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New Song "Radar" on myspace - Dear Leader - Message Board Dear Leader - Message Board Dear Leader Discussion Forum New Song "Radar" on myspace profile | register | preferences | faq | search UBBFriend: Email This Page to Someone! next newest topic | next oldest topic Author Topic: New Song "Radar" on myspace DAS LEADER Dear Leader Posts: 134 From: Registered: Nov 2003 posted 12-08-2005 10:58 AM http://www.myspace.com/dearleader IP: Logged bill b the b is for bling bling Posts: 1060 From: here To: there Registered: Jul 2003 posted 12-08-2005 12:06 PM ooo, it's like five aarons in my ears at once. i know that sounded a tad gross, but i think you know what i meant. i like the concept. it's much more solid when you can hear and understand the lyrics better than seeing it live. looks like will is still doing his thing... IP: Logged Stratman New Member Posts: 17 From: Registered: Jul 2003 posted 12-08-2005 03:15 PM fucking awesome. I dig the lyrics. Well done "Leader" -Strat [This message has been edited by Stratman (edited 12-08-2005).] IP: Logged crazycongas24 New Member Posts: 38 From: Delaware Registered: Oct 2004 posted 12-09-2005 06:00 PM I like it, a lot. IP: Logged Jurgen New Member Posts: 82 From: Halle, Flanders Registered: Jul 2004 posted 12-09-2005 09:40 PM Me too, waaauuuwww ! IP: Logged brian Regular Poster Posts: 251 From: portsmouth, ri Registered: Jul 2003 posted 12-10-2005 12:56 PM just heard all the new ones posted, and please don't change a thing to any of them. they fuckin rock!! great sound, great energy that is catchy and powerful. this is so exciting... i feel like making desperate love to a school boy. IP: Logged Variolad New Member Posts: 22 From: Haverhill, MA, USA Registered: Jan 2004 posted 12-10-2005 04:29 PM By gawd! This is the motherload to tide over Dear Leader fans until the new album comes out. It's got Radar, Nightmare Alleys and the honest to goodness full on rock version of A Nation Once Again! Go there now people! Now! IP: Logged brian Regular Poster Posts: 251 From: portsmouth, ri Registered: Jul 2003 posted 12-10-2005 10:30 PM actually, can you guys add one little thing to "nation"? how about a vocal harmony on the lyric "place where we first met"? i really love that harmony in the live versions! IP: Logged kikkertje New Member Posts: 32 From: Antwerp Registered: Aug 2005 posted 12-11-2005 04:51 AM Love: radar... Like that song a lot IP: Logged bill b the b is for bling bling Posts: 1060 From: here To: there Registered: Jul 2003 posted 12-11-2005 05:44 AM dear leader is fucking dangerous IP: Logged Death Incarnate New Member Posts: 15 From: Registered: Sep 2005 posted 12-11-2005 06:55 AM Nightmare Alleys is one of the greatest songs the band or Aaron period has ever done. The production on the long/band version of A Nation Once Again is sick. The organ synth is beautiful. This should have been released, how Puritans beat out that is a mystery to me. Since it's an outtake, how about making it downloadable as an mp3 (like Raging Red)? A crappy sounding stream we can't keep sucks. Also, Be Sweet By My Side sucks. Connectivity & You're The Fang should come back instead. Great to hear new stuff! EDIT: I was getting Goddamn Winters (old) & Nightmare Alleys (new) confused earlier. My bad. [This message has been edited by Death Incarnate (edited 12-11-2005).] IP: Logged suede Regular Poster Posts: 819 From: Detroit is in my Heart Registered: Jul 2003 posted 12-11-2005 11:20 PM "Radar" is tiiight! Wow! IP: Logged Tmoney2895 Regular Poster Posts: 210 From: North End Registered: Aug 2004 posted 01-09-2006 07:07 PM I really like this cut of Nation. Quality... IP: Logged All times are ET (US) next newest topic | next oldest topic Administrative Options: Close Topic | Archive/Move | Delete Topic Hop to: Select a Forum List of Forums: Dear Leader Discussion Forum Live Show Reviews Non-Dear Leader Discussion Forum Moderators' Forum Contact Us | dear-leader.com Powered by Infopop www.infopop.com © 2000 Ultimate Bulletin Board 5.47a
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eXile - Issue #160 - Whore-R Stories - Whore-R Stories: the Sluts of Slutsk - By Mark Ames Moscow-based alternativenewspaper Search the eXile All Issues This Issue This Author This Column | Advanced Search... Email thousands of beautiful Russian Ladies! Home | Archive | Club Guide | Restaurant Guide | Songs | Field Guide To Moscow | Political Trading Cards | About Us Browse Column (19) Previous (1) Next (17) Whore-R Stories: the Sluts of Slutsk By Mark Ames ( editor at exile ru ) Browse Author (147) Previous (54) Next (90) I n the last issue, I made the claim that the line between a slut and a whore in Russia is rather blurred. In this, the second installment of Whore-R Stories, I'm going to examine the other side of the equation: The Slut. What