Victor Kirillov, And don’t explain why this was taken away?

Here you are getting older .... the family album squeezes into journalism .....

Viktor Kirillov,
Could you explain what exactly they were deprived of?

Backwoods, CONFIDENCE IN TOMORROW (DAY in the sense of sunshine and joy, not the BOTTOM of social darkness)
Even Wall Street billionaires have no guarantees... Black Tuesday, default, stock market crash, bankruptcy, street work, or being photographed with playing cards in their underwear ((

Viktor Kirillov,
Could you explain what exactly they deprived me of?

Backwoods, This topic is absolutely brilliant, and it should have been saved for the New Year, but now it's just snotty ranting from poor Vityushenka. Well, since the topic has been raised, I'd like to ask the author. What exactly did this new, non-communist idea give him?

Viktor Kirillov,

CONFIDENCE IN TOMORROW (DAY meaning sun and joy, not the BOTTOM of social darkness)

Oh yes, I agree with you there. They've completely deprived me of it; we haven't seen the sun for a week, it's cloudy... they've definitely deprived me.
I'm mostly with billionaires, because they'll start complaining about the Ferrari creaking, the fourth bedroom for the kids taking too long to build, the staff at the Maldives twisting a swan crookedly... I have no confidence.
Do you often have to listen to the complaints of the current generation?

Do you often have to listen to complaints from the current generation?[/quote]
Backwoods, No, they don't complain, they don't know that things could be different (it's like that everywhere now). It's like a natural phenomenon. How can you complain about TWILIGHT? They're stocking up on flashlights and batteries. Well, the billionaires don't want to repeat the fate of Marie Antoinette either. No one has any confidence, there's "we live once... and then let the grass grow"

Do you often have to listen to complaints from the current generation?
Backwoods, No, they don't complain, they don't know that things could be different (it's like that everywhere now). It's like a natural phenomenon. How can you complain about TWILIGHT? They're stocking up on flashlights and batteries. Well, the billionaires don't want to repeat the fate of Marie Antoinette either. No one is sure, there's " "We live..., and there, even if the grass doesn't grow,"

Viktor Kirillov, What's there to complain about? My son was born in 1986, and stores are a mess, no milk, no baby food. I remember back in '89, we went to Moscow and barely found a jacket for a three-year-old. And as for the iPhone, everyone's stuck on it, and by the way, even pensioners are stuck on it. There was a time when people played fifteen on public transport, then the Rubik's cube came along, and so on.

Viktor Kirillov,
Could you explain what exactly you were deprived of?

Backwoods, So, what has the new government given you in life?

Viktor Kirillov, What's there to complain about? My son was born in 1986, and stores were full of them, no milk, no baby food. I remember back in '89, when we went to Moscow and barely found a jacket for a three-year-old. And as for the iPhone, everyone's lost, and by the way, even pensioners are lost. There was a time when people played fifteen on public transport, after the Rubik's cube came along, etc.

Vasya Kotov., However, if you get kicked out of your cushy job for truancy and drunkenness, they'll always hire you as a mechanic at a factory or plant, and that was a GUARANTEE that we'd have money to buy our son a jacket and a Rubik's cube. Now you can get evicted from your apartment for non-payment of utilities, along with your iPhone.

Viktor Kirillov, you're a smart man, try to stay that way.

Let's stop with the guarantees and assurances. We'll gradually transition to a photo discussion mode; you can discuss this one if you have the courage.

Viktor Kirillov, you're a smart man, try to stay that way.

Let's stop with the guarantees and assurances. We'll gradually transition to photo discussion mode; you can discuss this one if you have the guts.

Backwoods, there's nothing to say about the photo; just turn on the offended tone. And yet, Sergey, what did the new government give you? You once wrote that you could barely walk. I was running far away to the swamps on Saturday; no one goes there. I took a photo and remembered about the Federal Center. I think they'll like it. I'm giving you the full-size version

Vasya Kotov., However, if you get kicked out of your cushy job for skipping school and drinking, they'll always hire you as a mechanic at a factory or plant, and that was a GUARANTEE that you'd have money to buy your son a jacket and a Rubik's cube. But now you can get evicted from your apartment for non-payment of utilities, along with your iPhone.

Viktor Kirillov, "If you get kicked out of your cushy job for skipping school and drinking," made me smile. Many people want to have a drink with me, so that's unlikely. I recently met a classmate who works as a lathe operator at a factory and makes 40 grand, so I'll guarantee it.

Viktor Kirillov, you're a smart person, try to stay that way.

Let's stop with the guarantees and assurances. We'll gradually transition to photo discussion mode; you can rinse this one if you have the guts.

Backwoods, No, I'm a VERY stupid person. I didn't exchange my Pioneer tie for an LDPR party card in time.
I used to rinse photographs under running water to remove any remaining sodium thiosulfate, thereby extending the shelf life of the paper product. I don't know why you need to rinse digital photos.

Viktor Kirillov,

I used to rinse photos in running water... I don't know why I need to rinse digital photos?

Well, at least so the bath and laundry facility doesn't sit idle

Vasya Kotov., However, if you get kicked out of your cushy job for skipping school and drinking, they'll always hire you as a mechanic at a factory or plant, and that was a GUARANTEE that you'd have money to buy your son a jacket and a Rubik's cube. But now you can get evicted from your apartment for non-payment of utilities, along with your iPhone.

Viktor Kirillov, by the way, Vitya, how did you mention here that your daughter's company installed the windows poorly? But tell me, you wrote here that many people wanted to shoot your wedding on their phones. So, you're also bad at wedding photoshoots?

Viktor Kirillov,
Well, at least so that the bath and laundry plant doesn't sit idle.

Backwoods, Well, if only so that it doesn't sit idle, the first thing that strikes you is the absence of eyes. The eyes, as we all know, are the mirror of the soul. That is, we clearly see the complete lack of spirituality and moral decline of the ruling class. The hands seem to be in prayerful rapture, oh my goth, they want to veil and conceal the moral and ethical poverty, but meanwhile they only exacerbate it with the presence of fashionable devices and precious metals on the wrist. The hair is a product of the shampoo industry and the unborn embryos of third-world countries. The portrait is deeply cynical and glamorously distorted!

