The neighbor had come over for one of his random talks. He sat down in the kitchen, asked the Babushka for some coffee, and began his long schpiel about pensions in Georgia versus pensions in Greece, and about how houses in Greece are bigger and nicer and he used to have a job there and yadda yadda yadda, followed about more things of which I only understood very little and cared about even less. I was looking at his beard scruff, and watching how there seemed to be a few crumbs stuck in it and wondering if they'll drop soon. And if they drop soon, will they land in the coffee?

He kept beckoning me to sit down, as Georgians get hugely nervous if you're standing and they're sitting. I kept refusing, just to see how long he'd interrupt himself because I was standing. Finally the Babushka appeared from behind me and pulled me into a chair, saying, "Baggada, you're too tall, badabalodaluli."

The Babushka had gone out for a bit, and when she came back in the house, the cat, Patara, darted in and went under the kitchen seat. Patara, which means "small" in Georgian, was a good cat. I have fond memories of how, in the summer when I slept with my window open, she'd sneak across the gas line and jump into my room and snuggle up. Or, now that the dog is dead, how she'd often come up and great me and rub against my legs, purring loudly and possibly trying to kill me as I went down the stairs. I like to jest about hating animals, but I actually really love them (a thing about me is that the more I make fun of something, the more I love it… which is why women end my relationships fairly quickly… people don't actually like being laughed at, who knew?).

Patara on the gas line, sneaking away from my room

Levan continued going on about Greece and passports and whatever. I didn't really know as my attention kept alternating between the cat, the Babushka making attempts at getting the cat and the crumbs in Levan's beard scruff. Occasionally the host daughter would make a noise or attempt to interrupt Levan's droning, and I'd glance over at her, but that was really as far as my attention and comprehension were making it this morning. Finally, the Babushka stood up, now with a plastic bag in hand, saying something that roughly sounded like "blaggababuli daguli maguli cats." Levan, while still talking about the pensions and keeping his green eyes solidly affixed to mine, with one hand scooped up the cat by its neck. He placed the cat in the plastic bag and continued on. "They can pay for such huge houses. And when people have pensions, they can spend more money and buy more houses and get the economy moving." Completely unfazed, unmoving. His arm worked like some sort of hinged arm on a CAT, meanwhile the cat was confused as to what was happening and silent while the Babushka closed the bag, tied it and disappeared. "In Greece they have so many great things…" Levan continued.

"The cat? What are you guys doing with the cat?"

"I once saw these robots there that were controlled by…"

"What the fuck are you guys doing with the cat?"

"… and the women would just sit around and you could talk to them…"

The Babushka came back in the house, minus a cat. I addressed the Babushka, "What did you do with the cat?"

"Blaggadabuli nabatooli dadoodaba."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?" she asked in Russian.

"Right," I responded.

"Bomski is a bad cat, so we gave Patara away. Don't worry, Gvansa is bringing a kitten in later."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?"

"I get what your saying, but I don't I grasp it. Why did you give away the good cat? And why does it matter if Gvansa is bringing a new one? I liked that cat."

"Mishka, Mishka, blagadabooli."

"I don't know how Mishka is involved in this. I don't get that part. I don't know who Mishka is."

"He took the cat," the Babushka said and went back to doing something with the dishes. Meanwhile, Levan hadn't broken his concentration and continued talking about things to do with Greece and how it's better over there. I really don't think Samual L Jackson could have broken that man's concentration.

Later that night, I learned my cat of four years, Caesar Augustus, passed away from a heart attack. All my pets are dying! Possibly being snuffed out by the Babushka! But I can hardly blame Caesar's death on the Babushka. He was a rather fat cat, so he did kind of having it coming. But I'm going to miss that fat bastard.

Caesar about to pounce on Raven, the photographer

RIP Caesar

The ruins of homes

are often the piles

of human discourse.

Unperturbed but by

gently settling ash

and sparrows and rats.

We came to kneel amidst

the ruins of human lives

so we might take refuge

against the ruins

of our own.

We huddled around

small fires to light

what's been hid in ignorance,

among rooms without roofs

and children with no names.

In the night the flickering light

of the bonfire, fed but by

leaves and old timbers

and tattered clothes and sparks

drifting up like rising tears from the fire.

We find under the bright stars

that we do not share company.

