Bryan Kneale

This morning in Mayfair we poke our head into the Royal Academy's courtyard to find the assembly of .. a strange silver sculpture that looks like an oil-tanker's propeller. Cranes do their heavy lifting and ten our so engineers beaver away to put the pieces in place. I want to learn more, including the artist, and later we stop by to find the artist himself - Bryan Kneale, pictured. Kneale studied at the Royal Academy in the 1940s and went on to win the Rome Prize and spent much of his life and career in Italy though he is from the Isle of Man. During the '50s he learned welding and in 1960 took to sculpture in preference to painting. Today he is gentleman if somewhat frail, and I note his spectacles need a cleaning. His mind is sharp and we discuss a bit of his life, and he tells me that this particular sculpture flowed from his fascination of how an orientation effects the space it occupies. He named it "Triton III" after the work completed, and notes to Madeleine that "it is a three-part system and reminds me of the Greek god's sword" (Triton the messenger of the deep, and son of Poseidon; both carried three-pointed tridents). An interesting collaboration takes place between Kneale and the builders, which in England is the Cass Sculpture Foundation, a charity dedicated to commissioning twenty-first century British sculpture (I spend some time talking to the head engineer and he takes his job seriously while admitting it is a bit, ahem, esoteric). I thank Bryan and promise him this photo.

Berkowitz

Ellen and Alan are in town for a visit, on their way home from Madrid where Alan presenting. Moe and Alan former law-partners at Schactor, Krisotoff, Orenstein and Berkowitz (or "SKOB") from the mid-1980s but our families have known each other well before that. I believe, though perhaps Moe will correct me, that both began their career at the National Labor Relations Board or NLRB (together with the Friends) which was the equivalent of my Financial Analyst program at First Boston - that is, highly selective and an entry point into a field of business. Adam and Eric, the Berkowitz children about my and Katie's age, often found ourselves in some kind of mischief as the adults entertained themselves. Along with the Jewish holidays and firm outings, we reunioned in Yosemite for the California Bar (Moe once Chair) or hikes from Mill Valley to Stinson Beach usually in the fog and cold. Today, they are in good health and spirits. Here we are, pictured, on St. James's Street or the most glamorous in London (my opinion) at Piccadilly facing downhill to St James's Palace and Pall Mall. Madeleine still has Barnebie Bear, which is returned tomorrow to school , with photos from various places, for the next kid.

Junkola

Sunday morning and this means homework for both kids. Madeleine does hers dutifully though insists word-spelling with mom. Fair enough. As for me, I am out the door early to run around Richmond Park where half-way it pours and the temperature drops 15-degrees. Must be May. Since the kids live in a rat's nest, I focus momentarily on a clean-up invading their space with a garbage bag and instructions to "toss everything in site." This produces a wail of protest from the Shakespeares and we enter negotiations on everything they hold dear. Rocks, balls of string, broken CD player, dolls, stacks of football magazines and clippings, doll house, toy furniture and on and on it goes. Finally I give in as the anguish genuine and my resolve noncommittal. I vaguely remember how I, too, horded my junk - Todd and I famously traded live salamanders for garage junk - so I have some empathy for the little pathetics. Sonnet, on the other hand, takes a different tactic: wait until the house empty.

Eitan: "Ok, ok dad - I know the speech."

Suit

Eitan tries on his new suit for Diane's wedding and boy is he not happy about it. No kid wants to look like a peacock but Eitan an extreme. When I ask why? he sniffs: "because I don't want to." When I tell him this no argument he widens his answer: "because I really don't want to." Despite my strong tones, Sonnet and I chuckle - poor kid. He does look smashing in a white shirt and tie though and I am often prone to call him (and Madeleine) DDG or "Drop Dead Gorgeous" which is what Diana called Wills (but never Harry). Eitan hates it.

