Picture it: 1984. The year in which George Orwell’s dystopian novel is supposed to have taken place. In real life, the Cold War is still hot; Ronald Reagan is in the White House; Konstantin Chernenko occupies the Kremlin . . . well, for a few more months, anyway.

And I — now an empty-nester — decide it might be fun to spend my evenings studying Russian.

“Really?!! Why would anyone . . . ?” I hear you ask.

Truthfully, I’m still not 100% sure. I knew I wanted to learn a second language — I worked with a number of bi- and multi-lingual people and really admired their ability to switch languages so effortlessly. And I didn’t want anything simple or “common,” like Spanish or French; I wanted a challenge. All of my grandparents had emigrated from Russia (well, Ukraine actually, but it was all still part of Russia when they left in 1905), so that just seemed like the obvious choice. It certainly met the criterion for difficulty. I set out in search of a Russian language class, and finally found one in the fall of 1984 at the community college near my home. It was convenient, and the tuition was low for in-state residents, so I wouldn’t be losing much in case I decided it wasn’t for me, or I found I couldn’t decipher the alphabet or wrap my tongue around all those consonants. So I enrolled.

Little did I know that that one simple decision would alter the course of the rest of my life. But if you’ve been following my blog, you already know about that. Today’s story concerns just one little incident that, to me, was so amusing it has stuck firmly in my memory for nearly 40 years. It’s a story of patience vs. anger . . . reason vs. impulse . . . clever vs. stupid. And as we all know, you can’t fix stupid.

*. *. *

It was around 1985 or ‘86, and I’d been happily immersed in my Russian studies for a year or two. I was living in the northern Virginia suburbs just south of Washington, D.C., commuting daily to my job in the city. On this particular sunny Saturday, I was engaged in my usual local errand-running, and was headed to my dry cleaner’s store in a strip mall a couple of miles from home.

About a half mile from my destination, I was stopped at a red light behind one other car, waiting to turn left. I could see the driver — a man — turned around to talk to someone in the rear seat when the left-turn arrow for our lane turned green. He obviously didn’t see it, so I gave him a single, polite beep of my car horn. Not a blast. Not a series of honks. Just a beep to call the other driver’s attention to the fact that he could make his left turn now.

And he flipped out. Looking in his mirror and shaking his fist at me, he peeled out, burning a few centimeters of rubber off of his tires; squealed around the corner; pulled over to the curb; and stopped. I didn’t know why he had stopped, but I just kept going right past him. And then I found out. He began following me.

When I got to the little shopping area a couple of minutes later, I headed for a spot close to my dry cleaner’s shop, and backed in, leaving my motor running in case I needed to make a quick exit. This jerk . . . er, man . . . backed into a space directly across from mine, so that we were facing each other across the driveway. I rolled up my windows and made sure my doors were locked, and waited.

I could now see that he had a young boy — presumably his son — around 8 or 10 years old, in the back seat of the car. I could also see that dear old Dad was not having a good day.

Leaving the boy in the car, he got out and stomped — yes, literally stomped — across to my car, where I sat with a well-rehearsed, innocent expression frozen on my face. He stood by my driver’s-side window, yelling about women trying to tell him how to drive and what to do, tossing a few expletives around to prove his masculinity, and turning progressively redder and redder from the neck up. When he finally paused for breath, I took advantage of the lull to answer him — in Russian!

I began babbling about nonsense. As I recall, I told him that my favorite author was Dostoevsky, and asked if he had ever read Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, or — and I highly recommended this one to him — The Idiot. I called him a few well-chosen names, also in Russian, and all with the most pleasant attitude. And as I watched his anger turn to complete bafflement, it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud.

Finally, he seemed to realize that he hadn’t understood a word of what I was saying, and angrily shouted through the glass, “What did you say? I can’t hear you!” So I rolled the window down a couple of inches, and began repeating myself . . . still, of course, in my very best Russian. I even threw in a few gestures, pointing at my car horn and beeping it once as I had done back at the traffic light, all the while jabbering about how stupid he was. And he was completely gobsmacked. He had at last realized that I was speaking a whole other language . . . and it may as well have been Martian, for all he knew.

At that point, I knew I had him. Finally, he sputtered a bit, shook his head slowly from side to side, waved a hand dismissively in the air, and grumbled, “G*ddamn foreigners! They let ‘em into the country and they can’t even speak English!” . . . as he slunk back to his car, where he no doubt explained to his son that “That’s how you treat a woman who tries to tell you what to do.”

