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

From international pariah to co-president of the world, in the course of a single phone call. And all at the invitation of your old friend Donnie. Patience really pays off, doesn’t it Vlad?

Never mind the illegal invasion of Ukraine and the hundreds of thousands of resultant casualties; forget about the punishing sanctions that have thrown your own economy into a tailspin; and don’t worry about that pesky arrest warrant issued against you by the International Criminal Court. Because Donnie has your back. He’s even suggested that you visit him in Washington, and that he would love to hop across the Atlantic for a little get-together on your home turf.

And all you had to do was wait until President Joe Biden — who called you a “pure thug,” a “brutal tyrant,” and a “murderous dictator” — was no longer in office.

All in order that you and your buddy can decide the fate of a third nation, carving it up to your satisfaction . . . and to hell with the Ukrainian people and their right to sovereignty. So that you, despite your protestations of willingness to negotiate, will ultimately get all, or at least most, of what you want: about 20% of Ukraine’s territory, including all of that valuable Black Sea coastline; the hope of NATO membership being snatched away from Ukraine; a re-written Ukrainian constitution; and a new, more friendly president sitting in Kyiv. In other words, an impotent shell of the proud country its people worked so hard to build.

And what will Ukraine get in return? A withdrawal of your troops? Your assurances that they will hereafter be left in peace? Big f**king deal! You know what that’s worth, don’t you?

Not a bloody kopek!

Because what they’ll really get is forced Russification.

*. *. *

And, even more important than the ability to declare victory in your barbaric war of attrition, you get to step out onto the world stage again, front and center.

Just as you wormed your way from KGB apparatchik stationed in East Germany; to chief scrounger for Mayor Sobchak in St. Petersburg; to indispensable bagman for Boris Yeltsin in Moscow; to the top of the KGB’s successor security agency, the FSB; and right on into the “oval office” in the Kremlin . . . so have you now slithered back into the good graces of the new guy in the real Oval Office in Washington.

Well, congratulations to you both — you’re a well-matched pair. It’s just a tragedy that your coupling means the rest of the world gets royally screwed.

Nero had nothing on you.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/14/25

Another day to celebrate! RadioFreeEurope/RadioLiberty journalist Andrey Kuznechyk has been freed from prison in Belarus where he had been held for more than three years (of a six-year sentence) on unsubstantiated charges of “hooliganism” and “creating an extremist group.”

Another wrongfully imprisoned hostage to cross off of our list . . . a list I hope to see reduced to zero in the very near future.

In the meantime, setting aside political considerations for just a little while, I’d like to offer my congratulations to the Kuznechyk family and to RFE/RL. This is why we never give up.

Welcome home, Andrey!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/13/25

So . . .

Happy Thursday, everyone. I’m going to give it a try.

(That’s today; tomorrow could be a whole different story. I’ll let you know.)

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/13/25

It’s always been political, you know, never about legal considerations: the round-up of dissidents and journalists on specious grounds, to be held as collateral in Russian (and now, also Belarusian) prisons.

But since late January — with the sudden, completely unexpected release of three hostages in just three weeks, timed to coincide with the equally sudden announcement of discussions between Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin regarding Ukraine — the motive behind all of those arrests and lengthy imprisonments has become clear enough for even the most politically naive individual to discern, which is that . . .

Putin will now be able to get what he wants in Ukraine.

The fact that Trump will get credit for engineering the release of the hostages, and ultimately for negotiating an end to the war in Ukraine . . . that’s just political gravy.

And the fact that Ukraine will be the sacrificial lamb . . . well, that will simply go into the next generation of history books as another interesting part of the story of a once-great land.

*. *. *

Putin was never going to lose, of course. He never expected the Ukrainian people to put up such a valiant defense; or that Volodymyr Zelensky would become such an heroic, unifying president; or that the Western nations would join together so firmly in defense of a country that was neither a member of NATO nor the EU.

But once he realized that the Biden administration would never turn its back on Ukraine, and would fight to keep the rest of the free world on their side as well, he knew he would have to change his tactic. All he had to do was wait . . . let the war drag on until Ukraine was weakened; the Western allies were feeling the pinch of supporting Ukraine’s defense; and someone — preferably someone more malleable, like, say . . . oh, I don’t know . . . maybe Donald Trump? — was in the White House.

