The Clintons Are Graceless. Is It Finally Good Night?

I sat mesmerized as I watched Caroline and Ted Kennedy symbolically pass the torch of Camelot and all it represents to the loyal opposition, Barak Obama, the other day. I started out as a good Republican would, by looking for ways to blow holes in all of this. Here’s a guy, Obama, trying to get us to look forward by embracing 1962, I thought. Didn’t Reagan do a good job of deconstructing that?

And there was the Ambien-addled third generation scion, Patches, sitting behind the new standard bearer who was assuming what would rightfully had been his, if Patches wasn’t such an inveterate screw up to begin with.

But I couldn’t start blowing holes. I thought back to 1980 working a campaign in Pennsylvania where I would bump into Kennedy staffers. I recalled them telling me the reason why the networks insisted on each having two camera crews following Senator Kennedy around was to be able to have several angles covered in the event of an assassination attempt. How does one seek to serve a country when their life might be on the line? You can’t help but empathize with that.

And, for all of his faults, our Senator has been an active surrogate father in the lives of his many nieces and nephews, those whose fathers’ call to service ended in tragedy. How much was Caroline’s preemptive endorsement a factor in Ted’s decision to get off the fence and enter the fray? Caroline lost her dad at 6.

I lost my dad at 8, and I didn’t have a Zapruder film to haunt me about it. For her to say this man reminds her most of her father must have a profound meaning to her

So there was all that treacly drama of a political movement brutally dashed through assassinations. There was the fatherless child of the movement founder standing beside the aging surrogate, now hunched over and stiff from a bad back ravaged further still by a less than healthy lifestyle, to be kind. He essentially admitted his time had passed with considerable grace and dignity.

And then came Obama. Man-oh-man can that guy give a speech. It was totally devoid of substance, which is OK. Obama understands our national hunger for a new approach to politics. The Rove/Carville strategy has been to divide and conquer. Depress voter turnout by turning off the middle and hope your tin foil clad zealots rule the day. Read More »

In The Courtyard

in the courtyard–
box turtle and hummingbird

last year’s leaves
marking my place
in this year’s book

can we learn to look
at what’s there
without needing more?

in the bare bush by
the bare tree by the feeder
a flash–red–cardinal

Today, The Washington Post Made Me Gnash My Teeth

Sweet Baby Jesus, Anne Applebaum, stereotype much?

Of course there were many very famous “sultry” women in the USSR - things did not begin, and end, with Stalin and Liubov Orlova (an actress from the 1930’s). Where on earth do people get such ideas in the first place? Just because nobody was wearing Chanel does not, somehow, mean that there was no beauty, no style, no sensuality.

And no, not everyone in the USSR wore polyester. But thanks for checking with actual people who lived under the regime.

Why is it OK to assume that before the introduction of Vogue, an entire country couldn’t possibly understand what beauty and style is all about? Sure, consumer goods were practically nonexistent. Sure, looking “different” may have garnered you some unwanted attention. Yet, the Soviets had their own pop culture, they had their own sirens - whether sauntering across the theater stage or walking home from the bus stop. Because the Soviets, amazingly enough, were human beings, with or without Western influence.

While I appreciate the fact that Anne Applebaum isn’t screeching about them evil Russians and, instead, finding something she deems positive, her outlook also completely disregards the thousands of women who have been trafficked from the Soviet Union following its dissolution. Those gorgeous women she sees hanging out with the older men in the posh restaurants? I sincerely hope that 100% of them are there of their own volition, enjoying their time, having a blast.

However, as someone who has actually done research, I’m not entirely sure that my hopes correspond with reality.

I’m not against beauty culture. I do think it’s been, and continues to be, unfairly used against women - especially those who have no interest in participating. Applebaum’s piece has reminded me of the fact that beauty culture can also obscure the issues of traffickers and other exploiters.

I understand the sort of piece that Applebaum was trying to write. She was having fun. I like to have fun too - and get very irritated when pious wailing about Oppressors and Oppressed overwhelms me, because, not every single damn piece of writing has to be incredibly serious and somber and grave. If it was, we’d all shoot ourselves in the head and let the cockroaches take over.

Yet, if you’re going to rely on ridiculous generalizations, your piece is no longer fun. It’s merely tacky. And, quite possibly, damaging.

Before, it used to be “evil Russians.” Now, it’s “attractive Russians” (with an occasional smattering of “evil” - I should also note that people use the word “Russian” to refer to practically all of us who came out of the USSR, but that’s a whole other conversation).

I don’t mind the “attractive” in principle. I get equally tired of condescending Western women who roll their eyes at the poor foreign dears - wearing that make-up! Balancing on those heels! The Feminist Revolution will save you, my darlings, each and every one! Just shut up and don’t speak for yourself!

I merely want there to be a balance. Is that too much to ask for, in this day and age? Read More »

Soundtrack: An iPod Epic

This is where this particular story starts: I was listening to my iPod, and I had set it to shuffle.

I don’t necessarily like the shuffle function. I resort to it. Some folks enjoy the surprise of what’s coming next; I simply cannot choose one band over another.

