That is a question, at the present time, that only Elon Musk himself can answer. The rest of the world is left with only outward appearances and speculation by which to judge his recent words and proposed actions with reference to the survival of Ukraine.

Today’s news reportage does not look favorable to Mr. Musk. After earlier deciding to step up and provide StarLink internet service to Ukraine in the face of its invasion by Russia, he was lauded as the ultimate good guy — the one whose SpaceX company had the resources, and who saw the need, and did the right thing to help save a country that continues to be the victim of an unspeakable, ongoing crime against humanity. The free world applauded him, and deservedly so. That internet service has been of incalculable value to the effort to keep Ukraine alive. Mr. Musk was a true hero.

But what has changed? Simply put — and according to current reporting — he had a conversation with Vladimir Putin.

Uh-oh!

Assuming reporter Joe Barnes of The Telegraph (UK) is correct, “Elon Musk pondered pulling Starlink satellite internet from Ukraine because he feared being perceived as a warmonger in Russia, a former Pentagon official has said.”

Further: “ . . . [Musk] expressed his concerns after Ukrainian forces reported network outages close to the front lines separating them from their Russian occupiers.”

And continuing: “‘Colin Kahl, a US undersecretary of defence [sic] for policy until last month, was charged with brokering a deal to prevent Mr. Musk from turning the system off altogether. . . . My inference was that he was getting nervous that Starlink’s involvement was increasingly seen in Russia as enabling the Ukrainian war effort, and was looking for a way to placate Russian concerns,’ the former US official added.”

Yes, there does seem to be a good deal of inference, supposition, interpretation, or whatever you choose to call it. And no, it has not happened as yet . . . mercifully. But the concern here is that this all came to light following contacts by Mr. Musk with the (apparently) irresistible Mr. Putin.

Mr. Barnes goes on to report that: “Last year, Mr. Musk was accused of publishing a Kremlin-friendly peace proposal, suggesting Ukraine should mirror sovereignty referendums organised by Russia in regions it occupied.”

And I find myself thinking that this sounds disturbingly like “deja vu all over again,” eerily reminding me of Donald Trump’s well-remembered presidential bromance with Vladimir Putin — who apparently can spot an outsized ego a mile away, and knows instinctively how to stroke it.

Then I read on and spotted a separate item by Sarah Jackson of Insider, wherein she quoted comments by LinkedIn cofounder Reid Hoffman, to the effect that Musk had “bought what Putin was selling, hook, line, and sinker” regarding the war in Ukraine.

Again, second- or third-hand information. But what is behind it? Is it all smoke and no fire? I certainly hope so, because the alternative would be terrifying.

*. *. *

I do not accuse Elon Musk, or anyone else, of anything at this time. I am merely trying to make sense of what is happening from day to day in the world, and hoping to find clarification of the reportage and inferences I see from other sources. Mr. Musk is a total enigma to me — a man who would pay $44 billion for a going concern named Twitter, and immediately lay off huge numbers of its employees, make radical changes to its theretofore successful operating formula, and inexplicably change its familiar and popular name to . . . what does it even stand for? . . . “X.” And so I’d very much like to know more about his thought processes; not so much with regard to his actions at Twitter, but about his views and intentions toward the current war . . . or “special military operation” . . . fomented by Russia against Ukraine, and threatening to spill over now into Poland, Lithuania and Latvia.

So, Mr. Musk, I ask you directly: What’s going on in your busy mind as regards Ukraine? The world would like to know.

No, I correct myself: the world needs to know.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/23/23

We’ve all seen it: the big, not-so-smart kid who just can’t resist pushing the quiet, respectful kid around for his lunch money, or his cool jacket . . . or just because he can.

Or, even worse today, the cyberbully who spreads malicious lies about his victims online, for the whole world to see and believe. Unforgivable — both of them.

But what happens when those bullies grow up, but don’t grow out of their vicious tendencies, and the bullying begins on a larger scale? Or — worst-case scenario — when they become leaders of countries? And when those countries begin bullying other countries; destroying their lands and cities with missiles and bombs; raping, torturing and killing their citizens — all because they want what the other “kid” has? And before you know it, the bully’s friends join in for a piece of the action, the victim’s friends rush to his defense, and . . .

The answer is obvious: in the schoolyard, you’ve got a rumble. But what happens in a country is a coup, or a revolution, or an all-out war (even when the bully euphemistically insists it’s just a “special military operation”). And there’s no sense in pussy-footing around. We all know who I’m talking about. The big bully in today’s schoolyard is Russia, and the leader of the pack is Vladimir Putin. The victim, of course, is Ukraine . . . for now.

But let us not forget about the bully’s buddies — in this case, Putin’s best friend, Aleksandr Lukashenko, self-proclaimed president of Belarus. By itself, this wasn’t a country that previously gave us much to worry about. But now . . . well, its strategic location as Ukraine’s immediate neighbor to the north, and the nature of its crazed and ambitious leader, do give us cause for grave concern. And especially when he starts spouting threats of responding to “aggression” with nuclear weapons. Weapons which, by the way, have been entrusted to him by none other than his BFF, Mr. Putin.

So, what about that strategic location? Well, first of all, in order for Russian troops to travel by land from Belarus to another strategic bit of Russian territory — Kaliningrad, on the Baltic Sea — they have to pass through a small piece of neighboring Poland known as the Suwalki Gap. And Poland’s long eastern border is also shared by both Belarus and Ukraine. So Poland is a juicy temptation to our Russian and Belarusian bullies. And recently, there have been apparent violations of Polish airspace by Belarus, as well as repeated attempts to cross the border into Poland. As a result, the Polish government has deployed some 10,000 defensive troops to their shared border.

