Alejandro Nalpak's postings Subject: INFO-RUSS: 1 April
Date: Mon, 6 Apr 92 20:35:55 CDT
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Dear folks,

Russians, Jews, Russian Jews, Jewish Russians, and all plain Americans of 
any mold! By accident, I've got a hold on quite a few pieces of news which 
might be of interest to INFO-RUSS community. I intended to post them about 
a week ago, but combination of personal and technical reasons delayed me. I
I hope, however, they would be still of interest to you, folks.

* The collapse of old enemy, Sov. Union, brought the US Government to 
rethink a lot of geo-political issues, the top one of which is: Who should 
be designated now to be the worst enemy, and who - to be the best friend? 
The very secret (and trusted) info obtained by me, is that the choice is made:
the new Best Friend will be Russia, the new Worst Enemy -- Israel. The 
confirmations of that are abundant:

  * Ten+ billion dollars refused to Israel, are proposed to go instead to 
ex-Sovok. My sources told me that as expected the major portion of that 
money will go to keep military and KGB running. The not so secret 
agreement reached between Pentagon and Russian generals, is that all the 
missiles aimed at US ant its allies, will be re-aimed now at the US enemies; 
a good portion of them, however, will stay aimed as they used to be: at 
Israel, and some new will be added. (The latter point in the negotiations was 
agreed upon in the most understanding and amicable atmosphere).

  * Long expecting this development of events, the oldest and wisest 
Hasidim Rabbi decided to declare himself a Messia, and to move from the US 
to Israel, which move will obviously prevent at least Pentagon from nuking 
Israel.  Outraged Pentagon official, who withhold his name, hinted however
that this would free Pentagon to nuke Brooklyn, NY, instead.  Technically, 
it is even easier.

  * Bad news: since it is difficult to punish the Israel any more (although 
what has already been done, was a really neat move, considering the Iraq 
bombing of Israel during the Gulf war), a lot of new pressure will be put on 
the Jews in the US. Some campaigning candidates offered a whole set of 
possible steps, including development of Birobidzhan County in the State of
Utah. As the latest rumors have it, the new, "fifth paragraph" will be 
introduced in driver licenses. But not to worry: a few Brooklyn-based 
companies are prepared to fabricate faked licenses with the right "paragraph".

  * Since there is a great influx of Russians coming to this country, some 
of them, especially former dissidents, accustomed to rebellion, could be 
potential trouble-makers.  Hence, it is planned to bring in a lot of KGB 
experts on dissidents to have them of-hand when the time come to hunt for 
those dissies. Their expertise will be especially needed having in mind that 
the real dissidents have to be spotted in much larger crowd of former 
commi-party members and other pillars of Sov. establishment, who suddenly 
became closet freedom-fighters, democracy lovers, capitalism promoters, etc.
  * Other areas of collaboration are rapidly coming up.  During the current 
Presidential campaign, the incumbent Republican Government used a new trick 
to topple the leading candidate of Democratic party: in the recent sex 
scandal, the lady who presumably has had numerous and elaborated intercurses 
with the candidate, is a Russian agent (just look at the any of Mrs.
Flawer's pictures).

  * All of a sudden, it became politically correct in this country to be 
in love with Russia. All the ladies are tremendously vibrating over 
anything Russian-related (in particularly, Russ-males). A lot of US cities 
are looking now for their sister-cities in Russia (naturally, they are
wanted in Russia as brother-cities). The warm feelings are almost boiling; 
my info has it that soon there will be mama-cities (remember Odessa-mama?) 
and papa-cities (sure, Rostov-papa), lover-cities, etc. Soon there will be 
a lot of people running around in search of city-size diapers for newly-born 
baby-cities (sigh, nobody will listen to Surgeon General's worning about use 
of condones...).

  * In related development: on Tuesday last week, a charted flight # IR-13
(a huge Boeing 707) arrived at JFK directly from Moscow. It was full of 
Russian bachelor scientists, and was awaited for by a huge crowd of American 
single and divorced ladies, eager to pick charming Russian husband. Some of 
them who belong to the high society, came incognito. My sources reported a 
fist fight between two such ladies (a daughter and a granddaughter of reknown 
pulic figures), who fought over one immensely attractive middle-aged physicist.
The police dealt with that situation in a very discreet way by delicately 
pulling the ladies away from each other. Nobody knows who won. (Watch for 
new appointments in universities.)

 * Good news: most of the top US universities are kicking their gates out 
for Russian scientists. The Presidents of top five US universities are ready 
to declare  their voluntary resignation in favor of any member of Russian 
Academy of Sciences who is willing to come and pick the Presidency up.
Any Russian researcher is welcome; he just has to come and declare his degree 
-- no questions will be asked. Graduate students ("aspirants") will 
immediately be offered Assistant Professor position, "Candidates of Sciences" 
-- Associate Professor, and "Doctor of Science" -- Full Professor, or
depending of his personal appeal -- Chairman of Department, or the Director 
of Lab. Recently, the top University in one of the West-Southern states while 
looking for a new Director of its very distinguished research Center, talked 
with five Russians. On the final account, none of them appeared on the
candidate short list; apparently all of them refused, citing either pride 
for Soviet science or patriotic feelings.

  * As honest people, Americans are willing to pay for a presumed brain drain 
to Russian Government. Most recent info mentioned these numbers: 1 ton of 
Idaho potatos for a "Candidate of Science", 2 tons - for a "Doctor of Science", 
3 tons -- for an Academician (here Americans goofed: they didn't know that 
Russian are perfectly willing to give their Academicians away for free).

----My very best; stay tuned
                                  Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: Jerry-cockroach
Date: Wed, 5 Aug 92 18:16:07 CDT
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Hi, russ-folks,
Highly inspired by the recent flare of advertising-intellectual-
exterminating activity at INFO-RUSS, I came up with some verses in
double-speak (remember Orwell, 1984?), that is in Russ-Eng-lingo;
here they are:
               Ruki proch'
               from cockroach!
               Jerry Kaider --
               Nash presider!
               Ne dadim ego 
                            v obidy
                            ot individov --
                            i prochih
               FORUMov and
                          vse vtaine,
               Ne potonem my
                           v go*ne!

--Seldomly (and russ-lovingly) yours,
                                      Alejandro N-k
Subject: INFO-RUSS: poor emigre-scientist
Date: Tue, 1 Sep 92 22:30:47 CDT
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Dear russ-piz-menniki,

I've got inspired again by that tearful account (by Sasha Taratorin) of 
those poor emigre-scientists suffering in hands of rude and sadistic Western 
scientists, especially "old" emigres, who exploit newcomers without any 
concern for their tender dreams about top positions and salaries...

My heart goes out for them; here is my little musical on the subject.  OK, 
here is this young, a bit shy yet very self-confident scientist, just arrived 
from Sovok, fresh with his hopes. And he sings, koketlivo potupiv glazki:
      Kak voz'mu ya d(fi) po d(t),
         Prikolyu ya na koftochku beluyu,
            Ozhidayu ya offer bol'shoi,
                Tol'ko pervogo shaga ne sdelayu... [1]
[1] Staraya Sov-estrada (slightly modified).

But nobody pays any attention... On shevelit slegka svoumi grudka...
oh, sorry, svoimi stat'ami, i ukradkoi izdaet aromat
sovok-duha... sorry, duhov. (Zdes' Russkii duh, zdes' Russyu
pahnet!) Yet still nobody invites him for an enchanted waltz of grants, 
tenure appointments, Hawaii conferences, university President's 
receptions, etc... Tut on slegka sterveneet, i poet uzhe v otkrytuyu:

      Oh, daite, daite mne position,
         Ya svoi talant sumeyu razvernut',
            Ya prinesu vam chest' i slavu,
               I Russ'-mamashu my zasr**m!!! [2]
[2] Ariya knyazya Igorya from namesake opera (slightly modified).

Still, no effect... However, after a while, some well weathered
man, with pronouncely semitic nose of veteran-emigre, approaches him,  
schupaet here i trogaet there, and says with a sour sigh : 
"OK, my young lad.. sorry, friend, come with me..."

Poor, poor young thing... After a while, sitting in the dark corner of
his new seral'... sorry, lab, he sings, in a tearful voice:

      Vot i ver' posle etogo ludyam,
         Otdalasya vo vsem ya tebe,
            A ty vzyal moi belye gru*i
              I uzlom zavyazal na spine... [3]
[3] Sov-folklor, unmodified.

Ts, ts, ts... I on grustno zasypaet, i snitsya emy ego rodnoi
institute, back in Russia, and he is back among his mighty research
sov-community and his brave comrades, and they sing, bodrymi golosami:

       Dzhan, dzhan, dzhan,
           Dzhan, dzhan, dzhan,
                                 Shtaty i Japan!!! [4]
[4] Yuli M. Kim, "Moskovskaya Kuhnya", unmodified.
Meanwhile, far, far away, gde kochuyut tumany, a chorus of kidds from 
Fiz-Technikum enthusiasticly sings :
       Priydet pora, zakonchiv Tehnikum,
          My soberem bagazh svoi skudnyi,
             Raz'edemsya vzdohnuv slegka,
                Raz'edemsya vzdohnuv slegka,
                    Po vsey Zemle iz Kratkoprudnoi! [5]
[5] Eto vsamdelishnaya pesenka byla, hotya nyneshnie Fiz-Technikumovtsy 
  vryad li ee znayut..

I vot plyvut oni na korable, right between Australia and South Africa,

        Raskinulos' more shiroko,
             I volny bushuyut vdali,
                Oh, comrad, my edem dalyoko,
                   Podal'she ot nashey zemli... [6]
[6] Right, right, it is where "i telo v volnah propadaet..."

And great cry-plach rises na rekah vavilonskih and all over the world, from 
poor, cheated, zas-Russ-nyh scientists, who waited so long for the right 
moment to get out tak chtoby "i rybku s'est', i na *** sest'", and now, no 
rybki, only *** . Grustno eto ... I vot,

        Po dikim stepyam za-Israil'ya,
           Gde zoloto goy-ut v gorah,
              Sov-scientist vseh proklinaya,
                 Taschitsya s diplomom v zubah.... [7]
[7] Still need a reference?

                                      Alejandro Nalpak

Subject:INFO-RUSS: KGB-files & Sosnora verses
Date: Sat, 17 Oct 92 02:33:11 CDT
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Somebody just mentioned my name, ne k nochi bud' skazano...
Eh, faily-papochki GBshnye... "Hranit' vechno", kak u Kopeleva. Opyat'zhe,
"rukopisi ne goryat", how about files? Nuzhno, nuzhno otkryt' ih,
rodimyh. "Rodina dolzhna znat' svoih stukachei", i zaplatit' ne zhalko...
Yet not only stukachi will surface from that shit. Something else...
Pain and cry, warnings and prophecy, poetry and brilliant manuscripts
buried by KGB bastards. Mnogo chego mozhet prorasti iz etih failov...

