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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
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------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------
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********************************************************************************
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Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
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Information Communication Supply 5/18/95 Vol.2: Issue 6-1
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Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
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S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
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============== ============ ==============
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Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
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Russel Hutchinson c/o org_zine Writer, Subscriptions
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David Trosty STU000037486 Writer, Poetry Editor
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George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
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Others TBA All addresses @WSC.COLORADO.EDU
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_________________________________________
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/=========================================\
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| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
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| technology changes it." |
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\ - D.B. Smith /
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\***************************************/
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_____________________________________________________________________________
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/ \
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| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
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| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
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| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
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| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
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| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
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| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
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| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
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\_____________________________________________________________________________/
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REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
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you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
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came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.
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DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
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views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
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for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
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protections.
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|\__________________________________________________/|
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| \ / |
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| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
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| / \ |
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| /________________________________________________\ |
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|/ \|
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| Included in the table of contents are some |
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| generic symbols to help you in making a decision |
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| as to whether an article or story may express |
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| ideas or use language that may be offensive. |
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| S = Sexual Content AL = Adult Language |
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| V = Violence O = Opinions |
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|____________________________________________________|
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|------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| 1) First Word -=- Free offer: Best of ICS, 93-4. |
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| 2) Smoke -=- Poetry by Joe West. |
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| 3) WorldNet Tour Guide -=- By Steven Peterson: Description of |
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| the International Tutors Service. With Commentary [O]. |
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| 4) Imprisoned Love -==- Poetry by Joe West. |
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| 5) Hackers -=- Poetry by David Trosty. |
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| 6) Accept ->>> Delete Form 1040 *.*;*.* Part 2 -=- |
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| Cyberpulp fiction by Steven Peterson; conclusion of a story |
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| started in the previous issue [ICS2-5]. [AL] |
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|------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| ICS 2-6-2 |
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| 7) Cryptography, the Constitution, and the EFF -=- Editorial |
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| By Steven Peterson: the EFF, an activist group, is funding a |
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| federal lawsuit challenging the ITAR regulations concerning |
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| mathematical algorithms--find out why. [O] |
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| |
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| 8) 3 Haikus -=- Poems By Joe West |
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| |
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| 9) Long Shot -=- Short Story By Elizabeth Kurtak: Fresh Fiction |
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| from the modern American West. [AL] |
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| |
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| 10) Iguanasicle -=- Poem By David Trosty |
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| |
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| 11) Warehouse District: These Important Years -=- Experimental |
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| fiction, a romp for the imagination inspired by Husker Du. |
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| |
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| 12) Last Word -=- We're Back, and we have a Web version! |
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+------------------------------------------------------------------+
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|------------------------------------------------------------------|
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------------------------------------------------------------------
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+-----------+
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| First Word \
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+---------------+
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F R E E O F F E R !!!
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The staff of ICS recently assembled a "Best of ICS, 1993-4"
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double-issue and we're pleased to announce that it's ready for email
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distribution! The issue collects the finest non-fiction, essays, poetry,
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and short stories which have appeared in ICS during the first two years
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of our noble experiment. Instead of mass-mailing this 150 kbyte file to
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everyone on the list, we have elected to make this special offer--if you
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would like a *free* copy, send an email message to:
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org_zine@wsc.colorado.edu
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In the body of the message, type "Send Best-Of ICS"--we'll gladly send
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it along at our convenience. The decision *not* to mass-mail reflects
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our awareness that some subscribers may not want a collection of older
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material they have already seen; or, perhaps, email access is limited or
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expensive, and we don't want to stuff people's accounts with large files.
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Note: this file will also be available via anonymous ftp on our
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regular site: etext.archive.umich.edu --cd pub/Zines/ICS.
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Coming Soon . . . the html/Web Version.
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-Ed.
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-+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+-
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Smoke
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Where does it start,
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when will it end?
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An ill fated thought...
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joined with
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six years of joy,
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hope,
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curiosity,
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boundless energy,
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and measureless love.
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Once human
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now mere cold flesh
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and more blood
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than can be measured.
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At the hands of an
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Inhuman beast and
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Louder than thunder
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with its demonic maw
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comes death.
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Its smell still lingers
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Its breath still hangs
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in the cool evening air
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an insane epitaph
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over the body of a child.
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GunSmoke.
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>fini<
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Joe West (4/25/94)
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-+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+-
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------
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_________________________________________________
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/ W o r l d N e t \
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\____________ Tour Guide ____________/
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\_______________________/
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| International |
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| Tutors |
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\ /
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\---------------/
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WorldNet Tour Guide is a feature which appears in ICS from time to time.
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The Guide consists of articles designed to help you in using the WorldNet to
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the fullest potential. These articles will range from tutorials on aspects of
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the 'Net (programs) to reviews of places and stuff we find out on the WorldNet
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(content). Why? Because together we know more than any one of us can know.
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If you would like to write a file or document to appear in this section,
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please do so. Send your final copy (in ASCII format) to:
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ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
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-------
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Once more, into the metaverse.
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It was bound to happen; the idea, the obvious application for a
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new technology based on cheap, efficient communication: the effort to bring
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International Tutoring to the Internet is already underway courtesy of Michael
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Berns, a professional educator from the University of Toronto, Canada.
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The "International Tutors" program (referred to as -IT- hereafter)
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will be the first large-scale effort to bring multi-lingual tutoring services
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to pre-school, primary, secondary, post-secondary, and continuing education
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students on a worldwide basis. A global non-profit corporation, -IT- employs
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tutors who have been certified or licensed by the appropriate agencies in
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their fields and are currently practicing or recently retired. Typically,
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fees conform to local standards and vary between U.S. $15 and $40/hour;
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these fees may be waived or reduced in the case of students who can
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demonstrate need.
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-IT- is offering services in all areas of study as well as
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assistance in Job Search and School Selection techniques, holistic medicine,
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real estate, and health and sex issues. -IT- covers all the standard subjects
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of academic study: math, science, history, et. al.; what is most intriguing,
|
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however, are the plans -IT- has for language studies and adapting tutoring
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programs for the hearing, speech, and visually impaired. The benefits of
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using native speakers (er, writers) of a foreign language for individualized
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instruction are obvious, providing the tutors can overcome the verbal
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limitations of the medium. For the impaired, the medium of the Internet
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may provide a new means for instruction and personal development free from
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the social and psychological pressures of the "mainstreamed" classroom.