Viktor Kirillov,

The portrait is, at its core, deeply cynical and glamorously distorted

Well, we can do that whenever we want.
Now it's my turn—this is a discussion, right?

Who said mirrors have to be open?
The rush of hands hardly resembles prayer, perhaps only a clutching of the head. What's the moral impoverishment here, if I may ask?

About spirituality... right now, I'll make a glass of tea... let's continue

By the way afftor if my hotel is not good for you, you can delete))

Who said mirrors have to be open?

Backwoods, Open eyes are a tradition of salon portraits, dating back to the days of long exposures and beautiful exposures. It's not street photography or an eye X-ray. She blinked, didn't wait for the bird to take flight, and now you're trying to justify a spontaneous portrait with that. This trick won't work against a studio background. Immediately crop out the outline and take her to the sea with the setting sun and seagulls.

Wow: eek ... the barkers have already scraped the chervonets of the rivers ....

Backwoods, Well, if only to keep it interesting, the first thing that catches the eye is the absence of eyes. The eyes, as we all know, are the mirror of the soul, meaning we clearly see the complete lack of spirituality and moral decline of the ruling class. The hands seem to be in a prayerful rapture, oh my goth, they want to veil and conceal the moral and ethical poverty, but meanwhile they only exacerbate it with the presence of fashionable devices and precious metals on the wrist. The hair is a product of the shampoo industry and the unborn embryos of third-world countries. The portrait is inherently deeply cynical and glamorously distorted!

Viktor Kirillov, No, it doesn't look anything like a repentant Marina Magdalena

Viktor Kirillov,

Open eyes are a tradition of salon portraits, dating back to the days of long exposures and beautiful exposure. It's not street photography or an eye X-ray. She blinked, didn't wait for the bird to take flight, and now you're trying to justify this as an ideological basis for a spontaneous portrait, like, "That trick won't work against a studio background; immediately crop it out and take it to the sea with the setting sun and seagulls."

That's understandable, but the tradition you cited is very reminiscent of a passport trend in salon art. Oh... I remembered, you're a mechanic-photographer, an honorary fourth-class photographer.
Then another question: why the hell can't you have a bracelet or a watch? All the salon textbooks say it's forbidden. And farmers everywhere support it – they say it's forbidden... But why?
Like, it distracts attention? From what? What will be your confused explanations?

Viktor Kirillov,
That's understandable, but the tradition you cited is very reminiscent of the passport trend in salon art. Oh... I remember, you're a mechanic-photographer, an honorary fourth-class photographer.
Then another question: why the hell can't you have a bracelet? A watch? All the salon textbooks say it's forbidden. And farmers everywhere support it – they say it's forbidden... But why?
Like, it distracts attention? From what? What will be your confused explanations?

Backwoods, An unfortunate artist, in order to somehow stand out from the crowd of similar passport-seekers, seeks his one and only technique. Philippe Halsman made his models jump in the frame to reveal their individual essence. You can make everyone BLINK and become known as the most profound author of human vices, pride, and eyelid makeup. Of course, anything is possible in a portrait, but remember, any deviation from classical canons will lead you to Picasso (portrait of Olga Khokhlova) or even Malevich's Black Square.

My dicritresses fall sastula sasmechu, because the scheme of light is Galiwood. The scheme of the spotlight fell shadow for no reason why.

How interestingly the nose is turned up. Oink oink.

Viktor Kirillov,

you can make everyone BLINK and become known as the most profound author of human vices, pride, and eyelid makeup

It's like :rolleyes. If the model doesn't stare wide-eyed in anticipation of birds, but just slightly closes her eyelids, is she immediately demonstrating vice and pride? Five stars, Victor! Such an understanding of classical canons certainly makes you ready for a new level of photographer.
But I only have two paths: to Picasso or to the square? Tell me, how should I jump in a portrait to avoid becoming a complete Malevich?

Viktor Kirillov,
How is it? If the model doesn't stare in anticipation of birds, but just slightly closes her eyelids, does she immediately demonstrate vice and pride? Five stars, Victor! Such an understanding of classical canons certainly makes you ready for a new level of photographer.
But I only have two paths: to Picasso or to the square? Tell me, how should I jump in a portrait to avoid becoming a complete Malevich?

Backwoods, In this genre, you have practically no chance. The further you are from the canons of the GOST passport, the closer you are to the abyss of the square. Maintaining the chastity of portraiture with a closed gaze is self-deception and jumping in place. Only a return to the origins of figurative art will save you from the final postmodern decay and decay. A woman, as a source of child nutrition and a symbol of motherhood, cannot remain in lustful bliss and blinking when thousands of African babies do not receive adequate, balanced nutrition.

Viktor Kirillov,

In this genre, you have practically no chance. The further you deviate from the canons of the GOST passport standard, the closer you are to the abyss of the square.

So I get it. You're following a rather outdated portrait manual, popularly known as "shmordet portrait." Yes, this technique was quite common among the Egyptians. Later, in rural areas, a similar paragraph appeared in a manual on metalworking and photography:
"Girls, don't wear beads; beads aren't beautiful either.
Guys don't love you for beads, but for your cheerful eyes."

Your craving to see eyes with your own eyes is becoming obvious, and trinkets offend you, like a dull sickle.

Viktor Kirillov,
So I get it. You're following a rather outdated portrait manual, popularly known as "shmordet portrait." Yes, this technique was quite common among the Egyptians. Later, in rural areas, a similar paragraph appeared in a manual on metalworking and photography:
"Girls, don't wear beads; beads aren't beautiful either.
Guys don't love you for your beads, but for your cheerful eyes."

Your craving for physical sight is becoming obvious, and trinkets offend you like a blunt sickle.

Backwoods, Everyone, everyone, has settled down to their bourgeois ways. It's time to return to the roots and origins of pure genre. What have we come to? Breasts and girls' loins are becoming objects of photo worship and RD. Where has it ever been seen that a distinguished billionaire, winner of a major competition, loses visual control and the vector of economic development? I consider your portrait an ideological diversion and artistic frivolity in the face of historical choice!

