Here I am, down south and in the secondary path of Hurricane Idalia, waiting to see what happens next. And what better way to spend my time than by scouring the headlines for inspiration for my next blog post? So, let’s see what there is . . .

Well . . . Crap!!!

Was that the best they could do? Really?

I started my search with Saturday’s “Good Stuff” from CNN, in the hope of finding something on the cheerful side. I did see a piece on soccer (but not a sports fan, so passed right over that one); a bit about the artistic side of library cards (yawn); and an article that tells us that saying hello to our neighbors is beneficial to our health and overall wellbeing. Okay, then. Certainly not bad news; but I’m having a difficult time trying to figure out how to turn any of those into an article anyone would be interested in reading. Apparently, if it’s not bad, it’s just not news.

Then I went on to today’s items, and . . . Voila! Up popped this lovely fellow.

No, he’s not Yevgeny Prigozhin’s second cousin . . . though he might well be, considering the physical resemblance. But I really wouldn’t know. What he does seem to be, though, is Prigozhin’s replacement: Putin’s gift to Africa, General Andrey Averyanov.

According to Fox News (not my favorite source, but it’s the only one I could find today on this guy), the General “currently serves as the head of covert offensive operations in Russia’s military intelligence service [presumably the GRU], and he has been accused of ordering assassinations of Russian dissidents.” He is also said to have met with African leaders during the Russia-Africa summit in St. Petersburg in July. In other words, your typical Putin appointee. So that would answer one question that’s been foremost in people’s minds . . . well, my mind, anyway . . . as to who’s next after Prigozhin.

And what else might Mr. Putin have in store for the remnants of the Wagner Group aside from this new leader of Russia’s answer to Hitler’s Afrika Korps? According to Republic World (India), just days before the announced appointment of Averyanov, Mr. Putin had ordered the mercenary group to sign an “oath of allegiance,” along with other private military groups. The decree is said to read, in part, as follows:

“All persons entering volunteer formations, and other persons contributing to the fulfilment [sic] of the tasks assigned to the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, other troops, military formations and bodies and taking part in a special military operation must pledge allegiance to the country and military.”

In other words, the troops who, just two months ago, were ready to follow Yevgeny Prigozhin in a revolt against the Kremlin and the Russian military, are now being conscripted into — and expected to pledge their loyalty to — those very same military forces. And if they refuse . . . well, it doesn’t require much imagination to figure that out.

Apparently, all Wagner troops have been, or are being, removed from Ukraine . . . which would seem to be good news for Ukraine, since the Wagner mercenaries had exhibited the greatest capability — and brutality — of all of the Russian forces since the start of the war a year and a half ago. But there is plenty of room for them in Africa and the Middle East, where their presence has already been a fact of life for some time.

So that’s an answer provided to yet another question — an answer which, along with a number of actual experts, I had already mentioned as one of a few distinct possibilities: what to do with all of those Wagner barbarians. We are now two-for-two.

But let us not forget Belarus. With its self-anointed President, Aleksandr Lukashenko, already casting his eye on Poland . . . well, who knows what’s to come? The most vulnerable next targets would seem to be Lithuania and Latvia — two more NATO members. But I’m getting into worst-case scenarios now, and I don’t really want to do that.

The bottom line here — if there is one as yet — is that the death of Yevgeny Prigozhin is further proof to the world that no one, no matter how valuable, is truly indispensable. Someone leaves a job, and another person is sent in to fill his shoes. And, when you’re dealing with a stone-cold killer at the helm, even a lifetime of friendship means nothing; human life itself has no value; and world opinion isn’t even given a moment’s consideration. Such is the reality of life in the Kremlin inner circle, and the remaining members of that elite group had better take heed. Because no one knows who may be next.

And as though we needed further proof of these sad truths, we were told yesterday — after the fact — that a funeral had been held for Yevgeny. Not at Novodevichy or other noted Moscow cemetery, but in his home town of St. Petersburg; not with a parade or other fanfare as he would have wanted, but quietly and secretly; not with a crowd of people to bid him farewell, but with a small, hand-picked group of mourners. And not with his body embalmed and laid out for viewing, because there was no body; but with a charred set of remains that his family were told were his. Surely, even a person as malevolent as he had been in life deserves a little better sendoff in death.

But not in Putin’s Russia.

*. *. *

Two additional Russia-related items jumped out at me today, having to do with another scary guy I’ve mentioned before — Dmitry Medvedev — and some of Prigozhin’s loyal followers who are now defending Putin and blaming the West (including the U.S., of course) for their former boss’ death. But I’ll save those for tomorrow . . . I’ve already covered enough depressing material for one day.

