Lyova
May 20, 2005 11:48 PM
You left the main road before noon, as the lorries and cars slowly disappeared and asphalt turned to gravel. It is a particularly hot August day. Men and women are working in the fields, their red faces gazing up from their labour to stare at your red Lada (the first in several hours perhaps). The hay is being stacked up by wooden pitchfork into neat piles that resemble men. The children are also here. In these flat grasslands, the road is straight and lined by trees that join arms overhead, creating a natural tunnel of rustling foliage, which throws its shifting shadows onto the path, as it filters through the odd ray of sunlight, a glitter of sun through the leaves, liquid light pouring in from above. There are horses too, pulling carts on the path, working in the fields. An old peasant sleeps against a tree, as his three cows graze nearby. Then the path forks off into woodland. Thick, ancient forests that stretch out for miles on each side. You guess at deer, boar and bison, though you will see none of them at this time, when the sun is high and everything seems asleep and silent - except for the creaks and cries of swaying trees. Every few kilometres, there are children sitting at the side of the road, selling the wild strawberries and mushrooms they have just picked in the woods beyond. And this reminds you of another place and time that you left far behind.
The workers' gardens of Grodno, a piece of the country within the city. It is also August perhaps. You are sixteen. You go there with A. and pick yellow plums that seem to belong to nobody. It is very hot and silent as Sunday. There are old apple trees, all rotten and twisted as snakes, little green insects that you smear underfoot, the sound of children playing in the distance. You are picking wild strawberries with this girl you could never dare touch. The sex hangs heavy between you but you are too young to know this, and even if you did, you wouldn't know what to do. And these fruits that burst in her hands and leave them stained with their red ripe juice like blood. And these blood-stained hands that smell of summer, earth, sweetness and her, with which she is feeding you. But these things escape your innocence and your words are detached from the fruits and the blood and the avid look in your eyes that is that of children who are tired despite themselves, by the summer heat and the turbulence of their age.
Or another time, when you both roamed the streets in the dead of night. It is winter now and there is a thick cloak of snow covering the streets. The flutter of snowflakes in the air. The freezing wind biting at your faces. Her cheeks are bright red. Her hands are purple. you take them in your own hands to rub some warmth back into them - to no avail. The birches now merge with the snow, so that everything here is white and everything above is black. There is always this tension at dawn, when the chill hits hardest and you realize you will have to go home alone. All night you have been roaming furiously, to stop your limbs from going numb. You stop to say goodbye when you really want to say something else, but the words never came. And later, in bed, you fight the dreadful pain, as you start to feel your body again and your face is burning and your head is a fever of missed opportunities.
Some years later, there will be E. And with her you will dare. It is a very soft autumn afternoon and everything feels stale. You are on a park bench below a high wall. Fat leaves are everywhere. The winds are stirring up the first chills of winter, even though summer is barely dead. You sit close to her and try to keep your eyes off her lips, turning away each time she looks at you. And perhaps you think you kiss her out of boredom. But you see: you really can't be sure, because this has never happened before.
For three years, she will be your life. You dream soft dreams together, of a home, of children, of being old. Your head is on her knee, as you picnic in the same place that was once stained with the blood of wild strawberries. Only this time there will be no adolescent unease. Or a spring day that turned into a storm, as you ran through the park, shirtless, shoeless, singing out your heart in mad rapture to her girlish glee. One day she took a ribbon from her plaited hair and gave it to you. And years later and ten thousand kilometres further east, you suddenly find it in the depths of your old wallet. And this makes you cry.
You drive out of the birch forest and the landscape suddenly changes. There is water everywhere. Thick clumps of reed and flocks of swans beating their wings against the lake. A lone fisherman in a rowboat. Children splashing by the water's edge. The flatness has also turned to hills. The path is now winding. And you know it is winding home.
