So I am leaving Russia tomorrow and I didnt have a run-in with the cops. Laurence, my roommate got to hang with cops AND go to the hospital. I suck and am unexciting but will be making it up to myself soon...
Instead, I've been hanging out in hippie hell where no one uses utensils to eat their soy products and they moan meditatively and periodically throughout whatever it is they are doing... fucking, facebooking, peeling potatoes... I kid you not, dear readers, there are sporadic moaners in this buddha-blessed soviet housing unit and to cope I stuff bright orange sponges into my aural cavities. There are severe reprocussions to this act of resistance: ear wax build-up.
I'm going to give Soviet speed another try, and maybe if I'm short on cash and my fingerpaintings dont sell, I'll sell some of those to yound and umpressionable american tourists, of which there are so many EVERYWHERE I just don't know if I can resist the temptation.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Adventures in over-the-counter drugland
Vice magazine told me that Phenotropil was the cleanest speed the author had ever had. So, on Saturday evening I promptly sauntered over to the Apteka (Pharmacy) to see what the commotion was all about.
I care not to go in to extreme detail as I am technically not allowed to use the computer here chez my Soviet Hazaika (hostess), but I am pretty sure it was shit. I was unimpressed and awake all night, lost in the abyss of drunken St. Petersburg as Militsia told me on various occasions that the street I wished to pass along was 'zatkrit' (closed).
We are to try a higher dosage at a later date, and I shall not leave you in the dark.
With love and disappointments,
JACQ
I care not to go in to extreme detail as I am technically not allowed to use the computer here chez my Soviet Hazaika (hostess), but I am pretty sure it was shit. I was unimpressed and awake all night, lost in the abyss of drunken St. Petersburg as Militsia told me on various occasions that the street I wished to pass along was 'zatkrit' (closed).
We are to try a higher dosage at a later date, and I shall not leave you in the dark.
With love and disappointments,
JACQ
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Ew I fell in to a Soviet train toilet
Location: somewhere in between St. Petersburg and Moscow where the women haven't any teeth and the Kazakhs beside me don't dig footwear.
Behold: the Soviet Train. Everything is yellowed to the point where you are unsure if anything was every really white at all. The windows are like the lenses of pedophile glasses so everything is shit-tinted (as opposed to rose-tinted). The bench seats are made of burgundy vinyl and allergy-triggering roll-out mats are provided for a comfortable slumber in which you are to dream of hammers, sickles and food stamps.
I sit in this train, gazing out the window at dacha after dacha, careful not to direct my gaze in front of me where, on the left is a very fat man whose gut rests on his thighs. To his right, a small Asian boy sits quietly. They both sit silently and tinker away on their Blackberries for about four hours. The Kazakhs play cards and stare at my tits. I watch the fat man roll out his bed-mat on the lower bunk as the Asian man climbs spryly above the snoring oaf. I daydream, wishing it was Mister Gutface who had to climb up there to give his thighs a rest and transfer the pressure onto his chest. But alas, we are in Russia and not America.
I sketch some Sudokus and keep my Quebecois counterpart, Simon, awake for as long as possible. We eat Halva (THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD) and talk loudly and in English. We figure that our CCCP shirts make us fit in a little more, so our indecipherable and mysetrious Canadian accents won't give us away as tourists worth robbing.
Somewhere in between all of this, I stumble to the bathroom. First I must inform you that, in all toilets in Russia, there aren't any toilet seats. You hover or squat and at the same time pray to Stalin that you don't get hepatitis from this one. I have developed a method of holding on to the door handle of the stall and leaning back; it takes a lot of the pressure off of the quads. This time, however, I was pulling a little too hard, perhaps. So, in my golden shower of delight that I was granting to this steel bowl, I was holding on to the handle of the door and suddenly the door gave way and the bowl welcomed me with its hepatitis-infested gorge.
I am supposed to get the test results back from the pharmacy tomorrow, where I will subsequently try to ask for a moderately-sezed perscription of legal amphetamines for the final days of my love affair with Vladimir Putin.
Behold: the Soviet Train. Everything is yellowed to the point where you are unsure if anything was every really white at all. The windows are like the lenses of pedophile glasses so everything is shit-tinted (as opposed to rose-tinted). The bench seats are made of burgundy vinyl and allergy-triggering roll-out mats are provided for a comfortable slumber in which you are to dream of hammers, sickles and food stamps.
I sit in this train, gazing out the window at dacha after dacha, careful not to direct my gaze in front of me where, on the left is a very fat man whose gut rests on his thighs. To his right, a small Asian boy sits quietly. They both sit silently and tinker away on their Blackberries for about four hours. The Kazakhs play cards and stare at my tits. I watch the fat man roll out his bed-mat on the lower bunk as the Asian man climbs spryly above the snoring oaf. I daydream, wishing it was Mister Gutface who had to climb up there to give his thighs a rest and transfer the pressure onto his chest. But alas, we are in Russia and not America.
I sketch some Sudokus and keep my Quebecois counterpart, Simon, awake for as long as possible. We eat Halva (THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD) and talk loudly and in English. We figure that our CCCP shirts make us fit in a little more, so our indecipherable and mysetrious Canadian accents won't give us away as tourists worth robbing.
Somewhere in between all of this, I stumble to the bathroom. First I must inform you that, in all toilets in Russia, there aren't any toilet seats. You hover or squat and at the same time pray to Stalin that you don't get hepatitis from this one. I have developed a method of holding on to the door handle of the stall and leaning back; it takes a lot of the pressure off of the quads. This time, however, I was pulling a little too hard, perhaps. So, in my golden shower of delight that I was granting to this steel bowl, I was holding on to the handle of the door and suddenly the door gave way and the bowl welcomed me with its hepatitis-infested gorge.
I am supposed to get the test results back from the pharmacy tomorrow, where I will subsequently try to ask for a moderately-sezed perscription of legal amphetamines for the final days of my love affair with Vladimir Putin.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Living in a Soviet Gangster's Paradise
So here I am, in the USSR. Some people like to call it Russia but I think that's a load of stuffwhitepeoplelike crap.
All of the men have mullets.
All of the women look like prostitutes from the late '80s.
No one knows what chickpeas are.
Being the scenester hound that I am, I have discovered Dacha, the indie hangout of St. Petersburg where they play Mambo #5 on the busy nights to get people really going. Here, I first inhale, drink and finally snort Sambuca with either gargantuan Russian men that are scary and oafy as fuck, or short, lithe Russian men who are creepy as, well, short and creepy Russians. Dacha is my house (or my 'cottage,' as that is what Dacha means in Russian) where vodka bottle service costs $20 and cigarette burns are free. From my tank top-sporting evening last night, I look like I have a sadist as a Cnoncop (Pronouncer 'sponsor,' this means Sugar Daddy or Sucre Pere in Russian).
Love!
All of the men have mullets.
All of the women look like prostitutes from the late '80s.
No one knows what chickpeas are.
Being the scenester hound that I am, I have discovered Dacha, the indie hangout of St. Petersburg where they play Mambo #5 on the busy nights to get people really going. Here, I first inhale, drink and finally snort Sambuca with either gargantuan Russian men that are scary and oafy as fuck, or short, lithe Russian men who are creepy as, well, short and creepy Russians. Dacha is my house (or my 'cottage,' as that is what Dacha means in Russian) where vodka bottle service costs $20 and cigarette burns are free. From my tank top-sporting evening last night, I look like I have a sadist as a Cnoncop (Pronouncer 'sponsor,' this means Sugar Daddy or Sucre Pere in Russian).
Love!
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