Down Town

Madeleine, our artist, taken at the time of the holiday-photo (note the faux bandage). Katie and I meet Christian and Sarah in Alphabet City for a Big Night on the town beginning at Freeman Alley and a restaurant of similar name. Since Christian chooses the spot it is undeniably cool with the gorgeous people drinking at a cramped gin bar surrounded by taxidermy. Aiding the off-kilter is the building's age (it warps like Ms Pigley Wigley) and hidden location. From martinis and pinot noir we walk to Noblu with barely an indication of itself other than a gathering crowd at midnight and a bouncer who whisks us inside. Entering I pass through heavy velvet drapes which is the norm - I consider Delia's, a favorite during my banking years, on A or B Street (Sarah's friend bought the lounge ten years ago and kept the design but removed the name- so it is now nameless). Noblu is cool for its edge, inside graffiti and house-band who come on around 1AM as the place gets thumping. Berkeley High pal Adam joins us for the late shift - Adam is an MD in critical care medicine, infectious disease and internal medicine in the Bronx so yes, he is a bad ass. I now pay for my evening as I write, in under shorts dear reader, headache front and center and consider the punishment well worth the crime. Maybe.

I call Sonnet BTW from a taxi home, catching her as she prepares the kids for football. Not smart.

"In the town where I was born
Lived a man who sailed to sea
And he told us of his life
In the land of submarines

So we sailed up to the sun
Till we found the sea of green
And we lived beneath the waves
In our yellow submarine"

John Lennon

Work and Diner

Katie bangs away at some work

This morning we power-walk through Central Park where the remnants of snow make for slippery treding. I complete a full loop passing the Larken skate rink on the far North side of the park which is pretty cool - it reminds me of the 1950s which is on my mind thanks to Yates' "Revolutionary Road." Was there ever a simple time? 

From the park we head for the Metro Diner for some greasy eggs which takes me back to the Three Brothers Diner on 85th and Columbus, which was 24 hours and my "local" way back when and now sadly gone. This was the last stop, with Katie, before I split NYC for the fist time in '93 anticipating an autumn return to business school. Then I met Sonnet and good-bye to all that. 

Diners play a special part of city life (in London, it is the humble 'caf') from rye toast to steak and eggs. Who can forget Tony Manero's date with Stephanie where Tony stuffed his mouth with White Castle hamburgers (plane, not even ketchup+bits showing as he spoke) and drank black coffee? But back to '93: I packed all my crap into Manhattan Storage, met Katie for breakfast and a walk in Central Park then caught a train to Boston to spend ten eventful days with Eric supposedly painting his house but instead carrying on an affair with his house tenant. Yes, those were simpler times indeed.

Falling Down

Well, as if we did not know, it is now official: the UK recedes. New figures show that Britain is in recession for the first time since 1991 after its economy shrank during the final two quarters of last year. The Office for National Statistics said that British GDP declined 1.5% in the fourth quarter of 2008 from the previous three-month period, when it also contracted (the technical definition of a recession BTW is two quarters of negative economic growth). Q4 was the worst performance in more than 28 years. On the positive side, retailers registered (ar-ar) a 1.6% rise during the holiday season. Must be the foreigners taking advantage of the Pound's crash against the dollar to 1.39 - 1.39! -only last year it was over 2. Departing Terminal 5 the only people shopping the mall are from oil owning countries. Seriously. And not paying VAT, God D--- them. Not surprisingly this has demoralised the country and even brings comparisons to those nit-wits in Iceland who for a brief moment in time thought they were better then sliced bread and borrowed to own the loaf. Their currency, now worth nothing, may never recover meaning there are a whole lot of people... going no where. They can't afford the plane ticket. Ireland is also tits up (I have come to like this expression) as their banks nationalised last week and we, dear reader, are the next island before Europe. Britain, unlike Germany or France, discarded its manufacturing base for finance and finds itself greatly exposed. While the pound has made British goods cheap again we simply don't make them like we used to. No more cars. No more machines or furniture. As a consolation, I now own my bank - 70% of Royal Bank of Scotland, for instance. I feel so good about this I'm going over to the high street to make a deposit.

The Slip Horse Falling Off A Cliff by Sidney Nolan, pictured.

Katie's Roof Deck

Katie and I go running on Riverside Drive. Since I am aiming to be injury free and recovering from a calf, my trainer gives me specific tasks - this morning it is 10X three-minutes easy running+1 minute walk. We shuffle along the snow-cleared path and it is tits cold (as the Brits would say). This a favorite area of Manhattan especially in autumn when the trees turn yellow and shadowed by late 19th and early twentieth century brownstones this is what New York must have been like over 100 years ago minus the West Side Highway.

