On Parenthood

So here are my ideas on fatherhood on Father's Day. Kids need as much freedom as they need discipline and structure. Madeleine, for instance, is aware of my index finger on her forehead at all times telling her this or that. sometimes she needs a break. As long as the Shakespeares are in my eye-sight generally, they are free to run around bezerko as long as they don't bother me or another adult.

I expect Madeleine and Eitan to behave properly, of course, but am more pre-occupied with their best efforts. I watch them on the pitch, at the playground, by the pool and in the classroom. This seems a bit CCTV I admit. My aim, however, is to encourage them with great affection while supporting an interest. Ok, swimming might just be a residual from my unfulfilled college-years but as I tell Eitan: "consider it cross-training for your football." We shall see if the aquatics sticks. My guess is probably not.

Expose them now to everything and let them decide. School takes up the weekday while activities the afternoons and week-ends: guitar lessons, football practice, swim-team, performance class (Madeleine), Spanish (Eitan), art-yard (Madeleine) and tennis. This is for sure more than I ever did at this, or any age, but I expect them to eventually chose what counts . For them. At least I can hope.

Fun should be at the centre of it all dude and yes, mainly thanks to Grace, I goof a lot. I have re-found my silliness and am often on my hands and knees tickling, barking, farting, pinching and laughing with the sprogues. They love it, I love it - why not?

Don't spoil the brats. At their age now, everything a demand: ice cream, candy, toys, magazines, toys, boxes (Madeleine), football cards, ice cream, and on and on. My three favorite words, which are known well Dear Sir: "No. No and no." Eitan's super-fly Manchester United shirt, which cost a small treasure of £27 and saved from his allowance and chores, purchased by him with no help from me. He wears the thing every Saturday.

Spoil the brats rotten. Ours are away from grandparents and so miss their love, attention and wisdom. While there is no substitute, we do go over-board on occasion. This does not necessarily mean material crapola, though sometimes crapola it is. More often it is being there for school-trips, sitting around football practice, letting Eitan stay up until 10PM to watch a must-see ManU match, bring Madeleine home a box (which she asks for every day). Time is what counts and sometimes we have to do double without our extended family.

Anyways I thought my parents and in-laws might appreciate this missive and so here it is.

On Tears

Erik and Madeleine at the Di playground. Check out Madeleine's Vans.

Erik also a father this Father's Day and his son in Germany. He pursues his masters from the University of Chicago and his thesis a series of sonnets structured to Joyce's Ulysse and before Joyce, Homer. By coincidence I finished re-reading the "The Odyssey" last week but no match for Erik when it comes to poetry. We discuss other interesting things, as ever, and occupy ourselves with Israel and though I always get a little bent by his stubbornness, anon, I also learn from these exchanges as it has always been since '89 when we first met, the morning of July 5 (Oh how can I forget, Dear Reader, my first day at First Boston?) The kids love Erik too, of course, and Eitan begs to play penalty shoot-out all afternoon (we remain in the park until 7PM). Madeleine is somewhat less demanding - her bug-bear being ice cream: "Can I have one, dad? Can I have one, dad? Can I have one...."

Eitan wales on about missing tonight's football match between Switzerland and Portugal. Kick-off is past his bed time and it is a school night. It strikes me, as I lie on the coach watching football and listening to the boy cry, that if adults expressed their emotions similarly the world might be better off somehow.

Father's Day UK

Madeleine at the Diana Playground.

Ah yes - who can forget cool sand on a hot day? I take the kids to Hyde Park where we join Erik for the day. The cumulus clouds float by - at several points ominously - but we escape the weather by a nickel. Luckily too, I might ad, since I am without rain slickers nor umbrellas - Sonnet pestered but I declined - one would think I would learn? Sonnet stays home to tidy house and a day to herself. The playground BTW was built after the Princess's death on an existing playground but now larger and more elaborate. Its most prominent feature a full scale pirate ship which serves for climbing and surrounded by sand - pictured. It is a good spot for celeb spotting and the last time it was Tim Burten and Helena Bonham Carter. The only reason I noticed because they were easily the scruffiest crew in the park.

Katie On Hillary

Imagine you are Mrs X with a classroom of 25 screamers. Here they are, Dear Brother.

