QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQ] QQQ] QQQ] QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQ] QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQ] \QQ\ QQQQQQQQQ] QQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQ] \QQ\ QQQ] QQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQ] \QQ\ QQQ] QQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQ] \QQ\QQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] Volume 1 Issue 2 SPAM & EGGS. Cut SPAM in slices a fourth of an inch thick. Brown quickly in hot frying pan. Arrange SPAM around fried eggs. It's a delightfully different way to start the day. Try it tomorrow morning -- or for supper tonite! Let your next word to the grocer be SPAM! STARRING (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE): Nobody Here But Us Chickens ........................Jane Smith The Origin of Machine Readable Data ........................Tom Owens Cracked ........................Judith Dickerman What is a Book? ........................Dan Flasar Civil Service, Part II The second chapter in a six-part serial ........................Kenneth Wolman CORE may be reproduced freely *in its entirety only* throughout Cyberspace. Please obtain permission of authors to reproduce individual works. Send submissions, subscription requests, etc. to rita@eff.org. CORE is available via anonymous ftp from eff.org (journals directory). __________________________________________________________________________ Jane Smith jds@uncecs.edu Nobody Here But Us Chickens Last week, I think it was -- it might have been last year, or tomorrow -- there was a fire in a chicken processing plant in North Carolina, in a little town near where I, and my father, and his father, and his, grew up. I heard the news on the radio for days, driving home from an office where I'd sat feeling bored, wishing I were somewhere else. The facts are fuzzy in my mind already: I believe twenty-five people died, fifty-some more were injured, in a work group of fewer than a hundred. They fried chicken there, bite-sized nuggets to ship frozen to the fast-food chains. A vat of grease caught fire fast: the most likely hazard. Exit doors were locked (no breaks taken, no chickens stolen). Who knew where the fire extinguishers were? A woman's voice on the radio said she was in the bathroom when it happened. Women's bathrooms are great escapes. They (especially if they are men) won't argue too much about your bladder's needs. She told the women in the bathroom with her not to leave; she told a big black man outside to bust the nearby exit door. A researcher from a State think tank, a native judging by his accent, was free to say (or dared) that manufacturing plants in North Carolina have a chance of being inspected once every seventy-five years. North Carolina has a law which says it doesn't have to do better than Federal Government standards, slipping since Reagan. North Carolina has a superstition among the people which says that Unions take your wages. This, perhaps, is the corollary of a custom among the businessmen of paying by the minute, and not too much. The people have to eat; some don't even grow cabbages and collards anymore, spending seed money on gasoline to drive to the chicken plants, to earn the money which comes in little yellow envelopes, sometimes a dime a raise, to feed the children canned beans and white bread, to quench the thirst for alcohol, to get by, to forget, to get by. There's not much to do in Hamlet, N.C., except hold on to your Daddy's land and eat and drink and screw. And work, because your Daddy worked, and his Daddy worked, and his. If your Daddy was a supervisor you could be a supervisor. If your Daddy was a farmhand you could work at the chicken plant. My mother's maid told her she'd never work again at the poultry packing plant in Monroe because her hands froze and she slipped on the guts on the floor. She simmered pinto beans all day on my mother's stove while she cleaned the bathrooms and got pregnant while she waited for her husband to get out of prison. They taught her maths in school but not budgets and they taught her English grammar but not communication. My father told me not to play with their children and that it's who you know every bit as much as what you know and you're known by the company you keep. He told me to never clean my plate at a restaurant. He taught me to play gin rummy but not how to gamble. He got me a summer job at the textile plant as a payroll clerk when I was sixteen, without an interview. The reporter on the radio told me that even on the second day after the fire there was a strong odor around the chicken plant but she didn't tell me what it was. She told me that two people die every week in North Carolina in work-related accidents and that twenty-two percent of chicken industry workers are injured on the job. I wasn't surprised. ______________________________________________________________________________ Tom Owens owens@athena.mit.edu THE ORIGIN OF MACHINE READABLE DATA The lights of the computer blink all night -- a city across water or traffic miles away. What it plans for itself, no one knows, but in the blue glow of a dream a man opens a grave and finds his body gone to pearl, weightless at last. He forgets everything by morning. Hair swept over blank eyes, the emptiness in his hands, become a tremor on his cheek and what the dream meant, if it must, a leap of fire beneath the eyes. At work, he mounts the first tape. It runs by like a rich, brown river and before it stops, he comes out of the underbrush, carrying bone, the thigh of that first animal. What he sees on the river is all he can bear, and beyond it, the lights he begins to name. No one