A colorful array of all that is old

Accepting a new position for a local online newspaper has a way of eating up my time. That said, I'm harldy one for twiddling my thumbs during extra hours. Somewhere in the mix of my various daily tasks- both big and small- I always manage to fit in quality time for design. Home design, that is.

While I'm certainly no collector, I have long had an appreciation for vintage wares- from furnishings to art, books to jewelry. Something about the smell of a crocheted blanket from 1972 brings a full appreciation of just how extraordinarily talented so many people are. With a newer home that is just about prepped for interior design, I find myself combing through our copies of Dwell, apartmenttherapy.com and just about anywhere else that offers unique ways to revitalize things that have otherwise been long forgotten.

The latest plug must go to etsy, an extraordinary melding pot of all things handmade and vintage. With artists spanning the globe, it was actually quite easy to find our latest vintage addition to our home: a lovingly restored pillow straight out of Norway's mod squad years. There's something about vintage quality that gets me everytime, and carefully choosing each piece rather than rushing to the nearest Target (not that there's anything wrong with that...) leaves a deep sense of satisfaction.

Combing all of the local flea markets and antique shops every month leads to some nifty finds, but admittedly shopping online from my couch is still my preferred method. With that in mind, there are a host of invaluable blogs offering design advice and showcasing some simply amazing work- both new and old. Oh Joy is one such blog that I've only recently been tracking. From design-savvy pencils and yarn to credenza's and scarves, I've been pleasantly delighted at the array of things to consider. Just like the viral nature of the internet itself, I've been led to so many corners of the globe thanks to such blogs that keeping track of the nifty gadgets and ideas becomes a job in and of itself. A recent Oh Joy post led me to discover Sanna Annukka, a Finnish Brit who creates some lovely vintage-inspired designs heavy on Scand-fluence. Her wooden birds are simply stunning with a childlike simplicity that is easy to overlook.

For those like me who spend much of their working and leisurely hours online, Whorange recently featured a fabulous French artist who has ingeniously fused old style illustrative and publishing art with today's headlines- or, erm, websites and social media. Whether your a Twitter-addict or Last.FM fan, there's a piece of art for you.  Another phenomenal little nook online is Hooked On Houses, a one-woman show with splendid ideas. I particularly love her rendezvous with midcentury modern design, of which I am an official addict. Finding old interior design mags like Better Homes & Gardens fresh from 1966 is always a fun way to remind ourselves how ahead of its time the space generation often was.

With too many other retro inspired blogs and sites to list, I'll have to content myself with resuming my life and reluctantly perusing the net for my next piece in my spare hours. Until then, have fun... think ingeniously... and live colorfully.

Nesting Dolls & Economic Hitmen

A fresh faced girl with wide eyes that gently slope downward and pigtails curled up under a wreath of flowers looks up at me from beneath my wine glass' base. I pick up the stem between my pointer and middle fingers, bringing the nutty scented red closer to my nose while all the while staring at the matryoshka imprinted on the wine coaster. I found her, along with five sisters, in a tin can featuring bright red and white depictions of the quintessential Russian gift- the nesting doll. Matryoshki are so synonymous with the Russian Motherland that they are cited alongside the Kremlin's spired cupola's and supermodels as hallmarks of Russian life. The kitsch of the brightly-hued Russian girls keeping my wine from dripping on the table was enough to convince me of their necessity. For $2, I bought the tin and cork coasters along with matching dishtowels.

So why the talk of this latest purchase? Let me explain. I've begun reading a provocative 2004 New York Times Bestseller (the same sort I generally stay away from in hopes of not becoming one of the sheeple). This entertaining book, while limited in its source material by its very nature, is a tell-all of sorts by a former "corporatocracy" insider. "Confessions of an Economic Hitman" is John Perkins' guilt-ridden answer to his otherwise sexy, filthy rich jet-setting life that reads like a Bond novel. It might have been the perfect life for the Peace Corp. member gone bad if only it weren't for the fact that he was finding ways to legitimize a sort of New World Order (or "corporatocracy" as he prefers, dispelling any ideas of conspiracy in favor of more obvious and shady global business practices vis a vis loans to the emerging world).