Eitan begins Kumon (maths tutorial) following a year-long campaign culminating in a solicitation-for-support from his grandparents. Terms are agreed between Eitan and Moe, Eitan has his financing, and away we go. Madeleine has been in Kumon for two years under strong protest. Despite the resistance, she has enjoyed rapid improvement and she is now on pace with school targets whereas before - oh, dear. Eitan, on the other had, begins ahead of the curve and already one of his class's top-performers. This is why I resist additional work but forced to change my position when Eitan noted bluntly: "Dad, you always say you want me to be the best I can be and now you are not letting me" and what can I say? Kumon. (Thank you Moe and Grace)

Chinatown

Madeleine is tasked with photographing Barnebie, pictured, which is then handed to the next kid and the next. Here we are, with Sonnet, in Chinatown last night as Eitan with his class for an overnight in the assembly hall - pity Head Teacher Mrs England who joins every year to make it a special, bonding event. I am told the children usually sleep by midnight and I can only imagine. So Madeleine is most excellent company. She makes a concoction of salt, pepper, Sprite, Soy Sauce and anything else she can put into her cantor stirring it up with chopsticks. When she has had enough (or I tell her: stop it!) she coyly asks: "can I put it on another table? Nobody will notice." We talk about the usual stuff on a kid's mind and for Madeleine it remains Tom Boy. No girlfriends, no frilly dresses and of course sports (Friday-Night-Fives sees the Badgers lose 9-nil while Madeleine notes that "three shots almost made it" presumably from her side). From dinner we go to the cinema to catch movietoon Coraline in 3D whose PG rating probably a tad too much, and Madeleine comforts Sonnet who covers her eyes during the scary bits. Ar, ar. Afterwards walking through the West End at late hours is like visiting another city. I've not done this in ages and here it all is: boys drinking and dodging traffic on Shaftsbury Avenue, girls wearing as much as they can without wearing anything. Wild animals. We receive a few suspicious looks from revellers curious to see a seven-year old at this hour. Madeleine falls sound asleep in the car and I carry her upstairs to bed. She awakes to give me a hug then rolls over and out. A Mastercard moment.

After Action Report: Eitan's teacher, Mrs. X, informs us that the first School Sleep-over feet-patter at 4:30AM and many of the kids up by 5AM. The boys enter a scratch game of football which pretty much ends any idea of anything more than five hours of shut eye. After the pick-up, I rush Eitan to a football tournament where the KPR win two, draw one and lose two. Unfortunately Eitan in the goalbox for the final game and allows two goals - I know tears are coming well before the whistle. From the tournament to Joe's house to watch Manchester United seal the Premiership with a tie against Arsenal. I take the gang to Sheen Common for more .. football. It. Never. Ends.

Bomb Shelter

Here is Sonnet in front of a bomb shelter, which once was a standard extension to any London house, indeed - a sought after item raising the value of the property, I am told. Most likely the last ones from the 1930s - by the time WW II under way, nobody building construction. Those who had 'em were relieved: The Blitz, or Nazi Germany's sustained bombing of Britain, endured from September 7, 1940 to May 10, 1941. While many towns and cities were hit, it began with London for 57 consecutive nights. By the end, over 43,000 civilians, half of them in London, killed and more than a million houses destroyed or damaged in London alone. Miraculously, St Paul's survived despite being the biggest bulls-eye imaginable from the sky above. And lest you think London lives in its past, consider that in June 2008 an unexploded World World War II bomb weighing 2,200lb was found near the Bromley-by-Bow Tube station by a digger clearing a site being prepared for the 2012 Olympics. Fifteen disposal experts from the Royal Engineers made the bomb safe after it started ticking and carried out a controlled explosion. The bomb was discovered next to a gasworks and police were initially considering evacuating 40,000 people.

"But it is a curve each of them feels, unmistakably. It is the parabola. They must have guessed, once or twice -- guessed and refused to believe -- that everything, always, collectively, had been moving toward that purified shape latent in the sky, that shape of no surprise, no second chance, no return. Yet they do move forever under it, reserved for its own black-and-white bad news certainly as if it were the rainbow, and they its children. . . ."
--Gravity's Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon

Leicester Square

Here is the boy sometime around age two. I was experimenting with photography and use of light. As always, the kids are my guinea pigs which was never a problem until a couple of years ago when they wised up: "give me a pound, dad."