We find under the bright stars

that we are standing alone.

When the night comes, the dogs play like men.  They walk down their streets with serious dedication, like they have business.  They go to meet with other dogs, they sit back and chat and check out all the bitches passing by.  Sometimes they make a whistle or a howl as the girls strut their asses on by.  The bitches' tails and heads held high, and sometimes they make a low threatening bark… not unlike women. 

The streets of Bolnisi are full of them.  During the day, they are generally curled up, sleeping off their hangovers and late nights.  When you walk by, they pop up their head, to see if you're a threat and then stick it right back underneath their belly if you're not.  If they recognize you, you might get a couple of tail thwaps of recognition, but no more. At night, they become more energetic.  If you come near their home, their territory, they become like aggressive cowards.  They will stand-to and growl and bark at you as long as you face them.  But when you turn your back, they'll move in for a bite.  The behavior can be avoided by giving them a swift boot to the head, wherein they whimper, back off and resume growling and barking.  The dogs that never learned quick enough you can recognize by the way they whimper when you approach.  During the day, dogs are more prone to whimpering.  At night, their more prone to attacking you from the rear. 

If you're not in their territory, or their packs' territory, you rarely have to fear them.  They're usually attending to some business, or just hanging out watching the city life with their mates.  It's only when you come near their homes that there's a problem.  Often dogs like to test the limits of their territory and they'll sneak into neighboring territories to take a piss and tag it.  I've seen packs of dogs get into fights over this behavior, raping each others' bitches and tearing each others' limbs.  You can tell who's been at it the night before by who's limping the morning after.  They limp and they pretend nothing happened, probably dreaming about the next raid.   

I watched one dog do a day raid.  As I walked across the town, this little beagle, while the other dogs were sleeping, went from post to post taking a small piss, leaving his scent.  I was at a bar on the other side of town and I saw this little punk pissing on a nearby post.  He knew what he was doing.  He would be the talk of the town the next night, when the dogs were howling.  And more than one dog will want his un-neutered nuts. 

There were two other volunteers, some Georgian women and myself present for beer call after the diskoteka.  Paying 6 dollars for a drink wasn't too appealing to us poor folk, so we decided to slum it at the outside beergarden just off the metro instead.  We were chatting up a storm, and between checking out the two Georgian women with us (who were both, unfortunately, not taken by me) I kept glancing a few tables down.  There sat two more beautiful Georgian women talking with this old guy.  Both of the girls were wearing sweaters and one wore pants and the other wore a long skirt.  One of the girls kept looking over at me and we occasionally smiled.  That's serious business for Georgians man.  Almost like kissing is for us.  So I knew I was making some headway.    

I got up to pay at the waiter stand.  I was waiting for the server to type punch in how much we owed.  One of the girls got up and came to stand beside me.  "Hello," she said in English.  I grunted, surprised, and scratched my beard.  "Hey, how's it going?" 

We talked a little bit.  She took my hat and put it on.  "How does it look?"

"Looks better on you than on me."  At this point I was thinking to myself, "Yes, I am so going to get her number." 

The waitress came to me and gave me the ticket.  Thirteen lari for all that beer.  Excellent, I love this country.  I handed her the multicolored bills, surprised that we got off so cheap.  One of the other guys was up behind me, now talking to the old man.  He kept on telling the old man, "I don't understand what you're saying."  The girl gave me hat back.  I looked down at my feet and scratched my beard again. 

"Take me home with you," she said to me. 

I grunted and looked up.  "Woah, you're pretty forward for a Georgian girl.  I was just expecting to get your number…"

"Please, take me home with you," she said again, louder.  Her eyes looked like that of a bazaar vender trying to sell something. 

"Do what?"

"Take me home with you."

It was becoming a mantra.  Maybe she was getting her words mixed up with her alcohol.  That's when I heard the old man saying again, "Don't you want one?  Take one.  Take both.  What do you want give for them?"

She put her hands on my arm and said, "Don't you want me to come home with you?"

"Well, yeah, of course I want to, but I don't do that sort of thing and, uh, but listen, I'm not that kind of guy.  I'm a good boy.  And um, I gotta go."

I turned back towards my friend.  "Sonofa!  They're prostitutes man, prostitutes!"

"Are you…?  Are… ah, right." 