Eitan now surpasses me at football. The little trickster is fast on his feet and knows how to get inside. He also has a number of skills taken from practice and the tele - "just like Rinaldo" is an often repeated expression in our household. Today's lovely clime sees Eitan's side victorious, 6-nil and the boy scores one while setting up another. Madeleine meanwhile misses her chance at a score when the goal-keeper keeps her best shot on the outside "It was nearly a goal" she says indignantly. I tell her: "Nearly is worth nothing." She sulks on this a bit but soon rebounds when I give her my diet Coke.

Here is Katie in today's San Francisco Chronicle:
"

. . . . And while many have lauded American voters for their support of an African American and a female candidate in this campaign, the depiction of Michelle Obama, and in many ways Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton, shows "clearly we're not beyond" female stereotypes, said Catherine Orenstein, an author who has traced the historical depiction of women. "We're in the thick of it. We have a lot left to do."

Powerful women are often portrayed as "a doll or a bitch," said Orenstein, author of "Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale." Cindy McCain, often shown smiling supportively behind Sen. John McCain, "is described as a Stepford wife." And Michelle Obama, whom Orenstein described as "an exuberant, confident woman," is portrayed as "overbearing and a controller."

"It's the doll or the bitch," Orenstein said. "Neither image is productive, neither is real and both are just a repetition of an old stereotype.

"

Katie Rocks.

CHODA

Here is Madeleine at school, armed with my umbrella and a book for show-and-tell (I think Kipling).

Sonnet arrives home late following a CHODA meeting (me: sprawled on the coach watching football, waiting patiently for dinner. Ah, mid-life). Sonnet BTW is Chair of CHODA (the Courtauld History of Dress Association) whose web blurb states: this year "will mark the 42nd anniversary of the establishment of post-graduate studies in the history of dress at the Courtauld Institute of Art. Since 1990 CHODA has existed to provide a meeting point for former students of the course, and to provide financial help for students on the course. The annual conference plays a major role in bringing together researchers in the field outside the Courtauld, and in fund-raising for current students." This year's event to honor Sonnet's professor Eileen, who retires after 40 years. Eileen a towering figure in the academic fashion seen and not somebody to be triffled with. Sonnet was a favorite student in 1997 who has delivered on her expectations.

I'm considering coaching, if that is word, our school's lunch-time girls chess club and today I meet, well, the girls. There are eight of them, age 8s and eager to talk, chew sandwiches and play chess. In my favor, I know most of the moves but otherwise am not particularly qualified - as Sarah points out while taking my Queen. Hmmm. On campus, I duck in the assembly hall while Year Ones have lunch. It is a noisy affair and I spy Madeleine, who stairs at me with a look of surprised concentration: "Is that dad?" and "Am I in trouble?" racing through her mind, I'm sure. Tonight Eitan allowed to watch the late night game - Netherlands v. France - and Aggie will babysit.

Thursday Morning

Eitan with an old friend.

Sonnet's off 6:30AM - yoga!- and I breakfast the Shakespeares and try to read the newspaper. Fat chance. Last night I attend our informal PTA (I'm involved with the school fair again) and, again, find myself surrounded by seven women. It is a power set for sure and we discuss many things before I duck into a day-dream and drink rosé (did you know the original rosé was a pale 'clairet' from Bordeaux?) It is an efficient group and we have raised a considerable amount of dough these past few years allowing our school to build an auditorium, install inter-active white-boards in every classroom and kit out our computer lab. The PTA's next big project is to rebuild the school kitchen, allowing healthy meals prepared on site - from organic sources of course, Dear Brother. Today we have about a hundred grand in the til and while this seems reasonable, it pales against Roger's school in Seattle who raised close to a mil from their fund raising auction earlier this year. It doesn't hurt to have Microsoft in the community, lucky them.

Anybody curious to know how El Presidente's European road show is going down need not bother: yaaawwwn. Nobody cares about Bush and his failed war made worse by his open disdain of "old" Europe. The reality is the continent is no longer dependent on America and Bush blew any good-will and influence in a New York minute. He is one lame-duck for sure. We await McCain or Obama - the hands down favorite, BTW.

