More Bad Grammar

The title of the last post contains a grammatical mistake, proving that I use bad grammar not only in my second language, but also in my native language which I am supposed to be teaching....

My Bad Grammar and Bad Taste in Russian Music is Discovered

For the purposes of this entry, familiarize yourself with this man, Dima Bilan. Obviously, the first thing you’ll notice is the mullet. (Side note: Russians love mullets.) His music is sort of like an overproduced version of Justin Timberlake, or maybe would be better described as Russia’s belated answer to Ricky Martin. For some songs, his writers have come up with an English version as well as a Russian version or vice-versa, as in the case of “Never Never Let You Go.” His followers are mostly 10-25 year-old girls.



Mr. Bilan snared me with a relatively famous tune, “Время-Река,” or “Time is a River,” which has a second verse that would not sound out of place in Radiohead’s The Bends. Needless to say, however, it’s still music for teenage girls. A half verse:

Как же сложно может быть (How hard can it be)
Невозможно все забыть (It’s impossible to forget it all)
А также можно по течению плыть, плыть (But it’s also possible by the course to swim, swim)

At my weekly Russian lesson, we went over a phrase with the modifier “в течение” which means “in the course” or “during.” I asked why not “по течению,” (the same noun, “current” with the preposition “around/about/by”) and the jig was up. As I know now, the latter modifier is only used when you are talking about swimming. It was also very prominently and recently used in that song. My Russian teacher didn’t mention directly that she knew where I picked up the phrase but when she nearly quoted the last line of the lyrics above, then winked and tried to hold back her mocking laughter, it was pretty clear that she knew.

I don’t care what she thinks. Maybe I find Bilan’s metaphor of time as a river eloquent. Maybe I’m writing an article comparing the song, which contains the lyric “Я утону, пойду к дну” (“I’m going to drown, to go to the bottom.”), to Maksim Gorky’s На дне (At the Bottom). Maybe I like listening to music where the singer isn’t shouting the words monotonously, like the leader singer of almost every Russian rock band. If I ever decide to grow a mullet, though, please intervene.

Banging Hookers

Well, all the results of my graduate school and Fulbright application are in. For those interested, I'll probably be staying on my Fulbright in Russia for another year. For those more interested in my continuing adventures in Ryazan', this means that I can finally talk about the filthy shit I've been doing the last half year. It also means I can swear.

Actually, and unfortunately, nothing too debauched has happened, but I will qualify my actions in the next story. I've made vague references to people living in the stairwell of my building. In principle, I have a lot of sympathy for the homeless. From childhood, I hadn't a whole lot of experience with the homeless, but I had watched a lot of TV and I knew that they were good, kind people whose lives had gone wrong, like in Home Alone and Home Alone II.

The reality of living this lady everyday for three months of winter was really unpleasant, from the bags of trash in the stairwell to the cat she kept which peed everywhere. A couple days after we put in the new lock she was back again. As I noted in a previous post, the combination is not hard to figure out if you're desperate or have time. I couldn't quite figure out what was so attractive about this location in particular, nor could I figure out why no one was doing anything.

In Russian the verb "to pee" sounds a lot like the verb "to write," and the infinitive is the same with a different stress (PIsat' vs. piSAT'). This is a very common mistake for foreigners. I stepped in a puddle one day coming home so I gave the homeless lady a talking to about controlling her cat. Then I ran into my next door neighbor who owns his apartment and has lived there forever. I also had heard him in the stairwell alternately yelling and talking very congenially to this lady. So I said, "That cat pees everywhere.... You heard me. Pees. Tsssssss."

About two weeks ago I found out why my neighbor had mixed feelings toward her. I was fed up with the lady living on the steps, in particular because winter had basically ended, so went to tell her that I was going to call the police if she didn't find a new place. She turned around and said, "I'm going to call mom!" I said, "My mom?" She said, "No, mine. MOM! MOM!" She looks like she's about 55 years old, although I wouldn't be surprised if she was 10-15 years younger. At this point I was convinced she was crazy. I called the police who came surprisingly quickly. She told them her mom lived in apt 29. The lady in 29 vouched for her. The mother said that she won't let the lady on the steps live in the apartment because she doesn't have a job and she drinks but that she feeds her all the same. The police said they couldn't do anything because she technically lives in this building. Now she's gone. As my laundry lady said, "When spring comes, behind every bush lies a bed." Maybe she just went to her dacha for the summer.