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As a working English tutor, I must express certain reservations
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I have with any effort to "technologize" education: a perfectly Skinnerian
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learning machine is, at best, inhuman. Although I happen to ascribe to a
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subjectivist approach to writing instruction, I think most educators would
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agree that people *need* the nonverbal cues and reassurances teachers offer
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with their physical presence. As Edward Hall points out, not all of the
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message is carried in the explicit code of the language; indeed, it is
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this problem which has thwarted all efforts to create a reliable machine-
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translation program (i.e. french->english). The pure text format of -IT-
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also reinforces the Western bias for linguistic intelligence; the machine,
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if overused in education, may create "one-trick ponies" and threaten or
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alienate people who happen to be gifted in another sphere of intelligence
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(i.e. kinesthetic, spatial, or musical).
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If at all possible, I'd have to recommend that people first
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look for tutors in their own backyard; there's just no substitute for the
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living, breathin' thing, scary as the situation may be. A program like -IT-
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does have its uses: people living in remote areas, people who have unique
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difficulties with f2f arrangements, people who are highly mobile and wish to
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pick up another language for business purposes--for them, this program may be
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an ideal solution to a unique (or common) set of problems.
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The cost for -IT- services seems a bit high for the gestalt of the
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'Net: they're looking for volunteers, and it seems as if it could be a winning
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proposition all around if enough educators give of themselves to eliminate the
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need for fees. Once again, the nature of the Internet poses the question:
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are we ready and willing to give form to a "trans-cultural nation dedicated
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to cooperation versus competition, to the idea that people should have a
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better means of exchange than property or money, that there should, in fact,
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be some other basis for human interactions?" In the atomized world of
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cyberspace, can we found the Woodstock Nation's classroom?
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We'll find out . . .
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To Contact International Tutors:
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http://www.inforamp.net/~it1
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or
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email: mberns@oise.on.ca
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^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
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><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
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Imprisoned Romance
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Two souls alone and free
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find bliss in each other's arms.
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Expectations and inspirations
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born worlds apart
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meet in the passion of hope.
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Believing they will share life
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side by side
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they vow true love forevermore.
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A societal pulse beats beneath the surface
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mocking their vision of love.
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Values surface
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screaming a silent scream
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unheard in their ignorance
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and wishful awareness.
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Life changes roar down upon them
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tearing the veil asunder.
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Confusion and chaos reign supreme
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cackling at their shackles of tradition
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Damned beyond redemption.....why...WHY!?!?
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To love someone,
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you must understand.....know them
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and both must be free to be themselves.
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Otherwise they stand condemned:
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players on a stage of illusion...or.....
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disillusioned prisoners of hope.
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>fini< (10/12/94)
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Joe West
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^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-===-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-==-=-=-=-=-
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Hackers
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A rag-tag circle
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of youth
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attempting
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to defy gravity,
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bullshiting.
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Sending arc
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to arc.
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A flailing octopus--
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contorting,
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twisting
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a tangled web
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of intentions
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without reason.
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Such a mindless game
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fits these mindless people.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Part 2 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
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ACCESS->>> DELETE FORM1040 *.*;*.*
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By Steven Peterson
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[Recap of Part 1: Agents Rider and Crenshaw are following the digital trail
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of the mysterious "Nitehack': a whiz who has cracked the IRS systems and
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encrypted terabytes of data across the TRSNET. All the agents have to go
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on is a ransom note for the absurd figure of $184,642. While the massive
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IRS "Electronic Return Verification" database can be backed up, the feds
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don't have years to spare reconstructing the system. When we left Rider
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and Crenshaw, they were about to download and read the latest message
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from the enigmatic Nitehack . . . ]
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Rider and Crenshaw craned over the laptop, re-reading a message on the
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small, greenish screen:
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From: remailer@dr.anon.xtel.se
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To: president@whitehouse.gov
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Subj: the $184,642 question
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> Taxes are not levied for the benefit of the taxed. <<L.Long>
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mQCNAy9q: a pinky finger of the beast for the boys down at
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the NSA. A show of faith, if you will. Wire transfer the
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tab to account #243-56-9857, International Trust, Geneva,
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and I'll send the rest. Do not delay, the key is stored
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on an old floppy . . . .
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--Nitehack
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-------------------------------------------------------------
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"Christ," Crenshaw muttered, "eight characters are useless."
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Rider heaved a sigh and replied, "that string's gotta be huge,
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more than a thousand bits. A show of faith . . . gimme a break. That
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arrogant pixel pusher is baitin' the White House."
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Crenshaw cleared the screen and began pecking out his report
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for HQ. Not much to report, the trip was a wash as far as real clues went.
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Nitehack had gained access to the student accounts one way or another, and
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unless the lab drone fingered somebody, there wasn't much point in hanging
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around.
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"Let's roll," Rider mumbled as he turned the key and fired up the
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government-issue brown sedan.
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* * *
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"Is Mr. Jess in?": an elderly voice crawled across the wires,
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a note of cool authority and sly self-assurance in the simple question
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perked Melinda's attention.
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"May I ask who's calling?" she replied with curt efficiency.
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"Richard Greyson, it's rather important."
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"One moment, please ...," Melinda punched a series of keys before
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buzzing Jess. The light on her _a:_ drive blinked as she returned to her
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dictation. Her boss, Jess, hated the keyboards and codes; he preferred to
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operate in the verbal mode. The coded phone lines gave him a false sense of
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security: a weakness, a window, a way to implement her plan.
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The little green light winked out moments before Jess summoned
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Melinda into the tobacco-stained confines of his office. Leather chairs
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and a metal desk: he liked his comfort, and Melinda acquiesced to his
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anachronistic wishes. The two weeks she had spent brushing up on the old
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notation schemes had been worth it: Jess bought the act without blinking.
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"To Hal Lanier, Cauldron Aerospace," Jess began, "re: records,
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Hal, I have the correct backups for your claims, 1992-8. We should have
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you processed by the 1st, and we'll send along a copy to GPO for the defense
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contracts. The IRS extends its apologies for any inconvenience, etc., etc."
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"Get that out right away, Melinda."
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"Of course, sir."
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After entering the text, Melinda concatenated her files and sent
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them out: siamese twins, bound for a different destinations.