And that is when Lukashenko began loudly threatening retaliation against any so-called “aggression” on the part of Poland or two other NATO neighbors, Lithuania and Latvia.

BOOM!

The bully’s best friend has a big mouth and a short fuse. He also now has the means to back up his threats. What we don’t know is whether he’s suicidal enough to follow through. Or just how much control Putin actually is able to maintain over him. In the meantime, we wait, and wonder, and worry.

As private citizens, and not policymakers or lawmakers or military strategists, that’s all we can do. That, and try to make sure that our elected officials are fully cognizant of the true situation, and not blinded by the flattery and outright lies of the bullies who would try to win us over to their side.

We’re already in the lead-up to an election year, you know . . . Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/22/23

Yesterday I took you on a quick tour of a small law firm in 1955, which of course got me thinking back to some of the funnier clients and others I encountered over my many years of exposure to the wonderful world of legal conflict. And I’ve come up with a couple of beauts from the ‘70s I’d like to share with you.

First was a middle-aged lady we’ll call Ms. Smith, who had been involved in a very minor fender-bender. She was stopped at a red light when a vehicle on the cross street, with the green light, turned the corner, misjudged, and ever-so-slightly clipped the left front fender of Ms. Smith’s car. Annoying as hell, but not the end of the world, right? Well, not according to Ms. Smith.

Upon feeling the slight impact of metal upon metal, she immediately went into crisis mode. Never mind the car — we’re talking life-threatening, mind-numbing, permanent physical and emotional impairment here. Every part of her body had just been attacked, from her neck to her ankles. She couldn’t move. She was taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital emergency room, where she was given a thorough examination and found to be . . . completely uninjured. Big surprise. But she didn’t believe the physicians there, and went on a search for an unscrupulous doctor of her own, and finally found one. Then she swore out a vendetta against the driver who had caused her to become a total wreck, and proceeded to file suit for a ridiculous amount of money.

The law firm I was working for at the time represented the insurance companies that provided coverage against various types of liability, including motor vehicle accidents. And the person Ms. Smith sued happened to be insured by one of those companies. When they received notice of the lawsuit, they called our office, and I got the call. When that happens, there is a protocol to be followed: first, interview the insured driver; file certain more-or-less routine documents to protect the client’s interests; and have the claimant — in this case, the lovely Ms. Smith — examined by one or more physicians of our choice. All of which, we did.

The real fun began when I read the Complaint Ms. Smith had filed with the Court. Among her litany of claimed injuries, she had included one that none of us in the office had ever heard before. Apparently — if one were to take her seriously — her nerves were so shattered by this catastrophic collision that she couldn’t work, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think, could barely move . . . and was so cold all the time she couldn’t sleep, and had to wrap herself completely in Saran Wrap to stay warm at night. Since she lived alone, how she accomplished this feat on her own remained a mystery.

I will wait now until you stop laughing. Wait . . . wait. Okay now? Let’s continue.

There was a very prominent neurologist in Washington at that time who was also a licensed psychiatrist, though he didn’t actually practice psychiatry — he just found it extremely useful in working with some of his patients. And so we sent Ms. Smith to see him. Ordinarily, we would simply have waited for his written report, but in this case he couldn’t stand it — he just had to call. And what that consummate professional told me sent me into gales of laughter because it was so out of character for him:

“You know me,” he began. “I have never said this about a patient or about anyone. But just between us: this lady is NUTS. There’s no other word for it. She’s just plain nuts.”

Well . . . yeah. I mean, after all, we’re talking Saran Wrap here.

When confronted with our doctor’s report (in which the word “nuts” most assuredly did not appear), Ms. Smith’s attorney came to his senses, reasoned with her as best he could, and the suit was settled out of court for her expenses and a little extra (perhaps enough for a lifetime supply of Saran Wrap). And I don’t believe the “Saran Wrap Cure” ever caught on in either the medical or the legal profession. I don’t know what ultimately became of Ms. Smith, but I do hope she finally managed to get her body temperature properly adjusted.

*. *. *

Fast forward a couple of years. Same law firm, different case . . . this one involving an outhouse and an injured party’s sex life.

We’ll call this one Mr. Jones. He was a construction worker, a large man, employed at the time on an outdoor site somewhere in the Washington, D.C. suburbs. One lovely day, while on the job, he felt the call of nature and walked over to the port-a-potty reserved for the workers. At that very moment, while Mr. Jones was doing what one would expect him to be doing in a port-a-potty, a dump truck driver failed to see the little outhouse in his rear-view mirror and backed right into it, knocking it over on its side — thus rudely interrupting Mr. Jones’ attempt to relieve himself. I can only imagine what he must have thought as he heard the “beep . . . beep . . . beep” of the truck coming closer and closer and realized he was not in a position to make a run for it.

The good news is, the truck did not actually run over the toppled outhouse, and Mr. Jones’ physical injuries consisted mainly of a whole bunch of bruises and — if I recall correctly — a broken arm. Of course, the construction company’s insurer realized that their client was liable for the truck driver’s mistake, and offered to cover Mr. Jones’ financial damages, plus a reasonable payment for his pain, lost wages, and inconvenience. But no . . . that wasn’t enough. Mr. Jones seemed to have taken the class alongside Ms. Smith on “How To Build a Case and Bilk an Insurance Company 101.” So he filed suit.

Well, if you think the Saran Wrap Mummification was amusing, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Because Mr. Jones would have us believe that, as a result of being tipped on his side while urinating, his male organ had somehow become rearranged and now was suspended at a most unusual and unattractive angle — and to such a degree that none of his girlfriends would have anything to do with him because he was now so grossly deformed.

