I posted the following on Facebook today:

Another Russian winter is just around the corner, and “Now 575 days into his war in Ukraine, Vladimir Putin has halted virtually all exports of gasoline and diesel out of the country to lessen the pain for average Russians and protect the nation’s food supply.” (Christiaan Hetzner, Fortune, September 22, 2023.) This was the “special military operation” that was supposed to have ended in a glorious Russian victory in a matter of days, now heading into its third winter. And with all resources being directed at the war effort, Mr. Putin has awakened to the fact that he needs to keep his people warm and fed. So he has stopped fuel exports, except to a few of his allies such as Belarus. Has he considered the likely domino effect of that action — not only to his own economy, but to much of the rest of the world that will have to adjust accordingly? I can hardly wait for the next chapter (that’s sarcasm).

Then I began thinking about those falling dominoes. Quite a few countries still depend on Russia to supply a percentage of their fuel requirements, and each will have to adapt according to its individual needs and other available resources. Even those countries with their own adequate supplies of oil and gas — the U.S., for example — may have to cut back on exports to conserve domestic supplies, and will most likely see prices rise, just at the time of year when fuel consumption is at its highest. We may feel the pain; but we’ll survive.

And yet . . . I can’t help worrying about Ukraine. There is already dissension in our Congress concerning the amount of assistance we should continue making available to their defense. And with the war dragging on to an extent that no one ever anticipated, other countries are feeling the bite as well. Everyone wants to help; but how long can they continue to do so? And — worst-case scenario — if aid to Ukraine falters, how long would it be until their very survival follows suit?

At this point, my mind jumps from the economic (not my strong suit) to the geopolitical ramifications. Let’s assume that Putin and his remaining supporters are able to pull their country through the present crisis, and the world maintains its political status quo. The war in Ukraine continues, but worldwide support falls short of what is needed to prevent a Russian takeover. The disastrous effect on the Ukrainian people is virtually unimaginable; they would once again be part of a modified Soviet Union. Their independence would be gone, their noble history erased . . . and their “breadbasket” would fall under Russian control. I leave it to the economists to calculate the trickle-down effect of that worst-case scenario.

And finally, I wonder how long it would take Russia to choose its next victim to be gobbled up. Would it be Poland? Or would they start smaller and simpler, say, with Moldova? And a couple of additional neighbors of Belarus: Hungary and Slovakia. The menu of possible selections is vast and tempting.

Which is why I am so alarmed by those in Congress who want to cut support for Ukraine. Don’t they understand that it’s not just a present-day issue, or a localized one, but that the future of a world without an independent Ukraine is bleak? Someone please give them textbooks on 20th Century World History, and this time make sure they actually read them.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/23/23

As I was perusing the latest news in search of someone I could skewer for today’s blog, guess whose name jumped out at me from the headlines. If you guessed Elon Musk, you’d be right. His new biography by Walter Isaacson (I’ve started it, but have only read around 100 of the over 600 pages) appears to have revealed all sorts of fascinating facts about this man whom everyone loves to hate, and no one really understands. So let’s look into the most recent revelation to have made the headlines.

Although it turns out to be something that one of Mr. Musk’s companies, Neuralink, has been working on for about five years, this all comes as news to me. (Whether it hasn’t been publicized, or I’ve just not been paying close attention, I don’t know; but it doesn’t really matter.) According to Mr. Isaacson — who shadowed Mr. Musk, apparently everywhere but to the bathroom, for two years — this idea “was inspired by science fiction authors such as Iain Banks to pursue a ‘human-machine interface technology called “neural lace” that is implanted into people and can connect all of their thoughts to a computer.’”

My mind, which sometimes works in bizarre ways, immediately jumped to the image of Frankenstein and his nameless monster. But in this case, I think that’s understandable, in light of Mr. Isaacson’s reference to science fiction. Indeed, in the first 100 pages of his book, I have learned a good deal about Mr. Musk’s early years and the many ways in which his adult life has been affected by his rather . . . let’s just say . . . difficult childhood.

From a very early age, he was completely absorbed by — and perhaps took refuge in — science fiction stories, arcade games, and the like. So it doesn’t seem at all strange to me that he would have grown into a man who has been obsessed with such seeming “fantasies” as electric cars, electronic payment and banking programs, and StarLink satellite internet . . . not to mention his plan to colonize Mars. The odd thing is that he seems to be able to make his dreams a reality. Of course, the Tesla vehicles do still have some glitches, and it will be quite a while before we’ll actually be setting up housekeeping on Mars. But he’s getting there. He may be off-the-wall in some respects, but he’s also brilliant in ways that most of us can’t begin to comprehend. And if the accumulation of wealth is a reliable indicator of his abilities, well . . . need I say more?

Apparently, the Neuralink people have thus far experimented only on animals (I wonder if the folks at PETA know about this yet), but they have just opened up recruitment for their first human clinical trial. Uh-oh. Maybe we’d better take a look at what’s involved.

According to the CNN news item:

“After receiving approval from an independent review board, Neuralink is set to begin offering brain implants to paralysis patients . . . to evaluate both the safety and functionality of the implant.

