Vegas

Katie yesterday at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas - the same place where Evil Knieval attempted to jump the towers (presumably pictured). On the day and after doing his normal pre-jump show and a few warm up approaches, Knievel began his real approach. When he hit the takeoff ramp, he felt the motorcycle unexpectedly decelerate. The sudden loss of power on the takeoff caused Knievel to come up short and land on the safety ramp which was supported by a van. This caused the handlebars to be ripped out of his hands as he tumbled over them onto the pavement where he skidded into the Dunes parking lot. As a result of the crash, Knievel suffered a crushed pelvis and femur, fractures to his hip, wrist and both ankles and a concussion that kept him in a coma for 29 days. No wonder we loved him.

Motorcycle recklessness aside, Katie is in Las Vegas with her Woodhill Institute where UNLV hosts a panel discussion exploring the beauty and pop cult. According to Woodhill and Katie, Only 2 percent of women around the world choose beautiful to describe their looks: 75 percent of women strongly agree that they wish “the media did a better job of portraying women of diverse physical attractiveness—age, shape and size.” 72 percent of girls 15 to 17 withdraw from life engaging activities due to feeling badly about their looks. More than 90 percent of girls want to change at least one aspect of their physical appearance, with body weight ranking the highest. On the panel are Naomi Wolf, author of “The Beauty Myth” and co-founder of The Woodhull Institute, Courtney E. Martin, author of “Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters,” filmmaker and teacher and others, while Katie is the Moderator. You go, Girl!

Evil Knieval

Evil Knieval died yesterday, age 69, and probably 20 years past his shelf-life. As a kid I, and everybody else, had the Evil Knieval Motorcycle Action Kit which included a wind-up and ramp to mimic Knieval's feats like the Caesar's Palace Jump which landed him 40 broken bones. Just the name was fascinating to us and somehow a secret window into the weird ways of Adults. And of course the crazy outfits and insane daredevilry - his audience was the eight to eleven year old crowd and us at Washington Elementary happily obliged in those 1970s. Knieval began his career barn-storming in the West, doing motorcycle jumps from Colorado to California. He became a part of America's pop culture on September 8, 1974, for his attempt to clear the Snake River Canyon in Idaho in a rocket-powered "Skycycle" (pictured, photo from the Knieval archive). The Skycycle could be purchased (of course) and became a valuable addition to any boy's toy collection. The jump failed spectacularly when Evil's parachute opened early but still netted him more than $6 million from ticket sales, paid sponsors and ABC's "Wide World of Sports" (this during the era of "That's Incredible!" where idiots swam in shark tanks and etc. for money and the viewing public's titillation). At the same time, Mohammad Ali was The Greatest In The World and we school boys had some real heroes to aspire ourselves to be.

On the walk home from football, I ask Madeline to list her favorite things (in order):
1. Mum!
2. My family
3. Doggy
4. Bedroom
5. Eitan
6. California
7. My school
8. Charlie & Nugget (horses in Colorad)
9. Dad (who is happy to make the Top 10)
10. Performance class

Sunflower

Today I'm a glutton and attend my second museum, this time with Scott to see van Gogh's magical painting and a favorite (image from artquotes.com). A real pleasure for me is revisiting a lovely for an instant or two while avoiding the less interesting stuff. This is easy in London where museums are plentiful and free. Beforehand Scott and I have lunch at the Portrait Restaurant overlooking Lord Nelson who faces White Hall and Big Ben (the restaurant on the 4th floor with sweeping views). Scott has been practicing law first as General Council for Fleet Bank in Rhode Island and the last 17 years with Brown Rudnick where he opened the London office. He is also on the Board of Trustees of Brown University and on the Acquisition Committee of RISD. His wife Cindy has been involved with Brown affairs, and they have known each other since Scott was 14. This summer, Scott and I celebrated 100 years with a magnum of champagne and big dinner party when I hit 40 and he 60.

Eitan gives a full moon to Natasha, who yelps her surprise. He strips naked and bounces around the living room while my requests for underwear, please, ignored.

