Chordinese

Madeleine and Eitan way excited about the slide at Cordenices Park, where we be this morning. Eitan spies a football camp and is naturally fascinated - when I inquire whether he wishes to play he demures: "don't have my kit, dad." We watch from the sidelines and Eitan comments on "the skills". We then rough-house until he cries and I turn my attention to Madeleine and the long-slide - pictured. New glasses rejected by Sonnet but I get used to them.

Chordineses by the way is walking distance from my parents house and many touch-football games played their in my yuf. It was also a good place to get stoned or have birthday parties. It is adjacent to the Rose Garden and for a while was pretty run down but Berkeley has since re-invested in the park and now it is fab.

Lamp Shade

Eitan in the dining room. He, Madeleine and Sonnet arrive yesterday and I greet them at the airport - everybody happy and wired to be in "San Francisco!" they scream. We drive across the Bay Bridge to Bezerkeley and Sonnet makes several comments "only in Berkeley" as we drive by a VW bus painted flowers or the granola team planting shrubs in a round-about (this nearby Kee Tov where I used to go to camp - Kee Tov moved and it is now a theology school Go figure). Tabitha and her team come over for a BBQ and the kids hit the sack 8PM.

Cal I for NI A

Gnarly

Frederic Larson at Half Moon Bay, 45 minutes south of San Francisco on HW 1 (The Great HW). Photograph courtesy of the San Francisco Chronicle.

I arrive SFO Thursday in time for dinner in Berkeley with my parents and Katie, who is speaking at a conference for women bloggers. She stays in the St Francis, Union Square, where her gathering takes place. 

Meanwhile, I am with Industry Ventures yesterday then join Christian for dinner at our usual favorite Delfino's where we have a five course meal and about everything on the menu. From there we watch episodes of The Office (American version) and Steve Carroll hilarious (jet lag, Dear Brother). Usually we make a late-night donut run at the 24 hour bakery then hit Barnes And Noble for CDs or DVDs but tonight it's a pass. 

Christian BTW is free from his high flying career which required him to rise at 3:45AM for the NY equity call shortly before the markets opened. He now has a couple years to catch up his sleep. California is in a major drought - the worst in 30 years - which brings back memories of '73 when Moe rationed water allowing two inches bath water then used for toilet flushes (remember that Moe?). We sure learned how to conserve, oh boy. 

Northern California forest fires have smoked out even the Bay Area but not since I've been here. Meanwhile back in London: Sonnet prepares for her long flight tomorrow spending today packing, having her hair done etc. 

Eitan attends a six-hour football party and so on cloud-nine while Aggie takes Madeleine for a girls afternoon including the Kung Fu Panda at the movies. Everybody excited including my mother who hits Mr Mopps to buy toys, books and DVDs. Mopps has been in Berkeley since '73 and so an institution - all the kids at King Jr High shop-lifted and the poor owner put a sign up "One Teenager At A Time." Mopps is on Martin Luther King Road, which for us is Grove Street renamed.

West Coast

I am off to California in 30 minutes. I prepare myself for the long haul by swimming some laps and packing - yes, last minute I know. Sonnet and the kids join Sunday and everybody excited about le grand adventure. I will have dinner with family, including Katie who is in the Bay Area for Stanford and The Op-Ed Project. Fun!

'84

Sonnet and Marcus - ah 1984, the year of Ghostbusters, Beverly Hills Cop, The Karate Kid and this photo. Also The Terminator, which I recently watched, and is decidedly irresponsible - I mean, Arnie demolishes a police house in is search for Sarah Con-ur. Not a good message for us yuf then.The only band formed that year worth listening to, and who I still own, was Big Audio Dynamite which was Mick Jones from the Clash. Sweet. Otherwise this was the year I returned from Geneva, swam at nationals, became a Senior in HS and got into college somehow and had my first girlfriend, Malika. She moved on pretty quickly I recall and we broke up at prom - but this another story I think. Pretty big stuff for then.

Lear

The Thames at Southbank nearby OXO wharf. It is the afternoon and I arrive for a double-date early to mill about and make a few phone calls from my mobile. The weather and vibe good and London is the place to be on days like this. Sure the city suffers a bad rap when it comes to weather but in actuality rainfall is the same as San Francisco - about 40 inches a year. The difference is ours spread across the year nor does the data capture gloomy winter days+early sunsets. But let us not dwell on this now- today it is summer! and skate-boarders skate, violinist play and tourists photograph themselves here and everywhere along the river. Oh, and as the kids would shout: "the tide is out!"

