Sports Day

Here we are at Friday. This lower-res picture taken from my Blackberry since I did not have enough time to duck home for my camera. Probably better for Eitan. Today is Sports Day for years 3 to six, and the kids are grouped across ages, in color - Eitan being red. The activities take place on school grounds and include the 60 meter dash, the obstacle course, the dash-and-jump (pictured), basket-ball shot, long jump and distance race around the grass pitch. Somehow all the kids participate before the last bell. They have wonderful spirit and each team has their own song like "We will we will rock you!" and so forth. We parents mill around chatting about whateva. Eitan has high-expectations for himself and when his group comes in third out of four he is devastated, which I can understand since the reds have most of the sporty players and leading comfortably into the last events. Was there a fix? Eitan is made doubly miserable not being allowed to participate in all his events. I consul him afterwards noting that great athletes win some and lose some - what is important that they show up, to which he wails "but I wasn't even allowed to show up!" and he's got a point. So I take him to Joe and Syrus's birthday party at the Bank of England Club and tell him to get with the program.

Madeleine visits the British Gallery today with her Year 2 class.
Me: "How was the museum?"
Madeleine: "It is not a museum, dad. It's a gallery."
Me: "How was the gallery?"
Madeleine: "Don't know."

The Badgers lose 7-nil. But they are chipper about it: "We almost scored two goals" Madeleine notes.

Me to Madeleine: "Eat your peas."
Madeleine: "I am."
Me: "NOT one at a time."

Madeleine: "Can I have some ice cream?"
Me: "No."
Madeleine: "It's 'opposite day,' dad - can I have some ice cream."
Me: "Yes?"
Madeleine: "Got you! I am going to have strawberry."

The King Is Dead

Two pop culture icons gone in twenty-four hours. There is no doubt Michael Jackon a freak and accused pedophile but his music will be remembered forevermore. I may have missed the back slide, famously broadcast live in the US in '83 for Motown's 25th anniversy, but even in Switzerland Jackson's raw power clear: the moonwalk his signature and the best known dance move in the world (this my humble, unscientific opinion I admit - but name one other dance, aside from the tango, that competes? Anybody under 30 BTW has no clue about the tango). Jackson's dance videos epic - "Beat It," "Billy Jean,""Bad," "Remember The Time" and on and on. We college and post-college 80s kids gathered together for every release and celebrated his artistry. Reviewing Jackson's influence on pop, punctualised by awards, it is not difficult to exclaim that Jackson the most influential singer performer since Elvis, if not all times. And what a trippy ride: from abusive parents, The Wiz, to "Off The Wall" and "Thriller," to tabloids, autobiography and film, a White House visit , Super Bowl XXII, sexual abuse accusations and marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, divorces, children, plastic surgery, whiteness and more weirdness -wow. We have all participated, mostly for good, and now he is gone. The world a much less interesting place. Michael Jackson:

Major Awards	Wins
American Music Awards	22
Billboard Awards	40
BRIT Awards	7
Golden Globe Awards	1
Grammy Awards	19
Guinness World Records	13
MTV Awards	13
NAACP Image Awards	14
RIAA Awards	56
World Music Awards	12
Totals
Major awards won	197

Farrah

Here is the poster I had in my room in '77 or '78. It was either John Travolta or Serpico or Farrah, may she rest in piece. I eventually replaced Fawcett with Cheryl Ladd, who I taped to my ceiling and attached bulging eyeballs. It seemed funny at the time. I was likely too young to appreciate anything else, but who knows really? Television of this era wonderful and also totally crap - production a bare minimum and the "acting" camp. Aaron Spelling, however, discovered the holy grail with Love Boat, Fantasy Island and of course, Charlie's Angels which recycled has-beens clinging to their desperation and banking one more pay check. It was the "reality" TV of the day and just as scripted as now (or vice verse?). While LB and FI were the Saturday solution to one's tweens and pre-dating, it was the "Six Million Dollar Man" on Sunday nights that was transformative for us youngsters: "Steve Austin, astronaut. A man barely alive. Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. Better, strong, faster." The imagination sored, Dear Reader, and I still fantasise about a bionic arm used for smashing deserving shitheads like certain members in US government. Cheney. But I digress. And the plots sublime: Steve vs. the Sasquatch went two episodes ("To Be Continued" - what commitment!). Plus there was his love interest and bionic women Jamie and the bionic dog too. Ahh, sweet heaven. Today's stuff cannot compete and despite 200 surfing channels, most barely watchable. And the four terrestrial channels, supported by advertising and my television license, ghastly excluding the BBC News and the occasional football match not owned by Sky.