I swear, that’s what he said. (Pause for more laughter . . . )

Within the confines of our office and the insurance company, this case became what was known as “too good to be true.” Because we not only got to send the self-described Romeo to a medical specialist of our choosing; we insisted on pictures of the allegedly damaged body part. And when those photos arrived in our office and were passed around to every single person, there was not a dry eye in the house. We all — men and women alike — were screaming with laughter. Even if I could remember any of the comments that were made, which I can’t, I wouldn’t be able to repeat them here. But I did write a poem about the case, which I titled “The Angle of the Dangle,” and delivered it to the insurance adjuster in charge of the claim; and I quickly became famous — or infamous — in the Washington insurance community for some time to come.

I don’t recall the amount of compensation Mr. Jones received for his actual injuries, but I do know that his most outlandish claim had been debunked — there was absolutely nothing wrong with his manhood. And apparently his love life got back on track, because we never heard from him, or any of his girlfriends, again.

*. *. *

Such was the nature of my work experience all those years ago. I loved it, but finally moved on from general practice to join an international law firm in 1979 — a smart move that led to the overseas adventures about which I have already written more than enough. I may never have discovered a cure for cancer, won a Nobel Prize, or prevented a war or other disaster. But, by golly, I have had some laughs along the way.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/21/23

Congratulations! You’re a high school graduate. It’s 1955, and you are just 16 years (and 3 months) old. You’re a nearly straight-A student, but you lost out on that scholarship . . . to a BOY! But he’s a good kid, smart, and deserving, so it’s o.k., really. And now it’s decision time. Your mom can only manage tuition at the nearby state university, and only if you live at home and commute, but you don’t have a car. And you know she can’t really afford it anyway. You have good office skills, and could work and contribute to the household expenses. And you’re really antsy to join the adult world — at the ripe old age of 16. So what do you do?

I’ll tell you what I did: I made a deal with my mother. I said I’d look for a job over the summer, and if I found one I loved, I’d stay with it. I could always go to college in a year or two — or take classes at night. And if I didn’t find the perfect job, I’d enroll in some regular classes in the fall. I couldn’t believe she went for it, but she did. It must have been the money thing.

A friend of hers knew a woman who ran a small employment agency, and arranged for me to meet her. The lady tested my shorthand and typing skills — absolute requirements in 1955, remember — and said she had just the thing for me: a job with a small, but prominent and very well-respected Washington law firm desperate for someone to fill a position working for a junior partner. To make a long story short, she added a year to my age, I interviewed, they hired me on the spot, and I started work the following Monday. They really were desperate. Three days out of high school, still just 16 years (and 3 months) old, and I was not just a secretary, but a legal secretary, at a starting salary of $60 a week. Law firms in Washington always have paid very well.

But this story isn’t really about me; it’s about the passage of time and how things have changed . . . sometimes for the better, and sometimes not.

*. *. *

So what were offices — and specifically law offices — like in those days? To begin with, the practice of law was still about service to the client: gathering facts, negotiating honestly, and ensuring a fair resolution for all parties. The law firm’s bottom line was secondary. Not so much like today’s profit-driven corporate mentality.

The larger firms were more regimented; but our office was small — just nine attorneys, five secretaries, one law clerk, and a receptionist — better known then as a switchboard operator. It was a family. And work was actually fun. Our office was on the fifth floor of the old Rust Building at the corner of 15th and K Streets, N.W., in downtown Washington, D.C. It had two elevators, manually operated by two young men who knew every occupant’s name, were always happy to run an errand or two, and were well remembered at Christmas every year. The building’s air-conditioning “system” consisted of window units in each room. There was one bathroom for the whole office, unisex. The “kitchen” was a coffee machine and a mini fridge in a closet; the supply room was a slightly bigger closet.

We had our own law library — not a very large one, so that we sometimes had to borrow books from some of the bigger firms, or run down to the U. S. Courthouse or one of the law schools to use their libraries. I immediately fell in love with the smell of all of those leather-bound books, and set about learning what each one represented.

My “computer” was an IBM electric typewriter — very high-tech for those days. Changing the ribbon each time it ran out was messy work, but this was before the days of snap-in ribbon cartridges. The IBM service guy came regularly as per our contract, and was on call when anyone had a mechanical problem — the early version of today’s IT specialist. But I couldn’t always wait for him, so I figured out how to fix the simpler issues myself. Sort of like changing your own oil in a ‘55 Chevy.

Of course, there was no such thing as electronic court filings in those days. All legal documents had to be typed in multiple copies: the original to be filed at Court, with carbon copies for each party’s attorney, of which there could be several. And yes, I said “carbon,” as in carbon paper. By the time you got to the fifth or sixth copy, it was barely legible; and if you made a mistake . . . well, that’s what typewriter erasers were for — and for the bigger mistakes, there was White-Out. This was also a time before Xerox made copiers.

And then, one wonderful day, it wasn’t. I distinctly recall our first copier: a tabletop model, with a two-step process. First was the photographic step. You put your page between two sheets of specially treated paper, and slid it into the slot where an eerie green light glowed and projected outward as a picture was taken of the original. I remember one of our attorneys jumping back in horror, saying, “Omigod! Is that going to make me sterile?” We all laughed, but he was only half joking. Actually, I don’t think we ever got an answer to that question, but I do know that he and his wife never had a third child.

Anyway, you then carefully removed your original, and fed the two blank sheets of paper, one on either side of a metal plate, into the developing liquid. Uh-huh . . . I said liquid. And when the two pages emerged from the other side, you peeled them apart and VOILA! . . . there was your copy, still damp but perfectly clear. It was a sort of supersized version of a Polaroid camera, and it was miraculous.