My favorite part of the whole scenario is that it never occurred to old shit-for-brains that, for someone who allegedly did not speak English, I had had no problem understanding that I needed to roll the window down when he said he couldn’t hear me.

Genius.

*. *. *

I sometimes think about the fact that that man must be well into his 70s by now (if someone hasn’t knocked his block off), and the boy would be middle-aged; and I wonder whether they remember that day as I do. Probably not. But I do know that if I were to find myself in a similar situation today, I would drive to the nearest police or fire station rather than a dry cleaner’s shop, because that pissed-off driver would most likely pull out a gun and shoot me between the eyes, instead of simply acting like a jackass.

I do so miss the good old days.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/28/24

“I think, therefore I am.” – Rene Descartes, Discourse On the Method (1637).

*. *. *

It all began a few days ago while catching up on the daily news, when I made the colossal error of asking myself which I thought was more important in the character of a world leader: being guided by rational thought, or by human emotion. And since the obvious answer (to me) would be “both,” then the next logical question was, “How do you balance them?”

Well, naturally this led me directly to the writings of a long-dead French philosopher. (Doesn’t everyone’s mind work that way?) Luckily, nearly 400 years after his demise, I assumed that Descartes’ copyright had long since expired — if copyrights even existed in 17th Century France. So I felt free to paraphrase the philosopher’s words to suit my own purpose:

“Sentio, ergo sum.” I feel, therefore I am.

Not the sort of “feeling” described as one of the five senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, and . . . obviously . . . touch, or the literal ability to feel a solid object. Because if existence depended upon having each and every one of those five senses in good working order, then wouldn’t a person lacking one of them cease to be? (“I don’t feel, therefore I am not . . .” )

Rather, I’m talking about the vast range of human feelings: love, hate, joy, anger, pleasure, sorrow, sympathy, empathy. Without these, would we truly exist?

Literally, yes . . . of course we would. Our bodies wouldn’t suddenly evaporate, and even if they did, wouldn’t they still exist in another form: gas, rather than solid? So, according to Descartes, “Sentio, ergo sum” would not be a valid statement. After all, look at the people who have walked this earth — and some who still do — who have exhibited no human emotion whatsoever (with the possible exception of hate): Vlad III of Wallachia (a.k.a Vlad the Impaler, or Vlad Dracula), Adolph Hitler, Osama bin Laden, Vladimir Putin, Donald Trump . . . (Or is narcissism the ultimate form of love — self-love — thereby eliminating the last two names from the list?)

Okay, maybe we’d better just forget about the existential stuff for now. I’m getting caught up in my own limitations, because I have failed to differentiate between literally being alive and feeling alive: that sense, if you will, of being eager to get out of bed in the morning; of facing the day with optimism and enthusiasm; of wringing every drop of pleasure or pain out of each minute of the day, knowing that it will become an integral part of what makes you . . . you.

Isn’t that far preferable to hanging around the house in your pajamas, trying to find that last corner piece of the monochromatic jigsaw puzzle you bought in a moment of pure masochism; or watching a rerun of one of last year’s “Christmas In July” Hallmark movies for the 13th time?

And by now, I’ve drifted so far from my original question about world leaders that I’ve forgotten why I asked it in the first place, or where in the world Wallachia is. So I go ahead and Google it, and find that it was part of what is now Romania, but thanks to that insatiable Ottoman Empire of yesteryear, it no longer exists, so who cares how it’s pronounced anyway?

*. *. *

You know, I’m thinking that perhaps I should leave the philosophizing to the philosophers, and stick to things I know, like news reporting and childhood reminiscences. Or maybe I just need to reread The Unbearable Lightness of Being.* That should complete the confusion.

Boy . . . even yesterday’s poetry was easier than this.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/27/24

* Milan Kundera, 1984.

I hope I needn’t remind you who Evan Gershkovich is.: the young Wall Street Journal reporter arrested in March of 2023 in Russia, allegedly for spying, while simply doing his job as a journalist — one of the few who didn’t leave the country after the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

And today, his trial — not surprisingly, behind closed doors — began in Yekaterinburg with a preliminary hearing that lasted about two hours. U.S. Embassy officials from Moscow had been trying to gain admittance to the proceedings and were finally permitted to enter the courtroom briefly today, though they later reported that they were not allowed to speak with Gershkovich. The next court session is scheduled for August 13th, nearly two months away.

