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Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine Volume VII, Issue 13, AD MMII Monday, September 23, 2002 ISSN 1482-0471 ------------------------------------------- "1935 will go down in history. For the first time, a civilized nation has full gun registration. Our streets will be safer, our police more efficient, and the world will follow our lead into the future." --Adolf Hitler ------------------------------------------- Licking open wounds Soured by rotting memories Bitterness prevails -- Danielle Pignataro ------------------------------------------- 1. Why I Hate Computers 2. I Copied a File 3. The Human Dishwasher 4. The Man Who Never Was 5. 'Smoke and Mirrors' by Neil Gaiman ------------------------------------------- This week's Golden Testicle award: http://www.deviantdesires.com/ Incredibly Strange Sex ------------------------------------------- 1. Why I Hate Computers By John Iadipaolo There was a time, not too long ago, when I considered myself a member of the Computer Literate. You know. That (reasonably) tech- savvy, (somewhat) knowledgeable and (generally) proficient group of individuals who are skilled enough to manipulate, maintain and fix their machines in most day-to-day circumstances, with a minimum number of hassles or headaches. Although my most impressive tricks were probably installing hardware and basic HTML coding (a quick note to the uninitiated--those aren't very impressive tricks), I thought that my general level of competency somehow made me immune to the hardships suffered by my less-knowledgeable peers. I could install and delete programs properly. I could alter my system settings and BIOS. I didn't have to pay some stuck-up computer tech $50 to install a CD burner into my system. In all honesty, however, I suppose I was that stuck-up computer tech. I figured I knew enough about my machine not only to keep it up and running, but also to correct any mistakes I might (rarely) make. I had little sympathy for people with driver problems; people whose machines froze; people who resorted to tech support. Looking down, from my perch atop the lofty tower of the Computer Literate, I chuckled at the expense of the masses. But no more: Now, I'm one of them. ...Or, more truthfully, perhaps I've always been one of them. Perhaps I've just realized it now, after a string of infuriating pc- related issues have brought me to my knees. Over the past year, I've gone from self-assured virtual playboy to technology-fearing caveman. I've thrown in the proverbial towel (and often came close to throwing the non-proverbial monitor), bent over, and allowed the afore-mentioned computer techs to swoop in. Screw being Computer Literate. It's too much work. Flattering yourself into believing you're pc-efficient is easy enough when the majority of your `problems' can be resolved by upgrading your drivers, reinstalling a program or simply rebooting your machine. No matter how innocent your computing behavior, no matter how diligently you defrag your C drive and clear out your cache, you will always run into programs that inexplicably cease to function and hardware that occasionally goes on the fritz. That's the price we pay for the `convenience' of technology (at least as long as Bill Gates controls an overwhelming portion of the market share). The problems I've recently encountered with my machines run much deeper than simple software hiccups. I'm talking about the nonsensical, way-outta-left field variety of computer problems that totally cripple your machine, leaving you perplexed and utterly exasperated, and often with no idea of how to solve them. For someone who fancies themselves technology-competent (like myself), it's a pretty humbling (and rage-inducing) experience. My first such encounter with an `unsolvable' computer problem occurred about a year and a half ago, when my system started to crash unexpectedly. Play a 3D shooter- crash. Write an essay- crash. Download some wicked goat sex movies- crash. After countless hours of troubleshooting, trial-and-error experiments and lots of advice from friends, I thought I had come up with a reasonable explanation (never mind solution) for my problem: The machine was overheating due to a faulty BIOS reading. Or maybe it was my $500 video card (yes, $500. I kid you not). Or maybe, according to the pc repairman I finally brought my machine to, it was an error with Windows itself. To make a long story short, after months of work with nothing to show for it, I ended up conceding defeat and cannibalizing the box for parts. That one negative experience would have been sufficient. However, in the time since, I've been plagued by a number of ridiculously impossible problems on three or four other machines. I never truly realized what a huge discrepancy there is when it comes to the level of expertise required to resolve major issues with a PC- you're either a pro, or you're hopeless. It makes me laugh to think that my chances of fixing a computer are quite comparable to those of my grandmother, and I'm not even sure she knows how to access the Internet. They say prides goes before the fall. Well, its come to the point