Sixth Avenue

Katie on the Upper West Side somewhere I think. It is blazing in The Big Apple and man I am glad not to be there for that urban summer. How vividly I recall my post- college years and awakening perspired followed by the sticky metro to Midtown and the sweat drenched collar shirt - all before a long day's work, made worse by office air-conditioning producing an arctic chill. And the stress of First Boston - quelle horreur. In those early '90s, personal air conditioning a luxury whose absence made nearly unbearable by three flat mates sharing a Village walk-through (373 6th Avenue at Waverly Place, to be precise). A summer outfit of some non- or lite wool material simply unaffordable then. And so traumatised, Dear Sir, I stumbled onto Sixth bleary eyed from the heat, already exhausted and greeted by honking, polluting traffic and the door-stoop bums: "Ay Wall Street! You got a dollar this morning? The World Trade Towers, RIP, due south and an endless car jam North. Ah, yes, those were special times and a happy distant memory.

Eitan belly aches about the late-evening Euro-cup matches, which are past his bed-time. Despite watching more football than either of us can remember, it still is not enough to overcome his sheer frustration at missing out on the action. It is a bitter pill, I agree, when one feels the world is happening and you are in bed. I have let him sneak down a few times already to watch 15 minutes - which usually becomes a full-half.

Lunch Time

Here's our little dear at lunch, in a quiet moment with "buns on the ground!" (teacher's precise words)

I observe that Madeleine is no longer the bossy-boots of two years ago. She interacts wonderfully with adults showing an appropriate amount of deference when called for. In new situations, she puts her hands together and slyly looks for direction or support - I saw this last week, for instance, when I left her with artist Sabi at her studio. She's the same in the classroom and when I am around (at least) her hand shoots up before her mouth blasts off. I do not mean to suggest that Madeleine has somehow become a push-over or engaged in girly-things or even become a stickler for manners. She is still a tom boy and loves climbing trees, rarely uses silver-ware (unless Sonnet commands so) and enjoys scrapes on both knees. Yet her transition to kid-hood, from child, occurs before us and I tell her "good job!" as often as I can. I also ask her if she will remember me when she is a teenager? and she rolls her eyes: "Of course I will dad" she chides me. But in many ways she is already gone.

Here is a letter from Stanford's Special Counselor to the President for Campus Relations:

"
Dear Faculty friends,

It is with great pleasure that the Office of the President and the Michelle R. Clayman Institute for Gender Research extends an invitation to you to attend an introductory meeting of the Op-Ed Project, the only initiative of its kind in the country, which seeks to expand public debate by targeting and training women experts to write for the op-ed pages of major newspapers. Attached is a more detailed description.

Catherine Orenstein, the creator of the Op-Ed Project, will be here Wednesday, June 18, 2008 at 3:00p.m. to 4:30p.m. at the Clayman Institute to explain the Op-Ed project and, with your input, involve Stanford in the project's wonderful seminar program. Our aim is to develop a relationship with the Op-Ed Project that will enable us to offer this high quality training to a group of our women faculty every year. A list of invitees to this meeting is attached for your information . . . .

"

Field Trip!

Madeleine's class visits the Sciences Museum. No way will I miss this and so I join 30 kids, two teachers and 15 parents in South Kensington at 10:10AM sharp. From there we spend the day in various examinations beginning with bubbles - pictured. The kids scream when an instructor makes bubbles that float, sink, with CO2, in bunches or solo. The finale are bubbles so large they surround two eager volunteers. The museum, I learn, was founded in 1857 to do something with the surplus of the Great Exhibition (also known as Crystal Palace). It was first called the Patent Office Museum BTW and its art collection (also from Crystal Palace) eventually found its way across the street to the V&A. But back to today: I'm assigned three children, including Madeleine, and do my best to keep up. In particular Adam keeps me on my toes. Adam is a mischievous little tyke with a pension for hitting. Me. In. The. Balls. By mid-day I've used every tried-and-true threat on him including time-outs, "secret consequences," double-secret probation" and simply telling him I'm going to leave him on a bench where he will be left behind. Nothing works but I love him the more for it.

