With the recent inauguration of new president Dmitry Medvedev, how have things changed in Russia? Is the authoritarian freeze of the Vladimir Putin years starting to melt into a glorious new spring of freedom? Mark Ames, founder of Russian newspaper the Exile (and Radar contributor), will provide occasional dispatches in pursuit of an answer to that question ... if the authorities don't lock him up first.

Today is "Russia Day." It's the official holiday when Russians celebrate their independence—from their own empire. On June 12, 1990, the Russian Republic's parliament passed a resolution declaring "sovereignty" from the USSR, paving the way for Russia to "free" itself from the 14 other republics it had spent centuries conquering. It would be like Mexico celebrating February 2, 1848—the day Santa Anna was forced to sign away California and the entire Southwest to the gringos—as "Mexico Day."

Which may explain why Russia's state-run RIA Novosti grimly announced, "Unfortunately, the name of this holiday disorients the people completely."

Whatever. Today's a holiday, so I should relax and enjoy the party and forget about the fact that I'm under attack. For the celebration here in Moscow, the Kremlin is flying in none other than former French president Jacques Chirac, so that Medvedev can pin a medal on the old whore's saggy man-boobs, to honor his "contribution to promoting Russian culture"—exactly what my paper is accused of not doing properly enough. I guess you don't get Kremlin medals when you headline your paper that you "dare to fart in Russia's face." But that doesn't explain why Chirac would agree to make such a complete ass out of himself on the world stage. It would be like flying to Riyadh so the king could honor you with a "Female Driving Instructor of the Year" sash.

Perhaps Chirac came just for the after-party. Now that Medvedev is the new tsar, he has the authority to hire his favorite band to play at his Red Square Russia Day party—and wouldn't you know, he chose none other than Uriah Heep to rock the Kremlin walls down. If you've never heard of Uriah Heep—and 99 percent of you haven't—you're missing out: They're a real-life Spinal Tap classic-rock outfit that packs stadiums from Smolensk to Kamchatka, even though they couldn't land a gig on open-mike night in a Tuscaloosa saloon. True to their Spinal Tap calling, Uriah Heep pulled out of their Red Square gig today at the last minute, fucking up Medvedev's classic rawk party, which their website blames on the "tour promoters [sic] complete lack of adherence to contractual stipulations." I can imagine how the Heep fell out with their promoters: "You call this a sandwich, huh, Vladimir? I don't want this! Because, look, you have to fold it like this, and then ... no, it's a fucking joke, really. I can't do this, I won't go to fucking Belarus if I can't get a proper fucking sandwich."

Heep or no Heep, there will be no rain on Medvedev's parade, as the air force scrambled 10 rickety Soviet-era planes to disperse the clouds. And they've called up 6,500 police, including 550 OMON paramilitary goons, to make sure to make sure no one bum-rushes the stage when the vertically challenged leader makes his appearance. For a sample of the OMON at work and play, watch this video cut by the Exile's coeditor Yasha Levine:

For me, it's a good thing there's a holiday break today, because yesterday, my now-dead newspaper, the Exile, became the cause-célèbre story in the Russian opposition media. The attack on my paper got converted into a bag full of burning shit and tossed on the Kremlin doorstep to embarrass Russia's president Dmitry Medvedev on the very same day that he gave the keynote address at the World Russian Media Conference in Moscow, where he pledged to "ensure media freedom and respect for human rights." Exiled oligarch Vladimir Gusinsky's popular online portal, newsru.com, juxtaposed Medvedev's speech with the closing of the Exile: "Medvedev made his announcement about supporting the press in the background of the incredible story about the Moscow-based American newspaper the Exile, which is being threatened by officials with censorship due to the newspaper's alleged extremism."

Eduard Limonov, the radical opposition leader-slash-celebrity, told leading opposition radio station Ekho Moskvy (the same station Condi Rice makes a point of visiting whenever she flies into Moscow for her annual missile defense hustle) that the attack on the Exile is really an attack on Eduard Limonov—and that it's all about him. This isn't just a case of Limonov pulling a PR stunt: On Monday, a dozen young members of Limonov's banned National Bolshevik Party stormed the Russian government's Railways Ministry building in central Moscow, seizing offices, smashing open windows, and unfurling antigovernment banners in solidarity with striking railway workers. It ended as it always does: The dozen activists were hauled off, and no one knows what their fate will be.

Four years ago, a similar stunt by Limonov's National Bolsheviks led to the arrest of nearly 50 activists, a spectacular trial, and the Russian Supreme Court banning Limonov's party.

It's a tough and dangerous job out here in opposition to the Kremlin. Publicity is the most prized currency: It's generally considered your best defense against a bad fate, and since most opponents are of the public-transport-riding socioeconomic class, it's really the only defense. Everyone knows that there's a roughly zero percent chance of winning against The Man, but losing comes in many different forms—from glorious standoff to extinction. That's why the opposition needs to divvy up the publicity—and the exposure—as widely as possible.

And right now, I'm part of the developing story, and I'm getting sucked into the bigger battle. Two opposition media outlets, radio station Govorit Moskva and magazine/portal New Times, want to interview me early next week about the Exile in the context of a wave of audits that are sweeping the Russian provinces. (My paper's audit is still the first one ever for a Moscow-based newspaper.) New Times made international headlines last December when one of its investigative reporters, young über-babe Natalia Morar, was expelled from Russia and labeled a threat to state security. I met Morar for lunch with another American journalist about a month before she was expelled, and I left that meeting deeply annoyed by her Tracy Flick–like ambitiousness, as well as her clear lack of sexual interest in me. But after her expulsion, well, any criticism just seems vulgar and cheap. Meanwhile, Govorit Moskva called me and asked if they could put me on a live debate next week across from the chairman of the Russian Duma's Committee on Political Information, Valery Komissarov.

Everyone knows that there's a roughly zero percent chance of winning against The Man, but losing comes in many different forms—from glorious standoff to extinction. I dunno, folks! I mean, should I? Should I start wearing a helmet? Or the flack jacket that's still in our office, a gift from the first war in Chechnya? Is there a lawyer in the house who can e-mail me a little advice on this? Or would a rabbi be more appropriate at this point?

I have no idea where all this is leading, and neither does anyone else. In the meantime, I've just downloaded Black Sabbath's Paranoia album, because Black Sabbath is apparently one of Dmitry Medvedev's favorite bands. When I listen to "War Pigs," I'm brought back to my bong-stenched dirthead youth in the San Jose suburbs—and for the first time, those dirthead days don't seem so bad. I wonder, what does Dmitry Medvedev think of when he listens to "War Pigs"?

PREVIOUSLY:
• The End of the Exile
• A Troublesome Visitor