Moscow Believes in Tours

Extensive coverage by The Guardian, Gridskipper, Usemycomputer.com, Brentschulkin.com, The eXile and other online and print publications has helped Moscow Doesn’t Believe in Tears achieve massive popularity in only a few months. Our stat counter shows hundreds of visitors checking in daily everywhere from Davis, California to the United Arab Emirates. World, what’s clear is that you’re hooked on Moscow nightlife. And we’re going to go out on a limb and say that rather than just reading about the city’s exclusive clubs, endless vodka rivers and minigarchs with personal monasteries, you’re tempted to buy a ticket and live it. By all means, “Gopher it!” Don’t just be a voyeur. LIVE COURAGEOUSLY. Every other weekend of the year can be spent in tofu, beige, tapioca Davis -- give one to Moscow!

But, don’t be a fool. Hell is a very scary place, especially at night. Try it alone, and you will end up in a ditch in Butovo, ruined by bathtub vodka and venereal disease. It is integral to your health and nightlife success that you take an experienced sherpa, which is why we designed this special program for all the friends we have not even met yet.

Our jet-set Moscow Believes in Tours package is custom-tailored to the Client's needs.

NECESSARILY INCLUDES

• Pre-trip Skype briefing session to identify the Client’s specific preferences. Think of it as the part in Total Recall when they choose the components of the memory that will be planted in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s brain. Cab or metro? Elitny or expat sports bars (popular option)? Straight or gay? Entirely up to you.
• Dinner and drinks at some of the hottest Moscow nightlife spots. We’ll be honest: entry into the absolute top tier clubs is never a guarantee, due to the unpredictable, draconic practice of “face control,” which is often one of the hardest things for the visitor to wrap his head around. However, good-looking, smooth-talking and connected folk that we are, your chances are certainly increased with MDBIT. What IS guaranteed is unforgettable, vodka-saturated memories at places that you, as a visitor, won’t be able to tell aren’t the best.
• Sparkling conversation. MDBIT has a degree in Phenomenology and strong, half-formed opinions on a range of topics after only one Long Island Iced Tea. Katie has a degree in Public Relations and an accent from the British Commonwealth that many people find ATTRACTIVE.
• Wingman/translation assistance to facilitate romantic success. Moscow is home to legendarily beautiful women who really open up after a few drinks. Not all of them are prostitutes! A few years ago just speaking English sealed the deal, but NO LONGER. We’ll gladly explain to anyone that you’re the son of a wealthy Chilean diplomat looking for a serious girlfriend.
• Protection from the unsavory elements of Moscow nightlife. Any number of things can ruin a night on the town: unreasonable bouncers, lost coat check tag, aggressive prostitutes, etc. MDBIT is there smooth over life’s little inconveniences.

CAN INCLUDE

• Pick-up at the airport
• Excursions to the ballet, museums, Red Square, souvenir markets and other cultural shit
• Holding your passport when you get too drunk

Prices are negotiable and depend entirely on the amount of personal attention needed, but expect around $300 Agent Provocateur e-bucks per weekend, prepaid. Note: The fee does NOT include visa, airfare, cabs, meals, drinks, souvenirs, bribes, prostitutes or any other expense/service than the knowledgeable consulting and nightlife accompaniment of MDBIT. As promised before, an additional fee of 3 (three) Long Island Iced Teas can sometimes buy a spot on Katie’s foldout couch. Availability is entirely subject to MDBIT’s caprice and whether Mr. MDBIT is on a business trip.

THIS IS NOT A SCAM!

Our Moscow Believes in Tours program has already been up and running in beta mode for close to two years, with many satisfied customers. One of these is Scott, 26, a consultant for Qatar Airways, whose first time in Moscow was a success thanks to our services. Read his testimonial:

MDBIT met me at the Sheraton Palace, drained the minibar, picked out a dress shirt for me to wear, expertly hailed a cab with Moscow-style casual low hand extension (rather than up in the air as prevails in the Western world – brilliant!), negotiated a reasonable fare and got us to this restaurant Bon, where she’d made reservations. Let me tell you, the atmosphere was unreal. There were supermodels everywhere and skulls wearing jewelry and not a bottle of wine under $120. Food tasted like shit, but it was worth it! Then we crossed the river to Rai for the quintessential Moscow experience of being “face controlled.” And she was right: when we strolled up, a fat, pockmarked dwarf told us there was a “private party.” Love it! So we moved on to a warehouse club called 1171, and spent the next few hours getting wasted on Long Island Iced Teas and making fun of people on the dance floor. Finally, she took us to a chill neighborhood bar Help, ordered beers the sizes of our heads and, when it was time to go, helpfully gestured in the general direction of our hotel before lurching away to flag her own cab. Thanks for showing us around town in Moscow! Let me know when you make it here to Doha!