I drive a group of us home (parking at the V&A, thank you Sonnet) while Madeleine takes the coach - she would have it no other way. BTW she was pretty cool about my picture-taking though the occasional, exasperated "Dad!" could be heard hissed under her breath from time to time.

SNF

Katie sends me her pic and asks me to identify the bridge - which shockingly I get wrong. She asks: "haven't you seen Saturday Night Fever lately?" and indeed I am shamed. The bridge, made famous by Bobby C's death (Tony: "Sometimes you can kill yourself without killin' yourself...you know?") connects Staten Island and Brooklyn and owned by New York City and the last great project of Moses Brown. The thing cost $320 million then, and opened in November '64 following five years of construction. It was the world's longest suspension until 1981 when overtaken by the Humber Bridge in England (where the hell is that?!). The bridge is named BTW for Italien explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano, the first European navigator to enter NY Harbor and the Hudson River, while crossing The Narrows.

SNF is remembered for its '70s outfits and disco. Forgotten is the no-way-out tale of these Brooklyn losers destined for... well, nothing. In the middle there is Bobby C, the gang-rape of Tony's girlfriend Annette in the back of his car and a blood fight. It feels raw and real - and the Bee Gees add dimension with their fantastic music. They also complete Tony's journey to Manhattan, when he finds Staphanie Mangano with another man. The song, of course, is 'How Deep Is Your Love' which plays as the sun rises over the Manhattan skyline and an emotionally wrecked Tony. Movies like this stopped being made somewhere in the '80s, which is too bad for us.

Tony: "Oh fuck the future!"
Fusco: "No, Tony! You can't fuck the future. The future fucks you! It catches up with you and it fucks you if you ain't planned for it!"

Catherine

Madeleine and I drive Catherine to T5 this morning. Madeleine sits quietly in the back listening to us talk about politics.

Ever wonder why you get car or seasick? Well, your inner ear tells your brain that you are moving while your eyes - focused on the shoreline or a book - tell it you are still. The brain interprets this confusion as a hallucination caused by poisoning and triggers the stomach's defensive action - to purge.

Madeleine to Eitan at the dinner table: "Eitan remember that time you puked your guts up?"
Eitan: "It looked like green oatmeal."

Dropping Catherine at the airport, I ask Madeleine if she knows how planes fly? She: "Magic?"

Eitan, playing soccer with the older boys, receives two back-to-back fowls the latter sending him to the grass both preventing a score. He is bitterly disappointed and off the pitch he goes. Two old men watching the action tell him: "you were sure fouled mate. Your pride just took a knock that's all."

van Gogh

Eitan helps me in the garden with his flippers, purchased for swim practice. He's useless but I enjoy the company.

Eitan's class visits the National Gallery Thursday:

"The Sunflower Painting, by Eitan.
My faveroute (sic) painting was the sunflower painting because its (sic) really strong paint and really bright colors. Also the sunflowers stand out allot on the picture. My other favorite was the one with the really swirly clouds. It was was also painted by Vincent van Goph. I liked it because he made the clouds like the northern lights."

Rinaldo

Our weekend begins, of course, on the football pitch. Catherine is with us - hooray - and she joins the action with me from the sideline (Sonnet goes running).

Friday night we see modern dance at the Southbank - created by Jonathan Lunn, who choreographs, and Anthony Minghella, who won an Oscar for The English Patient and sadly recently deceased. Natasha Richards of Harry Potter fame narrates the action. It is a weird and extraordinary performance - think ballet+yoga which takes place at super-natural human movements. The dancers' bodies are fluid and they "bounce" as though muscles rubber. And spring. The crowd too is pretty cool - a perfect date place on a summer evening, like tonight, spilling onto the Thames and views of Somerset House, Blackfriars and of course that Wren Cathedral.

The European cup begins last night and Aggie babysits the action. Sonnet, Catherine and I go for a drink at our local - The Plough - which recently re-opened as a gastro pub. Before it was your typical neighborhood public serving fags and .75l liquor to the local pensioner and construction worker. Now its outdoor garden heaves with yuppies and their kids. Fun. Catherine and Sonnet revisit Smith and other fond memories. I return early to watch footie with the boy - our fave Portugal defeats Turkey 2-nil and the world is in order. Portugal is the birthplace of Christiano Rinaldo who has announced his desire to play for Madrid despite four years on his ManU contract (Eitan: "It is actually three years and five months"). We wonder why Rinaldo would wish to leave the world's greatest club, which is paying him £72 million, to go to Spain. It couldn't be the sunny clime and lifestyle? Sexy culture and worshipping fans and media? Naaah.