Home is where you had to hide her shoes at night, so that your father didn't notice she had stayed, when he went out to milk the cows at 4 am. Home is where you both picked wildflowers for her hair. Home is where you waited in anticipation, then angst and finally resignation, when the storks didn't return to their nest on your roof one sunny spring. And this ill omen sparked another, when E told you she was going West, to find a better life. Her parents were old and sick and she was the oldest child. Someone had promised her a modeling job in Germany... Only recently have you realized what must have become of her.
For several years you blamed her for leaving. For not writing. For breaking your love. You grew harder as you slowly realized she was not coming back, concealing your pain under a hard disguise, seeing many women that each reflected a part of her: a childish glance, a tall neck, a way of walking, a whiff of flowers, a tone of voice... And then, when you understood her story, you made your own in her image, tarnished your body, hurt your heart, drove yourself into exile. To escape her binds. To find her solitude. To take the time to think your stories over and hopefully, forget.
There is a bend in the path, a few birch trees, and peering from behind them, your family house, the place where you grew up. You will stop the car, get out, and as the gate groans its welcome, you will realize that nothing fades. That these stories are shelved along with the pickled mushrooms, labeled '1986', contaminated by the Tchernobyl disaster, that no one will ever eat and your mother will probably never throw out. So they sit there in the cellar, collecting dust, as every few years, somebody notices them and exclaims: "Iza, did you know that batch of '86 is still down there?" and she replies: "Yes, yes, I'll throw them out tomorrow."
God Games that Comes From The Automatic Egg
May 17, 2005 06:10 PM
"Boris Alexandrovich Tarkov, I will not oblige you in the consumption of alcoholic beverages", Iliona said when her new man arrived in 'Sportman' bar for this illicit encouter.
"I will respect your wish like always", said Boris Alexandrovich. After all, he was in the knowledge of how to manipulate these womanfolks... (remember what I teach you all about masquerading the vodka under apple juice!). So it happens that three hours following this, Iliona Kotovna Lutski is lying on grand sofa of Boris Alexandrovich's apartment in state of total destroy, and Boris is preparing her for further manipulations:
"Come, darling Iliona, you must have one more maybe..."
This is the example for the type of God-playing that is afforded to me by this new Japanese product, entitled "Otokonotashinami Collection". It is a serial of toys that put into graphic illustration the days and especially nights of this yellow character that I identify with as Boris (he has a Japanese name, but I am ignorant of Japanese). The serial illustrates Boris in such delightful and, dare I say, outspoken situations such is like: being biznesmen in workplace, seducing womanfolk, imbuing his conquests with vodka and helping her to make vomiting actions in toilet. It is a personal favourite of mine to improvise dramatic narratives and unfold the bold tales of Boris Alexandrovich's evenings. In some way, he is myself. In some different ways, he is what I want to be. Sometimes, he is what I do not dare be. He enriches my existence by extending my egos. Like I say: he affords me the status of God.
This serial is one of many such things that is here dispensed from street egg vending apparatus. This is total crazy for me and also great luxury: to unfurl myself upon the city at 5 am and obtain this mysterious 'egg' in which lies my new toy. There are multifarious varieties: Hello Cats, the Cinomorol pudding dogs, miniature foodstuffs, diminutive game console and even tiny reproduction of egg vending apparatus! But my personal choice is always for the sexy girl series, where you manipulate her limbs to reveal some rough actions and you have the power to place her in many embarrassing configurations. Once again, it gives you a glimpse of God and even if this is only the glimpse, it is perhaps the closest you will come to any true total primo revelation.
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The People's Republic of Jazz
May 13, 2005 11:47 PM
It was in my first ambitions to display to you one that incarnates the total world-class playboy, creative genius and primo intellectualist; then I listened to this last challenge again and my ears chanced upon the tragic revelations that I must not talk of myself. So tonight you will only receive the second best, ok?
