Disunited States of Bohemia

Disunited States of Bohemia has moved!

2010-08-10T22:42:00.000-07:00

Due to an unfortunate falling out with my domain name registrar (which broke every link to every picture I'd ever published here, including the header graphic), I've moved the venerable Disunited States of Bohemia to http://dusb.richardtammar.com. It's literally exactly the same, only I'm updating it and all the pictures actually appear where they are supposed to. Which is nice.

So, off you go then. And update your bookmarks while you're about it!

From my private collection

2010-04-13T17:59:00.000-07:00

In common with many of the world's leading aesthetes and metrosexuals, I maintain a small private collection of objects d'art, priceless treasures which adorn my study and arrayed solely for my pleasure, that I might contemplate their beauty in peace. It will surprise you little that I must have one of my minions constantly field calls from the Getty, Met, Louvre, Hermitage and that insufferable little man who married Nigella, each offering me ludicrous sums to take ownership of these gems, or else pointlessly soliciting some putative but absent sense of public service such that these artifacts might be displayed to the great unwashed. Of course, it stretches credulity to imagine that the general populace possess the faculty to appreciate even the merest whisper of the genius displayed in these works, let alone their myriad subtleties, ironies and painterly bon mots.

Today then, a rare treat for the muggles, as I unveil a trio of my rarest trophies to the proverbial man on the Clapham Omnibus...

Three Pickles, a Blob of Chocolate Ice-Cream and a Blob of Mint Ice-Cream (2010)
On a purely sensual level the initial reaction is of one hunger, not just for sustenance, but for the forbidden as suggested by the taboo mixing of pickles and ice-cream and of course their symbolic evocation of pregnant desire. At the same time, the strokes spell out a binary thirteen (1101), suggesting bad luck, or perhaps the indigestion or remorse that inevitably follows transgression. The final pickle, luscious in its yellow-green patina, thus forms a "sour period" - a visual jest which underscores the subtle play between linguistic and symbolic forms which suffuse the piece.

Untitled (2010)
The urgency of the metapolitical statement in the piece, the audacious clarity of the bacterial red and blue forms initially led to its dismissal as sophomoric ("pedestrian", ran the New Yorker's op-ed, if I recall correctly). Yet it is the broad spermatozoan form of mixed-color entering from stage right, suggestive of both an environmental Precambrian formlessness and a microscopic insignificance, that lends gravitas to this piece; and the failure to perceive this subtlety nothing less than I would expect of a graduate of Brown.

Untitled (2010)
It is in this moment of repose that the breadth of the artist's repertoire is realized, the softness of color and richness of palate, the broad, effortless strokes – one is at peace... and yet, can it be so? Does not the reputation of this enfant terrible subvert our perception? Can the shadow of the artist ever truly be occluded? That is the dynamic tension that both delights and seduces.

Moonlighting

2010-03-19T18:57:00.000-07:00

Excuse tardiness - have been devoting my free time to the development of another blog entirely in a vain attempt to put my photography on a more professional footing. To save you all the effort of actually following it, simply glance to your right to see a cute and clickable array of latest thumbnails from said site. Marvellous.

Running a small business, especially one of borderline profitability, is just one of the many ways to reduce one's tax burden, a matter brought to mind recently by virtue of the fact that here in the US it's tax season. The fact that everyone in the US (and for that matter every American, irrespective of domicile) is expected to file a tax return every year, by April 15th, on pain of rendition to Algeria, is enough to make one feel quite nostalgic for PAYE.

This year, for the first time, I elected to do this myself rather than pay our nice accountant lady the usual $350. Of course, when I say I did it myself, I really mean that I used software costing $60. No-one can actually do it themselves. It's far too complicated. It's complicated for all sorts of reasons, but largely due to a Byzantine system of "deductions," or line-items you can write-off against your taxable income. It's a bureaucratic nightmare that survives because most people live under the delusion that they are somehow playing the system to their advantage. In some small way, the act of writing off $50 for the set of old shirts you donated to the Salvation Army is socking it to The Man. Irrespective of the fact that if there wasn't such a system they could probably lower the tax rate by several percentage points.

Hey, it's not just me - everyone whines about taxes here; it's been an ongoing theme since around 1763, despite the fact that both then and today the individual tax-burden is negligible compared to almost anywhere else.

Of course, you get what you pay for.

Plus whatever you can borrow off the Chinese.

Experiments with water. This pretty much never gets tiring, even when it's running through the ceiling to drip upon the floor below.

Occasionally I get lucky and take a good photograph. Here Ethan's looking up towards a basketball hoop.

The marketing geniuses at Fred Meyer (an Oregon supermarket chain) came up with the brilliant idea of providing a free cookie to any child who happened past their bakery counter. Ethan refuses to shop anywhere else.

Those of you less familiar with American public conveniences than, say, George Michael, may not have experienced this type of hand dryer, which blows cold air at exceptional velocities.

Here's an arty version of a similar thing on a different day.

The Audacity of Hope

2010-02-09T21:27:00.000-08:00

What a difference a year makes in politics: from the audacity of hope via the frisson of exasperation to the familiar and comforting embrace of disillusionment.

Similarly, there are phases in acculturation: from the carnivalesque year of arrival through a protracted illusory phase during which you imagine yourself to be on the brink of understanding, thence to the conclusion that not only are you never going to have that epiphany, but your attempts to reach it are mildly offensive.

Of course, Ethan is undergoing his own acculturation process at the behest of yours truly. And for him, still the working assumption that he might one day come to make sense of it all. In fact, I find his scientific approach to the world refreshing; from an early fascination with simple electrics, his interest has blossomed into a preoccupation with plumbing and heating systems. For him, it is not sufficient to use one public toilet when five are available; nor one sink, nor hand-dryer neither. No, all must be sampled, compared and contrasted.

His intellectual curiosity much reminds me of a young self, long before I first plinked martini glasses with all those frightfully clever postmodernists – and is highly invigorating. It is embarrassing to admit, but until recently the subtle nuances that distinguish the superabundance of modern sanitary systems from one another represented a significant lacuna in my knowledge.

Then, just the other day, he informed me that the green Nerds™ are watermelon flavour. O brave new world!

