Live 8
Live 8 this Saturday. I live about five blocks from the Philadelphia Museum of Art where it’s all going down. We’ve been watching them build the scaffolding the last few days, although we miss the portrait of Salvadore Dali that until recently adorned the steps. (You know the steps. THE steps, Rocky’s steps. Oh yes, those steps). Daniel is particularly enamoured of the thousands of port-a-potties that have been springing up like giant plastic weeds everywhere.
Mommy, he breathed, nose to the car window. I think everyone who comes to Live 8 will have their own potty.
He’s all about going and about bringing his spare change to give to the “poor Africans” and while I don’t want to dissuade him, I’m pretty cynical about the whole exercise and have suggested that he send his spare change to Medecins Sans Frontieres. Or maybe Oxfam. I don’t really know where his $2.38 will do the most good, I’m just not sure I get the connection between P.Diddy and third world debt relief.
But I’d better take the children or oh boy will they roast me when they’re 15 and find out they could have been there (where?) but their lazy mother hadn’t bothered to schlepp two tiny children to swim overwhelmed through a heaving, overheated crowd of people to wait for someone else they never heard of to come on stage and sing songs they will find too loud.
I used to imagine that had I been old enough, I’d have gone to Woodstock and made love, not war and been there (where?) but the fact is, I’d rather read my book and go to bed early.
Ooh, speaking of books, I’m going to confess that I’m reading The Nanny Diaries and finding it fascinating, in that road-kill I’m not looking yes I am no I’m not yes I am ooh gross what do you think it was before it was mush? And for once, something I’m reading isn’t making me feel like a bad mother so I’m going back to read some more.
