what do all y'all do for fun 'round these here parts?

Oi! Just thought I'd recap a special scene from this weekend before it gets too fuzzy in my mind: in the eternal quest to answer the query "how does one entertain ones' self on a Saturday night in Moscow?" Sam (my darling buddy and a positively delightful bloke) and I took to the streets by Sportivnaya for that elusive Something To Do. After wandering around the river's edge for half the night in temperatures not possible for early December prior to the melting of the polar ice caps and refusal to take any responsibility for it, we came upon a posse and a pizza stand. While I could just as easily have made better quality pizza at home with aerosal cheese and a microwave, I give the poor chaps full credit for effort. It's not easy to go up against decades of top-down enforcement of shunning all things 'Western' in effort to assert socialist superiority- albeit, even as such for pizza recipes. I furthermore give the grandest credit to the shopkeeper for maintaining his cool and keeping head held high through & through juxtaposed against the scene to follow: double-parked in front of the pizza stand sat this little ol' clunker of aluminum, fire and brimstone, with all the doors and windows open, blasting inescapable techno music into the street, bouncing off of every building, corner or other object massive and stagnant enough to repel its advances. Shuffling and stumbling in and out of the instrument of obstruction was a wayward throng of shiftless mal'chiki- barely 18 years to his name each had, as was apparent from the unseasoned faces and unbridled gestures before us. Wearing summer-seemly short sleeves abutting the ghastly wind that had picked up since the clock's new day, each lad swaggered and leapt, as though attached to puppet strings repeatedly twisted and twirled in the wind and made to dance by a puppeteer inebriated nearly to unconsciousness; the puppets danced, though nearly inebriated to unconsciousness. Even the most argumentative post-modern dance critic would be distraught by their apparent complete lack of rhythym, positioning and simple intent; their legs would merely sway continuously until a sudden burst of inspiration, revelation or possibly urination caused each toy to spring up as if to immitate the stride and cadence of a springbok or jack rabbit. Their elbows stayed tucked in and bent, like some strange beast with limbs sown into place until a wave of emotion would cause them to cry out and thrust their arms around in a windmill gesture- not entirely unlike those of an electric chair victim in action, I can only suppose. To put it lightly, the choreography was nothing to write home about. At the same time, as Sam pointed out, these kids put dignity, health and all other concerns aside for the sake of a jovial evening of spirit and laughter. They didn't care what anyone thought of them, said to them or did to them; in that moment, they had found vibrant solace. Unfortunately, the militsiya did not concur.