I'm going to preface this by saying I typed this up two weeks ago so a lot more has happened since then (Russian jail anyone???), but I'll update that later. I haven't got much access to the internet since I'm now in Siberia. Enjoy....
Well my droogs, I don’t even know where to begin. Remember in the first post when I said I was going to keep the whining to a minimum because it’s annoying? What I forgot was that I was going to Russia, the land of suffering. If I am able to find a lot to whine about in the United States, I certainly have a lot to whine about here. In the back of my mind I jokingly thought I would come here a bit to suffer and better myself, and suffer I have. Thanks Dostoevsky. Better myself? Well, probably not. In other news, my blog has garnered one more follower! (Thanks Kitten) The following post is pretty disjointed, and probably will omit quite a bit of stuff that I’ve done or that’s happened, because frankly it was a blur and I’m struggling to remember it. I’m not sure why, I wasn’t even drinking!
When we last left off, I had just moved into a million dollar apartment, and things were looking up. Well, at least for a bit. Now that I had a home base, a computer, and the proper converter, I could begin to explore the city a bit. This post starts on Friday by the way. My first order of business was to get to the mother fucking zoo while there was good weather because a) I love zoos, and b) I didn’t get to go last time. The Moscow zoo is certainly much better than the other zoos I’d been to in Russia. This one had real habitats for the animals, whereas in Siberia the animals are stuffed into what look like KGB prison cells. The zoo had the standard “don’t feed the animals” policy, but this was Russia, so no one paid attention to that. Because the animals were much more accessible, they would come over to you when you had food. I got to pet a giraffe because some lady was feeding it. They also had a dolphin show complete with a seal and some sort of white whale. Coool.
Later, Jim invited me out to a bar to meet a few of his friends. In my mind I envisioned a nice quiet night getting to know a few of Jim’s friends over a beer or two. I was wrong. The bar turned out to be more of a night club, and his few friends were a group of old, loud, rich, obnoxious American businessmen. For someone who likes to keep his foreign-ness as low key as possible, a group of loud Americans wasn’t helpful. I’m not sure how many of them spoke Russian, but they invited along one or two English speaking women who, as I was told, were specifically looking to meet foreign men. At first everything seemed fine, but then the group moved into another room and began trying to pick up girls who were too young to be their daughters. I was disgusted by that, but I was probably even more disgusted by the amount of 20 year olds who were willing to whore themselves out to these fat old men. Money is everything I guess.
I sat by myself as much as I could, and I felt pretty stupid. It was like an 8th grade dance all over again, where the awkward kids stand against the wall and watch everyone else have fun. I noticed one girl keep looking at me and smiling, so I thought that was a good sign. I decided I should try to make a friend since I knew no one in the town. I don’t even smoke really, but I figured asking her for a cigarette might be a good way to get to talk to her more. When there was a break in the music, I walked over and asked her. She rolled her eyes at me, pulled out her pack and showed me she only had two left. I declined and asked her name. She told me it wasn’t important and to go away. Ouch….
So there I sat, while Jim had his arm around some floosy. I forget the precise reason, but I couldn’t leave by myself because of some sort of key issue, so I had to wait until whenever Jim wanted to leave. He was getting progressively more drunk, and kept disappearing. At 2:30am I decided I’d had enough, and we’d been there for 5 hours. I went to find Jim, who told me he was thinking of leaving. This was good to hear. He told me he was going to go to the bathroom, and to have a seat and help the girl he’d been speaking to practice her English. No thanks, but I sat down anyways. I was really tired, and she was really drunk and honestly I had no respect for someone like her, so trying to find something to talk about was difficult. She ended up telling me how her dream was to go to the Sochi Olympics, but it was such a corrupt system that she decided to learn to speak English so she could make connections with rich businessmen. Jim returned to the table and I got up to give him his seat back, and he forcibly pushed me back down and told me to keep talking to the girl. Ok….
We talked a bit longer, and then finally it was time to go. Jim was really drunk and every five seconds would interrupt me to tell me how much he hated traffic. Finally we got a cab, which he insisted I should pay for. I’m not sure why. He’s a millionaire and this was all his idea, but whatever.
The next day (Saturday) I had planned to go see the Novidevichy Cemetery again to visit various graves, since now I knew who some of them were. I also decided to go see Bulgakov’s apartment, and to visit Patriarch’s Ponds, which is the opening setting for “The Master and Margarita,” one of my new favourite books. Jim woke up with a hangover and kept repeating how he wasn’t used to going out and drinking like that. I believed him. We had planned to at some point on Sunday to pick up his car and go for a drive around the city, but Jim insisted we do it that day instead. I told him about my plans in an attempt to not go for a drive that day, but he said he’d take me to the cemetery and the ponds. I guess it was better than the metro. He told me to let him eat some breakfast and then we’d go. He instead did a lot of other things (like yoga), then decided to eat breakfast, then take a shower, then take a nap. At every interval in between these activities, he kept telling me that we’d leave in about 15 minutes. I knew I wasn’t going to see the ponds or the cemetery, and that the day was pretty much wasted. Finally, at 4pm we got the car, and Jim didn’t feel too well, so rather than drive around, Jim decided we were going to a movie. I don’t really like going to movies because they’re expensive and I don’t have the attention span for them, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter.
We arrived at some posh movie theater and went to purchase our tickets (Jim had decided on the movie Ghost Writer). I pulled out my money to buy my ticket, but Jim kind of shoved me aside and asked for two tickets for the movie. I think he either forgot or ignored the fact that I spoke Russian. I tried to hand him my money but he didn’t seem to take it, so I thought that was at least nice of him to buy me a ticket to the movie he had kidnapped me to see. The movie wasn’t too bad, and after that we went home. I don’t remember if I did anything that night, probably not. I might have walked around town.
The next day Jim invited me to go to church and then to lunch to meet with a girl who was there on a Fulbright and wanted to talk to him about going into journalism. I decided to skip the church part but I went along with him because I was interested in meeting someone my own age who may or may not want to hang out with me. I wandered around town while Jim was in church, but got dragged into the church afterwards to meet the congregation and hang around while Jim shopped around at the church bookstore. The Fulbright girl, Joy, met us outside, and we headed to lunch with her and another church goer, who actually turned out to be quite helpful. While Jim regaled Joy with tales of journalism, our other lunch buddy set me up with a connection in Surgut, Siberia, who might be interested in talking to me about teaching English. That was nice at least. Jim also took this opportunity to remind me that apparently I owed him money from the movie. That was kind of bullshit I thought.
I decided to skip the Reuter’s press dinner that they were going to because I wanted to be alone, and journalists are boring. I also wanted to take a shower because Jim was having a guest over for dinner and I didn’t want to look like a hobo (hadn’t shaved in a while). As soon as I got to the apartment, Jim called to ask me to go get some lettuce and a tomato so he could make a salad for the dinner. That sounded like a shitty salad to me, but I set off across the street on my errand. The dinner guest turned out to be a fairly important journalist who now was the PR manager for two of Russia’s wealthiest men. It was interesting to hear her talk because as a journalist and PR manager, she had got to meet some pretty interesting and important figures. For instance, she had interview Vladimir Putin on two occasions, and on one of them was the first person he did a television interview with in over a year. Or so she said. I don’t feel like fact checking. While I was trying to ask her about what it was like interviewing figures such as Putin, Jim would continuously interrupt with something stupid. Our dinner guest left when Jim started to try to get her opinion on where he should hang some paintings he had bought.
On Monday, I had a nice day to myself. Jim was at work, and I finally got to go see the ponds and the Bulgakov apartment museum. It was cool to get to see some of the settings in which the novel took place, although the adjacent museum at apartment number 50 was closed on Mondays. For those of you who haven’t read the book, apartment 50 was where much of the action in the book took place. I sat at the ponds, drank some juice, and hung out. Later that night Jim put me in touch with an acquaintance of his who taught English at a fairly nice school in town. She told me the administrators would be interested in meeting me on Tuesday. This was welcome news because I hadn’t gotten a chance to contact any language schools and look for a job, which was the entire reason I came to this country in the first place. I was to meet her at 3:00 at a metro stop, and she’d take me to the school. Later that night Jim asked me if I could be at the apartment at 6pm on Tuesday to let in the woman who was bringing over the food for his Yale dinner party the next night. I said no problem, all I had going on the next day was that meeting at 3, which I didn’t think would take a long time.
Tuesday is where everything started to go really, really wrong. I got up and put on my finest clothes, because I was going to need them to impress this school, since I had no teaching certificate and planned on lying my ass off about my teaching experience (I have zero). A co-worker of mine used to always tell an anecdote about how when Benjamin Franklin started his first business, he had no idea what he was doing, but because he dressed well and charged the most of anyone in town, people assumed he was the best. I decided to go this route. Before leaving for work, Jim informed me that the woman I’d be helping into the apartment was the daughter of an Oligarch, and that her father was one of the top ten richest men in Russia. Oh. Fuck. He reassured me that she was really down to earth. I looked her up online after he left and saw that she was worth *gulp* five billion dollars. Not rubles, USD’s.