can say what becomes of him. In a forest that green, anything happens and later, over coffee, he tells his friend what he knows, his plans for himself, how the lights across the water, white as bone, came to him darkened into syllables he could understand, then darker into the machine that sleeps beneath his hand. ______________________________________________________________________________ Judith Dickerman (none) CRACKED Outside the two-stall garage, its walls covered with a brick facade, I stood barefoot, the asphalt cool, holding my favorite cup filled with coffee. He was squatting by the machine, tinkering with its innards. The job complete, he turned the engine on, revved it to a roar, never noticing me walk through the door. As I tired to talk to him, my husband, my words were obscured by the motorcycle's din. Raising my voice to a higher pitch, the crescendo of noises rose, and reachined a climax in a splintering crash as I smashed the ceramic cup on cement. There it lay, in fragments on the floor; a scrap left over from the night before. ______________________________________________________________________________ Dan Flasar wugcrc@wums2.wustl.edu WHAT IS A BOOK? Psychology, like all wannabe sciences, aspires to prediction. And prediction is usually based, in science, on models, which in turn are based on assumptions, which are of 2 basic types: processes and objects. In the world of the mind, examples of objects are goals, or desired states of affairs. An example of a process is a drive. Thus, to maintain bodily functioning, there is the hunger drive. For preservation of the species, there is the sexual drive (not to be confused with a subclass of dating). There are others, but technology has now created a new drive - the drive to computerize (some claim that this is merely the old "drive to annoy" in a new guise). Nietzsche said, "When all you have to work with is a hammer, all prob- lems start to look like nails." Since we all have computers now and are looking for ways to justify the cost, the world reduces to data. The latest target for this behavior is - books. These same psychologist note that some mistake the drive itself for its object, where the fulfillment of the drive, independent of its object, is pursued in and of itself. Some call this an obsession, others call it art. For example, addiction to food is called gluttony (or an eating disorder), whereas, given the proper descriptive vocabulary, and sufficient documenta- tion of the process in satisfying the craving, one is then called a gourmet. Thus, the urge to compute, which has as it's legitimate object that which will be made more efficient, easy, etc. by computerization, becomes redir- ected to the process of computing itself as the object, independent as to whether the final product is useful or not. As documentation (books) went on-line, it seemed a natural step, given the drive to compute, to extend the treatment to all books. Thus, there are now schemes hatching aplenty to allow the utility companies and battery makers to extract tribute from us whilst blissfully in the throes of literary escape. Interestingly, these books-on-a-(chip/disk/cassete /whatever), are to be "played" on a device, usually called, ominously, a "reader." What are we to make of this? Reading is much more than just an intellectual experience. It has its own gestalt, one that differs according to the type of reading that you're doing. For example, if I'm reading something solely because I want to, generally for pleasure, I like to curl up on the couch with something to drink (preferably hot tea), and comfortably dive right in. The heft of the book, the size, the type of paper used, whether I have to peer into the "gutter" to try to guess what characters are out of sight (because the pages are bound with insuffient binding margins), whether the cover is plastic-coated with sharp corners, etc. etc. etc. - all these things and others can enhance or detract from the session. Reading a book on a computer means reading the text electronically - on screen. One problem with VTD screens, even with small, light portables, is that you are reading transmitted, rather than reflected, light. Light reflected off a page, especially one with a non-glaring-white page, is easy on the eyes. Less contrast, less light enters the eye, so eye-strain is minimized. VDT screens, on the other hand, are all transmitters, so the page IS THE LIGHT SOURCE ITSELF. Reflected light is diffused, due to the fibers in the paper; it is absorbed by the books very substance, resulting, in the very best cases, in a kind of soft warm glow. There are some books having the purpose of maximizing the correct reproduction of photographs and graphic images; "coffee table" books and those devoted to works of art and photography are examples. Though these can be wonderfully exciting to view, they are usually printed on highly reflective clay-coated stock, which offers the same sort of glaring glossiness that you'll see on photographs themselves. These books will cause eye-strain if looked at too long, but, because of size, they're usually not the 'curl uppable' kind anyway. (This problem can be resolved with different paper stocks that have a less reflective surface for the page and text, but the graphic image itself is glossy. A nice compromise that works fairly well.) Another difference from books is that light from a computer screen is con- stantly being refreshed at a rate far slower than that from your average read- ing lamp. Like a television, a VDT screen is being refreshed at a certain rate. I'm not sure of the frame-rate on a VDT. Since VDT screens are composed of discrete phosphors, this means that you're really looking at a