Issue #04/59, February 25 - March 10, 1999  

After last issue's review, my girlfriend Amy made me sleep on the couch for three more nights. The only reason I'm even allowed back in the bedroom with her is because I promised to do all the cooking and cleaning for the next two weeks. She especially likes my pasta primavera. Amy thinks I'd "started to change" and that I was on my way to becoming a "frat boy like the eXile editors". I told her no way, I was an independent in college. I'd never join any frat house. Back home, you could always find me in cafes, at poetry slams, or the old cinema house where they show foreign films and Orson Welles classics. I can still hear it now: "Rosebud... Rosebud..."

Just when I patched things up with Amy, I got hit from the other side by readers for not going far enough. Well, I'm sorry if I'm not Mr. Wild Man for you. I'm trying to give you the average Joe's view of Moscow nightlife, for the silent majority of expats out there who don't live like irresponsible hedonists. I guess I'll just have to quote one of my heroes, Senator Bill Bradley, who said that you know you're doing something right when people from the left and the right are attacking you.

Once again for this issue, the eXile tried to send me to the new gay club, Palladium. I was going to go there last Friday, but Amy and I had some issues to work out between us. Personally, I'm happy that the gays are opening up clubs here and living openly and freely. I've had a few expats tell me they think I'm a repressed homosexual since they saw my photo and read these reviews, and when I snapped at one expat by telling him bluntly, "It takes one to know one," Amy got angry with me and made me sleep on the couch again.

In honor of upcoming Women's Day, and in honor of those of us in the silent majority of Moscow's expat community, I'm going to tell you how we, a progressive-mainstream couple, spent our Friday night in Moscow.

We started with a nice dinner at City Grill. Amy just couldn't get over the prices, and we thanked heaven for that wonderful salad with balsamic vinegar dressing. Then we "hit the town." The first place we went to was Propaganda. The vibe was really positive. Amy and I danced together on the crowded dance floor. We were laughing and enjoying the music, even though it lacked a social message. That's when a trio of half-drunken expats bumped into me.

"Hey, you're that wanker Stuart Pratt," one guy said.

Another pulled my beard and called me a "Prat". I told him that he must be very proud of himself for acting like a teenager. "Haven't you guys ever heard of 'Responsible dialogue'?" I asked.

"Shuttup, Prat," his friend said. "Your reviews are such shite I have to skip over the entire club guide just to avoid looking at your squidgy face." Amy was worried for me, so we slipped out to Respublika. But Amy felt uncomfortable there since the women were youngish.

I suggested that we check out Intoya, as per my editors' demands. We took a taxi about 30 minutes out, way down at the very end of Leninsky Prospekt, and hiked around an apartment complex looking for the club in Leninsky 150. It wasn't easy to find. Leninsky 150 is a huge apartment building with an annex jutting out to the street. If not for the dull thud of music, you might never know there's a club. The door is unmarked: it's on the side of the one-story annex that faces towards the center.

The night we went there, we were told there was a private party. But we were let in nonetheless by a kind doorman. You walk through a narrow corridor, then head down the steps into a truly bone-chilling scene, like something out of David Lynch: a red-curtained stage, a seating and dance area no larger than Propaganda's dance area, then a small area for the bar, which serves very cheap drinks. I'd been forewarned that it's usually a hard-edged techno club for young druggies, and I can see why. The crowd consisted of young druggie types (personally, I'm against substance abuse, although I'm cool with marijuana, since it's natural) and some very seedy pre-mafiosi, what this paper calls "flathead, jr.'s" and their molls. They made us sit with them and drink. Amy was very uncomfortable there, but I think I was making progress getting to communicate with them.

When we finally introduced ourselves, one of the young druggies jumped up and started cursing. "Blyad, ty! Stuart Pratt, blyad! Ty v'obsche, prosto govno!" Things started getting a little crazy. They stole Amy's stylish horn-rimmed glasses and pulled my beard. We got out of there as fast as we could.

Now that people know me, I can't just "go out" like a regular person. But I believe it's all worth it--that I'll make a positive contribution. Readers, I just have one request: don't shoot the messenger. I'm just trying to find a middle ground so that these club reviews can be useful to all of us, and not just one element of the readership. After all, we're all in the same boat here.

To our readers: Johnny Chen has assured us by email that he is "98%" about returning to Moscow next week. Not since Solzhenitsyn's return has there been such excitement...