Anyways, I trodded off to the metro, and waited to meet my contact at Pushkinskaya station. Jim had told me to look for a fat blonde lady who looked “typically British.” Luckily, I had told her exactly what I would be wearing, because she was neither fat, nor blonde, and I don’t know what a typically British person looks like. She found me at 3, and we were off to the school. What no one had told me was that this school was located way far outside of the actual city. The metro ride was 45 minutes, and we had to take a bus from the station to the school. We didn’t arrive until slightly before 4, and I started to get nervous because I needed to back absolutely no later than 6 to let this very important visitor into the apartment.
The interview went pretty well in my opinion. Jim is certainly very well connected, and I was grateful for this sort of opportunity. They seemed somewhat impressed by my lies and told me I should come back on Thursday and teach part of a class, and if they thought I did well, they would hire me and give me some training before shoving me into a class by myself. I looked at my watch and was still a bit nervous, but I was making decent enough time. They made me some copies of the lesson I was supposed to teach, and then took some scans of my passport. I was now trying to leave, but they kept talking to me, and I didn’t want to be rude to someone about to give me a job, but at the same time, I needed to be out of there and to the apartment by 6. Perhaps you can see where this is going.
I finally got out of the school, and was greeted by freezing rain. I boarded the bus to the metro, but I soon discovered that they had put me on a different bus that we had used to arrive. Instead, this bus went all over the town before arriving at the metro station, and this was peak traffic hour. I was fucked. My sole duty was to get to the apartment and let in this woman, and if I didn’t do this, she would be left out in the freezing rain (I wasn’t thinking of the fact she had a driver at this point). I don’t know if any of you have ever had the misfortune to think that you were going to be leaving someone worth 5 billion dollars out in the rain, but it’s not a good feeling. When we at last got to the metro station I tried to call Jim to ask him if he could call Irina and tell her I’d be slightly late. My phone of course wasn’t working correctly, but through the static I could hear Jim yelling and swearing at me on the other end. I realized then that I didn’t have any more rides left on my card, and I couldn’t jump the turnstile because this station had a policeman. I looked at the line to the card counter, and because it was rush hour, the line was out the door. I tried to bribe the guard to let me through, but she turned it down. What is this, Russia? I was toast. While contemplating jumping the turnstile and making a mad dash for it, a kid must have seen the amount of anguish I was in, and swiped me through. I was ever so grateful for this, because now I actually had a slight chance of making it.
I ran down the escalator, got on my train, and waited. I had one line transfer, and I ran through that station as fast as I could. When I got to my final station, I ran up the escalator and out the doors. It was pouring. I called Jim to tell him not to worry and that I’d be there in time, which was a lie. He said he was already at the apartment with Irina and her bodyguard, but he needed me to hurry up because her body guard was leaving and she wasn’t supposed to be left alone, but he needed to go back to the office. I set off running through the pouring rain. On my run I discovered that I was in worse shape than I had thought, and that it’s hard to run in Russia because the air is basically like smoking a cigarette, at least by this particular station.
I arrived at the apartment soaking wet, and the body guard looked at me and asked if I had the key, to which I responded I did. He took another look at me and then left. I was now the sole protector of the daughter of an Oligarch. A five billion dollar daughter. I asked her what I could to do help her set up, and she took one look at me and told me I should change so I didn’t get sick. I took her advice. Irina turned out to be super nice, and one of the only people at the Yale dinner party who wasn’t arrogant and snobby, despite the fact that she was by far the wealthiest. The party at first sucked, but later turned out to be pretty cool once some Russians arrived. The Russians were all down to earth and were a welcome change from the snobby Americans. I had a pretty good time talking to a few out on the 11th floor fire escape. One was in a band and we had a good conversation about music production and he played me some stuff his band was recording for their 3rd album. Musically we shared a lot in common, which I thought was strange considering I really dislike Russian music. His stuff was actually really cool. I’m supposed to contact him and he’s going to send it to me, so I’ll let you guys know when he does so you can take a listen. Throughout the evening I did of course make a fool of myself in front of Irina, in case you were all wondering. Apparently my bad luck and awkwardness transcend international boundaries.
Wednesday was pretty uneventful, other than the fact that I had to transfer back to a hostel since Jim’s other guest had come back. His guest was a journalist and general wiener. I gave him the keys and gate pass, and then he informed me he was leaving in five minutes. That would be fine, except I wasn’t leaving in five minutes, and I needed a key to lock the front door, and he wouldn’t be back until 10, and neither would Jim. The key fiasco isn’t worth going into, but we got it resolved, and after doing some laundry, I left for the hostel. This time I just took a cab because it wasn’t worth it to me to have another experience like last time.
Luckily, I had found a slightly better and cheaper hostel to stay at, so that was at least an improvement. I carried my stuff up the stairs, and the receptionist showed me to my room. She explained to me that there was a big group of girls here for a cosmetics conference, and that I would be in a room with all girls. I thought this was a good deal, the girls…did not. They threw an absolute fit actually. I expected typical Russian service, but the receptionist actually turned out to be really nice and basically told the girls that they had signed up for the dorm rooms and if they wanted their own private room, they could pay more. The girls were at least nice enough to, in mid argument, turn and tell me that they had nothing against me specifically, they just didn’t want to have a male in a room with 5 other girls. I completely understood, but still felt kinda bad. No matter what room they put me in, I’d be the only male, so I didn’t know how the girls in my new room would react once they returned….
My new roommates were three women from the Irkutsk region of Russia. For those unfamiliar, the inhabitants are largely of Asian descent, and Russian is their second language. The first question they asked me was if I had a wife, and seemed quite pleased when I said no. They were a bit disappointed to find out that I was quite a bit younger than them though. They were also here for the beauty conference, and informed me that they needed to wake up at 6am. I was hoping they’d be quiet and polite when they woke up, but as with everything, I was wrong. At 6am their radio alarm clocks went off, they bounded out of bed, threw on all the lights and began doing their hair and makeup. The room was sweltering hot, and there was no way I could fall back asleep. Besides, the rest of the floor was doing the exact same thing. I thought at least I wouldn’t sleep past my teaching audition.
Once they had left, I rolled out of bed and took a shower, and shaved. I went to look for the laundry facilities because I wanted to wash my nice clothes so I could look presentable teaching. Laundry facilities didn’t exist, so I had to throw together some sort of other acceptable outfit. My other acceptable outfit still smelled like cigars from the Yale party, but it’d have to do. I decided to leave myself plenty of time to get to the school because I have a pension for being late, and the night before I’d had a bad dream that I never got to the school…..foreshadowing I guess. I needed to be there at 4:30, and I knew it was a 45 minute metro ride and a 10-15 minute bus ride, so I left at 2:00 to leave myself an hour and a half worth of padding.
I got on the metro, and rode it to the proper station, and got off in search of my bus. The buses were parked in a line with number placards, and I looked for the one I took home the other day, but didn’t see it. I figured it would come. A man was saying something about if you’re looking for number 268 (my bus), to just get on his instead. I didn’t completely understand, so I decided to wait to see if 268 would arrive. While waiting, I thought I saw a teacher from the school get on a bus, but I wasn’t completely sure if it was her, so I didn’t board it. I had no idea where the hell these buses went, as I was completely unfamiliar with Moscow’s outskirts. After waiting a few more minutes, 268 arrived and everything was on track. All I had to do was get there, have the kid’s read a few paragraphs, ask them some comprehension questions, and I’d be on my way to having a job.
It might be worth taking a second to interrupt and mention that in a strange way, I didn’t want this job. My stay in Moscow had not been that great so far, and I didn’t know anyone. I had arrived with the intention of finding a good paying job in in Moscow, and I had found what I was looking for, but now I didn’t anything to do with it. Honestly, I would have rather taken a lower paying job in Siberia where I had friends, or in Petrazovodsk with my friend Dustin. But this was certainly a good way to stay in the country, and maybe in the future I could go to Siberia or I would make friends in Moscow and have a good time. The location didn’t matter to me as much as the people did. Though to be fair, the Muscovites are a somewhat unfriendly lot.
Anyways, there I was on bus 268, headed towards my destination. I saw the stop I thought I should get off at, and exited. I looked for the path I had taken to the school, and realized I didn’t see it. I walked around for a bit, and didn’t find the school. I had gotten off at the wrong stop. In my stupidity, I hadn’t asked my contact at the school for the name of the bus stop. I still had an hour to get there, so I boarded the bus again, and got off at a stop that I was sure was correct. It wasn’t. I began to panic, but I had time. Another bus stop, another failure. I began getting off anywhere that even slightly looked like it might have a school. What I hadn’t realized was that perhaps the bus we had ridden to arrive at the school wasn’t the same bus we had taken home. I had no phone, and no one knew where the school was located.Russian buses often change numbers on return routes, so it might have approached from a different direction and I just hadn’t recognized it. It didn’t help that cookie cutter Soviet apartment buildings all looked the same. I was doomed. I never ended up finding the school, and after hours of searching, I was discouraged and ashamed. I had blown my best shot for employment by poor planning. I’m not sure what I did in a past life to deserve all the bad luck I’ve had throughout this one, but I’m guessing it was something pretty bad. Like I said, suffer I shall.
