This is my un-named friend (though he HAS appeared in my blogging before) following a bet on the elections. He being a die-hard conservative Republican chose the losing candidate shortly after Sarah Palin when the Repubs prospects seemed good. Should McC have won you would be seeing me in an afro and black-face.
Eitan competes at the Wandsworth Borough Junior Closed Championships hosted by the London Borough of Wandsworth Amateur Swimming Association. Madeleine is too young yet. The boy is all nerves though I wouldn't know it without asking. Our swimmer takes three disciplines avoiding the butterfly. He also anchors the victorious 8-11s freestyle relay. Since this is England, there are no 25 or 50 meter pools making it a bit weird at 33 meters. Not that times matter. The kids cheer each other forward and I am reminded of the strange camaraderie of swimming - its like no other sport, really. The preparations, pursued in a watery silence, bond the children together: "hup! Hup! Hup!" they scream during the heads-up on Eitan's breast stroke. I sit in the stands thinking how boring it must have been for Moe during those all-week end competitions at Ohlone or Spieker or wherever which often began Friday and went to Sunday late. At least those pools were outdoors and often (though not always) in glorious California sunshine. Usually it was Moe who loaded the Volvo and away we went. Eitan comes home with four medal ribbons and is happy: "I am very proud" he says, laying his tin on the bedroom floor. Leaving the pool complex we bump into a school chum whose eyes are wide when she sees Eitan's success. Could we have a legend in the making?
Here is Moe wearing the Wandsworth Swim Club team-colors. Way to go Dad!
Saturday is spent on the school grounds where we and London celebrate Guy Fawkes with a bonfire effigy and rousing fireworks. Again I am the Chief Executive of the Grill Team, assembling seven volunteer flippers serving beef-burgers and pork sausages. Gross. The weather is not friendly and things are touch-and-go until the final moment. Rain is not so much the problem but rather the wind: nobody wants drifting embers to replay 1666. Eitan and I arrive early to set things up, shred lettuce and pre-cook the hot-dogs and chopped-onions. He is eager to help and happy to be useful, which is nice to see. Four years ago Eitan scared shitless by the fireworks but now it is old hat and the dads tease him about drinking beer with us (this is England). Sonnet arrives with Madeleine who, with the other kids, impressed to see her brother behind the counter even if he is just standing there. I toss her "secret-crisps" that she doesn't have to pay for - she refuses and good for her. Afterwards we Dads clean-up and head to The Victoria for an after-action "refreshment."
Cal loses to USC in Southern California. Another year no Rose Bowl. Just.. . once.. I . would... like to. . see the Bears . . . . compete.
Sonnet treats me to a remarkable concert at the Southbank Centre's Royal Festival Hall: Vaughan Williams's 'Dona nobis pacem': a cantata for soprano, baritone, chorus and orchestra; Symphony No 3 ('Pastoral Symphony'); and Symphony No 4 in F minor. Richard Hickox conducts the Phiharmonia Orchestra and London Symphony Chorus, with Lisa Milne (soprano) and Alan Opie (baritone). The orchestra is backed up by 120 vocalists. It is exhilarating and terrifying - Williams created the symphony on the eve of World War I imploring man to avoid its annihilation. Williams's music has often been said to be characteristically English, in the same way as that of Gustav Holst, Frederick Delius, George Butterworth and William Walton. Here is what writer Peter Akroyd writes, "If that Englishness in music can be encapsulated in words at all, those words would probably be: ostensibly familiar and commonplace, yet deep and mystical as well as lyrical, melodic, melancholic, and nostalgic yet timeless." Photo from the www.
From the RFH we have dinner at a nearby Asian-fusion - average age 25 and definately cool. The young women have their autumnal style which is black leggings and Ug boots, a long sweater serving as a skirt, big belts and funky hats. The blokes have it easier - too skinny jeans, trainers, stripy sweaters over dark t-shirts. Hair moused to unholy perfection looking straigt-outta-bed. We enjoy the open flirtation discussing our middle-age things mainly children and money. We might not be in our 20s but we still got it good.
"I also have picked a secretary for Housing and Human Development. Mel Martinez from the state of Florida."
