“When Zhenya* comes marching home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give him a hearty welcome then,
Hurrah! Hurrah!”

* Zhenya: Familiar form of the Russian name Yevgeny.

*. *. *

On August 13th, in my post titled Where’s Yevgeny? – Part 5, I wrote the following:

“. . . According to investigative journalist Christo Grozev of Bellingcat, within six months Yevgeny Prigozhin will stage a second coup attempt against the Kremlin, or he will be dead.

I’m setting my clock now.”

*. *. *

I hope Mr. Grozev had a sizable amount of money bet on that prediction, because it only took ten days for him to be proven dead right . . . literally. As we now know, Yevgeny Prigozhin is presumed to have been killed, along with nine others, in the crash of his private plane in the Tver region northwest of Moscow on August 23rd.

Oh, wait a minute, Mr. Grozev; don’t try to collect on that bet just yet. Note that I said “presumed.” As the ongoing forensic investigation of the wreckage and the retrieved human remains continues, the question looms as to whether he was actually on that plane. Vladimir Putin and his official spokesman, Dmitry Peskov, say that Yevgeny is dead, dead, dead. And if he was indeed one of the passengers, then he is definitely gone, because there were clearly no survivors . . . there rarely are when a plane explodes and plunges 28,000 feet from the sky to the earth.

But was the real Yevgeny Prigozhin — whose name appears on the flight manifest — actually on that plane? The odds are, he was. But there are some who suspect otherwise. And if not, where in the world is he? And who was sitting in his seat? We don’t yet know the answers to any of these questions; and in the long run, we will have only the Kremlin’s word that their final answer will be the truth.

As was the case with his extraordinary life, Yevgeny’s death remains shrouded in mystery.

Either way — dead or simply vanished — his absence is already having, and will continue to have, a dramatic effect upon Russia’s foreign policy and activities with regard to its “special military operation” in Ukraine; its long-established and continuing support of regimes in a number of African and Middle Eastern countries; its utilization of Belarus’ strategic location in proximity to several NATO-member countries (specifically Poland, Lithuania and Latvia); and perhaps other adventures as yet unimagined.

Aside from Vladimir Putin himself, it’s difficult to imagine the loss of a single individual having that great an impact within the Russian inner circle. After all, Yevgeny was neither an elected nor an appointed government official. Nor, apparently, was he one of the most wealthy or influential of Russia’s known lineup of oligarchs. He was known as “Putin’s Chef”: a long-time friend and close confidant of the little man from St. Petersburg who now sits on the “throne” of a mighty nation. But, as we know all too well, friendship means nothing to Vladimir Putin, and loyalty only works in one direction: to him, not from him.

No, Yevgeny’s principal value to Putin is — or was — as the head of an organization known as the Wagner Group: a collection of mercenary fighters capable of the most unimaginably barbaric acts, as they have proven time and time again, most recently in Ukraine. But is he indispensable even in that capacity? Perhaps not.

Because there is — or was — a lesser-known man, one Dmitry Utkin, whose name was also on that ill-fated passenger list. And Utkin turns out to have been quite the mystery man himself. A simple Google search has turned up the following basic information:

“Dmitry Valerievich Utkin . . . was a Russian army officer. He served as a special forces officer in the GRU, where he held the rank of lieutenant colonel. He was allegedly the co-founder and military commander of the Russian state-funded Wagner Group, with his military alias reportedly being Wagner. Utkin was reportedly a neo-Nazi. He rarely made public appearances, but was allegedly the commander of the private military company, while Yevgeny Prigozhin was its owner and public face. Utkin received four Orders of Courage of Russia.”

Aha! So Wagner Group wasn’t a one-man conception or operation after all. But now this charming fellow is apparently also dead. So what happens to the Wagner Group, without which Putin’s military forces have been proving themselves far less formidable than he would have the world believe?

That — far more, even, than what has happened to Yevgeny — seems to be the big question. Will they simply be relocated, and who will lead them? Or will they be split up and sent to various strategic locations? Perhaps merged into the Russian military forces themselves? Or reinvented as something wholly new and different? I certainly don’t know, but I’d be willing to bet that Vladimir Putin already has a pretty good idea; else, why would he have waited two full months before publicly solving his “Prigozhin Problem”?

Oh, I’m sorry . . . did that sound like an accusation? No, of course it wasn’t. It just popped into my mind and rolled right off my tongue. But if the shoe fits . . .

