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Yucks Digest V2 #60
Yucks Digest Thu, 10 Dec 92 Volume 2 : Issue 60
Today's Topics:
Gleaned from here and there (LONG)
Siggraph `92
the mayor of wymola
WAR GAMES II
The "Yucks" digest is a moderated list of the bizarre, the unusual,
the sometimes risque, the possibly insane, and the (usually) humorous.
It is issued on a semi-regular basis, as the whim and time present
themselves.
Back issues and subscriptions can be obtained using a mail server. Send
mail to "yucks-request@cs.purdue.edu" with a "Subject:" line of the single
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Submissions and problem reports should be sent to spaf@cs.purdue.edu
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: Sun, 21 Mar 92 21:16:21 PDT
From: Rob Purser <robkp@microsoft.com>
Subject: Gleaned from here and there (LONG)
To: spaf
TOP TEN KEEBLER ELF EUPHEMISMS FOR DEATH
10. Bit the big morsel.
9. Failed his freshness test.
8. On the cooling rack.
7. Bought the Pepperidge Farm.
6. Gone to aisle three.
5. Creamy casket filling.
4. Owl bait.
3. Super-fudge-a-riffically-dead.
2. Overbaked.
1. Somebody get the Mini-Vac!
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 15 Apr 92 16:03:29 -0700
From: bostic@okeeffe.CS.Berkeley.EDU (Keith Bostic)
Subject: Siggraph `92
To: /dev/null@okeeffe.CS.Berkeley.EDU
The Siggraph `92 Conference On Computer Graphics and Interactive
Techniques will be held July 27 - 31 in Chicago, Illinois. The following
contains selected portions of the Siggraph '92 Preliminary Program :
COMPUTER GRAPHICS ACHIEVEMENT AWARD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Presented to persons who have significantly influenced the progress
of the computer graphics industry.
This Year's Winner : Elle Macpherson
Ms. Macpherson accounts for 97% of all GIF image files transmitted
among computing professionals, insuring that GIF will become the standard for
network image interchange.
KEYNOTE ADDRESS
===========================================================================
"State-of-the-Art in Anal-Retentive Illumination Models" by Don Greenberg.
Dr. Greenberg will review illumination models that for two decades
have maintained the Law of Constant Rendering Time, which states that the time
needed to render a high-quality image shall be one full day, regardless of the
speed of the hardware.
Just a few years ago, ray tracing a surface would take all day.
However, that is no longer true, and so more complex illumination models are
needed. According to the new treatise by Greenberg, Torrance, Sparrow, and
Cook entitled "Wait, It's Not That Simple", current research considers each
diffusely reflecting surface patch to be an irregular assembly of microfacets.
The microfacets must be ray traced to get reflection coefficients. If this
doesn't take long enough, then each microfacet itself can be considered as an
assembly of smaller facets. This subdivide-and-publish paradigm should insure
that illumination methods will defeat the hardware for years to come.
INVITED LECTURES
========================================================================
"How to Convert Your Head into a Twisted-Pair Junction Box", by Jaron Lanier.
"Incomprehensible Rendering of 3-D Shapes", by Yoichiro Kawaguchi.
COERCED LECTURE
============================================================================
"Further Thoughts on Implicitization", by Thomas Sederberg.
It's clear by now that implicitization of parametric surfaces was a
bad idea. This paper explains how to re-explicitize any surfaces you may
have mistakenly implicitized. Then we'll call it even, no harm done, okay?
TECHNICAL PAPERS
=========================================================================
Drawing : The Faster, Cheaper, More Flexible Alternative to Computer Graphics.
The Desktop : An Intuitive Physical Metaphor for Representing Windowing
Systems Within a Virtual Reality.
Boogers : Deformable, Viscoelastic Primitives that Merge Together Smoothly.
The Freehand Generation of Fractal Curves using only a Lightpen and Caffeine.
Stereosterone : The Male Visual Hormone that Makes 5 Inches Appear to be 14.
"Where is 100110101110101101-ikstan?" : Using K-d-trees to Manage the Nested
Recursive Subdivision of the Soviet Union.
Impressionism : Aliasing by the Great Masters.
Simulation of Protein Folding with Applications to the Design of Cursive
PostScript Fonts.
TUTORIALS
=====================================================================
Fundamentals Seminar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Again in 1992, Siggraph will host a Sunday seminar for those who are
forced to stay over Saturday night to qualify for the excursion fare.
Attendees will learn the basics of computer graphics, including the so-called
"paint" packages, and digital "windows" with the capability to "cut" images
and
"paste" them elsewhere. We will also consider the "viewing" through a
synthetic "camera" of "surfaces" positioned in "space" and "illuminated" by
ersatz "lightsources". As lecturer Edwin "Ed" Catmull notes, "To paraphrase
Milton, 'Our ''reality'', like ''beauty'', is in the virtual ''eye'' of the
proverbial ''beholder'''".
Basic Algorithms Analysis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Attendees will learn how to prove the optimality of their algorithms,
so that when their algorithm produces lousy results they can at least claim
that no one else can do better.
Applications of Planar Fractals
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Julia and Mandelbrot sets, originally thought to have no application
at all, have displaced Blinn's Blobby Lava Lamp as the Mac screensaver of
choice among the new age Silicon Valley heads. However, the Vivarium project,
a simulated ecosystem whose purpose has baffled experts, is poised to overcome
fractals as the screensaver of the 21st century.
