On Military Spending

Here we are, back to normal. Granted these numbers could be dubious but Wikipedia provides data on US military spending: for the 2009 fiscal year, the base budget rose to $515 billion. Adding emergency discretionary spending and supplemental spending brings the sum to $651 billion. This does not include many military-related items that are outside of the Defense Department budget, such as nuclear weapons research, maintenance and production (about $9.3 billion, which is in the DoE budget), Veterans Affairs (about $33.2 billion), interest on debt incurred in past wars, or the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (which are largely funded through extra-budgetary supplements, about $170 billion in 2007). As of 2009, the United States government is spending about $1 trillion annually on defense-related purposes. This amounts to more than the entire world combined and 8X China. And the scary thing is this: to 2008, with one exception, every department rising faster than inflation (the Virginia Class Submarine see its year-on-year nipped -1.2% which must have been on heck 'uv a battle) while base spending, ie, ongoing, up 5.7%. There are several obvious conclusions: A) what nation-state do we fear and why do we have nuclear missle attack submarines?; B) we are the most hawkish nation in the world; C) this investment does not fight terrorism; and D) no wonder our roads crumble, education declines, streets less safe and national debt ballooning. There are others, too, of course but I hope all those fuckers in the Midwest living on corn fields appreciate their machismo. We are all paying for it.

"A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual doom."
Martin Luther King, Jr.

www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Military_budget_of_the_United_States

McD's

Does it always end up at McDonald's? Otherwise, Madeleine on the look out for "buddies" or stuffed animals on the Canterbury high street and she eventually buys #110, #111, #112 - some even have names. 

I am pleased to find a comics book store with rows of boxes containing sealed originals from the older stuff like "Fantastic Four," "Captain America" and the "X-Men" as well as newer "Dark Knight" and others. I strike up a discussion with the owner who looks about what one would imagine: short on height, bald, thick glasses and wearing an "ACME Comics" T-shirt. He is totally engaging and notes his mission: "just trying to keep the tradition alive" when I say there are a rare-few comics stores left. 

In my yuf Telegraph Avenue owned Comics World and Comics And Comics within two blocks of each other. I learn that before 1969 new-guys Marvel Comics found themselves at the back of the dominant rival D.C. Comics (Superman, Bat Man, etc) - literally, as D.C. owned the distribution and refused Marvel and others their shelf-space; instead D.C. offered the second half, or least desirable part of the book while retaining editorial rights. From 1969, however, D.C. forced open allowing Marvel to develop its own independent comic-lines giving us Spider Man, Hulk, FF and many others in circulation still. 

I ask the fellow if he has read Michael Chabon's "The Adventures of Kavalier And Clay" - which I now read thanks to Christian - the story about a couple of Jewish kids in New York during WWII and the Golden Age of the comics industry. 

I end up buying him a copy and lucky for us because we find Eitan's whoopy-cushion, left on the counter, upon our return. Needless to say, its loss would have been everybody's loss.

Canterbury

We spend the day in Canterbury, where I have not been since our first year in London. The first and only stop is the cathedral, which looms large over the village and indeed all of England: this is the home of the Archbishop of Canterbury, leader of the Church of England and the worldwide Anglican Communion. I hear him from time-to-tim on Radio 4's daily "Thought For The Day" which reaches six-million Brits. But the Cathedral: origins from 597AD when archbishop St. Augustine of Canterbury, previously an abbot Rome, sent by Pope Gregory as a missionary to the Anglo-Saxons; Augustine founded the cathedral in 602 (archaeological investigations in 1993 revealed the the original Saxon cathedral, which was built across a Roman Road)(The kids could care less - in fact, Eitan downright hung-dog and refuses to listen to my brochure) The history palpable - for instance martyrdom, when Tomas Becket murdered by King Henry II ("Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?"); Becket now entombed in the downstairs crypt - creepy. Henry IV and Navine also on display with The Black Prince or Edward of Woodstock and the oldest son of King Edward III and father of Richard the II; Edward an exceptional military leader and popular during his life but died one year before his father and never took the thrown. The cathedral's inside a remarkable, inspiring 90.5 meters high by 90.5 wide and I beg Eitan and Madeleine to consider the effort, if not the history. I may never be able to regard stained glass again - pictured is one of the many, and perhaps oldest in England dating to the 12 century. It is a picture of a pilgrimage to Canterbury.

