So the title says it all… but let me start from the beginning (Friday evening).

Mikey went to sleep like normal. I don’t think we had any incling of the impending ~24 hr flu, or stomach virus, or the repercussions that may have come as a result of food (or non-food) poisoning. Regardless, Friday seemed fairly normal. Though it was a day off, I worked about half of the day. The nanny took Mikey to the park and such (perhaps this is where he got the bug).

Everything was normal.

We had tuna sandwiches for dinner, and as usual, Mikey liked them. My wife has become quite the tuna salad afficianado, particularly given the fact that I just showed her how to make tuna salad for the first time about 6 months ago.

Again, everything seemed fine, until ~2am, when all of Mikey’s tuna ended up on the bed of the crib and on the floor just beyond its edge. The constant crying should have been a clue to something really wrong, but sometimes he just has a bad dream and then falls back to sleep. But after 3-4 minutes, Helen went to check on him.

She observed the trauma, stayed up with him after cleaning everything up, and got him to go back to sleep after about an hour. I can’t recall for sure (I stayed asleep – thanks Helen!), but I think he may have had another episode at 4 or 5 am. When I woke up (~9 am, Saturday) Helen explained the situation. Clearly he was very feverish – and it was concerning.

It took a while for the Ibuprofen to kick in (almost 2 hours) – but I think it was because he was sooooo hot (his legs, his head, his back, his chest – but his feet were cool/cold). Though the Ibuprofen helped, after 3 hours we gave him a full dose of Children’s Tylenol. That too seemed to help, but he was still hot.

He drank a bottle of milk, and that came back up within about 15 minutes. He was right next to me, and I didn’t know that his “stomach issues” were gonig to persist, so I didn’t have a bowl ready.

If flooded out like a quart of expulsion from a large pressurized garden hose. It was for sure more than he drank.

It pooled in the corner of our [rented] leather couch. I had to let it rest and soak into the cracks while I cleaned him up, changed his clothes, and took some time to calm him down. Like most anyone (especially any kid), he gets a bit scared when he vomits. He doesn’t understand why it’s happening, and of course it is a completely autonomic response (both sympathetic and parasympathetic). But I should not digress into the scientific rabbit hole…

After cleaning up the ejected milk, and waiting another 15 minutes or so, we proceeded to give Mikey some water. Of course we did this because we began to feel as if he might be a bit dehydrated after vomiting last night and in the morning. Unfortunately, this was our second mistake: I think we provided him with too much (we basically let him drink as much as he wanted). Essentially this was ammunition for the second cannon shot.  We saw the water, a second time, shortly thereafter.

From early morning I was sitting on the couch next to him. He was laying down, was still very hot, and clearly lethargic. He was wobbly, and had a hard time moving – and when he did anything even the slightest bit “strenuous” he shaked and was unsteady on his feet. SCARY for the parents, without a doubt – I promise you. But the fever was slowly cooling.

He slept. Almost an hour if my memory serves correctly.

When he woke he was again sweating. We continued our standard therapy, and decided it would be good for him to physically cool down – so we gave him a brief, cool bath. He was just too warm for my liking – and the latest dose of NSAIDs hadn’t kicked in yet (and of course you don’t want to double dose, ever, unless the alternative is going to clearly be much worse than any possible side effects).

Finally, we settled on a little juice and some water after calming down in front of the TV. I guess this was our third mistake. We shouldn’t have given him ANY more than ~10 mLs of ANYthing. But again, we thought he needed some fluids, and he seemed to like the strawberry-banana juice I picked up at the store last week. Again, he seemed fine… until it all came back up – this time on the other side of our L-shaped, off-white, all-leather couch (again – thankfully rented).

The PROBLEM (This THIRD TIME) was that my closed laptop was laying nearby. Too nearby if you know what I mean. And wouldn’t you know it – the projectile vomit went straight into the left side of my 17″ MacBook Pro. Because it was closed, my immediate reaction was that this was going to be no problem… I’ll just clean it and all will be OK.

Nope. Duh.

Again the emesis (mostly just water and juice – but routinely appearing to be greater in volume than what we had given him, implying that it was coming from beyond the proximal duodenum/ileum) was prolific and thorough. Yuck. But it was pretty clear fluid, for the most part, so I’m really not sure what was happening – and just assumed that he had a bad stomach bug. Obviously nothing was staying down.

The problem, once again, was that I had to take care of him in spite the sticky spew all over the couch. Unfortunately I didn’t quite notice the severity of the pooling along the left side of my computer with the immediacy that would have been recommended by my IT support staff. It just so happened that the computer was propped up slightly on the back of the couch, and the left side of the computer was touching the bottom cushion of the couch. This created a small “well” or “V-shape” between the cushion and the computer – and this is where the gastric expulsion rested.

Shit.

I knew this was bad, but what could I do? Shit does happen.

I quickly (within about 5-7 seconds) realized the unfolding drama and moved the computer to prevent the majority of the pooling, and to facilitate drainage. Damage done already – I feared.

After another round of cleaning up, changing the boy, calming the stressful situation, and settling down to vegetate in front of the television again (which is very unusual for our household) – I then tended to my beloved computer.

I used some Q-tips and Kleenex as required to clean out the ports. I opened the laptop, cleaned the fluid that had wicked (capillary action) in between the screen and the left side wrist rest, and shut down the computer before proceeding with a more thorough cleaning. The thin black seal along the edge of the screen, which looks nice and sexy -  didn’t seem to stop the flow. I wonder if Apple ever tested for puke seepage during R&D?

I had to squish the end of the Q-tips with plyers in order to flatten the tip(s) to the point where they would fit into the port.

With the cripmed Q-tips being flat enough to get above and below the male appendage (containing the ~20 contact pins) on the inside of the mini display port, I figured I had accomplished what needed to be accomplished. Gastrointestinal innards were removed, and the port appeared (without diligent inspection) to be generally clear.  But still – I knew it needed more.

I busted out the toothpicks and did my best to clean out any remaining vomitous detritus left behind after the Q-tip swabbing, bit by acidic bit. Feeling pretty confident now, I returned to tending to my son. He was sweating, whining, aching and generally unhappy. I did my best to console him, pet him, cool him, and keep his mind off of his aching muscles/belly/whatever. I asked, repeatedly, where it hurt (in Russian – Где болит) – but he just couldn’t tell me. Either he didn’t know how to say it, or he was just in too much pain to try to explain, or even point for that matter.

After about an hour I openened the computer and fired her up. All seemed well, I connected to the wireless, checked my email, and felt very relieved that nothing had happened to the overall functioning. In the late afternoon/early evening I took my refurbished computer to the office and plugged it into my 23″ monitor, a mouse, the internet cable, and the printer cable.

Problems started here.

The external 23″ monitor didn’t go on after connecting to the mini-display port. It should have, but I’ve had troubles before with the external monitor’s power control box. So, I unplugged all the cables and plugged them back in.

Yeah right. Dreaming I must have been!

My son PUKED INTO my USB and mini-display ports, and I, somehow, was thinking (dreaming) that something ELSE must be wrong?   Talk about denial not being a river!

But after 2 minutes of trying various things, plugging and unplugging cables – I admitted to myself that it was most likely the projectile strawberry banana vomit that shorted out my port that controls external monitors.  Nooooooo!

The clincher was when I plugged in my old computer (which is now Helen’s), and it fired up the external monitor straightaway.

Damn it. I love this capability to drive a big, fat external monitor – and I use it both at work AND at home, routinely. Yes, I have a 17″ MacBook – but I love the extra acreage that another monitor provides! DAMN IT! DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!  I can’t believe I’ve been foiled by puke.

I proceeded to clean the ports again. The USB worked after the first cleaning – but obviously something is still wrong with the mini-display port… or it did, in fact, short out something inside the computer.

