Self Portrait XIV

"The telephone blasted Peter Fallow awake inside an egg with the shell peeled away and only the membranous sac holding it intact. Ah! The membranous sac was his head, and the right side of his head was on the pillow, and the yolk was as heavy as mercury, and it rolled like mercury, and it was pressing down on his right temple and his right eye and his right ear. If he tried to get up to answer the telephone, the yolk, the mercury, the poisoned mass, would shift and roll and rupture the sac, and his brains would fall out."
--Tom Wolf; "Bonfire of the Vanities"


The planet indeed suffering a horrific hang-over from our over-indulgence.  It is no help, then, that the world's largest polluters, China and the US, taking snarky positions regarding emission cuts and funding mechanism plans; India makes it clear that it will not convert its domestic carbon reduction pledges into a globally binding pact. Uncle Sam demands "a real commitment from China" who, in turn, slams the US for inadquate mitigation targets. Says Yu Qingtai, China's chief climate negotiator:  "What they should do is some deep soul-searching."  Acting like adults, Republicans back home demand - demand! - that any funds directed from industrialised, polluting nations to developing, polluting nations exclude China, since China now the competition.  China sniffs - don't want your largesse any way.  Copenhagen trying to sneak away with a political deal and nothing binding; Western pledges - around $10B- pointless against the scale of pollution while the playground posturing borish.  Older generations who built our global systems would be aghast - where is our FDR or Marshall? Wilson and Churchill? MLK or Ankara or Ghandi?  Obama may prove himself a cable statesman, even (one day) deserving the Nobel Peace Prize, but for now I am not encouraged - following  eight years of dire, utter neglect there is way much to be done and the necessary shock-treatment not coming. What will our future generations think of us, other than disdain and gloom?  We still have four days in Denmark to rise above ourselves. 

Ms Britain And An Evening At Home

If Tiger and Foxy Noxy and, and, and all the other wonderful celebrity not distracting you from Copenhagen or Afghanistan or Tony Blair then here's a good bit of cheer: we, that is Britain, are No. One! Bona fide. Kaiane Aldorino, pictured (photo David Parody), representing Gibraltar and therefore a British national, cast aside the early favourite Miss Puerto Rico to become Miss World 2009 in Johannesburg. Miss Aldorino, 22, who otherwise works as an administrator, accepted the crown at the weekend after triumphing in the swimsuit competition. God bless.  And to think the planet coming to an end. It is, isn't it?

Madeleine: "Nathaniel always says swear words, especially the 'F' word."

Me: "Really?"

Madeleine: "And the 'S-H' word."

Me: "Why?"

Madeleine (matter of factly): "Because he likes doing it."

Madeleine: "Roxanne is leaving" (Roxanne Nathaniel's nanny)

Me: "How do you know that?"

Madeleine: "Natasha told me. It is a secret."

Me: 

Madeleine: "It is because she is not getting paid enough."

Eitan: "Dad, can I have some Caremel Chew Chew?" (Ben & Jerry's ice cream)

Me: "If you have that ice cream bar, no."

Eitan: "Dad! If I don't, you are going to pig out on it!"

Me: "I promise I won't."

Eitan: "I can spot Carmel Chew Chew a mile away."

Me: "Ok, how am I doing, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the best"

Madeleine: "Nine. No, wait. Seven."

Me: "Why seven?"

Madeleine: "Because you do too much shouting."

Eitan: "Five."

Me:

Eitan: "Because half the time you are talking to us, you are shouting and being angry."

Eitan: "Guess what Stanley and I are doing in the school talent show?"

Me: "I don't really care."

Eitan: "A comedy show. A slow-motion comedy act."
Me: "Tell me more."
Eitan: "We are doing a football comedy show and I am going to run up to the ball and pretend its really hard work then I am going to tap the ball really really lightly and say it is really hard. And then Stanley is going to dive in slow-motion and miss the ball and the ball is going to go into the goal. Stanley is a really rubbish goal keeper and I did a really rubbish kick" (Eitan play-acts the scenario).
Me:
Eitan: "I am going to do that five times and each time it is going to get worse and worse and worse."