Viktor Kirillov,

Everyone, everyone, has decomposed themselves into bourgeois regalia; it's time to return to the roots and sources of the spring-fed purity of genre

No, no. This isn't some village fashion show called "Miss Cowshed of Nizhnie Plugov." If you came here, please decompose properly. To decay and stink. And squeeze the intellectual mechanic out of yourself, drop by drop.
What, if not the loins, should fill the RD? And why is it that a woman is a symbol of motherhood, yet a girl's breast, as part of that symbol, is rejected by you. Do you reject breasts? A girl's breast?

My portrait may be ideological sabotage, but the portrait of a billionaire is quite fit for the Honor Roll. Okay, I've been rotten for a long time, mired in billionaires' wives, but you haven't let me down? Have you preserved your spirituality? Do you hold weddings spiritually? Come on, show me something spiritual with a vector.

Viktor Kirillov,
No, no. This isn't some village fashion show for "Miss Nizhnie Plugov Cowshed." If you came here, please decompose properly. To rot and stink. And squeeze the mechanic-intellectual out of yourself, drop by drop.
What, if not the loins, should fill the RD? And why is it that a woman is a symbol of motherhood, yet a girl's breast, as part of that symbol, is rejected by you. Rejecting breasts? A girl's?

My portrait may be ideological sabotage, but the portrait of a billionaire is quite fit for the Honor Roll.
Okay, I've been rotten for a long time, mired in billionaires, but you haven't let your face down? Have you preserved your spirituality? Are you celebrating spiritual weddings? Come on, show me something spiritual about vector.

Backwoods, A girl's breasts are only complete with a baby, or in Kustodiev's bathhouse.
A wedding is a commercial product, and spirituality can be present if you're there as a freelance artist and the bride's school friend. According to the price list, spirituality is not included in the formal photo set and is not paid for.
With vector, of course, there are wanderings; the navigation system of happiness has lost its way and points to a sausage store.
No problem, I believe the heavy shackles will fall and our names will be written on the ruins of foolish power.

Viktor Kirillov,

A wedding is a commercial product, and spirituality can be present if you're a freelance artist and the bride's school friend. Regarding the price list, spirituality isn't included in the formal photo package and isn't paid for.

Ugh... Where's your commitment to the ideal and a bright, beautiful exhibition? You're flaunting a wedding without spiritual enthusiasm. You're waving the price list in front of everyone at the slightest provocation. It's not right.
Add a clause to your price list: photographing the newlyweds with spirituality and inspiration. A strong exhibition is another premium. I'll make you a billionaire, and I've pulled out worse.

I'll say it in the end, though, since I'll be gone for a few days. I wasn't the first to ask, "Could you explain what exactly they deprived us of?" I asked the author the same question, but he has no answer. We won't see him on TV or in any other reports. The guy seems to be sitting in one place and only changes diapers. It might even be an old woman posing as a dashing sailor. Their only joy is trolling the collective farmer, who, of course, strains his words to seem smart. So the question is: If he's smart, why are he so poor?

I'll say it in the end, though, since I'll be gone for a few days. I wasn't the first to ask, "Could you explain what exactly they deprived us of?" I asked the author the same question, and he has no answer. We won't see him on TV or in any other reports. The guy seems to be sitting in one place and just changing diapers. It might even be an old woman pretending to be a brave sailor. Her or his only joy is trolling the collective farmer, who, of course, strains his words to seem smart. So the question is: If he's smart, why are he so poor?

Vasya Kotov., That's CUT OFF, not cut OFF, CHOPPED OFF on the fly!

Viktor Kirillov,

That's CUT, not cut, CHOPPED down on the fly!

Viktor... The forest should rustle, the frogs should croak. You wouldn't answer the frogs in the pond, would you?

Viktor Kirillov,
Ugh... Where's your striving for the ideal and a bright, beautiful exhibition? You're flaunting a wedding without spiritual enthusiasm. You wave the price list in front of everyone's noses at the slightest provocation. It's not right.
Add to your price list the item "photographing the newlyweds with spirituality and inspiration." A strong exhibition is another premium. I'll make you a billionaire, and I've pulled out worse.

Backwoods, Gundyaev has a price list for spirituality; we're not allowed in without gilded jewelry.
I'm not giving up on billionaire status, but I don't intend to pawn my soul; I know I can't buy it back.
Spiritual mortgages are a trap for the young; at my age, it makes no sense for me to take such risks.

Viktor Kirillov,
Viktor... The forest should rustle, the frogs should croak. You wouldn't answer the frogs in the pond, would you?

Backwoods, This is a message to the stars on the ETHER.

Viktor Kirillov,

They won't let us in without gold-plated jewelry.
I'm not giving up on being a billionaire, but I'm not going to pawn my soul; I know I can't buy it back.

Well, just recently someone was complaining to the billionaire about her gold-plated jewelry. Maybe she's in line for spirituality? She closed her eyes dreamily, and here you are with your proletarian hardware...
Only things that have at least some value are pawned. So your soul is completely safe. As is your backside. Not exactly...

Viktor Kirillov,
Victor... The forest should rustle, the frogs should croak. You wouldn't answer the frogs in the pond, would you?

Backwoods, NO, I'm more like Balda from Pushkin's fairy tale, and you're the main devil or kikimora in this pool.

Viktor Kirillov,
Well, just now they were complaining to the billionaire about her gilded jewelry. Maybe she's in line for spirituality? She closed her eyes dreamily, and here you are with your proletarian rebar...
Only things of some value are pawned. So your soul is completely safe. As is your backside. That last part isn't certain...

Backwoods, Okay, I'm off to feed the flesh, and 50 grams of spirituality, I'll be there in 30 minutes.

Backwoods, Gundyaev has a price list for spirituality; they won't let us in without gilded jewelry.
I'm not giving up on billionaire status, but I don't intend to pawn my soul; I know I can't buy it back.
Spiritual mortgages are a trap for the young; at my age, there's no point in taking such risks.

Viktor Kirillov, It seems like you've already pawned your soul for Canon; you wrote it yourself. Are you negotiating?

Sergey Voroshilin,

My headmistresses are falling from their chairs laughing, because the lighting scheme is Hollywood.
The ceiling scheme cast a shadow, ridiculously for some reason.

