As children, the vast majority of us were taught to share. If there was only one cookie left, your mother cut it in half so that you and your sibling each had an equal portion. When your friends came over to play, you were told to share your blocks so you could each build something. And you were likely asked, “There now, didn’t it feel good to share?”

And, for most of us, that lesson stuck. Because it does feel good to make someone else happy, or to relieve another person’s burden by offering a helping hand.

For most of us.

But there are always exceptions; we weren’t all blessed with parents who believed that morality is its own reward.

Take little Donnie, for example. Born into a wealthy family, his father owned a real estate empire that included racially-segregated, middle-class housing. Donnie was taught from a very early age that money — not morality — is the ultimate reward . . . money, and the power that comes with having a lot of it.

He probably didn’t care about toys like building blocks, which would have taught him that, if you stack them too high without a proper foundation, they will eventually topple; he was more interested in Monopoly, where he could own everything and hire others to do the actual building. And then he went off to the Wharton School of Business, where he learned to maximize his ingrained greed.

Donnie became far wealthier than even his father had ever imagined, and eventually — shockingly — ramrodded his way into the presidency of the United States of America.

*. *. *

Meanwhile, across the ocean in St. Petersburg, Russia, was little Vlad, whose childhood could not have been more different. Born into a less-than-affluent family — his father was a military conscript, his mother a factory worker — he was always the “underdog,” who quickly became known as a hoodlum and a street fighter. But he was smart, and learned the art of survival. Conscience, sympathy and empathy had no place in his life.

Vlad didn’t go to business school; he was enrolled in Leningrad State University, where he became fluent in the German language, was then enlisted into the KGB — the Soviet Union’s Committee of State Security — and was stationed for a time in East Germany. His life experiences had bestowed upon him the skills of patience, survival, and a killer instinct similar to that of a chess grand master . . . but on a much larger, more deadly, scale.

Little Vlad started with nothing, and wanted everything. He was determined to show the bullies of his childhood what he was made of, and he did . . . conniving his way, step by step, into the presidency of the Russian Federation.

*. *. *

And that was when, against all odds, their lives intertwined . . . not as friends, but as adversaries. Two men — overflowing with money and testosterone, and at the height of political power — each determined to outmaneuver the other for dominance. Picture two stags rutting over the same doe . . .

. . . until finally they realized that there is more than one doe in the forest — in fact, more than enough to keep both of them happy for a lifetime. And so they decided to do what their parents should have taught them decades earlier: Share.

But Donnie and Vlad are no longer teenage boys with uncontrolled hormonal urges. Their ambitions — and their competitiveness — go far beyond seeing who can deflower the greatest number of young females. Their targeted victims are now countries . . . and there are nearly 200 of those to choose from.

Well, Vlad already had his sights set on Ukraine, which he convinced himself rightfully belongs to Russia. In fact, he had already — in the manner of the street thug he truly is — declared war and invaded that sovereign nation. But the opposition turned out to be stronger than he had anticipated — including from the United States.

But there was an election, and now Donnie was in charge in the U.S., so there was a ray of hope: if Vlad could schmooze the big lummox and convince him U.S. policy toward Ukraine has been wrong all along . . . and if he could find something Donnie wanted in return . . . he could steal Ukraine out from under the noses of the rest of the world’s leaders.

And Donnie had made no secret of the fact that he wanted Greenland. It is strategically located, rife with precious natural resources, and — while technically part of the Kingdom of Denmark — it enjoys considerable autonomy, and is geographically part of the North American continent. However, the same things that make it attractive to Donnie — its Arctic location and valuable resources — also render it a desirable target for Russia.

So what do the Monopoly whiz and the chess player do? Quite simply, they team up, revealing to the world the burgeoning reblossoming of their former bromance. The resultant mutual flattery, in fact, becomes nothing short of nauseating.