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* * *
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The President reclined behind his desk, a gaggle of advisors and
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technicians vying for a peek at the screen; the latest message:
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From: remailer@dr.anon.xtel.se
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To: president@whitehouse.gov
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Subj: Step 2
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> When the fox gnaws--smile! <L.Long>>
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AzEAAAEEAKd5TPTvxMsDL8UWEYADiukOzUxpfDh0SUwxs3lTnjmDyrMm
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Very Good, boys . . . transfer received and duly entered.
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$184,642 just doesn't buy as much code as it used to . . .
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And I'm afraid the rest of the key isn't a cash proposition;
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if you want the philes back intact, you're going to have to
|
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build them a new home. That's right, the '86 corporate
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military-industrial loopholes are next; the press should
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be alerted, no?
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--NiteHack
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------------------------------------------------------------
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"Dammit, lean on those Swedes! Crack that box and find out where
|
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this message originated or I'll . . . "
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"Mr. President, shall I green-light our agents in Stockholm?"
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"YES!!! You imbecile. This Hack, this crank, wants to rewrite a
|
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place for justice into the tax code, the economy, and hell, government.
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"We'll have it within the hour, sir."
|
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When he signed the executive order for the IRS "Electronic Return
|
|
Verification" datasearches, the President had been surrounded by techno-
|
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sharks after a bite of the U.S. taxpayers. They were spouting _60 Minutes_
|
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propaganda, promising to nab the cheats and "streamline" the collection and
|
|
refund process. Nobody foresaw the obvious result of machine surveillance:
|
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with ruthless logic, the TRSNET system had identified the biggest dodgers
|
|
in the economy; the coterie of corporations intimately involved in political
|
|
funding controlled the players, called the shots, made fortunes. Meanwhile,
|
|
the overzealous prosecution of citizens made possible by the machinery fueled
|
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the ancient antagonisms between the individual and the state.
|
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"Uh, sir, Mr. President? Incoming data from the browsers, I think
|
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you should see this ..."
|
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"What is it?"
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"Sir, Nitehack flooded the Nets; mail-bombed everything in sight
|
|
with detailed, annotated transcripts of corporate officers conducting back-
|
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room negotiations for doctored documentation. At least twenty-million users
|
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had access to this before we powered down the whole system; the press is
|
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barking like mad dogs, sir, and we've restored the phones."
|
|
The President reached for his Maalox: the soothing comfort of cold
|
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plastic and creamed chalk. It had to end; the era of information made every-
|
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body an amateur Dan Rather, a Thomas Paine of the desktop revolution. Yet
|
|
another advisor entered the room and spiked the President's peptic juices:
|
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"Sir, we've cracked the box in Sweden . . . umh, the signal's been
|
|
traced back to the U.S. . . ."
|
|
"I guess I have to ask, where to?"
|
|
"Sir, the IRS, sir. We've tracked it to an account registered to
|
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a Peter Jess, a mid-level administrator in Ogden."
|
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"Get him. But be civilized about it, he may be another red herring.
|
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But get him . . . his records, his papers, everything."
|
|
"Right away, sir, the NSA has two agents in the area."
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* * *
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The call came over Rider's cell phone, a stern voice issuing orders
|
|
to apprehend, confiscate, conceal. Apparently, it was an internal affair;
|
|
they were on their way to the complex in Ogden because the bossman had
|
|
never trusted the IRS, personally or professionally.
|
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"Crenshaw, looks like they broke the box in Sweden: new target, and
|
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get this--our target is on staff. A mid-level shmoe named Jess."
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"Suppose he's in?"
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"Oh, yeah. They got him tied up in teleconference."
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"Figures. It'd be poetic if we got him while the wire's in."
|
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"Heh, heh. Jack in, tune out, get 'cuffed."
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Melinda caught Jess' attention, motioned him to lend an ear.
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Caught up in his phone call, he didn't notice the laptop she set on one of
|
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his leather chairs. The tasteful case matched the rich, buttery color of the
|
|
buckskin; Jess glanced over it and focused on his gesticulating secretary.
|
|
"Mr. Jess," then, in hushed tones, "I have to leave for my dentist
|
|
appointment. The reference files you wanted are on the hard-drive, click on
|
|
the Cauldron icon. If you have time, look over your correspondence and initial
|
|
it for me, I'll send it out when I get back."
|
|
"Yes, I've seen the reports," he growled into the mouthpiece. Then,
|
|
a motion waving Melinda away: he was in his element, oblivious to the lesser
|
|
concerns of data. "What do you mean, the numbers are wrong . . . "
|
|
Melinda quietly withdrew and went to her desk. Grabbing her mouse,
|
|
she started closing windows. Finally, she reached the system prompt and
|
|
entered the command: C:\> fdisk. Three clicks and the screen blanked,
|
|
a demolition in progress. Wiped clean, all evidence consigned to digital
|
|
oblivion, Melinda sighed and attached the tape drive. Two commands and
|
|
the machinery took over, rewriting the data. Tracks covered, one click to
|
|
reset, and she rose with quiet dignity; it was too easy.
|
|
|
|
Rider and Crenshaw passed Melinda on the way to Jess's office:
|
|
she gave them a little wiggle, a flip of the hair, they barely noticed her.
|
|
They found him on the phone, eyes wide, staring at their badges and flustered
|
|
beyond dignity.
|
|
"Wha-wha-what is this! What do you want!"
|
|
They found it, the laptop machine in the leather case.
|
|
Inside, files and codes crammed into each other; they spelled out
|
|
the fate of an institution. Crenshaw started pulling up text: the transcripts
|
|
from the 'Net bombing, source-code files for what looked like a worm program,
|
|
and finally, a key. Rider pulled out hard copies of NiteHack's email and began
|
|
calling out the first eight characters:
|
|
"m, Q, C, N, A, y, 9, q."
|
|
"Bingo!" Crenshaw copied the file to a diskette and tossed it over
|
|
to Rider, who had just finished cuffing Jess. "Lock and load, Rider, set to
|
|
transfer file . . ."
|
|
"Mr. Jess, you have the right to remain silent . . ."
|
|
|
|
* * *
|
|
|
|
She walked into his office, just the right touch of blond ditziness
|
|
setting him at ease.
|
|
"Oh, I can use computers . . . when I have to . . ." On to pillage.
|
|
|
|
-------------------------------------
|
|
Copyright (c) 1995 by Steven Peterson
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______________________________________________________________________________
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|
Information Communication Supply 9/20/95 Vol.2: Issue 6-2
|
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|
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S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
|
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============== ============ ==============
|
|
Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
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|
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Tim Halas STU000058410 Writer ...
