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.