Me: "Eitan, if you don't do your Kumon, I am going to turn into the grumpy, unpleasant Dad. Or, I can be the happy, silly Dad which is the mood I am in now.  Which do you wish?"

Eitan: "The 'happy Dad.'"

Madeleine: "Grumpy? You mean like the duck?"

Eitan: "No Madeleine, you mean Goofy. And he's a dog."

Me:

Me: "I want to see thirty minutes of your brains working. Even you, Madeleine, though you have half a brain."

Madeleine: "That was very mean, Dad."

Christmas Photo, Take 2

I am in the hardware store this morning and overhear two lads: "You are in like Flynn, mate" which makes me wonder: what does this expression actually mean? (other then this guy getting into some girl's pants).  Here is what I dig up:


"The phrase is commonly said to be a reference to Errol Flynn, the Australian film actor. Flynn was famous for his romantic swashbuckler roles in Hollywood films and for his flamboyant private life.  His reputation as a hard-drinking, hell-raising ladies' man was apparently well justified, although it has doubtless been enhanced by his delight in playing up to his image.  For instance, he entitled his autobiography, 'My Wicked, Wicked Ways' and also did nothing to dispel the incredible but nonetheless widespread rumours as to the size of his penis and to the number of women he slept with."
--Phrases.org.uk


I have thought this a number of times in my life, though never with a full understanding of the expression.  Landing a job at an investment bank during the '80s - in like Flynn.  Getting into a top business school during the economic boomtimes.  In like Flynn.  Raising millions of dolllars to start an Internet company during the Go Go years.  In... Like .. . .  Flynn . . . I think of myself as an entrepreneur and risk-taker and all that, but the things I own today - that I value - seem to be the least risky.  Exhibit 1: Sonnet.  Somehow I knew she was perfect from the moment I met her and I had to be patient, allowing her to think the same of me. Hope she does - it is never a lock.  Exhibit 2: Family, who has never disappeared despite the ups and downs.  On more than one occasion they have picked me up when all else down. Moe, at a Florida condo by the pool while eZoka.com collapsing post dot-com: "I've got your back."  I do hope they have enjoyed the roller coaster ride without aging too much.  Finally, friends who make life fun and draw us between London and California.  So the short-term things that seem like a lock, a guarantee, have proved fleeting but those most dear long term.  As Judge Mike Ballachey, the Federal Judge who married me and Sonnet, once said: "As you get older, friends are like gold-dust."


Eitan: "Dad, do you have a mental problem?"

KPR 3, Rocks Lane 2

The boys win their quarter-final match of the Invitation Cup in another exciting game, once again in over-time.  Eitan draws first blood with a beautiful little cut and dice through three defenders then his boot solidly on the ball - goal! Rocks Lane comes back to tie, then we're up and another equaliser inside the final minutes of game-time.  The pitch is smaller than usual, so there is considerable contact between players and less passing than ideal for "the beautiful game." Rocks Lane a physical team who easily match ours in stature (Eitan: "they would not shake my hand with them at the end because I was being a bit rough").  In overtime, Fred nails a 25 footer that clangs the goal post and hits the line. Since nobody, including the ref, knows if its a goal, silence. Then the Law of the Loudest Side into effect and our dads whoop and holler - we win!  After the match, coach Dave (pictured, back-row with hat on) hosts a party for the kids and their families.  Eitan happy with his choice of KPR and I am happy Dave and John care about the boys and not too caught up in the league table. But just enough.

Me: "Eitan, you are not to listen to Harry Potter and do Kumon."

Eitan: "It's my room and I can do whatever I want."

Me: "When you do your practice, I need your full brain."

Eitan: "You are not the boss of me!"