It is said that the trial is expected to last “months,” though it is not clear whether that includes waiting time between court appearances. Why is that necessary? How is it even possible? If he is guilty, as the Russians claim, how difficult should it be for them to prove it? How many “witnesses” can they have? How much “evidence” could they have manufactured to “prove” their charges?

Or is it all simply a ploy to press Russia’s demands for a trade: Gershkovich for someone such as Vadim Krasikov, a Russian assassin currently imprisoned in Germany following his conviction for the murder of a Chechen rebel leader in Berlin? The Kremlin has signaled a possible willingness to negotiate such a swap, but they continue to delay, now insisting that it will first be necessary to reach a verdict in Evan’s case.

In the meantime, Evan Gershkovich remains a hostage, imprisoned in the hell of the Russian penal system . . . his head shaved, but his spirit unbroken . . . while Vladimir Putin calls the shots.

I lived through the Cold War; I held my breath while the world rejoiced at its supposed end in 1991; and I’m turning blue because I’m still holding my breath. Tragically, Evan Gershkovich has become the poster boy for the 21st Century’s production of Cold War, Act II.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/26/24

I sit upon a cloud
Looking down at the Earth below,
and I am sore afraid.
For we have become our own undoing.

Given everything in the Beginning,
Yet we have destroyed so much:
The trees, the oceans, the animal life,
the very air we breathe.
Going, going . . . how soon to be gone?

Given the gift of Knowledge,
Yet we suffer fools,
Worship scoundrels,
Blindly follow those who lead us
to the abyss.
We are our own undoing.

Our years are finite,
Yet we waste them on frivolities.
I am as guilty as any.
I carry that guilt daily:
the guilt of being my own undoing.

So as my years run out, I write,
And in the writing find pleasure and release.
But if my words go unread,
Is not my writing the ultimate conceit?

Or is today’s failure destined to become
the wellspring of my posthumous success?
For now, I have no way of knowing.

I sit upon a cloud,
But only in my dreams,
For I am yet alive.
And as I wake, I wonder:

Is there still time?

Brendochka
6/26/24

I may be getting a bit ahead of myself here, because I’m not quite through with my current life yet and I’m already looking ahead to the next one . . . assuming there is a next one. But in the same sense that so many of us — and you know who you are — fantasize about what we would do with that half-billion-dollar lottery jackpot we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of ever winning, I’ve been picturing the new, improved me when I come back for the next earthly go-round . . . as though I’d have any more choice in that one than I had in the last one. But a girl can dream.

And, of course, it all starts with the outer shell:

Not a bad shell, don’t you agree? Haven’t you always wanted to walk into a room filled with smart, successful, beautifully-dressed people and have everyone and everything — the party-goers, the orchestra, the waiters — stop dead in their tracks and fall completely silent, all eyes on you as you glide gracefully toward your host, wrapped in an aura of such magnificence . . .

(Deep sigh.)

Yes, I know: that’s a Grace Kelly movie, complete with designer gown, professional hairdo and makeup, Tiffany jewels, and a script to ensure she says exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. But look at her! That was her real life, too. She was an honest-to-God princess! Of Monaco! And originally from a wealthy, high-society Philadelphia family, taught from birth to use all the right silverware, eat without slurping, and speak with the most well-rounded vowels; educated at the “right” schools; introduced to all the “right” people. Always so damned sure of herself because she was as close to perfect as any human being could be. Who wouldn’t want to be her??!!!

But on second thought, maybe she was a little too perfect, too cool, calm and collected. And who really wants to live in a royal bubble, with its restrictions and constant scrutiny? I’m not sure I would. I need to be free to be me . . . whoever that is.

So, moving on . . .

*. *. *

Still going for the outer beauty, but this time with an inner mischievous side, maybe even a little quirkiness. Audrey Hepburn had a more exciting early life: born to an aristocratic family in Belgium, fled with her mother (her father having left the family) to the Netherlands at the start of World War II, which turned out not to be the safest choice. As a student of ballet, she gave performances to benefit the Dutch Resistance, and nearly died of malnutrition as a result of the wartime food shortages. But she was a fighter; she survived, and after the War she embarked on an acting career that brought her the fame for which we all know her.

