Model

Linda Evangelista whistling. Yes, I fetishise but don't we all? At least we did - the so called "supermodel" elevated to pop culture status by the '90s with multi-million dollar contracts, endorsements and campaigns. Beauty and glamour and money - we had it back then. These gals oozed confidence - Christy Turlington for Maybelline in 1991, Claudia Schiffer and Chanel; Cindy Crawford and Rolex while Kate Moss dated Calvin Klein. With Naomi Cambell and Linda above: the "Big Six" - a group who dominated magazine covers, fashion runways, editorial pages, and advertising. You name the medium, they owned it (Nb this group potted in the '80s: Cheryl Tiegs (owned that poster), Christie Brinkley (owned that poster too), Paula Porizkova and Elle Macpherson - while super, they did not reach similar celebrity status).

The world's infatuation with the outer edges of beauty has resulted, of course, in unrealistic expectations for the rest of us with potentially harmful outcomes. In our house, Madeleine has commented that she is fat - nothing could be farther from the truth. This kid plays football, swims, excellent in gym and healthy. Her classmates preoccupied with clothes and make up (Madeleine's Tom Boy shuns this). Sonnet and I do our best to counter Madison Avenue's endless messaging. Today's youngsters receive bold pronouncements of image and sex while peer groups enforce a set of rules - you're with us or you're with the geeks. Madeleine is eight tomorrow. I can only imagine her tweens.

Eitan: "Whoever smelt it dealt it!"

Madeleine: "Whoever said it stank did the prank!"

Eitan: "Whoever stopped to wonder did the butt thunder!"

"We don't wake up for less than $10,000 a day."

--Linda Evangelista, 1991

Terra Firma

This beautiful sculpture greets visitors first thing at the V&A if entering from the Westward side. Shocking perhaps? I have seen her before.

We all know the recession has taken its toll on private equity but none have been hit harder, perhaps, then Big Wave investor Guy Hands whose buyout firm, Terra Firma, bought EMI Music in 2008 for €2.2 billion of equity or 30% of the €7.6 billion Terra Firma raised for its two most recent funds (Nb: I spent my MBA internship working for then CEO Jim Fiefield and there are many funny stories of incompetency - like the physical baton handed from office to office indicating the "critical path" of required steps during the monthly financial reporting).

When Hands made the bet, he put in over €100 million of his personal account, a figure today surpassing €300 million. In poker, this is called "all in." Unfortunately for investors in Terra Firma, Hands personal conflict - considered favorably at first for aligning interests - has brought ever desperate actions. Exposure to EMI should have remained in Terra Firma IV but, when that partnership surpassed its limitations, Hands went into Fund III (this practice generally frowned upon if not banned by limited partners). Investors in III and IV got two sips of the poisoned chalice.

And worse, EMI requires yet another equity injection to avoid a catastrophic breach of covenants. Without cash, the company will fall to the banks and Hands's investment toast. Hands's investors have a tough call to make. So how did one of the industry's luminaries find himself here? Hubris, for one. Hands believed he could cost-cut his way to improved cashflows all the while not understanding the talent, who balked. Secondly, he missed, even at 2008, the Internet's destructive powers on the music industry. New sales plummet and the catalogue, while still valuable, is now valuable by half. Finally, Hands ignored the Golden Rule of diversification. Were these things not enough, his professional objectivity shattered by his own, personal exposure. This is one party I am happy to have missed.

"Doing a diversified portfolio with fewer people to support it is more risky than doing a concentrated portfolio but having enough people to look after every individual deal."

--Guy Hands, 2005

A Model - The Stairwell - Musson

Ana Carolina Reston, a 21-year old model from Brazil, passed away last week due anorexia. She weighed 88 pounds.

Last night Sonnet, Lizzie and I join favorite law firm Brown Rudnick for champagne and Jeremy Musson, an architectural historian, writer and broadcaster with a particular expertise in .. the stairwell. Brown Rudnick located at 8 Clifford St in a 17th Century brickstone which enjoys a remarkable foyer whose frescos, it is believed but not confirmed, by British painter Sir James Thornhill, famous for his Italian baroques (baroque BTW from pearls - as in their imperfections). Musson takes us on a journey through similar stunning entrances - Versaille, the Louvre, Chatsworth, Hardwick Hall, Hampton Court, Petworth; he describes the eye drawn upwards, towards light, presenting a viewer with geometricly pleasing shapes .. and paintings that, more often then not, depict some serious matter like Hellfire or Damnation. Musson explains the artist's challenge of creating something to appease the moving viewer who, afterall, is walking by the wallpaper. Not easy, he convinces us. It is hard not to admire Musson's ecentricity, which I find as interesting as his subject. He makes jokes over everyone's head. He name drops the Greek ancients. He gesticulates wildly. He is madly in love with his subject. There is no doubt in my mind that Musson went to the St Paul's school for the strangely talented boys. It is also clear that England's top 1% the smartest in the world, which they once ruled. God bless.

