It’s Saturday evening, March 9th, as I write this. I have spent my usual amount of time browsing through the day’s news, and have come to the conclusion that there is just too much of it . . . and it’s all dreadful. Apparently, if it’s not bad, it’s just not news.

And I’m weary. Weary of reading — and writing — about wars, and assassinations, and mass shootings, and natural disasters, and hatred, and stupidity, and greed, and people hell-bent on destroying the world. The only world we’ve got. So I’m not going to do it today, and I’m not sure about tomorrow yet. I’ll let you know.

If we’re still here tomorrow.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/10/24

. . . Or any other doctor who will actually remember you without having to look for your name on your chart; sit and talk to you for more than three minutes to find out what’s really going on with you; and actually call you on the phone in a day or two to report your lab findings, tell you what (if anything) you need to do, and answer any questions you may have. Today, other than what passes for the office visit, your principal communication with your physician is through something called a “portal.”

I always thought a portal was an opening to the spirit world, but what do I know? I’m old, exhausted, and at the moment, really frustrated.

I had my regular six-month checkup last week. My PCP (principal care physician, formerly known as a GP, or general practitioner) is a young woman, very pleasant, and apparently quite knowledgeable. Her nurse (or nurse practitioner, or physician’s assistant — I have no idea which) saw me first, took my blood pressure, checked my oxygen level with that finger thingy, and asked me a few questions. She entered that data into a computer so that the doctor had it all in front of her before she made her appearance. The doc then listened to my heart and lungs, poked my abdomen, and declared me to be among the living. I already knew that, but that’s what she gets paid for.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that you don’t even have to take your clothes off for these exams anymore! Where’s the thrill, the anticipation, the embarrassment of the old days? Along with the comfort of knowing you’ve really been checked over, they’re gone. You could have a bunch of little lumps in scary places, and no one would ever know until . . . well, never mind.

I told her my one complaint recently is that I’ve been feeling really, really exhausted. No matter how much sleep I get, it’s not enough. And my body just doesn’t want to move. I reminded her that I tend to be somewhat anemic (yes, I had to remind her), so she said she’d order the appropriate blood workup and typed something into her little computer, which apparently went directly to the office phlebotomist (an expensive-sounding name for the local vampire). And that was it . . . “See you in six months, unless you have a problem, in which case you be sure to give us a call, okay?”

*. *. *

The very next day, I received an email from a place called LabCorp. These are the folks who received my lifeblood for testing. They’re really quick! So I looked up my password, logged into their . . . yup, portal . . . and began trying to decipher the dozen or so sets of initials that, I assumed, identified the specific tests: RBC, WBC, MCV, MCH, FU (no, I made that one up to see if you’re still awake), platelets, etc. Then I Googled each one to find out what they were and what they indicated. Most were normal, but some were high or low, so I had to find a reliable medical site to figure out whether I was going to die tomorrow or possibly live a while longer. And when I was done, I came to the startling conclusion that I was . . . drumroll, please . . . ANEMIC.

Yup, I had been right all along. I should have gone to med school.

Now, you need to know that I moved out of state about three years ago, so I no longer have my long-time doctors from the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Area. No, I’m in small-town Georgia now, and I’ve learned that everything is different here. Really different. So I should not have been surprised when I didn’t receive a phone call from my doctor to discuss the lab results; after four days, I received instead an email saying I had a message from her . . . in the freakin’ portal. With about as much enthusiasm as I might muster for an upcoming colonoscopy, I opened the message and found out that . . .

I’M ANEMIC!!!

And my doctor’s recommendation? I should “start an iron and vitamin D supplement daily” and “let’s see if that helps your fatigue.”

Okay, fine. But . . . well, I’ve got some questions here. Those pills come in different dosages. Which ones should I take? And how about food? Is there anything specific I should be eating? How soon would you want to run my labs again? Hello? How do I ask you all these questions?