We meet friends Jan and Nes for dinner at OXO tower (pictured, upper right) which offers the best view of the city, in my opinion, stretching from Parliament and London Eye to St Paul's and the city. From there we see King Lear at the Globe. It is hard work, Dear Mother, but David Calder who plays Lear is brilliant. He looks like a king too, with a white beard, bald crown and large middle supported by thin, muscular legs. It is his voice, however, that enthralls. I prepared for last night by listening to Lear on CD - I read the play sophomore year in high school - but the language still at times foreign, though the emotions raw. I had forgotten poor Gloucestor who in one bloody scene has his eyeballs extracted in a particularly wretched treason. Ian McKleen played Lear last year at the Old Vic (tickets impossible, btw) and his king different from Calder. I've heard McK described as an actor playing himself in the role, while Calder an actor playing Lear. Either way - rapture.

"The oldest hath borne most: we that are young,
Shall never see so much, nor live so long."

Fair

Sonnet and Madeleine from last summer. We look forward to repeating the good times.

I'm in Eitan's class this morning to do some pasting in the children's work-books. This gives me a chance to ease-drop, which I do with pleasure. The kids are asked to describe their favorite moment from the school year and Eitan says: "discussing Christiano Rinaldo's goals." Later he provides this example of a highlight: "It is when Christiano Rinaldo scores a goal." The boys has football on the mind for sure.

Side View

Here is a self-portrait and a view of myself I rarely see and different from my mind's eye - I mean, is my chin really that small? Interesting to think how self-perception is shaped. Do our surroundings set the standard or is it a cerebral thing? Kate Moss for instance has the benefits of bone structure and curves (or lack of) but also the fortune to live in a society that values these things. I do not think of myself as particularly attractive, Dear Reader, but I have never doubted that I was attractive. I thank my mom for this - she was always quite positive about appearance. This leads to now: regarding aesthate, Eitan+boys are preoccupied with other things like football. Young girls, on the other hand, receive a direct message re one's looks and happiness thanks to a pervasive advertising, which caters to prepubescent "tweenies" or younger. Girls absorb the comps via television, comics, billboards, shops and everywhere. Take a day to focus on this, oh boy, and you shall see. Madeleine considers herself a tom-boy, as we know, which is healthy but different from her school norm of barbies, dresses &c. She is not immune to the beauty-message so I check in occasionally with her on this. To now it is all fine but this will change, sadly I am sure.

Ben Ten

Kids in front of TV - this forever an easy shot, and here they are watching "Ben Ten." The sprogues go dead to the world and I do my best to annoy them - neither bats an eye when I dance, walk like King Tut and do other various distractings. I suppose their oblivion a Good Thing - heck, let them enjoy it. As for me, the Sunday papers are ever aggravating. A today's sampling: Bush lobbyist Stephen Payne selling access to Bush, Chaney and Rice; Bush giving Israel the "amber" to strike Iran; Obama getting set up on an Iraq visit, knife crime killing teen-agers in London . . . . The Federal Judge who married me and Sonnet and also a Berkeley liberal who has dedicated his life to the quality, and equality of our public institutions, once gave me this advice: "Fuck the news." I would agree accept for Eitan and Madeleine who will live in Bush's future.

Madeleine completes her Reading List filled with books and pages-read. In return, she gets a prize, as yet decided (Eitan did same, and now receives a subscription to the Manchester United fanzine). She ponders this, be sure, she ponders.

Sonnet runs Richmond Park 6AM this morning, waking Eitan at exit. Unfortunately for me (and after all, it is always about me, Dear Sir) Eitan climbs into our bed and begins quizzing me on football. I tell him to shut-up, and he's quiet for about five minutes then: "when are you getting up dad? Dad. Dad? When?" I plead for 30 minutes and he watches the clock - bing! - "are you up yet?"

