We’ve all done it: bought things on impulse that we’ve later wished we could return for a refund, and thought how wealthy we’d be if we had all that wasted money back. Oh, not the good things, or the ones with sentimental value — not the portrait of Lenin wangled from a Russian government official for $50 and smuggled out of Moscow in my suitcase; or the beautiful Bohemian crystal cordial glasses so carefully packed and brought back from that summer in Prague; and definitely not the $1,000 string of Ming pearls I practically stole at the phenomenal sale price of $500, even though I rarely have anywhere appropriate to wear them these days.

No, I’m talking about the “stuff” that accumulates over the years without our even realizing it, until one day we look around and find ourselves nearly buried in “tchotchki” . . . trinkets, knick-knacks, or whatever you choose to call them. Call them crap if you like. They were treasures when you bought them; they’re no more than dust collectors now. And finally you decide it’s time for a clean-out because you’re not actually a hoarder . . . it’s just that an accumulation of years brings with it an accumulation of stuff.

There are all sorts of motivations for purging one’s belongings: a neighborhood yard sale; overcrowded closets; a fund for the victims of an earthquake in some country you’ve never heard of; or simply one of those old-age things where you suddenly realize you’ve amassed a lot of junk over the years and your kids will eventually have to go through it all and have a good laugh at your expense. Of course, you’ll be dead, but still . . . Do you really want to give them the satisfaction?

I thought not.

So I recently began looking around — just looking, mind you, not actually doing anything about it — and I could not believe what I was seeing. I started with the clothes. I had already donated most of my good work clothes — suits, silk blouses, leather purses and high-heeled shoes — when I retired. But then I found I needed clothes to suit my new, casual, hang-around-the-house-and-the-supermarket lifestyle. And I started buying jeans, sweats, tee shirts, quilted vests . . . Note the plurals. It seems I “needed” those cute embroidered/glittery tops for every holiday on the calendar. I needed them so badly, they each got worn once, shoved in the back of the closet, and ignored after I discovered what a pain in the ass they were to launder.

And speaking of laundry, I have this habit — some people think it’s good, others think I’m crazy — of wearing something once and tossing it into the laundry basket, whether it needs washing or not. Even my jeans. So a couple of pair of those aren’t enough for me; after all, I can’t be doing laundry every day. So there are light blue, medium blue, dark blue . . . even black jeans and white jeans. Some with tapered legs, some wider. Some full-length, some ankle-length. Some heavy-duty, others lighter weight for summer. At least a dozen pair of jeans. A girl needs a choice, right?

Of course, you can’t wear jeans every day, so there are other pants as well — corduroy for winter, linen for summer, silky ones for those long-ago nights at the theater and the cruises I used to take, and the all-important sweats for our “fat days.” And so it goes, through the tee shirts (long- and short-sleeved, plus the sleeveless tanks), and the big shirts to wear over the tanks (denim, seersucker, plaid, striped, solids).

Oh, did I mention these are all in two sizes, as my weight tends to fluctuate a little? I could start my own freakin’ boutique! But since that’s not likely to happen, I just need to pull out the ones I haven’t worn in a couple of years and haul them down to the Salvation Army. Yeah, that’s all.

*. *. *

But enough about the clothes. On to the other stuff. What in the name of all that’s holy was I thinking when I bought — one volume a month (at $25 apiece) for nearly four years, back in the ‘60s — a complete set of the Great Books, leather-bound, gold-embossed . . . and never read, with one exception: Dostoevsky’s “The Brothers Karamazov,” which would have given me the same classic story in the paperback version for $10.99. And there they sit, each as virginal as the day they were delivered, looking most impressive in the beautiful, Amish-crafted bookcase I bought for $400 (one of the few purchases I don’t regret). They’re valued at about $1,000. Anybody interested? Make me an offer; I’m listening.

