Lex Libertas

As I was walking home today, I turned onto my street and noticed it was a little bit brighter than normal. Well, one of the two dumpsters was engulfed in flames. It was a decent sized fire because it was feeding on dead leaves, I noticed what the dumpster was filled with on the way out this morning. I saw because I also put in my own trash, which was filled with things like plastic and styrofoam, which don’t burn as well or clean as yard clippings. I’m glad I live on the other end of the building, I don’t imagine that those apartments downwind will smell too nice this evening. I tried to take some pictures, but they didn’t turn out so well:

You can see that the dumpster fire gives off almost as much light as the street lamps:

French pop Kid. You like to listen to Serge
Gainsbourg and you can actually understand what
he’s saying. You prefer to go to sit at a cafe
discussing philosophy and art, and chances are
you’re speaking in french, just to be
pretentious. Still, you’ve got great taste in
music, and it’s okay to be pretentious about
it, because you know your cool and you could
careless if anyone else thinks so.

What type of indie elitist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

This is really disturbing. When I took this quiz I figured it was a waste of time because I’m not any type of Indie Elitist. I hate all that pretentious crap, from Morrisey to Badly Drawn Boy, Modest Mouse, and whatever the newest thing is that those kids with white belts and square black glasses are listening to. Then, I got my result. It does match me pretty well.

I do, actually, listen to Serge Gainsbourg, and I do understand what he’s saying. At least, I understand the meanings of discrete words. The meaning of the words together sometimes escapes me. Take, for example, a lyric from one of his more famous songs: “Je t’aime … moi non plus.” The song is a duet, and its claim to fame is that the woman affects an orgasm during the chorus - after all, what would a French cultural artifact be without an orgasm? Anyway, the lyric in question is translated as “I love you (from the female) … me neither (from the male).” Thus we find the second main anchor for French cultural artificats, a pretentious ambiguity that allows the creator, and those who “understand” it, to look down with disdain upon us unenlightened masses.

That said, there is definitely some good French music out there. And my friends will all attest (complain) that I love foreign music in general. Even if it’s in a language that I don’t understand. Additionally, I do prefer to spend my time in cafes talking philosophy, politics, and art. And of late it has usually been in a foreign language. As for the pretentious part, I would never consider myself to be, though I have been labeled such in the past. Clearly they just couldn’t understand my genius

Oddly enough, this actually seems about right. Seeing as how I have lived in many different areas of the US, and attended 16 different Elementary and Junior High Schools (and five universities), my English should be mostly General American.

As for the others, my formative years were spent living in the South and on Army bases (known for a preponderance of Southerners). My mother is from Illinois (Upper Midwest), and I spent a solid 10 years in Southern California, which would account for some of the Yankee (Yankee, Liberal, what’s the difference??)

I was recently introduced to an early 20th century humourist named P.G. Wodehouse. A friend who wants to get his PhD in English, and who already knows far more about English Liturature than I ever will, gave me a copy of Wodehouse’s Blandings Castle. I had complained about not liking modern authors, and never finding humourous literature funny, so he recommended this. Incidentally, I absolutely hate anthologies, and this book turned out to be a collection of Wodehouse’s short stories.

In a completely unexpected turnaround, I loved this book, and all the stories in it. I actually laughed out loud, often. I can’t remember ever doing that with a book. In particular, some of the stories focus on Hollywood in the 1930’s, and most of what he says still seems pertinent today. Here is his description of two positions in the Hollywood hierarchy:

Assistant Director

It is one of the drawbacks to being an assistant director that virtually everything that happens to him is of a nature to create an inferiority-complex � or, if one already exists, to deepen it. He is habitually addressed as �Hey, you� and alluded to in the third person as �that fathead.� If anything goes wrong on the set, he gets the blame and is ticked off not only by the producer but also by the director and all the principals involved. Finally, he has to be obsequious to so many people that it is little wonder that he comes in time to resemble one of the more shrinking and respectful breeds of rabbit. Five years of assistant-directing had so sapped Montrose’s morale that nowadays he frequently found himself starting up and apologizing in his sleep.

Nodder

It is not easy to explain to the lay mind the extremely intricate ramifications of the personnel of a Hollywood motion-picture organization. Putting it as briefly as possible, a Nodder is something like a Yes-Man, only lower in the social scale. A Yes-Man’s duty is to attend conferences and say �Yes.� A Nodder’s, as the name implies, is to nod. The chief executive throws out some statement of opinion, and looks about him expectantly. This is the cue for the senior Yes-Man to say yes. He is followed, in order of precedence, by the second Yes-Man � or Vice-Yesser, as he is sometimes called � and the junior Yes-Man. Only when all the Yes-Men have yessed, do the Nodders begin to function. They nod.

