The Show Must Go On!

   

How wonderful to report a stress-fracture of my left metatarsal bone while heroically saving an infant from a burning building, instead of admitting I slipped walking to the bathroom. Just one of life's many disappointments. This stylish new walking-boot and my non-heroic limp are both reminiscent of another slip-and-fall, twenty-plus years ago, before a performance in Memphis, Tennessee.

 
    

Excerpt from chapter: 

“The Crimean Croup”

"... Performers hired to cover a part on Broadway but who don’t regularly appear in the show are referred to as standbys. Depending on their specific contract, many standbys are normally required to sign in and remain at the theater until being released by the production’s Stage Manager, once it’s confirmed the star is alive and well and ready to make his or her entrance. 

A one-person show like mine is most times an exception to the understudy/standby tradition. Rarely, if ever, is there another player waiting in the wings to make an entrance when the production’s only cast member is incapacitated. The fear of having to cancel a solo performance and refund thousands of dollars to a house full of unhappy ticketholders is what makes many theatre executive directors look as if they would benefit from six weeks in rehab. 

Twenty years ago I fell eight feet into an empty orchestra pit during a technical rehearsal in Memphis, Tennessee. It happened an hour before curtain as the lighting director was perched in the rafters, repositioning a bank of six-by-nine ellipsoidal spotlights. I was “walking the show” for the local stage manager when, while stepping forward to better hear a crew member’s question, the stage floor under my feet went missing and I dropped quicker than Tiger Woods on Thanksgiving night. Because the house lights were off for rehearsal, I never saw the edge of the stage or the fast approaching concrete floor. On impact I felt a powerful electrical shock throughout my body. Just before losing consciousness for a few seconds, a detail I would deny like Peter for fear of frightening the producer into canceling the performance, I witnessed a light show that made the aurora borealis look like a backyard Fourth of July celebration. 

I refused a trip to the hospital, insisting the show must go on. Even though I’m proud of carrying on the tradition of having never missed a performance during my career, the refusal of medical attention had nothing to do with not wanting to disappoint the audience. My motivation was cash money. The signed personal services contract called for a two-act, two-hour performance (with one fifteen-minute intermission). No performance, no check, and I’d have to return the long-ago squandered fifty percent performance fee deposit. [It must have been a less litigious world back then, because it never would have dawned on me to sue the venue for my stupidity; nor did management freak out over the possible liability and have me medevaced to the nearest trauma center. Nowadays I could have ended up owning the theater, minus the 33.3 percent commission for the personal injury attorney.]

I was helped up to the dressing room while the apron was re-lit to better define the edge of the stage—like I was ever walking near the edge of that stage again—and I suggested to the producer it might be best to present a ninety minute one-act performance rather than the two-act show outlined in our contract. We agreed and, less than an hour later, I made a measured mid-stage-right entrance, leaning on a vintage walking stick found in a prop department closet. 

The fall had taken its toll on my agility, so the long-practiced physical characterization of a seventy-year-old Mark Twain was convincing without effort. As long as I remembered not to sit down, for fear of not being able to stand up again, I was confident the audience would be none the wiser. Standing under the warm stage lights and hearing the laughter triggered an audience induced adrenaline rush that worked like a pain-blocking epidural. 

After the performance I shuffled off stage and onto a stretcher. Before leaving the theater, I removed the custom-made wig, eyebrows, and mustache (the production’s most expensive inventory), and handed the set of hair to the stage-manager for safe keeping. 

I arrived at the University of Tennessee Medical & Health Center’s Emergency Room in downtown Memphis and was attended to by a dizzying complement of nurses and medical interns. They wheeled me down a noisy fluorescent-lit hallway into a large open room with eight curtained cubicles populated, I assumed, with other sufferers of the night. 

“Thirty-five-year-old male. Eight-foot fall onto concrete approximately three hours ago,” the EMT announced. The brief introduction was followed by a litany of test results (blood pressure, heart rate, etc.) presented in bewildering medical shorthand too difficult for the uninitiated to follow. 

About then I heard a medical student, who had evidently missed the lecture on gurney-side etiquette, say under his breath, “Jesus.” 