*. *. *

Throws. I love soft, fluffy, cozy throws for snuggling into my oversized reading chair on those cold, snowy winter nights. I kept buying them for a couple of years; they’re everywhere: on the sofa, the chair, the foot of my bed — and even a couple on a closet shelf, still in their original packaging. I live in Georgia, in the southeastern United States, for Heaven’s sake . . . it doesn’t snow here! I keep hoping, and waiting, but it just doesn’t. What is my problem??!!!

And Kokopelli. You know, that adorable little creature of Native American lore, who dances around with his little musical pipe, bringing joy and good fortune in his wake. I love him. I once had about a half dozen of his likenesses. I’m down to one now, and I’m still waiting for that good fortune to fall on me. And the dream catcher — that doesn’t work either. I still have weird, sometimes unpleasant dreams. Maybe you actually have to be Native American for those things to work. My DNA is 99% Russian, 0.6% East African, and 0.4% Norwegian. I’ve been sending my wish list to the wrong charms all these years; but I’m afraid to get rid of them in case doing so would invite bad luck, and the real good luck is simply that I’m still here.

Then there’s the file drawer filled with office supplies from the time I worked from home; the boxes of DVDs from when I had an actual DVD player; and the cookbooks from when I used to cook. Those things are usable and just need to be donated, if I can figure out who might appreciate them.

*. *. *

But then we come to the things of true sentimental value; those are the real problem. I’ve been privileged to have visited no fewer than fifteen countries and about three-fourths of the United States including Alaska. You can’t do that without bringing home souvenirs, and they all have meaning: from the green glass Inukshuk from Canada, to the amber paperweight from Estonia, to the original artwork rubbing from the “other” Georgia (the country). And gifts from others — small things mostly. A little bud vase from Portugal; a Lomonosov porcelain egg from a friend in St. Petersburg when it was still called Leningrad; all the beautiful pictures my daughter has drawn or painted for me from the time she was little.

You can’t just toss things like that; it’s like throwing away the people who gave them to you, and erasing an important part of your past.

So maybe I will just let the two of them — son and daughter — go through it all. Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . they’ll see it, not as a pile of junk to be disposed of, but as the story of their mother’s life. And they’ll know that it was a pretty good one after all.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/11/24

Somehow, it’s just a little hard to imagine:

There’s Vladimir Putin — fresh from a Security Council meeting where he has just given the go-ahead to launch another 500 hypersonic missiles at Ukraine’s most populous cities — then taking his grandchildren to the nearest kiosk for morozhenoye (ice cream), and sitting down with them to relate the classic Russian fairy tale of Snegurochka (the Snow Maiden).

With a mischievous twinkle in his eye (the less-evil one), he asks them what they would like Grandfather Frost to leave under their tree this Christmas . . . knowing full well that he has already requisitioned for each of them from his good friend, Xi Jinping, three of China’s latest and greatest mechanical toys: the rifle-totin’, rootin’-shootin’, AI-designed and operated, Robot Soldier Dog. And stockings full of live ammo, of course.

I know, I know . . . that is not the usual image projected by the Vladimir Putin we all love to hate. But, after nearly 24 years as head of the Russian government during which he rarely (if ever) acknowledged that he even had children, let alone grandchildren, suddenly two adult daughters have not only come out of hiding . . . they have emerged as full-blown, very public, very accomplished and highly-educated professionals who suddenly are all too happy — or at least willing — to pimp for dear old Dad.

Well, maybe “pimp” is a bit harsh. But “campaign” no longer works, since he’s already been reelected for another six-year term. How about “promote”? “support”? “endorse”? “build up”? Whatever you call it, they have come out with a full-speed-ahead public relations spiel that could only have been inspired by the Trump kids.

The only thing Proud Papa Putin has said about these two impressive women in the past is that one works “in science” and the other “in education.” He also has said that he has grandchildren, but not how many, what their names are, or how old they are. He keeps his private life private.