“Trial patients will have a chip surgically placed in the part of the brain that controls the intention to move. The chip, installed by a robot, will then record and send brain signals to an app, with the initial goal being ‘to grant people the ability to control a computer cursor or keyboard using their thoughts alone,’ the company wrote.

‘Those with quadriplegia due to cervical spinal cord injury or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) may qualify for the six-year-long study . . .’” [Jennifer Korn, CNN, September 20, 2023.]

I don’t know how one could find a single thing wrong with their goals. Helping seriously disabled people function independently is vitally important and incredibly noble. But is it feasible yet, or is it still science fiction, or perhaps somewhere in the middle? And I’m not sure how I feel about a computer chip being implanted in my brain by a robot that is itself nothing more than the housing for yet another computer chip.

Still, consider the things we take for granted today that were once unimaginable: “flying machines,” television, electricity, telephones . . . and yes, all types of surgery and preventive medicine. But the visionaries and innovators kept at it until they succeeded, and today we can watch a war as it takes place thousands of miles away, fly across the country in four hours, or save a life with a donor kidney. So why not a chip that can type?

But one thing concerns me: whether perhaps, in his eagerness to make this available to as many people as possible as quickly as possible, Mr. Musk might be pushing his miracle chip into use before it’s ready. He tends to move at warp speed once he gets it into his head to do something, and that can be a very dangerous thing when you’re messing with people’s lives.

The company sought FDA approval for human testing in 2022. “At that time, the agency rejected the bid, according to a March Reuters report, citing safety concerns about parts of the implant migrating to other parts of the brain and possible brain tissue damage when the devices are removed. Musk said at a December recruiting event that Neuralink has submitted ‘most’ of its paperwork to the US Food and Drug Administration and could begin testing on humans within six months.

”But employees told Reuters in December that the company is rushing to market, resulting in careless animal deaths and a federal investigation.” [Jennifer Korn, CNN, September 20, 2023.]

(In all fairness, I note that the article says nothing about what steps may have been taken since last December to cure or mitigate any of the alleged issues.)

So here we have the visionary Elon Musk vs. the sometimes over-eager Elon Musk, who occasionally needs to be reined in for his own sake and the sake of the many people whose destinies will be affected by his actions. He is a man who wields great power, but sometimes seems unaware of the extent and the possible negative effects of that power. And that’s what worries me.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/23/23

Just when we’re beginning to think Yevgeny Prigozhin has finally been laid to rest, along comes the next iteration of hard-line lunatic to grace our world with his presence: Igor Girkin. He’s not a military man, but a Russian pro-war blogger, presently serving time on charges of extremism for criticizing — not the war itself, of which he approves — but Putin’s disastrous mishandling of it. His specific sin was publicly calling Putin a “cowardly mediocrity.”

(Actually, if he weren’t in favor of the war, I might almost learn to like him for that. — Just kidding.)

As others have done, Girkin has become quite vocal from his prison cell, through his attorney. But the others — notably, Alexei Navalny and Vladimir Kara-Murza — have been imprisoned for their outspoken opposition to the Putin regime and the invasion of Ukraine. Girkin, on the other hand, believes that Putin and his military leaders have not gone far enough in Ukraine, and is in favor of not just an increased mobilization of troops, but a “full mobilization of Russia’s population.” I’m not sure whether that’s meant to include women and children, but it doesn’t sound good.

And as if that weren’t enough, he “dictated a doomsday-esque diatribe to his Telegram [Russian social media account] via his attorney this week, warning that Russia is on the brink of collapse and offering himself up as a uniting force for remaining ‘patriots.’” [Erin Snodgrass, Insider, September 19, 2023.]

Holy crap! He wants Putin’s office!

But wait . . . there’s more. Girkin, a former operative with the FSB (successor to the internal security half of the KGB before it reinvented itself as two separate agencies), apparently goes by the nom de guerre “Strelkov.” That’s Russian for “shooter.” Nice.

At least Prigozhin’s professed purpose in trying to storm the Kremlin back in June was to remove and replace the heads of the military he felt were incompetent, and not to topple the entire government. (And we all saw how that turned out.) Girkin, on the other hand, is the boy who would be king. But considering that he’s already behind bars, I’m not sure how he plans to do that. By stirring up the masses to the point of revolution? Has he seen too many movies of the storming of the Bastille? Or his own country’s 1917 Bolshevik Revolution? That went well, didn’t it?

Hey, Igor — I’m talking to you! Are you listening? Is this what you have in mind? . . .

I make no predictions about this guy; I don’t know enough about him as yet. But I will say this: No matter how bad things are now, they can always get worse. Because after Putin . . . what then?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/22/23

* The first Streltsy units of riflemen, or infantry, were created by Tsar Ivan IV — more commonly known as Ivan the Terrible — between 1545 and 1550, and remained active until around 1720. 

“They’re ba-a-a-ack!”