Damn this country, where girls as pure as fresh snow dress like hookers and hookers dress like Pentecostals!  This is where goes the PSA.  Prostitution is bad and should not be condoned by anyone.  The acceptance of the practice leads to international problems that include the trading of kidnapped women and boys for the sex trade as well as one of the leading factors in the rise of AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases.  Not to mention that the visiting of a prostitute debases both that of the woman and the man seeing her.  And she might not be a prostitute, but instead be a vampire or someone who'll steal your kidneys.  So there's that too.

.. ..

Tbilisoba is an annual holiday that takes place on the last full weekend of October. It exists primarily to celebrate Tbilisi. I know that is a hard one to have guessed, but bare with me. Georgians make holidays not unlike English speakers. Instead calling it Tbilisi Day, they call it Tbilisoba. Saint day would then be Saintoba. But we all know that Saint Day is every day, so there's no need to call every day Saintoba. On most of the days, it's just gigantic crowds of people, beergardens and the occasional food or cotton candy dispenser. My favorite things about cotton candy in Georgia is that the name translates as "ice cream bomb" and also that you could get spiders, hair or whatever other random explosion of flavor that could happen to fall into the machines. The greatest thing about Tbilisoba, of course, is that it's in Tbilisi. I'm yet convinced that the city itself, with the constant scenic view of ancient churches and mountaintops that tower over the city, ranks among one of the more beautiful of European cities. The biggest pity is that it's so expensive to travel here, so that most people in the world will never be able to gain that knowledge on a personal level.

But I've talked about Tbilisi before. What I'm really talking about is Tbilisoba. It was another chance for the Peace Corps volunteers to commence upon Tbilisi and use up our allowed one day a month in the city. We couldn't find where any of the actual performances were happening, so we decided to grab come cotton candy, sit at a beergarden and relax. We were gathering at a beergarden underneath an old bridge that allowed a road to hug alongside a mountain, watching the crowds commence alongside us. There were lots of regular Georgians passing buy. Then there were the more interesting Georgians, the bumlife, which as most people know I'm always fascinated with (in a sort of fascinated terror sort of way... it's like looking at myself in a mirror in fifty years), and gypsies (that is, Roma, for those politically correct peeps out there). Roma are mostly composed of beggars, who in Tbilisi, only make up for a minor nuisance and accept payments in cash, credit and sunflower seeds. If you withhold a deposit, they might throw your their baby and make a quick trade for your wallet.

FREEEEDOOOOOM!!!!

That gave us an idea for a drinking game with the local brew. The game was that every time a gypsy came up to beg from us, we'd take a drink. Insensitive? Yes. But when you become exposed to something for so long, humor begins to take the short road home.

One of the volunteers got up to talk to another person and he had left his beer on the table, unguarded. Another gypsy had come up to beg from us, so we all lifted our glasses, cheered and drank. While we were drinking, the gypsy quickly assessed the situation. She snatched the open beer and walked off.

"She's got your beer!" we yelled to the other volunteer.

He turned towards her and cursed at her in Russian as she scampered off. Just before she disappeared into the crowds, she lifted up the cup and laughed at him. And then she was gone.

The next day of Tbilisoba, I managed to find the actual area where there were performances going on. On the stage, they had various dance troupes, from the typical Georgian high jumping, spinning and landing on their knees to some Jewish dances that looked like they'd better belong in a production of Jesus Christ Superstar. "Hey sannah, ho sannah!" Also they brought on some Azeri dancers, some Assyrian dancers and some Armenian dancers.

While on the subject of Assyrians. They built their own church, so they've since moved out of the Roman Catholic Church in Old Town. So on Sunday, I found the English speaking mass at a different church. The mass is conducted by a Scotsman with an outrages Scottish accent. Kind of a James Mason meets Sean Connery meets Mel Gibson as William Wallace sort of accent. Listening to him do the Eucharist blessings with that accent makes me nearly bust one every time. I simply think Scottish accents are hilarious. It's no wonder that Edward Longshanks just wouldn't take the highlanders very seriously until they tried to stick a claymore up his arse. And of course, SNL skits of Celebrity Jeopardy only make it harder. "Thish ish my body, Trebek, and I give it up to your mother, ha ha ha!"