better place to test the slut-whore-equation theory than in the Belorussian town of Slutsk. I nit you shot, folks. There really is such a town, located about 100 kilometers southwest of Minsk. Ever since my first and only visit to Belarus over five years ago, the land of Europe's last dictator has always held a special place in my heart (and other organs). Minsk, after all, is where I first discovered the White God Factor. But a provincial town with a name like Slutsk must have something much more than a White God factor - say, a Big Bang God Factor ... As a professional investigative journalist and veteran explorer of the FSU's hinterlands, I knew that fate, as well as desperation, would draw me to Slutsk and, like Stanley in the Congo, I'd report the exotic findings back to my readers. Only instead of bringing back shrunken heads, I hoped to bring back carefully preserved samples of chlamydia, smuggled on my person. The two-and-a-half hour bus ride from Minsk to Slutsk cost two dollars. On the outskirts of town there is a familiar cluster of 8 and 16-story paneli, Brezhnev-era housing projects, dirty white with blue or purple stripes straight down the elevator shaft. In the center of town the structures are smaller, a mix of pre-Revolutionary two- and three-story houses painted yellow, green and pink, side by side with Soviet concrete boxes. Slutsk is run by a Saiko. Literally. The head of the Slutsk city council, with its cookie-cutter Lenin statue out front, is named Saiko. Slutsk has one hotel, aptly named "Hotel Slutsk," on the main street, Ulitsa Lenina. There was fresh blue paint in the lobby. The elevator didn't work. I was given a room on the fourth floor. A single for $33, not exactly cheap. After wandering around town freezing my ass off for most of the afternoon while trying to get noticed, I took a rest in my hotel room then headed back out. It wasn't looking good. The two top restaurants were butt empty. I found a cafe that looked promising, slut-wise. Standing outside the entrance were two women - not girls, but women - bundled in cheap fur coats and hats. They smiled as I passed, and I said hello with a pronounced foreign accent. The cafe had only two patrons. One man was slumped in his chair; his friend scowled at me, one eye open. I sat at the far end and ordered 150 grams of cheap cognac. Just then, one of the women from outside the cafe entered, walked towards and then passed me, turned to leave, then turned around a second time and said to me, "We feel sorry for you being alone. Would you like to join us somewhere else?" "Sure," I said. "Meet us outside." She walked out. I downed as much of the cognac as I could take and asked the bartender, an aging woman, "Are all Slutsk girls this friendly?" "Only if the person is from out of town," she answered. I joined the two women outside the door. "That cafe was horrible, we couldn't even stand being in there," said the one who'd rescued me. Her name was Olga, and the other one was her younger sister, Yulia. They told me that there was a much better caf down the street with a better crowd. They were waiting to join a friend of theirs, Alla. We powerwalked along the ice as best we could to the next cafe, called V Dalee ot Zhyon, or Far Away From The Wives. It was crowded, packed mostly with young banditibees in black leather coats. A few had young girlfriends on their arms, cute ones too. Alla stood at the counter and ordered: a carafe of vodka, four crab and mayonnaise salads, sliced ham, bread, Sprite, and a bottle of Medvedovskaya Krov wine for Olga. Adding two more vodka carafes and other goodies, the whole bill came to nine dollars. I sat next to Olga, who told me that she'd spent the whole past week inside her apartment and that today, she'd decided to go out with her sister and Alla. I didn't really get a good look at Alla yet. Her face was either hidden in a full fur hood on the street, or she was at the bar giving endless orders. It wasn't until she took a seat directly across from me that I literally yelped, knocking into the table: her face looked exactly like the possessed witch in Army of Darkness, the same long shock of silver hair, a gray complexion, gnarled nose and a mouth full of metal teeth: "You shall never get the necronomicon! We shall feast upon your sooooooul..." I had to drink fast. It was clear that I was supposed to be paired up with Olga, who was passably attractive despite the complex wrinkles around and under her eyes. I stole glances at the mini-mafia molls, wondering to myself why I, considering my White God Factor, was stuck with a bunch of old hags, and whether I should try my luck elsewhere. But there was no elsewhere. Olga was thirty-three years old. She told me she'd been to Poland many times, and had recently been to Moscow. Her sister Yulia was twenty-seven. She was one of three sisters and