vladimir Putin’s regime. His defense attorney has appealed his hospitalization on the grounds that it is an attempt to “isolate the defendant from society.”
[Id.]

*. *. *

The main question, to my mind, is not whether Joseph Tater did or did not lay hands on a police officer, which would be a legitimate criminal charge to be sorted out in the April 14th hearing; but why he was given a psychiatric evaluation in the first place. Was he indeed showing signs of “tension, impulsivity, persecutory delusions, and lack of self-awareness regarding his condition”? And if so, were these signs truly abnormal, or merely the result of being held incommunicado in a Russian prison . . . a situation that might drive any normal person to behave irrationally?

Or is this just another case of political persecution, merely using an alternative means of holding him prisoner for a longer period of time? And if so, why not simply wait another eight days and find him guilty of the original assault charge?

This is an odd case, and one in which the subject may actually be “guilty” of behaving as accused. But if so, and if he does indeed exhibit clear symptoms of psychiatric abnormality, it then becomes a question of whether he is being properly treated.

Having already been declared mentally unstable (for lack of a more scientific diagnosis), should he not immediately be returned to the United States for treatment? Or will the Russian courts still try him on the assault charge, slap some convenient label on him such as “paranoid schizophrenic,” and lock him away indefinitely in a place designed to drive him completely insane?

*. *. *

Joseph Tater is in a desperate situation, more complicated than the others we have been following. Rest assured, I will be searching for updates.

In the meantime, another name is added to the list.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/6/25

Last week I reported on the conviction and sentencing of 12 members of the Ukrainian Azov Battalion who have been tried — by a Russian military court — not as prisoners of war, but as terrorists, and given prison sentences ranging from 13 to 23 years.

There has been no further news as to the whereabouts of these men, and I still do not have their names. To me, they are “The Azov 12,” and they remain — tragically, along with all of the others — on our hostage list.

*. *. *

So we continue to keep our vigil for all of those unjustly held hostages known to us in Vladimir Putin’s GULAG of penal colonies:

The Azov 12
David Barnes
Ales Bialiatski (in Belarus)
Gordon Black
Andrei Chapiuk (in Belarus)
Robert Gilman
Stephen James Hubbard
Ksenia Karelina
Ihar Karney (in Belarus)
Vadim Kobzev
Uladzimir Labkovich (in Belarus)
Michael Travis Leake
Aleksei Liptser
Ihar Losik (in Belarus)
Daniel Martindale
Farid Mehralizada (in Azerbaijan)
Nika Novak
Marfa Rabkova (in Belarus)
Igor Sergunin
Dmitry Shatresov
Robert Shonov
Eugene Spector
Valiantsin Stafanovic (in Belarus)
Siarhei Tsikhanouski (in Belarus)
Laurent Vinatier
Robert Romanov Woodland
Vladislav Yesypenko (in Crimea)
Yuras Zyankovich (in Belarus)

*. *. *

And — like a broken record — I again offer this plea to Donald Trump in the White House . . . though I assume it will likely continue to fall on deaf ears, as it has thus far:

“Amidst all of the hubbub of your new administration, it is imperative that these innocent men and women not be forgotten. Negotiations for their safe release have been underway for some time. President Joe Biden succeeded in bringing home 16 innocent people on August 1st of last year, and you have added two others to that list. But you should be trying to do even more. Whatever else you do, this should be high on your list of priorities. The people you promised to represent are counting on you.

“Perhaps this would be an appropriate time to remind you also of the oath you swore on January 20th:

“‘I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.’

“I’m sure there’s a copy of that Constitution lying around the White House. If not, you can Google it. This is what it looks like, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/6/25

Back in the day — those prehistoric times before Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson made that beautiful movie whose title became a meme — I had a wish list, much like those of everyone I knew. I wanted to travel, to see the world; to take flying lessons; to parachute from a plane (not while piloting it); and to do a stand-up routine at New York’s famous Comedy Club.

I also wanted to find a cure for cancer and discover a means to bring about eternal world peace. But at that point I knew I had ventured outside the realm of realistic ambitions, so I limited myself to the fun stuff.

With the exception of travel to some amazing places, none of those wishes came true . . . flying lessons were too expensive; I couldn’t quite master the “tuck-and-roll” part of parachuting; and I finally had to admit to myself that I seem to be the only one who really thinks I’m funny.

But that’s no reason to give up wishing, and hoping, and striving . . . just for different things. So what if I’ll never climb Annapurna? So what if I’ll never be able to buzz the White House in my very own Cessna Skyhawk? Just look at the things I have done:

— I’ve already outsmarted the life-expectancy tables by six years;

— I’ve climbed a mountain (a small one) in Czechoslovakia;

— I’ve lived abroad, twice;

— Seen more countries (about 15) than most of my friends;

— Survived living in Moscow during the “Great Mafia Wars” of the early ‘90s, where I had my very own KGB minder;

— Learned another language;

— Passed out in a five-star restaurant;

— Raised two children (no mean feat);

— Attended both the Bolshoi and the Kirov Theaters;

— Hand-fed an apple to a horse named Nagano in Montreal;

— Flown in a World War II biplane where I was seated in front of the pilot, so that it felt as though I was in control;

— And more . . . including a few things better left unsaid.

