Wednesday, October 31, 2007

A Day in the Life of a Ukrainian Male

7:07am: My father wakes me up with the tortured coughs and gags of a dry-heaving fit.

7:37am: I am again awakened, this time by my rupturing large intestine, painfully suggesting its need to expel only a small percentage of the hot dog and sausage meat I've been eating for the past 27 years.

7:40am: Stomach stops convulsing. Expulsion: complete.

7:42am: My ass is bleeding uncontrollably due to overuse of 30 grit toilet paper. I am crying.

7:45am: Back to bed, amid curses in Russian.

8:18am: Alarm sounds. I turn it off because I have no job, and Mom gets pissed when I abuse the snooze, and I am in no position to deal with that bitch right now.

10:41am: Wake up to the sounds of horny cats exchanging mating calls in the courtyard outside.

10:42am: Urinate. Emit audible sigh. Chernigivske feels a lot better on the way out.

10:43am: Resist impulse to shower.

10:44am: Exit bathroom without pausing at the sink to consider washing my hands or teeth. Not as if there's soap or toothpaste to use anyway.

10:55am: Devour a sausage and eggs breakfast, while desperately trying to ignore my father's rant on how Tymoshenko fucked the last election for everybody. I'm also trying to ignore the bits of food reflecting off his last remaining incisor.

11:04am: Return to my bedroom, and play my favorite shitty Ukrainian pop song for the 6,429th time this week while I…

11:05am: …Put on my fake Gianfranco Ferre Shirt o' the Day, fake D&G Jeans o' the Day, and Fake Leather Pointed Loafers o' the Day.

11:08am: Inspect self in mirror. Adjust shrinking groin area. Gesticulate a gunfiring motion to falsify confidence.

11:10am: Gel hair forward. Remove dandruff flakes from bang area. Give no thought to the possibility they may exist elsewhere.

11:11am: Crowd onto the marshutka towards town center. Driver is wearing a "Fuck You You Fucking Fuck" t-shirt. I give him a hi-five. I hope everyone saw me do that.

11:12am: Terrify the blazing-hot girl seated underneath my outstretched arm with a combination of my rancid body funk and date rape vibe I'm exuding.

11:21am: Exit marshutka onto Svobody Avenue and promptly buy a 0.5L beer at news kiosk.

11:34am: Finish beer #1 as my friend Roman shows up to loiter at Shevchenko monument. I can't believe he also wore his black fake Gianfranco Ferre shirt today. I punch him in the face, knowing full well that fake Gianfranco Ferre shirts come in only one color.

11:36am: I am approached by a policeman who had witnessed said act of aggression.

11:39am: I have 20 less UAH ($4US) to spend on beer and cigarettes. My teeth and gums thank the officer sincerely.

11:44am: Buy another beer. Resume position in front of Shevchenko monument.

11:58am: Finish beer #2. Shampoo effect kicking in nicely. Time for a cigarette.

11:58:25am: Cigarette: gone.

11:59am: Yell at some passing girl in tight black capris adorned with gold buckles and buttons.

11:59:05am: Shudder when she turns around and flashes teeth worse than mine.

12:03pm: Commit to buying more than one beer at a time. Clearly, today is no different from yesterday.

12:06pm: Spend my last 15 UAH ($3) on three more beers. Kiosk attendant gives knowing glance.

12:11pm: Remember I have to meet my girlfriend Olga for a date at 12:30. Shit.

12:13pm: Finish beer #3.

12:17pm: Finish beer #4.

12:21pm: Finish beer #5.

12:21pm: Borrow 5UAH ($1) from Roman.

12:23pm: Buy beer at kiosk.

12:27pm: Finish beer #6. Fully lathered now.

12:29pm: Borrow 5UAH more from Roman.

12:30pm: Buy beer at kiosk. Attendant unphased.

12:38pm: Arrive at Opera House to meet Olga. She looks great. I look like a Cinco de Mayo piƱata.

12:39pm: Olga rolls her eyes. I'm drunk again.

12:43pm: I roll my ankle. I'm drunk again.

12:44pm: Olga comments that our walking date has become a limping date. I love her sense of humor, but I'm sensitive to criticism so I berate her as part of a public spectacle to exhibit my waning dominance.

12:47pm: Continue our walking date. She window shops while I smoke cigarettes relentlessly in anticipation of my next beer.

