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.

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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 ..."