NothingLasts4Ever transcribed Not In Our Name because it is important. About 75% of the people who voted on it voted it up. Yurei, borgo, amnesiac, Derfel, kto9, and fondue all gave it a C!.

The beauty of a C! is that it exposes a writeup to what is usually another group of 10 to 20 people. Imagining that I had a C! to give out, I realized that giving one to a writeup becomes more difficult to justify if it already has one or two of them. To say the writeup is cool - that you liked it a lot - is one thing, and something that doesn't seem all that important when the writeup already has C!s. But to get 10 or 20 more people to read it is quite another, and in this light, its current C! level should not matter.

Someday, I will have C!s to spend, but first I guess I have to earn it. When that day comes, I expect to hunt E2 for nodes that explain things I think are important, like faceless power structures and People Power. To me, the only writeups that matter are those that inspire you to make your world (and mine) a better place. They don't have to be political or philosophical; humorous writeups and song lyrics are often inspiring too. Even a recipe can be inspiring because of the way it appreciates a culture. I will C! them if they inspire me. Perhaps you will join me in this effort.
A dry, dusty wind blew outside the courthouse, stirring up miniature tornadoes of debris in the crannies of the edifice’s marble facade.

Inside: “As you can see, the author of this note was genuinely paranoid, evidenced by the shaky, inconsistent scrawl.” The speaker, gesturing at a sheet of paper held in his opposite hand, sat in the witness stand. “In my expert opinion”, dramatic pause, “I believe that the author of this note truly believed that he was being attacked by a non-corporeal entity attempting to take control of the world.”

At the side of the room, a sudden gust of wind blustered through an opened window. The sheet of paper sensed the abrupt draft; slipping from the man’s fingers, it rode the current to the opposite edge of the room. Gracefully, like a tiny bird alighting on its perch, the paper looped a lazy turn and slid under a door.

In the hallway, a ruckus ensued. The sheet of paper, grasping the situation, had elected to drift to a stop in the path of an intern carrying reams of unbound material in his arms. As the intern lost his footing, his burden erupted into a legal-sized cloud of thousands of loose papers, just as the bailiff burst through the nearby door to track down the errant evidence.

Like a man stretching his muscles after having slept too long, the sheet of paper slowly flexed its millions of fibers, massaging microscopic droplets of ink to and fro on its surface.

. . . . .

The sheet of paper, furious, lay suffocating near the bottom of a burlap sack. The bailiff had sifted through thousands of the spilled sheets, unable to locate the one that had been entrusted to his care. The intern’s pile had been destined for the shredder. Despite the inky transformation, the paper’s escape was a failure. The sack opened, and a hand began grabbing tufts of printed matter above the sheet, inserting it in a grim-faced plastic slot and sending it to a serrated doom, deep in the visage’s toothy maw. The sheet, feeling the humid proximity of the intruding hand, impotently lusted for hematic fountains of revenge.

The noise of the nearby shredder caused vibrations in the air which rippled through the sheet. As the hand approached it, fibers tensed and the sheet arched, poised to strike. But alas! The sheet was helplessly trapped amongst an obtuse wad of papers; unthinking, unfeeling papers, oblivious to their common fate.

The spinning blades rent asunder thousands of screaming fibers in an agonizingly slow electric-motor driven eternity. The sliced tendrils writhed in pain as the remainder of the sheet was butchered. As the sheet emerged from the chambered hell, the paper’s dolor subsided, and several dozen streamers snaked through the detritus, each one conscious of the former collective whole.

Yes. Excellent, the paper thought. Each new edge was an eleven-inch blade, sharper than a samurai’s steel. The paper sensed its might, contemplating the scope of its new power. If only, it mused, if only there were some way to propagate itself, to spread the unique nature of its fibers to other new sheets of paper. Fresh, crisp, new sheets of paper, fresh from the paper mill. Paper mill. Pulp. Recycled fibers.

Yes. Excellent.

. . . . .

Several stacks of fresh newspapers sat under a flickering sodium lamp on an open-air loading dock. Their heat slowly evaporating into the dark morning, they silently anticipated the arrival of trucks which would distribute them to all the street corners and all the houses of the sleeping city. A rubber band snapped; twenty, thirty, fifty pages skitted across the empty street and disappeared, fluttering into the night.

The remaining newspapers sat, waiting.

It has been awhile since I have noded anything here. I don't know why, but my time on E2 comes and goes. I can't remember the amount of daylogs I have posted that either start like this or describe some time off from this site. Yet each time I keep coming back...

We are now in the full count down until I get married. September 20, 2003 will be the big event and things are moving quite quickly, but it looks like we have everything in place that we need. Today the countdown is 12 days but so far I am not stressed out one bit, my fiancee may be somewhat, but not too bad I hope.

Dear Mr. Igloowhite,

First of all, let me congratulate you on the opening of your and Chandler Bing's show "In Los Angeles, Something Is Always Burning" at the Ojala Gallery in Echo Park. Though I'd read the poems before on the Interwebsite "Anything2", the passage of time has robbed them of none of their power to delight and compel. In the way they evoke the essence of the city of Los Angeles I would dare to compare them to the writing of the great Raymond Chandler. I was very pleasantly surprised by Mr. Bing's pen and ink (?) artwork which hung alongside your printed poems, in most instances not directly commenting on or depicting the contents of each poem but elaborating on the general expressed theme. I felt that Bing's style, which evokes 60s record album art and underground comix, perfectly matched your own.