Afterwards we stroll by the Blue Moon cafe and I pig out on their pastries and scones and cappucino's which are made properly, excuse me Starbucks. I chat up a French speaking fellow and learn he is from Jamaica then eight years in Paris followed by London and now New York where he owns several restaurants.

I normally would not approach somebody in such a way but then why not? From the morning I catch the tube to Times Square and then shuttle to Grand Central where I have a momentary weepy seeing the enormous American flag and thinking about Barack Obama. Must be the jet lag.

Then lunch with Kim at Yasuda on 43rd street which I think the best sushi in town. The bill would support this. I was at Nobu last week and hands down this place better and I love the receptionist for his afro-style hair - he is Japanese - and I tell him so, which catches him out before we laugh about it. He knows he is all that. I then practice my few words learned from childhood nanny Taka.

Kim runs investments for a foundation and we have a fun conversation about Obama and other things and I enjoy her tune and our shared political and world view. Last I saw her was in London where Sonnet and I joiner her and colleague Niles at the Ivy for an uproarious affair; amongst other things we discuss Elliot Spitzer (Kim on cheating: "three words: 'you're outta here'"). Now Katie and I sit and she types away a correspondence to the Ford Foundation. Sun sets.

Meanwhile back at the ranch: Eitan has a field trip to the British Museum visiting the Egyptians including the Rosetta stone while Madeleine finds a bird's skull which she takes to school. Usual stuff.

NY Minute

I arrive on the Upper West Side yesterday afternoon following a plane trip without incident. I really don't like the departures but those are the breaks in the ex-pat community. As Dale used to say: "the cost of doing business." Katie and I kick around some ideas for her Op-Ed and work through her plenty long to-do list. We then have dinner at 2230h which is something I have not done in ages so late but here normal, God Bless the Big Apple. There really is no other place that compares and crossing the Tri-Borough bridge into Manhattan thrilling: planes, trains and automobiles racing at break-neck speed. Given the lights and everything, everybody seems awake and alive despite the cold and recession. My taxi driver honks and curses while his radio sports intrudes on my thoughts; I watch the concrete zip by and wonder: who makes sure it's safe? Everything afterall old - it could crumble in an instance, this unnatural thing. It also details the work that went into building New York - you can see it in every crack, every brick. Not surprisingly I am up at dawn, drag, and snap this sunrise facing East towards the park. I have a purposely lite schedule to hang out with Katie but will see a friend for lunch then mostly kick around Midtown and maybe Moma. I am sure a manicure and Central Park jog will get snuck in somehow. Life is good.

Sonnet and I have not been to Yorkshire since we hiked the Pennines (also known as a "ramble") way back when but here is a good definition from an uncredited friend: "I'm from Yorkshire, and the definition of a Yorkshireman is a Scotsman with all the generosity squeezed out,"

Brave New World

And just like that we have a new President. And a brother in the White House. I admit I was nervous watching yesterday's procession as the Obamas so exposed. But I suppose their custom made, missile retarding Chrysler ain't no Le Baron (such protections BTW first used for LBJ in '65 following Dallas). The BBC provides full-on coverage from pre-dawn to the White House and then the gala balls - ten of them attended by the President but thankfully for him all in the same complex. Sounds like Bronxville during the Christmas season - one year I recall Marcia's 27 invitations and one evening joining ten; Marcia had exactly seven minutes per cocktail while Larry waited in the idling car. I found the glamour thrilling. So back to The Mall: Obama's speech criticised for not being transcendent but I found it a call to arms: America must pull together vs the "raging storms" of two wars and an economic crisis. This the sober vibe I catch which seems about right. Of equal comfort I awake to an executive order halting Guantanamo military trials for 120 days and a freeze on new or proposed Bush regulations until each reviewed by the Agency or Department Head appointed by the President. Which, of course, would be Obama. How nice to remind myself. I read Aldous Huxley's tomb four or five years ago and the title a spin on the early 20th century utopias presented by H.G. Wells' "Men Like Gods" and others. Huxley feared the loss of individual identity in the fast-paced world of the future with its imposing technologies and sciences. Visiting America for the first time in 1920, Huxley was outraged by the culture of yuf, commercial cheeriness, sexual promiscuity, and the inward-looking nature of many Americans BUT equally afraid of a government created "negative utopia" creeping onto a civilisation unawares. We may have dodged a bullet yet but there is work to be done. Considerable.