His AP e-vouchers went to these Fantasia control briefs with suspender clips.

Book your Moscow Believes in Tours trip IMMEDIATELY ensure a spot this hot clubbing season. Our calendar is rapidly filling with tourists who are leaving boring 9-to-5 behind and saying DA! to life.

Next up this month Michael, a San Francisco investment banker who takes leisure very seriously. Having read MDBIT religiously since its inception, he’s finally taking the plunge. The only thing he’s worried about is whether he’ll be able to maintain his carefully cultivated tan in gray Moscow. The answer is YES. Because Michael told us in advance, we were able to book him appointments at Mesto Pod Solntsem, a VIP solarium in central Moscow.

We’ve already directed his prepaid e-vouchers towards this flattering halter neck swimsuit.

Michael is living courageously. ARE YOU?

UPDATE: SPECIAL WINTER HOLIDAYS DISCOUNT. I WILL NOW BE LEADING TOURS FOR RAIN BOOTS, WHICH AREN'T THAT EXPENSIVE. I WILL ALSO ACCEPT THEM AS FAN GIFTS. ANY OF THESE FROM CHOOKA WILL DO ALTHOUGH THE ONES BELOW ARE PRETTY COOL. I AM SIZE 39.

Gimmee a Break

I was on the Other Side.

Did you know that the rest of the world has beautiful vistas and fresh, flavorful food? Strangers treat each other with dignity and warmth, and public art is able to exist for the delight of all without being pissed or vomited on. Women don't dress like transvestites, and men are just taking numbers to rub sunscreen on your boobs.

Firecrotch Spit Paralyze

MDBIT has truly arrived! We were put in the Guardian's inaugural Top Ten Travel blogs, which is a weekly ranking, by the paper's official Travel blogger, of other blogs. Kind of masturbatory of the whole blogosphere. Here's what he said:

In a world of spies, diplomatic wrangles and general pseudo-cold war skulduggery, it's nice to find something to do with Russia that's a bit of fun. MDBIT is a quite sexy-looking guide to nightlife and cool stuff in Moscow.

If you find a deep spiritual malaise sexy, be my guest. Note: it's listed after the jump, and quite hard to find, which may be why the Guard only accounted for 5% of MDBIT hits last week. No the largest share (44.3%) were poor souls who stumbled in from Google searching for something else, usually whores.

Top Ten Google Searches of July 22-28 (That Did Not Involve Whores)

1. Moscow is Not Swayed By Tears. Nice try! You had this vague idea in your head that the city hates crying, and it paid off.
2. How to Get Drunk on the Relative Cheap without Drinking Antifreeze. Hey that's my line! I wrote that a month ago. Luke Harding? Say it ain't so.
   
3. How to Cut Costs Running a Nightclub in Moscow. House it in a fort?
   
4. Black Star Timati's Girlfriend. I wouldn't say we're dating yet.
5. Moscow Best Bars on Wednesday. It's kind of a black hole.
6. Osen Moscou Face Control. Too late, my French or possibly Catalan friend. Osen has been closed for a couple years now.
7. Raccoon Spit Paralyze. Why am I No. 2 on the search for this? I mean, only No. 2.
8. Music From Moscow Doesn't Believe in Tears. i feel bad for all the first year Russian students looking for stuff about the Soviet classic and instead coming face to face with Danila Polyakov's firecrotch.
   
9. Danila Polyakov Firecrotch. Sir, you're a freak.
10. Skinny Jeans with Codpiece. I am definitely not in the first handful of pages for this one, which meant that someone rifled through a lot of codpieces.

"Sonya" Hacks MDBIT!

Haters, biters — all of you. I generally don't like to drag petty beefs out into the open, but gotta say one thing: "Sonya," head of the nightlife department at that excrementory expat rag Element (or "element," whatever), has been aping my style for the while now.

I first noticed it after her review of Simachev Bar, "Simachev Subverts Stoleshnikov," which came out after my post "The Sim: Nightlife Edition." Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, compare:

MDBIT: It has the black humor of a Diesel ad, and is perpetually stuffed with the kind of people that "get it" (and wear Mr. Rogers sweaters about it).
element: Everything is reduced to the same darkly humorous level, like in a Diesel ad...Denis Simachyov Bar is for the people who “get it.”

She didn't even have the good sense to leave in the best line! The one about Denis Simachev being full of shit.

The latest offense was her Teknika Molodyozhi review "Perestroika Playground," published July 19, SIX days after my post "Kha! Kha! Kha!"

MDBIT: After years of impenetrable Soviet anekdoty, its potty jokes, boob-honking and impersonations of homosexuals are a breath of fresh air.
element: His stand-up television program, which debuted in 2005, was an instant hit with all those craving fart jokes, boob honks and impersonations of homosexuals after years of impenetrable Soviet anekdoty.