Marijuana cigarettes will not be available as the call for papers
was not issued in time.
State-of-the-Art in Naming Those Sombrero-Shaped Functions
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The names "Laterally-Inhibiting Receptive Field", "Windowed Sinc
Function", "Laplacian", "Cardinal Spline", "Gabor Function", and
"Difference-of-Gaussian" are being superceded by "Wavelet".
Solving Graphics Problems with Wide-Area Networks
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When faced with a graphics problem, e.g. how to calculate the distance
between a point and a line, degree-seeking students find it easiest to ask
for the answer on a graphics-related InterNet newsgroup. Attendees will learn
how to post their questions so they don't sound like homework problems. We
will also learn why we get rude responses when we ask for a public-domain
package for intersecting two lines, or when we ask for a C procedure that
converts a photograph into a CAD database.
ABSTRACTS OF SELECTED TECHNICAL PAPERS
======================================================================
Generalized Condoms
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Although typically used for surfacing cylindrical models, the membrane
and thin plate terms of the condom allow arbitrary deformations of the surface
without tearing. Furthermore, one size fits all models. Thus, like
convolutional surfaces and global splines, the condom can be used to skin
highly-articulated skeletal armatures.
Color, texture, and bump mapping are discussed. A top-down, scanline
approach to rolling the surface over the armature is presented.
Auropresence
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our research team at AT&T has designed and deployed into every home
in the nation a communications network that provides real-time, two-way audio
virtual reality, or "auropresence". Experiments show that cybernauts, using
unobtrusive hand-held headsets, interact verbally with remote users as if all
parties were in the same room.
Graphics Hardware Acceleration for Hierarchical Splatting
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We discuss how to impose a hierarchy of point-spread functions when
rendering volume visualizations using arrays of Stardent graphics
supercomputers. Our method is based on the observation that, the higher the
window that the Stardent is thrown out of, the more time the graphics hardware
can accelerate and thus the larger the splat upon the concrete.
The Oz-slow Algorithm for Vector Field Visualization
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weightless streamlining witches, cows, and loved ones are advected
into the flow field and observed from the door of the viewing house, a
spinning framework that itself follows path integrals through the dataset.
Data can be sent somewhere over the rainbow colormap, where it will be
rendered in technicolor.
Image Processing within a PostScript Interpreter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PostScript interpreters tuned to process text often have access to
thousands of bitmapped fonts. We suggest that such interpreters can also
succeed in processing gray-tone images by converting the images into arrays of
characters.
Scaling an image can be performed simply by changing the font's point
size. Contrast is enhanced by changing to a bold font. Rotation is
implemented by using italic fonts; repeatedly italicizing horizontally and
then vertically will accomplish the Catmull-Smith two-pass image rotation
algorithm.
With enough fonts, a given font will be assured that all its affine
transformations are simply other existing fonts. Thus, according to the
Collage theorem, Iterated Function Systems can be used to encode images given
a single letter from any font. This will work especially well for encoding
images of text.
Digital Simulation of a Painter's Materials
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We present a digital paint system which simulates the surface behavior
and dynamics of time-tested painting implements. The system manages the video
display so that it exhibits the irregular structure of a cave wall, and the
system allows the user to choose colors from a pallete of crushed berries and
animal organs. PostScript output onto a real cave is discussed.
Ethical Considerations in Graphics Production
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In 1989, researchers at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign
were applauded for their "Study of a Numerically Modeled Severe Storm", a
dynamic visualization of data derived from the simulation of a synthetic
tornado. However, it has been recently revealed that their data was not fake,
but was in fact real. We discuss the fallout of the ensuing scandal.
Memory Technologies for Direct Volume Visualization
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We at the Computer Museum in Boston just realized that our museum is
filled with junk. You think you're clever, unloading your computer garbage on
us like we were Jersey. Well, forget about history. From now on we're doing
volume visualization, on the leading edge.
In volume visualization, the task is to render the data so that it
appears to have a 3D physical form. However, this task can be avoided if
the data is held in a memory device that itself has a 3D physical form.
In addition to its volumetric shape, the memory components must be large
enough to be visible to the naked eye. The only memories that fulfill these
constraints are the ferrite core memories of the 60's. Binary voxel arrays
can be loaded into core memories that have been coated with magnetically
reactive pigment so that each core is white or black. In this way, a
researcher can comprehend his 3D data by walking around and peeking inside the
memory itself. And the memory is free; in fact, we'll pay you to move it out
of here.
MacKoax! from Coax Inc.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We present a product that is plug-compatible with Mac's, PC's, Unix
workstations, and all other SCSI, parallel, or custom ports. The device
operates at room temperature and does not require power. Its simple design
provides ISDN, TCP/IP, big-endian/little-endian functionality that accepts
PostScript, NTSC, voice, IGES, MIDI, Group 3, and all other formats, under the
condition that input and output formats are the same. The device works at
video rates and, because it doesn't do anything, it operates without any data
loss or distortion.
CAT Scan Visualization in PostScript
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We present a new method of using PostScript to visualize objects
formed from serial sections. Our method begins by thresholding the volume
data into a 3D bitmap of voxels that are either transparent or opaque. We
then iterate over all 2D sections, converting each into a PostScript bitmap.