On the metro ride back there were two (homeless?) men who had been beaten to within an inch of their lives past out in my car. Their faces were barely recognizable. I felt sick to my stomach. Not because of the sight of two bloody and bruised men, but because I had witnessed so much cruelty already in this city. Moscow really takes its toll on people, and you can see it in their scowling faces. Jim’s house keeper had explained that to me the day before, and now I saw it. People get ground down day in and day out here. I’d seen fights in the metro stations, homeless people missing almost every limb begging for coins on the ground, and going to work here often involves being crammed into a sardine can with people who smell like garlic. I like Moscow, but if you don’t have a lot of money, living here is tough, and was frankly something I don’t want to do right now. Perhaps it’s for the best that I didn’t find that school, but thinking like that isn’t a good idea. I emailed my contact there to let her know how sorry and ashamed I was, and she seemed to think they might give me another chance, although I’m not sure I believe that. I blew it.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Arrival, part 1
My Dear Readers,
What an adventure I’ve been having. Where to begin, where to begin. I didn’t have the 90 travel time that my friend Dustin had due to flight delays, but I would have gladly traded my experience for his, since he had someone to meet him at the airport and an apartment to crash in. When I last wrote, I was about to board the plane in Atlanta to fly to Moscow, so let’s start there, shall we.
I boarded the plane anxious to see who I’d have the pleasure of sitting next to for the next 13 hours. When I arrived at my seat in 36D, there was no one there. My hopes were that the seat next to mine would remain unoccupied. No such luck. The captain announced that today was a sold out flight, and soon an elderly lady took up residence in the seat next to me. We didn’t talk until later in the flight, at which point I found out she had had brain surgery and had trouble speaking even in Russian, her native language. The brain surgery certainly explained her pacing up and down the aisles and the blank stare on her face. Last year I had sat next to a portly Russian man who worked at the embassy, who had imparted some advice to me as to how to avoid jet lag. His advice was to drink until you pass out and then when you wake up you’re in Moscow. It worked last time, but this time was different unfortunately. The food and beverage service was very slow, so it was impossible to get enough booze in my system to fall asleep. When I did manage to get good and tired, I shut my eyes and almost fell asleep, but the two men in front of me would not shut up. They were the only ones on the plane talking, and in a moment of anger and bad judgement, I accidentally shushed them. They turned around and glared at me. I realized I would need to not make those same sorts of mistakes in Moscow, as they could turn out poorly.
One of the men I shushed spent a good deal of time standing up and talking to the girls he was traveling with, all the while staring me down, or so I thought. I was fairly certain that when I stepped off the plane, I was going to be beaten into a bloody pulp. After finishing his conversation he came up and approached me. Uh oh. Luckily, he actually just wanted to make conversation with someone and turned out to be quite friendly. He was a gymnast who had lived in the US for 16 years and was more than willing to help me practice my Russian and correct some mistakes. The experience reminded me that perhaps I should be less of an asshole.
I had tried to keep a low profile as an American the entire flight, but when we landed I was herded into the custom line for foreigners with the other Americans. Behind me was one of those organized mail order bride tour groups. A man sporting a beer gut, mustache, and a fishing shirt kept asking me for advice in a slow drawl. He told me he was in Russia to meet “a lady.” I wondered how much he had payed to correspond with her, and what his “lady” looked like. I felt pretty sorry for the women that were desperate enough to leave their lives behind to marry a man who knows nothing of their language or culture.
After customs it was off to buy my tickets for the Aeroexpress. I decided to go this route rather than pay $45 for a cab. In hind sight, that $45 might have been well worth it. But this is Russia, I had to suffer.
After purchasing my tickets, I waited for the train in a Starbucks, because they had free wifi. I ordered a parfait and a juice, but both for some reason tasted terrible so I discarded them. I had been purposely trying to avoid eating to minimize the chances of a bathroom emergency, but this was now coming back to haunt me. The nausea I discussed earlier was gnawing at me, so I found someone I felt I could trust and had them watch my bags while I went to the bathroom. I had forgotten about the condition of some Russian bathrooms, and was greeted by a terrible stench when I entered. Not much got accomplished in that bathroom.
After Starbucks, it was time to board the Aeroexpress. I took my seat and after a few minutes the train lurched forward and we began our journey. I looked out the window, and that’s when the lack of food and sleep began to first get to me. I had not slept in about 24 hours, and things in the window began to blur every once in a while, and in general it seemed like a bad acid trip. I felt like I was going to throw up. Luckily, the train stopped right before I was about to do that.
Next was going to be the hard part of my journey to the hostel: navigating the metro with 85 lbs of luggage (did I mention I overpacked?). Other than feeling stupid, and lugging around a heavy bag, the metro went fairly smoothly. I had done this before with two bags, so one wasn’t quite so bad. Also, it’s hard to get lost in the metro seeing as how it is a contained space and has definite stops and a map. When I got off of the metro, well, that’s different.
What an adventure I’ve been having. Where to begin, where to begin. I didn’t have the 90 travel time that my friend Dustin had due to flight delays, but I would have gladly traded my experience for his, since he had someone to meet him at the airport and an apartment to crash in. When I last wrote, I was about to board the plane in Atlanta to fly to Moscow, so let’s start there, shall we.
I boarded the plane anxious to see who I’d have the pleasure of sitting next to for the next 13 hours. When I arrived at my seat in 36D, there was no one there. My hopes were that the seat next to mine would remain unoccupied. No such luck. The captain announced that today was a sold out flight, and soon an elderly lady took up residence in the seat next to me. We didn’t talk until later in the flight, at which point I found out she had had brain surgery and had trouble speaking even in Russian, her native language. The brain surgery certainly explained her pacing up and down the aisles and the blank stare on her face. Last year I had sat next to a portly Russian man who worked at the embassy, who had imparted some advice to me as to how to avoid jet lag. His advice was to drink until you pass out and then when you wake up you’re in Moscow. It worked last time, but this time was different unfortunately. The food and beverage service was very slow, so it was impossible to get enough booze in my system to fall asleep. When I did manage to get good and tired, I shut my eyes and almost fell asleep, but the two men in front of me would not shut up. They were the only ones on the plane talking, and in a moment of anger and bad judgement, I accidentally shushed them. They turned around and glared at me. I realized I would need to not make those same sorts of mistakes in Moscow, as they could turn out poorly.
One of the men I shushed spent a good deal of time standing up and talking to the girls he was traveling with, all the while staring me down, or so I thought. I was fairly certain that when I stepped off the plane, I was going to be beaten into a bloody pulp. After finishing his conversation he came up and approached me. Uh oh. Luckily, he actually just wanted to make conversation with someone and turned out to be quite friendly. He was a gymnast who had lived in the US for 16 years and was more than willing to help me practice my Russian and correct some mistakes. The experience reminded me that perhaps I should be less of an asshole.
I had tried to keep a low profile as an American the entire flight, but when we landed I was herded into the custom line for foreigners with the other Americans. Behind me was one of those organized mail order bride tour groups. A man sporting a beer gut, mustache, and a fishing shirt kept asking me for advice in a slow drawl. He told me he was in Russia to meet “a lady.” I wondered how much he had payed to correspond with her, and what his “lady” looked like. I felt pretty sorry for the women that were desperate enough to leave their lives behind to marry a man who knows nothing of their language or culture.
After customs it was off to buy my tickets for the Aeroexpress. I decided to go this route rather than pay $45 for a cab. In hind sight, that $45 might have been well worth it. But this is Russia, I had to suffer.
After purchasing my tickets, I waited for the train in a Starbucks, because they had free wifi. I ordered a parfait and a juice, but both for some reason tasted terrible so I discarded them. I had been purposely trying to avoid eating to minimize the chances of a bathroom emergency, but this was now coming back to haunt me. The nausea I discussed earlier was gnawing at me, so I found someone I felt I could trust and had them watch my bags while I went to the bathroom. I had forgotten about the condition of some Russian bathrooms, and was greeted by a terrible stench when I entered. Not much got accomplished in that bathroom.
After Starbucks, it was time to board the Aeroexpress. I took my seat and after a few minutes the train lurched forward and we began our journey. I looked out the window, and that’s when the lack of food and sleep began to first get to me. I had not slept in about 24 hours, and things in the window began to blur every once in a while, and in general it seemed like a bad acid trip. I felt like I was going to throw up. Luckily, the train stopped right before I was about to do that.
Next was going to be the hard part of my journey to the hostel: navigating the metro with 85 lbs of luggage (did I mention I overpacked?). Other than feeling stupid, and lugging around a heavy bag, the metro went fairly smoothly. I had done this before with two bags, so one wasn’t quite so bad. Also, it’s hard to get lost in the metro seeing as how it is a contained space and has definite stops and a map. When I got off of the metro, well, that’s different.
Arrival, part 2
The hostel had put directions from the Kitai Gorod station on their website, but they didn’t seem to match up with the street exits you could access from the metro. I emerged from the underground and tried to find my first landmark, but was not successful. Every once in a while I would stop and ask someone for help, but not a lot of people seemed interested in helping. Sometimes I would get pointed in a direction (often the wrong one), but most people said they didn’t know where I was going. It didn’t help that the street had a fairly long name and I had written it down poorly. After about an hour I stopped and was going to hail a cab, but I didn’t see any. My throat was so dry that because of my heavy breathing, I almost threw up. I tried once more to ask someone, and luckily he was also a foreigner from Italy living in Moscow, so he understood my plight and helped me find the street. I found the address number of the hostel, but the address was for a restaurant and I walked back and forth up the street looking for the hostel but somehow didn’t see it. A car rolled down its tinted window and inside sat a typical Russian mafia man, watching some sort of monitor mounted to his dashboard. Oh great. He suggested I go up a different way, and having nothing to lose, I followed in the direction he pointed, and found the entrance to the hostel. After lugging my luggage up about 8 flights of stairs, I was safe and not so sound in the hostel.