I even tried to run a Apple Hardware Diagnostics on my computer by starting it up while holding down the “D” key – but I guess my computer is too old for this to do over the internet, and otherwise I needed to have the original disc that came packed with the computer – over 2 years ago. Man – I have so many discs floating around, I’m not even sure where it is. I tried restarting with a Snow Leopard disc – that didn’t work. I then tried a Leopard disc – that didn’t work.   Ahhhh – fuck it.

I cleaned out the port again as best I could. Again some miniscule crap came out on the tip of the Q-tip. I thought I’d surely done it now. But alas, as you might have surmised from my story thus far, it was to no avail. Nothing was working. Damn it again…

I became depressed. I even started looking at websites on repairing mini-display ports. There are very few out there – and not much information specifically about any kind of specific issues related to regurgitating into one’s display port and the repercussions or remedies therefor. Without much luck – I started looking at new computers.

Ooooh. New computer!

Clearly I was despondent. I left the computer on the desk, refocused my care on my son once again, and went to bed feeling crappy because my son was ill, and that f’n illness took out my computer as well. Damn it.

[Sunday] I was up at 4 am and 6 am to check on Mikey. Both times he was much better than during the day on Saturday. He was surely a bit warmer than normal, but he was actually pretty close to normal. Instead of waking him up, sticking a suppository up his ass, and possibly causing distress that could result in an hour(s) of crying and recognition of existing pain – I let him sleep. After the 6 am check, I was pretty sure he was doing OK, so I returned to sleep until again, until about 8:30 am, when Jimmy woke up.

Though Mikey wasn’t quite himself, and he appeared to be weak and somewhat dehydrated after waking up – he was definitely better than the day before. He still refused to eat ANYTHING. Nevertheless, I knew he was on his way to recovery – amazingly.

Returning to my computer issue – by mid-day this notion of the mini-display port being fried was starting to fry me and my brain. How did it happen? How could it have happened? I want to see the evidence if something “burned out.” So, I opened up the computer. Pretty easy, because I have some really small screwdrives for my motorcycle. Ten screws later, the back was off, and I was peering around the inside looking for damage. I cleaned fuzz from around the fans and looked for traces of gastric secretions around the affected ports in addition to any unusual markings, fizzles, or anything indicating a “pop.”

I saw nothing, and I wasn’t convinced something actualy fried inside.

I returned to the toothpick supply, the Q-tip drawer, and pulled out my plyers again. I began re-flattening my arsenal of Q-tips, and this time I busted out the last few milliliters of 100% EtOH we have in our stash.

Using all the focal strength of my aging eyes (hardening lenses), and taking advantage of direct sunlight beaming into my living room – I proceeded to clean the port AGAIN. Though nothing was obvious, I noticed some minute dried crusties deep and inside the port. They were for all intents and purposes, not an issue. But I wanted that sucker as clean as could be.

I cleaned once, I cleaned twice, and I cleaned again for good measure.

Can you guess what happened next?

It worked.

Yahoooooo!  Whooooooopie!!!  I am DA MAN!  Ooooooohhhhh   Yeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!

Soooooo stoked.

My son, who had a 1 day viral infection (or some sort of gastrointestinal toxin, without diarrhea) was in full recovery mode, AND my computer was BACK!

It has been a roller coaster of a weekend, so I thought I should take advantage and not forget it by blogging about it now.

I wonder how many others have brought in their computers to a computer repairman – only for the repairman to find that nothing was wrong with their computer except that a pin inside some port wasn’t clean or was shorting out for some reason?  (Oh, and then charging like ~$300 for a new chip or something).

Anyway, I’m stoked. Happy days again. Time for bed.

 

 

I had something strange happen to me a couple of years ago now, and I’m wondering if it has happened to others.

I woke up one morning and my hair (on my head) decided, all on its own, to part on the opposite side. I showered, cleaned myself up for work, and still – the hair laid the other way.

How can this be? Why would this be?

I tried to get it to go back to how it has been for the last ~10 years – but no!  It would not have anything to do with that side of my head. Wow!

I thought – maybe because my hair has finally (after ~2 years) realized that I’m living on the other side of the Atlantic… Or maybe because most Ukrainians part their hair on the right side, finally my hair had succumbed to hair peer pressure. I don’t know… but it was really strange.

I accepted it, no problem. (after all, what could I do?  I could go out with hair sticking up in all directions, or just listen to my hair, and go with the flow).

I pretty quickly got used to looking at my face a bit differently, and pictures of me returned to looking normal after about a month.

But you know what – 2 days ago – for some equally unknown reason…

IT WENT BACK!

Huh?  What?  What the… ?

Yep, it’s back to parting on the left. Very interesting. Very curious. I may have to write a paper on this…

Sorry for the blather – but this has been tripping me out for the last couple of days now – and so I thought I’d see if it has happened to anyone else?

Let me know.

And HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

It’s a holiday weekend in Ukraine. Constitution day today. That means a long weekend. Nice.

We went to the dacha, as has been the norm ever since early May, on the weekends. We usually spend the night, and last night was no exception. It was particularly fun because it was just the immediate family (my wife, my son, and me). Mom is at a sanatorium. No, not for a crazed individual – in Ukraine it means more like a spa (see here). That’s not to say that she doesn’t sometime seem to be in need of one of those other facilities – but that’s for another day (he he he). Anyway, we did the usual gardening, watering, weeding, berry-picking, bbq, etc. I will post some pictures soon, I promise — some cute ones of Mikey, for sure.

But today’s post has more to do with my ride home. Yep, the motorcycle (Dnepr MT-11) is still running well (though someone stole my gas out of my tank – AGAIN – a couple weeks ago). Jesus – does it ever end?  Whatever…. it’s a bit warm for long pants, boots, and a leather jacket, but I still wear it all – because I like keeping my skin intact if I happen to come off the bike for some unexpected reason.

I’ve learned to deal with most Russian (Ukrainian) drivers pretty well. More or less – they all suck. Most feel entitled to the road, and if anything gets in their way, they simply drive around the obstacle if possible. Literally, they drive off road, on sidewalks, through parks, across parking lots, around trees, on private property, on highway shoulders (and beyond), and more. They honk, flash their lights at you, drive about 2 feet behind you, etc. Indeed, it is frustrating sometimes when you are patiently waiting in a queue for the traffic to subside, and the morons in their Land Rovers are passing you on the left, right, and center. Idiots. Pure and simple.

I’ve concluded (with the aid of discussion with my wife) that their behavior is really the immediate result of “new found freedom.” Such freedoms have been cast upon people – quickly and widely – and have been abused in many, many ways. I could give lots of examples, but let’s just say that corruption is rampant, the veil of democracy has been exploited by those in the know, and personal success and individual liberty is often flaunted, over-emphasized and/or abused.

So why do I mention this today? I’m glad you asked.

I made the motorcycle ride all the way into Kyiv; the dacha is about 50 km away. All was well – it was a nice temperature and I didn’t see a single cop on the road. Remember, it’s a holiday – they all must have been on vacation, getting pissed – like most other Ukrainians.

I was riding on one of the “ring roads” that speeds my journey to the city center, though it is less direct. Again, it was a holiday today, and I was riding mid-day, so traffic was relatively light. However, on the ring road, both lanes (in this particular spot) were filled with vehicles.

What do you know, there was a guy riding my ass as we went over an overpass. There were cars all around, and in front of me for as far as the eye could see. He honked 2 or 3 times at me. I put up my hand as to say “what do you want – there are cars in front of me?”  He got a bit pissy and passed me on the right – honking again.

Well – it pissed me off, and so I “flipped him the bird.”

