Even the name turns me off: “Influencer.” What makes you so special — you young, inexperienced, full-of-yourselves people who were just clever enough to figure out a way to earn money by convincing a large swath of the public that you had good taste and inside information . . . but not bright enough (or perhaps just too lazy) to carve out a legitimate career and get a real job?

Well, you “influencers” have never influenced me into buying a lot of stuff — much of it junk — that I don’t need and can’t really afford in today’s inflated economy. And you’ve never convinced me that you know what’s best for me, or what will make me happy, or bring fulfillment to my life.

Because I’m older and wiser than you are. I can make my own bad choices without your help, thank you.

And now, at last, I have read that your lot are on the way out . . . and I will sleep better, knowing that fewer vulnerable people will be falling into your web of attraction and deception.

“Rejecting the ‘haul’ culture of excessive shopping and promoting conscious consuming, the de-influencer movement is going mainstream — here’s why” . . . writes Megan Lawton of BBC (January 8, 2025).

That’s right — you are falling under the hammer of the “de-influencer movement,” thanks in large part to people like Diana Wiebe, who, back in 2019, was herself taken in by some useless product that seemed too good to be true . . . and was.

*. *. *

Ms. Wiebe now has more than 200,000 followers on TikTok, where her videos ask questions such as, “Did you want that product before it was marketed to you?” And she is just one part of a growing movement that rejects traditional influencer culture, and has more than a billion views (so far) on its #deinfluencing site on TikTok. [BBC, id.]

By sharing messages such as “fast fashion won’t make you stylish,” and “underconsumption is normal consumption,” the de-influencers believe they are helping to turn the tide of the “haul” culture.

Another former victim, Christina Mychaskiw, posts about her experiences on YouTube, TikTok and Instagram, hoping to help others avoid “going broke”:

“Back in 2019, I was $120,000 CAD in debt through student loans, and I was still buying week after week. I hit rock bottom when I bought a pair of boots that cost more than my rent, even though I knew I couldn’t afford them.” [Id.]

She hears story after story from people who call in to her podcast, and says that “People don’t see the value in what they’re buying anymore. The promise of these items just isn’t living up to expectations. It feels like everything is getting more and more expensive, but lower quality and less satisfying.” [Id.]

Her advice: “Put the phone down, use what you already have to create fun looks — maybe you’ll realise [sic] what you have is good enough.” [Id.]

*. *. *

I’m not here to offer financial advice, or to tell you how you should live your life. Because those decisions are yours to make. And that is my whole point: Don’t let some stranger influence your decisions. They don’t know you, and they don’t care about you. All they want is to make money off of your unwise choices.

And if you’re one of those particularly soft-hearted people who will now start to worry that all of those influencers are going to be out of work . . . well, don’t. There are plenty of companies out there that are losing employees and looking for new hires. The out-of-work hucksters could become baristas at Starbuck’s, drivers for Amazon, or White House interns for the new administration in Washington (pretty much a revolving-door job). Not as much fun as virtual shopping, perhaps . . . but honest work.

Honest work??!!!

Now, there’s a concept that could use promoting.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/11/25

Following yesterday’s closed-door hearing on the “extremism” charges against three of the late Alexei Navalny’s lawyers, the court in the Vladimir region of Russia announced that a verdict — which had been expected to be issued on Friday — would be delayed until January 17th. [AFP, January 10, 2025.]

While it is universally expected that guilty verdicts will be forthcoming — as they are in all politically-motivated cases in Russia — the question of sentencing of Igor Sergunin, Aleksei Liptser and Vadim Kobzev remains open. The charges against them carry sentences of up to six years, and prosecutors in their cases have demanded minimum sentences of five years.

While Sergunin has pled guilty, Kobzev and Liptser have denied the charges. In his final statement to the court, Kobzev compared their situation to Soviet-era repression under dictator Joseph Stalin. [Id.]

Another former member of Navalny’s legal team, Olga Mikhailova, who has been living in exile, said that prosecutors are demanding “savage” sentences for lawyers who “honestly and professionally defended Navalny for many years.” [Id.]

And so the three political prisoners await word of their fate for at least another six days. And we wait with them.

In the meantime, their names will join the others on my list of Putin’s political hostages, which tragically keeps growing.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/11/25

No, no, no! Not that road! The one that diverged in the wood:

That’s better. Now, to continue . . .