But now to my main point of concern. While I did not get a chance to speak with you during the opening, I understand that an "actor" named Jerry Appelbaum (and I use the word in quotes) approached you with an offer to employ his voice acting skills to render your poetry in an audio format such as broadcast or a compact disc. I am told he also presented you with his card. Know, Mr. White, that this man is an inferior talent as well as a drunk and a womanizer. I am reliably informed that he also steals. I urge you, stay away from Jerry Appelbaum! Do not make any "deals" with him! You will be sorry!

Instead, if the proposal he made appeals to you, consider employing me instead. He said he could do an airline pilot's voice? Ha! His "pilot" sounds more like a bad Brando impression. I, however, am adept at capturing the calm, confident, masculine authority of the true airline pilot. Why, during the 1992 Los Angeles Riots I used my authoritative "pilot voice" so effectively I was able to calm panicked citizens and induce deep remorse and law-abiding behavior in rioters within a block radius of my apartment on Vermont. I am certain I could just as effectively portray the many characters represented in your other works.

Igloo (may I call you Igloo?), if you will send me your home address I will mail you a demo tape. However, I prefer to perform for potential clients "in person" in their homes, as this truly demonstrates my versatility. You may feel as though you are actually talking to a pilot, or a Chinese washer-woman! Please consider my offer, Igloo, and heed my warning: STAY AWAY FROM JERRY APPELBAUM. DO NOT let him into your home or ANYWHERE NEAR your wife, a sad fact which many have not learned until it was too late. I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours very truly,
Saul Freeman
Actor, Life Coach, Feng Shui Master

Last week, I received a phone call from one of my cousins.

“Could you tell me where I can walk my dogs in D.C.?” she asked.

This was a really odd question given that she lives on Long Island.

“Uhm, you can walk them anywhere there’s grass. There aren’t any real rules -- just pick up after them.”

“Well, could you recommend a specific place?” she persisted.

At that point, I began to notice the sounds of cars whizzing down the street behind her. In fact, those cars sounded oddly similar to the cars I could hear through the open living room window.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m right in front of your building.”


Sometimes strange shit just happens. A cousin shows up at your doorstep with her dogs to inform you that her sister is moving to your town because she starts a new job on Tuesday. She wants your advice on housing, neighborhoods, where to park the car. She’s come all the way from the Long Island to help her sister get settled. You barely know either cousin at all.

And the next thing you know, your cousin can’t find an apartment. And out of a sense of family duty you never knew you had, you offer your cousin your spare bedroom. Suddenly you and your wife have a roommate.

This happened to me last week.

Family is such a strange thing. Growing up, I had sporadic but substantial contact with my father’s side. But my mother’s side was more mysterious. I scarcely ever saw them. So having one of my cousins from that side living with me is almost akin to having a stranger living with me. But I suppose she’s not a stranger, anymore.

Pantaliamon was talking to her last night and it came out that I was the cousin she knew best -- which made me feel sad, because I didn’t feel like I knew her at all. What’s more, I argued with her about politics this morning (she’s a Texas-born Republican, I’m a Washington Democrat), and now I’m weighed down by guilt that I was committing terrible violence on the level of kicking a puppy or dropping a baby out a second story window.

And then later, I find myself making a special trip home to the apartment to make sure she found a parking space.

Is this what family feels like?

"Talkin' about the man"

When the alarm went off this morning, "Boom Boom Mancini" had begun its second verse in my head. Walked to the garage, took off my sleepy clothes, pulled on running shorts and running shoes, set my watch, snuck out through the back yard and started running. Over and over: "Some have the speed and the right combinations/ If you can't take the punches, it don't mean a thing." I remembered watching that fight with an old girlfriend and seeing Du Koo Kim die in the ring.

Took a swim when I got home, the low clouds lightening. Inside, drying off, I spotted my wife's tie-dyed swimsuit and "Reconsider Me" swirled around me as I spun through my morning chores: "Let's let bygones/ Be forgotten".

Halfway though making the boys's school lunches I switched on NPR. "Rocker Warren Zevon died at his home yesterday..." I didn't hear anything else for a few seconds. It's not like it was unexpected. The announcer mentioned his most famous songs, his drunkeness and rehab and his terminal cancer diagnosis over a year ago. In fact, I'd been waiting to hear that for a few months now, like a late night phone call ringing with dread.

Dropped the boys as school, and, for once, felt glad for the morning rush. In the driveway I nearly lost it as "Mutineer" played. Couldn't help it. Played it twice.

In the past few months there's been an address on warrenzevon.com where you could send thoughts and thanks to him. I kept telling myself I'd send something, but what would I say? Each time I began, drivel smeared the page. The guy wrote a soundtrack to my life. To me anyway, his songs are listening mirrors. The regret of not doing something just magnifies the loss.

All morning I played his CDs a little more loudly than ususal. Sang along at "Carmelita". RunningHammer sat next to me in his highchair munching jelly toast. It wasn't until he started doing his own refrain during "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner" -- "tomtom gunner" -- that I began to feel a little bit better.

For all of you out there, please remember

Enjoy Every Sandwich

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