For those older than adolescence, here is what the web says about Ben Ten: "The show revolves around Ben Tennyson, his cousin Gwen, and their grandfather Max. During the start of their summer camping trip, Ben goes stomping off into the woods after another fight with Gwen, whom he is not happy to have along on the trip, and finds an alien pod on the ground. When he examines it, he finds a mysterious, watch-like device, called the Omnitrix, stored inside. The device attaches permanently to his wrist and gives him the ability to transform into a variety of alien lifeforms, each with their own unique powers, quite similar to DC's Dial H for Hero comic. Although Ben realizes that he has a responsibility to help others with these new abilities at his disposal, he is not above a little superpowered mischief now and then."

Tournie

Today's last day of the football season sees a tournament and Madeleine's team is second in her group of five. This thanks to her winning goal in the second game. She is good at hollering for the ball: "Pass! Pass!" but doesn't quite know what to do when the thing arrives. With a little prodding (me: "Shoooot!") she puts one in the net and pumps her arms - sweet victory. Eitan, meanwhile, is playing with boys two or three years older and he is markedly cautious. Normally he sets the tempo of his games but today he holds back allowing the bigger kids to control the action. There is one dramatic moment however when he tip-toes up the side-line and runs circles around three defenders. The coach yells for a strike, and his ball goes wide. He deserved that one. Afterwards there is a kids-parents-coaches game and I refuse, which makes him upset: "you never let me do anything fun," he tells me. We bump into Joe-Y-H's mom on the walk home and to prove that I am not a complete downer, I agree for him to hang out at their house for the afternoon which is where he is now.

Report Card

Sonnet reads Madeleine's report card this morning - pictured. 

One would never guess that it is pretty good: Madeleine is a hard working student and has made terrific progress in her reading, writing, maths and sciences. When asked to comment on something, anything, she has learned this past year she recalls "making frogs from seeds" and describes the process from egg to tadpole to "little frog" than "big frog." Eitan adds helpfully: "did you know the tadpoles eat their tails for energy?" 

Madeleine notes that Eitan explains things to her - which is nice feedback for him and indicates a bit of older-sibling worship, which we know is going on in the private cosmos that is theirs. On that subject, Sonnet learns at a school drinks the other night that the school mums find Eitan "dreamy" and there is some discussion about which of the girls may fancy his hand (!) - this would make him shudder in horror, Dear Father. 

Further, the reception kids (two years younger) line up on the fence to watch our Eitan play football. Sometimes he allows them to take shots on goal, he being the goal keeper. Is our little man Big Man On Campus? From what I can tell, he remains humble on it all and the idea of girls makes him run.

On Being Gyped

Madeleine works on a puzzle-book this morning. She and Eitan have been at each other's throats, er, have been sensitive towards each other, regarding attention or more specifically: who gets more of it. I bring two same presents home from a trip: Madeleine wants Eitan's. I serve ice cream in equal bowls: both feel gyped and squeal "unfair!". Madeleine wants Eitan's bedroom; Eitan wants her money. Madeleine wants her money back. And so it goes. I fully appreciate the kids views on fairness and we try to make things pari passu. Sometimes though it is hard not to tease like this week returning from Denmark when I gave Eitan a present and told Madeleine I did not have one for her. Oh boy- won't be doing that again (Sonnet and Natasha thought my little prank beyond the bounds). These things build up over time and sometimes the only thing to do is talk about it at McDonalds or some other favorite place. The main thing is our attention and love, which is unequivocally split down the middle. This they know in abundance - I know because I ask them frequently enough.

No doubt the kids have been working hard in school and at their activities and everybody needs a holiday so next week cannot come soon enough. It doesn't help that Eitan has been setting his alarm clock at ever earlier hours until Sonnet screamed - enough! - at 4:30AM. Don't ask me why he does this.

Madeleine, blowing her nose: "Something in there just moved."

Eitan begs me to quiz him on football. When I ask him if Rinaldo has a girlfriend, he gets pissed. When I ask Wayne Rooney's wife, the game stops.

