This picture is amazing… apparently the opposition in the Ukraine was storming Parliament. I cannot for the life of me figure out how this guy got to be standing on these folks, but I admire his tenacity.

via NYTimes

Yesterday was like 28 Days Later here in Manhattan. I got up relatively late yesterday and it was eerily quiet. No car horns. No shouting from the street below. My instant messenger buddy list was grey. Looking out on to Carmine, usually teeming with people, plastic bags and paper pizza plates were blowing down the middle of the street - urban tumbleweed.

I emptied out on to the street in search of coffee (I can’t face killer monsters without coffee - actually, I am a monster without coffee). Every door was shuttered.

I approched the Our Lady of Pompeii Church at the end of my block. I figured with a name like that they had to be prepared for impending doom. Abandoned. Outside of the church was a glass enclosure labeled “The Nativity”. The glass case was empty. No creche in sight. Even Baby Jesus, in his swaddling clothes, had sensed the danger, and climbing out of the manger, headed for higher ground.

I hardly notice anymore that law school speaks a truly different language. I just passed over the sentence below as if it was written in perfectly normal every day English…

Special proceedings for the sale of land for partition in which defendant filed answer denying the alleged title of plaintiffs and pleading sole seizin and adverse possession under color for more than 20 years.

I imagine many of the law students reading this are looking at the sentence above and saying… “So what’s difficult about that?” Remember when it was difficult? When you had to read it 3 times just to get a hazy sense of what was going on?

And… now it’s not. And I don’t remember when it changed…

One reason to attned New York University School of Law (if you are looking for reasons) is the truly wonderful Thanksgiving Dinner they hold for staff and students who remain in town over the holiday.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but what I got was a feast featuring all of the usual culprits (which were about as good as home cooking) and a butternut squash bisque that I am still thinking about several hours later. Add hot apple cider, coffee, chardonnay, merlot and an assortment of pies (I had pumpkin as I mourned the fact that I could not make it home for my mother’s apple pie) and it was really quite a Thanksgiving Dinner.

It was awkward just grabbing a seat with a bunch of random LLMs and 1Ls and their significant others but it ended up being a fun time as I met new people for the first time in awhile (as a 2L I haven’t felt the need to go out of my way to introduce myself to everyone I don’t recognize in the halls).

Sadly, I am now in the library instead of my usual post-Thanksgiving day couch.

So, thanks are in order … to NYU… for making this Thanksgiving away from home as homey as possible.

I just had a mind blowing experience. My friend mentioned Skype over Thanksgiving dinner today. I mentioned that I had downloaded it a year ago, but that I didn’t know anyone using it and thus had never tried it out.

Several hours later as I was studying in the library, my computer started ringing (much in the way the old rotary phone of my youth had). I clicked the answer button on the maximized Skype window and murmered a weak “hello” expecting it fully not to work (I didn’t think this old Dell had a mic). My friend replied “hey… whatcha up to?”

I responded “nothing just studying” before realizing that I was talking into my computer which, before now was, was something I had never done.

It turns out that Skype is amazing. Talk about hands free… The little built in mic (I still don’t know where it is) managed to convey my voice from up to 10 feet away.

There is absolutely no lag. And it felt (dare I say) almost better (certainly more natural and comfortable) than a cell phone call.

I am disappointed that more folks I call aren’t on this service. One downside - as students, my friends are often in the library, so ringing them on their computers is more intrusive then calling their vibrating cell phones. I just had to pick up my computer and walk out into the hall to have the conversation with my friend over Skype.

Skype is free among users who have downloaded the software. You can call real phones as well, for a very low per minute fee. Skype is certainly many features away from a full blown application that will reach mass acceptance, but it certainly is exciting and on the right track.

In today’s New York Times, Nicholas Kristof takes on Mssrs. LaHaye and Jenkins the authors of the ridiculously lucrative Left Behind franchise. Noting that the authors believe that “this generation will witness the end of history,” Kristoff offers the duo a challenge:

If Mr. LaHaye and Mr. Jenkins honestly believe that the end of the world may be imminent, why not waive royalties? Why don’t they use the millions of dollars in profits to help the poor - and increase their own chances of getting into heaven?

