I see you baby! Going to the semi-final!

It’s 3 a.m. in the Holy Land, and I am quietly celebrating Russia’s victory over Holland. I’ve got no one to high-five and no one to knock back the shots with, but I am high-fiving and knocking back shots in spirit, on the astral plane, where the stars shine red tonight. I must admit that I didn’t watch the game. I decided long before that it was going to end in tears, and spent time dorking-out with my extended edition of “The Return of the King” instead.

I’d regret it, but not really. I do have the tendency to curse my team when my spirits are not high overall (and they haven’t been, lately). I just read on a friend’s blog that in the center of Moscow, down the Arbat, someone rode a tractor in the overall pandemonium.

On the astral plane, I am riding that freaking tractor.

Stallone and Schwarzenegger: My Two Dads

This essays discusses my two *honourary* fathers. My biological father, Mr. Antonov, is very much my actual dad.

To say that I was raised on action movies would be a gross understatement. As a child, action movies were oxygen, sustaining this little life-form in a hostile and airless universe. They usually ended well, and reduced death and violence to a kind of big-budget vaudeville. They also parented me.

Rambo taught me that life is essentially one long trip through the bowels of Satan, with no guarantees as to where you will ultimately emerge. We were related to each other through the comradeship of PTSD and head accessories. The fact that he was kinda in the habit of slaughtering entire platoons of Soviets didn’t really stop me from regarding him as a father figure. I granted him artistic license and he granted me the opportunity to not be alone on my journey through the bowels of Satan. We were in it together, outsiders and outlaws until the bitter end.

I didn’t get the chance to watch the first Terminator until I was a big girl, sparing myself the angst of Michael Biehn and moving on straight to the good stuff. No matter how many other movies they make, T2 will remain an institution, an epic crafted from molten metal, blood, and sweat. It features the world’s most inspired robot and the world’s most kick-ass mom. I’ve always thought that the Terminator’s character in this one had a touch of Asimov about it; while the robot was still a finely calibrated murder machine, he could also learn important lessons about life. He found out why we cry, dammit. He found out why we cry.

As for the Terminator’s parenting potential, just check out this quote from Sarah Connor: “Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The terminator wouldn’t stop, it would never leave him. It would never hurt him or shout at him or get drunk and hit him or say it was too busy to spend time with him. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers that came over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only thing that measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice.”

You simply do not contradict Sarah Connor.

The other great thing about having the Terminator as your honourary dad is that it can be a learning experience for both of you. He can learn the intricacies of slang, and you can learn how to shoot a minigun (the most misleadingly named weapon ever). It’s would be a beautiful symbiotic relationship, and getting Sarah Connor to be an honorary mom would be a plus to an already perfect arrangement.

And it would be especially useful for a literary minded person such as myself, because while saying “no problemo” is certainly feat, I’d have the Terminator quoting Yeats to traffic cops in no time: “The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day, And where is there hope or deed as fair?”

When I was growing up, the idea of being hunted down and killed was never far from my mind. When we first moved into our quiet subdivision in North Carolina, having immigrated from Ukraine, I wailed like a cornered Tasmanian Devil upon discovering that the windows inside our house were NOT BULLETPROOF. One can say that there were some psychological reasons as to why I wanted two action heroes to be my honorary dads. After all, blue-eyed female children with funny accents rarely died in their movies.

Knowing why you like something doesn’t tend to stop you from liking it, but it does create a more meaningful bond between you and the subject at hand. Gentlemen, I love you and salute you because you are a part of psychological make-up and my soul. Doesn’t that just sound even cooler? Of course it does.

Honourary dad is pretty much the highest recognition that I can bestow upon a man, even higher than a place in my harem. It is nevertheless a humble offering, and I don’t expect any thank-you cards. An insane helicopter ride through a jungle, on the other hand….

Tagged by Renegade

She of all things deliciously evil and yet calorie-free.

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring summer. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

See, my current list proves that I am a sap. I just hope the cockroaches don’t get a hold of it. It will do lots for their morale:

Viva La Vida – Coldplay
Can You Hear Me – Enrique Iglesias. “Hey, hey, all the way DJ…” Ohhh yeah. Even typing these words makes me start bouncing around.
When You Touch Me – Freemasons
A Journey in the Dark – Howard Shore
Snova Poezd (Train Again) – Chizh & Co.
Nantes – Beirut
What’s Left of the Flag – Flogging Molly

I tag Belle, Parallel Sidewalk, the Secular Apostate, Gabriel, Kevin, Aishwarya, and Neeka.

Big blogger picks on little blogger

You know, there are ways of disagreeing with someone without publicly ridiculing a painful experience. I have my (ratherf*ckinghuge) differences with Debs, but the treatment she has gotten at the hands of Dr. Crippen is beyond inappropriate.

I once had something bad happen, with a female doctor. I wouldn’t call it a rape, but it was certainly a violation, and I remember stumbling out of her office completely bewildered, with tears in my eyes. I was in Ukraine at the time, and went to a (highly recommended) clinic at a public hospital. I was lucky that I could afford to then visit a private clinic and I shudder to think about all the women who could not.

So from where I stand, Dr. Crippen & friends sure picked themselves a convenient target with this one. Taking a post about such a violation, distorting it, turning it into a punchline, the clearly vulnerable author into a caricature – gosh it just gives one a little thrill, a cool little frisson of superiority!

Now, I don’t agree with Debs on most things. In fact, if tomorrow Debs told me that the sky was blue, I’d probably use that as a chance to get into a huge, pointless argument with lots of bad puns along the way.

But I know (realf*ckingserious) pain when I see it. For shame.

I am working on a new essay, so check out the Beautiful Men, Euro 2008 Edition

From Russia, my Russia: Roman Shirokov (who looks like he should be in the Marines).

From Italia: Luca Toni (smile for me, Cheshire Kitty).

From France: Thierry Henry.

From Spain: Iker Casillas (rocking my face off since 2002) and, since I can’t resist, Fernando Torres.

From Portugal: Helder Castiga and… OK… OK… I trash him in my column, but he’s hot and talented… OK? Happy now? HAPPY NOW? Here he is, Mr. Cristiano “Ferret Grin” Ronaldo.

From Germany: Piotr Trochowski.

I’m all beautified out for now. Will possibly have more, either when I’m done with my essay, or when I find myself hopelessly stuck again. Thanks to Esty for giving me the bright idea.