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.

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.

Sadly, the poor image above (marred with a scrolling black bar due to the digital camera and television not getting along) is all I was able to capture from the monitor in Emma’s dressing room, where I watched yesterday’s taping along with Emma’s parents.

The viewing was great until the show moved from Em & Lo interviewing guests on the soundstage to a pre-recorded segment about tantric sex featuring two intrepid sex reporters (not Em & Lo). The segment itself was very good, but it was seriously not-safe-for-work, and even more seriously not-safe-for-viewing-with-your-parents-in-law.

Just at the point when we found ourselves viewing a very Full Monty (you would not believe what they can show on TV in England) I gave a few loud, distracting coughs and asked the Taylors, “So… how about that cricket?” Malcolm pounced on the opportunity to give me the far less sordid details of England’s latest match with New Zealand.

Fortunately for all of us, the Taylors were more than good-spirited about the whole thing. And then Emma came by to say hello a few minutes later. We snapped a few photos of her in her glamorous TV get-up while she held little Evie, the only one in the room who hadn’t just learned all about this tantric business Sting’s been blabbing about for years.

It’s killing me not being able to post more about the Em & Lo show, but as soon as it airs on June 5th in the UK, I’ll be able to post lots more pics and some video. Doing so beforehand will get me relegated to the couch at night. Maybe worse.

In the meantime, I can show a few shots from around the studio, and say in general that the girls appear to be knocking it out of the park. Everyone at talkback Thames (the production company) and Channel 5 (the broadcaster) are thrilled. Emma and Lorelei have been learning how to read from teleprompters, getting coached by one of the top TV host consultants, and basically adding a whole new skill-set to their brand. I can’t wait to see the final result.

On the first day of shooting in the studio, Evie and I stopped by Emma’s dressing room, where Evie was stunned by all the lit mirrors.

While Evie works on her camera face (it’s original, but maybe a touch too starey), we’re eagerly awaiting her mom’s first appearance as a TV host.

Here’s Evie, missing some of England’s finest countryside on our 90-minute train ride from London. I was thinking, if we’d missed our flight to England altogether and camped out in the parking lot at Newark International Airport for the past three weeks, as far as she’s concerned there would’ve been no difference at all.

As for Brighton, my expectation of the English seaside was that it would be overcast and chilly, with piles of rocks here and there along the beach. I was close, but instead of there being piles of rocks, the beach was actually just that: rocks. Here I am running my fingers through the sand.

It was a stark and beautiful setting, though. I enjoyed the gloominess and desolation of the place.

Fortunately, it wasn’t entirely desolate. Em & Lo were able to convince a few brave beachgoers to take part in their show.

A gaggle of French teens stopped throwing rocks at seagulls for a few minutes, and looked on as a two of their classmates took part in the shenanigans. I’m not allowed to reveal too much before the show airs, but the shenanigans involved a French maid outfit (or perhaps in this case, as it was worn by a Frenchwoman, it might simply be called a maid outfit—I’m not sure.)

I maintained a safe distance, as there’s nothing like a baby crying in the background to make a sound man go apeshit.

After a few successful hours on the rocks, the TV crew moved inland to a great little café district. Here there was a much steadier stream of willing participants. This part of Brighton reminded me of some combination of Key West and the East Village. (Note the three successive organic cafés in the first shot.)

By all accounts, the shooting in Brighton was a great success.

I’ve skipped over some significant moments, though, where early in the morning I forgot Evie’s bottles and all of the breast milk in the car on the way to the London train station, then bought the wrong kind of bottle (twice) at the pharmacy in Brighton, and subsequently dealt with a hungry, exhausted, hysterical Evie, who screamed for several hours straight. I kept wanting to move cafés to start fresh with a new batch of fellow patrons, but it was no use. The worm had turned, as Emma says, and as the cameras rolled outside, Evie was inside, shrieking holy hell while people sipped their organic soups.

