Tag Archives: Russia

Sep 02

Thirty-four 90+ degree days is 33 too many

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Let me go on record as saying I despise the Three Hs: hazy, hot and humid. The terrible trio  Thermomonsidewalk combine to turn the average Manhattan workday into a hellish tempest of melting macadam, short-tempered tourists and gridlocked traffic.

The modern Manhattan Summer bears little resemblance to the kinder, gentler ones of my youth. It's replete with carbon monoxide, toxic ultra violet rays blasting through a depleted ozone layer and enough carcinogens to conjure up images of Chernobyl in Chelsea. And lest you think these are merely the rants of a middle-age meltdown, think again. Heat kills. The last great NYC heat wave killed 1,100 people in 1966.  And, that cannot be good for tourism.

According to The New York Times, the summer of 2010 went down in the National Weather Service's record books as the hottest ever in New York City. We've had six official heat waves, 34 days of 90+ degree temps and an average daytime temperature of 77.8 degrees.

Who needs Hades when you have Hell's Kitchen?

I've also had the misfortune to run headfirst into the hottest summers in recorded history for St. Petersburg and Moscow, Russia, respectively. And, as our Russian tour guide so eloquently put it, “Your Mr. Albert Gore was sure right about his world warming.”

Aside from a latter-day George Hamilton trolling the Westhampton beaches in search of some unsuspecting parvenu, an octogenarian suffering from poor circulation or a middle-aged Lolita sunning herself on the Jersey Shore in hopes of hooking-up with The Situation, I can't imagine anyone enjoying this horrific heat. As my business partner, Ed, so eloquently puts it, “This blows!”

As for me, I'm hunkering down, riding it out and waiting for that first crisp, cool day in October when Manhattan truly comes alive. When it does happen, and it will, I'll crank up one of the
most evocative tunes I know: Billie Holiday's 'Autumn in New York.'

Summer in the city? You can have it.

Aug 24

Shameless self-promotion at its best

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As Lunchboy pointed out in a response to a recent Repman blog entitled ‘Crazy Bosses,’ I’m the first to admit that I’d fit neatly within the narcissist category. That’s one of five classifications of crazies bosses created by author Stanley Bing (the others being: disaster seeker, bully, wimp and paranoid, respectively).

So, it is with no redeeming value and no correlation to image or reputation whatsoever, that I now share a six-minute slideshow from my recent sojourn to St. Petersburg, Moscow and Mt. Elbrus in the Caucasus. Note: Chris Repman, Jr., Cody is sporting a black beard and I’m the one climbing in a red parka with pain etched across his face.

I’ve discovered that climbing parallels stand-up comedy (my other hobby) in one important way: you meet people you’d never otherwise come into contact with in this workaday world of ours. The Mt. Elbrus team consisted of a urologist, an HR director who’d just swum the English Channel, a 60-year-old retired millionaire who runs marathons for kicks, an entrepreneur who’d just climbed Mt. Everest, a husband-and-wife team of software developers from Seattle, an Iraqi war veteran just back after four years in Baghdad, a former Marine Corps lieutenant colonel and our guide, Vern, who has climbed the Seven Summits nine, count ‘em, nine times (that simultaneously makes him the Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig of mountaineering).

I’ve found that mountain climbing clears my mind better than any stint on a beach possibly could, because it involves some risk of danger and loads of concentration and forces out any and all extraneous thoughts (i.e. the prospect who doesn’t return your calls, the client who’s decided to put the account up for review or the trade editor who refuses to understand your POV on the inequality of industry awards’ competitions). Yes, Virginia, mountaineering does all that for me.

I’ve done Kilimanjaro and, now, Elbrus (even if an injury did force me to pull up 500 feet short of the summit). Chris and I are now contemplating Aconcagua in the early winter. Crazy? Perhaps. Rewarding? Definitely. Narcissistic? Hey, I warned you.

Aug 19

The case of the missing luggage

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I’m not sure if it was my Russian adventure, the impending 15th anniversary of Peppercom or Doc_suitcase some late Summer malaise, but I’ve been flooded recently by obscure memories (i.e. the crazy client who insisted we become 18 percent diverse or else, the ill-fated pool party, etc.).

My dusty synapses fired up once again the other day when I spied a PR news brief announcing that a certain luggage company had retained a new PR firm. You see, Ed and I knew this company once upon a time. We knew it very well.