Celebrity Jeopardy-Cosby,Osbourne,Connery - Awesome video clips here

Feet pounded against the floor, keeping time with the bantering drums and dancing accordion.  Three voices, all harmonized with each other in polyphony, sang an ancient song about some lover lost to the Turks or Persians.  Koba marched up and down the lines of pounding feet, yelling at various kids, telling them to get it right.  We were in the dance hall in the park, and I was seated at the stern, in the placement of honor, feeling as though the dancing troupe was being presented to me. 

I had been walking through the park, making my usual measures and path so as to dodge the drunks.  That's when I ran into a few of my students, who shyly informed me that they were waiting for dance practice to begin.  I could hear the pounding of drums and the crooning of the accordion leaking out from the dance hall.  At the time though, I had not realized it was a dance hall. 

"Can I watch?" I asked them.

"We'll go ask the instructor," they told me.  Two of them left the group of some twenty kids.  I followed behind them and that was when I met Koba.  Koba was a man from a nearby village who had dedicated his life to Georgian dance.  He had found this building, which was an old run down movie theatre, got some friends together and remodeled it, transforming it into a dance studio, where he runs a dance troupe of the local town children and teens.  He was one of the first Georgians to give me a true man's hand shake, most other Georgians content on delivering the limp fish.  "Yes, I will be glad to have you watch.  Here, let me get you a brochure about the dance company," he said to me in Georgian, with various Russian words thrown in for good measure, to make sure I could understand.  "Tell people about us.  I'd love to have these kids to get a chance to see America, to tour and show Americans Georgian dance.  But we need contacts.  We need money.  At least tell people."  "Eh, sure man, not that that will help much, as I don't know any big people in the trade."  But that doesn't matter much to Georgians.  I'm an American. 

Watching them warm up, I was reminded of how ballet dancers warm up, doing varieties of stretches and moves with astonishing flexibility and strength.  I alternated from watching them and watching the bards play the traditional Georgian music.  The man playing the accordion, an instrument I've always noted can express such deep sorrow with such happy melodies, moved his hands like lightning. 

The dancers moved out into a box and worked on more complicated maneuvers, reminiscent of a martial arts class or ancient military drills.  Which is of no surprise, seeing that most of the older Georgian dances are war dances, performed before and after battles were fought, in preparation and in defeat.  There's something primeval about a war dance that strikes an intimidating note into the observer and undoubtedly stirs pride within the hearts of the performers.  That is the point of them, after all.  The highest pride, especially in your comrades, is needed to confront your foes in combat.  You have to get psyched about it.  You have to keep up your morale even as you watch the Turkish hordes of Tamerlane advancing. 

Near the middle of the class, an old guy in a hand sewn wool gown and traditional Svaneti hat had walked in.  I silently wished more guys dressed like him, instead of the American and European clothing hand me downs that are so popular.  But that's a sacrifice every traditional culture makes as they modernize, it seems.  Their dress is the first to go.  The Svaneti sat down to watch the class.  As any kid came near, he took his hand and kissed his cheek.  I ran over to him and sat down.  A strong smell of wine wreaked off his breath.  He had a constant and distant look in his eyes, like he had seen something.  I've seen that look before in the veteran's hospital in Denver.  That guy was lost for life.  He was a Svaneti and had migrated from Abkhazia during the civil war.  There were definitely things to be seen and things to be done.  On his face was the look that says, "I've done too many things I should never have done."  Some people have a threshold that they pass and after which, they never come back. 

But I liked this guy.  He wasn't the traditional lazy drunk of the park.  This guy, who I've seen on previous nights haunting the streets of Bolnisi, definitely had a reason to be drunk, and I can appreciate that.  With every child that came into his presence, he lit up.  Something like a spark of life was kindled within his breast.  He'd kiss their cheeks and their hands and ask them their names over and over again, regardless of how many times he had met the same kid.  But the kids all loved him; they kept coming back and re-introducing themselves.  It was clear they all knew the old man.  In the Georgian fashion, he put his hand on my knee and kept pointing out different kids to me.  "That is my nephew," he'd say.  "One of the best kids in the world.  I can remember one time…"  Sometimes he'd point to places where there was no one there, only some memory, left undisturbed by the dull wood floor.    

