As reported yesterday by Business Insider: 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.

First of all, we should keep in mind that this is Mr. Grozev’s stated opinion. He reminds us that he previously told the Financial Times: “I said last January that Prigozhin would turn on Putin within six months — and it just fit within my timeframe.” He said this was based on “suspicions [that] were sparked by the fact that there was an increase in telephone traffic between Russia’s senior military, per data acquired by Bellingcat.”

He continues: “Putin went on TV and called Prigozhin a traitor. Everyone knows what they do with ‘traitors,’ and Putin hasn’t done that. He wants to see him dead. He can’t do that yet. In six months, Prigozhin will either be dead, or there will be a second coup. I’m agnostic between the two, but I can’t see neither of these happening.”

In other words, he forecasts the inevitability of either a coup or the elimination of Prigozhin, with no other reasonable option. But Mr. Grozev fails to explain why he believes that Putin can’t do away with Prigozhin just yet. And he goes on to cite “rumors circulating that hundreds of Wagner troops are leaving Belarus to return to Russia, and are ready to ‘activate’ at the end of August . . .” — citing the Institute for the Study of War (ISW). And further: “A Russian insider source and a Wagner-affiliated source speculated that this might be because [Belarusian President] Lukashenko refused to finance Wagner as he had expected Russia would be responsible for them.”

Mr. Grozev then acknowledges that the ISW noted that “the validity of these claims are unclear at this time, and it remains to be seen how the Wagner Group will proceed and how Putin might respond.”

So, once more, this is all the analysis of one journalist, based in large part on rumors and speculation. Of course, with Yevgeny Prigozhin, that’s pretty much all we ever have to work with. He remains an enigma; Putin never reveals what he’s really thinking; and Lukashenko is a wild card. And we — the rest of the world — can only wait to see what happens next.

Stayed tuned.

Brendochka
8/13/23

We’ve all been in that awkward situation — whether in a large group or just among a few friends — when the conversation lags, drags, and finally comes to a screeching halt. And suddenly, no one is able to come up with a topic that seems even mildly interesting. So what do you do to save the day?

Trivia. It works every time. And if you don’t have a steel-trap memory where you can keep three or four of these little bits of useless but fascinating information handy for instant recall, I suggest 3×5 cards (or the smart-phone equivalent, Notes). And you lead off with, “Did you know . . . ?” immediately capturing everyone’s attention because they’re all desperate to be rescued from the looming silence.

And guess what. I’m here to throw a few of these lifesavers out for your use in case of emergency . . . or whenever you simply feel like sounding smart to your co-workers, your kids, or the mailman. They are not copyrighted, so feel free to take credit as you wish. Let us begin with . . .

Did you know . . . that Venus is the hottest planet?

Did you know . . . that ozone has three molecules of oxygen?

Did you know . . . that Marie Curie was the first woman to win a Nobel Prize (in 1903)?

Did you know . . . that Superman’s birth name was Kal-El?

Did you know . . . that Sean Connery played James Bond in seven films?

Did you know . . . that rats love to play, and they laugh when you tickle them? (Did you even want to know that?)

Did you know . . . that Phantom of the Opera is the longest-running Broadway show to date? Or that The Lion King is the highest-grossing?

Did you know . . . that Audi, Porsche, Bugatti, Lamborghini, and Ducati are all owned by Volkswagen?

Did you know . . . that the average car has 30,000 parts, including screws and bolts?

Did you know . . . that the adult human body has 206 bones?

Did you know . . . that the largest organ of your body is your skin?

Did you know . . . that the smallest country in the world is Vatican City?

Did you know . . . that the Middle Ages lasted about 1,000 years?

Did you know . . . that Ralph Lauren’s real name was Ralph Lifshitz? (And can you blame him for changing it?)

Did you know . . . that serial killer Ted Bundy confessed to having committed 30 homicides? Or that the “Unabomber,” Ted Kaczynski, was a former graduate of Harvard? (Maybe you shouldn’t name your sons “Ted.”)

Did you know . . . that the gestation period of an African elephant is 22 months? (Ouch.)

Did you know . . . that an octopus has three hearts? Or that sea sponges have none?

And did you know . . . that this could go on practically forever? But I think we’re off to a good start here. If you need more, or if you’re just hooked on trivia now, you can do what I did: Google “trivia.”

You could also turn these pearls of wisdom around into a Q&A game, sort of a miniature Trivial Pursuit. Which, along with Scrabble, happens to be a favorite of mine. Or it used to be, before my short-term memory got shorter and I had to start using 3×5 cards.

Now, remind me again . . . which way is home?

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/13/23

Have we been ghosted?

Russia has been in the news a lot lately — way too much, actually — and we really shouldn’t be surprised if we’re left with more questions than answers from that land of mystery. Included on that list of questions are a few about some people, and one very large piece of hardware, that appeared in the news . . . and then seemed to vanish. They weren’t wearing white sheets, but their quick entry onto, and exit from, the news scene makes me wonder if we haven’t indeed been ghosted.

First, of course, would be the infamous Yevgeny Prigozhin, who keeps popping in and out of sight. “There he is!” “Where? I don’t see him.” “Oh, never mind — he’s gone now.” And throughout all the mystery surrounding his failed attempt to overthrow the Russian military (or whatever the hell he was trying to do), the question inevitably arose: “In his absence, who’s going to take over as head of the Wagner Group?” And a name was put forward: that of one Andrei Troshev, a former Russian Army artillery colonel, mentioned by Vladimir Putin himself to The Telegraph back in July.