Me:

More Skyline

I am up early and use the morning to visit my taylor, who opens at 5AM every day of the week, excluding Sunday.  He's the real McCoy, having moved to London from Cyprus in 1949. His posture terrible and he hobbles around his shop solo while his colleagues arrive at 8:30AM.  He has several measurements draped over his shoulder and despite his advanced age, there's a twinkle in the eye. He speaks a little yiddish which he uses with me thanks to my last name. We joke about the times and who is working what. He says: "The English are mostly content. They don't want everything. Those who do, can never have enough."  He also makes me the best coffee I have had in Britain - measured into a tin cup and boiled over a bunson burner and served, with grounds, into an espresso shot glass. I ask him about London after the War: "It was the same as today. Everybody just getting on. There was nobody complaining."  


From the taylors I walk up Primrose Hill to capture the London morning, pictured. Spread beneath is Primrose Park lit by street lamps then the zoo and Regents Park.  The BT Tower visible and the London Eye to the right.  Another dude takes images and we talk a bit about the light and this time of morning.  The clubbers walk home from wherever and the girls fall out of there skimpy, worn dresses and smeared black eyeline and purses dangling from shoulder or held to hand. They are exposed for the cold. The boys just look like boys - stripy sweaters, skinny jeans and perfectly jumbled hair.  Our lives could not be farther apart and I wonder about 20.  How exciting to be coupled youth, finishing a night of dancing and the day ahead to sleep.

Bar-Code

I love this photo from the the entrance of the V and A.  The description: 

" 'Bar-code' is a visualisation of information taken from the internet.  The spinning chains represent the rapid nature of data as it moves through internet networks.  At certain points the black and white chains align, displaying words collected from various internet sources, RSS feeds and news sites.  The monochrome pattern can be deciphered and the words become readable."  Dude, that is so trippy.

--"Energy chains, motors, electronics and custom software" courtesy of Julius Popp

Me: "The only thing that hamster wants to do is escape" (after Sonnet and I awoken at 4AM, again, by Monty's gnawing)

Eitan: "Well, imagine being yourself."

Me: 

Eitan: "I mean, imagine giant moving trees. And dark places in the hallways and stuff."

Me:

Eitan: "It would be the greatest game of hide-and-seek ever."

The NHM

I pass the Natural History Museum on my way home from lunch .. sun going down and not yet 4PM (photo from mobile phone). The museum holds 70 million items covering botany, entomology, mineralogy, palaentology and zoology.  A giant brontosaurus greets visitors at entry but my favorite the sequoia slice which adorns the top-floor, away from foot-traffic. Indeed, this the very same redwood in Big Tree National Park I have known these many years. It was chopped in the 19th Century because it was there. Such folly then leads to Copenhagen today (but I digress).  The NHS has many special crannies including the Darwin Centre which opened in 2008 and allows visitors to see specimens once archived .. in phermaldehyde .. inside wooden chambers .. no air-conditioning nor sprinkler system.  Fire hazard there, wot?   I once considered joining the Natural History as Commercial Director responsible for income strategy and fundraising.  Americans, these Brits know, have no hang-ups about asking for dough. It would have been a hard job but interesting too. Plus Sonnet and I commuting together - how cute.  But it was not to be - one family member at a museum sufficient. 

Holiday Picture, Take 1

This year I am under-the-gun for the holiday photo. So this afternoon I scoop up the Shakespeares from school, race home so they can (unwillingly) change and dash to Richmond Park for the fading sunlight. Sky overcast, of course.  I ignore the obvious postings and drive the car into the park's middle (pictured, the kids observe a police car snooping around ours about 200 meters away which I ignore).  With us Natasha and Eitan's school pal Joseph, who was not expecting such drama and plays it low. Smart kid.  Despite cajoling, pleading, begging and threatening I am unable to get the mood I am after, you know - cheerful, Godamnit. Since 4PM, the sun goes down anyways so we call it quits and head for home. Me discouraged and pissed but cheered not to get a ticket for blatently contravening the rules (as I tell Natasha: "some rules meant to be broken"; she does not agree). Eitan gets the final barb in: "you were the one who made us grumpy so it is not our fault the photos bad."  And fair enough he is.