And now here they are, attending and speaking at the annual St. Petersburg International Economic Forum (SPIEF), a summit sometimes referred to as the Russian equivalent of Davos. And as it turns out, his bragging rights — though he has spurned them until now — are greater than one would think. In fact, Vorontsova, age 39, is an endocrinologist and genetics researcher with New Medical Company (NOMEKO), who — according to an investigative report published in January of this year by none other than Aleksei Navalny’s team — earned a startling 944 million rubles ($10.7 million) from 2019 to 2022. She is also a member of the Fundamental Medicine Faculty of Moscow State University. So yes, you could say she “works in” both science and education.

Tikhonova, the younger daughter, has a master’s degree in physics and mathematics; she defended her dissertation on “Mathematical problems of correcting the activity of vestibular mechanoreceptors.” (I don’t even know what to say about that.) She is director of Innopraktika, a $1.7 billion development project to create a science center at Moscow State University. Again, a blend of science and education.

So why the sudden leap into the spotlight . . . and why now? According to Ronald Marks, a former CIA officer with 38 years of service in the U.S. intelligence community, it’s all about Putin’s growing awareness of his own mortality, and his desire to establish a legacy:

“Remember it’s Putin world and we just live in it. That’s an extension of him . . . his desire to recreate the Russian empire, his desire to show himself as the most powerful guy in Russia. Young daughters represent vitality for him.” [Shannon Vavra, Daily Beast, June 7, 2024.]

Perhaps so. Maybe he’s even grooming them for government positions while he’s still in charge. As with everything he does, we just have to wait and see.

But as for those grandchildren, of whom there are supposedly three . . . well, I’ll believe the whole “Pop-Pop” role when I see it. Somehow, I can’t picture him bouncing babies on his knee. Teaching them judo might be a little more his speed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/10/24

On May 12th of this year, I introduced you to Staff Sergeant Gordon Black: a 34-year-old, divorced (or soon to be divorced) father of a six-year-old daughter; recently stationed with the U.S. Army in South Korea; and now . . . one of Vladimir Putin’s HOSTAGES.

To recap briefly, Sgt. Black had met and established a romantic relationship with a beautiful Russian woman named Aleksandra Vashchuk. She was from Vladivostok in far eastern Russia, but had been living in South Korea for several years and was working in a bar where they met. While Sgt. Black was still stationed there, she left South Korea to return home to Vladivostok.

When his tour ended and he was scheduled to return to the U.S., Black had two weeks of liberty, and decided — without clearance — to travel through China to Vladivostok to say one last goodbye to Vashchuk. Upon landing on May 2nd, he was arrested and charged with “secretly stealing property” of a person identified only as “citizen T” (but presumably Vashchuk). He was held in detention until at least July 2, 2024.

And only now has word arrived of Sgt. Black’s status. Having spent just over a month in prison in Vladivostok, he was brought to trial on Thursday, June 6th, on charges of stealing from his former girlfriend, the lovely Ms. Vashchuk. If convicted, he could face up to five years in prison.

While it is still not clear what he is accused of having stolen, or when, or how, it has been reported by Russian state news agency RIA Novosti that Black “has agreed to testify in the trial and will respond to the accusations against him later in the proceedings.” Local police have also indicated that Black is “cooperating with the authorities.” [Associated Press, June 6, 2024.]

After a month in a Russian prison, I’ll just bet he’s cooperating . . .

*. *. *

But what is the story behind the story? A clean-cut American soldier walks into a bar in South Korea and just happens to attract the attention of a lovely young Russian woman, who also just happens — some time later — to decide to return home to Russia shortly before the soldier is scheduled to transfer back to the U.S. Black’s mother and estranged wife believe that he was then “lured” to Vladivostok by Vashchuk, specifically to become another of Putin’s growing collection of American and other Western hostages.

It may sound far-fetched to anyone unfamiliar with Russia’s long history of “honey trap” schemes; but, in fact, it has been going on for decades. One need only look back on the infamous case of Marine Security Guard Clayton Lonetree, who in 1985 was seduced by a Russian woman working as a translator at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, where Lonetree was stationed. In that far more serious case, Lonetree was actually convinced to provide secret material to the woman’s real bosses, the KGB. He was caught by the American authorities, convicted of espionage, and sentenced to 30 years in prison.