Motor Sports

Max Mosley certainly keeps it interesting. He is suing a tabloid for reporting on his Nazi-themed orgy described so: “[The defendent] was shackled and stripped naked for a mock medical, then had his bottom shaved before a cane-swishing dominatrix counted out strokes in German and beat him until he bled.” It was also reported that the court was told "it [the orgy] certainly wasn’t Hansel and Gretel." Mosley may have lost every shred of human dignity (the point of the trial) but he has kept his Presidency of FIA (a non-profit BTW), which governs Formula One racing, pulling an end-run around the sport's majors including Germany and the US who want him out and begging support from the developing leagues who want more races and share of the pie. Oh boy. Personally, I could care less about Mosley's private life and all the power to him for being able to afford five prostitutes at once (ok, a joke). It is absurd, however, for him to maintain a public post while playing Nazi. This made all the worse by his parents: dad was head of the British Union of Fascists and Hitler attended their secret wedding. Mosley's wife somehow remained clueless during 43 years of sado-masochism until reported by News Of The World in March (it is strange she did not see the scarring in unusual places). Man, she must have choked on her crumpet that morning, the poor lady. Fleet Street and we all love the story and Max is right up there with Naomi in our affections. Brother, we are all sinners.

For the first time, a blog I post is BLOCKED by Blogger/Google (nothing in the end changed. I thought it might be for "Nazi" or "Nazi themed orgy" but apparently not. A few iterations suggest that is is the combination of "spanking"and "sex" that offends. Indeed.

Start Up

Eitan, summer '03. Somewhere in Richmond.

It is wet and warm in London - pretty gross. I have to deal with the nightmare of the car, now sitting at Heathrow Terminal 5 awaiting a new set of keys which I lost last week returning from Denmark. Cost of parking: $80 per day. Nothing in this city is cheap, I am reminded. Otherwise I meet a guy at The Wolseley who is raising a fund to invest in windmills in Italy. Pretty specific, I agree, but the chap is from there and he tells a remarkable story of selling his house in '02 to form a water and filtration business, which he sold to ABN Ambro Capital in '05 (this with new-born baby). He took the proceeds and started a wind farm in southern Italy, which he sold 18 months later. When I suggest raising a first fund in today's climate might be difficult, he says: "I don't care. I'm gonna do it." And I am sure he will.

On starting a company or joining a start-up. In my opinion, there are two times to do so: young, stupid and nothing to lose+a lifetime to recover should things not turn your way. No mortgage nor children helps. Alternatively, older entrepreneurs bring (presumably) greater insight into their plan and have financial wherewithal to throw at the project. Still, if one has the drive and the network, there is nothing like the present. Go Roger!

Helsinki Bay

I am in cool Helsinki, arriving yesterday from Munich. 

Helsinki is becoming a favorite destination and I meet with a group of Finns who want money to invest in Russia and Eastern Europe. I learn about this region (there have been three wars between the states in modern times - but the young carry no baggage) and consider the private equity opportunities. 

I do recall that last year the Kremlin repatriated (stole) ownership of Royal Dutch Shell's Sakhalin-2 project following years of Western investment; today it is announced that the TNK-BP joint venture is under pressure as Board members denied visas. Not very subtle dude. Political risk to be weighted against today's energy pricing which converts Russia's resources to the high street: consumerism thrives and Russia retakes its place in the world - all very visible at the G8 (at least Bush does not have a cute nick name for Medvedev- remember Putey-Poot? - November cannot come fast enough, oh brother). 

Interestingly the majority of foreign, private capital into Russia arrived in the early 1990s from Americans - including foundations and endowments - to stamp out Communism for good. These funds disappeared forever in the 1997-98 Russian crisis. 

Now the Russians lecture America on its busted domestic policies that destabilise the world. Sigh. This evening I am greeted by the kids loud bath tub squeals and their demand for presents. Good to be home (photo from WWW).

Omaha Swimming

Qwest Center Pool

Here's a cool photograph of the Qwest Center where the US trials have taken place this week (photo from the swim foundation). Phelps wins the 100-meter butterfly last night, beating five-year rival and former world record holder Ian Crocker. His time of 50.89 would have beat Mark Spitz by over three seconds or at least two body lengths. 

Still, it is just ho-hum for Phelps, who leaves this week with two world records, a U.S. open record and the chance to go for eight gold medals at the Beijing. Says the humble Spitz on Phelps winning seven: "It would be like the second moon walking." On eight: "First man on mars." 

Over-looked this week perhaps is Katie Hoff, who quietly(?) takes five races to Asia herself. While she did not break Janet Evans's 15-year 800-meter freestyle record yesterday finishing in 8:20.81 vs 8:16.22 (my best time in this event BTW was 8:35 in '85), Hoff did re-establish her World Record in the 400 I.M. earlier with a time of 4:31.12. 

