You Can't Make Me Like Regina Spektor

Its true. I really want nothing to do with her. Which is kind of bad, because the Russians treat her like their very own JonBenet Ramsey (clearly Regina's American counterpart.)

At least that is what Ronny and I were trying to persuade our rather closed-minded Russian counterparts, Petra, Lena, and Rinna. If your wondering how three Russian beauties equates to two American cuties, it totally does. I did the math and for every American girl there must be 1.5 Russian girls to match the criteria of wit, poise, and moral fiber (piety). I CALL RINNA!

Petra, Lena, Rinna looking totes fly at Red Club

But more on piety.

One of the key reasons V-Ron and I decided to journey to St. Petersburg in the first place is because of our strict moral code and devotion to all things puritanical. St. Petersburg has alarming bribery and robbery rates, and equestrianism literally runs rampant. These things may scare off traditional American tourists, but they don't scare off traditional American missionaries. So they don't scare us.

They might scare the Russian waifs a little bit, though. So we dressed up in UNICEF garb and passed out Hershey bars, Happy Meals, and Kotex with wings until they felt more comfortable with us again. Then we peeled off the humanitarian clothes and got right back into "swinging singles mode." Personally, I'm just coming out of a relationship, so I'm just looking to have a good time. V on the other hand is here to look for that special someone, because she's sick of going to Buggaboo Creek alone....or worse. Stachey's.

Not that she doesn't have anyone in North Andover who would love to take her to either. Mental patients, drug addicts, and certain CVS coworkers seem to vie for her affections constantly. But none of these candidates have that certain je ne sais quoi....AM I RIGHT, SERGEI??!!


Sergei always agrees for a Hershey bar.

Dostoyevksy called it. He said that St. Petersburg is "the most abstract and intentional city in the world." Luckily, Viv and I know all about both, thanks to good old American smarts and pop culture.

Wife Swap, the Russian Deluxe Edition

So after that crazy night in the bar (from which Lauren returned with a beard) we were very exhausted. We decided to stay at a nice hotel for a few nights. Well actually, Lauren INSISTED that we stay in a nice hotel, I didn't really think we had the money for it, but I trust Lthomps.

We stayed in a place called the Kempinski Hotel. When we arrived at the hotel we realized that they didn't give us two beds. I was a little uncomfortable sleeping in the same bed as Lauren because I hate all things lesbian. But once again Lauren was INSISTENT that we sleep in the same bed. Whatever, I'm not gay. So I will do this to prove that I am not gay. Not that I am against homosexuals, I have many homosexual friends. But the very thought of what they do in their spare time makes me sick. Even when what they are doing is not sexual at all. Like puzzles and such.. makes me sick. But like I said, I'm not homophobic or anything like that.

Before we went to bed, Lthomps ordered a shit ton of room service. She got spaghetti and meatballs, steak, cookies, and ice cream! Then she spent about two hours in the bathroom. All of this really surprised me especially because Lauren never poops. I started thinking about all the changes she had gone through since the night of partying. I became suspicious.

When Lauren came out of the bathroom I asked, "Lauren... are you feeling ok? You're worrying me."
"I'm fine it's just my period" Lauren growled.

Nuff said, I thought. Case closed.


But that night I woke up to Lauren trying to feel me up.
"WHAT THE HELL LAUREN, I THOUGHT THIS WAS A PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP???"
But all Lauren did was laugh. That's when I realized she was actually a full grown man!

"WHERE IS THE REAL LAUREN?"
Once again my question was met with nothing but laughter. So I ran out of the room and down to the lobby. And who is standing there but Lauren Ashley Thompson.

Dressed as a Bellhop.

White Russians are the Most Redundant Drinks

I mean, it hurts to be called redundant---I know from experience (ooooooh my bad....my emergency therapy session with Dr. Chechnya Herzog was for nothing---the Doc expressly told me I need to forgive Veronica "Nico" Sheehan (sp?) for calling me that.) Well, I guess it's like they say, old wounds are salty and close funny but they can open again even though sometimes they just heal normally...but sometimes you don't know when you're pregnant.

