Well, there’s a new unexpected art project in town — shrouded in secrecy with only a website and manifesto to reveal itself. The collective is called The Fireswallow Project and they “are for art.” They tell us that in the coming weeks, art is going to happen, all around us, unexpectedly, and that they will be the ones providing us with the details.

Welcome to Champaign-Urbana, which was tenth in the Top Green Cities list 2007, by Country Home magazine, in conjunction with Sperling's BestPlaces — although in 2008 we have moved down to #56. (And I cannot believe that Boston-Quincy, Mass. is higher than us, I think they paid someone off.)

This article was originally going to be about how to deal with the repercussions (on the playground) of teaching your child to practice non-violence, and how to lecture any other child who attempts to hurt, maim, or take something away from your own child, but if I wrote it, I would piss off a lot of people, most of whom are related to me.

Then I was going to write about my proposal that If Drug Deals Are Going On Near My House, I Should Get A Cut Of The Action (the money, I mean) — and couldn't that be taxed somehow to help us build roads and schools or at least pay for the fireworks next year? But then I thought that's probably a really bad idea too.

So instead I'll just smile politely and talk innocuously and inoffensively about throwing shit away.

I'm in Singapore; here for a conceptual art conference called ISEA: International Symposium for Electronic Art. I'm presenting a paper that The Husband and I co-wrote, about Buddhism, Augmented Reality and Social Networks.

It's actually the second time I've ever been in Singapore, and I have many mixed feelings about the place. For one, it's a giant shopping mall — my "Uniquely Singapore" paraphernalia actually states that the national sport of Singapore is shopping. So me being here is like an almost-recovered alcoholic being locked in a beer factory for a week.

The white-marble mall attached to my hotel is open until 11 p.m. every night, and you have never seen such riches; it's filled with watch stores that sell watches that cost more than my car; Brookes Brothers, Mont Blanc. The mall is filled with people day and night. And this is just one mall; if you walk outside there is another, and another, and another. Non-stop.

July 4th, 12:30 a.m., after watching his mom blow off about 4 bags of 2-4-year-old fireworks, my 4-year-old child, the Ex-Toddler, is sitting in the dining room making art ("for my teacher") and listening to Sonic Youth's "Sister" album on his record player.

An ex-self-loathing generation X-er laments: our children will rebel not by becoming Republicans or hippies, Hare Krishnas or gay; these would be badges of honor for us, bragging rights. No, our children will rebel against us by co-opting all that we love, all our anti-societal memes, detournments, rages against the machines, which they'll absorb in healthy contemplative ways, suffering no cynicism or alienation. No highschool shootings, no self-absorbed depression. They’ll study the lyrics like anthropologists. They’ll enjoy the songs like popmusik.

“CHILD! It's 12:30 a.m., time to go to bed." I finally said.

"Am I up past my bedtime?" he asked gleefully.

I smiled politely.

Everyone’s asking me how the Garage Sale went

Having it on a Friday when The Preschooler was at work was the greatest idea! I started it at 11 a.m. instead of 7 a.m., too. I didn’t even know there was a 7 a.m. in The Morning.

So in the middle of the night on Friday morning, around 7 a.m., I hear these cars driving by, stopping, and then driving off. What the hell. The ad in the paper listed 11 a.m.! Still, that was kind of exciting. All morning people drove by, and then finally around 10:20 a.m., I started bringing the stuff out to sell. When I brought out one box, a lady who seemed to be just passing by stopped and asked me politely, “Mind if I take a quick look at what you’re bringing out?”

“Not at all," I replied.

“How do you like my new sunglasses?" My mother asked me. "They are Elle Scott Fitzgerald’s (or some other name),” she stated proudly. For a moment I wondered why mom stole another woman’s glasses and then I realized that the glasses had cost extra because of the name associated with them, and that my mom had paid to be respected and was trying to recoup some of it on me.