Selection from past stories      

Claude Salh

Vodka on the Rockies By Claude Salhani LAS VEGAS, July 26 (UPI) –   So, you really thought the Cold War was over and done with, that the Evil Empire was defeated and the good guys won, right? Well, comrades, that is all just capitalistic propaganda. Think again, because there is a restaurant in Las Vegas, in the very heart of the capitalist temples of profligacy and decadence that attests otherwise, and puts you back in the U.S.S.R. As Lennon and McCartney would say, "boy, how lucky you are." "Red Square" is a restaurant that serves Russian caviar and more than 200 kinds of vodkas -- many of them Russian, of course, but including some that come from Belgium, Jamaica and Jordon. Not a typo, comrades, that's the way it's spelled on their menu, of which the last six pages are devoted exclusively to vodkas. Ask the barman, and he shrugs his shoulders. Hey, he only serves it. The bottle of Jamaican vodka, the staff admits, still is full from the day the restaurant opened several years ago, save for a single serving. But in all fairness, the Stoli is excellent. As are the blue cheese-filled olives. Capitalism, after all, has its advantages. Let no one tell you, though, the people who dream up the Vegas casino themes will not go the extra step for your enjoyment. In keeping with its Soviet philosophy of maintaining secrecy, Red Square, in the Mandalay Bay Hotel, is not an easy place to find. One gets the feeling that, somewhat like the people who ran the Kremlin on the edges of the real Red Square, those who run the Vegas version wanted to add to the aura of je ne sais-quoi. It took this eager reporter and his dinner companion a good 10 minutes of wandering among a sea of poker tables, slot machines and other tools of Western debauchery, before locating it. And that, only after swallowing my male pride and asking for directions -- twice. But then, lo and behold, there it is! Red Square, in all its Soviet splendor. A large, decapitated statue of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin stands guard outside the establishment. However, unless you read Russian, you will need to decipher that this is indeed the place you are looking for. There are no signs for Red Square, as such, rather the name, high above the church-like entrance is chiseled in stone -- or what passes for stone in Vegas -- and is written in Cyrillic characters, with the reversed "R." You enter, nevertheless with a little trepidation, into a grandiose room decorated in deep, Soviet scarlet red. The lights are dim and at first you feel as though you should whisper. This is, in most probability, the only temple to communism left standing in the entire Western world. And remember, there certainly are not many left in the communist world, either. Even in Russia, Lenin's portraits have disappeared from government offices, and except for a few die-hard party apparatchiks, people have largely stopped revering him. Two or three large -- and I mean large -- Great Patriotic War-era posters decorate the walls. (That's how the Soviets refer to World War II.) The images of valiant Soviet comrade-soldiers cover some of the walls, running from floor to ceiling. A painting of Comrade Lenin hangs elegantly on the far wall, high above the dining room. Big Brother is there to make sure you enjoy your evening. With every sip you almost feel obliged to raise your glass to toast the great leader, and the working class -- the latter who certainly could never afford to wine and dine in such self-indulgent splendor. The bar, one of the most intriguing aspects of Red Square, is covered with a 2-inch slab of ice. Very convenient to keep your vodkas ice cold, as they should be. And also convenient for refugees from the gulags, just in case they forgot what their front porches in Siberia felt like. The waiters and staff are all dressed in black and sport a hammer and sickle, the Soviet emblem, in a small red square on their chest. They look like the bad guys in James Bond films. Only Ernst Stavro Blofeld, you know, the man with the white cat, and Rosa Klebb, the evil KGB woman with a stiletto hidden in her shoe, are missing. As an observer, and a chronicler of history, I found the concept of a Soviet-styled bar intriguing and wished Red Square would use Russian music, instead of Western rock and roll, which sadly clashes with the rest of the décor. Russian music is wonderfully rich and the Soviet Red Army Band's harmony would add a seal of greater authenticity and zest to the place. Or preferably, listening to the songs of someone like Vladimir Vysotski -- Russia's answer to Bob Dylan -- probably would encourage you to consume greater amounts of vodka, which by the way, is easy to do when you stare at all those inviting bottles. A voice such as Vysotski's can only be acquired after years of smoking filterless Russian cigarettes and consuming vast amounts of Russian vodka, preferably clandestinely distilled in your uncle's backyard shed. But all this nostalgia for the past makes me wonder if the next themed attraction will be a Third Reich bar down the hall. Or maybe the Paris Las Vegas Hotel and Casino could dedicate a room to the Vichy colaborationists?   (The Culture Vulture is a column written by UPI's Life & Mind editor, and reflects on current trends, issues and events. Comments may be sent to claude@upi.com.) © 2002 United Press International, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