Yep – the finger; up yours; the fuck you and the horse you rode in on…

…………../´¯/)
…………./¯..//
…………/….//
……/´¯/’…’/´¯¯’)¸
…/’/…/…./……./¨¯\
.(‘(…´…´…. ¯~/’…’)
..\……………..’……/
…’\……………. _.·´
…..\……………(
……\……………\

He obviously didn’t like this very much – even though he was being the unnecessarily aggressive typical Ukrainian prick driver that occupies all too much of the asphalt in this country. I’m guessing he is one of those assholes that looks for fights, beats his wife, gets shit-assed drunk every night, doesn’t have a job, still lives with his mother, steals from others, and thinks he is God’s gift to the planet. Typical scum around here. If you lived here, you would know what I mean. No, no, no – there are lots of good people too – but unfortunately, there are LOTS of these shit-for-brains too.

Anyway, this dickwad proceeded to get in front of me and slow down.

Fine. I’ve dealt with these losers before. I just stayed behind him.

Then he pretty much slammed on his brakes. Unfortunately, the brakes on the Dnepr aren’t so good, and with the sidecar attached they are even worse. Nevertheless, I locked up the front, and stopped before hitting the fucker.  (can you tell I’m a bit pissed?)

So, what do I do?

…………../´¯/)
…………./¯..//
…………/….//
……/´¯/’…’/´¯¯’)¸
…/’/…/…./……./¨¯\
.(‘(…´…´…. ¯~/’…’)
..\……………..’……/
…’\……………. _.·´
…..\……………(
……\……………\

and…

…………../´¯/)
…………./¯..//
…………/….//
……/´¯/’…’/´¯¯’)¸
…/’/…/…./……./¨¯\
.(‘(…´…´…. ¯~/’…’)
..\……………..’……/
…’\……………. _.·´
…..\……………(
……\……………\

again.

This really pissed the guy off. Clearly.

I stayed behind him, again, as he crawled forward. After about a hundred meters, he pulled forward and into the right lane.

He lowered his window and hit the brakes again. I came up on his left side, and what did I see?

A 9 mm handgun, pointed straight at me.

Holy shit man. Holy shit.

I ducked, out of instinct, hit the brakes, and just about shat myself.

I must have said WOW! about 100 times to the inside of my helmet over the next 5 minutes.

*********

My exit was only about 200 meters ahead. My heart was pumping like mad. I got into the right lane and watched him pass my exit. Before he was out of sight, and as I was exiting the ring road, what did I do?

I stood on my footpegs and…

…………../´¯/)
…………./¯..//
…………/….//
……/´¯/’…’/´¯¯’)¸
…/’/…/…./……./¨¯\
.(‘(…´…´…. ¯~/’…’)
..\……………..’……/
…’\……………. _.·´
…..\……………(
……\……………\

I was hoping he didn’t come hunt me down (and I regretted doing this after it was done – but I was so angry).

It just goes to show you that there are crazy people everywhere. And that gun control doesn’t mean shit here. Supposedly very, very few people have guns – but I’m not so sure. And what do you know, I saw this article in the NY Times about gun control today.

Whatever. I learned my lesson: do not brandish the finger lightly around here. It’s just not worth it. To them, in a country where it’s relatively cheap to “get rid” of someone, and where people are craving to display their power and authority wherever, whenver possible (because they virtually had none for the previous 70 years) – it’s better to keep the finger in my thoughts rather than in their rear-view mirror.

I mentioned it to my wife as soon as I got home. She knew something was up — as I parked in our parking garage she clearly saw and heard in my voice that I was disturbed by something. She had made it home about 5 minutes before me (in the car). She said that she has heard of similar stories happening to other ex-pats.

I guess the story goes that many ex-pats (like me) feel as if they can express their discontent with other drivers on the road – e.g., “flipping the bird.”

Sure, sure… road rage happens everywhere – I know. And yes, I’ve even seen it and been privy to it in the past. But somehow (if I’m allowed to contend) I feel that there’s a greater acceptance of such displays in the U.S. (for example). I mean that, in the U.S. (or at least many parts that I’ve driven in), when someone does something really stupid or ignorant, that person may get “the finger.” I’m not saying this is a wise thing to do – but gestures like this are more common – and often result in a return (similar) gesture.

Not, per se, with a gun pointed at you.

Regardless, again… I learned my lesson. It is seriously scary looking down the barrel of a gun and into the eyes of a 20-something year old who doesn’t really appreciate life yet.

I’ve learned, again, that I’m in another country which harbors some serious “loose cannons” that have very little to lose (or gain). Life isn’t respected as much as it should be. Really.

As I rode up the elevator of my building with my beautiful wife, adorable baby, and our summer house weekly booty – I realized that I had just escaped death. That fucker could have easily just pulled the trigger, and I’d be dead – or clinging to life – in a Ukrainian hospital. And he would have simply driven off, and nobody would have ever known really what happened – but I would have widowed my wife and son. And the guy wouldn’t have cared.

So… I think I’ll be keeping all my fingers in check from now on. It’s just not worth it!

I’m looking forward to coming home to America. And after today, the sooner the better.

No, not like the TV show.

We had a real house call. Strange, but true. Kinda like the “olden” days…

It was time for Mikey’s HepB innoculation, and so we called the clinic. What do you know, they provide “house calls!”

The doctor (pediatrician) showed up with his “black bag,” and a still-cold HepB vaccine, and proceeded to give our son an injection into the anterior aspect of his right thigh, probably between vastus lateralis and rectus femoris, perhaps just a hair proximal to mid-femoral shaft.

He whined for about a minute, but no problem.

The doctor (врач) spoke excellent English, filled out the paperwork, and packed up his bag. He was in and out within ~15 minutes.

A House Call – in Ukraine. How nice….

I’ve determined that Soviet culture either doesn’t mind, and maybe even encourages, spitting. Yep –> whoever, wherever, whenever, whyever.

Why is whyever not a word?

It’s quite surprising to me because I was brought up in a culture where spitting was shunned – frowned upon. Only disgusting animals spit – like monkeys, camels, and snakes, among others. But here in a former Soviet Republic, I see humans doing it routinely – in the Fall, in the Spring, Winter or Summer – no matter.

Historically, chewing and spitting has been a part of everyday life for eons (I’m guessing). Just as a single example that comes to mind, nowadays it isn’t too hard to find a spitting contest – particularly of things like cherry pits. But please be careful, spitting can be dangerous.

There’s something raunchy, rough, tough, and overall “masculine” about the ability (and willingness) to spit. Am I right? In general, it seems to me, you are perceived as a “tough guy” if you can spit. For example, if you have power over someone else, you can exert that power in an absolute way: spit in someone’s face, and they can’t/don’t do anything about it. Gross! And Insulting!

However, at least based upon my upbringing, there’s something disgusting about noticing people spit. It’s considered impolite, and generally inappropriate if you can avoid it (particularly in a public place). Personally I really struggle with all the spitting that goes on here. Knowing what I know about disease and germs and such, having people walking in front of me when I’m downwind, and they go off, turn their head 90 degrees, and proceed to spray saliva into my headwind makes me gag. YUCK! It’s happened more than a few times. With the incidence of tuberculosis here, I’m sure I’m seropositive by now.

Sure… everyone feels the desire (once in a while) to gargle one up, snort one back, scratch one off the back of the pharynx, mix it up in the tonsil area, and hurl it (preferably downwind) through semi-pursed lips, creating enough force to eject the scourge as far from oneself as possible. Well, at least I think everyone does that once in a while – maybe not. But I admit it, I too enjoy it occasionally – and there is something satisfying about picking a target that’s outside of your normal range, and hitting it as if it were a laser-guided projectile.