The girl at the front desk was somewhat rude and showed me to my room. I was ever so pleased to find out that the bed I was going to be sleeping on came with free bloodstains. She said she’d give me my sheets later. I guess I wouldn’t be getting any rest at that moment. I needed to eat anyways, so after stuffing my bag in a locker, I strolled out in search of food. I had my heart set on buying a cheap shashlik, some Moya Semya juice, and having the meal of my life. I was unable to find either, and in hunger I settled for McDonalds. I was going to be sick no matter what I ate, at least I knew what to expect from McDonalds.
I ordered a Big Tasty and some chicken mcnuggets and then sat down. I got down a few mcnuggets before I began to feel really, really sick. I must have looked terrible because this young girl kept looking at me. I thought at first that possibly she was in love with me, but I realized she must have thought that I was going to pass out then and there. I then returned to my hostel to hop on my laptop to assure some people that I had arrived safely, but to my horror I discovered that I had forgotten to pack a US 3 prong to US 2 prong converter, and my power transformer only took two prong. Luckily the hostel had a public computer I was able to use.
After using the computer, I gave myself a little tour of the hostel. It was certainly not nearly as nice as others I had stayed in. It was quite dirty, the bathrooms smelled and swarmed with flies, and in general just wasn’t a friendly atmosphere, unless you like living in a bar. After that I decided I should probably switch hostels soon, but in the mean time I hopped on a metro and explored the city. My first stop was the Yelesevsky grocery store, which is in a mansion. I unfortunately was unable to find Moya Semya juice there, so I trudged on to Red Square, which I had been avoiding. After several failed calling attempts (Russian numbers are tricky), I finally got in contact with Benjy’s uncle. He explained to me that the next day (when I would be moving in with him), he would not be back until 8 pm, so I would have to try to get the people at the hostel to let me stay past the 12 o’clock checkout time.
After that it was back to the hostel, where I met a Russian from Siberia, who I then later went out exploring with. He was not a very enthusiastic explorer I must note. We returned to the hostel and I explained my situation to them, and they said I could leave my suitcase at the front desk, but if I stayed until 8 they’d have to charge me another day. Whatever. I got my sheets from the new and much friendlier desk girl, and went to bed. While I was falling asleep I realized I had not slept in about 40 hours. I was tired.
The next morning I awoke at 10am and was greeted by the sound of rain. I sluggishly got all of stuff together and attempted to pretty myself up in the claustrophobic bathroom. I discovered that some of the liquids (soaps) I had packed had began leaking, luckily I had put most of them in plastic bags in anticipation of such an event. I went to the front desk, checked out, put my valuables in my locker, grabbed my bag and headed out the door. I couldn’t stay in the hostel, but I couldn’t move into my new place until 8 or 9 at night, so I had a whole day to kill, and nowhere really to go. If I wanted to overdramatize things by quite a bit I could claim I was homeless for 8 or so hours, but that’s not exactly true.
The previous day while in Red Square, I checked the times the Lenin Mausoleum was open, so I hopped the train to Ploshad Revolutsii and got in the nonexistent line to see Lenin. I guess no one wants to see a dead man while it’s raining. I was glad to get to see Lenin at long last, but it seemed a little anticlimactic. Because of the fact that we didn’t get to see him last year, I had waiting over a year to see this man that had ruined so much for so many. I certainly don’t think he deserves the prominent position he has on Red Square. Having Lenin interred in state is roughly the equivalent of having the leaders of the Khmer Rouge or Kim Jong Il preserved for all to pay tribute to. Maybe not quite that, but you get the idea.
Because it was pouring and freezing, I often sought refuge in the metro stations. Sometimes I would just sit on the platforms for a half hour or so and watch people go by, and sometimes I would ride the trains just to ride them. I developed a game where I would pick the most interesting person and get on their train, and then get off where they got off. It was a good way to explore the city. I also stopped in as many supermarkets and alcohol stores as I could in search of my favourite vodka, and some Moya Semya juice. I found the vodka, but have still yet to find the juice. Guards by the way, do not like when you just browse in stores. I got followed around more than a few times.
After realizing I hadn’t eaten yet, I stopped in a restaurant around 2 or 3 and had lunch and was able to use a free bathroom. Woo! It was there that my phone died, which I wasn’t happy about because I needed to get in contact with Benjy’s uncle later and my charger and converter were at the hostel with my stuff. I walked around some more and hoped that maybe I would run into a group of American tourists I could latch onto and translate for in the hopes of wasting some more time or making friends/connections. As luck would have it, I ran into a group of girls from Stanford who were lost. I unfortunately couldn’t help them, and they didn’t seem interested in hanging out because they were late to meet their group, so we parted ways.
The girl at the front desk was somewhat rude and showed me to my room. I was ever so pleased to find out that the bed I was going to be sleeping on came with free bloodstains. She said she’d give me my sheets later. I guess I wouldn’t be getting any rest at that moment. I needed to eat anyways, so after stuffing my bag in a locker, I strolled out in search of food. I had my heart set on buying a cheap shashlik, some Moya Semya juice, and having the meal of my life. I was unable to find either, and in hunger I settled for McDonalds. I was going to be sick no matter what I ate, at least I knew what to expect from McDonalds.
I ordered a Big Tasty and some chicken mcnuggets and then sat down. I got down a few mcnuggets before I began to feel really, really sick. I must have looked terrible because this young girl kept looking at me. I thought at first that possibly she was in love with me, but I realized she must have thought that I was going to pass out then and there. I then returned to my hostel to hop on my laptop to assure some people that I had arrived safely, but to my horror I discovered that I had forgotten to pack a US 3 prong to US 2 prong converter, and my power transformer only took two prong. Luckily the hostel had a public computer I was able to use.
After using the computer, I gave myself a little tour of the hostel. It was certainly not nearly as nice as others I had stayed in. It was quite dirty, the bathrooms smelled and swarmed with flies, and in general just wasn’t a friendly atmosphere, unless you like living in a bar. After that I decided I should probably switch hostels soon, but in the mean time I hopped on a metro and explored the city. My first stop was the Yelesevsky grocery store, which is in a mansion. I unfortunately was unable to find Moya Semya juice there, so I trudged on to Red Square, which I had been avoiding. After several failed calling attempts (Russian numbers are tricky), I finally got in contact with Benjy’s uncle. He explained to me that the next day (when I would be moving in with him), he would not be back until 8 pm, so I would have to try to get the people at the hostel to let me stay past the 12 o’clock checkout time.
After that it was back to the hostel, where I met a Russian from Siberia, who I then later went out exploring with. He was not a very enthusiastic explorer I must note. We returned to the hostel and I explained my situation to them, and they said I could leave my suitcase at the front desk, but if I stayed until 8 they’d have to charge me another day. Whatever. I got my sheets from the new and much friendlier desk girl, and went to bed. While I was falling asleep I realized I had not slept in about 40 hours. I was tired.
The next morning I awoke at 10am and was greeted by the sound of rain. I sluggishly got all of stuff together and attempted to pretty myself up in the claustrophobic bathroom. I discovered that some of the liquids (soaps) I had packed had began leaking, luckily I had put most of them in plastic bags in anticipation of such an event. I went to the front desk, checked out, put my valuables in my locker, grabbed my bag and headed out the door. I couldn’t stay in the hostel, but I couldn’t move into my new place until 8 or 9 at night, so I had a whole day to kill, and nowhere really to go. If I wanted to overdramatize things by quite a bit I could claim I was homeless for 8 or so hours, but that’s not exactly true.
The previous day while in Red Square, I checked the times the Lenin Mausoleum was open, so I hopped the train to Ploshad Revolutsii and got in the nonexistent line to see Lenin. I guess no one wants to see a dead man while it’s raining. I was glad to get to see Lenin at long last, but it seemed a little anticlimactic. Because of the fact that we didn’t get to see him last year, I had waiting over a year to see this man that had ruined so much for so many. I certainly don’t think he deserves the prominent position he has on Red Square. Having Lenin interred in state is roughly the equivalent of having the leaders of the Khmer Rouge or Kim Jong Il preserved for all to pay tribute to. Maybe not quite that, but you get the idea.
Because it was pouring and freezing, I often sought refuge in the metro stations. Sometimes I would just sit on the platforms for a half hour or so and watch people go by, and sometimes I would ride the trains just to ride them. I developed a game where I would pick the most interesting person and get on their train, and then get off where they got off. It was a good way to explore the city. I also stopped in as many supermarkets and alcohol stores as I could in search of my favourite vodka, and some Moya Semya juice. I found the vodka, but have still yet to find the juice. Guards by the way, do not like when you just browse in stores. I got followed around more than a few times.
After realizing I hadn’t eaten yet, I stopped in a restaurant around 2 or 3 and had lunch and was able to use a free bathroom. Woo! It was there that my phone died, which I wasn’t happy about because I needed to get in contact with Benjy’s uncle later and my charger and converter were at the hostel with my stuff. I walked around some more and hoped that maybe I would run into a group of American tourists I could latch onto and translate for in the hopes of wasting some more time or making friends/connections. As luck would have it, I ran into a group of girls from Stanford who were lost. I unfortunately couldn’t help them, and they didn’t seem interested in hanging out because they were late to meet their group, so we parted ways.