You may have noticed a recent resurgence in the attention being given the phenomena formerly known as UFOs, now being called UAPs (Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena) by the U.S. Government. There are a number of UFOlogists — “UAPologist” doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, and it sounds as though you’re saying you’re sorry for something — who are demanding that the Government reveal what it does or does not know about past and recent sightings, and even possible landings and captures, of our distant neighbors from another world.

In all honesty, I have very ambivalent feelings on this subject. On the one hand, I’m as curious as the next person. On the other, there is the perfectly natural fear of the unknown. Consider, for example, that funny-looking brown spot on your shoulder that you know you should have biopsied and diagnosed. Or the new guy next door with the long hair and bushy beard, who always wears a hoodie and rides a Harley, that you should probably meet but what if he turns out to be a serial killer? Or Bigfoot — that’s something you’re not sure you ever want to know about. And the new “smart” microwave with all the buttons you can’t decipher that just might explode and blast you with deadly rays if you touch the wrong one. They all make you nervous because you don’t know what they really are or what they might do.

But do we want to live like that forever? Fear is disabling; but knowledge is power. Don’t you honestly want to know the truth? I do . . . I think.

Anyway, go make that appointment with the dermatologist, pull out the owner’s manual for the microwave, and let’s get on to considering the possibilities insofar as these UAPs are concerned. First, if they’re so advanced they can reach our atmosphere, and if they are indeed hostile, wouldn’t they have attacked long before now? I should think so . . . or at least I hope this means they won’t be landing in my yard tonight.

So let’s assume they’re friendly. Why would we take it for granted that they speak any of our Earthly languages: English, German, Chinese, Swahili, whatever? They may be brilliant scientists and engineers, but still unable to figure out which of our languages they should decipher. Maybe we should learn Martian, or Venusian, or whatever they speak.

Or maybe — and here’s a disturbing possibility — maybe they’ve checked us out over a long period of time and come to the conclusion that we simply aren’t the kind of people they want to know. I mean, let’s face it, folks: our world is seriously screwed up, and it seems to get worse and worse as time goes on. Maybe these very accomplished extraterrestrials are peaceable, anti-violence, anti-war types who took one look (or several) at our ongoing wars, our soaring crime rates, our domestic and international political issues, our environmental and infrastructure problems, our mass shootings, racism, far-right and far-left anger and hatred . . . and our inability to solve even one of those problems . . . and said to themselves (in whatever language): “Hell, no!” and decided that we’re beyond saving. And if our Government already knows this, perhaps they just don’t know how to break it to the rest of us.

So maybe that’s the real reason E.T. keeps trying to phone home. And who can blame him?

If Uncle Sam does know something, I’d appreciate his sharing it with us. Maybe. It all depends . . . is it good news or bad? Should we be afraid? Okay, I don’t really want . . . Oh, hell! I don’t know. Should they tell us? What do you think?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/21/23

We are all, in a way, schizophrenic. Perhaps not clinically diagnosable as such, but in the sense of being a little bit practical, a little bit spendthrift; a little bit serious, a little bit fun-loving; a little bit cautious, a little bit adventurous.

Earlier today I laid out the facts of my life as my family and friends know me, and as I said I should be remembered when I am no longer here to defend myself. But I have decided, upon re-reading my own words, that I should add a postscript to cover the other side of me — the less ordinary, less sensible, less . . . well, let’s call it what it is . . . the less boring side.

When I began this blog back in December of 2022, I introduced myself with a brief chapter entitled “This Is Me.” (Not grammatically correct, but I didn’t think anyone would be particularly eager to read something called “This Is I.”) So I charged ahead, and what resulted was not bad. And now, some nine months later, I’d like to add those same words to my proposed eulogy. Because, you see, those adventurous times — while only a relatively brief part of my life — really are the times that best define me. Given a choice, I would rather relive those few years of adventure than all the years of sensible.

So, once again, dear readers:

*. *. *

This Is Me:

“I once climbed a mountain in Czechoslovakia.

Well, it was part of a mountain, anyway — more of a long, steep incline, really, to an historic castle inexplicably named Hluboka, which is Czech for “deep.” I’ve never understood why they chose to call it “deep” rather than “high” or “tall” — but no one consulted me about the name.

In Moscow, I spent countless hours strolling through the Kremlin, Red Square, Novodevichy Monastery, the Sparrow Hills, and numerous historic cemeteries. Moscow has no mountains, but it does have an over-abundance of cemeteries.

In Alaska, I took the easy way up the mountainside on the White Pass Railway; squeezed into a tiny float plane to glide over the incredibly beautiful, endless glaciers; and ate salmon roasted over an open fire in a clearing by a forest full of bears.

I also climbed the cobblestone steps numerous times to Hradcany, or Castle Hill, in Prague. Actually, what appears architecturally to be a castle on that hill turns out to be St. Vitus Cathedral, while the Presidential Palace nearby is a lovely but far more modest edifice. Very confusing — but that’s Prague for you.

In London, I dodged the advances of an amorous Russian Foreign Ministry official; in Budapest, I took a boat ride up the Danube to an artists’ village called Szentendre; I witnessed a drug bust in friont of our hotel in Tbilisi, Georgia; played with a jellyfish in the Black Sea at Sochi; in Kiev, I visited a hospital for child victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster.