12:58pm: Olga takes pity on me, and buys me a beer. My excuse that I left my ATM card at home is met with more eye rolling.

12:59pm: Nearly half an hour after my last beer, the first sip tastes so good. It's warm, but it's getting the job done. Olga can say whatever the fuck she wants. I'm not even listening.

1:24pm: It occurs to me that since Olga bought me the beer, not a word has been spoken. It similarly occurs to me that for once in my life, this ridiculous hand-holding over her shoulder (around her neck) finally proves useful. I have a beer-buying human crutch for a girlfriend. My limp is negligible, and all is right with the world.

1:31pm: I am essentially dry-humping Olga as we walk past storefront windows containing items neither of us can possibly afford.

1:35pm: Quietly rummage through Olga's purse with my off-hand for some Hrivna with which to buy my next beer. I could ask, but I just don't feel like talking.

1:41pm: Olga is in the McDonald's bathroom. I am outside, perched underneath a full bottle of beer, hoping to finish before she finds out who bought it.

1:44pm: Olga returns, and suggests we eat at McDonald's. What does she think? I'm made of fucking money?!?!?!?

1:48pm: Oh yea, she's buying. Again. Score!! Supersize.

1:50pm: The only smell worse than the stench of a McTasty is whatever is being secreted by my underarm glands. Man, I'm hungry.

1:58pm: Done eating, Olga needs to get back to her job at the bank. I need to get to Shevchenko monument before Roman finds something better to do. An unlikely scenario, but the beer has me acting a bit paranoid.

2:02pm: Suggest we get together to bone later that night. She says something about something, and I nearly pass out from the energy it took just to listen.

2:14pm: Back at the monument, drinking one of Roman's beers. Lose count of how many beers I've had, but understand that there are at least 15 of my elders nearby who are a lot more drunk than I am.

2:32pm: Laugh at the expense of a local guy in goggles who is trying to push against a moving delivery truck, and is sliding backwards on the cobblestones as the truck driver accelerates. Life expectancy: 17 seconds.

2:32:14pm: The local guy in goggles takes two swift overhand rights to the face and neck from said truck driver. Roman and I are on the ground bawling. This is the best day of our lives.

2:39pm: Pick ourselves off the ground. We need to celebrate. We need to do something amazing. Begin brainstorming.

2:53pm: Park ourselves at Adam Mickewiecz monument 80 meters away, and resume drinking beer.

6:01pm: Wake up. I’m still at Adam Mickewiecz monument, and Roman is gone. How long have I been asleep? Where is my beer?

6:03pm: Collecting my thoughts, I smoke a cigarette, and contemplate a lifestyle change.

6:07pm: I need beer. I kick in the door of the kiosk. Lifestyle: changed.

6:11pm: Halfway through my next beer, decide to go to the Ringworm Window and order a nasty hot dog with all the fixins (mayo, corn, peppers, mayo, lettuce, mayo, and mayo).

6:14pm: I’m dry heaving. Man, that was good.

6:41pm: Go to a convenience store nearby, sit on milk crate inside. Text Olga and Roman. Where the fuck are they?

7:07pm: Roman calls me. He’s at Shevchenko monument, drinking. For some reason, this surprises me.

7:13pm: Watch a young boy get hit by a car. I’d stop to see if he’s ok, but Roman said he only had one beer left, and that I’d better hurry. I’m sure the kid is fine.

7:16pm: Genuflect as I pass the Virgin Mary statue. It’s a good thing I haven’t sinned today.

8:14pm: Three beers later, decide to go to Club Metro later.

8:24pm: Go to ATM and withdraw 80 UAH ($16). It’s going to be a big night.

8:28pm: Olga calls. I tell her I have a lot of work to do, and can’t see her tonight. Roman laughs audibly in background.

8:41pm: Engage in a very in-depth political conversation with Roman on the merits of westernization versus assimilation with Russia.

8:44pm: Tire of politics and begin discussing girls’ asses as they walk by.

8:53pm: Roman calls a foreigner “George Bush.” I fall over in hysterics and almost spill my beer. Man, that was a good one.

9:14pm: I can barely breathe after my 34th cigarette. Finally I feel as though I’ve accomplished something.

9:19pm: Gasp about how much I want to fuck Tymoshenko. Roman has heard this all before.

9:41pm: Throw empty bottles at the stray dogs in the square, while narrowly missing passers-by.