I've got the Beirut Blues By CLAUDE SALHANI  WASHINGTON, Aug. 24  (UPI) -- While doing research on the Internet earlier this week I stumbled across a reference to my junior high school. Previous attempts to locate former classmates had never shed positive results as the school -- an American Catholic school in Beirut -- was demolished at the start of the Lebanese Civil War in 1975.  The war, which continued for 19 years, helped scatter most of my friends to the far corners of the planet. Finding any of them became a real challenge. The Internet link led to another, then another, and as a cyber-Inspector Clouseau, I followed a trail of clues until I discovered a Web site set up by a group of kids that I used to hang around with in high school.  (Well, they were kids when I knew them in the mid-1960s).  My initial reaction was one of elation! I had discovered a gold mine of clues and information, e-mail addresses and photographs of friends and acquaintances that I had not heard of, from, or about, in more than 30 years.  I spent a good hour combing the site, looking at current headshots of people I knew three decades earlier, back when their heads were covered with long hair. (Mine used to come down to my shoulders.)  At first glance, these looked nothing like my old chums, people I used to hang out with at the "Milk Bar," (seriously) and "Uncle Sam's," or go dancing with at "La Fin du Monde," "Your Father's Moustache," and the "Revolution."  On the site was a collection of old black-and-white snapshots and names that had almost entirely disappeared from my memory. Some were of friends I hadn't even thought about in years, other photos were of local rock 'n' roll bands from that era, all trying to look like the Rolling Stones, or The Animals.  In those wonderful days of youthful insouciance, before the harsh realities of such trivial items as health insurance, mortgages, and taxes got hold of us like some dreaded disease, life seemed extremely simple. Our priorities were sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.  On the sex side, we never really got as much as we would have liked, or pretended to. At least I didn't. Drugs -- well, this was the wild '60s and Lebanese hash was prevalent, making some of our generation experiment more than others, but among the merry gang I hung around with, there were never any hard drugs, and alcohol was never, ever an issue.  Of course the big thing was rock 'n' roll. And of that, there was plenty. After all, this was pre-civil war Beirut when the Lebanese capital was easily on a par with Monte Carlo for its beauty, easy living, safety and joie de vivre. The Lebanese liked to call their land the Switzerland of the Middle East. The place did attract many international bankers, spies and many other suspicious characters.  So hesitantly at first, I fired off my first e-mail to the "Web master," a guy who used to be known as "Blondie," because of his straight long blonde hair. (In the early 1960s, during the music and love revolution, everyone wanted to look like Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger, or Jim Morrison.)  Along with my e-mail, I included, as requested, a current photo of myself. My message to Blondie was a cautious introductory email, saying something like, "I don't know if you even remember me ..." After all, Blondie was a  few years older than me (I think he must have been two or three years older at most) but more important, he was far more "cool" than I ever was. Blondie today lives in Paris and, because of the time difference, it took more than 12 hours for his reply to reach me.  "Of course I remember you," his return e-mail started, "but you lost a lot of hair!" Later that night, I was so excited of hooking up with so many old faces, that I couldn't fall asleep. Shortly after midnight, I jumped out of bed and connected back to the homepage. I spent several hours reminiscing, comparing old faces to their current ones. It was like trying to put a complicated puzzle together. The years are never kind. They stole away the innocence we enjoyed and replaced them with graying and receding hairlines, excess pounds, and bags under the eyes.  Among the many names on the list one in particular one jumped out at me. Ian Copeland, brother of drummer Stewart Copeland, who along with Sting, formed the group "Police." After their breakup, Stewart went on to write numerous film scores.  Like in a movie flashback, my mind suddenly drifted back to the early 1960s when I had my own band, the "Wichita Vortex Sutra," so named after a poem written by Allen Ginsberg. One night -- I think it might have been New Year's Eve -- we landed a big gig at the in-place of the time, a seedy disco called "La Fin du Monde" (the end of the world). But just a few hours before we were due on stage, disaster struck. Our drummer found himself grounded by his mother because of his failing school grades! Frantically, we scrambled around looking for a replacement, when someone mentioned that Stewart Copeland, whose father, by the way, turned out to be the CIA's top man in the Middle East, was a "fairly good drummer."   I called Stewart at home, and he accepted to play with us. I think this might have been his first public performance. He astonished everyone, played an amazing drum solo and won the admiration of the audience. I remember him placing a bed sheet over the drum set in order to get "a different sound." We earned about $6 each that night.  Drifting back from my reverie, I continued to explore the site. There was Christine, as beautiful as I remembered her, tall and lanky, striding into the "Revolution" and dancing the night away. I think the most courage I ever mustered was to mutter a meek "hello" to her. Now she has a daughter who is almost as old as she used to be. As Georges Moustaki, a famed French folk singer and poet once sang, "Your daughter is 20 years old, how time quickly flies by Madame, yesterday she was still so young, and her first torments are your first facial lines, Madame, and also your first worries." Some of the faces I had to scrutinize closely, playing that faded memory tape over and over, digging them up from the confines of my mind. Soon, the names and events started to ooze out. The recollections came slowly at first, then like a flood they gathered momentum. One memory brought out another, and another until the ghosts of the past were dancing inside my head the rest of the night.  I was swimming in memories.  There is Janet, as beautiful as ever. (I used to have a crush on her when I was 15). We exchanged e-mail, trying to compact 30 years of lives -- marriages, divorces, children, tragedies -- the ups and downs of everyday lives in a simple few lines of cold e-mail.  "Where have all the years gone," she asked? Indeed.  But as I continued my exploration of the site, the news was not all good. I learned of the premature death of Charlie, another of the "older boys."   "Charlie left us to ride the wind on Christmas 1999," the site explained.  And later, yet, more sad news: the passing away of another friend of old, Janet's sister Shelagh. I remembered her as a happy, kind, and lively person I used to run into at parties around town. Time, that old enemy, is never kind. As Moustaki goes on to sing ..."Spring leaves you behind." -0- Claude Salhani, Editor of UPI's Life and Mind Section, grew up in the "good old Beirut