I had chosen the shadowy one: the one that led to Russia. And what a summer it was!

There I was, just me with my 14 pieces of luggage and boxes at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport, looking for someone named Vitold who I hoped would have a sign with my name on it. And by some miracle, I did find him: a large, rumpled, Bohemian-looking fellow of indeterminate age, who would be my driver, my gofer, my jack-of-all-trades, and my savior for the next few months.

Wisely, he had brought along a friend and a truck, and between them they wrestled all my baggage into the vehicle — although from the looks of the truck, I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t simply collapse under the weight. It shook, rattled and rolled all the way into the city and out the other side, to my new apartment/office on the far opposite outskirts of town. And after an endless night and half a day, I was finally “home.”

(Although the shops on the ground level and the cars in the front parking lot are a lot nicer in this picture than they were in 1993.)

And so began three months of KGB spies, the Russian “Mafia,” scary taxi drivers, undercover militia officers, child victims of Chernobyl, young women with peonies, new friends, and much, much more — followed by another year and a half back in the U.S. with our old friends Aksilenko and Shvets, the FBI, the Russian Embassy, the literary agent, a translator, the press . . . and a CIA turncoat named Aldrich Ames.

Descriptions of the events of May through August in Moscow have already been laid out in excruciating detail in Chapters 16-21 and 23 of this blog (and shared here on Facebook); and re-telling them now would just take up needless data space. So please forgive me if I simply refer you to those chapters for the fascinating, sometimes hair-raising, and frequently funny tales of:

Ch. 16 (8/26/24): Home, Sweet Home in Moscow
Ch. 17 (8/29/24): An Unholy Triumvirate: The Moscow Militia, the KGB, and the Russian Mafia
Ch. 18 (8/30/24): A Yankee Doodle Dandy in Moscow
Ch. 19 (9/5/24): Return to Kyiv
Ch. 20 (9/7/24): Last Tango in Moscow
Ch. 21 (9/9/24): The Bones in the Basement
Ch. 23 (9/11/24): Lenin, Come Home

*. *. *

And if you make it through all of that, and still want to know how it all came out, there are:

Ch. 24 (9/12/24): A Juggling Act
Ch. 25 (9/15/24): Once More, in February
Ch. 26 (9/16/24): Aftermath – Part I
Ch. 27 (9/17/24): Aftermath – Part II
. . . and finally . . .
Ch. 28 (9/20/24): Starting Over

*. *. *

Didn’t realize there was going to be homework, did you? Sorry.

But it’s a long, convoluted story — a cautionary tale, really, about the sometimes unexpected, unintended results of the choices we make in life. But not knowing can often bring about the grandest adventures, because if we could foretell the future, we might never have the courage to try anything new. Someone else said it before (and better than) I could:

“For all the sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”
– John Greenleaf Whittier, Don’t Quit

*. *. *

And so, in the end, I took the road less traveled by . . . and it has, indeed, made all the difference.

Thanks for reading.

Brendochka
1/11/25

Конец
(The End)

*. *. *

Remember this guy? He was the founder and leader of the Wagner Group, an organization of Russian mercenaries utilized by Vladimir Putin to carry out his dastardly deeds in far-off lands such as Syria, Libya, Sudan, Niger, and the Central African Republic, among others . . . not the least of them being Ukraine, since Putin’s invasion in February of 2022.

Prigozhin felt that Putin’s military leaders in Ukraine weren’t pursuing his “special military operation” aggressively enough, so in the summer of 2023, he and some of his Wagner troops staged a revolt against Putin . . . a collossally stupid, if bizarrely courageous, thing to do.

The Wagner forces were halted before reaching Moscow, and there followed a period of several weeks in which Prigozhin’s whereabouts — and his future — were uncertain. But he appeared to have survived Putin’s wrath . . . until that fateful day in August of 2023, when his private plane mysteriously crashed somewhere north of Moscow, reportedly killing Prigozhin and several of his top associates, in addition to the plane’s crew.

You just don’t mess with Putin. Ever.

But despite the loss of its leader, the Wagner Group itself did not cease to exist. While a number of its members reportedly distanced themselves from the organization, those who remained were reorganized by Putin, renamed the Africa Corps, and reassigned wherever they were most useful to him . . . including in Ukraine, fighting alongside the Russian military.