Mr. Jenkins told me that he gives 20 to 40 percent of his income to charity, and that’s commendable. But there are millions more where that came from. Mr. LaHaye and Mr. Jenkins might spend less time puzzling over obscure passages in the Book of Revelation and more time with the straightforward language of Matthew 6:19, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth.” Or Matthew 19:21, where Jesus advises a rich man: “Sell your possessions and give the money to the poor. . . . It will be hard for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

So I challenge the authors to a bet: if the events of the Apocalypse arrive in the next 10 years, then I’ll donate $500 to the battle against the Antichrist; if it doesn’t, you donate $500 to a charity of my choosing that fights poverty - and bigotry.

Gentlemen, do we have a deal?

I am including Kevin Sites’ Open Letter to the Devil Dogs of the 3.1 here in its entirety for my records:

Open Letter to Devil Dogs of the 3.1

To Devil Dogs of the 3.1:

Since the shooting in the Mosque, I’ve been haunted that I have not been able to tell you directly what I saw or explain the process by which the world came to see it as well. As you know, I’m not some war zone tourist with a camera who doesn’t understand that ugly things happen in combat. I’ve spent most of the last five years covering global conflict. But I have never in my career been a ‘gotcha’ reporter — hoping for people to commit wrongdoings so I can catch them at it.

This week I’ve even been shocked to see myself painted as some kind of anti-war activist. Anyone who has seen my reporting on television or has read the dispatches on this website is fully aware of the lengths I’ve gone to play it straight down the middle — not to become a tool of propaganda for the left or the right.

But I find myself a lightning rod for controversy in reporting what I saw occur in front of me, camera rolling.

It’s time you to have the facts from me, in my own words, about what I saw — without imposing on that Marine — guilt or innocence or anything in between. I want you to read my account and make up your own minds about whether you think what I did was right or wrong. All the other armchair analysts don’t mean a damn to me.

Here it goes.

It’s Saturday morning and we’re still at our strong point from the night before, a clearing between a set of buildings on the southern edge of the city. The advance has been swift, but pockets of resistance still exist. In fact, we’re taking sniper fire from both the front and the rear.

Weapons Company uses its 81’s (mortars) where they spot muzzle flashes. The tanks do some blasting of their own. By mid-morning, we’re told we’re moving north again. We’ll be back clearing some of the area we passed yesterday. There are also reports that the mosque, where ten insurgents were killed and five wounded on Friday may have been re-occupied overnight.

I decide to leave you guys and pick up with one of the infantry squads as they move house-to-house back toward the mosque. (For their own privacy and protection I will not name or identify in any way, any of those I was traveling with during this incident.)

Many of the structures are empty of people — but full of weapons. Outside one residence, a member of the squad lobs a frag grenade over the wall. Everyone piles in, including me.

While the Marines go into the house, I follow the flames caused by the grenade into the courtyard. When the smoke clears, I can see through my viewfinder that the fire is burning beside a large pile of anti-aircraft rounds.

I yell to the lieutenant that we need to move. Almost immediately after clearing out of the house, small explosions begin as the rounds cook off in the fire.

At that point, we hear the tanks firing their 240-machine guns into the mosque. There’s radio chatter that insurgents inside could be shooting back. The tanks cease-fire and we file through a breach in the outer wall.

We hear gunshots from what seems to be coming from inside the mosque. A Marine from my squad yells, “Are there Marines in here?”

When we arrive at the front entrance, we see that another squad has already entered before us.

The lieutenant asks them, “Are there people inside?”

One of the Marines raises his hand signaling five.

“Did you shoot them,” the lieutenant asks?

“Roger that, sir, ” the same Marine responds.

“Were they armed?” The Marine just shrugs and we all move inside.

Immediately after going in, I see the same black plastic body bags spread around the mosque. The dead from the day before. But more surprising, I see the same five men that were wounded from Friday as well. It appears that one of them is now dead and three are bleeding to death from new gunshot wounds. The fifth is partially covered by a blanket and is in the same place and condition he was in on Friday, near a column. He has not been shot again. I look closely at both the dead and the wounded. There don’t appear to be any weapons anywhere.