Coka Cola

Here's one I like from October 2003 - The Coke That Devoured Madeleine. It is worth pointing out Madeleine's haircut from the barbers, who I think thought she was a he. I was in Sonnet's dog house for six months on that one. Today I have a meeting in Charterhouse Square next to Spittlefields market and the Barbican Centre, which is ghastly and surely foretold by J. G. Ballard's "Highrise". I have a couple of hours to spare, so I visit the London Museum to revel in, well, London - founded in 43 A.D. by the Romans after Julius Caesar invaded Britain (Claudius handled the details). Of particular interest is the 1666 fire, which destroyed most of the city, and the Black Death. In 1346, a rumor spread across London that strange death was spreading from Persia and Northern Africa heading for Europe. By 1347, the bubonic plague had killed 40,000 Londoners - half the population. The descriptions of death are ghastly - blood from orifices, pustules, black tongue and boils ("Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posy. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!"). Emergency cemeteries were created but so swift the disease that the dead were left to in the street. The plague eventually took 30 to 40 million European lives and to this day its spread a mystery, though most believe it was an air-born virus or a rat's flea bite.

Leon

Leon is an old Berkeley true-hand turned fashion photographer with genuine success. To become, he relocated to Paris to establish his studio and build a portfolio, which now includes Japanese and Hong Kong Marie Claire and Harper's Bazaar, Cosmopolitan and Chinese Elle, as well as nine other French, Swiss, and Japanese magazines. I was present for the lovely pictured, when we spent the afternoon shooting before London icons. Beforehand, the team assembled at the Lanesborough so our model, a 19 year old whose parents are Spanish Norwegian, could be styled: hair, make-up and clothing. I must suggest that the gal was a head-turner, especially in her shiny outfits, which stopped the crowds dead in their tracks. I felt like a million bucks to be a part of the crew, I tell you. For Leon, it was routine but me? What a great story to retell the lads at the pub.

I return home this evening, greeted by Madeleine's usual: "Where's mum?" Otherwise, they tell me about their day, tennis and various items of importance - like the value of pepperoni on a pizza, which is the best vegetable and so on. I tell them it is important to wash hands, and prompt Madeleine for when: she replies "After number two! Touching worms! Stroking a cat! Touching chemicals!" Anyway, I think my point well made. From there, I quiz the kids on reality: how do we know our experience is not a dream? Eitan jumps up, smacks his forehead then pounds his head against the carpeted floor: "See dad, I could never sleep through that!" he exclaims, to my and Natasha's bemusement. Finally when I ask if we are living life forwards or backwards, he surmises: "well forwards because fires must be lit" to which I say: bravo!

Spider

In the Design Museum, I take a few photos and get a growl and elbow from Sonnet, who reminds me of the "Photos Not Allowed" sign post. Well, I can see no harm in a few digitals, which won't otherwise become post cards or used commercially. The cool spider is by Bertal Gardberg, a Finnish artist who combines an industrial element to a table set: this is a napkin holder, I think. Other style icons originating from here are the modern orange-press, scissors with back-stop (found in every grade school in the world) and, of course, chairs - lots of chairs. For some strange reason the Finns were at the forefront of the simple stool, bean-bag and practical plastic office chair, which can be stacked a mile high. After taking in the coolness of it all, Sonnet says good-bye and I meet a pension fund.

Helsinki

Sonnet sits in front of our hotel, The Kamp. It's a nice getaway while the kids are with Aggie for the night. The last time we snuck away was Berlin which was equally fun. As you may know, Helsinki is the capital and largest city of Finland. It is in the southern part of Finland, on the shore of the Gulf of Finland, by the Baltic Sea, where Sonnet and I went last night on a car ferry. The population is 568,146 from October, making it the most populous municipality in Finland by a wide margin. The metropolitan area generates approximately one third of the Finnish GDP and is roughly 1.5 times the national average, making Helsinki one of the wealthiest capitals in Europe.

Design

Sonnet and I visit two in one morning: Helsinki's Architectural Museum and the National Museum of Design (fish, pictured). At the first, we see buildings in the Eastern Bloc where investors demand a new asthetic and certain areas are prone to Euro chic - notably Poland and Lithuania, the home of many new, young and good looking architects... or are they artists? or cigarette smoking models dressed in black turtle necks with matching spectacles? Well, in any way, they make nice structures which are curvy and stylish, often shaped to their surroundings and always with glass exposures for us to see in, and them to see out. Afterwards, we stroll the high streets and marvel at the cool shops, which sell a bit of home ware, some kitchen fixtures and a sample of clothing all-in-one. Most have a burning candle on their entrance door step - a nice touch, especially on a cold day like now, with a dusting of white snow to make it cozy.