So, great — we had something that would copy one page at a time, taking about two minutes per page. But what if you had a 50-page brief to be copied in multiples? Well, that’s where the mimeograph machine came into play. We didn’t have one in the office, but I recall many a trip to the U.S. Courthouse to use theirs. I won’t even begin to describe the process, but it was a hell of a lot faster than that two-step thing. The only problem was that you first had to “cut the stencils” — those waxy green or blue sheets on which the letters were actually cut by the typewriter keys as you typed so that the ink in the machine would pass through onto the paper. And there were no “Delete” or “Undo” keys, so your typing had to be perfect. Sound like fun? Nah . . . not so much.

*. *. *

Obviously, routine tasks took a lot longer back in 1955 than they do today. But there is much to be said for that. Not everything had to be done yesterday. There was a recognition of the fact that human beings can only accomplish so much in a given period of time. And our nervous systems were the beneficiaries.

We also took time to go out to lunch together and talk to one another — not just about work, but about our lives, our likes and dislikes, our ups and downs. We were friends, sharing each day, and sincerely caring about each other. When one man’s wife passed away, we closed the office so everyone could attend the funeral. When someone was ill, the others checked up on them. And when someone got married, or had a baby, or a birthday, or for any other reason . . . we all celebrated.

There was also an acceptable business dress code — not just in Washington, or in law firms, but in all offices. Men wore suits, dress shirts and ties, even on the hottest summer days. And women were required to wear dresses, or suits — with skirts, never pants — and shoes with high or medium heels, nylons, or later, panty hose. Gloves and hats were optional, but looked on favorably. We were professionals and we dressed the part.

That job was where I really did join the adult world. I learned to swear; I learned to drink; I learned to fend off unwanted sexual advances; and I learned to think like a lawyer. I also learned the meaning of friendship, and of empathy, and of giving. I grew up during my seven years at that firm, and when it was time to move on, I was truly sad to leave.

Most office environments today can’t compare to that little law office, and the world is poorer for it. Would I go back to those more primitive times? You know . . . I think I might. But only if I could have my flat-screen computer with dual monitors, my laser printer, and that big copier that sorts up to 25 sets at a time, and the kitchen with the big fridge and the two microwaves, and . . .

Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t go all the way back. But it’s fun to remember the good old days. In so very many ways, they really were good, and I’m so glad I had the chance to be part of them.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/20/23

My sister passed away nearly six years ago. She was my childhood nemesis, who then became my best friend, closest confidante, and co-conspirator when one of us needed an ally. When we were older, we lived a block apart, but not together; we checked on one another daily, but respected each other’s privacy; and while we were so much alike in so many ways, we recognized the differences in our personalities and tastes. And sometimes, because of those differences, we got on each other’s nerves.

We managed to accommodate most of our differences, compromising on which restaurant to choose, or which excursions to schedule on a cruise. But there were two things about which neither of us ever managed to change the other one’s mind: her passion for football, and more specifically the Washington Redskins; and mine for everything and anything to do with Russia, which she called “that place.” And when one of us would begin to talk about her special passion, the other one’s eyes would glaze over in complete and utter boredom.

She did get me to go to a Redskins game once . . . and only once. She was sure that if I got into the spirit of it amid the crowd of crazed fans, I’d feel differently. So I went. And I sat — uncomfortable on the hard seat, freezing cold, unable to follow the action, and bored out of my mind — for three miserable hours. I just don’t like team sports. The hot dogs were pretty good, though.

I never did get her to a Russian ballet or a balalaika concert, but on a Baltic cruise where one of our ports was St. Petersburg, she did appreciate the history of the place. And she enjoyed the fact that I was nearly mugged in a crowded square in broad daylight.

Accommodation.

If my sister were alive today, she would be really pissed, because “that place” is so much in the news again — every day, day after day, for one reason or another. And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed if you’ve been following my blog for a while, those recent events have occupied my mind — and my writing — perhaps a little too much. By now, she would have been telling me to shut the f*** up. And especially yesterday and today.

Why now? Well, because when I clicked on Yahoo’s daily news column yesterday, I found, first, the usual lead article about a certain former U.S. President now under indictment (actually several indictments), and next, ten additional items, all having to do with “that place.” Ten! Holy crap! I just hit the freakin’ mother lode!

All right . . . I’ll try to tone down the excitement now. But, most likely due to my ancestral ties to Russia, everything about the place fascinates me: its history, politics, natural wonders, language, architecture, food, music, literature, art, and the wonderfully complex nature of its people — the whole nine yards. As my Russian language teacher told me decades ago, it’s in my blood. But now, I have no one left who comes close to sharing my passion . . . or would even be willing to listen to my frequent ravings. So I’ve been taking it out on you, good readers, and I thank you for your indulgence.

I will not burden you further today, as I have not yet had time to digest all ten of those articles, or to check other news sources for updates. So I’m off now to do just that, and when I’m done, I’ll make a mental phone call to my sister and imagine hearing her sigh in resignation as I (silently) launch into my summary of today’s events in “that place.”

“Da zavtra” (‘til tomorrow).

Brendochka
8/19/23

In 1961, Newton N. Minow, then Chairman of the the Federal Communication Commission (FCC), referred to the television industry as “a vast wasteland.” And the name stuck.

There was then, and is now, a great deal of pure, unadulterated crap on TV. But is it all bad, mostly bad, or are we just over-emphasizing the bad stuff and overlooking the good? And which was worse — the 1961 bad stuff, or the 2023 bad stuff? Let’s take a look and see just what was what back in the day.