Dedicated to Sergey Voroshilin:

Anyone who studied German in school is familiar with this – there was a character in the textbooks – the photographer Shraibikus. I don't know why I know this. I only speak French with London's Big Ben.
So, as Shraibikus used to say – keep your mouth shut and look for someone else's loaf. For the time to gather stones is when the acorn is ripe. However, they're all there... just looking, and they're being eaten. They look at the right time, but no – it's too late. And those who hold a stone in their fist and fly away on wings – those are the nasty ones. Strike? Yes, I'm telling you the truth. It's never happened that it's like, hop-a-boo, you never land a fish, and even if you do, oh-oh-oh, it's cold and my back itches. And the guy also says, "I packed the cannon so tightly, so tightly, I'm too lazy to dig it out." And coal is so damn expensive in Brazil, it's like my appetite is in a fog. And we don't care. I tell her, "You're a good girl, Klava, but the multiplication table makes more sense."

What's so unclear?

Damn, it's like a line outside the office, the same old story.

Well, tell me, what's the difference between spirituality and soulfulness?
2. Is there a discrediting of religion, or the other way around?
3. Shraybikus is a sabotage of the Sasmalya from the very beginning. Absolutely.

Sergey Voroshilin,

Damn, it's like a line outside the office, the same old story.
Well, tell me, what's the difference between spirituality and soulfulness?
2. Is there a discrediting of religion, or is it the other way around?
3. Shraybikus is a sabotage of the Sasmals from the very beginning. Absolutely.

The difference is in the roots.
Discrediting, Russian man....
Leave religion alone

Voroshilin does not belong here, for he is stupid like a Siberian felt boot. Only the three of us can coolly wrap.

Backwoods, "Discrete systems (objects) are considered as consisting of clearly delimited (logically or physically) elements."

Thanks for the roots.

But by the way, these same roots were what led to the repression.
They destroyed the family as an institution;
2. They tried to destroy religion.
3. Continuity of the family line, i.e., for example, did you know that tombstones were planned for use as cladding for buildings?

Are we really to judge by the surface?
If anyone has read the NKVD memoirs, you're familiar with exactly how it all happened. For example, they drank blood because they couldn't shoot for some reason.

How can this be explained?
Even the endocannibal Papuans would be surprised.

Sergey Voroshilin,
Dedicated to Sergey Voroshilin:

Anyone who studied German in school will be familiar with this character in the textbooks – the photographer Shraibikus. I don't know why I know this. I'm only French-speaking with London's Big Ben.
So, as Shraibikus used to say – keep your mouth shut and look for someone else's loaf. For the time to gather stones is when the acorn is ripe. Yet, they're all there... just looking, and being eaten. They look at the right time, but no – it's too late. And those who hold a stone in their fist and fly away on wings – those are the nasty ones. Strike? Yes, I'm telling you the truth. It's never happened that it's like, hop-a-boo, you never land a fish, and even if you do, oh-oh-oh, it's cold and my back itches. And the guy also says, "I packed the cannon so tightly, so tightly, I'm too lazy to dig it out." And coal is so damn expensive in Brazil, it's like my appetite is in a fog. And we don't care. I tell her, "You're a good girl, Klava, but the multiplication table is more logical."

What's so unclear?

Backwoods, And how is it that you, a simple man who only knows Spanish, can speak German, like, "Sprechen," when I see a loaf of bread in Kyiv, but the poleaxe isn't in his sleigh.

Sergey Voroshilin,

"Discrete systems (objects) are considered to consist of clearly delimited (logically or physically) elements."

Who would argue... we're perfectly versed in the mechanisms of the universe.

Who stole your family? What institute? Genetics and botany?

I know the plowshares were melted down... or not? No... the balls went into the plowshares, right?

Do you know why the Papuans ate their own citizens? To prevent them from having offspring. Because those eaten were, let's say, not exactly Einsteins.
Voroshilin, you're incredibly lucky you're not a Papuan. Well, okay, lucky, anyway.

Backwoods, And how come you're talking about a simple man who only speaks Spanish, like "sprechen" in German, like I see a loaf of bread in Kyiv right now, but the pole doesn't fit in my sleigh.

Viktor Kirillov, Vitek, you shouldn't have gotten involved. I remember everyone experimenting with that wordplay in first grade, and they're probably over 80 now. Apparently, the big bad guy adopted you, and like a lazy son, you don't want to work, but you want to get married. They even found you a local Thumbelina (a skeleton) here. You want to, but he's wiggling his ass.

Backwoods, no, the dominant feature of the Paraus is completely different.
Endocannibals would capture a child, take him from house to house, where they would cut off his phalanges, smear their bodies with blood, and then take him to another house.
Then they would burn him, and someone would wear the skull as a symbol of spiritual authority.

Another example: a Papuan would be burned over a slow fire for seven days, inflicting small punctures.
They would force him to sing the songs of this Papuan.
Then the skull would be worn on the belt as a symbol of spiritual authority.

So, cannibalism is not a meal, but a purely religious ritual. Papuan.

Data from MGIMO: Religious Studies. Modern research by scientists within these tribes.

By the way, why are we better than the Papuans?

Viktor Kirillov,

Backwoods, And how is it that you, a simple man who only knows Spanish, are saying "sprechen" in German, like I just now see a loaf of bread in Kyiv, but the pole isn't in my sleigh.

So, I'm really good at German, yay-yay, their bin, damn that coliseum, I studied it purely on beer labels. I'm a polyglot, you know?
I can also speak Old African, but I don't know a few words yet... But I can already communicate with Voroshilin.

A loaf of bread isn't in the sleigh - it's toward sunset. Don't whistle a cricket - there's no money. A woman off the cart - a woman in the mud.
The early bird gets the hormonal bug (it ends badly).
We know all these intricacies of the camera instructions down to the last syllable.

Backwoods, the Papuans would be shocked by the NKVD officers.

We're worse, repent, I'm talking normally.

Sergey Voroshilin,

By the way, how are we any better than the Papuans?

Well, that's just it... If you wear the skull of a Papuan on your belt who was forced to sing songs that weren't in keeping with his mood, then you're no better.

Backwoods, that's right.
You're a real politician.

Viktor Kirillov,
So I speak German incredibly well, yay-yay, their bin, damn that coliseum, I studied it on beer labels. I'm a polyglot, you know?
I can also speak Old African, but I don't know a couple of words yet... But I can already communicate with Voroshilin.

