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“I think I’ll pass, thank you,” he e-mailed, “except to repeat what I said at the time, and what Shaw said a lot earlier: Never wrestle with a pig.
Never mind that he and Taibbi would prove the hardest-partying Moscow media celebrities of their time, never mind that they wouldn’t just expose the place’s hedonism but come to embody it—Ames was pissed off.
He wasn’t George Plimpton chasing Hemingway’s Sad Young Men as part of some romantic lost generation.
You just get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it.”Of course, a pig is probably not the farm animal that comes to Wines’s mind first when he’s reminded of It was Wines, then the *Times’*s Moscow-bureau chief, who, having won *The Exile’*s coveted Worst Journalist in Russia March Madness contest in 2001, was typing in his office when Ames and Taibbi rushed in unannounced and, by way of congratulations, slammed a pie in his face.
The pie was made with fresh vanilla cream, hand-puréed strawberry, and five ounces of horse semen.‘That’s what he said? “He said the same thing back then, the poor bastard.”It’s a late-November afternoon and Ames is sitting unrepentantly at his kitchen table, next to a window looking out onto a cheerless backyard complex, in the second-floor Brooklyn sublet where he and his wife moved a month earlier after deciding to leave Russia for good.
Inset: A Boris Yeltsin cover accompanied by a typical Exile headline. began, as so many demises have in Russia, with an official letter.
Faxed to the offices of the newspaper late on a Friday afternoon the spring before last from somewhere within the bowels of Rossvyazokhrankultura, the Russian Federal Service for Mass Media, Telecommunications, and Cultural Heritage Protection, it announced the imminent “conducting of an unscheduled action to check the observance of the legislation of the Russian Federation on mass media.” a Moscow-based, English-language biweekly, stood accused of violating Article Four of that legislation by encouraging extremism, spreading pornography, or promoting drug use.“They had something going that really couldn’t be repeated anywhere.It would be out of business in three seconds if they tried to publish it in the U.Writer Kevin Mc Elwee, an American expatriate, had both legs broken when he was torn from the side of a building he was scaling to escape an angry mob of Muscovites, an incident that had nothing to do with anything he’d written—Mc Elwee, *The Exile’*s film reviewer, was just a rambunctious drunk.On another occasion, a deranged and slighted man sent a letter promising to kill the “frat boy” Ames.The letter scheduled the unscheduled action to take place between May 13 and June 11. An founder and editor in chief Mark Ames, at that moment a world away in Los Gatos, California. Someone on President Dmitry Medvedev’s staff, or, more to the point, in Prime Minister Vladimir Putin’s circle of spooks?