My life needs a bit of excitement, and the strength and courage to get through the perilous times. She had all of that, and more. She also had that outer beauty, and the charm, and the humor . . . and the most gorgeous eyes. Yes, a definite candidate for my next incarnation.

*. *. *

But . . .

Methinks I’ve been focusing too much on the external. I also want to leave this world a bit better than I found it, and just leaving behind some entertaining films isn’t what I had in mind. I want people throughout the world to say, “Oh, no! She can’t be gone!” when I leave this earthly realm yet again. So whom have I most admired during this lifetime? Who was brilliant, courageous, kind, determined, successful; had a wonderful marriage to her soulmate; and possessed a wry wit that always hit the mark without ever being cruel?

Well, how about a Supreme?

No, not those Supremes (although they did make great music). This one:

My idol. A woman who fought traditional gender roles from the very beginning, graduating from the prestigious Columbia Law School, climbing the professional ladder all the way up to — and right through — that glass ceiling to become an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, where she became the country’s foremost advocate for gender equality. She passed away in 2020, leaving the Supreme Court foundering to find its proper voice ever since.

That’s the kind of person I want to be next time around.

*. *. *

But wait — there’s more. Never completely satisfied — I want one last thing. I want this woman’s incomparable, unrestrained sense of humor, her talent, her innate goodness, and her ability to look at the world when it criticizes her and simply . . . give it the finger (or the horns).

I loved this woman, as did millions of others. Who wouldn’t love the best of the Golden Girls? She, too, left a big hole in our hearts when she passed away, just shy of her 100th birthday.

*. *. *

And if I thought I could possess the best qualities of any (or preferably all) of these amazing women in my next life, I would leave this one with a big, goofy smile plastered on my face. So I’m off to find someone to take my order now, while there’s still time. Wish me luck.

“Saint Peter? Can we talk?”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/25/24

In two days from today, the sham trial of American journalist Evan Gershkovich is scheduled to begin in Yekaterinburg, Russia, where he was arrested 15 months ago. Accused of spying, he has been “detained” ever since in Moscow’s Lefortovo Prison, with only unsubstantiated accusations — but not a shred of real evidence — being presented against him.

And now it has been announced that his trial will be held behind closed doors. U.S. Embassy officials have. been trying to gain admittance to the so-called trial, but are uncertain of their chances of success.

Secret trials are nothing new in Russia, dating back farther in time than most people living today can remember, to the “show trials” of Joseph Stalin’s real or imagined political enemies. And this generation — the Putin generation — sees nothing wrong with resurrecting the worst practices of one of the darkest periods of its history. “If it works, why not keep it?” — seems to be the prevailing philosophy.

Yeah . . . That’s Russian justice, all right. So who will act as Evan Gershkovich’s judge? And where is his jury? In fact, where is Evan Gershkovich? Has he already been moved across the 1,000-plus miles from Moscow to Yekaterinburg? And if so, why wasn’t the American Embassy notified?

Thirty years of progress have been summarily wiped out by one little man with a Napoleon complex. But does Vladimir Putin remember what happened to the man after whom that complex is named? Has he never heard of history repeating itself? Tyrants eventually fall, whether at the hands of their own disillusioned, ultimately fed-up people; or perhaps — as in the case of the overly ambitious Napoleon Bonaparte — by the brutal Russian winter of 1812; or simply by reaching the natural end of their God-given days.

But tyranny is seldom vanquished without a little push, or a serious shove. Lest we forget: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” *

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/24/24

* Commonly attributed — apparently incorrectly — to Edmund Burke.

How quickly these Sundays roll around! And this one brings with it two updates.

I wrote about Gordon Black a few days ago, giving you the bad news that he has been tried, convicted (no surprise there), and sentenced to three years and nine months in prison for what essentially amounts to theft, assault and battery, and being foolish enough to have gone to Vladivostok in the first place. So I’m sorry to say that he is now firmly ensconced in his place on our HOSTAGE list, with the U.S. Army waiting for him when he is finally released. Not a happy prospect, but he is still young enough to learn from his mistakes.

*. *. *

The second bit of news — somewhat more surprising because of the comparative speed with which it has all taken place — is the trial of another American citizen, Ksenia Karelina. Actually holding dual Russian-American citizenship, she has been living in the U.S. since 2021, and in February of this year traveled to Yekaterinburg, Russia, to visit her parents. While there, she was arrested on grounds of “collecting funds used to purchase tactical medical items, equipment, means of destruction and ammunition” for Ukraine. Now get this: what she did was make a $51.80 donation in the United States to a New York-based, non-profit human rights organization collecting funds for the Ukrainian Army. But although she committed no crime on Russian soil, the Russian authorities were aware of her donation (a frightening fact in itself), and considered her — as also a Russian citizen — a criminal.