"I took them away from all that, and now they work for me."
--Charlie

Self Portrait VIII

Me: "What are some small, simple, satisfying things?"

Eitan: "Having a drink of water when you are thirsty."
Eitan: "Sitting down when you are tired!"
Madeleine: "Taking the newspaper when you want to read it."
Madeleine: "Reading a book when you're really wanting to."
Madeleine: "Smashing a window with a brick!"
Me: "Have you ever smashed a window with a brick?"
Madeleine: "Well, once - over there (pointing to living room window). You weren't around and mom fixed it."

Eitan: "Sticking your head out the car window and putting your tongue out."
Eitan: "My flippers (for swimming) which, um, like really hurt and it feels sooo nice to take them off."

Eitan: "Play time!"
Madeleine: "Getting fresh air when you have been inside a really long time."

Eitan: "I like to put ketchup on my pasta."

Another Shot From Richmond Park

Bong and all, Michael Phelps wins the 100 meter butterfly yesterday in 50.48 seconds, flirting with the world record as he continued his 2009 World Championship build-up at the Canada Cup. Phelps was eight-hundredths outside the world record of 50.40 held by compatriot Ian Crocker, in this past weekend’s competition. He also improved on his personal best time of 50.58sec, set in winning gold at Beijing. I remember times like this in yards, which qualified for the finals at Northcoast. Could this be the first guy under the mythical 50 seconds for the 100 meter fly? Wow. Was he shaved I wonder?

This litte nugget from the Metro caught my attention: Canterbury has been told it is "gay enough" following a two-month inquiry costing thousands of pounds. The Kent Cathedral city was found to sufficiently promote lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender culture by the Local Government Ombudsman after a complaint by a gay group. A team of three council officers had to provide "details of touring plays and musicals, for example, which would be of interest to the LGBT community." I wonder if this includes cellar bondage and rubber parties? Anyways, a council spokesman said: "We're delighted." Amen, brother.

Madeleine: "Dad, did you know that house is bigger on the inside then the outside?"
Me: "Well, how so?"
Madeleine: "It takes me longer to run around inside then around the outside."
Me: "It seems possible .. . "
Madeleine: "It is just like St Paul's. It takes me forever to get across inside."

Me to Eitan: "Are you going to have a haircut before the Olympics?"
Eitan: "Daaad"
Me: "Ok, how about by University?"

Madeleine to me: "You you that thing where you squirt water out of your hands? Do you? Well I can do it now!"

Eitan, before bath: "Do I have to wash my hair?"
Me: "Yes"
Eitan: "Do I have to use soap?"
Madeleine: "Do we have to use water?"

1969

Moe took this photo, which he developed in his dark room at 1860 San Ramon in 1969 or 1970, or shortly after my parents moved from San Francisco to Berkeley. My guess is Briones Park in the East Bay. Man, the planet turns and we get older. My 42 birthday Saturday which is one of those years nobody thinks about until they are it. Turning a decade always a big deal, and 33 important since somehow I started feeling like an adult.. kids will do that to you fast. Any year during my 20s either utterly confused/miserable/desperate or completely exhilarating, depending on my reflective mood or sobriety. Post college I got hammered at First Boston and lost my college sweet heart. Nothing particularly good about that. From 25-26 I lived with my parents and got to know them as a (mostly) independent (and nearly broke) human being while I dated Sonnet and ran non-profit HTWS with retired Lt. Colonel and alcoholic Wayne Cannon. We boozed in some great places in Latin America and Africa seeing well beyond the post-card perfect beaches and typical tourist attractions. We also set up eye-care programs still in operations today. My salary was $1,000 per month+air fare. Those were most excellent times indeed. My 30s saw a little more stability until my Internet company went tits up in the midst of having a couple of sprogues. And the transition to London was not altogether smooth since all I've ever really wanted from life is to be in Northern California.. but we are beyond that and love our river-city. The economy a mess for sure yet there is always opportunity somewhere. As I tell Sonnet: we've never missed a meal yet. Each decade sets up the next and I am feeling pretty good about how things continue to roll along.