Eitan has his Big Overnight at the school, so I am trying to think of something equally fun to do with Madeleine since Sonnet and I have her all to ourselves. This, like, the first time ever. I am thinking a late evening excursion into the West End for a Chinese and movie at Leicester Square, or London's theatreland and home to the biggest cinema in the UK at 1,600 seats (and there, gentle reader, is your factoid for the day). This a good place to see James Bond. What I like about the otherwise dirty and bustling spot surrounded by Picadilly, Chinatown and the National Portrait Gallery/ Trafalgar Square are the statues: in the middle is a 19th century bust of William Shakespeare surrounded by dolphins. What the heck is that about? The four corner gates have Sir Isaac Newton; Sir Joshua Reynolds, the first President of the Royal Academy; John Hunter, a pioneer of surgery; and William Hogarth, the painter. The most recent addition is a Charlie Chaplin. On the pavement are inscribed the distances in miles to countries of the former British Empire. Every corner of offers some fascination and me lucky enough to have the time to enjoy it - mostly. It is just a matter of keeping your eyes open - like the time I stumbled on a gas lit street lamp at Lincoln's Inn- turns out, this the last holdover when the Victorian streets lit by flame fueled by methane from the sewage.

Venture And A Conviction

Pictured, the Prudential Building at Holborn on a wet day (water mark included) - this the last great gothic revival building in London, erected in 1879.

Well, we all know it is a rough time for venture capitalists and worse for entrepreneurs as the IPO markets are null and void while the capital crisis has crunched M&A. In short: there are no exits, which drives the venture model from risk to joyous liquidity. And how bad is it? The first three months of the year saw one soliltary IPO (a big one though: $828 million deal by kids food maker Mead Johnson Nutrition). In contrast, the first quarter of 2008, when IPO flow was already starting to fall off a cliff, had 10 deals yielding $20.6 billion. March '09 the second quarter in a row to see only one deal, the first time such a six-month drought has happened this decade. Ouch. Here is what my friend John Malloy of BlueRun Ventures in Menlo Park said at the Red Herring North America 100 Conference yesterday: "I can think of two words that epitomize the situation for many startup ventures. One is constraint, and understanding this is a new world of constraints. The other is optionality. Remember there are multiple ways to solve a problem." and further, “you certainly shouldn’t believe just what your bankers tell you.” Amen, brother.

Of course one man's misery is another's opportunity, which is why I am an investor in Industry Ventures who aims to buy venture positions in the secondary market. The ugly word is "distress" while the more gentlemanly "transfer" or "early liquidity" is what I choose. Either way, it is a motivated seller who has other things to own than some non-performing partnership which has promised returns starting ten years ago but never delivered. There are many of these funds which sit at 50% cost while the manager collects fees (and surely will never work again). So the Valley needs a re-boot. There are plenty of good tech and IT companies growing >10% per year despite the recession; the trick is buying into their capital structure without paying a primary-rate. Today's environment opens these doors and many guys will benefit.

Sonnet's remarkable case at the Old Bailey comes to its conclusion yesterday with a double-life sentence conviction. The case against two murderers from Shri Lanka who are part of the Tamil Tigers and inside the UK illegally. They brought their violence with them, using a samurai sword to hack to bits one victim while knifing the next - these gruesome murders witnessed by neighbors. The villains fled for home in '03 but were extradited at an estimated £6 million to the British tax-payer. Sonnet notes justice served and the British judicial system impressive in the extreme.

Karakoram

Yaqub on the "roof of the world" somewhere in the Karakorams in '97. Datas from the Internets: the Karakorams border Pakistan, China and India and one of the Greater Ranges of Asia, often considered together with the Himalayas but not technically part of that range. The Karakoram is home to more than sixty peaks above 7,000 meters 23,000 feet, including K2, the second highest peak of the world at 8,611 meters. K2 is just 237 meters smaller than Everest. The range is aprox. 500 kilomters in length, and is the most heavily glaciated part of the world outside of the polar regions. The Siachen Glacier, for instance, 70 km and the Biafo Glacier at 63 km rank as the world's second and third longest outside the polar regions. The Karakoram is bounded on the northeast by the edge of the Tibetan Plateau, and on the north by the Wakhan Corridor and the Pamir Mountains. Just to the west of the northwest end of the Karakoram lies the Hindu Kush. The southern boundary of the Karakoram is formed by the rivers Gilgit, Shyok and Indus which is the fastest moving body of water on the planet; together they separate the rangee from the northwestern end of the Himalayas. Due to its altitude and ruggedness, the Karakoram is much less inhabited than parts of the Himalayas further east.

From Sir Peter Hopkirk's book "The Great Game" (which I highly recommend), European explorers first visited Central Asia early in the 19th century, followed by British surveyors from 1856. In that vain, The Muztagh Pass was crossed in 1887 by the expedition of my hero Colonel Francis Younghusband and the valleys above the Hunza River were explored by George Cockerill in 1892. Explorations in the 1910s and 1920s established most of the geography of the region. This a period of great tension between Britain and Russia as each raced to discover new trading routes to India.