      Vot ya vernus' v tot gorod Kitezh,
      v tot Grad Geroev.
      Kak vidoizmenilas' chelyad'
      moei derzhavy!
      Nosy, torchache kak suchya,
      hryaschi prognuli
      i okonchatel'no skurnosilis'
      po ryb'i,
      lunopodobnye usy
      kak budto chelovechya chelust'
      no zhab'i zhabry:
      tak vidoizmenilas' chelyad'
      moei derzhavy!

      No ya vernus'
      v tot gorod Kitezh,
      tuda, gde vernost'
      v to vremya pochitalas' vroven'
      s bogami hleba.
      Nikto ne zhdet menya v tom grade.
      Kto zhdal - tot predal.
      I ya voz'my s soboi dvenadtsat'
      golovok luka

      I ne zabyli menya kaznit'
      i ne zabyli
      zaryt' 12 golovok luka
      v blizhaishii omut.

      Kogda-nibud', potom, gorazdo
      pozhe, posle,
      vzoidet nad gorodom 
      12 golovok luka
      i golova moya vzoidet
      ya ne poslednii iz kaznennyh,
      ya ne poslednii...

Few of you guys would know who is a poet... Victor Sosnora eto.
That poem of his was published in Russia though in 60's...
This was not:

        Tam, pod pyatoi voinstvennyh system,
        V proverke chelovechnosti i muzhestv,
        Vy cheloveki, skol'ko vas ne muchai:
        Vy druzhestva ne predali. Nichem.
        Kogda-nibud' pri yarkoi vspyshke dnya
        Gryaduschee moe osvetit credo:
        Ya v chelovekah tozh: ya vas ne predal.
                Druz'ya, molites' za menya!

It is by Ilya Gabai, from a jail. High-school history teacher, a dissident 
(one of three co-signers of the very first open letter of protest against
neo-Stalinizm broadcasted in 1966 by the "Voice of America"), twice jailed, 
two kids, he jumped to his death from 11-th floor in 1973, when KGB was again 
after him... You, who  never heard of him and most of whom have never risen 
your head ot kormushki, you pray for him too, for he did something for you, 
although you may never care about it...

Who knows what voices will suddenly rise from those files...

          Ty znachil vsyo v moei sud'be
          Potom prishla voina, razruha,
          I dolgo, dolgo o tebe
          Ni sluha ne bylo, ni duha.

          I cherez mnogo, mnogo let
          Tvoi golos vnov' menya vstrevozil.
          Vsyu noch' chital ya tvoi zavet
          I kak ot obmoroka ozhil...

(well, folks, I hope you know at least these verses; yep, right, it is
Pasternak, from "Doctor Zhevago").
All right, folks, have a nice weekend...
        Poeticaly yours,
                            Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: Esche stihov!
Date: Mon, 19 Oct 92 18:08:44 CDT
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

"Esche!" screamed they over the ether, "Davai esche!!!"
--"Chego davat'?" 
"Stihov! Esche stihov!"

All right, you have it. This time, on a bit lighter note. Here is
for you, grazhdane phiziki i prochie. It is about duality and

             Fatal Attraction

      Ya i chastica,
                       ya i volna
      V anti-chasticu
                       ya vlublena
      Brozhu po svetu
                       kotoryi god,
      Tebya vse netu,
                       moi antipod.
      Poroi volnuyus'
                      (ved' ya volna
      i volnovat'sya
                       vpolne vol'na),
      Volnuyus' - gde ty,
                       gde anti-ya,
      i est' li vstrechi
      No esli dazhe 
                       tebya naidu,
      to ne na radost',
                       a na bedu.
      Ved' my ne vechnym
                       gorim ognyom,
      pri pervoi vstreche

The credit, I believe, belongs to Borya Bolotovsky, a theorist at FIAN (or 
former FIAN?) in Moscow. Hope he is OK. You, physicists in Moscow (if any 
of you are left at this net or in Moscow at all:-), give him my very best
regards. If he'll have any difficulty to figure out who is sending this
"hello", let him speak with Iren, Princess of Particle History, or
at least with Self-Focusing Gurgen, together they may do it...

Now, this is for you, grazhdane matematiki i prochie:

     O postroenii demo-krysii v odnoi, otdel'no vzyatoi....
     (the heading is mine. --A.N-k)

     Na dne glubokogo sosuda
     Lezhat spokoino N sharov.
     Poocheredno ih ottuda
     Taskayut dvoe durakov.

     Siye zanyat'e im priyatno,
     Oni taskaut M minut
     I vzyavshi shar, ego obratno
     V sosud nemedlenno kladut.

     Vvidu zanyatiya takogo,
     Skol' veroyatnost' velika,
     Chto byl odin glupei drugogo,
     Kogda sharov ostalos' K ?

The verses were heard from S. M. Rytov when he taught the random processes
theory at FizTech a long while ago; in turn, he cited Linnik, I believe.
(FizTech, as you probably know, is Fizkul'turnyi Technikum near Moscow; almost 
no ladies and us, Mexicans, but 3%, were allowed to attend it). You, former 
FizTechs, give him my regards and very best wishes, too. Tell him about an 
anharmonic electron.

--Dually and randomly yours,
                                Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: Winter is coming...
Date: Sun, 15 Nov 92 19:32:58 CST
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

All right, folks.
No poetry this time. Winter is coming, everybody is working like hell,
no time even for complains, cockroach hunt, or whatever. "Pozdnyaya
osen', zhidy uletely..." (no, no, no, I am citing "Garriki":-).

So, here is some winter motive + relevant Russ-Anglo-lingo passage.
Comes from a distinguished source, "Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction" 
magazine vol. 12, # 10 (Whole #135), Oct.'88 issue, p.152, in
Robert Silverberg "We Are for the Dark":
"Anglic is the only language you speak?"
"I know some Espanol and some Deutsch."
She shrugs. "Zima is Russkiye. It means Winter."
"Zima" I say. "Yes."
"We speak Russkiy here... You really speak no Russkiye?"
"Ty shto, s pizdy sorvalsya?" she says, staring at me.
I shrug and am silent.
"Bros' dumat' zhopoy!"
I shake my head sadly.
"Idi v zhopu!"
"No," I say. "Not a word."
"I am Marfa Ivanovna. You must talk with the boyars. 
If they think you are a spy, they will kill you."
BTW, Silverberg is a good SF writer (well, in the most of his novels); 
I recommend.
All right, stay warm, speak both langs (Anglic could be useful too:-).
     Linguistically yours,
                              Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: IR-rock
Date: Sun, 15 Nov 92 19:32:58 CST
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

OK, folks, time for musical break. This thing below is to be sang 
on a rock tune, like in "County-jail-rock" (remember The King?). 
Be warned: it's wild.    So, heeeere is

                        info-russ rock!!!

Ves' mail-box
               truhoy zabilsya.

Rock, rock, rock, rock....
Rock, rock, rock, rock....

V mire ni odna 
Ne zhivet  bez 
Kak emu nuzhda 
               nam napishet
pro svoi info- 
i priyatelya russ-

Rock, rock, rock, rock....
Rock, rock, rock, rock....

             zaletnyi Jerry
Vyshel raz
             kosoy iz dveri
Oglyadelsya on
I skazal,
             "Zdes' russkii duh!"
Vse vzrevely 
             kak zveryugi,
Stali bit',
             pyhtya s natugi.
On nichut' ne
On s chego-to tam

Rock, rock, rock, rock....
Rock, rock, rock, rock....

Zhytko tough
Vse nemedlya
              kapo nadeli!

Rock, rock, rock, rock....
Rock, rock, rock, rock....

Govorit staruha 
Ya v Ameriku 
"Chto ty staraya, 
Tuda ne hodyut 
"Vsyo ty vryosh mne,                                (Uehal nash kotik,
              kazhnyi raz.                          (Uehal so skuki,
Dy napishu ya                                       (Uehal v dalyokii,
              v info-russ!"                         (Zelenyi Kentukki...

Rock, rock, rock, rock....
Rock, rock, rock, rock....

V dikoi Afrike 
krutyat hvost 
              u krokodila
A zaezzhie 
Rock labayut 
              s chyornoy lady
I v Avstralii
Kenguru i 
i spuskayut 
              v unitaz!...

Rock, rock, rock, rock....
Rock, rock, rock, rock....
                                            Alejandro Nalpak

Subject:INFO-RUSS: Reply to puritans
Date: Sun, 13 Dec 92 20:26:36 CST
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Puritanam i  perezrevshim devstvennitsam na goroshine,
obvinivshim menya v vul'garnosti i uhodu ot classiki:
o svobode poeticheskogo SLOVA.....
(isckluchitel'no iz classikov:-)
Ya kloun, ya zateinik...

Ya vsadnik. Ya voin. Ya v pole odin.
Poslednii dinastii vol'noy ordy.

Mech moy chist. I prizvanie dano mne:
V odinochku - s ogul'noy ordoy.
Ya odin. Nad odnim nado mnoyu
Dozhd' idet. 
          Dozhd' idet. 
                    Dozhd' idet.
Madam, mes'e, senyory,
K chemy igrat' spectakli,
Kogda ves' mir -- teatr,
I vse my v nyom aktyory,
Ne tak li, ne tak li?!

Na parnyh perinah
Predadimsya rostu...
Tak na pepelischah 
             lyudi plachut.
Poety -- yurodstvuyut.

Oh, vol'noe russkoye slovo,
Luch sveta v kromeshnoi nochi,
I vsyo budet vechno h***vo,          (Ts, ts, ts, a ved' classic...
I vsyozhe ty vechno zvuchi...

                        Classically yours,
                                         Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: Waco & holocoust
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 93 00:49:49 CDT
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak
The fire of Waco is still burning; more than 80 people let
themselves be led into inferno death by a nut with a Russian
street-name Koresh. A few hours in a raw tonight TV talks only about
that; Peter Jenkins, Ted Koppel, and the rest are busy talking about
those poor nuts who did it to themselves.

Yet there is another, very quiet event today, very little time is
allocated for it: memorial services not for 80, not for 80 000, but 6
millions people who died about 50 years ago, murdered by other people,
super-nuts.  Their death came to them in fire, by gas, by bullets, by
starvation: holocaust.  When the time came for some of them, they woved to
die only after each one of them kills at least one Nazi solder: Warsaw
ghetto uprising.  They died, all right. Their souls did not; other men 
and women later on woved not to meet their fate, ever, without weapon in
their hands: Israel.  There were other people under the six-point star
50 years ago who died fighting. But the great majority were helpless:
women, children, old people. Take a moment right now; let it be a
little memorial. Try to recall somebody in your family, or somebody you
met in your life, who was burnt by that fire. Or at least that
horrifying photo you saw a long while ago: skeletons of babies...  
And, in the back of your mind, don't forget those who've done it.  And
those in grey uniform, they weren't alone; some locals were instrumental
too: Babii Yar. Don't forget about this if you are still there "gde
svobodno dyshit chelovek". Whether you are a Jew, my reader, or not,
let your soul do a little crying. No man is an island; and your time may
come too, God forbid; will you be able to look straight into your fate's 
eyes as they did?