Not very exalted, it is a position which you might say, roughly, lies socially somewhere in between that of the man who works the wind-machine and that of a writer of additional dialogue. There is also a class of Untouchables who are known as Nodders’ assistants, but this is a technicality with which I need not trouble you.

As I was attempting to clean my apartment yesterday, I came across a flyer that had been given to me long ago. I never looked at it, I rarely do, but decided to actually read it before throwing it away. It’s a coupon for an unlimited lunch buffet at a nice place on the main street in town (Nevsky). It costs 250 roubles, which at about nine dollars is a little steep for my blood - even in America, let alone Russia. Though since I was supposed to have lunch with a friend today, I figured I’d splurge and make it the centerpiece of a day of lounging around the city center. Afterall, it’s all-you-can-eat, and I thought I might make it the main meal of the day.

We walked in, and the place looked pretty nice. It was in the courtyard of an 18th-Century building. The buffet certainly looked acceptable, lots of Russian salads (all with mayonaise), vegetables, and with fish and chicken as the staples. So we decided to give it a try. I sampled a bit of each salad, and selected a chicken breast. The salads were all bland, and the chicken not cooked. At this point, in America, I would complain to the chef. Over here, handicapped by my lack of Russian, and cowed by the nearly 2 years of horrible customer service, I decided to let it go and just fill my plate up with vegetables and rice. I would have expected spices of some sort, but the restaurant felt all that was necessary was to cover the vegetables and rice with butter. Incidentally, they had bread, but no butter available to put on it. They must have used it all up on the vegetables.

At about this time, my body told me that I was no longer hungry. Though this was due more to having lost my appetite than satiated my hunger. The restaurant had filled up with French and German tourist groups, and one or two were starting to leave. I was tempted to just get up and walk out with them. The wait staff would never had noticed, and I did not want to pay for a crappy, undercooked buffet. However, my conscience got the better of me, as it unfortunately usually does. We called the waiter over. The coupon says that you can turn it in for a dollar off of the meal, and it expires on September 1, 2005. The waiter promptly tells me that they no longer accept the coupons. I inquire as to why, and the kid can’t give me an explanation. So in addition to overcharging for bland, raw food, the restaurant drew me in with outright fraud. Now I’m really starting to think I should’ve played “French tourist” when I had the chance.

I once more swallow my displeasure and give the waiter a 1,000 rouble note to pay the 558 rouble tab. Why 558, and not 500? Because the buffet doesn’t include drinks. Not even tea. He takes the money and disappears. A few minutes later he returns to the table and asks if anyone brought us our change. I think to myself for a second, “You’re our waiter. Why would someone else have brought us our change?” Of course, this being Russia, questions like this need not be asked. I politely respond that no, nobody has brought my change. He then asks, “It was 460, right?” I get better service at McDonalds for half the price. Actually, no, it wasn’t 460, it was 462. Not that I’d normally bicker over 2 roubles (around 7 cents), but this was just getting ridiculous.

I confirmed that it was indeed 462, and then accepted the 460 when he told me that was all he had. I promptly left, and promised myself never to return.

Lesson of the Day: If you ever get crappy food and bad service - worse than usual I mean - and you’re in a touristy place on Nevsky, just act like you’re part of one of the tours, and leave without saying a word.

Having attended many schools and done a fair bit of traveling in my time, I’ve figured out something about how I relate to time, and it’s effect on me. I’m stuck right now in what I refer to as a “transitional period,” and it in part explains my lack of posting.

I’ve found that I lack motivation and bore easily when I’m waiting for the next stage of life to begin. This summer has held many such periods. I finished my exams early in June, and had a waiting period before I set out on my vacation. Then when I returned about a month ago, I spent a couple of weeks waiting to go to Finland. Now I’m back, and I’m waiting for school to start. Of course, this will in itself be a bit of a waiting period because I go home at the end of September, so I don’t imagine I’ll get settled into any rhythm before I leave.

It’s not just that I have nothing to occupy my time with, it’s specifically that I’m waiting for the next stage, and what I’m doing at the current moments seems to be a time filler. I had a similar experience, for example, when I was working before coming to Russia.

When I’m involved in something, I can devote myself to it. But when I’m waiting, I find it difficult to get motivated to do something with my time. Right now I really should be working on my thesis, but I feel that since it’s reasonably warm outside, I should take advantage and spend my time just wandering about. “Thesis” fits much nicer into the “school” mindframe than “summer.” So, by the way, does “blogging.”

I’m going to have to make a concerted effort to overcome this natural inclination to laziness. I’m thinking something along the lines of forced study every day. Though are still other things that I would like to do. First on the list is change my site software from Movable Type to something else that has better comments and trackback.

I just got into Finland yesterday, and due to the rather expensive nature of internet time here, I won’t be posting much. Not that I have been recently anyways, but that’s the story. When I return to Russia, I will try to make a concerted effort to post with the same frequency as when I first came to St. Petersburg.