“Stylish guy” gets drunk, insultingMOSCOW, July 9, 2006 -- Last weekend, Igor was into being a “modniy paren,” a “stylish guy,” and he was adorable in the pose: cut-offs; baseball cap on sideways; Adidas sunglasses even in the unseasonable stormy weather – the coolest of the cool; a marijuana leaf earring; a new fuck-the-establishment MJ leaf pendant; his new red back pack; the ubiquitous beer; a tough-guy chain looping from his pocket; and of course, his cell phone.
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!
All he needed was an iPod, or reasonable facsimile. “Would you lend me $ 50 to buy it now?” he asked Friday evening. He had been drinking and palling around with Alex, and was very affectionate. How could I resist?
So he and I went to VDNH, the former Soviet showplace turned into a grand electronics trading ground. We found a second hand “Digitalway” whatever-Pod for a little less than 50 bucksi.
It had been cold and rainy all day – a most untypical last day of June. While we were forking out the bucksi, it started raining really hard. It was also approaching 10 p.m. and most of the kiosks and markets were closed. But Igor wanted to try to find a cable computer connection so he could download tons of music.
“Everything’s closed,” I objected.
“Not everything. There are still some places open.” But to get to them meant a long walk in the downpour.
“You can do that if you want, I want to go home.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to bring you,” he replied. Oh? He hadn’t wanted me to come along? That was news to me.
“Why can’t we just come back tomorrow when everything’s open? You’ll never find it this time of night. I want to go home. You don’t have to, but I want to.”
“If you want to go home,” he grumbled, “I’ll go home too.” So we started walking toward the metro, he in a childish pout. I stopped to look at some guy who was busy having a rage of his own.
“Come on,” snapped Igor. “You wanted to go home, let’s go.”
“You want me to go? Let’s go,” I snapped in return. And without looking back, I started striding toward the metro. I arrived home, watched TV a little, and went to bed.
About 1 a.m. he showed up, storming and accusing. “You insulted me,” he said. “You went off and left me. A friend wouldn’t do that!”
“You spoiled little brat,” I replied in English, of which he unfortunately understood not a word. “You insulted me, and you’ve insulted me for the last time.”
He slept in the couch in Anton’s old room.
The next morning my BP was 154 over something. Not good. We ignored each other until sometime in the afternoon, when he said, “Dane, we were both wrong. Let’s forget it happened and be friends.”
Okay.
So that evening, Saturday, we went back to VDNH to try to find the connecting computer cable. Finally found it. Now he was happy. We went to Pushkin Square and sat and talked while he drank canned screwdriver cocktails.
It was an unseasonably cold July 1st: rainy and strong winds with temps in the upper 30s, lower 40s. He said he would accompany me home, then he wanted to “gulyat” some more.
He came in sometime in the middle of the night and went to bed in the bathtub. When I went in to take a pee, he was passed out from the booze. His new iPod look-alike was still blasting in his ear. I played with his cock, worked it into a semi, and did a quick prostate cancer prevention on myself before going back to bed.
When I woke up again about 5, the water had drained from the tub, and he was shivering. What to do? Wake him up? Cover him with a blanket? Naah, I went in to work on the computer, and when I heard water running I relaxed. He would soon warm up in the hot water.
I was concentrating on the columns I am doing in preparation for my syndication, and was oblivious of the continued running of the water.
About 7 a.m. someone started pounding on the front door. On my way to open it, I saw the water pouring out from under the door of the bathroom. Oh, shit!
It was the kid who lives with his grandmother downstairs. Yes, the bathtub had overflowed and had flooded into her bathroom. I turned off the water and pulled away the plunger that Igor uses as a plug. I started shaking and slapping him. He woke up in a fury and began swearing at me – presumably still drunk. His shorts were on the floor, soaked, which made him even more furious. It was obviously my fault. He told me to fuck off and threw me the finger.
Unfortunately, I still don’t have rants down in Russian, so I ranted in English. “This is going to cost a lot of money, and you’re going to pay for it. You fucking idiot, look what you’ve done,” etc.
The grandmother showed up a few minutes later and I made Igor go down and view the damage. It was a chaotic, shrieking madhouse.
I checked my BP: It was frighteningly high at 184.
Again, the day passed with a cold frost separating me and Igor. Finally, that night, I had made up my mind. He was in the kitchen when I asked him to come back to the other bedroom and listen while Yegor translated:
“As you know, I had a mini-stroke a couple of weeks ago. The doctor said the most dangerous factor is blood pressure. This morning my blood pressure was 184. This is extremely dangerous. It could kill me.