Madeleine buys a "buddy" at the toy shop but changes her mind 30 seconds later; I get into an arguement with the store clerk who informs me "returns are not our policy." Eitan, unperturbed, begs me to buy him a remote-control-farter.

Seaside Affair

Yesterday afternoon ends up at the hotel lounge doing homework instead of bowling, which makes the Shakespeares grouchy. We share a table with an otherwise silent older gentlemen who, after his tea, remarks: "well, this certainly looks like homework to me" as he doffs his cap and cracks a knowing smile at me. Education belongs to everyone, you see. Bent feelings soon straightened by Manchester United vs. Blackburn Rangers, which broadcasts live on the tele. We order burgers and watch entranced - Eitan and I anyway - and Rinaldo scores the winner on a screaming penalty from 30 meters out. Eitan in ecstasy. Madeleine meanwhile stifles her yawns and plays on the coach or thumb-wrestles with me; we engage a game of 'pinch' where the objective to see who suffers longest; instructions self-evident). Before the afternoon action, we dip in the sea, only ones crazy enough to do so, at Madeleine's suggestion - ever the Dare Devil she. It freezes the feet, oh dear. I tell the kids they can have £10 if they submerge and after howls and squeels - they do. Great joy. This morning is back to routine, that is, 6AM. I am relaxed when it comes to their eating and any breakfast buffet sends them into an apoplexy - the stomach switches off the brain. After the third helping I take notice - Eitan dumps sugar on his Coco Pops and I ask the question: "do you think food effects your mood?" Both look at me like I am nuts, so I analgise: "think of burning a piece of paper... now consider burning wood..." they could care less and stuff their happy little faces.

Madeleine weighs in with a specific request for today: "I just want to go to that shop with my ten-quid and buy that gravity thing"
And Eitan, in one word: "Bowling."

Wheelers

As recommended by the NYT, we lunch at Wheelers which has been serving since 1857. The restaurant has a small fish-bar that seats six and we are lucky to arrive early and get three stools together. Before us behind the counter: jellied eels, octopus chunks, salted haddock, lobster, crab, smoked and raw salmon, cockles, lemons, sea snails, giant and miniature shrimps, crayfish and various salads,+oysters, which are divine. The only condiment vinegar, of course. We really pig out - I should say I really pig out because most of the dishes a bit too fishy for the kids. After our many multiple appetisers we have crab and salmon cakes which are simple and magical - served with a small plum sauce and lite herbs. Seated next to us first are a young couple drinking own-wine and smooching between bites (Eitan turns his head) then a grubby set who, I overhear, visiting from Harvard. Meanwhile locals pass through order Styrofoam cups of whatever and I revel in their accents: "gimme a few of them, luv" and of course our grouchie female server simply won't tolerate the kids loudness or my friendly overtures - she serves us what we want and refuses to make a recommendation: "them is all good" she assures me with a sullen look. Wheelers is similar to The Swan Oyster Depot in San Francisco which I know Stan loves - unlike Swans, Wheelers is cozier nor offers a seafood salad with blue-cheese, which I think an American classic. Wheelers also does not serve fish 'n chips and an elderly couple told to pitch their tent down the block at another serving restaurant. In a word: sublime.

Eitan: "Can we go bowling until midnight?"

Another Town, Another Church

We stroll the historic high-street which is charming and feels removed from modern Britain. Local shops include the cheesery, butchers, fruit and veg and nick-nacks - this the way it is in Paris but never here. There are plenty of tourists mingling with "old-age pensioners" (a derogatory expression if ever there was one) and I catch a couple somewhat confused that I take their picture. By far my favorite is the model-train shop. Inside, hundreds and hundreds of box-cars, cabooses and front-engines line the wall, all of similar scale and meant for the same track. I chat with the proprietor who is in his late 50s I would guess, and owns a maticulous white goatee as I would expect. He has a twinkle in his eye and essoteric knowledge - we move from trains to kit-rockets, which I once built with older neighbor Todd then blasted off at the Berkeley Arena. Today, my friend strokes his white chin and laments that hobbiest have a hard time - "model rockets can no longer be found locally," he informs me though I fail to ask if there were plenty such shops 50 years ago, as it seems like there would be. In honesty, I cannot remember the last cool specialty store - our high streets all the same combo of Boots, WH Smith, Waitrose and Starbucks or Cafe Nero. In Whitstable there is not one chain, to my relief. The kids have their allowance of £3 to blow, which they do - Madeleine two more buddies and Eitan an arrow-ship sling shot. He gloats about his deal, which leaves him with £1.50 and a power-play at the candy-store. Poor Madeleine, but I give in and buy her a bag.

