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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