L I P  T H I N K
The magazine of electronic on-line intercourse.
No.1, November 1992

A Swagazine Rack Exclusive
Featuring conversation and stories from 
the Santa Barbara telecom community.

http://www.swagazine.com/

Originally published by Swagman and Colin Campbell.
Online edition designed and edited by Zeylan.

-----

Welcome to Lip Think.
                                      
   This is a collection of printouts from the on-line world of modem
   communications in Santa Barbara. Most of us are high school or college
   students, or workers in the computer world. Despite what you might
   have heard, the youth of today are still able to read -- and to write.
   However, most users spent most of their time downloading pornography 
   in a form called GIFs. Naturally, our contributors are above all that.

-----

Fun
by Buccaneer

        Fun ye says? Well, thar's fun me an' tha lads never tire of! As
   black night shrouds tha sky, we weigh anchor and sail over this
   glittering little town, above tha foul reek o' yer motorcarts, where
   tha air is cool and clean, and tha only sound is canvas rustling in
   the breeze.
        Moonlight plays across the decks of the 'Crescent Moon' (named
   for the crescent moon cut in my cabin door), givin' a sparkle to the
   dewdrops hanging from the rigging. The whole ship glistens as we sail
   in silence over the blissfully ignorant gentry of this loot-pot. Over
   State we sail, spitting over the rails, betting on who can nail that
   lady below in her lovely white dress, talking to her poodle as if tha
   two were of the same mind. Probably are. She looks into the trees,
   thinking it was a bird, but can't see our black-hulled ship drifting
   above.
        And to the luckless folk, bent, dirty, and shaggy, we drops a
   small gift o' wine, or leg o' mutton. They care little fer their
   bruised noggins, fer tha food's good.
        A wee tot looks up and points when we sails past the Arlington
   tower, an' we can hear her little voice as she points "Look, mum, a
   pirate ship!" 'er mum just drags tha little tyke along like baggage.
   Half a crown to tha mate who lands a loogie on her mum's head!
        Full sail, mates! We drift over the sea a bit, skirting the top
   of the fog-bank. White mist billows from the bow, curling around our
   heads, feeling cold and damp. Silence.
        Over the small college town we lower sails, for the sounds of
   revelry are heard below. The crew is anxious for a bit of sport, and
   with a nod from myself, they drop ropes over the rails and slide down
   to crash a party or two. Peals of laughter, breaking glass, shrieks of
   women. Ha! It's their fun, though, overturning motorcarts, poking the
   wenches to find the best pair, stuffing their shirts with ale bottles
   'til they look like misshapen monsters, snarling broken-toothed in the
   faces of any with nerve to hold ground.
        Back up the ropes they scramble, for flashing lights warn of
   coming help for the hapless peasants. Brought a few plump wenches
   aboard for an evening's fun? Good for them! Silently snicker, peering
   over the rails as bloodied peasants point to the sky, right at our
   black ship, but blue-suited soldiers see nothing. Peals of laughter as
   soldiers take away a few dazed youths. Some hear us, and shout curses.
   Spit on their heads!
        On we sail, southwest, toward the beckoning mountains. We drop
   ballast, and rise higher for the crossing, singing The Ramblin' Rover
   as loud as we can. Over the mountains, we turn to follow the crest
   southward.
        The lookout calls, "Look below!" Over the rails we peer, hoping
   for something to spit on. The song ends, there is crushed silence.
        Below us, the land is raped, stripped of the life and beauty
   given it by his Lordship what made us. Desperate metal monsters rape
   the land, plunging up and down, up and down, stealing their pleasure.
   There is no tree, no grass, for the wild things to live in. Only dusty
   trails crossing back and fro, gleaming white as bare bone in the
   moonlight.
        Curses to the fools! So shall the rest of the land be, in less
   time than the old can forget the beauty of a walk in a forest, singing
   with the birds, tippin' a plumed pompadour to the sun, smelling
   dewdrops on the sagebrush. They're fools. They hide in their lordly
   mansions, not daring to show their faces where we can spit on 'em.
        Onward we sail, the lookout watchin' for some revelrous hall to
   raid. The crew will be especially fierce tonight, as there is anger in
   their hearts. The wenches they've taken are cowed by their anger. Like
   cows they've lived, sailing with us might open their eyes a bit, do
   them some good, though the crew will tire of them by morning and leave
   them somewhere precarious with nary a stitch of clothing. Top of the
   clock tower is a favorite. Top of a sea-borne earth-raping oil derrick
   is another. It gives them something to remember us by.