two brothers in the family. I asked Yulia if all Slutsk families were so big, five children, not exactly the norm in modern Russia. "Yeah, we're all like this. I know a family of ten. There's nothing else to do." Yulia said she'd worked for six years as a dancer at Stary Zamok, the town's top restaurant. I assume that meant she was a whore, if the distinction matters. She seemed both proud and unhappy about having been a dancer there -- "It's the best restaurant in Slutsk" -- after six years, she had nothing to show, and now she worked in a factory. That's how she met Alla. Alla told me that the owners of the cafe respected her because just the night before, she'd found her "man" there with three other women and she beat the shit out of him and one of his lovers who hadn't managed to escape. "I beat him unconscious," she said, brandishing her fist and laughing. "You shouldn't mess with me. That bastard. I did everything for him. I worked and put a roof over his head, and he goes and takes three lovers." None of this was helping my mojo: aging women, a haunt who doubled as a man-beater, images of Alla having sex with some unemployed, salo-fattened prole, and him with his three lovers... Alla told me she'd once beaten the shit out of Yulia. That's how they became friends. Yulia lived in the same podezd as Alla. And Yulia carried on an affair with Alla's then-boyfriend. Alla found out, stalked Yulia, and stomped her. After that, they became friends. To prove it, they kissed like a pair of football players, smacking loudly but very un-sexually. Olga quietly emptied the bottle of Bear's Blood next to me. She was amazed that I was American. "I've known Polacks," she said. "I thought you were a Caucasian. You seemed nice and handsome, a foreigner, so I decided we should rescue you from the club." The night starts to get blurry here. I pushed myself to go on until the bitter end, to get the story. But the cheap liquor, the travel and cold suddenly put a sleeping spell on me. I remember we stumbled across the road to Stary Zamok, but it had closed early for lack of a single client -- on a Thursday night! They led me to some kind of second-floor club with a bar and a small disco. All I remember is ordering the worst pelmeni of my life, and eating it. Then stealing some of Yulia's horrific fried meat balls -- tongue meat in a brown chewy foam-like batter. I was burping up bad pelmeni meat into Olga's face as she tried to keep the mojo going. "I smell your pelmeni." "I know." "You want to sleep, don't you?" I was sound asleep in my chair for most of the rest of the evening, I mean deep REM sleep, until they mercifully decided to leave. Olga pulled me away from the other two and walked me downstairs. "You want to stay with me at my place, don't you?" she said. "Yes, I want to stay at your place," I said. She bundled me into a taxi, and I passed out again. Then awoke in the projects. We rode the elevator up to her apartment. A mountain bike blocked the door -- she moved it aside -- and in the first room next to the entry hall, I noticed the head of a young teenager, the Bobby Brady of Belarus, resting on a pillow. He told Olga that "he" had called a few times. "He" turned out to be her "man," as she called him, a Czech businessman who was part husband, part sponsor. Olga closed the door to her son's bedroom, which probably doubled as the TV room as well, and whispered to me, "My man feels that I'm with someone. Men can sense these things. You understand?" "Yeah, I understand," I said, stung, because for the most part men don't understand. She called her "man" on her phone, while I crashed on her bed, a double made out of two twins pushed together covered with a pink comforter. Olga woke me up and asked me if I wanted to take a shower. "No." She came back again what seemed like hours later with a towel. "Go take a shower," she said. I snapped the towel and lifted myself up. I couldn't pass out here. Good money had been sunk into the Slutsk expedition. And here I was, in the slut's very own habitat, as close to the kill as anyone could hope to be. The eXile's shareholders would never forgive me if I copped out now. She took her obligatory pre-sex dyev shower after seeing mine through. I kept myself awake by trying to record the details of her bedroom. It was modestly luxurious by early 90s Warsaw Pact standards. She had a gaudy pink light fixture, a kind of mini-chandelier with pink glass orchids and various blooming lamp pedals. Above the dresser mirror was a collection of German hair styling spray bottles. They must be hard to find in Slutsk -- I remember Czechs and Poles displaying their Western cans of spray and soft drinks in the early 90s. Olga also had large posters of scantily-clad women on her walls, including one in a bikini thong whose figure had been cut out from the rest of the poster and glued to