Proper shaving and care of Russian dudes

These last few months have been months full of guests. Some of them have been mine exclusively, some I have been handed over, like parcels. The latest guest, from Russia, we’ve had a lot of fun with, especially when he demanded that we shave his head:

I wish I had a better picture, but the good camera was, of course, elsewhere.

It went well after the absinthe. And more absinthe went down well after that.

There have been many strange and pretty days. It’s Orthodox Christmas now. Icicles are hanging off the streetlamp like teeth.

I fell into an enormous snowdrift recently and just lay there, laughing.

The only person in Kyiv who had a better New Year’s Eve than I did

Is a friend of ours I’ll call Vova.

Vova has a house by the river, which was where he and his wife were holed up, having a quiet evening. Around 11:30 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, Vova realized that they were out of mineral water, and ran out to the local kiosk, on the off-chance that it would be open.

The kiosk was open. There was a middle-aged woman sitting at the counter, sobbing her eyes out. She was crying so hard, she didn’t even notice him, at first.

Upon asking her what’s wrong, Vova received a short, terse monologue on the subject of being broke, and on the subject of her husband, who moved to work in the EU and stopped sending money after meeting someone new, and on the subject of her ill mother and her three kids in a village outside of L’viv, and on the subject of how much she missed them, but couldn’t even visit, because being the sole breadwinner meant that she couldn’t afford to travel, and on the subject of being alone enough to want to die, and on how the river was too frozen to go drown, and not having anywhere to go, unless you counted the kiosk, of course, and on the subject of how she shouldn’t be talking about all of this with strangers, but she just didn’t care, not anymore.

To all of this, Vova replied:

“Oh my God. Close up the fucking kiosk and come to our house and celebrate. I’m not a serial killer or anything, I swear. I’m your regular client, I buy cigarettes here. You have to remember me. And you must know my wife. It’s just me and her over at the house. Come on.”

After she protested for a while, he managed to drag her out of the kiosk, and the three of them rang in the New Year with some champagne in a warm living room, where they laughed and told dirty jokes, and Vova got drunk enough to start dancing (all eyewitnesses agree, he is a great dancer) while the women clapped and laughed, and there was caviar and cake, and salad and tea, though not exactly in that order, and there was a lot of bad pop music, and no more tears that night. After the woman insisted on going back to her kiosk, Vova and his wife ended up putting on warm clothes and visiting her in the early morning hours, to drink another bottle of champagne, and talk, and talk, and talk, about the people they miss and the people they don’t miss, about the bad roads and the latest theory that the world will end in 2032, and they toasted each other, and made wishes for 2010, which could be a good year, after all.

If you see Vova in the street, you’d think that he was just like everyone else. But not everyone is just like everyone else, and it’s important to remember that, especially whenever it is you decide to take the axe out of the shed and go chopping through the winter ice on the Dnipro.

Monday Music: in honour of Kris and perfect weeks and weekends

I got a package from the beautiful Kris Bernard right smack on New Year’s Eve, and have been exposed to a ton of new music (not to mention new hats). I haven’t had time to start listening properly until today — it’s been a ridiculous few days, happy and weird — but now that I am, I am once again struck by how lucky I am. I’ve been getting struck by that feeling a lot, in the last few days, which is infinitely better than getting struck by falling icicles.

Pictures – Galaxie 500
Do Me a Favour – Arctic Monkeys
Wonderwall – Oasis
Let it Loose – the Rolling Stones
Vicious – Lou Reed
So Glad to See You – Hot Chip
On the Radio – Regina Spektor
Vasya – Soncekliosh
Rough Steez – Fuck Buttons
I’ll Always Love You – Love Spirals Downwards

Here’s a suitably wintry video with music from my Soviet childhood:

I’m not ashamed to admit it, Knut pretty much made sure that I will be a polar bear addict for life. Better than crack, I guess.

Here’s Bloc Party:

And here’s to people I love:

2009

The original title of this post was “2009 Sucked.” But then something odd happened.

I suck at making resolutions, though there are definitely people and things I’d like to say goobye to. Mostly to you and you. And Madeira. Holy crap, I am never drinking that again. I am also never standing on icy bridges, hurling dog tags into the water. I am putting a moratorium on dramatic text messages and little packages of salted calamari, embarrassing amounts of which I have devoured this year. I’m not going to be obsessed with the cheerful blandness of five-star hotels. I will not take powdered creamer in my instant coffee. I will not fight one-woman battles against unseen enemies. Good night ladies, good night, sweet ladies, and goodbye.

But if there’s one resolution I really ought to make, it’s pretending that everything’s Fucking Horrible. It’s a bit of a reflex with me. A superstition, even. “Don’t say that things are fine, because you’ll jinx them, and they will be un-fine.” I’m sure some of you reading can relate. You know what, though? Superstitions suck. And they are tedious as well. Going around an entire block because a cat ran into your path – who does that? Tedious people do. People who would like a semblance of control, when none of us have any (as Woland pointed out to Berlioz).

So in keeping with that, I am not going to say that 2009 was a bad year. It was a hard year, but “hard” and “bad” are not necessarily synonyms. Perhaps this is just another superstition, but moaning about how 2009 Destroyed Mah Life seems ungrateful. You never know, which agents of fate may be listening to you moan, or how short their tempers may be.

Check it out: 2009 lavished me with brambles and hangovers at 4 p.m. It was a cornucopia of brown boots, bruised thighs, guns, pipes, and hanging out of the door, singing “Olena ne plach'” into the falling snow. It was a shitload of really good work. It contained collapsed volcanoes, doors to other worlds (conveniently located in Somerset), and Suberstar. It stomped a bloody hole in my chest, but the hole also let the light in. It gave me new friends and enemies, and it brought back and resurrected old ones. It gave me chances to terrorist-fist-bump my brother before he goes to bed at night. It let me lean on my family, and let them lean on me, and witness the bizarre miracle of nobody getting toppled. It made me blubber over an e-mail from someone I haven’t even met, but do so in a good, summer rain-y sort of way. It made me hold my own hand. It busted me, and made me grateful — “for every single moment of my stupid little life.”

Pretty good year. Hasta. Baby. 😀

Don’t worry, though, ya’ll, I’ll be back to my regular bitchy self in no time. The people have come to see Tsarina, and she will not disappoint them, etc.