The Monument

In The City we stop at The Monument, a tower remembering the fire. The Latin inscription, cut in portland stone, translated to bronze which I repeat, in its entirety, below:

"In the year of Christ, 1666, in the 2nd of September, at a distance Eastward of this place of 202 feet, which is the height of this column, a fire broke out in the dead of the night, which, the wind blowing, devoured even distant buildings, and rushed devastating through every quarter with astonishing quickness and noise.  It consumed 89 churches, gates, the guildhall, public edifices, hospitals, schools, libraries, a great number of blocks of buildings, 13,200 houses, 400 streets of the 26 wards, it utterly destroyed 15, and left 8 mutilated and half-burnt. The ashes of the city, covering as many as 465 acres, extended from one side of the tower along the bank of the Thames to the Church of the Templars, on the other side north-east gate along the walls to the head of the fleet-ditch. Merciless to the wealth and estates of the citizens, it was harmless to their lives, so as throughout to remind us of the final destruction of the world by fire the havoc was swift.  A little of time saw the same city most prosperous and no longer in being. On the third day, when it had now altogether vanquished all human counsel and resource, at the bidding, as we may well believe of heaven, the fatal fire stamped its course and everywhere died out.

 *But borish frenzy, which wrought such horrors, is not yet quenched (these last words were added in 1681 and deleted in 1830)

"

Sonnet to Madeleine: "Please snip some thyme for me (in the backyard)"

Madeleine: "I am just your slave."

Sonnet: "Sometimes."

Madeleine gets me a skull and bones for Christmas; she: "The great thing about it is that you can paint it whatever colour you want."

Tower Bridge

We cross the majestic river while my photo facing east towards Tower Bridge; to the left, the peaks of Canary Wharf on the Isle of Dogs three miles upriver.  London is a good walk, too - each neighborhood's history remembered in brick, stone or metal.  Our route begins at the Tate Modern, then Millenium Bridge to the Wren Cathedral. From there, Cheapside (where the Great Fire began) and the Bank of England followed by Lloyds of London and the Swiss Re Gherkin, the Sir Francis Drake and finally The Globe.  All this inside two hours. It is a perfect day for a walk - cold and clear with plenty of moisture in the air. No sane Englishman to be seen Christmas Day though we bump into Italians and Japanese, who photograph pigeons (I have never understood this).

In the second half of the 19th century, the East End's development demanded a new river crossing downstream from London Bridge (where I take this picture). A traditional fixed bridge could not be built because it would cut off access to the port facilities in the Pool of London, between London Bridge and the Tower of London.  A Special Bridge or Subway Committee was formed in 1876 to oversee a solution - they opened the design to a public competition similar to, say, The Freedom Towers in NY. 50 plans submitted, including one from architectural hero Sir Jospeph Bazalgette who built, like, everything of great importance during the Victorian era.  All sorts of controversy ensued (also like NY), and it was not until 1884 that a design submitted by Horace Jones, the City Architect (who was also one of the judges), was approved.

So finally construction started in 1886.  Eight years, five contractors, 432 construction workers and - voila! - the bridge done: two massive piers of 70,000 tons of concrete sunk into the riverbed supporting 11,000 tons of steel which, in turn, provide the framework for the towers and walkway. This clad in Cornish granite and Portland stone to protect the underlying steelwork and to give the bridge a rather pleasing appearance. Total construction cost: £1,184,000 (sources: "Cross River Traffic" by Robert Chris, 2005; "Tower Bridge" Archive- The Quarterly Journal for British Industrial and Transport History; The Times)

And more: the bridge is 800 feet whose towers 213 feet high, built on piers. The central span of 200 feet between the towers split into two equal bascules or leaves, which can be raised to an angle of 83 degrees to allow river passings including Michael Jackson. The bascules, weighing over 1,000 tons each,  counterbalanced to minimize the force required and allow raising in five minutes. The two side-spans are suspension bridges, each 270 feet long, with the suspension rods anchored both at the abutments and through rods contained within the bridge's upper walkways. The pedestrian walkways are 143 feet above the river at high tide (Source: "Tower Bridge" Archive- The Quarterly Journal for British Industrial and Transport History).

Katie: "That Habitrail is complex."