Confessions recounts Perkins' days working as an economic consultant in the private sector. Dubiously charged with inflating economic predictions in emerging world markets (think Ecuador and Indonesia), Perkins claims to be one of a select few who worked to sustain the American 'Empire' within the private sector. His aquaintences, conversations and knowledge were far reaching and gave Perkins the opportunity to gain firsthand knowledge of the countries he sought to rob. He constantly reminds the reader that this is how the world operates on something of a parallel and unseen field, imaging what the rest of us lowly citizens know about our government and its relationships with the rest of the world. In moments of sheer brilliance, Perkins' retells conversations with ordinary citizens in impoverished nations who apparently aren't as 'in the dark' as we ourselves are.

While it is rare to find such an insider plagued by guilt and retiring from his extremely powerful role, there is a question of his genuine reasoning. Is the book a tell-all for Americans and Westerners- revealing to us how the First World cheats the rest through the likes of Haliburton, the IMF and other major organizations and corporations? Or is it simply another cheap way to make a buck in a consumer-driven market such as he purports to have shrugged off after a life of intrigue and economic espionage? It certainly leaves an unsettling feeling, questioning our very altruism. Are we really helping countries in Africa when we build them an energy plant or provide them with clean water when, in actuality, the work is being done predominantly by our own firms... recycling our own donated money, essentially, and leaving the poor nation in massive debt to us- repaid only through agreements that benefit us. I equate this unease with the feeling of being cheated by someone so sly that you fail to recognize it while it's occurring.

In light of my little red matryoshka coaster, who is still beaming up at me, I wonder exactly how she came to be- how her $2 figure was decided upon and by whom. Is it really all as simple as supply vs. demand? Or somewhere is there an economic hitman robbing a southeast Asian country blind by falsifying economic projections and raising their interest rates, building factories in the process and bringing about cheaply made goods of icons from thousands miles away to those employment dumps... and eventually making their way beneath my wine glass.

For the Love of Russia

For the love of Russia (for that matter, be it for the love of democracy), it is appalling that the seasoned men's magazine, GQ, has deliberately halted print abroad of a September-edition article by a veteran correspondant investigating ten-year-old terrorist attacks in Russia. Scott Anderson compiled a report on the various inaccuracies and questions pertaining to the decade-old Moscow terrorist attack- a very prominent and somber attack in recent Russian history- that will only see the light of day in the United States.

As NPR's Morning Edition feature explains, GQ's owner Conde Nast (who also owns Vanity Fair and publishes both magazines in the States and abroad, including in a Russian language version) decided to pull the article from the Russian GQ version due to its sensitive investigative nature. While NPR and other reports were unable to obtain interviews with GQ and/or Nast, they were able to discover that the piece was pulled through no fault of its author or his journalism standards. To the contrary, reports suggest that Anderson took great pains with the sensitive issue he was investigating and was able to find at least one insider (a former KGB agent who was involved in the Chechen terrorist investigations and later imprisoned rather unexpectedly) who was forthcoming with information. That information suggests a link between the Russian government, then led by Putin, and the atrocious terrorist attacks which were said to be from Chechen terrorists. Obviously, this rather unorthodox and contrary view of the terrorist attacks has given rise to a plethora of conspiracy theories, of which I'm not here to debate about.

It is speculated that GQ decided against publishing the article in Russia for fear of financial retribution from the Russia government if not worse. Perhaps more telling of their fear is that the American edition itself has been all but shelved (it is not featured on its cover, nor has it marketed it in a typical fashion, preferring instead to hide it between the pages). If a Western magazine is able to quietly shelve investigative material for fear of retribution (financial or otherwise) what then, may we ask, is the state of journalism in this country let alone in Russia?