At one point I stood at the Gilgit and Indus crossing, looking in one direction at the Pamirs; the other - Himalayas; and the third - Karakorams. Wow.

Lionel Shriver

This afternoon at BBC World Services I meet author Lionel Shriver who has been made famous by her '03 book "We Have To Talk About Kevin" which has sold over 1,000,000 copies and won Shriver the '05 Orange Prize, one of the UK's most prestigious. Shriver was interviewed by Harriet Gilbert and I was one of fifteen invited into the the studio (Gilbert BTW has a wonderful, throaty, British voice that is immediately recognizable on-air). Unusual for most Americans who leap enthusiastically, Shriver paces her sentences and carefully selects her words. Occasionally she would re-state a phrase or ask for a re-take on an answer. I like this. The program discusses Kevin, which is a brutal depiction of a high-school slaying told from the perspective of the mother. The book caused considerable enthusiastic debate in my book club which was unable to answer a basic question: nature or nurture? The mom, you see, despised her son from pregnancy - heresy in our, and most societies. Shriver, for her part, leaves it open - and indeed, emphasises that the why does not matter. Instead of seeking blame or justice, she argues, certain things unexplainable and require .. healing. Shriver informs us her mental state decidedly depressed when she penned Kevin and this enabled her to get inside the protagonist's head; as for the book's namesake - she loves Kevin for his intelligence and humour. Any mother will tell you it is impossible not to love your creation.

Photo from the Guardian.

MPs' Expenses

Eitan, despite his serious or even anxious nature, has the capacity to goof. I like this about him.

The noxious smell around ministers' expenses has reached epicness as standard government practices exposed by Fleet Street. And why today? Well, firstly, the 2000 Freedom of Information Act took force in 2005 but with delayed-controversy around certain items relating to "national security." In 2007 an Amendment tried to exempt Members of Parliament and Peers from the 2000 act but failed. Finally come July and nine years later, MPs' expense reports will be released to the public. Brother, this is a leaky ship if ever there was one and The Telegraph, God bless them, has enjoyed insider status all the way. Each new revelation trumps the prior: from inappropriate second-mortgages to the sauna and today a moat and on and on to the next - each front-page news. MPs, for their part, failed to appreciate their hot-potato and get ahead of the curve by releasing their records themselves in advance. Instead they wail: "We acted within the rules." So here is the run-down: our 642 MPs receive £64,766 per year salary+allowable expenses which go untaxed. Many of them commute to Westminster so need a flat or second home and so receive reimbursement up to £23,083+a further £2,812 for London. Fair enough. Staff costs, travel expenses and the cost of running an office: £21,339 and £90,505, respectively; Stationary £7,000. Plus gas, temporary staffing, spouse and family travel &c. It all adds up in a big way. Unfortunately, the majority of ministers view their allowance as an entitlement and have simply gamed the system. Without transparency, human nature takes over and voila: a bona fide scandal. Bare in mind per capita income here is about £25,000. To attract qualified government, we must pay a reasonable rate and know what we are paying. The inner rot only weakens our democracy. I am not the only one itching for the next election.

Peddling

Here is all you have to know, from the Huffington Post and The Atlantic:

In 2008, the largest corporate or trade association source of campaign contributions, including employees, was Goldman Sachs at $6.9 million, followed by JP Morgan Chase at $5.8 million while Citigroup at $5.5 million, came fourth; Morgan Stanely $4.3, 7th and the American Bankers' Association $3.7, 10th. Over the past two decades, Goldman has been the second largest corporate contributor at $30.9, beaten only by At&T at $40.8 million. I have blogged about Goldman before, most recently for ripping off the United States by shorting the financial sector, playing part in Lehman's collapse, then trying to repay TARP so their partners can pay themselves $2.5 million each in accrued bonus from the Lehman trade. Take a look at the Q1 report for yourself. Further showing Wall Street's money-pockets, the financial sector never once earned more that 16% of domestic corporate profits until '86 or the Ivan Boesky era (who can forget his Time Magazine cover in December '86? He was later fined $100 million for insider trading back when that kinda money meant something. Prick). From then to 2000 it reached 30% then 41% this decade. Pay followed: from ~100% of the average for all domestic private industries in '83 to 181% by 2007. We have every reason to be pissed - and why are the Democrats and Obama treating this with kid gloves? Our system has been hijacked by a few who take for themselves and I don't yet see an inkling of the regulations needed to address the problem.