A loaf of bread is not in the sleigh - it's towards sunset. Don't whistle a cricket - there's no money. A woman off the cart - a woman in the mud.
The early bird gets the hormonal bug (and ends badly).
We know all these intricacies of the camera manual down to our teeth.

Backwoods, Voroshilin doesn't need to be deciphered. His psychedelic mantras are so good that they fit so well with Nostradamus's predictions and other sufferings, whether it's for the EU budget or for a prescription in a rural pharmacy.

Viktor Kirillov,

There's no need to decipher Voroshilin's psychedelic mantras; they're so good they fit perfectly with Nostradamus's predictions and other suffering, whether it's for the EU budget or a prescription for a rural pharmacy.

And will it be good enough for free public transportation? When, at the gate, the gatekeeper asks me, "What bright and useful thing have you done in this life?"
And he'll say, "I spoke to Voroshilin..."
Do you think it'll count?

Backwoods, William Golding "Lord of the Flies"
Discussing?
In 1 month, December 27, i.e.

Viktor Kirillov, I have another question...

A lot of smart people were recently discussing whether there's a story in photography... I already know a little bit, somewhere in there, in a photograph there's a beautiful exposition, but is there a story there? What's the catch? Who's the one who's drawing the picture—the exposition or the story?

Sergey Voroshilin,

Backwoods, William Golding's "Lord of the Flies"
Discussing?
In 1 month, December 27, that is

Yes sir, I'm not sure, we're discussing... (God, let me die before December 27)

Viktor Kirillov,
Will it be good enough for free public transportation? When, at the gate, the gatekeeper asks me, "What bright and useful thing have you done in this life?" And he's like, "I talked to Voroshilin..."
Do you think it'll count?

Backwoods, Of course, just keep the transcripts of the symposiums, they have such formalism and bureaucracy at the entrance. Last time, I donated a ruble to a holy fool on the porch, but I forgot to take the receipt, so Archangel Gabriel and Mishka wouldn't let me into heaven. So, under the dorm balcony, he blew the Elihon trumpets all night, and Heaven never came to the call of the enamored morality (or immorality, I don't know which is correct, how love is acquired in the Gardens of Eden).

Viktor Kirillov, I have another question...

A lot of smart people were recently discussing whether there's a plot in photography... I already know a little bit, somewhere in there, in a photograph there's a beautiful exposition, but is there a plot? What's the catch? Who's collecting whom—the exposition or the plot?

Backwoods, Well, with plot, it's like with that door: the one that's placed in the right place is an adjective, and the one that's not hung by the closet is, for now, a noun.

Viktor Kirillov,

Naturally, just keep the symposium transcripts, they have such formalism and red tape at the entrance. Last time I donated a ruble to a holy fool on the steps, but forgot to take the receipt, so Archangel Gabriel and Mishka didn't let me into heaven. So he blew the Elihon trumpets all night under the dorm balcony, and Heaven never came out in response to the call of the amorous morality (or immorality, I don't know which is correct, in the Gardens of Eden they buy love).

Well, yes, there's a fair amount of face control there... This isn't a drunk in a quilted jacket barging into a village disco.
What brought you through the gates without permission? Gabriel is a famous physiognomist; he could have damaged a face with a hook from heaven.
And what documents did they present? Ears, paws, and a tail? The main thing, the TAIL? Did they present them? Not a single heaven took the bait?
And blowing trumpets, especially in the elihonsia, is useless – everything there is crammed like Uncle Augeas's stables.

Viktor Kirillov,

Backwoods, Well, with plot, it's like with that door: the one attached to the place is an adjective, but the one not yet hung by the closet is a noun.

So it's clear what's going on... here's the plot, and then there's no plot anymore, only the door is a noun. Clear, clear.

Sergey Voroshilin,
Yes sir, I'm not sure, we're discussing... (God, let me die before December 27th)

Backwoods, That's the topic, I was offered sharpening steel and alloys on Japanese abrasive stones!

Viktor Kirillov,

Backwoods, Oven topic, I was offered sharpening steel and alloys on abrasive stones of Japanese origin!

Lucky guy... and I have to chase flies...

I had a story - we were getting together for shashlik. Shashlik is a kind of meat...
And to eat it, you first need to make small and large cuts on the carcass. With a knife. Well, we mostly use knives... maybe you stern Samara milkmaids chop meat by hand, but we use knives...

At a party, yeah... And so I raised my punishing steel so that the pieces would fit on my head - they stopped me - do you know, serf, what kind of blade is in your hand? Then follows a lecture on chrome vanadium and the sulfur content in steel castings. And it had been sharpened on every stone in the world, including Tibetan ones, and even scraped a little on the Great Wall of China. For the knife belonged to Sakamura-heranemura-san, the great shashlik maker from the Sochi market.

At this point, I got a little scared and cut the meat with a nail file.
I'm still unsure—maybe I should have cut off at least my finger with this device? As a souvenir?

Viktor Kirillov,
Lucky guy... and I have to shoo away flies...

I had a story - we were getting together for shashlik. Shashlik is a type of meat...
And to eat it, you first have to make small and large cuts on the meat. With a knife. Well, we mostly use knives... maybe you stern Samara milkmaids chop meat by hand, but we use knives...

At a party, yeah... And so I raised my punishing steel, so the pieces would fit inside my head, and they stopped me - do you know, serf, what kind of blade is that in your hand? Then follows a lecture on chrome vanadium and the sulfur content of steel castings. And that this thing has been sharpened on all the stones in the world, including Tibetan ones, and even scraped a little on the Great Wall of China. Because the knife belonged to Sakamura-heranemura-san, a great shashlik maker from the Sochi market.

At that point, I got a little scared and cut the meat with a nail file.
I'm still unsure—maybe I should have cut off at least my finger with that device? Just for memory?

Backwoods, I can't say anything about that. Where the meat on the shashlik comes from is unknown to me. I got myself a wife for that question, and thank God, my son-in-law is now the smoker. It's my honorable duty to eat and judge the doneness. Well, I can still do a little sommelier work, and as for what kind of yataghans they use to chop it up, that's up to the hardware store manager. I've already talked enough about steel and alloys in the tool room at the factory; now I just want to talk about the sublime and the art of wine drinking.

