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.

Unnamed

(Unfortunately I do not have the artist) I ask Madeleine what she sees in the painting and she concentrates for a moment then: "City, dad. There are the houses, and the roadways to get to the jobs. And shops. There are trees too. The sun is going down and that is why the colors are changing." I tell her: bravo.

Vans

We spend some of our day at the Tate Modern, which is surprisingly empty - the main chamber awaits its next exhibition so this perhaps the reason. We use the space to play tag - the Shakepeares try to cross the chasm without my tagging them. They squeal in genuine fear as I bear down upon them, top speed. Eitan is extra motivated when I tell him that "I will cross your hand with silver" should he succeed. Nothing motivates Eitan like money, Dear Reader. We then have lunch and afterwards, much to their consternation, we visit the permanent collection. Madeleine the artist is more interested than her brother but in fairness, they have been running around like crazy and it is a sunny day. Plus the allure of ice cream to hand: "can I have an ice cream dad? Can I have an ice cream dad? Can I have an ice cr...." And so it goes. I try turning this around on them: "Do you want an ice cream Madeleine? Do you want an ice cream Madeleine? Do you want an ice cream Mad..." and you know she answers every time? Brother. On the way home we stop to get some tennies and Madeleine choses checkered Vans (Vans are California stoner shoes popular from the 80s). When Madeleine hears they wear them in the USA she is thrilled: "Oh yea" she says, pumping her arm downward. She definitely has her sense of style.

Four Towers

I am a sucker for the Battersea Power Station - it is just way cool. Anyone in Chelsea or Pimlico or driving along Chelsea embankment are treated to its magnificence and reminded ever of the industrial revolution that changed England and the world. Today the structure is crumbling and saved from demolition thanks to its Grade II listing. A while back there was some momentum to convert the icon into condos and shopping - maintaining the exterior integrity - but this was shelved due to transportation. There is none, really - and it certainly is not Central London convenient. Nor does Battersea offer the Chester Square address. Not quite, Dear Sister. But still she stands, the old gal, occupying her meaningful presence on the Southside and a corner of the city's imagination. I cannot resist stopping the car for photo today and every time I see her.

Secret Probation

Here is another one of Aggie and the kiddies.

Ok, for the record - here is what's gone down since Sonnet's departure: 1) I take the kids to a bar; 2) sugar cereal (Kellogg's Co Co Rocks described as a "soft chocolatey coated centre and hard crunch rocks"); 3) Edwin and Effie BBQ where 2X cup cakes+lemon pie+chocolate fudge cake consumed; 4) 2X Harry Potter+TV (being watched now BTW). The kids play me for a sucker, but I enjoy it. As they are sans nearby Grand Parents or relatives to spoil them rotten, I tell Sonnet that I am happy do so. Within reason. Usually. The strange thing is that I am also the disciplinarian- I say strange as Sonnet is a pretty substantial figure and everyone just assumes that she lays down the law. The kids know however where the buck stops and boy have I scared the bee-Jesus out of them on occassion. On training the little Shakepeares: Sonnet and I have never spanked nor used any sort of physical intimidation yet my intentions do come across, Dear Father, when obedience required. I am not afraid to go eye-to-eye and lay it out plain - usually this means consequences. Sometimes even "secret consequences" or "secret double probation" which means I can punish them at my whim with no warning. This rattles Madeleine especially and she begs to be released from this unsettling state. Me, this is just where I want 'em sometimes.

I have a discussion about school with Eitan and ask if he has any enemies. Replies he: "Chelsea?"

Madeleine comments on my pimple: "will it explode?"

Madeleine in my office: "Can we sleep here?"

I look quizzically at Eitan jumping from foot to foot. Madeleine: "he needs the lou but can't find the remote control."

AG 3X

Aggie turns 3x and Eitan, Madeleine and I put on our costumes and head for the party, which is at a local gastro pub. 

I don't think Aggie or anyone expecting my gorilla mask and I get all sorts of encouragement as I work my way through the bar crowd. Cool. We arrive on the tardy side of the kid's bed-time and straight from swim team (Eitan) and play-date (Madeleine). The kids also had three hours of football this morning so they are... wired. 