“These were the same wounded from yesterday,” I say to the lieutenant. He takes a look around and goes outside the mosque with his radio operator to call in the situation to Battalion Forward HQ.

I see an old man in a red kaffiyeh lying against the back wall. Another is face down next to him, his hand on the old man’s lap — as if he were trying to take cover. I squat beside them, inches away and begin to videotape them. Then I notice that the blood coming from the old man’s nose is bubbling. A sign he is still breathing. So is the man next to him.

While I continue to tape, a Marine walks up to the other two bodies about fifteen feet away, but also lying against the same back wall.

Then I hear him say this about one of the men:

“He’s fucking faking he’s dead — he’s faking he’s fucking dead.”

Through my viewfinder I can see him raise the muzzle of his rifle in the direction of the wounded Iraqi. There are no sudden movements, no reaching or lunging.

However, the Marine could legitimately believe the man poses some kind of danger. Maybe he’s going to cover him while another Marine searches for weapons.

Instead, he pulls the trigger. There is a small splatter against the back wall and the man’s leg slumps down.

“Well he’s dead now,” says another Marine in the background.

I am still rolling. I feel the deep pit of my stomach. The Marine then abruptly turns away and strides away, right past the fifth wounded insurgent lying next to a column. He is very much alive and peering from his blanket. He is moving, even trying to talk. But for some reason, it seems he did not pose the same apparent “danger” as the other man — though he may have been more capable of hiding a weapon or explosive beneath his blanket.

But then two other marines in the room raise their weapons as the man tries to talk.

For a moment, I’m paralyzed still taping with the old man in the foreground. I get up after a beat and tell the Marines again, what I had told the lieutenant — that this man — all of these wounded men — were the same ones from yesterday. That they had been disarmed treated and left here.

At that point the Marine who fired the shot became aware that I was in the room. He came up to me and said, “I didn’t know sir-I didn’t know.” The anger that seemed present just moments before turned to fear and dread.

The wounded man then tries again to talk to me in Arabic.

He says, “Yesterday I was shot… please… yesterday I was shot over there — and talked to all of you on camera — I am one of the guys from this whole group. I gave you information. Do you speak Arabic? I want to give you information.” (This man has since reportedly been located by the Naval Criminal Investigation Service which is handling the case.)

In the aftermath, the first question that came to mind was why had these wounded men been left in the mosque?

It was answered by staff judge advocate Lieutenant Colonel Bob Miller — who interviewed the Marines involved following the incident. After being treated for their wounds on Friday by Navy Corpsman (I personally saw their bandages) the insurgents were going to be transported to the rear when time and circumstances allowed.

The area, however, was still hot. And there were American casualties to be moved first.

Also, the squad that entered the mosque on Saturday was different than the one that had led the attack on Friday.

It’s reasonable to presume they may not have known that these insurgents had already been engaged and subdued a day earlier.
Yet when this new squad engaged the wounded insurgents on Saturday, perhaps really believing they had been fighting or somehow posed a threat — those Marines inside knew from their training to check the insurgents for weapons and explosives after disabling them, instead of leaving them where they were and waiting outside the mosque for the squad I was following to arrive.

During the course of these events, there was plenty of mitigating circumstances like the ones just mentioned and which I reported in my story. The Marine who fired the shot had reportedly been shot in the face himself the day before.

I’m also well aware from many years as a war reporter that there have been times, especially in this conflict, when dead and wounded insurgents have been booby-trapped, even supposedly including an incident that happened just a block away from the mosque in which one Marine was killed and five others wounded. Again, a detail that was clearly stated in my television report.

No one, especially someone like me who has lived in a war zone with you, would deny that a solider or Marine could legitimately err on the side of caution under those circumstances. War is about killing your enemy before he kills you.

In the particular circumstance I was reporting, it bothered me that the Marine didn’t seem to consider the other insurgents a threat — the one very obviously moving under the blanket, or even the two next to me that were still breathing.