Viktor Kirillov,

I can't say anything about that. Where the meat comes from on a shashlik is unknown to me. I got myself a wife for that question, and thank God, my son-in-law is the one smoking it now. It's my honorable duty to eat and pass judgment on the degree of doneness. Well, I can still do a little sommelier work, and let the hardware store manager worry about what kind of yataghans they chop it with. I've already talked enough about steel and alloys in the tool room at the factory, now I just want to talk about the sublime and the art of wine drinking.

You're such a dunce... you don't know where the meat comes from... There are those refrigerators—it probably grows there. But for shashlik—my wife... how is she? Is she good? What model? How many miles?
If, say, I want scrambled eggs, do I need a different one, or is this one also good? Son-in-law... what's with that option? Nasty?

The art of wine drinking is in my blood. Instinct. A billionaire's wife brought me a drink... from Slovenia. Like beer, only with vodka, and aniseed flavored too. I've never been so far away. Delicious.

Viktor Kirillov,
You're such a klutz... you don't know where meat comes from... There are those refrigerators—it's probably where it grows. But for shashlik—my wife... how's she? Is she good enough? What model? What's the mileage?
If, say, I want scrambled eggs, do I need a different one, or is this one good too? Son-in-law... what's with that option? Nasty?

The art of wine drinking is in my blood. Instinct. A billionaire's wife brought me a drink... from Slovenia. Like beer, only vodka, and aniseed, too. I've never traveled such a distance before. Delicious.

Backwoods, Is Slovenia a place like Czechoslovakia or Yugoslavia? I once visited Hungary (which was socialist) on a Komsomol exchange, and as a farmer, I was accepted into their winemaking cooperative. They've become quite skilled at extracting plum brandy from plums. The alcohol content isn't high, but underneath the veneer of deliciousness, it's quite insidious. My son-in-law is a good man; thank God, he's not a photographer.

Viktor Kirillov,

Is Slovenia a place like Czechoslovakia or Yugoslavia?

Who knows... The geography hasn't quite matched my 6th-grade outline maps for some time now... A billionaire sends me pictures of herself in a bathing suit and brings me booze. It's a nice country.
Slivovitz—yes, it's a rare abomination. But what drinks are you rich in? Is there a place where I can sit a billionaire down and treat her so well that all her bathing suits will be beyond use?
Relax, grope some manure... I'm getting confused... well, is there somewhere to go?
I have a friend, a billionaire, of course, and she has a convertible... a fast one. I can fool her, I'll say we're going mushroom picking (she hasn't seen any yet), and then we'll come to your place. Will this Ferrari be able to drive through the estate? You'll need kokoshniks, authenticity, and a desire to please. The billionaire will give you a new three-horned cow and all her old bras. The neighborhood will be back on track.
Call me when it's ready.

Viktor Kirillov,
Who knows... Geography hasn't quite matched my 6th-grade outline maps for some time now... A billionaire sends me views of her in a bathing suit and brings me booze. It's a fine country.
Slivovitz—yes, it's a rare abomination. But what drinks are available in your part of the world? Is there a place where I can sit a billionaire down and treat her so well that all her bathing suits will be rendered useless?
Relax, grope some manure... I'm getting confused... well, is there somewhere to drink?
I have a friend, a billionaire, of course, and she has a convertible... a fast one. I can fool her, I'll say we're going mushroom picking (she hasn't seen any yet), and then we'll head to your property. Will that Ferrari even make it through the grounds? You need kokoshniks and authenticity, and a desire to please. The billionaire will give you a new three-horned cow and all her old bras. The neighborhood will be back on track.
Telegraph when ready.

Backwoods, Well, we're back to our original project of exporting blue lard to the remote regions of the Middle Volga region. We need to check the rider and see what we had written about drinks and dung-covered furniture. I think you'd be better off swapping your Ferrari for a similarly named vehicle at the Belarusian border; it's more convenient for travel between hangover points here.

Viktor Kirillov,

Well, we're back to our original project of exporting blue lard to the remote regions of the Middle Volga region. We need to check the rider, what we had there regarding drinks and manure-covered furniture. I think it's better to swap your Ferrari at the Belarusian border for a similarly named vehicle; it's more convenient for getting around between points of contact.

And I never abandoned that project; it's always at hand.
The lard thing... that's a problem. Billionaires have a penchant for selling this product in fitness centers... Our economic relations are already dire. Sometimes, he'd show up and ask, "What, you fatso, are you going to do another shoot?" She hides in a corner, sulking there, spitting angry glances and curses....
Come out, I say, I can see you anyway...
How many times are you going to call me fat?

Well, three times...
Okay, I'll come out...

That's usually it. Calling a 45-kilogram woman a fatso is my thing, so leave that alone.
Your job is to drink plenty of fluids. Preferably, [something] of a certain degree. There's a peasant wedding going on, and we're the invited matchmakers... anything goes. And don't show me your plumber's diploma right away. They won't like it. She's never seen manure, or mushrooms, but she's seen plenty of diplomas—I'm telling you.

Viktor Kirillov,
And I never abandoned that project, it's always on hand.
The lard thing... that's a problem. Billionaire wives have a penchant for selling that product in fitness centers... Our economic situation is already dire. Sometimes, she'd show up and ask, "What, you fatso, are you filming again?" She'd hide in a corner, pout, spitting angry glances and curses from there...
"Get out," I'd say, "I see you anyway..."

How many times are you going to call me fat?

Well, about three times...
Okay, I'll get out...

That's usually it. Calling a 45-kilogram thing a fatso is my thing, don't bother with that.
Your job is to drink plenty of fluids. Preferably, a glass of water. There's a peasant wedding going on, and we're the invited matchmakers... anything goes. And don't show me your mechanic/photographer's diploma right away. They won't like it. She's never seen manure, or mushrooms, but she's seen plenty of diplomas—I'm responsible.

Backwoods, You warned me about the diploma, good thing I won't embarrass you with my regalia. I'll have to take it off my shrine. I have it there with a birch bark certificate for winning a social competition in throwing manure for hygienic purposes from a pig farm to a manure storage facility of national significance. You've certainly made me sad about the lard weight. Bone meal isn't our specialty. In the neighboring area, taxidermists drape skeletons in haute couture and display them as bait in boutiques. We'll figure out how to bring your elite relics up to marketable weight. I'll talk to a livestock specialist. Maybe some additives, a double portion of rutabaga, or marrying a machine operator will add some heft to your socialite pie.

