Drafted

Ladies and Gentlmen, goodnight. But before I go, a word:

My Moscow Journal articles are drafted and e-mailed for review. On time, sorta' (the deadline was "by Sept. 1" ... so the debate of "by" vs. "on" can commence).

BUT, they are done. They are submitted. I await the inevitable - my editor's/professor's criticisms. ugh.

BUT, they are done. This means that this blog is done. My first year of school is, to me, OFFICIALLY OVER. So what to do now? How do I keep going, authorially?

Well, meet Joziu: joziu.blogspot.com. Joziu is a blog I started AGES ago when blogs were popular. Now, I feel, they're professional. People keep blogs for a purpose, and my purpose: to practice my writing. Or, I should say, to continue my writing.

So, goodbye dear "Tolya" followers. If you feel like checkin' out Joziu ... please do so. But give me a couple of days ... gotta' clean the ole boy up first.



PS: my first class of my second year is tomorrow. Joy.

A Paper a week ...

... that's about what I'm averaging right now. It's not good - it's not bad, but it's not good. Perhaps I'm being too in depth? I dunno'. My last essay (my 2nd) was about 3000 words long ... which seems long.

Perhaps I'm agonizing about these papers too much? It's quite possible ... but they're also quite difficult. I have "thesis" engrained in my brain right now -- "what is my point of vew?" and such. What I thought would be simple reflections on my time in Moscow have morphed into agonizing analyses of aesthetics. Myt fear is that these agonies will be tossed back into my face with a simple "that's not really what we're looking for."

Ugh.

I'm a bit jealous. People I've met at other programs seem to get by with much less effort. I don't know if that is a good thing, or if I'm getting a better education, or if I'm making things more difficult for myself than they need to be. Perhaps I'm making mountains out of molehills?? Who knows.

One thing I am taking away from all of this is practice for my THESIS. That towering piece of writing looms over me in the most terrifying manner. I'm scared I'll either not be up to par, or bailout completely.

Bailing has been on my mind a lot recently. Everything seems rather futile. I'm paying upwards of 100k for a degree that will yield a minimum return financially. Beyond that, I'm not sure if my judgement is of any value at all. I've had a few playwrights I've met solicit me for opinions and ideas, which makes me feel appreciated and perhaps I'm on the right track? Who knows ...

all I know is that I'm tired. Thoughts of alternative careers are already whirling around my brain, careers that don't suck up my free time and that pay me decent money. Careers like my old secretary's gig in NYC. I had a life then ... now, I only have aspirations.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

... and I'm tired and burnt out. I can't say I've had the best couple of weeks. In addition to getting used to new surroundings (which, considering it is my parents' house, has been far more of an adjustment than I anticipated), I'm trying to stay productive.

Burn out is, again, occurring. Today was spent in the choir rehearsal room of the beautiful Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park. After getting home, stuffing food in my face, I sat down to write my ARTicle.

Heh.

I'm jealous of my fellow interns who don't have homework to do on their days off. Sitting at my lap top, frustrated with my efforts and with my situation, I turned to the TV. Not the best use of my time, but it helped to clear my head. Things are a bit cloudy, right now. I'm just off my game, and am not sure how to correct it. I hope to clear up soon.

Priorities, Priorities...

It's been a while since I've last posted to this thing. It's been a busy month!! Travels through Europe, relocations to Chicago, internship at a major theatre... good times, but tiring.

Amdist it all is my ARTicle. A "fantasy" (as I like to think of it) on Weimar cabaret, I was charged with writing 800 - 1,000 words to help introduce American audiences to our upcoming a.r.t. season. I can't say I didn't enjoy the task; however, writing is always something I moan about.

I'm an improving writer, and I'm beginning to take pleasure in writing; however, I still view it as a chore. Perhaps it has to do with viewing my tasks as assignments and not opportunities - but that's a psychological shift I can tackle over time.

For now, my focus is Weimar cabaret ... and then I can begin my Moscow journals. They're all, technically, begun, but in a variety of places and conditions. So, I need to sit down and clean things up .... by mid July. It will happen, in time, but for right now I'm all about the Weimar.

This blog is good practice, too. Tolya's intent was that by having us write daily we would, like bodybuilders, tone our literary muscles. I think it has worked, and I intend to try and keep "Tolya Made Me Do It" up and running for a few more weeks. When I complete my Moscow diaries, then will Tolya be put to bed ...

and Joziu will be re-awoken.

The Retreat from Moscow

Like Napoleon, my leaving of Moscow was a bloody mess (in the figurative sense).

A simple burger with friends (the expats - Ian, Grant and David, Steve [in spirit]) and a fleeting mention of departing was followed by a melancholy potluck with champansky and vodka and bean dip (yes, bean dip - Vince's, and it was delicious). All was followed by more drink. Afterall, I had a 3am bus to catch - why go to bed?

My bags (somewhat) packed, I was in my dorm room throwing things in places then moving places. People would wander in, interrupting my hurry for a hug and some fond words, and then more fury. My thoughts: "This bag feels too heavy - why don't we have a scale?" or "Who can I give these jeans to? Maxim?"

I was the last on the bus, due to a painful goodbye as a drunken Maxim wandered into my room to start a heart-to-heart 15 minutes before I had to be rushed to the airport. "Really? NOW!" were the thoughts in my head; but, that cattiness was inappropriate. There was a kind of brotherly connection between me and Maxim, and to simply brush him off would have been cruel. So, I stop, listen, and can't help but look at the exquisite half-naked young man in my room. I couldn't really make out what his deal was, specifically; however, generally: he was scared. A 22 year old kid has left everyone near and dear to come to Moscow to do a show. I was one the first people he met, so there was a connection - that I had to cut short due to buses and planes.

So I rush to the bus - the last one on the bus - with my things (I think I collected everything ... but it doesn't matter). As the dark morning Moscow skyline passsed by my window, it was a bitter-sweet goodbye. I didn't know I had fallen for the city as hard as I had ... however, I had - thanks to amazing ex-pats, angels, and self-assurance.

It would have been so easy to stay in my room and simply shuttle myself from classroom to theatre and then back. I didn't. I took myself out, several nights, on my own to see what Moscow is like. The hulking, soot-ridden grey city of blonde haired scowls is not unlike New York. It's grittier, its corruption is more apparent, but its spirit is no different than New York or Chicago. I learned this through solitary evenings at bars and afternoons in restaurants hving lunch. Moscow is a city like any other.

Until you get the airport.

The tuna-can with windows that we were shuttled to has the beauty of a sewage refinery. Its counter clerk was equally pleasant. My two bags were overweight, and after chucking paper, ALL of my Russian (language class) notes (my biggest regret) and my winter boots, I was able to pass one bag through and pay a mere 100 Euros to get the other on the plane. Ugh.

It was not gracious; but, I survived. Weighed down with souvenirs for many members of my family (especially the 4 children adopted from Russia), I boarded my plane and left for the West.

This blog is not about my travails in Western Europe (which had an element of labor to them). This blog is about Russia. This blog is about to end. While this is nowhere near my last post (which will come once my ARTicles are submitted, signaling (for me) the official end of my first year), it is a closing post that is written with some perspective.

I sit here, in the frontroom of my Cambridge apartment with the Stanley Cup finals on the plasms screen (GO HAWKS), typing this post. It comes after I debriefed in Barcelona (and was pick-pocketed), cruised through Madrid, found romance in Paris, and existed in Zurich. In short, I have been alive for the past few weeks, and that life has put my three months in Russia in perspective.

March - May 25 of this past year have not been my most glorious. They have been difficult, and I have learned from them. The knowledge has not been technical, but personal. How do you deal with people you don't particularly like, but with whom you must co-exist and work? How do you deal with moral breaches? How much of your defenses do you let down, and let others dictate your schedule for you? Good questions and good answers.

Packin' it in

I think I have my bags packed.

Well, no, I don't. There are slacks and "man-pris" on the drying rack. There is a bathrobe hanging in the breeze, losing its dampness. My baggage is not yet gathered.

My fellow four dramaturgs and I have our final class in about an hour - Art & Architecture. After that, we will have the privilege of watching the Moscow Art Theatre School audition next years class. An omega, of sorts, and an alpha, of sorts.

It's not as dramatic as all that. There is no beginning or ending right now, just a pause - but it feels like a major one. It is a major one, and that is what gives me the willies. Over drinks last night, surrounded by Rachel, Megan, Nick, Chris, Annika, and Angela, I was sullen and thoughtful. A lot of doubts and regrets are running through my head - and all of the successes and fun I've had over the past 11 months are quietly sitting, somewhere, waiting to be re-discovered at some later date.

For now, I wait for spin cycles to finish; I hang things on racks; I sort, fold, sort again, and then put things in their tight little places.

The squeeze. That's what today is: the squeeze.

Three Sisters

I have acquired three sisters in Moscow. I did not expect this to happen; and, my parents will be most surprised. Still, I have acquired three sisters in Moscow.

Tonight we toasted each other, we toasted life, we toasted Moscow. Over beers in the beautiful gardens of the Hermitage Theatre / New Opera, we ate lovely food and sipped small beers. It was what we could afford. Who knows if one day we will be able to be more extravagant, but on that "one day," I suspect memories -- if not people -- from this Hermitage/New Opera evening will be there.

We have fought with each other, we have consoled each other. We have rejoiced over each other's successes, and we have competed for attention. We have behaved like a family, when you think about it. And why shouldn't we? We've spent three months in bedrooms across the hall from one another.

Growing up, Mary - my sister - had the big bedroom and I had the small bedroom. Mary won hers because it had Holly Hobby wallpaper in it when we moved into the house, so why not put the girl in there?

I was in the smaller room next door, painted yellow. It became my terrain, my kingdom. I would invade my sister's dominion and she would assault mine. I would make her cry, she would make me rage. We eventually learned that this only got us both into trouble with our parents - so we became very adept at mediation (when we wanted to mediate); we learned that, as a force united, we could topple our parents.

And then my little brother was born, and everything changed.

Mary got my yellow room - which I decided to change to seafoam green - and painted it pink. I tore down the Holly Hobby wallpaper and painted the room powder blue. My brother and I shared it - his crib next to my bed, his changing table opposite my desk. It was close quarters, and our duet became a trio. New treaties had to be drawn-up, new alliances - and, most important: new sympathies. Ours was not a child-friendly house: you were expected to mature quickly.