To get to my point… it’s one thing to see a burly construction worker release a lung cookie after working up a sweat.. but what I find particularly disturbing is witnessing a finely dressed, attractive, young, apparently sophisticated woman hocking a loogie that would tip the scales at a solid 20 grams. I’ve always considered women to be a more refined version of men. I guess I’ve always thought that women had the mental capacity and restraint to do it when others are not around and/or watching. But that opinion has changed upon living in Kyiv. Here I see women doing it all the time. Old ladies, young ladies, babushkas, nuns, teenagers and supermodels. It’s bizarre to me. I don’t know — maybe I’m overreacting. I’m thinking you have to see it to believe it. But seeing apparently sophisticated women spit, and not giving an iota of thought as to what they just did in front of a crowd of people, is seriously bizarre to my Western Eyes.

For whatever reason, there is just something about spitting (expectorating) that is generally acceptable here. People also do it to be gross, and to demonstrate their semi-intentionally unrefined (peasant-like) nature. Indeed, there are a lot of immigrants from the country. Nevertheless, we-all-live-in-a-yellow-submarine, yellow-submarine, …. whoa, stop…. sorry, I digressed. We all live in a capital city, with millions of people, in big buildings, public transportation, personal vehicles, plenty of infrastructure, glass, concrete, etc…  With this in mind, I would like to think that we don’t live in the wild anymore. But obviously, some people still do.

It sucks that while walking to and from the metro station I find myself avoiding off-colored saliva bombs that litter the sidewalks. Green, yellow, clumpy and/or loose – there are all kinds of expectorations. Also, I’m sure a lot of this “spitting business” has to due to the absolutely ridiculous number of smokers here. Regardless, looking down and seeing phlegm littering the sidewalk is kinda gnarly, don’t ya think? I mean, if you are gonna spit, why not spit into the street, or off into the bushes/dirt? Why spit right on the sidewalk directly in front of oneself? There’s something to it, I tell you. Something ingrained in the culture that makes it both acceptable and “normal.”  I really don’t think the majority of people even thing about it for more than a split second – it’s part of the culture.

But referring back to the title of this post, seeing women do it just boggles my mind. My view has changed.

I’m telling you, it’s not hard when you see babushkas hocking loogies.

Fine, getting sprayed by spit undoubtedly elicits a sense of disgust by anyone in the way. But now, even the thought of stepping in it sends shivvers up my spine. From my perspective, whatever is on my shoe generally ends up very close to, or in, my apartment. Damn… maybe I’m gonna start leaving my shoes outside – or maybe I’ll create a sanitizing door mat hmmmm….

Nasty.

Enough for now, back to studying…

Hello World!

My name is Michael Anthony Geller. I was born on March 18, 2009, which means I’m a Pisces, like my Dad. Though my parents desperately wanted me to turn upside down, I was insisting to sitting like a little Buddha in the cozy little womb I called home… and consequently, my birthday was (sorta) picked for me.

Here I am showing them where to stick the bottle…

My name was chosen because my parents like the way it sounds. But the more I think about it, I think there is some correlation with some of my forefathers. Specifically, my Dad’s grandfather was named Milton – which I think led to the Michael; and My Mom’s father was named Anatoliy – which I’m pretty sure resulted in Anthony. According to Wikipedia, Geller comes from German, Yiddish, and/or Russian. It also means “one who yells,” so my parents are in for a special treat!

Speaking of my parents, here they are again:

Mom

and Dad

On that great day last Wednesday, March 18, we were at a nice private clinic called ISIDA in Kyiv, Ukraine. Yep, I’m a Ukrainian! But wouldn’t you know it, even though I’m proud as hell to be born in The Ukraine, Dad has already insisted that I become an American – and so I’m supposed to get my picture taken sometime in the next week or two, and then I get my first passport from the American Embassy. Nice people over at the U.S. Embassy in Kyiv, I’m told. I guess that means I’m not allowed to be President of the USA, huh? Oh well… those guys are tight-asses anyway.

The birth was fairly easy, and my Dad took a lot of pictures (and some movies). Yes, he was in the room at the time with the camera in hand. It’s sort of embarrassing, but I think he even got a picture of me peeing all over the nurses when I was about 2 minutes “old.” One of the nurses even screamed a bit in surprise. The others giggled. Pretty soon thereafter, the nurses poked and prodded a bit, and noticed I was gaining color quickly. My lungs obviously worked. I tested them out about 10 seconds after leaving the womb.

Here I am, about 2 minutes old. Kinda gross, but kinda beautiful too!!!

Look, my cord is still attached!

I think Dad was amazed to see a live baby come out!!!

They put me on the scale and I weighed in at 3.44kg. Not too shabby since the doctors were saying I was average/small during most of my development. It just goes to show you how accurate those stupid ultrasound thingys are. For you non-math majors out there, that’s about 7lb 9oz. The nurse wasted no time in measuring me too… I was 54cm long and my head was 38cm in diameter. Also, not so bad. Not quite a Kareem Abdul Jabbar or anything, but I think I should be able to hold my own when I’m all grown up. Of course these measurements were taken over a week ago now (by about 12 hours), and I’ve probably put on a good half cm and at least 100-200 g.

I was immediately given to Dad and was taken out of the delivery room, and Mom showed up in the recovery room about 20 minutes later. I was quite comfortable being wrapped up like a little worm. They also left that little bit of “white stuff” on my face for a little while – I guess it has some protective qualities.

Though I didn’t want to leave my folks, the nurses took me away to where the other babies were gathering that evening; something like a “meeting of the minds,” I believe. I overheard my parents conversing the next day about what had happened. Mom needed to sleep, and Dad went home because he wasn’t allowed to stay. That was my first day… and the rest is (proverbial) history!

We spent a few more days in the hospital, learned all about baby care, and enjoyed round-the-clock attention. I’m now at home, and I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Whitey the Cat. I understand why they named him that — but I’m sure glad they thought about it more when they named ME!!!!!

Maybe I’m being sensitive, but I think Whitey is a bit jealous already. I hope to be better friends in the future.

That’s all for now. I’ll keep you updated whenever I (or my parents) do something cool 

Cheers, and thanks for reading,

– Michael

I’m sorry, but you couldn’t pay me enough to take this job. Sure, I understand that some people are so “down and out” that any job is a good job. Butt really, spending your days in a toilet? Even if it’s the beginning of your life and you are saving money to buy that new toy you want. Even worse, when it’s the twilight of your life… why would someone take this job?

And when I say toilet, I have to clarify. No, this isn’t a nice hotel, restaurant, or theater, where a courteous gentleman or woman in official dress offers to dry your hands or provide you with a squirt of perfume or cologne (perhaps for a dollar) before returning to your seat. Nope. This is a toilet (туалет) that rarely has paper, that may have dividers, that may include porcelain, is generally enclosed without windows, exudes gag-provoking fecal fumes, encourages “no contact” behavior, and sometimes has sufficient lighting to see what you are doing. Then, to add insult to bladder-bursting injury… you have to pay for it.

Butt wait, you cannot simply place a coin in a jar. Someone would steal it… duh! There is actually someone who spends the better part of their waking day (dare I say life) collecting about 15 cents from each customer, per use of the “facility.” Well, unless I feel that I’m about to cause irreversible, irrevocable damage to critical internal organs, I will not pay for a toilet. Something seems wrong about living in a city where people pay taxes and having to pay again to do something that everyone has to do (by design) every single day of their lives. I’d much rather use the need to use the restroom as a good excuse to grab a drink in a local shop that has a bathroom for it’s customers. I guess not everyone can or want to spend money like that.

Nevertheless, when one’s wife is well into her pregnancy, requiring the use of a restroom every hour or two (tops), there are inevitably going to be times when even this place appears like a gold mine. I thought it might be worthy of a picture.

In fact, this was one of the nicer establishments I’ve seen. But when my wife left the corrugated metal enclave, she looked as though she was about to vomit – and not, she wasn’t about to go back inside to do it.

[flashvideo file=videos/toilet.FLV /]

A waddling market goer.

