February 1993. It was the fulfillment of a long-held dream: an evening at the legendary Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow. And we were late.

My colleague Kate and I were in Moscow on business for just a week, and we had managed, through our hotel concierge, to get tickets — at “foreigner prices” (which, of course, meant expensive) — for a weeknight performance of the Russian opera “Prince Igor.” I would have preferred a ballet, but what the hell . . . it was the Bolshoi! They could have performed a British Punch & Judy puppet show, for all I cared. I was going to the Bolshoi!

And so, dressed in our finest, we set out into the bitter cold, snowy February night with our intrepid Vitold as our driver . . . who, in his eagerness to get us to the theater on time, managed to get himself stopped by the GAI — the Moscow traffic police — for speeding. This was nothing new to Vitold; I believe most of the local traffic cops knew him by his first name. But of all nights!

When we finally arrived at the theater, the performance had already begun. And although our high-priced tickets were for seats in the orchestra section, we were not allowed to go to our assigned places as it would have been disruptive to the performers. So we were instructed to go “upstairs” until the first intermission.

Okay, I get it. Rules are rules, and this one didn’t seem unfair. So up we went . . . one flight, where we were told, “Again.” And another flight, where yet another attendant said, “Again.” And a third, a fourth, and an astonishing fifth, where — totally winded and becoming more than a little exasperated — we finally reached the “nosebleed” section and were allowed to find a couple of seats with a wonderful view of the crystal chandelier.

And there we were, without opera glasses (because who knew we’d need them?), packed into the cheap seats among the local opera lovers who couldn’t afford the lower tiers and were grateful to be there at all.

With their children.

In our Western evening dress, we stood out like a couple of . . . well . . . “rich” Americans among everyday Russians. But no one seemed to mind; they were immersed in the wondrous spectacle down below, and the soaring strains of Aleksandr Borodin’s music. Including the children.

And that, to me, was the best part of the evening. I could not imagine the average American youngster being dragged to an evening at the opera, much less appreciating it. Yet here were these boys and girls, ranging in age from perhaps eight to eighteen, thrilled to be at the Bolshoi, lapping up the culture . . . and with their parents, no less!

“Where had we Americans gone wrong with our children’s cultural education?” I wondered. And I still do.

When the first act ended, and we were able to take our seats in the orchestra section — after first mingling with the crowd and imbibing some champagne during the intermission, of course — I was almost disappointed. I missed seeing the rapt expressions on those beautiful Russian children’s faces.

Because those people — the ones in the cheap seats in nosebleed territory — they were the hoi polloi, the real Russians. And they still are . . . the ones who want — as we all do — to live in peace, to work at meaningful jobs, to have a little fun on their days off, and to raise their children in a world where they are free to hope and strive for an even better future for the next generation.

And that evening, I got to experience the best of both worlds: mingling with those good, ordinary, everyday Russian people, while seated at the pinnacle of Russian culture . . . the Bolshoi Theatre.

That night, at the Bolshoi, I was truly blessed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/17/25

And I’m sorry, but this is all I have to offer for now.

Maybe you should check back with me later.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/17/25

I love British TV. I just finished watching — for the umpteenth time — an episode of “Midsomer Murders” wherein “Seth,” a rather downtrodden resident of one of the many quirky Midsomer villages, tries to scam the locals into believing the mythical “Beast of Midsomer” has returned, as he attempts to explain a series of grisly murders. His intent is to capitalize on people’s gullibility and their willingness to believe in legends such as the Loch Ness Monster.

So he spreads the word that, according to something he calls the “Midsomer Chronicles” from the 17th Century (which, of course, are also fictitious):

“When badness come, so will The Beast.”

Well, of course, “Midsomer Murders” is fiction, so eventually the real killer is caught, and poor Seth — who is not the perpetrator as you might have expected — suffers a bit of embarrassment.

But think about what he said:

“When badness come, so will The Beast.”

If you read the daily news, you can’t possibly miss all the “badness” that has come — for some years now, surely, but at a terrifying rate in the past month alone. Because that’s when “The Beast” . . . in this case, a two-headed demon . . . arrived to take over — not only a country that has been the bulwark of democracy and freedom for nearly 250 years — but the whole damned world to boot.