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David Trosty STU000037486 Writer, Poetry Editor
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George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
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Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU
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-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\
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|
o Cryptography, the Constitution, and The EFF o
|
|
| By Steven Peterson |
|
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|= =|
|
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|
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----BEGIN PGP MESSAGE-----
|
|
Version: 2.6
|
|
hIwDEAC+6ttFScEBA/4p/eTt/G+8EsdJsyiIIrhQ9vG1AO9dEv7/4S7enE1bOfkJ
|
|
pFYUccaY9iho4JxRZH8aeiWzj1Q5UKem+UmMDRNCl6oOJdKMRvtxVi/VkZBJQ3eS
|
|
F5IVKRVzg6/V9NrXWBpFirb9Nz7OPhoSJE2333s6enBtfnm21lFsPKrj0BWXOISM
|
|
A8awmkw7sf5NAQP/RYoKCjgh1Ana4/W3qcWWXK+MMWSGOn0FgTUsjJSxKY . . .
|
|
|
|
The garbled mass which opens this essay is an example of "cyphertext,"
|
|
a term used to describe digitally encrypted (or coded) text files. I created
|
|
it by using a freely available software program called "PGP"--basically,
|
|
PGP is a program which uses advanced mathematical algorithms to generate
|
|
"1028-bit keys" which are then exchanged and used to encrypt messages and
|
|
data with military-grade codes. This program puts a truly awesome amount
|
|
of cryptographic power in the hands of users around the world; in fact,
|
|
no one has managed to "crack" a PGP-encrypted message since its release--
|
|
the experts term it a "computationally infeasible" task. Variations on this
|
|
technology will almost certainly play an essential role in bringing the
|
|
world of business on-line, and, perhaps more importantly, PGP offers the
|
|
most viable method of protecting the privacy of personal communications
|
|
on the Internet.
|
|
|
|
Last February, an American civil-rights organization known as the
|
|
"Electronic Frontier Foundation" filed a federal lawsuit in an effort to
|
|
lift the restrictions which limit our right to use, produce, and distribute
|
|
information and software that uses advanced encryption technology to "armor"
|
|
or protect data. Currently, cryptographic materials in the U.S. are categor-
|
|
ized alongside munitions and other physical weapons under the "International
|
|
Traffic in Arms Regulations" (ITAR). These regulations, designed to limit the
|
|
proliferation of weapons and weapons technology, requires people who wish to
|
|
publish cryptographic software and papers on the subject to obtain a license
|
|
from the U.S. State Department--and violating the terms of this license
|
|
(e.g. releasing a "freeware" cryptographic program across the U.S. border
|
|
via the Internet) carries a severe penalty: ten years in jail, a million-
|
|
dollar criminal fine, plus civil fines (Johnson 6.0).
|
|
|
|
The EFF lawsuit, filed in February of 1995, challenges the ITAR export-
|
|
control scheme as an "impermissible prior restraint on speech, in violation
|
|
of the First Amendment." The plaintiff in the suit is Daniel Bernstein, a
|
|
graduate student in mathematics from UC-Berkeley who has developed a new
|
|
encryption algorithm and wishes to publish and discuss his work with
|
|
colleagues and the general public (what would be a violation of the existing
|
|
regulations). Bernstein is contending that software and its documentation
|
|
"are published, not manufactured; they are Constitutionally protected works
|
|
of human-to-human communication, like a movie, a book, or a telephone
|
|
conversation" (EFF 1).
|
|
|
|
Continuing his attack on the First Amendment violations in the ITAR
|
|
licensing scheme, Bernstein asserts that "these communications cannot be
|
|
suppressed by the government except under very narrow conditions--conditions
|
|
that are not met by the vague and over-broad export-control laws. In denying
|
|
people the right to publish such information freely, these laws, regulations,
|
|
and procedures unconstitutionally abridge the right to speak, to publish, to
|
|
associate with others, and to engage in academic inquiry and study. They also
|
|
have the effect of restricting the availability of a means for individuals to
|
|
protect their privacy, which is also a Constitutionally protected interest"
|
|
(EFF 1). His argument, therefore, challenges the authority of our government
|
|
to maintain any real control over cryptographic knowledge which is produced
|
|
by individual citizens; this information, in many cases, is already diffused
|
|
throughout the world (in the form of PGP programs).
|
|
|
|
The EFF, a civil-libertarian group dedicated to preserving individual
|
|
rights on the Internet, is sponsoring Bernstein's suit and providing legal
|
|
assistance for several reasons. Chief among these reasons is the belief that
|
|
"cryptography is central to the preservation of privacy and security in an
|
|
increasingly computerized and networked world" (EFF 1). In essence, the EFF
|
|
is concerned about the potential for a "surveillance society" emerging as a
|
|
consequence of advanced data manipulation technologies (i.e. search engines
|
|
which could easily track an individual and generate a running "electronic
|
|
profile" for investigative purposes); their interest in this matter, there-
|
|
fore, is more than academic.
|
|
|
|
Understandably, the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, and other U.S. law enforce-
|
|
ment agencies are very concerned about their ability to conduct wiretaps and
|
|
monitor the public computer networks for terrorist, drug-related, and other
|
|
nefarious activities; in response to the perceived threat of "unreadable"
|
|
cryptography, the U.S. federal government has launched an effort to install
|
|
an encryption standard of their own in every computer. The so-called "Clipper
|
|
Chip" would offer a standardized encryption program for everyone; it would
|
|
also feature a "backdoor" created for law enforcement use in duly approved
|
|
wiretaps, email searches, and database-access requests (Barlow 44).
|
|
|
|
While federal courts are deciding this issue (the EFF expects the
|
|
case to take several years), you can take action to forestall a misguided
|
|
government's effort to restrict freedom of speech and privacy: first, you
|
|
can (and probably should) download a working version of PGP and begin using
|
|
it to encrypt your email. If and when the U.S. government imposes the Clipper
|
|
Chip scheme, you may want insure your privacy with this alternative tech-
|
|
nology (use PGP, *then* Clipper).