*. *. *

Once again, I leave you with a plethora of questions and a dearth of answers . . . and a little fun in a very un-funny situation. I’m sure I’ll be back with more comments as the daily news continues to provide me with the seeds — and a good bit of fertilizer — for my musings.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/27/23

I don’t usually get this personal in my blog posts, but this incident still causes the anger to bubble up from deep inside whenever I let myself think about it. So this really is a form of catharsis for me, and hopefully a cautionary tale for all of you. (And probably a welcome departure from my recent focus on what’s been happening in Russia.)

To begin with, let me assure all of my old friends and my newer blog readers and FB friends that I am absolutely fine — everything worked out okay. But it took three full days to determine that that was the case, when it could — and should — have been resolved in a few hours.

It all started on Sunday evening, right after dinner. I had opted for a light meal: a slice of my favorite quiche, followed by a piece of fruit for dessert (trying to cut back on the sweets). When the pain hit, it hit like the proverbial ton of bricks. As background, I do have that all-too-common condition known as acid reflux, plus a hiatal hernia, and I’m accustomed to some after-eating discomfort from time to time. But this was bad — really, really bad — and it felt different from the usual. To the point where I wasn’t completely sure I wasn’t having a heart attack. So I did the sensible thing: I had my family call 9-1-1.

The EMTs were great. They brought in their portable EKG machine, and everything there was normal. So, not wanting to spend the rest of the night in the emergency room, I decided not to go to the hospital, but to tough it out. Less than an hour later, I regretted that decision, because the pain just got worse, and I called for the ambulance to come back and take me to the ER after all. Unfortunately, that’s not a short ride (about 30 miles) from where I live, but we made it. It was then about 1:00 a.m. on Monday.

And this was where the fun really began. It all started out fairly normally. I was seen right away, and put into a rather odd little room waa-a-y down at the end of, and around the corner from, the very large and very busy Emergency Department. Not a regular, roomy, well-equipped room, but a little shared space, divided from another patient by a curtain, and containing only an EKG monitor, a blood pressure gauge, and a TV. My vitals were checked, my information was taken, an IV lead was inserted in one arm, a nice young doctor came in to talk to me for two minutes, and about a gallon (well, maybe not that much) of blood was drained from my body. And then I was left alone.

So there I was, immobilized and wondering whether I was going to die before anyone figured out what was wrong. If my son hadn’t been with me, I don’t know what would have happened. He is a very smart, knowledgeable and assertive guy, but even his attempts to get things moving didn’t help. The nurses — all of whom were very pleasant and apologetic for the delays — were clearly stretched thin that night. But eventually I was told, by a different doctor (we’ll call her Dr. Smith), that she was my attending physician and would be ordering an abdominal CT scan and a nuclear stress test. That sounded fine to me.

It took a while, but all of the people in both departments were efficient and attentive, and eventually the tests were done. So things seemed to be looking up. But by the time the second procedure — the nuclear stress test — was completed, it was about 10:00 a.m. on Monday! We were already nine hours in. And what had been happening during all those in-between hours?

Practically nothing.

Oh, I was given a liquid medication “to line the stomach,” a couple of chewable aspirin in case the problem was with my heart, and an offer of morphine for the pain. But by the time that happened, the pain had eased considerably, so I refused the morphine because I didn’t want to mask the symptoms (why didn’t they think of that?) . . . and I knew it would just have put me to sleep for the next two days, because that’s the way I react to that stuff.

My son was exhausted by this time, and with only a hard wooden chair to sit on, he wasn’t able to really sleep. Even though it was miserably uncomfortable, he did manage to doze off a couple of times, but just briefly. Once the cafeteria opened at 7:00 a.m., I sent him off to get some breakfast . . . and, later, his lunch. Since all of my tests had been completed by then, I was allowed to eat and was actually brought a decent lunch around noon, which — by some miracle — I was able to digest without further pain.

And still we waited. And waited. And waited some more. The nurses continued to promise that a doctor would be coming “soon” — but neither Dr. Smith nor any other physician ever made an appearance. My son even walked the entire length and breadth of the ER in search of a doctor — any doctor — but without success. If there were any in the area, they must have been attending to other patients, but they never showed their faces where he could see them.

By this time, I was feeling just fine. But I had no test results, and no indication of what had actually caused all that earlier pain. And by 2:00 p.m., I had talked it over with my son, and I made the decision that we were getting out of there, with or without a diagnosis. When I told a nurse of my intention, I fully expected that that would rouse someone into action. But it didn’t. The response was a very pleasant “All right,” upon which I was unplugged from the machines, and the IV lead was removed from my arm and a gauze pad taped over the hole. The nurse then left the room . . . just before my arm started oozing blood all over the bed.