Not the first time she's bit me. Look through the canon of her nightlife journalism, you'll find she's not only yoinking exact turns of phrase, but frequenting the same places I write about, often within the same week. Homegirl better not get too close, or I'll drop her!

The One About Monkeys

The metaphor came to us while drunk — of course we were drunk — then took on a life of its own.

While Moscow's dating scene is a love parade for expat men, it isn't quite as easy to find romance here if you are a monkey on a tricycle. Statistically there are 4 women to every man in Moscow, which makes for a frenetic marketplace of love that can intimidate even the most dated of the dated. So how does a monkey on a tricycle rise above, beat the odds and find romance in such a competitive environment? It’s easy to become discouraged when you realise that while you may have been a star back home, a monkey on a tricycle is a curious and perplexing alien to Muscovites, rather like expat girls. The important thing is to try not to be discouraged by the fact that you are one of only a handful of monkeys on tricycles in Moscow. Don't feel isolated -celebrate your uniqueness! Recognise your unique selling point and use it to your advantage. Be mindful though, that while it's great to stand out in a crowd, the fact that you are a monkey on a tricycle already makes a sort of spectacle of you. There is no need to draw further attention to your exclusivity by, say socialising only with other monkeys on tricycles. One monkey on a tricycle is intimidating enough to most Muscovites, let alone a handful of tipsy monkeys on tricycles looking for love. You can stand out but fit in at the same time. Make a diverse group of friends and widen your circle. By not making the effort to fit in you may exclusive yourself right out of the market. You may be Prada, but a walk past their store will show you how quiet it is in there. And look at the roaring trade Terranova boasts! Don't think of it as lowering your standards — you're just changing them. As the saying goes, when in Rome, dress like a $2 tart, drink a lot more and more often and accept attention wherever you can get it, even if it’s the Tajik cab driver who offered to take you to his brother’s kiosk for dinner. If all this sounds like too much effort, just take the matter into your own hands and really own your celibacy. Remind yourself every day that you came to Moscow to become the best monkey on a tricycle you could be, and that relationships would just distract you from this. There are plenty of other things to do besides “it” in Moscow. Like museums, and stuff.

MDBIT in the Mix

Not too long ago, Mix celebrated its 7th birthday. It's an after-party club, which is where people on drugs go after all the drunk people have passed out. As a result, Mix can be alienating for those who are not on drugs.

My friend Vlad once called me at 6 a.m., high on life, with a proposal. "MDBIT, I've always wondered what it would be like to wake up in the morning, and go straight to a nightclub before breakfast. I've been here all night, but you can wake up now, come to me at Mix, and tell me what it's like. Or you can go back to sleep." I chose social experiment over sleep because I am a scientist after all. Upon my 7.30 am arrival to the club, I was looked over in a way that an art director with a single dreadlock coming out of the back of his head should never be allowed to look at someone. But he let me in. I chose orange juice with my vodka, you know, because it was breakfast.

The kind of people one meets in a nightclub at 8 a.m. are the kind of people who claim to be 28 when they're pushing mid-forties. Moreover, they look like they've been pushing for a long time, and it's been quite the struggle. Dzaek (don't ask me) was just such a guy. Leathery to an extent that my dad can only dream to be, Dzaek accompanied me to Tapa de Comida when the club closed around us. At 9 a.m. he started the slow decline into his breakfast. Weighed down by all the years and earrings, his head made its way down into his breakfast salad, led by a trail of drool, until finally that leather bag met its lettucey pillow. Seems Dzaek had been partying for a long time (maybe 35 years) because it was impossible to wake him. So I left him there. As a tip.

Here are photos from the birthday party. All of these people are on drugs.







Photos: 44100.com

Mix, 11 Novinsky Bulvar, Metro: Barrikadnaya, Tel. 255-4333

The World is Mine

Most people think that Krysha Mira is a myth, one of Moscow nightlife's urban legends. But it's real. I've been there.