The paramedic had said “Thirty-five years old,” but with all that stage make-up, including dried spirit gum theatrical glue flaking on my upper lip and melting into my eyebrows I was presenting more like a victim of radiation exposure than a guy who attempted an inward twisting forward pike onto a concrete floor. 

“I’m an actor!” I panicked. “It’s stage make-up!” Timing is everything, because looking the way I did, the emergency room chief resident couldn't have been more than ten seconds away from calling for the epinephrine, charging-up the defibrillator paddles, and yelling “clear.” 

I was released the following afternoon with a minor concussion, three cracked ribs, a bruised coccyx, a healthy supply of pain-killers, and the performance paycheck for my troubles. Not bad for a day’s work ...”

http://www.amazon.com/dp/0984720499

 
    

5 Star Review from San Francisco Book Reviews

 

"Not So Innocently Abroad" received a 5 out of 5 Stars review from the San Francisco Book Reviews. Below is an advance copy of the magazine's review. The book currently also has a 4.8 star rating on Amazon.com. 

 

 

Not So Innocently Abroad
By Ken Richters
Exposition House Press
  
★★★★★
(5 out of 5 Stars)

“Ken Richters is a Mark Twain impersonator, bringing the brash wit and razor-sharp insight of Mr. Clemens back to life, and he has a remarkable knack for not only embodying the Twain we know, but giving us a glimpse of what he might have thought of the modern era. So when Richters was given the chance to retrace the route that Twain took through Russia and Eastern Europe during Innocents Abroad, he leapt at the opportunity (after briefly considering whether it was a plot to sneakily deport him).

Not So Innocently Abroad chronicles Richters' journey across the former Soviet region, and he proves as affable, open, and genuinely appreciative of the Russian tour as Twain was. He provides fascinating local color, and always casts himself as the target of mockery, never the cultures he encounters. There's a wonderful class to Richters' affectionate observations of these far-flung locales.

Most importantly, the book is pretty darn funny. The utterly shameless opening story about his dalliance with a Russian ballerina named Svetlana is the perfect mood setter for both our narrator and his take on Twain's humor. There were plenty of chuckles to be had along the way, as Richters offered both his insights and the Twainian perspective on each city he visited.

And, like all great travelogues, it gave me a renewed appreciation for the destinations themselves. It never occurred to me that Russians would be as fond of Twain as we are, and to see such enthusiasm through the author's eyes was a marvelous experience.

As thoughtful as it is enjoyable, Not So Innocently Abroad is not only the perfect companion piece to Twain's own work, but it's a tremendous look at how much (and how little) time changes people's perspectives around the world. What a treat!”
  

http://www.amazon.com/dp/0984720499
 

Love At First Sight

Excerpt from chapter:
“Joe Biden and Me, Sexist Pigs We Be”

I was reading a discarded copy of the daily newspaper Segodnya (Сегодня, Today) —more accurately, I appeared to be reading a discarded copy of the daily newspaper Segodnya, while really just looking at the photographs in the popular Russian language tabloid—when a striking young woman with shoulder-length blond hair sat at the table next to me. She was the type of woman you had to get in line to have a crush on. A statuesque, natural beauty, flawlessly turned out for a night on the town. She arrived alone, clearly waiting on an assignation. 

As our eyes met she smiled and said, “Pree-V’EHT.”

Pree-V’EHT was a problem. 

What did she mean by pree-V’EHT? Was she saying hello in Russian (privyet), or Ukrainian (pryvit), or asking me to dance the Pryvit? (A twentieth century dance that ensemble-groups use to begin traditional Ukrainian folk programs, where the performers welcome the audience bearing wheat, bread, and salt representing the land’s fertility).

Was hers an informal hello, or seductive invitation to gambol with her doing the Pryvit? I calculated the odds of each possibility. Hello would be the obvious inference, but maybe the way I was sitting revealed my show-business roots as a dancer, and I looked like the kind of guy who could still give a girl a good Pryvit. So in my best overheard Russian, I diplomatically responded, “Dobryĭ vecher” (Добрый вечер, good evening,) and went back to not being able to read the Segodnya.