Oh, right . . . the g**damned portal. So I type in my questions, hit “Submit,” and get a reply message thanking me and saying I should allow up to 48 hours for a response. 48 hours?!! I’m really glad we’re not dealing with congestive heart failure here. Of course, then it would be a trip to the emergency room, which is a whole other nightmare.

So while I’m waiting for my electronic response on the mother-lovin’ portal (you’ll notice that in Georgia it’s de rigueur to drop the final “g” from words ending in “ing”), I’ve drawn up my own treatment plan: lots of fatty fish and Vitamin D-enriched dairy, etc.; the prescribed supplements, when I know what kind to buy; and — since I’m pretty much housebound most of the time — one of those UV lamps that are supposed to substitute for real sunshine, like the ones they used to use for kids in the far northern Soviet Union where the winter days are so short.

And then — if the lamp doesn’t peel off my top layer of skin or kill me outright — I’ll look forward to that sudden burst of energy that comes with no longer being anemic.

Or not.

Brendochka
3/9/24

Paul Whelan is one of the Americans still in a Russian prison — and the one who has been there the longest — waiting for the negotiations between the U.S. and Russian governments to bear fruit. And now he lives with a new fear.

Alexei Navalny is dead . . . assassinated while incarcerated in a penal colony much like the one Whelan currently inhabits. Navalny’s death, according to the death certificate provided by the prison authorities, was officially due to “natural causes.” But Whelan knows — as does the whole world — that the man once thought to be invincible was beaten, starved, frozen, tortured to death . . . all because he would not keep silent.

Whelan’s alleged crime is more serious than Navalny’s: he was arrested in December of 2018, convicted of espionage in 2020 — a charge he has consistently denied — and sentenced to 16 years in prison. Earlier this week, he told CNN that he found Navalny’s death “extremely worrying” — obviously a gross understatement. He explained:

“I can’t say too much for obvious reasons, but one thing I will say is that if they can get to him, they can get to me. It’s extremely troubling that someone like Navalny would die under suspicious circumstances, but it’s also extremely worrying for me that this is the sort of thing that goes on. If they are willing to face the repercussions from the world for doing in somebody like Navalny, they’re not going to think twice about doing in someone like me, and then blaming the United States for not bothering to get me back in five years. So when I’ve said in the past that my death warrant’s been signed, this is the sort of thing that I refer to.” [Jennifer Hansler, CNN, March 5, 2024.]

Following a conversation last month with U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken — at least the third time the two men have spoken — Whelan was reassured by the Secretary’s statement that “Our intensive efforts to bring Paul home continue every single day. And they will until he and (Wall Street Journal reporter) Evan Gershkovich and every other American wrongfully detained is back with their loved ones.” [Id.]

Whelan said that he “left the call with a good feeling that the Secretary and other members of the National Security Council are engaged and they are trying to get this resolved.” Despite this, he has requested several times to be allowed to speak with President Joe Biden, to “remind the President and the National Security Council that I’m still here, being held hostage by the Russian government, and the Biden administration has got to take decisive action to secure my release. If they don’t do anything, I’m stuck here. And if I’m stuck here, I die here.”

*. *. *

Alexei Navalny’s death is a stark reminder of the fear with which Paul Whelan — and every other falsely-charged hostage sitting in a putrid Russian prison — lives every moment of every day. And it is a legitimate fear, based on the reality of Vladimir Putin’s methods of dealing with those who dare to oppose him.

They must not be forgotten; they will not be forgotten.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/8/24

August 1988. A friend and I had joined a U.S. tour group to visit what was then still the Soviet Union. We began the four-city tour in Moscow, where we were shown the usual highlights: the Kremlin and Red Square, the Bolshoi Theatre, Moscow State University in the Sparrow Hills, a couple of beautiful Orthodox cathedrals that had survived Stalin’s mad spree of destruction, and more. One day, as we were strolling along the charming street known as the Old Arbat, I noticed something on some of the buildings that struck a nerve: surveillance cameras. We were aware that our hotel rooms were probably bugged; but seeing these cameras on the streets, in the days before security CCTV invaded the rest of the world, removed any doubt that we were indeed in the land of Big Brother.