Good Day, Sunshine

Sonnet and the kids join me to Richmond Park on a sunny late afternoon so I can run repeats on the mile connector, which is a nice flat stretch in the middle of the park. While I am gone, they make friends and spend a good hour hunting for broken golf tees. A group sets up a cricket game nearby and I make sure we aren't too close to the "sticky wicket" (who the hell understands this game). The other sport going is tennis in neighboring Wimbledon yet somehow ages away. A couple of Brits get through the first round but it is Andy Murray we all want. At 22, he shows potential and many, including commentators Chris Evert and John McEnroe, pick him to go all the way. This assumes he can be Federa where he has a 6-2 advantage in games played. Not shabby. Murray is famously Scottish, which he shall remain should he crash out in the early rounds. At some point he becomes "British" (middle rounds) and finally a "Londoner" or "Our Andy" should he make it to the final. We have already forgotten Tim Henman who was a jolly good player, you see, but broke our hearts every time.

"Then we'd lie beneath the shady tree
I love her and she's loving me
She feels good, she knows she's looking fine
I'm so proud to know that she is mine.

Good Day Sunshine, Good Day Sunshine, Good Day Sunshine"
--Beatles

Bad, Bad, And Ugly

Here it is put simply in a graph: the lost US decade under Bush as private sector job growth almost non-existent over the past ten years. Between May 1999 and May 2009, private employment rose 1.1% or the lowest 10-year increase in the post-depression period. In short, the the American job machine has almost completely stalled out. While the privates generated roughly 1.1 million additional jobs during this time, or about 100K per year, the public sector created about 2.4 million jobs. But even this gives the private sector too much credit: recall that it includes health care, social assistance, and education, all areas which receive a lot of government support. Depressing. The French yuf riot over this stuff - they're no dummies, they want the state jobs. Think the cost of Iraq not being felt?

"First of all, in a free market, there's going to be good times and bad times. That's how markets work. There will be ups and downs. And after 52 consecutive months of job growth, which is a record, our economy obviously is going through a tough time."
--Bush, March 14, 2008, in a speech to the Economic Club of New York.

“If money isn’t loosened up, this sucker could go down."
--Bush, September 26, 2008, in the Roosevelt Room before Hank Paulson, Nanci Pelosi and others.

New Speaker

Today we choose a new Speaker of the House of Commons, replacing the disgraced Michael Martin and the first guy to be tossed in 360 years. Labour has done its work and select John Bercow, who is universally despised by the Tory party who already make wind about displacing him (says one: "He is not popular. He has enjoyed being Labour's man in this contest... He is quite unacceptable"). Bercow sold himself to MPs as the “clean break candidate” after the expenses scandals of the past months yet has claimed more than £20,000 annually over the past four years to cover the cost of staying away from home on parliamentary business. He has also been accused of "flipping" his second home to avoid capital gains tax on the sale of two properties in 2003, shortly after his marriage. He magnanimously agrees to pay £6,500 to HM Customs and Revenue which was my money to begin with. But let us set that aside under the assumption that every politician is on the take and we cannot be too picky. Mr Bercow yesterday saw off nine rivals to claim the Speaker’s chair in a secret ballot of MPs. He was “dragged” to the chair after seeing off his main rival Sir George Young by a margin of 322 MPs to 271 in the third round of voting. He noted further that he would like to see the issue of parliamentary expenses dealt with “in a timely fashion” and reform should not be put off for “a period of several months” or more. Such urgency, pardieu. At 46, Bercow is not only the youngest speaker in 160 years, he won't wear the traditional wig nor the old-fashioned court dress donned by predecessors including Michael Martin. His new job comes with a £141,866 salary, and a lavish apartment on the banks of the Thames and, he notes slyly, that he will personally not claim the parliamentary Additional Costs Allowance to which MPs are entitled to cover the cost of staying away from home. Such a populist, indeed.

Today is the second day of Wimbledon and the weather divine. Where else would one wish to be?

Madeleine: "Oh, dad - I've poured water onto my cereal!"

Eitan on the school run: "If you sing any more I am going to pinch you."
Madeleine adds helpfully: "And if you whistle I will hit you."

Solstice

Marcus sends one from the annual Fremont Solstice parade yesterday, which he attends with his gal Lynn and a few good friends. Marcus reports that "the parade always opens with a rush of nude bikers in various stages of body paint. In past years, the City tried to stop the nudity, but the city police trying to chase down packs of brightly painted nudies using cycle patrols became extremely comical." Of course they also freak out at Stone Henge too - hippies not allowed to get near the rocks and in past this too has resulted in absurd stand-offs between the police and revellers. What harm, really? Here is what I add about the solstice, which I tried to explain to Eitan this morning on the school run: "A solstice is an astronomical event that happens twice each year, when the tilt of the Earth's axis is most inclined toward or away from the Sun, causing the Sun's apparent position in the sky to reach its northernmost or southernmost extreme. The name is derived from the Latin sol (sun) and sistere (to stand still), because at the solstices, the Sun stands still in declination or the apparent movement of the Sun's path north or south comes to a stop before reversing direction." For the record, London is 51-degree latitude or on line with Adak, Alaska, which means dusk rests until 11PM and dawn from 3:30AM. Sonnet hates this but I usually manage to sleep through. Madeleine could care less - zzzz.