|
|
|
|
Utilizing encryption technology on a personal level, right now, will
|
|
remind the federal government that the cat, so to speak, is out of the bag;
|
|
therefore, they should end the folly of trying to contain or legislate how
|
|
data will be secured. Email messages are just too easy to intercept and scan
|
|
for interesting keywords. This can be done easily, routinely, automatically,
|
|
and undetectably on a grand scale. International cablegrams are already
|
|
scanned this way on a large scale by the NSA (Zimmerman 3).
|
|
|
|
Take the time to download the latest version of PGP via "anonymous
|
|
ftp" while you still can . . . for U.S. readers, ftp net-dist.mit.edu
|
|
-cd pub/pgp and then download the "readme" file (it contains directions
|
|
and warnings required for downloading the program); for readers outside
|
|
the U.S., ftp to ftp.funet.fi -cd pub/crypt/cypherpunks/pgp/pgp262 for
|
|
the latest version. PGP is distributed as a .zip file--use the > bin
|
|
command before the > get pgp262.zip command.
|
|
|
|
Take crypto in your own hands: it's free, it's easy to use, and
|
|
there are versions available for all of the popular platforms.
|
|
|
|
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
Works Cited
|
|
|
|
Barlow, John Perry. "Jackboots on the Infobahn." _Wired_. April, 1994. 40-9.
|
|
|
|
EFF. "EFF Sues To Overturn Cryptography Restrictions." Press Release.
|
|
San Mateo, California: Feb. 21, 1995.
|
|
http://www.eff.org/pub/EFF/Policy/Alerts.
|
|
|
|
Johnson, Michael. "Data Encryption Software and Technical Data Controls in
|
|
the United States of America." Internet File. Longmont, Colorado: 1994.
|
|
http://www.cygnus.com/-gnu/export.html
|
|
|
|
Zimmerman, Phil. "PGP User's Guide, Version 2.6." Computer Software. Boulder,
|
|
Colorado: 1994. ftp rtfm.mit.edu --cd pub/pgp
|
|
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}
|
|
|
|
1) Haiku
|
|
|
|
Floating in Darkness
|
|
I shuddered as I embraced
|
|
the bright Flaming Sword >7/16/92<
|
|
|
|
|
|
2) Haiku
|
|
|
|
Wings spread across sky
|
|
Eyes glowing bright, breath steaming
|
|
Life breathes in Darkness >7/16/92<
|
|
|
|
|
|
3) Haiku
|
|
|
|
In Idyllic Dreams
|
|
We Belly Bump, Belly Bump
|
|
Procreation, or....... >7/16/92<
|
|
|
|
|
|
Joe West
|
|
|
|
{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}
|
|
|
|
|
|
Long Shot
|
|
|
|
By Elizabeth A. Kurtak
|
|
|
|
|
|
I really can't recall why she came in that first time. The Saddle
|
|
Rack is certainly no place for a young lady. Of course, Angel was like
|
|
that. There was never any guessing what that girl was going to do.
|
|
She came in with one of her friends and they broke every last rule
|
|
of pool etiquette. They barged into the table and started playing each
|
|
other when their quarters were up, totally disregarding the winner of the
|
|
last game (Jesus, John bitched about that one). After about forty-five
|
|
minutes of their bullshit, some of the boys started getting pretty
|
|
mad. You see, the Saddle Rack isn't one of those swinging-singles bars you
|
|
find in Denver or California; the boys come here to get away from all that
|
|
feminist bullshit. They didn't appreciate these foolish little girls
|
|
coming in and taking over their pool table. For Christ's sake, they didn't
|
|
even know how to hold their sticks!
|
|
After the boys had razzed them for awhile, John walked up, picked
|
|
up the eight-ball and sank it for them. He then informed them that
|
|
their game was over. A smart girl would have left, and Angel's friend
|
|
was a smart girl. Angel, on the other hand, put up two more quarters
|
|
for another game.
|
|
She ended up shooting against me, and I was glad. I thought she
|
|
brought a little light into the place, with her sparkly blue eyes and
|
|
white hair. There ain't a movie star alive that can outshine a sixteen-
|
|
year-old girl on the brink of womanhood. It just isn't done.
|
|
Not to say that I didn't feel silly. I couldn't think of a damn thing
|
|
to say to this girl. She was missing an easy side-shot, aiming to put it in
|
|
the corner all the way at the other end of the table.
|
|
"Why are you taking that shot? For Christ's sake, what's wrong with you?
|
|
Take the side . . . it's right there."
|
|
I didn't want her to look stupid in front of the boys.
|
|
"Shut up," she told me. I watched her sink the eight at the other end
|
|
of the table.
|
|
"I like the long ones," she said, her remark eliciting laughter and
|
|
ribbing amongst the boys. She turned red and smiled.
|
|
"Who's up?" John was up; he was the best shot in town. He picked up
|
|
his quarters and left.
|
|
"You pussy!"
|
|
She called John a pussy. John has been cowboying and hunting for
|
|
thirty-five years. I had never heard anyone call him anything like a pussy
|
|
before.
|
|
John turned around, murder in his eyes.
|
|
"I may be a pussy, but I'm certainly not going to shoot against a
|
|
little hole like you. You better watch your mouth little girl; it might
|
|
get you in trouble some day."
|
|
She glared right back at him. John nodded at us, and, with a breathy
|
|
snort, was out the door.
|
|
"So, who's up?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
|
|
* * *
|
|
|
|
|
|
Angel was no dummy, not academically, and certainly not at life
|
|
itself. She was naive and outspoken (like my first ex-wife when I first
|
|
fell under her spell). I began to enjoy her company; she became a regular.
|
|
She had studied some philosophy, and I appreciated the distraction.
|
|
Hell, sometimes she even made sense and her peculiar wisdom offered
|
|
me some degree of comfort. She was so full of life, so excited, like
|
|
it all made sense to her. Sometimes I thought it was rubbing off on me,
|
|
but later, when the nightmares would come, I knew it would always be like
|
|
this, and I would always be what I've become. I could never go back to the
|
|
innocence where she lived.
|
|
"Why are you so serious all the time, Dave," she ventured to ask me
|
|
one night.
|
|
"Because I have regrets. You have any regrets?"