*. *. *

March 2024. They couldn’t stop the funeral . . .

. . . so they began the nationwide post-funeral sweep-up.

There are estimated to be hundreds of thousands of CCTV cameras in Moscow alone, allegedly for the purpose of identifying criminals and contributing to public safety. In the days just prior to Alexei Navalny’s funeral on March 1st, several additional cameras — likely enhanced with facial recognition technology — were installed in the area around the church and cemetery where the service and burial were to take place.

Since Navalny’s suspicious death in a Siberian penal colony on February 16th, more than 400 people have been detained for participating in peaceful protests across Russia. Additionally, during the past few days, at least five people have been detained after attending the funeral, including one woman on Monday of this week who was caught on camera chanting “glory to the heroes,” a pro-Ukraine slogan. She was fined and allowed to return home the following day; but she now has a criminal record. The fate of the others is as yet unknown.

Russian opposition activists are warning that the Kremlin is in the process of centralizing its surveillance system, and that, “If they digitalize all the databases and combine them to make this joint database, they can find everybody.” [Mathias Hammer, Semafor, March 5, 2024.]

Make no mistake: Vladimir Putin has no intention of allowing any sort of dissent to continue. Yet, in the days since Navalny’s funeral, hundreds of Russians have continued to visit his grave in defiance of Putin’s onerous new laws and regulations. As reported in Sobesednik — one of the few liberal Russian publications still in operation — there were “gigantic queues” and “mountains of flowers” at his grave site over the past weekend. [Id.]

The question now is: Who will prevail in this contest of wills . . . Big Brother, or the huge spirit and determination of the Russian people? We can continue to hope that it will be the latter; but only time will tell.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/7/24

To be clear, I love Colin Firth. I loved him in Shakespeare In Love and in Love Actually; I adored him as the reluctant monarch in The King’s Speech; and I found him gayly adorable in Mamma Mia.

That said, would I pay the equivalent of $12,000 for a shirt he wore in the film version of Pride and Prejudice? Or any garment he might have had close to his body at any time?

I don’t think so.

Okay, I admit — he’s pretty damned cute. Even sexy. But if I were truly smitten . . . so smitten that I’d lost all reason and decided to bid my last dime on the shirt from that watery scene in the movie . . . what on earth would I then do with my expensive souvenir? Hang it on the wall? Bring it to school for show-and-tell? Wear it as a night shirt in the hope that it might evoke an erotic dream of the delightful Mr. Darcy?

Well, maybe that. But still . . . $12,000?

Which, of course, started my mind meandering in all sorts of directions about things that people buy, at exorbitant prices, just to say they own them. I’m not talking about items of obvious monetary value — the Hope Diamond, a genuine Faberge Egg, Michelangelo’s David (if you could get it out of the Galleria in Firenze). Or even the unique historic items that people bring to the Antiques Road Show. No, I’m talking about . . . well, for example:

“Do Not Disturb” Signs. Rainer Weichert of Germany holds the world’s record for his collection of 11,570 of these ubiquitous hotel hangtags. Since 1990, he has traveled to 188 countries, bringing home signs in various shapes, designs, and languages. Why? I have no idea; you’ll have to ask him.

*. *. *

Barf Bags, also known as air sickness bags. A Netherlander by the name of Niek Vermeule made a bet with a friend in 1986 to see who could collect the greater number of these (presumably unused) items. He made it into the Guinness Book of World Records in 2012, defeating his friend, when his collection numbered 6,290 bags from 1,191 airlines in 200 or more countries. I didn’t know there were that many airlines in existence! He even managed to “bag” one that had spent 16 days in space aboard the NASA space shuttle Columbia. I suppose they’ll come in handy if he ever gets a really bad case of airsickness or flu (which I don’t wish on him or anyone); but otherwise . . . well, I just can’t imagine what you’d do with them. Maybe he’s had special book shelves — or bag shelves — built to hold them.