Hair and Jesus in the Det-Dom

A student of mine volunteers every Saturday at a Det-Dom (children's shelter for orphans or those with parents incapable of taking care of their children). I found this out last semester when she told me she was not coming to my Saturday class anymore. At the time this really annoyed me, but it turned out not to be a big deal because I moved my class to a different day anyway. She still skipped the class relatively often. On a side note, it astounds me how people who do volunteer work are often incredibly irresponsible in non-volunteer life (i.e., school or work).

At the Fulbright mid-year seminar a lot of people caught Det-Dom fever from a presentation given by a grantee. I didn't. I don't particularly like children; however, I like doing volunteer work and my teaching schedule this semester is really light so I asked my student if I could go with. She agreed. At our next class, she informed me that this was a Christian volunteer organization. Says she, "We play with the kids and then we talk about God." As a rule, I dislike religious volunteer groups. I find it rather involuntary to offer help (juice boxes) on the condition that your client must listen to your religious opinions and repeat them before the help is forthcoming. I agreed to come anyway, mostly in the hope that I could meet with the administration and set up my own time to come.

The situation went from bad to worse when I met up my student and I found out that the Det-Dom is located in Pronsk, about an hour and a half from Ryazan by car. She took me to the group's shed on the edge of the city. Before we could leave, the group had to find a specific episode of The Flying House, a cartoon about a time traveling house whose inhabitants use it to hang out with Jesus. This involved an hour watching six tapes of the cartoon in fast forward. I tried to lighten the mood with various time travel jokes, but my references to Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure were not well received. (Another side note: I was treated to the episode of The Flying House where Judas betrays Jesus. I don't know the full background of this show, but I would assume the kids in the show went back to a backwater province of the Roman Empire for Jesus. Thus, they should know the Bible or at least the part with Jesus. Aren't they as guilty as Judas because they didn't tell Jesus of his future betrayal? Last side note: I'm not particularly familiar with the new testament but apparently one of the Marys washes Jesus's feet with oil and her hair. Disgusting and awkward for both parties, in my opinion.) Between the philosophical differences and the amount of time it was going to take I almost wimped out but I couldn't muster a good excuse and so I went with them.

Aside from a somewhat awkward ride there and back, it was really fun. The kids were great and took to me, mostly because the teachers and volunteers nearly all female, meaning I'm the closest they will get to a male role model. I couldn't really gage their living situation but they seem to be living a relatively normal life at least in comparison to some of the horror stories I heard about other orphanages in Russia. One very noticeable particularity was the boys' haircuts. A few boys had a normal haircut (as long as two inches of hair), the rest had buzz cuts. Of the boys with buzz cuts, most of them also had two inch long bangs hanging down over their foreheads. My student and two other volunteers did proselytize through activities, but some of their efforts were thwarted by the kids. My student had the children make a picture by coming up one by one and drawing a single thing. While the first three kids drew geometrical shapes on the sides of the poster, the fourth bravely put the sharpie in the middle of the canvas and drew a smiling Satan.

Lapses in Judgement

Because of the break, my sense of time and scheduling was a little messed up. Thus, I had (and still have) been missing a lot of basketball practices. Power forward and muzhik, Vovan calls me up to belatedly celebrate both the New Year, his birthday and general lack of hanging out. I, bearing The Godfather w/ Russian subtitles and Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (thanks, Mom), meet him and another player on the street, and I don't really remember a whole lot afterward (sorry, Mom).

The next morning I wake up to my door buzzer and the hum of two women discussing whether anyone is home. The ladies want money to give the guy who is going to install the new door lock to the apartment building. They're also surprised and pleased that I didn't make an attempt to clothe myself. I can't really think so I reach into my coat and hand them whatever bills I have. They take 100 rubles and, giggling, stuff the rest into my underwear. I lay on the couch sleeping or reading most of the day.