My pronunciation must have passed muster because a few minutes later she leaned over and began to speak to me in Russian, or Ukrainian—I hadn’t a clue. Compliments of a crash-course review of the book Russian Phrases for Dummies, I was somewhat prepared. Remembering one of the few successfully memorized “Useful Questions in Russian” at my disposal, I asked in Russian, “Vy govorite po angliyski?” (Вы говорите по английски? Do you speak English?).

I could have just as easily asked in English if she spoke English, so my bastardized Slavic accent was a gamble. If she spoke Russian, the poor phonetic pronunciation would straightaway betray me as an unsophisticated foreigner trying to impress. If Ukrainian was her dominant language, I would come across as a somewhat mentally-challenged, mumbling drunk. Either way, it would be the best first impression I’ve made on a woman in years. To my relief she pointed to the center of the table and said, “Sorry, sugar.”

Sugar was a problem ... 
         

Love and The KGB

   
Excerpt from chapter:
“Svetlana, Me, and the KGB”
 

Before the dancers were rounded up for the bus ride to their hotel, Svetlana and I arranged to “accidentally” meet each other the following afternoon at Faneuil Hall. The ballet was dark Thursday, and the sponsors had scheduled a sightseeing day in Boston. The historic site was the perfect place for a chance meeting; a harmless coincidence that no one would ever suspect—except everyone, including the company’s tour manager Alexey Ivanovich, who was on to me quicker than you could say KGB.
  
Fortunately, Alexey wasn’t sure who I was. My hanging around the theater all day and attending the after-party had thrown him off enough that he hadn’t asked me to leave. By the end of the week, we were friendly enough that he would allow Svetlana and me to disappear together for hours at a time without worry—for the right price.
  
The inattention of sharp-eyed KGB agent Alexey Ivanovich was available for the princely sum of “teaventy von doler yatean sint.” It was hard to believe, but $21.18 could convince the ballet’s resident member of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti (Комитет государственной безопасности, Committee for State Security) to look the other way and allow one of his dancers provisional leaves of absence. As long as the official head count at morning rehearsals was spot on, “Nichevo strashnava” (ничего страшного, Nothing scary!).
 
In hushed tones and giggles, some of the dancers jokingly referred to Alexey as “Ivan” Ivanovich—a reference I didn’t understand and was cautioned not to repeat. Twenty-five years later, during a visit to Washington, DC, I finally learned why.

It turns out that Ivan Ivanovich is the Russian equivalent of John Doe, and it was also the name given to the mannequin used in the unmanned Russian Vostok spacecraft Sputnik 9 in 1961. According to the Smithsonian Institution, Ivan was made to look as lifelike as possible; he traveled fully dressed in a cosmonaut suit with a sign reading макет” (Russian for dummy”). Ivan Ivanovich orbited the Earth on March 23, 1961, just weeks before Yuri Gagarin’s historic flight as the first human to journey into outer space on April 12, 1961. The dummy was ejected from the spacecraft after reentering the atmosphere, parachuted out of the seat and landed near the Ural Mountains’ city of Izevsk.

In 1993 Ivan was auctioned by Sotheby’s in London. The winning bid of $189,500 came from Texas billionaire and two-time U.S. presidential candidate, H. Ross Perot. Since 1997, Ivan has been on permanent loan to the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, where he is on public display—still wearing his spacesuit ...
    
 
Borrow 'Not So Innocently Abroad' for 14 days FREE with your Kindle: http://amzn.to/16NR0n6
   

Mark Twain National Tour Announced for 2015

  

 

Ken Richters as "Mark Twain On Tour"
 
More than 1,500 performances in all 50 states and 12 countries, "Mark Twain On Tour" has traveled over one-million tour miles. Staged as a public lecture by America's most celebrated humorist, the production runs two-hours with one intermission.
 
Funny, thought-provoking, and occasionally politically incorrect, the production is based on the life and works of Mark Twain - with portions of the performance localized with the news of the day. A fully structured and scripted production with the opportunity to ad-lib throughout. Before each show, Ken Richters scours the region's newspapers looking for what he calls, "grist for Mr. Twain's mill!" The result is a unique and memorable evening at the theater. Local issues and politicians are always the target of Mr. Twain's caustic wit, and those dignitaries brave enough to be in the audience will most certainly be the subject of a comment or two.
 