“Yesterday it was 154. Both times it was because of you, and you were very drunk. This can’t go on. You can continue to live here under two conditions: 1) you quit drinking; 2) you treat me with respect.
Without hesitation, he replied: “Okay. You’re right, I was very drunk. I do respect you. I won’t drink any more.” He stood, looking very shook up and penitent, and put his arms around me. We hugged each other tightly and I kissed him. “I’m sorry,” he said.
He hasn’t had a drop. Well, that’s not exactly true. He’s emptied the bottle of white wine I had for cooking. But that’s minor. Not only that, he tried to quit smoking, but that lasted about as long as his iPod did!
We hardly said a word to each other all week. We hugged and kissed goodby and hello. And then silence. He didn’t seem to be angry. Maybe just nothing to talk about. He only slept on the bed with me once. The rest of the time it was in the armchair or in the spare bedroom.
Yesterday, Saturday, he loosened up. When he woke up about noon he came into the room where I was working on my computer. “Hi, honey,” he said cheerfully and leaned over for me to kiss him. I put my arm around his waist and hugged him. Alex came in the afternoon and the three of us went for a long “gulyat” around the city.
And last night – or this morning -- when he finally came to bed at 5 a.m., he lay down beside me. I put my arm around him and we slept in the spoons position the rest of the night.
But the trauma isn’t over. The plumbers have come. The local cop has come. The landlady has come, and we surveyed the neighbor’s damage. Unfortunately, water from our bathroom has been seeping into her bathroom for the last six months, for which I am not responsible. And the day after the flood, both the bathtub and the toilet overflowed for no obvious reason. Shit was floating on the floor!
For that, I am not responsible. When the plumbers came, they had -- without telling us -- unhooked the overflow tube from the bathtub, so when Yuri took a bath that evening and again let the water run for half an hour, he thought the excess was draining into the overflow pipe. Instead, it was pouring out on our floor and again into the downstairs neighbor’s bathroom.
Yuri’s an idiot, but that wasn’t his fault. Nor mine.
The landlady, Natasha, is going to get an estimate for repairing the pipes in our bathroom, and for repairing the babushka’s bathroom downstairs.
I feel very sorry for our neighbor. She’s a very nice lady. And her upstairs neighbors – we – have been driving her crazy. I feel a terrible sense of guilt.
Six months of water damage I’m not responsible for. But I am responsible for Igor’s flood, which left damage not only to her walls and ceiling, but to her floors and rugs as well. The rugs and the apartment stink of mildew.
Igor’s likely to prove to have been an expensive little toy, who was – is – certainly not worth it. But as long as he keeps his end of the bargain, I can’t in good conscience toss him out.
In the meantime, the “stylish guy” is no longer so stylish – or so arrogant and cocky. He’s broken a leaf off of his MJ pendant and hasn’t worn it since; his new 50-dollar iPod facsimile drowned in the bathtub. I haven’t seen his mobile phone, and when I asked him about it, he changed the subject. On our walk yesterday, he wore his sunglasses and his cap on sideways for the first time since the flood.
And Friday night came the icing on the cake. About 1 a.m. Yegor came in and woke me. “Yuri’s driving me crazy. I told him I didn’t want him sleeping in my room, and he started making wisecracks and offending me.”
He returned to his bedroom and then I heard the footsteps and shouting of grown men running down the hall. They were having a fist fight! Of all the juvenile, immature, kindergarten tricks I can think of, this takes the cake.
I told Yegor the next time he hits anybody in this apartment, his ass goes out. And I told Yuri that I allow him to live here because he’s honest, helps with the housework, and doesn’t cause me problems. “The next time you cause me problems, I’m throwing you out.”
And this morning, I realize what a stupid jerk I’ve been – am being!
While “Dane’s dormitory” started out three years ago as a group of guys who loved each other, lived together and cared for and helped each other -- “a bizarre 21st century gay Dickensian novel…, not knowing how we’re going to get written to the next chapter, much less how the book is going to end” (Chapt. 4) – it has since devolved into a free hotel for strangers who have no feelings for each other or for me, and are living here simply because it’s convenient and the price is right.
And I’m paying for it – financially and now emotionally.
They’ve all got to go!
Easier said than done. I can’t throw Igor out – yet -- because we’ve struck a bargain and he’s sticking to it.
I can’t throw Yegor out – yet -- because three years ago I promised him a place to live, and he has no place to go.