At first each child a bit shy of the adults and adult-setting but Aggie covers them with her affection and they warm to the occasion. Special ice cream+cake kick it up a notch. I turn at one point to find Eitan surrounded by five guys arguing football. The lads are amused that a seven-year old owns more statistics about the Premier League than they do collectively and they turn the heat on. 

I watch anxiously as the hot gleam of craziness enters the boy's eye and overhear him say: "well you smell like Drogba!" (a Chelsea player, Dear Reader). I'm ready to take the boy out but a nice woman leans over and tells me "he is doing wonderfully holding his own" and I relax a bit. On the other side of the room Madeleine entertains her crowd with the funny glasses and by 9:30PM I have to drag them away. They are lucky to have Aggie. Oh, and I force Eitan to say good-bye and "thank you" to his new friends. They give him high-fives.

Eitan, Madeleine and I examine a human-body poster and I point out the heart, aorta, lower intestine and lungs. I ask where blood takes oxygen and nutrients. Madeleine: "your toes?"

Glasses

I buy a gorilla mask for Aggie's birthday party and toss in face masks and glasses for the kids - pictured. Sonnet off to Rome this morning to meet Catherine and Halley - the gals celebrate 4-0 this year - so it is me and the kiddies for the weekend. Woo hoo!

Madeleine has a special afternoon with Sabi at her Wimbledon studio to see what it is like to be an artist, her on-record self ambition (Eitan: "I want to play for Manchester United" which is at least easier to get into than the Ivy League). I pick Madeleine up and she is genuinely thrilled with her work and adult-time. She comes home with four paintings and one canvas. God bless you Sabi.

Driving home Madeleine and I listen to Radio 4 and learn that teen-age knifings have become a serious national problem. A simple solution offered: square or round the end of kitchen knives, which account for the majority of the violence. When Britain's surgeons suggested doing so three years ago they received overwhelming public support but we remain still far away from its reality. According the Metropolitan police, knife crime declined from 12,122 to 10,220 incidents over the two years ending December, 2007 and teen-age knife-crime the only category increasing.

PMQ

I YouTube Barak's "A More Perfect Union" at Philadelphia, watching its entirety or 38 minutes - a commitment for a work day like now. It is interesting to compare with his 22 May Tampa Bay and Hillary's same-day Jacksonville, where she spends 30 minutes arguing for Michigan and Florida's count. Life moves on. A favorite for my in-laws in Montrose is "Prime Ministers Questions" which they catch on cable and I watch Sunday. Every Wednesday, while the House of Commons is sitting, the PM spends half an hour answering questions from Members of Parliament - widely available on YouTube or www.number-10.gov.uk. This past week, for instance, Super Gee addresses the Embryology Bill (can human-animal hybrids be used?), the 10p tax-rate (political disaster and bail-out), Zimbabwe, our economy, visas and angling - this just a sample. PMQ started in the '50s as twice weekly then once by Tony. I appreciate why shortened - a PM must be well prepared on all subjects relating to him or her - Blaire was a master while Super Gee learning though his goose probably cooked already. On display is Britain's wit and "long knives" as the sides openly go at each other's throats- always civil, dear Reader, always civil. One shudders to imagine El Presidente in this situation - on record - telling the truth - being coherent. But back to Barak: his presence remarkable and speech peppered with micro-pauses that add emphasis to what he is saying - and boy, what he says: who else so magnificently addresses race in America? Focuses on the forward? And called Iraq? Bill Clinton too was mesmerising but with Barak I hang on every word. Can't remember this before. Bush Sr? Reagan? Carter?! (photo from British Government)

I find Eitan in the kitchen staring at the washing machine awaiting his uniform. I suggest that "water watched never boils" - more fatherly advice washing from the duck's back.

