He wants to be bad

I used to be a performance management guru. No. Really. Anyway, one of the things that I really stressed was communicating performance expectations. You can't expect people to perform to a certain standard unless you tell them what that standard is. Too often there's an un-communicated ideal, and it's really no surprise when people fail to live up to that.

But I'm not saying that it's easy to articulate that, as managers or teachers or team members we often don't know exactly what we want. Or as parents. For the boy, on a day to day basis, it's hard for me to remember to spell out exactly what kind of behavior I want. But yesterday, I did and I was rewarded with a good boy.

The boy had been begging to see Peppa Pig's Party, a play for children staged in a central London theatre. Peppa Pig is a popular cartoon in the UK, featuring a precocious little piggie and her little brother George, Mommy Pig, Daddy Pig and a array of friends (Suzie Sheep, Pedro Pony, Danny Dog). If you haven't seen it, here's a nice bootleg clip from YouTube.

It was heavily advertised on buses and even a flier on the door to his nursery. I made some vague promises about going to see it, but the boy knows our track record on such things and continued to make a fuss. I finally caved in and bought tickets for the 28th of December (and just as well I did, as only seats with 'limited view' were still available). I showed him the ticket receipt. I marked it on the calendar. I think he was almost as excited about Peppa Pig as he was about Christmas in general.

The night before, I was set out my expectations. That we had to get out on time so we could pick up our tickets at the box office. And that this meant he had to get dressed without argument (a common problem). He had to be very good and not run off while we were in town. And that during the performance he had to stay seated and be quiet.

The next morning he begged to get dressed. He stuck with me through complicated Underground line changes. He stayed seated on the train. We arrived slightly ahead of schedule and picked up our ticket. He didn't run off when we got to Piccadilly Circus, although he did check out the map (his latest obsession). He did ask for a light up toy they were selling at a concession stand, but since he'd behaved so well through our labrynthian travels through the many stairs of the grand old subterranean Criterion Theatre.

We got to our seats so early, I thought there might be trouble, but the Peppa Pig spinner I bought for him kept him occupied for the half hour we waited for the show to start. Ridiculous amount of money well spent.

He sat quietly throughout the performance. A little too quietly perhaps, as there were many calls for audience participation and when I was singing and clapping he told me to stop. "Shhh, mommy quiet," and he held a finger over his mouth. And "Stop singing,".

Afterwards he asked for a Krispy Kreme donut when I stopped into a local store for some ibuprofen. (The performance was good but it was loud.) He was good in the bookstore and good on the long-ish walk to Green Park (a station from which we could travel without complicated underground changes). He had a tiny melt-down in Fortnum and Mason's (a luxury food and hamper store) which meant we didn't buy any over-priced fruit candy or Turkish delight which I'd had my eye on. But we had a lovely time opening all the sample pots of select teas and smelling the darjeeling.

We had a brief little wander through Green Park, feeding the pigeons with the leftover from my donut (too sweet and icky). And when the donut was all gone, we turned on the spinner and they took off with a woosh. It turns out that pigeons are very scared indeed of small boys wielding Peppa Pig light up spinners.

For a three and half year old boy on a big day out in town on the busy streets of London he behaved incredibly well. And I told him so. And later on that night, I told his dad, too in his hearing about how impressed I was. But that's when his conduct took a turn for the worse. He was clearly upset by this. It's as if he doesn't mind being good when it suits him, but he'd rather have the reputation of a bad boy. Can't imagine where he gets that.

Bad Romance

Tate Britain was once known as The Tate. A magnificent old building overlooking the Thames with views across the river to the big spy building (MI6 or MI5, I can never remember). But then the The Tate expanded, and there was Tate Modern - housed in a wonderful old power plant and Tate (insert regional city name here which you probably wouldn't want to visit) and so forth.

Tate Britain specialises in British artists and rather confusingly includes modern works. But most of them are too good for the Tate Modern which specialises in spectacular rubbish mainly - with occasional pools of really good pieces in their collection. And even though I walk past Tate Britain regularly on my way to work meetings, I rarely ever go in. In fact, I haven't been since their Hogarth Exhibition, almost four years ago - except for stopping in to use their loo.

Since we currently have a visitor, I can use this as an excuse to do the tourist thing. He's never been to Tate Britain and I'd been meaning to go since they re-organised their collection of Pre-Raphaelite works. But somehow we ended up in the Romantics section which was being billed as a new exhibition- an easy to mistake to make, since I tend to view the style of pre-raphaelite art as romantic.