And in Helsinki, Copenhagen, Tallinn and Berlin, I racked up uncounted thousands of steps as a tourist, unfortunately without a pedometer to log them for me.

I’ve been nearly mugged in St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida), ridden in the King’s Elevator in the Royal Palace at Stockholm, and been driven to Sheremetyevo Airport by the KGB as I left Moscow.

All of my grand adventures took place in the late 1980s, throughout the ‘90s, and into the early 2000s, until the years started to catch up with my bones. Now on the far side of 80, I no longer have the mobility or the energy to climb the cobblestone steps to Hradcany, or fold my legs into a little float plane. But I am forever grateful to have done all of those things when I was able, and to still have the joy of remembering the adventures and the people who lived them with me.

But having something of value — even of intrinsic value, like a happy memory — is not much good if you can’t share it. And since my family and old friends have heard the stories many times over and are sick to death of them, I’ve decided it’s time to make some new friends, and hopefully to amuse you with tales, in no particular order, of the places I’ve been, the people I’ve known, and the close calls I’ve had, and to show how all of my earlier experiences ultimately led me — innocently skipping like Dorothy along the yellow brick road — to Russia. Life can be endlessly amusing, if you overlook the bad stuff and hold on to the good.

I invite you to join me for Chapter 2, when I will introduce you to the person who most influenced the second half of my life (thus far), and how he in turn introduced me, at the height of the Cold War, to My First Commie.”

*. *. *

For those of you who have not been with me from the start, and if (hopefully) I have whetted your appetite and you have some time to spare, feel free to go way, way, way back to Chapter 2 and work your way forward for all of the tantalizing details.

But more importantly, to the person(s) who will actually be writing my eulogy: Please be sure to include this part. Because life, in all its variety of good and bad times, for the most part really has been a blast. And it’s not over until that fat lady — whoever she may be — belts out her song.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/20/23

“Oh no . . . she’s dying!”

No, no, I’m not — at least, not that I know of. Well, except in the sense that we all are, from the very first breath we draw when we’re born. But for the moment I think I’m okay. However, death is inevitable, so why not be prepared, right?

Right??

I had a friend, Amelia — one of our group of six “Golden Girls” (the other five all deceased now) — who actually did plan every last detail of her funeral service when she learned that she had terminal cancer. She was the most organized and practical person I’ve ever known. She saved her family a lot of trouble, and got exactly what she wanted.

It was a beautiful service, by the way.

This is not that. But September always makes me sad, for a number of reasons: both of my maternal grandparents, as well as my great-grandmother, my mother’s older sister, and my mother herself died in September (in different years); the 18th was my sister’s birthday (she would have been 90 this year); and the 23rd would have been my granddaughter’s birthday (she’s been gone for a year and a half now). So, despite the happy occasion of Rosh Hashanah — the Jewish New Year — this week, I guess I’m feeling a little maudlin. And since the future is always unknown, I’d like to get a jump on things and get the truth about my life out there while I can, and before someone else has a chance to get it all wrong and possibly crank out a eulogy or obituary that better resembles Kate Middleton than yours truly.

Let’s start with the things that should not be included.

First of all, I was not descended from royalty, or a long, distinguished line of statesmen, academics, writers, composers, philanthropists, artists, or captains of industry, nor did I marry any of the above. My grandparents were Russian/Ukrainian/Jewish, working-class immigrants who arrived on U.S. shores in 1905 virtually penniless, with no knowledge of English, but with a boundless work ethic and great hope for a better future. They worked, they raised large families, and they prospered — never becoming wealthy, but comfortable. There was always food, a good home, and plenty of love to go around. So my childhood was rather prosaic, but happy. Please don’t try to make it sensational.

At the age of 13, I did become a child of a broken home. But to tell you the truth, it didn’t bother me that much, because I knew my parents hadn’t been happy together for as long as I could remember. And one really good thing came of the split: my mother, my sister and I moved to Washington, D.C., where the jobs were, and where my real life began. I’m a native New Englander, but Washington is my home town, and without that move, I would not have lived the life I did. So, no long-term resentment there, and please don’t try to endow me with any lingering PTSD from my parents’ divorce. It just isn’t there.

I have no musical talent, I’m too klutzy to dance, have no artistic skills whatever, and I’m the worst athlete you’re liable to find anywhere. And I was born one generation too soon to ever have become a billionaire techie. I have never won a Nobel or Pulitzer Prize for anything. Also, I lack the instincts of an entrepreneur or the soullessness of a politician. So . . . no fame or fortune in any of those areas, either.

Like my mother before me, I didn’t marry very well; but I did raise two beautiful children, both of whom, by some miracle, are brilliant and talented. But they’re not rich or famous either, so don’t give me more credit than I deserve. I was never named Mother of the Year, but I did my best, and I think I did pretty well.

*. *. *

Well . . . now that we know all of the things I’m not, let’s look at some of the things I am.