For more information contact office@ipcshow.com.
  

U.S. State Department or Nigerian Mafia

    
Excerpt from chapter:
“Sinister Government Plot to Disappear Me?”

U.S. State Department eMail: “I’m trying to reach Ken Richters about a possible program in Moscow under the auspices of the Department of State. I have phoned him twice, at home, but haven’t received a response. He may be touring. In any case, would you please have him call me at his earliest opportunity?”

 
“Hearing from the federal government is rarely good news; my last IRS field audit immediately comes to mind. But maybe the mail wasn’t from the Feds, and the “program in Moscow” was a Nigerian ruse to fool me into filling out a phony visa application with all the vital personal information needed for identity theft. I have no fear of being the victim of identity theft. In fact, look forward to the possibility, hoping the thieves might do a better job with my finances than I do. But if this was a legitimate communication from the State Department, how did they find me? Who referred me? Why, after my thirty years as Mark Twain, did someone in the United States government decide I was now a good choice to represent the country?
  
‘Something is terribly wrong here,’ I thought.
   
I pondered the possibilities, thinking back over three decades of politicians and government officials who have had a love-hate relationship with my performances as Mark Twain. Granted, there is nothing better for a politician’s street cred than being publicly dressed-down by America’s most celebrated dead humorist—showing a room full of constituents what a collection of great sports they are. But how many of those influential people might be carrying a grudge? Had I unknowingly crossed the line by hitting someone too close to home, or forgetting to warn them they were about to be roasted? My mind raced through an exhausting list of probable adversaries who would like nothing more than to have someone in the government disappear me—a term used by the intelligence community to indicate an operative has been “permanently retired.” A catalog of my Mark Twain’s victims ran through my brain. I could see their controlled rage, a slow burn fueled with never-ending thoughts of sweet revenge, patiently waiting for me to drop my guard. To quote Joseph Heller, ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.’”
   

Delta Airlines: Minor Mechanical Problem

Excerpt from chapter:
"Minor Mechanical Problem"      

The flight from Hartford to New York was delayed ten minutes, every twenty minutes, for the next ninety minutes. Time enough to re-double check the contents of my backpack and carry-on case filled with production items, including a theatrical wig, make-up, and costume —items not easily replaceable in eastern Europe if my checked baggage, a casket-sized trunk-on-wheels borrowed from my sister Eileen, was diverted to parts unknown.    

 

My arrival gate at JFK was three terminals away from my departure gate, requiring a vigorous half-mile walk while lugging too much carry-on luggage and whining under my breath, “I’m getting too old for this!” I arrived exhausted and moist at the departure gate ten minutes before the scheduled boarding time.

  

“Ladies and gentlemen, this announcement is for passengers waiting to board Delta Flight 30, non-stop service to Moscow. Due to a minor mechanical problem with the aircraft that could interfere with a successful landing in Moscow, we will be switching equipment and moving to a new departure gate.”

    

 

What! What could that even mean? And who at Delta Airlines thought it was a good idea to inform the passengers how close they came to not successfully landing in Moscow? The opposite of a successful landing in Moscow is disappearing without a trace over the North Atlantic Ocean, or falling into the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in Iceland. Who knows, maybe Delta’s euphemistic “interfere with a successful landing” sounded better than the truth:

     

“Ladies and gentlemen, this announcement is for passengers waiting to board Delta Flight 30, non-stop service to Moscow. Funny story…we almost killed you. It turns out SST* driver, Bob, noticed one of the jet engines on your aircraft was a little looser than we like. He tried tightening the engine bolts with his hand, but a couple of those bolts were stripped. Normally we wouldn’t think twice about a minor maintenance problem like loose bolts, but on transatlantic flights we think it best to be a little extra careful. Here at Delta Airlines we believe our passengers deserve the very best service, including tight engine bolts, so we’ve sent Bob out to find what we hope will be a better plane. We know you have a choice in air travel, and we appreciate you flying with Delta Airlines. We love to fly, and it shows.”

 

Idiots.