Eitan: "Luke gets two hours of television a day."
Me: "Well, that makes him lucky."
Eitan: "No. That makes us unlucky."

Big Waves

Hawaii is being hit by a monster set, equal to1969 which put surfing on the map. Images of dudes wiping out on 40 or 50-foot giants intrigued a generation of hippies from Santa Cruz to Fiji who, from then forward, pursued the ultimate ride.  Hawaii expects to see 50 foot faces, which draws the world's 28 best surfers who arrive to compete in "The Eddie" which is called only when North Shore conditions sufficient for the ensembled talent. The competition held only seven times in its twenty-five year history.  Gnarly.


Top of my mind: wipeout!  A breaking wave can push a surfer 20 to 50-feet underwater. Once the spinning stops, the dude must regain equilibrium and figure out which way up. He may have less than 20 seconds to re-surface before the next wave crashes.  Additionally, the water pressure at this depth can rupture eardrums and strong currents and water action can slam the surfer-dude on a reef or floor.  Mark Foo, a Master, died this way in '92 surfing Half Moon Bay's Mavericks.


It is easy to see the thrill of these Giants.


Stu Nahan: [Spicoli is dreaming that he's won a surfing competition] "Hello everybody! I'm Stu Nahan, and I'd like you to meet this young man. His name, Jeff Spicoli. And Jeff, congratulations to you. Things looked kind of rough out there today."
Jeff Spicoli: "Well, I'll tell you Stu, I did battle some humongous waves! But you know, just like I told the guy on ABC, "Danger is my business!" "
Stu Nahan: "You know, a lot of people expected maybe Mark "Cutback" Davis or Bob "Jungle Death" Gerrard would take the honors this year."
Jeff Spicoli:: [laughs incredulously] Those guys are fags!
Stu Nahan: [oblivious] "That's fantastic! Let me ask you a question. When you get out there, do you ever fear for your life?"
Jeff Spicoli: "Well Stu I'll tell you, surfing's not a sport, it's a way of life, you know, a hobby. It's a way of looking at that wave and saying, "Hey bud, let's party!" 
[focuses on Stu's sport coat]
Jeff Spicoli: "Where'd you get this jacket?"
Stu Nahan: [evasive] "I got this from the network. Let me ask you a question. What's next for Jeff Spicoli?
Jeff Spicoli: Heading over to the Australian and Hawaiian internationals, and then me and Mick are going to wing on over to London and jam with the Stones!"
[to the two girls next to him]
Jeff Spicoli: "And you guys are invited too!"
--1982's Fast Times At Ridgemont High 


Image from redbullbwa.com

DK

I am in Copenhagen, pictured, yesterday for one meeting, which goes well.  I fly in. I fly out. CO2 footprint not good. 

The city otherwise kicks off the Climate Summit and, strangely, feels empty. No problem getting a taxi nor road congestion and the town's center, where I am today, low on foot-traffic.  The Danes, I suppose, stay away as I will do from London in 2012. Obama is to be here for the opening. He brings with him the Supreme's 2007 decision to allow the Environmental Protection Agency to respond to international environment threats including green house gases. That one was close too - 5-4 - and handed the nit wit a stinging defeat.  

But I digress. Obama has the power to get behind the environment and we had better.  America has polluted the most, for the longest, and must lead the world back by example. The argument that US industry a more efficient use of carbons or unemployment or whatever no excuse.  Humans dumped one-half trillion tons (one trillion BTW has 12-zeros after the '1') of carbons into the atmosphere since the Industrial Revolution and we will do so again by mid-century. Or sooner. I.  Am.  Stressed.  


Copenhagan a beautiful city, well maintained and charming especially this time of year with Christmas lights and store-front candles. I have been here often enough to know my way around and able to connect the various bits: seafront to old city, palace and shopping - I buy some Acme Jeans (cool gay dude fits me out).  Oh, well, for the museum this time.  I learn that income taxes in DK 67%, but will be reduced to 57% from next year. The capital gains rate from 39% to 59% but usually 25% depending on period of holding and other such things. No wonder entrepreneurialsim dead - why bother? A charming, secure lifestyle with limited to no growth yet good hospitals and schools, new infrastructure and protections for the poor and elderly.  Could the US be the same? Would we wish to be?