Sgt. Black’s case may sound far less significant than Lonetree’s, and in terms of damage done to American intelligence, it is. But it is indicative of the lengths to which the Russian government can and does still go in using our own people against us. Human lives mean nothing to them . . . unless they’re the lives of their own agents living and working around the world. And even then, their only real value to their masters is in the secrets they possess.

*. *. *

So what will become of Gordon Black? That remains to be seen. Odds are that, within the next few days, he will be convicted of theft, given far too harsh a sentence, and locked away in one of the hellholes in Russia’s endless archipelago of penal colonies.

And thus will begin the all-too-familiar process of trying to get him back home. I offer Sgt. Black a sad “welcome” to my growing list of Putin’s HOSTAGES . . . though I fervently wish I had never heard of him, or any of the others on that list.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/9/24

*. *. *

So please — once again — let us not forget the HOSTAGES, still wasting away in various Russian prisons and penal colonies for the simple act of disagreeing with Vladimir Putin’s excessively 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
6/9/24

Have you ever been to Lenin’s Tomb in the Moscow Kremlin? Viewed the eerily preserved body of the man most responsible for the destruction of the lives and the soul of an entire people, yet still displayed and guarded as some sort of demigod in whose waxy presence you may whisper only in the most hushed tones, if at all? (I speak from experience — I was shushed there in 1988.) Have you seen the hallowed tomb where for nearly a century people have stood in a steadily snaking line for hours, just for the privilege of gazing upon his Madame Toussaud-inspired corpse?

In all likelihood, most of you haven’t. So here, for your viewing pleasure, is Russia’s prime sample of the art of embalming.

Now consider this: In a perfect example of Dostoevskian irony, while this murderous monster lies worshipfully enshrined, the body of the man who only four short months ago gave his life trying to save those same people — Alexei Navalny — lies buried in a neighborhood cemetery far from the center of Moscow, where Vladimir Putin fervently hopes he will be forgotten as just another footnote to history.

Recently hailed by millions around the world as the potential savior of the Russian people from the ravages of Putin’s oppression, where is Navalny’s catafalque? Where are the lines of people who initially gathered to honor him on that cold February day? If indeed they are still there, why are we not seeing them in the news?

And where are the people who were to carry his torch in his absence — the very people who worked tirelessly by his side for years, and on whom he depended to carry his words to the public during the endless months of his Siberian confinement? So publicly vocal in their outrage at his obviously orchestrated death, they too are seldom heard from in the news media now.

They are not idle; they are regrouping, planning their next steps, working fervently and tirelessly so that they might carry on as he would have wished, unearthing the latent corruption so firmly embedded in the Russian hierarchy. To do any less would be an unspeakable injustice. So the question becomes: Where is the public outcry from the media?

*. *. *

To his widow, Yulia Navalnaya, to Maria Pevchikh, and to Ivan Zhdanov — all Directors of his Anti-Corruption Foundation (ACF): I know that your hearts and souls are in your continuing work on behalf of the Russian people and against the evils of the Putin regime. But where is ACF’s public face?

Amidst all of the world’s woes — wars in Ukraine and Gaza, threats from China and North Korea, natural disasters, economic and environmental issues — your voices and faces are not being carried by the mass media as Alexei’s once were . . . and as they deserve to be now. And it disturbs me greatly.

For many months while he was shuffled from prison to prison, hidden from public view, I wrote a series of articles titled “Where Is Alexei Navalny?” I hate that I have to write another . . . this time in search of his legacy.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/8/24

So why do I hear a cacophony of voices asking, “Who? The WHAT?? What the hell is an echidna?”

That’s not surprising — I had never heard of it either, until I read a fascinating, though somewhat disgusting, news item about one today. It seems that something happened off the coast of North Queensland, Australia, that had never happened before . . . or, at least, had never been witnessed before. A tiger shark was seen vomiting up a dead one . . . a whole, completely recognizable, though unquestionably dead echidna.