But no, Romantics at the Tate means Turner and associated artists. Which I had forgotten. Which put me in a very bad mood.

Confession time: I hate Turner

Turner is one of two British artists whom the Brits hold most dear. Him and Constable. Whom I also hate. To me they produce stuff like a camera with a white balance gone horribly wrong. I hate Constable's speckiness and cutesyness. I hate Turners smudgy figures and white shwooshiness.(You can see a whole bunch of that here, if you must) I can't really explain quite why I hate them so much. Or rather, I can explain why I don't like them. Maybe the hate seems to spring mostly from the fact that I just don't get them or why they're so loved. And perhaps after having lived in a country for so long and just not getting why everyone else loves them but I think they're rubbish, it makes me hate them. It's a sign that no matter how much I acculturate, I can never truly fit in.

It's not that I hate all British painters. Not at all. I can wander round Tate Britain and find much to admire and some to love. But not Turner and not Constable. Blechhh.

And I'm afraid I didn't hold back. I grumbled about Turner and demanded that we move on. People looked at me like I had spit on the Queen. Except that there are some republicans in the UK and people who hate the monarchy, but it seems that everybody loves Turner.

Wyeth

Some things go both ways. I've generally found that Brits don't like the works of Andrew Wyeth who I think is a genius.

The Horny Man

Nooooo....It's not what you think. It's the Horniman Museum. A museum, full of culture and stuff. A real museum. We just pronounce it the Horny Man Museum because we're puerile. (And a hearty welcome to my new readers who come to me via Google!)

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So it's Easter weekend but the weather is sketchy, what to do, what to do - especially with a 9 month old baby? Well, the Horny Man Horniman is the obvious answer. It's one of my very favorite kinds of museums, it's a museum of stuff. Weird, random stuff. It was started by an obsessive Victorian collector - and it's kind of like a combination of the Natural History and Victoria and Albert museums and an aquarium, but smaller and not in Central London, so you can drive to it. All the better.

And I thought there might be a chance that Buddy would be interested in some of the colorful displays and hands on stuff. There was less hands on stuff than I remembered - and what there was wasn't entirely appropriate for a baby (there's a great assortment of "hands on" musical instruments that's marvellous fun for 3+ set)

Buddy certainly liked looking at the fish.


Moon jellyfish

The Horniman has a nice collection of stuffed dead critters which doesn't hold a baby's attention for very long. Though this exhibit was certainly eye catching.



Want a closer look? Yep, it's mounted dog heads.



Very unnerving.

Overall, it was a pretty good way to spend a cold and windy day and as long as we kept moving through the exhibits Buddy didn't get too bored. But this was definitely his favorite bit:

Cross cultural comparisons

A Tri-Cities area chicken farmer featured in the latest round of the US version of Survivor. It was filmed in China. And here's how Steve "Chicken" Morris summed up his observations.

“There’s no biscuits and gravy, and there’s no cornbread and beans. And not too many front porches,” he said. “A very unusual culture it is.”

Well, there you go. Genius. You could say the same about England. And Steve - you should see what they do to ice tea here!

(Of course, I do some pretty darn good cornbread and beans - if I do say so myself.)

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Hat tip to Big Orange Michael's TV coverage at Music City Bloggers.

This is your Jerry Springer moment

A couple of years ago the Vol-in-Law and I went to see Jerry Springer, the Opera in the West End. The content was about as blasphemous and offensive as it comes, but all good fun - really. Much more fun than the Jerry Springer episodes currently aired on British cable which all seem to run like this:

Guest 1 tells Jerry and the assembled baying crowd a secret which will upset Guest 2 if Guest 2 has any shred of decency.

Guest 2 comes out on stage bewildered and bemused and bracing for the worst (as one Guest 2 said in a show I recently watched - You didn't bring me on the Jerry show to tell me good news?)

Guest 1 -suddenly hesitant - reveals all with the encouragement of Jerry.

Guest 2 lets fly with a flury of ineffective punches and security steps in just that little bit too late.

The secret varies - but only slightly - from show to show. Guest 1 is:

• a lesbian sleeping with her cousin
• a boyfriend sleeping with the cross-dressing best friend of his girlfriend
• a bog boned gal is sleeping with anyone who has a six pack and twenty-five dollars cash much to the shock of her husband.