And now, after barely four months in detention in a Yekaterinburg prison, she is on trial for “taking part in public actions to support the Kyiv regime.” Her first hearing was held — behind closed doors, so no details are available — on Thursday; the next hearing isn’t scheduled until August 7th. If convicted (“if”??), she could face up to 20 years in prison.

I know that those last four months in prison have seemed like an eternity to Karelina, but other HOSTAGES have been rotting in various Russian prisons for years. So why the sudden movement by the Russian legal system (such as it is) on these two cases? There is something Vladimir Putin wants, and as always, we wait for him to show his hand. Russian investigative journalist Andrei Soldatov told CNN the FSB (Federal Security Service) is “build[ing] up a bank of hostages with American passports” to use “as leverage” in negotiations with Washington. [Christian Edwards, CNN, June 20, 2024.] I’d call that a well-reasoned conclusion — but if I were Mr. Soldatov, I wouldn’t shout it from the top of the Kremlin wall.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/23/24

*. *. *

And please — once again — let us not forget the other HOSTAGES, still wasting away in various Russian prisons and penal colonies for the simple act of disagreeing with Vladimir Putin’s increasingly onerous edicts. It is for them that this regular Sunday posting is written.

To those known . . .

Vladimir Kara-Murza – HOSTAGE
Evan Gershkovich – HOSTAGE
Paul Whelan – HOSTAGE
Ilya Yashin – HOSTAGE
Robert Woodland Romanov – HOSTAGE
Boris Akunin – HOSTAGE
Marc Hilliard Fogel – HOSTAGE
Asya Kazantseva – HOSTAGE
Ilya Barabanov – HOSTAGE
Alsu Kurmasheva – HOSTAGE
Aleksandr Skobov – HOSTAGE
Antonina Favorskaya – HOSTAGE
Oleg Orlov – HOSTAGE
Boris Kagarlitsky – HOSTAGE
Oleg Navalny – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Karelina – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Fadeyeva – HOSTAGE
Lilia Chanysheva – HOSTAGE
Vadim Ostanin – HOSTGE
Sergei Udaltsov – HOSTAGE
Konstantin Gabov – HOSTAGE
Danuta Perednya – HOSTAGE
Olesya Krivtsova – HOSTAGE
Staff Sgt. Gordon Black – HOSTAGE

. . . and those hundreds of others whose names remain unknown to me . . . you are not forgotten, nor have you been abandoned. The fight continues on your behalf.

Brendochka
6/23/24

“Hot enough for you?”

It’s outdated, unnecessary, and more than a little annoying. But after 100 or so years, people are still asking that of each other as the temperature soars into the triple digits, air conditioners struggle to keep pace with the demand, and the world runs out of ice cubes.

And the answer is: “Beat it, a**hole. You can damn well see I’m dying here!” Or words to that effect.

So we struggle to stay out of the sun, and those of us who are lucky enough to have air conditioning remain indoors while the less fortunate fight each other for seats in a movie theater, or simply wander aimlessly through the nearest shopping mall chugging iced tea and downing those irresistible Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookies because you can smell them two levels up and at the far opposite end of the mall. And the folks in poorer countries, many suffering from severe drought — well, I can’t even imagine.

But while we’re all sitting around doing pretty much nothing (with the possible exception of the folks in Helsinki, Finland, where the temperature topped off at a lovely 71 degrees Fahrenheit yesterday), I do have a couple of amusing items to share with you from CNN’’s A.J. Willingham in her “The Good Stuff” online column yesterday. They’re just for fun . . . something of which we can all use a little more these days. So if there’s anything here that catches your attention, check out A.J.’s column for details. I’m just referring, not plagiarizing.

*. *. *

1) Barf Bags. I’ve (thankfully) only had to use one once in my lifetime of travel — way back in the ‘60s, on a short hop from Manchester, New Hampshire to Providence, Rhode Island, which inexplicably made a quick stop in Lawrence, Massachusetts. I say “inexplicably,” because Lawrence is just 28 land miles from Manchester, and the one passenger we picked up in Lawrence could have driven to the Manchester airport in half an hour, the lazy good-for-nothing bum. Anyway, it was a windy day, and since we never did get much above treetop level during those few minutes we were off the ground, it was about as bumpy as the bus ride to the tea plantation in the Caucasus Mountains . . . but that’s a tale for another time.