now where I don't even bother to try and find solutions to my technology headaches. If my limited knowledge base can't fix a conflict, I work around it or (gasp) call in the tech support. Interestingly enough, my newfound dependence on pc repairmen brings up another dilemma entirely: Should I be exasperated or amused when they can't figure out what's wrong with my machines either? --- John is currently attending York University in Toronto, with a major in Procrastination. ------------------------------------------- 2. I Copied a File I am so proud of myself. I copied a file. I can't tell you what a sense of accomplishment I feel. I took a file from the hard drive, and copied it to a 3.5 inch diskette. When I checked the disk to see that file was there and saw that it was, I was ecstatic, in a nearly lost-my-virginity fashion. And don't mock me. I'll bet there's a lot of people who could not have copied that file, at least the why I did. Let me explain. I have a laptop. Or possibly, had. The hard drive has developed bad sectors, sectors occupied by Windows 98. Well, since I ran scandisk to fix the bad sectors, who knows where Windows 98 is now? Win98 certainly doesn't. When I boot up, it flat out refused to load. And I needed to get a file off that machine. Not even Safe Mode would bring up my operating system. However, there was one thing that still worked. The command prompt. It has been a very long time since I've worked with DOS. Even in the days when it was the only way to play, I wasn't particularly good with DOS, being a non-technical sort. As much as I mock Microsoft and Windows, I do have to admit that they came up with a good solution for people like me (although Windows 3.1 was, is, and always shall be, an affront to computing). Since Windows 95, I've become a Microsoft cripple. I am too used to dragging and dropping things. I am too used to graphical user interfaces, not text driven ones. Recently, my work's administrator showed me PuTTY, which uses the command prompt style, and my brain began to whine like a puppy being dragged towards the vet who neutered him the week before. So looking at that blinking command prompt, I thought there was no way I was going to figure this out. But I needed that file. So I searched my brain, and tried recall all my lessons. I began to type. C:\>dir Okay, getting a directory was simple enough. If not for the fact that half of it flashed by before I could read it. Anyone ever think that the developers of DOS put in little secret messages there like "You bugger sheep!" or "Buy Microsoft" in the middle of long directories since the odds of spotting them are nil? Maybe I'm just paranoid. Ok, now how was it done again? Oh yeah. C:\>dir /p The contents of my hard drive came up in little, digestible chunks. That's better. As I recall, I'd stashed the file under My Documents, shortened to MYDOCU~1 in DOS. Time to change directories. That I remembered too. C:\>cd MYDOCU~1 There we go. C:/My Documents> But it wasn't listing the files. That's right, I remembered. Jumping to a directory doesn't make it last contents right away. One of the many ways in which Windows spoils you. C:/My Documents>cd /p "Invalid switch - /P," it said. What the? Oh yeah. Wrong command. C:/My Documents>dir /p That's better. And there's my file. Now for the tricky part. I searched my brain for the instructions on how to copy a file. How easy it is to drag and drop in Windows, or to right click on a file, and highlight Send To and the A drive! Okay, concentrate. I believe it was: C:/My Documents>copy a:fps.doc I typed that, and I heard my A drive grunt. My heart leapt. But then, heartache followed. "File not found - a:fps.doc" Okay, why wasn't that working? The file was there, I spelled the whole thing out down to its file extension. What was the problem? I searched the foggiest corner of my memories. It was trying to find the file, because it actually accessed the A drive. Then it hit me. That command told the computer the A: drive was the source, not the target. It needed to be told where the file was, even though we were sitting in the directory. How did that command go? I think it was-- C:/My Documents>copy c:fps.doc a: A slight pause. "1 file(s) copied." YES! Success! I transferred the disk to another computer where Windows actually worked. There was my file, rescued! And the point of all this? Well, one, I did it by myself. I had access to another computer with an Internet connection, I could have easily looked up the information. But I didn't. And two, now I have a greater appreciation for my old skills. There was a time when DOS ruled computing. There was a time when the average DOS user could understand what every last file did on his or her system. Now, with Windows, there are programmers and guys who build computer networks who can look at a file and wonder what the fuck it does. Under DOS, you'd know what it was and whether or not you could delete it. But as anyone who works under Windows knows, if you don't know what it does, best treat it like an underfed Pit Bull with a bad rash and leave it the hell alone. So, you've got megabytes and megabytes of files that you don't understand the function of. And