Nearly two decades ago, we toiled for a now defunct, integrated marketing shop called Earle Palmer Brown. EPB was the antithesis of our other employer, Brouillard (i.e. if the latter resembled the Politburo, the former was more akin to what Ed’s charming and vivacious wife, Pamela, liked to call ‘Romper Room.’). The inmates ran the asylum at EPB. And, because, Ed, Bill Southard (our boss) and I were bringing in loads of new business, we were pretty much allowed to indulge any and all excesses.

All of which brings me back to the luggage company. At the time, they were a client on the advertising side of the office. In order to create ads for the client, our ad group needed to photograph the product. So, they grabbed an unused storage room and filled it with the latest, greatest stuff (note: the luggage was also loaned to art directors and photo editors of style magazines for use as props in their shoots).

One day, when the account manager was away on vacation, someone in the PR group secured a key to the product storage room. Needless to say, it emptied out faster than a disappointed group of Mets fans leaving CitiField. Everyone grabbed one, two or more items of their liking. It was positively Bacchanalian in its excess.

Now, fast forward to the following week when the vacationing account guy returned, unlocked the product loan door and went totally ballistic. He sent an agency-wide note letting everyone know about the theft, suggesting he knew exactly who had taken it (our rollicking PR group had built quite an image and reputation by then) and declared that no questions would be asked if the merchandise was promptly returned. Sad to say, it wasn’t. The account guy complained to senior management, who promptly told him to back off. He did a little dance with the client and told them uncooperative art directors and photo editors had refused to return the product loans. Amazingly, the room was quickly restocked and the office returned to its normal state of complete bedlam.

In retrospect, the case of the missing luggage is an interesting morality tale. It spotlights the reality that far too many management teams ‘overlook’ inappropriate behavior from solid performers. Just look at Wall Street or Enron or BP. Moral and ethical behavior routinely takes a back seat to profits (which is why we’re seeing such a plethora of crises). At EPB, the PR group were the high rollers, so no one was going to mess with us about a few missing garment bags.

I’d like to think that Ed and I took the best and worst of what we experienced at EPB and Brouillard, and created a happy medium at Peppercom. It also helps that we haven’t represented luggage manufacturers and been tempted to ‘borrow’ a sleek, black briefcase or two.

We’re older and wiser now (even if Ed hasn’t aged particularly well). And, I’d like to think we’d crack down hard and fast on any behavior remotely resembling the Romper Room days of EPB- which should be good news for any luggage manufacturers out there in search of PR agency support. Your bags are safe with us.

Aug 10

“TIR, baby. TIR”

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Ever notice how a movie will sometime introduce a new expression or phrase into the public 
DSCN0507 consciousness? The Bogart/Bergman 1942 classic, ‘Casablanca’ may hold the all-time record for unveiling memorable such bon mots as:
– “Here’s looking at you, kid.“
– “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”
– “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.”
And my personal favorite…
– “I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.”

The Tom Cruise flick, ‘Jerry Maguire,’ contributed a signature phrase as well: “You had me at hello.” I use that with Ed every now and then.
 
And, then, there’s a fairly obscure Leonardo DiCaprio movie called ‘Blood Diamond,’ which donated a line that’s resonated beautifully with my last two climbing trips: "TIA, baby. TIA." For Leo, and his co-stars, in that particular epic, TIA stood for the ‘This is Africa.’ The main characters used the expression whenever anything that could go wrong did so.
 
TIA worked well when we climbed Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, East Africa. Quite simply, there was no infrastructure to speak of, and one could count on Big Brother not doing his part.
 
But a variation of TIA, "TIR, baby. TIR" worked even better in Russia, a country that I’d be hard pressed to categorize as Second World, must less First World.
 
Let me begin by saying that Russia is unlike any nation I’ve ever visited. It embraces insularity. Russians have no real interest in the outside world. Period. It’s all about Medvedev, Putin, and where the next meal is coming from. At the same time, Russia’s Communist-era transportation infrastructure makes a bumper-to-bumper, parking lot-like, jam on the Belt Parkway seem like a walk in the park.
 
