Jeremy never really had a choice. Interns don't negotiate, they just do.
To his credit, Jeremy didn't flinch. He simply said, "Okay."
Jeremy was perfect for the experiment. Just look at his picture above. No one could be farther from the Eurotrash whom he was going to one-up. Just his sluggish Generation Y gait would be enough to get him denied into most of Moscow's pretentious nightclubs.
Experiment: Phase 1
On Friday night, Jeremy went out to two of the most demokratichnie places in Moscow to see if he would have problems, as himself, getting past even the lightest feis kontrol. He was denied. First at Che, a Mexican restaurant which packs in a crowd of secretary-types whom you wouldn't exactly call "elitny." Jeremy and his gaggle of Russian girls then moved up the street to Karma Bar, a club which doesn't even have feis kontrol. And he was still denied.
The stage was set for Saturday night, the most radical 24-hour character transformation in Russian history since Ivan the Terrible, after whacking his son, transformed himself into Ivan the Flower Child.
Buns needed a purpose for being in Moscow. We decided that he came here to test out his new single, "Touch My Buns," on a fresh audience. And to rest.
Shifrin downloaded some generic house beats, sampled a Microsoft robot voice, and spliced a song in which the Microsoft voice repeats over the beat: "Touch/T-touch/Touch-tou-touch my buns". He brought the single to a Buns meeting at Scandinavia's outdoor cafe. They played it on the stereo behind the bar. After our howls died down, an amazing thing happened. One of the younger Russian cooks was dancing to the song. Not just dancing, but trying to look cool as he danced: he pulsated to the beat of "Touch My Buns," not looking our way (but keeping us in his peripheral vision) to let us know that he understood what we understood, and nothing more needed to be said about it. We were all cool.
Buns cant wait! PR guru Jelly Kowitz (aka Mark Schliefer) and Lena, the sparkling babe
Shifrin arranged for Jeremy to visit a modeling agency to be fitted into the latest hippest outfit. The eXile's intern walked in in calf-length shorts and a T-shirt; Buns walked out in a $2,000 cream-colored corduroy Hugo Boss suit and flare-collared striped silk shirt, and a pair of beat-brown Boss leather shoes, an outfit so cutting-edge cool that you can't even find it in stores yet. For sunglasses, Jeremy was fitted with the kind of post-eye-exam sunlight-blocking goggles favored by Florida's nursing home Jews.
The entourage came together. Two models: Lena, a blond sexpot in a wide-open brown shirt, her bare neck and exposed breasts covered in glitter, and her friend Ksenia, a red-headed, bright-red-lipped model.
Buns had to have a Negro bodyguard, "the only person Buns trusts," a childhood friend reflecting Buns' working-class roots.
It wasn't easy finding a Negro in Moscow. Our African student friends have too much of a flinch to pull it off. Luckily, an African-American from D.C., Johnny, came to our rescue. He showed up with his hair slicked back, tight shirt, and Terminator wrap-around shades.
Buns had to have his PR man with him at all times. A nervous, pushy New York Jew screaming into several cell-phones at once. Marc Schliefer, the singer of Detsky Panadoll, was everyone's choice for Buns' PR agent, whom we named "Jelly Kowitz."
Few people had as much reason to take vengeance on the feis kontrol Gestapo as Schliefer. Among his many famous nightclub humiliations were a blanket denial policy at Garazh which was never explained, and an infamous denial at Ministerstvo last summer which culminated in Schlieffer imitating a chimpanzee in front of the door thugs before being whisked away by friends who feared for Schliefer's life.