Eitan: "Dad, do you know that Barack Obama is 47?"
Me: "Yes."
Eitan: "That is so old! He is older than you, Dad!"

Madeleine finds a picture of Sonnet and Marcus before the Trevi Fountain in Rome: "Were you stealing coins?"

Photo from ABC News

Self Portrait III

Sonnet and I meet for a date at ... yoga. And then drinks and dinner. Yes, this is what middle-aged parents do I suppose. We have been going to Bikram Yoga since '93 when it opened only its second studio in San Francisco's North Beach. Sonnet and I had been dating a short time and she was experimenting with yoga, meditation and spiritualism. Me, I was hooked on Sonnet and would do about anything to be with her so I did: sitting in a miserable 105-degree room contorting my body in all sorts of unnatural ways. Sweating buckets. Or worse than Bikram - being crossed-legged and silent for 90 minutes doing... nothing. That is about the worst kind of hell. Today Bikram is all over London and if I had been half-way switched on in '97 I would have considered franchising the operation - afterall, ex-pats rack their brain for some US concept like premium coffee or bagels to bring to these unsuspecting Brits. Our yoga in Richmond is run by Johny who is super-intense, bald, slight and skinny though maybe this not the right description. His muscles look baby supple and his skin dove white. If not for his dark, sinister eyes I would think him a physical lite-weight but his stare says it all: "I will fuck you up." Johny looks like he sleeps in half-eagle or camel, which on a good day almost kills me. He will compete in a regional competition this week-end with finals in SoCal - I mean, what are they going to do? See how long they can hold a torture? I have no doubt he will make it to California. Me, studio time punishing enough.

I take the kiddos to school this morning and Eitan lets me know that all the kids in his class think I am silly and "a bit mean" which raises an eye-brow. He asks me not to high-five his chums or give them the Obama "rock." I am not too concerned with this BTW. I appreciate that I am serious yet have Grace's silliness which is the best aspect of my parenting I think. In Eitan's class I talk to his teacher Ms. Y who tells me she went around the class-room each kid describing a goal. Eitan apparently tells Ms. Y that "my dad wants me to be on a better football team with older kids" and further: "I am a bit scared." This catches me out and no doubt I am pushing him towards the next level of his game BUT my only rule that he check out two or three teams before he leaves Palewell where he has been these last five years. Kids pick up their parents aspirations and Sonnet and I agree that our son worries.

"Focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a certain poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself. Because it's only when you hitch your wagon to something larger than yourself that you realize your true potential. "
Barack Obama

Maida Vale and the Suburbs

Here we are in Maida Vale, W9, during the autumn of 2002 before the move to Richmond. I remember our excitement over the leaves. Madeleine then already a terror on her feet. Unlike Eitan, she had no patience for crawling and so off she went by nine-months, bruises, knocks and all. Eitan took his time to the point where I had a mild concern that he was not, well, toddling. Then as now - he was just making sure of his footing before taking the jump.

We and everybody are gearing up for tomorrow's inaugural celebration which I choose not to attend in the end due to late planning. Probably stupid but I enjoy my family. And appreciate Sonnet who we thank for making it another perfect week-end by A) ensuring Madeleine at swim-practice and both kids football; B) making cheese sandwiches for lunch, Sunday pancakes and afternoon roast+ice cream sandwiches with home-made chocolate chip cookies; C) taking Madeleine to Richmond Park so Madeleine can paint her pastels; D) organising the house and letting me do yoga and read. On the couch. Watching football. Hmmm I am feeling kinda guilty as I write but always I ask myself: how on earth did I get so lucky? It is a good question for a husband to ask and, one hopes, repeatedly. By contrast, I am reading Richard Yates unsung classic "Revolutionary Road" which is now in theatres with Kate Winslet, who I love. Yates died a poor, unrecognised man and an alcoholic; the initial mixed reviews of Revolutionary, Yates first published book, crushed his spirit and while he wrote other notable novels and stories, Yates' life blanketed by depression. Easy to see in Revolutionary too, which is semi-autobiographical as most his work: the story follows the claustrophobic entrapment of the Connecticut suburbs in Eisenhower's 50s. Whomever has seen Golden Globe-winning series "Mad Men" will wonder if Matthew Weiner simply ripped off Yates (answer: he did). There is the Midtown office-affair, the boozed up lunches, commuter misery and the grey flannel suits. Mostly there is the struggle to define what being a "man" or a "women" about - here the ideal seems to macho bread-earning, martini swigging decision making, emotionless silent brute and stay-at-home, emotional, home-making, martini swigging spouse. Respectively. But of course the book goes deeper, oh boy. I am two-thirds through so don't know the ending but it is all about to go tits up.