-----

Describe it to Me
by Douglas Seacat
   
        "You sure there's nothing else I can do for you?" Mark asked, his
   tone cautious, gentle. As if he would break something by speaking
   harsh.
        It was all just too much. I didn't want to deal with this right
   now, with the sympathy, the effort to help the poor blind man. Mark
   was a good friend, but he was too nice. I didn't need nice.
        I sat there, feeling helpless, trapped, and wanted to scream.
   Instead, my mind grabbed on the first thing I could think of. "Hey,
   yeah, there's something."
        "Anything to help, man, I'm serious. Just ask."
        "I know there's a pet shop downstairs, right on this block,
   around the corner. Find me the number in the yellow pages."
        There was a hesitation, and I could hear him shifting in his
   chair, letting that sink in. Granted, it was a pretty random request.
   I was pleased by his confusion, in a perverse way, but didn't smile
   like I wanted to.
        "Er, sure." I heard him get up, and then there was a pause, and
   later a thunk as he put something heavy down on a table. I imagined
   the book, could think of the exact thickness, the color, the words
   across the top. He was a good friend. He followed the instructions. I
   could hear the pages turning.
        "Hey, John, what do you want with a pet store anyhow?"
        Even that question didn't sound normal. Cautious, as if he feared
   to upset me, but couldn't hold his curiosity. He was really annoying
   me. "I don't know." I tried to examine my own mixed feelings, "I want
   something normal here. My folks have been through, setting everything
   up, making sure it was safe. I don't even feel like I live here
   anymore. I don't know. I think an animal might help. The thought just
   occurred to me."
        "Yeah, that sounds good." He was quick to agree, quick to take
   any explanation that might fit.
        Not that I'd lied, but it was jarring to me to know I could read
   him so well, read his discomfort with the entire situation.
        "Here we go, I'll write it down..." He paused again, "Or, I guess
   I'll just tell you the number, huh? Will you remember it? I can call
   it for you, if you want."
        "Just tell me the number, thanks." I felt so formal, like I was
   talking with one of those nurses or something. I shouldn't be talking
   with Mark like that, but I couldn't help it. "I'll call it myself."
        "766-1451."
        I asked him to repeat it again, and focused hard. He told me
   again, and then paused uncomfortably, "You were right, it's
   practically right downstairs."
        He waited again, and I imagined him standing there, looking at
   me, a worried confused expression on his face. What color was his
   hair? Could I have lost it so fast? No, brown, it was brown, I
   remembered. I saw him moving to catch a frisbee, his brown hair dark
   in the bright sun. But even that had taken on a haze of unreality,
   more like something I'd dreamed than a real memory.
        He was waiting for something, and not feeling comfortable. I
   could tell since he was shifting in his seat. He even stood up, and
   brought the phone over to me, and then waited again.
        "Hey, dude, you don't have to watch over me like a sick bird or
   something." I chuckled a little forcefully, "I can take it from here,
   trust me."
        "I'm sorry. Didn't know I was being so obnoxious."
        I sighed, "It's alright. I've been having so much attention
   lately, I'm going out of my head. I had mom and dad here, setting up
   the furniture. Then Rachel called me, if you can believe that. I
   haven't heard from her in about a year, and she calls when she hears
   about the accident. I just need time to myself. To do some things for
   myself, you know?"
        "I can understand." He was all for understanding, you could hear
   it in his tone. There was relief there too, and I could sympathize. He
   didn't need to be spending all his time over here, helping out his
   blind friend. Still, he wanted so much to help, "But is there anything
   else? You want me to lead you to the pet shop? Wouldn't be any
   problem."
        "Don't worry about it, alright? I've lived in this place for over
   a year; I can find my way around the corner. Just get outta here, and
   I'll call you if I need anything."
        "Sure, sure. Don't hesitate to call, even if it's late or
   anything. I'll talk with you later." He stood up, his footsteps went
   to the door, which opened directly afterward.
        It was funny, sitting there, thinking about the entire thing.
   Mark had really been annoying me, bothering me so much I could barely
   hold it back. But he was there for me, and it felt pretty damned good.
   I didn't want him there now, though, didn't want him there at all.
   But, I had to give him credit; most people wouldn't do what he'd done.
        "Hey, Mark," I said, as I heard the door about to close. "Thanks
   a lot. You've been a big help, really. I couldn't have made it without
   you, man." And the door closed, after he made some self depreciating
   remark.
        I was feeling emotional, pretty worked up, everything was
   suddenly heavy on my heart. It was one of those times when you know
   you're alone, and you're glad you're alone, but you feel overcome with
   emotion. Everything was hitting me at once.
        I hate that feeling, so I picked up the phone. "Levar's Pet
   Supplies, this is Samantha." she answered, with a very pretty voice,
   clear and bright.
        It was just the sound I needed. That voice was happy, and it
   didn't have any problems at the moment. It cheered me up immediately.
   "Uh, yeah, hi. I was just wondering, do you sell dogs?"
        "We sure do. At the moment we're low on stock; we're a fairly
   small operation. Mostly, we just sell supplies for your pets, but we
   do have a few animals for sale. If you're really looking for a good
   variety, you should check out Pet City, or the pound. We do have a
   large variety of canaries, however."
        I'm sure I was imagining it, but it sounded like she was
   depressed when she suggested the other places. It was probably my own
   wishes, but it seemed she didn't want me to go to those other places.
        "Oh, I live right in the neighborhood, so I wouldn't want to go
   somewhere far."
        "Oh, good! A local customer. Maybe we can find something for
   you," her voice was warming to me, and it felt good. It was just a
   hint of playfulness, a vocal flirtation.
        Again, my paranoia insisted I imagined it, but her voice was so
   pretty, and she seemed quite helpful. "Hey, how about if you describe
   one of them to me?"
        "Excuse me?"
        "Well, I'm sure you've got a favorite, of the dogs you have there
   in the store. Please, describe it to me, your favorite."
        "Well, we aren't supposed to play favorites, but..." she was
   definitely warming up to me, even if just on the phone. My mind
   insisted: Good Salesmanship, but I found myself smiling to myself,
   holding the phone to my ear as she continued. "There's this one little
   Shetland Sheepdog. That's a miniature Collie, that is quite
   intelligent. It's a small little dog, about a foot long, with very
   warm brown coloring. It has white feet, and tufts of black along its
   nose. It's hardly more than a puppy, but it has very striking
   expressions. It's an adorable dog, but also clever, as I said. And, it
   was the runt of the litter, so it won't grow up too large, in case
   you're worried about that."
        "Sounds perfect. I do live in an apartment, so I wouldn't want a
   large dog."
        "I think we've found a match. You should come down here and look
   at all the dogs. We've got three other ones, two spaniels, and a
   doberman pup. They're all good dogs, and I wouldn't want to prejudice
   you. Why don't you come down here and see for yourself?"
        I felt a thrill at that, nervous and scared, "I might just do
   that. Say, are you there all day today?"
        "I'll be here until five. As I said, my name's Samantha, and I
   wear a name tag. You can't miss me. If you're in the neighborhood, you
   ought to come down right now."
        "I think I just might. I ought to get a dog as soon as possible.
   Thanks, Samantha, you've been very helpful. I'll see you in a little
   bit."
        It's absolutely terrifying to go outside. I'd forgotten. Until
   now, I'd always had my folks, or one of my friends with me whenever
   I'd go somewhere. It was hard enough just staying on the sidewalk,
   waving that damned cane around. I felt like an idiot, and imagined I
   looked absolutely pitiful, staring off into space, tapping the ground.
   Typical fucking handicapped freak.
        And the thing is, what if someone was coming down the sidewalk? I
   wouldn't want to smack them with the cane, and they'd probably just go
   around me, out of fear of an embarrassing incident. They'd either walk
   on the grass or just cross to the other side of the street.
        I was like a walking hazard. Corners were a major pain in the
   ass. The curb caught me off guard, and I had to backtrack back and
   find the turn. Then there was the alleyway which I'd forgotten about;
   for a second I panicked and thought I'd ended up in the street.
        I wonder how many people were watching me flailing around out
   there. I suppose I'll get used to it, but right now it just freaked me
   out. It was enough that I wanted to turn around, go home, and hide.
        I would have, too, if it was really home I'd be going back to,
   but it hardly seemed like my apartment any more. I didn't feel
   comfortable there, so I might as well just keep walking, hoping I'd
   find the shop soon.
        The hardest part, it turned out, was finding out where exactly
   the pet shop was. Once I was sure I was in the general area, I just
   stood there, feeling stupid, and waited for the sounds of a person
   nearby. They were overly polite, and completely helpful. In a
   different mood it might have given me a new outlook on the human race.
   As it was, I just felt embarrassed.
        The little bell rang, and in I was, in a pet shop. I could hear
   the animals, especially the birds, which talked to each other nonstop.
   Again, I just kinda stood there, and waited, hoping humanity would
   toss me a line.
        "Can I help you sir?" It was the voice, Samantha, but wavering,
   uncertain. God, I felt like shit right there, knowing I was an
   imposition. To hear that voice quaver with uncertainty, it just made
   my hands shake.
        "Uh, yeah." I decided to be brave, and I walked forward, moving
   toward that voice. I was careful, though, wary of unseen counters, and
   didn't move too far. "Are you Samantha? I called a little while ago,
   about a dog."
        "Oh, was that you?" Her voice was back, and I almost sighed at
   the sound of it, the amused tone. She moved around, standing closer to
   me. "What, were you playing a little prank on me? Asking me to
   describe a dog? Making fun of the storekeeper, eh?"
        Her voice was so damned beautiful, with all that amusement, that
   the meaning caught me off guard. "Hm? No! I wasn't playing a joke or
   anything. I wanted to hear you describe the dog." It was a relief, in
   a weird way, that she wasn't being delicate with me. I hadn't expected
   that. She wasn't talking to me like I was about to shatter before her.
   I almost fell in love with her on the spot, just because of that.
        "Sure, I'll bet." I imagined her smiling to me, and I wanted so
   badly to see that smile. I smiled back, just in case.
        "You were sitting there thinking, 'Ah, let's hear the stupid
   sighted person spend all her time describing a dog I can't even see.'
   I know, I can see how you operate."
        "Oh, a cynic." I chuckled, "No, really. It wasn't like that at
   all. The truth is, I've only been blind for a short time, so I wanted
   to imagine a dog, and I thought it'd be nice if you'd describe one to
   me." Somewhere in there, I guess my voice lost its humor, and I was
   speaking earnestly. I don't know why it happened, just that I wanted
   someone, her especially, to understand.
        "Oh, I guess I'll forgive you then. It must be hard, if you
   haven't been blind for long. I can see how you'd want something like
   that." She had gotten serious too, which made me nervous at first, but
   she still hadn't gotten that tone in her voice: the tone Mark had,
   which drove me insane.
        "Can you bring me the dog? The one you described? I really do
   want a dog." I felt nervous, with this strong woman who didn't mind my
   blindness. What was she like? I already felt so attracted to her, it
   was intense. I wanted to see her, to know what she looked like, to
   look into her eyes.
        She left to get the dog, leaving me with my thoughts. What a new
   experience, to feel so attracted to a woman, without knowing if I was
   really attracted to her. And what did it mean to be attracted to a
   woman anymore? Did it really matter what she looked like? Wasn't her
   voice enough? Of course, I didn't even know if she was fat, or if she
   had nice legs, or how her breasts were shaped. How strange.
        "Here we go," came her voice, and something soft was moved into
   me, surprising me. I brought my hands up, letting my cane fall to the
   strap about my wrist, and held the dog, a moving living soft bunch of
   fur. A wet tongue left a smelly trail across my nose, and I struggled
   with the little creature, finally getting it comfortable in my arms.
   It was funny, and I was smiling before I knew it, holding a dog for
   the first time in a long while.
        "I think he likes you," she said, standing very close to me,
   perhaps worried about the dog, perhaps not. It was then, while holding
   the dog, that I was so overcome with desire for this woman, so full of
   curiosity. I just wanted to reach out, touch her, find out everything
   I couldn't know. But that was impossible.
        It was so strange, to think of a relationship with her. She was
   only a voice to me, a friendly helpful voice that brought me a dog.
   Even if I dated her, how long would it be before I knew anything about
   her body, her face? How could I stand to just know a woman by her
   voice? I was standing there, getting to know this dog, whose image I
   had in Samantha's voice. The whole time I was vividly aware of how
   close she was to me, the height of her lips, from which her voice
   emerged. Was her hair long? Was it tied back in a cute little
   pony-tail?
        How old was she, anyhow? She seemed of complimentary age, still
   young, but how could I be sure? Perhaps she was far too young. How
   would her humorous, sensitive personality respond if a blind man asked
   her on a date?
        "Now, I want you to know, it's not easy keeping a dog, especially
   in an apartment. You should only buy him if you're ready for something
   like that."
        "I've had a dog before, when I was just a little kid, and I
   handled it alright then." I scratched behind his ear, wondering what
   his name should be. I already wanted him, liked the feel of his fur on
   my fingers.
        "Maybe, but it won't be so easy now, especially if you have a
   job, and live alone." There was the hint of question there.
        "Yeah, I live alone, but my work is only part-time. I'm a
   student, so I've got a good amount of free time. I think I could give
   him the time he needs."
        Her hand patted the dog's head, and I just got the edge of it,
   the slight feel of her skin against mine. Not enough to base anything
   on, but enough to send another thrill through me. "I'm glad you think
   about it like that. I'd feel much better about you having a dog if
   you're worried about giving it attention. But, you said you haven't
   been blind for long." She was up front, I had to give her that, "Are
   you sure you want another responsibility on top of that?"
        It was a very personal question, but I didn't mind at all.
   Suddenly I didn't even know if anyone else even existed in the shop,
   it was just me, her, and the dog in my arms. Nothing else mattered. "I
   think I need it right now. My house is so damned empty. I need
   something to take my mind off things. Taking care of a dog might do me
   good."
        "I think you might be right. Okay, you've passed the test. You
   can have him," the humor was back in her voice, a warm current of
   life, "But I'll hear about it if you don't treat him well. You'd
   better come in here if you need any advice."
        "I'll make sure of that, don't you worry."
        "Say, you can't even use your cane holding him like that. Do you
   want me to come with you, to bring the dog over to your apartment?"
        What was she doing? I felt another surge of panic, mixed with
   doubt and uncertainty. Of course, it was just concern for the dog, I
   figured, she just didn't want the dog getting hurt. "Hey, that's not
   necessary. I wouldn't want you leaving the shop and everything."
        "No, really, it's no problem. Lilly's in back; I'll just get her
   to cover for me until we get back. You said you were right in the
   neighborhood, after all."
        I hardly remember the rest of the transaction, except I left with
   many more dog-items than I would ever have thought of on my own. As we
   walked out the door, she let me take her hand so she could help lead
   me, and it seemed all my attention focused there, to that one place of
   contact.
        We talked some on the way home, and she continued to surprise me
   with her frankness. We didn't speak of much, it wasn't all that far to
   go, mainly my accident and how I'd ended up this way. It was amazing
   how up front she was, and the fact that she didn't mind what I was
   saying allowed me to speak about the things that hurt worst.
        Before I even expected it, we were back. I was kinda surprised I
   didn't just keep walking, but I knew the area just a little too well
   for that. I'd already started working my mind on two levels: imagining
   the world I moved in, while talking and thinking at the same time.
        We stood there for a little while, right before the steps, and I
   assured her I'd be alright. When I was about to leave, I wanted so
   badly to ask her out, to ask her to come upstairs.
        It would have worked, I knew it would have worked. It's easy to
   take advantage of people when you're handicapped. People want to help
   you, and I could have let her help me. At least to talk with her more,
   to ask her if she had a boyfriend, if she wanted to go to dinner. A
   thousand possibilities went through my mind.
        But in the end I couldn't do it. It was just too scary. I
   couldn't handle not knowing. Not knowing what she looked like, if she
   was just a voice and nothing else. I just wanted to get my dog home,
   and forget the frightening world of women I couldn't see.
        When I was safely back inside, her voice echoed in my ears, in my
   memory. All I could think of was the sound of that voice, the nearness
   of her body, the warmth of her hand. Immediately, I berated myself for
   not asking her out. I couldn't believe I hadn't asked her on a date.
   Hadn't she seemed interested? Or at least friendly. Even in rejection,
   she would have been gentle.
        Suddenly I stopped trying to imagine what she looked like. The
   voice was enough, the voice and the humor it held. But I imagined that
   humor turned on me, and laughing at me, or simply quavering again, not
   wanting to hurt me as she told me "No."
        A feeling of dread sunk coldly to my stomach, and I found myself
   hunkering down somewhat in the chair, holding a squirming dog that
   wanted to be free. I let him down carefully on the floor, immediately
   despairing of ever finding him again.
        The world outside was a scary place, and I could hardly imagine
   going out there again. Perhaps it was better to hide, better to stop
   pretending I wasn't about to shatter under a tough blow. From
   somewhere outside came the song of birds. I considered how those birds
   weren't in cages, waiting to be sold. But the free ones didn't hear
   that beautiful voice every day. How terrible to be imprisoned in a
   cage and still unable to hear that voice.
        I stayed feeling sorry for myself for just a little while, but
   then picked up the phone. I couldn't remember the number for a few
   seconds, but it came back to me. After two rings, her voice touched
   me. "Samantha? Hi...Yeah, it's me. Hm? Oh, he's doing just fine." I
   had to take a second to collect myself, "Hey, can you describe
   yourself to me?"
-----