Me: "You call that cleaning the table?"
Eitan: "I would call it a rough job."

Sonnet: "Have you ever heard somebody lie?"
Eitan: "I have seen footballers lie."
Sonnet: "How does that make you feel?"
Eitan: "It is not respectful to the fans or the referee."
Madeleine: "Billy stepped on my foot and said he didn't."
Sonnet:
Madeleine: "To the teacher."

David Gerrard Zuma

Photo from 2008. How these kids change. I have dinner at Zuma, London's hottest Japanese, with Gerrard and David who returns from Davos where he accompanied David Miliband as Special Advisor (an aside re Zuma: while the sushi sublime, it is the crowd that attracts, in particular the young women - 24 to 29, I would guess, toned, polished and on show. Colorful skirts and slender legs. Not the slightest trace of disappointment nor life's struggle. Theirs is tonight).

David met about everybody at Davos and his most fascinating story about Wen Jiabao, China's PM, since China David's particular interest is China which, he notes, will urbanise 300 million people inside 20 years creating huge opportunities for the West. China's expanding middle class will demand things like technology, services and education which we are well placed to provide. If, for instance, Britain can realise 1% incremental GDP growth from Asia over ten years, our £1.5T deficit will shrink to nothing.

Gerrard, who invests hedge funds using demographic quant models, holds a different view: he notes that the British population under age-40 will shrink by 25 million by 2040 while the US under-40s will grow by 25M if replenishment and immigration rates hold true. The industrialised world's declining population has profound implications for our economy's ability to sustain an aging population. When I was born, the West accounted for approximately 30% of the world's population. By 2040, it will be less than 10%. One had better be on the right side of that investment. Dave and Gerrard buying the long-bond.

Eitan: "I'm doing a writing project where each of us has to write a chapter of the story."

Me: "What was your chapter?"

Eitan: "I am doing 'the closet of the unwanted'."

Madeleine: "Excuse me, Mom, but this has nothing to do with the conversation. Can you twist your tongue like this?"

Madeleine twists her tongue upside over.

Eitan: "Madeleine! Stop interrupting!"

Madeleine: "You're just upset 'cuz you can't do it Eitan."

Eitan: "Can!"

Madeleine: "Show me, then."

Eitan: "Dad!"

Me:

Madeleine: "Can I have my cookies and milk in the bath?"

Sonnet accommodates her.

Madeleine: "I have learned four notes with my trumpet."

Me: "Out of six?"

Sonnet: "Don't listen to your dad. Why don't you play them for us?"

Madeleine belts out her notes which sound suspiciously the same.

Madeleine: "Maybe I will be a professional trumpet player when I am older."

Tony Redux

Well, the last time we saw Tony Blair was January 13, 2009, when he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by el presidente. Bush said Blair given the award "in recognition of exemplary achievement and to convey the utmost esteem of the American people" (pssst: poodle).

The last time, that is, until Friday when Tony appeared before the Chilcot inquiry into the Iraq war, where he denied making a covert deal to invade Iraq. When asked about reasons for invasion Blair said that the British and American "attitude" towards Saddam Hussein had "changed dramatically" after 9/11 though Saddam, 9/11 and Britain had nothing to do with each other. Blair also said that he would have supported the invasion of Iraq even if he thought Saddam had no weapons of mass destruction. Blair stated his belief that the world safer as a result of the invasion. Meanwhile today a woman blows herself up in Baghdad, killing 45 Shi'ite pilgrims and wounding 100s of others. I wonder what the Iraqi's think?

In '97 Blair was a fresh face following that stiff board John Majors. Blair's ability to bond with a mourning nation post Diana secured ten years as PM -the longest ever for Labour. By the end, he was past his sell by date, drained by the unwanted war, his popularity decimated by spin and mis-truths. So Friday Blair defends his war in the same glossy way that lulled many of us into a false sense of confidence. Or at least, good faith. Now he points to Iran as the next satin - as if Iran today justifies Iraq in '03. Blair fails to acknowledge the inconvenience caused by his folly.