Christmas Massacre

Ok, Ok, Okay - the goose about to be cooked. In our house, it is a 10-pounder or "a rather modest bird" my wife says.  Sonnet sticks her hand in the goose's, er, ass and pulls out the accompanying gizzards and fat, which takes a moment to appreciate: "foie gras!" which she now fries up for buttered toast.  I live my life between foie gras.  Meanwhile the living room a bomb fall-out and the Shakespeares ignore my reasonable request to clean it up before dinner time - in unison "yeah, right, Dad."  They are glued to the television.  They stuff themselves with chocolate. They refuse to go outside.  I do what every dad does at this point: bail.  Katie and I head for the Tate Modern and a walk.  Everything closed - everything, including the trains and Starbucks. The trains no surprise but Starbucks?

Eitan whistles: "Mo-om. Will you come here please? Mo-om - can you come here now?! Mo-om why aren't you listening to me?"

Christmas in London

Bang! Like a starting blast Eitan in our room at 6AM. "Go away" I mumble. Even Sonnet ignores the boy until he turns on all the lights.  If I had a shoe, I would throw it at him.  He goes back into his room to wait it out; I get up to turn off the lights. Repeat at 7AM. Repeat at 7:30AM.  Finally we agree: 8AM and all is "go."  Madeleine wanders in and gets into bed to curl up with Sonnet.  Both kids nervously raise Auntie Katie (Madeleine: "Is she asleep?" Eitan: "I don't think so." Madeleine: "You go." Eitan: "No, you go." Madeleine: "Dare you." Eitan: "Double dare you" and so it goes).

Finally their moment arrives and we assemble in the living room with plenty of coffee. The Shakespeares tear into their gifts leaving a full-carnage in the wake.  Madeleine gets a Habitrail extension from Auntie Katie while Eitan thrilled by his Manchester United shirt, flag and table (thank you Natasha!).  Both scream over the Harry Potter box set and euphoric with Madagascar II, Escape From Africa and The Muppets Christmas Carol Movie and Christmas Buddies about a bunch of dogs which I have blogged before. Unwatchable if over ten. Having Auntie Katie here is our present to her and hers to us. Thank you everybody who sent their warm wishes or presents and thoughts. We appreciate you.

Sonnet listens to Rigoletto and the kids assemble toys - Eitan knee deep in his Republic Attack Shuttle Lego kit (I duck his attempts to draw me into that sink hole).  Katie and I jog Richmond Park and we settle into a day of movies and .. nothing. Peace.

Eitan: "Here, Mom and Dad, is your presents from me.  I got them from my room."

Sonnet: "Can we be out of pepper?"

Me:

Sonnet: "This family goes through so much pepper. I re-fill the pepper mill on a weekly basis."

Eitan, triumphantly: "This is the best Christmas ever!"

Sonnet: "Why don't you spend the rest of the day doing your chores, home work and Kumon"

Eitan and Madeleine ensemble: "Nooo!"

Me: "Sonnet, you rascal! I am the one that always winds them up."

Madeleine: "Why did Piglet smell?"

Us:

Madeleine: "Because he was playing with poo."

Cranberry Mousse And Martini

Sonnet makes a cranberry mousse which, she says, "is a vintage recipe from the Gourmet Cook Book, circa 1962. Stan and Silver used to serve it at their dinner parties."  For Christmas Eve, this evening, she also prepares gravlox which is salmon brined in salt, sugar, dill and vodka - perfect for bagels, which has become our tradition the Night Before. Tomorrow, goose.  I make Katie a proper martini which is prepared as thus: everything frozen, including glass and olives (if used). Pour a few drops of dry Vermouth into proper martini glass, swirl once, dispense.  Then vodka (ideally from potatoes, like the Russians), straight from freezer, straight from bottle (the idea of shaking over ice absurd).  The liquid should be nicely viscous (80-proof vodka freezes at approximately -26.95C; 100-proof vodka will freeze at approximately -40.43C).  Ideally there are thin bits of ice - since water freezes at a higher temperature, the proof increases with the ice. The glass should be filled to brim for increased surface area which receives the vapors. In my drink, this a lemon peel sharply twisted then dragged along the edge. Perfecto. Olives, in my opinion, the inferior choice though Katie and many swear by them. They are a bartender's trick to displace volume. Olive brine for a "dirty" or "dusty" martini another horreur but to each his - or her - own.


I listen, as I blog here, to Diane's Christmas CD, which she produced some years ago to raise money for charity.  Diane has recently moved from Albany, where she was the morning anchor for Fox News, to South Carolina where she informs a bigger audience - a Top 30 market, in fact.