think of how many other things in your life are like that. I can drive a car, but if one breaks down, I am fucked. I have never even changed a tire. I could probably do it, but I would be nervous as hell. I know people who understand how their cars work, basically. So they can look under a hood and maybe spot some trouble. They aren't mechanics, but they know enough to fix basic things. And they drive more confidentially as a result. This is why you need to learn math without a calculator, how to send a letter by regular post. It prevents us from being a child culture, spoiled and dependent. Maybe we need to get drafted into another world war to teach us some self-reliance. Manual things work when the slick technological way is broken down, which these days seems to be the case more often that not. I have learned a valuable lesson about self-reliance today. And I'm going to keep on learning. Tomorrow, I'm going to go out and kill my own breakfast. --- C:\WINDOWS\JASONMACISAAC\EDIT.COM ? ------------------------------------------- 3. The Human Dishwasher by REVSCRJ What a crazy place this was to work. So stoned... so drunk... so stressed... The owners of this place, Bill and Mike, had been given this place to run by their mother who owned another bar up in Cupertino. I think it was to try and make them settle down but ultimately, it failed. They were NOT ready to be in control of a bar. In so far as substance abuse goes, these two brothers put frat houses to shame--truly, if they weren't drunk one could safely assume that folks were shivering in Hell. Seriously, there would be times in which no one but employees would be present in the building for large spans of time because the ENTIRE staff was out back puffing a bowl. Before I worked here I used to come in to write and drink coffee. It was actually the first place I really started writing poetry on a regular basis. I liked the chaos, it helped me focus. I was the underage fixture there. Being a dishwasher wasn't all that bad, in general, as it kept me pretty much to myself and without having to interact with the public, unless I wanted to. Besides, there is something vaguely pleasant about working with hot water and soap. My shifts, unfortunately, were terrible: I worked the closing shift on the weekends when all other bars were closing at 2 AM we would stay open until 4 AM. Or 5 AM... depending on how much drunken-fun Mike or Bill might be having. The rush between two and four would be so big that I would have to lead with nasty ketchup covered dishes just to get people to squeeze in and let me get back to the kitchen. It was Hellish in its predictable, repetitious, pain-in- the-ass nature of it. One could set one's watch by the sudden burst of business that would gorge the place. There was this cook, Jeff that I worked with a lot. Short, squat, greasy guy who claimed to be the ex-bassist of T.S.O.L. "before they made it big" (which I never verified, but simply assume was pure bullshit). Jeff was a little "off" in the ex-hardcore-punk- metalhead kind of way--all aggro, dark and hyper-enthusiastic... a brute. He had this war going on with the mice that had invaded the building. I don't mean he had some little grudge against them, or that he was upset by their presence--no, I mean a full fledge war, in all it's sick ugliness. I walk into the kitchen one day with a full bus-tub of dishes and he is standing, facing me, pointing at the stove-area. He is standing with a slingshot pulled back, poised to fire. "DONT MOVE!" he yells in an exaggerated whisper. "What?" "DONT move!" "Uhhh, yeah okay." So I stand there as he is fixated on a point behind me over my shoulder. "Man, this is getting heavy Jeff." "WON'T be long...." I kinda try to look real impatient, but he IS holding a projectile weapon, best not to make any sudden movements. Suddenly he says, "Little mother-" BOOM he releases "-FUCKER!" and I hear this high pitched squeal. He bolts toward it. I set the dish- tub down at last and hear him yelling at the mouse how he "finally got it", how the "little bastard" was "gonna pay", etc. I start washing up the load of dishes and he disappears out back only to come quickly back in a few moments later. "Sean!?" "Yeah?" "You wanna watch the little fucker die?" he was giddy and smiling. "No man, I don't." I just looked down into the dishes as I washed them. "You sure? I dropped him in the tallow barrel out back, I give him three minutes TOPS." "No. I'm sure man. I don't want to see that." Sick bastard. "Okay!" and smiling he dashes back outside, I assume to watch the mouse drown in putrefying grease. So when I say he had a war going with the mice, I mean it in the foulest of senses. Disturbing. Really disturbing. Of Mike and Bill: one time a friend of mine, Dave, lived with them and I was over one evening. Neither Dave nor I had any dope and we were 18, punks, and in desire of a high. We asked Mike and Bill if we could pick through their carpet for dope. They both laughed at us, called us "jonsers" and such. We ended up gathering about 2 grams of pot from the space between their couch and their table. See: they packed so many sloppy bong loads that we likely could have extracted another