  

Airline Speak Lexicon

*SST is airline speak for the shit-sucking truck. Other shorthand/nicknames airline employees have for passengers: Gate lice are passengers with low boarding priority who crowd the gate area before being called, inexperienced travelers are often referred to as kettle (as in Ma and Pa), self-loading freight is a derogatory term for all passengers, and Jim Wilson is airline code for human remains traveling in the cargo hold. American Airlines even has a dedicated reservations line called the Jim Wilson Desk, with agents specializing in “transporting departed loved ones to their final resting place.” I have been unable to confirm whether American Airlines has a Frequent Dead Flyer program.

Borrow download the Kindle edition for FREE:
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Dope-Sick for a Sexy Box of Baklava Pastry

    
Excerpt from chapter:
"Did You Hear the One About the Russian Fleet?"  
       
"... Although the city of Sevastopol stands near the site of the ancient Greek colony of Chersonesus, founded in 421 B.C., archeological finds in the area show people have lived in the region for tens of thousands of years, with traces of Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon settlements discovered on the outskirts of the city. Scholars believe Homer wrote about Balaklava bay in 800 B.C. in The Odyssey: 'When we reached the harbour we found it land-locked under steep cliffs, with a narrow entrance between two headlands.'
 
Our sightseeing excursion and traditional lunch made for a memorable visit to Sevastopol even though the others were unaware that I was inwardly distracted by an unshakable, unspeakable desire. I was dope-sick for Baklava pastry and embarrassed to admit it. After arriving back at the hotel, I slipped the doorman a handful of hryvnia for directions to the man. I needed to find the local drug pusher, peddler, connection, dealer before my withdrawal pangs got any worse. Sweating and in pain, I eventually found a small bakery on the west side of Artillery Bay, paid the ponce, and was taken to a dark dingy back room to have my way with a box of day old sheker keyeks. Oh! the shame. I hit rock bottom that day in my lust for the original and real baklava, which is refreshingly different from the popular Greek or Turkish varieties. European soldiers fighting the Crimean War in Sevastopol and neighboring Balaklav coined the term “Baklava” for the rich local pastry coated in honey. Eating the sweet, nut-filled treat is so fulfilling on so many levels that in some cultures I could probably be considered married to it.
 
Sated and happy, I then felt a moment of disgust and sticky shame. Back at the hotel in a post-ecstatic fugue, I took a long, hot shower and dressed for a late afternoon courtesy call at city hall ..."
     
 

Oprah Winfrey Naked in Crimea?

 

"Not So Innocently Abroad"
Excerpt from chapter: The Crimean Croup

    

"The morning after our evening flight to Simferopol, capital of the Autonomous Republic of Crimea in southern Ukraine, the hearing in my left ear was compromised with an unpoppable blockage of the Eustachian tube. After a number of ineffective exaggerated yawns—and one futile shot at the medically reckless technique of holding my nose and blowing—I positioned myself in front and to the left of cultural attaché Susan Cleary, allowing the good ear to clearly monitor our conversation. Twenty-four hours later it went from being a nuisance to an exasperation as I realized my intractable “airplane ear” might be the onset of a sinus infection.

Feeling unwell on the road is not unanticipated for traveling performers. Demanding tour schedules, general fatigue and poor air quality on commercial aircraft often leave many actors susceptible to illness. National touring Broadway shows arrive in town with a cadre of understudies and swings, ready to cover any cast member unable to perform because of illness or exhaustion ..."

"... Many pharmaceuticals requiring a prescription in the United States are available over-the-counter to anyone with the money in Russia and Ukraine. Looking for a good night’s sleep? Ask the pharmacist for Nitrest (Нитрест), the region’s brand name for Ambien. Looking for a good night, without the sleep? Prescribe yourself a handful of Viagra (виагра) and go to town! It’s mostly anti-depressants and pain killers that require a prescription, as do toxic and powerful drugs that require “extra caution.” The term of art, “extra caution,” is defined on a Russian medical exchange website as, “Drugs that could lead to the lethal conclusion of death.”