"The martini: the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet."
--H. L. Mencken

Goose

The boy and I stand, in the rain, for our Christmas goose. Same as it ever was.  Our local chop good and butcher Dave scores us tickets to the Fulham matches. He also cuts a good joint. Gruesome but waddyagonnado? Otherwise us dads stamp our feet in the cold and eyeball the line's progress.  I tell Eitan to get me the papers and himself some "match attacks" which excites him considerably.  That and the £20 note he palms ("change, please" I command). Eventually the rain/sleet so miserable I begin to wonder if dangerous as Eitan turns blue; Sonnet arrives in a nick of time to spirit him away. Ah, yes, we do have our traditions. 

Another View Of Richmond Park

I take this photo near the Isabelle Plantation.  We bump into a couple with a pair of black labradors, which are beautiful dogs.  Katie and I told that black labs the best of the breed while brown and golden labs are "bred insanity."  Because of their personality, they get injured often and small surgeries can cost thousands of pounds. I did not know. Also, we are told, a lab nor any big dog, should walk its first six months of life. This to allow their joints and stuff to set before burdening them with weight. Otherwise the poor things suffer arthritis or other similar ailments.  This makes me think of my running which was injury-free until 33 then - wham! - every one in the book: achiles tendinitis, planter fasciitis, lower back, sciatica and so on and so forth.  Like a dog, my body not inclined for high-mileage in middle-age which is too bad since my ambition the marathon.  


But back to the black labs- Madeleine wants one. I want one. And we came pretty damn close over the summer with the house and all. Our problem the 9 to 3, or when the house empty while the Shakespeares in school.  And holidays - kenal costs £25 a day and that adds up.  Maybe one day yet.


Madeleine watches the home decoration channel. Me: "Why on earth are you watching that?"
Madeleine shrugs: "I don't know."

Upper Pen Pond

Katie and I go for a stroll in Richmond Park and I take my camera.  Good day for pictures, too, since the snow dusting.  The Upper Pen Pond, pictured, frozen.  Flints from the Mesolithic period found here, which is pretty cool all things considered.  I can see the sabre tooths and wooly mamoths roaming about.  The origin of the Upper Pond may be a smaller 1636 pond (Lower Pen Pond was maybe the main gravel pit in the park -  there being several such pits - some now ponds). Both Pen Ponds possibly assumed their present form at the end of 17th century, when known as "The Canals" though who knows whay? The ponds drained in the Second World War because they formed a landmark for the Luftwaffe. Water pumped from Pen Ponds feeds the Main Stream in the Isabella Plantation.

All this about the pond makes me investigate the park. During King Edward's (1272-1307) reign this area known as the 'Manor of Sheen' and we, of course, East Sheen.  The name chaged to Richmond during Henry VII.  In 1625 Charles I brought his court to Richmond Palace to escape the plague and turned it into a park for red and fallow deer which he and his compatriots hunted for sport. The King's decision, in 1637, to enclose the land was most unpopular with the locals, but Charles did allow pedestrians the right of way, God bless.  The walls remain BTW and paralleled by the toe path, which I often run.  Today Richmond Park the smallest National Park in the UK but the biggest park in London. Weird factoid: All houses backing on to the park pay a feudal fee known as "Richmond Park Freebord" ranging from £2 to £200 per annum. Go figure.


Katie catches me up on her business, The Op-Ed Project, which is going great guns and employing a number of staff and over 60 volunteers.  More to come.  


Madeleine: "Can I have a Jammie Dodger?"
Me: "What do you think I am going to say?"
Madeleine: "No, like you always do."
Me:
Madeleine: "But it is the holidays. And you said we can have anything for the holidays."
Me:
Madeleine: "Seriously, Dad. You said you can never say 'no' to me."
Me: "Ok, have a Jammie Dodger."

The Day Before The Day Before Xmas

Katie arrives and Eitan and I greet her at Heathrow.  The flight delayed and the queue at Border Control nets a couple of hours before little 'sis pops up.  During this interval, which is well past the boy's bedtime, Eitan fades into various moods of euphoria, fatigue, giddiness and silliness.  (Surprisingly) grumpiness not on the list.  We entertain ourselves with numbers games (times-tables and divisions), thumb-wrestling and singing (to the amusement of the Pakis who also await their travelers).  Eitan realises he wears pajama tops ("Aw, Dad -- this is so silly of me"). 


