Head Games

About time you broke your rules and poured us both a glass of your favorite Irish whiskey. Lots to talk about. It’s like this, reader. Take note of the picture above. The tea is from Malawi, Africa (Cheers, Josh). The mug is from Ohio. The handsome photographer is yours truly. And reader, the backdrop is Russia. Quick note: winter is quickly approaching, which means Cold War puns are inbound as well. So try not to go MAD while I KaGe a Bee or Aldrich Ames some of these jokes back at you. Apologies in advance.

I’ve moved in with Ludmila, and she has been nothing but kind, hospitable, and oddly, educational. She often asks me if I want tea. I often say yes. Exciting stuff, I know, but those reading this who know me well know that I’m out of my element when someone asks me if I want tea more than I ask them. Stepping out of a comfort zone, eh Pat? Regardless, Ludmila’s lovely, and the Behemoth and I have developed an interesting relationship. It more or less consists of me executing a task, and him getting in the way of whatever that task may be. Below, there are pictures of me attempting to read a book, write a paper, sleep,  and watch Netflix, —all of which were obstructed by, well… you get the picture(s).

I had the pleasure of attending a hockey game the other day. Saint Petersburg’s team is referred to as SKA, and their stadium is massive. It houses fans who treat hockey much like we treat…well Blackhawks hockey I guess—better to say that they love hockey like America loves football. The sport is cold, fast paced and unforgiving—like Russia. It’s a fun time; the final score was 9-4 SKA victorious. Two weeks before they just barely beat the same team. Bottom line, if you’re in Russia, it’s worth your time to check out a hockey game.

It’s October now, which means two things. One—it’s getting spooky. Two—it’s getting cold. So I did the only rational thing. I saw a ballet. “Yeah, Pat, that’s SO rationa—”glad we agree, reader. So before your pretend interruption happened, I was going to say I went to see Black Swan, or Swan Lake. Two to one odds it’s the second one but I mean watch the damn thing and you can call it Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds for all I care. No no you’re careless! Not because they both have birds but because they’re both reliant on strong female leads and phenomenal and incidentally well-timed musical scores and soundtracks respectively. Yeezy may have jumped over jumpman, but reader, no one jumps over Russian Swan Lake. All in all, the performance was quite enchanting. I’ve always had respect for ballet dancers, but I’ve never witnessed the elegance, energy and poise firsthand. It’s something to behold.

“Ballets, Pat? You went soft, we all knew this day was comi—” Yeah and the Pope’s not Catholic, the Sun revolves around the Earth, and Bruce Willis isn’t dead the whole time too I bet? You see, reader, three times a week, Brad Pitt and I invite a lot of people to shadowy basements and we all beat each other up in the name of a vague anarchist agenda. Not really— that’s a gross and unjust summary of Fight Club with Ed Norton… But I do box here. The team consists of Russians who don’t speak English save for one gentleman whom I have come to befriend out of both necessity and common interests. Practice is a bit like the game charades, but when I guess wrong I usually get punched in the face. On my first day, I was put in a group with three other Russians. They asked where I was from. I put on my Rocky Balboa pants and said “America” with my chest. Two of them were excited, laughed, and praised the States for music and movies. The one remaining gentleman, Artyom, squeezed out a smile and said “We should fight very soon.” I told him “I must break you” like Ivan Drago in Rocky IV and he laughed. Sylvester Stallone to the rescue again. They’re good people and it’s helping my Russian. Boxing style is different too but that’s another story for another time or at the very least another glass.

Also, while I’m here I’m checking out a lot of things, but if you, dear reader, have any questions or want me to look into anything for you, drop me an email or a message on the book and I’ll do my best to oblige. Another bit, looking back—my cousins always included a quote or a dialogue to kick off their posts. Well, I’ll punctuate mine with a little dialogue because I’m a fan of people more eloquent than your humble interlocutor too. It’s a long distance and a hard time difference to manage, but a toast to you all the same, dear reader! Clean your porch, buy your windows, and until next time, I hope your kettle doesn’t break.

Ken: [looking at a Bosch painting] It's Judgment Day, you know?

Ray: No. What's that then?

Ken: Well, it's, you know, the final day on Earth, when mankind will be judged for the crimes they've committed and that.

Ray: Oh. And see who gets into heaven and who gets into hell and all that.

Ken: Yeah. And what's the other place?

Ray: Purgatory.

Ken: Purgatory... what's that?

Ray: Purgatory's kind of like the in-betweeny one. You weren't really shit, but you weren't all that great either. Like Tottenham.

Ray: Do you believe in all that stuff, Ken?

Ken: About Tottenham?

In Bruges