We awake to more bail-outs - this time, Super Gee to give British banks another cool £200 billion to get the credit free-up since his guarenteed last-time did not work. We, the tax paer, are now £one trillion in the hole to our financial institutions as government nationalises the industry. Who would have ever thought? Nobody really feels the impact of all this yet but believe you me, we will for generations.

Also: Katie's pelican in Santa Cruz, not Florida. This bird way too cool for the everglades, no doubt.

B Ball

Cal loses its first game in the Pac 10 to Stanford, dropping the squad to 4-1 in the conference and 15-3 overall - the loss probably knocks us from the Top 25 where we have perched at #22 (I love this picture taken by Kurt Rogers for the Chronicle though not from last night). Who would have thought the Bears off to one of their best starts in years given that the squad lost its top two players to the NBA draft? Just goes to show what a coach can do: Mike Montgomery took over this season following a below-average run with the Golden State Warriors (68-96) and eighteen years with The Cardinal, making Stanturd a national power-house: 393-167 record with 12 NCAA appearances, including the Final Four in '98. Now he is with us. As most will know, I am a football fan first followed by... well, other sports. Basketball is more difficult to follow from London as the games go on way-late Pacific and they are frequent - it is one thing to stay up until 4AM Saturday and nuts to consider doing so several times a week for basketball, which anyways the pace too fast for the radio internets. I will consider sleep deprivation should the Bears reach March Madness as it looks possible they might (Moe: note that I am trying not to jinx the thing). Cal's last basketball championship was in '58 BTW and the following year the Bears went to the Rose Bowl losing to Iowa 38-12. Many of my friends fathers who attended the UC during those golden years wait... and wait... and wait.. . . . .

Cal will get its revenge 14 February when the bball team plays Stanford in Berzerkeley.

A Goal and Good Bye El Presidente

Eitan has a good day in football and scores one spectacular penalty kick from about 25 yards out: the ball goes sailing over the line finding the top-right corner of the net. All the boys throw up their arms and Eitan exults across the pitch. We dads nod our heads: "heck 'uv a shot, guv" we agree. Eitan now sits in front of the Premiere League highlights playing an imaginary game with his football cards pairing dream-teams against each other. 

Madeleine meanwhile with Sonnet in Richmond Park drawing landscapes with pastels, which I can't wait to see. She too has had a busy morning with swim-team then soccer practice.

I receive an invitation to the Obama inaugeration party Tuesday, which I am half-contemplating - I would have to fly out tomorrow which is a lot of rush but then it is a once-in-a-lifetime thing up there with the Berlin Wall coming down. Bush has really cocked it up and I wonder why 25% think he has done a good-job, as the New York Times reports. As Bush himself said once: "you can fool some of the people all of the time." Bush gives a 12-minute exit speech the other night which is trumpted by a plane crash in the Hudson. How simple the alternative vision: a competent pilot in control of his craft. Along with Bush, I only wish ill on Cheney, that disgrace Wolfowitz and worse Rumsfeld; Paul Bremer, Tom Delay, Carl Rove, Harriet Miers and my personal favorite: Alberto Gonzales. What a moron. Let's also raise a glass to David Addington, Jeff Yoo and Scooter Libby who at least was convicted. George Tenet, Richard Perle, Chalebi, Michael Chernoff, Sam Bodman, Stephan Johnson, John Ashcroft and John Snow - how on earth was he Secretary of Treasury? Iraq. WMD. Halliberton. Bear Sterns, Wash Mutual, Lehman Brothers and Citicorp. Unemployment and >3 million new under half the US poverty line. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Mission Accomplished. Richard Fuld and AIG. Standard & Poors. Your 401K. Afganistan. Torture. Gitmo. Warrentless wire-taps. Florida. Oh, and $1T deficit not counting accruals like social security. Heck of a job. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Shocked & Appalled