I fascinate myself with various shapes and forms before us - following the long-haul flight, I appreciate, most not their best still it strikes me how unattractive the human race.  All this money spent on botox and make-up or clothes - better in the bank. Yet there is beauty in the masses: families unite, lovers squeeze and friends whoop.  


Eitan and I check out the older dude with white beard, skinny tie, with cane and unsmoked pipe (Eitan: "He is definitely a spy or something"). Or the Japanese with tight black trousers, funky trainers and shiny faux-down jacket, purple of course.  His hair a gelled mess. Cool. I scope the outliers - younger women with chop-stick legs, painted jeans and high-heels; usually with scarf thrown across chest and casual make-up.  Greeted by drivers or boyfriends - where to?  I make a final point of reviewing glasses - yes, my vanity.  I have been four eyes since 1986 and interesting how specs change.  I love my Buddy Holly blacks.



Eitan: "Ew, Dad! I can see the dandruff in your hair!" (Very loudly)
Eitan: "You look awfully silly in that hat."
Eitan: "You arae going bald, you know."
Eitan: "What is taking that woman so long?"

Hero

The boy and I horse around this early morning.  He in his new pajamas, which makes for joy, while both kids as much television as they wish+no bedtime - holidays, after all.  Last night I find Eitan sound asleep over his book, lights on, 11PM.  Good on him.   

Thankfully today the darkest day of the year and we can now work towards the summer solstice.

Here is why the English think Americans nuts:  "When people doubt me, it gives me huge motivation.  I want to show that I can achieve things they consider impossible.  The first time it was the teacher at school, but now I trawl the internet looking for anyone else who doesn't think I am going to cut it.  The more negative they are, the more determined -- and the more certain -- I am to do it.  And you know what? If I have an ambition in my mind, whatever it is, nothing is going to stop me. Nothing."  Bring it on, baby! This the US I know and love and the quote from Michael Phelps who is in Manchester following the a US-European dual meet.  As we have seen recently and forever, putting our sports heroes on pedestals begs for disappointment.  I think Phelps may be different. Firstly, having grown up in a pool, I recognise his wacko temperament and willingness to train five, six, seven hours a day.  Redemption comes via PBs or, in Phelps case, medals.  As for drugs, other then Mary Jane, Phelps progression persistent vs. dramatic. 

Phelps' parents divorced at his early age, and from the beginning he was "difficult" due to ADHD.  The pool became a safe haven and likely burned off extra energy while focusing his mind.  This what I recall - no room for anything else, really. A nice tunnel through those teen-age years.

What I like about Phelps, beyond everything: he may be psycho but there is no psychobabble. Phelps states his intentions and delivers.  Bam! Who would have ever thought eight gold medals - pow!  He put it on the table - and boy was I screaming and hollering at the TV when he stole the 100 meter butterfly from Milorad Cavic on the last stroke. Bam! Pow! The dude does not quit.  And now he focuses on 2012.  I will most definitely be there.

"People say that I have great talent, but in my opinion excellence has nothing to do with talent.  It is about what you choose to believe and how determined you are to get there.  The mind is more powerful than anything else."

--Michael Phelps

Kingston

We go to Kingston to return some party glasses at John Lewis.  The parking garages full and we are forced to walk a long ways to get to the department store. Meanwhile I endure a lower form of human being stuffed inside too-tight jeans exposing fast-food derriers, elevated by grotesque brown, worn, high-heeled knee-highs into which trousers stuffed.  The blokes equally horrific and everybody smokes, like, right next to me.  How the population changes outside Mayfair or Knightbridge and suddenly I appreciate why Central London property prices so high.  The thing is, without London, there is .. nothing.  In my Internet days or now, it is easy to get excited about setting up a business in W1, an enthusiasm which deflates proportionally from the Capital. I have been to Birmingham and Ipswich and Swindon and Slough.  Just the name "Slough" makes me cringe. Who would ever risk something there?


So Kingston, which is not all that bad, I suppose.  The city on the majestic Thames, after all, where it offered the first upstream crossing from London Bridge.  The area once occupied by Romans and later a royal residence.  There is record of a council from 838. All good history.  There are two fabulous state secondary schools - Tiffin School and Kingston grammer.  Kingston mentioned in the Doomsday Book of 1086, which perhaps forecasts today: one giant shopping mall.  Visitors drive from near and far for the brands, especially Boxing Day when JL slashes prices by 70% to clean its colon of inventory along with the rest of the holidays bloated High State. The queues all the way to the A3. But why wait for the mark-downs? Today these Brits flush: junk, junk, junk they buy like the instant soup maker or turbo espresso machine. There is an ice crushing thingy and a chrome vegetable masher.  All this crap slammed down on the John Lewis credit card and to hell with our consumer debts. A young cashier tells me the chain has set record sales the last two weeks, "surprising everybody" she gushes.  Indeed.