XC

While thinking about the glory years, here is a neat photograph sent to me by Dave in New York. I'm in a few of the shots having joined the squad sophomore year following miles (and miles) logged in the chlorine. Dave is another dear college friend and running stand-out who today practices pediatric orthopaedics in NYC where he does "a lot of work with congenital foot problems in kids (clubfoot) and cerebral palsy." No surprise here as I recall clearly his college drive to enter medicine then Duke and now his Big Apple practice. Dave always somehow focused on athletics and still today: a runner's dearest possession, of course, being his feet. Dave and I had several post-college, post and pre-grad school years together in Manhattan. We managed some good nights out including a number of double-dates. Ah, we were young. Today, Dave lives on the Upper East Side with his family and running 30+ miles a week, presumably in Central Park, oh lucky fellow.

Scanner

Eitan works at his times-tables covering 1's to 9's (pictured, him drawing a "maths page"). It is an effort he does with pleasure.

Sonnet runs to work and I am back at the office, though a quiet week thanks to school half-term (many families bolt London but we save our vacation for July). Natasha arrives early and tanked up on coffee: first stop, thank goodness, football camp. After yesterday's wash-out Madeleine and Eitan raring to go. Oh boy. An interesting row has developed between the public and the NHS, which recently received £4 million from Royal Bank of Scotland allowing the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary to purchase a cutting-edge CT scanner - the only one of its kind online in the UK (the scanner takes remarkable 3-D images of an organ assisting detection of about anything). In return for the support, RBS receives preferences over the general public with 25% of the scanner's time "ringfenced" for its staff. I think this is a compelling model, which needs a set of guidelines for future like ventures. Otherwise it becomes the British rail system. Or worse, the tube.

Jump!

My day starts in an interesting fashion as I go to Bikram yoga and faint half-way through the balance exercises, scaring everybody including the instructor (though one jolly fellow does tell me: "you made it to nirvana") Bikram is practiced in a room heated to 105°F with a humidity of 40% and lasts 90 minutes through 26 postures. Bikram is not for the faint-of-heart, which is me Dear Reader, and I bonked at posture ten, the "bow arrow" pose. My problem today I think dehydration - I sweat like crazy and today was week-kneed from the start. Further sending me into a tale spin was the at-capacity crowd forcing neighborly proximity and raising the heat while lowering the oxygen. Any ways, there I was on my back feeling nauseous and the next thing two anxious faces staring into my face. No way they are going to let me out BTW and I rejoin the torture for the ground-series which blessedly puts my head at least level to my heart. Phew.

Because of the rain, football camp indeed cancelled and Sonnet takes the kids to the pool to burn some energy. From there, she guides them through clay-mations, which now bake in the oven (Eitan does a pretty cool Rinaldo on miniature field in stadium). Both do home work and I watch tennis. Thanks to the weather, the mood is, er, stir crazy and Madeleine jumps some rope shaking the house bonkers until Sonnet shouts: "E-N-O-U-G-H!" moving even me from the couch. Ah yes, nothing like a Bank Holiday Weekend.

I ask Madeleine: what are the most important things to you? and she replies "Parrots and love."
Parrots? I ask. "Parrots, dad!" (of course she says "parents" but her accent mixes me up)

Madeleine Climbs A Tree

'nuff said.

Beavers

I am glad that Madeleine and I had our walk yesterday given today's and perhaps the week's weather. She remains a tom-boy, freckles and all, and finds a tree to climb. In other news from this country: the European beaver is to be reintroduced to the wild, five centuries after it was hunted to extinction for its fur. Up to four beaver families will be captured in Norway later this year and released in Knapdale, Argyll, next spring. And there you have it.

Bank Hurricane Weekend

It does not just rain, it pours on, yes,... wait for it... the bank holiday weekend! The Met Office issues a "gale winds and flood warning" for Southeast England and we stair out the window as the trees blow and ground soaks. Football camp begins today for the kids and when Eitan sees the report he cries. Sonnet makes a fire and lights a few candles to cheer us up. It is for sure a Cat In The Hat day:

The sun did not shine.
It was too wet to play.
So we sat in the house
All that cold, cold, wet day.
--Dr. Seuss, "Cat In The Hat"

I'm not sure if we will make camp today and sadly the weather forecast is "rain" all week, letting up by the weekend perhaps. Being half-term break, this is a cruel blow indeed.