And we are damned . . . because we are doing nothing about it. And if we don’t do something to stop it, we are all — the whole world — doomed.

*. *. *

When Welsh writer and poet Dylan Thomas penned the immortal lines:

“Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light . . .”

. . . he was thinking of his aging father and dreading the idea that the older man might soon die.

But the same advice — not to give in, but to fight for every minute of life — can easily be applied to the “dying of the light” that is facing our world today. Are we meant to simply give in to the mad ambitions of a handful of sociopaths, and thereby be thrust into a repeat of the Dark Ages?

Or are we meant to unite, and to find the legal, non-violent means to save ourselves?

It all comes down to us . . . “We, the People” . . . to keep the light alive. But is even our Constitution safe in the hands of the person who just fired the director of the National Archives — where this treasured document is preserved — not for cause, but out of revenge for a past dispute?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/17/25

One year ago today, famed Russian dissident Alexei Navalny died under mysterious circumstances in the Siberian penal colony known as Polar Wolf.

Revered by his followers as the face and voice of Russia’s hope for the future, honored by the Western opponents of Vladimir Putin’s tyrannical rule, and finally mourned after his passing in spite of Putin’s attempts to prevent public displays in his honor . . . today, his name is seldom heard in Russia.

His widow, Yulia Navalnaya, continues her attempts to keep his Anti-Corruption Foundation — now renamed ACF International — operating from exile in Europe to rally the Russian people as her husband once did.

But there is little evidence of success, thanks to Putin’s crackdown on all forms of dissent. The Kremlin has gone so far as to prosecute Russians for the public display of Navalny’s image, calling it an “extremist symbol.”

And without Navalny’s leadership, his ACF has been unable to gather the support they had when he was alive.

Ben Noble, assistant professor of Russian politics at University College London, has said that the struggles of Navalny’s associates are “a reflection of the fact that Navalny’s gone. Navalny, clearly, for his charisma, his eloquence, his obstinacy, his bravery, all of those qualities, he stood out. Even though [Navalnaya] said that she vowed to take on her husband’s work, we haven’t seen her or anybody else rise as a sort of central leading figure.” [Steve Gutterman, RFE/RL, February 16, 2025.]

“Still,” he added, “it’s far too early to write off Team Navalny.” [Id.]

*. *. *

Navalny himself, in his posthumously-published memoir “Patriot,” predicted that he would die behind bars. “I’ll be missing from all photos,” he wrote. And Putin is doing everything in his power to fulfill that prophecy — not only by having made sure that his nemesis did indeed die while in prison, but now by punishing people simply for holding his photo or speaking his name. [Id.]

*. *. *

My heart has been twice broken for this remarkable man: first, when he died a year ago; and now, when I realize that all of his effort, his devotion, his unflagging courage may have been for nought.

Why does it so often happen in real life that the good guys don’t win?

Requiescat in pace, Alexei Navalny. You did your best.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/16/25

At last, two names have been scratched from the list: American Marc Fogel and Belarusian journalist Andrey Kuznechyk, both released last week in an unexpected move engineered by Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump.

The reasons were political, but the result was one to celebrate: the two hostages are back at home with their families after an unimaginable multi-year ordeal. Welcome home, Marc and Andrey.

Now we need to continue work on retrieving those remaining in prison:

*. *. *

David Barnes
Ales Bialiatski (in Belarus)
Gordon Black
Andrei Chapiuk (in Belarus)
Marc Fogel
Robert Gilman
Stephen James Hubbard
Ksenia Karelina
Ihar Karney (in Belarus)
Vadim Kobzev
Andrey Kuznechyk (in Belarus)
Uladzimir Labkovich (in Belarus)
Michael Travis Leake
Aleksei Liptser
Ihar Losik (in Belarus)
Daniel Martindale
Farid Mehralizada (in Azerbaijan)
Marfa Rabkova (in Belarus)
Igor Sergunin
Dmitry Shatresov
Robert Shonov
Eugene Spector
Valiantsin Stafanovic (in Belarus)
Siarhei Tsikhanouski (in Belarus)
Laurent Vinatier
Robert Romanov Woodland
Vladislav Yesypenko (in Crimea)
Yuras Zyankovich (in Belarus)