"Because we don't think about future generations, they will never forget us."
--Henrik Tikkanen

1666

Eitan and I once discussed the Great Fire's year - I being fairly certain it was 1666 since the '6s' look like smoke rising from houses on fire.  Pretty horrible mnemonic but it works. The Great Fire, pictured, started at a bakery in Pudding Lane (now the site of the Monument) and destroyed most of the City of London over three days. Some argue that the Great Fire did London a service - it enabled the city to become modern (incidentally, it put to an end the ineffective attempts to patch up the Old St Paul's cathedral, allowing the beauty we own today).  The few surviving houses - and so the oldest in London - located in EC1 next to the Chancery Lane tube near Holburn viaduct.  The edifices old-wood, white washed and cross-sectioned by darkened plank.  I once passed them each day on my way to New Fetter Lane without the slightest idea of the history about me (but interested in the occupying jewelry shop which sold cuff-links). 

"So down [I went], with my heart full of trouble, to the Lieutenant of the Tower, who tells me that it began this morning in the King's baker's house in Pudding Lane, and that it hath burned St. Magnus's Church and most of the Fish Street already.  So I rode down to the waterside, ... and there saw a lametable fire.... Everybody endeavouring to remove their goods, and flinging in the river or bringing them to lighters that lay off, poor people staying in their houses as long as till the very first touched them, and then running into boats, or clambering from one pair of stairs by the waterside to another. 
"
--Samuel Pepys (from his diaries)

Carol Ann And Pinsky

It is not exactly clear when "the festive season" (as these Brits like to call it) begins, but there are indicators soon upon us: stories on "the perfect party dress," polka-dotted knickers comprehensive; Church greeting cards, holiday recipes, office parties (admonishments to keep those knickers on); hang-over cure-alls; ecco trees and family brawling .. usual stuff.  My favorite "festive" indication from Poet Laureate Carol Anne Duffy, pictured (photo: Mirror), who the Shakespeares met this year at the British Library.  Duffy's seasonal greeting, a rendition of "the 12 Days of Christmas," to arrive complete on Christmas Day; today we must make due with drip-feeds:
"On the first day of Christmas, a buzzard on a branch. 
In Afghanistan, no partridge, pear tree; but my true love sent to me a card from home. 
I sat alone, crouched in  yellow dust, and traced the grins of my kids with my thumb.
Somewhere down the line, for another father, husband, brother, son, a bullet with his name on.
"


Miss Duffy, a 53-year-old lesbian born in the tough Gorbals area of Glasgow, became PL in May.  Her poem confirms that we have a confident observer, with strong voice, prepared to confront today's issues directly. Bravo.  Lord, do we need somebody like this.  I recall my high-school friend Nicole Pinsky whose father Robert served as the US Poet Laureate from 1997-2000.  Pinsky's work includes the acclaimed translation of Dante's Inferno (Nicole wrote the footnotes - which were exhaustive).  He, too, a forceful character. Not surprisingly BTW Nicole received an 800 on her SAT verbals or a couple hundred points higher then your's truly indicating a certain, ahem, accuracy to the all-important college entrance exam.  Duffy and Pinsky more important today then yester-year - after all, who is calling the Emperor's clothes? Palin? Fox's Glen Beck? The liberal blogosphere? I am at a loss


"I am all powerful."
--Eitan, sound asleep, sleep-talking (I love this one)

A Moose

Silver sends me this photograph of a moose in Anchorage, Alaska, taken by Bill Roth of the Anchorage Daily News. The bull crosses Tudor Road "after browsing in the Cuddy Family midtown park."  Let us not forget that, despite her, Alaska a remarkable place.

