Fashion Week New York is the cat’s meow. The mess I once discovered in Moscow is dog poop.
Location: The marble-walled Sovetskaya Concert Hall.
Those invited wore babushkas, comfortable walking shoes and sturdy brown or gray coats.
My parachute guide’s breakfast: “Fruitwater” juice, a glass of sour milk, oatmeal kasha, two boiled eggs, coffee and a roll. She ate lightly.
“For Russians, being fat is not a crime,” she said. “We are not as lazy as Americans who jump in their cars. Only a few people here own a car. We are forced to walk more. The USSR has no weaker sex.”
One lady drank straight vodka with black pepper and washed it down with beer. Your companion: “The trick is to eat a lot of bread and butter first. Butter as a coating will sponge up any alcohol. The punishment for drunkenness is severe. Your name is last on the list for an apartment.”
The fashion show: Women in the resort town of Sochi swam in bras and panties because there were few swimsuits available for purchase. One hot piece featured a brocade evening gown and matching coat with fur trim and cuffs. “This will be a mass production,” announced the director. I asked how many of these are mass produced. She said, “Twelve.”
They come with every accessory – like a hat or a bag? “NO.”
Understand, we’re not talking about a Dolly Parton look here.
The textile center model said: “I own two suits. Two layers. One with a matching skirt. When they wear out, I replace them. Not until.”
She herself longed for “something light”. Pink. We don’t have that color. Also, a foreign-made eyebrow pencil that does not irritate the eyelid.”
My own Russian tour guide wanted my cosmetics.
We arranged to meet secretly – later – at 3 p.m., alone on Kutuzovsky Prospect, where I would empty everything I had with me. I waited an hour. She never showed up. And I never saw or heard from her again.
At Gum’s, the state department store, the shelves were empty. Director: “With our revolutions there is a lot to do for the state. Glamor industries are still young.”
When a comrade saw pens in our bag, he muttered, “This is the best thing America could have brought to Russia.” Later, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Sweat was not in fashion. He was the only one who always clutched one of the pencils with both hands.
Soviet beauties appear in our films and magazines on the arms of rich men who have yachts and custom teeth. OK – but let’s put it this way: These guys don’t buy their shmattas from Soviet consignment stores.
Woe to you without Whoa
Note: The mayors of New York and Chicago are angry about the refugee chaos, but hardly mention Biden by name.
To tackle America’s refugee problem, it’s Donald – not the brave, crumbling, stumbling, stumbling Biden, nor Vice-Mumbler Kamala.
In the meantime, Donald, please don’t repeat that judges are “corrupt.” It is judges who make judgments.
Client: “If you win, I’ll give you a million dollars.” Lawyer: “Get witnesses.” The client grabbed friends as witnesses. The lawyer won and then asked, “Where are my millions of dollars?” Client: “Where are your witnesses?”
Only in America, kids, only in America.