Not surprisingly, she trains with Phelps at North Baltimore Aquatic Club. Could she nip Mark Spitz's seven-gold record while everybody focused on the men? Will be fun to find out next month.

It's a wet day - Wimbledon final, of course - and we without our car. We're shuffle around town in a town car from swim practice to party to Kew Garden where we meet Dakota and Dana, who is two weeks away from child #2. Dana joined a trust six months ago to establish their private equity program and she is off to a great start.

The kids find lengthy branches at Kew and immediately dream of Harry Potter, their flying apparatus named "Bullet" (Madeleine) and "Light Speed." We race about an old Robinia pseudoacacia.

Islington

Sonnet and I are in Islington last night for Anthony's 33rd birthday (the kid is sooo young). Aggie babysits. The party is at a way cool bar, and the theme is to dress like we did ten years ago - pictured (I think). This BTW is when Anthony arrived in London. Interestingly I learn that he came to London from Australia via NY and Paris, where he arrived with a dime to his name and could barely make the distance from the airport to the youth hostel (I comment encouragingly: "you were living by your wits" - yes, we were drinking and my clever comment doesn't sound particularly clever now). From there, Ant befriended another Aussie - and presto! - he's a waiter. Today he works for a software company and heads up the UK business (says his profile: "Not cool enough to be a bartender. Too cool to be a geek." I might argue with the first statement). So before the par-tay Sonnet and I have dinner at a romantic Frenchie - Islington being one of the coolest neighborhoods in London there is great people watching. It is young and scruffy - unshaved lads, sexy little outfits and striving yuf and slacker dudes. Sonnet and I looked at flats in this area before settling in leafy Maida Vale- part of us wishes we had been on the edgier part of town, so fun to visit now. And of course we are the oldest couple at the party, if not the bar. Ah, well.

Torres

Eitan rips open the sports pages and screams: "Berbatoff might go to Manchester United!" and yes, we know it is Sunday morning. The boy is also pretty happy about the full-size poster of Torres which, no doubt, will be plastered on his wall. This morning Madeleine and I go for an early morning walk to have a coffee and hot-chocolate at Cafe Nero. London is dead at this Sunday hour, and we swap playground gossip and talk about favorite bands (Duran Duran, Arctic Monkey, Killers . .. .). She asks me why we cannot say certain words like "the 'fu' word." Sonnet explained once that it is an ugly expression for something beautiful, which I think the right response. I add that is is forceful and meant to make people feel bad. Or angry. She nods knowingly but the kids has a lot to understand. At Nero, she leans back in her chair, hands behind head, and comments: "It's good to be a kid."

Five

Dara Torres proves there is Olympic life after 40: she wins the womens 100-meter freestyle and qualifies for her fifth games. Bravo. (photo from Getty Images).
In case one forgets, here is nine years ago:
"At 32, Torres is finding her current comeback to be a bit more challenging than her last. However, Torres is driven by a unique incentive: If she qualifies for Sydney she will become the first American --male or female -- to swim in four Olympics (only eight non-U.S. swimmers have accomplished that feat). "We're going to take it one day at a time and see where it leads," says [coach Richard] Quick. Hopefully, for Torres it'll lead to a pool down under. "

Eitan has a party where, amongst other things, the kids will see "Kung Fu Panda" (don't ask). Madeleine wants to go too, of course. Eitan's natural reply - no way! - nets wails of hurt and anger from her. Thems are the breaks.

Madeleine continues to bandage herself with medic wrap, to take care of her "really really really bad arm-pain." She's got the stuff around her knee ("knee pain dad") and write ("ouch there too"). In addition she slings her elbow and informs the breakfast table that she will wear the apparatus during football: "see, I can score more goals" and she runs around the living room proving to us how. At the football pitch moments later, the kids square off and charge! they run at each other like the blood thirsty little gladiators they are. Madeleine is pretty tough, but not the best player on the pitch: she does not yet have the eye of the tiger like, say, her brother. She shouts "ball!" but doesn't quite know what to do when it arrives. This will come, Dear Reader, this will come.

On the walk home I ask Madeleine to squeeze my hand when I say something she does not like: Eitan going to Kung Fu Panda - squeeze. Being bossed around by Eitan - squeeze. By me - squeeze squeeze. Baby sitters - squeeze, unless Aggie. School - no squeeze (good!). Kumon- no squeeze. Broccoli - squeeze. Vegetables - squeeze. And so it goes....