Wanting desperately to barf at the thought of what I had just read, I turned instead to Google to find out what the poor, unfortunate, undigested shark bait had been in life. What I learned was that it is also known as the spiny anteater, of which I actually had heard at some point in my life but knew nothing about. It turns out that it belongs to the family Tachyglossidae (you can file that away for use in your next game of Trivia), lives in Australia and New Guinea, and is most closely related — not to the common anteater, as one might logically expect — but to the platypus, of all things.

Most interestingly, though, it — and its duck-billed cousin — are the only living mammals that lay eggs.

Wait . . . what? A mammal that lays eggs? How can it still be a mammal? And that’s not all. About a month after mating, she deposits her egg into her pouch, where it remains for about ten days before hatching into a baby echidna, known as a “puggle.” Now, that is just too cute for words. It’s also weird. That adorable, long-nosed, quill-covered monotreme (egg-laying mammal) is also a marsupial. She has a freakin’ pouch!

I want one of those! I’m a mammal. I don’t lay eggs, but how convenient would that pouch be for other things: keys, lipstick, cell phone, a few dollars in mad money . . .

Reading on, I learned from Wikipedia of other interesting, though fairly gross, characteristics of this little cutie (whom, by now, I have named Sid, just because it seems to fit), such as her diet of insects gathered by “tearing open soft logs, anthills and the like, and licking off prey with their long, sticky tongues.” There’s more, for all you nature lovers who don’t mind doing your own research, but way too much to include here.

Anyway, by this time I was wondering how Sid had wound up in a shark’s esophagus. That mystery was solved when I also read that she and her relatives are good swimmers. Apparently, she just took a dip in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad move, Sid.

*. *. *

Nicolas Lubitz, one of the researchers from James Cook University who witnessed the unusual upchucking, said that tiger sharks rarely regurgitate their food, though it can happen when they’re stressed. “In this case, I think the echidna must have just felt a bit funny in its throat.”

Yeah . . . I can understand that. All those funny little quills.

But you’ll be relieved to know that the shark, at least, was not harmed by its experience, “and was released back into the water by the team after being fitted with an acoustic tracker.” [Amarachi Orie, CNN Science, June 6, 2024.]

*. *. *

And if that’s not enough for you, you’ll want to learn that the same team had also caught and tagged a different shark that had surprisingly regurgitated . . . not an echidna . . . but half a dugong.

“Half a what??!!!”

Okay, here we go again. For all of us who are not from Down Under, I looked it up. A dugong is an herbivorous marine animal most commonly found in Australia. This particular shark “threw up a big piece of blubber and then a full vertebral column,” according to Mr. Lubitz, who believes they belonged to a dugong calf. I know it’s Mother Nature at work, but I find that sad; they’re rather cute, don’t you agree? (The dugongs, not so much the sharks.)

Now, if you think that echidnas and dugongs are unusual fare, keep in mind some of the other delicacies tiger sharks have been known to devour: “other sharks, fishes, sea turtles and seabirds, as well as . . . garbage including coal, tin cans, clothing . . . bones, license plates, small television screens, and tires.” [CNN Science, id.]

So an occasional dugong must be a real treat for such an indiscriminate glutton. I think I’ll call that shark Henry VIII.

*. *. *

Thus ends our Natural Science lesson for today. And not a moment too soon. [Cue theme from “Jaws”]. I’m never going near the water again.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/7/24

Not much, I’m afraid . . . not since the Russians finished with him.

Roman Gorilyk is a Ukrainian citizen who was working as a checkpoint guard at the Chernobyl nuclear plant in northern Ukraine when he, among others, was taken prisoner by Russian forces in March of 2022 — the early days of Moscow’s war against Ukraine. After more than two years in captivity, Gorilyk was finally released last week in an exchange of prisoners of war: 75 Ukrainians for 75 Russians.

And this one picture says more than any number of words ever could hope to do. It speaks of the starvation, the beatings, and the other forms of torture used by the Russian military in flagrant and arrogant disregard — not only of the Geneva Conventions — but of every law of human decency known to mankind.

