Сергей Огольцов – The Algorithm of Chaos (страница 2)

Too bad. After all, sport is life. Any hockey player will tell you that.

True, it's not so easy to follow his cloud-couckoo-land lisping; the guys have too many teeth knocked out in the ice rinks, they all have a lisp, each and every one of them. Hand-picked. Like the fucking team of knights under Uncle Chernomor.

Although no, by my calculations, they oftener gurgle than hiss; being a scuba divers unit, after all, they emerge straight from the sea, like Navy Seals by Netflix.

As for the hockey teams, on leaving the harsh ice of the arena, they, of course, put their false teeth plates in, to have something to smile with. Yet even then, they noticeably mumble. Such is the hallmark of their profession.

As aptly noted R. Rozhdestvensky in his lyrics to Arno Babajanyan's music, from each one all that there is in him, to each his scars, and tolling bells’.

No, wait, wait! It was Mikael Tariverdiev, a Georgian Armenian, who wrote music for that hit:

‘tyn-dyn-dyn ty-dy-dy tyn-dyn-dyn!’

He has a cool rhythm there, by the way.

Yes, in general, I left the sports for the above reasons. We parted without knowing each other anymore intimately than that.

And after, I had to willi-nilly look for a fitter outlet where to engage my beloved self in.

. . .

b). The World for Lucky Ones

On bidding my forever-farewell to all hopes for a decent sports career or (to use a proper modern language) after it became my ex, irrevocably, I had to choose the right direction for my uncommon impulses and remarkable personal resources.

Occasionally, yet more and more insistingly, I began to ponder over the film industry: why not to apply matchless me for leading roles there? And the immediate next question: how to enter the World of Silver Screen?

There was no prospect of winning the Cannes Film Festival by cinching my metaphoric wagon to the infantile Russian cinema.

To win favors with the Palme d'Or, that ribald ficus-bitch prize, you should shoot a lesbian love story full of passionately explicit angles.

Sure enough, for the present day level in the field of plastic cutting, sewing, and ironing, there’s no foreseeable problem. You bulge a silicone bump here, revamp the organ there to give it proper ‘inside out’ looks, and – giddy up!

Toward the frames of so uninhibited frankness, which drives ISIS militants into complete stupor as stilled as by the patients in catatonia cases ward.

To scenes that kindle a wild outcry in WAP, which still campaigns for the global ban on demonstration of Cannes-winner films to octopuses imprisoned in multiple biological laboratories all over the world.

Of course, the World Animals Protection organization habitually entered a losing battle. The labs at octopus farms, where they’re recycled into canned food for humans, have already discovered the hidden quality of such films to cause the growth of an additional tentacle, the ninth; which means additional 20 cans of delicacy product from each 2-year-old head.

And, most importantly, the gain calls for no material expense, thanks to the magical power of art…

WAP argue that cephalopods are smarter than humans, therefore, eating them is a crime against the reason… A sample of usual blah-blah of losers…

And here ‘Whoa!’ I said. So said I and stomped my foot. ‘I won't let spoil so handsome a man!’

The guy (I mean myself) deserves, albeit a little bit narcissistic, yet still respect and love. In general terms, to hell them those plastic surgeons.

Now what? Maybe, to take a shot at Uzbek-Film, eh? In their trademark psychological thrillers?

Yea, not what you’d call an inspiring idea. After all, it's obvious immediately that the native directors there smoke home-grown weed… And that sort of crap works wonders deeper than Mr. Snoop Dogg can ever get in the Holy-Hell-York-City. Although, his also is not a bad connection, I admit. Look him in the eye for just 6 jiffies, and you’re in the flight just because of the eye contact…

Rather a bleak picture is drawn by summing up the present opportunities in the former home neighborhood.

Now, what's left there? Hollywood?

But Joseph Kobzon's grandnephews are queuing there three generations in advance for every starry role.

And so arrogant those offspring are! Aunt Fanya Tsiperovich – they haven't even heard of, let alone care!

So, all that's left is Indian cinema; the only pool for angling.