Sticking an index finger into my right ear, I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times as if I were yawning, and said “plugged.” Sergiy must have been ad-libbing, because his interpretation of my word “plugged” took nearly thirty seconds to communicate in Russian. I then covered both ears with the palm of my hands and said, “I can’t hear.” This time translating the dramatic presentation of symptoms lasted over a minute, leaving me to wonder if Sergiy was secretly pleading with the pharmacist for a little sumpin-sumpin to shut me up during the drive to Yalta. At best, I am an acquired taste. So I wouldn't have blamed him for wanting a little piece and quiet. My antics once so irritated a Trappist monk, he broke a twenty year vow of silence just to call me an asshole.

The pharmacist produced a brown bottle of noxious ear drops and a package of little white pills, which I assumed to be a Sudafed-like decongestant—but for all I knew could have been birth control pills. The instructions: One little white pill every six hours, along with three drops of pungent liquid in each ear every eight hours.

Standing in front of the hotel after throwing medicinal caution to the wind, everyone agreed the medication appeared safe and were confident the pharmacist knew her stuff . Because two is better than one, and excited to kickstart the therapy, I doubled the initial dose swallowing two little white pills—maybe three of the little white Crimean pills—and, for laughs, executed a pratfall onto the sidewalk lying motionless until the motorcade was ready to roll. Out of nowhere, a passerby dropped a small bouquet of roses on my chest and walked away without saying a word.

My doctor probably wouldn’t have prescribed the drugs sold to me in Sevastopol, but the efficacy of those little white pills could not be denied. The intense hallucinations had the therapeutic effect of my completely forgetting I ever had sinuses. Everyone riding naked in the van was a bit uncomfortable, especially after Oprah Winfrey didn’t think twice about stripping down when we picked her up hitchhiking near Sapunhirs’kyi Roz’izd station. But I was enjoying the shotgun-riding singing monkey juggling Matryoshka dolls too much to complain."

Given that the melody-making, Matryoshka manipulating monkey had magically disappeared by the time we arrived at Livadia Palace, I never wrote about the rampant nudity or performing primate in my final State Department report, although I did privately suggest to Oprah she have a particularly nasty mole on her back examined without delay. Other than the purple haze of my psychedelic-mushroom-like trip to Yalta, those little white pills offered very little relief."

  

Follow @KenRichters

    

Public Toilets in Russia and Ukraine

   

Dreaded eastern European Squats.

Excerpt from "Not So Innocently Abroad" (Chapter: 'The Straight Poop') now available in paperback and Kindle) on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and selected Independent book sellers in the United States.

"According to travel blogs the overall condition of eastern European “public accommodation” is enough to scare even the most daring traveler. In her online article, “Public Toilets in Russia and Eastern Europe,”* Kerry Kubilius warns: “In airports or train stations, and even in some universities, the state of disrepair and lack of maintenance of the toilets will leave you breathless—literally.”
 
There is no dispute that many public toilets in Russia and Ukraine could best be described as “ripe.” The men’s room on the secured side of Simferopol Airport (SIM) in Crimea comes to mind. Strangely enough, it was extremely clean, yet it reeked so badly I could have sworn a planeload of Mexican-food-eating geriatrics had recently used it. Let’s just say the last person who used the men’s toilet prior to me compromised the integrity of the room. As far as my nostrils could deduce during this quicker-than-usual pit stop, the culprit for the pong was probably forced-air heating and no working exhaust fans.
 
Russia’s squat toilets aren’t an urban myth. For the uninitiated, squats are empty stalls with a hole in the ground. It looks quite primitive until you spot the strategically positioned floor indentations on either side of the hole that enable optimum foot placement for taking care of business. I walked into a squat only once, but I believe the emotional insult of it was so heinous that almost all memories of the adventure were eradicated. I just remember closing my eyes and going to a special place ..."
      
   

Russian Vodka and the Biblical Whore

Russian vodka is warm when served cold. It is artful, opportunistic, and deceptive, having absolutely no discernible effect on the central nervous system until it does. Adding mixers to vodka is not done in Russia; the drink is always taken neat. It is also drunk as a shot, never sipped. Each shot must be followed with a snack called zakuski, usually salted fish or meat, pickled vegetables, caviar, or hearty breads. Zakuski between shots allows one to drink more vodka than downing successive shots without it. Sniffing black bread between shots is also said to be surprisingly effective in slowing the onset of intoxication; then, again, I have enough trouble hiding used hors d’oeuvres toothpicks at a party, without the added burden of trying to figure out what to do with a nosed-over piece of rye bread.