Arrival, part 3
After a few more hours of wandering around in the cold, I headed back to the hostel and was able to charge my phone and get ahold of Benjy’s uncle. By now he seemed a bit annoyed about my phone situation and my general incompetence. He told me to meet him at a restaurant across from his apartment building in an hour and to use their phone. Ok. I wrote down his directions and hopped the train to his stop. I again was navigating with my 85 lbs of luggage, which was not fun. I got off at the stop he had told me to get off at, and looked for the street he had mentioned. This is where it of course got hard again. Streets in Russia are not always clearly marked, and sometimes a street with the distinction of a boulevard is just an unmarked alley. That happened to be the case this time, but I wouldn’t find that out until later.
I asked several people for directions, and as before, got either no help, or was pointed in the wrong direction. I was amazed at the amount of people who didn’t even know the name of the street we were on, even though they worked on it! I had been making good time but being lost took all of that away, and I certainly didn’t want to be late to meet Jim, as he had already gone out of his way to help me and did seem rather annoyed with me. I was getting more lost with every step, so I decided to hail a taxi because I knew that wherever I was, I was only a few blocks away from where I needed to be, I just didn’t have time to wander through every alley in search of the correct one. He had specifically told me not to get in a taxi because of a traffic jam he had been stuck in for two hours, but I was lost, and the streets looked pretty clear. I stuck out my arm and immediately a car hopped across a lane of traffic and pulled up alongside of me to ask me where I was going. In my haste I had completely forgotten that if you stick your arm out, you are not always going to get a real taxi, but instead a random person who wants to make a few bucks. Most people will tell you not to do this, and in the US this would probably be called hitch-hiking, but I didn’t have time to waste, so I got in. I told him where I was going and told him I’d give him 200rubles ($6.25) to take me where I was going. He put my stuff in the trunk and we were off!
The man had a GPS unit in his car, so I felt good about that, because that meant that we might actually get to where I needed to be, and that he probably did this often enough so I wasn’t in grave danger. I didn’t talk much to the man other than to get his name. I didn’t have much to say to him, and I wanted to minimize my obvious foreign-ness. The traffic had apparently cleared up, which made our trip quite quick, and in 5 minutes we reached are destination. I told him I’d give him another hundred rubles if I could use his phone, as Jim had told me not to use my American phone to call him because it could possibly charge him, and it was a waste of whoever was paying for the call (my parents).
Jim answered the phone after two rings and I told him I was there. He luckily was not there, which was good for me because I did not want him to see me getting out of a car, especially a strangers car, since he had told me not to take a taxi. Also, riding with strangers is stupid, and I needed him to have a good first impression of me. Jim told me to order him some soup and then dragged on about something or other, and I could tell the driver was getting impatient. After we were done talking, I gave the phone back and we unloaded my bags. I thanked him, and he drove off. Note to Benjy: Don’t tell your uncle about this.
I was now safely delivered to where I needed to be, and after slightly angering the wait staff by dragging in my suitcase, I sat down, ordered Jims soup, and then browsed the menu for myself. Jim showed up after about five minutes, and I realized I looked like complete shit compared to his business suit. I’m not sure what he thought of me. Later when I looked in the mirror, I saw the face of a dead man looking back at me. Or something of the sort. I also discovered that I had already worn a hole in a brand new pair of socks from walking around the city. I came to two conclusions: Either I needed to buy better socks (but they were Haines?), or not walk around a city for 9 hours in dress shoes.
I guess that brings me to the end of my arrival. I wrote entirely too much, so sorry for the bricks of text. I’m having a much better time, and Jim has a super nice apartment with a great view, so I’ve been living well. If ever I was going to pretend to be rich and hire a high class escort, this would be the time to do it, but luckily I’m not that kind of person. The complex is guarded by both people and a barbed-wire fence, so I’m pretty safe. I’ll update in a few days as to what sort of things I’ve been up to, but for now I’ve written more than my fair share.
I asked several people for directions, and as before, got either no help, or was pointed in the wrong direction. I was amazed at the amount of people who didn’t even know the name of the street we were on, even though they worked on it! I had been making good time but being lost took all of that away, and I certainly didn’t want to be late to meet Jim, as he had already gone out of his way to help me and did seem rather annoyed with me. I was getting more lost with every step, so I decided to hail a taxi because I knew that wherever I was, I was only a few blocks away from where I needed to be, I just didn’t have time to wander through every alley in search of the correct one. He had specifically told me not to get in a taxi because of a traffic jam he had been stuck in for two hours, but I was lost, and the streets looked pretty clear. I stuck out my arm and immediately a car hopped across a lane of traffic and pulled up alongside of me to ask me where I was going. In my haste I had completely forgotten that if you stick your arm out, you are not always going to get a real taxi, but instead a random person who wants to make a few bucks. Most people will tell you not to do this, and in the US this would probably be called hitch-hiking, but I didn’t have time to waste, so I got in. I told him where I was going and told him I’d give him 200rubles ($6.25) to take me where I was going. He put my stuff in the trunk and we were off!
The man had a GPS unit in his car, so I felt good about that, because that meant that we might actually get to where I needed to be, and that he probably did this often enough so I wasn’t in grave danger. I didn’t talk much to the man other than to get his name. I didn’t have much to say to him, and I wanted to minimize my obvious foreign-ness. The traffic had apparently cleared up, which made our trip quite quick, and in 5 minutes we reached are destination. I told him I’d give him another hundred rubles if I could use his phone, as Jim had told me not to use my American phone to call him because it could possibly charge him, and it was a waste of whoever was paying for the call (my parents).
Jim answered the phone after two rings and I told him I was there. He luckily was not there, which was good for me because I did not want him to see me getting out of a car, especially a strangers car, since he had told me not to take a taxi. Also, riding with strangers is stupid, and I needed him to have a good first impression of me. Jim told me to order him some soup and then dragged on about something or other, and I could tell the driver was getting impatient. After we were done talking, I gave the phone back and we unloaded my bags. I thanked him, and he drove off. Note to Benjy: Don’t tell your uncle about this.
I was now safely delivered to where I needed to be, and after slightly angering the wait staff by dragging in my suitcase, I sat down, ordered Jims soup, and then browsed the menu for myself. Jim showed up after about five minutes, and I realized I looked like complete shit compared to his business suit. I’m not sure what he thought of me. Later when I looked in the mirror, I saw the face of a dead man looking back at me. Or something of the sort. I also discovered that I had already worn a hole in a brand new pair of socks from walking around the city. I came to two conclusions: Either I needed to buy better socks (but they were Haines?), or not walk around a city for 9 hours in dress shoes.
I guess that brings me to the end of my arrival. I wrote entirely too much, so sorry for the bricks of text. I’m having a much better time, and Jim has a super nice apartment with a great view, so I’ve been living well. If ever I was going to pretend to be rich and hire a high class escort, this would be the time to do it, but luckily I’m not that kind of person. The complex is guarded by both people and a barbed-wire fence, so I’m pretty safe. I’ll update in a few days as to what sort of things I’ve been up to, but for now I’ve written more than my fair share.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Trepidation, Trepidation
I'm not nervous, I'm not nervous. Unsure? Yes. But mentally, I'm fine. However, my brain hasn't told the rest of my body that everything is ok. My palms are sweaty, my mouth is dry, and I no matter how much Immodium I cram into my system, I just can't shake the nausea that has been bothering me since yesterday. Perhaps it's due in part to the vitamin C that I've been taking in an attempt to ward off the inevitable cold that always seems to strike me down within days of my arrival whenever I fly. I attribute this completely to the perpetually sick old people who should be coated in Purell before being allowed to board. Or perhaps I should coat myself in Purell. I can't decide. But alas, I've digressed.
So here I sit, in concourse E of the Hotlanta (sorry) airport. Concourse E is the last concourse in the busiest airport in the US. To access it requires one to navigate through a maze of moving sidewalks, half finished hallways, escalators, and of course the worst: slow people. There was probably some sort of express train I have a feeling I missed....
From what I can tell so far, I am one of two Americans at my gate. The other being a man in his mid forties who is dressed in an outfit that screams "I'm an obnoxious idiot and possibly a pedophile." This ensemble consists of a pair of faux-croc Sketchers, paired beautifully with an oversized coat that looks like it was patched together from cured human skin, interspersed with patches of fox fur. At present our hero is trying to convince a beautiful young Russian girl and her mother that the former would be perfect for the circus, or ice skating. He is also regaling her with tales of a model he discovered who could put her leg behind her head. He is posed with one leg on a chair so that his package is perfectly placed directly in front of this poor girl's head.
It is rather strange to be going through the same procedures and walking the same hallways as I did when I first flew to Russia a year ago. Only this time I am completely alone, and I have a feeling the loneliness will start to get to me in a few days. I will be shacked up with my friend Benjy's uncle for a week in a great apartment on Starii Arbat, one of the nicest streets in Moscow. I'd almost rather stay in a hostel however because it provides me with the opportunity to meet people. I said almost. I'm guessing the novelty would wear off and I'd become annoyed with the communal lifestyle. I'm unfortunately not a true Soviet.
