The Turks And Copehagen Failure

I take Eitan to see The Turks for a haircut.  He protests loudly but I tell him "it is my way or the hard way," an expression I learned from Eric.  I then bribe him with the Manchester United v. Fulham game.  Eitan's hair his one place of concord and usually I let it be despite Sonnet's frequent protests that he should, at least occasionally, wash it. So here we are, at the barber, who actually asks: "do you comb your hair?" which, really, needs to be heard with his accent. Both he and Eitan suffer as The Turk drags his comb through the rat's nest.  Madeleine, beside me, squirms: "I don't think he's really liking it, Dad" she notes privately.   We want the boy to look good for Auntie Katie (she arrives Tuesday).  


Somehow Eitan's hair smoothed enough for a few clips and Mission Accomplished.  Wish I could say the same for Copenhagen, which serves up a bagel despite 119 heads of state in attendance - the largest-ever United Nations gatehering of leaders and governments - and further representation bringing the figure to 193 Nation member countries. In  the end they agree to "take note" of the non-binding Copenhagen Accord.  Milk toast. Here is what we, the planet's citizens, get: $100 billion of annual fundraising commitments by 2020 to help poor countires adapt to global warming.  Developing countires will involve themselves in a climate change pact with stated emission-reductions accords, but not legally binding (hello, China and India, you beautiful gluttons of coal). There is no plan to renew the Kyoto Protocal which has accounting, compliance and reporting measures built into its structure.  As for targets, industrialised and developing countries will list their pledges by Jan 31, 2010 while developing countries must communicate their efforts to "limit" greenhouse emissions every two years.  This is sorta like asking Eitan to monitor his "Carmel Chew Chew."  Or trusting Madeleine and Kumon.  In the grandest understatement of the week, UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon states: "It may not be everything we hoped for, but this decision of the Conference of Parties is an essential beginning." We're toast, dude.


Madeleine: "Dad, have you ever got vegetables from Santa?"
Me:
Madeleine: "Not even when you knocked down the Christmas tree when fighting with Auntie Katie?"

Holiday Rules And More Sponge Bob

Saturday morning and it feels like holidays.  Outside below freezing and a sprinkling of snow on the ground following yesterday's storm that jammed the grid and brought the M20 to a standstill for, like, seven miles. Poor bastards.  The Eurostar also stops.  With people on it, who spend 12 hours in the tunnel between England and France. They were asked not to breathe deeply in order to conserve oxygen. Again, poor bastards. Leave it to the French.  Adding to the festive spirit, the children have their last school where they watch movies .. all week, making them and the teachers happy, I am sure.  Both groups deserve their reward, working hard inside an allotment of public resources, and doing a damn fine job.  Ours one of Britain's best primaries.  Eitan and Madeleine may not learn Latin or Mandarin, as the nearby privates, but theirs a happy bunch and I always enjoy the good vibe at the drop.  They are keen to learn. So the holidays .. and the rules. I tell the Shakespeares they may stay up as late as they want and watch television until their eyeballs swell. The little mouths drop: "Really, Dad? Are you fooling?" in unison. I also indicate unlimited junk food and point to the fridge which contains four containers of "Carmel Chew Chew," ice cream bars and those yummy frozen ice cream cones with a bit of chocolate on the bottom.   Sonnet rolls her eyes.  


In photo: Eitan watches "Sponge Bob Square Pants" and, while completely beyond me, is (begrudgingly) funny.  Today's episode sees Sponge Bob capturing Plankton, a plankton, who has a plan to end the world. But then Sponge Bob accidentally electrocutes him and - poof! - he explodes. It deserves a guffaw but the boy does not raise an eyebrow.


Madeleine and I at toy store Pandemonium. Madeleine: "Dad, do you think this is a good Christmas present?" (she shows me a plastic skull and cross bones).
Me: "Sure. It is a wonderful gift."
Madeleine: "If you were getting it, would you want it?"
Me:
Madeleine: "Maybe I will get you something else."