Night falls and I still feel terrible, so I gather my strength for the 200 meter walk to the grocery store for a beer and M&Ms. I'm pleased to see that though the smell in my stairwell lingers, the source of the smell seems to be gone. As soon as I close the door behind me I try the combination, the old combination, and it doesn't work. I'm not distraught at this point. I get my beer and candy. Returning to my door, I try the combination again and it still refuses to work. By this time, it's roughly 10:30 on a Wednesday night and no one comes after 20 minutes. No one is going to come either for the next hour and a half, or longer for all I know. It's -15 degrees celsius. I'm wearing really thin, canvas, 200-ruble shoes and no socks. Or gloves. Or a hat. So, I resort to my romantic comedy education and start throwing peanut M&Ms at 2nd story windows, concentrating on those with their lights on. After a few successful shots at one of these windows, it opens and a little girl in her pyjamas pops her head out: "What do you want?" "Open the door. I live here." "What?" "Little girl, give me the code, please, it's freezing. I forgot to wear socks." "Try 140...or 150." "No good. Can you open the door yourself?" Little girl goes inside for a couple minutes and then returns, "No, I'm alone. Good night." I suppose that was a smart move on her part but I don't understand why she had to go inside to make that decision if she was alone. The door code is a three number combination where no number is repeated. This means that the first number can be one of ten, the second one of nine, and the third one of eight. Thus, there are only 720 combinations. I did this calculation as I warmed my hands before trying every combination until I got the right one, a little more than halfway through the possibilities. This calculation is wrong now that I think about it. There are less. It was cold, sue me.

Private Bureaucracy

This is a sort of banal history. Last week I bought a computer mouse at Tekhno-Sila (trans. Techno-Strength, very comforting to the security minded indeed). Upon arriving home, I realized I had bought a mouse with the wrong connector. Now, the mouse cost 359 rubles, which is about $13 but I'm on vacation and the store is a ten minute walk, so I decided to exchange it:

Trip 1: Forgot the receipt

Trip 2: I make sure I have the receipt. Then I go to the information desk, where they tell me I need to go to the cash registers, on the other side of the building. At the cash registers, the lady shouts that I have to talk to Sergei, the kontrol'er, the ONLY person who can complete this transaction. Sergei, the kontrol'er is near the entrance, distinguished from his yellow-polo clad minions by his purple shirt. I explain that I need to exchange the mouse. He's willing to help, but he needs my passport (?) to document the transaction.

Trip 3. I make sure I have the receipt and my passport. I find Sergei and he remembers me. He reaches into a cabinet for a stack of forms. I give him my passport. Sergei meticulously fills out every form from my visa information and, dissatisfied with my middle name, officially renames me Seth Jamesich. The form needs my passport's issuer and date of issue. This has not been translated into Russian so I have to show Sergei where it is on my passport. I even translated the organization into Russian, but Sergei doesn't need my translation, as he is very carefully writing "New Orleans Passport Agency" in Latin script. Sergei can transliterate English, French or German. This is why they pay him the big bucks. This is why he gets the purple shirt. I get my passport back and go to get the replacement, while Sergei continues filling out the duplicate forms. When I get back, he has just finished the paperwork and has started putting it into the computer for electronic storage. Finally, he prints off the the last form and has me sign. He explains, "This form is to prove that you brought back the merchandise. This form is to prove that you received your new merchandise. This form is to show that you verify the information from your visa." Finally, we get to the cash register, where the final transaction must take place. Sergei looks at me with wet eyes: "Well, I'll leave you with her now." Me: "Thank you, Sergei. You're a gentleman and a scholar." Sergei: "Please...come again." So I am left with cashier Valeria, who reaches into her cabinet for a stack of papers....

Long story short, it took me about an hour to exchange the mouse without having to wait in any line at all. In other news:

-I spent a nice half week outside of Russia in Riga. Not that Riga is that great but my hotel had free cable internet and there were no stray dogs on the streets.
-Ryazan' Transit authority has outraged the population by raising public transportation prices from 5 to 6 rubles per bus ride (from 20 to 25 cents, approximately).
-My apartment building's lock broke (three months ago) and the homeless/drunk population continues to use my stairwell as a public bathroom/hotel.