The past three months have been close quarters for me and my classmates. For us dramaturgs, we had our moments of tension - but we overcame them. Like any filial relationship, there are territorial lines that are crossed and then respected. I hope that in the coming months our "diplomatic skills with one another" will become even more finely tuned, making us a united front to be dealt with.

Because, why not? Our "family" is an academic one, and families function best (in my experience) when the boat is rocking. So, in the coming months: let's rock the boat.

For May 20 - 2010. "Chicken Little"

No, the sky isn’t falling – but it feels like it is.

My dear Москва, I am falling into a panic. I always do when I have to leave my safety net, and I have found one here. I have found comfort in you and your tenants, my dear Москва. Between finally learning how to comfortably live and deal with my classmates – a lesson that took over a month, but that I am better for having learned – and meeting and making fantastic new friends from around the whole of Europe, I now have to leave you.

I felt similarly when I had to leave Washington, DC and Brooklyn, NY. Why? Because returning is an uncertainty. I type this knowing full-well that I have said the opposite. “I’m definitely coming back.” That definition, though, (like my abs) is murky. I am embarking on a career in the arts. I do not own a home or any other major commodity. I have enough debt to fill and Olympic-sized swimming pool. I am a theatre gypsy. Traveling to far-away places is not something I can do with ease. With charm, charisma, and cunning? Definitely – I could get myself to the moon. But do I want to cunningly pollute my charm and charisma for a trip? That’s the question…

The last few days have been polluted for me. I have a knack for sullying my existence. When I start to feel my security shake, I act-out in ways that are destructive. These ways are often chemical and sexual. I shake my security almost to its foundation, forcing me to re-examine what I value. This examination also forces a reconstruction of my self, distracting me from the tasks required of leaving. I know this cycle all too well.

Jane Guyer, my fabulously brilliant classmate whom I greatly admire and respect, forwarded the commencement speech from the Class of 2009 graduates of the IATT@HU. In it, Ellen McLaughlin says, “There is a personal darkness we are familiar with inside us, even if we have never had to stare it in the face. We can shut it deep within us, but we’ve heard it thumping around in there on quiet nights when we are alone with the worst of ourselves. We all need help with that.” Reading it this morning, over my coffee as my whites rumbled around inside our German washing machine, I didn’t feel quite so anxious. I felt jolted: it is time I stare my uncertainty in the face, as I always – eventually – do.

But that eventually often comes when things are a mess around me. My dear Москва, I shall endeavor to not leave you a mess.

May 19

5am: woke up at Ian & Steve's

8am: got out of bed

9am: return to dorm

11:20am: meeting with Scott

1:00pm: lunch with Scott

2:00pm: complete research at MXT on Gordon Craig (though I never saw the damn photos ... hmmmm, might go back)

4:30pm: Interview with Kirill Serebrenikov.

5:30pm: dinner

7:00pm: see "Five Feats of Hercules" at MXT

8:20pm: surprise Steve and Ian with a hello (they were at Cafe des Artistes)

8:30pm: wander Moscow

9:30pm: settle into a Coffee House to do some work

11:15pm: return to dorm, settle in, and write Prof. Aksenova re: "Little Vera"

12:15am: e-mails, blogs, bed.

Another Fabulous Weekend

Ah, homosexuals. Is there anything more pefect than a gay? Ok, we can't reproduce ... but we can have a wonderful time.

Wonderful times were had this past weekend, taking me to a variety of venues and sleeping in a variety of places. Nothing tawdry (unfortunately), but lots that was grown-up. This weekend, I felt (once again) like myself.

Friday began the marathon of drinking and cavorting. Drinks at Scandinavia - a new restaurant that is popular amongst the ex-pat set. I showed up later, and met a slew of people from the States, Russia, France, Scotland, and Britain. From there (after clearing up the 50,000 ruble bill -- OMG!) we headed back to Steve and Ian's apartment, and then I joined two newly met gays (Sergei and Sasha) and went to Chipurri.

Chipurri is some kind of posh uber-wealthy club for the wuber-beautiful. I was out of place and not nearly drunk enough to enjoy it; however the DJ was fabulous! The venue: cramped. Lots of mirrors and pink lights ... it was like partying at a Miami Vice shoot.

Ah well -- at least Sergei and Sasha were friendly. After crashing on Sergei's couch, I was off to class Saturday morning, saw a play in the evening, and then was off to the dorm to throw together an over-night bag and join Ian and Steve for another night out! Three Monkeys!! Lots of wine before, and then lots of vodka on the patio as drag queens promenaded and fabulously built boys paraded around in skin-tight Ts and jeans.

THEN, back to Ian and Steve's for bed - I in their queen-sized guest bed. My God, it was lovely. I could spread out in bed like a giant swastika (those who get that film reference: congratulations, you are part homosexual). The following morning brought Canadian bacon, beans, and eggs for breakfast, followed by a lovely outdoor lunch at Cafe des Artistes with Grant, and then - MOVIES!

Yes, movies. I admitted to having never seen the original "Manchurian Candidate." We ran back to Steve and Ian's and popped it into the DVD while pizza was ordered and more wine consumed. Great movie, great friends. It was then followed by "The Court Jester," starring Danny Kaye. Great film ... from what I could remember of it. The wine was taking its toll.

Then is was off to bed, again spread out in their guest bedroom. My goodness, it was heaven. Absolute heaven.

Beyond the creature comforts of bed and breakfast, the weekend was filled with something I cherish more: friends. I have made friends here in Moscow, friends who I hope I can one day repay in kind for their kindness to me.

May 13, 2010 (12 days left in Moscow)

9:00am - roll out of bed and shower

9:50am - leave for Prof. Aksenova's apartment for breakfast/chat 'n' chew

11:30am - walk to MXAT

12:10pm - view Little Vera

2:20pm - lecture with Anatoly Meronovich re: The Master and Margarita

3:30pm - research in MXT museum (Gordon Craig materials)

5:00pm - dinner at new "Japanese" place across from MXT (not going back)

5:45pm - wander Moscow a bit

7:00pm - Three Sisters at the "Little Theatre Near Stanislavski's House" (or something like that)

9:15pm - return home

9:45pm - begin e-mails, deal with sublet issues, and other things (blog)

Midnight - beddy-bye.

The Art of the Ho-Hum

I don't think I'm a Kama Ginkas fan. It's not that I don't appreciate what he does onstage, but what he does onstage is so very literary, and watching a play where it is all "in the language" when you don't know the language is a problem.

Tonight the The Amazing ART D'turg 4 (I'm going to start experimenting with names for our gang of 4 - or perhaps just that? "The Gang of Four?") went to see Ginkas's MEDEA at МТЮЗ. Not a bad night at the theater ... but not great.

Medea, as I viewed the production, was reduced to domestic drama. Children are mere playthings in the divorce of two people who were once in love. In many productions, the reveal Medea and Jason's children -- murdered by their mother -- is a dramatic one. Blood! Red lighting! Costume Changes! Something dramatic and striking.

For Ginkas ... eh. Medea took her two babes -- two very plastic dolls -- and slit their throats. No blood spewing everywhere; no wailing and lamentation; no sound. Amidst this quiet, the "corpses" are put in plastic bins, very neatly, and drowned. It was striking, but not visceral. Had I understood the text before hand I might think differently, but I couldn't. What I saw were two plastic pawns - representing children - unemotionally disposed of.

Jason's response? He sighed, leaned on a wall, and then washed his hands of it all after his wife "flew away."

And, oh boy, did she fly. Not to get too literal, Ginkas got literal. Medea put on a shiny gold aerial costume and floated away into the stratosphere. But that is where it go interesting (for me).

You see, in the Euripides's Medea she is "borne aloft, away from Corinth" at the play's end (in versions of the myth that I've read, she is taken away in a chariot pulled by dragons which were a gift to her from her grandfather, Helios). So here she was, at МТЮЗ, borne aloft.

But before Ginkas's Medea flies away, she puts on a gold costume - which makes me think Ginkas twisted the story (I should note that up until this point what Ginkas had presented was already heavily adapted). Perhaps Medea, maybe, killed herself?

What was actually spoken may contradict this; but, who knows. (Oh wait, the Russians do, that's who.)

You see, in Euripides Medea gives Jason a wedding gift - a cursed golden gown and tiara that, when worn by Jason's bride-to-be, bursts into flames and consumes both the girl and her father (when the father tries to rescure her he sticks to the gown. As he tries to pull away from her, he rips the flesh from his bones, which then catch fire).

Not a pleasant way to die, but a very memorable one. So, I was looking for that golden outfit onstage. The only one that appeared was the aerialist outfit Medea dons to fly away. Which leads me to think that, maybe, Medea - after killing her own children - kills herself? A murder-suicide where Medea uses the spell-bound gown to off herself?

Enhancing this theory of mine is the shape of the costume - a bird; or, a phoenix. The phoenix will burst into flames, self-immolating itself, and then emerge from its ashes. Medea, in the Euripides, does emerge from her ashes -- she flies away from the ruin of her Corinthian life; but, perhaps for Ginkas wanted to paint this metaphor more clearly?

And perhaps this clear-painting is an act of suicide? I mean, the suit could have been any color of the rainbow -- why gold?

At any rate, there were really interesting choices that Ginkas made; but, I can only rely on my powers of perception to decipher them -- and they are powers limited by language.

Ah well. 2 more weeks of this ... and then, no more Russia. I have to say, I look forward to hearing my mother tongue again; but I'm going to miss some of the "throw my hands up in the hair in exasperation" confusion.

So, I need to make the most of my time from here on out.

Pegatha

Tonight I saw Verdi for the first time: Macbeth. Gorgeous.

Not my first time at the opera, though. Sitting in the upper balcony of the Bolshoi, I reminisced about my first time. I was 12, I was special. Pegatha made it so.

Peggy Keller was my music teacher at Our Lady of Ransom Catholic School. Staffed by the Congregation of the Sisters of Saint Felix, OLR was a "powder-blue collar" (as I like to term it) school where shoolsisters and lay women taught us our ABCs. Miss Peggy (or "Pegatha" or "Piggy") Keller was the music teacher.