*. *. *

And again, in the hope that he may actually see it one day, I reiterate my message to Donald Trump:

“Amidst all of the hubbub of your new administration, it is imperative that these innocent men and women not be forgotten. Negotiations for their safe release have been underway for some time. President Joe Biden succeeded in bringing home 16 innocent people on August 1st of last year, and you have added two others to that list. But you should be trying to do even more. Whatever else you do, this should be high on your list of priorities. The people you promised to represent are counting on you.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/16/25

Yes, I know . . . when you think of Russians, your first thought isn’t usually about how witty they are. Unless, of course, you’re thinking of Yakov Smirnoff, who is freakin’ hilarious.

The Russian people do, of course, have their own brand of humor — much of it satirical and geared toward political issues. But I find them to be at their funniest when they’re trying to be dead serious, as when Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov spouts his daily ration of horse manure for the world to swallow.

Or consider their everyday manner of expressing themselves. Every language has its nuances, its slang expressions, and its dirty talk, of course. But if there were to be a worldwide contest to name the most varied and — let’s be honest here — the most obscene, the Russian lexicon would win hands-down. Making vodka and declaring war aren’t the only things they’re good at.

Allow me to enlighten you . . .

I have this delightful little book titled “What They Didn’t Teach You in Russian Class.” ** It’s chock full of useful — and some not-so-useful — phrases to carry you through the average day in Moscow, Omsk, or Novosibirsk. The book is arranged by categories, so let’s start with the section on “Acquaintances, coworkers, and enemies.”

** By Erin Coyne and Igor Fisun, Ulysses Press, 2008, 2017.

This one is useful, but not if you want to live much longer:

“All broads are wenches.”

Why the authors think a visitor to Russia would need to know how to say that is beyond me; perhaps they were just trying to give us some insight into the mind of the average (or below average) Russian male. And by the way, there is also a Russian word for guys who say things like that, but it has 19 letters and 10 syllables, so you don’t really want to bother because you’re never going to use it anyway.

But here’s one that might be likely to come up in daily conversation over the water cooler at work: “My boss pays me under the table.” And the reason the boss does that is probably because:

“My manager is sleeping with his secretary.”

And one more for the workplace: “Their CEO was arrested last week for fraud.”

My advice: Quit that job. Now.

*. *. *

After a day at the office, there’s nothing quite so refreshing (or so they tell me) as a trip to a Russian banya, or steambath, where — according to my little book, “It’s fun to hang out naked with your friends.” Yeah? Well, they obviously haven’t seen my friends.

But besides the naked thing, I decided it would probably be best to skip the banya after reading that the following sentences might come in handy:

“Hey, Vasya, could you beat me with that branch a little more?”

And: “Now that we’ve steamed up, let’s go jump in the snow!”

Or my favorite: “He drank too much vodka and steamed himself to death.”

Holy crap!

*. *. *

According to the authors of this priceless little tome, if you ask a Russian why they’re sick, they’ll most likely blame it on the weather, the atmospheric pressure, or “the fact that they sat on concrete under a clear sky while not wearing a hat.” The authors’ words, not mine. And here are some examples:

“He got sick because he wasn’t wearing a hat.”

”One hundred grams of vodka with pepper will cure anything.” (Note: In my personal experience, I have found that 100 grams of vodka — although it might not actually cure you — will likely ensure that you don’t give a damn how sick you are.)

How about this: “Someone must have given me the evil eye, because I’ve been getting sick a lot lately.” (Not actually weather-related, but having grown up with four Russian grandparents, I can attest to the variety of their superstitions.)

Here’s one I don’t recommend trying: “My aunt cured her cancer with special herbal tea.”

And a really scary one: “If you sit on concrete, your ovaries will freeze.” (I’m not sure what they tell the little boys, and frankly, I’d rather not think about it.)

My maternal grandmother didn’t talk about ovaries, but she used to say that if I sat on cold concrete, I would get “piles” (hemorrhoids). It took 60 years for me to find out she knew what she was talking about.