You see, I take a prescribed blood thinner (the reason is not relevant here). That information was on the record, but I’m not sure how many of the bevy of nurses had the time to notice that. So I hollered, as loudly as I could, “Bleeding! I need help here!” And a nurse — along with my son, who had stepped out to stretch his legs — came running. The nurse applied pressure and stopped the bleeding, covered the area again, and left me with some extra gauze pads and tiny little alcohol wipes. I was on my own once more, and had to clean myself up as best I could. The bloody sheets were their problem.

And then it was time to leave. I was given a few sheets of papers containing no substantive information — not the normal discharge packet; a wheelchair and driver were brought in; and I was sent on my way. I did not sign out “against medical advice.” I just left. No doctor ever formally released me, and I had been given no test results. It was 3:00 p.m.; we had been on this journey for some 14 hours; and we were both livid.

*. *. *

By a lucky coincidence, I had a routine check-up appointment scheduled with my principal physician the following day. In preparation for that, I tried my best to get the record of the hospital visit from the patient portal, but that didn’t work either. The hospital was supposed to have sent me an email with the link to sign onto the portal, but it never came. So I found the hospital’s website and tried to sign on that way, but I kept getting a response that my information (name, date of birth, and Social Security number) didn’t match their information. Once again, I had ceased to exist.

So when I told my doctor the whole sordid story on Tuesday, she was predictably shocked and appalled. But she couldn’t access my information directly, and I signed an authorization for her to obtain it by fax. I then spent the entire rest of that day and half of the next, trying to reach someone at the hospital who could help me get into the portal. By late Wednesday afternoon, it finally worked. And, as I said in the beginning of this overly long diatribe, I’m just fine — it was not heart-related. It seems to have been just the old hiatal hernia gone batshit.

*. *. *

Today is Friday, and the last word from my doctor was that she had received about half of the record, and had re-requested the remainder. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to transmit what I have to her, without having to provide my login and password to her office. So, although I can see the hospital reports, I still need her analysis and conclusions. Maybe by Monday . . .

*. *. *

So there you are. Take from my story what you will: write it off as a one-time aberration, or a caution not to resort to the ER unless you are two steps away from death. Or, perhaps, as just the ravings of a madwoman. To me, it’s a clear indication that, when my time does come, I’m most likely going to die at home. At least I’ll be comfortable, and not full of holes.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/26/23

I dozed off earlier and dreamed I had somehow been spliced into a phone call from Donald Trump in Atlanta, to Vladimir Putin in Moscow. It went something like this:

Trump: “Hey, Vlad, I’m just calling to say I’m really sorry about your lunar landing . . . and that other plane crash thing too.

Putin: “Thanks, Don. It hasn’t been my best week.”

Trump: “You know, I’ve had a rough couple of days here, too. That latest indictment is a bitch. But what did you think of my mug shot? Did I look stern enough?”

Putin: “I think you looked great. You were having a really good hair day, if nothing else.”

Trump: “Thanks. But I’ve been really down lately.”

Putin: “Hey, don’t worry, bro. Things are pretty chill here, with that Wagner thing being more or less settled. Why don’t you move on over to this side? I’ll pardon you, and there are a couple of really nice palaces that have recently become available; you can have your choice. Come to think of it, Russia could use a big ‘MRGA’ campaign about now, and you’re just the guy to get it rolling.”

Trump: “Hmmm . . . thanks, good buddy. That sounds like a real possibility. I’ll give it some serious thought, and maybe discuss it with Ivanka. Let’s talk soon.”

Putin: “Sure thing; just let me know. You know you’re always welcome.”

Both hang up . . . and I wake up.

Me: “Holy crap!”

*. *. *

Brendochka
8/25/23

Children today have so many things my generation never dreamed of: television; the internet; online home schooling; school buses and mothers with SUVs to drive them everywhere; neighborhood swimming pools; electronic everything . . . and also, unfortunately, online bullying, stalkers, and something called Child Protective Services.

But there are so many things they will never know, and they are the poorer for it. Things that all added up, in my day, to the freedom of childhood.

First, kids of my generation were virtually worry-free. Their concerns were pretty much limited to the grades on their report cards, what gifts Santa would leave under the tree, and whether the little boy or girl they currently liked would ever notice them. They didn’t worry about nuclear war, or climate change, or COVID, or whether there might be a recession. Because if any of those things had even threatened their little world, no responsible adult would ever think of discussing it in front of the kids.