     Memorially yours,
                           Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: What is info-russ?
Date: Sun, 2 May 93 00:57:35 CDT
From: (Alejandro Nalpak)

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak
Velikii Coordinator invited: "Sprashivai -- otvechaem". Fine.

Nas sprashivayut: chto takoe info-russ?

Nam otvechayut:

Armyanskoe Radio: info-russ? Obschestvo mezhdunarodnoi druzhby.
 Naprimer, eto gde obRussevshii Armyanin obvinyaet obIzrailevshih
 evreev and ob-USevshih sovkov v tom chto oni plohie patrioty Rossii.

zh-l "Isskustvo Kino": Info-russ? Skovannye odnoi tsepyu.

"Meditsinskaya Gazeta": info-russ? Lunatiki; v noch na 1
maya sadyatsya v krug i voyut na lunu horom zhivotnymi golosami,
no pod muzyku. Pochemuto is staryh sov. pesen. 
The origin of desease is still uknown.

"Pravda": info-russ? Nashi lyudi. Pishut pravdu, vsyu pravdu, i
tol'ko pravdy o rastlennom Zapade. I kak skoree poluchit passport
chtoby tuda popast' i rastlit'sya navsegda...

"Sov. Rossiya": info-russ? Zhalkie, zabludshie lyudi, bez Rodiny,
  bes pasporta (no s valyutoi, svolochi! nalog nam ne platyat v $!).

"Sovetskaya Derevnya": info-russ? Eto kotorye utechky mozgov ustrouli
is rodnoi derevni i pazhitei nashih. Brain-drain, po ihnemu. Na
derevne rasstavanie poyut, provozhayut garmonista v Connecticut..

zh-l "Novyi Patriot": info-russ? Eto otkuda nado vypisyvatsya!
Begletsy! Nazi ubili 6 millionov za to chto oni evrei; sovki ubili
60 millionov  svoih -- ni za chto. No seichas vsyo izmenitsya za noch'.
Nikuda ne uyezhai, molis' bogu, and be happy... Zhdi svoyey ocheredi.

zh-l "Ptitcy podmoskovya": info-russ? obGUSevshie Lebedi.

zh-l "Molodaya Gvardiya": info-russ? Sploshnye zhidy. Zhid vladelets,
 zhid koordinator, zhid na zhide sidit, zhidom pogonyaet. "Protokoly
 Sionskih mudretsov" na info-russe napisany. Desyat' zapovodei - tozhe.

news-paper "Wall Street Journal": info-russ? After BCCI -- the largest
international laundry-money operation. Example: by request from
Brazil, money is sent from Japan to Moscow, is used to help a family
to emigrate to Austaralia and start business of trading kangaroos for
sheeps; the proceeds from selling the sheeps wool to aborigens are
used to support underground communist movememt in South Africa;
the riots incited by the movement drive the price of gold and diamonds
up on international markets; this helps KGB to sell high the gold and
diamonds stollen by them from the state coffers; the proceeds from that
sell are used by them to buy real-estate property in New-York and
Florida... Good for the US economy. Invest into info-russ.

magazines "Playboy"&"Playgirl": info-russ? It is where American boys
and girls can meet Russian boys and girls. The Russians are easy to
recognize: every boy carries a hammer, every girl -- a sickle. Be
cautious though: the are fond of their tools and take them even to
the bed...   Afterward, pay in cash: they hate checks and taxes.

                                Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS:Kuzmich
Date: Sat, 09 1993
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...
Mummies of all countries, get united!

Staryi hryak umiral...
Folks, as rumor has it, they may've at last decided to put the Great 
Leader to the rest and to vacate that little piece of real estate 
property at the Red Square. Poor Kuzhmich will finally find a quiet 
place to do a little reckoning. Let peace be with him; his poor ghost 
was stepped on by so many boots of so many generations of so many 
commy-pigs, that he deserved it... Blood is on his own hands and soul, 
a big blood of 1917-1922, a blood of horrible civil war, of murdered 
ESSER-party and so many other parties, of Krondshdat sailors, of his 
political opponents, of millions peasants killed by starvation during
"military communism", of tsar's family and hundreds thousands of 
political hostages murdered as part of "red terror", of the very 
first labor camps, of the entire wast country allowed to fall into
the deadly hug of his successor, a super-killer Stalin.  No human 
revenge caught up with him, only once a bullet shot by a little lady
seeking revenge for her murdered fellow-essers, scratched him.
A grim consequence of a love affair of his youth got him in the end...
Yet his posthumous fate as a world-top-mummy avenged his deeds...
Imagine, to be for almost 70 years a prisoner in a tiny cell, guarded
and lighted 24 hours a day, with no right to have even a piss...
And even in his new place he may get no quiet... Well, anyway,
one cycle seems to be over; kto na noven'kogo?

         Very ashely yours,

                                 Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: a u movo milyonochka...
Date: Fri Nov 12 22:06:05  EST 1993 -0700
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

                            (popuri na temu Saratovskih stradanii)

Proschai, pokornaya Rossiya,
Strana rabov, strana gospod,
I vy, mundiry golubye,
I ty, poslushnyi im narod.
Letyat perelyotnye ptitsy v osenney dali goluboy,
Letyat oni v dal'nie strany, a ya ostayusya s toboi...
                        (shiiit, letayut tut vsyakie...)
                        (shiiit, ostayutsya tam vsyakie...)
Mexican joke:
One Mexican -- a world-known Russian writer
Two Mexicans -- world-known Russian physicists
Three Mexicans -- a Russian dissident group
Many Mexicans -- info-russ
                     (Don Alejandro -- a Russian zateinik...)
...Rossiya, ya tvoi tonkii kolosok.
(Poet-Mexican, composer-Mexican, even singer was Mexican...)
Yazyk psalmov, prorochestv, pritchei,
yazyk messii, yazyk zaik!
V radischevskom kosnoyazychyie
ty zahlebnulsya, moi yazyk.
So steny glyadit portret 
na kruchinu vdoviyu.
A milenka bol'she net --
skinulsya v Zhidoviyu.
-Znachit, uezhaesh...
-Da, uzh...
-Teper' ty budesh daleko...
-Daleko? Otkuda?
Ya stoyu na poroge goda --
vash sorodich i vash izgoi,
vash poslednii pevets ishoda,
no za mnoyu pridet Drugoi!
V tumane skrylas' milaya Odessa...
Sunul Van'ka klizmu v zh**u,
i slomalas' klizma,
prizrak brodit po Evrope,
prizrak kommunizma.
Im poka skripet' da porugivat'sya,
da sledy ostavlyat' linyuchie,
no uverena dazhe pugovitsa,
chto sgoditsya esche pri sluchae.
Rossiya vekami rydaet
o detyah lubimyh svoih;
ona samyh luchshih s'edaet -
i plachet, pechalyas' o nih.
Kem vy ubity, gde vy zaryty?...

Rossiya ubila, v Rossiyu i zaryla,
Ubila strashno, zaryla prosto
ni za chto, ni pro chto.
Vystrel gryanet, voron kruzhit,
Tvoi druzhok v buryane nezhivoi lezhit.
A chas spustya, zarya pozolotila
chuzhoi gory chernil'nye kraya.
Dai oglyanut'sya -- tam moi mogily,
razvedka boem, 
                 molodost' moya.
Kogda ya vernus',
zasvistyat v fevrale solov'i --
tot staryi motiv -- tot davnishnii,
                    zabytyi, zapetyi...
Arbatskogo romansa starinnoe shit'yo,
k progulkam v odinochestve pristrasie...
Klen ty moi kudryavyi, klen zaindivelyi,
chto stoish ponuryas' pod metelyu beloi.
I vot opyat', i vot -- vnimanie,
opyat' meteli, strazhi stuzhi,
ya ponimayu, ponimayu,
myatuchiesya vashi dushi.
Gryazyu chavkaya, zhirnoi da rzhavoyu,
vyaznut loshadi po stremena,
no vlekut menya sonnoi derzhavoyu,
chto raskisla, opuhla ot sna.
Ty ob etom ne zhalei, ne zhalei,
chto tebe otsrochka,
na veryovochke tvoei
net ni uzelochka.
I iz smrada, gde koso visyat obraza,
Ya, bashku ochertya, gnal, zabrosivshi knut,
kuda koni nesli da glyadeli glaza,
i gde ludi zhivut i kak ludi zhivut.
Nynche pochti voennoe 
vremya dlya chelovechestva:
mozhno propast' i sginut',
mozno vospryat' i zhit';
vremya zovet nas VYNUT'
samoye sokrovennoye
i na altar' otechestva
berezhno POLOZHIT'.          
         Russ-stradal'cheski yours,
                                Alejandro Nalpak
Subject: INFO-RUSS: na derevne rasstavanie poyut...
Date: Sun, 5 Dec 1993 13:32:35 -0700
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

The Soros fund (ISF) is upon us, with a lot of people in Russia
being excited beyond any limits and requesting funding with budgets
exceeding those even the US standard research grant budgets, with local
guys here getting piles and piles of those sovok-proposals for
reviewing (ISF has got by now more than 10,000 proposals), etc.
Meanwhile, some very serious and concerned scientists in Russia get
themselves concerned and worried about a terrible and imminent
disaster coming: a brain drain. A whole groups of them are getting
together and beating the drums of big scare: who is going to absorb those
precious American (or Hungarian Jewish:-) money ten years from now?

They send theirs worries around the world, and some equally (sort of:-)
patriotic people from behind the ocean reply them. My little personal
spy network got me one of those replies; by any standard it is
outrageously reactionary, and certainly, anti-patriotic, anti-liberal
and contr-Sorotic:-) text. It was written by yet another alumnus of
FizTech (Fizkulturnyi Technikum), same as the authors of brain-drain
questionnaire.  I hope you will love to hate it. Here it is.

 Except for very brief (and dramatically failed) events, Russia (and all 
the rest of countries associated with her) has never experienced any
democracy -- and not for the lack of good intentions. This is not just
indifference to democracy: simply put, it was the Russian people
themselves (except for very small bunch of intellectuals, or whatever
else they think of themselves) who have had  very strong feelings
AGAINST democracy during millennia; in no way it was just a bad will of
varyags, tsars, commissars, etc. (although each one of them did their
best to implement the people's will:-). There is no reason whatsoever
to believe that this time around the story will be any different. This
mean (to me, anyway) that pretty soon there will be a new dictator, be
it ex-commy-Yeltsyn or any other smart-ass. When the new dictator
is firmly on his horse, the next thing we know will be that he wants
new weapons, new expansions, new military, new confrontation with the
rest of the world. That means, he will want high-tech engineering and
science to work for him -- and we all know how happily this
sex-military service has been performed for all the previous dictators 
by all the high-minded sovok-intellectuals before.