Dimple

Madeleine shows me her dimple at The Plough, a neighborhood public house which recently re-opened following refurbishment. At the table next to ours is the school secretary and several teachers including Madeleine's teacher. This ads a certain, ahem, frisson as Madeleine wants to interrupt their, er, drinking. Sonnet is with Eitan at swim practice.

Speaking of swimming, the USA trials have been a blow out for US and World records. Of considerable note to me and the old-timers reading this is 41 year-old Darre Torres who yesterday posted the third fastest time in the preliminaries with a time of 54.57 (in 1984 the Gold winning time was 55.92 by Carrie Steinseifer and Nancy Hogshead - great name for a female sprint swimmer). If Torres qualifies today or the weekend in the 50, it will be her fifth Olympics. Heroes Michael Phelps and Katie Hoff and Natalie Coughlin steal the show.

Happy 4th!

Madeleine at arts & crafts. She works on a bust. My photo from a blackberry so sorry for the poor quality.

Yesterday I return from Copenhagen where I am with Mike. We meet some investors and take in the good weather while sitting by the water - little mermaid! - and contemplate investments and life, which is good. Returning to Heathrow I discover my car key lost - the only one I have BTW (as Sonnet says: "I'm glad it was you." I agree). What a nuissance - despite databases, vehicle identification numbers and technology, I am required to go the dealer in person to order a new key. Once the key arrives in three days, I must bring the car to the dealer for new programming. To do so, the car must be towed. It now sits in the business park, racking up £40 a day. Sigh.

Eitan and Madeleine have sports day at school. While both are excited, Eitan is especially excited. He goes to bed at 7PM and eats an extra bowl off cereal. He sets his alarm at 4:35AM for some reason then can't go back to sleep. In short: the boy is amped. The trials are for years one and two, and the parents - about 300 of us - gather on the main lawn and watch the teachers and Head Teacher prepare the sports. By coincidence Eitan is in the first-heat and all the kids chant: "Eitan! Eitan! Eitan!" (much to my surprise, BTW). The School Deputy blows a whistle and the kids race about 70 yards down a marked stretch to break the tape. Eitan wins his race and content with himself. Madeleine also proves a fierce competitor, placing second to an uncorrected false-start (not that we parents are noticing). Following the speed work comes the obstacle course: jumps, hoops, ropes and water cups, which are skipped, balanced and bounced. It's all good fun, and I'm smart enough to duck out before the parent races (Sonnet's is dragged in by Madeleine).

All American

Mike and Gretchen with their family in front of that famous palace in Kensington. They arrived at the same time as us and kids same age; they returned to the US one year ago. Transition behind them, they now holiday in London and we picnic in Hyde Park.

Everybody a-twitter about Andy Murray's today match against Spaniard Nadal, who bids to be the third man to win the French Open and Wimbledon in the same year. Murray has exploded onto the seen and a country places its high-hopes upon his shoulders. No one can remember the last time a Brit won the thing and Tim Henman, a world Top Ten, let us down every year he played. Fans over-night on the grounds in an apparently festive scene with BBQs, tents and cheer (as reported by Radio 4). Also on Radio 4 this morning - in one of the more enjoyable interviews I've heard - is the Jelly Competition as part of the London Festival of Architecture, which is on until 20 July. The idea, Dear Reader, is to connect architecture and food which one interviewee notes "began with pastry." Amen.

Derain

Here is the London Bridge by Andre Derain who, with Matisse, founded Fauvism (the expression stems from what they called themselves: les fauves, or "the wild beasts"). As here, Derain put forward portraits of London that were radically different from anything done by previous painters of the city such as Monet or Whistler. Here is how Picasso's girlfriend describes him: "Slim, elegant, with a lively colour and enamelled black hair. With an English chic, somewhat striking. Fancy waistcoats, ties in crude colours, red and green. Always a pipe in his mouth, phlegmatic, mocking, cold, an arguer." Is there a doubt that they shagged?

The MOMA used to have a no-photagraphy rule, which holds true in most European museums. The reason, of course, is to avoid copy right infringement and boost gift-shop sales. Snappers snap away and why not? It helps one remember favorites and makes for a nice screen saver sometimes.