We've all heard the stories about the fuck-face Bernie Madoff and his $50 billion ponzi scheme. What is less covered are the vehicles that provided Madoff with his money - fund-of-hedge-funds that catastrophically failed to protect their investor's money with a modicum of due-diligence. They, too, are fuckers. In London the most visible feeder is Fairfield Greenwich who, as of November 1, 2008, had approximately $14.1 billion of client money, of which approximately $7.5 billion was invested by Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities often unbeknownst to their clients. My brief run in with Fairfield occurred in '05 when I was introduced, via my business partner, to Andres Piedrahita who oversees Europe and Latin America; Piedrahita is the husband (of course) of Fairfield's founder Walter Noel's daughter Corina. From a large glass office overloooking the Royal Academy on Cork Street in Mayfair, Piedrahita kept me waiting for an hour then smoked a cigar whilst doing his best to make me feel unwelcome. Strange behavior for a guy selling something - in this case Madoff and other hedge funds - Piedrahita had little to say nor barely bothered to explain himself, his business and Fairfield's track-record despite performance that out-performed many good private equity funds yet without a ten-year lock-up. Here is a December 12, 2008, letter still on Fairfield's website:

“We are shocked and appalled by this news,” said Jeffrey Tucker, founding partner of Fairfield Greenwich Group. “We have worked with Madoff for nearly 20 years, investing alongside our clients. We had no indication that we and many other firms and private investors were the victims of such a highly sophisticated, massive fraudulent scheme.”

The funny thing is: it now appears that Madoff never made a trade. It is a sad, despicable story all around and I am glad for myself and my friends that I wanted nothing to do with them then and now.

I look over to see half-a-plate of pasta dangling from Eitan's mouth. Sonnet: "what... house... am... I... in?!"

Eitan hands me his scarf and gloves: "take these, dad."
Me: "What's the magic word?"
Eitan: "Now."

Eitan's Boulders

Katie sends me this fab bird from Florida noting her picture before New Year's. Yesterday I take Eitan to the orthodontist Neal to see about the boy's English teeth - yes, braces are in the works but not for another two or three years, Neal tells us. I pick Eitan up from school early - yanking him, in fact, from class-assembly much to his embarrassment I am sure though he has been warned. Eitan unusually quiet in the car and only later do I learn that he anticipates mouth work, Dear Reader, and so sits afraid. In past he asks whether braces hurt and I tell him so from my own experience: yes. Anyways now he sits with his mouth wide open being poked and prodded whilst blinded from the surgical's bright lights. An alien experience and of course he awaits the pain... things loosen up a bit when he learns he is home free until at least age-10 or 11 (I slyly tell him the timing perfect as this when all the girls will be in love with him and braces will serve as a "nice repellent." He does not smile). Also our orthodontist's clients include Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter fame) and Chelsea FC, though he is not allowed to say which players. He really earns Eitan's respect, however, when he discloses Steven Gerard - who has perfect teeth. Eitan's eye's go wide at the thought of Liverpool's star player sitting in this very chair though actually, Neal goes to Liverpool. Even I impressed and we learn further that John Terry's auto-biography credits his healthy mind, body and teeth as part of his success for England (Neal has also done some work on the Chelsea and England captain). We are told that to play for England "you must brush twice a day" and presumably have fancy cosmetics too. But I am not challenging such sage advice - nor is Eitan.

A rare old bird is the pelican.
His bill holds more than his belly can.
He can take in his beak
enough food for a week.
I'm damned if I know how the hell he can.
Columbo (I heard first-time in '78 I think)

St Martin; Sisley

And yes, now it is Friday again. I have a breakfast date at the SoHo Hotel which means I have to get up early - early for me at least because Sonnet gets going well before dawn preparing for whatever or jogging with her psycho female friends. SoHo Hotel is tres gay and I admire the dudes and their cool outfits - I too can aspire to be metrosexual. After, I find myself with three hours to kill before lunch and after some initial concerns about, ahem, boredom I pay a respectful visit to St Martin-in-the-field and then the National Gallery for some arts. St Martin has been around since at least 1222 when the Abbot of Westminster and the Bishop of London fought over its control, leaving an historical paper-trail which was not email (Westminster won BTW and it was used by their monks). The church rebuilt by Henry VIII (Madeleine: "the fat one") in 1542 to avoid plague victims passing through the King's Palace of Whitehall. At the time, it was "in the fields" in an isolated spot between the cities of Westminster and London. The church later survived the London fire but replaced eventually with a new building in 1721 designed by James Gibbs (influenced, I am sure, by Wren). It was panned then became famous and finally copied - all across America. Given all that, St Martin is pretty darn simple if you ask me: rectangular box, one pointy steeple and some massive columns to greet worshipers and tourists who walk up the chalky steps to pray or gawk. Sonnet and I, during our first year in London, joined a Saturday morning tour of "Portland stone" (yes, those desperate times). Surrounded by old-aged pensioners and wacko enthusiasts we learned all about.... Portland stone, the church being a fine example, you see. With everything else, St Martin offers extraordinary acoustics and a wonderful organ; performances occur daily and my favorite being the lunch-time series show-casing young, musical genius (there is plenty here in an eccentric way), strange instruments, choirs and ensembles. This, I know, a favorite of Stan and I must agree: heaven, and the cost a donation.