Now, what this has to do with brain drain? Everything. In my personal
opinion, by trying to force, or cajole, or just encouraging researchers
in the respective fields to stay in Russia or by even developing a
moral climate against them leaving Russia, all the anti-brain-drain 
and funding efforts will help to develop a future research&development 
base for the new coming dictator.  My view of help for Russian scientists 
is simple: pay anyone who has his Ph.D. degree or higher, for his&his 
family one-way ticket to any country of his choice (except those
bad-guy-terrorist-oil-rich-countries).  And when saying "good-bye" to
him while he is boarding his flight to that country, don't forget to
tell him: "Dear Vasya (or Moisha), by leaving us, you are doing a great
service to your country; the Mather-Russia will never forget you for
that". And you may want to tell him that not only because  of your
great concern for the world or dictators, but also because of the fact
that a most complete depletion of the ranks of sov-scientists and
demolishing of the sov-science will take millions "zakhrebetniks" (as
well as zillions of rubbles or dollars) off the back of people.
Essentially, those scientists never did anything really useful for
people, and mostly drained zillions and zillions of money, being part
of general "zakhrebetnicheskogo" sov-establishment.

Whoever he is, the new would-be dictator has got to be busy with a lot
of other urgent problems. Who then at this point would be interested in
keeping the flight of sov-scientists at bay? Oh, sure, the same old
sov-commy-scientific establishment. Without his army, his soldiers (and
gifted officers), no general is a general; and no fat-cats of science
are bosses: no funding, no international travels, no "dachas". What do
they do? Yep, that's right, they start crying about Mother-Russia,
brain drain, and how to stop it.
Remember this?:

vremya zovet nas VYNUT'
samoye sokrovennoye
i na altar' otechestva
berezhno POLOZHIT'.

	  Brainy-drainy yours
				   Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: Russ-Fas-Theater
Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1993 13:32:35 -0700
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

The freedom-loving Russian people have spoken. They have
democratically chosen to elect fascists.

Welcome to the New-Russ-Fas-Theater, folks. It took the best from
all the world and all the times. From the Atlantic to the Pacific.
>From 1933 to 1993. Take your seats, folks. (Do you have your
"veschichki" with you? You may need them.) Now, look to your right.
Do you see those two buildings burning? Right, right, one of them is
tall and dull, white bottom, black top? Right; it is the White
House. Ok, now, next to it, imposing and heavy-classic; right, right
you are right again; it is the Reichstug. Ok, now look to your left,
folks. See, those marching columns, in brown uniforms? Oh, you are 
really well educated dudes, folks. Right, it is Nazis marching.
And those, right next to them? Oh, the uniform is unfamiliar to
you, I see... Should've been able to guess by now. Sure, sure,
they are Russ-Nazis. Look, how nicely they are marching, what a 
strength in their loins, what a fire in their eyes, what a shine 
on their boots... They are marching into eternity. Impressive.
Now, look straight in front of you, folks. See, see, the curtain is
slowly sliding to both sides... O-o-o-o-h-h-h... this is really
something really fire-ry, look at these flames and lights, look at
these towers in the corners, look at those gates, look at those
columns slowly pulling into the gates... And! Look at those
smoking chimneys, tall ones, look at that cloudy smoke rising to the
sky day and night... You saw that folks, right, you saw it in the films,
and on those old photos... Treblinka, Dahau, Osventsim, you name it..
And what it next to it? Yes, yes, the ones with  the barbed wire
around it, you saw them too, some of you at least, not that long while
ago, somewhere closer to you, you saw them, there was no smoking
chimneys then, but now there are, and do you smell that odor folks,
smells like... Right! Good boys and girls! It smells by human flesh
burning! Welcome, welcome to the New Russia! See those ovens with
human bones? We are proud of them; developed by our best scientists,
built by our best engineers, using the best (well, still Western,
sigh) equipment and American funding! No brain-drain here. See,
look into this oven: brain is in, smoke is out. Prosten'ko i so
vkusom. We keep up with the progress, folks; see, these are 
micro-ovens, folks, hygienical, see, and these use lasers
(eximer ones, invented here, bought from the States), and here
are these little ovens, with flowers and teddy-bears, they are for
kids, we love kids... You must love our theater, folks, too!
Now, please, stand up, folks, and line up into columns, five in
each file; Jews and intellectuals, please step out into the front, 
yep, right into this corner, no, no, you will not need your
"veschichki" anymore, don't worry; no, no, madam, no point
in getting hysterical and running like crazy, all the exits are
locked up, from here out, there is only one exit for you...

... -- into eternity. Happy New Year. The Last One?


	  Prophetically yours
				   Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: tryn-trava
Date: Fri, 4 Mar 1994 13:32:35 -0700
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

>According to the Russisches Etymologisches Woerterbuch by Max Vasmer
>(Heidelberg, 1950-58), "tryn-trava" is derived from tyn-trava, trava 
>pod tynom, grass under the fence, something no one would care about.

>Tryn' results from protoslavic ('praslavyanski') root
>'try' which has generic meaning (in verbs) "istirat' v
>trykhu,", "s'edat'", "istirat'," as a noun "trukha."

>from old "krin-trava," which originates in Greek "krinon" = "tsvetok lilii."  

             (Provided by INFO-RUSS concerned  scientists, A. N-k)

OK, here is 
"Pesenka tryn-travy"

Ya Zolushka bednaya,
iz-pod tyna rastu ya,

Ni kola, ni dvora,
tol'ko ten' na pleten',
i mechta o mochale
na kolu kazhdyi den'.

I nikto ne zametit,
i nikto 
        ne priidyot.
Nikogda ne poidu ya
ni v salat, 
         ni v kompot.                  
I esli korova                        |
menya s'est, vse ravno,              |
ne poidu v moloko ya,                |   Hor bubenchikov-kolokol'chikov
a poidu ya v g***o.                  |            za scenoi
I nikto ne uznaet                    |   Vsyo zabyto,
gde mogilka moya.                    |                vsyo zaryto
I nikto ne uznaet,                   |   tryn-travoyu  poroslo.
i nikto ne priidyot,                 |   Cherez rechku Letu tiho
tol'ko rannei vesnoi                 |   cheln skol'znet,
solovei propoet.                     |                    plesnet veslo.
                                     |   I trava zabveniya tiho
                                     |   na pogoste prorastet,
                                     |   i v aprele sinem ptaha
                                     |   nad mogilkoi propoyet...
     Tryn-respectfully yours
                                   Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: Komu curriculum, a komu vita...
Date: Thu, 9 Jun 1994 16:43:56 -0500
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the key-board of Alejandro Nalpak

         Komu curriculum, a komu vita...

Kak mnogoyarusnye soty, dymilsya, 
i shumel, i zhil Gorod. Prekrasnyi 
v tumane na gorah, nad Dneprom...
Their train has been bombed by shtukas and 
burned down. They walked away on foot, women 
and children; Germans were surrounding the city,
and they walked for their lives. The little 
ones were carried by women; the children were 
so afraid and tired, they did not even cry.
Horosho, horosho,
                 kogda v gorod prihodit vesna
Horosho, horosho,
                 kogda serdtse trevozhit one
Kogda pervyi raznositsya grom,
Kogda parki umyty dozhdem,
Horosho, horosho,
                 kogda v serdse prihodit vesna...
V parke starinnom derevya shumyat listvoi.
Beloe platye mel'knulo vo t'me nochnoi...
Daleko, daleko, gde kochuyut tumany,
gde ot legkogo vetra kolyshetsya rozh'...
Noch' korotka, spyat oblaka.
  Ya znakomuyu muzyku val'sa
     uslyhal v tishine gorodka...
Stena kirpichnaya, chasy vokzal'nye,
 platochki belye, platochki belye,
  platochki belye, glaza pechal'nye...
Na kazhdoi iz malen'kih stantsii
 svoi dozhd' i svoya vesna
  i ta privokzal'naya ploschad'
   kuda ty togda ne prishla...
...V Dolgoprudnoi ne zhizn' a malina,
Tol'ko v fizike sol',
ostal'noe vsyo nol',
a filolog i medik dubiny.
Eh, dubinushka, uhnem...
(It was all wrong, of course...)
I na gorbah verblyudov vashih
napishut nashi imena...
Vperedi kolonn
 ya letel v boyah,
  ya sam vybiral sebe tsel'.
   Ya zheleznyi slon,
    i yarost' moya
     glyadit v smotrovuyu schel'.
Tut nam istopnik i otkryl glaza

na uzhasnuyu istoriyu
pro Moskvu i pro Parizh,
kak nashi fiziki prosporili
ihnim fizikam pari...
O, pamyat', beregi moskovskie proulki,
 kogda tvoi shagi tak gulki v pereulke,
  kogda, moi drug, tvoi cherty
   laskaet teplyi veter,
    kogda na tselom svete
      lish' ya da ty.
Ah, Arbat, moi Arbat,
ty moyoe prizvanie...
A dal'nya doroga dana tebe sud'boi,
kak matushkiny slezy, vsegda ona s toboi.
Serdse moyo baraban,
gluhoi tamburin africantsa.
Grohochet v polnochi tam-tam,
ston isstuplennogo tantsa.
...i pervyi sneg i rannyaya zvezda,
i vdal' idya dorogoi polevoiyu,
ty odinok ne budesh' nikogda.
I vsyo teryalos' v snezhnoi mgle,
    sedoi i beloi.
Svecha gorela na stole,
    svecha gorela.
Lish' promel'knet bereg vdali, serdtse bolit,
slovno zabyt' staryi prichal mne ne velit.
Kuda tam -- moi! Ty slishkom veschii,
  ty slishkom skup i slishkom pryam,
    yazyk kochevnikov i vechnyh
      zhidov, skital'tsev i chuzhan...
Kapli byutsya o steklo, kap, kap,
 vsyo steklo zavoloklo, kap, kap,
  tiho, tiho uteklo
   schastya moego teplo,
    tiho, tiho uteklo, kap, kap...
Vmesto vodochki -- voda,
 vmesto piva -- pena.
  I devchonochka togda
   tonen'ko zapela...
Bakh sochinil,
 a ya rastrevozil
  svintsovyh trub uragan;
   to chto ya nazhil,
    genii prozhil,
     no nas uravnyal organ...
Skvoz' vremya,
chto nami ne prozhito,
skvoz' smeh nash korotkii 
                          i plach,
ya slyshu, vyvodit melodiyu
kakoi-to gryadushchii trubach...
Ne spi, ne spi hudozhnik,
   ne predavaisya snu.
      Ty vechnosti zalozhnik 
         u vremeni v plenu.
Na ulitse moyei 
                 kotoryi god
zvuchat shagi --
                 moi druz'ya uhodyat,
druzei moih  
                 tainstvennyi uhod
toi temnote za oknami ugoden...
Ptitsa Sirin mne radostno skalitsya,
veselit, zazyvaet iz gnezd.
A naprotiv -- toskuet, pechlitsya,
Travit dushu chudnoi Alkonos.