In 1961, there was no cable or satellite TV; there wasn’t even Public Broadcasting (PBS) until 1970. We had three nationwide network channels — NBC, CBS and ABC — and one local channel where I lived, in the Washington, D.C. area: WTTG-TV (now owned by Fox). That may sound grim to today’s cable and satellite viewers accustomed to hundreds of channels (most of which I’ll bet you never watch). But we had variety. Sure, we did. We had a dozen or so family-friendly shows, though sometimes it was hard to tell them apart, as for example:

– The Dick Van Dyke Show: About a married couple with a young son, a stay-at-home mom, and twin beds.

– My Three Sons: About a widower bringing up . . . you guessed it . . . three perfect sons.

– The Andy Griffith Show: Another bashful widower, bringing up another perfect son, this time with the help of a spinster aunt in a town called Mayberry.

– The Donna Reed Show: A happily married couple this time, also with perfect kids.

– The Danny Thomas Show: Same as Donna Reed.

And for something a little different:

– Hazel: I don’t remember the plot exactly, but I do recall she was somebody’s very bossy housekeeper.

– Mister Ed: A talking horse. No comment.

– Candid Camera: Possibly the first reality show. Not sleazy, but sometimes embarrassing in its own way.

– The Ed Sullivan Show: At last, something actually entertaining — a true variety show featuring various musical, acrobatic, and other acts; best remembered for the American debut of The Fab Four (the Beatles, of course).

And there were a number of westerns: Wagon Train, Rawhide, Have Gun – Will Travel, Bonanza, and Gunsmoke. Plus some evening dramas for the grownups: Dr. Kildare, The Avengers, Ben Casey, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and Perry Mason come to mind. And the kids had The Flintstones, plus every parent’s built-in baby-sitter: Saturday morning cartoons.

Well, Mr. Minow, I’m beginning to see what you meant. America’s favorite family pastime in the ‘60s seems to have consisted largely of a gigantic serving of mindless pap. The only positive thing I can say about it is that it was clean and non-violent. In fact, violence, sex and swearing apparently didn’t exist then . . . although smoking certainly did, on the shows and in the commercials.

*. *. *

In contrast, today’s fare is overwhelmed with people blowing up buildings, eviscerating other people, sabotaging their teammates in order to be the last one left on the island, and everyone jumping into bed with everyone else’s mate. Much more realistic, they say . . . but is it entertainment? I suppose the answer to that is in the eye of the beholder; lots of sex and violence seem to be what draw the big audiences today. Just be sure you don’t show anyone smoking.

And don’t forget all those 600-pound people exposing their lives (and themselves) to the world, along with the desperate hoarders and others in dire need of real, caring, professional help. How can we stand by and watch them being exploited for the sake of . . . what? . . . a bit of money they’ll just spend on more food, or trinkets from the nearest flea market? What kind of sadistic person thinks of these things?!!

Of course, there are a few good, clean shows — well, clean, anyway — like the endlessly repetitious Hallmark made-for-TV movies . . . and especially the Christmas series, usually beginning in July. And the world-wide phenomenon of talent shows, where the judges — and the viewers — have to sit through the ranks of screeching contestants in order to find an occasional real talent. Or the fake shows: the home renovations with the beautiful furnishings that aren’t really included in the deal; the “chefs” who travel the world, gorging on mountains of food that would destroy the average person’s stomach lining; the unreal housewives from everywhere; and those talk show hosts whose sole purpose in life seems to be the demolition of other people’s last remaining shreds of dignity. It’s a wonder our brains haven’t melted.

*. *. *

On the plus side, though, the kiddies do still have Sesame Street and Nickelodeon.

And amidst all of the drek, there actually is much for the adults to thank the television gods for. What would so many of us do without the educational and cultural programming of such networks as PBS, the History Channel, TCM (Turner Classic Movies), and the news outlets like CNN, MSNBC and the others? Or the reruns of some of the better shows of the ‘80s and ‘90s, like M*A*S*H, The Golden Girls, and The West Wing? I guess we’d just stash our TV sets in the attic until they became collectibles worth a small fortune on eBay, and do something really drastic, like dive into all those books we’ve been collecting for years.

Come to think of it, that’s not such a bad idea. Look out, John Le Carre and Will Shakespeare . . . here I come!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/18/23

All four of my grandparents left Russia — the part that is now Ukraine — back in 1905, and came to the United States to find a better life for themselves and their children. And I thank God that they did. But I discovered, and fell in love with, the land of my ancestors some 40 years ago, and have had an ongoing romance with all things Russian ever since. And now, tragically, I am forced to acknowledge that the Russia of today is not the Russia I once knew . . . and my heart is broken.

There are few countries in the world that have as rich, as varied, and as tragic a history as the ancient land of Kievan Rus. But it is, of course, the more recent history that is familiar to most of us: the last Tsar, Nicholas II; the Revolution of 1917 that led to the horror that was the USSR under Lenin, Stalin and all the others in-between and after; the great hope of reform and democratization of the 1980s and ‘90s under Gorbachev and Yeltsin; the long-overdue collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991; and now . . . well, now a return to the “bad old days” of lies, repression, persecution, and outright murder that I call “Putinism.”

Those final two decades of the 20th Century brought modernization, commerce, and a burgeoning prosperity to a land that had been stuck for so long in its isolationist past. People were finally able to live freely, to make choices for themselves, to be an integral part of the big, wide world. But those years also brought with them the worst of the West: a self-centered, hedonistic, pornographic, materialistic, blue-jeans-drug-hazed-rock-and-roll culture that has displaced the traditional values of the Russian soul; and a “Wild West” economy run by a criminal element far worse than the Robber Barons of the 19th Century, who at least earned their wealth by creating some of the world’s greatest industries.

