And about the weather, and how to do it

Excellent reading for the holidays: hives NOVA. "How to make weather"

Oh, this Mitya Nitochkin. Dreamer, son of his non -pound father. And his hair is hard, naughty, and the courier bag is too heavy, and the father’s jacket is not the season, and the tips of the fingers on his feet are freezing all the time.

And he would be an obedient blood cell of a metropolis, and would buy him a nail polish for the queen of Alena, and would strive for career heights ... none.

Have you heard about the adventures of Richard Maikhe, who found himself in the sub -ondon, because once he stumbled into the gateway to the wounded lady d'VER and was crossed out of ordinary life, falling into an endless binding? Like the hero of the “Nicho” Neil Gaiman, Mitya Nitochkin once inadvertently bought a thermometer from nondescript sellers near the metro. And while he was going home with this unfortunate thermometer, Moscow turned into a miserable, gray, depressing and poisoning stomach in front of his eyes. And from that day everything went awry. Red-haired Korolevna Alena, the host of the EHAM radio station, only noticed that Mitya has neither a car nor a career, but there is some stupid scar on the chin, stretched winds of windbreakers and teenage blue jeans. And it rushed.

The matter ended that Mitya hit his head on the ice in pure ponds, rushed his nose and calmed down in the middle of the rink, because he had no effort to compose fairy tales and fight reality.

And suddenly ...

“Alive guy! Fucking a little, but it's nothing! Bruises before the wedding will heal, we know, passed. ” An old man with a large yellow package, a broom at the ready, disheveled with gray -haired Vlasas and a cunning look, decisively invades the mitina life, drags her away from the ice and shakes her with a simple question: “What do you need and what do you need?” Mitya sincerely shares with the old man that after this damn thermometer his train went forever in the Nizhny Chelny, the extravagant queen ordered to free the living space, and even though the parents divorced for a long time, but Mitya did not recover from this.

But let me ... grandfather, who are you? Father Frost? Toothless astronaut? Busmaker of tigers? Yes, you never know what evil spirits are found on pure ponds! “Silent and rush,” the old man replies. And you know who he is? Do not believe it. The bachelor of the International Order of Mages, the healer of Moscow birds, the good sorcerer Vasily Vasilievich Dydyldin. This is he is responsible for the weather in Moscow. For more than a hundred years he has been chasing clouds, launches a dream into space, changes the climate to make it clear and light. And without knowing how, Mitya agrees to work for a wizard for one year in order to make fairy tales.

Oh, this hive is new.

How to start telling a fairy tale, so "Silence and rush, do not bother the prozets." Do not stop, do not tear yourself away. The fairy tale is circulating, fooling, confusing, wearing a slap in, if you are distracted, and drives round dances of ridiculous and sad characters, and rumbles a wagon of the metro, and rushes on an old moped in the New Year.

Here are the late 80s with a melody from the forecast of the weather, and chewing gum with inserts, and pioneer barrels with kvass in the heat-memories with a lump in the throat, at the very junction of the eras. And the dashing 90s with a tragicomic shed stuffed with armed bandits threatening with Dydyldin reprisal. And completely Ilf-Petrovsky Krenels with a treasure in the editorial office: Dydyldin, a kind of replacing the role of a Bender, and Mitya, a completely stunned pussy, who is definitely "ne manage in Xi Jour." And the Bulgakov’s evil accuracy in the description of literary workers who tucked, although there were one -eyed, from reading the feuilletons sent to the editorial office, and in general were very, very angry. And the senile, excuse me, the satirical magazine “Indsuuk”, preoccupied with the fate of the non -battered millionaire Leni Okunev, who suddenly received an inheritance from his uncle from Austria, and his native Moldova put it on, decided to patronize and not release anywhere, because the treasure of the nation. The absurd reality in which we live and do not blow in the mustache.

Glossy magazines, and “chocolate”, and Dirby miracles, boutiques, and the Tsaritsyno high-rise buildings, and even the assistant beast, the Frosya pig, and the whole rally of wizards and sorceresses on the platform of suburban trains-they all make the weather. Excess, excitedly, desperately. Because only this is necessary - "to embody your cherished promising and long -awaited weather."

Is the fairy tale happy ending? Yes, she has no end! She is endless. It is composed on the go, every second, right from the old newspaper cuts, lilac snowflakes, the smell of dandelions in front of a thunderstorm, but you never know what. And if you doubt it, write letters to the wizard Vydeildin and believe in yourself.

Elena Vorontsova