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Archives for April 2014

Ten hits from Irkutsk

humpty-dumptyrussia-putin.jpeg5-1057x960It appears Putin is nostalgic for the old Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and wants to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. In this case it appears all the Putin’s horses and all the Putin’s men might at least put some of Mssr Dumpty back together again.

I get a little nostalgic over the USSR myownself. The stats for this blog brought to mind a trip I took. The stats show 10 hits from Irkutsk, a city in Siberia about 16 time zones to the east of here. It lies on the shore of Lake Baikal, the biggest, deepest and probably coldest fresh water lake in the world. More than 30 years ago, I boarded the Trans-Siberian Railroad in Irkutsk and began a 36-hour trip to Novosibirsk.

We had a compartment. It smelled of dirty rags, strong tea and piss.  The dirty-rag aroma came from the linen — if you want to call it that. Babushkas were stationed at the doors at either end of car, and I think one had a samovar. The alleged toilets accounted for the pissoir-heavy air.

images-1In the bar car, we read “Zima Junction” by the fine poet Yevgeni Yevtushenko. We were on the way to Zima, northwest of Irkutsk. Yevtushenko was born there.

It is a not a political poem, but Yevtushenko became popular in the West as he danced around the Soviet iron fist. He did not even approach the Western celebrity status of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, the unmercifully boring  novelist whose “The Gulag Archipeligo” attracted great notice in the West.
The luster of his heroism dulled for me when the boys in the politburo allowed him to leave mother Russia and eventually settle in New England. After spending much of his life  bitching and moaning about oppression in the Soviet Union, he bitched and moaned about rampant materialism and decadent values in a free society.

From Zima:

I’d like to see the old familiar pines,

the witnesses of the old-old  bygone times,


when great-granddad, along with other peasants,images

were banished to Siberia as rebels.


From far away

   to God forsaken place,

through mud and rain, deep in disgrace,


along with their wives and kids they were driven,


Ukrainian peasants, from Zhitomir region.


They  plodded,  trying to forget about


the things they treasured most of all, perchance…


The watchful convoy guards on the look out


would look askance at their heavy veiny hands.


The corporal would be playing cards as night would fall


while great-granddad, absorbed in thought all night,


would skilfully  pick up a piece of coal


straight from the fire, to have a light.


It is about going home again, a nostalgia piece from 1955. If Yevtushenko’s nostalgia yet lives, he’s not saying, at least publicly. He seems to be content out of the limelight with the Cold War a distant memory. He’s in his 80s and lives mostly in Tulsa. It was reported that he refuses to criticize Putin. And there is nothing about his views on Putin’s undisturbed waltz into the Ukraine, land of his grandfather.

I don’t suppose I want to see Irkutsk again. And I certainly don’t suppose the Stink Train still runs. Moreover, I’d guess Yevtushenko doesn’t want to return to Zima Station. When you get to a certain age, nostalgia isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Nonetheless, thank you dear Siberian readers for sparking a memory “from far away.”

A rose is a rose x 20

There are about 20 blooms on this floribunda rose. They grew on a single cane, from a plant fertilized by optimism and goaded by sunny days and strong verbs.

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Taxed

It’s a Paine to say it, but these are the times that tax men’s souls. (Women’s too.)

What this country needs is more affordability in the purchase, care  and maintenance of members of Congress. I am but a handful of percentage points from billionaire Charles Koch’s tax bracket. If that isn’t the ultimate in horse pucky, I’ll be Go-To-Hell.

Perhaps we need to pool money; buy a Solon or two. I’ll volunteer as the bagman. I’m just shooting spit wads here. Big bidness done bought them up. The pharmaceutical guys bought the best, if not the brightest, which is why the news on NBC, ABC and CBS is saturated with drug commercials for every malady known to humankind, and then some. Some of those maladies are plenty exotic and make you wonder what came first, the disease or the cure?

Oddly enough in these taxing times, doing my taxes this year has been like being keel hauled by Captain Bligh. I wish I could say my absence from da blog was because I have been on a trip — someplace exotic like the stockyard at Stanfield or the casino at Why or a Toltec truck stop. But I have been chained to TurboTax, which this year has been the worst version ever. The Terror of the Return was like HAL telling Keir Dullea’s character, “I’m sorry, Dave, but I can’t do that.”

I shall scour the ends of the Earth for an alternative next year. This year’s software has been as hinky and annoying as George W. Bush’s smirk.

 

The good doctor responds

If you read the letter I wrote to Dr. Sweitzer, you might be interested in her response:

I received your letter in my mail last evening.  I sincerely apologize for the way your case was handled upon Dr. Ewy’s departure.  In the month I have been at the Sarver, I have worked diligently to begin the process of improving care for all of our patients.  I would like to speak with you about your experience.  As I do not yet have an assistant, please call me at your convenience on my cell phone, 608-XXX-XXXX.

Nancy Sweitzer

I spoke with her. She said she was indeed working to improve patient care at the Sarver Center. I believe her. I did visit the sins committed before she took charge upon her. She has a formidable task before her. She needs some time. As you can see her cell phone number is from Madison, Wis., whence she came and took over at Sarver March 1.