And in the meantime, he had all those prisoners to hold for ransom. Yes, there was that historic prisoner exchange back in August; but that wasn’t generosity on Putin’s part; he got back eight of his most prized criminals . . . sorry . . . citizens.

But what did he get for these last three? Interestingly, we only know of one Russian — Aleksandr Vinnik — who was arrested in 2024 and was being held in the U.S. on charges of money laundering connected to his cryptocurrency exchange, BTC-e. He got to go home this week.

From the Russian side, it seems like a lopsided exchange. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, however, said:

“I think it’s also important to note it was not in return for anything. There wasn’t some deal here where we had to release, like, 10 spies.” [Louise Radnofsky, Georgia Kantchev and Alex Leary, The Wall Street Journal, February 12, 2025.]

Oh, well then, like . . . okay.

Donald Trump said that the agreement was”very, very fair, very reasonable. Not like deals you’ve seen over the years.” He added that Russia had shown goodwill “in terms of the war … It’s a very important evening for ending that war.” [Id.]

But then we heard from dear old Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov, who can always be counted on to contradict whatever anyone other than Putin says, thus putting a major damper on the party. He said that the deal was the result of “meticulous negotiating work,” and added, for good measure:

“Of course, such agreements are not capable of becoming a turning point, but at the same time, bit by bit, these are certain steps towards building up that very mutual trust, which is now at its lowest point.” [Id.]

Well, there you go. Trust Dmitry Peskov to deliver that touch of realism guaranteed to extinguish any glimmer of optimism. Thanks, Dima.

But he’s not wrong. It is only a step, and a tiny one at that. It doesn’t portend an imminent end to the war in Ukraine, because Vladimir Putin still won’t give in on his demands, and Volodymyr Zelensky won’t willingly give his country away.

Talk about the irresistible force and the immovable object!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/13/25

That was a pledge my sister Merna and I had made to each other. We called it “The Ribbit Pact,” after the croaking sound that frogs make, after we discovered — on one of our many shopping excursions — these adorable decorative pillows with two little frogs sitting side by side, saying . . . you guessed it . . . “Together ‘til we croak.”

Only she ultimately croaked without me.

I cared for her during those last couple of years when she was so sick, and she was so worried about who would take care of me when my time came. I’ll let my kids fight about that. In the meantime, I just miss her.

We spent our early years fighting, mostly — as sisters tend to do; but if any outsider dared say a word against one, the other was there to defend her to the death. Fortunately, it never came to that. And in our later years, we got smarter and became best friends, ignoring our differences and building on the things we enjoyed in common: going to the theater, trying new restaurants, shopping, taking cruises . . . and dissing our late mother. And we laughed a lot, because we knew things about our respective and collective pasts that no one else did.

Yesterday, as I saw two sisters — young adults — sharing a private joke, I felt that pang of . . . what? . . . Jealousy? Loneliness? Loss? Yes, to all three. And at the same time, I smiled at the closeness of the two young women, and the thought of all they will share in the years ahead.

Because there is no relationship quite like that of sisters. You keep each other’s secrets from your parents; you swap stories about your boyfriends; you seek one another’s advice about what to wear to Saturday’s party, or how to style your hair, or whether to take a particular job. You share a bedroom when you’re young, and borrow each other’s jewelry when you’re older.

And when one is no longer there, the other one is incomplete. You can enjoy the company of other relatives and close friends, but it’s not the same. You can’t just pick up the phone to call them 20 times a day when you need help remembering the name of your third-grade teacher, or if you’re bummed because Revlon no longer makes your favorite shade of lipstick, or because there’s a great new musical coming to town next month and you absolutely must get tickets.

Or just because you’re bored and need someone to talk to.

So you resign yourself to going it alone for whatever number of years you have left. But you still find yourself reaching for the phone to call her, or thinking about buying her that new book on the Civil War for Christmas. And sometimes you talk to her . . . afraid she might answer, but wishing she could.

And you go to sleep thinking about her . . . again.

I don’t remember why, but I always called her “Merny.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/12/25