Slovno sem' bogatyh lun
na puti moyom vstayot --
to mne ptitsa Gamayun
nadezhdu podayet!
Nynche tridtsat' za menya ne dadut,
mnogovato  beskorystnyh iud.
Rvus' iz zhil, iz vseh suhozhilii,
no segodnya -- opyat' kak vchera,
oblozhili menya, oblozhili,
gonyat veselo na nomera!
Mne eto nadoyelo, chert voz'mi,
i ya lechu tuda, gde prinimayut...
Otvechayut mne tsyganki, yubki pestrye,
ves' svoi vek my k vol'noi vole derzhim put'.
Esli hochesh', my tvoimi stanem sestrami,
tol'ko vse chto bylo, ne bylo, zabud'...
Trave prosypat'sya,
                 i rose holodit'.
Tebe ostavat'sya,
                  a mne uhodit'...
...Moya belokrylaya, milaya, milaya,
        gde ty, gde ty....
Vechernie polya vo mgle,
  nad nimi -- vorony.
   Blagoslovlyayu vas,
     blagoslovlyayu vas,
       blagoslovlyayu vas 
         na vse chetyre storony...
No produman rasporyadok deistvii,
 i ne otvratim konets puti...
I vot togda, iz slyoz, iz temnoty,
iz bednogo nevezhestva glukhogo,
druzey moih prekrasnye cherty
poyavyatsya, i rastvoryatsya snova...
Yuzhnyi krest tam siyaet vdali,
s pervym vetrom prosnetsya kompas,
Bog hranya korabli, 
            da pomiluet nas.
...lish' rodnik,
               da sentyabr',
                            da kulak 
neizmennogo solntsa. I vsyo.

         Curriculumly yours
                                  Alejandro Nalpak

Subject:INFO-RUSS:Otvalivshiesya Mysli
Date: Wed, 8 Feb 1995 18:57:08 -0500
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

The rumors of me being wasted in the South Front were greatly
exaggerated. It was just a wishfull thinking of that good-for-nothing
coordinator.  I am back; have lately been busy thinking...

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Otvalivshiesya Mysli
Off-the-wall thoughts

(The thoughts are mine; when using, please credit the source. I am
not liable though if you take any of them seriously. -- Al Nalpak)

Kogda cheloveku est' chto skazat', on ekonomit slova.

Gusi vybrali lebedya v nachal'stvo; lebed' tol'ko krasovalsya, delo
ne delal. Vybraly gusya; okazalsya prohvost, provorovalsya. Vybrali
lisu; vse byli schastlivy.

Utrom ushel v internet; bol'she ego nikto ne videl.

Voznessya na sed'moe nebo; vyshe nekuda. Vdrug protyok potolok:
naverhu prorvalo unitaz.

Nepriznanyi genii; uehal na zapad. Tozhe ne priznali.
Obidelsya za Rossiyu; stal patriotom.

Israel, v otdele kadrov: "You are Vasyukov? A Jew?
Oh, no, no, with the name like that we would better
hire a real Russian..."

Got an e-mail date. Nine months later gave a birth to a nice
cute IBM clone...

Sekretnaya kontora pod Moskvoi proizvodila litsa. Tol'ko po spec-zakazu, 
dlya vyshego nachal'stva. Mezhdunarodnyi skandal: halturili, okazalos'
-- ne litsa, a zh*py. Nobody ever noticed before.

Ob'yavlenie: Poteryal mysl'. Nashedshego proshu vernut'.
Otvet: Nashel mysl'. Ne znayu vasha li. Prishlite podrobnoe opisanie.

Rodilsya, uchilsya, zhenilsya, razvelsya, uehal.
Vstal na welfare, rabotal na cash, zhenilsya, razvelsya, vernulsya.
Nochami snilsya Rim.

"Bei zhidov, spasai Rossiyu."
"Bei zhidov i komissarov".
"Bei zhidov i velosipedistov."
"Bei zhidov i chechentsev."
Zhidy byli patrioty; ne toropilis' ehat'.

Announcement in info-russ: Russian-speaking dog wanted, 
with a  New-England accent, please.

Ob'yavlenie na info-russ: ona byla tak prekrasna, osobenno zdes'...,
i tam..., nu, vy znaete. No telefon ne ostavila; prishlite kto znaet
(primety -- vyshe). 

Chem dal'she ot granitsy, tem bol'she patriotov.

"Evrei, evrei, krugom odni evrei", bormotal Potylyts'ko, oformlyayas'
v Jewish Family Service.

Tried to use his high IQ as sex-attraction. Got always
screwed up: was getting the same in return.

Byl v Rossii evreem. Ispolnilas' mechta zhizni: uehal v Shtaty... 
okazalsya russkim. Amerikantsy pribegayut s krikom :"We love Russia!", 
russkie krichat "Ty nash Patriot!", a izrail'tyane voobschhe chert-te 
chto govoryat... Zapisalsya v ochered' v Marsianskoe posol'stvo...

Ona byla prekrasna, s nog do golovy (i obratno...). No zvuk on ne 
vklyuchal; boyalsya.

Bezhenets; ne poluchil mesto nachal'nika kakoe imel v
Moskve.  Ugrozhal druz'yam chto vernyotsya obratno.

To be or not to be, it's not a question.
To sign or not to sign?...

Son starogo emigranta: snova v Moskve; ne mozhet vyehat'; hodit po
instantsiyam. Prosypaetsya v holodnom potu.

Zabludilsya v internete; kogda vernulsya nazad -- okazalos', sperli
komputer. Ne smog vyiti naruzhu.

Rasstrelivali utrechkom, po holodku. Zapivali pivkom, pod voblu.  Dnem
veshali kogo esche ne rasstrelyali. Veryovku otsylali v dom dlya sirot;
prigoditsya v hozyaistve. Vecherkom vypivali doma, horosho, po semeinomu.
Nochyu arrestovyvali novyh -- gotovilis' k utru. Zhizn' byla normal'naya;
produktov hvatalo.

The peace arrived at last. Its main beneficiaries were stray dogs and

           Very thoughtfully yours,
                                Alejandro Nalpak

Subject:INFO-RUSS: Yo-ho-ho, i butylka roma!
Date: Sun, 2 Apr 1995 21:25:40 -0500
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

Fifteen man on the dead man's chest
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink, and the devil had done for the rest.
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

          Pyatnadsat' chelovek na sunduk mertvetsa
          Yo-ho-ho, i butylka roma!
          Pei, i  dyavol  tebya dovedyot do kontsa,
          Yo-ho-ho, i butylka roma!

Remember it? Yep, it is a pirates' song from "Treasure Island" by
Robert Louis Stevenson. Apparently it used to be a real song, sung
by sailors when hauling ropes on sailing ships... Yet nobody knew
the origin or meaning of the lyric...

Now, according to Reuters, there is an explanation due to Quentin 
van Marle, published by Britain's Royal Geographical Society. According 
to him, "Dead Man's Chest" is a real tiny island in the Caribbean, part 
of the British Virgin Islands. He found from local history and folklore 
that pirate Edward Teach, known as "Blackbeard", punished a mutinous crew
by marooning them on that island, which has high cliffs and no water.
Each sailor was given a cutlass (abordazhnaya sablya) and a bottle of
rum. Blackbeard's hope was that the pirates would kill each other.
To his surprise, when he returned back after a month, he found 15 men
that had survived. (Easy to figure out, they weren't Russians:-).

Here is another song, pirate-related, and originated in Russia.
Show it to your kids, let them figure out the tune and sing it 
(to you great dismay...:-).

Svistit passat,
       bizan' skripit,
             utknulsya vdal' bushprit.
Hey, ne zevai na marse,
              zdes' chasto hodit Smit...

Na vseh moryah,
       vo vseh portah
                     na etih beregah
velikii Robert Smit
                       navodit strah!

Nu tak i est',
       von, von, na gorizonte
                         eti flagi!
Ya uznayu, eto Smit,
                       groza morei!
Svistat' naverh komandu,
        kanoniry, prigotovtes' 
                     k kontr-atake,
Snaryadov ne zhalei,
                i porohu ne zhalei,
Zhivei, chert poberi, 
        zhivei, chert poberi,

No mozhet byt',
      no mozhet byt',
                v dalekie kraya,
idet prostoi torgovets,
             takoi zhe kak i ya...

No esli tak, no esli tak, 
                 no esli eto tak,
togda ne vyidet Smit
                      na polubak...

No tak i est', 
        von, von on tam 
                 stoit na polubake,
Ya uznayu, eto Smit,
                       groza morei!
Svistat' naverh komandu,
        kanoniry prigotovtes'
                     k kontr-atake,
Snaryadov ne zhalei,
                i porohu ne zhalei,
Smelei, chert poberi, 
        smelei, chert poberi,

O, Bozhe moi, o, Bozhe moi,
                proshu lish odnogo:
chtob pervyi moi brandshpugel' --
               v kryuitskameru ego!...

Some of you might've ever heard it... It was written by Yulii
Kim. If any of you guys, see him in Moscow, give him my best 
regards. Coming from the time, far and away, when "Treschit 
moroz kak pulemet treschit na pole boya, i pyat' mashin kak 
pyat' sobak rychat i zhazhdut krovi..." (his song too).

          Pirately yours,
                            Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: A kstati, o ptichkah...
Date: Fri, 28 Jul 1995 19:06:26 -0500
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

           A kstati, o ptichkah...  (and strictly for birds). 

Need your expertise again, folks.  It is "o ptichkah" this time around.
And about Vysotsky who died 15 years ago these days; he's just got 
himself a bronze statue in Moscow, got closer to birds now... 

The piece below is unfinished and uncut. I wrote it in the spring 
and was planning to use more poetry and edit the rest of the text, 
but have no time now, sorry.  Yet my main question is well defined, 
and there is more than that in here anyway. Have a nice bird-outing...

Kak zasmotritsya mne nynche, 
                      kak zadyshitsya?
Vozduh krut pered grozoyu, 
                      krut i vyazok.
Chto spyotsya mne segodnya, 
                      chto uslyshitsya?
Ptitsy veschie poyut -- 
                      da vse iz skazok!