We then send the bitmaps to our laser printer, which we have enhanced so that
the laser actually burns the paper away at the positions of transparent
pixels.
As sections are printed off, they form a stack in the output tray.
Eventually,
the CAT scan data volume is realized in solid paper, which can be bound in
book form.
Physics and the Mootness of Graphics
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Current trends in photorealistic graphics involve thermodynamics for
radiosity calculation, optics for ray tracing, classical mechanics for
physically-based animation, and Kirchoff's laws for reflection and absorption.
Thus, an undergraduate physics curriculum that uses computer simulations will
accidentally recapitulate all of computer graphics while resulting in a
kick-ass renderer.
FILM & VIDEO SHOW
==========================================================================
The Up With People chorus will give a live multimedia rendition of
"Chicago : It's Not as Bad as Detroit". Unfortunately, our usual laser show
has been hired away by the International PostScript Convention. However, we
do have a flatbed plotter whose pens have been replaced with lasers.
PostScript path files submitted to the plotter will be drawn calligraphically
on the projection screen.
PDI Morph Reel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For a recent Michael Jackson music video, Pacific Data Images created
what is to date the longest continuous raster image morph sequence, involving
transitions between more than a dozen completely different human faces. Each
face was Michael Jackson after a plastic surgical operation. Digital
extrapolation was used to predict Jackson's future appearance as he achieves
his goal of a "Siamese-Cat-with-Kirk-Douglas-Chin" look.
Excerpts from "Terminator 2"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the future, blobby models (metaballs, equipotential isosurfaces)
will enjoy continued success over competing surface methods. All other
modeling technologies will be made obsolete while blobby models will become a
world-wide standard. Eventually, Blobbies will decide they don't need the
humans. Shiny, environment-mapped deformable pseudopods will go on a rampage
and nearly terminate the human race.
In "Terminator 2", a Blobby travels back in time in order to terminate
a boy named Pierre Bezier, the only person who can stop blobby modeling from
taking over. The Blobby terminator's ability to distend his shiny metallic
anatomy to any length lets him become a successful porno star named Long Dong
Silver.
The Making of "Starwatcher"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the feature film "Starwatcher", new techniques in the modeling
of totally synthetic scenes have been perfected. A Cyberware scanner is used
to digitize real faces in a variety of facial expressions while mouthing all
possible phonemes. The Data Suit is worn by live actors and domesticated
animals to capture natural-looking action. Textures and scenery are derived
from sonar and optical recordings taken on-location. Clay models are moved
incrementally and then laser digitized to create a different 3D object to be
rendered for each frame. By combining these techniques, "Starwatcher" will
become the first feature length film in the history of cinema that is entirely
computer-animated, completely untouched by human hands, involving no live
action footage at all.
Special Effects in the Next "Star Trek"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In motion pictures (such as Lawnmower Man, Looker, Return of the Jedi,
and the genesis effect in Star Trek 2), computer graphics effects have been
used quite successfully to depict, um, computer graphics. Now, the artifacts
of computer graphics will be used to best advantage in "Star Trek NaN : The
Wrath of Phong"....
< The landing party alpha-blends to opacity on the planet's surface. >
SPOCK : The tricorder indicates a complete lack of mirror reflections and
cast shadows. Also, if we travel too far from the origin, we will
suffer from round-off error. Captain, this planet is highly
dangerous; it was wise to bring expendable red-shirted security men.
< An expendable red-shirted security man turns to the side while looking
upward. His neck joint suffers gimbal lock, and he falls in a heap. The
group rushes to him. >
MCCOY : Jim, he's dead.
KIRK : < throws arms wide, ripping shirt > No quaternions? What kind of
planet is this?
< An omnipotent, dim-witted native of the planet approaches, walking through
cone-shaped trees and icosahedral boulders. His form is that of a matte
gray
desk lamp. For no apparent reason, his light bulb flashes when he speaks. >
LAMP : Why does this death cause such grief, One-They-Call-Kirk? Was he not a
non-speaking extra?
KIRK : He was just an extra, yes, but still an actor, and, so, we, actors,
all of us, too, feel his pain, his agony. Regardless of age or
experience, each of my species belongs to a single screen actor's
guild.
< Another native of the planet, a curvaceous astro-bimbette, enters. >
ASTRO-BIMBETTE : When you open your mouth wide while over-acting, I can't see
out the back of your head. You are not from here, are you?
KIRK : We are from a far-away planet. And yet, like your sun, ours is a point
light source at infinity. We will return there soon.
A-B : Why must you leave? Does my form not please you?
KIRK : Oh, yes. Your complexion is very uniform, your surfaces are subdivided
to a pleasant smoothness, and your boundary representation implies
that
your head is empty. My gender finds these traits attractive. Though
I'm sure your not just a Kirk-tease, I must nevertheless be going -
LAMP : Captain, please stay. Due to excessive instancing, the genetic
patterns of my people are identical. Without variety, our species is
threatened with extinction. If you do not impregnate all the young
women on our planet, we are doomed.
KIRK : < righteously > If there is one law that we live by, it is that all
species have the right to survive. Bones, help me service all these
women.
MCCOY : Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a firehydrant.