One Person's Crap Is Another Person's . . . .

The beauty of a summer fair is the recycling - one person's junk becomes another person's luxury while we, the PTA, make a benefit. Madeleine takes full advantage of her freedom and £10 to buy three stuffed animals including a giraffe about as big as her, a "buddy back-pack" (self-explanatory), a miniature bowling set, a marbles game (most marbles lost by dad on the way home), a poster of the human body and, with Eitan, a fooz ball table. I tell them not to get too comfortable with this last item because "I am taking it straight to the dump" which nets horror from the Shakepeares. We also purchase some plants from the plant stall and I buy, like, ten classics from the book stand for 10p each. Bargain. This includes "Roots" by Alex Hailey, something by Stephen King, "Bonfire of the Vanities" (just to read the first, most awesome, first chapter), "Robinson Crusoe" (why not?"), Chinua Achebe's classic "Things Fall Apart" (to send to Tim) and something on Patagonia (to send to Sloan). I also buy a tombe en francais which, like the others, will probably stay at my bedside until I get bored (or finish O'Brien's The Master & Commander series, which has absorbed much of my free time since 2001 - thank you, Eric). The only downside is the news I must break to Eitan that another of his ManU heros leaving - this time Carlos Tevez (he cried bitter tears about Ronaldo). But, on average, everybody ahead.

Candy Floss

Cotton Candy or "fairy floss" as they say in Australia nets good money at any fair including our fair since it is basically nothing but sugar and .. air. Since y'all are interested and according to Gourmet magazine, cotton candy was invented in 1897 by William Morrison and John Wharton and first introduced at the St. Louis World's Fair in 1904 as "Fairy Floss" with great success, selling 68,655 boxes at the then-high $0.25, half the cost of admission to the fair. Fairy floss was renamed to "cotton candy" in the 1920s, and I am sure Moe had some part of this because St. Lous is, afterall, his home town. Tootsie Roll of Canada Ltd. has a bagged product called "Fluffy Stuff" that it claims was first introduced at the 1893 World's Fair so there is indeed controversy. Woo hoo. The US celebrates National Cotton Candy Day on December 7.

So I admit to being waaay behind on my blogging and no way am I going to describe last week's race across Europe. Instead, I will focus on L'église de la Madeleine, which Sonnet and I have visited before and a Roman Catholic church occupying a commanding position in the 8th arrondisement of Paris. It was designed in its present form as a temple to the glory of Napoleon's army and its south is the Place de la Concorde and to the east is the Place Vendome and to the west L'église Saint-Augustin. So Wednesday evening and with my travelling companions we climb the stairs around 8PM to find the entrance doors open and, in concert, is Vivaldi Four Seasons. I am able to charm the door guard to allow us to sit at the back and we hear the most sublime music .. in the most spectacular setting. Afterwards the sun remains at dusk and we find the perfect cafe for wine and dinner. It is not difficult to remind myself why we live in Europe.

Summer Fair IV

I arrive home late Friday evening greeted by Sonnet and the kids, who are a bit too excited about Saturday's school Summer Fair which, dear reader, I am partly responsible for again. Glutton for punishment. So early Saturday morning I turn around again, out of the house early and with a coffee drip keeping me alive. The fair mostly runs itself as the mums of the various classes converge last minute to set up rides, stalls, auctions, toys, bbq, drinks, candy floss and so on and so forth. Tempers can run hot as everything never perfect and I avoid several gals who have something on their mind that just simply must come out. This, you see, my management style. The past few years we have netted around £13 or £14 grand but this year will be down maybe 15% due to the recession as the high street less willing or able to support us. Still, this ain't bad for a PTA afternoon and as a bonus, we get some community building to boot. The weather holds out, despite a forecast for rain, and large puffy (sometimes threatening) clouds sail overhead. Who can forget two years ago when celeb Angie Best (deceased football legend George Best's wife) officially opened the fair and it flooded on queue. Angie, of course, wearing snake skin pants and high-heels. Between racing around and saying my greetings, I also hang with the youngsters. For no reason at all I wear a pair of pink goggles which only the kids will ask: "why?" to which I respond: "why not?" To those of you who think my outrageous school ground behavior goes unrewarded, on intrepid young lad marches up to me and states: "you are the cow legend" then walks off, leaving us adults bemused. In short, I am in my sweet spot.