Front Tooth

Eitan has a wobbly - pictured. The boy will not be outdone by his little sister, who lost her second front tooth this weekend. Sonnet and I catch a morning flight to Helsinki, where we stay at The Kamp, a fancy hotel in the center of the city and not far from the Gulf of Finland. In fact, we take a late-evening ferry to one of the many islands and sit outside to watch snow-fall before returning to the hotel for dinner. Despite the dark (sunset around 3PM), the city is alight with candles and Christmas celebrating their good cheer. Our proximity to Russia and its history manifests itself in the dialects and the orthodox church, which towers over us from the tallest point in town. Sonnet and I plan to rise early for museums and etc. before she returns to London and I get to work. The kids are dee-lighted to have Aggie for the night in one big, happy sleep-over. Are we missed by them? Nah.

British Riviera

Here I am being silly, to the kid's disgust but to my bonhomie. After an early morning run to work off the Big Dinner, we head for the British seaside, in this case Torquay which has lovely fine sand and long wide beaches. Even better and since tidal, there are rocks where the kids scramble for crabs and sea-shells (Eitan wales when he cannot bring his crab home - I tell him OK but on the condition we ferment the thing in rubbing alcohol. I figure it is a good science project). Everybody is pretty darn tired when we arrive home this evening, so the kids in PJ's fast and I prepare for tomorrow's trip to Finland. Sonnet will join me, which will be fun and a fun adventure.

Madeleine tells me she hates the following chewing gum, all of which I have purchased for the car-rid: spearmint, peppermint, cherry and Tutti Fruitti. "No way, dad" she exclaims close to tears. Eitan pipes in: "she only likes Hubba Bubba." (and God only knows what that is).

Fozzy

Fozzy here belongs to Halley and Willem, and was bred to chase foxes down holes, Willem tells me. These dogs travel with the hunt and when the fox makes a break for it down a tunnel, in goes Fozzy. Not surprisingly, he is irrepressible and chases everything from rabbit to dog, sometimes resulting in a a nasty growling or worse - a pit bull, for instance, recently got a clamp on Fozzy, who almost lost his front leg in the exchange. Eitan and Madeleine argue over the leash and it is questionable whether dog or child has the lead.

Meanwhile, in the afternoon, Halley prepares a 20 lb bird for our belated Thanksgiving - the meal is fabulous, with all the stuffing. I'm impressed as Halley and I have joked about cold turkey sandwiches on Wonder bread with mayonnaise so my expectations were, ahem, low. Any case with us are two of Willem's colleagues at Exeter University, who have joined Willem this fall from Duke and Michigan. In total, we are four PhDs, and seven MA's. Since it is Thanksgiving, I ask for a count on the Star Spangled Banner. There is some shuffling, but I think most of us can mumble our way through it. On the U.S. Constitution, it is dire: nobody is able to list the first ten amendments. If not this crowd, I wonder, then who? Bush and the Republic fight for our so-called freedoms, but how do we know when they have gone? In England, we will surely have identity cards and I am photographed 300 times a day in Central London - soon, no doubt, this data will be linked to the police, my medicals and etc. England has a parliamentary democracy and the Magna Charta instead of a Constitution - the politics therefore work, but our civil rights are greying. In America, perhaps it is the the reverse - for now, until your phone is generally tapped and habeas corpus gone, thank you Gitmo. But hey, man, if nobody knows what they are missing - what the worry?

Madeleine loses her second front tooth in the car-ride to Devon, and promptly loses it. It is somehow retrieved in the seat-crack otherwise, I tell her, "no Tooth Ferry." Those are the breaks, kid. Sonnet awakes at 5AM in a panic, remembering to put two pounds under Madeleine's pillow.

Exuberence

Madeleine at Hotel Barcelona in Exeter. We drive to Devon yesterday afternoon, just nipping the weekend traffic. The journey is about three hours and we amuse ourselves with Willie Nelson and Twenty Questions, which I enhance with a £1 promise to the winner. Both kids go for it with varying degrees of interest and success. Our weekend will be spent with Willem and Halley, Sonnet's dear friend from Smith and their two lovely girls (Sonnet is the God Mother to the youngest). We have been here many times including this hotel which is funky, has a cool art-deco bar and kids friendly - what more could one wish for? In 2000, months before Eitan was born, we rambled through the countryside visiting small villages each with a 500 year old church and a few gravestones, a red mail box and phone booth and of course a cozy pub. Sonnet huffed and puffed. This morning following breakfast (Buffet! the kids shriek) I arrange several "time trials" so they may burn off energy before we start the day - pictured.

During 20 Questions, Madeleine: "It is a person."
Me: "Is it somebody I know?"
Madeleine: "No."
Me: "How can I guess if I don't know the person?!"
Madeleine, after a thoughtful pause: "Well, I know her."