KT - SF Chronicle

Madeleine watches Pokomon, which for the life of me I don't understand. While she sees action or whatever, I see cheap aneme and plotless silliness. I ask her to explain the fascination - fat chance: "shush dad! It's a kids thing."

Katie is interviewed in by the San Francisco chronicle Monday (below). For the interview, she excuses herself from our roof-deck conversation and politely takes a reporter's call. Any typical day.

"When it comes to the opinion pages of some of the most influential American newspapers, it's far too often a man's world. One reason for the disparity is obvious: Women are still breaking through glass ceilings in business, government and academia.

But another possible reason could be found a half hour into a recent daylong opinion-writing seminar for women in San Francisco, led by author and Op-Ed Project founder Catherine Orenstein. Orenstein went around the room and asked the six assembled women, ranging in age from early 30s to mid-60s, to finish the sentence, "I'm an expert in ..."

Read the full article

Andy Murray, Britain's #1 ranked tennis player, keeps the country on knife's edge in last night's 3 hour, 58 minute win against Frenchman Richard Gasquest. At one point Murray is down two sets to nil and the third a tie-breaker. Me- I split when Murray looks lost to meet a friend at the neighborhood pub. Of course I miss the action and maybe the most exciting match of the tournament. Damn.

Cinq-à-sept

Eitan before last night's game. The last thing he says, as I tuck him into bed: "I cannot believe Spain won" as he drifts off into a perfect sleep (granted two hours past bedtime). Wouldn't it be nice to be seven and able to switch loyalties so readily? For the boy, it went England (who did not qualify) then Portugal (knocked out by Russia) and Spain - who win it all. This would be like me bouncing Cal for the Trojans. Mon dieu.

The French have this cool thing called cinq à sept (five to seven), or the time between work and family. Its a myth that Frenchmen use it to rendezvous with their mistresses - but again, there is always some truth to these things. My experience in France is for shopping or drink - happy hour, sort of - but above all, it is selfish time. The British work to hard - and are no way elegant enough - to pull something like this off.

Sonnet off early and I awake to find both kids fully dressed staring at me: "Dad's face is red in the morning" Madeleine observes. "It is always red" says Eitan. "Especially if he is angry." Monday morning, Dear Reader. Monday morning,

Double Decker

The Airbus 380, also known as the "SuperJumbo," made its first commercial voyage in October 2007 from Singapore to Sydney (I take this photo at Heathrow last week). Development cost: €11 billion mostly from government grants - no wonder Boeing bitched. The A380's upper deck extends along almost the entire length of the fuselage, and its width is equivalent to that of a widebody aircraft. This allows a cabin with 50% more floor space than the 747 "Jumbo" and provides seating for 525 people in standard three-class set up or up to 853 people in all-economy, which would suck. The plane has a flight range of 8,200 nautical miles or sufficient from New York to Hong Kong. It's cruising speed is Mach 0.85 (about 900 km/h or 560 mph at cruise altitude). As I fly Virgin Atlantic, I ask the gate staff when Richard is going to buy one? and they are clearly jealous of Singapore. Do not worry - it is coming. As of 2008, 192 orders placed and five deliveries - delays caused a management departure at owner EADS and a insider-dealing investigations. The beast impresses.

"There is the tradition of good old Europe that has made this possible,"
Gerhard Schröder

Eitan makes a Spanish flag for tonight. On the backside, he pastes a few trading cards and vital player stats. He informs me of the cheer: es-pan-yol followed by three forceful thumps (or claps).

Eitan's Spain wins the European Cup, defeating Germany one-nil. Torres, who plays for Liverpool, scores the only goal.

Upper West

Katie in action

Mid-morning Wednesday we buy the papers, make our calls or emails and I overhear my sister discuss The Op-Ed Project which is something she clearly loves. It has momentum and every woman I meet wants to be involved somehow and has something to contribute - a sure sign she is onto something good. A best thing about Katie's life is that everything is generally within two blocks: greasy diner, pedicure, Korean fruit & vedg, yoga, coffee ... the park nearby for running and best friends all within walking distance. I can see why hard to leave NY once sorted. In London and yesterday, I shuffle the kids to swimming, football and performance class while sonnet at CHODA. Afterwards we nap - a forced activity for the sprogues - who wants to sleep on a beautiful Saturday? Eitan and I have a deal for the German-Spain Euro Cup final Sunday: as a week night, he sleeps extra-time. The boy does not complain and will watch the game with Joe-Y-H and others at Joe's house with friends, several German. Eitan roots for Spain BTW as Torres plays for Manchester United and Fabregas the lead scorer for Arsenal. It's like watching the NFL and rooting against a city because you hate the airport - it's personal. Eitan and his gang know more about their players then, well, anything. I cannot keep up with the sponge who has stats on anybody playing tonight. Including the bench.