And this by the very people who consider themselves worthy of ruling the world. They are Putin’s people, and they continue to prove themselves less than human.

I have nothing more to say.

Brendochka
6/6/24

This is not a criticism of the State of Georgia, or of the American South in general. It’s a beautiful, friendly, happy place (if you can survive the heat and humidity). No, this is a little tale about living — and growing old — in the countryside. And trying to get . . . well . . . anywhere when you no longer own a car.

I’m not alone; I live with family. I’m mentally okay (regardless of what anyone else thinks), but I do have a few physical disabilities. My folks look after me while still encouraging me to be as independent as possible — altogether a good thing. But I gave up driving a few years ago because I felt it was no longer safe for me to try to control a ton and a half of steel and glass when I could no longer even walk without my rollator. So I’m pretty dependent on others to get me where I need to go. Which these days is mostly to doctors, dentist, and an occasional grocery run.

Now, my family have been great about chauffeuring me about. But they work long hours, and I just don’t feel right about constantly asking them to take time off from their jobs to drag me around to my increasingly frequent doctors’ visits. So I recently began looking for alternative arrangements.

We don’t live in a city. We don’t even live in a town. Oh, it has a name; it just doesn’t have anything else. We live in a lovely neighborhood of lovely homes in the middle of lovely nowhere. It’s peaceful, quiet, safe . . . and way off the beaten track. The nearest town of any size is a 20-minute drive. But remember: I no longer drive. And I can’t find my way around these country roads in any event. I mean, where are the buildings and the street signs? I’m a transplant from the big city. And one oak tree looks pretty much like every other oak tree, right?

So you’re probably wondering why this dumb broad . . . er, woman . . . doesn’t just call a cab, or Uber, or Lyft.

Once more:

Because, while they do exist just 20 minutes away, they don’t come out here. At least, they don’t pick up out here. If I call them from my doctor’s or dentist’s office in that 20-minute-away town, they’ll come for me there and bring me home. How I get there in the first place is my damned problem.

That’s right . . . it’s strictly a one-way service for us country folk. Which makes a lot of sense . . . if you’re mentally challenged. So, am I just stuck? Well, almost. But my son wasn’t satisfied with that answer — he never gives up — and he found something called Coastal Regional Coaches, part of a broader service for the “elderly.” (God! How I hate that word!) Anyway, they have these cute little buses, or coaches, and you can reserve a ride 24 hours (or more) in advance, and they’ll pick you up at home, take you where you want to go, and come back for you at the appointed time — all for $5 each way within the same county, $10 inter-county. Now, that’s a bargain! Especially considering that a one-way trip with Uber or Lyft would have cost between $35 and $40, which is actually irrelevant in any case since they won’t come out here to get me . . .

And the coach service does work. Or it did, the one time I tried it. I had the loveliest driver, no other passengers that day, and for $10 round-trip she got me to the dentist and back, right on time. Just a couple of little problems.

First, the service is strictly curb-to-curb; they do not come onto your property, for legal liability reasons. Not to the front door; not even onto the driveway. So we now have at my house — compliments of my very talented son again — a ramp from the front porch to the sidewalk. I can easily manage the short walk from there to the curb (yes, our neighborhood does have streets, sidewalks, and curbs, thank you), but I have to wonder about people more restricted than I am.

Next: How do you know when you’ll be finished at your appointment? Have you ever known a doctor to be exactly on time? (My dentist always is, which is nothing short of miraculous.) But I just allow more time than I think I’ll need, and sit around surfing on Facebook while I wait for the bus to get back.

No, my main issue has to do with the vehicle itself. Aside from the apparent lack of shock absorbers — which, on these country roads with their multiple railroad crossings, can be challenging to one’s bones and bladder — there are three steps up from the street onto the bus. Three big-ass steps. Not little ones. Really high ones. And my knees . . . well, they were replaced years ago, and hauling myself up, even with the dual hand rails, was no picnic. But with a boost from my driver, I finally made it. Happily, getting back down was easier. Not graceful, but easier. Grace is something you stop worrying about at a certain age anyway. That, and eyelashes.

