Did this whole long day give me a chop? Well, first of all it is not yet over.
I woke up to the humming sound in the yard. Tempted to see what was going on, I came up to the window. A lil truck at a light speed was rolling over the playground from one corner to the other, producing excited shriek and fuzz. A fellow of about my age, wearing white polo and looking all good, was holding the remote control, challenging the toy car with different stunts. The mechanic thing was riding fast, making u-turns, climbing up and down the route. Thus the fella was enjoying his night. His girl with curly golden hair was standing aside, looking bored and drowsy, though understanding and supportive. Perfect match made in have, isn’t it? Were they going to rob a bank? Whatever the plot could be it seemed illegal from where I stood, which was the 7th floor window. So while I was screwing up my eyes and guessing the three of them left. I closed the window and went back to sleep.

Morning was sunny and charming. Hot beans make hot show, if u know what I mean! All through the happy hour till the shuttle-launch-for-work-bang I was listening to my favorite show and laughing out laud. I adore Kelly Rowland.
Then to cut the long story short I was thinking about friendship, love, cockney, future, Litvinenko, securities, stock, hedging, music, love, friendship, invoices, interest rates, economic slump…

And Oh, God! I’m tolling home now!

What are The Sex Pistols without Sid Vicious and The Libertines without Pete Doherty? It is a myth. Sid – the incarnation of punk that will remain forever – couldn’t hold his guitar for he was too drunk and out of it. Doherty just like Sid was told to leave the group, The Libertines at the time, because of the drug problem, when the line of reality started dimming in his exploration of eternity, or am I exaggerating the romantic part? Pete being as much of a junkie as he is a huge talent crumbles his life into small pieces of scandals, dash interviews, eccentricity and play-offs. He seems to be drawing the line of the “live fast, die young” hero, but it definitely is a new story, because he is the reflection of his time… A poet, a writer, a musician and a junkie, who does gigs, reads his poetry, smokes out into the camera and flirts with the interviewer. Well, personally I like the music of the Libertines and The Babyshambles. It's genuinely British and the lyrics are strong, sometimes pathetic, sometimes funny, it's nice. There is nothing new both in the music and the style of the band with Pete as the lead singer and the song writer, however it truly is a continuation, rock and roll that moves on. This music is not commercial, though being popular, which is a rare thing now. Hendrix, Cobain, Joplin and Morrison – rock icons, idols with guitar in one hand and the syringe in the other – enlightened the world with a splash of awesome music. Could a good guy, a father of three and a husband loving his wife write and perform the same music with the same success? What attracts the most? I say psychologically, or in terms of the "hype" of the "Britain’s most notorious drug addict". The image of the butterfly over the razor edge. The beautiful creature is about to cut its bright light wings and the crowd is watching, jugging, worshiping or hating – doesn’t matter, - unable to take their eyes off. Each twinkle of the metal surface and each wave of the wing make the rabble shiver and shudder! However the poor thing is mocking at everyone and enjoying the slow motion.
Sid and Nancy. It is a beautiful story that seems to be all made up... They look like ordinary kids, lost, and caught in the limelight, obliged to play «Romeo and Juliet from hell", till the death, which came out to be the only way out... I don’t know how to put it. Drugs are shit which turns people into dust, but the beauty and the gift turning into dust has always been the greatest theme for a tragedy to be written and played… Attractive or tempting… whatever…. Those great people, destroying themselves for the sake of music, are free of time. They don't rush, they don't run to catch up the last train, they don't have their pocket-time with them, they don't need it.. They don't fit in the frame of schedule... Junkie? Once again I don't know how to put it. Public death at the age of 27 or 100-year exile - is there any other way to escape time?

On my way to the office today I was thinking. I will stress that. I WAS THINKING. The mental work-out was going perfectly fine. And I don’t doubt about that. Though I wouldn’t be that sure about my general well-being. It is said in the dictionary that well-being is “the state of being happy, healthy, or prosperous”. But that is not the medical dictionary which actually hosts the term. I failed to find the explanation in the web. My condition is serious.

But still not as serious as the one the young university-cafeteria- sails-lady has. I mean I have nothing against these ladies, or the one I saw recently in the metro train in particular. Moreover I’d say I envy them, envy them for the feeling of belonging. I suppose I should explain this idea.

These are not just some human beings. These are Soviet Union citizens on verge of extinction. They are the survivos of the collapse, the last of the Sovicans, the shadows of the epoch. They are unique.

I was going somewhere in the train and that was when I saw her. She was sleeping calmly with her eyes closed and I could examine the rare species. The fleece has not yet reached the size of the grown-up female. The beehive was still small, set with aerosol hairspray or might be even with sugar and honey. I failed to come closer and smell it out of fear to wake her up. The coloration has not yet developed and was still not that bright and gaudy. All the signs of a young species were present. Yesterday I happened to run into the grown-up university-cafeteria-sales-lady. Gosh, I did take some fright!!
Why do I envy them? Because they are one! So much of a one that there is no point in doing anything else but growing the beehive up the bulb.

Moi, par contre! I have to think! And right now, passing the «оазис сосисок и сарделек», the hot-dog boutique deep down the underground metro passage, I hate that more than anything else in the world. I hate thinking!

I MUST explain a bunch of Ph.Ds that I do want with all my heart and nostrils to be with them. And how on Earth do I get there?

“Hey, guys I want ya, see my pics over there”, - no, that won’t do.

“I do voodoo, yoga and aeronautics. Will you take me in? I’m good, smart and bright. I’m superstar, hell yeah!” - no way!

“I will eat your heart!” - nay! Threat won’t work, no way!

I want to join in because…. Because… and that’s where I’m stuck. I’m utterly bewildered. I love talking about myself. That’s my pet subject after all. But …
I have just been caught doing absolutely inexplicable thing at work. What are your doing there? Nothing, and this nothing has nothing to do with work nor with anything at all!

Gosh, I think it is spring! Swede weathermen announced the three signs of spring observed in nature. So it should be all about spring. Thus I feel myself complete psycho, verging on schizo!