Nothing is Ever Easy

For those of you that have been in a coma for the last five weeks (you know who you are, I hope), please catch up on Nothing is Sacred Field Correspondent Fabio Sandrelli's "Operation Minsk" right here or none of the rest of this will make sense and you'll wind up calling the authorities on me and that just ain't cool. I'd much rather you just sat back, picked your teeth as you read a few stories, and delivered me a good steak, a case of wine, or something pretty for the wife. So, you know, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Toodles,
GTC

Independence Day in Minsk looks like fun

19.02.2011 - OPERATION MINSK - DISPATCH 0003

Okay, readers, I guess this is going to be more of an "every three weeks" kinda thing, just to keep it sounding regular and not scare you away with its actual, frightening randomness.

I am trying my best over here, but things move slowly when you're poor. Seriously. The other day I watched a wrinkle form on a ladybug's cheek. I had been staring at her (him?) for a while and I guess it was a longer while than it should have been, in polite company, because I actually saw that otherwise-inconsequential insect age before my very eyes.

I couldn't help but notice the precise onset of world-weariness in a breathe-eat-shit-procreate-die mindless insect and I'm still talking about it. That's how much time I have on my hands. I'm fucked.

Needless to say, the ladybug experience (and several others like it) made an indelible impression and I have all the evidence I would ever need to conclude that time is not to be wasted, that life is precious, that things that must be said must be said no matter the cost.

As soon as I can save up for a servant with younger legs than toothless old Mikhail to run these illicit missives across the border without the need for a nap every fifteen minutes, I assure you I will keep better pace with both your expectations and my desires (a weekly column rich with charming insight?).

It's depressing to think I not only had to hire Mikhail--a gnarled old coot I found muttering to a pet dead bird inside a garbage can in the park where he was "staying warm"--but also some strange enterprising young woman in Vilnius--Vita K.--with internet access, discretion, and a dangerous desire for the finer things in life.

I haven't made a penny in six weeks and I never even had one to start with yet here I sit master of two dedicated servants helping me upload these letters to the Nothing is Sacred servers indefinitely in exchange for a pair of Levis each.

That's all! How desperate are these poor Belarusians? What does it say about their station that they are willing to risk so much for so little? Do they hear the footsteps of Lukashenko's hounds chasing me through the Minskian sewers? Will they do any and everything to silence those hounds once and for good and live like normal people for a change?

If so, they may be gravely disappointed when I sneak away as the road to freedom becomes more arduous; I am way too selfish to actually risk my life for anything other than the perfect croissant. I came over here on an adventure and I was rewarded with way more than I bargained. As soon as I can get out I will be out and I will never come back. If I see an officer of the law I will run as fast as I can and I will never think killing somebody is a good idea, even when it is.

Regardless of all this depressing bunk, though, this recent spate of involuntary internet silence due to my being the target of a relentless government-funded manhunt has been as bad for my general health and happiness as it has been for my porn consumption--i.e, the worst.

While out from behind my desk these past few weeks, floating knock-kneed through a pock-marked landscape reeking of the dark side of human resilience, virtually alone, I've been robbed, beaten, intimidated, and completely cut-off from my family and friends. If I have two coins to rub together before exchanging them for a shoeful of porridge it is only due to the kindness of peasants.

Life is never easy, I guess. Like they say. Except, of course, for the people in underwear and fragrance advertisements, whose pure enjoyment of the simplest things the world has to offer is always effortless and delightful. I'd say they were lucky if I didn't know they earned it; they are beautiful beyond reproach.

By the way, I saw legendary gymnast Vitaly Scherbo outside a gelateria the other day. He had some swooning young model on his arm and drove a glistening Audi A8 coupe. I drooled on myself a little and then a wave of embarrassment washed over me as I realized how vital he is at 39. Will I even live that long? Am I doomed to end my days frozen to a park bench in Gorky Park, my pants around my ankles?

Well, since I can't predict the future and I'm not sure what else to do right now, I think it's high time I finish this can of paint thinner, strip down to my finest suit, and paint the town naked like I just don't give a damn. I'm worth it.

Over and out,
Fab

FS/vk


FABIO SANDRELLI - FIELD CORRESPONDENT - NOTHING IS SACRED

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Minsk, the Pearl of the Tundra?

 

Imagine this cell, but much smaller and pitch-black.

Finally got another missive from Nothing Is Sacred Field Correspondent Fabio Sandrelli, currently stationed in Minsk, Belarus for 2011. For those of you that missed his first dispatch, check it out here.

Enjoy,
GTC


04.02.2011 - OPERATION MINSK - DISPATCH 0002

My most sincere apologies for the delay in my second dispatch from this frozen hellhole, but I spent the last three weeks in a damp prison cell only slightly larger than my body and darker than a black steer's tuchus on a moonless prairie night.

As it turns out, Dictator Lukashenko has very little patience for people who write things down or have opinions on things. The trial was brief and consisted of little more than a billy-club blow to the head, but my guilt was never in question.

