Streams From My Russian Intermission (3):

w/ Coburn in St. Petersburg:



w/ one of The Switchblade Sisters (can't remember which one):



w/ Coburn (2nd from left) and The Switchblade Sisters in St. Petersburg:



Its a sad fact of capitalism that prostitutes and criminals grasp it far more instinctually than the educated or morally upright. Democracy may appeal to our higher nature; but capitalism and thuggery go together like peanut butter and jelly. Stay ahead of your neighbors. Defeat your competition. Always pursue profits.



How much profit?



As much as possible.



Underworld figures, crime syndicates, and sex exploiters get rich right away in capitalistic economies. The oldest professions. They don’t just get it (by which I mean capitalism); they take to it.



In Russia, the general population didn’t seem to get capitalism. It didn’t come naturally to them. I was there 6-7 years ago so perhaps they’re more with it now; but back then, if the 4 of us went out for a meal the waitress invariably brought-out one dish at a time from the kitchen. She might serve Rules, then five minutes later bring the Beauty Queen’s meal. Another five minutes later she’d serve Coburn, and so on. If you were ostentatious enough to request that the waitress bring-out all four dishes together, she’d roll her eyes and look at her co-workers with a dropped jaw. Can you believe these assholes?



In St. Petersburg I did a little gambling with the Switchblade Sisters. A young pair of degenerate Brooklyn gals that could have fit right into Russian, criminal society. The sisters and I played Blackjack at the dimly lit table, but we didn’t win a hand. Normally a casino will comp you some drinks or maybe just a bowl of pretzels--something for your amusement!--if you stick around and play; but we got nothing as our dealer dealt shitty cards and took our money with metronomic consistency.



“You now have 16, what you want?” he’d ask from behind heavy eyelids and slate-grey eyes.



“Hit me.”



“6,” he’d announce robotically for the table as we observed him flip the card, “that makes 22 which is too high. Now you have lost.”



And with that he’d slide our chips towards his side of the table and ask with a stone-cold countenance, “You will bet again?”



Believe it or not Igor, I’ll pass on your warm personality.



The cocktail girls in Moscow seemed to gamble a lot. There was a little bar in our hotel adjacent to the elevators where the gals displayed themselves. If they weren’t busy in a room or chatting up a foreigner, you’d see them at the slot machines. Each of the bar’s tables had its own machine and the same four girls would be seen hours on end, sipping beers and watching the slot-dials spin. Sometimes they’d be asleep, with their heads laid gently on the table-top and their long hair splayed out. The hotel obviously condoned their existence and had no fear of police. Why should they? That’s how things seemed to work out there. Worlds within worlds.



Despite my being with Rules and the Beauty Queen, each time I approached the elevators the cocktail girls would perk to attention. Raise or spin their heads like my dog Spiffy when she catches a scent. They were all rather beautiful and Eastern-exotic, but one in particular was a real knockout: with long, wavy hair; toned belly; soft, green eyes; belly-dancer’s hips. A Russian Ana Lucia Dominguez, even if they are from different worlds.



One evening I returned to the hotel early. Before the others since we’d all been fighting and went our separate ways. I wasn’t particularly anxious to go back to an empty hotel room, so I stopped in the bar for a beer. No sooner had my beer arrived than Ana Lucia sat down at my table.



“You buy for me? she asked with a smile as she pointed at my beer. Bottled beers were $7.00 a piece, but what the hell.



“You’re enjoying Moscow?” she asked after I’d ordered for her.



“Yeah, definitely” I answered, unable to unlock my eyes from hers.



“...And your friends too?” she asked almost conspiratorially. “Even the injured one?”



“I think he’s having fun, yeah. You’ve seen us?”



Anna rolled her eyes at the insincerity of my question.



“We see everyone. And they see us, that’s why we’re here,” she said, gesturing towards the bar area.



“Guess that makes sens...”



“You want to have sex?” she suddenly asked me.



“What?” I asked, surprised by her abruptness more than the content of her question.



“Sex,” she repeated blandly. “You bought me a beer so you must want sex.”



“I didn’t realize that’s what it meant.”



Ana began to look ‘round as though being watched.



“...All men want sex. You’ve bought me a beer, so it might be best for us to have sex now.”



I contemplated the idea for a few silent moments.



“You have concerns about your women?” she asked. “We can go to my room. I have a place they keep for me here in the hotel.”



“Your room, eh? Am I gonna walk out of there broke, looking like my friend?”



Ana laughed.



“If there’s one place in Moscow where nothing will happen to you, its my room.”



“You sure about that?”



Ana again rolled her eyes as she reached across the table and took my hand.



“Americans,” she said with a shake of her head, "can’t you see my boss runs everything here?”









"Capitalism and thuggery go together like peanut butter and jelly."





*NOTE: All pics taken or owned by Lodo Grdak w/ the exception of the top-most and bottom-most pics (which were stolen off Google). All rights reseved on my pics.