Then Donnie begins pulling the U.S. away from Ukraine, putting military aid on hold and warning EU countries to pick up the slack . . . thus placing Ukraine in the untenable position of having to give in to Russia’s demands in order to stop the bloodbath.

Next, Donnie sends one of his hatchet men, JD (whose first name no one seems to know), to Greenland to insult the Danish government and demand that the citizens of Greenland come over to the U.S. side, for their own security.

And what is Vlad up to in the meantime? Why, he’s ignoring the partial ceasefire in Ukraine that was universally believed to have been agreed upon, continually lobbing missiles and drones at the Ukrainian populace while the U.S. is withholding the defensive materiel they desperately need to protect themselves.

But, though Vlad’s word usually means absolutely nothing, he keeps his promise to Donnie by making this seemingly magnanimous announcement at a Russian Arctic Forum in the city of Murmansk:

“In short, America’s plans in relation to Greenland are serious. These plans have deep historical roots. And it’s clear that the US will continue to systematically pursue its geo-strategic, military-political and economic interests in the Arctic.

“As for Greenland this is a matter for two specific countries. It has nothing to do with us.” [Steve Rosenberg, BBC, March 27, 2025.]

*. *. *

Donnie and Vlad are known to have had at least two lengthy phone conversations during this period, the details of which have not been made public. And in the absence of facts, my imagination has, as usual, created its own vivid scenario. Imagine, if you will:

Vlad: This special military operation has gone on long enough. I need a way to stop it without losing face, and without giving up my demands. Any ideas?

Donnie: Would it help if I were to say the U.S. demands that you enter into serious peace negotiations, and in the meantime we cut off aid to Ukraine?

Vlad: That’s perfect! We stall, keep blasting them, and they’ll be forced to capitulate. It’s foolproof. So, what can I do for you in return?

Donnie: Well, you know we want Greenland. Suppose you don’t oppose that, and once we have the island and you have Ukraine, we can do a deal to share the minerals from both places?

Vlad: Donnie, as always, I am in awe of your genius. Consider it done.

Check, and mate.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/29/25

Russian literature is not especially known for its lighter side. Think of Anna Karenina, The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment, War and Peace, Doctor Zhivago. All of them tragic . . . and all of them art imitating life, with maybe a bit more sex.

But every now and then, in real life, the Russian people are good for a laugh. Their political satire, for example, is delightfully caustic. And sometimes, quite accidentally, they can be at their wittiest when they’re trying to be serious.

Take, for example, an excerpt from the Wikipedia biography of one Sergey Naryshkin, which reads as follows:

“Sergey Yevgenyevich Naryshkin . . . is a Russian politician who has served as the director of the Foreign Intelligence Service [FSB, successor to the KGB] since 2016. Previously, he was Chairman of the State Duma (2011-2016) and Kremlin Chief of Staff (2008-2012); . . .”

So far, so good . . . right? But here is where that Russian wit shows itself:

“ . . . he was also chairman of the Historical Truth Commission from May 2009 until it was dissolved in February 2012.”

“Historical Truth”? Is that anything like “Military Intelligence”?

Well, of course it was dissolved. Who needs truth, historical or otherwise? It just gets in the way, like when you’re about to invade another country and claim that it really belongs to you.

Oh, those funny, funny Russians!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/28/25

You may have noticed that I write a lot about Russia: my past travels there in the late 1980s and early 90s, her history, her culture, the beauty of her varied landscapes and cityscapes, and the warmth of her ordinary people.

Mostly, though, I write about Russian politics, and the murderous, totalitarian regime of Vladimir Putin.

I hold nothing back in calling out Putin and his minions — Lavrov, Medvedev, Shoigu, Patrushev, Dugin, Naryshkin, and all the others — for their undisguised crimes against humanity, both in their own country and what they call “the near abroad” . . . those areas once part of the Soviet Union . . .

. . . for the blatant lies, and twisting the truth to deflect blame onto everyone but themselves . . .