I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’ve never killed anyone, committed a robbery, arson, assault, or other felony, and I always pay my taxes — every cent — on time. I have gotten a couple of speeding tickets over the years, but I also paid those in full, and on time.

I don’t lie, cheat, gossip, bully, or otherwise knowingly cause harm to others. I love animals, and I’m even kind to people most of the time. So I guess that makes me a pretty nice person. You may put that in my eulogy.

I’m a good cook — not gourmet style, but delicious, satisfying, stick-to-the-ribs (and hips) home cooking passed down from my mother and grandmother. And I love to bake; in fact, my cheesecake once won a contest. I love the smell of freshly baked bread, and of frying onions.

In school, I was a nearly straight-A student. I spent most of my adult life working as a legal assistant, and I was damned good at it. I’m a hard worker, reliable, and smart, and I get along with most people. And don’t bother trying to challenge me on questions of grammar or spelling, because you will lose. The same goes for playing Scrabble.

I studied Russian — the language, history, politics and literature — as an adult, just for the fun of it. (I realize that my idea of fun may not be the same as yours.) As it turned out, it did come in very handy later when I twice worked overseas, first in Prague and then in Moscow. It would be good to mention this in the eulogy.

I love to travel, and I did a lot of it between 1988 and 2009, both for business and pleasure. I miss that, so please include a mention of my love of visiting foreign lands.

I had a bit of an adventure involving the KGB, the CIA and the FBI in the early 1990s, but there’s no need to mention that in my eulogy. It’s ancient history; I just like remembering it.

You may already have noticed that I love to write. I haven’t been published as yet, but there’s always hope . . . I love writing this blog. And I read a lot — all kinds of things. I’m also into theater, and movies, and music . . . So many pleasures, so little time.

I love the noise and hubbub of the city, and also the fresh smell of grass and flowers after a spring rain. My favorite season is fall, when the summer humidity has finally lifted, the air is crisp and cool, and the trees exhibit the most amazing colors.

*. *. *

All of these things you may include in my eulogy and/or obituary. They’re not exciting, or exclusive, or exceptional. But they’re the things that make me who I am . . . and I think that who I am is pretty okay.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/20/23

“Turkey??!!! You have got to be kidding me!”

Wait, please. Perhaps I should begin at the beginning.

I recently received a lovely invitation to attend an event in Geneva. No, not the Geneva in New York, or the other one in Florida. The original one . . . in Switzerland. One of those places I’ve always wanted to visit but never got the chance to see. And now, when I’m unable to make the trip (for several reasons, not relevant here), the opportunity comes my way. Oh, well . . . life is full of disappointments. On a scale of 1-10, this one is about a 5. I’ll get over it.

But out of some perverse form of curiosity, I decided to taunt myself by checking on flights, and as expected, they were pricey; a round-trip ticket, economy class, could cost anywhere from $1,700 to a whopping $6,100, depending on the airline, time of day of the flight, and — here’s the big kicker — the number, location and duration of stops. I’d like to know who’s in charge of routing and scheduling for these airlines, because I can recommend a really good analyst to try and figure out how that person’s mind works. What I found on Expedia.com was positively mind-boggling!

Geneva is a busy, thriving, centrally-located, popular business and vacation destination for people from all over the world: an international banking hub, the location of the world’s second-largest United Nations office, magnificent scenery . . . and not a bad place to buy a watch. It is not some backwater location in the Tasmanian bush country (no offense, Tasmania, but you’re not exactly convenient). Then why is it so hard to get to Geneva?

Well, to begin with, there’s my starting point. I live near Savannah — not the African savanna, but Savannah, Georgia, USA. Though for purposes of accessibility, it may as well be the middle of an endless, grassy plain on another continent. To fly any distance from here, even within the 48 contiguous U.S. states, usually requires at least one stop and likely a change of planes. International travel is nothing short of a nightmare. But being by far the closest airport, I decided to check it out anyway. And what I found gave me the best laugh I’ve had in a long time. Some examples:

One of my favorites, for the bargain price of $2,006, puts you on the road (so to speak) for 22 hours and 27 minutes, with two stops: one at Washington’s Dulles Airport for 5 hours and 11 minutes, plus a stop of 2 hours and 15 minutes in . . . wait for it . . . Istanbul. As in Turkey. They want to send me to Switzerland via Turkey? Uh . . . pass.

For a few hundred extra dollars — $2,434 total, to be precise — I found I could fly on Singapore Airlines, regularly rated as one of the best in the world. I would love to have tried that, if I were actually going. But it also took 20 hours and 18 minutes — 7 hours and 56 minutes of that time at JFK Airport in New York (yuck), and just an hour and 35 minutes at Frankfurt, Germany. Is that even a legal international stopover? What if the flight out of New York is late? If it’s just a stop, without having to deplane and reboard, then you’re okay, but otherwise . . . too risky. And I’ve been in Frankfurt Airport. It’s beautiful, and spotlessly clean . . . but also huge! No way would I risk a quick change of planes there. So . . . sorry, Singapore Air; I’ll have to pass.