Puss In Boots

I get an easy-pass as Sonnet takes the kids to Kew Gardens. I use my time to sleep until 11AM, watch some golf and the French Open, which begins today at Roland Garros and lounge in my boxers and an old Izod. It is good to be Dad and how easy to slip back to the free-and-easy circa 1991 or '92 when the only weekend agenda was a morning run, afternoon nap and night on the town. It all came to a crashing halt by Monday and work - dreadful, Dear Reader- but there were moments of genuine enjoyment and kindled interest (Let's get drunk! Let's get laid!). Back to now, tomorrow is another strangely named "bank holiday" which celebrates... nothing. I think there are five of them and it always rains. Yes tomorrow's forecast is.... rain! In fact, we anticipate gale-force warnings in the Southeast - I've been here before so no disappointment from this corner of London. As it is a holiday, the kids now sit in front of Shrek II and we all have a laugh at Puss in Boots and Donkey ("keep work'n that hat" he says to a chica). Madeleine spies our neighbor's outdoors party whispers to Sonnet: "Look mom! Teenagers smoking. And drinking! And kissing!" And indeed.

On Piranhas

Madeleine spends her sweet time at a stream in Isabella looking for "tadpoles and other fish." I ask: are there any piranhas? and replies she, without looking up: "don't be silly dad. Piranhas live in a much bigger pond."  

I have been passively observing the frog collection in Madeleine's classroom, which started as 200 or so frog eggs. This converted to maybe 100 tad poles and now one frog. One frog? I ask. What happened to the rest? "Don't know" she says, sans emotion. "Maybe they drowned?"  

This brings back memories from Tamales Bay at Point Reyes in Northern California. Pt Reyes a cape in Marine County that protects Drakes Bay and home to many ocean critters. As a child, we had our favorites including "windy beach" (named on a windy afternoon - the same day II took a dunk in the Pacific and Moe dragged me out by a leg) and "sea lion beach" where we observed up close an elephant seal. Wow - that sucker was big too. 

The walks there always leisurely and surrounded by grassy hills and the most beautiful orange California poppy. Oh, and Tamales Bay had shallow side streams filled with tad poles by the spring time. Heaven indeed.

Isabella

I drag Madeleine back to the Isabella Plantation in Richmond Park to take evening shots of the flowers, which are at the height of their bloom. The gardens BTW celebrate their 50th year. Located in a beautiful woodland, Isabella houses a most excellent collection of azaleas, including the National Collection of 50 Japanese azalea varieties introduced to the West around 1920 by the famous plant collector, Ernest Wilson. Rhododendrons, camellias, and magnolias thrive under a mature woodland canopy with many other acid-loving plants. There are several ponds and trees for Madeleine to climb as she does today and yesterday. It is the kind of thing one plans to visit all year but reallly the best time is now until early June and then it is over. Usually we miss it but this year twice already and maybe again too. Madeleine agrees to always hold my hand and notes "don't be silly dad" when I suggest one day she might choose otherwise.

I ask Madeleine what the most important thing in life is? She says "parents" but I hear "parrots" (English accent) and we break-up laughing at this mis-understanding.

Whiteley

Here is my college pal Greg at his most graceful. We met Sophomore year at Brown thanks to Roger who convinced me to compete cross country (college swimming was a downer thanks to a generally miserable squad coached by Ed Reese).

I bounced swimming to join the 11th-ranked Bruins (today called the "Brown Bears") and made some wonderful friendships including Greg who was then, and remains today, a hero to us (ex)athletes and alumnae. Greg was the 1989 NCAA Champion in 3000m indoor with a 7:57.14 clocking. Then he beat arch-rival and future (now former) "Greatest American Miler", Little Joe Falcon from Arkansas. Greg was a six-time All-American (track & x-country) and holds many of Brown's records still. From 1993-1996 he was the American record holder for the 5000 meters on the road.