I am trying to blend in as much as I can with the Russians around me, but Delta has already foiled my plan by asking anyone who doesn't hold a Russian passport to come check in at the desk. Bummer. Anywho, this is my last post before I arrive in Moscow. I hope all goes well. I have already planned exactly what I am going to do first, which is to find a shashlik stand and some Moya Semya juice. I heard they have pear, which I'm interested to try. Then it's off to that supermarket that is lodged in an old mansion. They sell $6,000 bottles of booze. My bottle of booze will be considerably cheaper.
Well it's time for me to board, so I will see you in Moscow my dear reader(s?). До России, давай.
So here I sit, in concourse E of the Hotlanta (sorry) airport. Concourse E is the last concourse in the busiest airport in the US. To access it requires one to navigate through a maze of moving sidewalks, half finished hallways, escalators, and of course the worst: slow people. There was probably some sort of express train I have a feeling I missed....
From what I can tell so far, I am one of two Americans at my gate. The other being a man in his mid forties who is dressed in an outfit that screams "I'm an obnoxious idiot and possibly a pedophile." This ensemble consists of a pair of faux-croc Sketchers, paired beautifully with an oversized coat that looks like it was patched together from cured human skin, interspersed with patches of fox fur. At present our hero is trying to convince a beautiful young Russian girl and her mother that the former would be perfect for the circus, or ice skating. He is also regaling her with tales of a model he discovered who could put her leg behind her head. He is posed with one leg on a chair so that his package is perfectly placed directly in front of this poor girl's head.
It is rather strange to be going through the same procedures and walking the same hallways as I did when I first flew to Russia a year ago. Only this time I am completely alone, and I have a feeling the loneliness will start to get to me in a few days. I will be shacked up with my friend Benjy's uncle for a week in a great apartment on Starii Arbat, one of the nicest streets in Moscow. I'd almost rather stay in a hostel however because it provides me with the opportunity to meet people. I said almost. I'm guessing the novelty would wear off and I'd become annoyed with the communal lifestyle. I'm unfortunately not a true Soviet.
I am trying to blend in as much as I can with the Russians around me, but Delta has already foiled my plan by asking anyone who doesn't hold a Russian passport to come check in at the desk. Bummer. Anywho, this is my last post before I arrive in Moscow. I hope all goes well. I have already planned exactly what I am going to do first, which is to find a shashlik stand and some Moya Semya juice. I heard they have pear, which I'm interested to try. Then it's off to that supermarket that is lodged in an old mansion. They sell $6,000 bottles of booze. My bottle of booze will be considerably cheaper.
Well it's time for me to board, so I will see you in Moscow my dear reader(s?). До России, давай.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Death of Godga, part 1
The Death of Godga
My Relationship with Gaga and Why She Must Die
I was inspired to write this half out of boredom and half because I had come across an article by Camille Paglia entitled, “Lady Gaga and the Death of Sex” on the UK’s The Sunday Times website (http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/public/magazine/article389697.ece). The tagline states that in her article, Paglia “demolishes an icon.” That’s a rather large claim coming from someone that in 30 years no one will have ever heard of, especially when that icon is Lady Gaga. Paglia’s article reads more like an opinionated, jealousy inspired tirade rather than actual cultural commentary. At first I disagreed with everything Paglia had written, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to agree with some of her points, though I still disagree with her larger conclusions. Paglia attacks Gaga’s sex appeal and also tries her best to attack Gaga’s relationship with her fans, which is rather low because Gaga does genuinely inspire people. Perhaps Paglia is right that Germanotta was not a misfit, but that doesn’t mean that Gaga isn’t. You also don’t have to be a misfit to inspire those who feel they are to be proud of themselves. Gaga’s Little Monsters are an eclectic and loyal group who do indeed look up to her. I see nothing wrong with finding solace and inspiration from a woman who doesn’t pay attention to the mud that people like Paglia sling at her.
I also wrote this because Lady Gaga has been popping into my life a lot recently. My Russian friend Anton demands we listen to “Lovegame” everytime he gets in my car, she just won 8 VMA’s, I’ve been listening to her music in my own attempt to understand electronic and club music, and the other night I had a dream that Ms. Gaga was my best friend. Perhaps it was the fact that it was the first dream I’d had in a while due to my sleeping issues, but when I woke up I was legitimately disappointed that I wasn’t friends with Gaga. This fantasy is probably intensified by the enigmatic cult of personality that surrounds her. Rumors persistently abound that Gaga is a man, battling Lupus, strung out, and even an agent of the illuminati.
For me the mysterious case of Lady Gaga is intriguing because I don’t pay attention to current trends in music at all and generally have no clue who any of your favourite bands are, but I care about Gaga. I actually shelled out the $5 to buy the issue of Rolling Stone that featured an interview with Gaga (though the cover shot wasn’t bad either). I have an immense amount of respect for Lady Gaga, which is strange considering I detest the current state of music and its commodification and mass produced stars. But perhaps for me Gaga is different because she did exactly what I wanted to if I ever got the chance to pursue music seriously, which is to invent herself as an over the top character that she plays in front of the entire world. In a period of only a year or two, Stefani Germanotta completely transformed herself from a relatively unknown, seemingly normal NYC teen to the most popular musical act in recent history. Britney Spears didn’t blow up like this, nor did N’SYNC, Hanson, Backstreet Boys, etc.
In a strange way I feel like I know Gaga, even though I’ve never met her and know very little about her. This could be simply the intended effect of her character and the mass commercialization of Gaga, but I’d like to think it’s not. Maybe it’d be better to state that I feel like I understand Gaga, though I could be completely wrong in that regards as well. Like I previously mentioned, Gaga is doing what I have always wanted to do. While she is most often showered with comparisons to Madonna due to her gender and music, I feel her closest kin lies in the Ziggy Stardust persona played by David Bowie in the early 70’s, though perhaps because of my Bowie obsession I’m a bit biased in that assessment. Madonna changed her name, but never really transformed herself to be a larger than life, almost cartoonish character in the way that Bowie and Gaga did.
But there is a danger to attempting to invent a persona that you live 24/7 because eventually the line between oneself and the character becomes blurred and the two lives merge. This really isn’t surprising considering that often people who do this are using the characters they create to overcome, or compensate for, some sort stage-fright (Bowie), confidence issues, or other personal problems. These characters can often be seen as a mirror which reflects the dreams and aspirations of the actors who play them. And more often than people would think, some of the most outlandish stage personalities are quite reserved and even shy in real life (Freddie Mercury for example). In an out-of-character interview, Steven Colbert once mentioned that he keeps himself as distant from his character as possible, and that one should always be able to wear their character lightly, and be able to slip in and out of it like a glove. When an artist begins to let their character consume them, the need for change becomes inevitable. After all, “when the kids had killed the man he had to break up the band” (David Bowie – Ziggy Stardust).
My Relationship with Gaga and Why She Must Die
I was inspired to write this half out of boredom and half because I had come across an article by Camille Paglia entitled, “Lady Gaga and the Death of Sex” on the UK’s The Sunday Times website (http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/public/magazine/article389697.ece). The tagline states that in her article, Paglia “demolishes an icon.” That’s a rather large claim coming from someone that in 30 years no one will have ever heard of, especially when that icon is Lady Gaga. Paglia’s article reads more like an opinionated, jealousy inspired tirade rather than actual cultural commentary. At first I disagreed with everything Paglia had written, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to agree with some of her points, though I still disagree with her larger conclusions. Paglia attacks Gaga’s sex appeal and also tries her best to attack Gaga’s relationship with her fans, which is rather low because Gaga does genuinely inspire people. Perhaps Paglia is right that Germanotta was not a misfit, but that doesn’t mean that Gaga isn’t. You also don’t have to be a misfit to inspire those who feel they are to be proud of themselves. Gaga’s Little Monsters are an eclectic and loyal group who do indeed look up to her. I see nothing wrong with finding solace and inspiration from a woman who doesn’t pay attention to the mud that people like Paglia sling at her.
I also wrote this because Lady Gaga has been popping into my life a lot recently. My Russian friend Anton demands we listen to “Lovegame” everytime he gets in my car, she just won 8 VMA’s, I’ve been listening to her music in my own attempt to understand electronic and club music, and the other night I had a dream that Ms. Gaga was my best friend. Perhaps it was the fact that it was the first dream I’d had in a while due to my sleeping issues, but when I woke up I was legitimately disappointed that I wasn’t friends with Gaga. This fantasy is probably intensified by the enigmatic cult of personality that surrounds her. Rumors persistently abound that Gaga is a man, battling Lupus, strung out, and even an agent of the illuminati.
For me the mysterious case of Lady Gaga is intriguing because I don’t pay attention to current trends in music at all and generally have no clue who any of your favourite bands are, but I care about Gaga. I actually shelled out the $5 to buy the issue of Rolling Stone that featured an interview with Gaga (though the cover shot wasn’t bad either). I have an immense amount of respect for Lady Gaga, which is strange considering I detest the current state of music and its commodification and mass produced stars. But perhaps for me Gaga is different because she did exactly what I wanted to if I ever got the chance to pursue music seriously, which is to invent herself as an over the top character that she plays in front of the entire world. In a period of only a year or two, Stefani Germanotta completely transformed herself from a relatively unknown, seemingly normal NYC teen to the most popular musical act in recent history. Britney Spears didn’t blow up like this, nor did N’SYNC, Hanson, Backstreet Boys, etc.
