Today Boris Yeltsin died at 76 years old. I still remember the dance he did for his re-election in 1996, the colors and lights. I rememer the old sad cow, dressed up with ribbons on his horns and posters of Yeltsin's face on his flanks, being paraded around Volgograd, a less glitzy city that also needed a "rock the vote" message, apparently. Yeltsin was my president for one and a half short years, and he taught me all I know of drunken excess. But, to me, he will always be the decisive figure standing on the tank. I rode on subways bearing his name, even while other subway cars around me were bombed, literally, on the same night. I felt Russia through Yeltsin and will miss him. Crazy, drunk old man from Ekaterinberg.
Spaseba bolshoya for the memories.
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