They rode their bikes or tricycles all over the neighborhood — without helmets. I’m not sure anyone even made helmets for kids in those days. They sat unrestrained in the family car, because seat belts didn’t exist. They played in the dirt, and only washed their hands before dinner but not with antibacterial soap, because it didn’t exist. They drank from each other’s soda bottles, and ate little dots of candy that had to be peeled from long strips of paper, and little wax “bottles” filled with some unidentified sugary liquid. And they ate chips of ice cut from the big block in the iceman’s truck.

My friends and I didn’t have play dates; we just went outside, found whatever other kids were out at the time, and got together. We played silly games, skipped rope, rode bikes or roller skated together, got up scratch softball teams, or just hung around talking about what to do next. And when it was time for dinner, or just about dark, our parents called out to us and we went back inside.

We got a kick out of catching lightning bugs and putting them into glass jars that had air holes punched in the metal lids. We tried counting the stars in the night sky, or picked dandelions and clover flowers to make bouquets for our mothers. We lay on the grass and imagined animal shapes in the fluffy white clouds. We played tag or hide-and-seek, and when we fell down and scraped our knees, we waited until it was time to go inside for the night before reporting it to our mothers because we didn’t want to be kept indoors any earlier than necessary. And nobody lost a leg from the dirt in the wound.

Kids today have a lot more “stuff” — more high-tech toys and games, more access to information, more cool clothes, lessons in everything, “quality time” with their parents. But what they don’t have, and will never know, is the freedom and joy of just being kids. Of being left alone to use their imaginations and make up their own games with their own friends, without parental oversight. Or being shielded from the sordid side of life, and worrying about nothing more than getting their arithmetic homework done before bedtime.

I feel kind of sorry for them, because I remember those years as the very best years of my life, and I wonder what memories will follow today’s kids throughout the years to come.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/25/23

Once upon a time, in the land known as Russia, there lived a very scary troll named Yevgeny Prigozhin. As a young troll, he lived under a bridge in a city called Leningrad, where he got into a lot of trouble and wound up in prison for a number of years. His family was poor, and he stole stuff; but apparently he wasn’t very good at it because he did get caught.

And one day, when he was released from prison, he decided to start a legitimate business, selling hot dogs from a kiosk. And he was much more clever about business than he was about outright theft, and he began to make lots of money, which he used to open some really nice restaurants — several of them — which made even more money for him.

Yevgeny had a friend named Vladimir, who also had come from a pretty poor family in Leningrad, and he helped Yevgeny build his restaurant and catering business by sending contracts his way. You see, this Vladimir kid was also a pretty shrewd character, and he had come up through the ranks — not always the honest way — to become President of Russia. And the two friends accumulated lots of money and power.

Years passed, as they tend to do, and Yevgeny had branched out into a second business, called a Private Military Company. Now, such companies were strictly forbidden in Russia; but because Yevgeny and Vladimir were such good friends, this company was allowed to grow and prosper; and soon Yevgeny was providing Vladimir with all the mercenary fighters he could ask for to do his dirty work in countries in many parts of the world.

And then, one day the shit hit the fan, because Yevgeny got fed up with Vladimir’s regular military troops and the way their war in a nearby country was being mismanaged. And he decided to stage a revolt by his mercenaries against Vladimir’s military leaders, which really pissed Vladimir off.

And this is where the water gets really murky, because no one — outside of the actual participants — knows exactly what did happen.

Now, in a fairy tale, the good guys vanquish the bad guys and everyone lives happily ever after.

But what do you do when you can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys, or who is doing what to whom, and why? The fairy tale becomes a mystery.

What this fairy tale book tells us is that Yevgeny went off the rails and started an insurrection against his old friend Vladimir. But something happened to stop him, and soon Yevgeny was banished to another kingdom nearby, with all of his wealth to be taken from him. However, he kept showing up in places he wasn’t supposed to be, and no one could figure out whether Vladimir had forgiven him, or what else might be going on.

And after a couple of months, a terrible thing happened. A private plane — allegedly carrying Yevgeny and nine other people — crashed and burned, killing everyone onboard. And the questions began as to the true ending to the fairy tale, because there were several possibilities.

Ending No. 1: The official word was that Yevgeny’s name was on the passenger list of that ill-fated plane, and he was indeed dead. End of story, right? RIGHT?? Well . . . maybe.