At last, Evie gave me a short break, by which point I was in a mood. Joey found the whole affair incredibly amusing, as his little girl Elliette was an absolute dream for the entire day. (Then again, he didn’t leave all of her bottles and milk behind in London.) Here’s me with a tiny Winston Churchill popping up at the bottom of the frame.

So, Evie won’t remember any of Brighton, but she tried her best to see that Brighton will remember her.

I’ve been using Apple Computers since around 1983. The very first Mac came out when I was in 7th grade. I took an after-school job at a store on Pico in L.A. called Computerland, working just long enough to buy a Mac with my Computerland 30% discount and my $3.65/hour wage. I’ve probably bought at least 15 Macs since then, as well as numerous iPods, and hopefully soon, an iPhone.

The problem is, Apple gear, though beautifully designed, is crappily made. In my experience, it’s been completely unreliable. Not the old stuff—the Apple II Plus I had in 6th grade is probably still going somewhere—but the newer stuff: iPods, Powerbooks… they all stop working well before they ought to, sometimes in their first year. Both iPods I bought were kaput within 6-8 months. I had one newish Powerbook die on me right as we were about to give a presentation to an early-days YouTube. Not good.

The crazy thing? I only want more Apple products. If this happened with any other brand, I’d be furious and swear off the brand for life. For some inexplicable reason, with Apple, I keep coming back for more. Something is very wrong with me.

So, short story long here, my un-trusty Powerbook (the fourth one I’ve owned) has died on me. The backlight is apparently shot, according to Apple phone support. I was planning on posting a bunch of blog posts and pics from England, but I’m now left working on borrowed computers. Borrowed Apple computers of course—machines that will surely break down well before their time, too.

The good news is, my Powerbook is still under warranty, so I’ll have it back (or a new one) very soon, and will be able to resume posting more regularly. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can post without the use of my favorite piece of beautiful, crappy technology. Thanks for bearing with me….

Just as we left the ground, however, the rumbling of the engines and the slight rocking movements of the plane calmed her instantly.

The flight attendants suspended a little cot from the bulkhead, and Evie proceeded to sleep for pretty much the entire 7-hour flight. If I had any sense, I’d probably have slept too, but I was too tired to have any sense, so I stayed up all night watching movies and making myself even more tired and less sensible. (It’s worth noting that they had all three Godfather movies, No Country for Old Men and Spinal Tap.)

Evie maintained this exact expression for a good eight or nine hours…

… culminating in a very startled meeting with her UK grandparents, who surprised us at Heathrow to celebrate Evie’s first time on British soil. Everybody but Evie was thrilled.

Today’s shoot is in Central Park, followed by several weeks of London shoots, beginning next week. More pics and video soon!

Click through for the video:

First came the Sex & Dating Confessional. My favorite comment was from a guy with a heavy Brooklyn accent standing behind me, who asked, “What—are they gonna disappeah or somethin’?” A few people did initially think there was to be either a magic or puppet show.

These assumptions were dashed by the arrival of the 5¢ Sex Advice Booth (conveniently positioned adjacent to the “Virgin” sign)…

And then came the big draw: The Bed. Men on the street had a chance to try out their best pick-up lines on Em & Lo. (This particular guy had an unsuccessful straddling-the-bedframe move that resembled Rob Reiner’s awkward arm crossing/uncrossing in Spinal Tap.)

I’m not sure how many people have sat in bed in the middle of Times Square, but I’d imagine the number’s pretty small—maybe even single digits. There’s the brilliant British Airways ad from 2003… and that’s about all I can think of. Either way, it was an amazing, surreal sight for Joey and me, seeing our two favorite people with lights and camera trained on them on a traffic island, surrounded by hundreds of onlookers.

For the last 30 minutes or so of the shoot, Joey and I headed up to a hotel bar with panoramic windows overlooking the scene from a hundred feet above. When the cocktail waitress came by to take our order, Joey said, “You see those two girls way down there on that bed? They’re our wives!”

She looked the two of us over, both in our sweatshirts and jeans, then surveyed the action below, with the crowds and lights and two very glamorous girls at the center of it all. “Yeah, right!” she said.