While much of the blogosphere and forum talk on the article includes rants and raves about the corruptions of modern-day Russia, I suggest we look further. There have been many quick-witted types who understand what this says about the state of journalism in our country, but I have yet to see anyone suggest what this says about America's perception of Russians and how that will impact our relations with them. I am speaking of real Russians, not Putin or those in government, but everyday citizens of the Russian Federation. Do we believe that they are not worthy of reading alternative viewpoints and investigative journalism on topics that directly relate to their country let alone the world? Are we questioning their ability to decipher truth? Are we silently encouraging the dillution of the fledgling Russian democracy through a discouragement of freedom of the press out of fear, thus acknowledging the supreme power of heavy-handed politics and the recent killings of Russian journalists? We acknowledge our failures to many Russian neighbors as we hastily made amends with Stalin for victory in WWII, yet we never came to terms with Russians themselves. Unlike the Poles, the Balts or the Finns, we viewed the Russians as a contentedly dominated people played like puppets by a maniacal dictator. All of these years later, do we see them in much the same light?

While it is true that those in power (*government and otherwise) will be directly responsible for what is censored or squelched, ultimately it may be in our hands alone to provide the information. It is imperative that we recognize the age of immediate dissemination of information in which we live and the intricate democratic web in which we must play a great role. In truth, then, the failure of GQ to publish this article abroad speaks more to our willingness to accept Russia as a neo-USSR rather than keep open dialogue, debate and conversations going. In not risking ourselves (ie. GQ, media money, etc) in the circulation of investigation, we take away from Russians one fundamental avenue for democracy that might be the only thing we have to give them.

Revival of the Armbands

Admittedly, I don't have the time I once did to spend hours each day perusing the many insightful blogs and posts on the web. Feedblitzes make life so much easier, and one blog I eagerly await news from is Sean's Russia Blog . I've been following it for some time and the shear amount of snippets and articles that he gets his hands on amazes me. This morning, cup of joe in hand, I checked into my email and grinned wide at the latest feed from his site.

Not that it's anything to grin over, mind you. As Sean's blog reports, Nashi, the Russian youth organization (that ought to be 'THE' in capital letters), has higher plans than simply providing teens with something to do after school. Nashi is in the process of apparently forming a youth militia to keep the streets clean (not talking about 'green' clean, either). No, this isn't exactly the local chapter of Boys and Girls Club. Groups of teenagers in armband colors of red and yellow may well be directly reporting to local police in attempts to clean up the streets of any irksome elements. Particulars are very important here, and Sean's blog provides a wealth of previous and current information for those of you like myself who anxiously eat up every little detail. Nonetheless, my blog is not here so much as an informational form of journalism but rather a place to spew some thoughts without false pretense (and anyone who suggests blogs aren't just that are dearly foooling themselves).

Let's flash back to the Soviet Komsomol- a youth organization that also sported red bandanas and military garb. Many a fine Leninist devotee anxiously lined up outside of the proper meetings day in and day out, hoping to prove their allegiance to the state and motherland. The process of confirmation into this most hallowed organization was not an easy one, but entry would nearly guarantee future success in the Party and consequently in life. Not only had the youth better prove themselves as good communists, but their friends and family best be members of the Party, as well. Under the purges of Stalin and throughout a healthy smattering of years from the 30s-70s, Komsomol members ought to be willing to play the rat role, supplying vital information on the whereabouts, happenings and even thoughts of those around them. This, of course, was a necessary component of ensuring youths play active roles in society rather than wallow in teenage angst. What's more, it kept them off the streets and made them into productive members of society. In a nutshell, it was in the best interest of the state.