*. *. *

Pizza Boxes. Scott Wiener (no comments on his name, please) from Brooklyn, New York, began collecting pizza boxes in 2008 when, on a trip to Israel, he saw “the most artistic pizza box he’d ever seen.” He enlisted the help of family, friends and fans — yes, he has fans — and by 2013 he achieved the world record when his collection totaled 595 pizza boxes. And here’s the really strange part (as if this weren’t already strange enough): Scott has published a book, “Viva La Pizza! The Art of the Pizza Box,” to share with the world his expanded collection of over 1,500 boxes. He even loans his boxes to museums and other exhibits. What . . . there’s a Museum of Pizza? Where? Or, more to the point: Why?

*. *. *

Celebrity Hair. No, not Goldilocks or Rapunzel, but real live (at one time) celebrities, incuding Elvis Presley, Ludwig von Beethoven, Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, and Marilyn Monroe. What is this guy — a grave robber? I don’t know, because the article I read doesn’t reveal how John Reznikoff amassed his collection of famous follicles, just that he did, and that it is now insured for $1 milion. He says “they tell important stories about the past,” and several decades ago “was the equivalent of owning an autograph and a true status symbol.” Okay, Mr. Reznikoff. If you’re happy, we’re happy for you.

*. *. *

And finally . . . and clearly my favorite . . .

Fossilized Dinosaur Poop. It seems that when a young freshman named George Frandsen visited a fossil shop in Utah, he came across what is described as “an especially impressive specimen.” This led to his unexpected interest in coprolites (defined as “a stony mass consisting of fossilized fecal matter of animals”), and a collection was born and grew to at least 5,000 specimens ranging from tiny specks to samples weighing over four pounds. As it turns out, though, Mr. Frandsen’s collection does serve an allegedly useful purpose: the specimens provide important information for scientists to determine what the prehistoric animals ate when they roamed the earth. Frankly, I don’t give a s**t what they ate. But he has lent his collection to the South Florida Museum, and the exhibit was so popular that it ran for over a year. For those of you who may continue to be curious about coprolites, Mr. Frandsen also has an online website, Poozeum (cute!), which displays nothing but ancient poop. Be still, my heart.

*. * . *

And FYI, the source of all of this delightful data, and more, was a fascinating article written by David Long (and fact-checked by Rachel Jones) for Weird Stuff, March 27, 2021. Oh, the things you can find on Google!

*. *. *

So, having completed my in-depth research, and given much consideration to the amount of time, effort, and money involved in the amassing of these unique collections, I find that I have discovered something about myself . . . and that is, that I no longer consider it totally weird — comparatively speaking — that one might decide to spend $12,000 on Colin Firth’s shirt. It makes more sense than poop.

Now . . . where did you say that auction was being held?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/6/24

I recently joined a Facebook group known as the Dull Women’s Club. After reading some of the members’ posts, I quickly realized that these women are, in fact, anything but dull. Bored, maybe. Dissatisfied, probably in some cases. But also bright, witty, compassionate, and supportive. So I joined, and I am so glad I did!

They come from all over the world, all ages, all sorts of backgrounds and current living conditions. And it turns out that they’re all — each in her own unique way — beautiful, and worth knowing.

But a problem has arisen recently: some men want to join our women’s club. There are, of course, differing views on this, and that’s fine. But here is mine, for what it’s worth:

Despite current attempts to blur the line between the sexes, there is a difference — a big one — between men and women. You may wish you were something you’re not; you may take steps to be something other than what you are; and you may be attracted to someone of your own gender. That’s all fine, if it makes you happy. But the fact is, if you have a uterus, working mammary glands, and no Adam’s apple, you are genetically female. If you have a penis, testicles, and that useless lump in your throat, you are male. And I say:

Vive la difference!

But we women — the ones who acknowledge and appreciate our womanliness — sometimes just want to be by ourselves, with other women, to talk about women’s things. When that’s the case, it’s uncomfortable to have men in the room. It doesn’t mean we don’t love you anymore, or don’t ever want you around. Just not in our women’s club. At least, that’s how I feel.