ADMINISTRATIVE NOTE
===========================================================================
We apologize if we have at times referred to Siggraph '92 as Sgigraph '92.
------------------------------
Date: 7 Apr 92 12:29:42 EST
From: dhoward@desire.wright.edu (sparky-desire)
Subject: the mayor of wymola
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Randy, the insurance broker with two wives, Judy, the dingbat
from across the street, Romana, an old friend from my hometown of
Wymola, and I were all gathered in the kitchen experimenting with
various frozen alcoholic beverage recipes. I'd just bought a new
blender the day before. Romana makes a killer margarita.
"So, how'd you guys meet, anyhow?" asked Randy.
"Yeah, like, ya know, I'm kinda curious," said Judy. On top
of being curious, she was also noticeably miffed. She didn't like
Romana very much. I sensed a tinge of jealousy.
"We met the very first night he came to town," Romana told
them, "back in November nineteen-eighty-two."
"Somewhere around then," I agreed with her.
"It was eighty-two," she said. "That was the year we had the
lottery, remember?"
"Oh," I chuckled a bit, "yeah. The lottery. I haven't
thought about that for a long, long time."
"What's so funny about a lottery?" asked Randy.
"It was an election year in Wymola," Romana told him as she
refilled all the glasses on the table with frozen margarita. "And
we didn't have anybody in town who wanted to be Mayor. So rather
than going without a Mayor, we held a lottery. Whoever had the
losing ticket had to be Mayor for two years. Two days after Sparky
came into town they held the drawing. And Sparky lost."
"Oh, come OFF it!" Randy said. "You weren't no fucking Mayor
of no fucking Wymola!" He didn't believe it.
"Two whole years, there, Rand," I said.
"Really?" asked Judy. "You serious? You used to be a Mayor?"
"If you can call it that," I told her. "But what's really
funny about the whole thing is that I was just a transient passing
through. And it was just a spoof that I even ended up in Wymola
to begin with."
"All right," Randy said, "let's have it." There was a tone
to his voice that suggested he thought that Romana and I were
playing tag-team bullshitters. He was motioning with his right
hand for me to cough up something.
"Back in the late seventies and early eighties," I said, "I
was on vacation."
"Right," said Randy. "You were on a five year vacation."
"No joke," I said. "I wanted to see the countryside. So I
used to hop freight trains whenever I wanted to go somewhere. I
hung out in Arizona alot because the weather was nice. I'd stay
in town doing odd jobs for extra cash, then move on somewhere else.
There was a real sense of freedom. I found myself during those
years. I was at peace with myself and the world."
"He was pretty mellow, that's for sure," said Romana. "I just
figured he was on drugs or something."
"Still seems that way today, if you ask me," said Randy.
"Yeah, boy, man, tell me about it," said Judy.
"Shut up," I told them.
"So how'd you wind up in Wymola?" Judy asked me. Romana
started running the blender just then, so I waited until she was
done before I spoke again.
"I was in Casa Grande one morning," I said after the blender
stopped, "trying to get to Tucson. While I was looking for the
right train, some of the yard security spotted me and started
chasing me down. I was running like hell cross-wise through the
switching yard, cause they have a hard time catching you when you
run across the tracks. And as I was climbing between these two box
cars on this one freight, I tripped over the brake line and popped
the pressure fitting loose." Romana was pouring fresh banana
Daqueries, and I waited for my glass to be filled.
"And?" Randy asked.
"Well," I went on, "it turned out that the brake line I broke
was on the four-twenty-three train that was going to Tucson that
afternoon. And because it took them the twenty extra minutes or
so to fix the problem, the train missed the time slot it needed to
make it all the way to Picacho, and they had to take the siding in
Wymola. And since the siding in Wymola wasn't tended any more, the
conductor had to throw the switches himself. So, while the
conductor was walking from the back of the train after re-closing
the first switch, he noticed the latch on my box car was open, and
found me hiding in side. Needless to say, I was forcibly ejected
from the train."
"Threw your skinny ass right outta there, huh?" asked Judy.
"Yup," I said.
"In no uncertain terms," Romana cut in. "He was wearing the
nastiest black eye I'd ever seen in my life when he came into town
that night. Plus he had a broken wrist." Judy looked at me
quizzically.
"Crow-bar," I told her.
"Yeesh!" said Judy. She winced at the thought of the pain,
shook her shoulders as if she had chills running up her spine.
"Anyhow," I continued, "Romana felt sorry for me, fixed me up,
fed me, gave me an odd job at the saloon where she worked sweeping
up, and the rest is kind of history."
"We still don't know how you managed to become a Mayor," Judy
said.
"They passed a city ordinance," Romana to her, "that said
every resident over eighteen and legally sane had to enter the
Mayor's Lottery. And since Sparky was twenty-four, and he wasn't
carrying any paperwork that claimed he wasn't sane, and he was
employed by me at the saloon down town, therefore making him a
resident of Wymola, he was automatically eligible."
"Ha!" Judy laughed. "You got waylayed big time, aye, Sparky?"
"You know it, kiddo," I agreed. "But it wasn't all that bad.
I got perks with the job."
"What kind of perks?" asked Randy.
"For starters," I said, "the city owned a sixty-seven Ford
Galaxy. Powder Blue. I got to drive it any time I wanted."
"Oh, wow," said Randy, whirling his index finger in a circle.