And on January 4th of this brand-new year 2025, one of its members — 31-year-old Timur Praliev — was detained by U.S. Border Patrol agents while trying to cross the Rio Grande River from Mexico into the United States near the border town of Roma, Texas. He carried with him in a backpack two passports, cash . . . and a drone. [Carl Schreck, Mark Krutov, Mike Eckel and Ramazan Alpaut, RFE/RL, January 10, 2025.]

Initially charged by Border Patrol with illegally entering the U.S. — a federal misdemeanor — he pled guilty. He appeared before a judge at the federal courthouse in McAllen, Texas, on January 7th, where he stated (through an interpreter) that he was a citizen of Kazakhstan, and admitted to being a member of the Wagner Group.

Because he had been carrying both Russian and Kazakh passports, as well as US $4,000 and 60,000 pesos — and let’s not overlook that drone — there were concerns regarding his ties to the Wagner Group, and the federal prosecutor requested that Praliev be held for 15 days. The judge sentenced him on the illegal entry charge to time served, but ordered Praliev to remain in custody while U.S. authorities continue to investigate. [Billal Rahman, Newsweek, January 10, 2025.]

*. *. *

According to an online account published on Russian social media, a man by the name of Timur Praliev, and fitting the description of the suspect detained at the U.S.-Mexican border, had been the recipient of an award presented on December 12, 2024, by the Bashkortostan (Russia) branch of Defenders of the Fatherland Foundation — a group established by Vladimir Putin in 2023 to support combat veterans of the war in Ukraine. In the online post, the man was identified as a “former employee” of the Wagner Group. [RFE/RL, op.cit.]

Further investigation by RadioFreeEurope/RadioLiberty also indicates that they are one and the same person. [Id.]

Assistant U.S. Attorney Amanda McColgan is cited as saying during Praliev’s court appearance that the U.S. Government “is concerned about [the] safety of the community when this defendant is released” due to his affiliation with Wagner . . . “a group associated with political violence.” [Id.]

A U.S. magistrate judge has ordered Praliev to remain in federal custody. No immediate comment was received from the U.S. Attorney’s office for Southern Texas or from the regional office of U.S. Customs and Border Patrol, and his present location has not been made public. [Id.]

*. *. *

Needless to say, questions abound . . . questions to which we may never know all of the answers. For example, how did this man travel from Russia (or Kazakhstan) all the way to the Mexico-U.S. border? Through South America? Which countries? How did he make his way through Mexico without being detected?

And how did he expect to get into the United States with that drone? Not incidentally, what kind of drone was it, and what did he plan to do with it?

Even more importantly: Who sent him? With $4,000 in U.S. money, and nearly another $3,000 equivalent in pesos, odds are he was not here on his own.

And finally: How many more, just like him, are already here, or preparing to sneak across our borders? Why are we the only country in the free world that is accused of being racist for trying to control illegal entry onto our territory?

The United States was built by immigrants — legal immigrants — happily including my grandparents. But those people came to work, and grow, and find a better life for their children . . . not to destroy what had already been built here.

The hard question is: How do we remain the country that has always welcomed the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” while protecting the sanctity and security of our precious land?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/10/25

It appears that Alexei Navalny is not destined to rest in peace . . . not yet, at any rate. Because three of his lawyers, who were tried in secrecy in September of 2024 on “extremism” charges lodged against them the previous year, are being sentenced today. It is a foregone conclusion that they will be found guilty; the only question remaining to be answered is how long their prison sentences will be.

Imagine being a lawyer in any democratic country, and knowing that you might very well be held criminally liable simply for representing a client who had been found guilty of . . . well, of almost anything. I wonder how long it would take for all of the law schools to shut down for lack of students.

But three men who represented the late Alexei Navalny — Igor Sergunin, Aleksei Liptser and Vadim Kobzev — are being sentenced for exactly that. They have been accused of participating in an “extremist” organization — Navalny’s Anti-Corruption Foundation (FBK) — which had been labeled as extremist and banned in Russia in 2021. [RFE/RL, January 10, 2025.]

Investigators said that they used their “status” to convey messages between Navalny and his associates, thus enabling him to “conduct extremist activities from behind bars.” [Id.] The charges against them could result in sentences of up to six years; prosecutors have demanded prison terms of at least five years for each of the three.

