I am sitting listening to the new Beirut (Flying Club Cup) playing along with Barak Obama's incredible speech at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta on Martin Luther King Day. They weave in and out of eachother. I am reading a blog post from my friend Alan Paul, who has taken his family to China with his wife Becky, who runs the Bejing Bureau of the Wall Street Journal. Jackson, all of 87 days is asleep face down over my lap as I write this and we listen to Obama and Beirut together. My mother calls. It is the tenth anniversary of my father's death and what would have been his 84th birthday. My brother writes from a palace in a rice field in Bali, "big festival with dancing gods and whole villages in procession to a portable gamelan banging it's way through the streets." I get another email that Henry Froelich, who used to run Mamaya America, and took VERY good care of me always has passed on. I am thinking about ideas for portraits of Aszure we are doing this weekend. I miss my Dad. Attached are pictures of my father and mother holding me when I was Jackson's age. If you click on the picture, you can hear my father singing on Thanksgiving Day many years ago. He is watching a football game with the sound turned down, describing the game and singing with Bobby Short at the same time.