The reason I bring this up (sorry — still dwelling on regurgitation) is that A.J. wrote on Saturday about her interviews with four people who collect barf bags. Unused ones, I presume. Apparently, they’re made in a variety of sizes, colors and designs, and some even have interesting histories. One person frames and hangs his — appropriately, I would say — in the bathroom. Another has thousands, so wall space would be a problem. I don’t know where he keeps his, but it’s not my problem. If you think your collection of, say, body parts from deceased Australian numbats (yes, there is such a thing, and I don’t mean wombats) is unique, I’m sorry to disappoint you; but you really must give A.J.’s column a read.

2) The Runaway Donkey. His name is Diesel, and about five years ago he disappeared from his California ranch home, leaving his owners worried and sad. Earlier this year, he was spotted living in the wild with . . . well, you’ll just have to go back to A.J.’s column for the rest of the story. I won’t spoil the ending for you, but keep in mind that her column is titled “The Good Stuff.”

3) Sushi Busts. What on earth? Have the Tokyo police raided a sushi restaurant? That was my first thought, but no — it’s even stranger than that. It’s the story of a British woman who works as a food artist, and now creates celebrity likenesses out of sushi and displays them in one-day exhibitions in London. (Hint: one such head is named “Eelton” John — a little corn with your sushi?)

I’m so relieved that these exhibitions are just for a single day. I don’t know how long it would take for an unrefrigerated pile of sushi to begin to smell, but we are talking about raw fish here . . .

*. *. *

That’s about all the happy stuff I could unearth for one day. I hope our brief venture into La-La Land has taken your mind off the weather for a bit. And perhaps it’s inspired you to begin a new hobby of your own, or maybe to adopt a long-eared pet. I don’t have room for a donkey — they’re probably against the Homeowners’ Association rules in any event. But I am thinking about starting a collection of historic chamber pots, or perhaps digging up memorabilia from sacred Native American burial grounds (if I don’t get caught) . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/23/24

The Russians — of course, it would be the Russians! — have figured out how to do it. It’s easy, it’s effective, and it’s cheap. They simply follow the advice of Ebenezer Scrooge: “Decrease the surplus population.” *

* Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, 1843.

Scrooge, to his credit (if you can call it that), at least meant only that they should let the poor die of more-or-less natural causes: starvation, exposure, or illness. The Putin method, however, is a bit more direct and timely: eliminate the undesirables. The Russian word for it is likvidatsiya — liquidation.

That is essentially what happened last week at a detention center in the southern Russian city of Rostov-on-Don, not far from the Ukraine border, when six inmates — accused members of ISIS charged with acts of terrorism — allegedly took two prison guards hostage. Russian special forces simply charged the prison, freed the prison guards without injury, and summarily disposed of the six offending inmates.

Problem solved.

But what really happened that day? This obviously was not a mock prison exercise intended to free up six beds for six hypothetical incoming inmates. And how could these six accused ISIS terrorists — armed only with a penknife, a rubber baton, and a fire axe — manage to “[knock] out the bars of a window in their cell and [enter] a guard room where they took at least two prison officers hostage,” according to local media? [Al Jazeera, June 16, 2024.]

An earlier report from Russian state news agency TASS, however — quoting unnamed sources — said that the six inmates were in the central courtyard of the detention center, not in their cell. Hmm . . .

All I can offer here is a barrage of more questions:

1) Where were the prisoners, and what were six alleged ISIS terrorists doing together in one location, apparently unguarded?

2) Where did they get the penknife, the rubber baton, and the fire axe?

3) Didn’t anyone hear them whacking away at the bars, presumably with the fire axe (if that is indeed what happened)? That had to be noisy.

4) How did they get from wherever they were to the guards’ location — however distant or close it may have been — without being detected?

5) They allegedly were demanding transportation in exchange for the lives of the hostage guards. How far did they really expect to get before being overtaken and captured or killed? Were they that stupid? Have they never heard of drones?

6) How did the Special Forces troops manage to “eliminate” the six prisoners in a hail of gunfire without at least wounding the guards?