From God I go to the the gallery across the street to see an expo on impressionist Sisley, who I learn had British parents yet born and raised in France. Sisley studied at the atelier of of Swiss artist Marc-Charles-Gabriel Gleyre where he befriended Frederic Bazille, Claude Monet and Pierre-Auguste Renoir. The rest, as they say, is history. The efficient collection gives us Sisley's sea-front paintings, in their entirety, which he completed whilst visiting Wales late in his life - strange considering Sisley loved water and rivers (most famously the Seine outside of Paris+Hampton Court on the Thames, pictured- the flow of water, ah). I happily compare these paintings to the permanent collection which unfailingly puts me in a good mood. From there to Nobu and a catch-up with Scott who, with his partner Daniel, surrogate birth twins in September. Life and life-style have changed for him, for sure. Bravo!

I ask Eitan how is dinner? He replies with an enormous burp! and we giggle. Sonnet walks in noting: "It is so nice to see your table manners" and we both crack up.

Image from the National Galleries.

On Beer and Bright Lights

Caption: What goes through your mind when someone says "Let's go for a drink"?

OK, it is sexist - I appreciate this - but pretty damn funny or as these Brits would say: "cheeky" (thank you Paul). Another ad offers: man -> beer -> Blackberry. How happy I am not to be chasing skirt. Not that this ever my style, mind you - I have always been fortunate to have good women in my life+self-awareness that I am not raffish. Nor Rhett Butler. Still, post-college, I did find myself single for a time and often enough in some bar on the Upper West Side or downtown in SoHo or below. What a younger man in New York does not appreciate at all is that he has no chance. Women, mostly, look to step over the awkwardness of one's 20s - why team up with a guy struggling through the same transition? Who is also figuring out his own life? Who has no money? Any young fellow who thinks his banking or consulting or professional whatever competes with a 30 or 40 year old is nuts: the latter more secure and way more interesting with life experiences and all that. I see plenty of my single male friends dating outside their league, which is not necessarily a ranking based on the opposite sex's youth BTW though this is often a plenty simple barometer: "she's totally hot, dude, and 25." In honesty, I cannot imagine a conversation with somebody this young - the intrigues of the PTA? My exercising schedule or picking up the kids? "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?" Brother. So back in those early '90s I would be at The Tunnel or Odeon competing with Texas in cowboy boots or some divorced managing director paying for the round. Not an even playing field, I'll say for sure. Probably best that way, for me, anyways.

One of the few books I re-read every ten years or so is Jay McInerney's "Bright Lights, Big City" and the first time in '88 when my ambitions were New York and, well, the title of the book. The story follows the young, stressed-out main character in the 1980s fast-lane. Unusually it is written in the second-person which adds to the hero's disorientation - he is an outsider to his own narrative which he must find his voice the hard-way via experience and disappointment. It still resonates with me as a period piece that I lived through. Bravo.

"You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning and, though the details are fuzzy, you cannot say that the terrain is entirely unfamiliar."
Jamie Conway, Bright Lights, Big City

Rickey

Rickey Henderson was voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame yesterday on his first-try and here is his first Major League at-bat vs. the Texas Rangers (pictured) on June 24, 1979, televised shortly after my twelfth birthday. The A's were wretched and only 4,752 fans saw Rickey's debut, according to a 1980 media guide - the year when attendance was 306,763 setting a Major League record for the pits (photo BTW from ManOfSteel). 

The decade's end team was a far cry from from the beginning: after another second-place finish in 1970, the A’s won the American League West title in '71 for their first postseason appearance of any kind since 1931. In 1972, the A's won their first league pennant since 1931 and faced the Cincinnati Reds in the World Series (dubbed “The Hairs vs. the Big Squares” as A's owner Charles Finley paid his players $500 each to grow a moustache while the Reds were tradtional clean cuts). 

The A's seven-game victory over the favored Cincinnati gave the team its first World Series Championship since 1930. They defended their title in '73 and '74 before Finley disbanded the team. In my opinion and the opinion of others like Guy who owns the A's, this was the best baseball team assembled ever with Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando, Joe Rudi, Bert Campaneris, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers and Vida Blue. Wow. 