And into this morass stepped Vladimir Putin, initially presenting himself as a liberal proponent of reform, but ultimately revealing the Satan inside the man. He bought the loyalty of the ruling oligarchs with money and threats; built a police state to rival those of Leninist and Stalinist times; and has accelerated the crackdowns on any and all who dare — not just to try to overthrow him — but even to simply utter the newly-forbidden words he has written into his so-called legal code. And he has engineered revisions of Russia’s Constitution to potentially extend his rule at least twelve more years to 2036. Not too shabby for a little nobody from the mean streets of St. Petersburg.

*. *. *

When I lived and worked in Moscow in 1993, I was free to carry on the work of the American humanitarian aid foundation that had hired me. I associated openly with my new Russian friends, and we spoke freely of our political and social views. I even had friends — well, friendly acquaintances — in the KGB and the Moscow Militia. And as long as I avoided the criminal element, and didn’t break any laws myself, I was able to feel comfortable there.

But would I feel safe in Russia today? Seriously? When it’s not just the Russian oppositionists, like Alexei Navalny and Vladimir Kara-Murza, who are being locked up for what may as well be life sentences? Or those being killed outright, like Boris Nemtsov and Anna Politkovskaya? Because now we are once again witnessing the arrests, with distressing impunity, of foreigners — including Americans like Paul Whelan and journalist Evan Gershkovich — on made-up charges of spying, or whatever suits the authorities on any given day. And they are just the tip of the iceberg.

No, I would not think of going back to Russia today — not even for a brief visit, as I did for the last time in 2009 from the safe haven of a Holland America cruise ship docked at St. Petersburg. And I am saddened beyond description at what has happened to my ancestral land. But I have my albums of photographs, my journals, and my vivid memories of the times that I spent there, and I try to remember it as it was: spiritual, friendly, welcoming, and full of hope.

*. *. *

There is a lovely book — a “coffee table” book of photographs and descriptive text that I bought years ago — titled A Day In the Life of the Soviet Union. And as I leafed through it for the first time, I turned a page . . . and I saw myself. Or so it appeared. It was actually a photograph of my doppelgänger: a Russian woman seated on a commuter train. She had my face, my hair, and even my usual posture when I’m reading or lost in thought. And that picture reminds me, time and time again, of where my people came from, and whose genes I carry. They may take away my right to visit in person; but they can never take away my history.

And so, to my Russian and Ukrainian friends: I bid you прощай — farewell. My most fervent wish would be to cure this plague that presently envelops you. But I cannot. I can only wish you: всего наилучшего и счастливое будущее — “all good luck and a happy future.”

I miss you . . . be safe.

Always, your
Brendochka
8/17/23

Today, August 16, 2023, the incomparable Madonna will celebrate her birthday — her 65th. That’s the official retirement age for many people — but not for her. She’s still stunning, and still going strong. I don’t know her secret, or even if she has one. Maybe she’s just lucky. But her big day caused me to take a look at some of the other amazing celebrities I’ve watched since they (and I) were young. I marvel at their longevity, and celebrate their contributions to our enjoyment of theater, movies, music and TV. And I’ve included one elder statesman. (No, not Biden, McConnell, or what’s-his-name . . . oh, yeah . . . Trump. No, not them.)

There are plenty of celebs looking fabulous in their 60s and 70s. To name just a few:

– Denzel Washington (68) — Love him as a person and in every movie I’ve seen him in.
– The generous Ellen DeGeneres (65) — Such a great showman, and looking at least ten years younger.
– George Clooney — Still a hunk at 62. Saw George in an old Murder, She Wrote episode the other day. Too cute for words.
– Danny Glover (77) – Who can forget his line from Lethal Weapon: “I’m too old for this shit.”
– Mick Jagger (barely 80) and Keith Richards (79) — The Stones, man! Need I say more?
– Meryl Streep (74) — If they were to make a movie of my life, I would want her to portray me.
– Helen Mirren (78) — Fabulous as Queen Elizabeth II in The Queen, and as a retired spy in Red.
– And the gravity-defying Mikhail Baryshnikov (75) — Seeing him perform in Swan Lake at the Kennedy Center in the early ’80s was unquestionably the greatest theater experience of my life.

But I am totally in awe of those in their 80s and 90s, and even a couple of centenarians. Here’s a list of just some of my favorites, in no particular order:

– Clint Eastwood (93) – Who doesn’t love him?
– Judi Dench (88) – Remember her as “M” in GoldenEye and Queen Elizabeth I in Shakespeare in Love?
– Harrison Ford (81) – He will always be Indiana Jones.
– Robert De Niro (80) – Never made a bad movie. Happy b’day tomorrow, by the way.
– Maggie Smith (88) – From The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, to Sister Act, to Harry Potter, all the way to Downton Abbey, they don’t get any better than this amazing lady.
– James Earl Jones (92) – The distinguished and versatile gentleman whose voice I can only describe as “rapturous.” The Lion King will never know a more perfect Mustafa.
– Robert Redford (86) – Even without Butch, Sundance lives on.
– Eva Marie Saint (99) – From early TV, and movies such as Exodus and North By Northwest — simply gorgeous.
– Glynis Johns (99) – Two of my favorites were Mary Poppins and While You Were Sleeping. Wishing you an early happy 100th on October 5th.
– Neil Diamond (82) – Knocking them dead for more than half a century, until retiring in 2018 following a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. What a great run!

– And finally, a bona fide statesman, and now a centenarian. To Henry Kissinger, who celebrated his 100th birthday on May 27th of this year: I’ve heard you as a keynote speaker, and I notified you when your colleague and my boss, Walter Sterling Surrey, passed away; but I never had the honor of meeting you in person. So I take this opportunity to wish you a belated happy birthday — and as many more as you would like.