Musician, traveller, playboy, activist, Mr Jerzy B was fundamental to the emergence of Polish Jazz in the hostile and, dare I say, total dictatorship of 1950's Stalinist Poland. He was at the centre of the artistical and intellectualistic counter-cultures of the 1960's. He rubbed the shoulders of suchlike Roman Polanski, Krzysztof Komeda, Stan Getz and Fidel Castro. He enjoyed a multifarious array of awesome womanfolks, and he enjoyed them everywhere, from Warsaw and Budapeszt to Harlem, Sao Paolo and New Orleans. He was so extensively attached to freedom that he payed for it with time in a Stalinist interrogation cell. But above all, he was a total boss of Jazz drummers and as such, he recorded scores of LP's with so many kings of Polish Jazz that he cannot remember all of it himself! He is in fact so much like me, that it does not surprise for you also to hear that I am in veracity his illegitimate son.
Tell them about this music scene of 1950's
From 1949 onwards, socialist realism was imposed onto all fields of artistic creativity, from writing to painting to music. Jazz was arbitrarily branded as "decadent" and "anti-socialist". If at an official dance, the orchestra started playing anything with a fox-trot, samba or rhumba beat, they 
would immediately be ordered to interrupt what they were playing and return to the more traditional waltzes, polonaises and kujawiaks. At the same time, specialist magazines would publish lengthy and idiotic debates where eminent communists would argue whether augmented sixth chords were marxist, thus ideologically correct, or capitalist, thus possibly on the payroll of the CIA! What is perhaps equally shocking is that an accomplished musician, such as Wladyslaw Szpilman, who at that time held a high position in Polish radio, backed these absurd opinions, regardless of the fact that augmented sixths are common in Chopin, whose works Szpilman was a master of! In 1955, Leopold Tyrmand (writer and jazz activist) invited audiences to Jam Session No.1 and this was the first, revolutionary event in Polish Jazz. He was of course widely criticized by the media; I clearly remember one article, written by some communist bootlicker, whose headline ran "Tyrmand USAnkcjonowany", which is a play on words that translates as "Tyrmand Sanctioned" with the "USA" in capitals indicating possible foreign involvement. Personally, I started performing after the thaw of 1956, when Jazz was no longer strictly illegal - although it was still frowned upon. I guess you could say I was lucky.
Is the augmented sixth a capitalist?
No.
So this makes us ponder that the lives must be rough for artists like us, in those eras?
Yes, it definitely wasn't easy. Although I must say that musicians were better off than writers, who were always hit hardest by censorship. The official books were all about factory workers and peasants, love stories where you could read such marvels as "their love for each other augmented with the rising rate of sodium production"! As you know, I was kept in an UB (secret police) interrogation cell for a year, simply for suspected anti-stalinist sympathies. There was another man there, a fireman, who was imprisoned for having saved the entire communist Central Committee from a fire. After collecting his reward, he had the misfortune to utter "I wish this happened to me more often". A cleaning lady overheard him and dutifully reported it to the Party, who concluded that he had staged the whole thing! God knows what happened to him... On the other hand, it was an exciting time for me. There was a palpable dynamism in counter-culture. For example young fashionable men would go to great trouble to wear loud and colourful ties as a sign of protest against the drab, grey uniformity that was the norm back then. The shops stocked nothing but badly-tailored suits in various tones of grey, so if you wanted to express yourself, you had to buy imported clothes from Paris and America, on the black market. These ties were known as "bikini ties" and the people who wore them were named "bikiniarze". It was a common thing for the militia or ZMP (Polish Youth Union) to simply walk up to a bikiniarz and snip off his tie with a pair of scissors! Tyrmand used to wear mis-matched, colourful socks as a sign of protest. There was a lot going on even if it was difficult to do anything.
You prattle much of Tyrmand. Who else was around your circles in those eras?