Kenny & The Peace Corps

Kenny and Moe, pictured before my wedding to Sonnet at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. That would be August 24, 1996 unless you review my marriage certificate .. but then, that is a longer story. Kenny is Moe's oldest friend from St Louis and remains one of his closest to this day. I first became aware of Kenny and his family from the 1970s when we holidayed together occasionally. Kenny is a pulmonary doctor in Los Angeles and teaches at UCLA. He is also a Rhodes Scholar. I think both he and my Dad had a need to get out of their confines to reach a higher potential. Moe signed up for the Peace Corps (the first Peace Corps, mind you) after hearing President Kennedy announce the program at Michigan University in 1961. Then, Moe was a law student and did not particularly care for the Kennedy family and especially the anti-semite Joe Kennedy; nor was he overly impressed by JFK in the televised Nixon debate. He was, however, mesmerised by the President's vision and decided on the spot to be a part of it. Since '61, more than 195,000 people have served as Peace Corps volunteers, one of them being my mother - Moe and Grace met in training camp and off they went to Malawi, Africa, to get to know each other. How cool is that? This a story I tell often BTW and still to this day - from the Peace Corps to Berkeley, California, in the late '60s. My parent's liberal credentials are deep, man. What an adventure that must have been for two very cool spirited youthful people.

Eitan refuses to do homework. I tell him: "OK, I am going to talk to [Head Teacher] Mrs England and tell her you suggest more homework for the school."
Eitan: "I am going to talk to Mrs England and tell her that you are mad."

Eitan's class prepares for an overnight and today his teacher fields questions and concerns. Eitan volunteers that he once peed down the stairs while sleep-walking.

Me to Madeleine: "What on earth are you doing?!"
Madeleine: "I have no idea."

“to promote world peace and friendship through a Peace Corps, which shall make available to interested countries and areas men and women of the United States qualified for service abroad and willing to serve, under conditions of hardship if necessary, to help the peoples of such countries and areas in meeting their needs for trained manpower.”
John F. Kennedy

More Silvio

It is hard not to turn my family blog into a lingerie site given the antics of the Italian Prime Minister. Here we have 18-year old model Noemi Letizia who is, apparently, the reason for Berlusconi's wife of 19 years Veronica Lario to throw in the towel. Since my prior images have focused on political bunnies proposed by Berlusconi's People of Freedom party to the European Parliament, we must wonder about Noemi's youthful ambition. In a wonderful interview in the Italian La Repubblica newspaper, she indicates a lack of preparation for the summer's regional elections; instead "I prefer to stand for the lower house of parliament" adding: "Papi Silvio will fix it." This a rather, ahem, amazing observation even for Italy. Noemi goes on to explain her insider's access: "He [Berlusconi] calls me, he tells me he has some free time and I join him in Milan or Rome. I stay there listening to to him. That's what he wants from me. Then we sing togther." I'll bet. Given Letizia a minor until two-weeks ago, one would think that voters might take umbrage but they don't: a poll by Ipr Marketing last week shows his popularity to be 66% or the highest of any European leader. I bet he and our Bill have some fun comparing notes - imagine Clinton's advise (in a word): detergent.

I am not unawares that Italy offers a lovely distraction to our ailing planet and ripped-off democracies. Berlusconi seems to be daring us - go on, you can't stop me or the embarrasment I cause and really, I respond: go fuck yourself (and I do mean literally).

Manchester Darby

Eitan and I watch the Manchester Darby pitting arch-rivals Manchester United vs. Manchester City which has moved up the league tables since being owned by the Arabs who have spent lavishly on the players. Eitan notes that ManCity's Robinho set the transfer record at £32 million ("32.5, actually"). When I ask Robinho's first name, Eitan shrugs and notes - "doesn't have one" placing him with Madonna and Prince or the great Pelé, which was actually a nick-name. Top players earn >£50,000 per week and I look at Eitan: "remind how much you get for allowance?" and we both crack up. The number of weeks of savings to reach one week of Ronaldo (£150K/ week) incalcuable to him. What makes Manchester so divided is that the die-hard fans who have been supporting United or City date back >30 years, before ManU took the world by storm in the '90s with their glamour pusses Ryan Giggs, Dwight York and the Neville Brothers. Then there was David Bekham - an androgynous sex goddess who remains remarkable on the pitch - few can match is cross-field placements and he holds the record for England caps at 110 (and counting). I've been to Manchester and there's not much exciting - urban redevelopment, a few lavish, out-of-place sky-scrapers (even these only 20 stories) and an ancient canal from the Industrial era which I have jogged. Well, anyway, ManU up 2-nil at half so the boy is happy.