Following Navalny’s unexplained death in a Russian penal colony nearly a year ago, two of his lawyers, Aleksandra Fedulova and Olga Mikhailova, fled Russia, as did his wife and children and other members of the FBK.

In today’s Russia — Vladimir Putin’s Russia — it has become the only way to remain honest, and survive.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/10/25

In the days before anyone even thought of being “politically correct,” there was a man named Christopher Columbus, who managed to talk Queen Isabella of Spain into financing his venture to find a new sea route to the Orient. Goodness knows what a load of malarkey he had to feed her in order for her to cough up the necessary funds, but — luckily for us — it worked.

We all — or at least those of us who paid attention in U.S. History class — know that Columbus has, correctly or not, long been credited with finding the “New World,” now known as the Americas.

We also know that the dummkopf really believed he was carving out that supposed new route to China. But that’s beside the point. The point is that, after six grueling months at sea, his three ships — the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria — made history by finally reaching land somewhere near the island now known as the Dominican Republic . . . thus proving that the Earth was indeed not flat.

Or something of the sort. (I was one of those who used to doze off in U.S. History, so don’t quote me on the details.)

But I did not know — and I’m willing to bet that you didn’t either, unless you read yesterday’s “This Day In History” — that old Chris wrote in his ship’s log on January 9, 1493, that the previous day he had spied three mermaids . . . and that they were “not half as beautiful as they are painted.” [“This Day In History,” history.com, Jauary 9, 2025.]

Well, aside from insulting all of mermaidhood (which would have been bad enough), it seems he also managed to denigrate the majority of human womanhood as well. Because it is now believed that what he actually saw were most likely manatees, dugongs, or something called Steller’s sea cows (which became extinct by the 1760s due to over-hunting).

And — while all women admittedly are not classically beautiful (except on the inside) — I can honestly say that I have never seen one of my fellow females who looked anything like a manatee, a dugong, or whatever a Steller’s sea cow looked like. And, on behalf of all of you ladies, girls, and old broads out there, let me unequivocally state that we are not amused.

Now, I think they’re actually pretty cute . . . for sea mammals. I especially like the smile on little Dougie Dugong. But quite frankly, I’d much rather be compared to a mermaid. I mean, honestly — who wouldn’t? Just look at that face, that hair, those . . . um . . . abs.

Of course, to give Columbus the benefit of the doubt, there may have been mitigating circumstances. The weather may not have been clear, or he may only have gotten a quick glimpse of the creatures from a distance.

And, come to think of it, I’ve never seen a portrait of Columbus’ wife or mother. So, in the end, perhaps . . . by comparison . . . ?

Uh . . . nope. No way. I prefer to think Columbus was simply near-sighted, and let it go at that.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/10/25

The book had been bought by Simon & Schuster in record time, and Valentin Aksilenko and Yuri Shvets still had eight days remaining before the expiration of their visas. Having lived in the Washington, D.C. area in the 1980s, they knew their way around, and said they wanted to spend some time on their own, revisiting old haunts, and possibly a few old friends. And I knew — though I couldn’t be sure whether they knew I knew — that a good bit of their time would be taken up by the FBI.

But that didn’t let me off the hook entirely. I became less of a business consultant and more of a chauffeur / personal shopper as they made the rounds of the area, which had changed somewhat since they had last been here. And, of course, the feds were never far away from my door, either.

This was totally unfamiliar territory for me: having to watch every word I said to the two men, while trying to remember what they discussed in case I might hear something significant. From the beginning, I had had a strong sense that their mission was about more than the sale of a yet-unwritten memoir. There were too many nagging questions — the main one, in my mind, being the ease with which they had been able to leave Russia for the United States.

As it turned out, the doubts in my head at that time were nothing in comparison to the ones that would arise later in the year, when . . .

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Suffice it to say for now that my stress level didn’t drop until they finally boarded their return flight home on May 5th.

But then I had to prepare to follow them to Moscow for several months; and I had only five days left to get ready.

I had lived overseas once before — in Prague, two years earlier — so I knew what had to be done. But knowing, and doing, are two separate and distinct things . . . and especially when you’re going to live in a place like Russia, where life is so different from anything you’re used to, and not all of your accustomed creature comforts are going to be available.

So, aside from cleaning out the refrigerator, stopping the mail and newspaper deliveries, arranging for someone to start my car every few days to keep the battery from dying, and notifying the building management of my absence, I also had to figure out what to pack and what to leave behind.