We were not nouveaux riche -- we were a step above the working class. Barely. My parents chose it because it had the most nuns, per capita, of all the Catholic schools in our area (St. Paul of the Cross; Mary, Seat of Wisdom; St. John Brebeuf; St. Isaac Jogues).

Migdalia Sanchez's father was a mail carrier. Mark Mocarski's parents were immigrants from Poland. There were many first generation kids in my class -- primarily from the Philippines and Poland -- and no one was "wealthy." Sorta'. At best, we were "upper middle class."

We didn't go to the opera for fun.

But I went to the opera at age 12 because I was "special." You see, in 7th grade you got to take a 1/2 day off of school and go to the Lyric Opera. It was a big deal. In 8th Grade you were Confirmed by the bishop; and, you graduated. In 7th ... eh. You got a special field trip. It was culture; it was a "day off;" it was one of the milestones by which we grade schoolers marked our existence.

BUT, I was a 6th grader. A select few -- OK, 2 -- 6th graders were taken with the 7th graders to see "Carmen" at The Lyric (picture it, Chicago, 1990 ...).

I slept. Not through the whole thing, but I slept. We, being a suburban Catholic school, were relegated to the upper upper balcony of the Civic Opera House. It was hot, it was dark, there was a pleasant hum of strings. Everyone, at one time or another (Ms. Keller included), dozed.

But then we awoke. The green, aged copper gate closing; Carmen's "Toreador," death. You did not sleep through those parts. You were a kid watching lust and violence at your OWN school kid's matinee!

Peggy Keller made sure I was there.

She liked me. I was attentive, musically inclined, and I love art. Ms. Keller liked me, so she gave me the chance to watch Bizet's masterpiece. It wasn't a great production, but it changed my life.

It did.

Sitting in the bronze jewel box that is the Civic (now Lyric) Opera House of Chicago, you are dazzled. Guerin's curtain, the enormous lobby, the gilt and ghoulish drama/tragedy masks that adorn the theatre... you are in a palace of the arts. It hits you like a brick. I sat there, at age 12, wowed.

Age 13 wasn't great -- a terrible production of L'elisir d'amore; or: SNORE! THE OPERA.

At any rate, at age 12 Ms. Keller invited me to be a big kid. She trusted me to comprehend, in part, the beauty being offered to me. I did, and I was grateful.

Ms. Keller died a couple of years ago. Cancer. Tonight, as I sat watching my first Verdi -- my first amongst many MANY operas since those two at the Lyric -- I thought about how lucky I was. I was a kid at a, now closed, "powder-blue collar" school and was given the chance to escape the trappings of suburbia. I took it, and ran with it - and tried to give back in whatever ways I could (when I got to high school, and had a bit of influence in the performing arts department, I made sure my alma mater - Our Lady of Ransom - was on the list of grade schools invited to the student matinees). It was never much, but it was what I could do. I knew my roots, and appreciate them.

Sitting in the Bolshoi tonight was memorable - in both the past and present tense.

Betty White, Mom, and Other Things I Miss from the US

Sorry Mom, you get second bill -- the reviews I've been reading of Betty White on SNL are AMAZING! What can I say? I'm your son, and I was taught to value a good bit of bawdiness.

American TV is something I am missing. I haven't beeen an avid TV viewer for years. There are some shows I would watch religiously - like Top Chef or Project Runway, which was viewed with my queer friends in Dan, Frank & Craig's gorgeous apartment in Brooklyn, or The Daily Show and the Colbert Report. Otherwise ... I'm a take it or leave it kinda' viewer.

But TV events have always been a priority. Betty White hosting Saturday Night Live -- that would have been a priority. Golden Girls is one of my all-time favorite shows, which I watched when I was kid, and then re-discovered in constant reruns on Lifetime (every now and then me and my former roommate, Chris, would sit in our DC apartment and get drunk and pig out on snacks while watching the Girls on TV). Great writing, great actresses ... just great great great!

But I'm not in the US -- so I can't even watch the clips here. Ah well. I can read the reviews and think up my own sketches in my head -- I'm quite sure Ms. White will not disappoint when I finally return to the States and get to Hulu the whole shebang.

I guess Betty White was hosting the "Mother's Day" episode. I was reading an article on it, and it said that traditionally the Mother's Day weekend episode of SNL features a female host and predominantly female sketches -- and many SNL alum come back and make appearances. Very cool to have traditions like that, I think.

Today, though, was not Mother's Day in Russia. Nope, it was Victory Day. Classmates and I went to go watch the "parade." For the first time in its history, Americans and other NATO members would be marching in the review of troops that takes place on Red Square.

The review of troops is different from the Parade, though. The parade, down Tverskaya -- which is the main avenue of Russia -- was nothing like we know and love. There were no marching bands or even military bands. There was no music, period. There were no Shriners driving around in tiny cars or other social organizations. There were tanks. And rocket launchers. And ballistic missiles. And terribly old tour vans that contained soldiers of one form or another that tagged along at the end.

By and large, it was an inhuman parade down Tverskaya.

Metal, machinery, and might were the ruling themes of the parade. It wasn't a joyous affair but an impressive one. But what was that impression, exactly? I'm not quite sure. I turned to Laura, my classmate, after about thirty minutes of the parade and remarked that it was boring. Her response: "Yeah. And disturbing -- some of these machines were used to kill people."

As my classmates and I have observed througout the past few days, as rehearsals for the parade took place, parades in the US involve the local fire department polishing the firetruck and wearing their dress uniforms. The Inaugural Parade has some troops in it, but no missiles or tanks or other objects capable of oblivion. Our parades seem more celebratory ... these parades? More ... what?

We were very silent as we watched the tanks roll down Tverskaya. Across from us, a twenty-somthing Russian was waving the hammer and sickle. He was alone in doing so -- Russian flags surrounded him. Some people cheered as the plumes of diesel fuel choked air. I waved at a car load of troops, and "oohed" at the fly over of the fighter jets that sky-wrote the Russian flag in the air ...

but I can't say I smiled. Smiling came later in the day when I Skyped with my Mom (and Dad). Having taken their plates from the kitchen table, they gathered around their desktop in the "family room" so we could have a "meal" together - for them: breakfast; for me: dinner. It was odd, but so was so much about today, and so is so much of life.

While I'm sure the oddities of life will be abundant this summer (they are never far away for my family), sitting in my parents' house, having a "meal" at the same table, no matter how awkward, will be lovely. Tolya asked us, last Friday, if any of us four dramaturgs could see ourselves living in Moscow. I honestly answered "yes." I have my gripes and complaints about Moscow, but I could live here; however, for right now: I want to go home.

In 34 days I will.

Dear Sweet Poopin' Jesus

I bought a laptop in Russia. I was very proud of myself -- I took the metro to the mall (a very American looking mall) and walked into the equivalent of Russia's "Circuit City." It was large, there were plasma screen TVs on the wall, and there were computers. After some deliberations, and some conferences with the servicemen (two of whom spoke English), I plopped down my credit card and invested in my newest piece of technology. A necessity, I feel, when traveling Europe by the seat of my pants. Now, I can surf the web and find directions, articles and numerous other niceities for getting around.

Of course, everything on my computer is in Cyrillic. Why shouldn't it be? But, there's only a limited number of words that I need to know successfully navigate a computer, right? How hard can it be?

Um, it's hard.

Right now I'm in Starbucks desperately trying to find a way to change my computer's "display language" so that I can recognize what the heck it is that I'm doin' with my lovely little "maly malchik" (my tiny computer's name). In time, I'm sure I will pull myself, and Maly Malchik, together. But for now, Dear Sweet Poopin' Jesus, I have no idea what I'm doing on this thing.

Cognitive Dissonance

"Jesus is coming - look busy!" I love that saying. I first encountered it on one of those campy refrigerator magnets where illustrations of 1950s housewives appear against vibrant backgrounds with inappropriate sayings plastered above their heads in bold lettering. Today I thought of those magnets as I stood in the dorm kitchen making breakfast.

It isn't Jesus but NATO that's coming to Moscow, so I guess the Russians are preparing to look busy as various fighter jets from various decades roared in the skies over the dorm at 10am this morning. They were terribly loud, and, today being our first of several free Tuesdays, some of my classmates *were* sleeping-in (until the rehearsal for the air show began).

It's been interesting in Moscow for the last week. As my computer crashed and died (and it is now slowly pulling itself out of its coma) and the world inside the dorm went through some storm and stress, the world outside made itself beautiful. Moscow is beginning to flower, and as we approach May 9 - Victory Day - the streets are beginning to be adorned with orange and black and yellow and red ribbons.

There's a lot of Red in Moscow. Some of it is very ... interesting. Like the circus. We went to the circus on Sunday and it was amazing! Cotton candy and acrobats and death defying feats of strength and artistry -- and Communism!

Yep - the hammer and sickle was raised over the audience at the circus. Why? Because Russian history is, in part, Soviet history -- it was the Soviets who helped defeat Hitler. So ... it makes sense that the hammer and sickle are raised, right? Because if they aren't then we're revising history and that is bad, right?

Beyond my Western mind being blown (air raid drills are a memory for me -- albeit a distant one), there was the theme of the circus itself. The performers emerged in army fatigues, and scenes of reality and fantasy would reveal themselves. In the bright lights of "day," the troops would perform impressive balancing acts using items that they seemed to collect from the materials around them (well, ok - maybe finding the tight-rope was a bit far-fetched). They were idle soldiers entertaining themselves -- and the wounded (carried into the ring on stretchers with bloodied bandages wrapped around their heads or arms).

The reality of what we were celebrating was never far from the illusion, even when the illusion took over.

As the lights dimmed and the soldiers fell asleep, from the troop emerged a female soldier who was gazing dreamily at the sickle-shaped moon. Slowly she stepped out of her skirt and military boots to reveal a beautiful pink sequined circus outfit. She was then catapulted to the rafters so she could fly through the air with the greatest of ease on her flying trapeze.