But that’s it. He showed up, and he faded into the background again. What happened? Is he now out of the running? Or is he just waiting in the shadows until someone decides what to do with Prigozhin? As always when dealing with Russia, we can only wait and see if and when these two spooks manifest themselves again.

*. *. *

Ghost #3: This one should be harder to hide. It’s a Russian warship that made an appearance on July 12th in the harbor at Havana, Cuba. The story was that she and her crew were there for a four-day “visit,” and that Cuban citizens were even going to be allowed aboard. Then what? Again, nothing. No news reports, no official (or unofficial) statements, no ship. Poof! Can we help being a little bit curious?

*. *. *

Ghost #4: Paul Whelan is a former U.S. Marine with multiple citizenships (U.S., U.K., Canada and Ireland) and a rather complex personal and professional background. In December of 2018, he was arrested in Moscow on charges of spying for the United States, on the basis of evidence allegedly found on his person — charges that he has consistently denied. The U.S. Government has made attempts to include him in prisoner exchanges over the past few years, but Russia has so far refused to release him. As with the other prisoners in Russia’s maximum-security prisons, there has been little or no access to him for family or U.S. officials, and no mention of his name except at the time of another failed exchange attempt.

Ghost #5: And most recently, there is Evan Gershkovich, American-born journalist for the Wall Street Journal, whose parents fled the Soviet Union and emigrated to the United States in 1979. While on assignment in Russia in March of this year, he was arrested on charges of espionage — vehemently denied — and has been imprisoned since that time. His arrest made headlines for some time, but now . . . there is only silence.

But in the cases of Ghosts 4 and 5, I believe there may be good reason for the long periods of silence. It is well known that behind-the-scenes efforts have been underway to resolve their cases; and revealing the details of those efforts could be counter-productive, perhaps even a dangerous breach of national security. So, in these instances, let us continue to hope for the best, as we . . .

. . . switch gears, and look at a few people that I’m actually thrilled to note are appearing less and less frequently in the headlines.

*. *. *

I have to begin with every single member of the Kardashian-Jenner family. As far as I know, they are alive and kicking, and I certainly do not wish them any bad luck. But I am so glad to be seeing less of them in the news, and hope for their continued absence. They have made more than enough money to live in luxury for the rest of their lives. So please, all of you Kardashians . . . take your inflated egos (and various other inflated body parts) and enjoy a nice, long retirement, out of the public eye. Bye-bye.

Then there’s Sarah Palin, who single-handedly did more to lose the 2008 election for John McCain than anything he might ever have said or done himself. Alaska is a beautiful state. Stay there, Sarah, with your “Bridge to Nowhere” and the view of Russia from your front porch. Get a job — any job not in the political arena. And preferably something you’re actually qualified for.

And there are some other celebrities who have had their 15 minutes of fame (and earned small fortunes in the process), but whose “talent” has always escaped me. Remember “Octomom,” whose one claim to fame was her ability to procreate? And the same for that whole bizarre Duggar clan. Or that rude, nasty little “Honey Boo Boo”? (I’d rather confront the Honey Badger!) What were we thinking when we tuned in to watch them?!!

*. *. *

So here’s what I’d like to have happen: I would wish for all those so-called celebrities to be wiped from my memory. And then I’d wish for the right people to wake up and remember the ones who deserve our attention, starting with those people wasting away in Russian prisons.

And finally, I’d really like to know what happened to that Russian warship. My theory is that it’s on a round-the-world cruise with just one famous passenger, Yevgeny Prigozhin, standing on the bridge and laughing his ass off. It is, indeed, a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/12/23

As is my custom, I’m writing this a few days ahead of publication date. It’s August 8th as I write, and I’ve just finished looking at today’s news headlines. Not surprisingly, they’re pretty grim, but let’s go through some of them anyway.

The item that immediately caught my eye has to do with the ongoing political and social turmoil in Russia, where all indications are of a rapidly accelerating return to a Stalinist regime and the elimination of any semblance of rule of law. Today’s article focused on a statement by the official Kremlin spokesman, Dmitry Peskov, that an alleged “unified coalition” around President Putin “makes democratic elections unnecessary and irrelevant.” As if that weren’t enough to make me sit up straight, he went on to say that democratic elections have become a “costly bureaucracy” that serve no purpose. And continuing: “Elections are what a democracy demands and Putin himself decided to hold them, but theoretically, they don’t even have to be held . . . Because it’s clear that Putin will be elected. That’s completely my personal opinion.” (Does anyone honestly believe that he is allowed to have a “personal opinion” on political matters? Seriously?)

Furthermore, these statements were supposedly intended to clarify an earlier comment by Peskov, made to the New York Times and appearing in an article published on August 6th, that “Our presidential election is not really democracy. It is costly bureaucracy . . . Mr. Putin will be re-elected next year with more than 90 percent of the vote.” I don’t know about you, but to me that sounds more like a foregone conclusion than a personal opinion.

And by the way, this is the same Dmitry Peskov who has repeatedly refused to rule out the use of nuclear weapons.

If you’ve been following the recent news out of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus, this item shouldn’t come as a huge surprise. But it is still cause for concern, to put it mildly. It appears to be a case of history repeating itself — and, as usual, it’s bad . . . really bad . . . history. Happy August 8th.

*. *. *

Next, there was a revelation that a Ukrainian woman had been arrested as an informant in connection with a Russian plot to assassinate Ukrainian President Zelensky. On the up-side, the plot was foiled; on the down-side, of course, is that it existed at all. Good news / bad news.