Back to the opera - one of the numbers - which becomes a bit of a leitmotif - was This is Your Jerry Springer Moment - essentially describing that point in time when your life becomes so trashy that your role as Guest 1 or Guest 2 is instantly defined.

I thought about this, because well, I'm watching a lot of daytime tv these days and because of the comments about Australian sex workers on this post - which reminded me of a moment in time when I told a friend "Man, you coulda a been on Jerry Springer with that tale." Which, in retrospect, may not have been the most supportive thing I could have said.

Turns out this friend of ours - an Australian - had a girlfriend who turned out to be a sex worker. Well, he being the understanding sort who always saw the better side of people he said that while this needn't be the end of their relationship - she did need to find a new line of employment. Which she did not. And then there was another whole sad sorry tale of a pimping boyfriend and an abortion and a legal consultation - and even though this had happened some time before he related the tale and in a land far away - it was obviously still very painful. And I said "Man, you coulda been on Jerry Springer with that tale."

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I've racked my brain, but I don't think I've ever had a truly Jerry Springer moment. I did have a boyfriend who cheated on me - but she was just a normal girl (hmmmm...as far as I know). Oh, but looking back on it - she did live in a trailer - so maybe it was just a brush with a Jerry Springer moment.

I did meet my husband through the Internet - but that was like sooo mid-90s that it barely attracts comment these days.

I dream of Jeanie

Daytime tv. Gotta love it.

Today I saw the pilot episodes of I dream of Jeannie. It had a different intro, but most of the recognisable characters seemed to be there. The Major (as played by Larry Hagman) was a Captain. And given how goofy he was in the opening episodes, I'm not really sure how he got that promotion.

I remember really liking the show when I was young, but I'd never seen the opening episodes. I'm not sure how the series got commissioned, but that Sidney Sheldon must have been a pretty persuasive producer.

In the 2nd episode, Jeannie magics herself and the Major Captain back 2000 years to ancient Baghdad. But everyone's already Muslim (Islam isn't yet 2000 years old). It was quite interesting to see the Major being held captive by a barbaric, giant Baghdadi. It all seemed quite dark and prophetic, in a way.

Eurovision semi-finals - the results

Tonight my husband and I watched the Eurovision song-contest semi-finals. 'Cause really you just can't get enough cheesy Euro-pop.

Here's my take:

Bulgaria - great if you don't mind the shrieking - they seem to have a nice line in trick drumming and chain mail vests

Israel - apparently a controversial entry "Push the Button" might be about nukes or it might be about sex. It's appallingly bad.

Cyprus - do you really think singing in French will make the French vote for you. As far as I can tell it's a recitation of the first two French lessons you'll ever have - Comme ci, Comme ca

Belarus - nice touch with the 007 moves - the lead singer's claim to fame is that he looks like Princess Diana in the face.

Iceland - an unhappy halfway house between ballad rock and Eurovision pop - sample lyric "A tiger trapped in a cage"

Georgia - I had no idea that the first generation Klingons were based on the Georgians. This isn't bad - and I love the men dancing with swords. Careful!.

Montenegro - this is their first time competing as an independent nation. It's not bad guitar rock - sample lyrics Kochi biscochi, crochi biscochi - is this a song about Italian cookies?

Switzerland - apparently a favorite to break through the semi-finals and win the whole thing - they've got a whole gothic ensemble onstage and their song is called "Vampires are alive". That song would make me want to put a stake through my heart. The ViL says that apparently Swiss vampires are very orderly.

Moldova - lots of tossing drapery about. I'm not sure how the singer manages to keep her trousers up. Perhaps they're glued on just below the pubic bone. Sample lyric "Never let nobody in". Sugar, ain't nobody want to go there...to Moldova I mean.

Netherlands - classic Eurovision bubblegum fare, and good stuff if you like leggy Dutch women pararding around in high heels and white shorts. I imagine this will go through.

Albania - the song: "Hear my Pleas", the singer: a chubby Albanian waiter, the back up singer's dress: wow, that's some fluffy yellow meringue.


Denmark - a pink be-feathered drag queen sings "Drama Queen" - sample lyric: "I'm your drama queen tonight, everything's gonna be alright" A favorite to go through, apparently. I think it's dreadful.

