Because Continuity Is Overrated

I'm bored, but in Soviet Russia you entertain internet, so instead of suckling at the milky teat of user filtered content, I've decided to dust of the old blog and offer up my own nipple for a change.

• The overflow stock of the book store has now completely barricaded in the ping pong table, rendering it inaccessible. In a few weeks, it will only be whispered of in dark grottos; in a month, it will be as the caveman ensconced in ice in the bowels of the Yukon - or Boba Fett in the Sarlacc Pit - forgotten to the world, but ever-suffering. This bullet would be perfectly completed by a photo of the ping pong table, but as I don't have my camera on hand I can only approximate:

• The metro is no tea party. First, there is no tea. Second, the Russian people, finding insufficient opportunity for solitude in their spiteful, never sleeping winters or at the bottom of a bottle of vodka, embrace the chance provided by the daily commute to finally get in some quality frowning silently time. The other day (well, like three weeks ago), someone made a phone call, and their cellphone proceeded to blare out at full volume an obnoxious generic club-music ringback tone for the next 30 seconds. Like statues we stood, sweaty and crammed in next to eachother, without a single jig cracking in any limb, nor the merest change of expression. I hope, at least, that nobody missed the irony.

• On Monday my Russian teacher delivered a spirited defense of the tuba solo. A quick youtube search has revealed that it was, in fact, I who was in the wrong.