In the late 1950's I started playing with the Modern Dixielanders and that's when my career as a musician truly begun. Most of my friends were also musicians of course, but the whole artistic milieu was pretty close in those days. For example, I was very close to Janusz Glowacki, who now enjoys a lot of success as a playwright in New York City; my band leader, Dudus Matuszkiewicz, went to Lodz film school, as did Roman Polanski. Polanski would often come to our shows and I remember going out to restaurants on Marszalkowska street with him and Dudek. He would also came to the Jazz Campings that were held in the Tatra mountains, where a lot of the most creative young people around got together. In 1959, I went on tour to France with the Modern Dixielanders. I remember how impressed I was when Polanski commented his school films in French!
You have also deducted some interesting theories into Polanski's group of friends, yes?
Well, I always found it very strange what happened to them. You see, all these brilliant young writers, actors and musicians that were around him then, died shortly afterwards, mostly in strange circumstances. Zbigniew Cybulski, the "rebel" actor of the day, was hit by a train in 1967; Marek Hlasko, one of our greatest contemporary writers, was probably assassinated by secret agents in 1969; Krzysztof Komeda, the composer, had a tragic skiing accident in the same year; Wojtek Frykowski, socialite and playboy, was murdered along with Sharon Tate by the Charles Manson gang, also in 1969. I still sometimes bump into Frykowski's old girlfriend, she was a real beauty in her day..... This interview really takes me back!
But you have also known your share of beauties, yes? (I make winking noise)
Ha! I will not say the contrary!
Tell them about some of these exceptional womanfolk.
You must know that the whole Jazz crowd was very excessive in those days. A lot of sex and alcohol. At one point I was drinking vodka so much that the other band members would cart me out of the car, plod me on my stool, and carry me back off after the show! So you will excuse me if my memory is a little fuzzy... There were always many women around us, actresses, artists, groupies, and the sexual freedom in our milieu was much greater than for the rest of Poland. We met girls on tour. We had sex parties. I remember how crazy these times were, like when Starowieyski (the famous artist) would get undressed before he entered my house! One story which I always found amusing is when I was going out with Elzbieta, a strip-tease artist. I clearly remember the time I went to pick her up after her show during Fidel Castro's state visit. She had just finished, when Castro walked in surrounded by an army of bodyguards. He must have liked what he saw, because he complained that he had missed her act and made her do it all over again for him! Oh, and this reminds me of another amusing story. When I was on tour in Cuba, with Ewa Demarczyk (the famous singer), we visited a jewelry shop in Havana. Now in those days, in Poland, unusually short miniskirts were the height of fashion. Demarczyk and Ewa Wanat (from the Novi band), wearing these fashionable clothes, were looking at some jewelry on a very low shelf, in such a way that they almost had to bend down to the floor, leaving nothing hidden to the imagination. We were standing outside when we heard a repeated shout after which the shop quickly filled up with men and the shopkeeper was soon forced to lock the door. Someone later translated the slogan that was being shouted as: "Campaneros! Comrades! The Polish women are showing off their asses in the shop!"
With such crazy stuff, I must ask if your adventures sometimes create disasters for you?
Hmm... The craziest situation I remember was in Harlem, New York. It must have been in the early 1970's. I had spent the night in a Jazz club there. There were only black people and I felt great. I spoke very poor English at that time and was not aware that white men wouldn't go to such a club. So after a great time of music and women and alcohol, these guys come up to me, point a gun at me and tell me to give them all I got. Of course I did what they said. But I was lost in a foreign city and had no idea how I would get back to my hotel. So I told my aggressors this. Couldn't they leave me just a couple of dollars? They didn't. But they did walk me to the bus stop and waited for the bus with me. When it came, the bus driver also turned out to be black, so they told him something like "We just robbed this white guy and he needs to get back to his hotel. Take him free of charge, will you?" And so I got home safely that night.
Thank you Jurek. You are total awesome BOSS, and dare I say, superstar of the People's Republic of Jazz!
Thank you Lyova. It has also been a great pleasure for me to share this with you.
Jerzy B must now be located playing in Tygmont Jazz club of Warsaw city, or just sipping his favourite Gin and Tonic at bar, along with other pioneers of this crazy Jazz eras.