Merry Christmas

Here's some pictures from the Christmas party I had for a group of my students. Good, clean, Russian fun which included a rousing tableside performance of the first verse and chorus of "Jingle Bells" repeated over and over again.


Candid Shot: Tanya and Natasha have a heart-to-heart while Ann and Vasya play music and Nastya and other Tanya dance.


At the table clockwise: me (with bowl haircut), Natasha, Tanya, other Tanya, Ann


At the other side of the table: Lera, Me, Nastya, other Lera


Preparing for dinner, Natasha, Tanya, other Tanya, Nastya, yet another Tanya, Ann


Of course, no Christmas would be complete without an exchange of gifts. My students gave me a very nice photo album for Christmas. I gave them a government required exam.

Soviet Camaraderie

Wednesday I went to a historical conference commemorating the 65th anniversary of the battle for Moscow. I was supposed to give a speech on something like "American Historical Memory of WWII." The whole idea made me a little nervous for a couple reasons:

1. Lots of old soldiers, loyal Soviets, angry pensioners. These are people who may not be so receptive to American perspective on WWII, no matter how much I qualify it by saying it's not my own personal perspective.
2. Speaking to crowds is not my forte, especially in Russian.

More than this, I had no idea what the conference was going to be like, aside from the fact that it was in Mikhailov, a town 60 kms west of Ryazan with about 100,000 people, whose only claim to fame is that it was one of the places the Germans were stopped. As it turned out, the conference was basically my university's History Department plus the old soldiers and, according to the schedule, my section of the conference was on WWII general history. Unfortunately, I was transferred to the "Battle of Moscow Memorial" Section, the section I feared most of all.

In all actuality there was nothing to fear. The conference was rather poorly organized, in that they scheduled 15 speeches in 2.5 hours, meaning each speech was supposed to be 10 minutes or less. Obviously, this didn't happen. Also, at the sections no one was well known enough to attract any interest. So the only people there were the speakers, who were just waiting for their turn to talk. My favorite moment was when the toothless 80 year-old former soldier, carefully watching the time on his cell phone, exclaimed, "Excuse me! Everyone has 10 minutes and you've just passed the 11th!" My speech went over well, in part because it was on a very different subject than the other presentations. Also, I did it in 8 minutes.

A Star is Bernstein

Last week my students invited me to the theatre with them. The play was "Krotkaya," an adaptation of a Dostoevsky short story. The theatre group was a trio from Skopin, a small town south of Ryazan. The play was pretty weird, modern theatre from the provinces, and between the strange performance and my unfamiliarity with the story, I didn't catch a whole lot.

After the play, my students and I were standing outside the hall, talking about the play (ie, my students explaining the play to me), basically alone because all the other spectators had gone to get their coats. Then I saw a camera crew from Ren-TV, a Russian network, coming toward us. I explained to my students that I didn't want to be on TV but, of course, the first thing they said was, "We came to the theatre with our foreigner teacher," and the camera turned on me. They showed it at 7:00pm the next day. I didn't say a whole lot, I think it was something like this: "Yeah, I teach English at the University. I didn't really get the play but it was good, a little strange. I don't know." I fully expect to get a weekly cultural analysis segment with that kinda insight and charm.

History

I'm applying to grad schools for history now and while looking for various information I found this document, the preface to my term paper for Junior Honors History. It's still as relevant as ever:


Forward:

When I started this paper yesterday, I had no idea anyone would read it. Yet, in spite of all the distractions, I believe I wrote the finest historiography of the Burr Conspiracy. Ever.
Although I conceived papers that struck home before, (Bernstein, “King Arthur vs. Rethro: Attack of the Barbophile,” Kenyon College, 2002. Bernstein, “Art History, Fart History,” Kenyon College, 2001.) my own writing, until yesterday, had never brought me to tears. In many ways, Burr’s life mirrors my own. We are both renowned ladies men. We both killed famous politicians. We were both possibly guilty of treason (Depending on whether your definition of US soil includes Jenna Bush).
Burr is my inspiration, regardless of speculative history that has tried to place his life into the neat framework of my own. However, this work would not be complete if I did not express my gratitude to friends and accessories. Foremost, I would like to thank the kid from Jerry Maguire without whose shining example, I may not be alive today. Secondly, I would like to thank Sam Bowie for his mediocre strength in the face of speculation (PS. Sam, we finally did it!). Last (but not least!) I would like to thank Delta Burke for guiding me into manhood.
On my final note, I would like to thank Gerald McRaney in advance for not taking me to the street and breaking me.