"I feel responsiblity but not a regret for removing Saddam Hussein."

Tony Blair, January 29, 2010

Officially 8

Madeleine blows the lights out on 7 - can another year have gone by? (I give Sonnet a kiss for being a great mother). Neither of us realise the impending over-night where the real work begins. The six kids, including Eitan, have ongoing boundless energy. They spread their kit on the top floor and hunker down for a night of .. screeching. Jumping. Wrestling and so on and so forth. Sonnet or I may bark occasionally but otherwise we are resigned for a wakeful evening, oh, boy. Finally, Madeleine too tired to continue and begs for her bed. A scuffle breaks out re who will join her room and I command: enough! and send each to his quarters. The separation seems to work and I hear only whispers (Madeleine to Jackson: "Don't lie too close to the radiator because you might catch on fire."). By 1AM, all is quiet. Home free, I think.

Bang! the first pops awake. It is .. 7AM. God damnit, I mutter, but Sonnet up and gone. The little animals wander downstairs and Sonnet prepares a kip of sausages, morning cake, eggs and fruit. The boys and Madeleine discuss their sleep time - general consensus 3AM or beyond. The later the more macho, of course. Around the table it is all chatter, chatter, chatter. I drink my coffee and listen silently. It is a wonderful sound, really - the kids compare favourite foods, cartoons, teachers... girls are just on the fringe and soon will make an appearance but this seems like years from now. And our birthday girl? She is interested in the opposite sex for a good rough housing but nothing else. Soon parents arrive for the pick-ups leaving Madeleine with the blues. We talk about this for a bit then the sure-all remedy: The Muppet Movie, which she watches for like the umpteenth time.

Eitan: "I am going to talk like Yoda."

Me:

Eitan: "Long the journey will be, Luke."

Me: "Backyard chores you be doing, Eitan."

"Movin' right along (doog-a-doon doog-a-doon)
We're truly birds of a feather,
We're in this together and we know where we're going.
Movie stars with flashy cars and life with the top down.
We're storming the big town"

--The Muppets

Birthday Prep

Madeleine has her birthday party this afternoon and invites all boys and Camilla, who is a brave sole, God bless her. Madeleine too excited to eat lunch, pictured, and waits for her guests by the dining room window, through the curtains. The lads descend upon us and, bam!, it is an indoor hurricane. Fortunately Sonnet prepared - treasure hunt! - and the children group into Pirates and Buccanneers. Each's captain responsible for reading clues spread around the neighborhood. It works, too, as the kids race ahead with us screaming after them to stay on the sidewalk and etc. My group is Eitan, Alex, Billy, Ewen and Nathaniel who drive hard - their curiosity reminds me of a kennel of bloodhounds - no hiding place untouched nor porch unexamined.

We come together at the common and their hard work rewarded with crisps, chocolate lollies and other various drugs. Personally I wonder how I ever ate such crap - soury chewy strips or sugary florescent gum drops. Powder sugar in various flavas. In my day it was a honourable chocolate caramel 'Reggie' named after the NY Yankees star who homered thrice in the '77 World Series. Or the hefty 'Marathon Bar' and singular 'Now And Laters." Yes, we ate them now and later.

Back home, pizza arrives and the kids .. freak out. One forgets the work involved with eight-year olds. They .. cannot... sit .. still. From outside to inside and upstairs and again. The birthday cake fuels their frenzy and I worry about injury but, hey, this probably unnecessary since the animals seem quite comfortable knocking off the wall or falling on the ground. Every now and then I scream at their screaming (Madeleine: "You know, Dad, you can be louder then us."). I guess my stream of thought that eight year olds are generally the same between them and across generations. I know I lost sleep the night before my eighth birthday party. And I remember the over-nights like yesterday, which Madeleine does tonight with a Chosen four. And of course, the parent - whoever hosting - yelled bloody murder at some point. Same as it ever was.

Madeleine: "Oh, Dad, just so you know: there will be violence by Nathaniel."

All: "who likes brussel sprouts? Who likes pizza? Who likes brocolli? Who likes aubergine?"

Madeleine: "Aubergine? That's disgusting!"

Me: "I've got some in the fridge - any takers?"

The afternoon party.

Me: "No walking on the pond!"

