This e-log will go down in history as the "meta-e-log." It will self-consciously refer to itself. It will ignore the "fourth wall" of theater, recklessly go crashing through it. It will not respect personal boundaries. This e-log will not be televised. It will not come to you after a word from our sponsor. This e-log comes to you from the mindless, shameless, endless Summer of Dave!

Celebrities of every stripe have been invited to sing along with this e-log as it sits in its honeymoon bed with a person of Japanese ethnicity. This e-log has e-mailed 50 acorns tied in a sack to the leaders of 50 nations! It opposes the Vietnam War, advocates Peace! Bag-ism! Shag-ism! All This E-log Is Saying Is Give Peace A Chance! This e-log is in fact the Walrus!

This e-log runs barefoot and naked through the park. It eats organic foods. It believes in Love and Peace and never wears no shoes. When this e-log goes to San Francisco, it wears flowers in its hair. This e-log has not yet experienced the Tet Offensive! In this e-log, Richard Nixon is not yet aware that his presidential rival next year will be not Robert Kennedy, but Hubert Humphrey. This e-log enjoys all-new episodes of Gilligan's Island, I Dream of Jeannie, and Bewitched. It is especially fond of Aunt Clara.

In this e-log, Dave is only 5 years old. His family has just moved to Anchorage, Alaska. He dreams fearfully of snakes and bears, is routinely introduced as "the Baby of the Family." This is the e-log in which Dave follows the sprinkler man, staring at his workman's butt until he is long lost from his neighborhood. In this e-log, Dave develops a torrential habit for reading library books. He defecates in the woods to prove to a friend that he can, and is listlessly punished for it. He meets what he thinks is his First Girlfriend, makes her Valentine's hearts, stuffs them in her mailbox, and is relieved when it's all over.

In this e-log there is hope. The Democratic Party of Chicago is looking forward in this e-log to the attention and income that their party's National Convention will bring when Senator Kennedy takes his crown. As this e-log unfolds, a 2-year-old Filipino tot and his excited family are flying from Manila to California for a new and magical life in America. This e-log does not let on to either Dave or this 2-year-old that in two decades they will be, briefly, in love with one another.

In this e-log, the Beatles are still going strong, Elvis lives, and Woodstock is just a little-known town in upstate New York. This e-log exists in a realm along with The Major Opus of Andy Warhol, The Most Influential Music of Bob Dylan, Woody Allen's What's Up, Tiger Lily, Sleeper, Bananas, Take the Money and Run, and Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask. Somewhere within the legacy established by this e-log lie 2001: A Space Odyssey, Mel Brooks's The Producers, Cabaret, Guess Who's Coming To Dinner, The Graduate, Blow Up, Get Smart, and Lawrence of Arabia.

This e-log has very long hair. It does not trust anyone over thirty. It experiments dangerously with narcotics of all types. It goes to college and stays there as long as possible to keep from being drafted. It was this e-log who wrote Slaughterhouse Five, Cat's Cradle, Player Piano, Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, Jesus Christ Superstar, and Tommy. The E-log Is The Message! In the Future Everyone's E-log Will Be Famous for Fifteen Minutes! Fighting to End War Is Like E-mailing to End Cyberspace!

Revel in this e-log! Embrace it! This E-log Hears America Typing! In this e-log I see you, weathered and beard-weary as you trample to my front porch in Paterson, New Jersey, and hand me this month's Compuserve bill, amazed at all the words that have passed in the night. I see you in Oakland, where the fires have not yet raged, just minutes away by Internet, just across the bay from one of the first cities where young men will start dying in 15 years from a virus that will keep science baffled through the end of the millenium. You fasten your overcoat, slur some vague, ill-timed reference to Timothy Leary, kiss this e-log on the mouth, and stagger off into the Western Night.

[the beginning]

— David Saia

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