So, back to my hurricane watch. Good luck to all of you Floridians in Idalia’s path. I certainly hope she’s not as bad as predicted, but in any case, stay safe.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/30/23

As I write these words, it is Monday, August 28, 2023: the 60th anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s 1963 March on Washington. And I was there.

I was not able to join the crowd of 200,000 people peacefully gathered on the Mall that bright summer day, because I had my six-week-old son with me. Completely oblivious to the events taking place around him, he slept through the afternoon; but I wanted him to be able to say, much later in life, that he had lived through those epic times, even if he would have no actual memory of it. And I wanted to be able to say the same for myself. So I had brought him with me to join a few friends in the downtown area of D.C., where — even several city blocks from the Mall — the excitement of the day was palpable.

And what a time it was! A time when America was looking forward to an endlessly bright future; when the people were united in a fight for civil rights; when the youth of the country weren’t afraid to speak out — and to demonstrate — in favor of noble causes . . . and not in anger, but peaceably. And it was a time when our young President, John F. Kennedy, spoke of a strong economy, an ambitious space program, and the promise of Camelot. We had weathered the Cuban Missile Crisis, and emerged victorious when Nikita Khrushchev famously backed down. Life was good . . . we were strong and prosperous . . . and it was a time to party.

Even the popular music of the day spoke to us of peace, love, and brotherhood, through the words and voices of the likes of Joni Mitchell, Arlo Guthrie, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, the Peter, Paul and Mary trio, and numerous others. We listened to, and deeply felt, songs like “Blowin’ In the Wind” and “The Times They Are A-Changin’.” And we believed in those lyrics.

And it was in that atmosphere of peace, love, and brotherhood, on that August 28th of 1963, that Dr. King stood before that audience of 200,000 forward-looking people and spoke the magic words: “I have a dream.” And the world, as it so often has done throughout history, once more began to change . . . but not the way we had hoped.

*. *. *

Because then, barely three months later, all the peace and harmony and dreaming came crashing down. On November 22, 1963, the bright light that had been President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was extinguished by an assassin’s bullet in Dallas, Texas; and Camelot disappeared in a puff of smoke and a river of blood. He was just 46 years old.

And less than five years after that horrific event, on April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., aged 39, was himself brought down in the same manner, in Memphis, Tennessee. And barely two months later, on June 6, 1968, President Kennedy’s younger brother, then presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy, succumbed to yet another assassin’s bullet in Los Angeles, California, at the age of 43. He had been warned not to run for office; he hadn’t listened.

Within half a decade, three brilliant young men, willing to bear the weight of an imperfect world on their shoulders in order to serve a higher cause, were each gone in the flash of an instant. And the world flipped again . . . and has never been the same.

*. *. *

But what about Dr. King’s dream? It was a dream of a world — or at least a country — in which “equal rights” applied to everyone, regardless of race, religion, ethnicity, or gender. That was 60 long years ago; and I ask myself today: If Dr. King could come back to his country for just a little while, what would he think? Would he be happy with the progress we’ve made toward his goal? Or would he be saddened to see that, in spite of all the laws guaranteeing fair and equal treatment to everyone, and all of the progress we have made, we are in many ways still fighting the same fight . . . and with a great deal less dignity than we did in the ‘60s. And I ask myself: Was it worth it?

And my answer is a resounding YES. Because every step forward is one less step we have to take in the future. And for every person of every race, religion, ethnicity or gender who now holds a job, attends a school, or lives in a neighborhood that would have been closed to them 60 years ago, those baby steps are cumulative, and they definitely have meant something. What we need now is to find a way to keep moving forward without all of the 21st-Century anger and hate that sadly have pushed aside that hopeful spirit of the 1960s.

Maybe what we need now is a few more good songs.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/29/23

Yesterday — just four days after the devastating plane disaster, and less than twelve hours after posting my thoughts on the presumed death of Yevgeny Prigozhin — came the announcement from Russia that his remains, along with those of the other nine people aboard that doomed aircraft, have been positively identified.

Wow! That was fast!

Yes, I have read that rapid DNA testing can be completed in just days, or even hours, in some cases. But it boggles the mind to imagine that, in such a short period of time, the decimated and widely-scattered remains of ten people can have been gathered, sorted, contained, transported, DNA-tested, and the test results compared against family members of all ten — whose DNA samples would also have been gathered and tested during the same brief period.

Now, that’s what I call superhuman efficiency!

Okay, then. Let’s choose not to be naysayers, and instead take the word of the Kremlin that Yevgeny Prigozhin, Dmitry Utkin, five other members of the Wagner Group, and three unfortunate crew members (a.k.a. “collateral damage”) have all been proven to have died in that crash and are now ready to be laid to rest. Closure is a good thing . . . right?

But will they all have closure? Or will the visage of the best-known and most controversial of those ten souls now be dredged up — either from memory or imagination — over and over again?

