No matter what the not-so-smart representatives of the “true patriots of Russia” say, not a single country in the world can do without science and technology. This means that it cannot exist without a creative class - someone must come up with simplex methods, compose equations for the fission of uranium nuclei in aquatic environment and launch rockets into stationary low-Earth orbit.
It’s just that the “powers that be” have eternal problems with this very creative class. At the very least, they grumble at her, and the most talented and creative grumble the most actively. How is it with the Strugatskys -" ...these people can't help but grumble. That's how they are built. He who doesn't grumble isn't worth a damn
"At the most, they simply refuse to work for the authorities and special prisons have to be created for them - “sharashkas”, in which they, however, also work carelessly.
And why? Because they themselves do not consider themselves part of the government. And they don’t see their REPRESENTATION in power. That is, the power is ALIEN to them. And since she’s a stranger, why the hell work for her? Another quote, this time from Pelevin - "...And I'm like a mechanic servant with them. Now think about it, why am I, an engineer, going to make a hernia for myself? Raise these eagles to the stars? Yes, let them drown in shit with their “Word about the Word”"
Good, thought the smart people in power (I think I even know this guy’s last name smart person) there is no representation - so what's the matter? You will be represented. Who do we have on the “bench” here? But here she is - young, creative, in opposition to the authorities and at the same time in good personal relations with the national leader. Why not the leader of the “creaks” (that is, excuse me, the creative class). This is where we have elections. Let it shine on them, gather around itself these same, God forgive me, “creatives”. We'll see. If they really collect it, well, let’s give them a small piece of “as-if-power.” Some kind of parliamentary party or something else we’ll come up with. And along the way, it will also increase our turnout at elections a little. Everything is not superfluous...
These are the thoughts that arose in my head after today’s meeting with Ksenia Anatolyevna at the concert of the “Citizen Poet” project. I listened VERY CAREFULLY to her speeches - she went up on stage THREE TIMES during the concert. And if we sum up everything she said, it came down to to the next -- Putin will win these elections, we are not going to win, but to declare ourselves as a political force, sooner or later Putin’s power will end, we just have to wait (in other words, outlive Putin), the future will be bright and radiant, we just have to live to see it and this is to live - 10 years, maximum 15, for us young people this is not much.
If I were a politician or, God forbid, a political strategist, I would immediately remember one name - Colonel Zubatov and one word - "Zubatovism." But thank God I’m not a politician. Therefore, instead of “Zubatovism,” another word comes to my mind: “simulacrum.” Is it better or worse - I don't know. And what is “better or worse”? WHAT is it better for? And for WHAT is it worse?
But the funniest thing is that I will still go and vote for Ksenia Anatalyevna Sobchak (number five on the ballot). Because everyone else is WORSE...
Those who complain about the cold and rainy weather in the capital should not envy the VIPs who went to the Baltic coast for the New Wave competition taking place there. Although the entire Russian press only writes about the events in Jurmala, being there, in fact, is not very comfortable. The piercing wind makes the stars, who took light outfits with them, shiver and rub their hands, hiding their blue noses from photographers. It is not surprising that many celebrities cannot hide their irritation and bad mood, taking out the first one who comes to hand. Tells his readers about scandals and other significant moments "Morning" in the traditional review of the latest press.
Today Komsomolskaya Pravda tells about the most notorious incident at the New Wave competition. An innocent joke cost dearly the famous cynic and skeptic Pavel Volya, who, according to the organizers, was supposed to invite Philip Kirkorov to the stage. Resident Comedy Club fulfilled its task without refraining from light irony. “Philip Kirkorov... Kirkorov... I heard this name somewhere,” Volya lied and went backstage. And there he was overtaken by the enraged Alla Borisovna, who did not appreciate the young star’s sense of humor. Pugacheva rudely lectured the joker on the topic of who he is and who Kirkorov is in show business, and also described her counterpart swear word, indicating “product No. 2”. Pavel Volya, with all the speed of his reaction, was unable to cope with the shock, because he clearly did not expect such a violent and obscene onslaught. Meanwhile, the Prima Donna, who never gave too much of great importance culture of communication - as well as the vainly mentioned Kirkorov, was filled with the consciousness of her own rightness and, satisfied that she had put the upstart in her place, with dignity retired to her place of honor in the hall.
Chronicles of the “New Wave” are also reported by the publication “Your Day,” which describes in detail one of the recent parties that took place on the Baltic coast. The young stars did not deny themselves and each other anything, entertaining those around them complete absence complexes. Ksenia Sobchak repeated her favorite “dirty dancing” trick, showing the audience a small and rather modest, by her standards, striptease. What was happening was received with due enthusiasm, after which the glamorous blonde, who the day before almost ruined her reputation by appearing in her “pristine” form, became the center of a large society of stars. She was accompanied by, in particular, Dima Bilan and Sergey Lazarev. Moreover, the conversation, apparently, was exciting. Its content is not known, but the group was clearly carried away by the conversation. At some point, Bilan, accustomed to accompanying his words and even songs with energetic gestures, knocked a glass of wine out of Ksenia’s hands with a wave of his hand. The fragile glass shattered into fragments, so that most of the drink, along with the sharp remains of the glass, flew straight into Lazarev’s face. He silently stood up and left, and Sobchak rushed after him to help. They say everything ended well.