2012 Aquatics

This amazing structure, designed by the extraordinary Zaha Hadid, will be the site of the 2012 swimming competition.  As profiled in the New Yorker magazine, Hadid a Baghdad-born, London based architect whose modern designs change their surroundings - and wow.  Yet despite this and her celebrity, Hadid's output small: thirteen structures including the Vitra Fire Station, in Weil am Rehin (1994); a train station in Strasbourg (2001); a ski jump+restaurant in Innsbruck (2002); the Lois and Richared Rosenthal Center for Contemporary Art, in Cincinnati (2003); the Phaeno Science Center, in Wolfsburg, Germany (2005); the BMW Plant Central Building, in Leipzig (2005); and the MAXXI museum in Rome.  And now the pool.


While Hadid's structure spares no cost, London's Olympics won by suggesting the construction of a world class sports center and the regeneration of the city's East End possible without bankrupting the country.  The initial cost-estimate was £2.4 billion.  Fat chance. Anybody who followed the Millenium Dome knows what a good budget in England means: about twice that.  Ken Livingstone famously informed us that the costs of a London Olympics would be 38p per week "the same price as a walnut whip" (whatever that is). The Olympics now stand at £12 billion. Still, this is doggone cheap compared to Beijing which came in at £20 billion, according to The Guardian, though others conservatively suggest $65 billion when the new airport and transportation lines included.  London will be less splashy, accepting the Aquatics Center which becomes the center piece of the show - like the Bird's Nest stadium for China. And to pay for the honour, Londoners incur various surcharges and taxes .. it all adds up.  Closer to home, Livingstone shifted a substantial burden of the Olympics cost on us, Richmond, who - he said - "can afford it." Rat bastard.


I am delighted we are hosting the games. Britain will shine. London will shine. It will be an extravagant month and wholly appropriate for the world's Greatest City.


"I swam my brains out."
--Mark Spitz

Hamsters And A Carol+Alphie Neutered

So here is the hamster update (for anybody who really cares): Monty got out three times including two weeks when I caught her scrambling across the bedroom floor, pitter patter. During the missing, tell tale clues: nuts and wall scratchings.  Foxy now awol for one week and not a trace. I think she's gone.  When Monty disappeared, Madeleine devastated so we got Foxy then Monty found and two hamsters or one for each kid. All good. Then Foxy gone and Monty's cage second to the Habitrail, pictured, so Monty back to the Habitrail from Eitan's room to Madeleine's room. See the problem?  Oh, boy. The simple solution, as I indicate from time to time: "chuck 'em in the street." 


Last night kids carols at the local and Eitan and Madeleine and their school chums belt out Christmas cheer. The teachers, too, dress up in red and colour to serenade us, the parents of the neighborhood.  I try to keep a low profile while Sonnet chats and makes eye-contact with the Shakespeares (Madeleine in particular peeps over rows of uncombed heads).  Between songs,  the chosen read about baby Jesus or the Holy Mary or Bethleham or whatever. Eitan's name probably disqualifies him since otherwise he participates in the "Challenge of the Books" with three others chosen from his year. Jesus was a Jew, wasn't he?  We are entertained by the recorders and, in a coup de grace, the trumpets conclude the evening. Oy, vey.


Madeleine: "Alphie is getting neutered tomorrow."
Me: "Do you know what neuter means?"
Eitan: "It is when they cut your balls off."
Me: "Poor dog, he'll never be the same again, will he?"
Eitan and everybody cracking up: "You said 'willy'!"