Note from the Russian University

I thought I would post some differences between American and Russian universities. In general, going to college is a job in Russia rather than a way of life, like it is in American. Russian universities rely on a large number of class hours relative to American universities and far more in the major subject. Monday thru Saturday there are four class period of 1.5 hours each. Students have classes five days a week and an average of three classes a day, meaning a little more than 20 class hours a week. On the other hand, Russian students have less than one hour of homework for every hour of in class time. Almost all of their classes are in the major subject, or failing that, in a related subject. For example, my third year groups have four English classes, six second foreign language classes and five lectures on foreign history and economics or teaching.

Students generally enter the university at 16 or 17 meaning the first year of college in Russia replaces senior year at American high schools. As you might expect, a lot of Russian students lack some of the general knowledge American high school graduates have but have an excellent background in their major subject. When they enroll they are placed in a group of 9-12 students and assigned their academic schedule. For language students, this also means an assigned third language. Some of my students were extremely (and not particularly pleasantly) surprised to find that this year their group had been assigned to learn Japanese.

The age of Russian students also means they are sometimes not as mature as you would expect college students to be (maybe my expectation of college students is too high). Last week I was in my history class, listening to a lecture about the origins of the first False Dmitri. This is a first year class on Ancient Russian history with the very youngest students and I was sitting in the back row, trying not to interrupt anything. This girl sitting in front of me repeatedly turned around to take a peak at me, finally placing a notebook near me on the desk. Inside the notebook was this note:

Ryazan' State University vs. Radio-Akademia

I'm going to try my hand at sports reporting:

The Ryazan' State University Basketball Club's season was off to a rough start. After a much celebrated overtime victory over the Med-Akademia, the team fell in its next game by double digits to the Engineering Institute. But more was on the line besides a victory. Anton, a sharpshooting small forward practicing with the University, was playing for the opposition, Radio-Akademia. Tensions were clearly at a peak between the two teams.


Volodia and Mekhin Warm Up

In the first half, the bulky center from Radio-Akademia dominated Ryazan' University's wiry big man, Aleksandr Kuzmin. The University's fast break attack could not compensate for the enormous disparity in foul shots and the treacherous sixth-man, Anton, added off the bench scoring from the three point line. At the break, the score was 38-30, in favor of Radio-Akademia.


Sergei Efimov Drives

In the second half, the University regrouped behind power forward and captain, Volodia and small forward Artyom Mekhin. Behind by as much as 15 in the second half, the two combined for 18 points from the long range to catch Radio-Akademia with 3 minutes remaining. The other Volodia, the backup center, fouled out on an intentional foul call, giving Radio-Akademia four free throw shots and the ball; however, Radio-Akademia went cool from the line, missing nearly all its free throw shots in the fourth quarter.


Volodia from the Top of the Key

With half a minute remaining, Mekhin made a clutch layup, giving the University its first lead of the game, 60-59. The next possession, Radio-Akademia searched for a way to regain the lead, nearly turning the ball over with five seconds remaining. After a time out, Radio-Akademia went to its main option, who got a questionable foul call at the end of regulation. Despite the free-throw woes they experienced, Radio-Akademia's point guard sank both free throws, winning the game 61-60.


Coach Arkhipov Talks It Over

After the game, captain Volodia was reached for comment, "Well, [censored], that sucked. Let's go get some beers."