*. *. *

And on a whole different level: Another celebrity — this time, “Let’s Make a Deal” host Wayne Brady — has come out today with an announcement of his sexual identity. And I say: “Who the hell cares?” Isn’t that — or shouldn’t it be — a personal thing? No need to hide it; but why do so many people suddenly feel this neurotic compulsion to advertise it? Let me repeat: I DON’T GIVE A DAMN! You’re a beautiful person, Wayne. Go . . . enjoy your life . . . be happy. I will never judge you. But if you keep broadcasting the most intimate aspects of your life, lots of other people will. Not good news, not bad news. Shouldn’t be news at all. Just sayin’ . . .

*. *. *

That’s enough news items from this one day. Sadly, it’s been a fairly typical day in the year 2023. But the 20th Century wasn’t all sweetness and light either. For example:

On August 8, 1945, the US, USSR, UK and France signed the London Agreement, authorizing the now-famous Nurnberg Trials of former Nazi leaders accused of committing unspeakable crimes against humanity for the six long years of World War II. Good news about the end of something that was horrible news for so long.

Just two days earlier, on August 6th, upon the authorization of President Harry S Truman, an atomic bomb had been dropped on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, followed by a second one on August 9th on the city of Nagasaki, thus bringing about the surrender of Japan and an end to the War in the Pacific six days later, on August 15th. Which crime was worse — the War itself, or the way it was finished? That debate has never ended, and President Truman wrestled with his conscience on that question for the remainder of his life.

*. *. *

August 8th was memorable in other years as well. On that date in 1974, U.S. President Richard M. Nixon resigned on the heels of the Watergate scandal, thus avoiding the looming threat of impeachment.

*. *. *

But there’s good stuff too. For reasons that remain totally mysterious to me, astrologers consider 8/8 to be a lucky day. And sometimes they’re right. Going all the way back to this date in 1899, the refrigerator was patented. And what would we do without that? Good news, indeed.

Also, on August 8, 1945 — the same day the London Agreement was signed — the United Nations Charter was signed by President Truman. Two good things. But remember — it was also just two days after Hiroshima had been wiped out by that American atomic bomb. Hmm . . . I wonder what the astrologers would have to say about that confluence of events? Well, regardless . . . all in all, it was certainly a busy week for Harry Truman.

*. *. *

Though I’m writing this on August 8th as I said at the beginning, you’re actually reading it on August 11th — which, as it turns out, is a date with a bit of a history of its own. On that date in 1965, race riots began in the Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles. The flash point seemed to have been a traffic stop of a Black driver by a White police officer, resulting in a confrontation that exploded into five days of uncontrolled violence, including rioting, looting, assault, arson, protests, firefights, and major property damage. At the end, 34 people were dead, another 1,032 injured, and 3,438 arrested.

But to close on a happier note, August 11, 1929 saw the immortal Babe Ruth hit his 500th home run, making baseball history. Good work, Babe.

*. *. *

History is an endlessly fascinating subject. But trying to relate past events to today’s world is futile — too much has changed. And putting excessive stock in numerology, I think, can just muddy an issue. So enjoy today, ignore the date (unless it’s your birthday), and tune in again tomorrow for more of my ramblings, when I try to figure out whatever happened to . . . well, you’ll see.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/11/23

I was privileged to do a good bit of traveling in the 21 years between my first overseas trip (to the Soviet Union) in 1988 and my last overseas adventure — a Baltic cruise — in 2009; and I’ve written about many of those times in my earlier blog chapters. I’ve also been able to see a good bit of the United States, coast-to-coast. And I would be hard-pressed, if you were to ask me, to pick a favorite place or favorite trip. But there are a few places, right here in the U.S. of A., that stand out in memory, either because of a sentimental attachment or because I once made an absolute fool of myself there. Either way, they’re unforgettable. As, for example . . .

1. Lincoln Woods Beach, Rhode Island. As children, my sister and I were not allowed to go to public swimming pools, movie theaters, or other closely-packed places in the summertime because of the looming threat of the annual polio epidemic, in a time before Dr. Jonas Salk’s life-saving vaccine came to be. But there was a place our parents did take us, because it was outdoors and spread out: the beach on a cold-water, spring-fed lake at Lincoln Woods in Lincoln, Rhode Island, just a half hour or so from our home.

The water there was still and calm, shallow for quite a distance from shore, and — when you swam or waded over one of the many springs — it was ice-cold. And we loved it. On one of our first excursions, my sister Merna and I were just wading in the shallow water when she felt something hard underfoot. It turned out to be a large, flat, smooth-surfaced rock, big enough for both of us stand on. And we soon found that the water was shallow enough at that point that we could even sit on the rock without drowning. We dubbed it “our rock,” and it was the first thing we looked for on every visit to the lake, year after year. It’s a silly thing, but it has probably stuck in my mind because it was one of those shared moments between two sisters who usually fought over everything, at least until we were both in our forties. I know the lake is still there, and I sometimes wonder whether the rock is. I hope so, and I hope some other siblings or best friends have found it and claimed it as their own.

*. *. *

2. Montpelier, Vermont — where I was kicked out of the public swimming pool. I was about 18 or 19 years old, living in Washington, D.C., when I went back to my former home of Manchester, N.H. to visit my old school friends. One friend, Marlene, had relatives in Montpelier, and we decided one day to drive up and visit them, and to include in our itinerary an hour or two at the pool. Marlene had been there before, but I hadn’t; and for whatever reason, she neglected to tell me about the most important rule: every hour, the pool was cleared for 15 minutes to give everyone a rest.