. . . and most of all, for the decimation of the sovereign nation of Ukraine, on the specious excuse that it “belongs” — according to their reimagined version of history — to Russia.

I hold no illusions as to Putin’s future expansionist agenda; his maniacal compulsion to destroy Western dominance and replace it with an alliance of his own creation; or his manipulation of a pitifully naive Donald Trump in order to achieve those goals.

And I freely express my outrage at his imprisonment of political opponents, journalists and others — both Russian and foreign — to be held as pawns in his political chess games.

I hold these viewpoints, and claim the absolute right to express them, because I am an American. As such, I enjoy the freedom of expression, freedom of choice, freedom of . . .

But wait a minute. That has always been the case, from the day I was born until . . . let’s see now . . . two months and eight days ago. Until the world began spinning out of control, and millions of Americans, myself included, suddenly realized that those rights and freedoms and blessings of which we have always been so proud and so grateful had begun to erode . . . not gradually, bit-by-bit, but seemingly all at once, practically overnight.

And I awoke this morning, after a vaguely disturbing dream the details of which I can no longer recall, to the horrible reality that my country is no longer the land of the free, where every individual has the same precious rights under the law as every other individual . . . and, more frighteningly, that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Because I am one small, insignificant person — not wealthy, not famous, not influential. I voted, as I do in every election; but my vote wasn’t sufficient. All I can do now is speak out, and hope that enough voices will join mine in a chorus that will be heard.

In the meantime, I have asked myself whether, in good conscience, I now have the right to criticize the people of another country — Russia — for “putting up with” the autocracy that has been forced upon them, when I am in precisely the same situation . . . when the person sitting at the head of my government is engaging in the same sort of lying, manipulative, threatening, illegal, ham-fisted control over the people and the institutions of the United States as Vladimir Putin wields over the Russian people?

Is that not the pot calling the kettle black?

*. *. *

After much soul-searching, I have decided that the answer is no . . . it’s not the same. Because I now realize that we are not, simply by reason of being Americans, superior to the people of Russia or any other country. Thomas Jefferson famously said, “The government you elect is the government you deserve.” And the evidence of his wisdom is clearly before us today.

We — a slim majority of Americans — elected Donald Trump, not just once, but a shocking second time. And we are watching him stack our most vital institutions with unqualified, inept, self-serving billionaires who have set about gleefully annihilating entire agencies, ignoring laws and targeting judges who dare try to enforce them, endangering our environment, weakening our economy, and destroying international relationships so carefully built and nurtured over decades, in order to join forces with the arch enemy of everything America has always stood for: Vladimir Putin.

*. *. *

So I continue to claim the right to speak out, as long as I also recognize that Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump are two sides of the same coin. The only difference is that Trump believes he is smarter than Putin . . . whereas Putin knows better.

And that realization has left me and all of my fellow Americans who didn’t vote for him (and more than a few who did) feeling, well . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/28/25

I’m getting a little tired of regurgitating the daily menu of bad news, and making endless lists of the things that are wrong with the world. So — with your indulgence — I’m going to try a little self-administered therapy today: I’m going to concentrate on things for which I am most thankful. And not just the usual things, like family, friends and reasonably good health . . . but some things we don’t always think about. Such as:

The Kardashians. No, I haven’t flown over the cuckoo’s nest . . . I am not thankful for their presence, but for the fact that they are so seldom in the news lately . . . and that goes for Ye (the scumbag formerly known as Kanye West) as well. Oh, there are the pop-up ads for Kim’s line of sleazy-looking . . . what? . . . I guess you’d call them some kind of apparel. But I can just ignore those. So, all in all, I’m grateful.

*. *. *

And there’s much more that I’m thankful not to have to put up with any longer. For example, the constant presence of . . .

Justin Bieber. Same reason — he’s still out there, and I wish him only good things (and a better wardrobe). But he’s no longer front-page news every day, day after endless day, for doing nothing discernibly worthwhile. Grateful.