Croatia - I liked it. I did wonder how many people their lead singer had killed in the war, though.

Poland - Black Eyed Peas meets the Beastie Boys in the Baltic with girls in cages. Sample lyric (and pretty much the only one) "Everybody has the right to party."

Serbia - brings us the little known genre of Balkan lesbian pop balladry. The ViL says "If we knew what she was singing it would probably be a lot less impressive - as it is - your mind is free to roam." Her back up singers writhe over each other in the weirdest, stiffest way.

Czech Republic - make their debut entry here. The ViL says "I'm still thinking about the Serbians". The Czechs should have waited until next year. Dreadful.

Portugal - I like it. It's very scorchio. I like a man who's not afraid to outline his packet in pearlescent white satin and wear a low cut shirt made from net curtains and wave a really big fan.

Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia - even Prince couldn't carry off using "former" in his stage name. Sample lyric: "Music is the only world for me, in my world we live in harmony"

Norway - a nice little salsa number - those Norwegians - loco! Why aren't they moving their hips? The ViL says "They're Norwegians, They're like Brits, but without our laid back funky cool." I'll give them credit for two onstage costume changes - including one that might have precipated a major wardrobe malfunction.

Malta - wowza - something for the laaadies. Shirtless, buff background dancers sashaying around with fans and violins. Sample lyric "Loving you gives me vertigo". I really hope they make it through.

Andorra - I think this might be emo - in really bad English accented Spanish.

Hungary - a bluesy number. The singer is not wearing any shoes. She's hugging a bus stop prop. The ViL says this sounds like an actual real song.

Estonia - the singer is a cross between Pink and Posh Spice and she sings just about as well as the famous Mrs Beckham.

Belgium - who knew that Belgians would try to be that funky?

Slovenia - Goth meets Evita. The BBC announcer describes her outfit "She's wearing a bad leather corset."

Turkey - No, just no. A new level of sleaziness. But at least the Turks know how to move their hips. Sample lyric: "lovey dovey all the time, I've got lots of cake for you". You have cake? Why didn't you say so in the first place?

Austria - Rhinestone hoodie lying on a bed of red be- feathered back-up dancers. The male ones have bejewelled codpieces.

And finally...

Latvia - I really don't know what to say. The 5 Latvian tenors, wearing top hats. Are they singing in Italian?

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And the winners, chosen by phone in voters, are (inexplicably):

1. Belarus
2. FYR Macedonia
3. Slovenia
4. Hungary
5. Georgia
6. Latvia
7. Serbia
8. Bulgaria
9. Turkey
10. Moldova

Fun, fun, fun

Anglofille highlights a new theme park on her blog - Dickens World. I couldn't be bothered to follow the link. In fact, I said so on her site:

OK, I’m not even going to follow that link, but just imagine - imagine what Dickens World would be like. Oh, the street urchins, the squalor, the bleakness, the pick pockets, the long hours, cold rooms and utter desperation…

Paah, why leave London?

I mean what's next? Flannery O'Connor Land, the Faulkner Fun Fayre*, Dorothy Parker's kiddie adventure playground?

Although at least at Dickens World, you'll have a bit of fun at the end of the day.

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*turn left upon entering Yawknapatopha County, from any direction

Hogarthian

On Friday, the Vol-in-Law and I went to see the Hogarth exhibit at the Tate Britain. It'll be on for almost another month, but judging by the crowds on a wet, non-holiday, Friday afternoon, you might be well advised to go before the last weekend it's open.

William Hogarth is often remembered as a cartoonist, a spoofer of London life, using charactitures and copper plate etchings to jab at the depravity of the city. He's famous for The Harlot's Progress (a sweet country lass comes to London, is corrupted, becomes a prostitute, catches the pox and dies) and The Rake's Progress (a young country gentleman comes into his fortune, goes to London, becomes depraved, loses his money and ends up in a lunatic asylum) and etchings like Gin Lane. But Hogarth was also a splendid portraitist and painter of historical scenes and the street scene of London, too. (Like The Shrimp Girl - below).



Hogarth is often remembered as a moralist - capturing the inevitability of decline once one has partaken of sin. But like many moralists, he seemed to be praising virtue in the abstract but found it dull in practice. Hence, many of his images are interesting because they revel in the depravity - and his "secret" attraction to the slimy underbelly of London becomes all to readily apparent. And despite highlighting London's many faults, you can see he loved the city - just like I have oft found myself excited by my return to the city - "Ahhh, London - welcome me back into your loving arms, ya dirty old whore."

