Russian Questions

"Maybe this planet is another planet's hell."
-- Aldous Huxley

"Hell is other people."

-- Jean Paul Sartre

When I was growing up, the term 'Russian question' referred to the type of question that could not be easily answered, such as "What is life?, "Who am I?", an existential question. The jokers among us would of course extend the definition to questions such as 'Why are the stores out of toilet paper?", and similar equally unanswerable queries. Why Russian and not French or German, when those latter nations produced the most famous modern philosophers, I don't know . Perhaps because Russia has produced many more philosophers of the street and village.

One of the masters of Russian questions, even if he didn't call them that, was an American comedian Don Novello, who in his pseudonomous persona as Lazlo Toth, sent out letters to politicians and businesses posing such questions. These letters and responses to them were later published in books titled Lazlo Letters. One letter I remember, to a supermarket company, asked why the milk cartons with the nearest expiration dates were being pushed to the front of the shelves, while the cartons with the farthest expiration dates were stocked at the back of the shelves, forcing supermarket customers always to buy the least fresh milk.

In any event, I've encountered many such 'Russian Questions' and I will share some of them with you here. Beware that this is not the last time such questions will be posed. Let's go!

I drive a sports car. My young son drive a Mercedes Benz. Most people I encounter who drive sports cars, men and women, are not, uhm, young. How come we all, all the time, and in spite ourselves, end up living up to stereotypes of ourselves?

How come on the train home, which I take every weekday late afternoon or early evening, I repeatedly see the same faces of people I have no interest in knowing or talking to, but when an interesting person appears, she (it's always a 'she', for some odd reason) will only appear once, I will fail to speak to her, and she'll never re-appear again?

I walk or run to the train station from work in late afternoon on weekdays. The station is almost a mile away, and the route is L shaped with about the same ratio of distances as in the letter. I first walk the vertical line of the letter, crossing one traffic light and then at the second traffic light I turn to the horizontal line of the letter. The first part of the path goes along a busy expressway, with open fields on both sides, that are beginning to be developed. The two traffic lights are at T shaped intersection, inverted to each other. Both traffic lights stay green most of the time for the expressway traffic, the first light changes rarely, sometimes only every two minutes or so, mainly for cars turning left into the vertical leg of the T which crosses my path. Logic (ah logic!) tells me that walking towards that intersection I should find the light green for me and the expressway traffic most of the time. It isn't. It is green 3-4 times out of ten. The second light, which I need to be red for the expressway traffic in order to cross the expressway, I will find red perhaps one time out of 40-50. A Russian question, don't you think?

There is an Internet cafe right next door to the pub where I order my pints of beer. It is a pleasant, bright, inviting place, selling coffee, tea and pastries. You can even plug in your laptop to one of their electrical outlets free of charge. I have been temped to buy a laptop computer, or bring mine from work and type these musings there. But. The place is always crowded every time I pass by or go inside to look around. There are no empty tables and no seats to share a table. How come? How and when did the people already there get their seats and tables?

How come when you visit Prague, Czech Republic, and ride public transportation there, you will see in every train car, every subway car, every bus and every tram, at least one beautiful girl or woman?

How come American women, when breaking up with their boyfriends, lovers, or male friends (or 'dumping them' in the sweet post-feminist female lingo. Popular advice columns printed in thousands of American newspapers, routinely advise women to 'dump the bum'), how come they will invariably say "let's be friends" and "you are a nice romantic guy, but..."?

How come disdain, contempt, hatred are so easy to call on and produce, and friendship, affection and love so hard?