I can’t know what was in the mind of that Marine. He is the only one who does.

But observing all of this as an experienced war reporter who always bore in mind the dark perils of this conflict, even knowing the possibilities of mitigating circumstances — it appeared to me very plainly that something was not right. According to Lt. Col Bob Miller, the rules of engagement in Falluja required soldiers or Marines to determine hostile intent before using deadly force. I was not watching from a hundred feet away. I was in the same room. Aside from breathing, I did not observe any movement at all.

Making sure you know the basis for my choices after the incident is as important to me as knowing how the incident went down. I did not in any way feel like I had captured some kind of “prize” video. In fact, I was heartsick. Immediately after the mosque incident, I told the unit’s commanding officer what had happened. I shared the video with him, and its impact rippled all the way up the chain of command. Marine commanders immediately pledged their cooperation.

We all knew it was a complicated story, and if not handled responsibly, could have the potential to further inflame the volatile region. I offered to hold the tape until they had time to look into incident and begin an investigation — providing me with information that would fill in some of the blanks.

For those who don’t practice journalism as a profession, it may be difficult to understand why we must report stories like this at all — especially if they seem to be aberrations, and not representative of the behavior or character of an organization as a whole.

The answer is not an easy one.

In war, as in life, there are plenty of opportunities to see the full spectrum of good and evil that people are capable of. As journalists, it is our job is to report both — though neither may be fully representative of those people on whom we’re reporting. For example, acts of selfless heroism are likely to be as unique to a group as the darker deeds. But our coverage of these unique events, combined with the larger perspective - will allow the truth of that situation, in all of its complexities, to begin to emerge. That doesn’t make the decision to report events like this one any easier. It has, for me, led to an agonizing struggle — the proverbial long, dark night of the soul.

I knew NBC would be responsible with the footage. But there were complications. We were part of a video “pool” in Falluja, and that obligated us to share all of our footage with other networks. I had no idea how our other “pool” partners might use the footage. I considered not feeding the tape to the pool — or even, for a moment, destroying it. But that thought created the same pit in my stomach that witnessing the shooting had. It felt wrong. Hiding this wouldn’t make it go away. There were other people in that room. What happened in that mosque would eventually come out. I would be faced with the fact that I had betrayed truth as well as a life supposedly spent in pursuit of it.

When NBC aired the story 48-hours later, we did so in a way that attempted to highlight every possible mitigating issue for that Marine’s actions. We wanted viewers to have a very clear understanding of the circumstances surrounding the fighting on that frontline. Many of our colleagues were just as responsible. Other foreign networks made different decisions, and because of that, I have become the conflicted conduit who has brought this to the world.

The Marines have built their proud reputation on fighting for freedoms like the one that allows me to do my job, a job that in some cases may appear to discredit them. But both the leaders and the grunts in the field like you understand that if you lower your standards, if you accept less, than less is what you’ll become.

There are people in our own country that would weaken your institution and our nation –by telling you it’s okay to betray our guiding principles by not making the tough decisions, by letting difficult circumstances turns us into victims or worse…villains.

I interviewed your Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Willy Buhl, before the battle for Falluja began. He said something very powerful at the time-something that now seems prophetic. It was this:

“We’re the good guys. We are Americans. We are fighting a gentleman’s war here — because we don’t behead people, we don’t come down to the same level of the people we’re combating. That’s a very difficult thing for a young 18-year-old Marine who’s been trained to locate, close with and destroy the enemy with fire and close combat. That’s a very difficult thing for a 42-year-old lieutenant colonel with 23 years experience in the service who was trained to do the same thing once upon a time, and who now has a thousand-plus men to lead, guide, coach, mentor — and ensure we remain the good guys and keep the moral high ground.”

I listened carefully when he said those words. I believed them.

So here, ultimately, is how it all plays out: when the Iraqi man in the mosque posed a threat, he was your enemy; when he was subdued he was your responsibility; when he was killed in front of my eyes and my camera — the story of his death became my responsibility.

The burdens of war, as you so well know, are unforgiving for all of us.