I Want To Go To The Seaside (Kooks)

Everybody in a good mood and happy to have a change from the routine - or at least football camp for Madeleine. Sonnet stays in London to catch-up on work and have some time to herself boy do I know that need. She starts with a body massage and I note that her text messages seem a bit, er, giddy. I think this the first time Sonnet has been alone since, like, ever. Or at least our marriage. Sort of an interesting thought.

The tide range at Whitstable harbour varies from about eight feet on neap tides and 15 feet on spring tides. The incoming (flow) tide flows from east to west towards the river Swale, while the outgoing (ebb) tide from west to east or towards Herne Bay. At mid-tide, the water can be flowing at close to three knots. To prevent flooding, wood jetties separate the beach divided into 20 meter squares which I assume prevent a tidal sweep onto the city front. I've seen something similar on the Long Island shoreline but never so close together.

Whitstable

We split London yesterday afternoon for Whitstable in Northeast Kent or Southeast England. The drive should take less than 2 hours but since we are on the M25 there is traffic and so forever. We are in Whitstabel because last Sunday's NYT's Travel Section did a profile on the town and so I thought - why not? The town is known as the "Pearl of Kent" and famous for its oysters, which have been collected since at least the Romans. The town itself dates back to before the writing of the Doomsday Book, which is pretty cool and connects us to Chichester. I am told after a decline, the oyster fishery industry now thrives. And on to oysters: last night Eitan and Madeleine try their first. Says Eitan: "a bit awkward but I guess OK." He does not venture a second. Madeleine seems to love them - "it tastes like the sea, dad!" We stay at the Hotel Continental which overlooks the water and indeed the oysters are some of the best I have ever had. A nice warm up for sure. Feeling very Bri-tu-ish.

This morning kids up 6AM - pow! -and we are beach-combing by seven. Both fill a pale-full with white shells which are later deposited at the front desk. The receptionist smiles at her own childhood memories, I imagine - she enjoys the kids enthusiasm anyways. We then stroll a few hundred years to the local pool - nice and clean, thankfully - where Eitan swims 32 laps of the 25 meters. His crawl is coming along and the easier he goes the faster, which is the big secret of swimming and most things in life. Madeleine and I play "jaws of death" and then guess-the-fish, a game she invents where I have to guess the... fish. Or crustacean. This allows for a fun goof as I toss every under-water sea creature I can think of in her direction, to her frustration. But sometimes it works: Madeleine's interpretation of a jelly-fish with feet and arms dangling I guess first try. Brils. I remember vaguely doing this with my mom at Strawberry Canyon or some other place. We discover a nearby bowling rink and believe you me we are are going back.

Self Portrait V

Friday. Britain's national debt, I read, could be reach £2 trillion or £33,000 per man, woman and child. Who can forget the National Debt Clock in Times Square from Reagan? I don't recall the per household liability peak, but the clock removed following Clinton's balanced federal budget. The swings are mind-boggling, really - these numbers should take a generation to shift but here we are again at the bottom of the barrel. No wonder nobody really seems to care or if they do - so what? The stim-u-lator will lower taxes to the middle class, which is at least better than only the top 1%. Many economist so hope we buy ourselves out of this ticket but unlikely: with no savings whatsoever Americans are likely to ... save. En masse. Or at least pay their utility bills. Remember Bush's one-off cash-cheque last year? Neither do I. In fact, I can't even say the amount - six hundred bucks maybe? - and cost the government billions. Straight to the utilities. Or gas. Or the mortgage. The cash-back plan like throwing a deck chair off the Titanic. Bush being the ship's captain. I do think the US recession will turn for the better sometime next year as it has always done since I have been alive. The lingering perception, however, will last perhaps years beyond like 1989-92 when housing prices bottomed in 1995 and some cities like LA, even later. At least we can look forward to spring and happily, daffodils poking themselves into the sun. Life isn't all bad. In fact, it is pretty good.