W., Washington, D.C., Dec. 20, 2000
Given the All-British Bank Holiday Monday miscue and feeling a bit, well, forgotten thanks to the US elections, here is a short-list of where the United Kingdom ranks:
Number one globally: Grand Prix winners
Second: per capita global aid
Third: obesity
Fourth: scientific literacy
Fifth: radios owned
Sixth: beer consumption
We also have the Queen and stirling, which has fallen like a brick since the financial collapse (but the "£" is still cool). The BBC is world-class and dear: I must pay £120 for a yearly license on five channels which bombard me with advertising - Radio 4 makes up for it. The Thames is a proper tidal river - not like the "skinny legs" on the Seine. Our parliament kicks ass and of course London, where everybody wants to live. It is easy to make fun of a cockney accent whilst Oxford and Cambridge are better (for now) than the Ivy League. The Beatles and Stones. Ozzie and Vivianne. The V&A and British Museum. Elgin Marbles! Le Shakespeare. Hadrian's Wall and the Romans. Streets paved with gold, now melting underfoot. Portland stone. And loads and loads of history. It is inescapable: castles, bridges, monuments, battles and wars. Plus the decline which don't seem so bad in a country ranked the world's fourth richest (stay tuned, however - we have the highest consumer debt anywhere).
"When in doubt, go for the dick joke."
Robin Williams
I awake at 5:00AM (Sonnet rolls over) and stumble downstairs to the BBC. It is indeed a Brave New World and a black president. After 20 months of slugging it out, our most improbable candidate fulfills his destiny and we are there to celebrate. Yesterday's media is filled with lines, lines and lines at the polls then throngs of people in the streets cheering, crying and whooping it up. This is how it must have felt in '74 when Nixon gave his peace sign and boarded a chopper rather than face the Senate and impeachment - the times they are a-changin'. I get calls and emails from everywhere including Christian who, from London, went straight to PA to campaign for Obama; friends and strangers congratulate me and ask what next?; Eitan rubs his eyes and grins when he hears the news. Dale owes me a photograph in a dress - we made a bet when Palin selected VP and McCain up solidly in the polls. The British media gets their darling and the newspapers shout "Gobama!" and "The Vote For Change." There is a real sense of relief - and glee - in the London press after eight years of it all; most believe Americans to have finally returned to their senses. Me too, for the record. The honey-moon will be short: two wars deep, well into a financial crisis and a recession looming large. There is no money in the kitty for health care or welfare. For the moment anyways we can dream of our salvation. And BBQ at the white house. Go figure. Photo from AP.
"If you're walking down the right path and you're willing to keep walking, eventually you'll make progress."
Barack Obama, Feb. 25, 2005
"I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully."
W., Saginaw Michigan, Sept. 29, 2000
From the castle we go to a hunting llodge that dates to the 17th century now converted into a luxury hotel which, in Britain, means a decent bathroom and pool-spa (hot-tub like it is a big deal) which we put to use. Eitan brings a football good for the ground's healthy green allowing us to kick it about (the other guests are enamored with the action on an other wise stuffy estate. At least I think so). Madeleine in particular gets into the action and I impress upon her the need to "push, pull and kick" her way to a goal. When she goes for the blatent fish-punch I tell her she has to be subtle - "football is a game of secrets" I say. Eitan just grins - I've coached this into him years ago, Dear Brother. Such pearls of wisdom that drop from a tree. Madeleine remains forever the tom-boy and we practice headers until it gets too dark to see the ball. From there we swim, again, then dinner. Everybody way tired and I have to growl at Madeleine to sit-up straight - she is so tired she can barely be contained, poor child. Inevitably this turns into a giddy exchange and finally I join in the fun. In my defense (assuming Sonnet reads) I did get napkins in laps and cutlery (this morning Eitan stuffs the better part of a full English breakfast into his mouth with his hands). We have a great giggle before the light's out, which is 8:30PM. Since it doesn't seem quite fair to keep a reading light on I go to bed at this hour too and you know what? It feels great.
"I fully understand those who say you can't win this thing militarily. That's exactly what the United States military says."
W., on the need for political progress in Iraq. Oct. 17, 2007
"My job is a decision-making job, and as a result, I make a lot of decisions."