|
|
"No, I suppose I'm not old enough to have any regrets yet. What do
|
|
you regret?"
|
|
"Lots of things."
|
|
"Like what?"
|
|
God she was pushy, but she wasn't smiling. "Like being in Vietnam,
|
|
and getting married, and bringing a kid into a world that don't want it.
|
|
Does that answer your question?"
|
|
"Some of it. You shouldn't freak out about your kid, though.
|
|
My parents weren't going to have kids because of the Cuban missile crisis.
|
|
They thought the world was going to end; I'm awfully glad they decided to
|
|
have me and my sisters."
|
|
She looked at me, but controlled herself from prying any harder.
|
|
I don't believe in talking about my problems: they're my business.
|
|
I don't know why I could talk to this kid . . . I never talked to anyone
|
|
else. All the boys ever talked about was football and ranching, and I
|
|
wasn't particularly interested in either.
|
|
"My daughter is five: she has AIDS. She got it from a transfusion
|
|
when she was born."
|
|
I'd said it. I felt tears rushing to my eyes, and I pushed them back
|
|
down with the rest of the garbage. She looked at me with her sparklers, and
|
|
put her hand on mine.
|
|
"I'm sorry. Where is she?"
|
|
"She's with her mom, in Denver. She's in and out of the hospital--
|
|
Children's, you know?"
|
|
"Yeah, man. I know."
|
|
"I guess I should go see her."
|
|
"Yeah. You should." She looked like she was about to cry too.
|
|
"Thanks, kid," my voice broke a little.
|
|
"Anytime, Dave."
|
|
She hugged me hard, like I was her dad. I couldn't remember the last
|
|
time I'd hugged anybody (months? years?). The lounge was empty, except for
|
|
the bartender and us, so there was no teasing.
|
|
|
|
* * *
|
|
|
|
"This sucks!" Angel let her head fall to the bar in defeat.
|
|
"It may suck, but it's important, dammit."
|
|
"Not to me. I'll bet I could get through the rest of my life without
|
|
ever using math."
|
|
"You already use it everyday!" I watched her get up to take another
|
|
shot. It was getting late. Angel had been playing singles since 7:30, and
|
|
no cowboy had beat her yet. In between runs, we were doing algebra. Angel
|
|
had found out she could graduate early if she could get through the math.
|
|
I told her, "Pool is math, it's all angles, and forces."
|
|
"That's physics," she retorted.
|
|
"Well, physics is a form of math, dammit!"
|
|
I believe in math. Math's the only damn thing in this world that
|
|
comes out the way you expect it to. You can always get an answer out of
|
|
it, and that answer is a correct answer. Life should be so tidy.
|
|
"I had physics my first year of college, got an A in it too," John
|
|
offered, surprising damn near everybody. He'd been quiet all evening,
|
|
and hadn't played a game yet. I think he was waiting for someone to get
|
|
Angel off the table.
|
|
"Is that how you learned to throw your lasso?" Angel asked, a little
|
|
sarcastically.
|
|
"No, it's how I learned to beat smart-mouthed little girls at pool."
|
|
John put quarters up for next game. She smiled. It was her break, but
|
|
nothing went in. John never gave her another shot.
|
|
"Do your homework, little girl," he told her, looking amused as hell.
|
|
|
|
* * *
|
|
|
|
There were a lot of drifters coming through town in early spring,
|
|
helping with cattle birthing and getting the ranches together for summer.
|
|
Of course, they all came into the Saddle Rack like the rest of the
|
|
cowboys. Last year, there was some bottle and chair throwing, nothing
|
|
too serious. Some people call it cabin fever; things get a little crazy
|
|
in the mountains come February and March. Angel was shooting up a storm,
|
|
and some of the cowboys didn't take to getting beat by a girl all the
|
|
time. I asked her to be careful, to be a good winner, and she was.
|
|
"You ready, little girl?" John asked.
|
|
"Yup. I can't believe you're going to give me another chance to beat
|
|
your ass."
|
|
"I'm just bored." John laughed.
|
|
"Okay, rack 'em up." This time, she sank a stripe on the break. John
|
|
was deserving a little payback, and he never got a single shot at that
|
|
table. When she shot at the eight ball, he even tried using one of Angel's
|
|
distraction techniques: sticking his tongue in and out, making a sound
|
|
like a turkey. He cracked up everyone in the bar, including Angel. It
|
|
didn't matter, she went for the long shot, and made it. She had kicked
|
|
his ass. John got a mean look on his face, mean as I've ever seen him.
|
|
He walked over to her, raised his hand (I thought he was going to hit
|
|
her), took her hand, and shook it nice as you please.
|
|
"Good game, Angel" he said.
|
|
"Thanks, little cowboy." John laughed.
|
|
Angel and John decided to shoot doubles, and be partners after that.
|
|
They were basically unbeatable. It's not a good idea to fuck with the
|
|
drifters, however. I don't think Angel knew anything about it (she said
|
|
she didn't), but apparently, John was making a little money on a sure
|
|
thing . . . one particular cowboy, name of Rick (who was probably short
|
|
on cash anyway), took offense to being capitalized on. After the game,
|
|
Rick and John went outside. I heard raised voices (I expect everybody
|
|
did), and then John came back in with fifty bucks, and I forgot all
|
|
about it.
|
|
The next night, there were only a few of the locals in. John had
|
|
his own cows to tend to, and he wasn't around either. Me and Angel were
|
|
working on her math, when in comes Rick the drifting ranchhand with a
|
|
sawed-off shotgun.
|
|
"Where's John?" he asked. You could smell his intoxication from
|
|
across the room.
|
|
"Not here," I told him, staying seated, not wanting to agitate him.
|
|
"WHERE IS HE!"
|
|
"He's out calfing, like you probably ought to be doing," offered
|
|
Angel, getting up. I tried to pull her back down, but she was quick, and
|
|
the inch of shirt I'd seized slipped through my fingers. She walked up to
|
|
him, smiling a little.
|
|
"What kind of gun is that?" she asked him.
|
|
"Remington," he told her.
|
|
"Wow, can I see it?" she looked up at him with those sparklers. She
|
|
was a pretty girl, but nobody's that pretty. I still don't understand it.
|
|
He *gave* her the gun, I mean what the hell? She popped the safety on
|
|
neat as you please, and ran out the back door. Me and the bartender
|
|
stood up, prepared to restrain him, but he just stood there, disarmed,
|
|
and watched her run away. After awhile, she came back in. She hadn't gone
|
|
far. I figured she was just listening outside to see if it was cool to
|
|
come back in.
|
|
"Can I have my gun back?" he asked.
|
|
"No. Not 'til tomorrow," she told him, like his mother.
|
|
"I want my gun," he whined.
|
|
"Go hunt for it then," she said. "It can't be far."
|
|
He went out the back to look for his gun, and we locked up all the
|
|
doors.
|
|
"What the hell were you thinking? You could've got yourself killed!
|
|
Why didn't you let us handle that? What's wrong with you?"