By Henderson, the team had suffered three dismal seasons and in desperation and a masterstoke, Finley hired Billy Martin to manage a young team who, with Henderson, included stars Mike Norris, Tony Armas and Dwayne Murphy. Martin made believers of his young charges, “Billyball” was used to market the team, and the Athletics finished second in 1980. 

This moment specific to my awareness of baseball - the '70s was all about the Oakland Raiders while my baseball interest a distant second and anyway, the A's glory years seemed like an eternity ago - lumped in my 12-year old's conscience with Viet Nam and Watergate which at then had made no impact. Sort of like the 1950s in proximity - I knew it was there but so what? Now the A's were all that and it was exciting to root for the East Bay team. Life was that simple.

As for Rickey's debut 29 years ago: he went 2-4 with a double, single and a stolen base - the first of 1,406 and a MLB record.

Steve, Lucy and 'Stella

I aspire to such photography, in this case Steve and Lucy's holiday greeting. It tells a story of something, no doubt, and despite the silliness is completely cool. On my own picture-taking: sadly the film apparatuses gather dust replaced (of course) by digital with its ease and this blog. The Old School developing took a considerable investment of time, several courses and a patient eye to reach the point where I could competently enter a dark-room and burn an image then work with a bunch of chemicals to produce something... beautiful, at least to me. No thrill quite compares to the first faint impression that forms on an otherwise pure glassy paper - followed by a final image as crystal clear as seeing the thing with thine eye. B&W is a tough passion without other time demands and whilst the Shakespeares offer a most excellent subject matter they and Sonnet are probably happy to have me around the week ends - at least, mostly. For now, I have chucked the hobby into a basket - along with tennis, War & Peace, surfing and other to-do's - that I will master whenever.

Eitan on his poem, which he fails to bring home to memorise over the holidays: "I had one good thought: as long as I am not chosen to go first.. .."

Madeleine struggles with subtracting '2s'; indignantly: "But only yesterday I was doing 1s!"

We have a discussion about Eitan's hero Ronaldo and I encourage the kids to shout out descriptive words.
Me: Strong, powerful, fleet-footed!
Eitan: Muscular, clever, burly, forceful!
Madeleine: Cheesy!

Self Portrait II

Eitan has has outgrown his Saturday football, a team he has been with since age-three. Consquently we explore competitive options and all I ask is that he visit several. Last week it was the Roehampton Rangers who seem fit and offer two excellent coaches; closer to home is the Sheen Lions (I have seen the dads scream from the sidelines: "Take him out! Take that kid out!" and I have yet to understand if this an automatic disqualifer or simply normal), Kew Park Rangers and the Barnes Eagles. The gorilla in our area is the Kingstonian Youth FC which is a standard chartered member of The FA or the governing body of English football. Plus they are sponsored by McDonalds so they must be legit. With >20 coaches and multiple-aged teams for boys and girls they certainly appear to be the real-deal and a tad intimidating. I am told that here is where a kid gets noticed, and tracked, from an early age if he is plenty good and wants to play for Manchester United. hmmm. Matches are every week-end - often at some distance - so I think our family structure about to change where ever the boy goes.

Yesterday, spent in Central London with a few meetings then Claridges Bar, I return with gifts: In Covent Garden I swoop a sweet pair of trainers for Sonnet and buy Madeleine oil paints and canvas. I also pick up colour print-film for her semi-automatic Pentax SuperME, which she has been playing with this year, which for my selfish reasons I would love for her to love. Eitan feels left out but I remind him of ManU vs. Chelsea on Sunday which he watched with pal Joe-Y-H. But back to trainers: only recently have I been turned onto the style and comfort of a fresh pair of kicks thanks mainly to Adam. The choice selection is huge and each intricacy a style point: low riders, retros, arch or flat bottoms, high tops, synthetic or canvas or combo and so on and so forth. The stores are filled with mostly teen-agers and some young 20-something hipsters all checking each other out and me checking them out. Yuf. A groups of girls fondles a pair of green and purple Nikes convincing themselves to do it: yes, fashion on the edge is pretty close to being silly and I am reminded of somebody jumping off the ten-meter platform. Are you just stupid enough to buy those purple shoes? In the end, the Nikes are out of stock and their is a collective groan ("I only want this one") which just goes to show the popular shoes are the last I would pick. Not sure if that says I am in-style or way, way out. Probably that.

Eitan writes a poem this morning

Moskito
Here I am.
A blundering blood-sucker,
A disgrace to humans,
A disgusting old wing beating wimp.
I stand on these shoulders which are as big as bolders,
I'll start sucking their blood as I get swatted around.