the wall. When Olga returned I pounced. She wasn't what I'd expected: instead of the lumpy, smelly, sweaty body of a typical aging provincial slut, she was thin, much prettier with all her clothes off, with something of Meg Ryan's mouth (not that I like Meg Ryan) and a fashionable mom hairdo. The other surprise was how dry her snapper was. I remember what Dr. Limonov had written about older women's pussies -- "like glue" -- it was one of the reasons why he "gave advices" to "throw away older wife, get yourself young teenage girl." Her small breasts had large No. 2 pencil eraser nipples, but no matter what tricks I tried pulling out of my bag, her snapper was like cloth, like putting your fingers between worn leather cushions on an old couch. "It's been so long since I've been with a man," she told me. I tried to close the deal, but it wasn't working. "I'll get some cream," she said. She stood up and opened a drawer in her dresser. God knows how I managed to maintain wood during this -- I'm not happy about it, believe me. She squirted some cream into her hand and worked it into her gluey snapper. That made things marginally better. Finally I worked my way in. But for all my effort I didn't get much pleasure and nothing close to an orgasm. I passed out after - maybe five minutes, maybe thirty, maybe an hour, I really have no idea. Early the next morning I awoke with a rancid hangover and a mouth nearly as dry as her pussy. The neighbors upstairs were stomping around. "Let me put on some music," she said. She played some kind of Italian pop cassette on her box. "I've had a problem with my neighbors ever since I moved here," she said. "They don't work. They're both alcoholics. They wake up every morning at six and stomp around loudly. It used to be worse. They'd put on some kind of hard soles and stomp loudly on their wooden floor. I called the militia on them. It only made them angrier. So I went upstairs and demanded that they not wake me up at 6am. I screamed. They're a couple, in their forties, with a 16-year-old boy. They were rude, so I forced my way in and beat the hell out of both of them. They were so drunk, and I was angry. Alla's not the only one - I can do that too." It was hard to imagine Olga like Alla -- in the morning she appeared, in spite of her sandpaper snapper, even prettier. "I bought them carpeting. They took it. It's much better now, but it's still unbearable, isn't it?" "It's pretty loud," I agreed. It was hard to imagine that there was carpeting muffling their shoes -- it must have sounded like a construction site before. "I tried everything. I tried being nice. I brought back chocolates from Brno when I visited my man. The 16-year-old upstairs loved them too much. He called me a later and said, 'Those chocolates were so good. If you don't bring me more of those chocolates soon, I'm really going to make a racket upstairs, and much earlier than ever.'" "You should have told him that if he ever threatened you again, he'd never see another Czech chocolate in his life," I said. "I did. I told him, 'Who the hell do you think you are, you little bastard?! I should come up there and tear you to pieces. You're threatening me?! Forget the chocolates! If I ever see you..." " -- Okay, I see," said, interrupting her. These Slutsk girls...someone should hustle them in mud wrestling competitions. I asked her about her "man." They'd met a year and a half ago. She took a job in a factory in Brno, working on a line, tying ribbons around packages of paper napkins. "I had financial difficulties, I had to find work," she said. The owner of the factory walked the floor one day and spotted Olga. "He saw me, pulled me off the line, told me he didn't want to subject me to such work ever again, and said he'd fallen in love. Just like that. I wasn't so sure. He's almost 50. He's an older man, with a stomach." So I'm not the only one acting out Count Tolstoi fantasies. The Czech understood the true advantage of running a sweatshop using cheap Slavic labor: that stroll down the factory line, inspecting the women workers, rating them, fantasizing about how desperate they are, and finally, choosing whichever one he wanted to "rescue," acting out some 19th century European fantasy. "He wants me to move to Brno, but I don't want to," Olga said. "My son, I want him to stay in school here. He also wants me to move to Moscow, where's he's considering opening up another factory. Assembling furniture and other stuff. I went to Moscow with him a few months ago. There's a Czech mafia in Moscow. We all went out for dinner and a long night at the casino: me, my man, the Czech mafia and the local Russian mafia who would be the krysha for his factory. At the end of the night, most of them had left their phone numbers in my purse. I was so surprised when I saw what they'd done. Of course I didn't tell my man. It would