This was an unusual pool in that it wasn’t rectangular; it was round, and the high-diving board was at the top of a tower in the center of the watery circle. Now, I’ve always been just an adequate swimmer, and never learned to dive at all. But on a dare from Marlene, I found myself at the top of the tower, prepared to jump from that considerable height into the pool. What I didn’t realize, as I stood there trying to screw up the courage to take the plunge, was that the pool had just been cleared. When I heard the lifeguard’s whistle repeating and repeating, I looked around and found that I was the center of attention: the only person still in the pool, standing like a statue on the diving board in my one-piece, green-and-blue bathing suit (yes, I still remember that too), about to make my jump in front of dozens of laughing onlookers.

Looking back from today’s perspective, I probably should have frozen, forcing the lifeguard to climb up and rescue me — that would have been even funnier. But I didn’t. Instead, I waved at the obviously annoyed lifeguard, walked to the edge of the diving board, yelled “Geronimo!” . . . and jumped. It seemed an eternity until I surfaced, and then swam — still with my faithful audience watching — to the edge of the pool and climbed ungracefully out of the water. Six decades later, Marlene and I — friends to the bitter end — still laugh about that day. Oh, to be 18 again!

*. *. *

3. Costin’s Sirloin Room, Washington, D.C.: It was my 30th birthday, and for some reason I no longer understand, I was having a hard time accepting the fact that I was so “old.” As was our tradition, my sister Merna was taking me out to dinner that night, along with a friend who was visiting her from out of town. So, knowing that I was going to have a big meal at our favorite, very elegant restaurant — famous for its freshly baked bread and special blend of cheeses, huge slabs of prime rib, and rum pie — I had skipped lunch. But my boss had bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate, which we cracked open at the end of the afternoon and polished off — just the two of us. And then I went home, prepared dinner for my two small children, left them in the care of my mother, and headed out to dinner, feeling perfectly fine.

People drank less wine and more cocktails in those days, and I recall having just one whisky sour at the restaurant. I then proceeded to down a meal that would probably kill me today: bread and cheese, a small salad, a gigantic hunk of medium-rare beef, and a baked potato that looked like it was on steroids and slathered with butter and sour cream. And about three-fourths of the way through, I began to feel ill. I mean, room-spinning, ready-to-up-chuck, sick as a dog. I said something to Merna, and she took one look at me, grabbed me by the arm, and headed back toward the ladies’ room. But we never quite made it. Somewhere in the middle of the dining room there was a post. I made a grab for it, missed, and slid, in what felt like slow motion, toward the floor. And passed out cold.

Let me give you a little background here. This was the era of the miniskirt and go-go boots, Twiggy, and the “British Invasion” of the Beatles and other English heart-throbs. I wasn’t wearing go-go boots that night, but I was clad in a silk dress whose hem ended about mid-thigh. So when I came to after just a few seconds, there was a waiter behind me with his hands under my armpits, trying to lift me off the floor. But I wasn’t fully conscious, so I was dead weight. And as he lifted, so did my dress. When he pulled up, I grabbed the skirt of the dress and pulled down; he pulled up, I pulled down; he pulled up, I pulled down; and so on, until finally I was vertical. The poor waiter, not knowing what else to do with me, then plopped me onto the nearest chair, which happened to be at a table with two men who had been engaged in a business discussion while trying to ignore the farce taking place in front of them. I looked at them, muttered “I’m not drunk, really” . . . and everything went dark again, as my head hit the table with a thud.

The rest is really anti-climactic. I came to again in just a few seconds, and was completely awake this time. I muttered some sort of real apology, and Merna and I headed — with as much dignity as possible — for the ladies’ room, where I splashed cold water on my face and straightened my twisted dress. Then we walked back to our table, where her rather bemused friend had been waiting for us. I actually finished my dinner, and topped it off with my favorite rum pie. And I was able to drive home afterward, perfectly sober. I guess it had been just too much rich food, and a little too much champagne, on an otherwise empty stomach, because I had no further ill effects.

But I was never able to show my face at Costin’s again. And how I missed that rum pie!

*. *. *

And finally:

4. Provincetown (Cape Cod), Massachusetts. You have not lived until you’ve experienced the annual Provincetown Carnival Parade at the end of summer. My sister and I stumbled on it one year when we were vacationing farther up the Cape and decided to drive to P’town for the day. What a hoot!

I’m straight, and so was Merna; but in that enclave famous for its gay (now LGBTQ+) population, we were assumed to be a couple that weekend, which was fine with us. After all, when you’re with a crowd of people in full celebration mode, it would be a waste not to join in the fun. And what a great bunch they were, openly enjoying life at a time when they couldn’t always live openly. Somewhere, I have a photo of myself, standing with three guys in full drag, arms around each other and me, while my sister played photographer. I wish I knew where to find that picture now, but it was taken at a time before digital, and the print is packed away somewhere. But the memory lives on; the good ones always do.

*. *. *

You know, come to think of it, if you were to ask me now to name my favorite place in the whole world, it probably would be Cape Cod. It’s where I felt totally relaxed, forgot the workaday world back in Washington, and immersed myself in the artist colonies, the seafood restaurants, the summer theaters, the quaint little shops, and the madcap vibe of Provincetown, if only for a week. My sister summed it up best on our first trip there, when we were driving through the stop-and-go tourist traffic in Hyannis and she said, “You know, I’ve noticed something. The whole time we’ve been here, you haven’t honked your horn once.” And she was right; there’s no need for a horn when life is perfect.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/10/23

It’s a blessing . . . and a curse. I’m that person who not only dreams every single night — and even when I doze off during the day — but who frequently remembers each and every agonizing detail of many of those dreams. It’s no wonder I wake up exhausted.

