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

Just when yet another delegation of the IMF is expected to arrive here in Moscow, the drug market has seemingly dried up. We at the eXile feel this is a mistake on Russia's part. How can it expect to receive further assistance, when there are no illicit drugs in the eXile offices?

As far as the eXile is concerned, there are no drugs to be found anywhere in the city. There are no little paper packets stashed with powder hidden in the most obvious of hiding-places, like our desk drawers; we are no longer suffering bouts of impotence or having heart palpitations or sweating so uncontrollably that we have to wear wool ski hats to keep it all in or pumping out consistently subpar work while being absolutely sure, on the other hand, that the marks of genius are present on every un-spell-checked, poorly researched page of the paper.

In short, there are no drugs anywhere. Wads of money in hand and ready to buy at any price, we have been ripped off, promised the world, morally chastised, offered beer instead, given leads that went nowhere, and most offensive at all, given advice on where to find a good dentist to correct the cosmetic damage to our faces caused by last year's binge. It makes no sense: in Russia, the Sodom of the world, a place where the quantity of heroin alone quintupled compared to last year (if you believe police statistics), we, the most solvent, polite, punctual, compliant buyers a drug dealer could ever want, cannot score. This is embarrassing, like being a gay man in 1970s San Francisco unable to procure even for money so much as a hand-job in a public bathhouse.

On the surface, it may seem as though this has nothing to do with Russia's ability to receive its next tranche of aid from the IMF. And of course, this is true--there is no real connection. But that does not prevent us from insisting that the whole thing really is connected, that the city's petty dealer network's repeated failure to obtain drugs for eXile employees is but one symptom of a widespread societal malaise that even Stanley Fisher--a well-known speed freak, incidentally--could not fail to recognize.

The recent death of Lake Ladoga through a spill of environmental pollutants was yet another result of Russia's failure to keep a steady flow of drugs into this office. On that night, we thought we had a deal set to buy 20 grams of phen from some junkie down at Ploschad Ilycha. The punk never showed. The next day, there was this news of a huge environmental disaster up north.

We at the eXile are certain that if we'd had all the speed we needed that night, we could have done nothing to prevent that spill from happening. In fact, even if we'd been at the very spill site, with our fingers just inches way from the buttons which, when pressed, could have prevented the spill, we would have been too stupid and too busy chatting and wired to figure it out. But we would at the very least been up all night talking to each other. Then, the next morning, when we learned about the Lake Ladoga thing, we would have said, "Gosh, what a bummer."

But we didn't say that. What we said when we woke up was, "That little punk Sasha. He PROMISED! He PROMISED!" You see, our social consciences are now seriously impaired, which means trouble for everyone-- the IMF, Russia, even you, the good reader.

If everyone would just work a little harder to get us the drugs we need, then we would, finally, have all the drugs we need. That's the real issue here. I mean, that's the real issue.

This editorial led off with something about the IMF, so in closing, let us just say, forget about the frigging IMF, find some drugs, and call us. Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. What are we, lepers? We've got money, for Christ's sake. The number's on the paper. Call us anytime. And, damn it, hurry up.