Bangkok, 5.46 am: Ladyboy
May 10, 2005 07:02 PM
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PLAYBOYS & PAGERS
May 06, 2005 07:59 PM
(click picture now!)
The embryo years of 1990's in my area was marked by the rise and fall of the pager. Every ultra masculine of Grodno was to fashion it upon the discotek if he must be considered total playboy! I was one of these playboys. The pager, it provided me with multiples of womanfolk for the first eras of my large manhood. It bring me love. It bring me sex. It took my grandmother's money. And then it broke my heart...
My friend Ivan was the first. When he installed his premiere in "Malinka" bar (the local at Vasilishki) I make the green eyes to him on the spot and later I punch him. How could I be without these awesome technics? So I think some time to find high profit job and then disbursed my grandmother's pension into my new toy. It quickly become a most supreme revolutionary thing for me! I communicate through cipher with legions of the opposed genders and invent super-potent and, dare I say, total abnormal code for all my sexes! But the real joker of my pager was this: with it I must run many parallel erotical adventures in simultaneous and have my instruments all over the shops!
These pagers, they made facile the complex of sex and rural warfare. You get a 690, you know you will beat high scores tonight! You send a 691, you can be 100% that you will be acquainted with something extra amazing! You get a 510 and you assemble your pitchforks toward Vasiliy's collective farm... I made swift to develop the playboy reputations throughout the North Western lake district border zone of Byelorussia. No woman's body was alienated from me. No woman was unfamiliar with my special code names for suchlike "ultimate nosedive" and "ruminating the hairy trumpet". But my glory lives were short, and soon came the mobile telephone. Suddenly I could not be freed of being talked at by my womans, soon they would be aware of all the others. I had to lower my performances, and in the end, abandon the life of total primo playboy that the pager had bestowed to me. I raise my glass to these forgotten years, as a tear of old sex comes in my eyes...
(click for translation of pager codes. I add that the English is much less evocative and masculine parlance than the Byelorussian, so translations must be approximate).
PRIMO ANTHROPOLOGIST MAKES TAXIDERMIC IN PRIMO SLAVIC FOODSTUFFS
May 03, 2005 04:19 PM
Most countries spread out above this Earth are considering digestion of solid foodstuffs as a primordial to the intake of liquids. When you investigate the preparations of dinners and lunches, you think customary to include the pork first and only thereafter to divert to what your guest will enjoy in drink. But this is not the truth in all places. Behind the Iron Curtains, has been developed a TOTAL revolution of anterior models of consumption ; here we oppose to the limitation of biological statistic and, in true Hegelian fashion, make nature subordinate to man, by putting vital ingestion of foodstuffs after the pleasure of the beverage. So it is also in my homeland of Byelorussia and my ancestral Poland that we see the food only as accompaniment to the totally massive and, dare I say, bloodthirsty consumption of our national liquids, which is called "vodka". 
We even have specialistic nomenclature for this accessory foodstuffs; we call it "zakuski" which is maybe contiguous to your "snack". In the literal, it signifies to "make little prick at something", such as to put something under the tooth. As you can see, it only constitutes a fleeting moment, the time for absorbing the alcohols and maybe lining the stomach with premium fat, in order to make possible further drinking. A primo selection of zakuskis will make obligatory to include some of the following: salmons, vegetable salad, sprat, a diverse of herring (oftentimes made ready in its cloak of sour cream, onion and apple - I consider this one the king of herring, yes?) much saussage, blini, rye bread, salmon embryo, and likesuch. There are also various class of zakuski. The aristocratic or the industrial bourgeoisie make common the intake of caviar, which is exceeding incomes in my areas. In reverse, the penniless will enjoy with maybe only some peas. The mission is of collecting multifarious volumes of vodka, so one must always fight the overhung. This we also perform with total dexterity by devouring slices of pig fat in latter stages of overdose.