Me: "Get out of the mud!"

Me: "Keep your pants on!"

Me: "You are not allowed to say those words!"

Me: "Stay out of the street!"

Me: "No jumping from the bed!"

Me: "Leave the poor hamster alone!"

Me: "Take that pizza out of your hair!"

Eitan: "Dad, why do you always stop us from having fun?"

River's Bend

I read an interview in Time Out of architect and planner Sir Terry Farrell, who has worked in London for more than 30 years. Farrell's new book - "Shaping London" - published by Wiley and out now. I will buy it. Here are two comments I find particularly fascinating:

On why London is where it is on the Thames: "The ideal place to put a city is south-facing outside bend of a river because it gives you direct sunlight and a navigational channel for shipping. Becauses of the tides, the north bank will be deeper and better suited for boats than the shallower south side. And you want that outside bend to be at the closest possible bridging point to the sea. That's why London is on the north side of the river, and that's why it is at that bend and not one of the others."

And

How did the docks 'straighten' the Thames?: "The logical thing to do with the Thames is to cut out the bends and straighten the river, and if you look at a map you'll see that is what happened with the docks incrementally. If we were French, we'd have just straightened it in one go, but that would not have anticipated the size of the ships that would come afterwards. The London way was to build a dock between bends to straighten the river, learn from it, build the next bit and carry on until you eventually get the Royal Docks, the biggest inland waterway in the world in its time. Certain nations go for the big thing, but the London way is to try something and perfect it, which works, providing you follow an intuitive logic and keep an overview."

Eitan Does Kumon - Jet Lag - Catcher

And so here we are again, Friday morning. I return home on yesterday's red-eye and, just like that, on the other side of the planet. From Heathrow, the motorway jammed by rush-hour so my driver takes the side roads which, I can assure you, less then inspiring on a grey, damp London morning. I have learned, post long-haul, to power through the day and avoid aggravation. Like work. Or talking to other human beings. JD Salinger. All of us wish to believe we are Holden Caulfield a little bit. I read "Catcher" in tenth grade, as did many of us, selected then I suppose for its impact on our forming psyches. In many ways Holden's dis-association, his isolation, what we crave - a fantasy of independence free from others stupidity. Free from government. Free from taxes and stupid wars, adults and everything else. Who hasn't found himself wandering a late-night urban scene after being dumped by a girl or feeling without a friend in the world? Such lovely self-pity. I know I've been there and happily can report: like many things, a passing phase.

Me: "Madeleine, please put that away."

Madeleine forgets, walks out of the kitchen.

Me: "Is that what you kids call 'cleaning up'?"

Eitan: "That's the way it is, Dad. Kids are slobs."

I tell Eitan to button up his pajamas; dry his hair; put on socks.

Me: "What I am saying is, like, Eitan I want you to feel good. Not be sick. Here is what you hear: blah-blah-blah-blah-blah."

Eitan: "It's like the sound of a tape recorder. On fast-forward."

Madeleine: We will be needing that computer after dinner."

Me: "Why don't you try saying that again, but more elegantly."

Madeleine: "We will be needing that computer after dinner please?"

Holden: "You know that song, 'if a body catch a body comin' through the rye'?..."

Phoebe: "It's 'if a body meet a body coming through the rye'!.... It's a poem. By Robert Burns."

--JD Salinger

Wiring

Now this is how a skyscraper should look. Powerful. Direct. Pointy. None of the new fangled designs with their space age materials compare. Prince Charles agrees BTW.

I am fascinated by the visible wiring everywhere in the New York subway - I mean, does it serve some purpose? Here is what Arthur says: "This question reminds me of when we were trying to put the police radios down in the tunnels of the London Underground. Somebody important (can't remember who) said the London Underground was a victorian rail system run by a Victorian organization.

"In other words a worn out antiquated system run by worn out antiquated people. The other thing I learned was that LU had very little information about what was actually down in the tunnels. In modern engineering, we call this "configuration control", which is the business of understanding how your equipment is configured. This can be challenging when you have a large system spread out geographically with many people working on it. People have to keep accurate records or you pretty quickly lose control. Apparently, it was not uncommon for crews to go into the tunnels at night (the window of opportunity is very short from about 1:00 to 5:00am) to do installations or repairs and discover that the equipment or layout of the equipment that they went to work on didn't match the drawings and they didn't have the right parts to make the repair or the new equipment wouldn't fit where it was planned.