Ending No. 2: There was a brief mention of a second plane in the area that had landed safely in Moscow. But who was on it? Good question. Could Yevgeny have sensed a plot against him, or perhaps just missed the first flight, and landed safely with the second plane? Another good question . . . but no answer.

Ending No. 3: Let’s go back to Ending No. 1 for a moment. Vladimir was awfully quick to confirm that Yevgeny was on the first plane, even though forensic examinations had not yet been concluded of any of the ten people on the plane. It was as though the authorities really wanted the world to believe that Yevgeny had died in the crash-and-burn of that aircraft. And some witnesses to the crash had spoken of two loud bangs and smoke trails as the plane “fell from the sky.” So, does this ending show the plane being shot down, or perhaps a bomb being exploded onboard? And if so, was that in order to actually kill Yevgeny, or to create that illusion? More questions.

Ending No. 4: If it should come to pass that Yevgeny is still alive (which we would probably never know for sure even if that were the case), the big question is: WHY? The most obvious answer, to my mind, would be that the whole mind-blowing scenario — from the supposed revolt against Vladimir, to the taking of Rostov-on-Don, to the march toward Moscow, to the cessation of the march and the supposed deal under which Yevgeny would be banished to Belarus, to his re-appearances and disappearances, to the ultimate plane crash (in which, let us not forget, nine other people became collateral damage) — was one gigantic farce from beginning to end. Which was exactly what many people have believed from the get-go. But, again, WHY? That would almost be too elaborate a plan to be believable. Wouldn’t it?

I was going to begin this sentence with “the most logical answer.” But everything about this case defies logic. So all we can do is guess, and surmise, and argue, and wonder, and try to make sense of it. But only a handful of people know for sure, and they’re certainly not talking. Which shows us possibly the greatest advantage of living in a closed society: the ability to hide their secrets from the rest of the world. And in this age of electronic snooping, that is no small advantage.

Over the past five weeks, I have written six chapters titled “Where’s Yevgeny?” And the world is still asking the same question. Considering that the answer can only come from Russia, we may never know for sure. But at this point in time, I’m voting for Ending No. 1. Or No. 4. Or No. . . .Well, we shall see . . . maybe.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/24/23

When Frank Sinatra sang those lyrics in 1965, the mood was purely romantic. Today, uttering those same words would have Elon Musk or Samuel Peralta signing you up for one of their forthcoming space missions.

If you don’t know who Elon Musk is, you’ve clearly been doing the Rip Van Winkle thing. But who — you might well be asking — is Samuel Peralta? That was my question when I stumbled across an article several days ago about something called “Lunar Codex.” I had never heard of that, either, so I read on.

In all honesty, the technical aspects of it are light years beyond my comprehension. But here’s a brief description of Mr. Peralta’s stated goal:

“I dreamed of going to the Moon and one day it was possible. I’m sharing that dream with many of the artists, authors, musicians, and filmmakers whose work I love.

”Welcome, my name is Samuel Peralta. The Lunar Codex is that dream realized, a collection of works from tens of thousands of creative artists across the globe, launched in time capsules to the Moon.”

Okay, then.

Science fiction? Apparently not . . . or not for long, anyway, according to Mr. Peralta, who sees his plans intersecting with those of NASA in sending scientific instruments and other payloads to the Moon between this year and 2026 under the aegis of its “Artemis” program. I’d have to hear more of what NASA has to say about that, but for now, let’s just take Mr. Peralta at his word.

So this of course started me thinking about what else I’d like to find waiting for me when I relocate to a nice little retirement villa on the Moon, beyond his string of art galleries and movie theaters. And this is what I came up with.

First, because the Moon’s gravitational pull is so many degrees less than Earth’s, I’m hoping someone will have designed some sort of magnetic footwear to help us keep our feet on the ground — literally. Something comfy in a size 8M for me, please. I have enough problems staying upright already, and I do not need to be floating around, bumping into my neighbors, their pets, or the nearest oak tree.

As a senior citizen, I would be most interested in employing a personal robot who would keep my little house spotlessly clean and prepare my simple and delicious meals for me. It would also be nice if she enjoyed playing Scrabble.

The TV schedules would be filled with quality programming for people of all ages and interests, and not just a steady diet of sex and violence. And those, if they’re included at all, should be limited to late-night viewing after the kiddies are asleep.

Next: Flowers. Lots and lots of flowers, flowering trees and shrubs, and parks everywhere. I’ve always wanted to live in a garden.

There would be lovely little shops, run by friendly, helpful people, and selling beautiful, unique goods. Sort of like Cape Cod. And an ice cream shoppe on every corner, please.