So that damned dog had begun to grow on me.  Little Floyd.  The little Rottweiler that would run up to me and jump on me and try to bite my hands every time I got into the door.  The little bastard that would sit and attack my feet every time I'd try to hang up my clothes to dry.  I couldn't jump rope, as he'd always get in the way.  He destroyed the hammock, so now I have no where to repose.  But then I had an idea.  I'd train him.  I'd spend tireless hours of throwing bread crumbs, teaching him how to sit and come here and lie down.  Though he never actually picked up the lie down one, as he'd just eat the bread as soon as you lowered it.  He was kind of dumb.  But at least the dumb bastard learned to stop biting my feet and he started learning that licking instead of biting was a much more endearing way to show his love.  And then something happened.  I started liking the dog.   

I walked in this morning, coming home from a wedding.  The Babushka informed me that Floyd was dead.  He died this morning.  He had been sick for a couple of days, but he didn't look like he was in serious pain.  He was just ill.  But he had stopped drinking water and eating, starving himself to death.  And now he's gone.  And this morning, there was an odd silence that hung over the courtyard.  There was no little bastard trying to interfere with everything I did. 

Thanks Jim, for sending me that cyanide.  It worked.

Small towns dot Kvemo-Kartli, the countryside around Bolnisi, which consist of only Armenians or Azeris, and they speak their ethnic language and Russian, with some Georgian thrown in the mix. Some were forcibly settled during the ..Soviet Union.., others had been settled hundreds of years ago when the land changed hands quicker than a woman's temperament. Now they're all left to the fate of government integration policies. Though the purpose and meaning of that I have no clue. In regards to language, now they all have to learn Georgian or else. As far as that goes, I've always thought economics was the best control of language, and not nationalism. Those who see an economic benefit from learning Georgian will learn Georgian, those who don't won't, and that's the truth of it. We have the same problem in the States regarding Spanish, and I have the same belief regarding that. If you have a problem with them not speaking the same language as you, then learn Spanish and problem solved.

Anyways, in one such village, about five miles from Bolnisi, I was at a wedding. It was a friend of a friend of a friend sort of thing. We got there as a horde of men were entering into a tent and taking their seats at long tables filled with food and wine (despite being Muslims, they are what we can call Sovietized Muslims, which means many will share a beer with you and none will be likely to blow up any nearby buildings… in that respect, probably we shouldn't have been helping Islamic extremists defeat the Soviets in Afghanistan, we'll put that in the "lessons learned" pile). A few men were milling around outside, smoking cigarettes and looking generally like they belonged in the mafia in Baku. One thing about Azeri men (at least the ones in this town) is that they've completely modeled themselves after Russian mafiosos, from black leather jackets down to black, shiny pointy shoes.

After the men were seated, the women came flooding in and seated themselves at the women's tables. Another thing about Azeri Muslims is that they don't really observe the rule of the veil. That is, though they often wear headscarves, it's in no way a strict rule, and they tend to only wear them as fashion accessories. And I'll have to admit, after seeing enough of them, the proper headscarf can be pretty sexy, praise Allah.

We found our seats amongst the men. I was seated next to one guy who was apparently in the family of the President of Azerbaijan. "Yes, come to Baku anytime you'd like," he said to me in Russian. Across from me was this short guy who drunk wine like it was water, spoke Russian, Georgian and Azeri and freely switched languages in conversation. His eyes were always glazed from when I first found him sitting there across the table, giving me the impression he was the kind of guy to be permanently drunk. I had assumed he was Georgian, as that was his preferred language, but then he said his name was Akbar and he was an Azeri from Rostov, Russia but now living in Bolnisi.

On the other end of the table, were some Azeris who were speaking in Georgian back and forth and would talk to me in Russian and Georgian and other people in Azeri. Various people in the crowd knew some English and would throw some my way. Men were prowling the main isle, delivering any needed foods or drinks. No one was forced to drink or eat, as I was accustomed to at any event in Georgia. The ability to relax and enjoy my wine was a bit nice. I think this is mainly that the tradition of the supra is related to Christ and His Blood, so that purpose of all the toasting and ceremony and whatnot is a bit lost on Muslims.