Most of the dreams are not frightening, though an occasional nightmare will slip in here and there. There are a couple of recurring dreams from my childhood that I still remember clearly, and a few repetitious themes from recent years. When I relate some of these dreams to friends and family members, the most common reaction is this well-meaning bit of advice: “You really need to see a shrink.” And these are the people who love me! I’ve been thinking recently that they may be right, so I’m going to put this out there for a general consensus while I research whether Medicare pays for psychiatric evaluation . . .

But in the meantime, let’s start with the other night, when I died. Or at least I was being told that I was dead, and I refused to accept it. In my dream, it seems that I had just undergone some sort of minor surgery, and I was walking around the hospital trying to find my way back to my room. I was lost, and walked into a large room where several people, all wearing blue surgical scrubs and caps, were attending to a lot of corpses lying on metal tables and covered with sheets — clearly the morgue or the autopsy room.

When the attendants saw me, they were startled and frightened, and kept telling me I wasn’t supposed to be there. Someone shouted to call for the doctor. Just then, my surgeon (a former doctor from my real life) walked in, and was equally shocked to see me. He said I couldn’t possibly be there, and when I told him I was just trying to find my way back to my room, he held me by both shoulders and said, “But you don’t understand. You’re dead. You died on the operating table. You really can’t be here!”

Well, that’s not what I wanted to hear! I kept arguing with him, saying that I couldn’t die because my mother (actually deceased), my sister (ditto), and my babies (in real life, full-grown adults) would be terribly upset. How’s that for understatement? Anyway, that’s when I woke up. As you can imagine, it took me quite a while to get back to sleep. I’m reasonably certain that this was not a message from the Great Beyond; but if you don’t hear from me tomorrow . . .

*. *. *

Some dreams actually make sense, based on something currently going on in your life or in the world. One such dream recurred over and over during my early childhood — which also happened to be toward the end of World War II, when the movie newsreels were filled with scenes of the War in the Pacific, and focused mostly on the Japanese military. This was heavy stuff for a little kid, and I found myself having the same nightmare, over and over again: I was asleep in bed (my parents’ bed, not my own) when a Japanese soldier climbed through the open window. To escape, I jumped out of the bed on the side farthest from the door (not the brightest move), crawled under the bed, and ran out through the doorway on the other side. That was all there was to the dream, but I always woke up with my heart pounding. It took two atomic bombs — one each on Hiroshima and Nagasaki — to finally end the war and erase that dream from my little psyche. Then, of course, I started having nightmares about bombs.

I do still occasionally have dreams about being pursued, but nowadays it’s either by criminals or Nazis. Go figure. There are also dreams about shopping, driving or riding in a car and being lost (I seem to get lost a lot), not being able to find my car in a parking garage, searching for an unoccupied bathroom (that’s an easy one to analyze), attending the theater, or wandering through room after room of other people’s homes.

What? You were expecting something erotic? Sorry, folks; I’ll be keeping those to myself.

But my all-time favorite dream is a happy one from my childhood, and I would often go to sleep at night hoping that I would dream it yet again. The house we lived in had a dark, musty old cellar, mostly unused except for a room in which my grandmother stored her home-canned fruits and vegetables. In my dream, I opened the door to that room and found, instead of jars of pickles, a long, brightly-lit corridor lined on each side with more doors. And behind each of those doors was an answer to a child’s fondest wish: toys, sweet treats, beautiful clothes, flowers, or puppies and kittens and ponies (oh, my!) — all in full technicolor. I can still see myself in that dream, skipping from room to room, playing with the toys, smelling the flowers, hugging the puppies. The wondrous innocence of childhood, all wrapped up in a single dream.

*. *. *

Eliza Doolittle dreamt about a warm room and a box of chocolates; little Mary Lennox had her Secret Garden; and I . . . I had my cellar full of goodies. And in my memory, I still do. “Oh, wouldn’t it be loverly . . . ?”

Sweet dreams,
Brendochka
8/9/23

There are many jobs in this world that I wouldn’t want to do under any circumstances (though obviously someone does them, and we should be grateful for that). Just think, for example, about being a construction worker balanced on a girder outside the 78th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper. Or, to the opposite extreme, part of a team cleaning out a clogged underground sewer. Or the guy flying the refueling plane for Air Force One, trying to make that connection at 30,000 feet. All necessary, honorable jobs. But — call me chicken — they’re not for me at any price, thank you.

But there are also some fabulous opportunities that seem too good to be true . . . and sometimes, in my opinion at least, they probably are. One that comes to mind would be winning a free vacation on the Black Sea coast in Crimea.

I’ve never been to Crimea, though I understand it’s quite beautiful. I have, however, been close (in 1988), at Sochi, an equally beautiful Russian resort just 283 nautical miles across the Black Sea from Yalta on the Crimean coast — and I loved it. Judging from photographs of Crimea such as the one below, it seems like an ideal vacation spot, doesn’t it? But have you been following the news of Russia’s war — excuse me, “Special Military Operation” — against Ukraine, and Ukraine’s attempts to win back its territory on the Crimean Peninsula? Tragically, that whole area is now — actively or potentially — a war zone. So, probably not something I’d recommend as a vacation choice this year, even for free. Pass. Give it to the runner-up, with my blessing.