It's Fashion

New York Fashion Week ends today following a week of summer displays - like pictured, forcing my lament: I'm going to the wrong beaches. 

The Big Show takes place in Bryant Park where it moved in 1993 having before that begun in 1943 as the world's first organized fashion week to attract attention away from the French during World War II, when industry insiders unable to travel to Paris. 

The circus moves to London next week, which has Sonnet in a flutter - the museum and her colleagues are also buzzy about hats, whose display opens around the same time. Sonnet informs me that it is "all about the fantasy" (I think: gay) which is well anticipated in this environment, escapism and all that. It is easy to be dismissive - hats? - until seeing the beauty behind something so simple and every-day. It is not only the garment, you see, but the full expression - the model's oiled hair, bared shoulder and sparkling smile+the accompanying outfit netting a sensation. Fun. 

Sonnet's colleague Oriel has been working (running?) non-stop in preparation these past few months and the pre-marketing seems everywhere. But back to the runways: having been to several many of the catwalks with Sonnet and even back-stage on occassion with the models, the thing that strikes me is: how bored the girls are. And young, generally under 19. The bam! they are on display in front of the most critical eye under a bright spotlight being simply revered, loved. Whom am I to wonder if the affection is for all the wrong reasons? Did you know there is a fashion-week in Columbus, Ohio? Snort!

Madeleine sings: "Here comes the bride, a thousand meters wide!"
(she repeats over and over and over until I scream at her to stop)

Eitan has the giggles so badly right now he cannot speak. And for no apparent reason. I look at him blankly but it is hard not to join his fun. Does one ever feel this good again?

Photo from the web, uncredited.

Ray

Here is Ray with a Kalashnikov rifle in Gilgit in August '97. I met him in graduate school when I was a student in his modern political economy class. When Ray detailed his plans to return to Central Asia I was hooked. Munir, who guided us through our trip, notes today: "things are worrisome in North West Frontier Province of Pakistan that is called NWFP. However Gilgit and Baltistan are safe as they were at the time of your visit. " Here is Ray's bio below. Me, I am just grateful we got to spend a month together exploring the Roof of the World.

"A lawyer and political scientist, Professor Horton teaches the course Modern Political Economy. A member of the Columbia Business School faculty since 1970, he served two years while on leave from the School as Executive Director of the Temporary Commission on City Finances during the New York City fiscal crisis, and later served 15 years as Director of Research and President of the Citizens Budget Commission. His publications on municipal finance and management include 14 books, numerous journal articles and policy studies. In 1983, he founded the Public and Nonprofit Management Program at the School. In 1998, that program morphed into the Social Enterprise Program, which Horton directed until 2009. In 2009, he was named Faculty Director of Social Enterprise programs in the School’s Executive Education division. As part of his executive education responsibilities, Professor Horton directs custom programs for the Center for Curatorial Leadership and the King Khalid Foundation."

Your Money At Work

Here is a selection of of what California will get under the stim-u-lator focused on infrastructure and education; there are other areas too like tax-cuts, but the below items mission-critical (in my opinion):

• $2.6 billion in highway funding that could also be used rail and port infrastructure
• $1.1 billion for investments in mass transit
• $444.8 million to address the backlog of drinking water and clean water infrastructure needs
• $4.6 billion to local school districts and public colleges and universities
• $82.7 million for Head Start to prepare children to succeed in school
• $1.2 billion for Special Education Part B State Grants to help improve educational outcomes for individuals with disabilities
• $74.2 million in education technology funds to purchase up-to-date computers and software and provide professional development to ensure the technology is used effectively in the classroom
• $1.6 billion for Title I Education for the Disadvantaged to help close the achievement gap and enable disadvantaged students to reach their potential

Go-bama! What do we say about these conservative Governors who threaten not to take funds from the stimulus plan? Imagine their middle-class contituents, worried about a job or family, and told that the rest of the country to benefit from Federal tax-dollars accept you. Hmm... this does not seem like a particularly astute vote-getting strategy. In fact, it sounds plane stupid which, I might suggest, consistent with Republican rich-tax-cut-and-spend-blah-blah-blah agenda these last eight years (note that I say "Republican agenda" and not "Republicans" since I have been warned by several family Republicans whom I respect to curtail any direct attacks. Fair enough.)