De Hopduvel

   
      09-Jun-92 From Vaughn Fletcher
   I find the beer topic here is pompous. It's like people discussing
   some fine year in wine. What ever is on sale for $4.29 a twelve pack
   (CVR extra) gets me just as drunk as your $12.00 a six-pack imports. I
   used to go to that joint near Fairview and Hollister (I forget the
   name (I must have pissed those brain cells away)) and got one of those
   "I drank beer around the world at XXXXX" (Gee I wish I could remember
   the name) T-shirts. The only good imports were Giraffe and a Dutch
   thing that had a ceramic cap on it (Damn! More dead cells!) I would
   still have those brain cells if it weren't for drinking all that
   what's it called at what's his name's place.
   
      09-Jun-92 From Johnston Kinds
   Well, Vaughn, we don't approach beer as a way to get drunk. If you
   just want to get drunk, why don't you buy some cheap whiskey or
   something? That works a lot faster. Our discussions of beer emphasize
   the craft of brewing and the aesthetics of appreciating it. We
   approach beer as a complex and interesting sense experience. If you
   don't like that approach, you're welcome to talk all you like about
   how you get drunk and piss away your mind. I'm much more interested in
   the comparative virtues of different kinds of stouts, however.
   
      11-Jun-92 From Johnston Kinds
   I accidentally bought a six pack with 3 Doppel Darks and 3 Selects in
   it. I find the Select really weak, and not very interesting. There's
   one beer at Trader Joe's that's somehow brewed with orange, or orange
   blossom (or at least that's used in the name). Have you tried that,
   Brasserie? What do you know about it?
   