Youths who were already on a troubled path (orphans left over from the Great Patriotic War, those whose parents were imprisoned in the vast gulag system and other riffraff) were of course natural targets of state sponsored help. When the world shunned these lost children, Papa Stalin took them in. They were perfect candidates for the menial jobs of the Gulag where warm bodies were always much welcomed and (rather, because) they were just as readily disposed of. It is just these youths who Solzhenitsyn wrote about in his Gulag Archipelago, describing the children like a naturalist would describe a pack of hyenas, making their own destiny in a world of survival of the fittest- at any cost. Forming roaming packs, the kid gangs in gulag and in freedom patrolled the streets, keeping watch over anything that didn't please them. While Comrade Stalin hoped that they might be used to the State's advantage, ultimately they were only out for their own good (we are talking about teenagers, afterall). They would have no coralling by local authorities and often made it a sport to undermine their superiors. In large numbers, they represented what many dubbed the Thieves- those who often took an oath and lived by the Thieves Law (a code which is still evident in Russian organized crime). And so a generation of Soviets came to be grouped into one of two categories for the most part: those who conformed to the State and those who rebelled in their own interest. The third group-humanists- perhaps the weakest of them all, ironically would survive to see the disentegration of the Union. But perhaps they don't have the last laugh, afterall.

Flashing forward, we have the possibility of new roaming band of teens with legal justification and political affiliations. Certainly we could argue that this is better than the roving bands of anarchist kids and extreme leftists who never fail to leave their marks when the time is right. I'm not entirely certain that Nashi street patrols will be detrimental to Russia, though that depends on our assumptions of Russia and its future. Nashi, afterall, views itself as a protectorate of modern Russia, in all of its often diverging and contradicting charm. What's more, Nashi is well organized, trained and ultimately beholden to a greater power outside of themselves. Whether or not that power runs amuck amidst a a problematic legal landscape remains to be seen. Just food for thought for the day, courtesy of the wide world of blogging.

Bug Splats on a Saturday

Few things compare to the adrenaline rush that comes when you start up the engine of your two-wheeled friend and take to the pavement for a day of riding bliss. If it's been two months since the last opportunity to do this, the sweet sound of the engine revving is enough to give you goosebumps and get your heart thumping.

After a lengthy move southwards this summer, my Moto Guzzi 1100 S had been eyeing me with disdain as she sat idle in a carport. Each time I drove by her spot cramped between strange vehicles, I glanced over hoping that she was still upright- or even there. Several times I might have sworn she was gone, if only for a fraction of a second. My mind was playing tricks on me, showing me the glistening sun reflecting off her fire red coat one minute and a vague void of nothing the next.

Painted and parted meticulously in the foothills of the Italian Alps twelve years ago by someone named Mario or Iacopo or Vincenzo, surely, my Goose is nothing less than perfection. Not the kind of perfection that comes replete with shined up wheels, a greased up clutch and a purr. Sure she's got the Marchesini wheels and Brembo brakes, but she's no dream for a new rider (not far off from where I found myself when I first encountered the beast). Contessa- as I christened her from Day One- has always been rather on the demanding side, rumbling away as untidily kept things fall from precarious perches nearby. Her massive body weight of some 500 lbs. reminds you that this is not just any little sportie that can be knocked around. Weighing in at 125 lbs, I had to quickly adhere to a new doctrine: submit to the Guzzi because there simply is no other way. Her clutch requires the forearm strength of a sailor - the kind that would cuss and sport an anchor tattoo- which is enough to scare off most weekend riders or urban dwellers. Her throttle likes extra juice, but too much and you'll be straddling with all your strength while the bronco hauls off, smirking her way through the straights as if to say, 'Can you handle me?'

After riding Kawasaki Ninjas (500 and 250 respectively), this 1100 beauty could have been more of a burden than a joy. Yes, there were times admittedly when I wondered how I might manage her through the tight corridors of downtown. I second guessed my abilities- as a rider and as a do'er. As it had been a while since our last suare, I had some trepidations about taking her out now. Would she start up fine? Would she react differently? Would I even know where I was going in my new hometown? A sea of 'What-If's' flooded my brain. While my Contessa keeps me aware of my riding skills at all times, demanding that I pay attention to every corner, lean in on each curve and practice her clutch more than I care to, she also brings me a great sense of accomplishment. I was ready to put that to the test all over again.

