Two completely unrelated things

The Husband and I just had our first “date night” this year. We went to see Wire in Chicago at the Metro, the best place in all the US — and possibly Europe — to play a show. The stage is just a tad bit bouncy, perfectly sized so you can run back and forth on it and not run into anyone else, and the sightlines are fantastic; you can see almost anyone in the audience from anywhere on stage (if the lights are shining a certain way). At least you can see anywhere in the club.

The Ex-Toddler’s fifth birthday is coming up. At this point I remember my sister saying of her child, “I cannot believe that time flew by so quickly.” To me, time hasn’t flown by quickly; I feel like I’ve been aware of every moment passing. Maybe it’s because I’m old; the Ex-Toddler — let’s call him “The Preschooler” — has been with me for a very small percentage of my life. I was very used to my life without him, so when he showed up, I could spend all my energy thinking about him and when he was going to start / stop talking…etc.

These are the stories that are fascinating me before the election:

1. The research (and subsequent news stories) on how presenting misinformation and then rescinding it only strengthens some people’s belief in the lie. Research now specific to politics is underway. So, trying to turn a belligerent Republican — or Democrat — into someone who reads factcheck.org is a futile effort. This knowledge has lately stopped me from forwarding left-leaning NYTimes op-ed pieces to my poor republican sister who only wants her millionaire husband to “be able to keep the money he works so hard for.” He hates the idea that he has to pay taxes. (You can start here.)

What's left to say about Sarah Palin? Just some observations about her attackers. I cannot believe the outpouring of hatred towards her I noticed during the days after she was introduced. Every intelligent woman in this town that I came across (and by intelligent, I mean ‘able to breathe on their own’) loathed her. Intelligent men did so a bit more quietly, passively.

We all thought “the race is over!”

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.