Oh Sweet Blood

Madeleine, feeling a bit jealous about other's attention, upgrades the scratch on her nose to a medical situation. She begs for a cotton bandage, which Aggie lovingly provides just prior to bed time: "I'm going to take it to show-and-tell!" she exclaims. And she does.

Sonnet and I see the fabulous Joshua Redman at the Queen Elizabeth Hall last night with Emily - who runs the BBC's religious desk and recently earned two prestigious awards on her program's coverage of Israeli-Palestinian organ donations. Any case, Josh was graduated from Berkeley High School in '86 and with Katie, went to Harvard U. His father, Dewie Redman, is a jazz legend and Josh's road forked when he got a perfect score on his LSATs and admission to Yale Law. Rather than pursue fortune, he went for fame - and has achieved both with numerous acclaimed albums including his most recent "Back East." His main instrument is the tenor saxophone, but he also plays other wind instruments during the two hour performance which raises the house at its conclusion. Josh is anything but still and jumps and jives around his trio who themselves are world class on the strings and drums. Sonnet and I saw both Redmans at different times in Camden our first years in London - each time bringing Berkeley props in da house. Oh yeah.

Turkey Hangover

Steve McClaren and fitting for the photo, resigns as Coach of Team England following the disaster that was Wednesday's game. Adding to the misery, Croatia captain Niko Kovak rubs it in: "it was easy to beat England" he says, describing our lads as "predictable and one-dimensional" only playing the long-ball to Crouch "making it very easy to stop." Kovak's nail in the coffin: "Croatia are a team while England are not. We have players who love to take the opponent in a one-to-one situation but England don't seem to have players like this." Ouch.

Such comments are shaming given England invented the Beautiful Game, for Pete's sake, and has the most competitive and expensive league in the world. Sadly, the net net is a bunch of over-paid prima donas who cannot come together for their country, who is desperate for a bit of respect on the global stage. Instead, our guys whine, whenge and moan when things turn against them and they are pilloried in the press - which Wednesday they clearly deserved along with the coach. And who will take the helm next? And who would want to, that is the question, dear fan.

Croatia 3, England 2

Well, we lose another heart-breaker this time failing to get the crucial result at Wembly. England had to earn a draw last night to advance to the European Cup Finals but it was all dashed in the first 14 minutes when Croatia punished our new goal keeper Carson, who let through two dreadful strikes (Eitan: "I could have stopped that one, dad"). Despite the first half, England made some adjustments and came out swinging - tying the match on a Lampard penalty and then a lovely Beckham to Crouchy pass-header (Crouch pictured, thank you Getty Images). It was all looking rosy until the hammer dropped with Croatia's third strike, a stunner that sailed past our day dreaming, butter fingered Carson. 25 minutes plus 3 more in overage netted zilch and England Coach McClaren was sacked today in an emergency FA counsel meeting, 0800 (bru-tal). The country now settles into its post adrenaline, way hung-over and all-collective b-u-m-m-e-r. It is raining in London and no championships to look forward to.

Spy vs. Spy

Ah, Spy vs. Spy. I'm not sure why I'm on this trip but I recently sourced the cartoon on the Internet. For those on the outside, Spy vs. Spy is a wordless black and white comic published by Mad Magazine since 1961. It was created by Cuban Antonio Prohías, who fled to the U.S. in 1960, just days before Fidel Castro took over the Cuban free press. Needless to say, The "Spy vs. Spy" cartoon was symbolic of the Cold War, and was Prohías's comment on the futility of armed escalation and detente. Under the Spy vs. Spy title panel, the words "BY PROHIAS" are spelled out in Morse code, which would be: -••• -•-- •--• •-• --- •••• •• •- •••.

I remember perusing the magazines rack as a kid while Grace shopped in Safeway or the Berkeley Co-op on Shatuck Ave. (now Andronico's). Mad was the so obvious choice - a cartoon first of all, but also edgy and an unintentional secret view into the adult's world. There were violent and sexual themes (Spy vs. Spy was hugely gory and a precursor to The Simpson's "Itchy and Scratchy Show" which amuses Bart with its decapitations and blood-lettings). Most of all, Mad was a secret pleasure, a comic that could be read in the privacy of one's closet or in the basement. It wasn't Playboy or Penthouse - that would come later - but for a ten year old, man, it was all that.