Encouraged by Ethan's rapid adoption of "Hi Ho! Cherry O" I quickly migrated him to dominoes. Surely cribbage, canasta and contract bridge are but months away...

Hiding under the bed at toothy-time.

I expect you're not cool enough to have heard of the cult indie pastime of "Conker Tossing", but it's big in PDX.

Specular Highlights

2009-12-18T07:45:00.000-08:00

Some of the oddities of life abroad begin to slip beneath the radar after a while, like the shops that proudly sign their establishment in 1998, or the fact that the chicken in your sandwich costs less than the bread you wrap around it, let alone the cheeky slice of tomato you slip inside (though not less than the amusing flap of cheese). Then, just as you're feeling comfortable, you'll make some innocuous comment and inadvertently step on a cultural landmine. The world flips on its axis and you remember that you're not in Lewes any more.

Not that that's happened lately.

That's our Christmas tree on the right. No, really. All will be explained. It's the first time we've had our own Christmas tree. Rachel and Ethan made ornaments and decorated it themselves. It's the best.

Here's a holiday tradition that must have Al Gore spinning in his political grave. So very un-Portland. It's the Winter Wonderland at Portland International Raceway. Billed as "Largest Holiday Light Show West of the Mississippi," a stupendous number of old-school tungsten filament light bulbs are arranged in hundreds of displays around the length of a speedway track. You arrive, with hundreds of others, in your car, and proceed to drive very slowly around the circuit, bumper-to-bumper, marvelling at the spectacle. It costs $16 per vehicle, but they do throw in a CD of Christmas music to play on your car stereo as you go around.

What they don't tell you is that they are almost certainly testing some kind of deep hypnosis or time-shifting technology on the general public. I swear it took no more than seven or eight minutes to see everything, and yet the CD player had clearly logged 31 minutes and indeed we had been transported into the future by that same amount of time.

I realised fairly early on in our vehicular perambulation that any photos taken with such little light from a moving vehicle in a gentle rain were going to turn out prosaicly crap. So I focused the camera at a distance of about two feet and shot the thing as a series of specular highlights, thus giving you a pretentious impression of the mise-en-scène.

The tail lights of the car in front. Told you this was better.

That's a gingerbread house (apartment block, surely?) on the right. The display is a holiday tradition at Portland's Benson Hotel. That's 100lbs of gingerbread, 25lbs of marzipan and 22lbs of chocolate right there.

My little bear cub.

Aye, Conker, there's the rub!

2009-11-11T17:48:00.000-08:00

Without Easter or May Day, late Winter and Spring are somewhat of a slog in working America. But by all account they make up for it in the Autumn. If nothing else, the addition of Halloween and Thanksgiving to the calendar postpone the arrival of Christmas decorations in the shops until December, something which cannot be said for the UK.

On the other hand, October brings the start of "the wet" in Portland, a term I've aopted from the film Australia (jolly good fun, by the way). This is a cause of frustration for outdoorsy types, such as Ethan. And since the Devil currently has an enormous backlog of work readily outsourced to small, idle hands, it shortly becomes a cause of frustration for myself also. It is vital, therefore, to make hay if and when the sun shines.

Thus we picked our pumpkins early this year. 'Twas a crisp Autumn day at The Pumpkin Patch, and Ethan was more of an age to get the most out of it this year - climbing over the hay bales, riding the cow train, bouncing on the tractor. On the other hand, the non-linear nature of this year's corn maze caused him as much distress as it caused irritation to everyone else. Coming upon marker 2 first transformed Ethan into Patrick McGoohan from The Prisoner, "No, I want to find number one. Where is number one?"

Over the next week, he and Rachel carved the pumpkins into various Winnie-the-Pooh inspired forms. And I made pumpkin curry with the innards; my favourite use for this remarkably versatile and aesthetic (by which I mean orange) gourd.

Of course, all of this is very much a precursor to Halloween. And few parents could have been more delighted than I when Ethan expressed his desire to be a cat for this year's festivities - just one aspect of a (clearly inherited) love of all things feline. Having expressed no interest in soft toys as a baby, he now adores his stuffed "Conker" and indeed has an array of other cats which he refers to as "White Conker", "Baby Conker", "Other Conker" etc. Meanwhile the original form - whom he continues to harass - is now referred to as "Real Conker."

A truck load of pumpkins.

Rachel and Ethan whizz past in the cow train (plus I totally nailed the panning shot).

'Twas Halloween night, before the curtain rose...

To be the cat, to suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature.

"My child, speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you ("Trick or Treat"), trippingly on the tongue."

Ah, the smell of the greasepaint!

'Tis showtime - my public await!

Enough of your "dress rehearsals". I am not some amateur, fresh plucked from obscurity to perform this night of souls. This is my moment, let me shine, I prithee!

What timely knock upon the door is this? Poor players from another troupe, methinks, to vainly plunder the candy so nobly bought for none other purpose than to give this cat his due!

- THE PERFORMANCE -

The curtain has fallen and 'tis with melancholy I hasten to the prosaic theatre of existence.

Yet my public, they adore me!

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Conker, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy... 'tis but his eyeball that remains, aglow and foil wrapped; who had thought in life he were naught but chocolate?

To the actor - the spoils - or was not the fancy that tripped lightly from your tongue when you did entreat me to this endeavour? More chocolate, I demand, though sicketh it may make me - for in my judgement the merriment is not ended, and the booty mine to savour or cumulate as befits my temper!

And yet my tummy is full.

And so to bed, to sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, Conker, there's the rub!

Newport

2009-10-19T21:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure which sensation I preferred: my first dip in the hot tub for more than eighteen months or the knowledge that I could now count amongst my friends-of-friends a highly competent plumber. Little more than a stagnant water feature and potential toddler death-trap since the heating element packed up the Christmas before last, I had avoided peering beneath the leatherette cover since March for fear of attack by some kind of primordial sea serpent.

Yet neither sensation was quite as relaxing as our recent holiday to Newport, a town about three hours south-west of Portland on the Pacific Coast. I had put off holidaying for an entire year on the basis that I couldn't think of anything that we could do for a holiday that would be any less work than staying at home. My darling Ethan, sweet apple of my eye, can be something of a handful in a restaurant, and when we last stayed at a hotel decided he had to get up at 3am. He then had to be hugged/wrestled back to sleep by yours truly, eliciting a vocal response that Rachel was certain would provoke a call to Lincoln City's finest.