Wookie

Here is Wookie with Barak (or is it Barak with Wookie?) Any case, Wookie belongs to Guy and Jeanine Saperstein who have been early and committed supporters of the campaign (Barak's, that is).

The UK's tremendous interest the US primaries eclipses politics here - which has been nothing but depressing since Super Gee took over from Tony (without a party election, oh dear). Obama clinching the Demo's pole position is Fleet Street's front-page news. These Brits are sick of El Presidente and we are probably more forgiving than the rest of Europe. Excluding Poland, but who cares? Barak presents a completely new image of America - the English generally assume Americans are racist, self-indulgent and inward looking (like father, like son). And while there may be a smidgeon or more of truth here, Dear Brother, Obama is an in-your-face example of a party giving us the sweet tune of a working democracy. Race and privilege be damned. We the people (for I still vote in the US) reject, for now, a white and tired administration that has really outdone itself to fuck our country. Can Barak overcome Nixie-land and win the blue-collar backwaters like PA and Ohio, which he needs for the White House? Can he avoid racial type casting- not black, Dear Sir - but Muslim? Is his life safe? These are all things to be found out but let us Thank God that we have finally found a fella unafraid to bring it on.

Rook

Eitan has been in chess class for some time and Madeleine learning the rules. This morning I watch the kids play and tempers, at times, soar. Madeleine does not quite understand check-mate and demands that Eitan "play fair" which leads to a "am to!," "are not!" exchange that seems never ending but does when I holler. From there I take the kiddos to school and Eitan anticipates a field trip to the National Portrait Gallery, lucky him. It is a perfect day for the outing - so far and as I blog, weather sunny and warm, though rain is supposed to spoil the cheer. Catherine arrives too - she will stay with us for the weekend before returning to L.A.

Bruni

I am in Paris where I snap this bus next to l'église Sainte Marie Madeleine. Vivre la France. 

This country sexually relaxed, no doubt - at least compared to England or the US. And Paris is of course home to mega sex object and First Lady Carla Bruni who married Nicolas Sarkozy in February. She is everywhere like our Diana. The French seem mixed about Bruni- some like her yuf, style and story arc while others irritated by her lack of interest in representing France or the President's office. 

One thing for sure: she did not marry for money or career: Bruni is heiress to the Italian tire manufacturing company CEAT which was founded by her grandfather and sold to Pirelli in the 1970s. Her debut album in 2005, Quelqu'un M'a Dit, went gold. Bruni grew up in France from five and attended boarding schools in Switzerland (sadly not Collège de Candolle - we are the same age, Dear Sister). She studied art and architecture but left school at 19 to become a model. 

Plus she has shagged everybody: Louis Bertignac, Mick Jagger (Jagger's wife Jerry Hall acknowledged his affair with Bruni was a reason for their separation), Eric Clapton, Donald Trump (gross!), Leos Carax, Charles Berling, Arno Klarsfeld and Vincent Perez and former French Prime Minister Laurent Fabious. She's a slapper. So what is this savage woman doing with the French midget? 

Well, power is an aphrodisiac no doubt+she is getting on in her spider widow years. According to Bruni, Bruni gets "bored with monogamy", and "Love lasts a long time, but burning desire - two to three weeks." We are all no doubt greatly interested. This not your usual politics-as-usual, that's for sure.

Oh- and I am in Paris for the day to see my friends at Astorg Partners, who raised our €800-million fund. Beforehand I sneak into the Jeu de Paume and am treated to photographs by Alex Soth, a Minna-soo-tan whose work is "acclaimed for having both a cinematic and folkloric feel: it evokes and hints at the story behind the image he is photographing." He likes rural, and poor, America and his scenes are depressing though also beautifully composed.