Remarkable people, who, in one way or another, have for decades made the world a somewhat better place by offering up their talents to the rest of us. To rehash an old expression: They just don’t make ‘em like that any more.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/16/23

We’ve all seen and heard the horror stories in recent years about people’s terrifying experiences on various airlines: endless lines at the airport; luggage searches; delays in boarding or take-off; cramped seating; screaming babies; angry — even violent — passengers; stressed-out flight attendants. And at the end of the trip, lost luggage.

I haven’t flown lately, but I did a lot of traveling during the 1990s and early 2000s. And while things were considerably easier before 9/11, my travels were not without incident — some of them funny as hell, and others . . . well . . . just plain hell. But let’s stay with the more amusing ones, and leave out the details of the missing bags in Moscow and Prague; the security search in Rome; the lost reservation from Rome to Malta; the broken escalators in Milan; and the cigarette smoke, collapsing seats, and flying luggage on Aeroflot. Actually, that last one was pretty funny, but I’ve already covered it in another chapter.

In April of 1990, I was part of a team from a law firm that was one of the sponsors of a conference being held in London on doing business in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. Some of our advance group were already there, so I flew alone — my first solo overseas trip. (An earlier excursion, in 1988, had been with a guided tour group to the Soviet Union.)

The flight from Washington to London was not full, and I was able to score a triple seat to myself, where I put up the arm rests, grabbed a pillow and a blanket, and stretched out after dinner for a good night’s sleep. But the return trip five days later was a whole different story. I was flying home with one of our other team members, and we were in the center row of four seats — she was on the right aisle, I was in the second seat, there was an empty seat to my left, and a man who buried his nose in a book and remained silent throughout the flight was in the aisle seat next to that.

The conference, combined with a bit of sightseeing and partying, had been hectic and tiring, and about halfway across the Atlantic, I began to feel sleepy. So I put up the armrest between my seat and the empty one, slipped off my shoes, turned sideways, and curled up for a little nap. And when I awoke, I realized that my right leg had stretched out a bit, and my shoeless foot was resting comfortably . . . on the stranger’s thigh. And since he had continued reading and wasn’t moving, I could only assume that he didn’t know how to react, or perhaps was actually enjoying a little human contact. In either case, since he had been so unfriendly from the beginning of the trip, I didn’t want to deal with him. So I pretended to still be asleep, shifted position — gently removing my foot from his leg — and kept my eyes closed for a few more minutes. Then I “woke up.” And he never looked up from his book. His loss.

*. *. *

Later that same year — in the blazing heat of July — I traveled to Texas with two Washington lawyers, a Soviet diplomat, and the diplomat’s wife, to visit the Confederate Air Force at Harlingen. (That was a fascinating story in itself, and is the subject of its own blog post of February 16, 2023, appropriately titled “The Confederate Air Force.” Check it out if you’re interested.)

Anyway, on the packed flight home, I ran into one of those screaming baby situations. I was seated next to a pleasant young woman with an adorable but very upset year-old boy on her lap. I don’t know whether he was frightened, feeling the change in air pressure, or just tired; but he simply wouldn’t stop crying. The mother was becoming very embarrassed and frustrated; and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t enjoying it much either. I took my key chain from my purse and shook it in front of the little boy, and it distracted him enough to stop his crying for a moment. So I suggested to the woman that she might want to get up and stretch her legs, and that I would be glad to hold her baby for a few minutes. Well, we were on a plane, up in the air, so she knew I couldn’t run off with him, and she gladly agreed. And as soon as that little boy landed in my lap, he turned off the faucet of tears, grabbed my keys, and rewarded me with the biggest, most beautiful smile. All he needed was a distraction.

If there’s a moral to the story, I guess it’s this: If you find yourself in an unpleasant situation, and you think there might be something you can do about it, then do it — don’t just sit there being miserable. It won’t always work, but it might. That little boy would be around 34 now, and I’m sure he doesn’t remember the incident; but I’ll bet his mother does.

*. *. *

And speaking of unpleasant situations. . .

On one of my trips to Russia, I was booked on Lufthansa with a change of planes in Frankfort, Germany. And it was quite an experience. To begin with, German efficiency was apparent everywhere. The flight left on time; the plane was spotless; the service was excellent and the food delicious; the flight arrived on time; and the airport at Frankfort was scrubbed to a shiny clean finish. And I’ve never been so happy to get off of a flight in my life, before or since.

“Why?” — you ask. “It sounds perfect.” Well, let me tell you. The couple seated next to me were beyond annoying — in fact, they were the worst seat mates ever. Now, I am not a violent person; but after a little while I really wanted to smack them silly — or better yet, send them to sit in the cargo hold for the rest of the trip.

Actually, it had all started out well enough. They were an attractive couple: a man and wife, both well-educated and pleasantly chatty, who had been on their first visit to the U.S. for a professional conference in New York, followed by a few days in Washington. So as we were getting acquainted, I asked the obvious question: what were their impressions of the two cities, and of the United States in general?

Big mistake. Huge! Because they immediately launched into a diatribe on the many faults of my beloved country, and everything they had hated: the architecture, the traffic, the crime rates, the educational systems (he was a teacher), the TV programming, litter in the streets, the way the young people dressed, the food . . . In fact, there didn’t seem to be a single thing they did like. And I listened quietly, seething inside, until they both seemed to run out of insults. And then I spoke.

“Well,” said I, “you have made some valid points. We do have a crime problem in our large cities; but that’s all you saw, and you weren’t in any of our lovely small towns or rural areas. And our inner-city schools are often in need of improvement; but each jurisdiction is independent, and most of them are just fine. I do agree with you that there’s a lot of trash on TV. We’re not perfect . . . but, on the other hand, we’ve never started a World War.”