Not likely, you say. Oh, really? Have you forgotten Elvis, who died 46 years ago this month and is still being seen in the most unlikely places?

Or poor, beleaguered Bigfoot, who — if he ever existed at all — must surely have died several times over by now?

*. *. *

But Yevgeny is different. He was no teenage idol; and he was certainly no hairy, oversized Yeti. He was, in the simplest of terms, a bad, bad person. He was a criminal, a blood-thirsty warmonger, a barbaric, amoral killer-for-hire: the worst kind of human being imaginable. But can we be sure that is how he will ultimately be remembered? People’s memories, you know, are often fickle.

Even before there was “proof” of his death, at least one memorial to him had been created, in front of the Wagner Center headquarters in St. Petersburg. And because of the manner of his death, my sense is that — correctly or not — he may well be remembered by some as the victim in this melodrama: the man who dared to revolt against a dysfunctional Russian military establishment and its leaders; was then banished for his efforts; and was ultimately blown to bits.

If that’s not the perfect launchpad for a martyrdom, then I don’t know what is.

*. *. *

And in the meantime, the man in the Kremlin — despite all of the recent history, the available facts surrounding the plane’s destruction, and worldwide belief to the contrary — continues to vehemently deny having had any part in the murders of those ten people. And in doing so, he may actually be helping to perpetuate the widespread suspicions against himself. Because the longer and more forcefully he continues to deny, deny, deny . . . the more it becomes a case of “Methinks [Putin] doth protest too much.” Perhaps, then, in his solution of one problem, Vladimir Putin will have laid the groundwork for his own destruction.

And maybe Yevgeny — or his restless, evil spirit — will have had the last laugh after all.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/28/23

“When Zhenya* comes marching home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give him a hearty welcome then,
Hurrah! Hurrah!”

* Zhenya: Familiar form of the Russian name Yevgeny.

*. *. *

On August 13th, in my post titled Where’s Yevgeny? – Part 5, I wrote the following:

“. . . According to investigative journalist Christo Grozev of Bellingcat, within six months Yevgeny Prigozhin will stage a second coup attempt against the Kremlin, or he will be dead.

I’m setting my clock now.”

*. *. *

I hope Mr. Grozev had a sizable amount of money bet on that prediction, because it only took ten days for him to be proven dead right . . . literally. As we now know, Yevgeny Prigozhin is presumed to have been killed, along with nine others, in the crash of his private plane in the Tver region northwest of Moscow on August 23rd.

Oh, wait a minute, Mr. Grozev; don’t try to collect on that bet just yet. Note that I said “presumed.” As the ongoing forensic investigation of the wreckage and the retrieved human remains continues, the question looms as to whether he was actually on that plane. Vladimir Putin and his official spokesman, Dmitry Peskov, say that Yevgeny is dead, dead, dead. And if he was indeed one of the passengers, then he is definitely gone, because there were clearly no survivors . . . there rarely are when a plane explodes and plunges 28,000 feet from the sky to the earth.

But was the real Yevgeny Prigozhin — whose name appears on the flight manifest — actually on that plane? The odds are, he was. But there are some who suspect otherwise. And if not, where in the world is he? And who was sitting in his seat? We don’t yet know the answers to any of these questions; and in the long run, we will have only the Kremlin’s word that their final answer will be the truth.

As was the case with his extraordinary life, Yevgeny’s death remains shrouded in mystery.

Either way — dead or simply vanished — his absence is already having, and will continue to have, a dramatic effect upon Russia’s foreign policy and activities with regard to its “special military operation” in Ukraine; its long-established and continuing support of regimes in a number of African and Middle Eastern countries; its utilization of Belarus’ strategic location in proximity to several NATO-member countries (specifically Poland, Lithuania and Latvia); and perhaps other adventures as yet unimagined.

Aside from Vladimir Putin himself, it’s difficult to imagine the loss of a single individual having that great an impact within the Russian inner circle. After all, Yevgeny was neither an elected nor an appointed government official. Nor, apparently, was he one of the most wealthy or influential of Russia’s known lineup of oligarchs. He was known as “Putin’s Chef”: a long-time friend and close confidant of the little man from St. Petersburg who now sits on the “throne” of a mighty nation. But, as we know all too well, friendship means nothing to Vladimir Putin, and loyalty only works in one direction: to him, not from him.

No, Yevgeny’s principal value to Putin is — or was — as the head of an organization known as the Wagner Group: a collection of mercenary fighters capable of the most unimaginably barbaric acts, as they have proven time and time again, most recently in Ukraine. But is he indispensable even in that capacity? Perhaps not.