So the bar was set pretty low for our sojourn and I am happy to report that the trip wildly surpassed my expectations. By day three, I actually felt relaxed - a nostalgic sensation. The sea air exhausted Ethan and he slept well and without fuss. We self-catered in a lovely condominium, with a balcony overlooking the ocean. Ethan and I played on the beach. A lot. Rachel went deep sea fishing and brought back several large rock bass which we ate for our tea each night - the freshest and finest fish I've ever eaten. A cafe around the corner served both the best scones (of the American variety) and best quiche (crustless, sublime) I've ever eaten too.

At one point I threw a beach ball in the air and the wind took it north along the beach faster than Ethan and I could run. We ran anyway, Ethan laughing continuously. Walkers travelling in the opposite direction provided reports on its passage. Eventually we found it, parked against leeward side of a modest dune, over a mile from its launch point. We took two hours to hike back, sliding down the sandy slopes, sometimes repeatedly if they proved particularly engaging.

Running through the underwater tunnels at Newport's Aquarium.

A handsome jellyfish ambles by.

Ethan displayed little difficulty in summiting the enormous sand dune at Pacific City.

Oregon State Fair 2009

2009-10-05T15:43:00.001-07:00

Without further ado, here are my pictures from our annual trip to the State Fair. As per usual, a fantastic time was had by all!

Sweetness is my weakness

2009-09-15T22:42:00.000-07:00

There are few tasks less agreeable to me than the attempt to fill a shopping basket with food that isn't going to kill me over the medium to long term. Normally I wouldn't bother - indeed the best I normally shoot for is to fill the basket with food that is unlikely to kill me more quickly than eating nothing whatsoever (~two months based on the Bobby Sands calculus). But on this occasion I was in preparation for a paramedical exam whose result would influence the premium on a 20-year term life insurance policy, and the thought of forking out an extra $240x on account of a couple of pints of Ben and Jerry's was too much to bear. If I could just hold off for a few days, I reasoned, then I could celebrate the medical with a banana split and a cinnamon twist or somesuch.

In any case, it's a near impossible task, unless one resolves oneself with wan joylessness to eating organic vegetables without any dressing - the cost of which, based on 2,500 calorie diet, being around $740/week. I expect.

The sum to insure oneself for is another vexed issue; certainly enough to ensure that one's nearest and dearest are not left destitute, and at the same time, not so much as to provide sufficient incentive to have oneself whacked. Not that Pookie's actively planning that, I should think, except perhaps in some unconscious oedipal manner for which he can't really be held responsible.

In any case, I find that spending time with Ethan makes me unspeakably happy for no obvious reason at all. For example, the other day I took him out to the playground in my usual cavalier fashion without the slightest bit of preparation, and within two minutes of our arrival it began to shower very heavily. We took shelter under the spiral slide and sang "Ten Green Bottles." It sounds utterly miserable but I think I have never felt more content.

Likewise there is a game which Ethan plays at night-night time, in order to put off the inevitable flight into the land of Hypnos, called "I watch a car come past." Following story time, we sit by his window and wait for the stated event, speculating on the direction it may come from and the colour it may be, noting pertinant astronomical phenomena etc. On paper it couldn't be more dull and yet it is for me often the highlight of the evening. Eventually a car comes past, at which point Ethan says, "No, Ethan and Daddy watch two cars come past" - an offer which, admittedly, I politely decline.

Ethan "helping out" with a spot of watering.

Some black comedy here: Ethan's behaviour chart from a few weeks ago - somehow the gravity of the crime is not adequately represented by the symbolic "Sad Ethan."

Emergency Room Revisited

2009-08-30T21:42:00.000-07:00

The fundamental problem with democracy, to paraphrase Socrates, is that the vast majority of the population are half-wits and very easily lead against their own best interests. Sophistry plays its part, with entire news networks devoted to disseminating lies to the masses for fun and profit; oddly, no-one ever gets sued for lying. It's constitutionally protected, I imagine.

I really don't know what I find more irritating - the perverse inequities, bureaucratic inefficiencies and manifest injustices of what is laughingly referred to as the American healthcare "system", or the spectacle of slack-jawed, self-righteous, ill-informed old duffers screaming that government needs to stay out of healthcare. Actually, I do know. It's the latter. Essentially it's an analogous societal niche to that which in England can be provoked by a few headlines in The Sun to lynch paediatricians as "pedos", only here The Sun is replaced by an overweight far-right radio talk-show demagogue and the pedos are replaced by anyone who doesn't drive a Ford F-150.

Whatever. For all the horrific expense of the system, I can tell you that the all-American Emergency Room is remarkably similar to good old-fashioned NHS Casualty; an unsettling melange of terror and abject boredom.

Ethan woke the other week around midnight, barking like a sea lion; an awful wheezing cough that caused us to immediately suspect that he's swallowed a toy and had it caught in his throat. I drove him to the ER, which was mercifully quiet. I filled out the paperwork. George Clooney was nowhere to be seen, despite the fact that my contribution to the company healthcare plan alone should be more than enough to ensure that he's on constant stand-by for this kind of situation. Then we wait. Then triage. Then we wait. Then x-rays. Then we wait. Eventually we get to leave the appropriately named waiting room and are ushered into a private room, where we continue to wait. Then a nurse sees us. Then we wait. Then a doctor sees us. Then we wait and wait and wait. Then a nurse sees us again and we are discharged.

On this specific occasion the usual rhythm was disrupted in a positive and surreal way by virtue of the doctor exhibiting a manner remarkably similar to that of Bill Murray, although I fear this was lost on Ethan.

Because Emergency Rooms are prevented by law from turning anyone away regardless of their ability to pay, everyone winds up here, much like Casualty. To discourage anyone but the most desperate, however, the waiting rooms are engineered to be as uncomfortable as possible. Chairs originally designed by the CIA to enforce stress positions on suspected terrorists awaiting interrogation have now found their way into civilian life. By way of contrast, NHS waiting rooms use the prospect of being randomly stabbed by a drunken Scot to deter all but the most virulent bleeders.