And what I packed, besides clothes, peanut butter and a few cans of tuna, was a complete pharmacy: something for headaches, something for a cold, something for diarrhea, something else for constipation, toothpaste, deodorant, Bandaids and antibiotic cream, soaps, lotions, feminine products, makeup . . . enough for at least three months, when I would be coming home on a break before returning for another three months (or so I had been promised). I’ll never forget the expression on the face of the cashier at the drug store when I wheeled the overflowing cart up to her register.

Then I was informed by the head of the foundation I was representing that it would be helpful if I could take with me a few office supplies. By “a few,” I soon learned that he meant a desktop printer, toner cartridges, heavy reams of printer paper, curtain rods and curtains, and the all-important stapler and staple remover . . . among other things that I have long since chosen to push out of my mind.

In all, I had 14 pieces of baggage: six large suitcases of my own, and the rest belonging to the foundation. And with that, I set off for Dulles Airport on May 10th, having been told that I would be met at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport by a man named Vitold.

*. *. *

Keep in mind that it was 1993, and flying was much simpler then. Baggage limits and weight restrictions were far less stringent — but even so, 14 pieces for a single passenger was a bit unusual. I had been booked on Air France, and as I approached the counter, I could see the airline agent eyeing my driver and me with our carts filled to capacity with suitcases and boxes. His first question, of course, was, “What is all of that?”

I explained to him that we were from a humanitarian aid organization furnishing healthy food to Russian children in orphanages and hospitals for the chronically ill, and his businesslike demeanor immediately turned to bouillie (mush). He loved what we were doing.

When I said that I was going there to live and work for a while, and that all the boxes were office and apartment necessities, he agreed to let it all pass — but at a cost, as I recall, of something close to $800. However, he asked us to wait a minute while he talked to his supervisor; and when he returned, smiling, he said he had been authorized to cut the overweight charges in half. It was still a hefty $400, but I had the foundation’s corporate American Express card for just such an emergency.

And off I went, with a very warm feeling in my heart for the lovely people of Air France, and a sense of unreality at what I was doing: heading out by myself to live with the “main enemy,” where the only people I knew were a couple of ex-KGB officers, and where I could only try to imagine what lay ahead.

As I was soon to find out, my imagination didn’t even come close to the reality of the next three months and beyond . . .

*. *. *

To be continued . . .

*. *. *

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
– William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene 5

Brendochka
1/9/25

Eighty-three years ago, in December of 1941, the headlines were about war: Germany and Italy had declared war on the United States, backing the third member of their Axis — Japan — which had bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, just days earlier. And we, the U.S., jumped into the fray to join the Allied forces of Europe — including Great Britain, France, and even the communist Soviet Union — already fighting the fascist dictators Hitler and Mussolini, as well as Japan’s Hirohito.

That was then, when we — and much of Europe — were under attack.

Are we now, in 2025, about to show a different, completely opposite, face to the rest of the world by becoming the aggressor, threatening to lay claim to countries that do not belong to us simply because we feel the need to do so? Because we say it is “critical” for our “national and economic security”? And despite flying in the face of every existing principle of national sovereignty?

Are we going to see headlines like these again . . . but with the United States on the wrong side?

The U.S. — or, rather, one man who is about to take the sacred oath of office as President of the United States — is seriously talking about seizing Greenland, Canada and the Panama Canal because, being a lifelong bully who has always simply taken what he wants, he thinks he can. And he has said he will not rule out the use of military force to accomplish his goals. Does he actually believe the world is his personal playground, and all of the toys on it are his?

Now we are being warned by leading EU members France and Germany to back off of Greenland . . . which belongs to Denmark . . . which is a member of the EU . . . which will unite behind its threatened member. And both Canada and Panama have similarly said, in effect, “No way in hell!”

Well, good for them! Who in hell does Trump think we are, anyway . . . Russia? China? North Korea? What gives the United States — or any country — the right to grab someone else’s territory?

What have we always said to those countries when they’ve made clear their imperialist ambitions?

What will the United Nations and NATO have to say about this?

What have the three years of defending Ukraine against Russia’s illegal invasion been about?

And what in the name of all that’s holy has happened to my country?!!

I am a loyal, proud American. I love my country. But Donald Trump’s vision of America is not what I grew up believing in . . . not my America of peace, and freedom, and democracy.