I started up her rumbling twin on Saturday. Suited up in my leathers, I slowly pulled my Arai down over my head, opening its lid to take a few deep breaths of fresh air while a knot was starting to form in the pit of my belly. The key went into her ignition smoothly (a nice surprise for a change) and I kicked her into neutral as easily as I can remember doing. After ample coaxing with the throttle, she held steady for me and putting the lid down to shield my eyes I pulled her out of her dark spot under the roof for the freedom of the sunsoaked open road. We travelled on roads that I'd never been on before- ahh the simple pleasures of moving a great distance! One mile turned into several more and I found myself wandering through a perfectly lined road with no traffic and even a few other riders smattered about. A slight peace wave brought that smile that I had longed for back, and soon my grin was wide as I glided through the scenery of the golden hills.

Through thick and thin, my old Goose didn't let me down and I tried my best to not disappoint her. While I'm not exactly sliding puck in the twisties, I think I managed to impress her still. All she wanted was some attention and blacktop. All I needed was a little reminder that the best way to get over procrastination is to simply do it.

Houses on the Rocks

House hunting is a chore. House hunting in the shortsale and REO market is an art form. To see a home that was purchased for half a million dollars just a couple of brief years ago sitting in anguish, practically dilapidated from an owner who has chosen to exchange lightbulbs for red lights in the bedrooms, smear stains from God only knows what all over the once fresh paint and trample upon the floors to permanently mark the natural wood is almost too perplexing a sight to not give pause and consider.

Obviously, just two short years ago the owners of these homes were living large- or so they wanted people to think judging from the outside. But within the wide double doors is often another story unravelled when prospective owners take a gander in. What could people who once had an ample amount of money, far beyond that which most any other citizen of Planet Earth could ever dare to hope for, possibly do to create the hazardous waste environment that was once a chic dwelling? Sure there are those REOs whose foreclosed upon residents are so distraught that, in a fit of adolescent angst anew, destroy every element of the home prior to vacating. We know these stories, and some of us have even seen these homes, thanks to the past year's housing woes. It is not these homes that I am speaking of- the ones with torn out sliding doors and cupboards ripped off the walls. No, no... it is even more baffling than those sorry cases.

I'm speaking of the homes that people did not 'destroy' (in relative terms to those that have been gutted). I'm speaking of the homes that people paid more than a pretty, shiny penny for, of which had to come from somewhere, and lived in until just days or weeks ago. These homes filled with carpet that has been so soaked in various stains through several years of hard-doing that I can only imagine the orgies of bodies or paint or blueberry fights that must have been going on in them. The walls have been tattered with child's drawing from the bedrooms to the kitchens. The window screens have been methodically overlooked as tiny claws must have gashed holes in them day in and out. Were these homes ever cared for? Was there ever any pride of ownership in the $500,000 that was spent on them? Were they simply for show, secretly fettered with dirty laundry on the floors, pets run amuck and water stains from problems that reared their ugly heads only to be left untreated?

Perhaps the owners had enough of home ownership from Day One, as if they suddenly realized what they had gotten themselves into the moment they took the keys to their once new home. Too busy were they, possibly, in trying to earn back all of those crispy dollars that they failed to enjoy that which they worked so hard at keeping. It is an irony that their newfound freedom might just finally clean up their messes.

Revenge from the Pen- Solzhenitsyn Revisited

Quite the hiatus from blogging, eh? While the rest of the world has busily hurried to catch up to the latest gadgets and technologies, I've been exploring the antiquated trappings of paper pages. What a delight it has been. So many pages have passed underneath my fingers in the past months that my once dexterous typing skills need to be revisited. Hence I find myself here, putting down my trails of thought into cohesive sentences that I've long since neglected to do.