Work; And More On Private Equity

Us somewhere in the English countryside. The British go back to work today with a vengence: Chistmas trees on the sidewalk, traffic-jams, nerves jingle and all hustle-bustle. I watch serious fellows on their way to the train station with hands jammed into their Burburries, scarves wrapped tightly. I am glad not to be on that path, thank goodness. There are two times a year when this phenomena occurs: September, post summer recess when clocks fall-back for winter-hours, and now. In the US where holidays are generally two or three weeks the work-year remains flat - one is never really far from the desk. In London, executives and bankers scram during Christmas and summer seasons and the city's population, I am told, dips >10%. It is a good pattern too: always something to plan for and without the endless grind of it all. Sonnet enjoys five weeks at the V&A and me, well - I have as much goof off as I wish assuming the bills somehow get paid and I don't get bored. This on my mind for 2009 as it looks to be a dull year - nothing to get done in private equity as fundraising stops and portfolios marked down thanks to the financial crisis and recession. Our crisis really began several years ago from freely available bank-debt and rosey opinion of economic growth (to get the deal, brother. Many transactions done at four or even five times leverage). This has left many firms exposed - a recent industry survey suggests that >20% of the mega-buyout funds, which own a sizable chunk of the Western World, will fail. As noted before I think, private equity is the largest private employeur in the UK accountable for >1.2 million jobs directly (and a multiple of this indirectly). Last year the industry felt cozy given the 10 year life-span of a typical investment partnership but say good-bye to all that: today's accounting marks reduce portfolio value which threatens limited partnership support (though they are obligated to pay up their capital call)+LPs are under cash pressures themselves. Still, fortunes will be made: anybody buying distressed assets or sitting on cash will find great deals and within a few years the returns will follow.

"The opposite of courage in our society is not cowardice, it is conformity."
Rollo May

"Is he the fat one?"
Madeleine Orenstein, pointing to a photograph of Henry V

Mint

I bought this comic book after school at Comics & Comics on Telegraph Avenue in 1976. I was in the fourth grade and remember like yesterday how excited I was to own the first-issue of a new Spider Man series. Even then I calculated what the thing might one day be worth - a hundred bucks? Enough for college? The comic, along with a stack of others probably indeed worth something, rests safely at my parent's house tucked away somewhere in the basement, each individually protected by special-made air-tight sealing plastic. One day I may re-read all or simply pass them along to Eitan or Madeleine should they show an interest. So here is what happened in #1 (thank you SpiderVillian.com):

This issue opens with Spider-Man snapping pictures of a speech by a vice-chancellor of his university. The speech is interrupted by the sudden appearance of The Tarantula and his goons who are there to kidnap the vice-chancellor. While Spider-Man swings in to stop The Tarantula, the goons manhandle the vice-chancellor to a waiting car. Flash Thompson rushes in to aid the vice-chancellor with Mary Jane looking on, but he is easily subdued by the goons. The Tarantula feigns unconsciousness in order to sucker punch Spider-Man and makes his escape on the back of the getaway vehicle leaving Spider-Man to flee a crowd of hostile students. Our hero returns to his original perch to find his camera smashed and in a fit of anger, injures his hand punching into a brick wall.

Peter Parker returns to his Chelsea apartment and runs into his neighbor Glory Grant. She tends his injured hands and ropes Pete into going out jump-hunting with her. They run into Mary Jane in the hallway, and the threesome wanders down to City Hall. Outside City Hall, Pete spots The Tarantula's getaway vehicle. Pete makes an excuse about visiting Aunt May in the hospital to go change into Spider-Man.

Cut to The Tarantula and his goons being dropped off in the basement of City Hall. Here it is revealed that The Tarantula has been hired by an unknown party to assassinate the Mayor in the guise of a bungled kidnapping. Spider-Man catches up with the trio and tangles with the two goons while The Tarantula ducks into the Mayor's special express elevator. Spider-Man dispatches the goons, and climbs the elevator shaft in pursuit of the The Tarantula. Spider-Man catches up as The Tarantula confronts the Mayor in his office. When Spider-Man dives and carries The Tarantula out of the office window, The Tarantula drags the Mayor out with them. Forced to rescue the Mayor, Spider-Man webs them both gentle to the ground, allowing The Tarantula to escape once again.

Oh, and by the way: that 30¢ Peter Park Spectacular Spider Man first-issue is today valued at $75 (comicspriceguide.com) or a simple annualised rate of return (ROI) of 754%.