I pray for your soon and safe return.

I am done with the NBA forever. That is all.

On the way home from a soccer game, victorious, the Eagles are in the tape deck and I am sitting in the bitch seat in the back of Phil Shook’s car. We are telling war stories - each of us recalling personal acts of valor as if we had returned from battle and were recounting the action to those who stayed behind to watch over the women and children.

Suddenly, a hush falls over the car as the intro to Hotel California begins. Slowly, every one raises their hand, then in unison, they beat the air sharply three times as Henley’s drum beat leads into the vocals: thump thump thump… On a dark desert highway…

=-=-=-=-=-

4 boys singing outloud in a time when being cool didn’t mean being cold. I remember feeling a sense of wonder that day as I listened to the song for the first time and watched my teammates playing drums on the dashboard, the steering wheel and headrests. I also felt left out - almost hurt that no one had ever bothered to share this beautiful song with me before that very moment.

It turned out to be better that way. I was paying attention. Phil is gone now - for more years than I care to acknowledge. But whenever I hear Hotel California, I can remember every detail of that car ride and I can remember Phil as he was then - smiling - without a care in the world.

See…. Adam Hill does exist. For a minute, I was worried that you all thought I had an imaginary quote friend unquote who was going to quote guest blog unquote.

So, I was introduced here some days ago and haven’t posted anything yet — an ominous beginning, if I’ve ever heard of one. Now here I am, posting, and the best I can do is introduce some thoughts by someone else. If two poetry posts in the same day aren’t too much, enjoy…

“Selecting a Reader”
by Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
“For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.” And she will.

[Update: Actually, three poetry posts in a single day, if you count ODB]

Did you listen to the song before correcting me?

I actually was wrong, but not in the way you suggest. A close listen reveals that it is actually “Shimmy Shimmy Ya, Shimmy Yam, Shimmy yea” or yeah, or yay. Anyway my point being that the last word (regardless of spelling) is pronounced with an “a” that sounds like “bay” and not “yo”.

Even though ODB was on some next, he still rhymed and it seems improbable that he thought “yo” rhymed with “away” the word that ends the subsequent line.

If you need the song for a refresher, email me.

[Ed. - I find it hilarious that I am dissecting ODB's use of rhyme like he is T.S. Eliot]

Been looking for this poem for years… want to hold onto it for the records.

A Little Stone in the Middle of the Road in Florida
by Muriel Rukeyser

My son as a child, saying,
God is anything, even a little stone
in the middle of the road
in Florida.

Yesterday Nancy, my friend,
after a long illness,
You know what can lift me up,
take me right out of despair?

No, what?

Anything.

I am listening to David Gray’s lovely album White Ladder, and thought that his chorus for Night Blindness might accurately capture many Democrats feelings regardining the Bush II Presidency…

What we gonna do
When the money runs out
I wish that there was something left to say
Where we going to find the eyes to see
A brighter day…

I am joking of course, but it is amazing how different circumstances lead you to interpret songs differently at various points in your life.

Ol’ Dirty Bastard aka Osirus aka Joe Bannanas aka Dirt McGirt aka Dirt Dog aka Unique Ason aka Big Baby Jesus passed this afternoon.

I didn’t understand half the things he said, but I always enjoyed litening to him anyway.

Rest in Peace Dirty.

The audio post below is my friend Leon Kirkland reciting a little poem he just wrote. Check it out…

Back in the mid to late 90s I was leaving the mall in Pentagon City. As I walked through the doors a huge contingent of black sedans with tinted windows approached the hotel next door.

I walked to the entrance of the hotel and waited for the cars to empty. I was excited. I thought maybe I would get to see a movie star or a famous rock band.

Instead, I got to see Yasser Arafat. I remember thinking, as he exited the car and approached me, that he was much smaller than I imagined. He was wearing his trademark kaffiyeh headdress, folded in the shape of Palestine. He walked within 2 feet of me and as he passed he nodded and smiled and then entered the buidling.