      11-Jun-92 From Brasserie d'Orval
   Vaughn, you're wrong on all counts. First, alcohol content varies
   tremendously among beer-styles. Several imports (and domestics, for
   that matter) are over twice as strong as Budweiser. Belgium's St.
   Sixtus (a Trappist Ale), for example, has an original gravity of 1120;
   the alcohol content is over 10% by volume. Germany's Kulminator 28, an
   Eisbock (the beer is frozen, and the ice removed), has 13.5 percent
   alcohol by volume. Switzerland's Samichlaus, whose maturation lasts a
   year, has up to 14% alcohol by volume. Obviously, you'd get much more
   drunk on a six-pack of one of these than you would with any cheap
   mass-market product. The bar you're thinking of is Spike's Place; the
   products you describe as their "best" are Giraffe and Grolsch, two
   completely undistinguished lagers. Obviously, you haven't tried too
   many brews. Beer is a much more complex subject than you imagine; it
   deserves to be discussed.
        Renrat, I can't answer your question on brewpubs; there are too
   many variables involved. I could list some books on brewing, but I
   don't know much about the brewpub business. Have you ever made a beer?
   
        Colin, I haven't tried the local brewpub. I was interested in it
   initially, then I heard it was concentrating on pilsner, so I avoided
   it. However, I walked by a while ago, and noticed that people were
   drinking what could have been either porter or stout. The place might
   be worth trying.
        Johnston, I think you're talking about Oranjeboom. There's no
   orange in the beer (although that might be interesting); it's just
   another boring pseudo-pilsner, although it was once fairly strong.
   It's unfortunate that all the imports from the Netherlands seem to be
   in this style, because the country's full of interesting brewpubs and
   micros. For example, there's a brewery located on a remote Amsterdam
   Pier (the former location of a public bathhouse) that grinds its malt
   by windmill-power. Its brews -- all of which, interestingly, resemble
   Trappist ale -- have names like "Wet," "Drunk," and "Ostrich"; they're
   supposedly very tasty.
   
      12-Jun-92 From Renrat
   Brasserie, The books would be most helpful and YES I am serious about
   the matter of opening a pub and brewing good beer. As for my personal
   experience, no. I have not been involved in actual brewing since a
   rather short period while I was still home with Dad. We do have some
   very fine brewers here locally who have been involved for quite some
   time and are anxious/willing to help with that aspect of the
   operation. As for "working" breweries, the closest is in Etna, some 30
   miles to the NW. They appear to be making a living and are marketing
   the product in Or and No. CA ...
   
      12-Jun-92 From The Newstyle
   Brass, you're really into beer.....
   
      12-Jun-92 From Brasserie d'Orval
   Of course I'm into beer. That's why I'm leaving Santa Barbara in a few
   days. I'm going to intensively sample the numerous brewpubs and micros
   that have emerged on the East coast. I'll visit Boston's Samuel Adams,
   where they brew their Stock Ale (the lagers are actually produced in
   Pittsburgh and Oregon), and the nearby Doyle's pub, which serves local
   brews and some good imports. Also in Boston is the Commonwealth
   brewpub, with golden, amber, and bitter ales (the latter by far the
   best), and porter, stout, and a winey Special Old Ale. This brewpub
   unfortunately filters its lighter ales, which is completely
   unjustifiable as far as I'm concerned. Nonetheless, Commonwealth's
   darker products, especially the stout, are very worthwhile. They've
   also got good food. Another important Boston beer institution is the
   Wursthaus restaurant in Harvard Square, which serves German food and a
   huge assortment of beers (their Belgian selection is particularly
   strong). Boston has two other new brewpubs, which I'm going to try,
   and Mass Bay brewing, whose light-but-hoppy Harpoon Ale has won some
   awards recently in New England beer-competitions.
        I'll also visit the Geary's brewery, located in the weird city of
   Portland, Maine. This micro produces an excellent pale ale; its bottle
   is distinguished by a detailed illustration of a lobster. The
   brewmaster, David Geary, is known for disparaging brewers (Anchor,
   Harpoon, etc.) who add spices to their Winter ales. Geary's seasonal
   Hampshire Special Ale (o.g.:1070) is an amazing brew indeed.
        Another noted New England micro is Catamount, in Vermont. They
   produce good gold and amber ales, but by far their best regular
   product is their porter. This brew is darker and more chocolatey than
   Sierra Nevada's example; some experienced beer-drinkers think it's
   better. Catamount also has special Summer ales, but these are usually
   too light for my taste.
   
      12-Jun-92 From Skull Fracture
   Yes, but *why* are you so into beer? Is there nothing else in your
   life?
   
      12-Jun-92 From Brasserie d'Orval
        It doesn't follow that because I'm interested and knowledgeable
   about beer that there's nothing else in my life. I have a lot of
   interests; this is the one I happen to be talking about here. There
   are subjects where my interest and knowledge are greater than my
   interest and knowledge in beer. In any case, I like drinking, reading
   about, and studying beer. My interest in it stems from my enjoyment of
   it; I act on my interest by learning as much as I can. So it's not
   surprising that someone as ignorant as you (in all the hundreds of
   malodorous, moronic messages you've scattered across this BBS like
   jackrabbit turds, I've discerned maybe 2 distinct thoughts) would be
   threatened.
   
      12-Jun-92 From Vaughn Fletcher
        I'll still take my $4.29 a 12-pack. It washes down my cheese and
   crackers just fine, and I don't cry if I spill any.
   
      24-Jul-92 From Johnston Kinds
   I was doing some research today and I came across a book on hop
   production. The book discussed hop extracts as substitutes in brewing
   for real hop cones. Experiments done in Checkoslovak breweries led the
   author to believe only about 20% of the natural hops can be replaced
   with extracts before the flavor of the brew becomes seriously altered.
   The implicit contention, in my view, was that breweries that don't use
   actual hop cones are cheap; they're sacrificing flavor for
   convenience. The book was written last year. It was a good text; it
   gave a very detailed chemical analysis of hops -- which I didn't
   bother with -- but also discussed methods of growing hops.
   
      24-Jul-92 From Johnston Kinds
   Oh, I also discovered that hops contains tiny amounts of morphine.
   I've known for a while that hops tea is used as a relaxant, but never
   knew that.
   
      28-Jul-92 From The Newstyle
   Brasserie, I think 'Natural Pilsner' is the best beer in existence. :)
   
      03-Aug-92 From Johnston Kinds
   I tried Samuel Smith's Imperial Stout and Anchor Steam's Liberty Ale
   tonight. I wasn't as fond of Imperial Stout as I was of Taddy Porter,
   which I just loved. I was surprised by Liberty Ale, though; I think
   it's a delightful brew. I don't like it as much as Grants or Sierra
   Nevada, but I had heard somewhat negative things about Anchor Steam
   and was expecting something worse. Continuing my search for the
   ultimate porter, I picked up a bottle of Anchor Porter as well. You
   know, there's something about the taste of Anchor Steam ale that
   reminds me of the smell of the ocean.
   
      03-Aug-92 From Brasserie d'Orval
   Anchor's products are controversial with me. A lot of people insist
   that "Anchor Steam is the best"; in most cases, I think, these
   individuals haven't kept up with the advances made by microbreweries
   in the past decade. Anchor's brews are definitely real (they don't use
   extracts, etc.), but I don't regard their various products as
   stylistic models. Their principal product, Anchor Steam beer, is
   unique in the sense that it's an ale-lager hybrid. Fritz Maytag, who
   runs Anchor, says the aim is to combine the cleanness of a German
   lager with the assertiveness of a good British ale. Anchor Steam is
   very pleasant, in my opinion, but not unusual enough -- despite the
   process by which it's produced -- to drink regularly.
        I loved Liberty Ale's unusual, hoppy aroma when I first tried it.
   The problem is that that intense hoppiness is all the brew has; it
   gets boring after a while. (Sierra Nevada's Pale Ale, for example, is
   more complex and drinkable thanks to it's maltiness and
   bottle-conditioning.) Anchor Porter is another beer I'm ambivalent
   towards. It has to be served at room temperature, in my opinion. It's
   got plenty of flavor (including licorice undertones), and, like the
   label says, it's rich, with a creamy texture. But the brew -- which is
   actually bottom-fermented -- just doesn't taste like porter to me.
        My favorite Anchor product is their seasonal Holiday Ale. Each
   year, its label depicts a different tree. The recipe also varies
   slightly, but the ale invariably incorporates dark-roasted malts, a
   slightly higher-than average original gravity, and spices, such as
   nutmeg (a trend started in the U.S. with Grant's Mulled Ale). Anchor's
   also produced several interesting sounding brews which I haven't been
   able to find; these include Old Foghorn (a barley-wine), Ninkasi (a
   beer made from bread), and a Spruce Beer (which generated a lot of
   excitement at the latest Great American Beer Festival).
   