Because there is — or was — a lesser-known man, one Dmitry Utkin, whose name was also on that ill-fated passenger list. And Utkin turns out to have been quite the mystery man himself. A simple Google search has turned up the following basic information:

“Dmitry Valerievich Utkin . . . was a Russian army officer. He served as a special forces officer in the GRU, where he held the rank of lieutenant colonel. He was allegedly the co-founder and military commander of the Russian state-funded Wagner Group, with his military alias reportedly being Wagner. Utkin was reportedly a neo-Nazi. He rarely made public appearances, but was allegedly the commander of the private military company, while Yevgeny Prigozhin was its owner and public face. Utkin received four Orders of Courage of Russia.”

Aha! So Wagner Group wasn’t a one-man conception or operation after all. But now this charming fellow is apparently also dead. So what happens to the Wagner Group, without which Putin’s military forces have been proving themselves far less formidable than he would have the world believe?

That — far more, even, than what has happened to Yevgeny — seems to be the big question. Will they simply be relocated, and who will lead them? Or will they be split up and sent to various strategic locations? Perhaps merged into the Russian military forces themselves? Or reinvented as something wholly new and different? I certainly don’t know, but I’d be willing to bet that Vladimir Putin already has a pretty good idea; else, why would he have waited two full months before publicly solving his “Prigozhin Problem”?

Oh, I’m sorry . . . did that sound like an accusation? No, of course it wasn’t. It just popped into my mind and rolled right off my tongue. But if the shoe fits . . .

*. *. *

Once again, I leave you with a plethora of questions and a dearth of answers . . . and a little fun in a very un-funny situation. I’m sure I’ll be back with more comments as the daily news continues to provide me with the seeds — and a good bit of fertilizer — for my musings.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/27/23

I don’t usually get this personal in my blog posts, but this incident still causes the anger to bubble up from deep inside whenever I let myself think about it. So this really is a form of catharsis for me, and hopefully a cautionary tale for all of you. (And probably a welcome departure from my recent focus on what’s been happening in Russia.)

To begin with, let me assure all of my old friends and my newer blog readers and FB friends that I am absolutely fine — everything worked out okay. But it took three full days to determine that that was the case, when it could — and should — have been resolved in a few hours.

It all started on Sunday evening, right after dinner. I had opted for a light meal: a slice of my favorite quiche, followed by a piece of fruit for dessert (trying to cut back on the sweets). When the pain hit, it hit like the proverbial ton of bricks. As background, I do have that all-too-common condition known as acid reflux, plus a hiatal hernia, and I’m accustomed to some after-eating discomfort from time to time. But this was bad — really, really bad — and it felt different from the usual. To the point where I wasn’t completely sure I wasn’t having a heart attack. So I did the sensible thing: I had my family call 9-1-1.

The EMTs were great. They brought in their portable EKG machine, and everything there was normal. So, not wanting to spend the rest of the night in the emergency room, I decided not to go to the hospital, but to tough it out. Less than an hour later, I regretted that decision, because the pain just got worse, and I called for the ambulance to come back and take me to the ER after all. Unfortunately, that’s not a short ride (about 30 miles) from where I live, but we made it. It was then about 1:00 a.m. on Monday.

And this was where the fun really began. It all started out fairly normally. I was seen right away, and put into a rather odd little room waa-a-y down at the end of, and around the corner from, the very large and very busy Emergency Department. Not a regular, roomy, well-equipped room, but a little shared space, divided from another patient by a curtain, and containing only an EKG monitor, a blood pressure gauge, and a TV. My vitals were checked, my information was taken, an IV lead was inserted in one arm, a nice young doctor came in to talk to me for two minutes, and about a gallon (well, maybe not that much) of blood was drained from my body. And then I was left alone.

So there I was, immobilized and wondering whether I was going to die before anyone figured out what was wrong. If my son hadn’t been with me, I don’t know what would have happened. He is a very smart, knowledgeable and assertive guy, but even his attempts to get things moving didn’t help. The nurses — all of whom were very pleasant and apologetic for the delays — were clearly stretched thin that night. But eventually I was told, by a different doctor (we’ll call her Dr. Smith), that she was my attending physician and would be ordering an abdominal CT scan and a nuclear stress test. That sounded fine to me.

It took a while, but all of the people in both departments were efficient and attentive, and eventually the tests were done. So things seemed to be looking up. But by the time the second procedure — the nuclear stress test — was completed, it was about 10:00 a.m. on Monday! We were already nine hours in. And what had been happening during all those in-between hours?

Practically nothing.

Oh, I was given a liquid medication “to line the stomach,” a couple of chewable aspirin in case the problem was with my heart, and an offer of morphine for the pain. But by the time that happened, the pain had eased considerably, so I refused the morphine because I didn’t want to mask the symptoms (why didn’t they think of that?) . . . and I knew it would just have put me to sleep for the next two days, because that’s the way I react to that stuff.