I also began thinking about the money exchange taking place inside. This, I’m afraid, is just wrong. It goes against human nature, I think. One wants to bury the leaves they used to wipe their ass, not use them as “change for a 20.” Talk about speading “germs.” And then I was thinking… the person in the toilet must actually be responsible for cleaning, to some extent. Gnarly.

My advice: Make sure you always carry exact change!

Or, just consider your overpayment a donation to the cause…

She’s pregnant, and everyone knows it.

Shockingly, people are even offering their seat to my wife on the subway. I never thought anyone here would be so kind. Alas, I was wrong. I’ve seen it several times just in the last couple of days. Nice people…  that obviously know what it’s like to bear children. Even with all the winter clothes on (because it’s -5C), it’s still quite obvious.

It’s big, but it’s beautiful. And there’s no doubt that it’s going to get way bigger in these final few months.

If anyone has any sage advice for a father to be – please leave a comment!

OK, Fall is unofficial again. It’s back to Summer-Fall.

It is supposed to rain a bit today, but it has been beautiful recently. Beautiful enough for some FANTASTIC Mushroom hunting –> keep an eye out for a post coming to a nearby blog sometime soon.

But today I wanted to touch on a fact of life around here. Everyone is bracing for winter. Evil, cold, blustery, bitter, winter (зима). You can see it on the faces of the people wandering around the market.

But perhaps more obvious than peoples expressions, which clearly reflect their discontent with the disappearance of Summer/Fall and the arrival of the looming winter, is the characteristic clothing that people are now wearing. A few weeks ago we had a cold snap (less than 10°C for almost 2 weeks). The winter jackets came out; the rain gear came out; the umbrellas, boots, and dark and heavy clothing. In a fortuitous twist of weather fate, for the last week it has been beautiful –> touching 21°C or more on the Centigrade thermometer (70°F on Fahrenheit, for you English Types). Hell… that’s practically summertime!!!

Yet, people are still wearing their heavy clothing. Sure, maybe the summer clothing has been put in a box in the closet or something… but dude — bust that shit out again, I say. I was thinking to myself that if this were July (and 21°C or higher), people would be outside shirtless, meandering around the liquor stands in flip-flops and shorts, drinking beers and smoking cancer-sticks, and pretending to be loving the summer life in Kiev. The fact that it’s 21°C in July doesn’t make a difference — they are enjoying the temperature.

So what IS the difference?

O’ –> for October.

Crazy, but I think it’s true. Just because it’s October nobody even thinks about wearing shorts! No, it’s not windy. No, it’s not cold. Very interesting Daniel-san – the psychology of living in a place with real seasons. People interpret the weather differently depending on what month of the year it is!!!

This being said, I think I’m gonna wear some shorts today — and everyone can mock the crazy American (if I actually leave the apartment). What’s the difference between July and October if the weather is the same? Why not try to re-invigorate that fading tan on those arms and legs? I’m pretty sure I’d be wearing shorts in Santa Barbara right now.

Funny how the knowledge of the impending cold has the capacity to influence attitudes and behaviors

OMG!

I can’t see.

I am not sure what happened.

Actually, I DO remember the last thing I saw… and I’m hoping it won’t leave permanent damage.

****

If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you will know that I’ve been blinded once before: by the sight of my horrified mother in law running naked through the house, like a sprinting cheetah, towards her room.

Yes… I got a clear view of my Mother-in-law’s backside. It was a shocker, to say the least.

****

Well my blog-reading friends… it happened again.

This time though… yep, you guessed it… FULL-FRONTAL.

Holy SCHNIKES.

Why, why, why, Lord… O’ why have you done this to me? Why do you punish me? What did I do to deserve such castigation?

I’m sure you are wondering what happened: I was on a business call for an hour in my room. She probably heard me talking with the door closed and thought, “hey, Snotty’s busy, so I can strut around brazenly without a worry.” Well, after I ended the phone call, I had to take a leak. The bathroom is around the corner from my room, off the hallway leading to the kitchen. I spin out of my door and around the corner… and…

BLAMMO!

I mean…   BLAAAAAAAMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOO!

She was walking into the kitchen from the balcony with her recently gifted thick-n-fluffy American bathrobe WIDE freaking open. I saw so many rolls, so much flesh, too much skin, and gigantic sagging mammaries — I retreated instantaneously, and felt weak, nauseous, disturbed, slightly angry, and creeped-out, all within the first 5 seconds. Thank the Maker (it’s just an expression) –> I don’t think she saw me! Otherwise our subsequent interaction(s) might be… hmmm… awkward.

Since retreating to my room I’ve discovered the only lasting effect — I’m visually paralyzed and emotionally traumatized. What to do? I don’t think my retinas will ever be the same.

Should I tell her, so that she doesn’t do it again?

Or, if she knows I’ve already seen her in her birthday suit, maybe she’ll just be that much more at ease to do it again in the future?

Or, if I just keep it to myself, will my nightmares go away???

Thankfully, my wife (and my mother) is a shrink… I may need some extended therapy after today’s episode.

So, I’ve heard of wooden spoons. Particularly popular in midieval times… but wooden forks? Yeah, yeah… sure, sure… of course there are wooden forks, and wooden knives (I think).

But have you ever used a wooden fork?

No, not the big kind for mixing a large salad… and not the pseudo-fork that you use or stirring a pot of spaghetti. I’m talkin’ a regular old fork.

^ ^ ^

Well, we have two of them, and we use them regularly. My only fear is what I know about bacteria. What grows between the tines? What grows in the wooden crevices within the superficial/exposed plant fibers? Especially knowing how my mother-in-law washes dishes, this becomes a semi-serious health concern.

But, in the end, I use it occassionally. I had never used one before, I don’t think. Sure, I’m guessing that they are normal practice in many parts of the world, but since metal (or plastic) forks have become common utensils in the USA, I’ve never seen an actual wooden one.

OK, so fires this week probably won’t catch. The fall weather has reared it’s rainy face. All week. Ugh!

The picture below was taken last week, but it makes the point, regardless of our current weather situation.

Fires are everywhere during the summer.

The picture is taken FROM our balcony. The charred area was undoubtedly begun by a lit cigarette butt. (Remember — approximately 75% of people smoke here. OK, maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but it is extremely high). My wife even suggested that some people start them on purpose. Why? I mean… Why?

The funny thing is that people walk right by the flames without flinching. I’m not sure if they even notice it. Kinda like a passing butterfly… it’s just part of the scenery.  I’ve seen countless fires along the sides of the road while driving out to our dacha. Smoldering, spreading, creeping and crawling fires that simply consume the dryness.

No firemen. No trucks. No water. No concern.

Weird!

I guess Ukrainians know that 99% of the time the fires will simply burn themselves out, as long as they aren’t proximate to forests, houses, oil tankers, etc. Who cares about individual little trees or structures without four walls, right?

It’s weird… to watch open fires burn without seeing anyone concerned, in the slightest. I guess it probably happens in other third world countries. Oops, I guess Ukraine is technically considered 2nd world, but you get the idea.

To all those that have lost their lives to the cold hands of tyrannical men… everywhere

Let us reflect – consider the loss, the pain, the sorrow that ensued following that September day 7 years ago. Please, let’s consider what brought us to that point in our history, and how we can try to make the world a more peaceful place, for ALL mankind, in our wholly uncertain future.

* * * * *

Today’s post is dedicated to those that lost their lives on September 11, 2001.