      03-Aug-92 From Johnston Kinds
   I tried a bottle of Grant's Scottish ale tonight. It's luscious! It
   has pretty strong hops, by my taste, but an interesting, mild
   sweetness in the background. I think I enjoy this even more than
   Grants' pale ale. Speaking of pale ale, I picked up a bottle of Samuel
   Smith's pale ale as well, and plan to have it sometime later tonight.
   How would you rate that, Brasserie, in comparison with Sierra Nevadas
   and Grants' pale ales?
   
      03-Aug-92 From Brasserie d'Orval
   All of Samuel Smith's products are first-rate, and their Old Brewery
   Pale Ale (known in its domestic market in cask-conditioned form as
   Museum Ale) is one of my favorites. Being an English ale, it's
   obviously very different from Sierra Nevada's and Grant's products,
   both of which rely on Washington-grown Cascade hops. Even among
   English ales, Samuel Smith's products are unique in that they ferment
   in stone vessels; this results in very smooth-textured beer. (This
   creaminess is also evident in the products of England's Theakston
   brewery, another proponent of the so-called Yorkshire brewing-system.)
   In the winter, Samuel Smith comes out with an ale called "Winter
   Welcome." Along with their Imperial Stout, this is my favorite Samuel
   Smith product; it's like a richer version of their Pale Ale.
   
      10-Aug-92 From bloodline
   I bought a bottle of Eye of the Hawk ale last night. It was fairly
   strong, fairly hoppy, over-priced, but overall, pretty good.
   
      20-Aug-92 From The Evil Metronome
   I've been drinking American coffee this week, and it became apparent
   to me that these beans are coffee's equivalent of
   conventional-gravitied lagers: pilsners, Dortmunders, and so forth.
   Like these beers, the coffees of Costa Rica and Columbia are
   light-bodied, balanced, and mild -- the sort of thing anyone could
   drink. Pale malts and relatively high hop rates make pilsners
   "clean-tasting" and brisk, just like the acidic coffees of the
   Americas. The best of these, in my opinion, are the relatively complex
   Estate-grown Guatemalan coffees. A fairly dark roast brings out subtle
   smoky, chocolatey undertones in this coffee, making it comparable to
   smooth, dark lagers such as Kulmbacher Monschoff's
   Kloster-Schwarz-Bier, or Spaten's Dunkel Export.
   
      21-Aug-92 From bloodline
   Spaten's Dunkel Export. That sounds really silly. Spaten Dunkel.
   Brasserie, does Samuel Adams have a seasonal stout? Someone on
   Internet mentioned something like that.
   
      21-Aug-92 From The Evil Metronome
   You shouldn't laugh. Spaten is one of the most influential breweries
   in the world, in terms of brewing methods and beer styles. Several of
   their products, including their Dunkel and Marzen/Oktoberfest, are
   considered the definitive examples of their styles. Spaten also brews
   pilsners, wheat beers, a pale bock called Franziskus, and -- my
   favorite -- a dark double bock called Doppelspaten (spaten translates
   to "spade," the brewery's logo). However, bock beers -- along with
   barley wines and imperial stouts -- aren't appropriate for regular
   consumption in warm weather. Like Indonesian coffees, their richness,
   earthiness, and full-bodiedness make them most enjoyable in the fall
   and, especially, winter.
        I'm not aware of a stout produced by Samuel Adams, but living on
   the west coast, I wouldn't necessarily expect to be. I'd be very
   interested in obtaining the brew, if/when it exists. Samuel Adams'
   other top-fermenting product, their Boston Stock Ale, is definitely a
   good brew.
   
      21-Aug-92 From bloodline
   Someone else more or less confirmed it; Samuel Adams apparently has a
   product called Cream Stout, which is evidently available (one person
   wrote) on draught in a Pennsylvania pub. I'm anxious to try Duvel. I
   think I'll go get some tonight.
   
      23-Aug-92 From The Evil Metronome
   Cream stout, what an odd choice. Then again, there are already a
   fairly large number of dry stouts being made; and milk stouts have, I
   think, the potential to get trendy. On the other hand, the brew might
   stay available exclusively at the brewpub (are you sure it's not in
   Philadelphia?), as has been the case with a Samuel Adams porter.
   
      30-Aug-92 From The Evil Metronome
        I recently came into possession of a small quantity of Ethiopian
   Harrar, a very rare coffee. When I added water to the beans (ground
   seconds earlier, of course), they gave off a striking, pungent,
   cinnamon aroma. The coffee is medium-bodied, with some acidity, and a
   strong, complex flavor. There's no question that high-grade African
   and Arabian beans are coffee's equivalent to Belgian Ale.
   
      30-Aug-92 From colin campbell
        The harrar! The harrar!
   
      31-Aug-92 From bloodline
   What did that mean? I drank a bottle of Young's winter ale again last
   night, and enjoyed it quite a bit. I had over-dramatized its quality
   in my memory, but it was still good. I heard a commercial for Samuel
   Adams on the radio again today. That Koch guy is annoying me. He's too
   boastful; he brags that Samuel Adams is the _only_ American beer
   imported to Germany (which I doubt) and declares that his beer wins
   Best American Beer contests left and right. Blah. On a list of
   American beer companies I'd probably put SA forth or fifth, below
   Grants, Sierra Nevada, and maybe Anchor Steam and Mendocino.
   
      31-Aug-92 From David the Grey
   I've been rather experimenting with different beers lately, just for
   the fun of it. I bought a 6-pack of Killian's IrishRed last week which
   I found very tasty. Interesting color too. I was expecting more of a
   dark-beer taste, but it was fairly mild.
   
      31-Aug-92 From The Evil Metronome
        I prefer Sierra Nevada and Grant's products (not to mention
   numerous British and Belgian breweries) to Samuel Adams also, mainly
   because I tend to prefer styles of ale to styles of lager. If had to
   subsist on only 10 beers for the rest of my life, 2 or 3 would be
   lagers. Still, Samuel Adams products are high-quality, and they
   include some interesting styles. If it's true that Samuel Adams' beers
   are the only U.S. ones imported into Germany, it's because 1) they
   adhere to the Reinheitsgebot (which doesn't set them apart from many
   micro-products); and 2) they tend to follow classic German styles,
   such as Pilsner, Marzen/Oktoberfest, Doppelbock, etc. Most of the good
   U.S. microbreweries emulate British ale, and the Germans are
   notoriously conservative when it comes to what they consider beer.
   (Some German beer styles, such as Rauchbier, Eisbock, and Berlinner
   Weisse are nonetheless very unique in terms of how they taste and how
   they're made.)
        Samuel Adams' Oktoberfest should be out in mid- to
   late-September, and if it's anything like it was last year, I
   recommend it. (It might even be one of the 2 or 3 lagers on my list.)
   It was darker than most German Oktoberfests, in fact reddish in color,
   sweet-but-hoppy, fragrant and complex.
   