Downtown Anchorage

Silver sends me this far out photo from today's Anchorage Daily News, shot by Bob Hallihan. Wow. Sonnet grew up in Anchorage while Stan and Silver have more recently reclined to the Western Slope of the Colorado Rockies.  Sadly there is little chance I will make it to Alaska any time soon.  I had my chance during the courtship years when Sonnet and I in San Francisco.  From London it is at least 20 hours connecting via L.A. or Seattle.  Once upon a time there was a direct shot from London to Anchorage over the North Pole but no longer. Of course I am curious to see my wife's home-state given her stories, the 24-hour winter darkness, the aurora lights and Sarah who has proven herself to be dumber than the moose that cross Main Street. God bless. And here is what I am missing: Anchorage selected an All-American City four times in 1956, 1965, 1985 and 2002 by the National Civic League which is pretty damn cool for a place outside the lower-48 and miserably cold.  In high school, the kids hang out at Denny's.  At least Sonnet did.  Marcus was into the theatre and poetry slams before he picked up for Seattle.  My guess Anchorage includes frontiersmen, oil men, hippies, axe murders and poets+those looking for a new start and a grand adventure. One day, Inshallah.


"To the lover of wilderness, Alaska is one of the most wonderful countries in the world."
--John Muir


"Nothing is worth more than this day."
--Gooethe

Lip Stick

I am beguiled by this young women, pictured, who puts on her face leaving Waterloo station.  It is about late morning and I return from Soho where I have done a few holiday chores.  She is utterly engrossed. Red to lips; black to eyes and powder on cheeks - all in front of a small mirror, often angled to capture the best sun light from a low horizon. My mobile makes an intrusive noise when I take this image and I only get one shot. She gets off at Barnes and I wonder where to?

Since my photo may be viewed as, ahem, voyeuristic I may as well stick to pervy and report on Mrs Bibi Giles who is suing her gynaecologist, Dr Angus Thomson, for sexual assault and sexual harassment - very serious charges.  Mrs Giles says Dr Thomson gave her an intimate examination that caused her to have two orgasms in less than two minutes.  Mrs. Giles, 50, is married to Peter, 65, you see.  Her case turns rather limp when one considers a suggestive text message, sent by her and aired in court, where Mrs. Giles asks Dr Thompson to "christen" her with his "Angus beef sausage."   Wonder if the judge had a boner?


Well, before we give up on Britain completely given Mrs Giles and everything else, a team of scientists here has unwound the genetic code of two of the most deadly cancers. Eventually a simple blood test could lead to accurate "made to measure" treatment that identifies, attacks and kills each patient's cancer.  Should we rise above ourselves, our children will experience unimaginable human achievement.

River and Keynote

A river's colours change -  not obvious unless observed over time.  The Thames, for instance, sometimes muddy brown or metallic silver.  Even blue or ocra. Occasionally clear, but most rarely.  We live about a mile from the river (.8 miles, to be Google) and while the water rarely visible, it is always there. I enjoy it most when jogging my five-mile loop from work to the Hammersmith Bridge then back via the Chiswick Bridge.  Since tidal,  the Thames has some real personality - as extremes, empty and weak (tide OUT), overflowing, washing out my path (tied IN).  The displacement: 70,000 million gallons of water from low to high tide.  But it is the colours that fascinate and suggest a mood - when ebbing, fast moving - so dark or grey(ish).  When flowing, a slower action so .. brown or dirty, like a martini.  The air temperature plays a part, too, and it all mellows into a vibe somehow. Of course the Thames provides London's vital energy and without it, the city would be .. nothing.


Here is Katie's KEYNOTE 2 (Catherine Orenstein):  Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: 500 Years of Sex, Morality, and Stories about  Women: 
"
A girl, a wolf, a meeting in the woods.  Who doesn’t know the story?   “Little Red Riding Hood” is one of the best-known tales of all time.  But most people don’t know it as well as they think. Based on Orenstein’s book of the same title, this keynote speech, accompanied by a slide show of historical and contemporary images,  traces the fairy tale through time to reveal our changing ideas about men and women, sex and morality. From the werewolf trials of old Europe (when the story's villain was part of 'true history') to the tales' literary debut as a chastity parable in the 17th century court of Versailles (from whence the term ‘wolf’ to mean a seducer), on up to the sexual symbolism of Madison Avenue ads, the sharp revisions of Anne Sexton’s poetry, modern-day Hollywood film, rock songs, drag theater and even S&M fairy-tale pornography, this talk explores the evolution of one of our most powerful and enduring heroines.  The message of this talk – and of Orenstein’s book – is that the stories we tell surround us, define us, shape history and our future—and at any given moment they can change, or be changed.  The book has been featured on ABC-TV, CNN and NPR, and is under consideration for a TV show. Newsweek magazine called it "revelatory," the Wall Street Journal called it "beguiling," and Naomi Wolf wrote,  "Let us hope that Catherine Orenstein's laid-back, readable brilliance sets the tone for an emerging generation of feminist scholars."   