I can’t throw Yuri out – yet -- because he’s a homeless bum and has no other place to go.
There goes my god-damned compassion again getting in the way of common sense and self preservation. What if I died of a stroke? They’d sure as hell find some place to go.
In the meantime, I’m getting involved with Alex, a flake whose only claim to fame is a really great cock that loves to be sucked. We don’t even pretend love. This, too, can’t go on much longer. He’s kind and helpful, but he boring; he’s too flaky for words; while he talks glibly of having money, he’s constantly hitting me up for beer and cigarettes; he’s ingratiating and insincere.
He’s got to go too. He’ll be the easiest. “I don’t want to see you any more.”
The others will take some thought – and some time.
I did find myself on an island of sanity in the midst of all this madness. My beautiful fantasy Peter and I arranged to meet last Sunday afternoon at the “chocoladnitsa” around the corner, a sort of a coffee house that specializes in chocolate and tasty snacks.
He was as beautiful and charming as ever. He made me forget all about the chaos swirling around me and before we realized it, it was 4 p.m.
The main thing that came out of it is that he invited me to go swimming with him next weekend. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I will have to meet his parents, because they will drive us to the swimming hole.
I don’t do parents well. How can they not notice that I’m slobbering over their beloved son, in whom they are well pleased? But the prospect of getting to stare at his half naked body is worth the risk. That I’ll get to stare at his totally naked body is a bit much to hope for. I suspect his piska is a lot like Igor’s – petite and precious. Will I ever know?
In any case, it’s the only fantasy I’ve got right now. I can’t afford to lose it.
Somewhere in all this, I had a birthday – my 73rd. Not really the most memorable, given what I’m surrounded with at the moment – health concerns, uncaring people, possible financial cave-in and a dumb blond flake for a “boyfriend.”
I didn’t tell any of my apartment mates – Igor, Yegor, or Yuri -- and they had no choice but to ignore it. Had a lot of SMSs and e-mails from my students, family, and Russian friends, including a phone call from Sasha in New York. He and Basil remain my only really true Russian friends at the moment.
Birthdays are nice times to take assessment of your life – of where you are, where you’re headed. At the moment, I’d just as soon not, except to observe that the sheer joy and exuberance that has kept me floating from one day to the next for the past several years has gone out of my life. It’s time to do something.
Two birthday positives: I’m down two notches on my belt, and my blood pressure was 117/79.
Another glimmer of fantasy has just appeared on the horizon. I’ve registered on a gay meeting board here called facelink. I’ve had some expressions of interest, but all have been deadends. But Friday there appeared a new, handsome face on my screen. Dima, 19.
We exchanged a few comments. He said he spoke a little English, and I asked him if he’d like to practice his English.
“Yes, I would like to, and not only my English.”
So I suggested that we meet and get acquainted “and practice our….”
“Okay,” he wrote back, and gave me his mobile phone number.
I called him Sunday night. He had an interesting and friendly voice. We arranged a tentative meeting at 2:00 Monday, but he will call me first.
So I’ve at least got a live fantasy working. Wish me luck. :smile:
In the days before the G8 meeting next week in St. Peterburg, Putin seems bent on deflecting some of the criticism that is expected to come from the West by making disarming assurances in advance.
Last weekend, for instance, he sternly reminded leaders of the ruling United Russia party that dissident, opposing voices must be allowed to be heard.
“The political system should be balanced and stable,” he said reprovingly. “This means that those of our colleagues who might be in the opposition today should be provided with a forum to express their opinion. Only through debates and discussion is it possible to find the best way to develop the state, the country, and its economy.”
So when Western leaders charge that opposition voices are stifled on Russian TV, all Putin needs to do is point to this.
A few months ago it was announced that the Kremlin had hired some Western PR experts to try to create a better Russian image for the G8. This sounds suspiciously like one of their multi-million-dollar “let’s-run-it-up-the-flagpole-and-see-who-salutes-it” ideas.
But the weakness of good PR is that if the PR isn’t backed by facts, then it is embarrassedly exposed as just that: Good PR. And it’s no longer so good.
Just one day before Putin ordered more coverage for the opposition, the Financial Times Deutschland reported that he is warning other G8 members that if they take part in an opposition summit just days before the G8 meeting aimed at embarrassing him by presenting the true face of Russia, “we will view this as an unfriendly gesture.”