Yes, today's visit wears on me. The traffic. Lack of parking. Grotesque, damp, housing estates and faux fat Santas with advertisements flashing on their cardboard sleigh. Christmas carols belt too loudly down the main street.  It is just .. so .. American.  I spend the rest of the afternoon indoors, under the covers, reading the Times. Now what is that Tiger Woods up to?


Madeleine: "I still got that thing that I got."
Me: "Can you be a little more specific?"
Madeleine: "I still have that thing that I got."


Eitan, during dinner: "Can I have an after-snack?"
Me: "What is an 'after-snack''?"
Eitan: "It is a snack after dinner but before desert."
Me: "Congratulations. You should start a company with that idea and make lots of money."
Eitan:


Eitan gets a thimble glass and pours himself several glasses of ginger-ale: "Look, I am so drunk!"


Eitan: "Do you still think Tiger Woods is the best golfer in the world?" 
Me: "Yes."
Eitan: "So why is he in so much trouble then?"
Me: "Because he got caught lying to his family and gambling and drinking and smoking cigars and having sex with women he should not have been having sex with."
Eitan: "You mean he smokes?"


Unexpectedly I toss an ice cream bar to Eitan. He: "Gee, it must really be Christmas."

The Turks And Copehagen Failure

I take Eitan to see The Turks for a haircut.  He protests loudly but I tell him "it is my way or the hard way," an expression I learned from Eric.  I then bribe him with the Manchester United v. Fulham game.  Eitan's hair his one place of concord and usually I let it be despite Sonnet's frequent protests that he should, at least occasionally, wash it. So here we are, at the barber, who actually asks: "do you comb your hair?" which, really, needs to be heard with his accent. Both he and Eitan suffer as The Turk drags his comb through the rat's nest.  Madeleine, beside me, squirms: "I don't think he's really liking it, Dad" she notes privately.   We want the boy to look good for Auntie Katie (she arrives Tuesday).  


Somehow Eitan's hair smoothed enough for a few clips and Mission Accomplished.  Wish I could say the same for Copenhagen, which serves up a bagel despite 119 heads of state in attendance - the largest-ever United Nations gatehering of leaders and governments - and further representation bringing the figure to 193 Nation member countries. In  the end they agree to "take note" of the non-binding Copenhagen Accord.  Milk toast. Here is what we, the planet's citizens, get: $100 billion of annual fundraising commitments by 2020 to help poor countires adapt to global warming.  Developing countires will involve themselves in a climate change pact with stated emission-reductions accords, but not legally binding (hello, China and India, you beautiful gluttons of coal). There is no plan to renew the Kyoto Protocal which has accounting, compliance and reporting measures built into its structure.  As for targets, industrialised and developing countries will list their pledges by Jan 31, 2010 while developing countries must communicate their efforts to "limit" greenhouse emissions every two years.  This is sorta like asking Eitan to monitor his "Carmel Chew Chew."  Or trusting Madeleine and Kumon.  In the grandest understatement of the week, UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon states: "It may not be everything we hoped for, but this decision of the Conference of Parties is an essential beginning." We're toast, dude.


Madeleine: "Dad, have you ever got vegetables from Santa?"
Me:
Madeleine: "Not even when you knocked down the Christmas tree when fighting with Auntie Katie?"

Holiday Rules And More Sponge Bob

Saturday morning and it feels like holidays.  Outside below freezing and a sprinkling of snow on the ground following yesterday's storm that jammed the grid and brought the M20 to a standstill for, like, seven miles. Poor bastards.  The Eurostar also stops.  With people on it, who spend 12 hours in the tunnel between England and France. They were asked not to breathe deeply in order to conserve oxygen. Again, poor bastards. Leave it to the French.  Adding to the festive spirit, the children have their last school where they watch movies .. all week, making them and the teachers happy, I am sure.  Both groups deserve their reward, working hard inside an allotment of public resources, and doing a damn fine job.  Ours one of Britain's best primaries.  Eitan and Madeleine may not learn Latin or Mandarin, as the nearby privates, but theirs a happy bunch and I always enjoy the good vibe at the drop.  They are keen to learn. So the holidays .. and the rules. I tell the Shakespeares they may stay up as late as they want and watch television until their eyeballs swell. The little mouths drop: "Really, Dad? Are you fooling?" in unison. I also indicate unlimited junk food and point to the fridge which contains four containers of "Carmel Chew Chew," ice cream bars and those yummy frozen ice cream cones with a bit of chocolate on the bottom.   Sonnet rolls her eyes.  