That is what they say? Right?

Anyways, Nico wasn't joshin' ya guys when she said Red Club night got out of hand. But for more reasons than she yet knows. The thing is....I still haven't brought myself to tell her what really happened that night. It's more from the lack of trust than the shock value, though.

First of all, that bearded version of me that told her not to ask about the beard?
NOT ME. It was a decoy bearded Lauren vested with all kinds of bizarre charms. After all, who in their right mind wouldn't ask where their hot gal pal got a big surly beard???? I know we drove through Canada and everything, but some things should still shock us.

Secondly, while I was dancin up on some tall dark Russian lads, an old man with a glass eye swiveled on his barstool to get a better look at me. He was approximately one hundred and forty years old, and well remembered the siege of the Romanov Palace before the Revolution.

Well...guess who he mistook me for with my fiery hair and iron will??


HOLY SHIT. The Russians really care about long lost royalty, almost as much as they care about British Literature. But yeah, somehow a nineteen year old redhead on holiday in 2009 equates to a redhead Tsarina named Anastasia who was killed in 1918....

What I'm trying to say is that I'm writing from my perch in the Alexander Palace, with a bunch of hemophiliacs bleeding all over me and insisting that we're distant relatives.

Which means that the person with V Dubbs...


It's really a shame. I have no idea how Ronny's going to explain this to all the irate single mothers.

RYAN MCCANN

Day TWO (or something) in St. Petersburg Russia.

What a beautiful city, what a stunning and lovely place. We marveled at the centuries old architecture, and considered what role we might have played here three hundred years ago. It truly is a spectacular place. And while we were looking at this beautiful place we decided to get plastered as soon as possible. I mean, you have to remember, this is fucking spring break. This isn't thanksgiving break or some bull shit like that.

We decided on a place called "Red Club" because it seemed like the most dangerous place.

Red Club.

The best place for those who like all kinds of good club music: from Techno and House to Lounge and live Nu Jazz, Rock, Nu Wave Music. Mach more different events, concerts, night parties. Youth public, friendly atmosphere, good music. Nice place.

Address: Poltavskaya str. #7.

Location: M. Ploshad' Vostaniya. From Moskowsky Train Station (Moskovskiy Vokzal) turn right to a small street, Goncharnaya, and follow it to the end, then turn right again and 40 meters further you will find it.Tel.: 7(812)717 13 60, 7(812)717 0000. web: http://www.clubred.ru/

We were not disappointed by this club. We had an amazing time. We began the night slowly with a couple of beers, which gave us the courage to put our guards down. We began telling Russian strangers of our trip. No one believed us. That's when things got a little out of hand. I'm gonna have to take the blame for this one... I've just always wanted to fight someone with a broken beer bottle.

Here's what happened: A couple of russian punks claimed that we were liars and that no one could possibly drive from the Boston to St. Petersburg. I said, "OH YEAH? tell me that one more time you son of a bitch!" I wipped out our beautiful scrapbook that we'd been working on and yelled, "WHAT NOW PLAYOVSKY HATAHHH??".

That's when all hell broke loose. Some Russian biddy spilled her beverage all over the scrapbook. I took my beer bottle, smashed it against the bar, and went for the first Russian I could get my hands on. I was able to gash him in the arm before the bouncer came over and kicked me out.

While I was sitting outside the club on the curb, down on my luck, thinking things couldn't get worse, I realized that Lauren was still inside. God DAMNIT! I saw an image of the single, working class mothers laughing at me. What a night, that is the last time I shoot dope.

Three hours later, Lauren came out with a beard and shifty eyes that told me not to ask about the beard.

So I didn't.

Nothing Shocks Me Anymore

Look familiar, Bostonians?