Then I decided to check the flights from the slightly more convenient Jacksonville (Florida) airport. It’s a two-hour drive from here, but usually provides more non-stop options on domestic flights. As for international, I wasn’t sure.

The cheapest flight, for only $1,741, took 17 hours and 29 minutes on “multiple airlines,” with two stops. The first offered 4 hours and 50 glorious minutes in beautiful Newark, New Jersey (ha!). And then, another quick stop of an hour and 20 minutes at . . . not sure I’m reading this right . . . Gdynia, Poland? Not Warsaw, not Krakow. Gdynia. Where the hell is that? I looked it up, and — not surprisingly — it’s close to Gdansk. I assume it has at least one runway, but I’ll just say . . . g’day.

So then I thought, maybe it’s true that you get what you pay for, and decided to check the most expensive of all the flights I found: $6,092, also on “multiple” (unnamed) airlines. Surely there must be advantages to paying more. But this one inexplicably took longer: 21 hours and 24 minutes, with nearly 5 hours in lovely Newark, and 3 hours and 25 minutes in Warsaw. It’s Poland again, but at least it’s the capital city. Still, why is this flight so expensive? The schedule certainly isn’t any better. And it’s still economy class. Maybe the food? A little kielbasa with some pierogi wouldn’t be bad, but not really worth the extra cost.

There’s also one for just $2,516 on American Airlines that takes you to Chicago for a 7-hour stopover, then a quick up-and-down to Madison, Wisconsin for another couple of hours on the ground, and apparently non-stop from there. Yet another flight goes via Boston with an 8-hour stop in Dublin, Ireland. And there’s one through JFK (6 hours to kill there) and Rome, Italy. By the way, I’ve been through the Rome Airport when there was an all-out security alert because of some Middle East problem and they searched my bags because I was traveling from Moscow to Washington and . . . well, suffice it to say, I’ll pass on all of these.

In all fairness, I did find three non-stops, at mid-range price, out of Washington-Dulles — some 600 miles from Savannah. But first I’d have to get to Savannah Airport, change planes at Charlotte (North Carolina), and try to connect at Dulles. Or drive to Jacksonville and . . . Oh, just forget it.

*. *. *

By this time, as you can well imagine, I’m too tired to travel. In fact, I may not make it to the kitchen for lunch. So, after all of this research, I’m afraid my R.S.V.P. is going to have to read:

“Regrets. I just can’t get there from here.”

TTFN,
Brendochka
9/19/23

Let the word go out to one and all: The Wizard known as Elon Musk is really just a clever guy, standing behind a curtain, with a big control panel and a kingdom full of Munchkins. He’s smart, he’s hard-working, he’s successful, and he certainly is rich. But he is not the Almighty Oz.

How do I know this? In short, because he goofed. He failed to see through the duplicitous nature of the Russian government, and took them at their word last year when they said a strike by Ukraine against the Russian Navy on Russian territory (as defined by Russia) would result in a nuclear response. And so he shut down the StarLink satellites that power the internet service that in turn operates Ukraine’s drones, so as to prevent such a strike at Sevastopol, Crimea — thus taking upon himself the role of Commander-in-Chief and, in his mind, single-handedly saving the world from nuclear disaster. What a guy!

Well-intentioned? Most assuredly. An ego trip? Well, we’re not here for psychoanalysis, so let’s just skip over that and go back to his good intentions.

It would be difficult to argue with anyone who would do whatever was possible to prevent nuclear war. It is as noble a purpose as one might imagine. But trying to out-think the Russians . . . well, even the leading experts have frequently failed at that. And that said . . . who in hell gave Elon Musk the authority to make that decision??? Is he the President of Ukraine? Of the United States? Chief of Staff of the Army? An elected member of the House Armed Services Committee? Or anyone even remotely in authority in any branch or agency of Ukraine’s or our government, either civilian or military?

He is not.

You get my point, don’t you? He may be the richest man in the world, and one of the smartest; but that does not qualify him to do what he did — as evidenced by the fact that the very same action that he blocked, when taken by Ukraine just this month against the Russian Navy in Crimea, proved brilliantly successful . . . and without triggering the feared nuclear response. In fact, as of September 16th, Estonian intelligence reported that Russia’s Crimean naval forces may now have to be redeployed — that is, retreat — to Novorossiysk, a Black Sea port city located on actual Russian territory, as a result of that strike. So he clearly misjudged. And since he’s not, and never has been, a qualified military strategist or a diplomat experienced in dealing with Russia, such a misjudgment does not come as a surprise.

But SpaceX is his company, and StarLink is his technology. And therein, as I see it, lies a rather sticky problem. For how do you tell the person whose company provides Ukraine with the means of supporting and defending itself — and counter-attacking against an aggressor who would otherwise have wiped it off the map months ago — that he can’t make decisions concerning his own company’s technology? How do you tell the creator that he no longer has control over his creation? Because, in reality, doesn’t he? Can’t he pull the plug on the whole thing, if he so chooses? And then where does that leave Ukraine? And Poland? And who knows who else after that?