In walked the bride and groom, in fairly modern looking American wedding apparel. They took their seat at the head and the wedding party took their seat nearby. It occurred to me we were too late for the actual marriage, but we made it for the fun part. So far it wasn't too different than an American wedding. Dancing began up front as a band kicked out the Turkish jams. Here was the difference, instead of American dancing, where the purpose is for the guy to poke is thing at a girl's butt, they held their hands up in the air and did their fun little Turkish dancing, which is, albeit, a touch more respectful towards women's butts.

Randomly people got up and made toasts. It occurred to me, after a guy with gold teeth kept telling me in half-Russian half-Azeri, that I was the first American ever to visit this village. And possibly the last. And probably the first American the bride and groom have ever set their eyes on. It was thus my obligation to make a toast.

The guy I was with advised against this. "No, don’t make a toast."

I explained him the reasoning. The wine doing loopty loops in my head felt good and backed me up with the feeling of sound logic. Everything was becoming a good idea fast. That's where I like to be.

"Let's go! Come on, translate to Azeri for me!"

I grabbed the mic and said, "Salaam mofos!"

No, just kidding. I just said, "Salaam, nejesin chuvaki?" transliterated for y'all. That means "Hey, whassup dudes?" in the ole Azeri tongue. "So there was this Georgian, Azeri and Armenian, and they walked into a bar." No, actually, I didn't say a joke along those lines either. I kept it rather lame and congratulatory, nothing to embarrass even the most Republican of my friends. And then they asked me what music I'd like. Being at an Azeri wedding, and seeing the band only had crazy looking Azeri instruments, I asked for some Nine Inch Nails. I saw their befuddled look and changed my response to asking for something traditional, so they knocked it out.

Some old guy got up and showed me how it was done, twisting his legs and waving his hands. People got in a circle while me and the old guy were kicking it Turkish style, hands in the air praising the Allahs and then people started giving me money. I started feeling like I was in a rap video of sorts, so I tossed the money up and around. Then when someone started putting the money on a nearby table, I just started joining suit. I figured that must be for the bride and groom. Or maybe for some more Abrams tanks to blow up the Russians, I've got no real clue. The bride and groom were grinning from ear to ear and there was much laughing and clapping and dancing.

When my friend had had enough, he pulled me out of the group and out of the tent, while I passed through swarms of people trying to touch the hem of my garment. I felt like some sort of American Jesus spreading the Good Word of Democracy amongst the wanting.

We rejoined the other mafia looking guys and stood in the rain while smoking. I couldn't figure out why my friend considered this more entertaining then waving the hands around like a Pentecostal feelin' for the Lord, but that's what we did for the rest of the night, while random people kept coming up introducing themselves to me. Eventually I was able to make my way back up to the dancing and the bride and groom came out for their last dance previous to consummating their love.

That was when they pulled out this platter with apples and this brown stuff that looked a bit like melted chocolate. Everyone dipped their pinkies in, so I followed suit and just as I was about to lick it off my finger, smelled the strong odor of patchouli. Not seeing any hippies, I accounted the smell for the brown substance and realized probably it wasn't chocolate, and as no one else was licking up their messes, I decided not to as well. It turned out, it was some sort of dye that, as my friend described, "is beautiful color. Is not green, is not brown, is not orange. It simply beautiful color."

At the table at my friend's house later that night, I was observing the effect the dye had on my skin. My pinky was that of a nameless beautiful color, which I didn't find all that beautiful. Across from the table which was filled with tea kettles and cups, cakes, sausages and bread, sat the family Babushka, who spoke to me in half-Russian and half-Azeri. I had learned enough Azeri that, with my Russian knowledge combined, I was able to understand the gold-toothed matron. She talked like most Babushkas, telling me about the glories of the Soviet Union and how life sucks these days but such is life. Then she acquitted herself while we spent the rest of the evening watching hot, scantily clad Turkish women shaking their booties on the Turkish MTV.

Two packages at the office in Tbilisi, but I'm not sure whose yet. I imagine one of them is the Starbucks from Josh, which I'm antsy to get. Not sure who the other package is. I can't get into Tbilisi for another couple of weeks, since we're not allowed to enter the city but once a month, and I'm going to use my furlough on Tbilisoba.