*. *. *

Now here’s a useful chapter . . . on STDs (sexually-transmitted diseases, not short-term disability). In Russian, they’re called BPPPs — and you really don’t want me to spell all that out for you. Putting aside the nasty things that might be said by someone who has caught a BPPP, there are two sentences that you conceivably might — though hopefully not — find useful:

“Do you need a prescription for penicillin in Russia?” and “Where can I find a doctor who treats venereal disease?”

Moving right along now . . .

We come to the dirty stuff. In Russia, there are more ways to tell someone to go f*** themselves than there are North Korean soldiers in Ukraine. If you want to know all of them, you’ll have to buy the book. But I found one in the list that I had actually used once, on my very first trip to Russia in 1988. Some sleazy character in Moscow tried to convince me his car was a taxi (it wasn’t), and offered to drive me to my destination (the U.S. Embassy) for $50 U.S. dollars (which was an outrageous amount, besides being illegal). When he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I used the one phrase I had taken the trouble to learn for just such an occasion: “Yob tvoyu mat.”

In other words, I told him to do something unspeakable to his mother. And it worked. He gave up and walked away . . . at which point the little old man who had been standing nearby witnessing the exchange stepped closer, began patting me on the shoulder, saying (in Russian, of course): “Good for you! No taxi. No dollars. Good for you!”

*. *. *

I loved my time in Russia. But it wouldn’t be the same now, as evidenced (as if we need more evidence) by the inclusion of this sentence in the little book:

“Putin khuilo” — “Putin is a dickhead.”

I think this might be a good place to stop.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/15/25

I read late last night that Trump administration officials had fired more than 300 staffers on Thursday at the National Nuclear Security Administration — the agency charged with managing the U.S. nuclear stockpile — as part of cutbacks in the Department of Energy (DOE).

It seems they didn’t know that the agency oversees our nuclear weapons. [Rene Marsh and Ella Nilsen, CNN, February 14, 2025.]

According to the DOE, the number of affected personnel is in dispute; fewer than 50 people were discharged, and they held “primarily administrative and clerical roles.” The terminations were being rescinded as of Friday morning. [Id.]

But I don’t give a flying fig if we’re talking about 300 or 50 people; that they got their jobs back the very next day; or how many apologies are offered for the screw-up.

I do care that an army of total incompetents has been brought in to take charge of our government — people with little or no experience, and obviously no conscience; who have been neither elected nor, apparently, properly vetted; but who have sworn allegiance to Donald Trump and/or Elon Musk. Because that’s all it takes to get a job in Washington these days, while thousands of loyal, experienced workers are being given the boot.

I didn’t sleep last night, and I may never again have a good night’s rest. How about you?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/15/25

Some people’s actions simply defy belief. Like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel; or letting your child go rollerblading on the Long Island Expressway; or having so much to drink, you think a game of Russian roulette might be an amusing way to end the evening . . .

. . . or broadcasting to the world the exact opposite of what your boss has just announced as your country’s current stance on the Russia-Ukraine war.

No, I’m not kidding. And it blows my mind.

I can’t imagine, for example, Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov being stupid enough to do that to his boss. (That would be Vladimir Putin, of course.) But it is exactly what JD Vance did on Thursday when he told the Wall Street Journal that the option of sending U.S. troops to Ukraine was “on the table,” in addition to possible economic punishment, if a peace deal doesn’t guarantee Kyiv’s long-term independence.

“There are economic tools of leverage, there are of course military tools of leverage,” he told the Journal. [Jessie Yeung, CNN, February 14, 2025.]

Now, that in itself sounds okay — tough talk in favor of a victimized nation, aimed at a murderous dictator who has refused to negotiate a settlement of the war he illegally started three years ago. Fine.

Except that, just two days earlier, Vance’s boss — that would be Donald Trump, remember — had had a long one-on-one conversation with Putin, in which they supposedly agreed to begin immediate negotiations. Trump said he wants to “work together, very closely” with Putin to end the war in Ukraine, and even added that he hopes they will be “visiting each other’s nations.” [Steve Rosenberg, BBC, February 12, 2024.]

Right or wrong, Trump was obviously trying to sweet-talk Putin into being at least somewhat more reasonable. No mention was made (so far as we know), by either Trump or Putin, of any threat of recriminations or “punishment” if Putin failed to cooperate. And Trump has always maintained that U.S. troops would never be sent to Ukraine. So, where did Vance’s verbal diarrhea come from?