*. *. *

World War II. It’s been over for 80 years. Hallelujah! Let’s not reincarnate it, shall we? Then we can all express our gratitude.

*. *. *

Menopause. Been there, done that, survived it. Once was enough, thank you. Glad it’s over.

*. *. *

Jello molds. Remember those? They always remind me of a line from one of my favorite sitcoms, The Golden Girls, when feisty old Sophia says, “If God had wanted peaches suspended in mid-air, He would have filled them with helium.” I’m with you, Sophia.

*. *. *

Garter belts and girdles. Most uncomfortable things in the world. But we needed something to hold up our nylon stockings, until some genius invented panty hose.

*. *. *

Panty hose. They were an improvement, but still not perfect because they didn’t always fit every figure. And then there were the defective ones, like the pair I was wearing one day when I left the office to run an errand and on the way back I felt the hose slipping slowly down . . . down . . . down . . . until the waistband was below my abdomen and the crotch was somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. Luckily, I was wearing a raincoat and was able to put my hands into the pockets, grab onto the waistband of the hose through my clothes, and keep them from hitting the ground as I Geisha-walked back to the office, where I removed them in the ladies’ room. But I did not throw them away; I took them home, washed them out that night, and the next day mailed them to the manufacturer with a rather hilarious explanatory note. P.S. — I received an apology and three pairs of correctly-sized replacements. Very grateful I only wear slacks and jeans now, so no need for the panty hose . . . ever.

*. *. *

Beehive hairdos. I never had one, but I did have to look at them on other women. I always imagined them being full of things like insects and the unidentifiable stuff that’s always flying around in the air. Eeeew!

*. *. *

Typewriter ribbons and carbon paper. I did love the feel of the keys on the IBM Model B electric typewriter . . . but not so much the accoutrements (good word!) that went with it, like the messy ribbons that invariably got ink all over your hands, and likewise the carbon paper for the multiple copies you had to make before there were Xerox machines. And don’t forget the WhiteOut and erasers to correct your errors. I will say, my typing was much more accurate in those days — it had to be, in the ancient times before “Delete” keys and Spellcheck.

*. *. *

Come to think of it, the list of things we lived with in the past that have been superseded by something better is practically endless. But what’s new is not always an improvement. And if I were able to rid the world of just five things — not acts of nature, but manmade things that are within our control — it would be these:

Wars. Particularly the modern weaponry that allows us to slaughter thousands of people, hundreds of miles away, without ever having to put a human face on them.

*. *. *

Artificial Intelligence. Frankly, AI scares the crap out of me. The thought of all of those brilliant people out there, creating technology to replace human beings (themselves included), is incomprehensible to me, and thus terrifying.

*. *. *

Cilantro. Such a little thing, but I didn’t want to ask only for the big stuff. And it really does taste like soap.

*. *. *

Politics. All right, I know this isn’t realistic . . . in a world of 8.2 billion people, we need some form of government. But a girl can dream, can’t she? Barring this one, though, I’ll settle for doing away with . . .

*. *. *

The entire Trump administration. Actually, this should have been #1. Just send them back to their respective home states, and make them live on Social Security benefits.

*. *. *

And that’s a wrap.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/27/25

Way, way, w-a-a-a-y back when I was a schoolgirl in New Hampshire, communication was simple. In some rural areas, you still placed phone calls through an operator employed by the telephone company; and you might even have a “party line” that you shared with another local family whom you may or may not have known. Our town was advanced: we had dial phones and private lines. But you could only talk to one other person at a time.

On one particular evening after dinner, I was on the phone with one of my classmates reviewing a homework assignment, when we suddenly heard two distinctly male voices overriding our conversation. We listened for a moment, then started calling out, “Hello? Hello? Who’s on this line?”

At first there was silence; then one of the two males responded: “Well, who are you?”