Madeleine does her homework which is to describe her summer. She asks: "are we going to Vermont? Paris? That Hotel?" She also remembers "the sprinklers."

I pay Madeleine five-p every time she reads "a" instead of saying "ah" while completing "The Treasure Chest."

At the hardware: I give in and buy the kids alarm-clocks (not sure where my mind was on that one). Eitan's goes off at 6:05AM this morning, yes Sunday. Madeleine upset because hers not first. God.

4AM

Adam on the Lower West Side.

I'm in New York the first-half last week to visit Tim and Kitty, who had their baby five weeks ago. Not all babies are cute and this one is way cute. I forget how remarkable a newborn, and to see her on the bed struggling to understand her limbs brings back memories - none, of course, being about exhaustion or nappies. Eitan and Madeleine's early years, despite struggling with a wack job business partner and the telecoms Internet boom-bust, were great times. You really learn about your marriage, I'll say. Sonnet and I were at first afraid (terrified) of leaving Eitan alone and so he slept with us... for about three weeks until Sonnet put the Kibosh on that one and he got his own room. Nearly immediately he began sleeping through the night. Madeleine, on the other hand, kept us awake for months, refusing to seed the battle for hunger or comfort. Remarkable first impressions, Dear Sir. Today Madeleine confirms her Tom-Boy status and we do the checklist: climbs trees? Check. Likes sports? Check. Hates Barbie? Check. Jeans or a dress? Jeans, of course.

Back to the moment: it is 4AM and I'm still on West Coast time as I blog now. Sonnet and I have dinner earlier with Sonnet's colleague Malissa who is the senior curator at the de Young Museum in San Francisco. She celebrate her 50th in Europe+London to attend the CHODA conference, which Sonnet chairs. Years ago, Sonnet was an intern at the de Young and so Malissa recommended the Courdault Art Institute and wrote Sonnet's key recommendation (Malissa an alum). In large part our being in Britain is due to her, God bless. Malissa knows everybody in the dress-fashion-design world and boy is their catching up a conversation. While Sonnet away, Malissa tells me that she and everybody are thrilled Sonnet has achieved: "she makes us all look good." Amen, brother.

The OP

The Pacific at Point Lobos. No Californian is far from the ocean and the luckiest live by it. Stinson, near Berkeley, is a fine example and was an excuse to cut high school many a spring day. The beach located next Muir Woods and a popular day-trip from San Francisco (or the East Bay). Because it is Northern California, the fog sometimes a problem but on a glorious day - who cares? Sonnet and I went to Stinson on our second date BTW. It is surfable, but not a classic break and there are sharks: In 2002, a surfer was attacked by a 12-15 foot-long great white and while the dude survived, he received more than 100 stitches to close his wounds. The attack was the second at Stinson since '98, and the 13th in Marin County since '52. The surf off Stinson is within an area known as the Red Triangle, where there have been an unusually high number of shark attacks. Hmm I wonder if there is some kinda connection with nearby Farallon Islands where the Great Whites migrate every year to feed and mate?

Classic Norcal surfing breaks abound and the best are, just perhaps, 3 and 4 mile points or the same distances from the Santa Cruz light house. To reach the break, a surfer dude must park his car by the HW1 then walk a mile or two through lettuce or cabbage fields to get to a rocky cliff. From there, it is a downward scramble, with board and wet suit, to the ocean. There is no beach nor launch pad. The water is black and cold - 62 degrees in winter - and massive kelp beds reach from the below. Often in fog and with unnatural seaweeds touching the body, it is easy to let the mind wander: shark. Sea lions swim underneath can scare one witless (seen in white flashes). But on a good swell the hassle is worth it - there is no better way to goof than riding those waves.