Rules

The British hate to diverge from their unspoken little rules, which is why they are so early to queue and irritated by those who fail them. I have seen nastiness in the parks, on the roads and in shops over simple things that could otherwise be easily ignored and yet. For instance, today, jogging in Richmond at the Richmond Gate there is a busy round-about that unites cyclists, joggers, families, walkers and autos who simply go out of their way to own the intersection. Adding to the grumpiness is the batch-nature of the culture: everybody does anything at the same time. I pull into the athletic complex for Eitan's football Saturday morning, 9:15AM, which is empty until 9:30AM when the parking lot overfloweth. Boxing Day is one long traffic jam as London arrives, en masse, at the same parking garages for the same sales. Commuters commute on three train departures bunching around 8AM looking grouchy as they stand crammed together like sardines. Grocery shopping at Waitrose peaks Sunday morning .. and on and on it goes. CCTV ensures we march to order. We could easily become a distributed society spreading ourselves across the day, lessening tensions and going counter to the lemming mentality of our island nation. Maybe this would reduce the national passtime of binge-drinking. It would require a mind-shift impossible from everything I have so far observed. The British are engaged by rules, you see. They love structure. And everything has its place from top-to-bottom, which we all accept happily or not (compare this to the US where nobody content with their lot and always looking for a leg up). Perhaps the UK's 60 million odd survive in this confined space the size of Kansas due to its nature. Or perhaps their nature simply trends towards a natural identity different from anywhere else.

My photo, taken Thursday morning 10AM, of Smithfield's Market in Clerkenwell facing Holborn at New Fetter Lane and the boundary of the City. I used to work nearby shortly following our arrival to London. The glass buildings new - or at least since '00 - and the distant one the HQ for Sainburys which is the second largest grocery chain in the UK following Tesco. This is London's transformation - from the grim and grime of post-War '60s-style concrete to shiny glass and steel. Do you think improved?

Kermit The Frog

Madeleine picks the "Muppet Movie" for tonight's home-screening and boy, does this bring me full-circle: I remember seeing the film in '79 and now again as a parent. Sonnet and I are cackling within the opening credits where we see all the favorites: Jim Henson as Kermit the Frog, Dr.Teeth, Rowlf and Waldorf; Frank Oz as Fozzie, Piggy and Animal; Jerry Nelson as Floyd Pepper, Robin the Frog, Lew Zealand and Crazy Harry; Richard Hunt as Janice, Statler,Beaker and Scooter. Dave Goelz as Gonzo, Dr Hunnydew and Zoot. Charles Durning and Mel Brooks. Wow. Wow. Wow. Kermit opens with the wonderful song "Rainbow Connection" while Fozzie gets booed off stage setting up one of those great friendships enjoyed for the ages by the ages - right there with Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin or Bogey and Bacall. The travel-buddy plot finds Kermit and his new found friends treking across America to find success in Hollywood, but a frog-legs merchant is after Kermit. Somehow life's humanity distilled in a frog, and we are saved from ourselves, hallelujah.

Movie's first lines:

Statler: "I'm Statler. "
Waldorf: "I'm Waldorf. We're here to heckle "The Muppet Movie".
Gate Guard: "Gentlemen, that's straight ahead. Private screening room D."
Statler: "Private screening?"
Waldorf: "Yeah, they're afraid to show it in public."
Sniggering follows ..