gram if we were bent on it. At seeing our spoils they ate crow and partook with us. Eventually Mike's liver gave out, Bill later had to hit rehab and despite that, I would have stayed there for a long time if it weren't for that two to four rush. Then again, considering how twisted the long-time employees were, perhaps it was probably for the best that I left. --- REVSCRJ is a writer/musician living in Monterey, California. Constantly on the verge of homelessness, he hopes that you enjoy his work or else his life has been in vain. Contact REVSCRJ at revscrj@cloudfactory.org to lodge complaints, notify of lawsuits, or receive spiritual advice. ------------------------------------------- 4. The Man Who Never Was By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro In the spring of 1943, with the African Campaign coming to a successful conclusion, the Allies began to consider the invasion of Hitler's "Fortress Europe." The most obvious target to start the invasion was Sicily, which was not only in a strategic location that would act as a springboard for the rest of Europe, but it would've allowed for the elimination of the Luftwaffe, a danger to allied shipping in the Mediterranean Sea. There were problems: to start, the Germans were well aware of the importance of Sicily to the Allies as the logical place to start an invasion. Add to that the mountainous landscape of the island, a joy to defend but impossible to attack. And lastly, the invasion (Operation Husky) would require such a build-up of armaments that it would be next to impossible to go undetected by the Germans. For Operation Husky to succeed and not turn into a blood bath for the Allies, the German High Command had to be fooled. On April 30, a fisherman off of the coast of Spain picked up the body of a British Royal Marines courier, Major William Martin. Attached to his wrist was a briefcase, which contained personal correspondence and documents related to the impending Allied invasion of Sardinia. Spain immediately notified the Abwehr (German intelligence). After this discovery, Hitler promptly moved two Panzer divisions and an additional Waffen SS brigade to Sardinia to prepare for this Allied invasion. Major William Martin of the British Royal Marines had been dead long before he had even hit the water, much less served in the armed forces. Major Martin was a decoy devised by Sir Archibald Cholmondley (with the appropriate name Operation Mincemeat) and put in action by Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu of Naval Intelligence. Major Martin had to appear as though he had drowned, probably after his plane crashed off the coast of Spain. This necessitated finding a corpse whose lungs were already full of fluid, so that any doctors who examined the body would accept that he had been at sea for some time. A 34-year-old man was found, recently departed after ingesting rat poison and developing pneumonia. He'd have to appear that he had been dead for a while before falling to enemy hands so that the effects of the seawater would disguise the obvious decomposition. Intelligence secretaries wrote love letters to Major Martin, one of them even including a photo of herself in a swimsuit to pass for the Major's girlfriend, Pam. Sir Cholmondley carried the letters in his wallet for several weeks to give them an authentic worn look. Martin's persona was further enhanced by adding overdue bills, an angry letter from his bank manager, a letter from his father, tickets, keys. All the sort of things that a real person would happen to carry, along with the documents that told of the Allies' plans of invasion. When Operation Husky finally took place, the Allies found so little resistance from the enemy in Sicily that the Germans had to retreat all the way to Messina. The invasion was a complete success thanks to the mission carried out by a dead man. Some sixty-years later another great plan is at work. As some of you may have noticed, the Bush administration announced the decision for military action against Iraq. This imminent invasion has been declared, examined, criticized, cheered, re- examined and re-criticized to ad nauseam. Newspapers freely talk about the impending invasion, detailing the possible day it would happen. Other articles talk about war games and the immense number of troops that have been recalled to take action in the impeding attack. Even Time magazine had an elaborate article on it, including the amounts of troops, type of aircraft involved, the places where they would most likely be stationed. Helpful diagrams over the map of Iraq showed where three attacks would start, all converging on Baghdad. All of this while Bush acted on the telly like that impatient child in the back of the car asking if we "can attack yet, can we attack yet?" This image of great pressure being put on the government to approve of this upcoming attack seemed to be the top news item. This may appear at first as the work of an idiot, carelessly announcing their invasion plans, having blind confidence in the overwhelming power of the United States army, especially after the Afghani experience, considered by some as an outstanding success. But really, Bush never