Ethan behaved at least as well as might be expected. After three-and-a-half hours he was diagnosed with "croup", given a dose of steroids in a cup of apple juice, and sent home doing a little better. Dad was exhausted but much relieved and spent the next day on a drip coffee drip.

We await the bill, or bills, which will no doubt arrive in due course. Despite having health insurance I will have to pay a co-pay, a percentage and perhaps some other expenses that I will then spend the next x weeks attempting to claw back from two separate excess medical expense accounts, one of which I pay for and one of which I don't. I will not have a clue how any of the numbers have been arrived at. If anything is so conspicuously wrong as to require follow up, I will spend approximately 3 hours on the phone with the insurance company trying to fix it.

It is madness, without doubt, of an institutional nature; and, like it's human analogue, the cure is not covered by any existing plan.

Further evidence that Portland is the West Coast's Royston Vasey can be gleaned from the rear label of this bottle of 'local vodka for local people' (above right).

Poor Pookie's wristband from his recent trip to the ER.

I'm fond of a seed pod and their bizarre alien forms.

Here's a lovely picture of Conker looking gorgeous, because one can never have enough of these.

Ever fresh milk

2009-07-30T19:05:00.001-07:00

Check out the date of this post and cross-reference it with the "sell by" date on the carton of milk pictured opposite. Spooky, isn't it? If you're British, that is. But utterly unremarkable if you're American. It's not UHT. God only knows what they do to it that allows it to stay fresh for seven or so weeks. In any case, I had to share this with you before it becomes quite unremarkable to me too.

So that's where all the cowboys went

2009-07-27T20:22:00.000-07:00

It's 7pm, 102°F outside, 89°F inside - and climbing. Rachel and Ethan have taken refuge at the lake. Our recently installed and literally fantastic whole house fan is a modern wonder, but only works when it's cooler outside than in, i.e. in the case of tonight, probably about 2am.

Of course, most of suburban America is air-conditioned these days, at considerable expense both to the individual and the environment, but with the advantage of making vast swathes of the country habitable to people other than hardy pioneering folk.

Still, the hardy folk abide. I've seen them with my own eyes. July the Fourth was the day we headed down to the Molalla Buckaroo Rodeo - an event on a smaller scale that its sister in St Paul, OR (check out the video on the homepage), and thus cheaper and more down to earth. Ethan's ice-lolly cost a dollar which seemed such a ludicrously low fee that I thought I had misheard him, and when the price was confirmed, was tempted to tip (note just tempted, of course). The audience is for the most part rural, white and Hispanic, and charming to the point where even the most misanthropic Englishman (Will Self?) might temporarily relax amongst his fellow man. The soundtrack is of course Country (I don't think anyone calls it Country & Western any more), and leans heavily towards the jingoistic end of the spectrum, the kind of sound that used to make me want to laugh and hurl simultaneously, but which I have now learned to tolerate, though without nearly the grace with which the fans of this music appear to tolerate my presence in their country. And it was Independence Day. Of course, it still makes Rachel want to hurl ~ Exhibit A: Darryl Worley - Have You Forgotten?

Anyhow, let's side-step the politics and concentrate on the entertainment; it is, after all, one of the great liberties of my alien status that I can ignore the (polite) scoffing of my fellow Portlanders and indulge my love of Americana without heed to the confines of class or upbringing which might prevent me, say, from attending an underground bare-knuckle boxing match in Stepney or, indeed, a jolly old fox hunt across the Downs.

Rugby players are a fairly tough crowd, granted. Far, far tougher than I. These fellas, however, make the Five Nations look like the chess club I used to attend at Streatham Wells Primary School. The whole thing is a truly incredible spectacle of training, horsemanship and machismo. I for one will be back next year - and I'll be wearing my Stetson.

Left: that would be a cowboy. Right: Ethan cools off with an Italian ice. It was ninety-something degrees.

The event kicked off with what I'm going to call synchronized riding. It was all highly choreographed and impressive. All cowgirls here, I think. This is probably considered the dainty stuff.

A rescued wrangler dismounts...

and makes his dusty way back to the stalls.

A-mazing.

Wild horses a bit soft for you? Why not try one of these fellas.

My very own little cowboy cools off under a misty sprinkler system designed for exactly that purpose.

Strawberry Picking

2009-07-07T21:45:00.000-07:00

Ethan bear, you stand accused of Grand Theft Strawberry.

June heralds the start of strawberry season in Oregon, and the "U-Pick" season with it. The wet spring, warm, dry summers and fertile soil conspire to make the Williamette Valley ideal farming country in the French style, that is to say the bucolic, romanticized French style without the antifreeze, fascist collaboration and sheep-burning.

Thanks to Rachel and Ethan's efforts, our own tiny garden boasts tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, courgettes, rocket, lettuce, peas, string beans, tarragon, oregano, chives, dill, basil, mint, parsley, sage, thyme and rosemary. No strawberries though, but for these you do not have to travel very far out of town. And, much to my delight, when you get there you'll find them every bit as good as the English equivalent... Whilst most of America suffers monstrous, watery, fibrous and largely flavourless genetically-modified frankenstrawberries from the Californian valleys, we get them much like nature intended, for $1.99 a pound, including a few, ahem, samples. Once picked they seem to hardly last at all, so the secret is to pick only as many as you can possibly stuff yourself with in twenty four hours, or process them immediately into jam or ice-cream or whatever amazing uses industrious people have for strawberries besides Strawberry Shortcake, or its Imperial analogue, Eton Mess.

Ethan, now three years of age, cannot be relied upon in a picking capacity, but excels in the office of quality control. Otherwise he finds much delight in running up and down the ploughed rows and around the wide open spaces. Ever since he was tiny he has preferred to be outdoors, a trait which he did not inherit from me, but which I find entirely admirable.

Now of course it is July, the strawberries are already on the wane, and raspberry and blueberry seasons are upon us. I know, I know - it's a very tough life out West.

Rachel combining strawberry picking with Ethan wrangling.

Left to right: Linda, Ben, Ethan and Rachel.

Caught red handed.