Still, reminiscences will only keep a person happy for so long; we all need things to look forward to. So . . . taking into consideration my present circumstances, I’ve made a new bucket list, which I would like to share with you:

First: I would like to live long enough to accomplish at least three of the other items on this list. That’s important, because once you’ve reached my age, you begin to see the wisdom in eating dessert first.

Second: I still plan to read at least one more volume of the Great Books (leather-bound, gold-embossed) that I bought over 50 years ago in a moment of great optimism and total madness. I have already read Doctor Zhivago and The Brothers Karamazov; I’d like to tackle some Shakespeare next. We’ll see.

Third: I would like to bake one more cheesecake. My recipe came from my mother, who in turn got it from a New York friend of hers eons ago. Everyone who has eaten it has declared it the best cheesecake ever. The only thing stopping me from creating another one is mobility. And height. It’s hard to maneuver around a kitchen and manipulate a mixer, bowls, measuring utensils, a spatula, and all the various ingredients when you’re (a) unable to move about without your rollator, and (b) too freakin’ short to reach the big mixer on the countertop.

Fourth: I want a mani-pedi. I’ve never had either, because I never considered them necessary. But now is the time for a little frivolity, don’t you think?

Fifth: I’d like to go skinny-dipping. Always wanted to, just never had the nerve. Of course, in my present condition, it would be best if I were to do this alone, with no one to witness. I really should have done it when I was much, much younger and still reasonably good-looking.

Sixth: I really don’t like New York . . . it’s the only city, of all the cities I’ve lived in or visited, that evokes an otherwise dormant sense of paranoia. But I have always wanted to attend the Metropolitan Opera on opening night, in full regalia. I’ve probably seen “Moonstruck” once too often, but that’s the image I have.

Seventh: Like most people, I’d love to win the lottery. I don’t want hundreds of millions of dollars . . . it would be more of a burden than a blessing. Just a few million so that I could share it with the people I love, and spend my remaining years not worrying whether my Social Security check will be in the bank again this month. Of course, in order to accomplish this, I’d actually have to buy lottery tickets, so my goal is to do that.

Eighth: I would like to be able to publish my book.

Ninth: I wish I could get rid of this life-long compulsion of correcting everyone else’s grammar. I know it’s annoying; but I was brought up and educated in an age when “he and I” — not “me and him” — went to the movies. It’s like fingernails on a blackboard.

Tenth: And finally — in a segue from a bucket list to a Cinderella-style wish list — I would really love to place an advance order for my next life (assuming there is to be one). I would ask to be taller, have perfect teeth, be able to sing on-key, and be sufficiently well-coordinated to be able to play tennis.

And I would really, really, REALLY like to be reborn into a world of peace and harmony.

But that’s probably asking way too much.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/5/25

As a blogger with an admittedly limited readership, I am always delighted when my offerings are read by people from faraway lands. I have counted more than 50 countries so far, including some of the smaller ones such as New Zealand, Malta, and Norfolk Island, as well as the much larger Canada, China, and Russia.

But recently I have begun searching my viewer reports for signs of life from two places I had never heard of before this week, when Donald Trump declared them sufficiently vital to the U.S. economy and the balance of trade to slap tariffs on them: a few hundred square miles of glaciers and volcanic peaks known as Heard Island and McDonald Islands.

Legally a territory of Australia, the islands are so remote and so barren that they are uninhabited by humans, aside from the occasional visit by a research expedition.

Vegetation on the inhospitable surfaces consists primarily of mosses and lichens, providing no sustenance for land animals. There is, however, an abundance of seabirds, penguins and seals.

And those are the readers I am now waiting to hear from. If they are subject to tariffs, then I have to assume they are also intelligent enough to be creative, to conduct business, to read, and to use the internet. So come on, all you happy denizens of Heard and McDonald Islands . . . check me out, and let me know how the tariffs are affecting life down there in the Antarctic, so I can write about it and make your home the next big tourist attraction.

Who knows? You might even become an Amazon distribution center, or the site of SpaceX’s next failed launch . . . the possibilities are limitless.

But it also occurs to me that you might have been added to the tariff list by mistake, like that reporter on the Signal call about the Houthis. Stuff like that just sort of happens in Washington, you know. No big deal.

So, on second thought, perhaps we should all just leave you in peace, happy in your ignorance of the ways of man.

You have no idea how well off you are!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/5/25