W., Lancaster, Pa., Oct. 3, 2007
Princes Diana used DDG for Wils and I think appropriate for my kids too, no doubt. My Grandmother Dorothy would say they "come from good stock." Over a dinner-party Sonnet and I are told how the mothers ogle Eitan on the playground, poor him. Of course he absolutely hates anything to do with looks or love. Egad. Our tour of the castle continues and from the outside turrets and cannon we head inside to outrageous splendor beginning with the most wicked doll-house I have ever seen (it is Queen Mary's). From there into the main salon then the various apartments for sleep, dress, library and reception - all in various gold leaf or style with plenty of da Vinci's, Rembrandts and Holbeins to marvel upon. A touching chamber, created for Prince Charles 60th, presents black and white photographs of the next King from birth to Diana to Camilla. He has formed 17 charities and whilst perhaps he took a beating over the People's Princess he has been actively campaigning for Britain and for good.
The kids enthusiasm quickly diminishes once inside and after an hour of endless frivolty they do what comes naturally: run amock. I have to pull them in hard under the reproachful eye of the wards who, as a job's perk, get to live on the grounds. So the kids don't quite, ahem, appreciate the 900 years of history we plod through and just as well because it is lunch time. They have only one thing on their minds and it is a clown. With red shoes.
Madeleine: "Dad can I have a buddy. Can I? Can I have a buddy now? After lunch? Can I have a buddy? Dad? A ... b-u-d-d-y. I promise to be good, dad, if I can have a buddy. Ok? Just. One. Buddy, dad. I'll give you my french fries for a buddy. Please, dad, Pleeeeassse. Can I have just one buddy? Can I? Why not? You are so mean. You always say no. Always, dad. Please can I have a buddy? Aw, dad. It is always the same answer. Please. No? Dad! Just one, I promise. I promise one buddy, OK? Dad! I will give you a hug and a kiss..."
Repeat, if possible, for 24 yours.
I peel out of the house Sunday morning with the kids in tow allowing Sonnet a run to work and a day of catching-up at her office. Lucky her, lucky me. We pick up the M4 and drive past Heathrow on our way to Windsor Castle. It is appropriately damp and white - no sunshine, no Sir. From Richmond it is an easy drive and our 10AM arrival gives us nearby parking and a head-start on the crowds - already there are Japanese everywhere taking videos of the squirrels and pigeons. Who knows why? On our way to the castle we pass McDonald's and both kids wake up to our historical adventure (in faith, we were here on Christmas Day several years ago with Katie and Moe but neither Shakespeare remembers accept, of course, the McDonald's). Finally we crest the hill and there she is: one huge pile of impenetrible rock. It is a legitimate castle and I explain how guardsmen poured boiling oil upon mauraders mounting the mote then spears threw their eyeballs. This gets small beer from the kids accept Madeleine who asks sweetly: "really, dad?" The castle dates back to the William the Conqueror or around 1022-1066 and is the oldest, continuous occupation in England - the Queen going there >once a month, I am told by the tickets guy. We know if Her Royalness is in residence by the flag on the highest mount - Union Jack, she ain't; Royal Windsor she be. Though Me Lady is not en-scène we practice our curtsies and English standard none-the-less. Pip pip!
"As yesterday's positive report card shows, childrens (sic) do learn when standards are high and results are measured."
W., on the No Child Left Behind Act, Washington, D.C., Sept. 26, 2007
Eitan's acrostic poem:
"
Most miraculous team you'll ever see
Amazing players
Non-stop winning
Courageous playing to better clubs
Hour after hour they score a goal
Energetic shooting whenever they train
Staggering performances all the time
Talented foot-work in the matches Eitan is there biggest fan
Resting is what they never do
United are the real dream team
Never insult the legends
Immense applause whenever they play
The one team you can understand
Ever lasting hard work
Did you know it's Manchester United?
Illustrated and authorised (sic) by Eitan Orenstein"
"Let me start off by saying that in 2000 I said, 'vote for me. I'm an agent of change.' In 2004, I said, 'I'm not interested in change -- I want to continue as President.' Every candidate has got to say 'change.' That's what the American people expect."