There is very little chance that his grandiose ideas of expansionism will succeed. But in the meantime, are we to find ourselves isolated, and hated by those who have been our staunchest allies? Are we going to allow the wild ambitions of one narcissistic autocrat to destroy our beautiful nation . . . and with it, the delicate balance of freedom in the world?

Or is Congress finally going to grow a set, and do what’s right?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/9/25

Not only does this edition of the eminent Webster’s Unabridged International Dictionary list for $129 ($82.93 at Amazon) . . . it boasts of 2,662 pages of mostly unused words.

Example: Words like “hypocoristic” — my online Word of the Day yesterday — which is defined as “a pet name or diminutive form of a name.”

I can see it now. A new baby is born, and the happy parents have named her Elizabeth. Friends and family come to meet the newest member of the clan, and someone asks:

“Have you decided on a hypocoristic for her, or will she be called Elizabeth?”

See what I mean? What’s wrong with “nickname”? Or “pet name”? Or even, if you prefer multi-syllabic words, “diminutive”? No one is going to ask you what her “hypocoristic” is, because no one will ever have heard the word.

But we have 2,662 pages of words — pages filled with microscopically small print — that could be reduced to fit into a volume a normal human being could actually lift, and possibly even read without a magnifying glass, if we eliminated all the superfluous ones.

Now, I love languages — the melodic, mellifluous sounds of the words; the regional idioms; the little nuances that distinguish the native speaker from the student; the similarities and the differences among the various language groups. Language is an integral part of our national identity. And I’m not suggesting we slash away at a language until it is unrecognizable. I would never do that.

But, in the English language at least, I think we have far more ways of saying the same thing than we really need. No, we wouldn’t want to use the same adjective to describe everything. (Actually, some people already do that — they can’t seem to think beyond “amazing.”)

Surely, though, there must be a point at which a sufficient number of synonyms become too many. And where words seem to exist for no good reason at all, because no one ever uses them. I’m not talking about terminology related to specific fields of study — just everyday conversational vocabulary.

Take the National Spelling Bee. At age ten, I was my elementary school’s champion, runner-up for the city . . . never mind how long ago. And we had some fairly difficult words to learn. The one that sticks in my mind is “conscientious.” But those were words that people knew and used — though not everyone knew how to spell them.

Today’s list of words includes — along with some of the more common ones, of course — the likes of “vivisepulture,” “Beauceron,” “logorrhea” (which sounds like a tree disease to me), “ctenoid,” “glaucescence,” “luftmensch” (could that be German?), “mitrailleuse,” “nuque,” “paduasoy” . . . and so on.

In order to satisfy my insatiable curiosity, I looked up the definitions of these words, and this is what I found:

Vivisepulture: Not listed in my online dictionary; but by combining the prefix “vivi” (“of the living”) and “sepulture” (“a catacomb”), I decided it must refer to a catacomb of the living. Now, that’s just creepy!

Ctenoid: Rough-edged. Okay, that might be useful if you’re a veterinarian specializing in the treatment of cats’ tongues. (And the “c” is silent, by the way — which is also puzzling, and mildly irritating.)

Glaucescence: The state of being bluish-green . . . or greenish-blue. Or it can also refer to a whitish coating on a plum. Don’t ask me; I haven’t a clue as to how the same word can mean two totally different things — which, as we all know, is a far too common occurrence in the English language.

Luftmensch: Also not in my online dictionary. But from my very limited knowledge of German, I’d guess that it refers to a very smart air force pilot. The Red Baron, perhaps?

Mitrailleuse: Another foreign word, French this time. It’s a machine gun. Very useful in everyday American conversation, I should think.

Nuque: The back of the neck — not a quick way to prepare food, or wipe out an entire city in one blow.

Paduasoy: A strong silk fabric. We should probably keep this one for all the folks in the garment industry.

Beauceron: Also French, one of man’s best friends.

Logorrhea: Not a tree disease after all. Rather, it refers to a form of pathologically incoherent, repetitious speech; or an insistent or compulsive talkativeness. I always just called it diarrhea of the mouth. Actually, “logorrhea” does sound better.

*. *. *

You know, after this little foray into linguistic obscurity, I’m having second thoughts about scrapping some of these words. They’re rather fun, actually . . . though I doubt I’ll remember any of them tomorrow. And I do think they should be eliminated from the National Spelling Bee competition, as the only thing the students learn from them is memorization through repetition — not really how to spell.

