Starting Things Off Properly

A long time coming, and refusing to do blogs for so long, I give up. I need to write about me, because, well I'm interesting, I hear, and if I don't write about me, well, what with my complete lack of ambition, I'm going to end up going to Bolivian. Which wouldn't be that, I suppose. Any of you who actually will read this probably will know me. I like to think of myself as an eccentric who plays by his own rules; mind you, these rules are almost verbatim copied from the USGA's Rules of Golf, which makes my life unfortunate in a lot of ways. Playing it where it lies with a nice young, preferably Central Asian lady, well not always a turn-on. Two-stroke penalties for drip-dropping Uno mean I have to hydrate myself by my good friend Bruce Arthur's tears-Bruce, you keep on crying, so I don't die.

I am currently back in the States, in Idaho, to be exact. I've always fancied re-enacting, and am currently doing some spot work re-enacting the War of the Bavarian Succession. This, of course, is for any girl reading this blog, because it's a pretty damned clever way of saying I'm a migrant potato farmer. The Bavarian Succession War was called the Potato War, for the unerudite. It's not the best way to pass my time as a night school educated, able-bodied 24-year-old man, but I remember the song "Looking for Freedom," and if I recall correctly one of the ways Reichskommandantsturmkoenig Dieterolfling Hasselhoff looked for freedom was hard manual labor. Don't know if he ever found it.

What this blog will contain. So, I've traveled a bit in the past eight, nine, years. It's mostly going to be a memoire of journeys, all those orgasmically adorable moments I've experienced, some opinions I have. I really don't live the whole My Private Idaho (this reference would be embarrassing if that movie was about a schizophrenic Keanu Reeves imagining that wartorn Iraq was the plains of Coeur d'Alene) glamorous lifestyle that I claimed above. I write now from a room in my parents' condominium, in a place called Leisure World. I just flew here from the Rzeczpo, or Poland as absolutely nobody sensible calls it, and it's kind of strange. People always talk about cockroaches surviving the great swine flu holocaust that will come upon us, but it's here it's like that, but switch cockroaches with old people. And their minority caretakers. This isn't the glamorous California with raisins and other shit that we've all picked up from being force-fed the literary oeuvre of William Saroyan all our lives. Old people and large industrial megacomplexes. It's actually quite like one of my more recent destinations, the Ukraine. Let's ignore the menfolk of the Ukraine.

They have their own problems. There are two basic stereotypical girls in Ukraine. And as we know stereotype comes from the Akkadian root "shtrtp," translated by scholars as "doggone true," or "absofuckinglutely"-the Assyrians first discovering tmesis in a game of telephone at the palace of one of the Esarhaddons, "tr" puts the fucking in absofuckinglutely, as you will. Anyways, true. There's the young ladies. They could be really attractive-their Polish sistas (I'm not being racist, you can't blame those people for wanting anything to have to do with the calamity that was "Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit") and to a certain extent Western Ukrainians are good examples. But. Get within one feet of them, and your Louisville Slugger will be covered in eyeliner, your areolas encircled by lipstick in a formation reminiscent of Hannibal's at Cannae. They try too hard. The second group is the babushki. Yes, the old broads. The strained groinpull which Communism experienced in the early 90's, which has left it day-to-day but available for pinch hitting stints has not brought MILF's to this land. It seems that hairstyles are culled from fashion magazines, wait no, that's not a fashion magazine, is that a group photo of the Chelyabinsk Soviet in 1950? It sure seems like those guys are having a good time. But 1950 Soviet party officials should not be fashion trail blazers for women in the "aughts." They are. I've heard about a babushka bomb, this theoretical device by which Russian women, many of whom are gorgeous in early age, suddenly around 35 or 40, turn into fat peasant women as represented by those iconic matryosha dolls. There is no bomb. This is a myth. Bust it, people on that channel I don't watch.

You see, Russian/Ukrainian/Belarussian women face a great dilemma at that age because of this thing called marriage. Because, a 35-year-old Russian woman, she'll realize at some point, I'm married to...a Russian man. Yeah, time to stop caring. But that womanly passion for fashion doesn't go away, thank God. It gets turned to the overly made up canines they trot around. Russian dogs don't get $500,000 Kabbalah bracelets but they do get primped up pretty good. Even if their dog outfits are Belarussian. You see, the thing is, Ukraine is a country where signs actually advertise "Kostumy iz Byelarus." Yeah, that Belarus. The one next to Thief River Falls. I think. Not so hot on my Minnesotan geography. Supposedly, Ukrainians buy them because of their cheapness. Knowing that tight jeans are popular, well, I hear among homosexuals and Europeans, I'd like to distinguish Ukrainians who buy what one might call tight clothing made in Belarus. Because tight doesn't really capture the sense. Ukrainians, in my opinion, wear "oppressive jeans." Because it's a nostalgic feeling going into a bar with jeans riding up on your crotch so much that you feel the bartender's going to call the Cheka and rat you out for that "Aleksandr Lukashenko, Vonteego Cummings, and Khloe Kardashian walk into a bar." Well, stumble for the latter. Lexy and Teegs, to arms!

So welcome to this time machine which will go back and forth between my recent travels and well, let's just forget about the whole doing nothing for now. Talk about it later. And quit telling me to read, Leon Powe.