So Evans Lysacek @ 24,  became the first American man, to win figure skating gold in 22 years, finishing with 257.67 points at Vancouver’s Pacific Coliseum, 4 days ago.

He also ended the streak of Russian gold medalists since Brian Boitano’s win in Calgary.

 Evgeny Pluschenko @ 27, ‘the- come-back kid’ who came out of retirement last year, finished with 256.36 points, (even though) he had a ‘technically’ difficult more program, which included a quadruple……

En had this to say to Rossiya  2 channel…..

“I am very upset that I could not win the gold. But, in general, I’m satisfied with my performance today. I’m glad that I was able to execute a quadruple jump with good quality. Unfortunately, skating is moving backwards. The man who became the Olympic champion didn’t do a quadruple jump. He just does not know how to do it. All sports are progressing. In swimming, athletes swim faster every year, new records are set in speed skating all the time. But we degrade. One has to understand that a quadruple jump is more difficult at least physically, since it accounts for some time to recover, and this affects the continuation of the program……………”  

“They are turning men’s figure skating into some kind of ice dancing,” he added.

Of course he, and many others, had a lot more to say on the matter, but the point of this (post) is….. does it really matter? They skated, many more continue to compete, and the Olympics will be over soon….I would love to see a total tally of the amount consumers and the government spent on the whole debacle…

And then I’d love to see the same amount given back as reparations to Ayiti and all Afrikan peoples, starting with those on the continent……a token for black history month… bout jus that, to start?

This story is, another eulogy, for the author of Eugene Onegin, another ‘dark’ Russian…..who, according to some, should have really named his poem, Tatiana…….

a symbol of the past, fitting for the present, of one born to a throne…….

misbegotten, like (some of) Pushkin’s (great) grand father(s)…….

“Perhaps Pushkin would even have done better to call his poem Tatiana and not Onyegin, for she is indubitably the chief character,” observed Fyodor Dostoevsky in a eulogy to his venerated (aristocratic) literary predecessor.

This story, which begins in Leningrad (aka. St. Petersburg), is a journey to the countryside:

The westernised aristocratic Onegin is not raised, he is constructed in a foreign mold.

His life of debauchery is like that of a puppet whose strings are pulled by autocratic fiat.

He serves his maker as a courtier would; he is a Western decoration.

But the tale begins with his sense of anomie and a concomitant desire to leave the city to claim an estate left to him by a recently deceased relative.

In the country Onegin stands apart, a bored observer – a parasite as he had been in the capital.

Soon, however, Onegin meets a neighbour, the youth Lenskii, fresh from his studies in Germany and filled with romantic yearning….Lenskii’s quest for fusion with nature and with woman, intellectualised though it be and limited by his claim to poetic genius, threatens the cold detachment of the hero, who is no more able to befriend than love…..

“But friendship, as between our heroes, /can’t really be: for we’ve outgrown/old prejudice; all men are zeros, /the units are ours alone. /Napoleon’s our sole inspiration.”

But this is a different kind of Eugene Onegin…..where Tatiana is

(what she is, was, en always will be…..)

the soul of (the) rod en narod….

she is ‘whole’,


“Tatiana ( profoundly Russian being, / herself not knowing how or why)/ in Russian winters thrilled at seeing/the cold perfection of the sky.”


So this lil’ bird flew (on) across the skies, moving east with the winds…. this time s/he had a package, a gift for a (lil) family of nomadic berbers, fresh from a black oven, in a hut on chicken feet, deep in a forest somewhere to the east of Kiev…….

 ….in a different kind of world…….. 



I sit behind bars in the dankest of blocks.
A captive young eagle, the king of the hawks,
My sorry companion here, lifting his wings,
Pecks bloody food by the sill, pecks and flings,

And looks out the window, away, away off,
As if he, with me, fell to thinking one thought.
He summons me now with his look and his cry,
And wants to speak plainly, aloud: “Let us fly!

“We’re free birds in truth; it is time, brother, time!
To go, where o’er clouds, the high mountains are white,
To go, where the sea realm’s as blue as the sky,
To go, where the wind alone wanders… and I!”