Just yesterday, Evie showed us what seems to have been, up ’til now, a hidden talent:

One minute she’d flop over immediately if you tried to prop her up in a sitting position, the next minute she made it seem like it was no big deal. I think she’s been holding out on us.

It’s been quite a sad few weeks here, but don’t worry—the ending is a happy one. It’ll just take me some time to see it that way.

As much as I tried to make things work, we had to relocate my sweet dog, Baci. He’s the best dog I’ve ever known, but he’s just not good with kids. It became clear to us that having Baci and Evie running around the same house over the long term was seriously tempting fate, and spending life gated up is not what Baci deserves.

I’ll spare you the details of my relocation efforts, but it’s been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. And just when I thought we were out of options, something very good happened: My good friend J.J., the biggest-hearted dog lover I know, agreed to take Baci.

Baci’s been the greatest pal to me for the past six years. I dreaded parting ways with him, and it’s been as hard as I suspected. I actually wept the first time I pulled into the driveway to see Baci’s soccer ball on the lawn, and the empty window where he always sat waiting to greet me. The house seems emptier and quieter now.

What makes all of this bearable is the fact that Baci’s life now might well be better than it ever was. J.J. has two dogs already, both of whom Baci loves. They all go hiking in the forest trails near J.J.’s house several times a week. He also takes them for swims in a gorgeous local swimming hole. That’s Baci on the right, paddling around. His new friend Summer is just behind J.J.

The better news is, I can come visit him… in time. He needs to settle into his new home, after which I’ll be able to come and take him for walks and hikes. I miss him like crazy, but from what I hear, he’s never been happier.

See ya soon, pal.

Evie ate her first solid food today. It was rice cereal. It took about 8 seconds to make, and you know what? I tasted it—not bad at all! I can imagine Emma going out of town for the weekend, with Evie and me living on nothing but rice cereal for a few days. We’d get by.

Evie was convinced she’d missed some, so she went to town on her hands and arms.

There were still lots of leftovers clinging to her, so the next stop was the bath. When I tried to hoist her out of her Bumbo chair, her chubby little legs were bigger than the leg slots, so the chair came with her. I had to hold the Bumbo chair down with my foot and pull her up with both arms for a few seconds until she popped out. (We have what is known in polite circles as a “hungry baby.”)

I’ve been so focused on the smaller details these past few weeks: diapers, naps, drool (only some of it mine). As a result, I’ve barely taken note of the fact that we’ve reached a few milestones here:

Today is the one-year anniversary of Getty Images’ acquisition of Pump Audio. Seems impossible that was an entire year ago. I’m incredibly proud of what we built: a business that plugs thousands of independent artists into a global marketplace of production professionals in television, advertising and film—people who want to use their music and pay them for it.

Surprisingly, our deal with Getty Images went through, despite the fact that I had a wardrobe malfunction at a critical juncture. During our final meeting with Getty’s CEO and assorted top brass, I inadvertently exposed my bellybutton to the room for a good quarter of an hour before realizing it. In my post-red-eye flight/whirlwind preparation haze, I’d missed a button on my dress shirt, so that when I leaned back in my chair while I was talking, my shirt puckered wide open just above the belt. So I suppose it’s the one-year anniversary of my presenting my navel in the Getty conference room, too.

I’m also now voluntarily unemployed. That’s my former desk above, in the Pump church. I still need to clear it out, actually. We’ve been in England for what seems like forever now, so my last day as a Pump/Getty Images employee—technically two weeks ago—was incredibly anti-climactic. It was kind of like going on a long trip and getting quietly divorced from a seven-plus-year marriage over email.

But this was a happy, friendly divorce, mind you. I still love everyone there at Pump—I just needed to take some time with Evie and Emma and figure out what I want to do next.

Which brings me to the next big milestone: Emma’s and my second wedding anniversary.

We spent our first anniversary down in Cape May, where we got married on June 2nd, 2006. Emma was pregnant for the third time that year, both of the first two pregnancies having ended in miscarriage. Here was our third chance, though with her cramping badly (as was the case just before the first two miscarriages) we assumed the worst.

Luckily, every once in a while self-diagnosis on Google actually deflates panic rather than stoking it. I quickly googled “cramping and pregnancy” on my Blackberry, and found that cramping can often be a good sign, meaning that the body is stretching the uterus in preparation for a growing fetus. We agreed to a moratorium on further googling, and clung to this potentially positive factoid during our 5-hour drive home. We listened to music and talk radio, held hands a bit, and in general didn’t say much.

Our 2008 trip down to Cape May was different in two major ways. The first was that we brought along 4-month old Evie. Everything was okay, just as Google promised. She is a very sweet and fun little baby, although not yet much of a beachgoer. In light of the latter fact, the second major difference in this trip was that I never got to go to the beach. Not once. We spent an entire week on a beach holiday, renting a house a six-minute walk from the ocean, and I barely touched the sand.

The one exception to this was when Emma and I brought Evie out to the spot on the Cape May Point where we said our vows two years ago.

There’s been some considerable erosion at the beach, exposing some large rocks that weren’t there on our wedding day. I don’t believe in omens even slightly, and don’t mean this as a metaphor or anything, so I’m just making a completely unscientific meteorological/geological observation here. It’s super windy (technical term) at Cape May Point, so one might assume that with each passing year that beach is going to be progressively carried elsewhere on the breeze.

All I know is, I hope to see a day, years and years hence, when Emma and I drag a teenage Evie down to the point, stand on the bare rocks where the beach used to be, and gush over our long-ago nuptials while she rolls her eyes at us.

When I first heard the term, I thought it was “tripping the colors.” It all sounded very hippie to me, very un-royal. In fact, it’s trooping, and whatever you call it, it’s about the least hippie, most royal thing I could possibly imagine.

So here’s the deal: Centuries ago, when many of the troops were illiterate and needed to know what their regiment’s flag looked like so they’d be able to rally to it on the battlefield, soldiers would line up to have their “colours” paraded before them.

These days the colors are trooped to celebrate the Queen’s birthday (which is actually on April 21st, though due to crappy English April weather, the official celebration of her birthday is the 3rd Sunday in June). It’s an incredible display of the Queen’s Guard marching in huge formations in their red coats and massive bearskin hats, royals rolling by in Victorian era open-top horse-drawn carriages, and tight, diamond formations of fighter jets flying low overhead.

All of this runs the half-mile or so from Buckingham Palace to the Horse Guard’s Parade, where King Henry VIII jousted in his younger, leaner days. Anyway, below is a quick video I shot of the proceedings. Watch for the guards’ feet. They’re put into position by the regiment leader, who you’ll see measuring out precise distances with his walking compass. The guards then do hilarious James Brown-like shuffles and sidesteps to get into place.

So here she is, the Queen, who passed not thirty feet before us. I didn’t think I’d be that impressed, but the pageantry of the thing was overwhelming. As my friend Michael said, “No country in the world does this sort of thing as well as England does.”



Amazingly, up until the 80’s, the Queen would ride down the Mall on a horse. Sidesaddle. I sure wish I’d seen that.