I have about eleven gigs of music, and I find the variety paralyzing. Finally, I’ll choose one of the three artists that I always choose, and disgust myself with my own predictability. It’s a small, silent drama that gets played out to an audience of just one, and I prefer to skip it. So I shuffle.

The particular sequence of “random” songs I am about to relate seemed to tell a unique story. As I listened to it, I became absolutely positive that not only had my iPod gained some sort of terrifying self-awareness, but that it was playing tricks on me.

Or, here’s a simpler, more arrogant explanation: the universe was sending me a message, because I’m so important and handsome. Either way, this particular sequence of songs reminded me more than anything of the night I met a guy that I will refer to as Rafferty.

And so the story turned into a music retrospective, and an odyssey of me and Rafferty. It’s sad, creepy, and beautiful. Enjoy.

Brighton Rock (5:09) – Queen

I was ambushed. Expecting the standard lyrical, pop-genius that Queen has always provided, I was literally punched in my rat-eating face when the happy carnival intro morphed into complex progressions, power chords, and a guitar solo that would probably cause Mother Teresa to fling her bra onto the stage.

Freddie Mercury does his thing as well as ever, which makes this song evidence that he could also have been a great front man for Judas Priest. This is a song from my past that made a startling, happy reappearance; it would also be a fantastic tune to burn down a building to.

And so it goes that it was a summer between college semesters. I had ended up at a party, tagging along with a friend. And at this same party, I met this guy I had known from the third grade. I met Rafferty. And Rafferty had changed.

A lot.

Gone were the glasses, the tucked-in polo shirt, the short stature that had forced him to squint up at people. Present-day Rafferty had shoulder-length stoner hair. He seemed like the kind of guy that solved the problem of boredom by going out with a bat to set off car alarms. Apparently, he had been living on a diet of vodka and bovine growth hormone. He was huge, lively, cheerful, visibly wasted, and urging me to much of the same. I had an old new friend, and he was about to rock my face off.

Hey Mama (4:20) – Kanye West

When Kanye West forgets about how wonderful Kanye West feels Kanye West is, he really is one of the greats. And this song is a perfect example: Read More »

London Rushing

The big city in nocturne light,
still not all cold this winter.
Our eyes pick up the melting night,
Streaming out time with our river.
For all those things that you forgot
are rushing back to the bank building
then stop.
A water-wall around my heart
that no bridge can link.
Stuck and unmoving,
in London rushing.

Celeb-Watching, Cultured Living, and More - in D.C.

Having spent our glorious university years in Washington D.C., my friends and I recently decided to reconvene in the U.S. capital for a walk down memory lane.

We met at the newest Kimpton Hotel: the thirty-two million dollar, recently renovated Hotel Palomar which is modeled after the original in San Francisco.

This place is a home-away-from-home to visiting celebrities such as Mötley Crüe and blast-from-our-past diva Chaka Khan – who, we’re told, had gotten an elevator locked down just for her and her huge entourage.

The hotel is unique in many ways; the waiters here undergo rigorous training with a ballet company, a terrific concept to ensure both regular guests and celebrities are served with grace. What’s more, the boutique property’s décor, inspired by the modern elegance of 1930’s French Moderne designers, provides its visitors with a sophisticated, artful sanctuary. The place is conveniently located just off D.C.’s colorful Dupont Circle and is therefore a mere hop, skip and a jump from Georgetown’s quaint shops, restaurants, and million dollar mansions, and only a short cab drive away from the seats of power on Capitol Hill. We were set to have a good time.

We visited one of the newest and most expensive memorials in the nation, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt memorial, unveiled in May 1997. In our collective opinion, it’s the most beautiful as well. Commemorating the 32nd President, the memorial sits alongside the Potomac River, with statues, waterfalls, shade trees, quiet alcoves and reflection pools, each one symbolizing one of his four terms as President. As we walked along the stretch of grass called the mall, I reminisced about my first visit to the site during my “Explorers, Warriors, and Statesmen” class at university.

Off we went to the nearby Lincoln Memorial, located on the far bank of the Tidal Basin where many spend their late-March and April days walking on the promenade, admiring the momentous cherry blossoms. My friend Dana, incidentally, insists that a late night visit is the ideal time to walk under the enormous stone President. We also visited the Titanic Memorial, built in 1931 and located on Maine Avenue waterfront in Southwest Washington. Despite its tragic aura, this place always educes a bit of a giggle nowadays; Read More »

Heath Ledger Was the Cat’s Meow

Did I seriously just write the above headline? Heath Ledger was? He was?

People die young all the time. There’s nothing new under the sun, and tragic death in one’s prime is no exception. In many ways Heath Ledger was (here’s that dreadful word again) no more special than, say, the people dying in Palestine this week, many of them also young.

However, now that that’s out of the way, let me tell you: boy, did I adore Heath Ledger.

I adored him so much that I had arguments about him. People said, “he’s just another pretty boy,” and I said, “no he has range and depth, and the awesome factor like whoa.” People said, “awesome factor? Like whoa? What does that even mean?” And I said, “watch him, just watch him.”