My son was exhausted by this time, and with only a hard wooden chair to sit on, he wasn’t able to really sleep. Even though it was miserably uncomfortable, he did manage to doze off a couple of times, but just briefly. Once the cafeteria opened at 7:00 a.m., I sent him off to get some breakfast . . . and, later, his lunch. Since all of my tests had been completed by then, I was allowed to eat and was actually brought a decent lunch around noon, which — by some miracle — I was able to digest without further pain.

And still we waited. And waited. And waited some more. The nurses continued to promise that a doctor would be coming “soon” — but neither Dr. Smith nor any other physician ever made an appearance. My son even walked the entire length and breadth of the ER in search of a doctor — any doctor — but without success. If there were any in the area, they must have been attending to other patients, but they never showed their faces where he could see them.

By this time, I was feeling just fine. But I had no test results, and no indication of what had actually caused all that earlier pain. And by 2:00 p.m., I had talked it over with my son, and I made the decision that we were getting out of there, with or without a diagnosis. When I told a nurse of my intention, I fully expected that that would rouse someone into action. But it didn’t. The response was a very pleasant “All right,” upon which I was unplugged from the machines, and the IV lead was removed from my arm and a gauze pad taped over the hole. The nurse then left the room . . . just before my arm started oozing blood all over the bed.

You see, I take a prescribed blood thinner (the reason is not relevant here). That information was on the record, but I’m not sure how many of the bevy of nurses had the time to notice that. So I hollered, as loudly as I could, “Bleeding! I need help here!” And a nurse — along with my son, who had stepped out to stretch his legs — came running. The nurse applied pressure and stopped the bleeding, covered the area again, and left me with some extra gauze pads and tiny little alcohol wipes. I was on my own once more, and had to clean myself up as best I could. The bloody sheets were their problem.

And then it was time to leave. I was given a few sheets of papers containing no substantive information — not the normal discharge packet; a wheelchair and driver were brought in; and I was sent on my way. I did not sign out “against medical advice.” I just left. No doctor ever formally released me, and I had been given no test results. It was 3:00 p.m.; we had been on this journey for some 14 hours; and we were both livid.

*. *. *

By a lucky coincidence, I had a routine check-up appointment scheduled with my principal physician the following day. In preparation for that, I tried my best to get the record of the hospital visit from the patient portal, but that didn’t work either. The hospital was supposed to have sent me an email with the link to sign onto the portal, but it never came. So I found the hospital’s website and tried to sign on that way, but I kept getting a response that my information (name, date of birth, and Social Security number) didn’t match their information. Once again, I had ceased to exist.

So when I told my doctor the whole sordid story on Tuesday, she was predictably shocked and appalled. But she couldn’t access my information directly, and I signed an authorization for her to obtain it by fax. I then spent the entire rest of that day and half of the next, trying to reach someone at the hospital who could help me get into the portal. By late Wednesday afternoon, it finally worked. And, as I said in the beginning of this overly long diatribe, I’m just fine — it was not heart-related. It seems to have been just the old hiatal hernia gone batshit.

*. *. *

Today is Friday, and the last word from my doctor was that she had received about half of the record, and had re-requested the remainder. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to transmit what I have to her, without having to provide my login and password to her office. So, although I can see the hospital reports, I still need her analysis and conclusions. Maybe by Monday . . .

*. *. *

So there you are. Take from my story what you will: write it off as a one-time aberration, or a caution not to resort to the ER unless you are two steps away from death. Or, perhaps, as just the ravings of a madwoman. To me, it’s a clear indication that, when my time does come, I’m most likely going to die at home. At least I’ll be comfortable, and not full of holes.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/26/23

I dozed off earlier and dreamed I had somehow been spliced into a phone call from Donald Trump in Atlanta, to Vladimir Putin in Moscow. It went something like this:

Trump: “Hey, Vlad, I’m just calling to say I’m really sorry about your lunar landing . . . and that other plane crash thing too.

Putin: “Thanks, Don. It hasn’t been my best week.”

Trump: “You know, I’ve had a rough couple of days here, too. That latest indictment is a bitch. But what did you think of my mug shot? Did I look stern enough?”

Putin: “I think you looked great. You were having a really good hair day, if nothing else.”

Trump: “Thanks. But I’ve been really down lately.”

Putin: “Hey, don’t worry, bro. Things are pretty chill here, with that Wagner thing being more or less settled. Why don’t you move on over to this side? I’ll pardon you, and there are a couple of really nice palaces that have recently become available; you can have your choice. Come to think of it, Russia could use a big ‘MRGA’ campaign about now, and you’re just the guy to get it rolling.”