9:44pm: A policeman approaches me about the throwing of bottles. I promise to stop.

9:45pm: He asks me about a kiosk robbery. I promise to stop that too.

9:46pm: Bribe policeman with 10UAH ($2). Fuck, that was an expensive conversation.

10:07pm: Pile into Roman's 1974 Broke-Ass Mobile, (BAM!!!) each through the driver's side door.

10:08pm: Ask if he’s too drunk to drive, to which he assures me he certainly is.

10:09pm: Laugh hysterically.

10:10pm: Back over a homeless person.

10:11pm: Laugh maniacally.

10:29pm: Park the BAM on the sidewalk around the corner from Metro.

10:41pm: Balk at the 30UAH entry fee, even though we knew damn well it would cost this much when we hatched the idea.

10:46pm: Head straight for the bar and quickly down four shots of vodka. Each. Purpose: to manufacture confidence.

10:52pm: Dance like epileptics in need of attention. Girls around us look horrified. We call them bitches.

11:22pm: Two more shots of vodka while Roman is in the bathroom, and I’m now belligerently shitfaced.

11:24pm: Tell Roman that tonight I’ll either A) fuck or B) fuck someone up.

11:31pm: See a foreigner hitting on a Ukrainian girl we know from somewhere. We are in disbelief that she can possibly find him attractive given his good hygiene, keen fashion sense, and gainful employment. She must be wasted too.

12:14am: Finish smoking a shisha and run away before we’re asked to pay for it.

12:22am: Slobber on some girl about how she should marry me. She shockingly rejects me.

12:25am: Have three more shots of vodka. That shit will never reject me.

1:35am: I haven’t seen Roman in hours. I don’t care. I’m dancing spastically in the center of the dance floor, sweating and trying desperately to make eye contact with an available female for purposes of mating.

2:22am: I think I’m in the bathroom, but it’s hard to tell with all the people in there making out. I have no idea where I am, nor do I know where my phone is.

2:41am: Back on the dance floor, I somehow manage to find a girl that can best be described as being of questionable quality and character. The line I used: "Vodka?"

2:55am: Engaging in full-stage foreplay in a banquette while wishing Roman could see what a stud I am. At the same time, I hope Olga’s friends aren’t here.

3:01am: Olga’s friend Olga points and screams at me about being a bad man.

3:02am: Girl leaves, Olga’s friend leaves, I consider sleeping in banquette.

3:07am: Spend my last 12 UAH on a taxi ride home at the behest of club security. Not without a fight, mind you.

3:12am: Jerk off

7:05am: My father wakes me up with the tortured gags of a dry heaving fit. I have no memories of anything past that awful hot dog.

7:17am: On the shitter again. Another day...


FYI - I've uploaded a bunch of pictures of Lviv to Flickr if you want to check them out. Happy Halloween, all. My favorite holiday ever, and I still don't have a costume 4 hrs before the party starts. We'll see what I come up with.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

The Perfect Crime

The night began at my apartment with me and my two (American) friends Eytan and Matt (not from Krakow) polishing off a 1L bottle of Perlova. This, to most, may sound excessive. And in any ordinary place, I'd tend to agree with you. However in Ukraine, this is commonplace, encouraged, and even lauded.

One of the many things Lviv is lacking, is a decent pre-game lounge to get things started. Sure, there are bars, and plenty of them. But unless you feel like bumping elbows with a slouched old war veteran that smells like a sulfur leak (who insists on spitting slurred Ukrainian at you no matter how many shrugs and English words you respond with), then you may as well drink at home.

So Eytan, as is his custom, went home afterwards, as he gets all the stimulation he needs in an evening by questioning the merits of religion and retelling the same stories over and over again. Plus, he's the most self-assured cheap fuck I've ever met in my life. I've never met someone who takes so much pleasure in being the cheapest motherfucker in the room. And yet, somehow, I don't mind buying him a meal and a few drinks here and there. I don't know how he did it, but now that I'm thinking about it, I'm beginning to get pretty fucking pissed. Since when am I in the business of rewarding people with a free meal in lieu of torturing me with itemizing a bill? I clearly need to revisit the drawing board on this one.

Where was I? Oh yea, Eytan and his air-tight fucking wallet go home, as Matt and I head out to the best club in town: Millennium. It's a Thursday night, so it's ladies night. Presumably, that means it'll be OUR night, if yaknowwhatimsayin (wink wink, nudge nudge). Once inside, Matt and I order a bottle of Perlova and some mixers (cost: $14US) while trying to avoid slipping a disc as we swivel our heads to eyefuck each prancing pinup.