W., Washington, D.C., March 5, 2008
Last night's trick-or-treats see us about in the neighborhood - think Charlie Brown and the Peanuts moving in a scrum from door to door. Ours have it down cold - the courtesy "trick or treat" usually forgotten as their expectation of candy is, well, obvious. Cruising the streets with the youngsters are roving gangs of dreaded teen-agers, to be avoided at all costs - the kids look warily away when teens are spotted. Perhaps their fears merited as our carved-pumpkins go missing and Madeleine cries out: "Those teenagers! They did this! Why? Why!" Otherwise, Eitan and Madeleine score big, which will surely be gone by Thanksgiving. Once home, the doorbell continues ringing and Madeleine dishes out Mars Bars and Snickers until we are cleaned out. So to satisfy the little beggers she goes into her personal stash and I am like: "why would you ever do that?" but she is concerned that her guests go away empty-handed. I must respect this. We head to Chris and Kate's for a post-action dinner party with Steve and Louisa while the kids upstairs watch Indiana Jones and we drink red wine. Our treat.
Eitan and I goof this morning while I wear my last night's costume, pictured, which gets a lot of bemused looks for the other patrolling adults. My description - "It's a chicken" - is a guaranteed guffaw. Go figure
"Thank you, your holiness. Awesome speech."
W., to Pope Benedict, Washington, D.C., April 15, 2008
"I'll be long gone before some smart person ever figures out what happened inside the Oval Office."
W., Washington, D.C., May 12, 2008
Here is a no-name building that abuts Waterloo train station - I take this photo yesterday on my way home from Rothko. It is horribly bleak, constructed I'm sure when London began filling its bomb craters (I recall Ludgate Hill at Blackfriars Bridge nearby Botts & Co - there was a city block of rubble from WWII; today it is a modern high-rise). The appropriately named "brutalism" architectural style of the 1950s and 1960s, as pictured, evolved from the work of Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe. An offshoot of modernism, it was uncompromising in its approach, believing that practicality and user-friendliness should be the first and foremost aims of architectural design. Materials such as steel and concrete are favoured. The city skyline began to rise in the 1960s with the construction of Centre Point (1963-67), which rose to 120 meters smack dab in the middle of London at Oxford St and Tottenham Court Road - an abomination unless you are in it, then wonderful views. Other early high-rise edifice include Hyde Park Barracks (1967-70) and the Barbican residential arts and conference complex; the 124 meter Euston Centre (1963); and the Post Office Tower, reaching 124 meters.
“A hundred times have I thought New York is a catastrophe and 50 times: It is a beautiful catastrophe.”
Le Corbusier
Eitan shows his teeth - we were supposed to visit the dentist this week but Dad got stuck on a conference-call and then got stuck in traffic going to the clinic. Dad was pretty PO'd especially because the nanny dressed the kids in shorts even though it is like freezing in London. The good news is that I make an effort, and it is an effort, not to take out the day on the kids. Especially when they are in the back seat screaming or biting each other. Yes, I breath deeply and do what every father does in the circumstances: turn up the radio.
Tonight is Hallowe'en (where does the time go?) and again Sonnet will host a pre- tricks or treats? party. From there it is a candy grab. Some costume shuffling has Madeleine from clown to witch (complete with broom) while Eitan to be ... wait for it now... a footballer! That's original - the boy doesn't have to change from this morning's camp (pictured). Yesterday the Shakespeares did up their pumpkins with Natasha while Sonnet turns the gore into pumpkin seeds.
"Let me tell you my thoughts on tax relief. When your economy is kind of ooching along, it's important to let people have more of their own money."
W., Boston, Oct. 4, 2002
And yes it is Friday again. I snap this image walking from the Tate Modern to Waterloo. The skate-boarders congregate underneath the Southbank Centre home of iconic Royal Festival Hall, Queen Elizabeth Hall and The Hayward. This is where the London philharmonic plays next to jazz, modern dance and poetry. More than any place else, it is Britains cultural destination since construction in '51. Unfortunately too it reflects the architecture of that period: cement, and lots of it. London needed cheap buildings following the WW and concrete the answer. As for the skate rats, they occupy the dark, ground level space looking perfect for a good mugging. The designer must have had something in mind - maybe parking? - but instead unused and eventually derelect despite the splendors above. The yuf made it their own and following a many-years struggle with the police and blockades London finally said WTF not? and let them have it. I watch blacks, whites and Pakis show their stuff mostly riding cement blocks or jumping from platforms. They are self-contained and ignore the idle observers - of which there are many. In the end, as with everything, it is just another freak show.
