Well the Ukraine girls really knock me out...

In Euro, several months ago, we were watching some documentary narrated by either Morgan Freeman or Liam Neeson. (Because who the hell else are you going to hire to narrate your doccumentary? What do either of these people have to do with the Soviet Union, you may ask? Well, what does Morgan Freeman have to do with penguins? What does Liam Neeson have to do with Tibet? Exactly.) Being about the Soveit Union, of course, there were the beleagured, prematurely humpbacked women in the de facto babushkas waiting in lines. The lines were hopeless, and whatever was at the end of the line was always something I could find sitting unused in some closet in my house.

But instead of feeling the obligatorily awkward I'm sorry you're not fortunate well I'd really like to share your pain, but we middle-class white people don't really understand suffering , I just thought, "Sistah, ain't it the truth." I'm always standing in line for something. When I get to the front, the person in charge absentmindedly informs me that they've run out. Same thing happens in the next line. I force a smile when somebody else, tearful with relief, finally gets their eggs, beer, or soap, or whatever the hell is at the end of those lines, but all I can think about is how protein-deficient and dirty I am, and how much kinder everything would seem after a few of those beers. (Well, according to this obnoxious metaphor, I am Russian, correct?)

I really want to read Gary Shteyngart's new book. I imagine that this is the reason for my Slavic colored glasses today.