“A Different Russia,” is being organized by former world chess champion Garry Kasparov and former Kremlin economic advisor Andrei Illarionov to draw world attention to the undeniable tightening of autocratic reins under Putin. According to the Moscow Times, they plan to focus on such obvious scandals as political prisoners, corruption, xenophobia, and poverty.
A balanced hearing for opposition voices, indeed!
Another piece of window dressing was Putin’s promise to a gathering of non-governmental organizations (NGOs) that the draconian law he shepherded through the legislative process bringing critical civic service organizations under strict Kremlin control (Chapt. 176) would not be unfairly applied.
“This law was meant to create order in this sphere,” he soothed, “not to stiffen” the regulations controlling it.
“If we find there is, in fact, a stiffening of the regulations, I myself am ready to act to initiate changes, including those you recommend.”
Yeah, uh-huh.
Apparently that was also the reaction of the NGOs, because the next day a group of them held their own meeting and voted to ask the G8 to address what they termed the rampant abuses of civil rights in Russia –hazing of army recruits, inhuman penitentiary abuse, corrupt law enforcement, manipulation of the courts, etc.
At the same time the head of Amnesty International, Irene Khan, has asked Putin to use the G8 forum to press for human rights, not only in his own country, but in every G8 nation -- in particular, in America over its civil rights abuses in Guantanamo, Al Ghraib, and other “war on terror” venues.
Khan said that Putin had agreed to specifically raise with Bush the issue of detention without trial – a la Guantanamo – and the use of “rendition” – flying suspects to foreign nations for torture where U.S. law does not apply.
Five separate stabbings of dark-skinned Russians over the past weekends are being investigated as hate crimes instead of “hooliganism,” as the police first reported them.
Four Armenians and one Azeri were stabbed. Armenians have been a particular target of skinheads and other racists. One Armenian teenager was killed in a metro stabbing attack over the Easter weekend (Chapt. 198).
Anton, a dark-skinned native of Vladikavkaz, capital of Northern Ossetia, will use these hate killings – as well as social persecution of gays – to seek political asylum in the Western country where he is now studying English. I’m skeptical that it will work, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
In the 1963 Alfred Hitchcock thriller “The Birds,” the moviegoer watches in horror as a flock of seagulls attacks a California town and later ravages the society queen played by Tippi Hedren. It was frightening even for Hedren, who described the seven days it took to shoot the relentless bedroom onslaught as “the worst week of my life.”
Birds banding together as gangs to intimidate, harass, and kill humans? We vented the horror by reassuring ourselves that it couldn’t really happen!
But in Lake Shuya in the Karelia region northwest of St. Peterburg last Sunday, a 26-year-old Russian swimmer drowned when a flock of seagulls swooped down without warning and attacked him. Experts conjecture that he was probably swimming too near a nest. No doubt a consolation to his survivors.
My stern health lecture from Hong Kong Harry finally came in an e-mail this week: He ordered me to get diagnostic tests in Finland, the UK or the U.S., where they have trained and competent cardiovascular specialists.
“You have generally been too lax regarding your health, and I am fearful you are still too lax, perhaps because you don't want to spend the money necessary. Again, your health is more important. I don't want to pursue this much more, but really you need to take care of yourself, and I don't think you are enough.
“Getting your medical problem properly dealt with will give you peace of mind, which should keep your BP down.”
Yes, Mother. Soon
Marriage? To a Russian woman? To circumvent the bureaucracy, like Gerard Depardieu in the movie, “Green Card?”
The subject came up at lunch Friday with my former Russian teacher, who has over the past seven years become a close friend. For the last four, she has been teaching Russian language, literature, and culture in small northeastern U.S. colleges. She is here to renew her American visa – for the last time.
It seems the U.S. won’t renew visas to work in America for a total of more than six years unless your job is permanent. Her appointments are always temporary – one or two years. She’s seen a couple of lawyers. The only solution? “Marry an American.”
She didn’t suggest it, I did. It would give her American citizenship at no apparent cost or hardship to me. She’s a good, kind, generous, understanding and compassionate woman. She knows I’m gay and would make no stupid demands. She has met my best American friends Marco and Bruce.
She owns a Moscow apartment. I have nothing to offer her but citizenship. On the other hand, I’ve heard that many Russian women are willing to pay $ 5,000-$ 10,000 for such an arrangement. Essentially they are buying citizenship.
But before I did anything so rash and impetuous, I would need to look long and hard at the legal ramifications. We parted agreeing to “think about it,” but even considering it is so bizarre and off-the-wall that it makes me question my own sanity!
Again!