Trump: “Hmmm . . . thanks, good buddy. That sounds like a real possibility. I’ll give it some serious thought, and maybe discuss it with Ivanka. Let’s talk soon.”

Putin: “Sure thing; just let me know. You know you’re always welcome.”

Both hang up . . . and I wake up.

Me: “Holy crap!”

*. *. *

Brendochka
8/25/23

Children today have so many things my generation never dreamed of: television; the internet; online home schooling; school buses and mothers with SUVs to drive them everywhere; neighborhood swimming pools; electronic everything . . . and also, unfortunately, online bullying, stalkers, and something called Child Protective Services.

But there are so many things they will never know, and they are the poorer for it. Things that all added up, in my day, to the freedom of childhood.

First, kids of my generation were virtually worry-free. Their concerns were pretty much limited to the grades on their report cards, what gifts Santa would leave under the tree, and whether the little boy or girl they currently liked would ever notice them. They didn’t worry about nuclear war, or climate change, or COVID, or whether there might be a recession. Because if any of those things had even threatened their little world, no responsible adult would ever think of discussing it in front of the kids.

They rode their bikes or tricycles all over the neighborhood — without helmets. I’m not sure anyone even made helmets for kids in those days. They sat unrestrained in the family car, because seat belts didn’t exist. They played in the dirt, and only washed their hands before dinner but not with antibacterial soap, because it didn’t exist. They drank from each other’s soda bottles, and ate little dots of candy that had to be peeled from long strips of paper, and little wax “bottles” filled with some unidentified sugary liquid. And they ate chips of ice cut from the big block in the iceman’s truck.

My friends and I didn’t have play dates; we just went outside, found whatever other kids were out at the time, and got together. We played silly games, skipped rope, rode bikes or roller skated together, got up scratch softball teams, or just hung around talking about what to do next. And when it was time for dinner, or just about dark, our parents called out to us and we went back inside.

We got a kick out of catching lightning bugs and putting them into glass jars that had air holes punched in the metal lids. We tried counting the stars in the night sky, or picked dandelions and clover flowers to make bouquets for our mothers. We lay on the grass and imagined animal shapes in the fluffy white clouds. We played tag or hide-and-seek, and when we fell down and scraped our knees, we waited until it was time to go inside for the night before reporting it to our mothers because we didn’t want to be kept indoors any earlier than necessary. And nobody lost a leg from the dirt in the wound.

Kids today have a lot more “stuff” — more high-tech toys and games, more access to information, more cool clothes, lessons in everything, “quality time” with their parents. But what they don’t have, and will never know, is the freedom and joy of just being kids. Of being left alone to use their imaginations and make up their own games with their own friends, without parental oversight. Or being shielded from the sordid side of life, and worrying about nothing more than getting their arithmetic homework done before bedtime.

I feel kind of sorry for them, because I remember those years as the very best years of my life, and I wonder what memories will follow today’s kids throughout the years to come.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/25/23

Once upon a time, in the land known as Russia, there lived a very scary troll named Yevgeny Prigozhin. As a young troll, he lived under a bridge in a city called Leningrad, where he got into a lot of trouble and wound up in prison for a number of years. His family was poor, and he stole stuff; but apparently he wasn’t very good at it because he did get caught.

And one day, when he was released from prison, he decided to start a legitimate business, selling hot dogs from a kiosk. And he was much more clever about business than he was about outright theft, and he began to make lots of money, which he used to open some really nice restaurants — several of them — which made even more money for him.

Yevgeny had a friend named Vladimir, who also had come from a pretty poor family in Leningrad, and he helped Yevgeny build his restaurant and catering business by sending contracts his way. You see, this Vladimir kid was also a pretty shrewd character, and he had come up through the ranks — not always the honest way — to become President of Russia. And the two friends accumulated lots of money and power.

Years passed, as they tend to do, and Yevgeny had branched out into a second business, called a Private Military Company. Now, such companies were strictly forbidden in Russia; but because Yevgeny and Vladimir were such good friends, this company was allowed to grow and prosper; and soon Yevgeny was providing Vladimir with all the mercenary fighters he could ask for to do his dirty work in countries in many parts of the world.

And then, one day the shit hit the fan, because Yevgeny got fed up with Vladimir’s regular military troops and the way their war in a nearby country was being mismanaged. And he decided to stage a revolt by his mercenaries against Vladimir’s military leaders, which really pissed Vladimir off.

And this is where the water gets really murky, because no one — outside of the actual participants — knows exactly what did happen.

Now, in a fairy tale, the good guys vanquish the bad guys and everyone lives happily ever after.

But what do you do when you can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys, or who is doing what to whom, and why? The fairy tale becomes a mystery.