Then, before day break, a video would play: documentary footage of the battlefield. Soldiers storming Berlin - bullets flying, planes dropping bombs. Images normally found on the History Channel loomed over the sleeping soldiers below. But, as day broke and both night and documentary sobriety receded from view, so did the tension -- THE CIRCUS WAS IN TOWN!

Yes, the circus came to the circus. Beautifully theatrical and theoretical (a theater presenting a theatre of war that is visited by a theatre), a 1940s flatbed truck wheeled onstage carrying beautiful girls in party dresses who sang songs, danced with the GIs and brought gold-suited strongmen, clowns, and monkeys with them. It should have been precious, but it wasn't -- the frosting colored performers were the perfect remedy to the somber black and white documentary images.

It was after this that the flag of the USSR was raised. In what was, I believe, the fall of Berlin, Soviet banners were hoisted throughout the arena - including a massive flag that would send chills down any baby-boomer's spine. Then came the parade of swastikas -- the captured banners of the Third Reich were laid at the feet of ...

who? "Is that supposed to be Stalin?" was my remark to Rachel. But I don't think it was supposed to be Stalin. The white-haired commander, mounted on a black and white horse, received the banners and then began a massive equestrian show. Between the emotional juxtaposition of horror and beauty and the thwack of "sign and signification," I was dumb-founded, overwhelmed, and thoroughly entertained.

The circus might be have been the best thing I've seen in Moscow. No joke -- I'm studying at some of the most storied and respected institutions in the world, and it was the circus that left me speechless.

Thoughts

Today I priced laptops -- just in case (the inevitable case, it seems) that my laptop will not be resurrected. Not the greatest of situations, but sh!t happens and God gave us credit cards.

So I price laptops. Here, there, everywhere: where shall Joe get a laptop? HP.com or on the streets of Moscow? Should I worry about US compatabilty?

As I ponder these questions, I also ask myself: is a laptop all that necessary? Can I get around Europe without one?

Life existed before laptops. As I hand-write my essays in a leather bound notebook (to be transcribed and re-imagined on my parents' computer in Illinois), I debate my dilemma. Should I lay down more money for another computer; or, should I just plan ahead and risk the perils of being internetless in an ever increasing online world?

Time will tell. Hopefully I won't be stranded in the mountains of Spain, raising my fists towards Heaven in anger, cursing my lack of technology.

Community Property

In the hallway near the showers sits our community computer. It is a fine device; however, it is in a hallway. There is no privacy. Why am I on it? My lovely little laptop died last night. My little black plastic and metal box overheated and shut down. At the end of a long day, it was enough for me to tense, sigh, and then slam the lid shut in frustration.

My little black plastic and metal box has amnesia. It doesn't remember who it is, and I don't know how to reach it. I went to bed last night thinking that my world had, to a degree, ended. No internet access, no ability to write in my own space, no way to reach my papers locked inside of it, no peace of mind of being able to connect with friends and family.

I went to bed in a funk and woke up a little less funky. With a clearer head, I made my way to the community computer to alert friends and family that I could be less in touch with them as a result of my mishap. As I did this, I saw Jane rush past me with a worried look on her face and her phone in her hand. Moments later, I found out why.

Through the door to my left, near the showers and our community computer, I heard someone's heart wripped from their chest. I heard a girl, Jane's friend, to whom I had never been introduced (but who probably overheard my "hallway tantrum" yesterday as a means of introduction to me) find out that her sister was torn from this world and into another.

My little black plastic and metal box didn't seem so important.

As I sit here tonight and hear other people's little plastic and metal boxes of various colors musically come to life in rooms down the hall from the showers, I am sad and angry with myself. I pushed my little black plastic and metal box too hard. I broke it. I am ashamed of my actions and of my reactions. I viewed my loss as a tragedy, but really it is an inconvenience.

Today reminded me, again (always again, because it is so easy to forget) how lucky I am. How terribly priviledged me and my perspective are, and how terribly close to me awful things orbit -- but rarely collide.

Conniptions and Consternations - or, GET ME HOME NOW!

Today I had a moment in the hall. An inglorious embarrassing moment of tantrumming over the large sums of money I am bleeding away.

I was partly justified, I was mostly over-tired. Like any three year-old, I needed a nap. Alas, I'm too grown up for one - I have homework instead of naptime. The tantrum, though, was a long time comin'.

Last Thursday I noticed how few megabytes I had left on my computer. It was my own fault -- a couple of days before, I SKYPEd with my father. I video SKYPEd because he could not get his microphone to work and I know dad -- he wants to see my face (for all of our disagreements and hurtful things said to one another, we love each other). Talking to dad wiped out almost one-half of my megabytes.

I knew I'd take a hit, so I monitored my megabytes. When Thursday rolled around, I gave 100 rubles more to Nastia knowing that it should be enough megabytes to carry me over to May -- though I probably wouldn't see those megabytes until Monday.

Friday: No miracles happen (my Internet is still "nyet dyeneg") and at 10:20pm we board a somewhat ancient train for our fly-by weekend in St. Petersberg.

Saturday: 6:45am we arrive in St. Pete (the train was so old and uncomfortable that almost everyone was unable to sleep on it -- nodding on and off we each got about an hour's rest).

7:10am we arrive at Coffee House for a pre-paid breakfast.

9:00am our tourbus arrives for our three hour tour of St. Petersberg. It was a blustery, clooudy day, but still thrilling to see so many sights in so short an amount of time.

1:00pm we go to lunch

1:30pm we check-in to our hostel (which had a power outage, downing the computers and delaying us somewhat as Nastia and Tanya deal with the management).

2:30pm we go to the Hermitage

5:30pm we finish the Hermitage, drop stuff at the hostel

6:00pm we shop at the souvenir martket near St. Savior on Spilled Blood

7:00pm(ish) we meet others for Georgian food

9:30pm(ish) we finish dinner

10:00pm(ish) some of us head to a British pub for a pint.

11:00pm(ish) shower and bed

7:20am wake up and get ready to leave

7:30am(ish) we move to leave the Hostel for breakfast

8:00am Breakfast

8:50(ish) we board the tour bus to go to Tsarskoe Selo

10:00(ish) - 2pm we tour Tsarskoe Selo

2:30(ish) - 5:45 Rachel, Faith, and I go to the Bronze Horseman, St. Isaac's, do eat, do some souvenir shopping, walk around St. Pete

5:45 - 7:00pm we all tour the Alexandrinsky Theatre museum and then see MAN=MAN

10:00pm (ish) Faith and I grab some pizza, do some more souvenir shopping, walk back to Hostel

11:00pm (ish) we depart the Hostel, on foot, to the train station

12:10am(ish) our train leaves for Moscow. By 1:00am I am asleep.

9:00am(ish) our train arrives at Moscow. We head to the dorm, shower, unpack, change clothes.

12:30(ish) we dramaturgs leave for the Pushkin to see the Picasso exhibit.

1:00 - 2:30(ish) Picasso at the Pushkin

2:30 - 4:30 I walk around Moscow, grab lunch

4:30 - 6:00pm we dramaturgs have Art & Architecture history.

6:00pm - 6:45 a small break

7:00pm - Cafe Socrate at the Moscow Musical Theater in the memory of Stanislavski and Nemerovich-Danchenko.

8:30-9:30 - Rachel and I walk back to dorm, do some small shopping.

9:30 - I discover my internet still isn't working.

I discover my internet still isn't working.

I discover my internet still isn't working.

Typing the above sentence over and over releaves some of the stress the situation brings. It is not a lot of stress, but when the weight of researching for assignments, writing your assigned blog, trying to find a subletter for the summer months, wanting to order rail tickets for your upcoming trip and other matters that are unimportant to others (but important to me) cannot be done - these small stresses add up.

I reached my breaking point this afternoon. My classmates got an earful of sqwakings that a 3 year old would normally make, only these sqwaks were augmented by the bellow of a 31 year old voice.

I'm tired. I have not fully recovered from a weekend so busy that I don't know if I enjoyed it or not. I saw a lot, it was beautiful, but it was exhausting.

Three days -- it should have been done in three days (I'm told in years past it was done in three days, but recently people have complained about the length and being bored -- which is nonsense).

You need at the very minimum three days to tour St. Pete.

Whatever. I'm tired. My jade is growing thick and the world is an ugly place through my eyes right now. Everything is pointless and dull. Everything.

Tired ....

can't you see she's exhausted?

The Second Epilogue of War and Peace

is tiresome.

Other than that, I am tired. Had a sleepless night last night. My sleep schedule was off from the weekend, so I tossed and turned until about 3am. But I kept my vow: I went to the gym this morning.

I am exhausted, but if all goes well, I should begin reigning my waistline's manifest destiny before I leave Moscow.

Otherwise, no play tonight -- ticket mix up. I tried to be a good 'turg this weekend and see a show on a night off, but tickets weren't available. Since I have reading due for tomorrow and made an valiant attempt this weekend, I decided to use this off night to read the required epilogues of War and Peace.

Hopefully I will be lucid enough to discuss them.

Surviving the Surviveable

The volcano is still doing bad things in Iceland. Invisible smoke has engulfed Moscow and most of Europe. Some say it's the beginning of the end of days -- I think it's just been a rough couple of months.

The beginning of my classmates' and my sojourn here in Russia was marked by terrorist attacks in the metro system (and smaller attacks in the provinces). That was March. April brought us a volcano that holds many tourists hostage here in Europe. Who knows what May will bring -- hopefully just some sun and fun.

We venture to St. Pete this coming weekend -- I'm very curious about that excursion! St. Pete is supposed to be beautiful and perfectly manicured, and Tolya would like us to just enjoy ourselves -- though, my curiostiry may have provoked Tolya into getting me and my fellow 'turgs tickets to Hamlet at the Alexandrinsky Theatre. That would be pretty damn amazing -- but we'll see.

Until then, like with volcanos and everything else going on in the world, we wait.

For Dad

I just finished SKYPEing with my father. It was a clumsy conversation, one that ate up one-half of my internet usage -- but it was worth it. I got to look at Dad.

My father is notoriously cheap, and a hoarder. We have a garage full of old bicycles, rearview mirrors that have been detached from various automobiles, cans of paint, doors, doorknobs ... it is an unfathomable and endless list. I am embarrassed to bring friends home, knowing what piles lurk in our humble suburban house. But, now that I'm on the other side of the earth, those frustrations are silly.