The Wedding Photographer

2009-06-21T09:40:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago now, my friend and fellow Lattice escapee Ben Pappas was married. A perennially upbeat and enthusiastic chap, he talked me into the role of photographer, which I agreed to on the condition that I didn't have to do the formal shots. This worked out well, since they had previously contracted with a professional and that was the minimum he'd let them get away with. In any event, it was one of the loveliest weddings I've ever attended... the setting was breath-taking, a very small Victorian hotel overlooking the gorge... and an intimate number of close friends and family.

Personally, I was very pleased with the results for a first time out; if you're interested you can see the full set here. And I really enjoyed myself too - I really love taking pictures of people, and it's not often that you get license to roam around sticking your camera in random faces, especially when they are soon so inured to your presence that they ignore you and you can therefore capture the moment without the cheesy grins and posing. Am considering moonlighting; or, as they put it at my office, "a side hustle".

I am particularly fond of this picture of a little girl by the fountain. The following day her father left for active duty in Iraq.

Ben and Emily, the happy couple!

Emily and guests decide how best to respond to Ben's bon mots.

The lovely bridesmaids paying rapt attention to the father-of-the-bride's speech.

Left: cake cutting. Right: The first dance.

Emily takes the first bite of wedding cake as offered by her husband. This scene especially amused me, because Ben and Emily were as clueless as Rachel and I when it came to this bit... instead of standing to the side and leaving the actual cake distribution to the professionals, Rachel crammed a giant piece into my mouth.

And it's farewell via a Bentley...

A weekend with Pookie

2009-05-21T17:02:00.000-07:00

Sadly, the vulgar exigencies of commerce conspire to ensure that during the working week I see far too little of my little bear cub, who has surely reached the apogee of cuteness. I make up for this at the weekends, and on one fairly recent occasion Rachel was feeling unwell, leaving us boys to our own devices for a 48 hour stretch.

Left: Friday night and it's slides at Sunnyside park. Right: fast-forward to Sunday. As you can see, things had warmed up a little.

Running down the path at Powell Butte one Saturday afternoon.

Mount Hood in the background, still snow covered in April. So much so that I was actually due to go skiing with Linda the next day. That didn't happen, however, so Ethan and I went to the beach at Sauvie Island instead. There can't be many places in the world where one can make that choice.

With my usual preparedness, we arrived at the beach sans toys. Fortunately, however, this empty coffee cup that Rachel had thoughtfully deposited under the driver's seat of the Mazda kept him happily occupied for several hours.

Sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the ships come in and go out again.

The Marmalade Shore

2009-05-17T23:01:00.000-07:00

“No married man should embark upon any project lasting in excess of nine months” is one of my more useful aphorisms, alongside, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that when a man embarks upon a relationship he fails to give adequate moment to the ninety-nine hundredths of his life that will not be spent having sex.” In any event, The Marmalade Shore bears witness to the former wisdom, its release delayed for, gosh, three years due to minor edits, proofing, illustration, layout and – oh yes, that’s right – fatherhood. At long last, however, it is available for public consumption as a beautifully illustrated paperback novel, and I am very proud of both it and myself.

Back in late 2005, when I had completed my initial round of finishing touches and begun distributing spiral-bound copies to friends and family, I distinctly remember my chagrin that all and sundry were considerably more fascinated by my contemporaneous conception of a fetus than with my 84 000 words of darkly comedic swashbuckling adventure. This despite the fact that the former was unpremeditated and, with respect to my involvement in the process, took perhaps half an hour; whilst the latter had taken me all year and a considerable proportion of my intellect.

Rachel’s cousin Jessica designed the cover and produced the chapter illustrations, and to her, much thanks! She brilliantly captured both the gothic and period sensibilities of the text, and the result is IMHO marvelous, and will be an enormous complement to your coffee table / bookshelf, where you may wish to file it alongside some well-thumbed Penguin classics. Really, if you even vaguely tolerate the nonsense I pen here at semi-regular intervals, then you are pretty much guaranteed to enjoy my novel, which has benefitted from both an editor and a coherent plot. Learn more and read the first chapter online at themarmaladeshore.com. They go, fly my children, spread the good words to the far corners of this globe!

Colorado

2009-05-12T22:08:00.000-07:00

Having assiduously avoided business travel for a year, I was well placed to snag a free mini-break on the coat-tails of a partnership opportunity in Boulder, Colorado. Prescient future readers of my yet to be written autobiography will be well aware that I have roots in Colorado - here dwell my self-styled American parents (Bob and Sharon Fryberger), here I lived for a year in total over three separate trips (1994, 1996 and 1998) and here I met my future bride. And much besides.

The flight into Denver was rough, to say the least, so much so that I was actually grateful for the inane discussion re 'dancing with the stars' taking place between the middle aged women seated on either side of me. As a word of caution to the frequent flyer, do not leave your laptop on a plane, and, if you do so, try and remember before you get to the terminal, and, in any event, refuse to believe the ground staff when they say they haven't found it. Laptop retrieved and body and soul still united, I made my way to the car rental office where the completely normative wait reminded me why I loathe business trips; endless hours spent in limbo even before you die...

Things improved from there on out, despite the Chevy Cobalt and the winter storm, everything went like clockwork, with Vanilla Sky like serendipity. I had a wonderful dinner with Bob and Sharon. My hotel, The Boulderado, celebrating its centenary this year, was one of the best I've ever stayed in. The business meetings went very well. The unrelenting snow was beautiful and not especially disruptive. I met up with my old roommate, John Dennett, and found him in rude health and great spirits; we had dinner at the remarkably authentic Brasserie Ten Ten. I also had a great lunch the next day with Robynn, Miles and Milesy Tripp, and found them much as I had left them (organized and very funny), even if Milesy is now as tall as I am. And I spent a lovely afternoon with my old friend Jessica, her husband Francisco and their charming and remarkably well-behaved tot, Max.

The only tinge of melancholy was felt on my pilgrimage to 'the hill' in Boulder where I met Rachel. The coffee shop where our eyes first met is no more, and I was forced instead to stare at the spot where it used to lie from the vantage of another such establishment on the opposite corner.

Pearl St, Boulder, CO

It's almost arty!