Still, the hero of the zakuska is not the zakuska itself, but the majestic and, I must state, heavyweight thing that is vodka. And so I compile for your gourmand desires, this gastronomical overview of my favorites:
We make lift-off with one who is maybe commonplace throughout the Former Soviet Union. The Stolichnaya variety, which you come to glimpse on your parents' tables when they make to entertain your decrepit relatives in the interminable feasts of the Holiday seasons (Christmas, Easter and name day is especially notorious). This variety is good, but in definitive not premium, as it wears itself without sex or style. It must not be glimpsed on the dance floor of the primo night clubs, and will not help guide your tongue into opposite orifice on first tryst. You will have more chance of utilizing this in full effect to subdue your grandmother, when she make boring your Sunday dinner by recalling ancient histories for whom you have no reverence (I overhaul this from my pubescence).
Second to this list comes the multiples of the sweet vodka. These come in variable denominations of fruits, such is like apple, lemon or cherry. When you are overtaken an age so advanced as mine (30), these will make you harrow in much nausea, because they revive the childish introduction you forced upon vodka at the age of eleven, at what time the more heavyweight still make you wince (you slowly progressed from juice to hardcore, yes?) From personal judgment I must not include these diminutive beverages on this list, but it remains that they make still ultimate effectiveness on the womanfolk, who enjoy to guzzle upon the bottle for numerous hours, and thus make your offensive slight. For this reasons, I entitle it the vodka in disguise (and I am too sneaky, yes?)
Now come the total warriors of vodka! First we apprehend the Zubrowka specimens, that can now make pride of world fame. It make me especially proud to announce its forthcoming, as it takes root in the same soils as myself: the impenetrable and, dare I say, savage prehistoric forestry of the Poland-Byelorussia borderzone. Here roams the great bison , who gives up his herbs for this premium vodka. If you investigate the picture at close hand you will witness the celebrity "bison grass". This drink you come to know well since first samplings in teen years. It has accompanied you on many quests and you consider it the "faithful dog"; and because it is perhaps the remnant vodka outside the Warsaw Pact nations, it is also the drink for nostalgia (I sometime come to glimpsing it here, in Japan, and it extends many teardrops from my eye). You hold it also in supreme reverence for reason of one absolute quality that is this: when you mix it with the apple juice, it make no alcohol taste on the tongue! This is why Zubrowka is king of romances and the total master of the first tryst. You fathom the possibilities of how far it can lead you, notwithstanding the ultimate penetrations! In our areas, it has also made big gossip as the "deflowerer of virgins", and much
virgin must truly be expressing its gratitude, believe me! (I hasten to develop, that I am not a fan of the virgin, but you shall sample more from this at later dates). So, ultimately, this vodka, which has much sex and panache is surely a maximator!
Next come the Nemiroff Honey-Pepper variety. This one you noticed on first contact because it carries with it the top class chili pepper! You take real enjoyment from the savour it make you experiment upon (at first you make astonished if such awesome and, dare I say, perverse thing as honey mix chili is possible, yes?) and perhaps you ordain it primo of all vodkas. However, this comes up for debate because it does not fare so swiftly with the opponent sex and you will struggle much if you take shelter in thinking that it must part her thighs, because - put your trust in my hands - it will not. You do, on other hands, make great 
usage from it on your male-male power struggles, because the chili dubs it a violent amongst vodkas.It is liquid equivalent of the "wrestling arms", and must also become the closest you will ever attain to homo-erotic tensions. Nemiroff has much virtues and, if not for the womanfolk element, I might place it on throne.
Finally, we bow down in front of the Zoladkowa Gorzka variety! This Polish name becomes "Bitter Stomach" in English tongue, but make not afraid! it is not so bad as the sound it lets out. We only make reference to "stomach" because it was everyday medicine before wartime. In our era, you have sighted it in every night club, on everyone's palms. It is now the Mr Popularity, and all younger peoples will not be found dead with it, because it simply holds too much life! You find it is unique taste of sweet and sour and make ultimate use of the herb in subtle manner. Maybe not so pleasant for the virgin as Zubrowka, it must be the drink of fashionable disco dancers, deft masculinity and the pinnacles of sexy! I think this is your drink Mimi, because it will make vibrate the din of your inner female, that clamours but is made silent without it. I make import of this fine beverage at some time,
and so I can vouch for that even the Japanese will not die with it!