Moreover, today is also dedicated to those people that have the COURAGE to make the world a better place by:

eliminating hatred

extinguishing acts of war

fostering love in community

respecting all peoples and their origins

contributing to feelings of brotherhood throughout humanity

and acknowledging the validity of different belief systems, religions, and cultures

* * * * *

– because in relative terms, life is so very very short,

and we are all just fibers of the same human fabric –

* * * * *

PEACE

We live in the city. But in the summer months we spend quite a bit of time at our summer house. It’s about 45 km from our apartment, and serves many purposes, not the least of which is sanity and a sense of grounding with mother Earth.Needless to say, the summer house is a virtual bounty of life. Everything grows, lives, dies, wilts, withers, blows, ages, wears, blossoms, suckles, spreads, and passes. It’s the circle of life, and it is everywhere at our dacha. Of course we (as “man”) are attempting to control our environment as best we can to make life “comfortable,” but when it comes down to it, we are visitors here just like all the other plants and animals. It feels inherently different in the City.

So as you might guess, we have snakes. Yes, some are poisonous, but many are not. I can never remember – do the small yellow dots mean they are deadly, or harmless? Anyhow, we were peacefully eating breakfast a couple of months ago (early June), and I glanced over at the sunlight beaming through the glowing lilys – right onto the belly of a green, slithering, legless, sniffing-tongue, scaly varmant. It didn’t scare me so much as it surprised me. I rubbed my eyes, opened my pupils a bit, and refocused my aging lenses. Nothing changed. It WAS a snake. We hopped up, took a closer look, and deemed the snake to be “harmless.” It was not like it’s highly poisonous counterpart (without the dots, I believe) – the meadow viper??? Not sure. Damn, just the viper attached to the name gives me the willeeees.

Here’s a picture: Sneaky, isn’t he?

So we got some sticks and a fishing net, and tried to corral it so that we could get a better look. Unfortunately, he was sort of deep in the flowerbed, and we couldn’t easily capture it. After about 15 minutes, and playing “catch me if you can” as it slithered between the bases of several bushes, we lost it. Great. Gone. Just what I wanted – to be thinking about the slithering reptile casing our gazebo while my back is turned towards the table, peacefully eating my oatmeal. I bet it’s hungry. I bet it likes human.

Then, another episode -

It was nightfall. The wolves were howling, the wind was blowing, the lightning striking. Not really, that was just for effect. But… The first star was peering through the stratosphere. We were starting our evening fire in our Russian standard outdoor iron oven (sort of a BBQ). We hear a croak. Several times. And then a whine. And then a croak, and a whine. And another.

The cats became equally interested and were moving about. It was emanating from the corner of the serai (our shed), which is connected to our old (but still functional) outside kitchen. It was near the steps, and coming from under the woodpile. Surprise, surprise.

It was dark and we couldn’t see, so we fetched our headlamp and double-A Mag-lite. Carefully inspecting the area we expected to see a toad or two. The chornie-belie (black-white) cat, a demonstrated hunter, had helped focus our inspection. We couldn’t place the sound, as it was definitely unusual for a toad to squalk like that. Anyhow, under the illumination of our flashlights, we lifted a small piece of plywood – and there it was.

Shit. A snake. I lifted it again and took a picture (so that I wouldn’t have to get too close). I’ve never heard a snake make those sounds before = “no way!”
Let’s look at the picture and see if it’s a viper. If not, we can catch it. Looking at the picture, the situation became far clearer. It was a toad… and a snake. But the toad was getting the wrong end of this deal — it was being eaten by the snake. Either the toad was bigger than the snake had anticipated, or the attack had just literally (5 minutes before) taken place and the deal had not quite been consummated yet.

Have a look at the picture: I didn’t want to disturb mother nature, so this is the best picture I got.

I guess that’s what they do around here… but I’d never quite seen it before. The snake was incapacitated by its appetite. We proceeded to go back and look several times, re-lifting the wood, and the animals hadn’t moved an inch. Caught in the throws of death, the frog was muttering its last sounds.

We returned in the morning, and (not surprisingly) no trace was left. But it goes to show that life is all around us.

Oh, I almost forgot. There was another snake I almost forgot to mention. It was INSIDE one of our bags of concrete, INSIDE our fourier, on the way into our main house. Yikes!  What am I doing here???
____________________

I wrote this above post a little while ago, and between writing and physically attaching the pictures/posting the text, I came across a few other snakes during my brief trip back to California! All at my Dad’s house: first, a black racer (basically harmless, cool looking snakes) that was exiting the tomato patch – he was about 4 feet long; second a rattlesnake hanging out in a small culvert used for water drainage – it rattled at us and returned to its shelter; lastly, a rattlesnake relaxing next to the water tank right near the tub used to offer a bit of water relief from the desert heat.

The last example has particular relevance because it is very possibly the SAME snake that BIT my father about 6 weeks ago. Yep, he was walking by the tanks and stepped on the damn thing. If you know my father, you know he’s blind (or, for all intents and purposes, blind – he sees very, very little out of only one eye). Anyhow, rattlesnakes are supposed to rattle before biting, right? In fact, they are supposed to rattle before you even get anywhere close enough to step on them, RIGHT??? But this little bastard bit first and rattled afterward (admittedly, after being stepped on ). Anyway, thanks buddy. Thanks for the warning.

In the end, Dad had something on the order of 13 anti-venom treatments over the course of the next ~36 hours at 2 different hospitals. He is fine, and all is well — just a bit scary if you ask me.

Here’s my tribute picture:  Modified from a blind veteran’s golf tournament held in Iowa each year!

I’ve had more snake adventures, but those are either private, or for another post…

WITH ALL DUE RESPECT.

It was a neighbor that passed away…

No, I didn’t know him. In fact I don’t really “know” any neighbors, though I do recognize some.
Anyhow, this post isn’t about me, it’s about the man that passed away — and how interesting and different Russians (Ukrainians) approach the passing and burial of their loved ones.

People die all of the time, obviously. Just like little ones are born all of the time. “The circle of life.” And this circle is quite evident in the concrete jungle in which I live. For lack of a better word, I live in a slum. It’s not dirty or nasty, per se, but it is a concentrated with semi-poor people, and the environment has undoubtedly decayed into what I would say is an unattractive neighborhood, where the quality of life is surely sub-standard in comparison to Western ideals. But more importantly, there is a rotation of people. There’s obviously lots of breeding going on… and surely there’s also lots of elderly passing on.
The man had lived in the [attached] building next to ours. So what’s the big difference? Russians (at least around here) have ceremonies for the dead at their houses. Well, I’m not all that sure about the ceremony part – I’m sorta guessing that there’s some sort of wake that goes on inside –> but the official passing of the body from this world into the next (if you believe in that sort of thing) really begins at the family home. Even if the person did not pass away at their home, the body is brought BACK to the home, and prepared for burial. Again, in this case it was in one of the neighbors from an apartment in the adjacent building.

I don’t want to profess that I know much of anything about funerals, and honestly, I know even less about Russian ones. But I thought it would be a meaningful post to share a bit of what I see around me. I’m sure this is a daily event around here, but this is the first I’ve seen directly in front of our apartment. I’ve seen several ambulances, but only one other funeral. Several months ago at another building in our complex, I was returning from the store and noticed many (semi-formally dressed) people had gathered around the building’s entrance. There was a band playing VERY somber music. Indeed, it was a funeral. I was surprised that funerals were happening right here, in front of our homes. I was interested in what was happening, but I stayed far away and just listened to the band for a few minutes. Definitely — a reality check. And then today, this morning, I saw another funeral – in the building immediately next to ours, whose entrance we can (almost) see from our balcony.