Living Large in Ryazan

Oksana from the Fulbright office came to visit and I had the unfortunate dilemma of figuring out something to do in Ryazan. It's just kind of a working city without places of interest. So, of course, we went to the Ryazan Kremlin, the one place you can count on every Russian city to have. Here's the cultural lesson I gave:

Ryazan is one of the older Russian cities, among the first to be incorporated into Muskovite Russia. The first Ryazan was actually about 60 miles downriver (on the River Oka) but the Mongol-Tatars destroyed it in the 13th century. New Ryazan was Pereslavl-Ryazan. It has all the trappings of a regular Russian city: nice Kremlin, lots of blocky cement buildings with Russian neo-classical buildings interspersed, good bus service. The city itself is quite small, about the size of Iowa City but with a larger population (about 500,000). The downtown area is basically a triangle from Victory Square, where the electronics firm Eleks recently declared victory over high prices, to historic Lenin's Square, where Lenin finally admitted to himself that he was really bald, to Theatre Square, where nothing important has ever happened. It's all pretty well built up but as you get outside this area there are the Soviet style apartment buildings and older wooden houses further out. No fast food places. On Sundays the Central Market has chickens and rabbits for sale. It's famous personalities include the poet Sergey Esenin and behavioral psychologist Ivan Pavlov.

Last few weeks I've been exploring the city more, teaching, living, not posting. Here are some highlights:

-Students in Group E go nuts for the song "The Distance" by Cake, which got two encores, after which they borrow the disk to make copies and still haven't returned it two weeks later
-Students in Group E not so crazy about "Frankly, Mr. Shankly" by the Smiths or "Kate" by Ben Folds Five
-Set up on a very blind date with a high school student by a teacher at the university
-The basketball players suggest that we go to the banya to relax...and get prostitutes
-I learn how to tactfully refuse unwanted invitations
-Apartment move in finally complete with purchase of couch, shower curtain and toilet seat

Retraction

I am now in possession of my watch, so I take back my nickname for the Ryazan University team. They can be the Wildcats. John R. Tunis would be proud.

Good news aside, I've been assigned to play with what is clearly the B Team. Coach actually called it something different but I didn't catch it so I don't know if it was comforting or insulting. Anyway, my thinking is that the rest of the guys are inferior players but in my case he just wants to give his full attention to eligible players. Right? Silver lining is that I'm the biggest guy both in height and weight so I can pull out my Shaq game. The Dredle patended post spin hasn't made this many appearances since Amish Electricians scrimmages.

Also, to my fellow teachers С Днем Учителя! These school holidays all seem like excuses for teachers to take bribes of flowers or candy in exchange for excusing absences or letting students go early. As for me (to borrow my students' only phrase to preface a personal opinion or experience), the film class gave me a nice pen and I let them go early. I figured that they had been good enough to humor me playing See No Evil, Hear No Evil that I owed them anyway.

Lyceum #4

As recommended by the Fulbright Organization, I contacted a school to arrange to give lessons/speeches for higher level English classes. When I went there to set things up, the teachers seemed half enthusiastic; it's nice to have a native speaker but it would be better if I were British, or Australian. They gave me some vague instructions about coming anytime during a six hour period on Tuesdays and that I could talk about anything I want.

When I came to Russia, I prepared a couple one-shot lessons for situations like this. Unfortunately, they're about history or baseball and students just aren't interested. Basically, the audience breaks off into two groups: the students, who want to know what Americans think of Russia (Do they, you know, like Russia? or do they "like" like Russia?) and the teachers, who want to know about "American Values." Today, they had a lesson on addiction and after I talked about 12-step programs, the teacher started to grill me. My favorite question was when she asked if American values included conquering the world. My second favorite was if I had tried drugs and, if so, did I hear colors. My answers, all lies: no, no and no.

Ryazan State University Pirates

I started practicing with the university's basketball team last week and much to my surprise, comported myself pretty well on the court. The players are a year or two younger than me all about my height, with the exception of Sanya, the center. Half the players are named Sergei and the other half are named Aleksander. It’s made life a little easier. The practices are kind of informal; we start with running, a couple jumping/shooting/defense exercises and then a scrimmage. In the games I play a Reggie Evans-esque role: lots of boards, a couple points, a couple fouls. No Goosing.