After a minute of back-and-forth, it turned out that they were two boys from our school. We introduced ourselves, had a good laugh and a nice chat, and chalked it up to “crossed wires.” I can’t explain the cause of the mix-up; it was a simple technical glitch — the sort that happened in those days.

It wasn’t the result of some idiot’s royal fuck-up of a classified, high-level, supposedly secure government “chat” concerning an imminent military aerial attack on an adversarial country.

Well, that’s exactly what hit the fan this week in Washington when a conference over an usecured Signal chat app, scheduled to include Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard, CIA Director John Ratcliffe, National Security Adviser Mike Waltz, and even Middle East special envoy Steve Witkoff . . . who was in Moscow for meetings with Vladimir Putin when he joined the call! These were the people at the very top of the national security food chain. But somehow a number had been added to the approved list of participants . . . that of an international journalist, no less.

Jeffrey Goldberg of The Atlantic initially wasn’t sure whether the invitation he received to join the chat was legitimate. Once he realized that it was, and understood the substance of the conversation as having national security implications, he did the only thing he could do: he reported what had happened, without publicly disclosing any classified information. And had someone in the administration been wearing their big-boy panties and taken grown-up responsibility for the blunder, it probably would have ended there.

But this was Washington, where the first impulse is always to deny one’s own culpability, and the second move is to find a scapegoat. So the “Washington Blame Game” began, together with the denials.

Along with a lot of “he-said-she-said,” and people claiming that no classified matters were discussed during the call, the White House and the Pentagon tried to toss a few buckets of whitewash on the whole thing by declassifying everything that could conceivably have been considered classified at the time of the call. But that was another huge mistake, in more ways than one.

Now, Senate Armed Services Committee Chairman Roger Wicker and Democratic panel member Senator Jack Reed are asking for an Inspector General report on the Signal chat for the committee to review, along with a classified briefing from a senior official. Wicker said that the information discussed in the chat was “of such a sensitive nature that, based on my knowledge, I would have wanted it classified.” [Natasha Bertrand, Zachary Cohen, Betsy Klein and Shania Shelton, CNN, March 26, 2025.]

And an (understandably) anonymous Defense Department official has said: “It is safe to say that anybody in uniform would be court martialed for this. We don’t provide that level of information on unclassified systems, in order to protect the lives and safety of the servicemembers carrying out these strikes. If we did, it would be wholly irresponsible. My most junior analysts know not to do this.” [Id.]

Well, perhaps those junior analysts should be running things in D.C. Because Pentagon spokesman Sean Parnell continued to argue: “These additional Signal chat messages confirm there were no classified materials or war plans shared. The Secretary was merely updating the group on a plan that was underway and had already been briefed through official channels. The American people see through the Atlantic’s pathetic attempts to distract from President Trump’s national security agenda.” [Id.]

Right . . . blame the media.

But, as they used to say in the Old West . . . “them’s fightin’ words.“

And so, seeing clearly that the American people were being lied to in order to conceal the total ineptness of the current administration, the folks at The Atlantic did what they do best: they came out fighting, and told the truth. They printed portions of the chat, clearly demonstrating the classified nature of some of the information while redacting portions they felt were too sensitive to publicize.

And then, inevitably, we heard from Donald Trump, who — some eight years after his first election to office — is still relying on the same stale, boring, paranoid retorts. He said, “It’s all a witch-hunt.” [Id.]

And from the equally trustworthy White House press secretary, Karoline Leavitt, we received a social media post claiming that: “The Atlantic has conceded: these were NOT ‘war plans.’ This entire story was another hoax written by a Trump-hater who is well-known for his sensationalist spin.” [Id.]

By the way, you’ll be relieved to know that Ms. Leavitt has assured the American people that Witkoff was receiving the texts in Moscow — in freakin’ Moscow! — on “a secure line of communication [provided] by the U.S. Government, and it was the only phone he had in his possession while in Moscow.” [Id.]