Viktor Kirillov,

I'll talk to the livestock specialist; maybe some supplements, a double portion of rutabaga, or marrying a machine operator would add some credibility to your socialite writings?

Well, that's not funny. It turns out that billionaires' wives don't refuse a good machine operator. Because they have as much money as you have pictures of your wedding, but they're not happy. So they drag their Ferraris around, abandoned. Sad stories... And machine operators don't just lie around on the road. They're lying in the bushes and on the side of the road, you'd be hard pressed to find one.
I feel sorry for my billionairesses... they're nice... But a billionaire is a real person, she has her own ideas... and it's hard for her to find a machine operator who's literate, and not the least important in the village, and whose legs aren't crooked, and who brushes his teeth once a week, and who wears a peaked cap... it's hard, in a word, to find the ideal.
So I'm thinking of taking one to your pastoral, maybe she'll find a handsome fellow... Do you have any of that scum there? Well... maybe she'll get lucky.

Viktor Kirillov,
Well, that's not funny. It turns out, billionairesses wouldn't turn down a good mechanic. Because they have as much money as you have pictures of your wedding, but they're not happy. So they just drag their Ferraris around, abandoned. Sad stories... And mechanics don't just lie around in the road. They're scattered in the bushes and on the side of the road, you never know.
I feel sorry for my billionairesses... they're nice... But a billionaire is a real person, she has her own ideas... and it's hard for her to find a mechanic who's educated, not the last in the village, has good legs, brushes his teeth once a week, and wears a peaked cap... in a word, it's hard to find the ideal.
So I'm thinking of taking one to your pastoral, maybe she'll find a handsome fellow... Do you have any of that scum there? Well, maybe I'll get lucky.

Backwoods, Well, in the name of social rapprochement, I could certainly put forward my candidacy, everything as per the technical requirements. Reasonably smart, stunningly handsome, not crooked legs, but short, especially the back ones, teeth that don't even need to be sanitized due to lack of them, well, basically a model example, only my mother-in-law might not allow it, since I have a barn full of oats and a second-hand wife registered in her name. Just send me a sample, maybe she'll find happiness in our home, and we'll help as best we can, like cashing in a Ferrari or some other household goods.

Viktor Kirillov,

Well, in the name of bringing social classes together, I could, of course, put forward my candidacy.

Where's your cap? With the visor? There are a lot of you out there for free... without a cap.

Viktor Kirillov,
Where's your cap? With a visor? There are a lot of you out there for free... without a cap.

Backwoods, A cap with a daisy and an accordion are standard equipment for a seasoned farmer.

Viktor Kirillov,

Backwoods, a cap with a daisy, and an accordion are standard equipment for a seasoned farmer.

So, brother Victor, has a census of the viable machine operator population been conducted? Have all the vaccinations been done? Are the peaks on their caps shiny? Have the accordions been certified for perfect sound?
The billionaire was seriously impressed by the prospect of traveling to the heart of the country to find the machine operator prince.

Viktor Kirillov,
So, brother Victor, has a census of the viable machine operator population been conducted? Are all the vaccinations... done? Are the peaks on their caps shiny? Are the accordions certified for perfect sound?
The billionaire's wife was seriously impressed by the prospect of traveling to the heart of the country to find the machine operator prince.

Backwoods, Well, I think if we put in the effort, we'll keep up the good work... we'll refine it, scrape the bottom of the barrel, rummage through the bins. Again, minor imperfections in service and machine operators can be presented as the exotic depths of the soul and the uniqueness of peasant life. Are you tired of all the foie gras and blum mange of transvestite stylists? Looking for fresh experiences, you want to dive into the abyss of agricultural passions and cross-dressing. We have a couple of unique specimens for you; I raised them for myself (as a son-in-law, but it didn't work out) and am willing to sell them at face value. One, apparently, can stop a galloping horse with a chorus of laughter and perform contactless conception within a radius of the farm (milkmaids have a hard time explaining to their husbands the scarlet blush on their cheeks and loins). The second is also no slouch, like a blacksmith, wandering around the village ringing like church bells. Scientists were brought in from Moscow to study this phenomenon of crimson ringing and ventriloquism. Mouth and hand harmonicas, a full assortment of this stuff, are piled high in the red corner; one club director gets paid for this crap just to amuse himself. The indigenous people have long since switched to traditional instruments: birch bark, not stripped from a log, but straight from a tree, and the tree isn't a birch at all, but a telegraph pole. And then there are all sorts of other things: pig entrails, cow udders, party organizer's horns, an agronomist's mustache... well, come and see for yourself.

Viktor Kirillov,

Well, there's all sorts of other stuff there, pig entrails, cow udders, a party organizer's horns, an agronomist's mustache... well, come and see for yourself.

However, your land there is fertile for potential princes. The one with the bells is hardly suitable. How will the billionaire's wife transport him to the Maldives? Any police officer at the airport would object. Or they'd even jail him for exporting non-ferrous metals... No, that one's a minus.
Again, the other one... well, contactless conception is, firstly, a cliche, we've been through that... And secondly, why the hell go all that way to develop, so to speak, contactless intimacy? That's precisely what's needed is a close-knit encounter of souls and other charismas.

And the billionaire is also very interested in environmentally friendly plumbing fixtures—wooden toilets. What's the selection? Is there a catalog to look through? Do you have birch bark toilets in rolls? Could you give a good presentation on using a "personal wooden toilet" brand toilet, so as to fill the billionaire's ass with splinters? Are there any marketers who know anything about this?

Viktor Kirillov,
However, your area there is fertile for potential princes. The one with the bells is hardly suitable. How will the billionaire's wife transport him to the Maldives? Any police officer at the airport will object. And they'll also jail her for exporting non-ferrous metals... No, that's a minus.
Then again, the other... well, contactless conception is, firstly, a joke, we've been through that... And secondly, why the hell travel so far to develop, so to speak, contactless intimacy? That's precisely what requires the close friction of souls and other charismas.