Greg was also 4th in the 1992 Olympic trials in the 1500 coming down from his natural strength, the 5000 race, due to injury and being out-of-shape. He missed a spot by one one-hundredth of a second. I recall like yesterday anxiously reading the papers to see if he had qualified.

I'm reminded of our friendship thanks to an email distribution today. Amongst other things, Greg comments on our '89 bet Senior year. He and I were a always competitive and agreed to challenge each other with a 1500 meter swim+10 mile road run. While it was unclear what the winner received (other than bragging rights) the bet gathered momentum within the track and athletic community. Sadly, thanks to my injury (lower back) the race was put on hold indefinitely.

I figured back then I would have to get about seven minutes on Greg during the swim then run a 57 or 58 minute ten-miler - probably impossible but the thought of seeing Whiteley over my shoulder still sends a thrill through me even today as I blog.

Rock On

Not to take anything away from Ed Timpson, formerly pictured on this blog, but I replace his victory photo with David Cameron and C-3PO.

Britain's Conservatives crushed the governing Labour Party in a special election that underlined the deepening unpopularity of Prime Minister Gordon Brown's government. Labour has had held Crewe and Nantwich since the seat created in 1983 and had not lost a seat to the Conservatives in a special election in 30 years. Say good-bye to all that. Tory Edward Timpson beat Labour Tamsin Dunwoody (great name) 20,539 votes to 12,679 in yesterday's special election. The gap was nearly 800 votes more than Labour's winning margin in the district in the national election three years ago. The election makes little change in the balance of power in Parliament but political pundits pay close attention to the scale of voter change, which they apply nationally to guess the results of future elections. It's not looking good for Super Gee. Photo of David Cameron and Timson from The Telegraph.

Eitan has swimming this evening and I run by the Thames during his practice. We listen to Gore Vidal on the BBC interviewed from his London apartment. He talks about all that as the last great American writer of his generation. Most interesting are his friendships and rivalries including Norman, Kurt, Miller, Irving, Updike and others (he doesn't like Updike BTW). Interestingly he says he is done writing and discouraged by today's lack of serious reading. Plus the mafia killed JFK and the Republicans will steal the US elections "as they always do." I take note. The kids officially on half-term so no school next week+it is a bank holiday weekend. They look forward to soccer camp and freedom from activities and homework. I look forward to goofing with them however.

$100 A Tank Cheap

Yes, even I wonder sometimes why Sonnet married me. Still, we have fun and here is another photograph from The Globe.

Britain really must address its oil consumption now that a gallon costs $10.50 and only going up (Bush three months ago told reporters they were nuts when $4 gas was suggested in the USA). It is easy to understand why: the world uses about 87 million barrels of oil a day, a quarter of it in the US. Saudi Arabia is the only country who can pump more - and they won't despite El Presidente's recent requests. Meanwhile, China is in its industrial revolution and then India. There are four oil fields in the world which produce over one million barrels per day: Ghawar, at 4.5 million; Cantarell in Mexico, at 2 million; Burgan in Kuwait at 1 million; and Da Qing in China at 1 million. Ghawar, at 5.5% of daily production is therefore extremely important to our well being, Dear Brother, and is expected to peak inside ten years. "The big risk in Saudi Arabia is that Ghawar's rate of decline increases to an alarming point," says Ali Morteza Samsam Bakhtiari, a senior official with the National Iranian Oil Company. "That will set bells ringing all over the oil world because Ghawar underpins Saudi output and Saudi undergirds worldwide production." Further: according to the Paris-based International Energy Agency yesterday, global need will increase to 116 million barrells a day by 2030 while production might not even make 100 million. That's a supply-demand issue dude.

Everything we see, do and touch based on cheap, or basically free, energy. Those days are gone man and the transition has yet to begin. It sure will help when we get Texas out of the White House and good riddance.

I ask Madeleine what she think we adults talk about. Says she: "us children. Fancy babes." (I think she meant "foxy" but who knows?)