Cheer!

Weirdly enough, I sit in Amsterdam watching a chearleading competition on the tele. I thought this was an American phenomena - you know, sports and stuff. Sonnet and I went to Cal vs. Washington at Memorial in '94 (her first football game) and she was fascinated by the the skin: "perky," Sonnet said. But these gals work hard - jumping and skipping, tossing and tumbling. You go, girls. This has been a busy week from London to Paris to Zurich and now tonight. Yes, I am on the money trail and we have had good meetings so far I think. The weather has been perfect - top of the summer so far reminding me why I live in Europe. In the background is Iran's protest over the thrown election 12 June. Today, for instance, saw 100s of thousands in Tehran despite government's effort to block media including internet and twitter. Yea, right. So far limited violence but we all remember the slaughter of Tiananmen Square twenty years ago. Iran's yuf, born too late for the Iran-Iraq war, want freedom and sex and drugs and rock and roll. They also want a meaningful place at the civilised, global table and reform. By contrast, the "Great Generation" (as Friedman puts it) are those who fought the war and conservative. They support the existing Islamic order who came to power at the expense of the Shah and us, held hostage and rightfully villified for medelling in that country's affairs. They want power in and beyond Persia and respect, which nuclear weapons provide. But the world has changed since the Islamic Revolution and Ahmadinejad a freak: "Israel is a rotten, dried tree that will be annihilated in one storm." Scary stuff following his stollen election. We watch and wait. Why can't we all just love each other like the chearleaders?

Photo from the www somewhere.

A Day

Madeleine in the back of the car - bored. Bored. Bored. We drive by Harrods as I snap this photo (car at a red-light, emergency break on). She could care less about the department store. Poor kid, dragged alongside for my amusement. There is no such thing as wasted time when your kids involved, however - at least from my end. I try to get a few conversations going but she resists - subjects like school, friends, homework and football draw a blank. She perks up a bit when a group of teenagers walk past which she sometimes equates to smooching, forced into her face by a semi-naked couple with locked faces. An add, of course. This somehow leads to a discussion about teen-age pregnancy and why we do not want to do it. We also talk about cigarettes and why people smoke and Madeleine: "because they cannot stop?" which is the best answer I did not think of. I add "enjoyment" and that it may seem cool; she concludes that "your friends might do it" which we agree is the worst reason. It takes real will power to not offer jumping from the Brooklyn Bridge if your friends jump from the Brooklyn Bridge .. So I think I have done a few good things today as Dad. We shall know in time what sticks.

Madeleine desperate to go to the news-agents to buy some "some stringy liquorice" but thwarted by Sunday hours.

Madeleine, Self

I give Madeleine my camera and tell her to "go for it," which she does. We are at my office and I try to do a little work before the week, which sees me across Europe with Correlation Ventures. Madeleine keeps me company though she is bored in, like, 15 minutes. She draws. She tapes. She goes through my desk and looks for things she can take. I am not complaining though - it is a lovely Sunday and I am happy to have some friendship.

I log 13 miles this morning in preparation for Berlin. 14 weeks and counting. My route takes me westward on the Thames from Mortlake to Ham House. From the internets I riff: Ham House built in 1610 for Sir Thomas Vavasour, Knight Marshal to James I and in 1626 passed into the hands of William Murray who had been the "whipping boy" for the future Charles I. He took the punishment on behalf of the young prince, and formed a close bond with him, growing up to share his taste in art and architecture. Between 1637 and 1639, Murray remodelled the interior of Ham. He created the Great Staircase and the suite of sumptuous rooms on the first floor: the Great Dining Room (now the Hall Gallery), the North Drawing Room, and the Long Gallery with its adjoining picture closet. When the Civil War broke out in 1642, Murray naturally joined the Royalist cause, and was created the Earl of Dysart for his loyalty. All this in my backyard. I discovered the place when kids 3 and 2 and Sonnet kicked me out of the house one Sunday morning ("Get out" she said). There are easy trails to walk the estates and stables for polo and show horses. I think then I was as tired as this morning, after ten.