Before I continue, I need to tell you about this adorable little kitten that plays in my neighbor's yard. Irrelevant!!!!! It's black and white, and can't weight more than a pound. It's always hanging out by their fence and meows each time I walk by. I could swear it knows I want to pet it, but it insists on sitting inside the fence, where I can't get at it. Fucking ball tease!!!! Actually, I guess luring it with a ball isn't such a bad idea. I'll try that tomorrow. I hope kittens love puns as much as I do.

I've given it a name. It's Cunt. I liked it as an allusion to pussy(cat), plus it captures not only it's bad fucking attitude, but my teeth-gritting frustration. Fuck that cat. I tell it to fuck off every time I try to get it to join me on my side of the fence and fail. Although I'll quickly forgive it if I ever get to rub it's tiny head. "That's a good Cunt. Goooooooood Cuuuuunt..."

Speaking of cunt, I have to say that the women of Ukraine are far and away the most amazing women (by nation) I've ever seen. Millennium, on a typical night, would look like any Las Vegas strip club if you inserted vertical stainless steel poles, and charged about $600 more per bottle of vodka.

Getting back to the story (by the way, the last few paragraphs are probably very close to the conversation Matt and I were having at the time), we are borderline mental by around 2:30am. At this point, the only thing standing between us and a full-on disorder is a prescription for Lithium. Matt in fact, clearly is in need of 24 hour surveillance.

But that doesn't stop him from storming the dance floor, with me shortly behind. We see a couple of strong candidates fend off a drooling and frighteningly aggressive Ukrainian guy, after which Matt moves in for arguably, an equally creepy swoop. The four of us engage in small-talk, and somehow I'm dancing with one of the girls, and Matt disappears with the other. It seems our night is only improving.

My girl is laughing a bunch (duh!! I'm fuckin' funny!), and I assume Matt is having as much luck as I am. Things are definitely looking promising, when Matt comes up and tells me that his girl isn't giving him any love. My girl (no, I don't remember anyone's name) collects her friend, and I see her talking to a sizable crew of guys. This strikes me as odd, because I hadn't previously gotten any indication that they were with anyone there. Then again, Lviv is a very small city, and everyone here seems to know one another. Plus, I bring my decision making into question because the only thing I'm entirely sure of is that my last five cocktails were completely unnecessary.

As the lights come on, after the customary closing prom dance slow numbers (clubs here INSIST on slow dances to close a night down), Matt and I head outside. Given my excessive inebriation, I am only looking forward to passing out. My girl types her number into my phone, and the subject of continuing the evening fails to come up (to my relief). Somehow, I lose Matt, and consciously wait patiently outside for him to reappear (the buddy system is rather important in this country, even for guys). Don't ever leave me!!!!

After some time, he shows up out of nowhere and informs me that the girls want to come back to my apartment. Mildly disappointed, I call my pseudo-roommate, who frequently crashes on my couch, to see if he is interested in A) waking the fuck up and B) entertaining guests, from whom he will absolutely derive no value. He wisely declines, as he'd been sick for much of the week, and I find that perfectly acceptable.

The girls, however, are decidedly less accepting of this development. My explanation for their overt disappointment is that my game really is that damn tight. I'm also looking for explanation as to how Matt has managed to turn his girl around so successfully. Being the team player I am, I suggest we go to another bar, and the girls suggest some restaurant/bar thing nearby. Food, at this point, is the only thing that can possibly keep me standing upright.

The bar of choice is a rather dingy, well-lit pub with worn wooden tables and chairs, with exactly the type of clientele you'd expect in a Ukrainian pub at 5am on a Friday morning. We choose a table upstairs, and as the waitress approaches, my girl orders some things in Ukrainian. I sputter something, and she stops me and says "I order for all our group." Perfect. One less thing to try and accomplish with my awful Ukrainian. After all, it's hard enough just trying to decipher my date's English.

What arrives at our table is a 1L bottle of some kind of vodka I'd never seen before, and four plates of awful schnitzel and chips. If I had one wish granted that night, it would have been a picture of the look on the faces of Matt and I as this fallic death cock was placed on our table along with four shot glasses. I don't think I've ever been so terrified.