        31-Aug-92 From bloodline
   Speaking of Weis, I found Grant's Weis Beer and Yakima Cider at
   Fairview liquor tonight, and tried bottles of both. Weis beer is
   hilarious; it's almost just like his Pale Ale, only toned down. Unlike
   Sierra Nevada's wheat beer, it seems to have -- no surprise, knowing
   Grant's products -- fairly prominent hops in it. I wasn't expecting
   much from the yakima cider, since the idea of cider isn't exactly a
   turn-on for me, but I did enjoy it somewhat; it has a strong taste but
   if I didn't know better I might say its from wine grapes, not apples.
   Anyway, the color of the cider is light, golden yellow; the weis beer
   is bit orangy. Grant's little labels on the beers are so funny I
   wanted to type them up here. Here's what he wrote for his Yakima
   cider: "Are all apples the same? No. There are bad apples and good
   ones. Adam's apple must have been a bad one, for instance. Positively
   sinful. Yet the apple that Sir Isaac Newton considered a matter of
   such gravity must certainly have been a good one. I make Yakima Cider
   with only good apples. Real Washington apples. Brewed right, with pure
   water from the Cascade Mountains and premium yeast from my native
   Britain. And nothing else. So give my cider a try. And see how you
   like _them_ apples!" The writing for Weis Beer is even better: "Weis
   beer, wheat beer, White Beer; whatever you call it, I think you'll
   find this to be one of the most refreshing brews you've ever had. But
   serve it _cold_. Glacial, in fact. So cold that the glass shivers. And
   try it with a twist of lemon or a touch of fruit juice. I even mix the
   whole concoction with ice on those hot Yakima summer days when the
   thermometer threatens to burst. Then sit back, sip your Weis Beer, and
   do absolutely nothing. _Nothing_. So stop reading. Enjoy."
   
      31-Aug-92 From Luminary Coremaster
   Exchuse me, mam'...Could ya spare a dollar so a poor man can get a
   *hic* cup of coffee.
   
      01-Sep-92 From Busman
   I find that unless you try your finer beers out of the tap, that they
   lose a lot in the transition. I absolutely LOVE McEwan's Ale on tap,
   so figgered I get a sixer and have the taste in the comfort of my own
   home, when I tried it was like cough syrup, it was terrible. I can
   only imagine what the beers that taste good out of the bottle taste
   like on tap. I find that Samuel Adams Lager to be quite good, I enjoy
   darker beers on the whole, which is why I cant stand american beers
   they are all piss water as far as I am concerned. Miller, bud, and
   coors, that is. About Sams commercials, however, he manages to whine
   throughout his entire boasting speil as well, it is quite trying.
   
      01-Sep-92 From bloodline
   Where do you get McEwan's on tap? I tried a bottle of their scotch (or
   was it scottish?) ale a few nights ago and was pretty happy with it
   (but then, I wasn't comparing it to anything on tap). What are some
   other beers you like, Busman?
   
      01-Sep-92 From The Evil Metronome
        Yeah, Bert Grant's comments are great. I like his labels, with
   their dramatic symbols that suggest the style's place of origin. Of
   all his products, the Weiss Beer is the one that has least in common
   with its ancestors. German Weisses are much more tart, even sour. I
   wonder why they don't call it a Weizenbier; it much more closely fits
   this South German style.
        McEwan's Scotch ale is a little too sweet for me to consume
   regularly. I really like some aggressively malty beers, like
   Celebrator Doppelbock, because there's enough hoppiness to give the
   beer complexity. With McEwan's (they also make a bland pale ale), the
   sweetness is almost sugary. McAndrews has a Scotch ale which is much
   better, an interesting, pale version of the style called Caledonian.
   Oh, and even better still, if you can find (and afford) it, is
   Traquair House Ale. It's a dark, very interesting Scotch ale,
   fermented in uncoated wooden vessels.
   
      01-Sep-92 From Busman
   Unfortunately the place I used to get all my good beers on tap is in
   San Marcos, down near Escondido, my home when I wasn't up here at
   school, I used to go home every summer just to enjoy The Camelot. I
   hear that there is a good English Pub in Ventura, i haven't been yet,
   but I plan to go before School starts up again (for the last time
   yeah!). I also enjoy Watney's. Guiness is good, I haven't tried it in
   bottles yet, i an a little gun shy. One also cant find a good Barn o'
   da Gods (Liquor Barn) around here either, or am I just ignant? I've
   tried many of the beers round the world at spikes, I find red tail ale
   to be good, even outta the bottle. I am hoping to be on a dart team
   coming up here in a bout two weeks, soon I should be an encyclopedia
   on good bars to go get good beer on tap, we shall see.

-----
                                      
Nausea Pistol
by Colin Campbell

        Sylvia Parker was trying to lose weight. She was five foot three
   and she weighed 91 pounds and she felt tubby. If she were just a bit
   thinner, she thought, she would have the sharp definition in her
   cheeks that would make her look like a high-fashion model.
        Sylvia worked as a receptionist at MedSearch, a medical
   technology company in Detroit. Every day she rose at 6am and jogged
   three grim miles before work.
        At lunchtime each day she met her friend Melinda at their usual
   nearby restaurant; she ordered a tuna and lettuce sandwich, and a half
   a peach with cottage cheese, and gave half the sandwich to Melinda.
   When she returned to the office, she went to the ladies' room and
   stuck a finger down her throat and threw up her lunch.
        She repaired her hair and makeup and brushed away a fleck of tuna
   that had splashed onto her clothes. Darn, it was her best silk blouse.
   She hated sticking her finger down her throat but it was the only way
   she knew. Really, this was the 20th century and weren't we supposed to
   be more advanced?
        Sylvia returned to her desk and began opening today's mail, which
   had arrived during lunch. Her job was to open every envelope and stamp
   the contents RECEIVED with the date, and then sort the mail for the
   various people and departments in the company.
        Usually she didn't pay any attention to the stuff. it was nothing
   but stuffy letters from doctors or pleading ads or threatening bills.
   But today she noticed an ad for a new product, maybe because of the
   upsetting tuna spot on her blouse.
        It was some new kind of vomiting inducer. The flyer was crudely
   printed and hard to understand but Sylvia read it, at least the part
   that was a cartoon showing how to use the thing. If little Johnny
   swallows poison, just put the black box to his temple and push the ON
   button and a pulse of laser energy would harmlessly flood his brain
   and activate the vomiting reflex, purging the child of noxious
   material.
        The rest of the ad was in doctor's talk. The device was a
   palmsized gadget that generated a long-wave laser beam that penetrated
   to the nausea center of the brain and turned it on. The flyer claimed
   it was safer than standard emetics, and faster.
        The price was only $139.95. Sylvia dabbed again at her blouse and
   decided to give it a try. Maybe it would be easier than her
   finger-in-the-throat technique. She filled in the order blank in the
   company's name and typed a letter authorizing the purchase and
   addressed an envelope which went out in that evenings' mail without
   anyone at MedSearch noticing.
        One day six weeks later, Sylvia cleaned up after lunch and
   returned to her desk just as the mailman arrived. He handed her a
   sheaf of envelopes and a camera-sized package from VMX, Inc. She sat
   down and processed the mail as usual and when nobody seemed to be
   watching she slipped the package into her purse. She was nervous the
   rest of the day, convinced everybody in the office was staring at her.
        After work she was going to show it to Melinda but the first
   thing Melinda said was "God, I met these two rich hunks," and it was
   Friday, and Sylvia had a new dress to wear, and during an evening of
   frenzied partying the puke inducer never entered her thoughts.
        It wasn't until the next day when she came back from her morning
   run that she thought of it, because she was hungry. Mom and Bill
   weren't home and Budsy was away at camp for two weeks, thank god.
        Sylvia was hungry--she hadn't eaten anything during last night's
   frolic, of course, an nothing to drink except one glass of champagne
   she nursed all night. With everyone away from the house today she
   could gorge herself, and use the puker a couple of times. Yeah, it
   would be fun.
        She watched Saturday morning cartoons and ate potato chips with
   onion dip and Twinkies and a Pepsi and then she went to the bathroom
   and followed the instructions on the vomit inducer.
        It was a flat, oval device of hard black plastic with a circle of
   red glass in the center on one side and an activation swich on the
   other side. Next to the switch was a note: PRESS BUTTON TO INDUCE
   VOMITING. She pressed the switch experimentally a couple times while
   pointing the thing away from herself. It clicked, pockity pock.
        She touched her temple with the glass circle and pressed the
   clicker. For a moment all she noticed was a humming in her head and a
   slight sensation of warmth. Then, abruptly, she was nauseated beyond
   her experiece, a gush of saliva in her mouth, a sudden beading of
   sweat on her face, then explosive, convulsive retching for fifteen
   minutes. By the time the waves of acute seasickness left her, she was
   a slobbering and groveling mess, soaked in sweat and spit and bile.
   She had a massive headache.
        By noon, though, she was good as new. She picked up the device
   and threw it in a drawer--what a dumb thing, she thought. She knew
   she'd never use it again. Maybe she should just take it back to work
   and pretend she didn't know anything about it.
        But by Monday she'd forgotten all about it.
        Every few weeks after that there would be another bill from VMX,
   but Sylvia just tossed them into the wastebasket. One time a mournful
   guy from VMX phoned, and Sylvia told him "I'm sorry, Mister Vole, but
   everybody is in a meeting." She wrote down the message and the VMX man
   complained, "The damned things just aren't selling, and the ones we do
   sell, they ship them right back for a refund."
        Sylvia didn't give it another thought until the Christmas
   holidays. Mom was in one of her "streamlining" moods, and she invaded
   Sylvia's room and dumped all of Sylvia's drawers onto the bed and told
   her to throw away half of it. "This house is filling up with useless
   shit!"
        The black oval of the vomit device was among the discards Sylvia
   tossed in the good-bye box. She tossed it with extra vehemence, and
   that's when Budsy saw it. "What's this, sis?"
        "You get away from my stuff."
        "You're throwin it away, what is it?"
        "You get out of my stuff, you little sneak."
        Budsy tried to carry it away down the hall, but Sylvia leaped and
   grappled with him. Budsy was only 13 but he was prettystrong. Then
   Sylvia wrested it from his hands. "I'll show you what it is." She
   pressed it to his head and pushed the button, and Budsy collapsed and
   began retching. He'd just had two hamburgers and they went all over
   Sylvia's new rug. "Mother!" she wailed.
        Mother was vexed at the mess. "Why didn't you go into the
   bathroom?"
        "I couldn't, Ma, Sylvia hit me in the head with something and I
   puked." He started crying again.
        "Well clean this up before I hit you myself. And let's get going
   -- carry this stuff out to the car. I'm taking everything to the
   rummage sale. Come on, carry it now."
        Budsy carried the box downstairs and put it in the car. Along the
   way he pocketed the vomit inducer.
   