Heath Ledger combined talent with a generally laid-back public persona. He was the guy who once moved to Brooklyn because he didn’t want to be photographed every time he stepped into a Starbucks or kissed his girlfriend. He wasn’t afraid to look like he hadn’t spent five hours with five different stylists. He was good even in the bad films (”The Brothers Grimm” come to mind).

He wasn’t afraid of taking on controversial roles and acting in scenes that would inspire most of our true-blue Hollywood heroes to run away screaming. Read More »

Holidays in the Carpathians: Bukovel

It seems that everyone with wheels in Kyiv went up the Carpathian mountains to celebrate the New Year. Sitting by the fireplace in a log cabin at the ski resort this season would have been something, but I didn’t not get there as planned. To be honest, it was a blessing to miss the frantic traffic and struggle to find a decent place to sleep.

After all, the good places are booked up there a year in advance.

illustration1byolechko

As a clever friend of mine recommended, it’s better to go up to the Carpathians a few weeks before the holidays, or else after the Orthodox Christmas (which is on the 7th of January, for all of those unfamiliar with the Julian calendar). So, I adjusted my plans.

Christmas time here offers the best entertainment for culture lovers, because the way the locals celebrate it has been preserved in its full glory: costumes, caroling, lavish food and all.

illustration3byolechko

The best way to get to the Carpathians from the capital is by car (it’s roughly a 7 hour drive to Yaremche). If you arrive to Yaremche by train (it would take a transfer or two to get there from Kyiv, as the railway system is still pretty inconvenient), you can hop on a cab for about 150 hrv to Bukovel.

This is actually reasonable, considering Yaremche is 40 min away. Obviously, putting so much effort into getting there means that this should definitely not be a weekend kind of trip. Better to stretch it out for 5 days or so, if you can. Read More »

The Artist’s Real “Real Job”

The following is an interview with Justin Rivenbark - artist, and founder of the Rootist Movement.

In the interest of full disclosure, Justin and I went to high school together.

I was one of the dorky, younger kids, and he was the cool senior.

I don’t believe that things have changed all that much since then.

My Beautiful Anger

Natalia: I’ve read the description of the Rootist Art Movement, but I’ll be curious to know if there was anything specific that spurred you on in your decision to found something so distinct.

Justin: The Rootist Art Movement is essentially the culmination of several beliefs and ideologies that have been revealed to me over the course of my lifetime. Simply put, it is the answer to the question any artist should ask himself: Why am I dedicating my life to this pursuit? What is it about art that makes me feel it necessary, not only to create it, but to share it with other people as well? I asked myself those questions for many years without an answer. Only when I was able to find the courage to be honest with myself about who I am, and the things I believe in, was I able to answer those questions. And from those answers the Rootist Art Movement was born.

Natalia: Are there any specific influences you’d like to tell me about?

Justin: My influences are people. Everyone’s life is unique and complicated; however I believe if we were to strip down ourselves to a very rudimentary level, I think we would find our lives to be extremely similar. The Rootist Movement wants to remind people of this bond we share. It aims to help people remember that we are connected, and that connection is an important aspect of our lives. Life loses some of its sharp edges when you are able to remember that you are not alone; that everyone you cross in the street, no matter their age, faces the same simple question you do: What is the best way for me to live my life? The way people answer that question is what influences me.

Natalia: Do you have a formal education? I noticed that Rootist Art is not particularly concerned with formality.

Justin: I attended the School of the Art Institute of Chicago for two years. It was an important experience for me, given that it was my first real exposure to other people pursuing a similar path as my own. Being surrounded by extremely talented people in a creative, open, learning environment catapulted my growth in both the creation and my understanding of art.

However, the real obstacle that was presented to me was an unexpected one. I found myself unable to answer the question I needed answered most: Why was I here? My art, from a technical standpoint, was improving dramatically; however, my conceptual understanding of why I was making art felt like it was being diluted. I was a kid, surrounded by a bunch of other kids, and although we all liked to pretend we did, not one of us knew what we were doing. Or maybe it was just me, I don’t know. Read More »

We the Scatterbrains

We, the Scatterbrains, unfocused, unrestrained,
Random in our pattern, dispersed throughout
that Critical Mass—that info-terrain,
That moves our thought like a manic nymph train—
Our station is static with snow white noise,
As we mime the motions the whistle employs.
As Job we are dwarfed by the whirlwind’s shout,
Flung to and fro, and blown by skepticism.
We wonder what all the fuss is about;
We inquire to find the root of our route
(mapped without a destination in sight).
With water everywhere and bait to bite,
Scatterbrains exist and fish in Schism—
Swimming from school to school, playing the fool
with blues and rhythm and booze and jizm
(Our desire cries for exorcism,
Multi-tasking, and basking in choices).
Many directors help lift up our voices,
So that our song can be used as a tool;
Those melodies—colorful confetti—
Flutter from cloudy skulls like Babble’s drool.
Still, we wade in the cesspool of bull’s stool.
Precipitated by nothing at all,
Each day, each hour, sunup, sun fall.

Read More »