He was being sarcastic.
"Don't knock it," I told him. "It was the nicest car in town."
"Tell 'em bout your house," said Romana. She was getting up
to make another one of her frozen concoctions.
"You had a house in Wymola?" Randy asked.
"Yup," I said. "Real nice one. The city owned a museum. It
was an old mansion on First Avenue just off Main Street. In order
to make the Mayor's job more attractive to prospective politicians,
they let the Mayor move into the museum. I had a housekeeper, a
butler, and a cook."
"This shit's getting deep," said Randy.
"It's true, Randy," Romana told him. "Sparky lived in a
mansion with servants." She fired up the blender again.
"For two whole years, there, Rand," I said after the blender
stopped. "The only problem was tourists during the day time.
Aside from that, I was pretty comfy."
"I guess so," said Judy carefully. She wasn't sure whether
she should believe us either. Romana came back over to the table
with a coconut and coffee concoction, started portioning it out.
"I also had a real nice office on the top floor in City Hall,"
I bragged. "Great big old leather topped cherry wood desk, and a
secretary outside the door."
"Shit," spat Randy. "In two days time you went from sleeping
under bridges to living in a mansion with servants and a rosewood
desk and a secretary. You - are - full - of - shit."
"It's true," Romana told him. "The desk was cherry, the
secretary's name was Luanna. What a bitch."
"Oh, come on, Romana," I said, "she wasn't that bad."
"She sucked every cock in City Hall to get where she was,"
Romana said, "and I'm still not sure she wasn't sucking on yours."
"More perks?" asked Judy. I ignored her.
"She wasn't my type, Romana," I said, smiling curtly at her.
She wasn't my type, but,...
"So, what did the Mayor of Wymola do?" asked Randy. He was
still skeptical.
"Not a whole hell of alot," I told him. "Most of the heavy
stuff was handled by the City Manager and the Sheriff. I had to
okay new ordinances, greet visiting officials, and preside over the
City Court every other Tuesday night. The rest of the time I
pretty much just hung around. Spent many an hour in the saloon
bullshitting with Romana."
"Wait a minute," Randy said, "you presided over court?"
"You betcha," I told him. "Every other tuesday, seven-thirty
p.m. Traffic tickets and domestic disputes mostly. Stuff I
couldn't handle went to Eloy for trial."
"You aren't no fucking judge, Sparky." Randy still didn't
believe me.
"There were no judges in Wymola," Romana told him. "But the
Mayor had limited judicial powers for the sake of convenience.
Otherwise all the trivial cases would have had to go the thirty
miles to Eloy."
"Like I said," I cut in, "mostly traffic tickets and domestic
disputes. Nothing heavy."
"Sparky made quite a few enemies in the Mayor's Court."
Romana told them. "Remember old McDermitt?"
"Ha," I laughed. "Skinned that old red-neck good, didn't I?"
"What?" asked Judy.
"This cowboy mother-fucker didn't like me much to begin with,
you know," I said, "and he thought he could just about do anything
he wanted in town, and one day I found his piece of shit Chevy
parked in my spot at City Hall, and I had the Sheriff write him a
ticket."
"Your spot?" asked Randy.
"Another perk," I told him. "Anyway, he went to court and I
fined him fifty dollars for parking in my spot, and ordered him not
to do it again. And guess what? The very next day I find this old
cowboy mother-fucker's piece of shit Chevy parked in my spot
again."
"Defiant," observed Judy.
"Came to court two weeks later," I went on, "and I canned the
son of a bitch for two weeks for contempt of court, effective
immediately. Boy was he pissed. Imagine a fifty year-old red-
neck being canned by a twenty-four year-old pot smokin' hippie.
The sheriff had to shackle him and drag him out of the room."
"You got some balls, there, Sparky," Randy said.
"I was getting high on the power. I could jerk these dim-
wits around with a slap of the gavel. And the people I liked got
special treatment. Suspended sentences and five dollar fines."
"And what about all the hobos who started flocking in town?"
Romana asked.
"Yeah, heh," I laughed. "After I was in office for a while,
all these guys I knew from the railroad got wind that I was the
Mayor, and before you knew it, transients were popping the brake
lines on the four-twenty-three out of Casa Grande right and left
to stop in Wymola."
"There was about twenty of these bums hanging around town,"
Romana added, "no money, no place to live, so Sparky gave 'em all
jobs with the city and put 'em up in the museum. This wasn't too
bad to begin with, but then Sparky started promoting them into
fictitious positions."
"Those were all valid jobs, Romana," I argued.
"Oh, come on, Sparky," she came back. "What about that lunatic
called 'Dutch' and his job as 'Maintenance Logistics Coordinator?'"
She turned to Randy and Judy. "The town was two blocks long. Like
we really needed someone to coordinate maintenance logistics."
Judy and Randy both looked at me.
"Well," I said, shrugging my shoulders.
"And Sparky turned the museum into a party motel," Romana went
on. "These hobos hung around all day and night, drinking, filthy,
they completely wrecked the place. The city closed the museum to
visitors because the housekeeper couldn't keep up with the mess."
"Yeah, heh," I chuckled. "The boys did get a little
rambunctious from time to time."
"Tell me about it," said Romana. "Shit hit the fan when Sparky
starting giving his friends their own parking spots," Romana told
them. "He had his own reserved spots all over town already, and
his friends started asking him for parking privileges."