Well, that's not true. But recognize that AT THE TIME, I'd never felt so terrified. And thank you very much for not invalidating my feelings (asshole).

Amid "budmo" chants (which is a toast that symbolizes a shot of vodka is quickly approaching), I am feverishly inhaling cold chicken schnitzel in the hopes that it will keep me from achieving liver failure. My girl, seemingly sensing my ability to only focus on one thing at a time, that being eating, is instead matchmaking her friend and Matt. She's asking such things as "why don't you kiss her," which I learned in high school, always proves to be nothing short of paralyzingly irritating to the question receiver. Matt goes in for a kiss, and is met with a cheek. He instead dives in for the back of the neck, and as a result my food is beginning to sneak back up my esophagus and tickle my uvula.

Drunken mauling-out is the leading cause of gag reflex activation. It's true. Look it up.

Next, I am waking up in my bed, on top of the covers, fully clothed with jacket and shoes on at 11am. I strip my clothes off, drunkenly brush the taste of cigarettes and salmonella from my mouth, and go back to sleep. I don't A) know how I got home, B) know where Matt is or how he got home, C) know who took that bite out of the raw potato on the kitchen counter or D) care about A, B, or C.

My phone rings at 3pm. Apparently, Matt got robbed the night before (or more accurately, early that morning). He wound up being ushered into a car by four rough-looking dudes, who took him for about $200US and who kept going through his pockets in search of his passport. Luckily, he didn't have it on him (I never carry mine). His next memory was waking up in a restaurant bathroom (in town center) with a black eye and a chipped tooth.

He doesn't know how he got there, and his memory of the night is about as good as mine is, but after a quick check, I realize I have no money either. Although to be fair, I don't remember having much on me to start the night, so for all I knew, I had spent it all. Who knows how much a shit schnitzel costs at 6am anyway?

We devise a plan to at least make a police report of the incident, but to do that, we need to know where the fuck we were that morning. I call the girl I was with and find that her number doesn't work. In Ukraine, no one pays for voicemail, and if you're underground, or your phone is turned off, an automated message typically tells you to try again later. This was good for me, because I needed about nine more days of sleep anyway.

When I wake up three hours later however, the phone number still doesn't work. Odd. With my head a bit clearer, I recalled seeing a table of undesirables on my way to the bathroom in the late-night joint, and thinking to myself "don't speak English" while simultaneously writing that thought off to my drunken paranoia. I'm oscillating like Mozart's pendulum on quaaludes.

Now, it's two weeks later, and the phone number STILL doesn't work. I'm even more thankful that I wasn't more persistent in needling my friend to wake up and help me entertain. I'm now sure that if they had come to my apartment, they not only would have stolen my money, they'd have taken my passport, my computer, my kidney, and my rapidly depreciating dignity.

I still have no idea how Matt and I got separated. You know, saying that kind of reminds me of an ex-girlfriend, actually. Speaking of cunts!!! Heeeey!!!!!

Later in the week, Matt went to a dentist and got a cap on his tooth and a cleaning for $62US. Total bill for the story: $262. I told Matt that his story is worth at least twice that much. I'd trade places with him for $500 easy.

Eytan has this bad habit of telling stories in the third person, and I told him that if he wants to retain my interest in his banal tales, he'll have to supplant himself in the place of the protagonist. Not surprisingly, I feel similarly about this story. Imagine how much more you'd enjoy this story if I was the one with the black eye and backseat narrative. It's not even close. Schadenfreude, evidently, is most effective when the unfortunate loser is someone you know.

It does bear mentioning that the two broads obviously set us up. I guess my game wasn't quite that tight after all. Of course, It also bears mentioning that choosing us as victims isn't even sport considering our states of imbibed stupidity. You'd think any self-respecting thief would at least have a fistful of roofies and their cross-hairs squared on some douchey drunken Brit or something. Definitely not on two nice, affable, open-hearted dudes like Matt and me. That's like hunting kittens in a pet store, for christ sake.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Lviv rhymes with "can't leave"

For those of you who don't know, or can't tell by my trending infrequency in blog posts, I've found a place I feel entirely too comfortable in: Lviv, Ukraine.

How to begin? This town is insane. There is a terrible (terribly AWESOME) amount of access to sinful stimuli, despite all of its genuflecting god-fearers. And the best part? You get all this at a budget-seeker's price point.