The bottom line is, it did work. And it’s going to have to work again, twice this week. Fingers crossed.

Oh, one other thing. Since I can’t get out to the bank by myself either, I had to work out a way to get a supply of $5 bills, since — rather oddly, I think — the coach only accepts cash, and in the exact amount. So I transfer money (thank goodness for Zelle) to my son’s account, he withdraws the money, and then has to get the $20 bills changed into fives. I keep telling him it’s still easier than taking time off to get me to my appointments. I think he agrees.

*. *. *

So far, there has been a solution for every problem. But it’s not always easy, and especially for one who is accustomed to picking up the phone and having every imaginable service and commodity available in mere minutes. And handicapped access everywhere. There is much I miss about the city: the activity, the easy access to everything . . . though not so much the crime and grime.

And never — not once — did I ever see a family of deer on the back lawn of my high-rise apartment building.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/5/24

And why would I want to?

Well, because the former American martial arts movie hero has turned out to be — and keep in mind that this is a gross understatement — a huge disappointment: a lying, two-faced, seditious, Putin-loving, propaganda-spreading, war-mongering son-of-a . . .

Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to go off on a rant there. But it felt so good. Because if anyone deserves it, he does . . . as evidenced by this picture of him receiving his Russian passport in Moscow some eight years ago:

And here he is, just a few days ago (May 30, 2024), receiving the Order of Friendship from none other than his good buddy Vladimir Putin, in the Kremlin:

In case you’d been wondering what’s happened to Seagal over the last several years — or, more likely, in the event you hadn’t noticed his absence at all — I’ll try to piece it together for you.

This honor — the Order of Friendship — doesn’t pretend to be awarded for courage in battle, or for pulling someone’s children out of a burning building. It is bestowed for the recipient’s “great contribution to the development of international cultural and humanitarian cooperation.” Or so the story goes. But what sort of humanitarian cooperation has Seagal been promoting? And in view of the current state of U.S.-Russia relations, how successful has he (or anyone else) been?

Well, at this very ceremony, upon receiving an honor so great that it had to be presented by the President of Russia himself, Seagal read (from his phone) the following statement, which gives you a clear idea of the nature and extent of his humanity:

“Ukraine was known for human trafficking, organ trafficking, narco trafficking, child sex trafficking, biochemical warfare labs, fascism and nazism . . . And these are the things that we still tried to make them our brothers [sic]. These are all poisons that can affect the entire world and not just us.” [Kelby Vera, Huffpost, May 30, 2024.]

And he went on to raise the spectre of World War III, denouncing the United States and other Western nations for their support of Ukraine:

“This war that we are currently embroiled in was started and financed by the West, and has come to involve the entire world in a fight against good and evil. All religions, all nations and all people should unite instead of being controlled and fooled by the monster of fake press.” [Id.]

My favorite Kremlin Press Secretary, Dmitry Peskov, couldn’t have said it better.

Well, actually . . . he could have. “ . . . fight against good and evil”??? Okay. Sure. Whatever. Who writes Seagal’s stuff, anyway? Certainly not someone who comprehends the significance of “international cultural and humanitarian cooperation.” Or the English language.

*. *. *

But that’s not the issue here. What I’d like to know is: Why? What? And how? Why did he leave what had been a successful, and presumably lucrative, career in the U.S. for Russia? What turned him against his country? And how did his head get so screwed up that he actually believes the drek he repeats with such conviction? He even has his own martial arts center in Moscow, where he trains young Russians headed for military service.

*. *. *

A Russian citizen since 2016, Seagal was appointed in 2018 as “a special representative of the Russian Foreign Ministry in charge of Russian and American Humanitarian ties.” [Id.] And, as a sign of their true and enduring friendship, he was even honored to attend the inauguration ceremony for Putin’s fifth term in office last month. Impressive stuff. Still, how did it all begin?

