It once was that any hopeless American man—no matter exactly how fat, bald, or ugly—could journey to Moscow and return to Topeka having a gorgeous trophy spouse.

It once was that any hopeless American man—no matter exactly how fat, bald, or ugly—could journey to Moscow and return to Topeka having a gorgeous trophy spouse.

But by way of a booming Putin-era economy—and all the prosperity and gold-plated Land Rovers that are included with it—the times of the grateful Russian bride are fading fast

it’s 6:30 p.m., and everybody is crowded as a gloomy, nondescript space in the first flooring of Kiev’s St. Petersburg resort. Tonight’s impresario, Jack Bragg, appears frantic, plus the sweat is seeping through their bandanna because of the miniature Confederate flags in the mirror next to the coat check—and the interpreters, all women, are on their cell phones or talking to one another on it, and the men look edgy—they’re straightening their ties, straightening their eyebrows, staring at themselves. Bragg, that is perhaps not just a tiny guy and appears like a Hells Angel along with his sunglasses and goatee, is gesticulating extremely, along with his vocals appears like a timpani. Continue reading “It once was that any hopeless American man—no matter exactly how fat, bald, or ugly—could journey to Moscow and return to Topeka having a gorgeous trophy spouse.”