No trip to Denver is complete for me without a stop at The Market in downtown's Larimer Square. It's a little island of civilization in the Wild West. I love it despite the fact that I still vividly remember the moment I thought I'd lost Valerie Tripp here when she was just seven years old. She was of course completely fine and not at all lost, and I expect has no recollection of the non-incident.

Jessica and Max. Jessica and (the apparently continuously relaxed and amiable) Francisco once again completely refused to let me pay for dinner, much like everyone else I caught up with in Colorado. Thanks everyone - but seriously you guys, this has got to stop - it's OK, I have a job :-)

Easter

2009-04-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

I really have nothing against Seattle other than it’s over three tedious hours away and constantly raining. If you are at all sensible you will break the journey at some point – I would recommend you choose a lesser known exit and find the nearest diner; you may happen on a sublime slice of pie a la mode (which means “with ice cream” in the US, because ice cream is perennially in fashion). On arrival at your destination you will find a sort of Portland on steroids, only with traffic and less hip and twice the price.

On the positive side, Jeanne and family live there and I have therefore resigned myself (and Ethan) to the biannual excursion, though, as you can tell, I have only resigned myself to doing it and not to stop whining about it, much to everyone else’s irritation.

Ethan was a little young and a little tired for the aquarium, which was actually rather good; however he did enjoy running up and down the boardwalk repeatedly. Sea otters are enormous BTW. The black spot on Ethan's left cheek is a penguin, in case you were wondering.

As per usual, Jeanne whipped up a fabulous meal with apparently little effort and Evgeny (or “Uncle Dude” as Ethan calls him) let me have full reign on the liquor cabinet. Plus I was able to watch Top Gear “on demand”. So I really have nothing to complain about. Meanwhile Ethan enjoyed the Easter Hunt, or more specifically the “special treats” he found inside the day-glo plastic egg shells.

It may not be a four day (or even a three day) weekend, there may not be a hot cross bun in sight and the eggs may be laid by chickens rather than made by Cadburys, but by virtue of having married into a family of essentially upbeat and practical people, I had a far better time than a curmudgeon should reasonably expect.

This neatly captures the chaos that now epitomizes family gatherings.

Ethan and cousin Max almost playing together.

Ah – a special treat!

The Early Middle Ages

2009-04-17T19:20:00.000-07:00

It was late morning on the day following my birthday that it finally dawned on me that I was middle-aged. I was quite possibly experiencing the worst hangover of my life and this too too solid flesh seemed hell-bent on melting, thawing and resolving itself into a dew... of course, it was more than alcohol poisoning: it was the realisation that I was indeed too old to play the Dane... another door slammed against me, indeed the rampant, percussive beat of closing doors is most assuredly the incidental music of maturity.

The previous evening remains a merry blur. A pub crawl along Alberta St. All saw the initiation pint - the house special at the bye and bye - an odd, pink concoction served in enormous jam jars - as a poor omen. At establishment number two or possibly three, Dan bought a round of Miller High Life - "the champagne of beers" - to be served in champagne flutes. We meandered up the street. A car backfired, followed by police cars and incident tape, meaning that was no car backfiring. At some point I switched up to bourbon. There was an oddly surreal moment where I believed I held the minority opinion in a six versus one debate on who's cooler - Metallica or Johnny Cash. It was a messy business, but then again I really had no idea how drunk I was until I attempted to climb the steps up to my porch. I must have met with success, however, as I awoke as if from a coma on the couch around 5am.

Right - Ethan enjoys my special birthday treat at Ben and Jerry's.

So – what else has happened lately? My father-in-law extracted one of my wisdom teeth; it was so rotten that he had to section it and pull it out in pieces. Was conscious throughout the whole affair, am sure he was more nervous than I was. Was handed a prescription for some fairly serious narcotics on the way out – however did not need them, and was back at work the next day. Must grudgingly admit that he is something of a genius.

In fun ‘rotten boroughs’ type news, the first openly gay Mayor of Portland got in a bit of bother over his barely (allegedly il-) legal romance with a young intern and admirer by the name of Beau Breedlove - you couldn’t make this stuff up! Meanwhile, in “oh – so that’s globalization” news, I was able to purchase a bottle of Harvey’s Christmas Ale in my local Whole Foods – yes, actual Harvey’s, all the way from faraway Lewes, land of my fathers! Not that I’m actually very fond of Harvey's – that’s not the point.

Oh yes, and my boss just got at job at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, with the consequence that I now report to a man in DC. What are they thinking? It’s like Colonel Kurtz up the river.

This week - a selection of signage and a vintage car found on Belmont Ave (Hawthorne's little brother), snapped on the eve of my trip to Washington...

Left: what more could a man ask for? Right: A 'second run' cinema and penny arcade.

The iconic Stumptown Coffee at it's original location. Locals believe Stumptown to be the best in the world and a certain pride is felt in the fact that it's now expanded to Seattle's Pike Place Market, where Starbucks, the evil overlords of the coffee universe, started out many years ago. Lattes are topped with foaming works of art.

The Belmont Inn, a no frills bar with pool tables, young, dishevelled people and White Russians served in pint glasses.

A more soigné bar experience, with neatly-turned out young people.

Have never been in here.

The rest of the neighbourhood may be sleeping, but the line outside Pine Street Biscuits is a constant of weekend mornings. Their signature breakfast sandwich is sublime but not worth the wait unless - like most people around here - you have nothing better to do.

Mr Tammar Goes To Washington

2009-03-17T21:14:00.000-07:00

So the hotel was bijou and broke-down and you could hear the snoring next door and the nightclub just over and there was no sleep to be had, even later, as the maids started hoovering at dawn, so I gave up on sleep altogether and meandered around the city in a dazed and over-sensitized dreamstate wherein I settled uneasily on the periphery of tears but could not tell if they were of joy or sadness and the distance between me and the world became null and a million miles and all became seamless and fated. Cocooned in this delirium I was to the software conference to which I'd been assigned as Hunter S Thompson to the Mint 400; alienated and insurgent.

DrupalCon 2009: now widely regarded as the least photogenic event in recorded history. It was nevertheless both intellectually and anthropologically stimulating and my disquiet more a product of my own uncertainty (reflected on with Proustian intricacy and langour in lieu of sleep) and insomnia than the event itself, remarkable at once for its density, opacity and emptiness - a black hole of geekery.