   II.
   
        Budsy Parker kept the thing hidden in his room for a week before
   examining it, waiting for any household memory of the event to fade.
   Then on Saturday everybody was away. He had the house to himself. He
   took the device out of his secret drawer and looked at it. It was only
   about as big as tape cassette. PRESS BUTTON TO INDUCE VOMITING, it
   read on one side.
        He went downstairs and opened the door to the back yard and
   called: "Here, Freckles! Here, girl! Come in!"
        The dog didn't come in, even though it was cold and snowy
   outside; she knew Budsy too well. Budsy took a slice of lunchmeat out
   of the refrigerator and offered it. The dog came inside, hesitantly,
   and Budsy grabbed her and tried to put the device against the dog's
   head. The dog struggled and whipped her head around, but Budsy managed
   to subdue her and click the button.
        Nothing happened. The dog struggled away and dashed back out
   through the still-open door. Okay, he thought. It doesn't work on
   dogs.
        He put on his parka and went outside and walked through
   snowdrifts until he saw the Clifford kids, Patty and Billy, making a
   snowman. Patty was in the fourth grade and she was giving instructions
   to younger Billy. They didn't notice Budsy approaching--they were
   looking the other way. Budsy came up behind Billy and put the puker to
   Billy's head and pushed the clicker, and Billy fell puking to the
   ground. Patty turned around and said "Oh, no, Billy's sick" and
   crouched down beside him. Budsy touched her on the head and she too
   exploded with vomit.
        On Monday, Budsy carried the device to school in his left mitten.
   There was a hole the size of a dime in the palm of the mitten, and the
   glass center of the Puker gleamed in the hole. Budsy had been thinking
   about Lurk Bronoso...
        He got to school twenty minutes early, as usual, and met the guys
   at the corner of Catalpa and Randolph, a block away from Kennedy
   Junior High. "One of you guys got a smoke?" he said.
        A tall kid handed him a Camel filter. "Bronoso is coming with
   some new 'mones."
        A kid with a shaved skull said, "Maybe you better get out of
   here, Budsy, Bronoso is radically pissed at you."
        "For what?"
        "You've gotta start paying up or Bronoso is going to quit selling
   to any of us."
        "Aw, so what, there's lots of guys with better 'mones than that
   dickface." Budsy looked at his pals and grinned, but his friends all
   stared behind him. Budsy turned and saw Lurk Bronoso.
        Lurk Bronoso was twelve years old and six feet four inches tall.
   He sold synthetic hormones and artificial DNA clusters, just to
   friends of course. He grabbed Budsy by the throat and Vadered him to
   his knees. "You owe me money, punk."
        "I got it, I got it for you!"
        Bronoso pushed him away and Budsy fell into a snowdrift and
   banged his head against an old crust of snow. He stood up and slowly
   handed fifty dollars to Bronoso. "Here."
        "Okay now," said Bronoso, looking at the other guys. "I got some
   new growy 'mones my brother made, he says they're the best yet. And
   some more of that horny 'mone I had last week."
        "Gimme a growy, Lurk," said the tall kid. "I'm almost to six
   feet."
        "Hell, yes, give me another hit of that horny 'mone," said the
   shaveskull.
        "Sure, here ya are. How about you, Budsy? Oh, that's right,
   you're prepubic, aren't you." The guys laughed.
        "Yeah," said Bronoso. "You got to keep up with your puby 'mones
   if you want to put some hair on your balls."
        "Well give me some, I'm not saying I don't want it." Budsy's face
   burned with embarrassment.
        "Your credit's no good, that's all. Cash it up."
        "Come on, Lurk, I gave you my cash, give me a hit, okay? I get
   allowance next week."
        "Nope." Bronoso walked toward the school.
        Budsy hefted his right mitten and felt the puker inside, felt the
   control button under his index finger. "Well you're a shitfaced
   frelker," he shouted.
        Bronoso stopped and turned and charged back toward the corner,
   and Budsy and everybody else scattered for their lives.
        It was time to go into class anyway. During class one of Budsy's
   friends whispered, "What are you doing getting Bronoso on our back,
   you dope?"
        The fight broke out at lunch. Budsy and his pals were at their
   usual corner in the cafeteria and Lurk showed up and said, "Parker,
   you're going to find out the pain of messing with the Bronto." He
   strode toward Budsy with his fist already swinging. Ordinarily Budsy
   would have been cringing away, but this time he had the Puker in his
   hand. He leaped toward Lurk and managed to slap him on the side of the
   head and fingered the ON button at the moment of the slap, and the
   momentum of Lurk's swing sent him flying as he abruptly puked and
   puked and lay groveling on the ground. Budsy kicked Lurk in the ribs
   and the nuts.
        "Now keep your goddam ass out of our turf," he said. "Right,
   guys?" He looked around at his pals, but they were gone.
        After lunch Budsy had Advanced Pre-Remedial Mathematics and when
   that was over he went to his locker, except there were two big guys
   hanging around his locker, two l4-year-olds who must have been on
   'mones a couple of years, because they were well over six feet tall.
   Budsy thought to run away--but then he noticed they were looking in
   the other direction. He came up behind them and took a deep breath and
   then clopped one on the head, and then the other before he noticed
   anything, and they both collapsed puking on the floor. A big crowd
   gathered to watch the hulkers blow their lunch.
        Everything would have been okay then if Budsy had stopped now.
   But by this time the whole school was paying attention to him, he
   couldn't use the puker in secrecy again. In the last period of the day
   Budsy and Bronoso had a world history class together and Bronoso
   attacked him again, right in front of everybody, and Budsy used the
   Puker on him again.
        The room was silent except for Bronoso's agonized dry heaves.
   Kids suddenly started leaving the room and then it was a flood, and
   the teacher, Mr. Hawkings, was grabbing Budsy by the shoulder and
   Budsy puked him and broke away. A sarcastic mutant in a wheelchair
   rolled away into the doorway, and he was a guy who had been pissing
   Budsy off for a long time, and he puked him and pulled the wheelchair
   out of the way and dashed into the hall...
   
