We are christening and buddahing the Macallen in Poland Spring Dixie Cups. На здоровье Вам всем.
With a shayna putim like Boris's, they shoulda known he'd never make it big in America. But damn, he's a cutie.
Blow by blow [so to speak] review of Radio Silence, the video version [3:39]:
If you've seen Long Way Home, you've seen some of it already. We're gonna focus on the parts you haven't seen. (By the way, did you know that Macallan Single Malt Scotch actually eats through the bottom of your average dixie cup?)
We begin by zooming in on various tourist sites around Leningrad, Boris, hair blowing in his face, gazes upon them with new eyes. Next, his hair is down, he's donned a Mexican poncho, and he's standing in a marshy area at dawn. The mouth of the Neva? Cape Cod? Who's to know?
This video conclusively proves BG was the first Novyi Russki. He's wearing a black leather bomber jacket, hoop earrings, and RS-style eyes seen through the window of a limosine. 1989-era carbon chin-dating: chin is firm.
Then he's in New York, on Times Square, quick boyish smile to the camera. So coy, but ñòðàäàíèÿ are in there somewhere...Walking in the middle a 5th Avenue crowd, telling us about the Wild Child...
Switching back and forth between 5th avenue and the swamp. Peeking out the windows of a taxi cab. Then a shot from Long Way Home, singing into expensive audio equipment on Dave Stewart's porch.
Followed by: the shot for the ladies. Snarl, Boris, you big animal! Hair in face, John Cougar Mellencamp style, as if JCM could be so good.
Cemetery shot, then back to the swamp, where the adoring camera reveals BG snarling like there's no tomorrow. Come hither, noviyi-Russki-poncho Boris!
Suddenly, Boris is watching a heavily distorted body building contest on American TV! He laughs! Red and blue neon bathe his face. Then we're walking through Times Square. Dated: a Checker Cab is to the right, and Disney Inc. nowhere in sight.
Two new poses assault us: Boris is back in the neon room, staring at us, then leaning against a street post in Times Square, where everyone moves in fast-forward except him. Then Lincoln Tunnel is juxtaposed with a bridge over Neva. Then Boris, staring, staring, staring. Stop staring already! Go to Brighton and wash down some pills. But no—we keep zooming in on Boris's eyes. His Radio Silence eyes. Are they supposed to be scary? Is this the Other, staring back at 1989 America from the Venice of the North? Cut to black.
America, apparently still frazzled, ill at ease with itself and the Cold War it doesn't want to give up, moves along to Eddie Murphy trying to be Prince, lying on a couch in suspenders, groaning sexually.
However, our work here is done.