The exhibit itself was fantastic and seemed to capture the breadth of Hogarth's work in room after room. (In contrast to another exhibit currently on - Renoir's Landscapes which was so brief it seemed a bit of an expensive cheek). In fact, there was so much, I really couldn't take it all in - particulary because you actually need to stop and take in the rich detail of his work.

Hogarth was particularly obsessed by the fallen woman - and I felt rather conspicuous with my pregnant belly, especially since I have just taken off my wedding ring (it still fits, but it's a little tight now and I have a fear of having to cut it off should my hands swell more).

Since visiting the exhibit - the Vol-in-Law has been describing things as Hogarthian. For example, I tried on a rather unfortunate shade of lipstick yesterday - which the ViL said made me look "a bit Hogarthian" - and I don't think he meant the country lass before the fall or the earthy vibrancy of the shrimp girl, above.

sexism in the UK

Jen - fellow expat blogger and still my nearest blogging neighbour (though she's moved a little farther down the line) says:

there’s still a lot about the u.k. that is inherently sexist

Yep, human condition, I think.

some of it is more overt (the topless photos inside the “newspapers”) and some of it is more subtle (the use of the endearment “love” in a pejorative and belittling way). margaret thatcher notwithstanding, there are still a lot of obvious inequalities and insidious patriarchal attitudes that pervade the culture. i was quite struck by it when i first arrived, and i am sad to say, it has since faded into background noise. because, well, i live here - and you just can’t spend all day every day in a black cloud of righteous indignation.

Nope. You can't. Plus some of this "background sexism" is obvious only when it's fresh. I think there's loads in American culture that we often just don't pick up on because we're raised with it and used to it. When you come in new to a place, the cultural assumptions are a lot more striking. Besides, I think the "love" thing is kinda sweet. As it's used in Yorkshire, you can tell it's not sexist - men, women, small children, the odd surly teenager are all called "duck" or "love" by men and women alike. The use is fading, but I still think everyday endearments are, well, endearing. Like anything, it can be abused and used in pejorative fashion.

Personally, I feel a bit freer here and less constrained by sexual and social stereotypes. Maybe that's living in London, maybe that's age and maturity. Maybe I've lived here so long I really don't notice anymore. All I know is that my home culture is still pretty darn sexist.

Culture, culture, culture

My brother and I went to Italy a few years ago. It was after my grandfather died and having lived with him (and my mom) after my parents split up, I think we felt extra close to him. But we weren't his children, either and it was difficult to express and for others to fully empathise with how we were feeling. So we went off, on our own, to Italy - as one does. And in the process we discovered that we could travel well together, a happy thing.

We had a great time - all that culture and pasta was very therapeutic. And I think we both liked Florence. But the problem with Florence is that it's just too amazing, too full of fabulous things to see. I love museums, I love art, but even my eyes were starting to curl. Oh look - I've seen that painting in many an art history text, (yawn) look it's another Great Master. Oh yes, this square is perfect in proportion - yes, I do have an odd feeling of peace. Ho hum. I think that's because Michelangelo designed this place, too.

We were outside the Museum of the Duomo (Cathedral), leaning against concrete traffic bollards and sucking on Marloboros - and I was trying to convince my brother to go in to this one last museum. He was reluctant. A British tourist stopped just next to us to light his cigarette - and I asked him - as one can do in the brotherhood of smokers "Hey, what's in there? Is it worth going in?"

"Well, there's some Michelangelo, Donatello and Raphael. Yeah, it's worth it," he said with a shrug - probably thinking "philistine Americans", but sounding a little culture weary himself.

"Hey, VolBro, it's got three of the four Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles, it's gotta be worth seeing," I said.

So in we went. And I can't say I saw things with exactly fresh eyes. But the thing about great, truly great works of art, is that even when you've ceased to be amazed by merely the wonderful you can still be stopped in your tracks by a truly powerful work that can speak to you.

This one did. I saw it in expat blogger Anglofille's Flickr photostream this morning. And of course a sneaky pic can never have the power of the real thing, but it did take me back to an August afternoon in Florence this gray and cool London morning.

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Rather interestingly, she her latest post is about her grandfather, gone 9 years and their connection that remains.