"So to answer your question, I suspect most of the wiring is associated with signaling, that is, determining where trains are (sensors in the tracks) and controlling the "points" or switches and also the safety control systems that can stop a train that runs a red light. There's probably also various communication links between the stations.

"But it's also possible that as new systems are installed, which probably use far less wires, the old stuff is just left in place. Maybe you could reach out of the window and snip a wire to see what happens?

"And one last thing which I thought was a pretty neat piece of trivia. When the fiber-optic boom hit, entrepreneurs were looking for ways to run major fiber trunk lines across the UK and somebody realized that just about the only pieces of land that provided continuous access over long distances were the rail lines. So they all leased space along the sides of the rail lines. "

God bless.

28th St

Katie on a high-powered business call. She sticks her tongue out at me and signals "peace" with her fingers. Her offices on 5th Avenue and 28th or several blocks from Madison Square Park, named after President James and famous for the weirdly triangular Flatiron Building, one of the city's first skyscrapers. You've come a long way, baby. I meet several of my sister's colleagues from Fenton Communications, who support her Op-Ed Project and where she co-habitates. We then go to dinner at Jack's Luxury Oyster Bar in the East Village. The restaurant a hole-in-the-wall seating twenty and the latest venture of husband-wife owners of successful sushi Jewel Bako. It is perfect in a New York kind of cool. Candles and clutter. Joining us is Duane who engages my sister on her favorite topic - media. Each has a view on the Internet's disruption and for a moment I think all may be lost. But Katie does not take the bait and it is all good. From dinner, Duane's evening begins while Katie and I head to the Upper West Side. 10PM, dude, and I am lights out.

I listen to a Radio 4 report on a cockroach's ability to survive the nuclear winter. The myth rubbish - a parasitic wasp, for instance, can withstand a 1,000X more radiation than humans vs. 10X for the roach. Good to know, really.

Tim

Tim and I meet at a diner on Clark Street in Brooklyn and head north, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge then Canal Street and China Town before settling for lunch in the Lower East Side. The weather torrential and I am soon soaked - my umbrella useless in the wind and my down jacket worse. We observe Stuyvesant Town - one of the most successful post-war private housing communities in America - which was bought by Tishman Speyer for $5.4 billion in 2007 - at market's peak. A tenant-sponsor offer was rejected BTW. The dough boys bet on the fly boys leaving, by will or by force, taking their "rent control" with them. Everybody sued and today, by coincidence, Tishman gave up the ghost by handing Stuyvesant to the creditors and avoiding bankruptcy.

Tim and I met in London via Sonnet's cousin Bru whose father shared a partnership with Tim's dad in upstate New York. Today, Tim and his family live in Brooklyn surrounded by writers and thinkers - he tells me Brooklyn compared to Berkeley in the '60s and I believe him. A special place and the fourth largest city in America if separated from New York. We last saw Tim raising $40 million for an airport security company and today he looks into renewable energy opportunities on the west-coast. I can see him in the East Bay no problemo.

Katie has a day full of meetings and we talk a couple times on the phone. She is now downstairs stretching, after a night-jog in Central Park, and watching TV.

Wedding Day

This photo of Eric and me from, I believe, my wedding day (sent by Best Man Roger). That said, none of us (Eric, Roger) can remember the exact where or when or why I am in a tuxedo and Eric black Converse All-Stars. A mystery, no doubt. What I do recall from that day: while Sonnet with Catherine doing her preparation, Roger meant to perfume and prime me at the barbershop. Instead, the three of us went to a Chinese on Russian Hill then took a two-hour nap before the 5PM kick-off. I am still earning that one back, oh boy.

I arrive at JFK without incident, though the enhanced searches at Heathrow force me to discard a bottle of expensive after-shave lotion. My 200ml over the allowable 120ml. I note that my bottle half full, or less than 120ml. And this earns the attention of three "security specialists," all Indian, who finally agree it is not the lotion but the container size that matters. It takes them ten minutes to reach this conclusion. In fairness, the cream pink and does look suspicious and my offer to "eat some" did not help.

Katie and I go to her local Frenchie and sit at the bar drinking beer and eating steak and watching the NFC Championship game. The Saints win in over-time.