In a strange way I feel like I know Gaga, even though I’ve never met her and know very little about her. This could be simply the intended effect of her character and the mass commercialization of Gaga, but I’d like to think it’s not. Maybe it’d be better to state that I feel like I understand Gaga, though I could be completely wrong in that regards as well. Like I previously mentioned, Gaga is doing what I have always wanted to do. While she is most often showered with comparisons to Madonna due to her gender and music, I feel her closest kin lies in the Ziggy Stardust persona played by David Bowie in the early 70’s, though perhaps because of my Bowie obsession I’m a bit biased in that assessment. Madonna changed her name, but never really transformed herself to be a larger than life, almost cartoonish character in the way that Bowie and Gaga did.
But there is a danger to attempting to invent a persona that you live 24/7 because eventually the line between oneself and the character becomes blurred and the two lives merge. This really isn’t surprising considering that often people who do this are using the characters they create to overcome, or compensate for, some sort stage-fright (Bowie), confidence issues, or other personal problems. These characters can often be seen as a mirror which reflects the dreams and aspirations of the actors who play them. And more often than people would think, some of the most outlandish stage personalities are quite reserved and even shy in real life (Freddie Mercury for example). In an out-of-character interview, Steven Colbert once mentioned that he keeps himself as distant from his character as possible, and that one should always be able to wear their character lightly, and be able to slip in and out of it like a glove. When an artist begins to let their character consume them, the need for change becomes inevitable. After all, “when the kids had killed the man he had to break up the band” (David Bowie – Ziggy Stardust).
The Death of Godga, part 2
Gaga is no longer shocking, and the public is only going to find her eclectic outfits interesting and exciting for so long. The scripted character of Gaga also lacks the offstage excitement and spontaneity of a Mick Jagger or even Britney Spears. As Paglia mentions, every move Gaga makes is a specially choreographed maneuver that she completes with the aid of dozens of people. Her recent appearance at the VMAs seemed to reveal a rather hollow Lady Gaga. During a red carpet interview Gaga’s eyes seemed rather empty, and one could tell that the discharged servicemen flanking her were almost like part of an outfit to her. I can’t criticize her for championing social causes such as ending “don’t ask, don’t tell,” but this came across as rather insincere. Gaga’s acceptance speeches at this past Sunday’s VMAs were delivered in a nasally monotone, as she vacuously proclaimed that her Little Monsters were now “the cool kids at the party,” and revealing the name of her next album didn’t illicit much of an audience reaction either (and really why should it?), at least not until she broke into song.
For Gaga, a new transformation is going to be necessary in the coming years if she plans to stay as relevant and cutting edge. Actually to be quite honest, I don’t find anything about Gaga’s character to be cutting edge at all. Unfortunately Paglia was right in that regards. Her character is a mix of glam rock fashion, 80’s synth driven pop, a 1970’s prog-rock stage show, and a cult of personality that challenges royalty. The only real novelty about Gaga is the amount of creative control she is able to exercise over her music, image, shows, etc. The fact that she supposedly writes most of her own material and actually has an excellent singing voice is a breath of fresh air as well. That being said, I’m not confident enough to claim that the Gaga character has reached her climax yet, however it’s coming soon and I think Gaga can feel it.
This is getting to be a bit long winded, so I’ll wrap it up. I hope for her sake that Gaga does reinvent herself in the next few years. It’s not necessary for her to completely kill Gaga in the way that Bowie killed Ziggy because Gaga’s character is human, Ziggy was not. However, if she wants to prove critics like Paglia wrong, she is going to have to become more than a pop singer in wigs and heels that were never meant to be walked in. Gaga, and people like her, eventually have to become comfortable with their true selves rather than continuing to live vicariously through a character. I think Gaga would find a much needed breath of fresh air if she were to allow a little bit more of Germanotta show through before she becomes suffocated under the weight of being Godga. I hope she finds a way to continue staying successful because I truly like Gaga. I wouldn’t consider myself one of her Little Monsters, but I like what she is doing and the fact that she is challenging the current norm of the music industry. The current Gaga character is inevitably destined to die, no matter what Germanotta does. Her future depends on what direction she chooses to take Gaga, and I think the next incarnation of Gaga could be even more exciting if she decides to press forward in new directions. I believe in you Godga.
For Gaga, a new transformation is going to be necessary in the coming years if she plans to stay as relevant and cutting edge. Actually to be quite honest, I don’t find anything about Gaga’s character to be cutting edge at all. Unfortunately Paglia was right in that regards. Her character is a mix of glam rock fashion, 80’s synth driven pop, a 1970’s prog-rock stage show, and a cult of personality that challenges royalty. The only real novelty about Gaga is the amount of creative control she is able to exercise over her music, image, shows, etc. The fact that she supposedly writes most of her own material and actually has an excellent singing voice is a breath of fresh air as well. That being said, I’m not confident enough to claim that the Gaga character has reached her climax yet, however it’s coming soon and I think Gaga can feel it.
This is getting to be a bit long winded, so I’ll wrap it up. I hope for her sake that Gaga does reinvent herself in the next few years. It’s not necessary for her to completely kill Gaga in the way that Bowie killed Ziggy because Gaga’s character is human, Ziggy was not. However, if she wants to prove critics like Paglia wrong, she is going to have to become more than a pop singer in wigs and heels that were never meant to be walked in. Gaga, and people like her, eventually have to become comfortable with their true selves rather than continuing to live vicariously through a character. I think Gaga would find a much needed breath of fresh air if she were to allow a little bit more of Germanotta show through before she becomes suffocated under the weight of being Godga. I hope she finds a way to continue staying successful because I truly like Gaga. I wouldn’t consider myself one of her Little Monsters, but I like what she is doing and the fact that she is challenging the current norm of the music industry. The current Gaga character is inevitably destined to die, no matter what Germanotta does. Her future depends on what direction she chooses to take Gaga, and I think the next incarnation of Gaga could be even more exciting if she decides to press forward in new directions. I believe in you Godga.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
I Dun Goofed
Mondays suck. Who the fuck invented these things? Lately, for me Mondays have been a never ending catastrophe. Usually these tragedies occur while I'm at work, and are on the behalf of our very eclectic group of customers, the most annoying of which I suppose you couldn't even call customers since they don't ever purchase anything, yet take it upon themselves to make sure I have a bad day in the most interesting ways possible. Monday really brings out the crazies. Like a full moon, only 4 times a month. Whether it's homeless people playing 70's rock tunes to me for 3 hours, guitar teachers yelling at me for giving their students advice, or the crazy mother who, seemingly unaffected, came in two days after her son blew his brains out to sell us all of his guitars (she uses a rotation of circa 1975 metal lunchboxes as her purse and is following Todd Rudgren around).
Well yesterday I made the biggest blunder in all of my 8 years there. I should have known yesterday would bring bad luck the moment I awoke and saw my dad lounged out in our living room grading ACTs. Since when does he grade ACTs? He fell asleep during his. On Mondays my morning is a very tightly choreographed routine because Monday is the one day I can't be late to work because I'm supposed to be there to open in case the bossman has to take his kid to school or something like that. I certainly didn't need my father or the old people driving slow in Upper Arlington to interfere, but they did anyways. But I still got to work on time.
Actually, for a Monday it was fairly uneventful. No homeless people, no screaming. Only a toothless man trying to sell us steaks, a bad tasting Chipotle burrito, and the mother coming to stuff some consignment money we had for her into her Scooby Doo lunch pail. But then I dun goofed. After doing my best to help a Mexican family that didn't speak English, I got to talking with a lady who wanted to put $200 down on her $1000 balance. I entered it into the computer and then we got to talking about whatever. It's not often we get intelligent customers, and the conversation was making the day go faster. Well our conversation was winding down and I realized I hadn't run her card so she handed it to me, I swiped it, and looked at the computer screen. Balance remaining: $800. Ok, let's just key that in there and hit enter.......oh shit. oh no. oh fuck. There had been such a disconnect between my entering the payment in the computer and my actually taking the money that I had mistakenly charged her card for the balance remaining. I did my best to force a refund to her card on our machine, but it didn't show up on her online banking (it probably takes a day). Luckily she seemed fairly affluent and said she would transfer money into the account, but I could still tell she was pissed at me. It's my last week though, so at least she only has a few more days left to come in and attack me.
But as to not end on a negative note, the day actually turned out pretty well. Over the past month and a half I've become friends with a group of Russian kids who are here for a summer work program. They are super cool and have provided me with the opportunity to do a lot of cool stuff I wouldn't have normally done this summer. Unfortunately one of them lost her passport and had been very upset about it so last night she and I drove to Tuttle Mall to look for it and luckily the people at Panera had found it. She cried when she got it back, so I felt good about being able to help. I've never lost my passport or been in a foreign country when I wasn't part of some sort of organized program so I can't even imagine what a nightmare it was for her to lose it, but luckily everything is better. Then we went bowling which was a lot of fun. I remembered myself being good at bowling but apparently I remembered incorrectly because I sucked. But I think I'm going to go again tonight because I love bowling and hadn't been in years.