*. *. *

Next: Buying the Brady Bunch house. It’s presently on the market for $5.5 Million — in a residential neighborhood that has a median property value listing of $1.9 Million. Are you sure you want to own the costliest property on the block — nearly three times the price of the next most expensive? Of course, this is a very special house; it’s a TV star. And, once HGTV entered the picture in 2018 and, together with the owners, restored the house to replicate exactly what it had looked like on the TV show, then added some 2,000 square feet giving it a total living area of over 5,000 square feet — well, that’s a whole new ballgame, right?

But wait . . . there’s more. There’s that orange-and-turquoise kitchen, complete with actual 1970s appliances. No smart-oven-with-air-fryer there. And the kids’ rooms — the girls’ room boasting lots of Barbie pink, including the floral wallpaper; and the boys’ room — you guessed it — in nautical blue, with paneled walls and bunk beds. And some fireplaces, appliances and fixtures throughout the house that are for show only, and not functional. And it’s all included in the sale, as is.

But even setting all of that aside, there are three things that are telling me to run for the hills. First, I don’t have $5.5 Million; I don’t have the downpayment on $5.5 Million; and I couldn’t make the monthly payments on the mortgage for a $5.5-Million-dollar house. Second, it’s in California and I’m an east-coast person. And finally . . . I really, really hate mid-century modern. So, put that “for sale” sign back up; I’ll pass on this one too.

*. *. *

Next: Doing this to my body — not that I ever could. Simone Biles is, in a single word, amazing. But even if I had the ability, would I also have the stamina, the perseverance, the sheer grit to accomplish what this young woman has? Not a chance! Most people wouldn’t . . . which is what makes her accomplishments all the more phenomenal. You go, girl . . . you’re a true champion. But if I had three wishes, I’m afraid that being an Olympic athlete would not be one of them. Pass.

*. *. *

And finally: Being President of the United States. At an annual salary of $400,000 — or even ten times that amount — I’m not masochistic enough, power-hungry enough, or two-faced enough to take on what is arguably the worst job in the world. I know that I would be unable to put on a happy face in the presence of murderous tyrants such as Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong Un, or Mohammed bin Salman; to sit through never-ending state dinners in formal attire with a roomful of people who have no use for me beyond what I might be able to do for them; to watch every word I utter, publicly or privately, because some scumbag (yes, words like that) is going to twist what I say beyond recognition and then use it against me; or to live constantly surrounded by a Secret Service escort, with never a moment’s privacy. Nope — not for all the money in the world. So I hereby announce to the people of the United States and to the world at large, formally and unequivocally, that I am not a candidate for the presidency of the United States in 2024 or any other year. Too bad, really; I think I could have been a good one. But . . . pass.

No, my goals are much more attainable, and rather mundane. I’d just like to make it through my remaining years without breaking any bones, being mugged, or needing major surgery. And I’d really like to get my book — still a work in progress — published one day. I don’t think that’s asking too much.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/8/23

Who hasn’t, at one time or another — maybe while watching a bunch of kids running around the playground, or standing over our own children sleeping the peaceful sleep of the innocent in their beds at night — wished we could leave the cares and the turmoil of this world behind and be that age again? Be honest, now . . . you have, haven’t you? And you’ve thought how great that would be!

Or would it? A lot depends on whether you’d rather go back to the decades of your own childhood, or be a child of today. So let’s compare, using my early years way back in the 1940s as a frame of reference.

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can I go outside and play?” Mom: “Okay, but stay in the yard; dinner will be ready soon. And don’t forget your sweater.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I’m bored. Can I have a play date with Brianna?” Mom: “Not now, dear; there’s no time to schedule it. And dinner will be ready soon. Why don’t you play your new Dungeons and Dragons game until then.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can I have a party for my birthday next week?” Mom: “Of course, honey. We’ll have cake and ice cream, and play tag, and hide-and-seek, and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, can I have a party for my birthday next week?” Mom: “I’m way ahead of you, kiddo. I’ve already booked the big party room at the club, hired the D.J., and gone over the menu with the caterer.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I want to listen to some of my music.” Mom: “Okay, I’ll put this record on the Victrola and wind it up for you.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I’m bored with all my music.” Mom: “Well, why don’t you just download some more.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, my tummy hurts and I just threw up.” Mom: “Oh, that’s not good. Let’s get you into bed and call Dr. Jones to come to the house right away.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, my tummy hurts and I just threw up.” Mom: “Oh, crap! Another trip to the E.R.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can you help me with my arithmetic?” Mom: “Sure, honey. Let’s work on your “eights” table. Eight plus two equals what?”

2023: Me: “Mommy, can you help me with my math?” Mom: “You’re kidding, right? I have no idea of how to do that. Ask your Dad.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, my teacher smacked my hand with a ruler today because I talked out of turn.” Mom: “Well, I’m sure you won’t be doing that again, will you?”

2023: Me: “Mommy, my teacher told me to sit down and be quiet today.” Mom: “Oh, really? What right does she have to treat you like that? She’ll be lucky to have a job when I finish with her.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I don’t like meat loaf.” Mom: “Sorry, baby, but that’s what I made for dinner. Eat up now, and we’ll have something different tomorrow.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I don’t like meat loaf.” Mom: “Fine, I’ve got some Ramen noodles you can have instead.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, guess what — a nice man smiled at me and said hello when I was outside.” Mom: “That’s nice, dear. Did you smile back at him?”