Did I learn my lesson? No. I don't learn lessons. That is why I had to volunteer for this unpaid internship that puts my life in danger every second. Let this be a warning to all of you out there in the ether--learn how to learn lessons and learn them well. Get a job as a pencil pusher in the back office of some corporate laundromat empire based in Omaha, Nebraska.

It may sound boring, but at least you can go home to your rented trailer after work and watch reality TV while getting fat on deep-fried Doritos-flavored donuts. That sounds fairly heavenly right now, in fact; save me some.

Instead of living the dream--getting fat, masturbating obsessively, making excuses for myself, and taxing the bloated US health care system with my diabetes-ridden walking corpse--here I sit under a camouflaged blanket in Chelyuskinites Park, burning stacks of Communist propaganda to stay warm, hoping the wind doesn't blow away the pile of leaves hiding my satellite dish, wishing I had purchased a round-trip ticket, regretting the fact that I agreed to surrender my passport at immigration.

But, as it is with most people who have no other option, I grin and bear it. I persevere. I am young and strong and smart and fortunate my assignment here is as vague as one could imagine and I can write almost anything.

For example:

Earlier today, tasting my first moments of freedom, I watched two old women wrapped in wolfskins play chess on a blanket under a nearby tree for over four hours. By the time I realized my eyelids had frozen in place and I had an alogical erection that would not go away, it was too late--they decided to pack up and head back to the brothel to catch the lucrative rush that always happens when there's a shift-change at the neighborhood police station. When you live on $0.85 a day, after all, a Zip Loc™ bag full of leftover chili tossed in your swollen face can mean the difference between survival and a life of (relative) luxury.

But it's not all loneliness and poverty here in Europe's last Cold War outpost. There seem to be a number of trendy vodka bars, dumpling houses, limbless street vendors spooning stew into unwashed plastic bags in the alley, discothèques full of lusciously-emaciated prostitutes, rich corrupt assholes in furs, persecuted collegiate intellectuals, etc. I occasionally hear laughter, even, although I never know for sure if it's just in my head.

I wish I had enough money to join the party but, alas, I blew most of my graduation money on the decommissioned Soviet icebreaker to which I'm now too afraid to return. I really hope I don't have to wear the same pair of underwear for the next eleven months, but a guy's got to do what a guy's gotta do, right? Right?

Anyway, I'm going to roll up some of these dead weeds I found buried under the snow, have a smoke, and think about what sort of black-market activity I can engage in to make my time here more comfortable.

Until next time,
Fab

FABIO SANDRELLI - FIELD CORRESPONDENT - NOTHING IS SACRED

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What's Going on in Minsk These Days?

 (Photo courtesy Oleg Babinets)

Volume 1 of a new series concerning the various goings-on in Minsk, Belarus:

Sure we've all wanted to get lost in the new 22-story National Library built in 2006, attend a performance at the National Academic Big Opera and Ballet Theatre, explore the extensive trolleybus network, frolic in the vast primeval forest on a summer's day, and freeze our dicks/tits off in the winter while running naked in a vodka haze from discotheque to discotheque with a gang of troublesome local twentysomethings, but not all of us have the means or the stones to get to Belarus as often as we'd like.

Fortunately, Nothing Is Sacred correspondent Fabio Sandrelli generously volunteered to live in Minsk for a calendar year--on his own dime, naturally--in order to pen a weekly column that will bring the many-splendored highlights of living in Minsk to your bedroom when you need it most and where you won't be too far away from your favorite imperialist tidbits.

Please enjoy and keep reading!

-GTC

 

Fabio (right) receives his travel order from high command

11.01.2011 - OPERATION MINSK - DISPATCH 0001

Finally got my computer station set up in the houseboat. The satellite access along the Svislach River is either one of the worst I've encountered in my travels lately or I drank more vodka on the plane than I realized. Either way, I'm on the hook for at least a three-month rental of this Soviet-era icebreaker so I'll just have to make it work.

If I don't get a fire going soon I just might freeze to death tonight. As I step onto the aft deck to search for something to burn, the air hits me and appears to be on the sweeter side, while still bearing a slight trace of Mongols, Stalin, and Nazis, which are aparently a few of the more difficult scents to remove.

From what little I have seen of it so far (lunch outside the train station and a long cab ride to the boat yard), the city seems very proud of itself, of having risen where once there was nothing, of rebuilding time and time again after being ravaged by war.

Stout buildings of stone with labor-intensive architectural ornaments; grand boulevards crowded with automobiles and trams; monolithic museums, churches, and universities; smoke and noise, fur hats, hardy folk that don't talk too much and wear a lot of brown...I definitely need to improve my conversational Russian if I plan to enjoy myself here.

Anyway, nothing much seems to happening here for the time-being...wait--

I just translated the front page of a foreign newspaper in my head and it seems the government of "Europe's Last Dictator," Belarusian President Aleksandr Lukashenko, is threatening to assume legal guardianship of a three-year-old child of one of the leading opposition candidates for President. Lukashenko had the child's father and mother (a journalist) arrested during a raid in which government agents threw 7 of 9 opposition candidates in prison on trumped-up charges relating to a police riot against peaceful protesters and it appears he would like to ensure the child does a good long stretch in a state orphanage so that his parents get the message.