It was a clumsy conversation not in what my father and I discussed, but how we discussed it. You see, the microphone on his computer didn't work, so it ended up being a video call where he would gesticulate wildly and mouth hugely while I tried to guess the topic. Being a Ph.D. and all, the idea to bust out a red pen and scrawl topics on a piece of paper burst into his head. It was ridiculous, but, in many ways, it is the epitome of my family: clumsy, but filled with love.

I think what I loved most about our conversation was its silence. Of course, there is the juvenile aspect of FINALLY being able to hold my father hostage and make him listen to me -- but that lasted for only about 10 (OK, maybe 15) minutes. Towards the end of the call, as the conversation began to tire bit and my megabytes of internet became fewer and fewer, I started to wrap things up. My father wrote more furiously. I watched him write.

I haven't watch my father really do anything since I was, oh, 4? I remember when he was writing his dissertation. We would go to Grandma Julie's (his mom's). I would sit at the white porcelain topped kitchen table in the lime-green kitchen, sketching (as my Grandma always encouraged me to do). In the bedroom just off of the kitchen was Grandma, typing -- my father would write or dictate and grandma, who was a secretary, would type. Cioci Stephie was cooking at the stove. Grandpa Ted was proofreading. I believe my mother was there proofing with Grandpa or watching my little sister. I can't remember.

What I do remember was the hive of activity. The instant coffee warming on the stove, the kilbasa and rice pudding that Cioci would make to fortify the efforts. I remember watching my dad, reading. Framed by the doorframe, he would stand in the bedroom, reading and thinking. All the activity swirling around me -- I remember being fascinated by watching my father. His face, his posture, everything.

My father and I, now, are growing more close; however, childhood and adolescence ... not so great years for me and dad. He's good with toddlers and adults. Everything in between - not so much. But today, like when I was 4, I got to watch my father. Perhaps it is the excess of champagne and white wine from the fabulous lunch I had that is making me so nostalgic, but I felt (for a moment) like I was 4 again.

In many ways, the whole reason I was a bit tipsy has everything to do with my father. His firmness with me, his expectations, his brutality (at times -- and I know I was equally brutal in return. Childhood, in my house, was psychological warfare, but in the most nurturing sense) have led me to Moscow. Maybe not led, but influenced.

At the fabulous lunch, we talked about a series in Britain where they interviewed a group of 7 years olds years ago, and every 7 years re-interview them. The children who went private schools tended to acheive exactly what they had in mind when they were 7 years old. Have I done the same? Maybe -- I wanted to be an actor, and I am (though, perhaps, embarking on an alternate theater career) and ... did I know about Harvard?

No, probably not. I barely knew about Northewestern, my father's alma mater; however, I knew about failure. I knew about drive and passion and those things I learned from my parents. As I sat in the very stylish apartment of my British chums this afternoon, a member of a party of fabulously international fabulous men, and we talked about this television show, I thought about my parents. Tonight, talking to my dad, again this memory of watching him popped into my head. When I was born, we were on welfare. My father would get odd jobs driving diaper delivery trucks and city buses so he could pay for school and for our growing family. His parents, the children of immigrants, helped as they could -- but we were lower middle class. We were not wealthy.

Today at the luxurious lunch, and tonight in the dorm, I realized how good I have it and how hard it was fought for. I look forward to going home and being frustrated by dad (and probably looking forward to getting the hell outta' Chicago come the end of my three months there this summer). For right now, though, absence is making the heart grow fonder; right now -- thanks to the presence of wonderful friends and opportunities -- this absent son wants to go home.

Outrage

Yes, outrage. Dear reader(s? Is there more than one?), last night the American program was caught up in a petty tete a tete. The former administrator of our program, reduced to English tutoring hausfrau, vs. our current Queen of Angels.

Notes, and sides, have been taken.

Let it be known: I do not appreciate lectures by the hausfrau about how we're not allowed to socialize (we are -- I have a copy of the sheet I signed and parties are not forbidden, only loud music after 11pm). I do not appreciate being guilted for using community property. I do not appreciate being manipulated.

Last night, I and my classmates were manipulated. An e-mail was sent to our headmaster complaining of happiness. We were making friends with the Russians, and the hausfrau didn't like it - nevermind the fact that at pervious parties (even more rowdy) she was seen taking shots and carrying on with us. So, she e-mails Anatoly Smeliansky complaining of ... what? The noise? - the party was on the 3rd floor and you couldn't hear it on the 5th.

Ok, so then not the noise. What was she complaining about? Ah, yes -- I took the speakers from our 5th floor community computer so they could be used on the 3rd floor at a party that the entire dorm was invited to. Ah, yes, that must be it. The hausfrau couldn't blare her indy Russian folk tunes, performed by her tone-deaf friend and former pupil Paulina (who spends way too many nights, illegally, in the dorm), at 1am. That must be it.

Yes.

We interrupted her schedule. And then she interruped mine: she felt it necessary to lecture me -- as I invited her to come and join us -- about how "American's are not allowed to have parties in the dorm." Wow. I mean, we may be Americans, but we're not second class Russians, are we? No. We're not second class anything.

We're students at the American Repertory Theater, affiliated with Harvard. Don't lecture me about your petty beefs. Don't treat me, a 31 year old man, like some undergrad who's drinking his way through Moscow. Do not involve me or my classmates in your trivial power plays. You don't know me. Anyone who does know me knows that I take this experience seriously -- no matter how mundane or difficult I may find it. These same anyones also know how I react to this kind of diminutive treatment.

And you don't want to meet that Joe. No, may dear hausfrau -- you may be a bitch, but, when provoked, I'm one queen you don't want to tangle with.

Dear Russia

I have noticed that you are lacking in a certain wonder of the Western world. I understand that you have suffered through 70+ years of withdrawing and isolating yourself from us Yanks, Brits, and Francs; however, do yourself a favor: listen to me.

There is an amazing device that we have perfected in the West. It is a small clear box that does the most amazing thing -- it cools things. We call them ice cubes. Said cubes are easily made in ice cube trays. Don't panic, dear Russia, you have the raw materials to make these trays, and it is not very hard.

You see, I know that it is cold here. Brrrr! But sometimes, even in cold weather, it is nice to have a cold drink. Call me crazy, but layers upon layers of dead animal skins can make a body warm! So, cool drinks are often a nice way to relax -- especially on hot days.

I know, I know - you all drink warm drinks to stay cool. It raises your body temperatures and helps facilitate sweating -- the natural refresher. Yes, I agree. But you also have to understand that our body's temperature isn't meant to get too warm (which is why we sweat), because if it did our brains would melt. Well, maybe not melt, but they would be damaged in a way that would make us soporific and perpetually dull. We don't want that, do we? No, of course not.

Now I tried buying these amazing little ice cube trays, but, alas, none of your stores seem to carry them -- NONE OF THEM. And, dear me, this is rather frustrating. I mean, dear Russia, have you savored the delights of a cool bourbon on the rocks? Or an iced tea? Delicious - but impossible to make without the proper supplies -- and by proper supplies I mean ice cubes because everything else needed for said beverages is readily available. Except for ice cubes.

Now, you have ice a plenty here in the winter, I know! I've seen it! And, I've heard tales of how there are no cold drinks here because its ususally so cold that if you want ice in your drink, you just step outside. Within five minutes, you'll have a popsicle and nasty case of frost bite! Viola! How droll. But, for the sake of international relations; for the true attainment of Glastnost and Perestroika; for the full spectrum of tasty delights that liquids can offer, I beg of you, dear Russia, hear me! Give your people ice cubes!!!

What Just Happened?

I needed groceries, so I decided to make the most of this evening.

I was scheduled to go to the closing ceremonies of the Golden Mask Festival, but there was only one ticket. Since my good suit still needs to be dry cleaned, I bowed out of the running and thought I'd take in some theater. While looking through the Affisha [or the month's Moscow calendar of theater events] I fell asleep and woke up way too late to go to the theater. So, off I went to the grocery store.

Perekrestok is the grocery store I prefer, though it is not a common favorite amongst us dramaturgs. You see, there are four major grocery stores close to the dorm. The one by the park (which I think is an Universam ... maybe), which is cheap but has a poor selection; Azbuka Vkusa ["Tasty Alphabet" or some derivation there of], which is across the street but is outrageously expensive; Bakhetley, which is across Tverskaya and is upscale but reasonably priced; and Perekrestok, which is about a 10 minute walk from the dorm, has a huge selection and is probably a little cheaper than Bakhetley.

Perekrestok is the store I make trips to once a week to stock up on supplies (except for bread and beer, which I get at an even cheaper store that is behind the Mayakovsky Metro), and Bakhetley is the late-night "I need a snack" sorta' place. Today I made my trip to Perekrestok, and bought fruit at the farmer's market set-up in front of it. A big step for me -- I supremely dislike haggling at markets, and my Russian is not good enough to know if I'm being taken or not.

Before going to the market, I decided to test my skills inside the Perekrestok. This test involved meat. I sallied up to the one of the three meat counters (one for fish, one for sausages, the third for hunks of meat) and carefully read teh cyrillic signs and, without much difficulty, managed to acquire a couple hundred grams of boneless/skinless chicken breast. I wasn't proud, but I was happy it wasn't a complete disaster.

So, then after stocking up on random junk (I'm still kicking a cold, and was a bit feverish, so my basket consisted of organge juice, chicken breasts, chocolate, and crab flavored Lays potato chips, amongst some other small items) I made my way to the cashier and out into the farmer's market.

Things went fine. I found a stand selling lovely gigantic apples. I bought four -- the merchant gave me a 5th for free, I think. What actually transpired was: I said "4 apples, please." He held up a fifth and said something, I grunted with a nod, and he put the 5th apple in the bag. He then recited a price and, me being rather blind (without my glasses), I looked him square in the eyes, sternly nodded with a grunt, and handed him a 500 ruble bill not really knowing what he said, but that the 500 rubles should cover it all. He gave me change - I, DuBois-esque, rely on his kindness in not cheating me.