In photo: Eitan watches "Sponge Bob Square Pants" and, while completely beyond me, is (begrudgingly) funny.  Today's episode sees Sponge Bob capturing Plankton, a plankton, who has a plan to end the world. But then Sponge Bob accidentally electrocutes him and - poof! - he explodes. It deserves a guffaw but the boy does not raise an eyebrow.


Madeleine and I at toy store Pandemonium. Madeleine: "Dad, do you think this is a good Christmas present?" (she shows me a plastic skull and cross bones).
Me: "Sure. It is a wonderful gift."
Madeleine: "If you were getting it, would you want it?"
Me:
Madeleine: "Maybe I will get you something else."

2012 Aquatics

This amazing structure, designed by the extraordinary Zaha Hadid, will be the site of the 2012 swimming competition.  As profiled in the New Yorker magazine, Hadid a Baghdad-born, London based architect whose modern designs change their surroundings - and wow.  Yet despite this and her celebrity, Hadid's output small: thirteen structures including the Vitra Fire Station, in Weil am Rehin (1994); a train station in Strasbourg (2001); a ski jump+restaurant in Innsbruck (2002); the Lois and Richared Rosenthal Center for Contemporary Art, in Cincinnati (2003); the Phaeno Science Center, in Wolfsburg, Germany (2005); the BMW Plant Central Building, in Leipzig (2005); and the MAXXI museum in Rome.  And now the pool.


While Hadid's structure spares no cost, London's Olympics won by suggesting the construction of a world class sports center and the regeneration of the city's East End possible without bankrupting the country.  The initial cost-estimate was £2.4 billion.  Fat chance. Anybody who followed the Millenium Dome knows what a good budget in England means: about twice that.  Ken Livingstone famously informed us that the costs of a London Olympics would be 38p per week "the same price as a walnut whip" (whatever that is). The Olympics now stand at £12 billion. Still, this is doggone cheap compared to Beijing which came in at £20 billion, according to The Guardian, though others conservatively suggest $65 billion when the new airport and transportation lines included.  London will be less splashy, accepting the Aquatics Center which becomes the center piece of the show - like the Bird's Nest stadium for China. And to pay for the honour, Londoners incur various surcharges and taxes .. it all adds up.  Closer to home, Livingstone shifted a substantial burden of the Olympics cost on us, Richmond, who - he said - "can afford it." Rat bastard.


I am delighted we are hosting the games. Britain will shine. London will shine. It will be an extravagant month and wholly appropriate for the world's Greatest City.


"I swam my brains out."
--Mark Spitz

Hamsters And A Carol+Alphie Neutered

So here is the hamster update (for anybody who really cares): Monty got out three times including two weeks when I caught her scrambling across the bedroom floor, pitter patter. During the missing, tell tale clues: nuts and wall scratchings.  Foxy now awol for one week and not a trace. I think she's gone.  When Monty disappeared, Madeleine devastated so we got Foxy then Monty found and two hamsters or one for each kid. All good. Then Foxy gone and Monty's cage second to the Habitrail, pictured, so Monty back to the Habitrail from Eitan's room to Madeleine's room. See the problem?  Oh, boy. The simple solution, as I indicate from time to time: "chuck 'em in the street." 


Last night kids carols at the local and Eitan and Madeleine and their school chums belt out Christmas cheer. The teachers, too, dress up in red and colour to serenade us, the parents of the neighborhood.  I try to keep a low profile while Sonnet chats and makes eye-contact with the Shakespeares (Madeleine in particular peeps over rows of uncombed heads).  Between songs,  the chosen read about baby Jesus or the Holy Mary or Bethleham or whatever. Eitan's name probably disqualifies him since otherwise he participates in the "Challenge of the Books" with three others chosen from his year. Jesus was a Jew, wasn't he?  We are entertained by the recorders and, in a coup de grace, the trumpets conclude the evening. Oy, vey.