just upset him." Olga had married and birthed her son when she was nineteen. Her first husband was an Army type and a loser. He always wanted to punish the boy. They divorced after five years. The boy didn't want to see his father -- he was happy to have him out of his life. The father moved to Minsk. They saw each other once every year or two. Olga's own family were sluchyaninie on her mother's side, Siberians on her father's. Her grandmother told her about the Nazi occupation of Slutsk. "Most of the time the Nazis were okay. My grandmother and grandfather lived out in their dacha. The Germans would come back and say, 'Ekks!' They wanted eggs and food. My grandma said they were polite and paid for everything. Then they went crazier. Once they locked up as many people from the village as they could fit inside a barn and set it on fire. My grandmother heard the screams." "Wasn't Slutsk a Jewish town before the Nazis came?" "Yes, there were many Jews here. The Nazis killed all of them." "Are there any left?" "Not that I know of." Her parents both worked in the railroads. Her father was a signal man. Now he's an invalid. About two years ago he'd injured his leg badly in a railroad track accident and didn't get proper treatment for it. Being the hardy peasant type, he didn't complain as it got worse. Then it turned green and black. "He got gangrene. They had to amputate it. Now he doesn't want to live. He tells me that he wants to die and not be a burden to us. The gangrene may have spread to his other leg. He may have to have it amputated soon." I asked about Belorussian medical insurance, the one I was forced to purchase through the hotel as a tourist. "Ha! What medical insurance! You're on your own here. Actually the burden is all on my shoulders. Everyone barely survives. My man helps out a lot. It's one reason why I'm with him. He's good for my son, for my family. He helps with so much." Issue In #160 20 Feb 03 (2 years, 10 months old) Also in this Issue Adventures in Real Estate byMichaelAndrews It's getting towards the end of the month, and since my rent comes due, it's time to step up the search... Tapochki "A Health Threat" -Ministry Russia's Health Ministry finally admitted that "tapochki," or slippers, do not help to illnesses... Your Letters SIC! A TOTAL DUMBSHIT... FELCH-AN-HOUR... PLAYING WITH DONG... NECKING... DORK-U-MENTARY... Remedial Slander: Bhutan A low-oxygen entry taking up one-eighth cranial page... The Two Faces of Fred: A Journalistic Moral Tale Press Review byPhilbyBurgess Journalists are wonderful creatures in many ways, but on reflection I think it's their utter lack of self-awareness which most impresses me... Wilhelm Klink Invades Eastern-Front Real Estate Market Posing as a German consultant, we contacted Penny Lane Realty to see what it would take to get Comrade Andropov's apartment... Introducing the Schopenhauer Award! We're proud to present a new feature that will entertain and educate you, the knowledge-hungry eXhole!... Let 'Em Send Me to the Bughouse Again! Feature Story byDarZhutayev It's a quiet night here, by Shchukinskaya metro station. If you look out the window, you can see the twin towers of the swanky Aliye Parusa apartment complex... Bardak Calendar The Residents... Night Life Awards... Salvation Army Band... Slade And Sweet... Alisa... Death Porn WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY, THE MICE WILL DIE... THE BABYSITTER... NOBODY LIKES ME... MEANWHILE, IN PODMOSKOVIE... Appointments Receptionist... Maid... Personal Assistant... Driver... Security Guard... The Schmaltz Ghetto Book Review Some genres consist of one good book followed by thousands of disastrous failures... One Of Us Is Wrong Kino Korner byMarkAmes I've never gone out on a limb or exposed my hard-earned reputation to such total destruction as I will this issue... Social Awkwardness Among the Red Flags City Beat byJohnDolan Last Saturday your intrepid Ace City Beat Reporter set out for the antiwar demonstration at the American Embassy... Algeria: The Psychos Will Inherit the Earth War Nerd byGaryBrecher Some wars make it onto the TV news, and some don't. It's got nothing to do with how bloody or big they are... Fit to Print? In New York? byJakeRudnitsky It isn't every day you catch a journalist blowing their own lie. I'm talking about incontrovertible evidence, a smoking gun... Dork-A-Rama Club Review byDenisSalnikov A week ago Thursday, a group of my friends gathered at JUSTO's for sushi and cocktails... Temple's Prayers Answered Restaurant Review byKevinHooper For my final eXile review, I was invited to taste a brand new bar/pub/restaurant, TEMPLE BAR... The Medvedeva Woman byThierryMarignac The Medvedeva woman was impossible as everybody knows. She was prone to bouts of drunkedness, fits of hysteria, you name it... 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