1950s post-card from the State of California.

Teenagers And A Deal

After yoga I pick the kids up from football camp - it is their half-term recess and they have a week no school. Eitan has a play date so I take Madeleine for pizza. She is not in an especially talkative mood and my jet-lag does not enliven the conversation either. Sometimes it can be like pulling teeth but the key thing, I remind myself, is the later. My older friend Dale (not to be confused with the other Dale) has lived through two teenagers and I know it has not been easy. His older, beautiful daughter had cancer and thankfully she appears rid of it entirely. Dale on occasion gives me parenting advice and notes that with older children nothing can be forced. Sometimes this nets periods of silence, Dale says, which should not be breached even if otherwise awkward. Teens have to be comfortable sharing their private stuff, and us parents must accept that it may be only a fraction of the whole. And still be fully behind them. So back to today: it is my hope that the trust established over pepporoni pizza goes far when the kids A) get arrested, B) become or get somebody knocked up, or C) caught with dope. It is my aim to react with something other than a good grounding and complete despair and while I don't anticipate such things, a good policy prepares for extremes. We experimented and survived somehow (maybe not A and B). Smart kids in nice neighborhoods get in trouble, for sure. The families I admired from Berkeley always seemed somehow supportive of whatever, and I wish this to be the case with us.

Madeleine, desperate for ten-pounds to buy some faux glasses, negotiates a deal: "If you give me ten pounds now, I will repay you plus you only have to give me one pound allowance this week end." Madeleine's allowance otherwise three quid, so I would pocket the difference, if I understand her correctly. Annualised, these terms worse than Sicily; it does provide a nice value to liquidity though. She gets credit for being creative but otherwise no-go.

London Encore

And here I am - just like that - back in the UK. 


 Eastwards is a tough flight from New York - not quite long enough to sleep on the overnight+wet or grey on arrival and worst of all: rush-hour traffic. But it feels genuinely good to be here and I chat with the taxi-driver about the state of the world and London. You can imagine. Radio 4 and John Humphries in the background and now part of my fabric. By contrast, New York's entrance is dramatic - the Triborough Bridge (great name for a bridge) serves up an endless skyline to the South and a brilliant contrast to everything else belching smoke or going clackity-clack. 


New York's sheer infrastructure dazzles with its neon, steel, poster giants, concrete and cement as far as the eye can see - tune in Gerschwin's Rhapsody as I pass the Lucky Strike billboard and the picture complete (though Lucky now a Discovery Channel). 


London, meanwhile, has its elevated M4 which passes 15 meters over the roofline and built in '67 as a necessity to connect the airport to Central London. Mostly the scenery dreary with the the occasional new construction taking advantage of the proximity to the airport. Glaxo-Smith-Kline, for instance, is impossibly modern and bendy whose curves emphasized by the dilapidated, post-war neighbors. 


Closer to the center, we see more glass than brick and London starts to feel cosmopolitan somehow. Since the buildings not high by NY or Big City standards, there is a human scale to the madness - it becomes easy to imagine work-places, homes and whatever. Even more cool to consider the various enthnic groups spread across the city's vast real-estate (180 languages and etc.) My best part is knowing Sonnet and the kids await my return.

Madeleine on a new house: "It would be great if we moved to Chinatown."

Photo of parliament from the London Tourist Board.

On Envy

I change my monkey-photo to Planet Of The Apes. These apes got along afterall.

Monkeys, one observes, are happy to be rewarded for their work with cucumber slices unless one of the group receives grapes. Then they get snarky and no longer do the work. It turns out that envy, or the 6th deadly sin and probably the least acknowledged, is passed along via evolution. More, reports the NYT, the vibe's unpleasant sensation equal to its opposite or schadenfreude - seeing your rival stumble. This measured by brain activity. I read this BTW awaiting Katie's doctor appointment and wonder about the past eight-years: Americans (and Brits), driven to keep up with the Joneses, did stupid things like buy unaffordable houses or Humvees. 