So the US Treasury prepares its >$40 billion program to help delinquent homeowners avoid foreclosure. The problem is negative equity - it is anybody's interest to stop making their obligations if their $1 million borrowings supports a $600,000 house. The government agrees and contemplates reducing prop values (and hence P&I payments) for those who cannot make ongoings. How they prevent an all-in is beyond me.
"I can press when there needs to be pressed; I can hold hands when there needs to be -- hold hands."
W., on how he can contribute to the Middle East peach process, Washington, D.C., Jan. 4, 2008
Erik and I check out the latest objets d'art in the Grand Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern. On display is TH.2058, by French artist Dominique Gonzalez-Foerester who "imagines a world 50 years into the future, as the inhabitants of London take shelter in the Turbine Hall from a never-ending rain." To do so, one pushes through heavy, plastc, multi-colored curtains guarding the work and is then assailed by the sound of rain; inside, the Hall is filled with 200 empty bunk-bed frames scattered with books, over-sized sculptures, a massive screen playing extracts from science-fiction films, and piercing lights that suggest some unseen surveillance. From the guidebook: "TH.2058 explores the notion of a shelter, inspired by Gonzalez-Foerster's ideas of real and fictional situations when London has been under attack – by flooding, bombing or invasion." The pictured spider is at least 30 meters and its legs twice that - difficult to see, but in its pouch are white egg sacks.
On The Unilever Series which makes these wonderful exotics come true: "Every year since 2000, an artist has been commissioned to make a work of art for Tate Modern's Turbine Hall. And every year, the innovative and significant sculptures create a buzz in London's Tate Modern." Way cool.
"But oftentimes I'm asked: Why? Why do you care what happens outside of America?"
W., Washington, D.C., June 26,2008
Erik poses with his favorite gaget - a remarkable, folding bicycle which he takes everywhere. The toy snaps into briefcase-size and easily checked at restaurants or museums - as we do today for both. I used to have a similar red Folder in the go-go webby days to get from our Maida Vale flat to the Warwick underground station. With a nob's twist, the Folder collapsed into half-size to be stored in a hall-way or where eva (full disclosure: I thought that damn thing cool rather than good transpo). Folders were popular in the '50s and '60s when everybody broke and the tyranny of the automobile yet to come. Now there is a movement back to the foot peddlers started by our commie mayor Ken Livingstone and continued by Boris who, as far as I can tell, has never excercised a day in his life. London now has a bike-network and while still dangerous to scoot about it is better than when we arrived. Erik informs me, without hesitation, that biking London is twice a car's speed and I believe it: one study leading to a congestion charged noted that driving in the Capital slower today than 100 years ago.
"When I see an adult on a bicyle, I do not despair for the future of the human race."
H.G. Wells
"Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter."
W., in parting words to British Prime Minister Gordon Brown and French President Nicolas Sarkozy at his final G-8 Summit, punching the air and grinning widely as the two leaders looked on in shock, Rusutsu, Japan, July 10, 2008
I have always enjoyed this simple building in Vauxhaul, not far from MI5 (which is an abomination of green and cement). I take a photograph awaiting the 344 Bus to the Tate Modern (I tell Sonnet "an advent'r" which it promptly becomes as I get completely lost in SE1 with no taxis any wheres). London has compelling architecture though very different from my other Big City - New York (Providence does not count, oh boy). Unlike the Big Apple, London does not do scale - sky-skrapers top out at ten or twelve floors though the City and Canary Wharf go higher+we are getting Europe's tallest with Rogers' "Shard Of Glass" at Tower Bridge assuming, of course, the financing holds up. London has done an admirable job of maintaining its historical skyline and the steadfast rule is never taller than the Wren Dome. My book-club friend Tim notes that "a city becomes beautiful only after the construction stops+200 years" which I think an interesting observation. Of course today there are as many cranes as I have ever seen - I count over 20 - which means for sure the boom is over and we are heading for bust.
This Bloomberg graph pretty much says it all. The green reflects the Fed's interest-rate reductions to offset a feared recession following the the telecoms/Internet collapse. All that cheap cash went into the housing market.
Boom!