Sunday Funnies

Sunday morning homework. Madeleine draws a poster about 'road safety' and Eitan does maths ("Dad, what is 8,640 divided by 153?" I will think about that one).  Otherwise it is a blessedly quiet morning and, after a torrential down-pour, the sun out shining. For the moment.


Two things disturb me in today's Sundays which otherwise cover Foxy Noxy and Tiger.  Brussels gives the CIA the power to search UK bank records as part of an anti-terrorism plan, giving broad access to millions of Briton's private accounts.  The records will be kept in a US database for five years then deleted. There is no reciprocation arrangement where UK authorities can access the bank accounts of US citizens in America.  What's up with that?  Also disturbing: the deployment of speed-camera clusters to police 20mph residential zones approved by the Home Office this week. Eight London boroughs to begin imminently, with the rest to follow. Surveillance traps already ever-present on our motor routes and speedways. While I appreciate' the eye' less disruptive then speed-bumps and to protect Eitan and Madeleine, I cannot help but notice that the number of speeding tickets here exceeded 1.5 million for the first time last year, twice the number issued in 1997.  Is Big Brother concerned about our safety or its income? You decide.


Madeleine and I find a large, dead, spider which goes underneath her microscope. Madeleine: "Creepy."


Me: "What are boys and girls talking about these days?"
Eitan: "Well, the girls always talk about books and dresses and style. And we boys talk about sports and movies and DVDs and food."


Eitan: "Mum, I am going to do something a bit silly and a bit funny.  I am going to write "1" on every single Kumon answer."


Me: "Do you kids know about condoms?"
Eitan and Madeleine: 
Me: "It is what you use during sex to not have a baby."
Eitan, loudly:  "Not listening.  UUMMMMMMMMMMMMM"


Me: "Don't you think correcting your own homework is a conflict of interest?"
Eitan: "You mean like war or something?"
Me: "Imagine, for example, Italy vs. France.  What if the refs are Italian?"
Eitan: "Well, that would not be fair."
Me:
Eitan: "Oh, I get it!"

Musing

Here's the poor boy before learning that football cancelled on account of soggy fields. Madeleine meanwhile at swim team, so Eitan and I clean house. That is, I threaten him with demerits if he does not pitch in and so he does.  I know a kid has distractions and Monty or Match Of The Day a powerful draw but I do get him to vacuum and straighten his room.  We have guests for dinner, you see, and Sonnet meanwhile bakes cakes for the school Christmas Fair.  I pull a cramp and duck out of the afternoon preferring the week end Times and a nap.  Sue me. Ok, Sonnet none to happy about preparing dinner and setting the table but in my defense I do fix a proper vodka martini and tonight sees several.  Dr Cannon, may he RIP, would be proud. Three families join us and, as I toast, "our children make us look good."   The group includes us, two doctors, two business men and two educators+ten children.  A good mix. We discuss all the usual stuff including local news, Tiger and Mad Men, my favorite since I want to be Don Draper.  So I will never be so perfect but away from the office I am Ok, which Sonnet reminds me with a kiss, after the dishes, as she heads upstairs to bed.  The kids tucked in and I blog while listening to new band XX and it rains.  We may not have it all, but we have it good.

Party Girl

Here’s for trying one on. Sally Bercow (photo: Mail Online) wants to be an MP and comes clean in today's Evening Standard : “I was a big drinker in my twenties, I started drinking at Oxford, being a party girl, and it got out of control. “  And more: “I got a grip for a while, but in the mid-Nineties I was working in advertising and I would drink wine at lunch then go out and drink a bottle in the evening; most evenings really.  I had not stop button.” And further: “Well, Ok, it was sometimes more like two bottles, except I promised John (husband John Bercow, Commons Speaker) I wouldn’t say that. I was a stropy drunk, picking arguments with my bosses over stupid things.  I’d fall asleep on the Tube and end up in Epping or Heathrow“  Yowza:: “I would end up sometimes at a bar and someone would send a drink over, and I think, ‘Why not?’ and we’d go home together.”  Her husband probably one of those guys – poor fella probably thought he was special. Still, how refreshing that somebody running for office owns up to their youth rather than being exposed by it.  Today, Bercow sober for nine years and has a family with four kids.  I might vote for her.  