Oh, well . . . I feel much better now.

*. *. *

At this point, I would normally offer a little summation, but I’m sure it isn’t necessary . . . this story has been at the top of the news all week. And if you’ve read this far, you’ve undoubtedly figured out for yourself that we are in deep doo-doo, folks.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/27/25

This blue blob appeared in the night sky over the U.K., Croatia and Poland on Monday. It has been attributed to the spinning frozen exhaust plume from a SpaceX Falcon 9 launch earlier that day. [Jennifer Thang, KTLA News, March 25, 2025.]

Well, that makes sense. Only Elon Musk has both the means and the ego to write his initial across the sky to remind Europe who’s the boss now.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka

3/26/25

It was inevitable . . . though you couldn’t have convinced Donald Trump or Elon Musk of that before the damage was done.

Once they began their chainsaw-style purge of all of our country’s illegal immigrants and those guilty of having committed actual crimes on U.S. territory, they figured they were on a roll and might as well keep going. They were having a grand time.

So they started in on those who hadn’t done anything wrong other than having been born in another country. Never mind that those people had been here for years, held honest jobs, raised families, and obeyed our laws; they needed to go — even some who were already on track to citizenship.

Xenophobia, unchecked, develops a momentum of its own.

Never mind the human toll; that clearly was of no significance to Trump and Musk. But what they never bothered to ask themselves — or anyone else — was who would fill all of those jobs previously held by the now-absent immigrants . . . jobs that most natural-born Americans won’t or can’t accept because they don’t pay a living wage, or they’re too difficult, or too “menial.”

But it seems that one day recently, Florida’s Governor Ron DeSantis woke up from what he thought was a bad dream, only to find that it was true: his state was facing a labor shortage. Where were all of those people who had formerly made his and his friends’ lives easier: the invisible people who cleaned the rest rooms in the hotels, resorts, and other public buildings; the street sweepers and trash collectors; the household help; the au pairs, the restaurant dishwashers and school janitors; the orange-pickers?

They were gone, herded into dormitories or tents at Guantanamo, or off to El Salvador, like so many head of cattle.

What to do? Omigod, what to do??!!!

Well, you can’t accuse Ron DeSantis of being unimaginative. He knew he couldn’t risk his political future by speaking out against White House policy, so he quickly came up with a brilliant solution: Fill those jobs with children!

But wait . . . what about child labor laws? Currently, Florida state law prohibits teenagers from working between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 6:30 a.m. And many of those jobs include overnight work.

No problem . . . we’ll just amend the law. (Why am I suddenly reminded here of Vladimir Putin and his fiddling with the Russian Constitution?)

Anyway, on Tuesday the Florida state legislature advanced a bill that will allow children as young as 14 to work overnight shifts, even on school days. It whizzed through two committees before being put to a vote by the full Florida Senate.

At a panel discussion last week with Tom Homan, acting director of I.C.E. (Immigration and Customs Enforcement), DeSantis had this to say:

“Why do we say we need to import foreigners, even import them illegally, when you know, teenagers used to work at these resorts, college students should be able to do this stuff.” [Jordan Valinsky, CNN, March 25, 2025.]

And, as though that weren’t enough, he added:

“And what’s wrong with expecting our young people to be working part-time now? I mean, that’s how it used to be when I was growing up.” [Id.]

What’s wrong with it? Well, let’s examine that.

First, he’s confusing college students with 14-year-olds. Second, he’s conflating working at a resort, say, as a lifeguard or dining room waiter, with cleaning toilets in the local bus station. And third, he’s mixing up part-time, after-school or weekend work with eight-hour overnight shifts on school days.

And finally, he’s talking about recruiting children for these jobs — which is hardly the same thing as a family making its own, individual decision as to whether a child should take on that type of burden at such an early age . . . whether they’re physically able, and whether it will adversely affect their school work, their family time, and — remember this from your teenage years, Ron? — their social lives.