All of this mental exercise has made me hungry, so I think I’ll go now, put on my glaucescent paduasoy dress, invite my favorite luftmensch to join me for dinner, and nuque something in the miquerowave. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll try to find that vivisepulture everyone has been talking about.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/8/25

April 25, 1993: Headed for New York on Amtrak’s express train, then by taxi from Pennsylvania Station to JFK International Airport to meet up with Valentin Aksilenko and an unknown individual named Yuri Shvets, who are supposed to be arriving from Moscow. A car and driver, sent by the literary agent John Brockman, would be waiting at the airport for us. We were all to spend the night with the Brockman family at their Connecticut home, and then to go into New York City the following morning to meet with prospective publishers. It had all been very efficiently arranged . . . assuming the two men had actually gotten onto that plane.

Despite the fact that I was not, and never had been, employed by the U.S. (or any other) government; nor did I have a consultancy or any other sort of contract with any government agency; yet, over the past two months I had become an instrument by which they were . . . well, I didn’t know what they were doing, to be honest. I only knew that the two Russians were of obvious importance.

I arrived at JFK in plenty of time; but the cab driver dropped me off at the wrong terminal, and it was just by some act of divine providence — or perhaps by design — that a Good Samaritan came along to escort me to the right place. I was running late by then, and was too frazzled to question it.

And there I found Aksilenko, standing with the driver who was carrying a sign with my name and looking very worried until he saw me running into the building. As we greeted each other, a slightly-built, well-dressed man emerged from a corner, where he appeared to have been trying to blend into the woodwork. This, then, must be the mysterious Yuri Shvets.

And I took an immediate dislike to him.

Exuding arrogance, pomposity and cockiness, he was the total opposite of the modest, gentlemanly Aksilenko. My first thought was to wonder how such a strutting peacock had managed to carve out a career as a spy. Weren’t they supposed to be nondescript?

In any event, it wasn’t my job to like him . . . merely to help him sell his book, and get them both back to D.C., where I knew — but obviously couldn’t let on — that the FBI would be waiting for them.

Despite the internal stress, I found myself thoroughly enjoying an evening of spirited conversation, a tour of the Brockmans’ historic property, and an excellent dinner. I didn’t sleep much that night — I hadn’t expected to — but was up bright and early for breakfast and a ride into the city.

After meetings with three publishers, the book was quickly bought by Simon & Schuster, with a generous advance paid to the authors (Aksilenko now being named as co-author). Then a nice lunch in an expensive, sky-high restaurant overlooking Central Park, a quick stop at Brockman’s office to sign the requisite contract, and I was off to Penn Station with my two charges in tow. Mission accomplished.

Well . . . almost.

It had been a jam-packed couple of days, but the fun wasn’t over yet. I had left my car in the garage at Washington’s Union Station, and from there I drove the two now-exhausted travelers to the hotel in suburban Alexandria, Virginia, where I had been instructed (by you-know-who) to reserve rooms for them. Checking them in, I knew we were being watched, and it wasn’t easy to keep from looking around. I saw the two men to their rooms, made sure everything was satisfactory, and said good night. They were to call me when they woke up in the morning.

It was late in the evening by now, and as I headed for my car in the outdoor parking lot, I could feel my body beginning to sag under the weight of 36 hours of constant tension and sleeplessness. I couldn’t wait to get home to the comfort of my apartment and my bed. I reached for the car door handle . . . and nearly jumped out of my skin as a man came up behind me and asked, “How are you doing?”

It was one of the FBI agents, who — true to his training — had remained invisible until that moment. Apparently, I had done too good a job of not looking around.

He wanted to be sure I was all right, to assure me that they had everything under control, and to find out whether there was anything I needed to tell them from the events of the past two days. In fact, I was too damned tired to think about it, and told him I was fine and would talk to him the next day.

I somehow managed to drive the few miles home without running the car off the road, picked up my mail, and went upstairs to my apartment, where I did something I rarely do: poured myself a big glass of wine, flopped down on the sofa in the den, turned on the TV, and at some point fell asleep and spent the night there, fully dressed.

It was the best sleep I’d had in a long while.

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To be continued . . .

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Brendochka
1/8/25