4-0

On a beautiful yesterday, Sonnet turns forty. I pretend not to care, or at least not care as much as the FA Cup Final in Moscow featuring ManU v Chelsea (Eitan stays up until 11PM - sudden death PKs, dude). Sonnet and I meet at Somerset House in the afternoon to see an exhibition on fashion design and architecture and how the two shall intertwine (lots of Japanese work+the expected Frank Gehry, Herzog & de Meuron+etc.)

From there I take a new route home before ending up - surprise! - in front of Oxo Tower where we have dinner on the top floor, outside, overlooking Temple from parliament to Blackfriars - how green is London this time of year. Even nicer as the sun sets. I read notes from her family, including a power point presentation from Marcus complete with youthful photos and a poem - bravo!

The kids pick out a painting by our friend Sabi which she loves. We then go The Globe, via bankside, to see A Midsummer Night's Dream with just enough breeze to keep everybody happy. Manchester United eventually wins and the day complete.

"Dear Sonnet since it's your birthday we desided (sic) we would clear up the living room hope its tidy. From Eitan, Madeleine and Natasha"
Written by Eitan on Sonnet's fortieth birthday

Testing

Here's a photo, taken at St Paul's where Eitan now swims. It returns me to panic from an otherwise remembered care-free childhood. Who can forget standardized testing? Even the name sounds Big Brotherish and unpleasant. The first time I took the SATs was at the American School in Geneve, Switzerland, during my Junior year exchange. My performance was only mediocre so I did what every kid does: Stanley Kaplan and a re-take (Kaplan BTW was miserable and not my idea of a California summer). Anyway, on SAT #2, I had flu and over-slept the alarm. I was going to bag the thing but Grace got me into the car and we drove five blocks.... then ran out of gas. It was raining. Mom races back to the house, gets another car and breaks the law I'm sure to get me to the Oakland testing center 20 minutes late. My score goes up over 100 points and I to to college. Ghastly.

Swim

Here we are at the level-crossing, listening to the Stereophonics, on our way to St Paul's for Eitan's first swim-practice with the larger age-group. He tells me "I am a bit nervous" but otherwise he holds up OK. On the pool deck there are 40 or so swimmers of various ages and skills and Eitan is teamed up with the youngest or a crew of ten. They swim laps for an hour including pulling (with pull-bouy), kicking and stroke technique. It is a big step up in seriousness from his Sunday mornings. The program includes two evening work outs from 6-7PM+Saturday mornings - our goal is make two. In addition and as a bonus, Eitan is excited to have flippers and other kit which comes with the territory. So here I find myself yet again, Dear Father, parked on a bench and reading a book (this time Philip Roth's "I Married A Communist"). We are yet some years from early-morning practices so thank God for that. I tell Eitan Bravo! for giving it a go while his heart remains with football. It is on him should he wish to continue with swimming and for now it is all good.

Sabi

We make it out the door to the Hampton Pool for two hours of play on top of Eitan's swim practice this morning. Phew - they never stop. We have a great time and then Pizza Express where the Shakespeares wolf down an adult-size pizza each (usually I plan for the left-overs but today disappointed. Moe would understand). Then we head for the Wimbledon Art Studio to visit our friend Sabi whose work is on display and for sale during the open house. It turns out to be a fabulous exposure for Madeleine, our self-proclaimed artist, who gets to meet the artists in their natural environment. She is wide eyed and respectful, commenting quietly on what she likes (Sonnet reminds me that last month Madeleine asked if we could convert our shed into a painting room). She and Eitan collect post cards which is a genius way of keeping them attuned. I will try to get Madeleine back there soon for sure. Oh, and this mobile-phone pic sent to Katie to make her laugh. Says she: "YES".

Sunday Morning

After breakfast Eitan and Madeleine get stoned before the Olsen Twins - how the average Brit kid watches 55 hours of television a week is beyond me (BBC).

Sonnet is off to work to do some catch-up and I scheme for the day: Bath? Bournemouth? The seaside? All rejected due to drive-time. We agree on the Hampton pool and after tele will head there- assuming, of course, the weather holds which dicey as I blog this. While easy to forget we live on an island the weather, straight from the ocean, reminds us daily. No wonder weather is the Number One discussion topic here - sort of like guys and baseball in the US'A.