"You had three spaces, Romana," I reminded her.
"Luanna had four," she reminded me. "Anyhow, during his second
year in office, about two thousand dollars of the city budget went
toward 'reserved parking' signs."
"Yeah," I added, "but we got back almost twice that in parking
fines. I should know. I'm the one who fined 'em."
"Needless to say," Romana went on, "toward the end of his term
in office, Sparky here was not a very popular candidate. Just two
years before, nobody wanted the job. And then, everybody wanted
the job just to get credit for getting Sparky's butt out of town."
"And they did it, too," I said. "The day after the election,
the Sheriff showed up at the museum with a bus ticket and a fifty
dollar bill. Told me he couldn't be responsible for whatever
happens later if I don't get on the eleven-thirty bus. I got the
picture."
"You didn't even say good-bye," Romana told me.
"It would have broken my heart," I said.
"Jeeze," said Judy, rolling her eyes.
"You're - both - full - of - shit," said Randy.
"Look it up," I told him.
------------------------------
Date: 2 Apr 92 02:34:52 GMT
From: eric@snark.thyrsus.com (Eric S. Raymond)
Subject: WAR GAMES II
Newsgroups: comp.risks
WAR GAMES II
or
How I Learned To Start Worrying and Hate The Bomb
[posted to comp.risks; an incomplete version previously went to other groups]
Some of my friends call me an `improbability vortex' --- the kind of person
weird stuff just naturally happens around. Occasionally I manage to to forget
why; my life doesn't seem bizarre to *me*. Then, something happens to remind
me...
Wednesday, March 25 1992: a fairly ordinary day in the life of Eric Raymond,
Boy Hacker. Shower, read netnews, phone calls, some revision on the clone
hardware buyer's guide I've been working on for comp.unix.sysv386. Will the
top ten vendors go for my idea of a competitive "UNIX Dream Machines Bake-Off"?
Hmm...well, Swan Tech wants to sign up, that's a start. Ah, the mail's in.
Riffle, riffle. What's this? Forwarded from MIT Press. Something about
the book, no doubt...
The Book: if you don't know it already, I edited a lexicon called
_The_New_Hacker's_Dictionary_ (MIT Press, 1991, ISBN 0-262-68069-6). It's
all about hacker language and folklore. Sold 14,000 copies in its first
seven months, got rave reviews everywhere, good stuff like that. Got my
first nut-case letter about a month back --- always heard that was supposed
to happen to authors. Some of the fallout has been weird. Ouch, fallout ---
*bad* choice of words. Back to our story.
Hm. From ISPNews. INFOSecurity Product News. Eh? Never heard of them;
sounds like some trade rag for professional paranoids. Computer form on the
inside; addressed to ERIC RAYMOND EDITOR, THE MIT PRESS, MASS INST OF
TECHNOLOGY, CAMBRIDGE MA 02142. I see what happened; the Press's editorial
address miscegenated with my book credit in someone's mailing-list software,
and some clerical droid at the Press didn't look at content and forwarded
a piece of mail that should have stayed in-house.
What we've got here is, oh, yeah, must be a report from the magazine's
bingo card. Reader service; they circle numbers, you get a bunch of product
info requests. OK, who wants to know about my book? Maybe I'll give them
a surprise and answer it myself. They probably all think the book is a how-to
manual for crackers. Damn all journalists for what they did to the word
"hacker", anyhow...
There were four. First one:
DAVID CARGILL SYSTEMS A
GUARDIAN LIFE INS
STE 201
888 SEVENTH AVE
NEW YORK NY 10106
Oh, boring, I thought to myself. Actually he turned out not to be; I spoke
with him, later, and the guy turns out to be an old UNIX hand who, when I
explained what the book is really about, cheerfully expatiated on Cargill's
Theory of Fat Electrons.
See, Con Edison sucks its line current out of the big generators with a pair
of coil taps located near the top of the dynamo. When the normal tap brushes
get dirty, they take 'em off line to clean up, and use special auxilliary
taps on the *bottom* of the coil. Now (sez Cargill) this is a problem,
because when they do that they get not ordinary or `thin' electrons, but the
fat'n'sloppy electrons that are heavier and so settle to the bottom of the
generator. These flow down ordinary wires OK, but when they have to turn a
sharp corner (like in an IC via) they get stuck. This is what causes computer
glitches.
I laughed, said "You sound like a man who wants to hear about {quantum
bogodynamics}" and directed him to the on-line version of the book at prep.
Back to our story...
Next guy...
BRADLEY H EDWARDS SEC SPE
SECURITY-SAFETY
CONSULTS
PO BOX 536
TOPEKA KS 66601
Well, the phone number attached to this one was out of service. Security
Specialist, eh? For sure he's got the cracker/hacker bug on the brain. Then
my eyeballs tripped over the third address
PAMELA D MILLER CHIEF
USSPACE COM
STOP 4
J2C/SS0-C
CHEYENNE MTN AFB CO 80914
and I went into the mental equivalent of TILT TILT TILT. Now, any of you who
ain't congenital idiots raised in a rain barrel somewhere on the butt-end of
nowhere will already have decoded that address to "U.S. Space Command, Cheyenne
Mountain Air Force Base". Yeah, that's right. NORAD; the big tunnel complex
under the mountain from which they be plannin' to fight World War III if it
ever goes down. Huge walls of blinkenlights, 30-foot-thick blast doors,
"We could tell you, sir, but then we'd have to kill you", the whole weird trip.