I continue down the line of merchants and see strawberries. Big, dark red strawberries that Tanya was raving about on Sunday. Ok, I thought ... here we go! I walk up to the booth. The merchant was finishing up with another client and when he was done, I pointed at the strawberries and said, "Those, please." He picked them up, smiled and started talking a bit. I smiled and said "Da, Da ..." nodding my head. He recited the price, and I paid him. Before leaving, he holds up another thing of fruit. They look like orange figs to me -- "Man berries from Azerbaijan" is the jist of what he was selling me.

Man berries from Azerbaijan? I'm intrigued. "They're delicious!" Fine. With a "Da," I purchase my man berries. He then hoists up a long yellow something or other that I couldn't identify and with a laugh I let out a "Fso! [That's all!]" and he laughs. He asks my name "My name is Joe," I reply in Russian. "Joe?" He replies, "My name is Syo!"

I don't know if he was kidding or not, but whatever. I may have been taken for a bit of a ride, but now I am the proud owner of apples, strawberries, and manberries. All are delicious - and, thankfully, I'm not allergic to man berries.

Wouldn't that be horrible? My parents, in Park Ridge, get that terrible phone call: "Mrs. Pindelski? This is Anatoly Smeliansky. I hate to inform you, but, your son, Joe, has had an allergic reaction and is dead." "Dead! Oh my God! What happened?" responds dear mother. "Man berries, Mrs. Pindelski. Your son died from Azerbaijani man berry poisoning."

Masculine Mystique

Tonight I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror -- in profile. Of all my files, in all the world, my "pro" is most painful. Rounding, aging, sagging. I was standing in line to check my coat for my second viewing of Kama Ginkas's "The Lady with a Lapdog" -- Thaiis was at my side, talking. She didn't notice my reflection -- or if she did, it didn't bother her as it did me.

Thaiis: a gorgeous blonde with brown-hazel eyes, and funky (but very tastefully applied [I should have hated it, but didn't]) purple eyelash liner, who I met while waiting in line for my student ticket not five minutes before we were checking our coats together. Before making her acquaintance, I walked up to the administrator's window and, in my best pidgin Russian said, "I am a student at MXAT's American Studio and need a student ticket, please." I was motioned to stand to the side and wait until everyone else had gotten a ticket. She was behind me.

After being similarly motioned to the side, Thaiis soon turned to me and asked if I spoke English, and then began the conversations of where I was from, what she is doing in Moscow, etc. Thaiis, Taiia for short, is a fourth year student at the film school. She was very curious about my impressions of Moscow, what shows I've seen and which have been my favorites, what movies and movie directors I like. Questions, lots of questions. It was fun. I tried to be considerate in my answers, avoiding words like "concupiscence" or "amativeness" (which I use so often), trying to formulate responses that were clear and conscise.

Like my blog postings, yes?

It wasn't too long before I noticed something. We were sitting at a cafe table, and her hand brushed mine. No biggie, I thought ... until the third time it happened. Uh oh. I'm being charming. I'm being attentive. I'm laughing and actively listening to her points.

Damn it - I'm flirting.

Crap. I don't mean to flirt -- in fact, I wasn't. I was just being a good companion! but, as we stood to get to our seats I noticed the proximity of our bodies, the look in her eyes. Damn. What to do? We just met and I can't very well dash her hopes and dreams of having a home in the suburbs with me, where our springer spaniel plays behind a white picket fence with our twins (Dasha and Masha), can I? We've only just met!

Then again, why would she have these fantasties (and why do I? And who are Dasha and Masha?)

So no, no ... everything's fine. There are no fantasies -- I am the one jumping the gun. So, I try and become a little politely distant and respectful. We wait for seats -- Taiia goes to try and buy a program and tells me to take a seat without her. But, that would be rude of me so I wait for her ... DAMN IT! I'm being a gentleman again!

She returns, she smiles and makes a comment about me waiting -- I respond it would be rude of me if I didn't ... la la la, we take our seats together. I'm writing an article about Lapdog -- a Chekhov tale staged by Kama Ginkas as a bitter tale of love gone awry -- and focus on the spectacle before me. The last time I saw it I fell asleep -- no wonder, there's a lot of talking. A lot of talking and and standing still, and the air conditioner wasn't turned on in the dark theater, so: droning + heat + dark = Joe asleep.

I did not sleep this time. I took notes! I fought off my heavy lids and looked around me at how people were responding (I think Robert Falls might have been in the audience). I was NOT attentive to Taiia. I did not yawn and let my arm fall around her shoulder; I did not go to grab my pad of paper and grab her thigh instead; I did not look at her throughout the entire show.

Show ends, and Thaiia is crying. Not CRYING, but teary-eyed. My first thoughts are: "COMFORT HER! SAY SOMETHING SOOTHING!" But that would lead her on, so I decide against that. Instead, out of my mouth comes a "What'd ya' think o'that?"

Dumb. Boys are dumb. I am a boy sometimes.

She took a breath and we started talking again. We made our way back to the lobby where I saw one of the usherettes selling programs. I go and buy two -- one for me and one for Taiia. Taiia was looking for the a program earlier, but couldn't find the girl selling them, and to thank her for her help in my getting the ticket and for talking to me earlier I ...

did it again. DAMN IT!

She took the program while my classmate, Jane, and her boyfriend walked by us. They saw how close she was to me and the look on her face. Damn it. I gave in: I decided to play the boyfriend until we parted.

We go to the "garderob" [cloakroom] and get our coats -- they're on the same hanger. Taiia has to go to the bathroom, I hold her coat for her and wait. I then walk her to the corner, talking.

She's going to St. Pete this weekend (I'm going next weekend). We chatted a bit more, and then came the part where we had to go our separate ways (she to the East, me to the West). My first impulse was to hug her goodnight -- a dumb impulse. I felt the weight shift in my body and nearly fell on the poor girl while resisting it. Instead, I gave her a bashful nod, a goodnight, and off I went -- without getting her number.

I thought exchanging numbers might be a bad idea -- giving false hope, perhaps? I'm not sure. After catching my reflection while waiting in line, my disgust got the better of me, the reaffirming voice in my head: "of course you're single -- what gay boy would look at you twice, heffer?" I then turned and looked to my left and there was a lovely girl who seemed to have an attraction to me.

Ah well.

A Knife in the Back (2)

RE: Kolyada.

OK, so, Tolya had a point. Once you publish a blog it is out there -- finis. Done. The world can view your words and judge your thoughts. And then, after consideration, you can respond.

In my first double-posting, I choose not to respond to my Kolyada rant, but to ponder it.

I get the raping of Tennessee -- you destroy the thing most precious to those who value it. I get it. I respect the layering of a political P.O.V. on top of that shattering. Very good - make me squirm, and then make me think. Kolyada ... I'm taking notes.

Streetcar was potent. First, it was hysteric. [REDACTED - I was relying on hearsay, which is not relevant] It was purposefully (I hope) dumb, to abuse our treasured American drama, shitting on our cherished poet before our eyes

And then, your puppets come onstage. The Indian and the Statue of Liberty. Hmmm. Whatever your Indian said at the beginning (I've been asking around, "unrelated nonsense" seems to be the common response), it fell into the hysteric shenangians of Blanche, Stella, and Stanley. Perhaps it was a prelude as to what was to follow?

I'm not sure. What I am sure of is that I didn't like what I saw -- but that doesn't make it bad. Your theatricalized temper tantrum is new to me. I'm used to Lower East Side New York hipsters blathering on about not being able to get free WiFi from the government (or some other bullshit topic -- America is sorely lacking valuable political theater at present). And, while Russia's economy was in trouble before the U.S. wrecked the world, you have a (seemingly) legitimate beef with us -- even if it does seem tacked on (I'm sorry Kolyada, your production seemed like you wanted to make an anti-American rant and were grasping at any straws to do so).

So, maybe you weren't bad -- you were just new? I need to think about you more.

And We Sit on the Floor

I'm a capitalist and I have certain expectations. Sitting on the floor to see a show is not one of them. I know, I know I'm being petty; I know I'm being small; but, I'm paying about $50,000 to be here -- to study here -- I expect a chair, a decent chair, in the theater I'm studying at. Not an obstructed spot behind a music stand, or the hopes for someone not showing up. I expect a good seat at MXT (and only MXT). I'm a student here -- paying obscenely more than our Russian comrades-in-arms -- so why should my attendance at an assigned play be a surprise for anyone?

We're huffed at for being late; we're frantically phoned when we're not in the exact sport we're supposed to meet an Angel; we try to be on top of our game (and usually are). With all of this, we're allowed to have expectations.

If this expectation makes me an asshole, so be it. I can live with that -- though I'm not being one. Getting free tickets and then praying for a chair at the Mateusz - totally understandable. Relying on Tolya's connections to get us standing room only at the Satirycon? Done, and many thanks. Sitting on a step at the MXT? Um, could you repeat yourself, please?

Our theater schedule is made, for the entire month, by the first or second day of that month. This means that on or around April 1 it should be known (barring any last minute changes) whether or not we're seeing a show on April 13. The panic of trying to get a ticket for all four dramaturgs for a show at MXT at 6:50pm (when the show starts at 7) on the evening of the show is unacceptable.

I understand that life is unexpected. I know that last minute changes in schedules come up: Irina could only get 2 tickets (instead of 4) to Onegin for tonight; Anatoly has just been told about this show -- he thinks you should go; the theatre is closed for a day of mourning. All of these things happen. Life happens. A show that we're told to be prepared for and then occurs on the scheduled day at the scheduled time should not be a surprise.

Surprise! Tonight was a surprise. This is now the 4th time I've had rather uncomfortable seats at MXT. Threepenny? Pillowman? Ok ... yes: those were in March, and probably the good seats (and by good seats, I mean just plain seats in the theater, not a folding chair set up in an aisle) were already sold. April ... um, no. Sorry. We've been here for a month. I expect a grown-up seat, in a grown up chair, that was, in part, paid for using my grown-up money/tuition.

That's the problem, I suppose, of being a 31 year old graduate student. That 50K tuition I'm paying for this first year of school: I have certain expectations as to how that money should be used. When you are accepted into, and pay, to be a part of something, some small family, you expect a certain kind of respect. Tonight, I was disappointed.

Still, regarding tonight's performance of "Playing the Victim" - it was better to be a part of a captive audience than to be a part of no audience at all.