constantly changing, mini-electronic billboard. In other words, with all those pixels going on and off, your reading material is strobing. Not something you want to do for too long. There is a novel called "Cyberbooks", by Ben Bova, which describes such a device, a sort of computer/reader that is to be marketed as a replacement for books. Instead of buying a 'physical' book, you either buy a chip holding (or you can download to), text, that the device then displays. An interesting book, worth the quick read that it is. The novel itself points out another problem with computer "books." In the last several years, paperback book covers have sported playful devices on the covers as artistic, or other, embellishments. Most of them are on the level of things you would find in children's books. For example, there might be a cut-out in the first page of a two-page front cover, which reveals something fairly innocent looking. When you turn to the second page of the cover, what you saw, in it's proper context, is horrific, funny, nasty, etc. 'Cyberbooks' has, as an example, the shapes of the 3 main characters embossed into the cover. The villainess of the book has an especially interesting, um, bas-relief. Granted, this is just a ploy to get you to buy the book. With the cyberreader, books would have to be chosen on the basis of content. And what book publisher would want to take that chance? ______________________________________________________________________________ Kenneth Wolman ktw@hlwpk.att.com Synopsis: In our first installment we met Gelfen, a NYC Welfare caseworker and stud manque, hardly working in a Bronx welfare center during the late 60's. CIVIL SERVICE Part II (of VI) The new case hit Gelfen's desk at 4:30 one afternoon, a thin manila folder with a number stamped across the tab and a category (thank God) already assigned: _thank God_ because it was Home Relief, and that meant no school-age kids to worry over, no absentee father-hunts, no half-an-ear listening to the kvetching of a Puerto Rican mama. A simple one that probably would be closed in two months, if that long. But a new case, called a ``Pending,'' not be faked or phonied: Gelfen would have to get out and visit his new client. Reading through the preliminary forms, Gelfen saw that the Intake worker, a lifer named Stampler, had done his usual shitty job. The client, Eusebio Colon, had been allowed to get through to a regular casework unit without producing a birth certificate or any other proof of his existence. All the record gave were a few gauzy details. Colon lived in an apartment on Charlotte Street with his 19-year-old sister Nilsa, who worked as a secretary in a sheet-metal supply house. He had been released two weeks before from Attica, where he'd done two years of a four year sentence for trying to sell some heroin to an off-duty cop in a poolroom on 172nd Street. And now Nilsa was telling her ex-con older brother to either get some _dinero_ into the house or his ass into the street. At 9:30 the next day, Gelfen signed out for the morning and took the bus one mile up Boston Road to see what he could see. Even after eighteen months with one caseload, Charlotte Street still made Gelfen feel like he'd dropped some bad acid. His parents, he knew, had lived there when they were first married, but ran for their lives within a year because the block was already in sight of the bottom. When he made his first trip to Charlotte Street, Gelfen, despite six months of Bed-Stuy under his belt, took one look at what he'd been dealt and half-considered resigning on the spot. Even the cops, he was told, shat in their pants as they cruised the street in squad cars at forty miles an hour. The monthly (maybe) visit of the garbage truck was the occasion for mass jubilation on this three-block-long cloaca, and kids who had never seen the inside of a school joyfully rained down bricks and beer bottles on the truckmen who dodged and loaded with balletic movements. The buldings themselves were gargoyle-encrusted brick-and-plaster firetraps built around 1900, with long dark entrance halls and unlit narrow stairs that smelled of a deeply embedded combination of cooking, excremental, and sexual aromas. Gelfen was a kind of fixture on the block, a money-bearing emissary from a cockroachless world, but nevertheless he rubbernecked the rooftops for his own physical well-being. Finding the building he wanted, he climbed three flights and knocked at a door that bore a sign proclaiming _Somos Catolicos! No propaganda de los otros religiones aqui!_ because Seventh Day Adventists and Jehovah's Witnesses worked these blocks with the offensive regularity of streetwalkers. No answer: Latin music blared from the apartment and dogs barked in time on other floors, so Gelfen pounded on the door this time, and a male voice shouted back ``Who?'' ``Welfare,'' Gelfen yelled back, figuring nobody had too many secrets in this place. ``_Momento_,'' came the reply, and for a moment Gelfen pictured the guy finally managing to hit a still-usable vein. But the music stopped, and a few seconds later the door was flung open to the accompaniment of a rattling of chains and police locks. Before Gelfen stood a thin but powerful-looking Puerto Rican man with cropped black hair, wearing pants and sandals, but no shirt. Gelfen did a quick once-over of the guy's arms: no tracks, no chippie, no nothing. ``_Me llamo_,'' he said in his updated high school Spanish, ``_es Mister Gelfen del Departamiento de Welfare. Estan usted Senor Eusebio Colon?