Eitan: "I was sent to (School Deputy Head) Mr H's offices today."

Me: "Oh?"

Eitan: "Yes. Ms S sent me there because I wrote such a good poem."

Me: "What was the poem about?"

Eitan: "It was about a brain. It was a poem about a brain."

Me: "Was any one else selected?"

Eitan: "Yes, Shahine.  He wrote about bacon."

Black Swans And Equilibriums

In his 2007 book, "The Black Swan," Nassim Nicholas Taleb notes that all major scientific discovery, historical events, and artistic accomplishments outliers or "black swans." They include things like 9/11, personal computing, World War I and so on and so forth. These unforeseen events can blow out the most thorough predictive models.  A pattern holds for years or even generations then – bang! – some seismic event and all bets off.  I think about this in equilibriums that, once unsettled by a black swann, never return to their prior state; they become something else.  And so .. global warming.  Copenhagen today brings countries together to discuss climate change and - shocker - the United States joins following eight years of Bush & Co. As W said: "It's time for the human race to enter the solar system."  


And here is the black swan: for the last one million years, carbons in our atmosphere remarkably stable at 280 parts per million. We know this from glacial sampling. In November, 2007, CO2 concentration 384 ppm or 35% higher than 1832 ice core levels. Since the Industrial Revolution, humans have put one-half trillion tons of carbon into the atmosphere (Source: Univ. of California, La Jolla, CDIC). Everything surrounding us created from cheap energy. Further, given our population size, we will double CO2 levels inside forty years.  This does not mean the planet’s destruction; it does mean humans may not be able to live here.  Go figure that George Bush may look smart. 

Another lovely example of an equilibrium disrupted  is Tiger Woods.  Tiger lived a quiet, married life winning golf tournaments and collecting sponsorships.  Then the black swan -  Rachel Uchitel's pussy - and equilibrium no more.   Tiger will survive but his life not the same. Nassim, nor the Cal fans who booed Tiger at the Big Game two weeks ago, surprised.

Photo of the Space Shuttle Endeavor as it lights up the clouds on March 11, 2008. Photo by NASA.

City Of Lights

I am in Paris, my favorite city, for work. It is an easy trip, too, now that the Eurostar finally high-speed in France and England where it once dragged along at local rates.  From St Pancras, it is 2 hours and twenty minutes or the perfect time to catch up on emails &c.   Photo by Arnaud Frich, la suite sur www.arnaudfrichphoto.com.

I read that, on Christmas Day, the typical British family has its first fight before 10AM (this from a survey of 2,000 reported in the Daily Mirror).  The first drink by noon.  Apparently the ‘festive season’ considered the most stressful time of year with house guests and cooking and claustrophobia and all that.  Good to know we are no different from anyone else.  What is needed: American football. NFL or college, who cares? The holidays about indulgence and what can be more American than the play-offs played in some Godforsaken second-tier city in an ancient bowl while it snows or sleets? Now that is a game to watch and I don't care who the teams are. Or the Rose Bowl, Cotton Bowl, any bowl on New Year's day? The perfect cure-all for morning-after.

Me: “Do you believe in Santa Claus?”       

Eitan: “Of course.”

Madeleine: “Don’t be silly, Dad.”

Me: “Well, what do you want him to bring you?”

Eitan: “I want him to bring me a Lego Republic Attack Gun Ship and Yoda, Mace Windu and Anakin lego figures."

Me: “Do you want anything from Paris?”

Eitan: A DS. Or at least a game boy.”

Madeleine: “Do you remember that time last year when we saw on TV where Santa lives?

Me:

Madeleine: “I think it was Greece.”

Sonnet: “It is a bit hot there for Santa, I should think.”

Madeleine: “Maybe it's Greenland. Oh, I know - Finland!”