DC itself: Parisian in aspect, yet empty and lifeless. One expects more from a capital city, in size, in variety, in animation. In place of heterogeneity, a bifurcation, of rich and poor, largely along racial lines, a disturbing reminder of the miracle that brought Obama to the Whitehouse. Amid the monuments and statues, the mentally ill, homeless and without medication, talking to themselves, asking mister can you spare a dime.

Still, a change is as good as a rest, and there were some highlights: warming my hands above a grating on the frozen National Mall, the skeletal remains of the giant ground sloth at the Smithsonian Musuem of Natual History - some 17 feet tall - plus the Hope diamond upstairs, a wonderful dinner with a colleague from the company's international arm, a couple of pints with Keith and Dom from Basingstoke, the empirical proof of my hypothesis that you cannot mix anything with Jaegermeister, the vital rememberance of all that means most to me, the empty promise of a free and rudderless existence.

Pennsylvania Ave.

I buy my own props!

One of the Smithsonian's many dinosaurs.

And one of the Smithsonian's many museums.

Dinosaur attack! I bought this furry fella for Ethan, who was almost comically ungrateful. He gets that from me, apparently.

To hell and back - in my lunch hour

2009-03-03T19:02:00.000-08:00

Picking up lunch at Carl's Junior is very much the everyday and more successful equivalent of Orpheus' descent into Hell to retrieve Eurydice. For the uninitiated, the Carl's Junior six-dollar burger is not simply the finest fast-food burger, it is the finest hamburger known to humanity, the platonic ideal. I have eaten burgers at some pretty upmarket establishments (OK, in the bar of some pretty upmarket establishments), and I can tell you that all are as a travesty when set against the Carl's Junior archetypal form. Naturally, I have been widely mocked for this assertion, but such counterarguments that exist are based on ignorance and, to be fair, justifiable prejudice. For every other aspect of the Carl's Junior experience is loathsome in the extreme.

Of course, the interior is the standard neon-lit white-with-corporate-palette-highlights plastic limbo that is de rigeur in the industry, although there is a noticable absence of piped musak which, counter intuitively, only highlights the existential vacuum at the core of one's being. Naturally, the ambient experience can be minimized by getting the burger "to go"; nevertheless, one if forced to hang around whilst the order is prepared. The clientèle are typical inhabitants of Dante's third circle: a junkie sleeps off his fix under a table, another laughs maniacally into space, a pimp comforts a waif, and so forth, while even the staff - mechanically friendly if jaded and possibly in the early stages of withdrawal - avoid eye contact with their customers. One orders, jumping through the linguistic hoops necessary to escape with just the thing you actually came in for and not a supersized carton of fries and a bucket of well soda of an appropriate capacity for a horse. One is handed a ticket. Then there is the waiting. The area in front of the counter at Carl's Junior must be one of the few places outside of prison that elicits the sense that one might get stabbed at any given moment, adding a further frisson of excitement to the adventure. Then at last Persephone calls out one's number. You grab the bag and escape, taking care not to look back until safely seated at the office lunch counter. Thence to feast, a transcendent moment which - granted, unbelievably - makes the preceding quest worthwhile.

Oddly, the six-dollar burger retails for $4.95.

Obligatory photos of Ethan now follow...

A splendid occasion - we're invited round to Derek and Sonja's for dinner! Here Derek lounges beneath a picture of his homeland while Ethan ransacks his drawers.

Ethan playing with his old school wooden toy.

Bathtime fun. Am pleased that bathtime is again fun - there was prolonged phase during which it was considered abject torture.

He is wearing my hat!

Holidays in 35mm

2009-01-13T12:01:00.000-08:00

Sometime in November my camera developed a fault; more specifically an issue with the anti-shake system referred to in the forums as "the death rattle". Cost to fix, $289 plus postage both ways, which seemed too much; but Rachel smiled and said I should get myself a new one for Christmas instead. In the meantime, I reverted back to 35mm film, in the form of my trusty Konica Auto S2 rangefinder (1965) and my point-and-shoot Olympus mju-II. No zoom, no autofocus, no instant feedback and about 35 cents per exposure for the film, development and a low-res scan of the negative. I've only had a digital camera for a few years, yet it felt like stepping back into the Napoleonic era.

Above right, the lovely Aunt Julie, our hostess for the festivities, carves the Thanksgiving turkey. Yes, it really was that black on the outside, some issue with the glaze, apparently. Still, jolly nice it was.

The cold snap continued, in a quite un-Portland-like manner. Snow continued to settle. The roads, unsalted and ungritted, were largely empty. You couldn't drive without chains or traction tyres, and we didn't have any. The buses continued to run, so I was able to get to the office, which was blissfully quiet, if chilly. Ethan enjoyed the snow - up to a point - that point usually being the most inconvenient moment possible, far from home and loaded with shopping. But the alternative was cabin fever. For myself, I enjoyed the quiet and the lack of movement, hunkering down with a bottle or two of Amontillado.

On the 23rd we were rescued by my father-in-law in his bimmer and chauffeured to the lake. There we further relaxed for nearly a week, twixt the wii and the wine cellar, while the children made the most of the fun to be had at grandma's house.

Then the snow melted and normal life resumed, save a hiatus at New Year when I was sick as a dog, for all the wrong reasons.

Ethan pulls his makeshift sled (Rachel Industries Inc), while the lead engineer builds snowballs.

Rachel demonstrates her sledding prowess.

A very wintry Hawthorne Boulevard. Could be a while for a bus, then.

Ten Glorious Years

2008-12-04T15:42:00.000-08:00

Outside it's 28 degrees Fahrenheit, the wind is howling and the snow lies all about, not deep but crisp and fairly even. Earlier on, we bundled Ethan up in all his layers and walked him outside for his first ever snowy experience - he seemed to enjoy himself and would have stayed out for longer if only his dad hadn't got a bit chilly. I suspect that the end of the street is as far as we're getting today - under the snow lies a blanket of ice and the county has sensibly demanded that all motorists place chains on their tires before setting out; and even if we were mad enough to drive we are chainless. Rachel is making brownies and I have chicken waiting for the pot. Ethan is napping. It is a perfect winter's afternoon, so what better time to hunker down and reminisce upon our recent trip to the altogether balmier clime of Las Vegas, Nevada?

