My former hometown of seven years, Santa Barbara welcomed me back with open arms — and by open arms I mean aggressive festival volunteers, and a short but unpleasant bout of food poisoning. I still love you regardless, State Street. Between bouts of trying not to hork in public, I managed to swing some wildly different screenings that left me more fulfilled than not with my time at this year’s festival to this point. I squeaked into the Metro Theater II just in time to catch one of the more mystifying but engaging films at the festival, Victor Ginzburg’s Generation P, an adaptation of Russian novelist Victor Pelevin’s book of the same name.  I was born in 1980 — so while I do have some reference points for that decade, I’m considered a child of the 90s. I have vague recollections of the waning years of the Cold War, never knowing the fear of the powerful Soviet Union of my parent’s generation. By the time 1994 rolled around, Gorbachev had already paved the way for a series of revolutions that ensured the death knell of the Russian socialist state.