Madeleine: "Alphie is getting neutered tomorrow."
Me: "Do you know what neuter means?"
Eitan: "It is when they cut your balls off."
Me: "Poor dog, he'll never be the same again, will he?"
Eitan and everybody cracking up: "You said 'willy'!"

Downtown Anchorage

Silver sends me this far out photo from today's Anchorage Daily News, shot by Bob Hallihan. Wow. Sonnet grew up in Anchorage while Stan and Silver have more recently reclined to the Western Slope of the Colorado Rockies.  Sadly there is little chance I will make it to Alaska any time soon.  I had my chance during the courtship years when Sonnet and I in San Francisco.  From London it is at least 20 hours connecting via L.A. or Seattle.  Once upon a time there was a direct shot from London to Anchorage over the North Pole but no longer. Of course I am curious to see my wife's home-state given her stories, the 24-hour winter darkness, the aurora lights and Sarah who has proven herself to be dumber than the moose that cross Main Street. God bless. And here is what I am missing: Anchorage selected an All-American City four times in 1956, 1965, 1985 and 2002 by the National Civic League which is pretty damn cool for a place outside the lower-48 and miserably cold.  In high school, the kids hang out at Denny's.  At least Sonnet did.  Marcus was into the theatre and poetry slams before he picked up for Seattle.  My guess Anchorage includes frontiersmen, oil men, hippies, axe murders and poets+those looking for a new start and a grand adventure. One day, Inshallah.


"To the lover of wilderness, Alaska is one of the most wonderful countries in the world."
--John Muir


"Nothing is worth more than this day."
--Gooethe

Lip Stick

I am beguiled by this young women, pictured, who puts on her face leaving Waterloo station.  It is about late morning and I return from Soho where I have done a few holiday chores.  She is utterly engrossed. Red to lips; black to eyes and powder on cheeks - all in front of a small mirror, often angled to capture the best sun light from a low horizon. My mobile makes an intrusive noise when I take this image and I only get one shot. She gets off at Barnes and I wonder where to?

Since my photo may be viewed as, ahem, voyeuristic I may as well stick to pervy and report on Mrs Bibi Giles who is suing her gynaecologist, Dr Angus Thomson, for sexual assault and sexual harassment - very serious charges.  Mrs Giles says Dr Thomson gave her an intimate examination that caused her to have two orgasms in less than two minutes.  Mrs. Giles, 50, is married to Peter, 65, you see.  Her case turns rather limp when one considers a suggestive text message, sent by her and aired in court, where Mrs. Giles asks Dr Thompson to "christen" her with his "Angus beef sausage."   Wonder if the judge had a boner?


Well, before we give up on Britain completely given Mrs Giles and everything else, a team of scientists here has unwound the genetic code of two of the most deadly cancers. Eventually a simple blood test could lead to accurate "made to measure" treatment that identifies, attacks and kills each patient's cancer.  Should we rise above ourselves, our children will experience unimaginable human achievement.

River and Keynote

A river's colours change -  not obvious unless observed over time.  The Thames, for instance, sometimes muddy brown or metallic silver.  Even blue or ocra. Occasionally clear, but most rarely.  We live about a mile from the river (.8 miles, to be Google) and while the water rarely visible, it is always there. I enjoy it most when jogging my five-mile loop from work to the Hammersmith Bridge then back via the Chiswick Bridge.  Since tidal,  the Thames has some real personality - as extremes, empty and weak (tide OUT), overflowing, washing out my path (tied IN).  The displacement: 70,000 million gallons of water from low to high tide.  But it is the colours that fascinate and suggest a mood - when ebbing, fast moving - so dark or grey(ish).  When flowing, a slower action so .. brown or dirty, like a martini.  The air temperature plays a part, too, and it all mellows into a vibe somehow. Of course the Thames provides London's vital energy and without it, the city would be .. nothing.