 V. I. Govorkov’s iconic “Nyet!” poster (1954)

Soviet-Era Temperance Poster: Just Say “No!”

When one person proposes a toast, nobody may refuse to drink. Because “only problem drinkers don’t toast before drinking,” tradition demands every drink be preceded with a toast. Generally, the first toast is devoted to the occasion; the second toast must immediately follow the first, usually honoring the host or friendship; the third toast is typically in honor of women or love. After the third toast anything goes—according to the well-known Cossack expression: “Between the first and second toasts, a bullet should not pass.” Except “Na zdorovya!,” which is not a toast, but rather an old phrase meaning “You’re welcome” and properly used in response to a compliment or words of gratitude. Zdorovya means “health” in Russian, so naturally there are toasts featuring this word, even though Na zdorovya is not one of them. You can say, “na vashe zdorovya” to your health, or “za vashe zdorovya” for your health.

    

Finally, guests leaving a party must drink Na pososhok, “one for the Road.” So many complicated rules to master. So little time. Not wanting to off end an entire country by disrespecting their centuries-long drinking tradition, I practiced this new ritual until it became second nature. My usual alcohol inclinations tend to be tame and limited to wine with dinner or highballs of Canadian rye and ginger ale at social events. I’m rarely guilty of drinking copiously from the cup of oblivion and it has been years since I’ve been what comedian Ralphie May describes as “more stoned than a biblical whore.”

  
Excerpt for Not So Innocently Abroad available now (paperback and Kindle) on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and selected Independent book sellers in the United States.
      
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0984720499
   
   

Ken Richters' Travel Memoir Just Released!

  

   
   

 

     

NOW AVAILABLE

Not So Innocently Abroad

Official State Department Tour or Sinister Government Plot to Disappear Me?
    

From award-winning actor and playwright Ken Richters comes this original, irreverent, and funny travel memoir of his month-long U.S. State Department goodwill tour of Russia and Ukraine as Mark Twain. After spending more than 30 years performing as Mark Twain, satirizing every government official and politician within earshot, American actor and playwright Ken Richters got a call from the U.S. Department of State asking him to leave the country for the former Soviet Union. Causing the author to wonder if the proposed trip was an official State Department goodwill tour, or sinister government plot by one of the many politicians and government officials he offended during his career (including seven U.S. senators, fifteen past and present members of Congress, twenty-six state governors, countless local politicians from all fifty states and a sitting justice of the United States Supreme Court) to have him permanently disappeared.
 
Originally scheduled for two shows in Moscow, the mission was extended for nearly a month to retrace Twain's travels in Eastern Europe. The book chronicles performance stops in Moscow, Kiev, Odessa, Simferopol, Sevastopol, and the Livadia Palace in Yalta; almost causing a diplomatic incident involving the Russian Black Sea Fleet; hallucinating on a road trip to Crimea, seeing a naked Oprah Winfrey and matryoshka doll juggling monkey riding shotgun, after self-medicating in an attempt to cure the Crimean Croup; and how, unknowingly, making the same observation about the beauty of Ukrainian women that caused Vice President Joe Biden public ridicule, elevated Richters to a Ukrainian media cause célèbre.
   

ORDER TODAY
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0984720499

  
  

   

Chapter Excerpt

"I’m trying to reach Ken Richters about a possible program in Moscow under the auspices of the Department of State. I have phoned him twice, at home, but haven’t received a response. He may be touring. In any case, would you please have him call me at his earliest opportunity?
 

—Michael Bandler, U.S. State Department

Bureau of International Programs.”

 
Reading the email made me think of Groucho Marx’s letter of resignation to the Friars’ Club: “I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as one of its members.” There’s a reason for this. I was born in the state of Connecticut, leaving our government no choice but to accept me as a new member of the U.S. club. However, birthright alone should not be a justification for having someone like me represent the United States, let loose to travel around the former Soviet Union for a month speaking to thousands of theatergoers and having unfettered access to the Russian and Ukrainian press.
 