For example, 0.5L beers in the market = $0.60US. And they're good beers. Well, most of them, anyway. And beer is not even considered alcohol here. Seriously. Open containers are not only permitted, but consumed relentlessly at any one of the monuments at which people sit, drink, get drunk and presumably, fuck.

Which leads me to: women in this town dress positively SCANDALOUSLY. Take a stroll down Svobody Avenue, and it's like you're watching a walk-off for a spot in a Warrant video. And if you follow a woman for long enough (no comments with regards to creepiness necessary), you'll learn she A) loves to shop, B) loves to try on everything and buy nothing, and C) works less than I do. It’s absolutely inspiring. And the icing is: the cost of learning this information plus a pack of cigarettes = $1. Not bad for a lifetime of good memories.

Additionally, women here are either devoutly religious, or completely uninhibited sexually. Or both. If they’re not genuflecting in front of some Virgin Mary statue, then they’re scissor-locking their boyfriends on a park bench with his hand down her crack.

Read that last sentence again. I had a real hard time with subject-verb agreement there. I could have put “their” hand down “their crack,” but then that would get confusing, and ultimately, you’d be wondering just how many genuflects it would take to expunge the sinful disappearance of the second knuckle beyond the anal seal. Right? Right???? Backpedaling!!!!!

Wow. That was one hell of a diversion.

This is a town with a very old-school feel. All the roads are cobblestone, and in fact, they recently tore up one of the main roads, only to lay it with new cobblestone. I guess they're trying to preserve the quaint rustic feel of the town, rather than lay down nasty asphalt. But this is especially important, as women in this city only wear stilettos. Again, think Warrant videos. And then think of them walking in these stripper stilts along a glacial ridge, which is pretty much the planar equivalent of the streets of Lviv.

The truly interesting thing is that this phenomenon has spawned an entire industry of heel repairmen. Sure, those guys exist in New York too, but when every corner has a sign outside with heels pasted on it, you’re reminded of Plinko, and that game is fucking awesome.

You may remember my experience in Krakow, and how much I loved it there. This is largely considered what Krakow was five years ago, before the bourgeois Euros and bad street musicians showed up. In fact, you can wander the streets here for days and wonder if there are any tourists here at all. This is mostly a product of the fact that most tourists here are either Ukrainian or Polish.

That’s probably the coolest thing about Lviv, actually. It has always been a city of contentious positioning, at separate times in recent history falling under Austrian rule, Polish rule, Russian rule, and now is considered by many in western Ukraine to be “the true capital of Ukraine.” And all of these cultures are omnipresent in the form of architecture and art, but interestingly, not food. They shun pretty much anything Polish here, and even blindly declare hatred of Poles. It’s nice to know someone knows how useless those people really are. It reminds me of the south. Racism rules!!!!!

I just love the use of “those people” in sentences. It really puts forth a hate doctrine much more pointedly, I think. And for the sake of my parents’ complete misunderstanding of my apparently overly subtle sarcasm, I don’t hate Poles. But I fucking hate southerners.

Oops! Got’cha ‘gin!!!

Police in this city are either 17 year-old fuckwits with uniforms that fit like magnums on their tiny cocks, or they’re drunk old cunts looking for their next vodka fix. Example: my friends and I left dinner the other night, after having exactly one beer between the three of us (at least SOMEONE was representing), we left the restaurant, and presumably were speaking English to one another. Two older policecunts came over and asked us for our documents, which I personally never carry with me for this exact reason. Once they had procured the passports of my two friends (an Aussie with a Swiss passport and an American), they began telling us we were drunk (in Ukrainian) and we had to pay a drunk and disorderly fine. For ONCE, we actually were NOT drunk, and NOW we were getting in trouble. I almost wet myself due to the staggering irony.

In any case, we were no more than 50m from the restaurant, where we’re well known by the staff, and despite our insistence that we could show them the bill, they refused and repeated their “fine” requirement.

When we were asked to exhale into their faces, the irony went off the charts. The last time I remember living something this ironic was when I saw a homeless guy panhandling while leaning on a bright red Ferrari on 2nd Avenue... These cops were WASTED. As they were smelling OUR breath, THEIR breath smelled as if the 2nd Avenue homeless guy had been drowning in a lake of Bankers Club earlier that day. I was openly laughing at this point, which admittedly, wasn't doing a whole lot to solve our problem. Insulting!!!!!!