Here is Katie's KEYNOTE 2 (Catherine Orenstein):  Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: 500 Years of Sex, Morality, and Stories about  Women: 
"
A girl, a wolf, a meeting in the woods.  Who doesn’t know the story?   “Little Red Riding Hood” is one of the best-known tales of all time.  But most people don’t know it as well as they think. Based on Orenstein’s book of the same title, this keynote speech, accompanied by a slide show of historical and contemporary images,  traces the fairy tale through time to reveal our changing ideas about men and women, sex and morality. From the werewolf trials of old Europe (when the story's villain was part of 'true history') to the tales' literary debut as a chastity parable in the 17th century court of Versailles (from whence the term ‘wolf’ to mean a seducer), on up to the sexual symbolism of Madison Avenue ads, the sharp revisions of Anne Sexton’s poetry, modern-day Hollywood film, rock songs, drag theater and even S&M fairy-tale pornography, this talk explores the evolution of one of our most powerful and enduring heroines.  The message of this talk – and of Orenstein’s book – is that the stories we tell surround us, define us, shape history and our future—and at any given moment they can change, or be changed.  The book has been featured on ABC-TV, CNN and NPR, and is under consideration for a TV show. Newsweek magazine called it "revelatory," the Wall Street Journal called it "beguiling," and Naomi Wolf wrote,  "Let us hope that Catherine Orenstein's laid-back, readable brilliance sets the tone for an emerging generation of feminist scholars."   

Whoops!

There is probably a good reason why nobody has launched a truck off a ramp to execute a backflip.  Despite that, Rhys Millen wants to be the first - here he is, the crazy guy, practicing in Las Vegas for Red Bull's New Year's Experiment, 2007.  Unfortunately for Millen, he suffered "an unfortunate" accident leaving him with five fractured vertebrae which occurred, according to Red Bull, when Millen's truck overshot the landing area of cardboard boxes. Unfortunate, indeed. Last time he does that one, dude. 

Smarts run in the family, they say.  Take Robbie Knievel, 47, who will try to jump over 16-buses at Wembley Stadium, west London, in May on a "classic" Harley Davidson.  Recall Evil Knievel broke his pelvis during his 1975 bid to jump 13 buses.  Hmmm I am sure that I have heard a story about some idiot trying to earn his father's respect by doing stupid things? So Robbie began jumping his bicycle at age-four and rode motorcycles at age-seven.  By eight, he performed his first show with his dad at Madison Square Garden. At 12, he was on tour with Evil where he would perform in the pre-jump shows.  Robbie attended South Central Catholic Jr. High School in Butte, Montana but never graduated. He wanted to lengthen his jumps but Dad disapproved. No shit, I might add (source: 'Evel*Ways, A Daring Approach to Life'; GraF X Publishing). Seems to me, like Iraq and maybe Afghanistan, the sixteen-buses a suicide trip.  At least Robbie qualified to take the decision.

"My wife and I, we like to ride where there's not much traffic."

--Evil Knievel

BA

Can you believe the British Airways cabin crew? They announce today a strike. For the 12 days of Christmas. Bastards.  BA has been losing money since God Knows When and trying to get their financial house in order, including the removal of one flight attendant on short-hauls and two for the long-hauls.  Union does not like this and threatens one-million passengers and maybe £500 million of damage to the airline. For the record, I like BA. I like their colourful logo. I like Terminal 5.  The service never a problem and BA ahead of the pack for online bookings, home-ticketing and seat selection.  They are good on safety.

British Airways has been around since '74 and really paid nobody any attention until Richard Branson's Virgin Airlines in '84 began a long-term love affair.  In '93, for instance, BA lost "one of the most bitter and protracted libel actions in aviation history," according to the BBC News, and had to apologise "unreservedly" for a "dirty tricks" campaign against Virgin. Oh, and they had to pay millions in penalties and cover Virgin's legal costs for good measure.

Today, BA has grown up and transports 33 million people a year on a fleet of 225 airlines and another 51 on order plus options on a further 45. They buy American, too, and Boeing accounts for 65% of the existings and 55% of the rest.  Turnover for the twelve-months ending March 30, 2009, £9 billion while loses £401 million. Hence the cabin crew. Now the union. And maybe a shut-down during the busiest time of the year, the holiday season for Christ's sake. Already there are hateful customers. These hostesses better know what they are doing since they are going after one of Britain's few global brands.

Photo from the AP.

Me: "Are you and Billy (Madeleine's play-date) looking forward to the carol concert tomorrow evening?"

Madeleine and Billy (who will sing), in unison: "No!"

Me: "Why?

Madeleine: "Because it is crowded. And uncomfortable."

Me: "Well, you and Billy could get some dice and gamble your money at the back of the church."

Billy:

Madeleine: "Really, Dad. You don't mean that. Billy he does not mean that."

Billy: "There is this guy who is so ugly they pay him."

Me: "Like, where?"

Billy: "I don't know."

Madeleine: "He has the best job in the world."