Above and beyond my unexceptional SAT scores, the reason I became an actor and not a politician or lawyer was, and continues to be, my inability to refrain from entertaining myself. In my own defense, those who accuse me of having no filter should thank their God for not being privy to what I could have said. For every politically incorrect comment that springs from my mouth there are at least five that don’t make the cut—internally censored, because even I think they cross the line. Hearing from the federal government is rarely good news; my last IRS field audit immediately comes to mind. But maybe the mail wasn’t from the Feds, and the “program in Moscow” was a Nigerian ruse to fool me into filling out a phony visa application with all the vital personal information needed for identity theft — I have no fear of being the victim of identity theft. In fact, look forward to the possibility, hoping the thieves might do a better job with my finances than I do.

But if this was a legitimate communication from the State Department, how did they find me? Who referred me? Why, after my thirty years as Mark Twain, did someone in the United States government decide I was now a good choice to represent the country? “Something is terribly wrong here,” I thought. I pondered the possibilities, thinking back over three decades of politicians and government officials who have had a love-hate relationship with my performances as Mark Twain. Granted, there is nothing better for a politician’s street cred than being publicly dressed-down by America’s most celebrated dead humorist — showing a room full of constituents what a collection of great sports they are. But how many of those influential people might be carrying a grudge? Had I unknowingly crossed the line by hitting someone too close to home, or forgetting to warn them they were about to be roasted? My mind raced through an exhausting list of probable adversaries who would like nothing more than to have someone in the government disappear me—a term used by the intelligence community to indicate an operative has been “permanently retired.” A catalog of my Mark Twain’s victims ran through my brain. I could see their controlled rage, a slow burn fueled with never-ending thoughts of sweet revenge, patiently waiting for me to drop my guard. To quote Joseph Heller, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”

It all started in early 1982, around the time of my first-ever booking in Washington DC, which came to the attention of Samuel “Sam” Gejdenson, the newly elected United States Representative for the Second Congressional District of Connecticut. A few days before the show, his office invited Mark Twain to tour the Capitol for a photo-op and possible local television interview.

Sure!” I said. What could go wrong?

While the television news crew from WFSB Channel 3, the Post-Newsweek station in Hartford, began setting up for their interview, Sam Gejdenson and Sam Clemens stood together smiling on the Capital’s impressive Renville, Minnesota granite steps, posing for the House photographer. Following the interview, the reporter asked us to move inside so her cameraman could shoot b-roll of us walking around the Rotunda. It was while we stood in front of John Trumbull’s 1824 oil on canvas, General George Washington Resigning His Commission, that someone in the Congressman’s inner circle suggested we make an unannounced visit to the fifty-fifth Speaker of the United States House of Representatives.

It must have seemed like a good idea at the time.

By the time we made it to the stately marble archway leading to the Speaker’s suite we had attracted the attention of a second television news crew—a degenerate-looking duo working as network stringers. After a couple of phone calls in the outer office we went through an unmarked door to an inner office and down a stately corridor leading to the private office of Thomas Phillip “Tip” O’Neill, Jr.—presiding officer of the House of Representatives and second in the United States presidential line of succession, after the vice president. Preceded by two videographers walking backward with cameras and bright lights pointed in our direction, we could have easily been mistaken for a 60 Minutes ambush interview orchestrated by Mike Wallace instead of what it was: a publicity-seeking courtesy call about to go terribly wrong ..."

Russian Signs, Lost in Translation

   

Translation:"Please do not touch naked wires with your wet hands! The wires are getting rusty!"

Outside Orthodox Monastery: You are welcome to visit the cemetery where famous Russian and Soviet composers, artists, and writers are buried daily except Thursday.   
  

Hotel Services Available: "You are invited to take advantage of the chambermaid."  

"No Drinking" in Cyrillic reads: Нельзя пить. Literal English translation: "It is impossible to drink."
   

"Please Get off the motorbike when come in the theatre"

    

 

Other than the restrictions above ... have fun!
   
NO DRINKING or NO SWEEPING or NO SWEEPING WHILE DRINKING?
  
 

Cyrillic McDonalds sign in Moscow