I don’t even want to think about it.

But would he do that? Is his ego greater than his conscience? And what are his legal obligations and restrictions? As I understand it, the U.S. Government “reached a deal with the company [SpaceX] to purchase the Starlink service for Ukraine in June.” [Anna Nemtsova, Daily Beast, September 15, 2023.] What are the terms of that transaction in regard to any limitations placed on Musk’s control? And did any such agreement exist at the time of the first proposed strike last year? We, the public, don’t know. And how effective would such restrictions be in any event when dealing with a man who — to put it mildly — does not take well to being told what he may or may not do . . . ever? And aside from the legal questions, do we not also have to take into account the deeper moral issues involved? There are far too many unknowns here.

So in the final analysis, I am simply left praying that this man — who is smart enough to have built his amazing empire — is also smart enough, and decent enough, not to screw it up for all of us.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/18/23

Sisters have complicated relationships that many people find it difficult to describe. But I can sum it up in one sentence: “I can call her a bitch, but don’t you dare ever say a word against her or you’ll have me to answer to!”

Tomorrow — September 18th — would have been my sister Merna’s 90th birthday.

Six years ago, on this date in 2017, I was at one of the lowest points of my life. Merna was dying — not of the “traditional” plague of our family, cardiovascular disease, but of the thing we always said our family “didn’t do”: cancer. She had fought it once, suffered through six months of chemo, enjoyed a year and a half in remission, and then . . . WHAM! . . . it metastasized. And when the doctor told her that a second round of chemo would only buy her an additional couple of months — and miserable months at that — she chose to stop fighting the inevitable. And now we were in a holding pattern, with me trying to take care of her as best I could, with the help of some wonderful home health care folks. I cooked her favorite foods, even though she had little appetite; and I appointed myself her entertainment committee — a committee of one — to try to keep her spirits up. Which isn’t easy, when there’s no one around to do the same for you at the end of the day.

I’ve written about Merna before, so you know that she and I were BFFs. Not for our entire lives, but since the death of our mother back in 1991, when we finally came to realize that the lady who was supposed to have had our best interests at heart before her own . . . hadn’t always. Now, without her constant presence, we were able to enjoy each other’s company. And we did. We frequented Washington’s outstanding theaters, sampled a wide variety of foods at dozens of restaurants, shopped at every mall within a 25-mile radius, toured the countless museums, saw movie after movie, and discovered cruising on Holland America’s big ships. And, though we lived just a block apart from one another, we spoke on the phone a dozen times a day. Little things, silly things, meaningless things. And I still do that.

Well, not actually, of course. I mean, her number’s long since been disconnected, and I haven’t completely lost touch with reality. But I still think about reaching for the phone several times each day, and oh, how I miss those conversations. So when things pop into my mind that she would have wanted to know about, or there’s a name I can’t recall, or something I think she needs to be reminded of — then I imagine the talks, playing both roles, and wishing . . . well, you know.

So what do we talk about in my imagination? Well, mostly details from the past, because there’s no one else left now who can remember the things we shared. Like . . .

Me: Hey, what was the name of the actor who played opposite that actress . . . oh, who was she? . . . you know, in that movie we both hated? Merna: Well, that’s helpful. How the hell should I know?

Or . . .

Me: Don’t forget, it’s a pint of sour cream for the cheesecake, not half a pint. Merna: Yes, I know! You’ve only told me a thousand times.

Or (agonizing over a Sunday crossword) . . .

Me: What’s a four-letter word for a “piercing implement,” beginning with “f” and ending with “k”? Merna: It’s “fork,” you idiot!

Sometimes I really got on her nerves. But then there would be the funny reminiscences . . .

Me: Remember when Mother had a couple of drinks and dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor? Merna: Yes . . . and it was already cooked!

And . . .

Me: Remember how embarrassed you were when you fell off the bar stool at the Jockey Club? Merna: Yeah . . . Well, that really wasn’t funny, you know! Me: Not funny for you, but watching it was hilarious. I do remember the bruises, though. Merna: Bitch!

Or, wistfully . . .

Me: Remember that Mother’s Day in Richmond at the “choo-choo” restaurant near the train station? Merna: Oh, yeah, when the kids were little and so cute. (Both sigh.)

And . . .

Me: Remember Mother’s reaction when she found out you’d been in Vietnam instead of Bangkok, and that I knew it all along? Merna: Boy, was she pissed! She swore she’d never trust either of us again. Me: Well, she never did anyway, so what kind of threat was that? Both: (Laughing together.)

Or about shopping . . .

Me: Did you see that three-piece outfit in the Lands End catalogue? I think I’m going to order it. Merna: Seriously? I just did, in blue. Just be sure to get it in a different color. Me: Never mind, then. I’m tired of people asking if we’re twins.

Or remembrances of things like surviving Hurricane Agnes in 1972, and the blizzard of ‘83; old boyfriends and disastrous blind dates; binge-watching Downton Abbey together; the time we were so angry we didn’t talk for weeks over something we couldn’t even remember later; flying to Rhode Island for our mother’s funeral, with her (in her casket) in the cargo hold on the same plane; and the countless times I embarrassed my poor sister by saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right moment. Little things, all funny now.