From what I’ve gathered, Russian funerals originate in the family home, with the extended family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances visiting the residence on the day of the burial. The body is placed into the casket within the sanctuary of the home (probably with only family in attendance), and is then carried outside to the hearse. Surprisingly, to me, they often have open caskets. And the dead are exposed for everyone to see and visually “say goodbye” to. I thought about it for a moment, and realized there’s no way the casket would fit in the elevator (which is quite small in our very typical concrete Russian “hives”). So I’m assuming that the casket is carried down through the stairwell. My wife told me that it is generally it is carried by family members and close friends (similar to elsewhere, I suppose).
To be honest, my curiosity about the event peaked when I saw the hearse back up into the lane in front of our building — an unusual approach. I didn’t know what was going on. I was just peering out of our balcony, and I saw the small bus intentionally reverse into the lane in front of the building. “Why would someone do that,” I asked myself. Then I saw ~20 people or so gathering at the entrance of the building. I’m embarrassed to say that I thought it was a wedding, and the bus was for transport! Then I realized that people were not very joyful at all, and many were wearing black. I then noticed that the hearse (basically a small bus) had all of its window shades drawn – so that you could not see into it at all — and I thought that was a bit odd, indeed. All of my observations took place withing about 15 seconds, and I quickly realized it was a funeral, not at all a wedding.
I couldn’t actually see the door to the building, so I couldn’t tell exactly when things were happening. But sure enough, soon after the hearse stopped I saw people line up on either side at the rear, and the driver of the hearse opened the back hatch.

A young man held up a small (paper-sized) framed picture of the deceased. It was from yesteryear, when the man was in the prime of his life. Most of the women wore scarves on their heads, and many men had scarves tied around their arms. Others held flowers or supported standing wreaths. The top of the casket came out of the apartment building entrance first. And then the man in his final resting place. I took a couple of pictures with the utmost respect, only to share my experience with others that, like me, have never seen or really experienced such an event. I blurred the man’s face to maintain anonymity, in respect of him and the rest of his family.

I was moved, emotionally. I know that people die. But in my experience (in the West), death is something that people don’t want to be too close to. Here, it’s a bit more raw – where outright displays of emotions – respect and adoration – for the man (or woman) that has passed is allowable, and even fostered in a final exposed exodus from one’s residence.

May this man, and all men, women, and children that have lived on this earth -

Rest In Peace.

I saw some kids buying cigarettes and beer yesterday. I swear, they couldn’t have been more than 15 years old – tops. There’s no reluctance by any salesperson to sell to “minors.” But then again, I’m not sure if there even is such a thing as a “minor.”

I asked my wife, and she said “well yeah, of course; it’s 16.” “Oh,” I replied.

There has’nt been a single thing I’ve seen thus far (over a year) to suggest that there would be a legal age for anything. Especially if you have cash in hand.

Anyhow, these two freshly-crowned teenagers were just like any other kids walking to the corner store to buy a jawbreaker, bubble gum, soda, or a bag of Doritos. But in this case, they each walked away from the corner stand with a liter of beer in their grips. As they walked towards the park, they twisted off the plastic caps and began pickling their livers – at the ripe old age of 15. It’s kind of sad.

Holy cow, man…

I knew it was possible, but I didn’t think it would really happen. I mean, I had felt the bike lean before, but…

So we head out from our friends’ house where we had dinner, and cruise towards the “ring road” that semi-encircles Kiev. It’s a beautiful summer evening, probably around 22°C for the ride home. We were wearing our leather jackets, helmets, and both of us had pants on… thankfully. And as always, I was wearing my trusty steel-toed BMW boots.

The road we were on was large (blue arrow below, heading North), with 3-4 lanes on each side, including a divider. The road we were turning onto was perpendicular to ours, and it involved an overpass — and thus, the transition was anything but normal. Have a look at the schematic I whipped out…

-

So you can see the unusual transition to the crossing boulevard. Instead of the usual semi-smooth curvy transition, it was a triple curve. To be honest, I had ridden this transition before, and I knew about the triple curve. Perhaps that is why I thought I might take it a little faster than the first time.

Perhaps I could enlarge the diagram so you can really see what’s going on:

The large arrow on the right points to the POINT OF CONTACT. Yes, we hit the wall. OK, I suppose HIT is not entirely accurate — let me explain.

The first curve off of the main street was taken at a fairly standard speed and acceleration was nothing out of the ordinary. Then, I remembered how fun this “S” turn was, and kept my speed up (heading to the right, in the diagram) as I approached the first (lower) part of the S. Needless to say, I love speed and consider myself a wannabe race car driver / motorcycle racer, and I kept the bike a bit wide as I entered the turn, and proceeded to cut across the apex of the curve, just like Laguna-Seca.

I was intentionally keeping the car behind us from passing, by controlling the lane(s). Otherwise he would have made us slow down while he passed, etc…

So my speed was up (probably only about 25-30 km/h) as I approached the final curve. Somewhere around the yellow “X” in the diagram… Oh, did I mention it was pitch black outside?… around the yellow “X” I felt a very unusual thing. Everything was leaning a bit too far left, as if the whole world was being tilted under my tires. What the ???

Almost instantaneously I realized it was not the earth that was tilting, but it was the Dnepr MT-11 under our butts. Thankfully I’ve ridden enough, both on dirt and pavement, to know that I was going down unless I corrected the steering immediately. The caveat was that I was IN a turn, heading to the right at about 25 km/h — but in order to set the motorcycle back on 3 wheels, I was required to turn the handlebars to the left. Within about a millisecond I had made the choice. If I did not turn, we were road-rash hamburger and the bike was smashing us against the ground, flipping over, and probably landing on top of us. And I hate breaking bones. So, I decided against this, and opted for turning the handlebars.

However, as noted in the diagram above (shown in red), there was a 4-5 meter high solid concrete retaining wall directly in front of us. Remember, the road we were getting onto was an overpass! So turning the handlebars meant turning INTO THE WALL.

Alas, I had no choice. Another millisecond had passed…

I turned the wheel, set the sidecar back on it’s wheel, and headed towards the wall. Needless to say, I squeezed the drum brakes as hard as I could, but they were not going to stop us — no way, no how. I used the curb at the base of the wall (which stuck out from the wall by about a foot and was about 6 inches high) as a shock-absorbing pseudo-wall, just as I turned the wheel back to the right.

Indeed we hit the curb pretty hard (thankfully no real damage there).
And amazingly, with the coincident turn of the handlebars to the right, the the curb helped set us back on track — but it was not before a “ssssccccrrrrraaaaaapppppppeeeee” could be heard from my cowling that sits atop my left cylinder.

Unbelievable. A scrape on a piece of metal was all that touched the actual wall — and although it sounded quite loud and nasty at the time, the damage was practically unnoticeable.

My heart was beating around 200, and my wife started screaming at me to stop acting like a race car driver. (oh, and she punched me a couple of times). I’m sure the car behind me got a good look at the whole episode.

Anyhow, we pulled over and assessed what had happened. No damage. No death or destruction. No slamming into the daunting vertical overpass concrete uncompromising wall.

We proceeded home, and I was giggling to myself in my own helmet (not letting my wife see my grin). Once again, I just got lucky (but I also thank my quick reflexes — they’ve saved me once before — but that’s for another post). No, this was not intentional, and not even reckless as far as I’m concerned. I just pushed the limits of the motorcycle (admittedly, perhaps, just a bit beyond what I should have) — but as all riders (and many drivers) know, knowing the limits of your vehicle is imperative to knowing how to stay safe. A bit ironic I suppose… maybe even hypocritical. That being said, I’ve since abided all safety standards

Normally I tell my fellow motorcycle riders to keep it on 2-wheels. I’m gonna start saying 3-wheels now!!!

Seriously…. That’s 2 for 2. Two days in a row, right out in front of my apartment building, there were 2 dumb-ass accidents.

It’s a very typical 3 second incident. 1) We hear cars accellerating more than they should be. 2) We hear tires screeching for about 1 second (maybe even a horn). 3) We hear impact (“BLAM”). 4) We hear Russian swearing, from one driver to the other. 5) We subsequently hear horns honking, because the traffic backs up.