I understand there’s a Dull Men’s Club on Facebook too. I have no interest in joining it to hear about some jock’s latest sexual conquest, or his newest video game, or the best mud flaps for his monster truck, or whatever it is you talk about. But you guys go right ahead and enjoy yourselves. We women won’t interfere, I assure you. And we’d greatly appreciate it if you would return the favor.

Do I believe in equal rights for both sexes? Damn right, I do! But that doesn’t mean we’re alike in every way, nor do we need to be. We can have separate interests . . . separate opinions . . . different hormonal balances . . . and still be equal. In fact, it’s those very differences that make it so much fun to mingle when we do all get together. Just not all the time, okay?

Just sayin’. . .

Brendochka
3/5/24

It is too late for Alexei Navalny; but perhaps it is not too late for the others.

The terror continues, with two more prominent pro-freedom activists added to the growing list of those imprisoned in Vladimir Putin’s Russia for speaking the truth: Oleg Orlov and Boris Kagarlitsky. Not household names like the late Aleksei Navalny, but each vitally important to the cause of freeing Russia from the ever-strengthening grip of Putin-style totalitarian rule . . . each now being muzzled for having offended the dictator in the Kremlin.

Oleg Orlov, age 70, Chairman of the Nobel Peace Prize-winning organization “Memorial,” was charged in October 2023 with “repeatedly discrediting” the Russian armed forces. Found guilty at trial, he was fined 150,000 rubles (US $1,630) and walked free. But — as has become commonplace in Russia recently — the prosecutors appealed the sentence as being too soft. A higher court ordered a retrial.

Some four months later, the guilty verdict was confirmed, but the sentence was far different: he would be sent to prison for 2-1/2 years . . . simply for having written an article presenting his assessment of the war in Ukraine. In his closing statement in court, he spoke of a Russia that is “sinking ever more deeply into darkness” and of “the suffocation of freedom.”

“We know the real reason why we’re being detained, tried, arrested, sentenced and killed. We are being punished for daring to criticise [sic] the authorities. In present-day Russia this is absolutely prohibited.”

He addressed the judge and the prosecutor: “Doesn’t the obvious occur to you? That sooner or later, the machine of repression may roll over those who launched it and drove it forward? That’s what happened many times throughout history.” [Steve Rosenberg, BBC News, Feb. 27, 2024.]

And then he was handcuffed and led out of the courtroom.

*. *. *

Boris Kagarlitsky, age 65, is a Russian Marxist theoretician and sociologist, editor-in-chief of the Left Politics publication in Moscow, and host of the YouTube channel Rabkor. In May of 2022, he was declared a “foreign agent.” And in December of 2023, he was found guilty of “public justification of terrorism” for a video published on Rabkor commenting on the Crimean Bridge bombing in October of 2022. Like Oleg Orlov, he was issued a fine, though in the higher sum of 609,000 rubles (US $6,700).

Also as in Orlov’s case, the prosecution appealed the sentence, and on February 13, 2024, the Russian Military Court of Appeal sentenced him to five years in a penal colony, and banned him from administering websites for an additional two years after his release.

*. *. *

More and more, Mr. Orlov’s words ring true: Russia is indeed “sinking ever more deeply into darkness.” And the people who dare to speak out against the causes of its decline are paying with years spent in the hell of the Russian prison system . . . and sometimes with their very lives.

*. * . *

So I urge you yet again: Do not forget or forsake those men and women being held HOSTAGE by the Russian government, who have done no more than speak out against the dictatorial, fascist regime of Vladimir Putin. While they have been forced into silence, we have not.

We must continue to use our voices for them.

Please . . . bring them home!

Brendochka
3/4/24

Well . . . I did not hit the lottery. But the cost (my share, above and beyond insurance) of my most expensive prescription drug did drop from $151 to $93 per month. Now I can afford that really great brand of toilet paper. That’s certainly a good thing.

I ate two 4-oz. cups of Haagen-Dazs ice cream in one day and didn’t gain any weight. Also a good thing.

And all my orders from Amazon arrived in a single delivery this week. Yay!