"Krysha" means "ceiling" or "roof" in Russian. It also refers to the protection under which any well-connected Muscovite operates, protection that can come in the form of financial underwriting or a pair of neckless thugs. Either way, a krysha means power and money and elevation from the average Ivan. Krysha Mira ("Top of the World") ritualistically celebrates the social stratification of Moscow. Every step of getting to the top of damn Krysha Mira mirrors the Everyman's struggle to self-actualize within the context of extreme capitalism. If you do "make it," Krisha Mira is your nightlife protection from all the wretched little people and all the jealous haterz. Every weekend night, a code word is disseminated among people you are unlikely to know. But if you are somehow able to glean it, know that along the Taras Shevchenko Naberezhnaya there's an inconspicuous rock wall behind what appears to be a man waiting for a taxi. Whisper the code to this man and he'll step aside, revealing a small staircase into the darkness. This is the first rite of passage, a holy testament to the power of networking. The staircase leads to an unlit path that winds and circles unnecessarily. In the dark and cold it can feel like you've been blindfolded and put in the trunk of a car to keep the location secret. You really have to want to make it up there. Continue along the path, and you'll arrive at what appears to be a bomb shelter, but is in fact the first entrance to the club. You've just experienced the second rite: blind determination in the face of the cold hopelessness. Receiving the blessed sacrament of second-order face control, you proceed to the ground floor of Krysha Mira. So you've made it this far. Exhausted, you could settle into a dark corner of the dance floor and self-congratulate but on the other side there's a glowing staircase that leads to the actual krysha of the Krysha. You've heard the whole of Moscow can be yours if you just make it past the third round of face control. Watch as the more aesthetically worthy try and fail. Why should you be allowed access when that D&G model was just turned away? Because you want it more. You want more than everyone else and, for that, you are entitled it to it. Walk up toward the light. While the lower level club is your typical candlelit dungeon, the top level is brightly illuminated not only by the city lights of Moscow, but by the unreal faces of the chosen ones of the top level of Krysha Mira. Do not look directly at these people. One return glance can turn you to stone. Buy a $40 vodka-apple juice to drink, bathed in the light of success Moscow-style. And it is good.

These are the only photos I could find of Krysha Mira. And for all I know they could have been taken at someone's parent's dacha.

Krysha Mira, Taras Shevchenko Naberezhnaya in the Badayevsky factory,
entrance next to Hotel Ukraine, Tel. 203-6008, 203-6556

Photos: mixtura.org

More on Hell

Ah, Moscow spring. The snow melts so you can see all the shit perfectly preserved. Today, while splashing through puddles made by last night's rain, I forgot that potholes in Russia can be so cavernous as to house entire Uzbek dynasties with room for all their Zhigulis, and now my left boot is lined with mud and sheepskin. Sometimes Katie, like Aldous, suggests we are in hell. "We're in hell," she says. Somewhere, sometime, on some other plane of existence, Katie and I were bad and our punishment is to be forever sentenced to Moscow. We both come from sunny places where people don't hate us and are largely -- pardon the pun -- fatter than us, so why did we come here? More importantly, why are we still here? Moscow hates us, and we hate it and want to leave, but find ourselves paralyzed by shock.

Personally, I don't like to be so negative as to think of Moscow as hell on earth. To me, it is more like a bowel, or maybe an intestinal tract. I feel as though I have been swallowed by the city, and she is absorbing from me everything nutritious, and disposing of the rest. I shared my theory with my mother, who addressed Moscow directly with "Spit her out bitch, or else!'"

Too late, Mom. I am already being processed by a sophisticated digestive system where time is just colonic muscle contractions that push me onward, where girls are gastric acid, men are bile and the dating scene is a big anus, and I will soon come out the other end as, well, as shit, basically.

The One About the Minigarch

Last week, the dude at the stationary store lectured me for my improper use of the word "pregoditsa." I used it to mean "a useful object" when it actually means '"an object likely to come in handy in the future." I wondered long why a random man felt compelled to waste my time with a vocabulary lecture, until Saturday night at a Bulgari party in Baravikha Luxury Village, when it became clear to me that he was sent by Lady Fortune. When one minigarch used the word to his driver in reference to me and my friend Katie, his dishonourable intentions for us were immediately exposed. Unfortunately for the poor oil and gas baron, the stationary guy's lecture afforded me the opportunity to ensure that it was he who came in handy for us, as Baravikha Luxury Village is a $75 cab ride back into town.

Minigarch: I could not be but helping of noticing you across the soiree. You are wearing of the Orthodox cross. Are you as Orthodox as you are beautiful?

Me: Precisely.

Minigarch: So, you know that the Orthodoxy is being of the only way to the salvation?

Me: Yes, extremely rich man, yes.

Minigarch: If you would allow it of me, I would like to take you to the monastery I am of the funding, where I have built a church. We can pray together.

Me smiles awkwardly, not wanting to pay for her own bollinger or cab ride back into town, but also not wanting to go to Hell.

Minigarch: I want to love only you. If you are not wearing of the underwear, my driver will bring my car, and I will love you in it right now. Then we can pray. Wait. Do you have any Jewish blood?

Me : Um, no.

Minigarch: Is your friend a Jew?

Katie: I'm scared.

While I did not let the minigarch love me in his BMW, I did let him take us to Dyagilev, where he spent $2K getting us drunk, then suggested heading on to teeny-bopper club Propaganda, where we were unceremoniously face controlled. When the minigarch took the security guard aside to settle the matter "like humans," Katie and I seized the opportunity to run away.
Dramatic, but it's not like we've never had to run for our lives through the streets of Moscow and hide behind trashcans from oil and gas barons who want to love and then pray and then love again, is it?

Photos: Mainpeople.ru