2023: Me: “Mommy! Mommy! Stranger danger! A man just smiled at me outside!” Mom: “Omigod! Lock the doors, and I’ll call the police. What did the pervert look like?”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, Billy threw mud at me.” Mom: “Well, did you do something to make him angry?”

2023: Me: “Mommy, Derek threw mud at me.” Mom: “Oh, he did, did he? Well, I’ll call our lawyer tomorrow and sue the little bast**d’s parents for every cent they’re worth!”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I have a new penpal in Russia! Isn’t that exciting?” Mom: “Yes, it is. Now you can learn all about another culture.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, this guy called “Best Buddy” wants to friend me on Facebook.” Mom: “Oh, no . . . he’s blocked. What have I told you about that?!!”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can we go see the new Disney movie?” Mom: “We’ll have to do that on Saturday; it’s only in the theater for one week, you know.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I’ve seen every movie that’s streaming on Netflix. What do I do now?” Mom (finally running out of patience): “Have you ever thought about reading a book, you little s**t?”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I’ve read all the books we got from the library.” Mom: “Good girl. We’ll go back tomorrow to return them and get some new ones.”

2023: Me: “Read a book? Seriously?” Mom: “Well, excuse me! I must have been out of my mind to even suggest it.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, what language do they speak in Brazil?” Mom: “Here’s the World Book Encyclopedia. Let me show you how to look that up.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, what language do they speak in Brazil?” Mom: “Your teacher says you need to do your own research. Ask Siri.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, are you sure the war is really over?” Mom: “Yes, absolutely sure. Now you sleep tight, and have sweet dreams. We’re all perfectly safe.” Me: “Good night, Mommy. I love you.” Mom: “I love you too, sweetheart.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, the teacher said something scary today about global warming. Do you know about that?” Mom: “Yes, and it’s just another urban legend. Nothing for you to worry about. Go to sleep now.” Me: “But, Mommy . . .” Mom: “That’s enough talk about that. Good night. I love you.”

*. *. *

1945: Mom (to Dad, later that evening): “Let me tell you the cute things the kids did today.”

2023: Mom (to Dad, later that evening): “What a day! Thank God the kids are finally asleep! Where the hell did you hide the vodka?”

*. *. *

Most of you probably don’t go back as far as the ‘40s, but I think you can relate. I wouldn’t mind revisiting those years, but to be a kid in today’s world . . . not for me, thank you. New math, stranger danger, climate change, cyber-stalking . . . It’s not easy, for the kids or the parents. I wish you patience, understanding, and lots of luck and love. Meanwhile, I’ll keep reminiscing.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/7/23

I know I write a lot about the “joys” of aging, but I read somewhere that you should write what you know . . . and this is something about which I know way too much. So today I’m thinking about another aspect of life in the senior lane: letting go.

Not the big stuff, like when your children start to grow up, and — despite all your efforts to keep them close — they ultimately make the final transition from childhood to adulthood and have the audacity to begin living their own lives. Nor am I referring to letting go of material things when you finally decide to downsize once all the kids are gone.

No, this is something even more unexpected . . . more insidious. I’m talking about letting go of elemental parts of your life, and of yourself. One after another, and another, and another . . . until one day you look in the mirror and you wonder who the hell that person is who’s looking back at you.

See the man looking in the mirror there? He’s asking himself what on earth has happened to his skin? Where did those lines, wrinkles, bags and jowls come from? And his hands — are those blue things his veins he sees popping up everywhere? Then there’s the scalp. He’d noticed a while ago that his hairline was receding, but this is ridiculous. Clearly, that’s his father he sees looking back at him . . . isn’t it? “Please say it is!”

Sorry, sir . . . it’s time to let go of your memories of that nice taut complexion you used to have. If you’ll roll up your sleeves, you’ll also find that those veiny hands are attached to a pair of matching arms. And speaking of taut, have you checked out those abs lately? No? Well, pull up that sweater and let’s have a look.

“Holy shit! What’s going on here??!!!”

“What is that? I look pregnant, for God’s sake. And when did I get man boobs? How did I let myself go like this while I’ve been busy raising a family and working toward retirement?”

Well, you just answered your own question, sir: you let go. Maybe a little too soon. Oh, well . . .

And now, looking at that gut, you can understand why you’re not able to play racquetball anymore. For one thing, the waistband of your sport shorts insists on sliding a little too far south. But more important is the way you start to puff, pant and perspire after the first few minutes of play. Sorry, but it looks as though it’s time to let go of that club membership too.

So you try to cheer yourself up a bit by taking the wife out for a nice dinner at your favorite seafood restaurant, where you can get some great food without piling on too many calories. Of course, you need a good bottle of wine. Then the waiter brings the complimentary cheese rolls, specialty of the house — with that wonderful herb butter. But you’re being good, so you order a lovely piece of mahi-mahi: good protein, good for you, right? Of course it is — if you ignore the bed of rice underneath it, and the beautiful lemon-butter sauce that it’s all swimming in. But it has asparagus on the side, so that’s good. And you forgo the mud pie for dessert, and settle for a nice light creme brûlée. Good boy.

But while you’re on the way home, trying to rationalize to your spouse the three-day allotment of calories you’ve just consumed in the past two hours, you realize that you’re not feeling too well. You’ve got this strange burning sensation in your chest and throat, and you can’t hold back the repeated belching sounds emanating from your mouth. What the hell is that about?

