The gentle reader may remember my post of a couple of months ago in which I proved to my own satisfaction – after all, isn’t this what counts in almost every contentious argument? – that the Russians did not kill JFK…
The gentle reader may not have heard of a Russian named Alexander Dugin, but all the same he exists.
We exchanged some pleasantries, he patted my son on the head, and then he said, “You’ve gained some weight, haven’t you?”
The grassy knoll has firmly established itself in the narrative in the form of a Dairy Queen in Orem, Utah, but there are a myriad other suchlike tropes.
Vasily, who turns four next month and whose verbal incursions are now all but irrepressible, doesn’t want me to “work.”
I am quite fond of political assassinations, though not in totalitarian countries, of course. I like to witness them in countries that actually have some kind of body politic…
My son Nikolai, the grownup one, reports from Venice, where he lives on one of the islands, describing a visit to an exhibition at the Procuratie Vecchie in Piazza San Marco.
I’m often asked if I ever feel nostalgic about the old country, and the answer is that I do when some outlandish saying crosses my mind.
I met Ghislaine Maxwell in the 1980’s, when she was still working with her father, socialist tycoon and fraudster Robert Maxwell.
The world outside my windows is so full of malign omens that today I shall be looking inward, or rather downward.