Everyone’s been really helpful explaining the exercises if I don’t understand but in general it’s not too hard because basketball is a lot of nouns and not much grammar. I asked the coach if the team has a mascot or a nickname and apparently they don’t; however, after the second practice I went back to the locker room to find that my watch and socks (!) were gone. I’m more perplexed than mad because someone went through my gym bag where I had left my wallet, passport, etc, and decided that, in addition to a watch, men’s hosiery would make the plunder complete. I’m not going to let it discourage me (although I will leave my stuff in the office) but I have decided to give the Ryazan University team a nickname.

PS. I know it was a Sergei.

Proud to be an American

Before I came to Russia I received the same round of briefings as the last time. In general, these orientation events are designed to scare you a little bit or as time fillers. They tell you about what the political climate is like in Russia, how you can expect people to react to your nationality and, should they react badly, how to make everyday items into weapons. With respect to the second topic, I have encountered very little anti-American sentiment directed at me personally except at a truck stop somewhere between Yaroslavl and Moscow. With all this in mind, I was completely unprepared for my reception at the history class I'm auditing, a lecture on Medieval Russia. I walked in, sat down in the back right corner and heads started to turn. Clearly, I was out of place. After about 5 minutes of this the professor walked in, introduced me as his American Colleague and the entire class (about 70 people) broke out into spontaneous applause! Pretty easy crowd. Turns out they were just fans of my work.

Teaching Rushmore:

Three times a week I have movie classes with three different groups. Although I was encouraged to play films that portray American or British values (To Kill a Mockingbird, Twelve Angry Men, My Fair Lady), I decided to balk at tradition and show something a little more contemporary. My students are in the third year where the topics for the semester are Theatre and Education. What could be better than a movie about a 15 year-old who writes plays?

Most of the kids like it, mostly for the drama with Ms. Cross and Max (my classes are about 90% female). They get most of the jokes and are, I hope, learning grammar and vocabulary. Some moments they just don't understand, in particular the conflict between Max and Dirk and Magnus. The lynchpin to this (for those of you who have not seen the movie) is that Max claims that Dirk's mom has given him a hand-job. A lot of the movie won't make sense if you don't know that word. This brings me to class today, where I felt a little like a dad with his 9 year-old son, trying to explain what a hand-job is without being too specific and while trying to avoid gestures. "It's something you do with your hand in a bed or a car, really anywhere. And it's a man, or in this case a boy, and a woman and they're touching.... Let's just say that Max said something bad about Dirk's mom." I suppose that this was enough. Maybe some of the girls really did understand and will let the others know in hushed whispers. Otherwise, I guess they'll never be able to get jobs making overdub scripts for porn.

The Meeting About Basketball

The Ryazanskii Prospekt is a triple entendre. It's literally a street in Moscow, figuratively my prospect of living, teaching and studying in Ryazan for a year and the never-to-be-written novella about a basketball player from Ryazan (Think The Scout but with Harrison Ford as the Albert Brooks type character. Who else could do the Russian accent?).

I've been here two weeks. It's good. Got some good, non-offensive stories. Sometime I'll go back a little bit if things are boring. Yesterday I had expressed an interest in playing basketball while in Ryazan. My host University, Ryazan State University, has been really great about providing everything I want, so I shouldn't have been surprised when I was told later that day that I had a meeting with the Dean of Physcultura at 10 the next morning.

I went with my advisor, the head of the linguistics department, who is very small (5'3" at best), a distinguished, cultured, older scholar. The Dean of Sports turned out to be a hulking man (6'7", maybe 280 pounds, two of which were made up by his moustache). Think of a Southern defensive lineman turned AD with an almost incomprehensibly masculine voice. I love the contrast.

I suspect they were under the impression that I had played college ball or even high school ball, an impression of which I firmly disabused them. We talked about the position I played (small forward) and when I can play, what it will be like, etc. And as every story should have a punchline this one does, too. The Dean told me he had a friend who had played in the NBA, for the Portland Trailblazers. I was hoping it was Terry Porter but at heart I knew who it was. The Dean turned around the signed, framed photograph on his desk to reveal number 11, Sabas himself, Arvydas Sabonis.