However, even there's not without a catch – during a two-part film, you have to pull off half a dozen fiery dance numbers and sing along the fancy feet-work.

Oh, well, of course, my choreography’s beyond praise after a couple of clear shots. Maybe, a couple of couples. But I'm amazed myself by where those knee-jerks come from.

The stumbling block is my vocal proficiency; I can only roar in the style of V. Vysotsky. All those falsetto parts, like, ‘Jimmy-jimy! A-ya! Ah-ya!’ I can't handle, if making judgment based on a sober assessment.

For that reason, I tossed this whole industry, the film-making, like a bone to dogs at a feast of the Knights about the Round Table. ‘Fight for it, you good-for-nothings!’

Though at times I get sad, when scraping the stubble off this here mug before the mirror. – ‘Dammit, bro, Belmond, Nick Nolte, and I could have rocketed the Three Musketeers the way those cute little dandelions never dreamed of.’

Well, screw them, let them mess around in their sandbox, play house, war games, and elite bohemian settings. It's all the same (dreadfully monotonous) and the same, and the same.

Whether he's pretending to be an oligarch or a bum, the difference is invariably from a costume department. But they're all great (for heaven's sake!), without exception.

And now I have to walk through life as if through a museum of fossilized giants, thanks to the archaeologists. Every day they dig up a new brontosaurus, each one more gigantic than the next.

Where do they dig up such pterodactyls?

In short, even that steppe remained out my reach. Completely.

. . .

c). Never wait for Nature’s favors; rip them off by scientific methods!

And if anyone's curious how I felt after that tragic double failure – no way to see myself in a movie, upon no hope to dangle an Olympic medal – they might consult the famous canvas by V. Vasnetsov ‘A Knight at the Crossroads’. That's exactly me only rearview, and not wearing the jeans I never part with.

There am I mounted on my Savraska horse, lost in thoughts: whether taking a turn toward science is worth it?

Certainly, why not? More over, my inner world organization so aptly qualifies for a try. I’ve never met anybody of so scientific temperament, of such resourcefulness and limitless potential, especially, when it concerns thinking. Oh! That’s where lies my prevailing predilection.

At times, gone too deep in thoughts about something, I just keep thinking, and thinking, and… I may wholly forget what it exactly was about, or what my starting thought was, yet, I still keep thinking on. Not out of inertia, but just because I love the process.

Besides, there is a streak of a researcher in me.

Let's say I get my hands on some obscure gimmick, where it's at once clear, the junk is a complete throwaway. Now, why to be in the way of natural flow of events? Just throw the crap away.

But no! I absolutely have to tear it apart, like: what's in there, huh? And once I've finished the research and realized that bunch of smaller parts remains as incomprehensible as the initial throwaway was, only then, with a clear scientific conscience, I drag it to the trash pile.

So why, I wonder, possessing all main faculties and points needful for a scientist, I stayed away from pure science?

If anyone expects here a list of scientific follies, annoyances, cranks, and freaks in the given field not answering my moral standards, then no, dear friend, you're in the wrong.

Because it starts already to look a kinda cliché here: the dude takes sports apart, bulldozes the film industry, so what holes will he pick out in the field of science?

Forget it, my friend! Your agronomic expectations are groundless. We're doing just fine in science; we do dare explore any mysteries of the material universe. We also contemplate spiritual matters during the hours established by labor laws. The only lag, annoying but inevitable, is healthcare.

Here, everything is turned upside down; we begin protecting after the fact, when disaster has already struck and all that's left to do is sprinkling ashes over our grievous heads.

Healthcare should protect proactively, not after the enemy has penetrated your borders and set up defensive lines of disease, so that the rescue strategy falls into the hands of pharmacological octopuses. And they won't let their chance slip! They'll fork out so much for the sufferer that even their own mother wouldn't recognize them if she hadn't also become addicted to pills and now everyone looks the same to her—Bruce Willis.

But to survive in our advanced world, chemistry alone is no longer enough. You need a solid spiritual foundation for your right to continue the struggle for existence. And this right is acquired through spiritual hygiene, so that you remain as healthy as a moose. This has determined my line of behavior on life's tricky crossroads.