*. *. *

Yes, there are many American families in need of extra income just to make ends meet. And some of those families have older teenagers who would welcome the opportunity to help out by taking a part-time job. That’s commendable. But when did it become all right to rob younger teens — 14- and 15-year-olds — of the best school years: years of football games, and dances, and just hanging out with friends.

A lot of us had part-time jobs during high school, mostly to pay for those “extras” that can put a strain on some families. In my case, it was baby-sitting for neighbors and family friends. Some of my classmates mowed lawns, shoveled snow, and washed cars. One worked as an usher at the neighborhood movie theater. But the hours were limited, and all in line with the teenager’s best interests, and within the parameters of local child labor laws.

If we just blithely cast those protective laws aside, what’s next: the sweat shops of 100 years ago?

Ron DeSantis has three small children. I wonder what kind of jobs he’ll line up for them when they’re 14.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/26/25

The other night — or, rather, early morning — I wrapped up my news-reading and blog-writing for the day, and happily crawled into bed, blissfully sleepy and ready to journey off into one or more of my notoriously weird dreams.

Four hours later, I was still lying there, staring alternately at the ceiling, the clock, and the insides of my eyelids, and mentally counting everything imaginable (including sheep) in an effort to fall asleep. But slumber continued to elude me.

I wasn’t ill; I wasn’t feeling achy; my feet weren’t twitching with that restless leg thing. But my mind wouldn’t shut down. Between thoughts of wars in Ukraine and Gaza, brush fires in nearby South and North Carolina, the price of Tylenol, and Elon Musk racking up another billion bucks from his government contracts . . . well, there was barely time to count more than 20 or 30 of anything.

And then I realized it might have been that half-pint of coffee ice cream I devoured around 10:00 p.m. That stuff does have caffeine, you know. Brilliant!

Finally, around 6:30 a.m., I got out of bed to answer that irresistible early-morning call of nature, and settled down again to give sleep one more try. That was when the dog started barking. And kept barking . . . and barking some more. It wasn’t her “someone’s trying to break into the house” bark; it was more like “there’s a deer in the back yard and I want to go out and play.”

Well, the rest of the family — and most of the neighborhood — needed to finish their night’s sleep before going off to work, so I finally decided to get up to convince the dog to shut her damned yap.

And at 7:00 that morning — after exactly zero shuteye — there I was, in the den, giving Dixie her first full-body massage of the day.

Yes, you read that correctly: I give dog massages. And apparently very good ones, because at least twice a day, she’s in here, staring at me without ever blinking, compelling me to put down whatever I’m doing and give her a “scratch” (that’s the word she knows). And when I finally can’t concentrate any longer . . . well, you try it with a pair of big, sad, brown eyes fixed on your face . . . she smiles knowingly, moves closer, and proudly turns around and backs up to me until I am looking smack-dab at her hind end. Because just above her tail and on both hips is where she is apparently the most itchy.

Of course, it doesn’t stop there. There’s the rest of her long back, her belly, the shoulders, back of the neck, top of the head, cheeks, and ears to be treated to my soothing ministrations. It has occurred to me that, with all of the dogs in this neighborhood, I could turn this into a business and make a small fortune — that morning’s massage was worth a good $100, at least.

Anyway, my eyelids had finally begun to droop. So I gave her the three pats on her rump that signal I’m finished rubbing and scratching for now, and she got up and walked out . . . turning, just as she reached the doorway, to give me her “thank you” look. And I took myself — pajamas now amply strewn with dog hair — back to bed, where I finally, miraculously, managed to score four and a half hours of sleep and no fewer than three bizarre dreams.

My final thought before drifting off that morning was that I must remember to warn the family to look out for deer poop in the back yard.