April 12

7:00 - Alam goes off (series of short naps begins, some cough medicine taken)

10:00 - get out of bed

10:20 - shower

10:50 - quick breakfast

11:10 - put away laundry, prepare to leave

11:25 - leave for school

12:00 - Art/Architecture History

1:30 - quick nap before Anatoly's lecture

2:00 - 3:30 - Anatoly's lecture

3:30 - walk home

4:00 - arrive home

4:30 - begin reading War & Peace, book one.

5:30 - dinner

6:30 - resume book one.

10:00 - finish book one.

10:00 - 11:00 - e-mails, blog, get ready for bed.

Sunday About Moscow

The spring weather has arrived in Moscow. Grass is thickening, tulips and crocuses are starting to sprout, birds are singing a bit more. It is wonderful!

As the weather warms, Moscow has been getting a bath. Yesterday morning, as I ventured out into the Moscow streets, there were many sidewalks getting baths.



The soot and grime of a the snow is slowly leaving -- though I doubt if it will every be fully gone. Not that it matters -- the warmer temps have people out and about, enjoying the beauty that was hidden under those grey heaps of ice and snow.



Today was another day of sun and lovely temperatures. It was almost a shame to have to go to the theater, to have to leave the brisk out of doors; but then, the play my classmates, Tolya, and me saw was equally lovely. "La Estrada."

About an hour long, "La Estrada" was a smart bit of stageplay about the state of the arts. An actress laments her lack of work, due to the rise of commonfolks taking acting gigs away from true actors (or so the Golden Mask synopsis said), and in the process wanders in and out of a series of monologues and dialogues from Chekhov's "The Seagull." The way it was staged was masterful. Restrained but complex, it was as beautiful as the sun gleaming off of the domes of St. Basil's. It was simple but thoughtful, and knew when to call it an evening (it was about an hour long).

Having gotten the playful wit of the short show, we all strolled out of the theater and up Tverskaya, happy. It was a rather perfect day, which was very much needed. I guess a perfect day's rarity is what makes it all the more special -- if it was common, it wouldn't be appreciated.

Diplomacy

Today tragedy struck Europe again -- especially Russia. For me, it was not being able to get a ticket to see Eugene Onegin. This is a shallow, and American, problem.

For Russia, pain resonated throughout many of its people. The crash of the plane carrying the president of Poland struck deep within many of its older generation -- I feel. For this generation, the one that bears some weight of Stalin's treatment of the Poles (no matter how real or impressed upon them), a sword went through their heart. The act and the symbol were weighty.

Meanwhile, the Americans had barbeque.

I woke up late -- around 11am. The news was just breaking about the crash of the outdated model of aircraft carrying the president and numerous heads of government of Poland. More tragic: the families that traveled with them. They were enroute to a memorial. My thoughts momentarily went sorrowful. The human loss, the impact on Polish government ... terrible. I said a prayer, and took a shower.

The memorial that the president's plane was enroute to was a memorial that involved Russia's reluctant admission that it massacred Polish prisoners of war. For Russians of a certain age, this reluctance is an embarrassment. For these same Russians, this accident is a blight. It is salt on an embarrassing wound. This irritation did not strike me until I was in class.

Natalya, our Meyerhold professor, opened the door to Meyerhold's apartment (where we have class) and my first words to her were about how beautiful the day was. Her first words to me were about how tragic the day was -- how only a week ago Moscow was hit by tragedy, and now how Russia is once again in mourning.

I felt stupid. Not in that I didn't know what was going on, but stupid in that I didn't have any emotional response. Should I? No, is my instinct. The cycle of life, and tragedy, happens. You endure it. You put on a strong face and take stock of you blessings. You carry on.

As my classmates arrived, and we sat around the large table in the middle of Meyerhold's apartment, the very room where his wife was ruthlessly murdered, Natalya again brought up the crash. Nastya, our faithful translator, echoed the misery. Again, I felt dumbfounded.

But a thought struck me, and maybe it is inappropriate, but perhaps not. Gitta Honegger, my brilliant professor at Catholic U., talked about growing up in post-Nazi Austria and the weight of the guilt in the air they breathed. Her mother, by virtue of her nationality and however inadvertantly or unwittingly, was a party to genocide. Gitta eluded to this, and its resulting agony, when we dicussed Brecht's ANTIGONE (I might be wrong, and I apologize if I am). I think the same psychological weight of culpability applies in Russia. Russians, of a certain age, remember. Poles, of a certain age, remember. Russification is not long ago -- but none of these are American problems.

Cathy Owsiany was a classmate of mine in high school. I was her escort to her society ball in Chicago -- the League of Polish Women's Red and White Ball. It is one of the ten white tie annual affairs in Chicago. Beneath the crystal chandeliers of the Hilton and Towers, dressed in tails and ballgowns, we danced mazurkas and Polonaises to benefit charities in post-Soviet Poland. It was 1996 -- less than a decade from Communism's collapse.

Before I could escort Cathy to the ball, my mother and I (dad had to work) had to go to tea with Cathy's parents. My mother was terrified -- "TEA? What do I wear? What are we going to talk about?" Mr. Owsiany did the talking. He was eloquent, and reminiscent. He was born and raised in Poland. He worked in the Gdansk yards where Walesa raised hell for the Soviets. He experienced Russification -- being fored to learn Russian instead of his native Polish. He, and his wife (who Cathy lovingly referred to as Owsiana -- the Polish form for the women of the family [my sister, Mary, would be Pindelska]) both were forced to abandon their roots by an alien government.

Russians today understand that alienation -- if they are of a certain age -- because they were pary to it, of sorts. It was their country that forced its will upon countless millions -- massacring 20,000 Polish POWs near Smolensk, numerous millions of Ukranians in the collectivization of farms. Horror.

Today, to have a Polish head of state die, on Russian soil, en route to a memorial for Russian wrongs, strikes deep at the Russians. But it was lost on us Americans. Tonight, we drank and had barbeque at the American Embassy. We were happy to speak American English and talk about college rivalries and places we've lived. Today, we were on American soil, not enveloped in Russian issues, not fretting over Polish lives lost. It was not our issue -- and it sould not have been. We were not involved. Those of us who knew about it, we gasped, we said our prayers, we did what we thought appropriate and our lives went on as we thought best.

Tonight when we got back to the dorm, after beers and good time and the ecstacy of being able to relax with fellow Americans, we were a bit loud. Mariana, our house mother, came into the kitchen as asked if we had heard about the tragedy. Half of us knew what she meant, the other half were confused -- was the Polish jet crashing a tragedy?

To some in Russia, of a certain age, it was. Russia was taking a step forward, admitting past wrongs, and the universe (and poorly made aircraft and stubborn pilots and the iron hand of Fate) smacked at that admittance. Today, Russia was denied a chance at absolution.

The Kathy-town Community Theater presents: ABORTION!

Sorry, no, that's not it. Wait ... OK: The Kolyada Theatre of Yekaterinburg presents: Tennessee Williams's "A Streetcar Named Desire."

WHEW! I'm so sorry, I don't know how I could have gotten confused. Oh wait, no, I do know -- I saw their show. Yes, tonight I was exposed to "New Drama" in Russia. To us Westerners, it is not dissimilar from the "in your face" drama of Sarah Kane, where plays are purposefully violent and disturbing. In that same sense, tonight I watched Kolyada rape Tennessee Williams, and I use that term in its most violent and graphic of senses.

Too harsh? Not really. Here's a some info on Kolyada, courtesy of Wikipedia (my apologies -- it is the most efficient source): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Kenirwin/kolyada

From the moment Sara, Laura, Jenny, and I entered the Pushkin Theater, we knew we were in for a treat. The program shows a picture of a baby doll, holding an American flag, as it climbs up a tablecloth. Truly, it is an image synonymous with "Streetcar."

Then you enter the theater. Laid out on two tables are two large dolls with spot lights focused on them. Behind them, sitting in a semicircle of chairs, are a dozen other dolls who are watching the audience. It made me think of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I don't know why.

Then, the fun begins.

An American Indian, dressed in your Nana's housecoat and a headdress made out of $1.99 neon colored feather dusters, comes on stage and starts talking. He then puts himself inside a cage and then gives you "the finger." Tennessee couldn't have written it better.

Then the screaming ... I mean performance ... begins. Let's just say it was "inspired." There was no nuance or subtext or "heat." There was a lot of spit (Stanley repeated hocking loogies onto his comb to smooth down his hair; Stella spitting onto bottles to wipe them clean ... it was ... wrenching). There was a lot of jumping. There was a lot of jabbing at America.

Alas, the States deserved the punch. As I read it, there was a lot of criticism of American capitalism. Upstage center was a pair of doors, and often when those doors were opened a chorus of people in Mardi Gras masks (we're in New Orleans, remember?) would jump, grunting in time to some Mariachi (?) music while paper fell like confetti around them. At first I thought it was money -- but it wasn't. It was blank receipt paper. The Mardi Gras dancers -- often portrayed as young men in stars and stripes underpants -- were dancing in receipts. IOUs. The message seemed clear to me (Blanche has lost Belle Reve due to a foreclosed mortgage, ergo Americans (bankers) dance while the world goes homeless -- nevermind that about 95% of Americans were hurt by the crisis as well).

It only got clearer. Like when the American Indian stuffed his stars 'n' stripes underwear with IOUs, and then used them to pay the Statue of Liberty to flash her tits at him. That was subtle, and classy; but, confused.

Cowboys are the American icon, my dear Kolyada, not the Indian. We raped the Indians like you raped Tennessee Williams. And, according to your Wikipedia page, you are interested in characters who are on the verge of destruction. Why destroy Blanche further? Why lay your tactless point so heavily on one of the hallmark's of the American stage? You showed, with some skill, some new views of the plays misogyny -- why upstage yourself?

Tonight, watching the performance, the fact that Stanley schedules a card game for the same night that Blanche is taken away to the looney bin was clear for me -- thank you for that. For some reason, the power that Stanley exerts by that act never seemed to resonate -- tonight, with your men in their stars 'n' stripes undies, lined up like they were waiting for their turn with a $3 whore, was effective. I understood that scene.