_'' ``Tha's me, man, I'm Eusebio,'' he replied in accented but fluent English. My lucky day, Gelfen thought, as they went into the living room. ``Be right back,'' Colon said, and left Gelfen alone in the living room as he went into the kitchen. Gelfen checked out the furniture and restrained a laugh. It was the Puerto Rican parody of Pelham Parkway Jewish, a garish travesty of middle-class city life bought from _mueblerias_ (``_Su Credito Es Bueno Aqui_'') on Southern Boulevard, complete with imitation French Provincial tables, chairs, sofas, and an Olympic combination TV and stereo. All the seats were covered in thick see- through vinyl that looked like it could deflect low-calibre bullets. This, Gelfen thought, could have been his parents' place except for the pictures of Jack Kennedy and Jesus Christ displayed before a burning votive candle. Gelfen heard the top snapping off a beer can, and a moment later Colon reappeared, brew in hand, wearing a tee- shirt. He sat across from Gelfen, took a long swig, and said sarcastically, ``Okay, man, I'm 26 years ol', I been in the Joint, I don't got no fuckin' Jones, and I got a 7-inch dick. What else you wanna know, Mr. Welfare? I know the routine, right?'' In spite of himself, Gelfen cracked up. Time for the apologetics, he thought. ``Look, Mr. Colon, I know this is a pain in the ass, but they pay me to find out this kind of stuff, and if I can't say I saw it, then no money.'' ``Bullshit,'' Colon responded without anger, like he was simply stating a fact, which Gelfen realized he was. Gelfen rolled out a conspirator's grin guaranteed to break down Eusebio Colon's resistance. ``Hey, if you ever need anything sort of . . . well, _special_, from us, I'd have to know the real story up front so I could sort of work around it.'' Right on cue, Colon laughed briefly. He smiled at Gelfen in a way the caseworker found mysteriously disconcerting. ``I get it, man,'' he said. ``I scratch yo' back, you scratch my balls.'' He got up and went back into the kitchen. When he returned, he had two more cans: he tossed one to Gelfen, sat back, and proceeded to tell his new caseworker the story of his life. He was, as he said, 26 years old, born in Puerto Rico in 1942, and he was hauled off to New York when he was seven, right after Nilsa was born. The family gypsied around from Brooklyn to Manhattan and finally to the Bronx, staying off relief because old man Colon was a reasonably skilled electrician who scrounged non-union jobs in the city and North Jersey, working for under scale, but working, anyway. Five kids later, Federico Colon hit midlife crisis and decided his first 44 years had been a serious mistake, so he took up with a 17-year-old girl and beat it back with her to Puerto Rico and oblivion. A few months later, Jose, the second child, who had acquired a heroin habit as part of his education at Morris High School, caught an OD and died; and the mother, Elvira, conned the price of bus tickets, grabbed the five youngest kids, and went to live off her sister and brother-in-law in Cleveland. Which left Eusebio and his sister Nilsa to rattle around seven rooms of gloom: until Eusebio, out to make his own way in the world, discovered as the cuffs were slapped onto his wrists that he'd seriously misjudged the buyer for some heroin he was trying to sell, and that his last customer was to be Detective Henry Ramirez of the 48th, who lived around the corner and was just there to shoot a little nine-ball. Eusebio drew a four year sentence, served two, and was released for good behavior. Nilsa, in the meantime, being the brains of the family, finished the commercial course at Morris, got a decent job, and began living with her high school _novio_, a part-time piano player and full-time stud named Javier Melendez, who, according to what Nilsa wrote Eusebio in the Joint, laid anything with the right plumbing, brought strange women to the house while Nilsa was at work, and harbored a burning life's ambition to become a pimp. A few weeks before Eusebio's release, Nilsa kicked Javier out; but he persisted, Eusebio said, in coming around to lay Nilsa, who made a great show of unwillingness but who nevertheless woke up the neighbors with the noises she made half the night while Javier was with her. ``Are they,'' asked the middle-class Gelfen, ``making any noises about getting married?'' Eusebio laughed. ``Shit no, man, you don' know Javier. He is a real _cabron_, that one. Hey, I think he even wan's my sister to _work_ for him. He says she gives the world's greatest head, but she tells me she's through with him, done, goo'-bye. I don' think Javier believes her!'' Gelfen reminded Eusebio about the birth certificate, and the client began hunting around in the drawers, but could not turn it. ``Aah, shit,'' he said. ``Nilsa, she knows where all this stuff's at. When I was Upstate, she took this dump down and put it back together, an' di'n't tell me shit about how. Look, man, she'll dig it out, and I'll get it to you, okay?'' Gelfen did not like the idea of the case hanging fire while Eusebio or Nilsa or somebody got mobilized to find the birth certificate. Also, Gelfen felt that Colon had manipulated the conversation so the ugly topic of _work_ had never come up. What the hell? he thought. The guy's been on the street for two weeks, let him at least come up for air. Technically, he could have let himself off the hook by refusing the case based on lack of documentation. That would have meant a tight thirty days of waiting: if Colon did not reapply under the thirty-day wire, someone else would get the headaches. But Gelfen gave Eusebio his work number and told him to call. (-/////////// September 1991 \\\\\\\\\\\-) Rita Marie Rouvalis rita@eff.org Electronic Frontier Foundation | EFF administrivia to: office@eff.org 155 Second Street | Flames to: Cambridge, MA 02141 617-864-0665 | women-not-to-be-messed-with@eff.org