Don’t worry — it’s probably not a heart attack. Welcome to the wonderful world of acid reflux, GERD, and perhaps even a hiatal hernia. You can no longer digest a meal like the one you just packed away, and you’ll likely never again be able to. Call your doctor tomorrow, make an appointment to be on the safe side, and then let him give you a prescription or two . . . and a good, long lecture. Then let go of the foolish idea that you still have that cast-iron stomach you used to brag about. Sorry.

Now you’re really in need of a little cheer, but you don’t want another restaurant disaster like the last one. Luckily, you’ve just learned that one of your favorite rock bands from your teen years is still alive and well, and coming to your city soon. So you score a couple of tickets, even though you know the wife won’t be interested; you can always find an old school chum to go with you. And off you and your buddy go on the big night, fighting your way through the crowd and acting like a couple of kids again. “But why doesn’t this feel like it used to? How come the lights are so bright, and the noise level so deafening? And what’s that I smell? Pot? Really, guys . . . aren’t we a little past that? Besides, it’s illegal.”

Then the band finally comes onstage and the crowd roars. “God, that’s annoying! Sit down, already . . . I can’t see through you. And shut up so I can hear the music. Which, by the way, doesn’t sound like it did 40 years ago — those guys are looking old! Seriously, what am I doing here? This sucks.”

Let it go, sir. Those days are gone; you can’t relive the past.

*. *. *

And there you have it: the progression of life. We start out as helpless infants, and spend the first couple of decades learning the basics: how to walk, talk, feed and dress ourselves, then it’s off to school for an education. After that, we have careers, relationships, travel, marriage, kids, and suddenly we’re middle-aged. And that’s when the letting-go begins, and gathers steam until we reach the golden years. Which is what all the earlier years have been preparing us for: the luxury of sitting on our asses all day, letting our kids and grandkids do all the hard work while we finally get to do the things we never had time for when we were younger — the things that don’t require much physical exertion. Time to relax.

So it’s not really that bad after all, is it? Letting go, I mean. Remember: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven . . .” *

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/6/23

* Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.

I’d like to be a polyglot . . . and not just because it’s a funny word. I actually know people who speak multiple languages fluently, and I marvel at the way they are able to keep them all straight. I’m an American, so of course English is my native language. And I’m from a generation that was required to learn to read, write, and speak it properly. We were drilled, day after day and year after year, in grammar, vocabulary, spelling . . . and even penmanship. So I am one of that rapidly vanishing breed of Americans who can tell an adjective from an adverb.

Well, good for me. But unfortunately, that’s where it stops. My generation — although we can conjugate a verb, avoid splitting an infinitive, and spell words like “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” — unfortunately were not given the same encouragement when it came to learning other languages. It was only as an adult that I chose to study a second language on my own time and at my own expense, just for fun. And I chose Russian, of all things! Боже мой! (Translation: OMG!)

But that’s a whole other story. I’ll never be fluent in Russian, and I am astonished at the ability of today’s Russians, Czechs, Chinese, Saudis, Brazilians — in fact, the entire world — to learn English almost as though they’d been born to it. Note that I said “almost.” Because there is much about English that still baffles even those of us who actually were born here, myself included.

For example . . .

There are a bunch of two-letter words, spelled and pronounced exactly the same way: go, so, no, lo, yo!, and ho-ho-ho. Long “o” — right? Then why, I ask you, is “do” pronounced “doo”? And what about the fraternal twins: “weight” (long “a”) and “height” (long “i”)? And why do they need the “gh” in there anyway? They’re silent, for Heaven’s sake. Also, remember the old rule: “i” before “e,” except after “c,” or when pronounced like “a,” as in “neighbor” and “weigh”? Go back and look at “height” again. Shouldn’t it be pronounced “hate”?

Then we have words like “there” . . . and “their” . . . and “they’re.” Or how about the difference between “lie” and “lay” — and their past- and past-participle tenses, giving us “lie,” “lay” and “lain,” along with “lay,” “laid” and “laid.” And have you ever tried to explain to a person just learning English why “past” and “passed” are pronounced the same? Or the difference between “its” and “it’s” or “whose” and “who’s”?

I could go on like this for days, but you really don’t want me to, and you’ve already gotten the point anyway. But, lest you think I’m picking exclusively on the English language, let me point out one of my favorite peculiarities of the Russian language (and there are thousands of them). There is a word pronounced “pole” (or “poll,” if you prefer), that has two different meanings in Russian: “floor” . . . and “sex.” No joke. So be very careful if you’re looking to hire a Russian housekeeper who “does floors.”

[Note: that’s actually “sex” as in “gender,” not the act; but the first time I saw it in a Russian-English dictionary, I laughed so hard I nearly fell on the “pole.”]

There are a few words I can say in several different languages: yes, no, hello, goodbye, please, thank you, and bathroom, plus one or two curse words for the occasional bad day — all of which I found to be essential during my travels to a bunch of European countries. And even in England, where they speak English with a slew of regional accents and dialects (much as we do in the U.S.), there were differences between British English and American English that were quite pointedly made clear to me in various situations. In a London restaurant, I was told by a waiter that the “check” was actually the “bill”; and the hotel concierge corrected me when I foolishly asked for a “cab” instead of a “taxi.” Also, the subway is the “tube” or “underground”; and in some places the restroom is the more informal “loo” — though probably not at Buckingham Palace.

*. *. *

Yes, languages and their nuances are wonderfully complex things, and they’re a huge part of what defines a nation and its people as unique and separate from all others. Which, to me, seems like an altogether good thing. I’ll never understand why so many people have a hard time with that.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/5/23