And that, dear reader, is half a day in the life of this blogger. Is it any wonder I sometimes spend the other half doing this . . . ?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/25/25

It appears that — at least for the next couple of weeks — he is back at home in Dubai, after spending the past seven months as a “guest” of French authorities.

You remember Pavel Durov, don’t you? He’s the multi-billionaire (about $15 billion at last count) citizen of Russia, where he was born, as well as France, the United Arab Emirates (UAE), and the lovely Caribbean island nation of St. Kitts and Nevis. He made his entrepreneurial debut as the founder of Russian messaging service VKontakte, then left Russia to outdo himself by creating the famously encrypted Telegram service.

He left Russia as a result of government pressure to reveal confidential client information, which he refused to do as a matter of professional ethics. Last year, similar demands were made by the French government in connection with criminal investigations involving some Telegram subscribers . . . which he again refused. And so he has not been allowed to leave France pending resolution of charges brought against him for his failure to cooperate with their investigations.

Now it appears that the Paris prosecutor’s office has suspended “the obligations of judicial supervision” for a period of three weeks, from March 15th to April 7th. Mysteriously, no further details have been given as to the reason for, or the conditions of, his temporary release. [Joe Tidy, BBC, March 16, 2025.]

While France and the UAE are parties to an extradition treaty signed in 2007, I have to wonder what would stop a person with billions of dollars at his disposal from fleeing to a country that does not share an extradition treaty with France . . . other than personal integrity, that is. And considering his past willingness to leave his native country behind in order to stand by his principles, and his continuing fight to preserve those same principles . . . well, I would hope and expect that he will be back in France by April 7th.

As to whether I think he is right or wrong, I have asked myself whether I would risk everything to protect the privacy rights of suspected criminals who had, by contractual agreement, entrusted their confidential information to me. And I had only to recall my own long-ago history to know the answer.

It’s not an easy choice.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/25/25

President Putin: It is my understanding that you have an excellent command of the English language. But, never having met you personally, I cannot be certain of that . . . and your recent behavior suggests to me that you may need a small refresher course. Being a good-natured individual, I have volunteered my services in this regard.

Let us begin, please, with two simple English words: “Peace negotiations.“

Each word individually is simple enough: “peace” is “мир” and “negotiations” is “переговоры.” But when you put them together, they take on a significant meaning: “мирные переговоры.”

Now, you are, from all accounts, an educated man . . . a graduate of the renowned Leningrad State University, no less. I don’t have to explain to you that “peace” is the absence of turmoil, or anxiety . . . or war. And I’m sure you are aware that a “negotiation” is a verbal exchange leading to a compromise decision.

You do understand “compromise,” don’t you? That’s “компромисс” in your native language. Couldn’t be simpler.

Понятно? Да? Хорошо.

So, now I have a question for you:

What the hell are you doing today — at the very hour that these so-called “peace negotiations” are taking place in Saudi Arabia — bombing the daylights out of the Pokrovsk region of Ukraine?!!

According to people in the area, “There are 200-300 explosions per day, all coming in our direction. They’re trying to advance on our positions — but we’re holding them back.” [Andriy Kuzakov, Current Time, RFE/RL, March 24, 2025.]

When asked about his thoughts on the peace talks underway in Riyadh, another gentleman responded: “I don’t believe it. This is a repeat of 2014 when they negotiated a cease-fire. It’s all just to pull in troops and strengthen their positions.” [Id.]

And isn’t that just what you have accused Ukraine of wanting to do if you agree to a 30-day ceasefire?

You are a master at posturing, at playing the peacemaker, and at making promises you have no intention of keeping. But in reality, you are Richard III, delighting in his deceptive nature and blaming his baseness on everyone and everything but himself:

“And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With odd old ends stol’n forth of Holy Writ;
And seem a saint when most I play the devil.”
– Shakespeare, Richard III, Act I, Scene 3

*. *. *

But war is not a stage play, Vladimir Vladimirovich; it is real, it is deadly . . . and it is unforgivable.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/24/25