Tonight, watching Mitch leave Blanche, and not being able to tell if the actor onstage was Mitch or Stanley, was also enlightening. Normally I've seen Mitch as a sad sap, caught up in a web -- tonight I saw him as one of Stanley's minions, poisoned into further torturing poor Blanche. I understood that scene.

Why did you have to interrupt such inspiration with such juvenile taunts at America? I understand their genesis, but I don't appreciate them -- they were crude and not intelligent. From them I don't respect your political views, nor do I respect your "Streetcar."

But, perhaps, this has less to do with you and more to do with the "New Drama."

Maybe. I still respect Sarah Kane.

Being a bad tourist

Today I had only one class, and then a free evening. I decided to go to the gym and then come back to the dorm to plan my European adventure. I did not decide to take in the sun or explore Moscow's sights. I did not decide to study or write.

Today I chose to be a human being and not a student. Disappointing to some, I know ... but all right by me. There are times you have to be selfish. Today was one of those times, so I took the opportunity to go to the gym (trying to get myself into some kind of routine) and clear out some of the muck in my lungs -- being sick isn't great.

The exercise, and resulting rest, have done me good -- I think. My head feels a little clearer, my mood a little lighter ... all is well.

Now about those pesky train reservations. Hmmmmmm....

I Don't Know

"Why is Astrov barking while walking backwards?"

I don't know.

"Why is Sonya portrayed as a child?"

I don't know.

What am I doing with my life? I don't know.

These questions, and others, have been occupying my synapses for the past few days. As my bronchial tubes constrict and ache from my annual mild case of bronchitis, and my head becomes light from stuffed sinuses and diminished air supplies, I find myself hating theater.

HATING THEATER.

Sometimes, in my worst moments, I fantasize about becoming a staffer for John Boehner and writing legislation that single-handedly destroys all arts funding in the US, decimating our cultural landscape and bringing our artistic BS to an end.

But then I come to my senses, and stay away from the theater.

Tonight, I could not come to my senses. Tonight I came to the theater and a bit of BS. "The best Vanya in Moscow." Great. I'm sure it was -- for the Russians. Again, no amount of plot synopses or play reading in English can really help you when Russian actors, speaking Russian, begin to howl like dogs at any given moment in a show. Sorrry ... no. I was lost, even though I knew what was going on.

It was visually beautiful -- with moments of self-indulgence that added time to the 3 hour show -- but, Vanya and others like it are getting old. All of Moscow seems to be swathed in black and white. Color is a rarity on the Muscovite stage ... or so it seems. Everything is pale, dulled, tarnished. I'm looking forward to HELLO, DOLLY! or Offenbach's THE BANDITS just for a splash of vibrance. With all this muddled light and vibrance ... I just don't know if I can endure much longer.

I **should** go to theater every night? Yeah ... right. I **should** have a frontal labotomy performed before that happens. From the palatte I've seen and the experiences I've had, I'm already on my way to zombie-ville. Any more, and I don't know ... I just might come after your brain.

I'm a trying ...

to get my vacation after Moscow together. This is not easy.

Frustrations

Today was a very frustrating day.
Things went wrong that were out of my control,
At times I wished I could just run away.

I awoke to a drizzling sky of gray,
My throat rough from post nasal drip's tough toll -
Painful will be all of the things I say.

Many things I would try to keep at bay:
Criticisms that seemed to touch my soul
(false views that I take too much time for play),

Overheating laptops that bring dismay,
Cooking mistakes that left an empty bowl,
People's dirty dishes left in my way,

Schedule changes that came with delay,
A production viewed (its wierd plot not pre-told).
Today was a very frustrating day;
I'm glad that I can now sleep it away.

A Fabulous of Gays

Ladies and gentlemen: I went to a gay club last night. I got home at 8:30am (staying out all night). I feel like a human being again.

That one night at a cheesy European disco should make me feel so fan-frickin'-tastic does sound lame, but I don't care. After months trapped underneath books and papers in my Cambridge bedroom, and now being sequestered in theaters and dormitories in Moscow, the opportunity to have an adult schedule makes me incredibly happy. Simply put: I felt right at home. In the midst of go-go boys, back rooms, cocktails, re-mixed techno beats and sweaty bodies, I got to call the shots (not curfews or class schedules). I decided to have the kind of Saturday night with friends in Moscow as I would have with friends in NYC.

Steven and Ian were the evening's captains extraordinaire. They are a fabulously British gay-married couple I met through an e-mail exchange with Erin, a wonderful lesbian at the U.S. State Department, who works with my ex Ken, a lovely American now gay-married to a German and living and working in Sri Lanka.

For gays, chains of this sort are quite common. They're how we survive.

First Stop: MakiCafe. I met the boys at the stylish bar of Maki at 11:15pm. Some vodka, introductions and off we go to 12 Volt -- the underground gay club that Steve had never been to and that Ian could not remember how to find (gay clubs are, afterall, still rather taboo in Russia).

Second Stop: 12 Volt. Back through some hidden alleyways, you wander to an unmarked doorway and ring a buzzer. After you're let in, you make your way down an ultraviolet lit staircase to an iron gate, through which you enter four very small, smokey, crowded rooms. Us four gentlemen waded through a sea of boys and girls to get to the bar. Another drink and it was time to go - too crowded, too young. We'll come back another night, but tonight -- we're off to 3 Monkeys.

Third Stop: 3 Monkeys. Steve is rather important. So much so, that he has a driver that his company expects him to use. So, Steve and Ian, Tom (the very cute, straight, 23 year-old British police officer "on holiday" in Moscow with his mom), and I piled into the polished black Range Rover and set-out to some part of Moscow. A couple hundred rubles, and into the pit of dancing men we lunged!

3 Monkeys was FUN! It reminded me of some of the clubs in DC that I would go to when I was first coming out of the closet in college. Nation, the 9:30 Club, Badlands ... oi, the memories and the fun! Sipping on some screwdrivers (vodka-orange) the boys and I chatted, met up with other friends, would run onto the dancefloor for certain songs, and otherwise just had a grand ole time.

But I kept looking at my watch.

I told Elena, the woman running the dormitory's door, that I was, ahem, "going to church for midnight services" and would be back by 2am. My watch read 1:30. Steven looked at me -- he thought 2am was a good time to venture home, too, and asked if I wanted to leave. I hesitated, and he offered his couch for the night.

DONE.

At about 2:30 Ian, Steven, Tom and I piled back into the black Range Rover and darted back to Steven & Ian's luxuious penthouse (well, it was a luxurious 5th floor apartment, but "pent" means five, right? AND it was the top floor of the building) across the street from Christ the Savior chuch. Some wine, some vodka, some episodes of "The Kids in the Hall," and all were ready to crash out -- not without throwing open the windows and letting the 3am bells of Christ the Savior reverberate in the apartment.

A wonderful evening. I sprawled out on Steven and Ian's remarkably comfortable Ikea couch (much more comfortable than my dormroom bed) and slept under a faux-fur duvet. HEAVEN. At 7:00am my alarm rang, and by 7:50 I silently slipped out the front door.

Moscow in the morning, like any major city, is magic. The dew rising, only a handful of cars on the street, the sun turning everything golden -- I keep thinking of Sky Masterson's "My Time of Day" from "Guys 'n' Dolls" on those early mornings. Gorgeous. I got on the brown line at Park Kultury (**not** the stop that was blasted) and within 25 minutes I was in a dormitory shower, preparing for Easter Sunday Mass at the Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, which was followed by a lovely day with friends and theater.

Fabulous.

Distractions

Today is full of distractions! This blog: a distraction from the writing of my e-magazine article; plans with "the boys" tonight: further distractions from my schooling; Easter tomorrow and wanting to have a proper holiday: still more distraction from sleep and time with Ryan (who is visiting us for a couple of days).

Trying to have a life is difficult! I miss mine! I miss brunches at Sette; I miss cocktails at Excelsior; I miss Wednesday night Bravo-TV silliness. Oi. I long for the days when I will be able to, again, have a life.

Until then, its a series of tasks and distractions. Hopefully I can keep them all balanced!!

Relief

May Nazareno, before I left for Moscow, sat me down and gave me "the business." In my family, "the business" means a good talking to. May's and my conversation was a good talking to in that she read me. She read me like any good friend should read another friend: "Joe Pindelski: you are someone who doesn't rest until everything is in its place."

May has an innate ability.

Tonight, things fell into place. All of my gripes, all of my unease can now be put to rest. I have my summer figured out. Life is a little more planned.

Tonight I also got to catch up with Davey Ritchey. One of the sweetest men I know who randomly happened to be in Moscow -- as a part of Inglebert Humperdink's band. Random, definitely ... but lovely.

Tonight, I shall sleep well.

Unnatural Existence

Dorm life offends nature. One should neither live with one's co-workers -- unless you're a convict working in a chaingang (then you should be living with your co-workers IN PRISON) -- nor should one live with their classmates (even in college, my roommate was a different major than me). It is just wierd to spend almost the entirety of your day with the same small number of faces with whom you work. This collapsed existence does not lead to healthy behavior.

I have had a rough week the past week. No particular reason, just poor management of stress -- a lot of it having to do with the inability to get out and do my own thing. My "personal space" has been affected because I've had the privilege of spending almost every night of the past 2.5 weeks at the theater. This might sound like pleasure to many, but its not. As my cinema teacher commented this morning, "we are not average viewers; we don't watch for simple pleasure." So, rather than being a gift, nights to the theater can easily become a burden -- depriving me of psychologically healthy free time.



This lack of pleasure at the theater, coupled with not having my own space, has just put me not-at-ease. Everything is theater. I'm eating, breathing, living theater -- by assignment. Even this blog, an activity many do for pleasure, is an assignment. It's frustrating; however, such frustrations constitute the graduate student's life, I suppose.

The good thing is that unlike a chaingang, I'm not hauling bricks. My current situation is a phenomenal one, and one of which I am both proud and grateful. It's toll, though, is slight. It is a cumulative burden that slowly causes my temper and emotions to be not where I want them to be; thus, I'm not responding in the ways I like. My thoughts are not as elastic, my brain is becoming less responsive. I suppose that through this altered (and constant) use, it's only natural that they, like pencils, become duller.