Here’s just a sampling of the TIR experiences we faced:
– In the midst of its fifth straight week of 100-plus degree temperatures, St. Petersburg boasted few, if, any, air conditioned buildings. To make matters worse, the powers that be decided to create monumental mid-day traffic delays by sending Con Ed-type guys with acetylene torches to repair antiquated trolley systems. Excuse this Amerikanski, but why couldn’t the repair work wait for cooler weather?
– Aeroflot, Russia’s national airline, not only uses vintage, 1960s era Soviet airplanes, but allows passengers to smoke freely in the bathrooms. They also feature female flight attendants who could easily land positions as offensive guards with any NFL team. And, god knows what type of food they serve. It defies description.
– Mineral Vody in Southern Russia has already been named one of the world’s top five worst airports (I’m surprised to hear there are four other airports that provide even worse customer service). I’d liken Mineral Vody to Manhattan’s Penn Station at its absolute worst. Imagine the hottest possible mid-August day when all train service has been suspended because of yet another Amtrak signal problem. All of a sudden, though, one train miraculously begins receiving passengers and thousands swarm one small entrance portal. That’s Mineral Vody International Airport. The place reminded me of an NHL ice hockey game with 3,000 passengers hip checking and body slamming their way into the 150 or so available seats on the one departing flight to Moscow.
– And, speaking of Moscow, there’s a city that bore all the characteristics of a metropolis laid low by nuclear winter. Air temperatures stagnated above 100 degree for the fifth straight week. Carbon monoxide fumes, in combination with the soot and ash from rampant forest fires, restricted visibility to a city block or less. Moscovites who could find them wore surgical masks to mitigate the intake of carcinogenic materials in the air. We tourists dealt with it. Oh, and the sun reminded me of an ‘about-to-die’ 60-watt light bulb that barely penetrated the murky atmosphere.
– When picking up a few essentials at a local St. Petersburg supermarket, I was asked by the cash register attendant if I'd like a bag. "Da," I replied with a smile. She promptly threw one in my face.

Getting out of Dodge was no treat either. The fine folks at Moscow’s international airport were next to useless in terms of helping us find our KLM check-in counter. To wit, our queries elicited such responses as:
– "KLM is in Terminal F."
– "Who told you KLM is in Terminal F? It’s in Terminal E."
– "You’re in the wrong terminal. Next!"
– At Terminal E, we finally found a KLM gate agent who said: "Where you want to go? JKF? What that?"
 
Russia may be the most insular society I’ve yet to encounter. The many residents with whom I spoke have no interest in geopolitics, the U.S., Obama, or bin Laden (one mountain guide shrugged his shoulders when asked about bin Laden and sighed, “He’s your problem now.”).
 
From a personality standpoint, Russians seem to come in two varieties: warm and engaging or lobotomized robots. They either hug and kiss you or simply ignore you. There is no happy medium.
 
The more I see of foreign countries and cultures, the more I appreciate what we have here in the U.S. Whether it’s Singapore, Malaysia, Tanzania or Russia, there really is no place like home (which, coming full circle, was one of the signature lines from the 1939 classic, ‘The Wizard of Oz’).
 
So I end by saying, “Spasibo and dasvedanya, comrades. Give me a buzz if you’re headed to Russia anytime soon. The sanity you save may be your own.”

Jul 28

You don’t know how lucky you are, boy, back in the U.S.S.R.

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Phoenix and its 116 degree heat and Manhattan with its hazy, hot and humid spell of six million
St-petersburg-russia straight, 90 degree days have nothing on St. Petersburg, Russia.

Having had the pleasure of touring the historic Czarist city the past few days, I can report on the following:

The Russians don't do air conditioning. Period. And, that's not a good thing. I thought London struggled with excessively high heat, but the Brits could learn a trick or two from the plucky Russians. Most merely shrug their shoulders, sigh and deal with it. As Pauline, our tour guide put it: “Your Mr. Albert Gore was sure right about his world warming theory, da?”

To begin with, there's St. Petersburg's overall miasma: daytime temperatures soar well in excess of 100 degrees (F). But, unlike Phoenix and it’s much heralded and over-hyped 'dry heat,' the humidity here is Vietnamese jungle-like in its intensity (courtesy of its proximity to the Baltic Sea).

Stir in absolutely no carbon dioxide emission standards whatsoever, never-ending road construction work which sears the air with a heady aroma of burning tar and a sun that, due to our extreme Northern exposure, doesn't set until 11pm and one gets hot, hot, hot to paraphrase another pop song.

But St. Petersburg's special charm is its cigarette-addicted populace. When it came to conquering the Russian population, Napoleon and Hitler should have studied Phillip Morris instead of Carl von Clausewitz. Nearly every uber attractive, scantily-clad Russian lass can be seen strolling the Neskiye Prospekt with a cigarette dangling from her lips. And, the men puff away just as enthusiastically. So, if you're an investor, hang onto your tobacco stocks- Phillip Morris is making a killing here, literally.

On the plus side, St. Petersburg has beautifully restored 17th and 18th century Russian Orthodox churches on virtually every street corner. They also have a subway system that is clean and cool. (Yes, I said, cool. I was actually thinking of bedding down in one for the night.) There are also lots of historic sites for the hyperactive tourist. (But, one morning of inhaling noxious fumes and sweating through my clothes many times over was enough to put a damper on any extended tours for this blogger.)
 