But how it began! "Moskovsky Komsomolets" clarifies: the main blonde of Russia did not just come to the mentioned party, but floated in the arms of Sergei Lazarev, who carried her in his arms. True, at the same time he staggered slightly, and Ksenia’s jeans kept trying to fall off. Then, having found the ground under her feet, the TV star decided to turn the annoying mistake into a farce and began to dance, allowing her to tuck banknotes into the waistband of her trousers. As a result, Sobchak managed to earn 40 lats, that is, 2.4 thousand rubles.
Performances by theater actors in the Russian capital are far from being so easy and fun. Novye Izvestia writes that most Moscow theaters are not equipped with air conditioning. It would seem that this is nonsense in an era of such intensive development of technology, but no: it’s just that previously all the temples of Melpomene traditionally closed the season at the end of April and resumed performances only in the fall, but now not every theater can afford such a long vacation. Therefore, the ventilation problem arose unexpectedly, and it can be solved in as soon as possible Almost nowhere did they succeed. As a result, the audience sometimes leaves the hall, unable to bear the stuffiness, and the actors even faint - well, backstage, and not on stage. The capital's theatergoers, who go to performances even in spite of all the inconveniences, try to adapt: dress lighter, take fans with them and refresh themselves with soft drinks.
There is, of course, another extreme - when technical innovations are introduced into literally all areas of our lives, taking control of even the most seemingly independent processes. "RBC daily" talks about a gadget that will solve the pressing problem of inveterate flower growers. Now, during the holidays, many people are faced with a dilemma: to have home flowers or to retain the opportunity to go to, say, a resort at any time, without looking for someone among their friends who wants to water the plants while the owners are away. But sometimes the situation is even worse: people make green friends in pots, and then forget to look after them, dooming them to a slow death. One American company has come up with a way out of this situation: a special device is inserted into the ground - a sensor that determines when the flower needs to be watered. If necessary, the cunning contraption calls the owner of the plant at mobile phone and informs about watering time.
Wearing green slacks, a black blouse and a plaid cotton shirt on top. It's very hot, but I'm fashionable and a Good Will Games volunteer. I am already 17 years old. I go cheerfully to an interview with an American with whom I will work and translate. 1994 No one knew then that today we would celebrate and curse Sobchak, and “American” would become a household word. He's about 50, black, a former track and field athlete and former FBI agent, now Ted Turner's head of security. His name is Dwight, Alison. He squints at me, listens, then asks a question about his father. A policeman is good, an economic police is even better, a short pause - and again the look of Uncle Tom. I say that I will also be a cop, although I understand in myself that I am not completely sure of this. The FBI man smiles and says: “Okay, we’ll work together tomorrow, partner. You just need to wear your shirt untucked, it’s more correct, and even better without it - it’s hot, like in Arizona. Now let’s go eat pizza.”
How hot it is in Arizona and where it is, this same Arizona, I don’t know, but I took off my shirt and went to eat pizza. Then two weeks of fun work, competitions and endless heat named after Mayor Anatoly Sobchak. Since it was then, for the first time in Russia, that bad weather and clouds were conquered tall man, and St. Petersburg became Florida for almost two weeks. Until that August day, I had not seen Sobchak in person. The day was ending, there were enough impressions, the most unpleasant thing was the picture from the minute-long fight of our heavyweight with the Cuban boxer, which ended almost immediately, because he missed ours, missed him quickly and missed him in the liver. I didn’t know that in a few minutes I would become a witness to almost a massacre between BKhSS Colonel Vladimir Sheide and a certain American from the games headquarters. The initially friendly conversation was attended by my black FBI agent, a bald American from headquarters, a police colonel, and I, an interpreter. Policeman Sheide did not like Americans, but tried not to show it. He didn't speak English well either. But at the same time he was one of the best operas of the St. Petersburg headquarters.