Royal BS

Here is our backyard. Clearly I am uninspired this morning and with good reason - another cold, soggy, grey day in London.  Sun comes up late. Sun goes down early.  It is not as bad as those early, post-college days at First Boston when the gloom pervasive but then again, nothing as miserable as that.

Royal Bank of Scotland, that piece of shit bank owned by me and other tax payers who bailed there asses to keep the global economy together, announces over £1B of bonuses or roughly three-times per capita income for each receiving RBS employee.  This several months after RBS receives a further £20B of government largesse. Worse: we learn that UK banks have at least £5B of exposure to Dubai. Who are these morons?  Showing themselves capable in the PR department, the RBS Board of Directors threaten to walk-out, ensemble, should they lose control of compensation.  Their argument, of course, that under-paying star-employees will drive them to Goldmans or Barclays or some other place, leaving the state-owned clunker even worse off than before (recall we got to this when sad-sack loser ex-CEO Fred Goodwin bought ABN Ambro, calling the peak of the market. This fucker then argues about keeping his £700,000 per year pension after he gets shit-canned and sends a noble institution to the tax-payer).  They have got balls and us by the balls. Government should stand up: if the Board don't resign, sack 'em – they can sell insurance for a couple of years.  Or work the soup lines like I did after eZoka.

I have said before: I have no problem with bankers or anybody making themselves a fortune. We are capitalism, after all, which works better than the alternatives.  And I believe in it. RBS  and these other wacko bank jobs galling for horrific performance yet outrageous pay. Entitlement babies.  Bankers simply have too much leverage and for the life of me, I do not understand why the biggest not chopped up. This concept of “too big to fail” idiocy.   The US has been through monopoly deconstruction before and banks, while more complicated then oil or software since intertwined, no exception.

Me: “Do you know about Tiger Woods?” (who has been caught in extra-marital dalliances)

Eitan: “Yes.”

Me: “How have you heard about it?”

Eitan: “The news papers.”

Me:

Eitan: “I only read sports. And gory things. I find them more interesting than a cat getting caught up a tree.”

Bee Gees - Fried Frank - Kids Quotes

My morning begins with a burst of silliness. Learning that the Bee Gees are 50 years old - 50! - I irritate the kids with Staying Alive and other renditions they simply are unable to tolerate. Oh, the embarresment of Dad. Yesterday, it was my poncho. Since raining, I wore one and Eitan begged, pleaded, for me to stay away from the playground.  Madeleine complains: "why do you have to make our lives so hard."  In the end I shoo them away, allowing their independence on the school grounds.  

So I am in coat and orange tie to visit lawyers Fried, Frank, Harris, Shriver and Jacobson to discuss a structure for my ships deal.  Bob, the partner who opened Fried Frank's London office, the best I know.  We go back to '99 when he did the legal work for eZoka; otherwise his time spent mostly with Goldman Sachs (in New York, the relationship so entwined the firms neighbors). Me and Goldman, baby.  So today I discuss convertible bonds or Sr Secured Notes or maybe subordinated debentures.  Something will work I think.  Fried Frank thinks so, too, and will do their early effort on spec.  Promising, but a long ways to go yet.

Sonnet has several interior decorators in the house as I blog (my tolerance about 45 minutes). They recommended to her by .. wait for it .. her gay hair stylist in Barnes.  

Eitan: "Dad, this guy eats crackers."

Me: "Which guy?"

Eitan: "Foxy. He's mad about them."

Madeleine, whispering: "What are those men doing in our house?"

Me: "They may do some work on the place."

Madeleine: "You mean, now?"

Me: "Yes, Madeleine. Their pick axes are in the car outside."

Madeleine: "Really? Are you joking?"

Me:

"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man, no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm.
I've been kicked around since I was born.
And now it's all right, it's O.K.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.
Whether you're a brother
Or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin'
And ev'rybody shakin'
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Stayin' alive.
Stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Stayin' alive.

"-- Bee Gees