Stop here; see -- "Ptitsy veschie poyut"? Vot eti samye ptichki i est'...
Sure, you recognized a song by Vladimir Vysotsky, the one about Russia. 
Written in 1975, five years before he died. One of the things that made
him so popular (and that set him apart from other unofficial "intellectual" 
bards) was that his was pretty much down-to-the-earth poetical persona 
(not him as a real individual, no, no, sir). There was not much of a 
mystery in his early songs; most of them were quite explicit and addressed 
to a guy-in-the-street. No subtleties  there; street-smart  kind of 
poetry... No need for him to be talking between lines: no danger was coming 
at him from any direction (but himself), everybody was worshiping him.

Yet... closer to the end, he began developing a taste for dark 
symbolics. Some of it was obvious ("volki" in "Ohota na volkov"), 
some -- more subtle ("koni" -- the symbol of his own fate). Here it
is about birds. Listen, how the song is moving:

Ptitsa Sirin mne radostno skalitsya,
veselit, zazyvaet iz gnezd.
A naprotiv -- toskuet, pechalitsya,
Travit dushu chudnoi Alkonost.

Slovno sem' zavetnyh strun
zazveneli v svoi chered --
eto ptitsa Gamayun
nadezhdu podayet!

Now, here comes my question: WHO are these birds? No, no, don't give 
me the line that they are just poetical images... He was too good 
a poet to put in so many telling details just for rhythm and rim, for 
fluff. It has never been a problem for him to drive a word like a nail 
into the right spot... So, take his text as a clue; WHO are they? 

Here is the rest of the song
(I'll get to the birds after that):

V sinem nebe, 
          kolokol'nyami prokolotom, --
mednyi kolokol, 
                    mednyi kolokol
tol' vozradovalsya, 
                    toli oserchal.
Kupola v Rossii kroyut 
                   chistym zolotom,
chtoby chasche 
                  Gospod' zamechal.

Ya stoyu, kak pered vechnoyu 
pred velikoyu da skazachnoi 
pered solono da gor'ko-kislo-
goluboyu, rodnikovoyu, 

Gryazyu chavkaya, zhirnoi da rzhavoyu,
vyaznut loshadi po stremena,
no vlekut menya sonnoi derzhavoyu,
chto raskisla, opuhla ot sna.

Slovno sem' bogatyh lun
na puti moyom vstayot --
to mne ptitsa Gamayun
nadezhdu podayet!

Dushu, sbituyu utratami 
                     da tratami,
dushu, stertuyu 
                     perekatami, --
esli do krovi loskut 
                      istonchal, --
zalatayu zolotymi 
                   ya zaplatami,
chtoby chasche Gospod' 

Hits you right into stomach, doesn't it... He was a rich poet...

As for the birds... Is there really any mystery after all? Vysotsky 
was no Bosch, mind you... As an example, here is a possible line of 
logic (only example! I don't know the answer! I expect it from you!).

First, about those birds "per se". If I am not mistaken, all of them
are part of old (yet most likely, already Christian) Slavic mythology 
(BTW, I would appreciate it if somebody give me the birds' "Curriculum 
Vita": which one did what, how they came into being, etc.). It is pretty 
obvious that at least some of them came from the Greek mythology: "Sirin" 
is apparently a direct relative of those famous SIRENS (remember poor 
lusty Odyssey, tightened up to the mast of his ship between Scylla & 
Charybdis to keep him away from a "contact" experience with those fatally 
attractive ladies-birds:-).  OK, let us start with "Sirin".

Looks obvious that the people behind those birds must've been POETS.  
Whom else would he choose to talk to -- over our heads? Or people of 
literature, anyway. No problem for lit-gurus here to see a connotation 
for the Sirin-bird in Russian literature: "Sirin" was a pen-name of 
Vladimir Nabokov (another mystery: why some people feel a need for
assumed names?:-). Looks fitting in the first approximation: one of the 
earliest Russian emigres, Nabokov, a fine wordsmith in Russian, a man 
who went through tough times and put in a tremendous amount of hard work, 
became one of the top Western authors -- in English! (Even non-gurus 
have heard about "Lolita", haven't you guys?:-). He traveled all over 
the world, personally knew most of the top people in the Western 
literature, was a familiar face on the campuses of most of the top  
Western universities, and won a Nobel Prize in literature... Why 
wouldn't he "radostno skalitsya, veselit, zazyvaet iz gnezd"?

You may say, hey, hey, wait a minute, you wanted to talk about 
poets; Nabokov-Sirin, famous for all those novels, was no poet! Have
to admit here, folks, I am no great fan of his novels... (hey, hey, 
don't shoot me if you are...), and frankly I am a bit doubtful whether 
Vysotsky was... But Nabokov-Sirin WAS also a poet! And a good one...

And, as far as Russia, that is what he saw in his dreams in Berlin, 1927:

Byvayut nochi: tol'ko lyagu,           | "Every night I am  |
v Rossiyu poplyvet krovat';            | back to Auschwits" |
i vot vedut menya k ovragy,
vedut k ovragy -- ubivat'.

O, serdste, kak by ty hotelo,
chtob eto vpravdu bylo tak:
Rossiya, zvezdy, noch' rasstrela
i ves' v cheremuhe ovrag.

Not much of "radostno skalitsya, veselit", ha? And about "zazyvaet 
iz gnezd" -- not quite clear yet...  But that's OK; a bit later, in
1944, in  Cambridge, MA, he saw the things in a clearer light:

Kakim by polotnom 
                   batal'nym ni yavlyalas'
sovetskaya susal'neishaya Rus',
kakoi by zhalostyu 
                  dusha ne napolnyalas',
    -- ne poklonyus', 
                      ne primiryus'

so vseyu merzostyu, 
                                 i skukoi
nemogo RABSTVA -- 
                  net, o, net!
esche ya duhom zhiv, 
                  esche ne syt razlukoi,
   -- uvol'te, 
                  ya esche 

Different poets saw it differently, of course; some of them made
a religion of suffering alongside with "nemym rabstvom":

Mne golos byl. On zval uteshno,
On govoril: "Idi syuda,
Ostav' svoi krai glukhoi i greshnyi,
Ostav' Rossiyu navsegda.
Ya krov' ot ruk tvoikh otmoyu,
Iz serdtsa vynu chernyi styd,
Ya novym imenem pokroyu
Bol' porazhenii i obid.

No ravnodushno i spokoino
Rukami ya zamknula slukh,
Chtob etoi rech'yu nedostoinoi
Ne oskvernilsya skorbnyi dukh.
                              Anna Akhmatova  (1917)
Net, i ne pod chuzhdym nebosvodom,
i ne pod zashchitoi chuzhdykh kryl,-
Ya byla togda s moim narodom,
Tam, gde moi narod, k neschast'yu, byl.

But she's got stuck in Russia; I don't know whether she ever got a choice...
Well, it was always a tough choice (if you had one; often you did not). 
And our three birds were sitting on the opposite sides of the fence, 
that much is obvious... As to "nemogo rabstva" itself -- oh, well, all of 
them, poets or not -- knew it well for centuries; remember -- "strana rabov, 
strana gospod, i vy, mundiry golubye, i ty, poslushnyi im narod..."?

Or is Sirin -- Iosif Brodsky? Another Nobel prize winner, another
forced immigrant, another so-Russian and so-unRussian poet, another
talent having switched so seemingly easily from one language to another?

Ni strany, ni pogosta
     ne hochu vybirat'.
Na Vasilievsky ostrov
     ya priidu umirat'.
Tvoi fasad temno-sinii
     ya vpot'mah ne naidu,
mezhdu vytsvevshih linii
     na asfal't upadu.

I dusha, neustanno
     pospeshaya vo t'mu,
promel'knet nad mostami
     v petrogradskom dymu,
i aprel'skaya moros',
     nad zatylkom snezhok,
i uslyshu ya golos:
   -- Do svidanya, druzhok.

I uvizhu dve zhizni
     daleko za rekoi,
k ravnodushnoi otchizne
     prizhimayas' schekoi,
slovno devochki-sestry
     iz neprozhityh let,
vybegaya na ostrov,
     mashut mal'chiku vsled. (1962).

But thanks God, he didn't stay in that God-damned place chtoby "na 
Vasil'evskii ostrov pridti umirat'".  He left, with great pain, as 
most of us, with a feeling of belonging nowhere, of a dust in the 
wind... But, as some of us, he's got that feeling long before he left:

Mimo ristalisch i kapisch,
  mimo hramov i barov,
    mimo shikarnyh kladbisch,
      mimo bol'shih bazarov,
        mira i gorya mimo,
          mimo Mekki i Rima,
sinim solntsem palimy,
   idut po zemle

Mimo Rima -- ... i Veny ...
Well, it was the way for many of us...
But we haven't missed the US; Brodsky hasn't missed it either.
Good for us.  We are here to stay. The first place where
a lot of us felt not as a dust in the wind.

Now, again, is Brodsky -- Sirin? Hard to say, but something 
looks wrong here too... "Veselit, zazyvaet is gnezd.." ? 

All right, so much for Sirin. Now, Alkonost...

A naprotiv -- toskuet, pechalitsya,
travit dushu chudnoi Alkonost.
So many candidates with such a typical Russian  syndrome... Both
grand-ladies of Russian poetry,  Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva, could've
been the right ones... 

V tom dome bylo ochen' strashno zhit'...
Teper' ty tam, gde znayut vse, skazhi:
Chto v etom dome zhilo krome nas?

A tebe esche malo po russki,
I ty hochesh na vseh yazykah
znat', kak kruty pod'emy i spuski,
i pochem u nas sovest' i strah?...

Kogda ya nazyvayu po privychke
moih druzei zavetnyh imena,
vsegda na etoi strannoi pereklichke
mne otvechaet tol'ko tishina...

Institutka, kuzina, Dzhul'eta!
Ne dozhdat'sya tebe korneta.
     V monastyr' ty uidesh taikom.
Nem tvoi buben, moya tsyganka,
i uzhe pochernela ranka
     u tebya pod levym soskom...

Yet, Alkonost... doesn't sound right for ladies...

Who then could've been Alkonost? Just think of it: most of Russian
poetry is about tragedy... And most of Russian poets' lives were a
tragedy... Gosh, pick up ANY Russian poet -- it is a tragedy, not
theatrical -- real one... Who could've been more spoiled and rich
with life pleasures than Sergey Esenin? -- shot himself... And if you 
got no idea that you've got to shoot yourself -- they'll help you, poet-
milasha... Who could've been more flower-loving and apolitical than 
Nikolai Gumilev? They shot him...  And only in the end you can hear 
him "goruet, pechalitsya" (1921), not long before they put him in the 
front of firing squad (remember: "vedut k ovragu -- ubivat..."?)

Posle stol'kih let
   ya prishel nazad,
      no izgnannik ya,
         i za mnoi sledyat.
Smert' v domu moyem
   i v domu tvoyem, --
     nichego chto smert',
         esli my vdvoem...