And at the games they stole shamelessly. The objects of the hunt for swindlers and thieves were trucks with sponsorship and equipment. In general, while the athletes were fighting in the arena, policemen and security officers assigned to the security service were fighting under the arena. Uncle Volodya started the conversation correctly: he started asking about trucks, about invoices for goods and asked for the list to be handed to him. But he made two strategic mistakes: firstly, he did not very clearly indicate that he was a policeman, and secondly, he wished for the future to kindly and in advance provide all lists of American sponsorship assistance to him and, in general, senky very much, as they say , Mister. The bald man began to sniffle, began to think and look at the black Dwight, who, looking to the side, said in an innocent voice: “You know, Jack, I would think very carefully when answering this question,” and got up to make himself some coffee. I thought to myself that I definitely need to be more careful with Uncle Volodya. But what happened next was not expected by either the FBI man or the policeman, and especially not by me. The bald man frowned; it seemed to me that harsh Siberian forests, dissidents, logging and, of course, the KGB flashed through his eyes. He jumped up shouting “what's the fuck is going on”, jumped up to the policeman, tore off his badge and said that he would not say anything without the consul. And he pushed the Soviet officer Uncle Volodya. In the chest and hard. There is no meaning to be translated. was. Yes, I didn’t have time, because with a roar: “What are you doing, bitch?”, the policeman painfully poked the American back, deftly grabbed his elbow and snatched his badge back. I was in a slight stupor, but I got to work The FBI had already turned on. How he managed to put down his coffee and jump between them - no one understood. But both understood the words fucking idiot, and both still puffed and tried to escape. The American shouted that ours was fired, and the angry and red policeman asked me to transfer that he “wanted to shit.”
There was almost an international scandal in a separate room. About ten minutes after this, the bald man could not calm down and called somewhere, shouting that a KGB officer wanted to recruit him. Black Dwight smiled and suggested that he cool down, drink coffee and go watch boxing. But the American himself seemed to believe in the recruitment and said that he was going to complain to the mayor. Black stopped smiling and said that this was a bad idea, especially since they were really stealing, but if he was serious about it, then let’s go together. Things were taking a turn. I called my father and told him about the battle and that the bald man was now going to Sobchak to complain. My father laughed into the phone and said that “they would sweat and complain,” and that I should not worry. I knew little about Sobchak, although I had heard a lot. My father, who studied with him at law school, was worried that he didn’t give lectures to me and said that Sobchak’s lectures were always two hours long, without paper and brilliant. The students loved him. Colleagues were jealous. In terms of popularity among students, he was adjacent to law professor Pelevin, who was superior to Sobchak only in that in the morning one could meet him in line at a beer stall and stand next to him. Ahead lay Sobchak and the moment of truth for the police. I saw him from afar, he seemed tall and somewhat reminiscent of a stork. He also waved his arms as he walked and walked widely. Mutko, his then deputy, was mincing nearby, and the now former head of the presidential security service, Zolotov, was walking nearby.
Or maybe it just seems to me, because almost an eternity has passed. As he walked, he listened to the bald American, nodded, and asked the translator where exactly the policeman was from, he did not know. - UBKHSS - I got into the conversation. Everyone became silent and I felt very lonely. For a moment. Sobchak smiled and told the translator: “Translate that they are asking exactly what they should ask. Therefore, let's cooperate." He walked on, striding widely and waving his long arms. Anatoly Aleksandrovich Sobchak, professor of law at the Leningrad Law Faculty, first and last mayor of St. Petersburg, looks like a stork.
There is no happiness in the world,
And there is peace and will...
What is this maxim of the great poet
Would you like to say?
What truth did he want to convey?
Before us, scurrying around,
And what did you hope to save from?
Poison drinkers?
Pour into people's subconscious secretly
Streams of mud
And at the same time write the world with boiling water
I owe it to cool...
It is even possible that you have lived your life
Not according to orders
But who inspired you, the unfortunate one,
That life is wonderful?
What are your hopes, my friend?
Find talents,
When everything around is filled
Telemutants?
What peace is there for your children,
When like at school
They make us perverts
Sobchak and Voli.
They rush around you here and there
A crowd of freaks.
The fallen one will be trampled or devoured -
Law of nature.
We are herbivores, so why not cheat?
Chewing blockbuster
But we strive to please
In the fanged caste.
We fly through the universe like Gogol
And we tear out the soles,
But we do not sit in the saddle -
In a frying pan.
We are our burnt cracklings
We are chilled by the winds,
We talk about freedom for rubles
From different studios.
Everywhere we need to arrive in time
And be involved...
And happiness lies in not having
Such happiness.
God would see what reigns in our time:
Same-sex marriage, Comedy club,
In vitro insemination -
With vision, so that the Lord does not weaken,
I would cleanse the earth of vile pleasures.
He would start with our Mother Throne.
Be in charge of Jehovah's Plenipotentiary,
I would be the first to castrate Pavel Volya,
Then he dispersed TNT like a den.
Ksyusha Sobchak and other sex consumption.
Anfiska's boobs, Viagra glamorous
I would give joy to all perverts
Showed off as a baba in glaze,
Let them amuse both these and those...
May the Creator forgive me this sin.
...Times, they change
Exactly the rules of the game.