To the more than one but less than five people that might stumble upon this blog, I apologize for the boring content. I'm working on getting it to be more exciting, because I don't like whining either. In the future there will definitely be pictures, personal essays, maybe some parts from a novel I'm thinking about writing, and maybe some embarrassing personal stories, like the time I went into the porno shop in Siberia. Later I plan to post a response to a Gaga article I read. And Karen Hobowsky has requested "dick pics and hj's," so I'll see what I can do to please my audience. For now Karen, enjoy these Dick pics:
And to anyone interested in the origins of I dun goofed, check out this guy Hulking up and helping his daughter fend off a group of internet dorks who had been harassing her:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scyGo7tkC4I
Well yesterday I made the biggest blunder in all of my 8 years there. I should have known yesterday would bring bad luck the moment I awoke and saw my dad lounged out in our living room grading ACTs. Since when does he grade ACTs? He fell asleep during his. On Mondays my morning is a very tightly choreographed routine because Monday is the one day I can't be late to work because I'm supposed to be there to open in case the bossman has to take his kid to school or something like that. I certainly didn't need my father or the old people driving slow in Upper Arlington to interfere, but they did anyways. But I still got to work on time.
Actually, for a Monday it was fairly uneventful. No homeless people, no screaming. Only a toothless man trying to sell us steaks, a bad tasting Chipotle burrito, and the mother coming to stuff some consignment money we had for her into her Scooby Doo lunch pail. But then I dun goofed. After doing my best to help a Mexican family that didn't speak English, I got to talking with a lady who wanted to put $200 down on her $1000 balance. I entered it into the computer and then we got to talking about whatever. It's not often we get intelligent customers, and the conversation was making the day go faster. Well our conversation was winding down and I realized I hadn't run her card so she handed it to me, I swiped it, and looked at the computer screen. Balance remaining: $800. Ok, let's just key that in there and hit enter.......oh shit. oh no. oh fuck. There had been such a disconnect between my entering the payment in the computer and my actually taking the money that I had mistakenly charged her card for the balance remaining. I did my best to force a refund to her card on our machine, but it didn't show up on her online banking (it probably takes a day). Luckily she seemed fairly affluent and said she would transfer money into the account, but I could still tell she was pissed at me. It's my last week though, so at least she only has a few more days left to come in and attack me.
But as to not end on a negative note, the day actually turned out pretty well. Over the past month and a half I've become friends with a group of Russian kids who are here for a summer work program. They are super cool and have provided me with the opportunity to do a lot of cool stuff I wouldn't have normally done this summer. Unfortunately one of them lost her passport and had been very upset about it so last night she and I drove to Tuttle Mall to look for it and luckily the people at Panera had found it. She cried when she got it back, so I felt good about being able to help. I've never lost my passport or been in a foreign country when I wasn't part of some sort of organized program so I can't even imagine what a nightmare it was for her to lose it, but luckily everything is better. Then we went bowling which was a lot of fun. I remembered myself being good at bowling but apparently I remembered incorrectly because I sucked. But I think I'm going to go again tonight because I love bowling and hadn't been in years.
To the more than one but less than five people that might stumble upon this blog, I apologize for the boring content. I'm working on getting it to be more exciting, because I don't like whining either. In the future there will definitely be pictures, personal essays, maybe some parts from a novel I'm thinking about writing, and maybe some embarrassing personal stories, like the time I went into the porno shop in Siberia. Later I plan to post a response to a Gaga article I read. And Karen Hobowsky has requested "dick pics and hj's," so I'll see what I can do to please my audience. For now Karen, enjoy these Dick pics:
And to anyone interested in the origins of I dun goofed, check out this guy Hulking up and helping his daughter fend off a group of internet dorks who had been harassing her:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scyGo7tkC4I
Sunday, September 12, 2010
My first adventures into the blogosphere
Where to begin where to begin. I've wanted to start a blog for a while because I like reading the blogs of others. Sometimes people I do know, sometimes people I don't. I especially liked reading the blog of the one and only Kitten Meow Meow. Anyways, I didn't start one because everytime I would sit down to write something, it would just be me whining, and really, who wants to hear another middle class white kid whine about something? Not me, but unfortunately I'm stuck with myself 24/7 so I get to hear a lot of whining from that demographic.
Now onto the whining. These past couple weeks have been pretty stressful for me because I moved out of my apartment and back in with my parents after having not spent even one night under their roof for a full two years. It hasn't been nearly quite as bad as I expected it to be, but it's still not fun. At first it was pretty bad because I had absolutely nothing to do, but that has gotten better with the addition of cable and a tv to my room, and their birds finally learning to shut up so I can read (my parents started rescuing stray birds after theirs flew away in June. They have 6 of them in our dining room). Really the worst part has been that I've been suffering from a huge lack of sleep which has in turn caused me to develop jaw clenching and backaches which I really could do without. I now subsist on maybe 3-4 hours of uninterupted sleep per night. The lack of sleep is due to noise and heat (they keep our house at 78 degrees) and some other factors. I also really miss playing music. For me it's a love and hate relationship because I love doing it, but I am a perfectionist so any little slip during a live performance and for me it's ruined, and anyone who saw any of our early performances definitely witnessed me throw more than my fair share of tantrums (telling Corey Feldman to fuck off, trying to quit my own group in the middle of a set, etc). Our early performances sucked anyways because I never actually learned any of my lyrics and I was learning to play bass on the fly. I'm bummed that we had to quit playing right as I began to shape up, and when people started to notice we existed and weren't a David Bowie cover band.
But hopefully all the stress will be over soon because in a week I will be departing indefinitely. I lost my job and I live with my parents, so I figured now would be a good time for me to set out into the unknown. I've lived in Columbus for 22 years and it's frankly not good for my mental health. Looking out my window at never changing emptiness of suburbia makes me a bit sick to my stomach. There's nothing left for me here, I'm being stifled and I can't grow as a person. I've been pretty good about keeping my departure a secret because frankly my friends have been flaky lately so I didn't really care. I didn't want to tell people I was leaving and have them pull the "oh no we should hang out before you go!" card. I was here all year and that wasn't conducive to your schedule apparently, so I'm not going to change mine so I can pretend like we had a blast this past year. If you're a good friend of mine and have seen me in the past month, I've probably told you. If I didn't...well....
I think the biggest reason is that I didn't want to pull a "see you I'm outta here and never coming back!" and then end up right back here in 6 weeks like that time sophomore year when I told everyone I was moving to NYC. whoops...
Anyways, that's probably all for now. This blog will presumably get much more exciting after I leave because I can update it with pictures (note to self: buy camera) of my trip to wherever I may end up. Maybe Florida, maybe Alaska, maybe London, maybe to the moon. I also plan to just add links I like here as to keep them off of facebook, random thoughts, songwriting diaries, etc.
Now onto the whining. These past couple weeks have been pretty stressful for me because I moved out of my apartment and back in with my parents after having not spent even one night under their roof for a full two years. It hasn't been nearly quite as bad as I expected it to be, but it's still not fun. At first it was pretty bad because I had absolutely nothing to do, but that has gotten better with the addition of cable and a tv to my room, and their birds finally learning to shut up so I can read (my parents started rescuing stray birds after theirs flew away in June. They have 6 of them in our dining room). Really the worst part has been that I've been suffering from a huge lack of sleep which has in turn caused me to develop jaw clenching and backaches which I really could do without. I now subsist on maybe 3-4 hours of uninterupted sleep per night. The lack of sleep is due to noise and heat (they keep our house at 78 degrees) and some other factors. I also really miss playing music. For me it's a love and hate relationship because I love doing it, but I am a perfectionist so any little slip during a live performance and for me it's ruined, and anyone who saw any of our early performances definitely witnessed me throw more than my fair share of tantrums (telling Corey Feldman to fuck off, trying to quit my own group in the middle of a set, etc). Our early performances sucked anyways because I never actually learned any of my lyrics and I was learning to play bass on the fly. I'm bummed that we had to quit playing right as I began to shape up, and when people started to notice we existed and weren't a David Bowie cover band.
But hopefully all the stress will be over soon because in a week I will be departing indefinitely. I lost my job and I live with my parents, so I figured now would be a good time for me to set out into the unknown. I've lived in Columbus for 22 years and it's frankly not good for my mental health. Looking out my window at never changing emptiness of suburbia makes me a bit sick to my stomach. There's nothing left for me here, I'm being stifled and I can't grow as a person. I've been pretty good about keeping my departure a secret because frankly my friends have been flaky lately so I didn't really care. I didn't want to tell people I was leaving and have them pull the "oh no we should hang out before you go!" card. I was here all year and that wasn't conducive to your schedule apparently, so I'm not going to change mine so I can pretend like we had a blast this past year. If you're a good friend of mine and have seen me in the past month, I've probably told you. If I didn't...well....
I think the biggest reason is that I didn't want to pull a "see you I'm outta here and never coming back!" and then end up right back here in 6 weeks like that time sophomore year when I told everyone I was moving to NYC. whoops...
Anyways, that's probably all for now. This blog will presumably get much more exciting after I leave because I can update it with pictures (note to self: buy camera) of my trip to wherever I may end up. Maybe Florida, maybe Alaska, maybe London, maybe to the moon. I also plan to just add links I like here as to keep them off of facebook, random thoughts, songwriting diaries, etc.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)