"This is a narrative with very heavy proportions."
Dr Teeth

Camilla Ferranti

Here is another Berlusconi selection for the European Parliament - as if you had to ask. Berlusconi's wife filed for divorce - finally - over this and comments made by Noemi Letizia at her 18th birthday party two-weeks ago which Silvio attended, to everybody's surprise including Noemi, and gave her a gold-necklace ("When Papi Silvio calls I come!" she gushes). Noemi also a babe and one can see her plump rump on the Internets. I guess she is yet too young for European politics but give her a couple of years, unless she does something against the grain like get a degree or, horror, experience. So the divorce: let us not think that wife Veronica Lario did not know what she was in for. Born in Bologna, Lario was a hot actress in low budget films but retired after meeting Silvio. Oh, and she is twenty years his junior. So Berlusconi consistent. All of this would prove less amusing if we were not talking about the longest-serving Italian Prime Minister since il Duce was hung to bleed in '43. By my count there have been 35 between the war and now. So Berlusconi doing something right or, at least, he owns Fininvest which controls three (out of seven) national television channels, various digital television channels, and some of the larger-circulation news magazines together totalling about half the Italian market. Think his voice is heard?

Madeleine wants to contribute a letter to this blog. I tell her: type a letter, any letter, and here she goes (after a long hmmm): J

Wig+Run

Here is Catherine and hubbie Peter at her "gett'n jiggy with the wiggy" party (I pinch the photo from her FB). Neat couple, and we remember her wonderful wedding in Pacific Palisades - which was about 115 degrees and me in a very black tuxedo+disco dancing then a drive north to San Francisco on the HW1. What else compares?

This morning is the school "fun run" or a five-mile jaunt through Richmond Park ending on the playground. 350 children, parents and teachers participate or maybe 100 more than last year. I might suggest the morning a fairly relaxed affair and while the course measured there are plenty of short-cuts pursued en route. Strangely some of the adults pretend like it is the Iron Man or something and complain about finishing in one piece. I guess the complaining a bonding thing. Or complacency makes one week. I run with Eitan, Harry and Luke who I take to calling "Lukazade" after the sports-drink. I ask the boys to join me in maths calculations to help endure the pain, dear reader, which gets their stony silence between huffs and puffs. We walk a few times and work out a stitch (Harry had flap-jacks an hour beforehand but insists he is not going to barf). We finish in 52:25 which not a bad go for a bunch of 8-year olds. I spend the morning's remainder working the BBQ serving up beef-burgers and sausages, Cokes and Krispy Kremes with the other volunteers - you know, healthy food. Eitan wraps it up with a pick-up football match and I let him play, sunning myself in the warm sunshine.

Badgers

Here is the Badger Squad, all from Madeleine's school-class and still learning how to play together. They participate in Friday-Night-Fives while this evening their third match, which they lose 7-nil, God bless them (Madeleine notes: "their eighth goal didn't count.") Andrew offers himself as "manager" (not Coach, he insists) and we watch the kids run back-and-forth generally enjoying each other if not somewhat non-plussed by the outcome. I say: who cares? as long as they are having fun.

On the car ride home, I ask Max how he played. He, after a thoughtful pause: "We took a thrashing."

Max, Madeleine and I discuss the meaning of a [workers] "strike," which they overhear on the BBC radio News Hour between rape and murder. When I ask for a definition, Madeleine: "It is when you smash things. You hit people, and you get really angry." Max adds helpfully: "It is a protest where you kill the people you don't like." And yes, I am a bit concerned by their response however it does indicate a certain competitive nature I suppose.

Barbican

Sonnet and I go to the Barbican to see, appropriately enough, the Le Corbusier exhibition. Sonnet introduced me to the architect in '98 when we visited his masterpiece Villa Savoye in Poissy outside of Paris. We had a picnic on the green grace. 


The show is one of the worst displays I've seen, not nearly matching the opening statement which notes "Le Corbusier the most influential and important architect of the 20th century." On display is a mish-mash of various chambers showing uninspiring sketches, furniture and paintings which is not surprising given his best friends the post-cubism elite like Picasso, Miró, Calder, Giacometti and Braque. Only one room dedicated to his most influential works including Ville Voisin, a grand vision to plant 20 enormous towers into the heart of Paris's Left Bank adjacent to La Cité and Notre Dame. Mon Dieux - it would have been a catastrophe. 


 The Barbican, pictured, I find more compelling: the name medieval Latin barbecana, "outer fortification of a city or castle" which sums it up perfectly - inside, one feels surrounded and sheltered from the outside horrors. The estate was in planning from WWII and includes 13 terrace blocks, grouped around a lake and green squares inside the complex - immaculately maintained I may add. The main buildings rise to seven floors above a podium level, which links all the facilities in the Barbican and providing a pedestrian route above street level. 