All of the streets would have moving sidewalks, and there would be no steps anywhere. There would be bicycle lanes, and people would adhere to the traffic laws, as they do in Copenhagen, Denmark, where there are far fewer traffic accidents than in our cities in the United States. And if it snows on the Moon, all of the streets and sidewalks would be heated in the winter.

For the young and able-bodied, we should have beautiful spaces for outdoor activities: hiking, camping, swimming, fishing, golf, tennis, etc. And walking trails in the villages for less strenuous exercise.

Parents and teachers shall be required by law to teach children respect, manners, honesty, care and consideration for others, and the virtue of obeying their elders. Discipline shall be fair but stern, and children shall be taught to take responsibility for their own behavior. Actions shall have consequences.

The Moon shall consist of one large country, so there will be no need for wars or “special military operations.” In fact, there shall be no need for military anything — just local police forces to uphold the laws. There shall be no guns or other weaponry — not for the police or for any citizen. When life is good, you don’t need guns. *

* Note: Just yesterday, it was reported that India has successfully landed a spacecraft on the south pole of the Moon, so I may be stretching it a bit to wish for one big country. Crap! That means all my other wishes would apply only to the American territory. And here we go again . . .

The government on the Moon should be established in strict accordance with the original Constitution of the United States and its Amendments. No messing around, no special interests, and any politician caught breaking or circumventing any law or regulation would immediately be banished and sent back to Earth.

Taxes shall be no more than necessary for the efficient operation of the government, and every person shall pay the same percentage, with no special tax shelters for the rich.

Medical care and prescriptions, as well as health insurance, shall be reasonably priced, and of the highest quality. This is not socialized medicine; you still have the right to choose your own doctors, and the doctors do not work for the government.

There shall be free education for all, through four years of college. If Finland can do it on Earth, we should be able to manage it on the Moon.

*. *. *

There’s probably more, but this is all I can think of right now, except for one very important first item: When boarding the space ship that will take us to our new home on the Moon, there will be a gigantic sign reading, “No bias, discrimination, fanaticism, injustice, racism, sexism, ageism, unfairness, narrow-mindedness, partiality, or hatred of any sort permitted on the Moon. WE MEAN IT. Only happy people are allowed. And pets, of course, because they’re perfect.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/24/23

The astonishing news today is that he is — or may be — dead. He is listed as being aboard a private plane, registered in his name, that has crashed in the Tver Region of Russia just north of Moscow, killing all ten persons aboard. As of the latest report I have read (from BBC), four bodies have so far been recovered, but there is no report of identification as yet.

But until all ten bodies have been definitely identified, I’m not willing to write him off. This is a man who is a total enigma, and historically a survivor: a former convict who started a catering business; became “Putin’s Chef” by providing catering services for the Kremlin; created and headed a “private military company” of mercenaries called the Wagner Group — something that is completely illegal in Russia, but was not only allowed to exist, but has been utilized by the Kremlin itself to augment its presence in various African and Middle Eastern countries as well as in Ukraine; became one of Vladimir Putin’s closest confidants; has been considered one of the group of oligarchs, the wealthiest and most powerful individuals in Russia today; and finally, inexplicably, attempted a rebellion against the Russian military, and failed miserably.

Since that time, his whereabouts — and his status — have been a total mystery. He was supposed to have been exiled to Belarus, but he kept showing up in Moscow and St. Petersburg. By all normal standards, he should have been in prison . . . but that never happened. He was apparently removed as head of the Wagner Group, but there has been no definitive word as to a successor, even on a temporary basis.

And now we are told that Yevgeny Prigozhin has probably been killed in the crash of his own plane . . . along with nine other people (six fellow passengers and three crew members). Local residents in the area of the crash have reported hearing two bangs and seeing two vapor trails before the actual crash. Strictly on the basis of the 23-year history of the Putin administration and its usual modus operandi, I have to wonder whether this is the Kremlin’s way of finally dealing with him, or whether it’s some sort of red herring designed to create the appearance of his death — though by whom, and for what reason, even my circuitous train of thought hasn’t been able to fathom as yet. And news out of Russia, as we all know, is not always the most reliable.

So, once more, we wait and we wonder. The mystery that is Russia is endlessly fascinating and frustrating.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/23/23

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

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

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

Uh-oh!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*. *. *

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

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

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

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/23/23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOOM!

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

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

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

Brendochka
8/22/23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*. *. *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*. *. *

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

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/21/23