Whomper

Picture of Eitan with his "tactic" Whomper. Recall that the boys trade these action figures like crazy and Whomper is at the top of the value-chain given his mass and over-sized swinging arm which, presumably, can crush other tactics. I dash across town from Mayfair to see the kid's singing assembly, though when I ask just now what they sang both reply with blank faces and silence. Each has more important thing on the mind : tonight's do-or-die Euro Cup qualifier against Croatia, for instance. Russia coughed up a hair-ball Saturday losing to Israel and giving us a window of hope: a tie puts us into the summer '08 finals while a win would be, well, ecstasy. The game kicks off at 8PM, well past Eitan and Madeleine's bedtime, but I tell Natasha that if they do a solid hour of reading and other homework, the first half of the game is theirs. Come on, England!

Darling

What is going on with our Chancellor?! Alistair Darling was forced to defend his handling of the Northern Rock collapse, making his second statement to the Commons in as many days as the Rock's shares went into a free-fall following a failed sale to private equity (note, dear reader, that an unseemly depositor run on Northern Rock occurred last month due to its exposure to the sub-prime fiasco. Northern Rock is (or was?) the UK's fifth largest mortgage lender. We, the friendly British tax payer, have been stung by at least a £20B exposure). As if that were not bad enough, Britain's most senior tax man, Paul Gray, quit his £170,000-a-year job today as head of HM Customs and Revenue after he lost two discs containing confidential bank details on 7.5 million British families including, perhaps, US. This data includes bank account details, birth dates, addresses and tax-payer IDs (the equivalent of a U.S. Social Security number). The names of 15 million children are there too. Such a mess to occur in England, home of the world's financial center, is just plain shocking. Gordon Brown has rolled from one crises to the next since taking over from Tony. To his credit, until the autumn elections cock-up, Gordon has handled himself admirably. Oh how the perception of him has changed. And fast. Good bye, lame duck.

G I Jane

Sonnet puts her British on before a Mach VIII Cromwell. She must deliver an item from the Imperial War Museum to the V&A so I pick her up for lunch and accompany her to the pick-up. I'm pretty interested in the V-2 rocket in the main gallery and a staple of Thomas Pynchon's "Gravity's Rainbow" which I famously quit with 40 pages to go. What the hell is Pynchon about? I still wonder. Any case, I wandered the Imperial for the first time during the Orenstein family's European Hot Rocks trip in 1980. I distinctly recall the toy soldiers and etc. Moe was pretty keen on the battle stuff too- and why not? Guns and steel is cool at any age. In the museum shop I purchase Shoah, which tells the Holocaust through first-person witness.

The Cromwell, BTW, was the fastest British tank to serve in WW2, with a top speed of about 40 mph. - fast for its time. Thanks to its Christie parentage the Cromwell was also agile on the battlefield, blasting away without a care in the world. The dual purpose 75 mm main gun fired the same ammunition as the US 75 mm gun and therefore it had around the same HE and armour-piercing capabilities as the 75 mm equipped Sherman tank. The Cromwell's armour ranged from 8 mm to 76 mm thick overall but the maximum thickness was later increased to 102 mm with appliqué armour plates which were welded on. This armour compared well with that of the Sherman although the Cromwell did not share the Sherman’s sloped glacis plate. The Cromwell crews in North-West Europe succeeded in the Cromwell with superior speed, manoeuvrability and reliability outflanking the heavier and more sluggish German tanks; however, the Cromwell was still not a match for the best German armour and British tank design would go through another stage, the Comet tank, before going ahead in the tank development race with the Centurio tank. Ah, such blissful times and times of bliss.

Sonnet gives a late evening tour of Haute Couture at the V&A with our friends Tony and Susan; afterwards we have a fun dinner and to bed at mid-night. Both of us feeling a bit flattened today following a boozy night (me) and five hours rest (us).

Lifeline

Despite best efforts to miss the '08 European Cup, England is given a big assist from Israel who defeats heavily favored Russia in a crucial qualifier yesterday (photo from prweb.com). England will play Croatia Wednesday and we must win or draw for a ticket to the finals (if Russia had won, it was all over). I tell groggy Eitan first thing this morning about the Ruskies loss and he jumps for joy. It is not all good news, though, as Michael Owen is lost for Croatia having re-injured himself against Austria in a lack-lustre 1-0 victory (Crouchy scored the decider on a ripping header). We will be glued to the T.V. come Wednesday, no doubt.

The average top fooballer earns £21,154 per week, up from £100 in 1966. This compares to a teacher (£661 per week now, versus £27 then) and a GP (£2,115, up from £71) and the national average( £452 now, £18 then). Footballers have enjoyed a %1,459 salary gain, after inflation which is one reason the hard-hats, such as the tube, go on strike. Yet even they, oh fabled consumers of The Sun's page three titties and the heart-stopping chip buttie, would agree that football is far more important than keeping the country running. And by a large margin, BTW.