Beginning with Alexander Solzhenitsyn's direct rebuttal of his country's hapless circumstances during the gulag years, "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" was published by the Soviet literary journal Novy Mir, an amazing feat that took the courage of an author and an editor in a sea of censorship. The novel takes us back to gulag camp life in the amount of time you could spend discussing petty bourgeois trivialaties in a cafe. Don't let this guilt you into reading it, mind you. This master of debate clearly argues in favor of the very freedom to choose how one might spend their free time while painting the picture of daily life for many Soviet citizens under Comrade Stalin. A child of the Revolution (Solzhenitsyn's 1918 birth year was perhaps as foretelling as it was ironic), he spent 8 of his formidable years doing hard labor (this on the heels of years spent as a young Communist and an officer of the Red Army during WWII) and another three in exile. "One Day in the Life..." seeks to make no friends, nor enemies. Its heroes are, afterall, are merely attempting to survive in the harsh climate of Siberia despite being slapped with 5, 10 or 20 year sentences as agitators, conspirators and traitors of the state. If you're after the average Joe (or, erm, rather Ivan) experience of life in the Gulags, and you've got only a few hours to spare for a quick Soviet history lesson, this is the book for you. You might even find that your own humanity prohibits you from enjoying that usual cup of coffee at the cafe afterwards, if only for a day.

On the other hand, if you find yourself wanting more of the astute observations of a '58er' (political prisoner, treated with the ultimate disdain by authorities) that can only come from years spent wallowing in virtual death camps and watching most every ounce of humanity dissipate from every pore of the body, then pick up the abridged version of his "Gulag Archipelago". In so doing, you might feel that you are giving back a particle of a shred of an ounce of dignity and humanity that was virtually forever lost in the lives of millions, if not of a nation. It is only then that the wheels begin to turn as you ponder what, indeed, is life's little secret. Is it the contentment that comes when our bellies are well fed and our bodies are attractive? When bellies are given nothing more than dirty dishwater and a stale slice of rye and exterior beauty leads to rape by protectorates, surely there must be more to life. Is it the knowledge that we have gained from the books we've read and the people we've encountered? When books and people are taken away and all that is left is a smattering of memories too distant to recollect amidst constant hunger pains and frostbite, this too cannot be the secret. Perhaps it lies in the things that we do not know and cannot know, but can only observe. The adrenaline of watching your bunk mates shot, the way the body shuts down in the snow as it prepares to cease working in its final minutes, the piercing pain of felling trees with only rope, bones and the shadows of what were once other men.

These books are the snapshots straight from Solzhenitsyn's mind- a mind which refused to quit despite the shock of what the eyes observed. A rare primary source document mixed with large amounts of secondary sources (storytelling from other prisoners who the author encountered through the years) and a healthy dose of revenge from the pen. If the Gulag taught any lessons to its captives, those of us who sit comfortably in freedom cannot begin to understand them. By peering through the lense that IS Solzhenitsyn while our fingers rapidly turn page after page- nearly fearing what the next paragraph holds- we can observe by proxy. While his statistics are debatable if not impossible to know more often than not, and his ocassionally displayed superiority can be irksome at times, an open mind will quickly accept that this man, along with some 15 million others, know more about life than most- an irony that comes from those who have seen their own graves.

Ciao!

Ah, at last I can kick my feet up with a chilled glass of chard by my side and introduce the  latest incarnation of my blog. It feels good to have a new spot to call my own, indeed. Whether you happened upon my humble neck of the net inadvertently or purposely, I hope you enjoy my little approach to blogging. I've bestowed the name 'errant aim' to this piece of work because it will, no doubt, be ever-evolving without a definite direction or prerogative. Tales of travel, motorbiking, wining and dining, and daily anecdotes are sure to find their way from my fingertips to the keyboard. 

I write. I ride. I experience. I have a good time.

Welcome aboard ;)

To Come: 

• Morocco by  motorbike with my better half at my side. Got suggestions for where to go in the Maghreb? Leave me a comment, I'm thirsty for info!