Cornpone accents with their fingers on the pulse of the Apocalypse.
Oh, *man*, I said to myself. I have to talk to this woman. I haven't
forgotten the nationwide media flap after _War_Games_ came out. You remember,
that silly movie where the kid with the voice-controlled IMSAI (snort) cracks
into NORAD's computers and accidentally damn near starts a nuclear war? God
damn; I'll bet the plot of that sucker is seared into the collective psyche of
every security officer at Cheyenne Mountain, they probably screen the video
every couple months just to keep the newbies on their toes.
What kind of hideous Federal heat could land on me if PAMELA D MILLER has
hacker/cracker confusion on the brain? I imagine some steel-eyed amazon in a
blue suit exuding grim determination to Nip This Menace In The Bud. *Bad*
scene for a guy who is, after all, better known in some circles for practising
witchcraft and stone anarchist-loony politics than for The Book. Yiiiii ...
visions of sinister limos and Men In Black pulling up to my front porch. "We
want to ask you a few questions, sir." So I called my editor Terri and Guy
Steele (credited coauthor) and told them all the proceedings so far. Nervous
laughter all around. Lugubrious jokes.
I need to convince this woman and her unknown masters that I'm a *harmless*
lunatic. Time to track PAMELA D to her lair. (Yes. Think of her that way,
Pamela D., like one of those impossible anonymous synthetic blondes in an
upscale skin magazine. "Well, I'm into sailing Sunfishes and I really like
kids, you know?". Good. A *much* less threatening mental tableau.) I limber
up my phoning fingers and call the number blazoned above her address.
<click> <sputter> "NORAD operator ten. What extension?"
Gulp. "Uh, I'm trying to reach Pamela D. Miller? I got a product
information query from her."
"Do you have an extension, sir?"
"Um, no I don't. Just this number. And her address." I reel it off.
"Try the base locator at Peterson, sir. 554-4020."
"Thanks", I said, and hung up."
Ohhh-kay. NORAD for sure. Hail Eris! PAMELA D's hanging out somewhere
under a couple of cubic miles of rock, likely in some cramped little office
with 1950s-era furniture and walls painted institutional puke-green. And an
old-style black phone. (How long has it been since you've seen a black phone?)
(Trust me, this is what the military version of bureaucratic rabbit warrens
looks like.) Or maybe at some gleaming console watching telemetry from all
those KH-11s we're supposed to pretend don't exist. Hah. Heads up, Pammy;
constructive chaos is about to enter your life. All hail Discordia!
This is about where things started to get really Kafkaesque. The base
locator is their directory information desk. I ask for Pamela D. Miller's
extension and get 3247 (remember that number). I call it. Some guy who sounds
exactly like Andy Griffith answers: "<something unintelligible> Morrow", I
say I'm looking for Pamela D. Miller and he says "You want 3427".
O.K. I call 3427. Busy signal. Bummer. The thrill of the hunt having
took hold, I feel rather frustrated. I go off and do other things for fifteen
minutes or so --- polishing the draft rules for the Dream Machines Bake-Off.
I call again. Busy signal. Bummer again.
Lunch, some code-bashing, and about six or seven cycles of this later I
begin to suspect evil things. Either this woman spends more continuous time on
the phone than your average Hollywood lawyer or I've got a wrong number. Or
she doesn't actually exist. In your typical government agency she could have
died with the phoneset in her hand in 1974 and nobody'd have got around to
noticing it was off the hook yet. On the other hand, *somebody* had to fill
out that product-bingo card.
On my next try, when the operator says "Busy, sir." I explain that the
number's been continuously so for several hours, and this seems unlikely.
"I'll check for an alternate. <pause> Try 3052."
Right. No one answers at 3052. I hang up and answer some email. I try
again. No answer. Again, fifteen minutes later. No answer. Oy vey. Isn't
this where I got on?
So I try 3247 (the *original* number) again. Busy. Foo. I call the base
locator people again and explain that there appears to be some confusion in
the air. Is it 3247 or 3427? And what's with this 3052 jazz?
"I have 3247 listed, sir. I'll double-check. <pause> It says 3427 on
her card." Silence.
"Well, which is it?" I say.
"3427. But it says 3247 on the roster."
"Well", I say with enormous gentleness, "don't you think you ought to
consider *fixing* it?"
The silence of blank incomprehension on the other end. Never ask a droid
to exceed its programming; it wastes your time and annoys the droid.
I hang up. And try 3427 again. Busy...
A few cycles later I conclude this isn't working; it's time to drop back
and punt. I consider everything I know about bureaucracies, call the locator
people and confidently ask for the US Space Command main administration number.
"Um, there doesn't seem to be one, sir. Oh, wait, you can try this one."
She gives out with a string of numbers.
"Can you transfer me?"
"Stand by." (...only in the military)
<click>
"AF Space Command."
I go into my spiel about PAMELA D. and her inquiry and her address.
"Uh, that's a Cheyenne Mountain address. Can't help you with that."
"Um", I said, "this *is* US Space Command?"