Whoops!

There is probably a good reason why nobody has launched a truck off a ramp to execute a backflip.  Despite that, Rhys Millen wants to be the first - here he is, the crazy guy, practicing in Las Vegas for Red Bull's New Year's Experiment, 2007.  Unfortunately for Millen, he suffered "an unfortunate" accident leaving him with five fractured vertebrae which occurred, according to Red Bull, when Millen's truck overshot the landing area of cardboard boxes. Unfortunate, indeed. Last time he does that one, dude. 

Smarts run in the family, they say.  Take Robbie Knievel, 47, who will try to jump over 16-buses at Wembley Stadium, west London, in May on a "classic" Harley Davidson.  Recall Evil Knievel broke his pelvis during his 1975 bid to jump 13 buses.  Hmmm I am sure that I have heard a story about some idiot trying to earn his father's respect by doing stupid things? So Robbie began jumping his bicycle at age-four and rode motorcycles at age-seven.  By eight, he performed his first show with his dad at Madison Square Garden. At 12, he was on tour with Evil where he would perform in the pre-jump shows.  Robbie attended South Central Catholic Jr. High School in Butte, Montana but never graduated. He wanted to lengthen his jumps but Dad disapproved. No shit, I might add (source: 'Evel*Ways, A Daring Approach to Life'; GraF X Publishing). Seems to me, like Iraq and maybe Afghanistan, the sixteen-buses a suicide trip.  At least Robbie qualified to take the decision.

"My wife and I, we like to ride where there's not much traffic."

--Evil Knievel

BA

Can you believe the British Airways cabin crew? They announce today a strike. For the 12 days of Christmas. Bastards.  BA has been losing money since God Knows When and trying to get their financial house in order, including the removal of one flight attendant on short-hauls and two for the long-hauls.  Union does not like this and threatens one-million passengers and maybe £500 million of damage to the airline. For the record, I like BA. I like their colourful logo. I like Terminal 5.  The service never a problem and BA ahead of the pack for online bookings, home-ticketing and seat selection.  They are good on safety.

British Airways has been around since '74 and really paid nobody any attention until Richard Branson's Virgin Airlines in '84 began a long-term love affair.  In '93, for instance, BA lost "one of the most bitter and protracted libel actions in aviation history," according to the BBC News, and had to apologise "unreservedly" for a "dirty tricks" campaign against Virgin. Oh, and they had to pay millions in penalties and cover Virgin's legal costs for good measure.

Today, BA has grown up and transports 33 million people a year on a fleet of 225 airlines and another 51 on order plus options on a further 45. They buy American, too, and Boeing accounts for 65% of the existings and 55% of the rest.  Turnover for the twelve-months ending March 30, 2009, £9 billion while loses £401 million. Hence the cabin crew. Now the union. And maybe a shut-down during the busiest time of the year, the holiday season for Christ's sake. Already there are hateful customers. These hostesses better know what they are doing since they are going after one of Britain's few global brands.

Photo from the AP.

Me: "Are you and Billy (Madeleine's play-date) looking forward to the carol concert tomorrow evening?"

Madeleine and Billy (who will sing), in unison: "No!"

Me: "Why?

Madeleine: "Because it is crowded. And uncomfortable."

Me: "Well, you and Billy could get some dice and gamble your money at the back of the church."

Billy:

Madeleine: "Really, Dad. You don't mean that. Billy he does not mean that."

Billy: "There is this guy who is so ugly they pay him."

Me: "Like, where?"

Billy: "I don't know."

Madeleine: "He has the best job in the world."

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)