 It's too easy to call these people assholes (and many are) but our system's deep inequalities, accelerated during Bush and hyper-visible in our mythology (90210! Baywatch! The Sopranos!) have turned many citizens into twitching miseries (very different, mind you, than the more socially tolerable jealousy). Personally I have seen MBAs making $millions hateful of their status because it ain't more. 


 Of course envy is not an American phenomenon - in Nairobi I met seven Kenyon runners under 2:15 for the marathon and several unhappy about not making the elite squad. Yet those Africans work together and their comparisons did not seem corrosive. The runners happy to be blessed, alive and... running. Pretty simple. So today Barack signs the stim-u-lator and we will see how the country manages its schadenfreude.

Madeleine and Eitan at the age when they compare everything. It generally effects their happiness - for instance, the other night Madeleine thought Eitan's ice cream more and she could not enjoy her desert. Brother. As a parent, it is my job to cut this off somehow at the quick so it does not dog them the rest of their lives. Oh boy, seen and done that before.

Sheridan Square

This photo where Sheridan and West Fourth Streets join at Seventh Avenue. In my mind the heart of Greenwich Village and around the corner from Waverly Place and Sixth Avenue where I enjoyed - ? - my first apartment. I am pretty sure it was a tenement once and Mark, who found the flat while I was in Africa with my family, lived in a walk-in closet complete with loft. But that is another story and now he lives in Greenwich, Connecticut. I remember my first-time arrival, driving up Sixth Avenue looking for 373 and thinking: this cannot possibly be it - more generally, I think I would have preferred less humid, more friendly Africa thank you very much. So today the only thing to change is the passer-byes; the buildings and my memories fixed circa 1989-90 when everything raw though happily I have a number of dear friends whom keep that epoque alive like Erik, Brad, JD, Todd and Kelly and others - without them, who would share the humour of the mad transition post college?

Washington Square

I take a few hours to myself and head downtown to buy a pair of kicks - which I do: New Balance, blue. The sales clerk has a big afro and I overhear her speak french so I nudge my way in. Turns out she is from Morocco, which she makes me guess. Since I have been there, we bond and again I get to use my French. This never happens in London BTW where I am told over 180 languages spoken. Go figure. I eventually meet Washington Square on a beautiful and clear New York afternoon and snap this photo at MacDougal and Washington Square North. Stately, next to derelict. I am surprised to find several mews blocks which are prevalent in London and never seen by me in New York - these are usually private streets with connected row houses no more than several stories. Here, they are surrounded by the taller mid-century condominiums and NYU. Their isolation from the hustle-bustle makes them kinda interesting I suppose - like being in a zoo, perhaps too since all the street-walkers like me curious. So my house and Wash Square - here is what I learn: it used to be a farm. Then a burial ground until the New York purchased the land around 1800 and turned it into a military parade ground where volunteer militia companies responsible for the nation's defense trained. By the 1830s, the surrounding houses had become the most desirable in the city, and I bet damn nice to live in one today. I can dream if only for a minute strolling by.

In One Word: Production

In an attempt to understand this idea of scale when it comes to the stimulus, I turn to Paul Krugman, who has been reporting ahead of the curve. His observation: no wealth created in America during Bush - only artificial pricing drawn from easy-credit. Today's correction consistent with the 1930s and Japan though not yet as deep. Krugman notes that FDR's New Deal started the country towards recovery but we owe are today to World War II. The US government footed war production entirely, borrowing 120% against GDP versus 8% or so today. In return, of course, we helped create the largest market imaginable for our goods and eventually services like accounting and banking... boy, does Europe wish we stopped at the 747s and Microsoft. Krugman concludes that without an equally massive works program it will take a generation or more to pay down our $trillions. What would the Gipper be thinking now?

I imagine that I am the only person, really, who cares about these pithy observations on the economy so why? Well, it helps me boil down the endless chatter to something I understand and I don;t care that my missives selfish or self-serving. There you have it. Also Madeleine and Eitan may read this very blog one day+I wish them to know what was happening inside the dark hole since they will be paying for it.

The photo BTW appeared in 1942 and widely circulated particularly in LIFE Magazine in 17 September 1942 and the Illustrated London News in the next month. It shows 4,500 aircraft models suspended from Chicago’s Union Station. The inspiration derived from FDR's assertion that America would produce 185,000 war-focused aircraft in 1942 and 1943.