Or look at Boris Pasternak, the luckiest of the best in the Stalin's
time, the favorite poet of Joseph Stalin (who "appointed" on such
a position Mayakovsky -- only because he died: easier to handle
a dead poet...). Yet he hasn't escaped his fate either; another 
commy with a pretty face still got him in the end -- and this time
around, his Nobel prize became a tool of the fate.
As "Garik" Guberman acidly put it:

Kak budto motyl'ki na plamya
letyat v tomleniyah gluhih,
poety vechno ishchut znamya --
chtoby pod nim ubili ih...

(Remeber:"Kak letom roem moshkara
          letit na plamya..."?)

Who cares now about "znamya"; Pasternak's poetry, so Russian in 
substance, so Christian in theme, and so Jewish in sadness, has 
started its long journey into eternity...

Ya v grob soidu i v tretii den' vosstanu,
i, kak splavlyayut po reke ploty,
ko mne na sud, kak barzhi karavana,
stolet'ya poplyvut is temnoty.

Yet there was so much life in it.  With

Melo, melo vo vsey zemle, 
vo vse predely..

there always was

... i zhar soblazna
vzdymal, kak angel, dva kryla

But in the end, it always been like:

S poroga smotrit chelovek,
ne uznavaya doma.
Eye ot'ezd byl kak pobeg,
vezde sledy pogroma...

Pasternak was a poet of many facets; was he Alkonost?
Difficult to put him anywhere...

Could Alkonost be Osip Mandelstam? Was it his shadow
rising from the abys of Stalin's camps in Vysotsky's memory?
Looks to me like most likely Alkonost...

And now -- Gamayun.

Slovno sem' zavetnyh strun
zazveneli v svoi chered --
eto ptitsa Gamayun
nadezhdu podayet!

Okudzhava? A poet who started almost at the same time as Vysotsky, 
yet so different... And his strings... so easy to say about him:
"zavetnyh strun"... And so much of hope in him -- of course,
along with sadness; is there any good Russian poet with no
Alkonost in him?

Nadezhdy malen'kii orkestrik
pod upravleniem lubvi...

Kogda mne ne vmoch'
              peresilit' bedu,
kogda podstupaet 
I v sinii trolleibus
              sazhus' na hodu,

Anybody else for Gamayun? 
Probably, there are one or two more. Not many, anyway.
So much for hope in that haunted, God-forsaken place...

A bit around these "troika"-birds.

My own curiosity about them was steered by a strange guy, for 
whom this song was a sound-track on the background of his own 
bitter departure from "gor'ko-kislo-sladkaya" exactly 16 years ago; 
it kept playing, although softer and softer, in Vienna, then Rome, 
then on his flight over the ocean, then it slowly melted away into 
the background somewhere between Midwest and East Coast... The wind
kept blowing, but the dust has settled since then for him, albeit you 
never know: he still is bothered with "troika"-birds...

The song seems to be popular among strange people.  In his "7 in Red 
Square" posting in August'93, our mean Coordinator cited "sem' zavetnyh 
strun" too; looks like his taste comes dangerously close to mine -- 
shame on me, shame...

       Anyway, back to ptichek... Who were they?

         Bird-lovingly and Alko-nosingly yours,
                        Alejandro Nalpak

Subject: INFO-RUSS: What Spain has to do with it?
Date: Mon Dec 9 1996  13:32:35 -0700
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the keyboard of Alejandro Nalpak

                                  A chas spustya, zarya pozolotila
                                  Chuzhoi gory chernil'nye kraya.
                                  Dai oglyanut'sya; tam moi mogily,
                                  Razvedka boem, molodost' moya...

What Spain has to do with it?

Nobody knows. They've been in Spain, of course, but it 
was hundreds years ago, and then they were driven 
away and went north (those left alive...).

There was a mute and rarely spoken about story/legend in 
the family. There was a man, a fighter pilot; in the end of 
1930-ties he was sent to Spain (as a "volunteer", of course), 
to fight against Franco. He managed to come back, alive and 
decorated. To meet his death at home. As most of those who 
came back, he was arrested and thrown in Gulag. He disappeared 
in there; nobody ever heard of him again. 
What left of him, was a name, "uncle Vitaly", and a faded 
photo of a military man, an officer with the rank rhombs on his 
collar, a man with a strong, intelligent face, his hairs 
thrown back...  After the family moving many times from one
location to another back in Russia, and later on -- in the 
emigration, the photo disappeared too..

Nobody is left now to tell his story.

His father was apparently a teacher; he and his family were 
murdered by the Germans; his grand-father (a man at the root of 
the family) was a rabbi; the place was Ukraine, Belaya Tserkov' 
and probably Stavischi. I never heard of that pilot having 
his own family.  His cousin and the cousin's brother-in-low 
(married to two sisters) went to the war of 1941-45. The 
cousin, who used to be an electrical engineer before the war,
went through the entire war, from the first till
the last day of it, as a military engineer, installing and
later on -- digging out land-mines; the cousin's brother-in-low
used to be a worker at soap-making factory before the war,
also went through the entire war as an infantry soldier, a 
private...  Their families -- women and kids -- have been left 
behind in Kiev; by almost a miracle they've got out of Kiev right 
before the Germans completed surrounding the city. Their train 
was bombed to rubble by "stukas", diving bombers, and they walked 
in night for their lives, carrying dead-tired kids.  Four years 
later, the two soldiers came back too, with multiple wounds,
yet alive...  (The real heros in all this were probably women,
two sisters and their mother, who did what they've done for love, 
and not for their believes nor because they were commanded to.)

These kids grew up and, each in their own time, emigrated
to the States, and brought in those of their parents still 
alive with them. Both of those old soldiers as well as their
wives-sisters, have passed away by now. (One of the sisters, 
the cousin's wife, have died in Russia, and the family brought in 
her ashes with them.) Their four children live now in the 
East Coast, -- an accountant, a retired construction engineer, 
a wood-carver, and a university professor; one of them can 
even be found in "Who is who in America"...

Those who went to fight in Spain in 1930-ties, were required to 
use assumed names. But they were perhaps allowed to keep their 
first names. How they called "uncle Vitaly" back there; "don Vito"?

Krasivoe imya -- vysokaya chest',
Grenadskaya volost' v Ispanii est'...

His bones are rotting now deep in a dirt somewhere in Russia. 

Oblaka plyvut, oblaka,
V dal'nii krai plyvut, v Kolymu,
         I ne nuzhen im advocat,
         Im amnistiya ni k chemu...

His grand-parents' graves in Ukraine were vandalized and erased 
from the face of earth by local mobs long while ago. 
His parents remains (same as parents of his cousin) have 
no graves either. Those who might've known more about him, 
rest at quiet, discreet cemeteries on the American East Coast.

And "The sky is clear all over Spain".

But what Spain has to do with it?

                  Very Spanishly yours,
                  Alejandro Nalpak

P.S. From the owner/coordinator:

Here are some selected reader's comments to that Nalpak's posting:

(*) "What Spain has to do with it?"
   Alejandro, are you referring to the song by Tina Turner 
    "What love has to do with it?" 
   Spain-love... That  misterious and difficult to explain
   one-way love/attraction in Russia to Spain?... 

(**) Dear misterious Nalpak, are you trying to shed light on your 
   relations with Spain? And on your being so Spanish Don Alejandro?...

(***) Oh dear, you are getting too subtle, our sneaky hidalgo
   Alejandro...  It is not nice to make your readers think too hard!

   "What Spain has to do with it?" This begs for reversal...
What those fighter pilot, military miner, a foot soldier,
their women and kids, -- what they have to do with Spain? right?

And of course, it was not Spain (alone) that falls under that
heavy question mark... A substitution begs here; with all those 
unmarked graves, the question you are hinting on, must be,

What Russia and Ukraine and Spain has to do with those people?  

Or the other way around,

What those brave, selfless, hard working, talented people 
have to do with such shitty places; why have they to give 
their love and lives and children to countries and nations
who murder them and spit on their graves?

Subject: INFO-RUSS: A night drill
Date: Fri Mar 31 2000  08:32:35 -0700
From: Alejandro Nalpak 

From the key-board of Alejandro  Nalpak

                     A NIGHT DRILL

                              In the end, we all make dust.
                              Some of us make  sawdust...
                                                       Al Nalpak

Happened long ago and far away. Back in his old country, Sandy
used to do his lasy-mazy physics (and still does, to his  amazement),
but for his soul and excitement he was also a part-time dissident; 
human rights, you know... This doesn't make you popular with the 
government. When they'd got enough of it, he was thrown out from 
his research lab, and for ten years was doing (supposed to, at 
least) some utterly useless research on history of science (you  
know, like everything was invented first in his dear mother-
land...). Sandy didn't have any intentions on doing that stuff 
either. Since his salary was the lowest on the government charts
for his credentials, nobody cared that he kept doing his dear 
lasy-mazy (paper and pencil, enough for a theorist, you know...).
It could've been much worse of course (like doing a very hard
menial  work  in specifically designated for that places, with no
salary whatsoever), so it was not for him to complain...

Still, his salary was far from self-sustaining. To make some buck
for  the living, he then went back to what used to be his boyhood
hobby, carpentry, and made it his moonlight  business. He'd  go
out to the countryside in the winter, find a "kolkhoz" (presumably 
a "voluntary" collectivized farm) or "sovkhoz" (government-run  
farm) which would need any kind of construction or repairs (like 
putting a new roof on a 200-cow cow-barn,  or anything like that). 
You bet, plenty of them needed it... So he'd sign a sort of private 
contract with them (with none of the parties being too much 
committed), and then come back in the spring with a small crew 
(four to ten guys), slam away for a couple of months (12-14 
hours/day, one rest-day in two weeks...), collect the dough -- 
whatever he'd be able to finally squeeze out off the customer, -- 
pay off his guys, and be gone...

It was all manual, hand-tool rough carpentry: a straight-blade ax,
a double-handle, two-man saw, double-handle hand-driven drill, a
hammer, and ropes... Just an  example: using an ax and a string  
(to keep a straight edge), Sandy would make a square-cross-section 
beam out of 20 feet long ugly log. He taught his guys to do this and 
other basic things that an ax-carpenter was supposed to do. A lot 
of construction engineering went into that too. A cow-barn is not  
a trivial proposition; wooden beams supporting the roof make a 
complicated structure with a lot of tenon&mortise joints that are to 
withstand a heavy load of snow in winter and a suspended-rail 
system to carry big carts to feed the stock.  Sandy got no need 
for blue-prints; he knew the stuff by heart. It was up to him to 
figure the things out, and get them done no matter that the 
equipment or even materials were often unavailable.