The Soviet Union was, in essence, an economic experiment (and not how many American armchair economists might like to imagine). The Soviet theory (as is the base of all economic theory) was that one could influence factors on a person's life to motivate them to work harder and more efficiently. To this end, they played a giant game of Civilization or SimCity Societies, trying to adjust different factors like comfort, happiness, fear, materialism, etc. They provided for everyone's basic needs and then some, assuming people would work harder after their basic needs and wants were supplied for. On the other hand, that of the Capitalist, there is the belief that people work harder who are without and who want to attain those needs or wants, or are at the threat of losing those needs and wants. The horse, after all, doesn't move when you've already fed him the carrot, but rather when you tempt him with it.

If it all was as simple as that, economics and history would be much easier studies in school. But there are other factors that the Soviets tinkered with, and some of the best sociological and psychological theorists and practitioners have come from the Eastern bloc. It's hard to find a name in a new psychology text book that isn't Eastern European. And so they also did experiments concerning fear, starvation, moving populations around, etc. The height of this era was under Stalin, but many elements of control remained through the duration of the regime. This was the ultimate failure of the Soviet Union. And the lasting impression is that after 70 years of being dicked with, people stop appreciating it. Granted, if you look at an Organizational Behavior book, you'll find many notable "Organizational Behaviorists" who work for General Electric and Ford, etc. Our advanced psychology doesn't exist within the governmental houses, but within the corporations, which is where sit the true powers in the America. Of course, on the whole, us Americans are unaware we are being dicked with. Which makes our system that much cleverer.

The point of this blog though, is one of the cool things the Soviets left behind in their experiments. Houses of Culture. It was one of the positive attempts at motivation. They built Houses of Culture in many cities across the ..Soviet Union.., tip top theatre halls to hold theatrical events such titled as "The Battle of the Steel Worker" and "Glorious Success at the Iron Smelter". In Bolnisi, there stands one such House of Culture. Complete with a small library, a theatre with a rotatable stage floor, and a music school. Our House of Culture stands right next to the brand new mayor's office, which is conveniently the nicest looking building in the entire town, and at night, with red glowing lights, looks mighty awfully a lot like something you'd see in Star Wars commissioning Imperial soldiers.

I got to watch a concert in the House of Culture the other night. The seats are 100% more comfortable than the seats at an American theatre. Everything looked a bit more glorious, pompous and Victorian than an American theatre as well (which I like in a theatre). You didn't feel like a simple proletarian given a punch card and a wrench. The place makes you feel like you're a part of something great. Which is good. It incurs the same feelings within my heart as when I'm in the smelliest dive bar on Colfax in Denver, listening to Lynard Skynard. Granted, it was a step up from the smelliest dive bar in that it was clean, and the attending people were generally a step more interesting.

The point of the event or "spectacle" as the word is in Russian and Georgian, much to my amusement, was to award the best teacher in town with the title of Best Teacher in Town, surprisingly enough. And since the iron smelter hasn't been running since the Soviet times, they skipped the Best Iron Smelterer in Town Award. So they had a line up of national musicians with names I can't pronounce, singing a variety of Georgian and Russian songs.

The first act was a more traditional Georgian song (clip of random song below). Georgians have no lack of musical talent (though they might have a lack of developing a culture to really take advantage of it). I might add here that I love traditional Georgian music, as it inspires much pride and wanting to kill Turks or Persians or insert enemy here. Also, musically, it contains many interesting artifices not found in Western music traditions. And though absent from the performance, I must add that Georgian dance is a real spectacle to watch. It's some strange mix of Kung Fu and Medieval European action. They jump no less than 15 feet in the air, do crazy kicks and flips and land on their knees over and over again. It's as awesome as it sounds, but unfortunately, they don't bust out those dance moves quite as often as I'd like them to. And I must say, it's immensely more interesting to watch than American dances, which are solely about sex. There's something mysterious and chivalrous in Georgian dance, which makes it all that much more entertaining. The other acts sounded a mix between 80s Russian pop and Frank Sinatra. Not the most appealing sort of music, to say the least. Moscow does, in fact, believe in tears.

A dance to show the chivalrous side of Georgian dance: 

A dance to show the more badass side of Georgian dance:

I think the Georgians were inclined historically, as a small country, to go on the element of surprise. Just imagine, when an army of millions of Persians came swarming across the border and 300 Santa Clause clad bastards come spinning out on their knees throwing knives?! You'd better believe that the Persians would be running! Okay, well, it didn't quite work, but still.