I add coda of two abnormal specimens: the Spirytus is king of total hardcore. It is illegal everywhere but in Slavic places, because it is 93-97% pure alcohol. You must not be a true man if you did not attempt this in your adolescence,
as it is modern rite for most all fifteen year olds. It contains one minuscule problem: if you make blundering and swallow it, it will destroy your vocals and throat muscles, so you always remember to pour it straight down without the swallow part. This requires training and great skill. This is not a drink for the featherweight! Also there is Denaturated Alkohol which is in veracity a poison, that the lower strata of the proletariat are making fond usage of. In order not to make blind, they must first make a sifting through the bread; thereafter it will become safe! You do not touch these. I hope you make not grudge against me when I affirm that I see you, Joel, with one of these two, because I take you on as a part of Dostoyevski, to be maybe with angst and poetry or suicide, yes?
So this is what food is the excuse for in the Slavic places. If some of you survive unto Ukraine, Poland, Byelorussia or Russian Federation, you will make much use of my guidelines! And, as we say in my tongue: "Davay!"
TOTAL BOSS MAKE VISUAL JOYRIDE 4 U !!!!
May 02, 2005 11:11 AM
Hey Mimi! You make presumption as of my beauticious body, but you did not as yet partake upon the sampling of my totally full frontal handsome. This one picture is for your pleasuring alone, yes? (and other for enjoyment of other potential female). Enjoy!
Now maybe I make some word for introducing...
As all world (i make winking noise toward you: Mickey, Stefan and John) is aware, my name is Lyova Ivanovitch Lyubov, which is slavic parlance for "love", so you know I am already banged-out in the stars! It dispense upon me many primo arsenal for making siege to woman's heart, and I admit I have usurped this to maximum power and, dare I say, full throttle!
The Grodno district, from which I was spawned, is world famous for its industry (even in USA, you know Belkard-2000 cardan shafts, yes?) and its plethoric spirits (Zhaleika wine and Dytlovskoye Yubileinoye, to name but one); but having toiled much under the, dare I say, major league occupation of sampling the woman folk of the North Western Lake District border zone of Byelorussia, I undertook the ambition to make my horizons fat, and took leave on this plane to Japan. Here, life is making a complex puzzle for me, wherein the anthropologist in my bosom takes delight to confront many alienated culture. Some of you already know that sister is supreme model and make my lifestyle abundant, although I still pine for the 500 hard currency which this Mickey, Stefan and John make bestow on me. So like I previously make clear in their brains, I also tell you that I am not the ordinary type of blogman, but an oustanding and, dare I say, BOSS of blogman!!! My life is the fodder of numerous books, the stuff of wet dreams, the life all other blogmen was wishing to have. I have accomplished what no other Byelorussian has ever accomplished, by extricating myself from the North Western Lake District border zone of Byelorussia and finding a new vitality in Japan. You must believe my words, when I tell you there is no one comparative to my, dare I say, forceful masculinity, and that everyone is appetent for my talents, my stimulating existence, my multifarious women, my momentous good looks, my world class intelligence and my primo taste and abundant style.
Furthermore, I take great titillation to discover and make mingle with so many outstanding and, dare I say, appetizing fellow blogmen. Mimi (you have already left an imperishable blotch in my hearts), Sonny (the man of arms and moral juice), Medya (my Kurdish brother), Joel (who make the mood swing like the woman) and Ritchey (who make powerfull appeal against the capitalistic-imperialistic with guns) : you sense too that now is the start of the beatiful friendship, yes? And Crash, James, Karsh, Eddie, Lois and Willow, I sense there is also massive powerhouse in you, but you must make more talk, and then we will be forever.
Love,
Lyova Lyubov