If you think I’m grasping at straws here, I am. And it’s because I couldn’t find anything to cheer about in the news during the past seven days — just the usual litany of disasters, despotism and depravity. So I turned once again to CNN’s The Good Stuff column, which this Saturday was a collection of somewhat unusual stuff, to-wit:

– An 85-year-old man in England who finally, after 30 years, fulfilled his dream of completing his “geologically correct” and “aesthetically pleasing” rock map of Scotland. It took a lot of trips, but now perhaps he can relax and spend his retirement years admiring his uniquely beautiful creation.

– A much younger Irish explorer who has claimed the Ultimate Explorer’s Grand Slam prize (a thing I didn’t even know existed) for having climbed the highest mountain on every continent, touched the North and South Poles (not, I presume, at the same time), and visited every country on the globe. Quite an accomplishment. I wonder where he’ll choose to take his vacation next year.

– A sweet story about a tailless squirrel who is managing to enjoy life despite his embarrassing disability . . . a nice “tale” of inclusiveness in the squirrel community.

– A list of the least-visited national parks in the United States . . . prepared, I assume, for the benefit of those who have been everywhere else. Perhaps that Irish explorer.

– And speaking of toilet paper . . . there was an advertisement for that very thing, only this is made of three-ply bamboo. Now, that is good news, especially for the trees of this world. Not surprisingly, though, it’s pricey: $66 for 24 extra large rolls of 340 sheets each. The equivalent amount of my favorite high-end brand costs $40 (in that big box from Amazon shown above). Good news for the environment, but not-so-good for the budget.

*. *. *

So do you see what I mean? These stories don’t exactly change the world (except maybe that toilet paper) — no great medical discoveries, no end to any wars, no solution to the climate crisis. They’re just pleasant offerings about people (including one squirrel-stalker) who have found a smidgen of momentary joy in an otherwise joyless week.

But come to think of it, isn’t that what most of us are looking for: a bit of day-to-day happiness to take us away, even for a little while, from all of the doom and gloom?

And that is a very good thing indeed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/3/24

Snapshots of the last four years of a man’s life . . . each picture worth more than any number of words.

Alexei Anatolyevich Navalny
June 4, 1976 – February 16, 2024

Proshchai,
Brendochka
March 2, 2024

Alexei Navalny was laid to rest today in Moscow. His mother and father were there to say a final farewell to their son; but his wife and children were unable to attend. They had to watch from the safety of a European haven, as the Kremlin authorities had already stated unequivocally that “The same fate awaits Navalnaya. If she comes to Russia, she will go to prison.”

It was only with the greatest difficulty — and for the same reasons of intimidation — that his mother and colleagues were able to make the arrangements for his funeral. Churches, cemeteries, hearses were somehow fully booked — some only when they heard Navalny’s name, others admitting frankly that they had been warned against accepting him. And the public had been “cautioned” to stay away. But, for once, the forces of evil did not prevail. A church and a nearby cemetery were found, a van was acquired . . . and the people came.

By the thousands, they came. They did not carry signs that could have gotten them arrested; but they chanted Navalny’s name, they chanted “Russia without Putin” and “Russia will be free.” And the heavy security forces — regular police and the MVD (Ministry of Internal Affairs) — did not interfere.

People who agreed to be interviewed said they were not afraid. Perhaps there was safety in numbers. Perhaps they were just sick of being afraid. Perhaps it was the presence of the Ambassadors from the United States, France, Germany, Ireland, Australia, and other dignitaries that kept the police at bay. Or perhaps Alexei Navalny’s courage had inspired the people to find their own.

And from their safe place, Navalny’s wife and daughter spoke of their determination to make him proud of them, and to carry on his mission to free Russia from the grip of Putin’s totalitarian regime. Perhaps the end of Alexei Navalny’s life is the spark his movement needs to bring about that new beginning for his beloved country.

And without a doubt — without any “perhaps” — today is a day that will not be forgotten by Vladimir Putin. How he will react remains to be seen; but I doubt that it will be pretty.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/1/24

*. *. *