I am amazed sometimes at how easily I forget how much things have changed since 9/11. This brief encounter would never have happened in 2004. For many reasons of course, but even if he had been allowed to travel outside of his compund in his last years, the security team would have never let me get within 100 yards of the entrance to the building. But back then, it never occurred to me that I wasn’t supposed to be standing there, trying to get a glimpse of this diminutive man from Palestine.

Rest in Peace Mr. Arafat.

I just want to archive this quote for future reference. It is from Jack Balkin’s article entitled, “What Brown Teaches Us About Constitutional Theory” in the University of Virginia Law Review.

“Judges are sort of like place kickers in football. Most place kickers are pretty bad at making an open-field tackle to stop a speedy running back returning a kickoff. But place kickers can help pile on after the other players have tackled or slowed down a runner. That is sometimes how I imagine courts and their relationship to social change: They see the running back lying on the ground, groaning under the weight of a huge pile of linebackers. The judges say to themselves, “It’s time for us to do some justice!” and they throw themselves on the pile.”

Google’s index doubled today to over 8 million pages. I wouldn’t have noticed, except that I read an article recently that hypothisized that Google’s index was stuck at just over 4 million because they use a 4-byte docID which can only accept upto 4,294,967,295 values.

I just went to archive.org and used the way back machine to check the index number over the years and it seems to have been hovering around 4,000,000,000 since 2002. If it is true that Google was using a 4-byte docID, I would be fascinated to know what they did to fix the problem. Either way, doubling the size of the index is, I would imagine, a huge undertaking.

My brother and I heard “false” reports last week that Yasser Arafat had died. So when we learned that they were “false reports” we, for fun, began reading news articles as if Suha and the French were concealing the fact that Arafat had in fact died last week.

From that vantage point, the following real quotes (all reported in the Washington Post) are fascinating…

A spokesman said Arafat’s condition had become “more complicated.”

Yes, Death is quite complicated.

The French military spokesman, reading a brief statement he said was authorized by Arafat’s wife, Suha, also confirmed that the Palestinian leader had been transferred Wednesday afternoon to a hospital unit “suitable for his condition.”

i.e. The Morgue

“Arafat is in a critical state between life and death,”

Is he in purgatory?

“I assure you that he is not brain dead,”

You are correct… he is dead dead.

His condition is “stable” and “has not gotten worse.”

Death is as stable as it gets. And yes… it doesn’t get much worse.

French Foreign Minister Michel Barnier, asked in an interview with LCI television on Sunday about Arafat’s health, said that “his condition is very complex, very serious and stable right now.” Asked to respond to reports that Arafat is brain-dead, Barnier replied, “I wouldn’t say that.”

No Comment.

Last night, as the Browns were driving to within 5 yards of the endzone, setting up a touchdown that would tie the game and take the teams into overtime, I had the familiar feeling. The feeling only a Clevelander can have. I expected them to lose, but that’s not the feeling I am talking about. I expected them to lose fantastically. And they did not disappoint. With seconds left, not only did Garcia get intercepted, but Ed Reed of the Ravens wasn’t content with intercepting the ball and sealing a 7 point victory. He had to run… it… all… the…way. In this case “all the way” was 106 yards, the longest run with an interception in league history. Yes, to those of you asking, there are only 100 yards between endzones.

The feeling I had as I watched the final drive was a comfortable feeling, like an old winter coat, warn just before true winter hits. As a North Coaster, I am quite familiar with the heartbreak of loss. As expected, attention has shifted from Boston, fresh of their breaking of the Bambinian curse, to the heir apparent in the contest of the damned. Much attention has been lavished on Chicago and it’s baseball title drought which, at just under a century, is the longest in history.

But it is Cleveland that wears the crown of thorns - not Chicago. Clevelanders laugh at a mere single sport “drought”. Loss is our birthright and our legacy. We know no other way than this. Cleveland has gone 40 years (a staggering 115 seasons) without a championship in any major sport. While Chicago was buoyed by the 6 Bulls titles and the Bears Superbowl, Cleveland endured “Red Right 88″, “The Drive”, “The Fumble”, “The Shot”, “The Shot II”, and “The Error” just to name a few. We name our failures like other folks name their pets or their cars.