According to a man named Bob Van Ronkel, it was all his doing. Described as “the Forrest Gump of U.S.-Russia relations,” Van Ronkel has been introducing American celebrities to Russia and other former Soviet republics for the past two decades through his company, Doors to Hollywood. [Tim Mak, NPR News, July 3, 2018.] Says Van Ronkel: “I was hired to bring Steven Seagal to perform with his band for another event with President Putin, so kind of was responsible for that introduction, and Steven becoming best friends with him.”

Well, both Putin and Seagal are into martial arts, which would have been a perfect conversation starter. And apparently, Putin is something of a show biz groupie; he seems to think that — despite his outspoken disdain for the West — mingling with the Hollywood elite lends him a certain . . . what? . . . Panache? Credibility? Sex appeal?

As for Seagal, perhaps the fact that his U.S. career was pretty much in the toilet as he grew older and heavier led him to search for a place to reinvent himself, and meeting Putin was the ego-boosting event that did it for him.

It’s just too bad he didn’t opt for an audience with the Pope instead; he might have found religion, rather than a cockeyed political ideology.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/4/24

It’s been going on for a while now, in — of all places! — Korea. I guess it hasn’t been gory enough to warrant a headline, or at least not for me to have paid attention . . . that is, until yesterday, when it was reported that North Korea said it was stopping the “deliveries” for an unspecified amount of time. So, of course, that was just tantalizing enough to encourage my reading further.

To begin with, there is no need to panic. There have been no nukes, no missiles, no drones. Nary a rifle fired nor a grenade lobbed across the Demilitarized Zone. Just balloons. Low-tech, gas-filled, trash-bearing balloons. An estimated total of 15 tons of the stuff over time from North to South, including the hundreds most recently released and received before the announcement of cessation.

And when they land with a “splat” . . .

Now, according to Kim Kang Il, North Korea’s Vice-Minister of Defense, the whole thing was started by South Korea years ago when it began sending balloons into the North with anti-North Korea leaflets enclosed, and that this was “strictly a responsive act.” “We’ve let the South Koreans experience enough of how dirty it feels and how much joint effort it takes to clean up spread-out rubbish,” Kim said. [Kathleen Magramo and Gawon Bae, CNN, June 2, 2024.]

As I see it, though, the problem is that the North Koreans didn’t just respond with more leaflets. They sent real trash, and most recently included some used toilet paper (yuck!). That’s just not nice . . . and it’s a potential health hazard. So an official from the South Korean presidential office has pledged that his country will take “unendurable measures . . . [to be] specified in the coming days.” And just as I’m thinking about the possibility of something like . . . oh, say . . . flaming balls of fermented kimchi, he says that they “will not rule out the issue of resuming [playing] loudspeakers,” which they used to do in order to blast propaganda across the DMZ (but which was discontinued in accordance with a 2018 military agreement). [Id.]

*. *. *

Now, I have to tell you that I absolutely love this. These “Trash Wars” are a civilized way of both sides getting out their anger and frustration without anyone being killed or seriously hurt. And it’s not only cheaper; it actually creates jobs for the balloon manufacturers and the street sweepers. Plus, just imagine what a treat it must be for all those fun-starved North Korean children, who undoubtedly have been recruited to fill the outgoing balloons with gas and launch them toward the South.

I’m telling you . . . it’s a win-win situation. It’s just a pity no one thought of it sooner. Think of how much death and destruction could have been avoided in Ukraine, Israel, Gaza . . .

*. *. *

Now, about the recipe for those flaming balls of kimchi . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/3/24

Yet another Sunday has rolled around without any of Vladimir Putin’s HOSTAGES having been released. There is, of course, further news from Moscow of purges within the military hierarchy; a turncoat American actor/martial arts expert who has swallowed the Kremlin’s propaganda whole, and is himself spewing it worldwide; and various other inmates running the asylum. But I’ll deal with those separately. That is not the purpose of this Sunday issue.

*. *. *

So please — once again — let us not forget the HOSTAGES, still wasting away in various Russian prisons and penal colonies for the simple act of disagreeing with Vladimir Putin’s excessively 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

. . . 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.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/2/24