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"He knew I wasn't going to hurt him. I'm too little. Anyway, I played
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that guy last night, and if he shoots guns as bad as he shoots pool, we
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were never in danger anyway."
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I wanted to scold her, but no words came.
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"Go home, Angel," I sputtered, and that was the last thing I got to
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say to her.
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* * *
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I went to visit some war buddies in one of the old mining towns
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the next night. We had dinner, talked some shit, and lost some money.
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All night long I'd had a bad feeling I just couldn't shake, so I left
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early and headed back. I got in just before the bar closed, only to find
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out that Angel had been eighty-sixed from the bar.
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|
Apparently, some of those damned drifters in town hadn't taken to
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|
her; they failed to appreciate her skill and wit. The bartender said
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|
they'd gotten louder and louder, until the owner who lived above the
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|
place came down to see what all the commotion was about. He decided
|
|
Angel was responsible for the problem, and had kicked her out. The
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|
bartender said she was very upset when she left and had told the owner
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|
"he sucked," and he should "fuck right off."
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|
I talked to him about it the next day. I had cooked for him in the
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|
restaurant for four years, and thought I might be able to make him see
|
|
reason. He just said, "Those cowboys are my bread and butter. I know
|
|
she's grown on you boys, but she just comes in here and makes trouble
|
|
and drinks free Cokes all night."
|
|
She meant a hell of a lot more to us than that, and if the owner
|
|
had ever passed any time in his own bar, he might have seen that the
|
|
light had gone out of the place, and wasn't coming back.
|
|
I called my ex-wife early the next morning. I told her I was no
|
|
longer working and had time to come down for a visit.
|
|
"Which hospital . . ."
|
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* * *
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Copyright 1995 by Elizabeth A. Kurtak
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------
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<^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^>
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Iguanasicle
|
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The lizard lies
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in death's shadow.
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A buried bone
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in winter.
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|
Limp leather
|
|
lying there.
|
|
Lifeless, still,
|
|
a ton of lead.
|
|
Arctic air
|
|
turns reptile
|
|
into glacier--
|
|
cryogenic calamity.
|
|
|
|
Via human intervention
|
|
hot-rock caresses
|
|
cold lizard's
|
|
underside.
|
|
Tundra-belly thaws.
|
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Gelatnous blood
|
|
flows again.
|
|
A tiny spark
|
|
fires up
|
|
a pea-sized brain.
|
|
Consciousness?
|
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|
|
It is a new dawn
|
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for my lizard.
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|
Dr. Frankenstein
|
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would be proud
|
|
of me.
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|
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^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^
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|-------------------------------------------------|
|
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| Warehouse District: These Important Years |
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\ By Steven Peterson /
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\-------------------------------------------/
|
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| >> Revelations seem to be another way |
|
|
| >> to make the days go faster anyways |
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\ ___________________________-- MOULD __ /
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|
--------
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|
|
The scent of a thousand dead dinosaurs simmering in the hot summer
|
|
sun: the EL clattered past the smoldering remains of the faded industrial
|
|
district, carrying Constance toward her new home. The thick convection
|
|
currents rising in the July afternoon parted reluctantly for the train
|
|
as it rolled and jerked to a slow, grinding halt.
|
|
A thin stream of black smoke curled up from the top of the train, a
|
|
cartoonish signal complete with the sound of sparks barely audible in the
|
|
suddenly silent car. Constance was about to sweat for the first time since
|
|
the "killer" heat wave struck a week ago . . .
|
|
|
|
"Man, I don't wanna sit up here an' bake all damn day, YO, conductor,
|
|
when we gettin' off this crazy thing?"
|
|
|
|
The outburst from the young man sitting three rows behind Constance
|
|
broke her concentration; he was penetrating the filter, the soft wall of
|
|
fiction she used to keep the world in order. So was the heat. Shuffling
|
|
through her catalogue of responses, she feigned deafness and stared out
|
|
the grimy window: the sun flashed off chrome in heliographs, arcs of dull
|
|
light forcing the eyes upward.
|
|
|
|
"I said, YO, conductor . . . we spam-in-a-can up here, do somethin'!"
|
|
|
|
Meat. Hot, trapped meat. Not an image Constance relished under the
|
|
circumstances; she could feel sweat beading on her face, mascara and blush
|
|
melting in front of the window. Her dress, a conservative print in subdued
|
|
tones, began to cling as she cautiously fanned herself.
|
|
The light forced her eyes to the inside of the car, to glance at her
|
|
neighbors. The forced eye-contact, polite nods and gestures felt wrong:
|
|
the heat, the scene, and that man behind her (the loud one)--all three
|
|
were attacking Constance's awareness, reminding her that she was in the
|
|
presence of _others_. Somebody began to rattle the windows.
|
|
|
|
"Can you people believe this? Hottest day of July, an' they just
|
|
leave us up here to fry. I say we climb down; it's only a hunnert yards
|
|
back to the last ramp. Yo people . . . let's bust outta this oven!"
|
|
|
|
The kids on board began to bang on the windows while the adults
|
|
stirred from their seats. Constance's composure evaporated as the thought
|
|
of climbing down the tracks, with these people, crushed her sense of
|
|
propriety. Trust that loud-mouth, the kids banging on the windows,
|
|
for her rescue?
|
|
|
|
"Yo, conductor: move this heap or we movin' without ya . . ."
|
|
|
|
Voices mixing and blending, a murmur of general agreement: "let's
|
|
do it . . . Mommy, where are we going? . . . what they gonna do, airlift
|
|
the whole car?" Panic gripped Constance as she scattered her vision: a
|
|
profusion of images served up by the eyes and thrown through the wall of
|
|
her expectations, fear plucking the chord of her prejudice and propriety.