Sunday Chill

Eitan checks out the football scores, pictured. His KPR defeated Hampton Youth 3-nil in an away game this morning. The boys a bit rusty following the year-end break and bad weather post-ponements. Us dads, meanwhile, in full force: Jergen sold a division of his company; Eric back from Amsterdam with his family ("we went one canal too far" and confronted "with an enormous pair of tits" he reports); Jean Luca moving into a new house ... meanwhile the boys grunt and puff, back and forth, their breath visible in the cold air. Madeleine had the option of joining or sleeping in, which she does until 9:30AM. Good on her.

Yesterday we spend the afternoon with Dana and Nathan for tea then scoot back to our neighborhood for dinner with Puk and Lars. Lars a retired hedge-fund manager who has written a book on his experiences to be published by the Financial Times and in Waterstones 27 May. He notes that his book will include "the usual suspects and many people you know." I agree. I ask him if there is a paragraph about my negotiating a sublet in his office in Mayfair? Happily I am spared.

I am picked up for the airport in 15 minutes and will be with Katie in New Yawk this evening.

Eitan: "Have you ever seen (Brazilian football legend) Ronaldihno's teeth? He has teeth like a horse!"

Gross Magic

Eitan has been talking about Madaeleine's birthday present for several days so today, following football, we go to local toy store Pandemonium. He, like a radar guided missile: "Gross Magic." Eitan reads the box on the ride home: "Gross Magic is just revolting. It's the most radical thing in magic you can get. If the idea of dragging a brown sticky blob out of a toilet upsets you then Gross Magic is not for you. It isn't pretty, it isn't nice but Gross Magic is very funny. Gross Magic plumbs new depths in bad taste (and bad breath). Take a filthy snot rag and clean it with the flick of a wrist, liquidize an eyeball into red goo and shock your audience with "live" Cockroach eggs. Yeuchy doesn't begin to describe it." Eitan: "Do you think mom will like it?"

Gross Magic costs more then Eitan's immediate liquidity so we discuss how he will pay for his gift. I give him the option of covering half the cost but the present from me and him. Or he can write me an IOU and take full credit. He thinks about this for a bit then decides he does not wish to share the gift - good lad. Always go for the debt. At home (after a plan to secret the box away from Madeleine agreed) the boy wraps his present with red paper. I lend a hand with the Scotch tape but otherwise it is all him. He shows me the note which includes "9 X 9 = 81." Eitan: "it will help Madeleine in Kumon" and, as always, this kid thinking with his heart.

Sonnet a blur around me as I blog. Saturdays are about kids activities and organising the house. While Madeleine at Stage Coach, Sonnet fills a garbage bag with Madeleine's crapola - old newspapers, random sketches, broken remote control race car, a scarf (cut into pieces), polished stones, homeless crayons, broken remote control airplane and on and on. "Don't tell Madeleine" she says. From there, Sonnet straightens the upstairs and tidies the garage, does a laundry, makes chicken soup for lunch ... she is .. possessed. I ask Eitan what he is worries about these days. He: "Nothing, really. I do think about pollution."

Reza

I pick up Eitan from swimming ("37 laps" he tells me) while Sonnet with Madeleine and Lorena and Camilla at the museum showing the girls the behind-the-scenes+"tea and cake." This grey day starts, for me, at the Wolseley then coffee with my "personal banker" and lunch at Cecconi's. There I see Reza who ran HBOS and Halifax's joint investment business Insight until they were acquired last year by Bank of New York. Reza tells me at some moment in the negotiations he was not receiving the terms he needed and so BONY told him "to quit." So he did, taking the top four executives with him. 24 hours later he had his deal. Bad ass.

Reza Iranian and so of course following the country's elections and protest. He takes a personal interest in Neda Agha-Soltan, whose death in '09 broadcast over the Internet becoming a rallying point for the reformist opposition. Reza tells me that by chance "Neda" means "voice," or "divine message" in Persian and she is now "the voice of Iran." When he learned his alma mater Oxford's "Angel of Freedom" scholarship sponsored mostly by the English, he took it upon himself to raise money from the Iranian community in London and abroad, which he has done with his other alma mater Columbia U. - recall Columbia allowed Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to speak on campus then Lee Bollinger castigated Ahmadinejad in his preamble. Embarrassing for him, embarrassing for the university. Columba and Resa have raised substantial donations while thumbing their nose at the regime, which really Reza's motivation to begin with. Bad ass.

Reza and I also share a love for spirit and we discuss the methodologies behind our Holy Grail: the perfect martini. We agree the best cocktail bars Claridges, Dukes and the Laneborough's Library Bar which has the most lovely glasses, perfect for a yellow lemon rind.