What this fairy tale book tells us is that Yevgeny went off the rails and started an insurrection against his old friend Vladimir. But something happened to stop him, and soon Yevgeny was banished to another kingdom nearby, with all of his wealth to be taken from him. However, he kept showing up in places he wasn’t supposed to be, and no one could figure out whether Vladimir had forgiven him, or what else might be going on.

And after a couple of months, a terrible thing happened. A private plane — allegedly carrying Yevgeny and nine other people — crashed and burned, killing everyone onboard. And the questions began as to the true ending to the fairy tale, because there were several possibilities.

Ending No. 1: The official word was that Yevgeny’s name was on the passenger list of that ill-fated plane, and he was indeed dead. End of story, right? RIGHT?? Well . . . maybe.

Ending No. 2: There was a brief mention of a second plane in the area that had landed safely in Moscow. But who was on it? Good question. Could Yevgeny have sensed a plot against him, or perhaps just missed the first flight, and landed safely with the second plane? Another good question . . . but no answer.

Ending No. 3: Let’s go back to Ending No. 1 for a moment. Vladimir was awfully quick to confirm that Yevgeny was on the first plane, even though forensic examinations had not yet been concluded of any of the ten people on the plane. It was as though the authorities really wanted the world to believe that Yevgeny had died in the crash-and-burn of that aircraft. And some witnesses to the crash had spoken of two loud bangs and smoke trails as the plane “fell from the sky.” So, does this ending show the plane being shot down, or perhaps a bomb being exploded onboard? And if so, was that in order to actually kill Yevgeny, or to create that illusion? More questions.

Ending No. 4: If it should come to pass that Yevgeny is still alive (which we would probably never know for sure even if that were the case), the big question is: WHY? The most obvious answer, to my mind, would be that the whole mind-blowing scenario — from the supposed revolt against Vladimir, to the taking of Rostov-on-Don, to the march toward Moscow, to the cessation of the march and the supposed deal under which Yevgeny would be banished to Belarus, to his re-appearances and disappearances, to the ultimate plane crash (in which, let us not forget, nine other people became collateral damage) — was one gigantic farce from beginning to end. Which was exactly what many people have believed from the get-go. But, again, WHY? That would almost be too elaborate a plan to be believable. Wouldn’t it?

I was going to begin this sentence with “the most logical answer.” But everything about this case defies logic. So all we can do is guess, and surmise, and argue, and wonder, and try to make sense of it. But only a handful of people know for sure, and they’re certainly not talking. Which shows us possibly the greatest advantage of living in a closed society: the ability to hide their secrets from the rest of the world. And in this age of electronic snooping, that is no small advantage.

Over the past five weeks, I have written six chapters titled “Where’s Yevgeny?” And the world is still asking the same question. Considering that the answer can only come from Russia, we may never know for sure. But at this point in time, I’m voting for Ending No. 1. Or No. 4. Or No. . . .Well, we shall see . . . maybe.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/24/23

When Frank Sinatra sang those lyrics in 1965, the mood was purely romantic. Today, uttering those same words would have Elon Musk or Samuel Peralta signing you up for one of their forthcoming space missions.

If you don’t know who Elon Musk is, you’ve clearly been doing the Rip Van Winkle thing. But who — you might well be asking — is Samuel Peralta? That was my question when I stumbled across an article several days ago about something called “Lunar Codex.” I had never heard of that, either, so I read on.

In all honesty, the technical aspects of it are light years beyond my comprehension. But here’s a brief description of Mr. Peralta’s stated goal:

“I dreamed of going to the Moon and one day it was possible. I’m sharing that dream with many of the artists, authors, musicians, and filmmakers whose work I love.

”Welcome, my name is Samuel Peralta. The Lunar Codex is that dream realized, a collection of works from tens of thousands of creative artists across the globe, launched in time capsules to the Moon.”

Okay, then.

Science fiction? Apparently not . . . or not for long, anyway, according to Mr. Peralta, who sees his plans intersecting with those of NASA in sending scientific instruments and other payloads to the Moon between this year and 2026 under the aegis of its “Artemis” program. I’d have to hear more of what NASA has to say about that, but for now, let’s just take Mr. Peralta at his word.

So this of course started me thinking about what else I’d like to find waiting for me when I relocate to a nice little retirement villa on the Moon, beyond his string of art galleries and movie theaters. And this is what I came up with.

First, because the Moon’s gravitational pull is so many degrees less than Earth’s, I’m hoping someone will have designed some sort of magnetic footwear to help us keep our feet on the ground — literally. Something comfy in a size 8M for me, please. I have enough problems staying upright already, and I do not need to be floating around, bumping into my neighbors, their pets, or the nearest oak tree.

As a senior citizen, I would be most interested in employing a personal robot who would keep my little house spotlessly clean and prepare my simple and delicious meals for me. It would also be nice if she enjoyed playing Scrabble.