And more importantly, do we or do we not even have a Russia policy at this point? If so, it might be nice if Vance were privy to it, and if he were to understand that it’s his job to support it.

And if we don’t have one, I’d like to know why not. Because it seems to me it should take precedence over the whole plastic-versus-paper-drinking-straws issue, or whether to pave over the historic White House rose garden.

Am I right?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/15/25

Once upon a time, there was a U.S. Congressman from the 14th District of New York by the name of Fred Richmond . . .

This is not a love story; it is, rather, the tale of a flawed but well-intentioned man named Fred whose path crossed mine more than 40 years ago, and whom I remember fondly to this day . . . especially each year on Valentine’s Day.

Originally from Boston, he supported himself through college by playing piano and forming the Freddie Richmond Swing Band. He was a U.S. Navy veteran; a self-made millionaire who had built a successful business conglomerate; a liberal Democrat when it was okay to be one; and an openly gay man when it wasn’t okay.

He was instrumental in creating the Urban Gardening Program, and fostered numerous programs to advance support for the arts. He liked to help people, and was a loyal friend. But sometimes he cut corners where he shouldn’t have, in order to achieve a higher purpose.

Fred was a friend and client of my boss, prominent international attorney Walter Sterling Surrey, which is how we met.

*. *. *

One day, a mean old journalist — the ogre of this tale, whose name I have forgotten but who worked for a newspaper known then (and now) for its “yellow” journalism — decided to launch an investigation of some of Fred’s business dealings. For whatever reason, he didn’t like Fred; maybe the journalist was a conservative Republican, or possibly just an unhappy homophobe. But he dug and he dug and he dug, until he found something Fred had done that was technically unethical, even though it hadn’t actually caused harm to anyone.

And the mean old journalist published his findings, whereupon Fred was charged, tried, convicted, and sentenced to a year and a day in Allenwood Penitentiary — then a minimum-security, so-called “country club” prison for white-collar and other non-violent criminals.

Poor Fred. He always meant well; but he committed the crime, and he did the time — or eight months of it, anyway. And even while he was tucked away at Allenwood, he was thinking of others.

It would have been February 14th of 1983, I believe. I was at work, as usual, and giving some thought to my evening plans, when our receptionist rang my phone to tell me that there was a delivery for me at the front desk. “How nice!” I thought . . . “Someone has sent me flowers for Valentine’s Day.”

But it wasn’t a bouquet or a floral arrangement. Instead, it was a big box of gourmet chocolates and a single red rose, with a hand-written card from . . .

Fred Richmond.

I could not have been more surprised, or more tickled, if the gift had come from the White House. Even behind bars, Fred took the time to think of others. This was his way of saying thanks for whatever help I had been able to provide during the course of his legal proceedings.

And, to this day, I don’t personally know another individual who has received chocolates and a red rose from a prison inmate on Valentine’s Day. In some strange way, I find that a source of pride.

*. *. *

After Walter Surrey passed away in 1989, I never saw Fred again. I read that he had died, at age 96, in 2019. And last night I dreamt about him, for the first time ever. I suppose it was the Valentine’s Day connection; I don’t know . . . I’ve long since given up trying to analyze my dreams.

Fred never married or had children; but perhaps — on some higher plane — he knows that someone thought of him today. I like to think so.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Freddie. Behave yourself, okay?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/14/25

Peace, love and brotherhood. Remember those days? . . .

“Come on, people, now, smile on each other, everybody get together, try to love one another right now.” (Chester Powers, Chester William, Jr.)

And:

“What the world needs now is love, sweet love.” (Hal David, Burt Bacharach)

And:

“Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly before they’re forever banned?” (Bob Dylan)

And, forever:

“Imagine …” (John Lennon)

Naive? Dreamers? Dumb kids? Is that what they called us?

Well, maybe we were. But our naive dreams got us through the Cold War without blowing ourselves and each other off the face of the earth.

I know it’s an impossible pipe dream, but more and more these days, I find myself wishing we could bring back the spirit of those times . . .

. . . especially if I could be 18 again.

Peace, brothers and sisters. Peace.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/14/25