What was called fornication of old,
Today it is valor, not sin.
"Windows" with their fools,
Pavel Volya, sex maniac,
With its glamorous vulgarity
They corrupt the young.
They send children to public “Houses”
Pimps from TV,
Everyone is cynical for their money
Declaring “ce la vie.”
Rasputin was defamed
For the sake of the audience at the box office...
Ask someone about Putin,
Where is the Ras prefix stored?
From Kabaeva and Khorkina -
The Internet gives advice
I want to go to the Network with its trash
There is no particular need to climb.
Fornication is not a new concept,
Sex feels good... So what?
I understand Jehovah
His indignation.
Tribal God Methods
No matter how much I judge
But with inveterate bastards
I would have done the same thing.
Spiers dirty jokes
All sides are torn
Lord... Sick friends
With TNT and with TNK,
Because you talk vulgarity,
Perverts of all stripes
You sacrifice to Moloch
Your own children.
To you priests from pornography
The word of the Lord is longing,
But in vain, you are off schedule
The first ones will be dropped
Devils to hell, in tar without a sheet
They will bang together...
You will be rewarded according to your deeds
Pavel Volya and Sobchak.
May the force be with us
Judging what is not beautiful
And a red-hot iron
Burn it out, which is just disgusting.
Reviews
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It masterfully reveals the essence of this man. Masks are off. We finally see what Ksenia really is.
Many people think she's a bitch. Ksyusha is not like that. Someone is very smart. However, Ksenia is stupid. Some see Sobchak as the darling of fate. And this is not about her.
The basis of Ksenia’s personality is dissatisfaction with life.
Despite all her glamor, fame, the golden cradle in which she was born, Sobchak is an ordinary woman who always feels bad.
An offended person in life, if you like.
Such women are like dirt. The only thing that distinguishes Ksenia from them is the surname inherited from her father.
Throughout the entire interview, Sobchak does nothing but complain. On everyone and everything.
To be honest, I was even dumbfounded. According to my logic, a presidential candidate should squeeze out at least something other than complaints.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
So, what exactly is Ksenia complaining about?
Yes to everything! And she does it, like any stupid woman, in a contradictory way.
Complains about bad living conditions In Petersburg.
“The family had to live in rented apartment on Khalturin Street... “It was a hole and hell.” But in those days, mayors were still forced to solve their housing problems on their own.”
Complains about a stolen childhood.
“I suffered terribly from publicity, from the fact that everyone addressed me as the mayor’s daughter... It was a terrible trauma for me that I could not be myself and have my own life... Everyone pointed the finger at me. Everyone shunned me... But I just wanted to be friends, to play... When dad became the most recognizable person in the city, my life is over."
Complains about his tyrant mother.
“It was a Soviet principle: until you eat everything, you won’t leave the table. I will never do this with Plato... Ksyusha speaks selflessly about the fight against maternal tyranny - for her this was her first experience of defending freedom.”
Complains about politics.
“I was very offended that politics took my father away from me, that they treated him so unfairly, that such persecution was organized.”
Complains about money. More precisely, their lack.
“It was so hard for me that I wanted to leave at any cost, I didn’t want to live at home... Dad didn’t leave any money, and you have to make your own way... It was hard... Dad was not a rich man.”
Complains about poor living conditions. Now - in Moscow.
“I found myself in a small rented one-room apartment on Frunzenskaya Embankment, in a house without security, with a pissed-off entrance.”
Complains about money. Now it's too much.
"I ran away with own wedding... I had high paying job, but I don’t need her at all, because there is a billionaire who is asking me to marry... This does not give you any drive, you are not interested and you are not interested in the women in the neighboring villas. And you’re not interested in talking about the size of diamonds... It was an escape from that life.”
Complains about loved ones.
“At first I was terribly confused, people close to me turned away from me, they were simply scared, many even said: “We don’t want to communicate with you now, because we don’t need these problems.” At some point everything disappeared."
A chronic inability to be happy is an indicator of a weak and, in my opinion, stupid person. Whatever you give to him, it’s not the same.
Ksenia is not purposefully building a career. She is tossing around.
From the frontal “House 2” to the editorial office of a glamor magazine. From the editorial office of a glamor magazine to the opposition barricades. From opposition barricades to social gatherings. From social gatherings to presidential elections.
And this is not an upward spiral. This is running in circles. This is a cycle that can only be broken by being completely honest with yourself.
And Ksenia has a problem with this, since honesty with oneself implies, first of all, taking responsibility.
Sobchak is only complaining for now. And it looks pathetic.
Yaroslavna’s cry, which Ksenia made, is appropriate from the lips of a grandmother in the studio “They Say the Way,” but not from the lips of a candidate for President of the Russian Federation.
Do you often complain about life, about those around you? If so, what are your goals when you do this? What do you want to achieve? How do you feel?