Coloured ground-lines guide us about. Some maisonettes are built into the podium structure. There is no car access but there are several car parks; there is also The City of London School for Girls, which is one of our best, if kinda creepy given its inner local. Along with a world class Arts Center (whose Director I once met for a role of some sort via Sonnet's uncle Shelton) housing the London Philharmonic and Royal Shakespeare Company, the complex contains London's three tallest residential towers at 42 stories. Ghastly and depressing are two words that come to mind. 


 Yet. And yet - it is a fabulously interesting work and one wonders: who on earth would live here? Indeed, given the Barbican's proximity to the City, there are bankers and financiers who enjoy a pied-a-tier or old-aged pensioners who moved in during the '70s when the thing was built. I am told on good authority that a two-bedroom flat sells for a cool £1 million minimum. The crow-like one would have been proud.

Prior to Le Corbusier, whe go to St Paul's for choir music then after to St John's for dinner, where I eat bone marrow and herbs then ox heart with horseradish mash. We spend the night in Clerkenwell at a lovely hotel whose premise dates back to the 16th century. Ho hum.

Data Control

In a victory of civil liberty advocates and me, UK DNA profiles of innocent people will be deleted from the national database after the European Court deemed this profiling illegal. I learn that Scotland Yard maintains DNA records on 10 million British citizens ! From today, all genetic material taken from the unconvicted, such as blood or swab samples, will be destroyed. This amounts to 850,000 files. Wow - go figure. Still, others accused of serious violent and sexual offences who are released without charge will have their genetic profile stored for 12-years under the Home Office plans. And those falsely accused of less serious crimes will stay on the database for six years before being removed automatically. I don't doubt for a minute that the DNA database will play a vital role removing shitheads from the street, but we must continually battle government's over-reach: eventually and inevitably, our DNA taken at birth and kept forever linked to our ID card with our vital data but for now - rejoice in our small victory. I listen to the radio meatheads who call in to argue that since they have done nothing wrong, they don't fear Big Brother. This a slippery slope, my friends. CCTV, for instance, initially to thwart serious crime and now local councils spying on dog owners who don't pick up. Soon we are all looking over the shoulder. And further, it took the EC to reel in civil violations - not our earnest Home Secretary Jacqui Smith (recently embroiled in housing allowance abuse and her husband's porno-stash, which she unwittingly expensed). The Magna Carta? you may ask. My guess most British cannot say one thing about it. Datacenter photo from Hosted Solutions in Raleigh, NC.

The Magna Carta BTW was issued in 1215 and protected certain rights of the 'King's subjects;' it became the writ of habeas corpus.

Self Portrait VI

I watch Chelsea robbed in last night's Champions League semi-final, which nets a draw with Barcelona 1-1 at Stamford Bridge. Because the blues failed to score an away goal at Barcelona in their prior qualification match, they had to win outright to advance to the final against .. you guessed it .. Manchester United. The Norwegian ref blew three calls that would have netted a penalty-kick, the most glaring an open hand ball inside the penalty box. Barca's goal came at two minutes into injury time or 92 minutes, so particularly devastating for Chelsea. Afterwards, the referee escorted from the pitch surrounded by four security guards and I thought Drogba to take a crack at him. He then taunted the BBC and us, before being wrestled away by his colleagues. I have never seen that before. In truth, I think the ManU v. Barcelona final in Rome next week more compelling - these the best two clubs in Europe and really, the world - nowhere else do you find the global stars and the Big Bucks. Chelsea lost last year's EUFA championship to Manchester United on penalty kicks and more recently again 3-nil in the Premiere League (Eitan reminds me). Eitan sent to bed at half-time and grumbles on his way upstairs: "life is so unfair. You just don''t understand me .. " and so on. I find him later curled around his transistor radio, sound asleep.

Sonnet up early for a morning run and what starts out with brilliant sunshine now grey and overcast - all inside an hour. How we love our weather here. I ask Eitan what is on his mind; says he first: "Nothing." Come on, I prod. So further: "ManU v. Chelsea. And Nike boots." Madeleine stumbles into the dining room with a bowl of cereal and hair a rat's nest looking blinkered. Eitan and I both look at her for a moment. She's sleep-deprived, you see, thanks to the football which has kept the kids up until 10PM these past several nights. Across the table she notes:"I am eating Special K. It is my favorite." When I ask why, she replies: "I don't know?"

Madeleine: "can I get a bird for my first pet? The gold-fish don't count."