"I openly declare that no one, apart from the government, killed Neda. Her killer can only be from the government."

--Ali Agha-Soltan from Iran

Tron

This is just as cool now as when I watched for the first time the summer of '82 (while at San Diego Swim Camp):

Morning And Teddy

Madeleine is a tough riser and here we are, Thursday morning. She chooses to sleep on the pull-out, otherwise reserved for guests, and I wonder how long this interest will last? Eitan does it to. There was a while when the kids experimenting with the floor - as in, no mattress. Sonnet and I would protest but to what effect?

How sad that Senator Kennedy's vacated seat falls to a Republican and Obama's health-care bill now in doubt. Though imperfect, the mish-mash would, I have to believe, be an improvement to the status quo and itself would be improved upon. 40 million Americans going without or to the Emergency Room cannot be good. The Congressional Budget Office anticipates health care costs will be 27% of GNP by 2037 ... my friend Dale argues: so what? given health care is a 'superior good,' the richer you are, the more (in percentage terms) you want to spend on it. This is all fine and good accept that it is not sustainable. And it kills GNP growth. But why worry? As for the political opera - it continues to astound. Dim wits on the public stage; wars revisited and lost by the Son of the Commander. Now Health care. Poor Teddy.

"The alcohol industry is a conspiratorial collective pushing an addictive palliative to numb people to the misery of their own existence. Just as bad as Big Tobacco."

--Sonnet

Drink

I like the photo of my favorite spirit - very 1950s US. Mad Men. I think of my Grandmother in Upper Arlington, Ohio, hosting all-night bridge sessions where my Grandfather stirred a frozen pitcher of Martinis and a pitcher of Manhattans. The following morning, my Grandmother cooked everybody breakfast. Now this is how to drink, unlike these Brits who binge and obliterate themselves. And the Scots, these poor bastards, drink the equivalent of 46 bottles of Vodka each year, or 25% more than the English or Welsh. How do they get up in the morning? The 50 million litres of pure alcohol sold in Scotland last year enough for every drinker over the age of 18 to exceed the consumption guidelines for men every week of the year (source: the Scottish Government). To combat this disease, government intends to raise the cost of alcohol which, today, is cheaper then water on the High Street. They have tried before to great resistance.

And what about the Ruskies who, we all know, can drink. By 2009, the average Russian consumed three times as much pure alcohol as he did 16 years ago. A report I see by Gennadi Onishenko, head of the consumer protection agency, found that Russians drink 16 litres (26 pints) of pure alcohol per year compared to 5.4 litres in 1990 (Vodka BTW accounts for 16% of Russian alcoholic sales). The study calculates that at least 2.3 million Russians are alcoholics, and blames rising mortality rates, particularly among men, on drink. Russia consumes 100% more than the critical level set by the World Health Organisation and an estimated 600,000 die from consumption each year. Yeltsin drank on his death bed.

Raising drink prices a start. Youngsters must be given alternative messages about alcohol and so the media can help. It wouldn't hurt if our role models weren't winos. It starts with the family - myself, I would put these binge-drinkers to work, work, work. These kids beg for it.

My Grandmother would not be impressed.

The Wharf

This what greets people as they exit Canary Wharf tube station. Imagine Monday mornings. Canary Wharf London's answer to Midtown, Manhattan - it is money. One feels the waves of capitalism ebbing and flowing while i bankers filter the nutrients for themselves. Like Wall Street, The City - London's traditional financial district - grew tired. Banks demanded space for their modern trading desks and fat data pipes. The Isle of Dogs, shallacked during the WW II, became the home of bad ass. Bad ass bankers doing bad ass deals making insane amounts of money. Ebb or flow, it matters not. This always so on the Isle - From 1802, the area one of the world's busiest docks until the Krauts put a stop to that. And, I am happy to say, my old firm Credit Suisse First Boston came up with the idea to convert Canary Wharf into back office. Others signed on and the project sold to Olympia & York the year before I arrived at PAZ. The first buildings opened in '91, including One Canada Square pictured, that became the UK's tallest building and a symbol of regeneration. Soon after, the London commercial property market collapsed and Olympia filed for Bankruptcy in 1992. Nobody learns.

Madeleine's school pal Mattie moves to Cape Town next week. Me: "What will you do when you arrive in South Africa?"

Mattie: "I don't know. Watch TV?"