[And yet, staying at the top of a half-done roof with  an  ax  in
his  hands,  feeling the breeze on his face, the sun on his skin,
the smell of freshly cut pine and freshly  produced  cow-shit:-),
and the sawdust in his heir, Sandy felt almost like a free man, a
master of his small universe...:-]

All right, this was  just  an  introduction.  After  having  been
drifting  in  the  biggest city of the land from one rent-room to
another for about 10 years (almost twenty  rooms  all  together),
Sandy  had  finally  managed  to  buy an apartment for himself (a
small studio, actually) and was happy like a lark; he kissed  its
floor when moved in.

He spent some time making the place marginally livable by building 
a bed, bookshelves, and a desk out of scavenged wood, and this was 
it. But his neighbors figured by then that he was sort of a 
handyman, and he was neighborly enough to fix this or that for 
them, for free of course. This makes  you popular with ladies, and 
he tried to be neighborly with them too, if you know what I mean...

There was one lady, though, in the apartment right under his, for
whom  he  wouldn't  do anything even if payed. It is not that she
was too ugly (well, in truth she was...) or anything; but she was
too nasty as a neighbor and in general. Being a card-bearing
Commie-party member, she took it a bit too far, and (in  some
neighborhoods)  people  wouldn't want to have much to do with a
person like that. Her trouble though  was  she  was  single  (say
about 50 year old), and very sensitive (paranoid, the truth to be
told) about that, if you know what I mean (:-).  See, she got  no
man  to  service her neighborly needs (:-), and was a bit frantic
about it...  For whatever strange reason she had chosen Sandy  as
a target for her increasingly aggressive and bizarre man-hunt:-),
and he could do nothing about it.  At  first  it  was  a  playful
complaint  about  his  making  tool  (and other:-) noises and the
invitation to visit her and talk this over; nice  try.  Then  she
knocked  on  his door at midnight, keeping her nightgown with two
fingers next to her throat, with  an  orange  under-ware  showing
through, and gave him another fantasy about his noises. He'd just
returned from his ongoing construction expedition, and was in  no
mood to talk to her. Besides, Sandy was expecting another (really
nice) lady to arrive at any moment, so he simply slammed the door
on her. This turned out to be his big mistake.

A few days later, late in the evening there was a  knock  on  his
door  again.  Expecting that commie-lady and getting angry, Sandy
pulled his door wide open, and was surprised to see a cop,  plump
and  shorty,  who  quickly  put  his  foot into the door. Without
asking Sandy's permission, he squeezed his plump  body  into  the
door and closed it behind him. He smelled by cheap vodka, and his
bloated, clay-red nose easily  betrayed his devotion to the stuff.

"What the heck you are doing, officer?! -- Sandy  asked  him  not
even  bothering to be polite. -- You come to my apartment without
notice, too late for any official inquiry or search or  anything,
and even if you want to go into any of that, I see no warrant for
that in your hands...".

"Shut up --- the cop yelled at him, -- this is precisely  what  I
am going to do -- to search your cracking place".

Sandy turned the light on and recognized him: it was  a  "cop  on
the beat", well, sort of an officer assigned to watch a locality,
and to know about its residents,  shops,  bad  guys,  etc.   Call
those guys "sheriff office", I don't know...

"OK, officer, I know who you are, fine, but if you want to search
my  place,  you've  got  to come here before 10 pm, have a search
warrant from the district attorney, and come with two witnesses."

"You, cracking shit, -- the cop snorted at Sandy  --  don't  pull
this one on me, being smart-ass and all that cracking-educated; I
hate guys like that! You know, some people are too  educated  for
their own good...".

A cop with a philosophy, no shit...

"Fine with me, officer, yet you still need that cracking piece of
paper, and two witnesses, you know that, I know that, so what you
are going to do?"

"I heard from the secret police slick-boys, you are a bad guy on  
their books, so who cares what you say, -- the cop spited on the 
floor -- But I don't care about your troubles with them. I am 
here to act on  certain  neighbor's complaints, and I want to 
search your cracking place!"

It began downing on Sandy what this is all about.

"Look, officer, if you do the search without the warrant, you are
in  trouble,  be I a bad guy or not -- (Sandy've got to try...) --
but look, let us try to be reasonable. What exactly you  are 
looking for? I might be accommodating, it depends, you know..."

The cop announced, "I want to see your night drill".

Sandy was dumb-folded. "A NIGHT DRILL? What night drill !!??"

"The one you use heavily at nights here, and  while  doing  that,
make a lot of nasty noises!"

On a knee-jerk impulse, Sandy's hand jumped to his zipper: "Oh,
this one??!!!"

This drew the cop up the wall.

"Not this one, you cracking bastard!!! Everybody's got this one!!!  
I mean a real one, with a handle, and those ... toothy wheels ... 
you know, and a big drill bit, shiny  and  sharp,  you know ..."

Sandy tried to be helpful, "Hmmm... how big, officer?  Mine can  
be shiny, all right, given the right conditions, you know... But 
sharp?!...  Nobody  would  appreciate  it, officer, would they..."

But there was "no use in jiving"; the cop wouldn't take any of 
that. Out of his bag, he pulled a piece of paper with handwriting 
on it and shoved it into Sandy's face. Most likely, the cop was 
not supposed to do it (the  confidentiality of informer!), but
what the heck, he didn't care. In that sheet, in a neat lady-
handwriting, there was a complaint that Sandy, with two other 
bad-looking "black-ass guys", worked late at night using noisy  
drill to manufacture boxes for apple transport and secretly 
selling them later on to the underground apple dealers. ("Black-
ass" -- the commie-lady was referring here to the mountain natives 
of Caucasus,  dark-skinned,  macho-looking handsome people.)

"Hey, officer, -- Sandy cried out --  this  is  a  pile  of  sick
balloney!   The lady is crazy in any medical sense; you know that
as well as anybody else! And, do I look to you  as  a  "black-ass
guy"?  I  don't  mind  to be one, but I am not. Wonna see my ass?
Second, do you know how the "apple box" look like? It is  just  a
few  thin planks kept together by staples, with no single drilled
hole in them. Third, do you know how I make my living?" --

Here Sandy shoved into the cop's face his recently published book
with a lasy-mazy physics title and his name below. No need for the 
cop to know that the book brought Sandy less dough than two weeks 
of cow-barn slamming  --

"Now, officer, will you be so  kind  as  to  give  me  my  little
cracking privacy in my little cracking place?!"

The cop was not impressed. "It is all as well, -- allowed he, --  
but  I  am  going  to search  your  place  anyway.  Or do we have 
anything else here to talk about?"

All right, all right, Sandy was slow that evening.  It  only  now
downed  on  him  at last that this is why the cop is here; it was
his racket, collecting a little "lamb-under-thumb"  dough  (well,
sort  of  free-hand translation) using that little piece of hand-
written paper. Who needs witnesses for that, right?

It was OK; happened all the time. Say,  on  Sandy's  construction
expeditions, a local cop with a sun-burned face would drive in on
his moto-bike, and yell, "Hey, you  cow-shitters  up  there,  you
have  any  papers on you?!" The country cops were simple boys; it
would cost Sandy a bottle of vodka, no problems. A basic unit  of
currency  in  the  land...   But  this  one  was a city cop. Most
likely, his would be a cash proposition  to  leave  Sandy  alone.
Sandy's  problem was that he was short on cash at the moment (and
any other moments too), and you never knew how  much  this  cop
would  aspire  for.  Besides, Sandy hated the idea of paying this
cop off: too nasty a cop. But he had to come up  with  something,
at least to pull the price down.

"OK, ok, -- Sandy said, -- go ahead  and  do  whatever  you  damn
want.  What with a gun on your damn fat belly, what can I do? But
look here: you make your first move, and I sit down at that  damn
kitchen table and write a damn cracking letter to the city attorney. 
For bad guy or not, I still have some  connections in that damn  
cracking office, and you are going to loose your nice no-sweat 
job forever!"

Bluffing, bluffing!!! -- of course the cop suspected that much,  
almost knew that, but how would he be 100% sure of that? You never 
knew who was whose friend; at least you knew that nobody's ass 
was safe...

Uttering dirty comments about Sandy and  his  cracking  attitude,
the cop began reluctantly inching toward the exit door. But it was 
not a good idea to let an unhappy cop go completely  empty-handed. 
Sandy dived into his small freezer and pulled out a slightly used 
bottle of vodka.

"Look, officer, we are not fighting here, are we? I'd say instead 
of having this ... funny ... conversation here, you better go 
directly to that lady's place downstairs, and help her ... hmmm...  
to relax, you know... The police helping people in their daily 
needs; got my drift?... And it would be easier for you to do it 
if you keep this little token of my ... hmmm ... whatever..."

The bottle magically disappeared in cop's bag; good sign! He left
without so much as saying "Bye". Sandy listened to his heavy 
footsteps in the staircase; he went directly out, never stopping
at any floor.

Later on, Sandy figured out how to handle the lady, but  this  is
an another story. He'd never seen that cop again; the word in the
street was he became too drunkard even for his job. Some years
later Sandy left that land, "where a man is free". He came to the
States 20 years ago, with two suitcases and hundred bucks in his
pocket,  ready to look for a carpenter job. He brought with him
his cotton-inlaid winter jacket,  labor-camp  issue,  heavy  army
boots  and  his  ax (with two spare handles). He flew directly to
that nice city on the banks of the Charles-River, and next day
after arrival went to the nearest construction cite. Rough-looking
guys in there were building a house out of 2x4's and particle-
board sheets, so Sandy thought, "no sweat, I can do it." Tough 
luck, though. Here is why. He went also to that  monstrous super-
duper-university sprawled along the Charles-River, and started 
talking to people, and it turned out that his research was well 
known to some of them. They ruined  Sandy's dream of becoming an 
American carpenter. In a few weeks Sandy'd got a research position 
in that place, then  his first research grant from that high-flying 
agency, then consulting in that great lab in NJ, and the rest is 
history. He dived head-first into his research (12-14 hours/day 
etc, see above), went later on for five years to work in that 
great engineering school in Indiana, than moved back to the East 
Coast and got stuck there.

But a few years ago the ancient call of Wood caught up  with  him
again. Under a shallow pretense of usefulness, he  drove up to the
nearest flea-market (he was still that cheap), bought himself a 
few tools, and was back into business. Not construction or
contractor anymore, just home stuff. Of course, by now he has 
Delta  Con-TS and routers,  clamps are found under his bed, and 
sawdust falls out from his ears at faculty meetings. But the old  
night  drill... it is still around... No cop would come knocking 
on his door because of its wild use, but the drill is OK; it works.

Sometimes, though, in his night dreams, Sandy sees himself at a
cow-barn  roof, with an ax in his hands and a blue sky above him,
and he knows that his youth is calling on him from long  ago  and
far away...

           Saw-dusty and  night-drilly  yours,
                                   Alejandro Nalpak


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