|
|
The first man, the loud man, opened the door and poked his head out.
|
|
Had there been juice in the car, a siren would have howled. Constance
|
|
waited for the stern, safe voice of authority to stop the motion and
|
|
give her a place to look, an approved response to the situation. Finally:
|
|
|
|
"THIS IS THE CONDUCTOR, PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR"
|
|
|
|
The loudspeaker squalled with feedback, then fell silent. The loud
|
|
man poked his head back in and chuckled, "what . . . he goin' to git up
|
|
off his fat arse and come git me?" The heat and pressure of the moment
|
|
broke with explosive laughter; the thin vapor separating the mixed-bag
|
|
of hot humanity dissolved in a flash.
|
|
The first people were out the door, carefully picking their way
|
|
across the ties when Constance finally decided to face facts: join the
|
|
parade or roast like a Christmas duck. As she stood to join the slow-
|
|
moving queue, her blood flushed hot and fast; little white tracers flew
|
|
at the periphery of her vision, she felt dizzy, and she sensed an energy
|
|
flowing from the people. For an instant, she forgot who she was and why
|
|
she was on the EL. She staggered on awkward dress-heels toward the door:
|
|
|
|
"Yo sister . . . c'mon, you alright? Oh, uh, take off them shoes
|
|
if you comin', sister--it'll toast your tootsies, but you won't fall."
|
|
|
|
The loud man's voice softened, just a little, as he extended a hand
|
|
toward Constance. She looked into his brown eyes, stared and shook on her
|
|
wobbly ankles; in that instant, she saw past the clothes, the hair, the
|
|
jewelry and saw a man willing to help her--a knight without armor. She
|
|
grasped a seat and leaned over to slip off her heels:
|
|
|
|
"There you go . . . c'mon, I'll walk ya down."
|
|
|
|
Wiping her brow, Constance nodded at the loud man and stepped through
|
|
the door. The searing metal bridge-tie melted the bottom of her nylons on
|
|
the first step; the current of pain traced a path up her legs, up her
|
|
spine, merging with the thin feedback from the man's grip in the acid-
|
|
clear pool of her consciousness. A quick smile and a weak tug:
|
|
|
|
"Thassit . . . step quick and it won't be so bad. Let's go."
|
|
|
|
Walking on fire. Each step brought a new flash of current, a staccato
|
|
pattern of sensation which overwhelmed her ability to process. From the
|
|
chaos of signal, Constance found a clarity: lucid moments of perception,
|
|
the animal realization of the moment. Gripping the loud man's hand, she
|
|
savoured the human bond--a return to the open trust she last knew as a
|
|
child. Approaching street-level, she felt the attention of a crowd; the
|
|
conductor was red-faced, screaming:
|
|
|
|
"Wait! I need statements, wait . . ."
|
|
|
|
The heat killed the spectacle: no one waited, the moment had passed.
|
|
Constance clutched at the loud man's arm:
|
|
|
|
"Here's yer shoes lady. C'mon, leggo, lady, I gotta bus to catch."
|
|
|
|
She caught herself: sweat-soaked, rumpled, nylons curling up around
|
|
her ankles. Reflexively, Constance touched her hair and reached for her
|
|
shoes (*I need those tonight*). Silently, she nodded at the loud man and
|
|
turned away, the soles of her feet tingling.
|
|
|
|
Later, in mixed company: "of course it was dreadful, but without a
|
|
little excitement in my life, I just seem to drift into a haze."
|
|
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
Copyright (c) 1995 by Steven Peterson
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
|
|
|
|
+---------------+
|
|
| Last Word \
|
|
+-------------------+
|
|
|
|
We're back! Despite any rumors to the contrary, ICS is living,
|
|
breathing, and mutating in slow fashion as we recruit more writers, more
|
|
editors, and more ASCII demons to fill your head and your hard-drives.
|
|
Excuse the long absence . . . the staff went on road trips, started
|
|
recovery, or just whiled away the short summer months.
|
|
|
|
Our first new face for 95-6: Tim Halas, a Western State student
|
|
and Net-neophyte (we'll change *that*). Send him Email. Lots of it. >8*)
|
|
|
|
Late-Breaking News: ICS is on the Web! That's right, the last
|
|
five issues of ICS and the "Best-Of" collection is available in html
|
|
format--point your browser to:
|
|
|
|
http://www.western.edu
|
|
|
|
Scroll down to "Other Campus interests"--point and click to
|
|
open the ICS Home Page; use the links to open the available issues.
|
|
Note: it takes us awhile to post new issues in this format, so maintain
|
|
your subscription for timely delivery . . .
|
|
|
|
The collection is great for burrowing into back-issues: every
|
|
story, poem and article is linked to the table of contents--it's much
|
|
faster than scrolling through a regular ASCII file forwards or backwards.
|
|
When you're through with the ICS collection, use the "Go To" feature on
|
|
your browser to open
|
|
|
|
http://www.geopages.com/sunsetstrip/1312
|
|
|
|
it's a fun spoof on the Western home page (make one for your school!).
|
|
|
|
You can expect fresh issues of ICS every three weeks or so now
|
|
that we're back in session (there are, after all, credits to be earned).
|
|
Please, send in your ideas, feedback, stories and poems for future issues.
|
|
|
|
Live Well,
|
|
-Ed.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
ICS would like to hear from you. We accept flames, comments,
|
|
submissions, editorials, corrections, and just about anything else
|
|
you wish to send us. We will use things sent to us when we think
|
|
they would be appropriate for the issue coming out. So, if you send
|
|
us something that you DO NOT want us to use in the electrozine,
|
|
please put the words NOT FOR PUBLICATION in the subject-line of the
|
|
mail you send. You can protect your material by sending a copy to
|
|
yourself through the snail-mail and leaving the envelope unopened.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
BACK ISSUES: Back Issues of ICS can be FTPed from ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU
|
|
They are in the directory /pub/Zines/ICS.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
ICSICSICSICSICSIC/ I C S \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSIC
|
|
\ / An Electronic Magazine from
|
|
\ / Western State College
|
|
\ / Gunnison, Colorado.
|
|
\ / ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
|
|
\/ '*'
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
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|
|
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|
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