For our tenth wedding anniversary we packed Ethan off to grandma's house and set off for the Mandalay Bay Hotel. It is not at all odd to spend two hours on a plane and find oneself in another world - yet when that other world is simply the adjacent state, you are reminded how vast and heterogeneous this country is.

Vegas has changed much since first I visited in 1994. At that time gambling alone bank-rolled the city and all other activities were heavily subsidised to that end, so that it was entirely possible to have a very inexpensive holiday in the sun, if one could only refrain from dropping one's wallet at that craps table... all you can eat buffets, free cocktails and steak and eggs breakfasts with unlimited coffee for a buck ninety-nine have stuck in my memory, alongside the Elvis impersonators playing to rows of blue-rinsed seniors more interested in the slot machines than the off-key rendition of In The Ghetto. It was tasteless, of course, but in a knowingly gaudy, seaside-fashion that one can revel in without guilt; it was good times and vane ambition. These days it's all decidely faux up-market, by which I mean nouveau riche and tasteless in altogether different way e.g. in the style of Paris Hilton; revenue is generated as much from michelin-starred restaurants, designer boutiques and ultra-lounges as from gaming and consequently there is no poor man's Vegas anymore (I suspect the blue-collar scene may have retired to downtown, but few tourists venture to the old heart of Vegas anymore). Could this just be a long-winded explanation for the fact that we spent a lot of money, an extended request for forgiveness for blowing Ethan's potential college fund on fancy cocktails and pâtisserie? Quite possibly.

On the positive side we had a thoroughly wonderful holiday. I spent a great deal of time in the hotel's wave pool, riding the faux surf to the faux beach, and caught something of an October tan; and Rachel and I kissed and slept and lounged around, safe in the knowledge that we would be undisturbed through 'til Saturday, when an amiable taxi-driver from Iran took us back to the airport and thence to reality and our beloved son.

Pâtisserie at the Paris, Las Vegas. Far, far better than you might imagine.

A duck takes a quick dip in a fountain, no more or less out of place than everything else.

The spiralled entrance to Bally's Casino.

From Rome to Paris via Miami, perhaps.

You can't deny it's impressive.

It was something of a relief to find only happy-looking mammals in Siegfried & Roy's secret garden.

All of the above - and then I presented Rachel with this ring of the purest ginge!

Waffenbread

2008-11-15T15:18:00.000-08:00

Autumn has arrived in predictable fashion; the air conditioner has returned to the basement, the lights are back on my bike and the waterproofs in my bag, the leaves are a riot of colour - though soggy underfoot rather than crunchy; cooking is comforting and soulful once more, and the first squirrel has been extradited from our attic. Pictured right: apple and pear tasting at Portland Nursery's annual Apple Festival.

It was the Springwater Grill in Sellwood that I discovered Ethan's love of gingerbread, or waffenbread as he calls it, derived from waffen - Ethanese for muffin (the American kind), and bread based presumably on its sliced-from-a-loaf form. He sensed immediately that it would be to his liking, consuming the first half-slice perhaps before the waitress had set the plate down on the table. When it had disappeared entirely she kindly brought him more (it was a sort of complementary side dish), which proceeded to evaporate in similar fashion. His obvious delight compelled me to negotiate the purchase of an entire loaf to take away. This seemed to last only moments longer than it took to defrost. Over the next couple of days I experimented with producing my own version, to the tune of my ancient copy of the Good Housekeeping Cookery Book, which covers almost everything you've ever considered eating, along with quite a few things you wouldn't dream of touching. Having procured a source of golden syrup (not native to these parts) and determined that treacle can be substituted with molasses, we seem to have a winning formula on our hands, and I fully expect waffenbread to be a staple of our diet over the winter months.

Here are some more words in Ethanese:

Badoot - Hamster
Boo-boo-but - Belly button
Winge - Craisins (dried cranberries)

Ethan made a rather fetching giraffe this Halloween.

Left: Ethan helps Mummy navigate the giant corn maze on Sauvie Island. Right: Conker has a lovely stretch after a hard afternoon napping under a plant.

Ethan hanging out at Sunnyside playground.

Oktoberfest

2008-10-18T23:17:00.000-07:00

Here's Ethan, all bundled up for the Autumn in his Peruvian coat of many colors, what I bought him at the Clinton/Division street fair back in the summer. Ah, the summer street fair, another fixed point in the seasonal calendar, a further locus in the cyclical round of pleasures and joyful happenings that abound in this neck of the woods. September, oddly, hails Oktoberfest. It's an especially big deal down in the otherwise sleepy hamlet of Mount Angel, but Portland has it's share of self-identified "Berliners" - as Kennedy famously and erroneously put it - and, perhaps more importantly, is not the sort of place to pass up the opportunity for a piss-up.

One might imagine that Americans of my generation would have been raised on the same steady diet of "They flew to Bruges" type movies as the average Englishman; but, if that is indeed the case, then the American melting-pot acted as some kind of psychological prophylactic, for they possess none of the prejudices natural to the British sensibility. "Don't mention the war!" doesn't raise a smile here; you might as well stick a golliwog in you cubicle. That said, it's still A-OK to refer to the French as cheese-eating surrender monkeys. They are, apparently, the last people it is politically correct to mock. Which is fine by me.

Ethan, who is one eighth German, seemed quite in his element as he wandered around the Oaks Park take on the Bavarian festivities, and danced merrily to the music of the oompah band, sporting his blond mop and little pot belly. To him there will seem nothing sinister about the accent, his mind will not automatically suffix every sentence uttered with the phrase, "...for a thousand years," his blood will not run cold when asked to produce his passport, if indeed he will be asked at all. This we shall call progress.

Note the italics above - few solicitations appear less enticing.

German folk-dancing at Oaks Park Oktoberfest. Absolutely nothing sinister about that. In truth though, how wonderful it is that people devote their time to keeping these traditions alive whilst I flick between the channels on the TV and chase Ethan around with a bucket and mop.

An Aryan mädchen oversees a fertility rite. I know, I can't help myself. Must remember that my witty bon-mots associating all things German with the Holocaust are actually racist and may cause offence.

Partly German. His tummy, I think.