intended to attack. Running a war is expensive. You don't just send a bunch of ships and planes in and blow things up. Troops have to be rotated, food and supplies brought in, maintenance, pay for troops and many other things. The war in Afghanistan had an estimated cost of 1.2 billion dollars. Per month. Include the fact that Bush had lowered taxes as part of his election promise and you find yourself with a country already with a huge deficit, powered with a great arsenal of weapons but no money to actually run a second war. So what do you do when you want to scare your enemy into thinking that you are going to attack when you have no intention to doing so? You use CNN, the modern equivalent of Major William Martin. That's why media outlets were able to provide so much in-depth information about this attack that is so imminent. The Iraqis watch CNN constantly talking about an attack in their homeland. They see large amounts of troops getting called in to prepare themselves for attack. Stock-footage of big, lumbering bombers being prepared. They see a President itching with impatience in blowing shit up real good, to continue the holy work his father had left off. They read about all the plans being worked out to arrive in their capital. And they watch over and over that the only thing that has been holding the Americans back is the discussions taking place in congress. But how long can that last, they wonder? That's why they suddenly changed their stance, by letting arm inspectors back in. They know the Americans are crazy enough to attack. And they will. Honest. It will happen real soon. In fact, we're so eager to do it, it has just recently postponed to 2003. --- Leandro likes to pretend he has a grasp of what's happening in the world he is on, but really, he's not fooling anyone. ------------------------------------------- 5. 'Smoke and Mirrors' by Neil Gaiman Reviewed by Melissa DeWilde I just finished this book. Truly, about five minutes ago. 'Smoke and Mirrors' is a book of "short fictions and illusions." I will rarely read a short story book, cover to cover, unless I really love the author. Neil Gaiman is one of my new favorites, as the more astute readers may have guessed. 'American Gods' hasn't left the "5 Books to Read" list since it was first put up. But the fact that I sat down and read this book, all of the stories, instead of picking one to read every so often, says a lot about it and the author. 'Smoke and Mirrors' is a collection that ranges from 1984 to the book's printing in 1998. Many times, in a collection by one author, you can tell the early material from the newer. You can see the writer mature and improve. Not so with Gaiman. The oldest story was, in my opinion, the funniest and no less worthy than the rest. It's a rare gift to find an author who can be as funny, as twisted and weird, as witty and wholy remarkable as Neil Gaiman can be. One of the reasons I don't like short stories that much is that I rarely get as much out of them as a novel. But Gaiman can do more in five pages than the average novelist can do in fifty. I really am in love with this man. And I really was heartbroken when I found out that he was 20 years older than I. On to the stories. This is about them, after all. The narrative of the queen and stepmother from a popular children's tale gives another view of the story. The wedding gift that tells an alternate history of the marriage as the couple ages. The angel who solved the first murder. A cure for cancer with curious side effects. A widow who finds the Holy Grail, but keeps it because Galahad is good company. A few true stories as well, and introductions to each piece that give the reader an insight to how they were all written or conceived are included in this anthology. And so I tell you your duty. Go buy a Neil Gaiman book, dammit. --- Melissa DeWilde - All the fun, half the nicotine. ------------------------------------------- CoN would not be possible without the great help of Scriba Org. CoN: "That reminds me... I have an ass kicking quota that I need to fill." Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine "media you can abuse" In memory of Father Ross "Padre" Legere Published every second Monday (or when we get around it) Disclaimer: unintentionally offensive Comments, queries and submissions are welcome http://www.capnasty.org ISSN 1482-0471 A bi-weekly electronic journal. Subscriptions available at no cost electronically. Available on Usenet newsgroups alt.zines and alt.ezines. This mailing is sent exclusively to those poor souls who chose to subscribe to the Capital of Nasty mailing list. Spread the word! If you have friends who would like to receive CoN, ask them to send email to join@capnasty.org. If you'd like to unsubscribe because such email aggravates your ass kicking quota intolerance, simply send an empty message to leave@capnasty.org. Brought to you by C.C.C.P. (Collective Communist Computing Proletariat) Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro Colin Barrett <leandro@capnasty.org> <tyrannis@capnasty.org> ZimID 708EC8D1 1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32 7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D