"No sir, this is AF Space Command. Separate organization. We're on the
base; they're under the mountain."
"Two *separate* Space Commands?" I said. "Why two?"
I can't tell you what he said, because I didn't understand the resulting
freshet of bureaucratese. A couple of requests for clarification just got
me in deeper. I caught something about "functional separation" and strings
of building numbers about as intelligible as so many Egyptian hieroglyphs.
Struggling my way out of this verbal morass, I said, "Well, where do
I go from here?"
"Lemme see if I can send you over to someone that'll help", he says,
and gives me another number.
It's mid-afternoon now and I'm starting to lose it. Fifteen hundred miles
from these people and I feel as thoroughly trapped in their maze as though I
was physically under that bloody mountain. Theseus with no Ariadne and a
nuclear-security Minotaur lurking around the next bend. (I like my mixed
metaphors shaken, not stirred, thank you.) PAMELA D, where are you?
But I call this guy's number and get the most human-sounding voice yet.
"Base information", it says. Young, female, black, rather pretty if that lilt
isn't out of sync with her looks. Quite a change from the depersonalized
midwestern/southern whitebread twangs I've been hearing. She listens
sympathetically as I recount my tale of woe.
"Well, let's see what I can do for you." <pause> "That's strange.
I have no listing for a Pamela Miller."
If there were any justice in the world there'd have been eerie, sinister
music on the soundtrack just then. Slowly building towards the Moment of
Discovery. Wait for it. At the time, a slight but definite premonitory
chill ran down my spine.
"Well. Does this mail code mean anything to you? J2C/SSO-C?"
"Yes sir, it means she's in J2 section."
"O.K., what does J2 do? What does that say about her job?"
Long pause. "She's in intel, sir."
Jangling chords and screaming brass from the unseen orchestra. Oh, *great*.
All the paranoid fantasies that'd been slowly graying out as I threaded my way
through the labyrinth sprang back to full and colorful life. The
*intelligence* group. Better and better. I thought about buzzing Guy and
asking him if he was on good terms with any of his overseas relatives.
"A spook!" I said, and laughed rather hollowly. "No wonder I've had trouble
reaching her. What do I try next?"
Perhaps ominously, the woman did not elect to contradict my choice of
terms. "I'll see if I can reach anyone at J2 who knows her", she said. Long
pause. Long, long pause. Background noises; people coughing, murmured
speech, file doors banging.
Finally, anticlimax. "I found her. That's 2nd Lt. Miller, sir; I don't know
why she'd have "CHIEF" after her name. Her extension is 3433, but she's on
detached duty and won't be back till Monday."
And there you have it. It's 2:39 the following morning and I look like
an out-take from the "Nightfly" cover --- but if I disappear mysteriously,
y'all will *know* where to start.
TO BE CONTINUED...
(Interlude, Friday morning. My father reads an uploaded version of the above
and asks if I intend to post it. Upon learning that I already have, he soberly
advises against offending the entire U.S. Air Force. "After all," he observes,
"they could drop a smart bomb down your chimney." Gee. Thanks, Dad.)
Monday morning, March 30th: Once more into the breach --- and Pamela D. Miller
is real! Got her first time. Neither amazon nor bimbo, of course, but a
bright and generous-minded lady with a sense of humor. And a *1st* lieutenant
now. She turns out to be (no less) chief of computer security at NORAD; and
(mirabile dictu) she *knows* the difference between a hacker and a cracker.
*Vast* sigh of relief --- no snatch teams in my future and I can unstop my
chimney now.
She was hip enough to laugh when I told her something of my travails last
Wednesday, laugh harder when I told her the title of this posting, and
hardest when I volunteered to autograph her copy of TNHD with an inscription
reading "I will not start World War III. I will not start World War III.
I will not start World War III...."
She's not allowed to have a direct phone line, much less an Internet address
(think about it) so this mini-epic is going to have to go to her by snail-mail.
But I've been invited to tour NORAD and (yes, it is possible) visit the War
Room if I'm ever out Colorado way...
---
RISKS moral. Gotta have a RISKS moral for this story. Well, there are a
couple. The trivial one is, watch out for aliasing problems if you ever edit a
book; we've only got one word for several different kinds of `editor', and that
high-level difference may not be visible to computers or the clerical help.
A less trivial one is "Don't be paranoid; it encourages paranoia in others.".
I had fun writing the above; I've always enjoyed the mad-genius-on-speed style
as practised by Robert Anton Wilson, Tom Robbins, Hunter Thompson at. al. ---
but if Lt. Miller were that wiggy or I'd really approached her with The Fear
dripping from my every vocal overtone, things could've got ugly (hah! little
did she suspect that I kept her on the phone only long enough for my insidious
infrasonic acoustic virus to escape from her earpiece and set up *sinister
resonances* in any nearby electronic equipment...)
The least trivial of all is that *human* networking is still our most effective
tool for some important kinds of risk reduction. Mutual trust, when you can
establish it, is the best security. You guess; am I more or less worried now
about the risks inherent in having something like NORAD exist, having got
a little acquainted with Lt. Miller? Are *you* more or less worried after
reading this story? And, which is the real point, does this posting make it
more or *less* likely that someone with the requisite skills would actually
try to crack NORAD?
------------------------------
End of Yucks Digest
------------------------------