Why I hate Fashion TV, Chapter 17

My loathing for Fashion TV has reached a level that I didn't even anticipate. I rant against Rashion TV on average, once a week. When I see Fashion TV on display on any TV, I feel my heart pumping loudly and an uncontrollable desire to punch one or more models, especially the skinny ones. In short, obsession with Fashion TV is but one sign of the horrific value placed here on being skinny, rich, and important. It makes me want to fight or throw up. At the gym this morning I was about halfway through my workout, having a pleasant time watching beach volleyball from the Olympics on the TV on the left side of the gym. There are two TV's, about 5 yards away from one another. On the other TV was the aforementioned Fashion TV, piddling on about some kind of special model cruise in the Mediterranean featuring some special collection of emaciated women wearing raccoon-style black eye shadow. Sighing with relief, I continued to watch Team USA battle some respectable team from Brazil. Suddenly, an overweight lady who I see quite often at the gym arrives at the treadmill in front of me and proceeds to grab the remote, which does happen to be at her treadmill, and click aimlessly for several minutes around the 400 or so odd channels that the cable features, before settling on, you guessed it, the vile-inducing Fashion TV. What really outraged me about this incident was not that she didnt ask me to change the channel (unheard of with the cavemen-type ethics employed at this gym, and for these situations in general), but that Fashion TV was ALREADY playing on the other TV, and there was an OPEN treadmill in front of said TV where the lady could have easily walked briskly in her tight pink work-out suit and watched her beloved Fashion TV. I looked at my workout time...11 minutes to go. So, for the next 11 minutes, as I ellipticled (sp??) faster and faster, I practiced in my head the speech I was going to deliver to this lady, and I hoped the Cro-magnon steroid-using instructor would hear it too. I gleefully watched the seconds tick down...I took off my headband, wiped my head and hands with my towel, and approached the woman...
Me (In Ukrainian): "Tell me please, why do you need Fashion TV on two televisions?"
Fat Lady in Pink: "Goodness me!" (I startled her as she had been concentrating on her workout)
Me: "You changed the channel from sports to Fashion TV, and Fashion TV was already on the other television!"
Fat Lady in Pink: "Whaaaat?" (Pretending to not understand my Ukrainian and not caring in the least bit...
Me: "I'm just asking..."
So, I blew it. I shook my head and walked to get a drink of water, and didnt feel good about any part of the morning and exchange. Fashion TV, how I hate thee!

Wait a minute, that's my tractor!

Traveling for two weeks in central Asia, even in mostly urban areas, produces a lot of interesting moments and stories. I made friends with Kazakh uncles, consumed several pounds of meat pockets, saw a sleep getting slaughtered,

tasted horse meat for the first time, visited a park that featured miniature versions of all famous Kazakh landmarks and buildings, sweated and rinsed in a Kazakh bathhouse, swam in the world's second largest alpine lake, sang Russian karaoke with my friend Maya, and performed the chicken dance, aka "Little Duckling." One story that stands out in particular is Maya and I's journey back from the alpine lake in Kyrgyzstan, Issyk Kul, which means "warm waters" in Kyrgyz. Maya and I stayed an extra day at the lake to chill out and swim while Ellen's family went further around the lake for more sights. After a morning at the beach and a swim in the lake (which isn't quite "warm", but isn't really cold either, come to think of it) Maya and I tried to find a shared taxi back to Bishkek, which we heard was about 4 hours away. We were approached by a taxi driver who offered to take us back with 2 other people that she was going to find. I would describe our driver's outfit as urban sailor. After wandering around the bus station for 30 minutes without finding anyone, I offered to pay for the rest of the taxi to be on our way. Now, a disclaimer: I have been in many, many taxis in Ukraine with fairly crazy drivers, some of whom frightened me considerably. However, Captain Crazy wins the prize. Please see my one picture with Captain Crazy and Maya, watching as local authorities pushed a rock off the mountain highway.

Captain Crazy managed to reach past 140 km, approximately 90 mph, on the straightaways, and consistently tried to pass 4 cars in a row on curves on the mountain highway. My buckled seat belt didn't give me much comfort. And I didn't feel much better even as we cleared the mountains and traveled on a straight, flat road to Bishkek. Captain Crazy passed most cars from the left, driving in the center of the highway, and frequently going head to head with approaching cars, swerving at the last minute back to the right lane. About 20 minutes from the static heaven that Bishkek now represented, our lady Captain swerved to the side of the road, exclaiming, "Wait, that's my tractor!" Apparently some tractor that she owned was parked on the side of the road, having been driven there by a male associate, who proceeded to cross the road and give a big smooch to Captain Crazy. We left the tractor and associate and sped the rest of the way, swerving in and out of city traffic until pulling up mercifully back to our apartment building.