The striking thing about our losses is that they are incredible. The Browns were called the “Cardiac Kids” in the 80s for their penchant of keeping it close only to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory in the most awe inspiring ways. See Red Right 88, The Fumble, The Drive.

But something we don’t tell you is this. We like it this way. Everyone from Cleveland believes that on any given day we might, just might, surprise you, not just in sports, but in our personal lives, our jobs and our dreams. It has become our identity. We like the lack of expectation and lay in waiting for small victories.

I worry for Cleveland though, because if we ever do win a championship, especially a football championship, I truly believe the city will unravel in a way heretofore unseen in human history.

I am perusing hip-hop classics at Amazon and I just came across NWA’s Straight Outta Compton. As I looked at the “Customers interested in NWA may also be interested in…” section, I noticed a link to the “Official NWA website”. I clicked the link eager to see what goodies a website for a now defunct group might hold.

Airline Tickets… either NWA did much better for themselves then I ever imagined or the Amazon bot goofed.

I wonder if this is Northwest Airlines’ idea of marketing to minorities…

Hurray to The United States Postal Service for their innovative compromise with a band that “borrowed” their name.

Jimmy Tamborello of the band Dntel and Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie produced an album entitled Give Up in 2003. They named their band (or collaboration) Postal Service in reference to the fact that they produced the album piecemeal, from different cities, sending portions of each song through the mail to one another.

After Postal Service had sold some 400,000 records, the USPS sent them a cease and desist letter claiming that the band had infringed on the USPS’s registered trademark. In a rare showing of ingenuity and compromise, the USPS and Postal Service signed an agreement this week granting the band a free license to use the name inexchange for promoting the USPS.

According to the Washington Post:

Future copies of the album and the group’s follow-up work will have a notice about the trademark, while the federal Postal Service will sell the band’s CD’s on its Web site, potentially earning a profit. The band may do some television commercials for the post office.

The group also agreed to perform at the postmaster general’s annual National Executive Conference in Washington on Nov. 17.

This is a wonderful example of the Government actng nimbly. Somebody should give Mr. Thuro (Manager of Communications and the the arhitect of this deal at the USPS) a promotion.

(Mr. Thuro may want to ask that Postal Service name their next album something a bit more positive than “Give Up” next time around however…)

Just kidding. But a fighter from Andrews Air Force Base accidentally shot several rounds of ammunition at a school in New Jersey. The custodian thought people were “running on the roof.”

Over the next few days, you may notice that some of the posts here seem to depart significantly from my typical voice and/or subject matter. That is because I have extended an invitation to Adam Hill to join me here on Memory’s Outbox. Adam is a good friend and a classmate of mine here at the law school. I thought it only right that I share with you all the good time that is Mr. Hill.

I will let Adam introduce himself more fully. But I wanted to say welcome.

I have had this poem on my brain for a month. I don’t know why. Anyway, I found it today…

The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us — if at all — not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer –

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

As I entered the voting booth, I had an overwhelming desire to narrarate my voting decisions in a real loud voice from behind the curtain so everyone could hear.

“Kerry or Bush… Hmmm…. That’s an easy one. The President has done a really bad job on… oh… I don’t know… EVERYTHING!”

*click*

“Ok… for Senate… Schumer or…. Schumer or… wait, I thought Schumer was running unopposed. I have never even heard of this guy?”

*click*

But then I realized that everyone in my precint is on my team so I… behaved.

You can have Hawaii…[1]

=-=-=-=-=-=-
[1] Actually, technically you can have Florida too, but I am greedy.

As I exited my building and walked along the bustling streets of New York City this evening, my mind was preoccupied with the election tomorrow. I was worried about the swing states, the chads, and the future. Then I looked up and saw a sign in the sky that calmed my nerves, let me know that everything is going to be alright…

The Empire State Building was showing her colors.[1]

=-=-=-=-=-
[1] The ESB Website may claim that the color represents “Keeper of NY Harbor”, USCG Cutter Katherine Walker. But I am not buying it.