*. *. *

These days, I even miss hearing — for the 100th time — stories of her adventures in Vietnam in the late ‘60s, and me retelling mine from Russia in the early ‘90s. And even the no-longer-funny jokes and catch-phrases from decades past. And ending our last call of each evening with a repeat of the Huntley-Brinkley News sign-off: “Good Night, Chet; good night, David.”

And I miss something I’ve never actually had: the one person who would unfailingly have read every single chapter of my blog, word for word, from beginning to end, and would always have said they were great, even when they weren’t so hot. But she didn’t live long enough to see them.

Or maybe she still can. I hope so . . . especially this one, because it’s for her. Happy birthday, “Merner,”* wherever you are. I miss you way more than I ever thought I would.

Love,
“Brender”*
9/17/23

* New England pronunciation: always drop the “r” at the end of a word, or add one where there is none.

Viktor Bout. Not exactly a household name, unless you happen to have been, say, an African, Middle Eastern, or almost any nationality rebel, terrorist or militant mercenary trafficking in large quantities of assault weapons, missiles and the like. Then you might have known him well, a dozen or so years ago. Because he could possibly have been your go-to guy for those weapons — though he’ll deny it, of course.

Now 56, Mr. Bout (pronounced “Boot”) was once at or near the top of the world’s “most-wanted” list, ignoring sanctions and evading capture while he and his people flew his fleet of planes around the world to deliver his deadly “goods” to his customers, thus earning him the nickname of the Merchant of Death. He was finally caught in a U.S. sting operation in Bangkok in 2008, extradited to the U.S., and convicted in 2011 on four felony charges including conspiracy to kill U.S. citizens. He was sentenced to 25 years in federal prison. That’s a long fall.

But he had only served about ten years of that sentence when his luck changed. A foolish young professional basketball star, on her way to her off-season tour in Russia in February of 2022, was arrested at the airport in Moscow for transporting a small amount of cannabis oil into the country in her luggage. Her name was Brittney Griner. She was sentenced to an outrageous term of nine years to be served in a penal colony in the middle of Russia’s vast nowhere.

And here is where Viktor Bout got lucky. The details of the negotiations between the two governments have, of course, not been made public; but in December of 2022, a swap was agreed upon: a basketball player with a little bit of cannabis oil for personal use, in exchange for an arms dealer who provided weapons for terrorists and other killers.

What the hell . . . ??!!!

Now, please don’t get me wrong. I’m very happy that Ms. Griner is safely at home. She did break the law; but I think ten months is more than enough time for her to have been incarcerated for her minor offense; in fact, a fine probably would have been sufficient. The problem I’m having is trying to understand why we would release someone like Viktor Bout under any circumstances? Do we really believe he’s been rehabilitated? Is he now a harmless old man who will simply live out his remaining years in lonely seclusion? Seriously? Ms. Griner has come home to resume her life as a law-abiding, tax-paying, family-oriented citizen. Can we expect the same of Mr. Bout?

Well, let’s see. He’s only 56 years old, with presumably a good many active years to look forward to. His background is that of the worst kind of criminal. He’s been at home in Russia for eight months now. A mere four days after returning home, he became a registered member of the LDPR, the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia — a party that in reality is neither liberal nor democratic. He was in attendance at the Russia-Africa Summit meeting in St. Petersburg in July, indicating that he has already resumed connections both in the Russian hierarchy and with some of his former “business” contacts in Africa. (And by the way, perhaps coincidentally, that was the same summit meeting at which the controversial Yevgeny Prigozhin was photographed in a rare, and brief, public appearance before being disposed of in a plane crash barely a month later.)

And now, Mr. Bout is running for office. What a surprise! It seems to be a popular choice among Russians who have been caught serving the Kremlin in nefarious ways in foreign lands and who later need a means of re-entering the mainstream at home. Dmitri Kovtun and Andrei Lugovoi, for example, evaded capture by U.K. authorities for the fatal poisoning of Aleksandr Litvinenko in London in 2006; Maria Butina was released and deported back to Russia in 2019 after serving 14 months of an 18-month sentence in the U.S. on charges of having served as an unregistered foreign agent. Today, both Lugovoi and Butina are members of the Russian State Duma. Welcome home.

In Mr. Bout’s case, he is starting small, running for office at the regional level in Ulyanovsk, a city located on the banks of the Volga River, with no apparent claim to fame other than having been the birthplace of one Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov — better known to the world as Vladimir Lenin. Do I sense a touch of irony? Or is it, again, simply coincidence?

We shall see, as we observe the speed with which the Merchant of Death rises in the political arena of his native land. Or perhaps he will better serve the Kremlin in a different, behind-the-scenes capacity. Whatever the answer, you can be sure it will be decided and carried out at the pleasure of Tsar Putin.

And it was all made possible by a grant from the United States Government. Not, in my opinion, one of our better decisions.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/16/23