7) Who were these six prisoners? Were they associated with the members of ISIS-K who stormed Moscow’s Crocus City Hall in March of this year? (And, by the way, where are those guys now, and what’s happening to them?)

8) Is it within the realm of possibility that the Russian authorities themselves planned and carried out the execution of the six prisoners, creating the legend of their attempted escape to legitimize their killing?

*. *. *

I can only answer Question No. 8 . . . with a resounding “Well, yeah . . . of course it’s possible!” How many murders — of single individuals and groups of sacrificial lambs — have been carried out by the Russian government in the name of necessity, or expediency, or collateral damage? Too many to count.

There is a saying widely attributed to Joseph Stalin, though not proven that it was he who first said it: “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.”

It sounds like him, though.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/22/24

We humans love our dogs — sometimes more than we love our people. If we didn’t, why would we undertake a lifetime (the dogs’ lifetime) of feeding, and walking, and grooming, and visiting the vet, and scooping the poop, and playing “fetch” and “catch” and “tug,” and giving endless scratches and rubdowns, and paying for the shots and the food and the toys and the grooming and . . . Hey, tell me again why we do all that? Oh, right — because we love them, and because they give back unquestioning, unconditional, unending love and loyalty and devotion. And occasional misbehavior.

And barking. Endless, annoying, frustrating, nerve-shattering barking!

What do you suppose the vet would say if I were to bring our pooch, Dixie, in for a “debarkation” procedure? I’m not talking about getting off a ship or an airplane — that’s disembarking. I’m talking about having her bark removed. Obviously, he’d think I was insane, but after a day like yesterday, he wouldn’t be far off.

Fortunately for Dixie, she is really my son’s dog, not mine, so I don’t get to make those decisions. But being the one who’s at home with her most of the time, I have the longest exposure to her and her on-again-off-again displays of canine-ality (doggie personality). And she is definitely — in my unprofessional opinion — schizoid.

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It all started yesterday, as it always does, with her protective instinct kicking in. If anyone or anything — deer, rabbit, neighbor, UPS truck — comes within 100 yards of the house, she goes bonkers. She’s a medium-sized mixed-breed: part Staffordshire, part pit bull, part lab, according to her DNA test results. So one would think she’d be in attack mode when she reacts that way. But let her at any of these creatures, human or otherwise, and rather than trying to tear them apart, she’ll just lick them to death. This girl is a lover, not a fighter. So, from my point of view, the barking serves no useful purpose other than to make Dixie happy.

Well, after a day of listening to her saying hello to every passing living being, things finally quieted down in the neighborhood for the evening. Since two of our family of four (humans) were away for the week, and my son was working in his home office, I was enjoying a quiet dinner on a tray in my den while watching one of my favorite movies. Until Dixie started her food vigil. (And yes, she had already had her dinner.)

At some point in the middle of my meal (and favorite movie), Dixie suddenly began barking her head off and running back and forth between me and the front door. So I carefully set my tray down on my chair — HUGE mistake! — and went to see what was going on. Nothing. No one at the door, no package delivery from Amazon, not even a neighbor passing by.

And when I turned to go back to my dinner, Dixie was way ahead of me. By the time I reached the den — about five seconds later — she was in there, scarfing down what was left of my formerly delicious casserole. When I yelled out her name, she froze momentarily, then turned and ran by me like a rabbit being chased by . . . well . . . an angry human.

So much for dinner.

I scolded her a bit more, of course; told her she was a naughty girl; and disposed of the remains of the casserole. (I know she’s healthy, but I also know where else that tongue has been!) Then I got some ice cream from the freezer for dessert, and locked her out of the den for the rest of the evening. And this was pretty much how she spent the next few hours.

If we had a doghouse, she would have been in it — except that it’s been too damned hot outside for that. No matter what our fur babies do, torture is out of the question. And we always forgive them. How can we not? I mean . . . look at that face.

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And while all of this was going on, the cat was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle from her ringside seat. (She has a kitty condo, but — like most of her ilk — prefers the box from the latest package delivery.) What I wouldn’t give to know what she was thinking!

And today Dixie has been clinging to me like Saran Wrap, begging me with those huge, sad eyes to play with her, scratch her, slip her a snack . . . anything to reassure her that she is once again the most favored member of the household. So I did all of those things, one time each, and it still wasn’t enough. She has been staring at me all freakin’ day long! Do you have any idea how annoying that is?

She is so lucky I love her.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/21/24