FAB

Here are Halley and Catherine from this weekend's re-union. The three glam gals met at Smith and have been steadfast ever since - in past they have re-unioned on Cape Cod or elsewhere on the East Coast (Halley and Catherine from New England) but now their intercontinental lives make anywhere possible. Catherine lives in L.A. and Beijing (these days) while Halley in Exeter. Sonnet tells me they see the Pantheon, Coliseum, Forum, Museum of Rome and other spots - and shop for shoes too, of course. We have not seen Catherine since her wedding in Pacific Palisades. Oh- and she is pregnant!

Eitan and I set our sites on the European Cup Finals, which start in three days. Earlier this year England crashed out against Croatia in a game where they needed tie. This leaves us and England wondering: who to support? There is a whole host of reasons to hate every competing country (Germany is Germany while France is France; the Russians have ruined London and Turkey not really even a member of the EU.... Greece won last time and Italy a bunch of soccer cheats....). Yes, there is only one team that the boy and I hope for: Portugal! And why, Dear Reader, you may ask? In an icon: Rinaldo. Rinaldo! Rinaldo!

I meet a fellow, John, who was at T-Mobile for 20 years and now tasked with raising money for the T-Mobile cycling team. Only problem: thanks to last year's doping scandel, T-Mobile withholds its brand. And name. And nobody wants to be associated with the sport- certainly not a corporate buyer. John tells me he makes 300 calls a day and hears back from five: who tell him to fuck off. Now that is a tough sale.

BRU

Here is Bru and Lucca. Bru is Sonnet's cousin and the son of Missy. He has lived in Rome since at least 1997 and before that Cornell and somewhere in Berkeley or Santa Cruz following the Greatful Dead. I met him in London in 1998 when he arrived at our flat in the most fabulous outfit: yellow crepe jacket, plaid shirt and pink pants with embroidery on the hip. Of course his Italian girlfriend Manuela perfectly stunning. We have been fortunate to visit Bru twice when he took us around the city and outside, including the Pope's summer palace where we feasted on pork sandwiches by the Papal lake - normally a Roma football match showing on an old television box, all the better for a lazy summer's afternoon.. Another highlight then was seeing Don Giovanni in the courtyard of the local church. Bella. Bru's cool fashion convinced me to purchase black Helmut Lang jeans which I wore with pride whilst raising $15 million during the Internet era (some might argue it was because of those jeans - it certainly wasn't my partner- that brought in the dough). But that is another story, oh boy. Today Bru is a full-time dad and Sonnet reports a most excellent father who enjoys his role. Bellisimo.

American Embassy Berlin

Here is another one from Sunday.

I return from Berlin - and the heat - to London and - surprise -the rain. Last night I am up until 3AM doing who knows what? but my flight fortunately leaves at the agreeable hour of 11AM. This allows a whistle-stop tour of the Brandenburg Gate, Reichstag and new rail station built for the '06 World Cup - tres modern. The most disappointing new building in Berlin (and there are a lot of them, especially in Potsdam Plaza) is the American Embassy which officially opened some weeks ago on the famous Pariser Platz. The building looks like a bunker - all concrete and sharp angles. It could have been way different given the open-space and airy plaza+nearby Berlin Park. Instead, America post 911 is on display: Impenitrable. Serious. Pissed off. The same theme BTW applies to the American Embassy in London, which itself opened in 1960 and during the peak of the Cold War and mistrust of the commies. Oh boy it too is u-g-l-y. Rather than convey our friendly, democratic society welcoming the world, our newest embassy looks afraid. Very afraid.

Madeleine, out of the blue: "Dad, never take me down a coal mine again."

Berlin

View in 1986 from the west side of graffiti art on the wall's infamous "death strip". Taken by Berlinmauer.org

I'm in Berlin, a favorite city, to have dinner with a friend at CAM. It is hot - like 105 degrees - and I sweat from the airport, dressed in long pants and a blazer. I shed that outfit fast and buy two Eton shirts at, what I am told, is the largest department store in Europe off the Lutzow Platz (one shirt turns out to be too pex tight - read: too gay - and I may have to leave it behind). Sonnet and I were here last year and despite setting aside five hours to visit Museum Island, I remain near the hotel and department store - too sunny to be inside looking at art anyways.