The TV schedules would be filled with quality programming for people of all ages and interests, and not just a steady diet of sex and violence. And those, if they’re included at all, should be limited to late-night viewing after the kiddies are asleep.

Next: Flowers. Lots and lots of flowers, flowering trees and shrubs, and parks everywhere. I’ve always wanted to live in a garden.

There would be lovely little shops, run by friendly, helpful people, and selling beautiful, unique goods. Sort of like Cape Cod. And an ice cream shoppe on every corner, please.

All of the streets would have moving sidewalks, and there would be no steps anywhere. There would be bicycle lanes, and people would adhere to the traffic laws, as they do in Copenhagen, Denmark, where there are far fewer traffic accidents than in our cities in the United States. And if it snows on the Moon, all of the streets and sidewalks would be heated in the winter.

For the young and able-bodied, we should have beautiful spaces for outdoor activities: hiking, camping, swimming, fishing, golf, tennis, etc. And walking trails in the villages for less strenuous exercise.

Parents and teachers shall be required by law to teach children respect, manners, honesty, care and consideration for others, and the virtue of obeying their elders. Discipline shall be fair but stern, and children shall be taught to take responsibility for their own behavior. Actions shall have consequences.

The Moon shall consist of one large country, so there will be no need for wars or “special military operations.” In fact, there shall be no need for military anything — just local police forces to uphold the laws. There shall be no guns or other weaponry — not for the police or for any citizen. When life is good, you don’t need guns. *

* Note: Just yesterday, it was reported that India has successfully landed a spacecraft on the south pole of the Moon, so I may be stretching it a bit to wish for one big country. Crap! That means all my other wishes would apply only to the American territory. And here we go again . . .

The government on the Moon should be established in strict accordance with the original Constitution of the United States and its Amendments. No messing around, no special interests, and any politician caught breaking or circumventing any law or regulation would immediately be banished and sent back to Earth.

Taxes shall be no more than necessary for the efficient operation of the government, and every person shall pay the same percentage, with no special tax shelters for the rich.

Medical care and prescriptions, as well as health insurance, shall be reasonably priced, and of the highest quality. This is not socialized medicine; you still have the right to choose your own doctors, and the doctors do not work for the government.

There shall be free education for all, through four years of college. If Finland can do it on Earth, we should be able to manage it on the Moon.

*. *. *

There’s probably more, but this is all I can think of right now, except for one very important first item: When boarding the space ship that will take us to our new home on the Moon, there will be a gigantic sign reading, “No bias, discrimination, fanaticism, injustice, racism, sexism, ageism, unfairness, narrow-mindedness, partiality, or hatred of any sort permitted on the Moon. WE MEAN IT. Only happy people are allowed. And pets, of course, because they’re perfect.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/24/23

The astonishing news today is that he is — or may be — dead. He is listed as being aboard a private plane, registered in his name, that has crashed in the Tver Region of Russia just north of Moscow, killing all ten persons aboard. As of the latest report I have read (from BBC), four bodies have so far been recovered, but there is no report of identification as yet.

But until all ten bodies have been definitely identified, I’m not willing to write him off. This is a man who is a total enigma, and historically a survivor: a former convict who started a catering business; became “Putin’s Chef” by providing catering services for the Kremlin; created and headed a “private military company” of mercenaries called the Wagner Group — something that is completely illegal in Russia, but was not only allowed to exist, but has been utilized by the Kremlin itself to augment its presence in various African and Middle Eastern countries as well as in Ukraine; became one of Vladimir Putin’s closest confidants; has been considered one of the group of oligarchs, the wealthiest and most powerful individuals in Russia today; and finally, inexplicably, attempted a rebellion against the Russian military, and failed miserably.

Since that time, his whereabouts — and his status — have been a total mystery. He was supposed to have been exiled to Belarus, but he kept showing up in Moscow and St. Petersburg. By all normal standards, he should have been in prison . . . but that never happened. He was apparently removed as head of the Wagner Group, but there has been no definitive word as to a successor, even on a temporary basis.

And now we are told that Yevgeny Prigozhin has probably been killed in the crash of his own plane . . . along with nine other people (six fellow passengers and three crew members). Local residents in the area of the crash have reported hearing two bangs and seeing two vapor trails before the actual crash. Strictly on the basis of the 23-year history of the Putin administration and its usual modus operandi, I have to wonder whether this is the Kremlin’s way of finally dealing with him, or whether it’s some sort of red herring designed to create the appearance of his death — though by whom, and for what reason, even my circuitous train of thought hasn’t been able to fathom as yet. And news out of Russia, as we all know, is not always the most reliable.

So, once more, we wait and we wonder. The mystery that is Russia is endlessly fascinating and frustrating.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/23/23