Another plus is the World War II memorabilia. The Russians proudly display many of the weapons used to fight back the Nazi siege of Leningrad (St. Petersburg's name during the Communist regime). And, there's even a brief tour of the Astoria Hotel (not to be confused with NYC's Waldorf-Astoria) where Hitler had already made plans to host a gala celebration of the fall of Leningrad. (As our guide, Pauline, beamed, “So, he did not have the chance for that, no? So, instead, Stalin came here and he give big, big celebration.”)

I found it curious that there were no statues or murals of Stalin to be found, but Lenin is everywhere. I guess those 30 million mass murders tended to dampen the Russians' pride in Uncle Joe.

Anyway, my climbing team leaves St. Petersburg this morning for a day-long flight South to Mineral Vody in the Caucasus Mountains, where we begin our assault on 18,840 foot Mt Elbrus. With cell service being as scarce as tobacco and nicotine are plentiful, this blogger doubts he'll be able to file an update until we reach Moscow midweek of next week. Here's hoping in advance that Moscow copes with the heat a little bit better than its neighbor to the North.

St. Petersburg was nice to visit, but here's one comrade who wouldn't want to live there. Dasvedanya, Amerikanskis.

Jul 23

And, now, it’s on to Mother Russia and let’s win there

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This Sunday, Chris “Repman, Jr.”, Cody and I leave on a two-week trip to Russia. Our goal is to
Elbrus-map summit Mt. Elbrus in the Caucasus. If successful, it will enable us to lay claim to having bagged two of the world’s ‘Seven Summits.’ We celebrated New Year’s Eve 2007 on the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, East Africa, and hope to top out on Elbrus on August 3rd.

‘Kili’ was a beast, and Elbrus looks to be no easier. At 18,481 feet, it’s Europe’s highest point. It’s a double-coned volcano that is wrapped in ice and snow (which, if nothing else, will provide a welcomed break from this horrific hazy, hot and humid weather we’ve been experiencing for the last month or so).

In addition to the climb, we’ll be touring St. Petersburg and Moscow (and, possibly, ducking stray bullets and mortar shells from irate Chechnyan rebels).

As I’ve done on my previous trips abroad, I’ll be asking locals their views on the image and reputation of the U.S. (being careful not to offend any irate Chechnyan rebels in the process). This is my first big trip abroad since Obama assumed office, so it will be interesting to see if, as was the case with his predecessor, I hear the locals say something to the effect, “We love Americans. We just hate your President.” Most Tea Party members, Evangelicals and Glenn Beck fans would probably say the same thing.

I hope to file at least one blog from the former Soviet Union if the vagaries of wireless connection enable me to do so. If not, Repman readers will be blessed by content provided by a host of able and willing guest bloggers who have volunteered to fill the void (however miniscule said void may be).

And, so I end by paraphrasing the final, immortal words of Senator Robert F. Kennedy: “And, now, it’s on to Mother Russia and let’s win there.”

May 26

The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!

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Despite the best-intentioned efforts of our crack IT Manager Kel Q., Russian spammers continue to fool our Anti-Spam Filtering Service by constantly changing their point of origin.

Russian I'm routinely peppered with all sorts of Russian spam, which to the best of my limited Eastern European language skills, seems to be much the same as the crap I receive in English. Am I angry? Nyet. Am I interested in a ceasefire and possible rapprochement? Da.

Kel tells me that, even though he blocks these digital Russian ICBMs as soon as I forward them, some sort of nefarious Dr. Strangelove-like supercomputer immediately finds another way through our firewall.

So, in the tradition of Glasnost and Perestroika, I'd like to offer my Russian spammer friends some sort of SALT II-type arrangement: you stand down on the non-stop spam invasions and I'll find ways in which to highlight Messrs Putin, Gorbachev, Brenhzev and other legendary former and current Communists in my blogs. I'll bet there are plenty of positive image and reputation angles if one merely looks below the surface. For example:

– How about the impact on the image of shoes after Kruschev used his to pound a table at the U.N. and vow to bury capitalism?

– Or, how about one on Iceland's tourism trade in the immediate aftermath of the Reagan-Gorbachev tête-à-tête?

– What about one on Leon Trotsky? Was his assassination in Mexico City the precursor of that country's drug wars?

I'm open to a thaw in my virtual Cold War with Russian spammers. Comrades, let's tear down this virtual wall.