And the billionaire is also very interested in environmentally friendly plumbing fixtures—wooden toilets. What's the selection? Is there a catalog to look through? Also, do you have birch bark in the form of a toilet? In rolls? Can you give a sensible presentation on using a toilet branded "individual wooden toilet" so well as to put splinters in a billionaire's ass? Are there any smart marketers on this matter?

Backwoods, You're such a picky one, now give me an accordion, now the button accordion is wrong, the project hasn't brought in a penny to the collective farm treasury yet, and a ton of irreplaceable resources have been wasted. How do you write off the bell ringer under what article? It's pure copper, and the contactless one is in that mode to save soul fibers and seed material. And if you connect it to a Ferrari's cigarette lighter through a billionaire, it's a MES (male erotic station). I'm warning you kindly, don't be stubborn. In the neighboring free economic zones, the billionaires are fatter and the rider is thinner than theirs, our accountant is not interested in your illiquid assets. Let's be honest in the breeding business, to the point of charisma, I mean completely. What is the mileage of your protégés, and not Is their speedometer screwed up, what's under the hood, a deep inner world yearning for something clean and bright, or a cynical sex tour of the ecologically clean and naive hearts of mechanics? Regarding amenities, rest assured, everyone is in accordance with GOST and SanPiN standards. We can knock together a custom-designed booth right next to the trunk of a Ferrari (a mobile one, so to speak). I think it's in working order; as they say, it's not the gods who burn, but a woman from a cart to manure, and the budget has run out.

Viktor Kirillov,

You're such a picky eater! Sometimes you want an accordion, sometimes the button accordion isn't right. The project hasn't brought in a penny for the collective farm treasury yet.

Ha, what did you think? You puffed on the accordion, jingled the bells, flashed your visors—and that's it? The billionaires rushed off to look at your copper-dung mountains? What a load of crap... and the crap should be three-octave, made of genuine pine birch... Karelian.
We also need to check out what's going on in your closets. Maybe the corners aren't sanded, and the color scheme isn't right... maybe you coated it with expired drying oil and are passing it off as European standard. We also need to see where your mechanics get their charismatic jingling parts from... maybe they're from the dismantled Ferraris of previous hapless billionairesses, huh? The accountant probably has an abacus made out of valves.
And our billionaires are thoroughbreds, each one has a certificate with inspection marks. Zero mileage, they're not trained to run, wear and tear is minimal.

And by the way, where is your promised land? Kurumoch, or Chuvashia... where is the exact location of the center of a large and pure contactless sex tour, where it's not the mechanics who are having the time of their lives?

Viktor Kirillov,
Ha, what did you think? They puffed on the accordion, jingled the bells, flashed their visors—and that's it? Billionaires rushed off to look at your copper-dung mountains? What a load of crap... and the crap should be three-octave, made of genuine pine birch... Karelian.
We also need to check out what's going on in your closets. Maybe the corners aren't sanded down, and the paintwork doesn't match... maybe they've slathered it with expired drying oil and are passing it off as European-standard.
We also need to see where your mechanics get those jingling charismatic parts from... surely they're from the dismantled Ferraris of previous hapless billionairesses, huh? She probably has an accountant's abacus made out of valves. And our billionairesses are thoroughbreds, each one with a certificate with inspection marks. Zero mileage, they're not trained to run, wear and tear is minimal.

And by the way, where is your promised land? Either Kurumochi or Chuvashia... where's the exact location of the center of a large and clean contactless sex tour, where mechanics aren't the ones having the time of their lives?

Backwoods, Just look, here we go again. We're certainly a simple-minded people here and open to cashless deposits, but it's too early to publish a map of the invisible city of Kitezh. Belovodye, Shambhala, Atlantis—those are all the code names for our village. Without legal registration (not marriage) with the village council, we don't even register reproductive organs or issue residence visas. It's just a matter of observing and fulfilling our billionaire duty to the oppressed peasants. If there are doubts about the charismatic power of our Atlanteans of pig farms and pastures, send an expert for a test run (preferably two, one might not be enough). Based on their feedback, you can compile a picture and a roadmap right up to the test stand in the barn. And be bolder, be bolder. I just don't know, oh, these city billionairesses, ours are a different story. She took an advance payment against her maternity capital and went off to the bathhouse in the neighboring village for a week to increase milk yields and farrowing.

Backwoods, No, just look, here we go again. We are, of course, a simple-minded people here and open to non-cash deposits, but it’s still too early to publish a map of the invisible city of Kitezh in the public domain. Belovodye, Shambhala, Atlantis—those are all the code names for our village. Without legal registration (not marriage) with the village council, we don't even register reproductive organs or issue residence visas. We're just looking and fulfilling our billionaire duty to the oppressed peasants. If there are doubts about the charismatic power of our Atlanteans of pig farms and pastures, send an expert for a test run (two is better, one might not be enough). Based on his feedback, you can compile a picture and a roadmap right up to the test stand in the barn. And be bolder, be bolder, somehow, I just don't know, oh, these city billionairesses, ours are a different story! She took an advance payment against her maternity capital and went off to a bathhouse in a neighboring village for a week to increase milk yields and farrowing.

Viktor Kirillov, what are you babbling about here? I tried to delve deeper. You're talking nonsense. Neither you nor the author of the photo. But if you like it, it's your business. But... This is supposedly a photography website.

Viktor Kirillov, what are you babbling about? I tried to dig deeper. You're talking nonsense. Neither you nor the author of the photo. But if you like it, that's your business. But this is supposedly a photography website.

A Desdichado, Can you say anything about this photo? The author is very loyal to his guests.

A Desdichado, Can you say anything about this photo? The author is very loyal to his guests.

Viktor Kirillov, I already talked about it.

Viktor Kirillov, I already talked about her.

A Desdichado, I didn't remember your comment at all, even though I'm an attentive reader here.

A Desdichado, I didn't really remember your comment, even though I'm an attentive reader here.

Viktor Kirillov, so it turns out it was empty. For you.

Viktor Kirillov, so it turns out it was empty. For you.

A Desdichado, Oh, and you're also a philosopher.

A Desdichado, Oh, and you're a philosopher too.

Viktor Kirillov, Me? No. And you, yes.