At first, the “fine” had been quoted at 330 UAH (about $66) each. After some wild gesticulating and emphatic “Nie”s (Ukrainian for “no”) from the three of us (not to mention a call to my friend’s lawyer), we walked away paying 50 UAH for ALL THREE of us. So, all that, and we paid less than $4 each in “bribes.” Wallet-whip!!!!

Stray dogs are also rather prevalent here. I have an apartment in the center (that's right, bitch), and on my block I have one particular stray dog that looks like a fucking lion. He kicks ass, and his balls drag like a prostitute’s labia. Man, that’s a dually disgusting visual. But with stray dogs come… stray dog shit. It’s not as much of a problem here as you’d think, but you definitely need to watch where you’re setting down your stiletto, or you’ll end up with a smelly street gasket that will inevitably end up in your shag carpeting, and then you’ll never get the smell out, and you’ll be left wondering if it’s really better than smelling Igor’s vomit from three Fridays ago. Wait. What???

I’ve also seen three stray dogs gang up on a stray cat here. I thought cats and dogs only hated each other in cartoons, but I was proven horribly wrong. Instead, it dawned on me that in captivity, all animals are pussies.

The most popular restaurant in town is a sushi restaurant. Now, if you haven’t seen a map of Ukraine, then understand that Lviv is completely landlocked. The nearest port is Odessa (or maybe Gdynia), and each is a serious hike from here. Fact is, the quality isn’t awful, and actually satisfies my cravings rather adeptly. But, I don’t necessarily go there for the food. Instead, I go there to watch all the Ukrainians eat with trainer-chopsticks. It’s fucking amazing. No less than 80% of the patrons in the most popular (and one of the most expensive) restaurants in town use the rubber-banded chopsticks that we laugh at children for in America. Snobbery!!!!!

Seriously, it is a testament to the people here that they’re willing to try new things, even if they look POSITIVELY RIDICULOUS while doing it. But good for them. I guess.

But the best part. The absolute best fucking part of Ukraine, is the way the men dress and dance. It’s like dressing up a bonobo ape in a tan suit and white pointed loafers, and then watching it juggle Asian babies. Or even better yet, a bonobo threesome, if you’re into that.

First of all, the men in the clubs here dance like spastic electroshock patients going through heroin withdrawal. I have not yet been able to detect anything even slightly resembling a rhythmic gyration from one Ukrainian man after two months in this country. It simply does not exist. They flail their appendages in all directions (being careful not to dislodge their sunglasses), smell like anything between an Adidas perfume counter at Strawberries and a dumpster, and somehow manage to sweat through their fake D&G (in huge fucking letters across their back) t-shirts in 4 degree (C) temperatures.

On Sundays, the Rynok Square becomes a promenade of married couples strutting their stuff. I’m telling you, everything in this town has at least a modicum of facejocking. Whether it’s the women showing off their fantabulexcellent outfits, or it’s the men showing off their women in their fantabulexcellent outifits, someone is showing off something. But if I have to see another tan suit (four sizes too large) with white shoes and a white belt --just ONE MORE-- I may have to continue silently mocking the man wearing it. Judgmental!!!!

I have a theory that the men getting married assume they are going to grow up and get fat, and probably cheat on their wife (infidelity is as popular as shitty pop music here), so they need to get buy a suit big enough to accommodate them when their wife finally leaves them. Fat frugality!!!!!!

Another thing that is popular here, is older men dating younger women. I’m not trying to pass judgment or anything (for once), but I’m not sure what a man in his mid-30s could possibly have to talk about with a 16 year-old (this is honestly not uncommon). I guess I could say that it’s one way for men to assure themselves of dominance in the relationship, but then I guess I could say that the swirly-faced child-fucker just REALLY liked teaching English outside the classroom.

And on that note, I’ll mercifully conclude this edition of Lviv. There is more to my time here in Lviv, obviously, but I’ll also split this one up. I have been horribly lazy lately, and for that I can only continue to promise that I do have a couple of pretty good stories lined up for the next entry. Which, with any luck, will be later this week. I’ll also try and get up some pictures. I know some of you are more than a little curious about Lviv, so I’ll get on that too.

In other news, there's a near certainty that I'll be back in New York for a couple weeks before Thanksgiving. I either need to A) get some warm clothes, B) move south, or C) contract hay fever. I'm opting for warm clothes. And a hamburger.