Crazy drivers are abound. Actually, STUPID drivers are abound. I have been wondering why they all suck so bad. I’ve come to realize that it’s because they aren’t used to driving… historically. ONLY the very fortunate few (hard working with a well-paying job) had vehicles prior to dissolution of the USSR. So, unlike in America, there have NOT been generations of car drivers –> and thus, there’s little to no comprehension of driving etiquette, skidding, speeding, inherent dangers, etc… which is normally passed on from one driving generation to the next. Moreover, because up and coming drivers in the States grow up in conditions where driving is SANE, they themselves become more sane drivers when they obtain their driver’s licenses.

ALL* OF THE UKRAINIAN DRIVERS ARE BASICALLY “NEW” TO THE SPORT. Note the asterisk next to “ALL.” The “Old-Timers” driving the 1970′s Lada’s and Volga’s are generally excellent, courteous, and aware road companions. Those older drivers have been behind the wheel a while; they know where they are going, they know what they are doing, and they know how to get there without killing anyone.

Now I don’t necessarily declare myself an expert driver, but I’ve been pushing the pedal for 23 (official) years now… with no accidents (one crash on the motorcycle). Not only that, but I’ve spent the last 10 years hanging onto handlebars on 3 continents — which had made me quite aware of all kinds of drivers. So for those reasons and others, I feel like I’m a pretty good judge.

To give you an idea… The Ukrainian (and Russian) drivers park wherever they damn well please. Totally annoying. They drive wherever they damn well please, too. The end of pavement does not mean the end of the road. Pedestrians do NOT have the right of way. Drivers turn whenever and whenever they damn well please. They STOP their vehicles wherever they please — like on a highway, or on a bridge — just to have a look over the edge. Seriously. Totally F’n retarded. They drive into oncoming traffic ROUTINELY. They drive on the wrong side of the road, and UP OFFRAMPS. They drive on sidewalks. They drive on train tracks. I’m not kidding. They pass on blind curves. They drive within inches of each other. They think a 0.07 second gap is plenty. They split lanes with full-size cars. They think rain enhances traction. They don’t think.

Furthermore, the bigger or more expensive car you have, the more rights you supposedly have. The people driving Land-Rovers, Mercedes, and BMW’s think they are absolutely privileged, and everyone should move out of their way, as if parting of the Red Sea. Really… it moves down the ranks from there. If you have money, you own the road. Why, you may ask? Because if you hit somebody (or even if they hit you), and they have a lot of money or a beautiful car — you could very well give up your entire year’s salary just to fix their bumper. So… basically it means to get out of their way.

Oh, and then there’s the young punks. They think of themselves as invincible — but really are careless, reckless, loony, stupid, self-absorbed, hot-shot, ignorant, retarded, foolish, naive, moronic drivers, and without question –> should not be allowed to handle such a heavy piece of machinery. But once again, if you have money, you can buy a license, so what does it matter? Moreover, if you get stopped by a cop, you can buy yourself out of the ticket. So… who cares???

Perhaps even more stupidly, NOBODY, and I mean NOBODY (perhaps 5% at best) of people wear their seat belts. No kidding. They think that holding onto the steering wheel will prevent them from flying through the windshield. Ha!!!! They need to see Red Asphalt.

Oh yeah… and you have the punks who rev, burnout, spinout, and then race their cars up and down the city streets and parking lots at 3 in the morning. Back and forth… for hours until the sun rises. You’d think the cops might care, might come by and break it up – but no. Fair warning to pedestrians… do not walk at night wearing dark clothing.

For what it’s worth, the bus, trolley, and marshrutka drivers are generally quite good. The obey most laws, and drive relatively sanely. Relatively. Taxicabs on the other hand are a total hit or miss. I’ve been in a couple of taxis where, I swear to God, I thought there was a really good chance I may not make it home in one piece. So recklessly stupid, I cannot even begin to explain. It pains me just to reflect upon those times — I wish I could strangle those assholes — they don’t deserve to accept peoples lives into their own hands. But hey, all you have to do is put a taxi light on top of your car, and you are a legitimate cab. Ha!

Alrighty… almost time for bed. Happy 4th of July!

Oh Joy,

I woke up this morning around 6am for some strange reason. Especially strange because I was helping my wife with a report until almost 3am.

I looked at the clock – and it was off. I looked at my cable box – and it was off. Needless to say, all the electricity was off. Of course, nobody knew this was going to happen.

Supposedly there was a note put on the door, but we never saw it. Anyhow, so today was without warm water and electricity. I decided I could either read, or, better yet, go for a little motorcycle ride.

I went to the Dnepr store (factory) and picked up a few parts on the way to picking up my wife at work. Pretty cool… Though my Russian is only fair, at BEST, I felt comfortable enough going into the shop and purchasing a few spare parts for the MT-11. I said hello to the same old factory worker that we saw the previous time we were there. He nodded and said zdrastya back. Pretty cool. and I obviously parked next to a sitting area for the “old guys.” One of them came up to me and asked me something (in Russian) that I didn’t understand — but I told him that I was sorry, and that I only spoke a little bit of Russian. He understood, and did not pursue his original line of thought — though I think it had to do with me parking so close to where they were sitting, but I could be totally wrong. Who knows.

Anyhow, so I go into the store, and wait a couple of minutes and get helped. The guy was nice enough, and patient with me. I think it helps to at least try to speak Russian. So after a few minutes and several times pointing at parts in the MT-16 manual (basically the same as the MT-11, but the MT-16 is dual-rear-wheel-drive), the manager comes out and drops a few parts on the bench in front of me. Obviously he recognized me, though I didn’t see him when I walked into the store. We had previously discussed a couple of semi-rare parts that I needed, and he delivered!!! I was so stoked! Not only that, but he gave one of them to me for free (a “present”). Very cool.

The whole bill came to less than $7 USD. I got two throttle cables, a seat lock, a drain plug with washer O-ring, and an oil pan gasket. Man — I like this place.

We made it home by 4:30pm or so, and the power was still off. We opened the refrigerator for the first time and quickly pulled out our lunch/dinner: cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, mustard, hot-smoked sea perch, and some chicken, with some black bread of course.

Right at the end of our meal, BOING! The electricity came back on. Woo-hoo! Time to post

Well… they turned off the hot water. Yep. OFF. Like none, non-existent, nothing comes out, nada. And in typical Russian (Ukrainian) style, there was NO NOTICE. Where we live, there are no hot water heaters. It is all centralized, and gets pumped into the buildings. Sure, a few people may have heaters (electric, on-demand water heaters) hooked up to their cold water just for situations like this, but not many have this — and we certainly don’t.

As I said, in typical Russian style, two days after the water was turned off there was a piece of paper taped to the space above the mailboxes saying that the hot water will be off until July 8. That’s another 2 weeks. Which if you can read between the lines, and again, knowing how inefficiently things actually get done around here — I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s off for another week past that, at least.

The worst part –> It’s not even that warm (outside air temperature) in Kiev yet. The Summer hasn’t “hit.” Some days, perhaps late in the afternoons, it does get warm — but it definitely isn’t July/August-type warmth. I think that there are still a few communities on the Left Bank that have hot water — maybe we should just go and raid their homes — They do the maintenance in a few phases.

Actually, I think my brother in law has the right idea. He, without notifying any of us, went out to the summer house with his girlfriend after work, and spent the night –> where there’s warm water now! The little snake, rat, varmint, gopher — menace to the golfing community.

The Reason for this turn-off:

The Government turns off all the hot water in order to do yearly maintenance on the pipes, filters, valves, heaters, etc… Fair enough, because I’d like the water to stay warm all winter long, and without interruption. In fact, our buildings are heated using water running through radiators in all the rooms… so it’s quite important that the whole system works properly — but damn, 3 weeks (or more) of cold showers –> Ugh?

I think they also like to save money (and not have to pay for the gas to heat the water). Who knows, really.

Either way, I’ve only been averaging a shower every 3-4 days (or more) anyhow — so what’s the big deal if I miss a half a dozen showers, and wait for the warm water again?