Oops!

Even over the roar of the plane’s engines, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Those two people sat up straight, as though someone had shoved poles up their self-righteous asses, and they never uttered another word throughout the flight. Nor did I. I would have asked to change seats, but the flight was full. So instead, I buried my nose in a book . . . quite satisfied with myself for having thought of the perfect comeback at just the right moment.

A word of advice: you do not — ever — trash my country to my face. In fact, you don’t do that to anyone. Would you go into someone’s home and start criticizing the decor, the kids, the nice dinner they prepared for you? I should hope not. And I would not ordinarily dream of saying such a thing to anyone from any country; but they asked for it, and I merely gave them a taste of their own medicine. Now, please understand — these were just two individuals out of a whole country, most of whose inhabitants I have found to be perfectly lovely people. I just happened to be the unlucky one to have had those two as seat mates.

*. *. *

But the flight eventually ended, and things got funnier in Frankfort. As I mentioned, I was en route to Moscow, at a time when there was a serious shortage in Russia of hard currency and you couldn’t always get travelers’ checks cashed. So I had prepaid my air fare and my hotel reservation, and brought with me $3,000 in cash (the equivalent of more than $6,000 today), rolled up and stashed in a small cross-body bag that I wore under my jacket.

Going through security in the Frankfort airport, I placed my carry-on bag and my jacket on the conveyor belt and began to walk through, when the inspector said I also needed to remove my little cross-body bag — the one with the money in it. I had a rather silly mental image of the long strap possibly getting caught in the machinery and my $3,000 being chewed into confetti, so I asked if I could keep it on and just let him look inside the bag. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he called his supervisor over.

I have no idea how to say “Humpty Dumpty” in German, but that’s who the supervisor reminded me of. He was a round, jolly-faced gentleman, with a happy personality — the total opposite of what one would expect of a security officer.

He had me step aside and asked (in English) what the problem was. I assured him there was no problem, and explained about the money, the long strap, and again offered to show him the contents of the purse. When he looked inside and saw the $3,000 bankroll, he asked where I was going; and when I said I was headed to Moscow, he understood the issue, nodded and said, “Oh, okay. No problem.” And as I gathered my belongings, said “Danke schoen,” and began to walk away, I distinctly felt his chubby little hand patting my backside in farewell.

Now, I am an independent, liberated, American woman, who doesn’t put up with that kind of crap. My first instinct was to turn around and deck him with my carry-on bag. But I was also an American woman, alone in a foreign country, with $3,000 in her possession, headed for Russia. And the last thing I needed was to be arrested for assaulting a federal officer. So — for one of the few times in my life — I shut my mouth and walked away. And then I laughed . . . and laughed . . . and laughed. That jolly little man was actually pretty cute, and I decided it was best to be flattered that he thought my behind was worth patting. No harm done, and it made a good story to tell my friends when I arrived in Moscow.

*. *. *

I’ve gone on long enough now. And I’ve devoted whole chapters in the past to other travel adventures. Those were all before the disaster of 9/11. Travel since that date has never again been as much fun, and sadly, it probably never will be. But at least I have my memories of better days.

See you tomorrow, I hope, when we check out some people you probably didn’t know were so old . . . or still alive.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/15/23

When I became a Mom for the first time, I promised myself and my beautiful baby boy — who obviously couldn’t have cared less at that point — that I would always keep up with the changing times, and not be one of those old fuddy-duddies who couldn’t let go of the past. And for many years I kept that promise.

But no one ever warned me that the world was going to change at warp speed, or that technology was going to evolve at a pace, and to a level, that my brain simply wasn’t capable of matching. My children’s school lessons lost me at something called New Math. And while I once spent Christmas Eve, after the kids were asleep, putting together my son’s first two-wheeler for Santa to deliver, I am immensely grateful that I never had to top that performance with a multi-speed bike complete with cardio-tracking.

So now, sad to say, I am that old fuddy-duddy. Oh, I learned how to use an eight-track, a cassette player, a CD player, a VCR, a DVD player, a computer, and an iPhone, all right — at least well enough to survive. I’ve even pumped my own gas, and I can change the ink cartridge in my laser printer. But that doesn’t mean I love doing it. I have kept up, to the limit of my abilities; but I fear I will never be able to follow the wave of the future any farther. Artificial Intelligence terrifies me. Hell, I can’t even understand the objective of Dungeons & Dragons!

I’m still baffled by some of the household devices that are already or nearly obsolete. I want to know how my iPad and iPhone know what I’m going to type before I’ve even made up my own mind. And those cute little drone things flying above our heads? Scary as s**t!

There are, of course, many modern developments I wouldn’t trade for anything: medical advances, on-the-spot news reporting, real-time weather forecasting, GPS, UPS, and Amazon, to name just a few.

But do you know what I really miss from the not-so-distant past? Clocks with hands. Stoves with on/off knobs. Home phones with long cords and real buttons instead of touch pads. Full-service gas stations. Full-service anything! Having my phone calls answered by live people instead of machines. Jeans that aren’t ripped. Slow-cooked food. Sit-down family dinners. Elegant clothes. Airlines that get you there safely, on time, and with your luggage. Common courtesy, concern, and consideration.

So call me old-fashioned; call me anything you like. There’s a reason for the popularity of “retro” — some things are just worth keeping or bringing back. And simply because you have a wonderful new toy, you shouldn’t feel compelled to get rid of your favorite old one. Your past is what made you who you are today. Don’t be stuck in it; but remember it, cherish it, and honor it. And if your kids think you’re an old fuddy-duddy, so what? Just remind them that tempus fugit, and they’ll be fuddy-duddies too, before they know it. Paybacks are hell.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/14/23