   III.
   
        Rudy Jackson turned on the TV. "This is News 4 L.A."
        "I don't want to watch no news," said his girlfriend Donna.
   "Let's watch Three's Company."
        "Look, I'm going to work, I got to keep up with the news, I got
   to, I have a position of responsibility."
        "Big deal, you're Rudy 'Security Guard' Jackson. At least let me
   have a toot before you go."
        "Shush you." He lit a joint and watched the news.
        "A handicapped child is dead today, and a junior high school in
   Berkley, Michigan was held hostage by an eleven-year-old who used an
   advanced medical treatment device to inflict terrifying nausea on his
   teachers and classmates. A wheelchair-confined student choked to death
   on his own vomit during the post-lunch attack."
        "What the hell? Rudy, what's he saying?"
        "The kid got hold of some kind of doctor tool and hacked the kids
   in his school with it."
        "Geez! Hey, honey, please, let me have some before you go, okay?"
        "Well... I've got to get dressed..." He turned up the volume of
   the TV and went into the bedroom. He took off his clothes and put on
   his security guard uniform. and unlocked the box. He took out a .357
   magnum revolver and tucked it in his waistband, and put five bullets
   into and a folded paper of coke in his shirt pocket.
        When he got back to the TV they were just finishing the segment
   about the school. "Spokesperson Elmer Vole of VMX, Incorporated, the
   Anaheim, California manufacturer of the device young Parker used,
   declined responsibility."
        The scene shifted to a sweating Elmer Vole with six hostile
   microphones in his face. He stood in front of his factory. VMX.
        Rudy said, "Hey, that's one of the companies at the industrial
   complex where I've been working."
        "Wow," said the girl. "Come on, chop us out a couple lines."
        "Here, you do it, give us both one for me to go to work on. That
   company, VMX, that made the doctor tool that kid used -- they have a
   lot of stuff in storage under bond."
        "Gosh, Rudy -- and it's on national TV and everything." She
   expertly used the razor blade to form the chopped coke into four
   exactly equal lines and they snorted them during the commercials.
        When he got to work Rudy put his time card into the clock and
   punched in. He yakked for a few minutes with the other guard who was
   going off duty.
        Hey, did you hear about that VMX stuff?" The other guard hadn't.
        Rudy walked through the complex, making his first rounds.
   Sometimes there were people working late, but not tonight. He stopped
   at the VMX shop and stared curiously into the window. The office held
   only a metal desk and a tipped-over swivel chair and a file cabinet.
   The inner door into the factory from the office was ajar.
        On the desk was a small flat object... it looked like the thing
   the kid had on TV. Rudy looked at the door to the building and
   suddenly noticed the seal was broken. Somebody had been into the
   building.
        Rudy tried the door and it opened. He went in and picked up the
   device off the desk, then put it back down. The door to the factory
   room was open. Rudy looked in and saw cases and cases of the devices,
   stacked into boxes with their tops open, ready to be filled with
   styrofoam peanuts and sealed and shipped.
        And then Rudy saw a body on the floor, and it looked like Mr.
   Vole. The body still held a pistol in its hand.
        He called the cops, then called Mr. Klippen, the boss of the
   rent-a-cop outfit. "Hi Mr. Klippen, I got bad news, looks like this
   Mr.Vole of VMX killed himself inside his warehouse. I already called
   the cops."
        "What! Inside the warehouse? You mean you let him break the seal
   and go in? That VMX building was under bond, and now I'll have to pay
   it off. Goddammit, Rudy, you're fired."
        Rudy was astonished. "But Mr. Klippen, it was that way when I
   came on shift, what about Oliver? It happened while he was on."
        "He's fired too, don't worry." Klippen hung up in Rudy's ear.
        Rudy fumed. He walked around the factory while waiting for the
   police. He picked up one of the devices and slipped it into his pocket
   as a souvenir. He wondered how much the devices were worth. He was out
   of job now. He picked up a case of the devices and took it to his car
   and put it in his trunk.
        Cops arrived and questioned Rudy and took pictures and then left.
   Mr. Klippen arrived and shooed Rudy out and Rudy headed home on the
   northbound San Diego Freeway.
        Traffic was heavy and nobody would let Rudy get over to the right
   to make his turnoff onto the Pasadena Freeway and then at the last
   second there was an opening and he headed for it, but a guy in a
   battered Toyota pickup (the lettering on the tailgate had been peeled
   off so it now read "YO") dodged in front of him and cut him off,
   laughed, and gave him the finger. Rudy had to go another ten miles to
   get off the freeway and get back on the right road. He fumed about it
   all the way home. He wished he had some way to punish the guy.
        He thought about the puker, how the kid in Michigan used it.
   Wouldn't it be nice to have something with which you could punish bad
   drivers like that? Sometimes you can understand why people in LA pull
   guns on the freeway. If you could gun down people, but just make them
   temporarily sick...
        Rudy was out of work for six weeks and he'd been turned down for
   unemployment. The rent was due. He had twenty six of the vomiting
   inducers stashed in his box, but he didn't know who to sell them to.
   PUSH BUTTON TO INDUCE VOMITING. He looked at them as he took his
   pistol out. He rattled the handful of bullets, put one in the gun.
        "I'm going out, honey," he said. The sullen girl watched TV and
   didn't answer. There wasn't any gas in the car. He didn't want to do
   anything in his own neighborhood... but then he didn't want to be
   trapped on foot far from home, either. "Maybe I could just get some
   gas money," he said to himself.
        There was a park across the street from the 50/50 Tavern, and
   Rudy sat on a park bench next to a tree. Finally somebody left the bar
   and walked into the park. At first Rudy thought the guy was a giant,
   but as he came closer Rudy saw he was about his own size, maybe a bit
   smaller. He wiped his hands on his pants and pulled the pistol and
   stood up in the path. "Hold it, mister. I need some gas money." He
   meant it to be menacing but instead his voice squeaked.
        "What is this?" the guy said. He didn't stop walking.
        "I've got a gun," said Rudy.
        "You what?!" The guy suddenly ran right at Rudy and knocked at
   his hand and the gun went flying. "Now what're you going to do, you
   bastard?" His breath was mostly tequila fumes.
        "I'm, uh, sorry, I--"
        The guy punched Rudy and Rudy fell down. "Now I'm gonna kill ya,"
   the guy said with satisfaction. Rudy struggled to his feet and ran
   away before the guy could do anything else.
        "Now what am I going to do?" Rudy said to Donna. "I don't even
   have my gun any more, how'm I going to get another security job? Can't
   even pawn it."
        "You already pawned it, don't give me no stories."
        Rudy thought about using the puker. How close did you actually
   have to be? Rudy went to the bus station when there was a big crowd of
   people around. He held the puker head-high and pointed the clear
   circle toward the crowd and held down the button. Suddenly a person in
   the crowd burst out in vomit. Rudy felt guilty all the way home.
        He looked at the pukers in his box. Twenty eight of them. He took
   one apart and it was simple inside, just a couple of wires and chips
   on a circuit board, connected to the glass disk and a battery. Rudy
   tinkered with the parts and cobbled together a more useful and
   easily-aimed hand weapon, using the body of a TV remote control with
   the glass disk on the aiming end and the clicker/off switch convenient
   for the thumb.
        As weeks went by Rudy perfected his techniques. He discovered
   that the glass disk of the Puker didn't have to be actually in contact
   with the victim's head. He aimed it at the head of a woman sitting on
   a bench at the far end of the bus station -- nobody else was around --
   and pushed the button, expecting that if anything happened it would be
   a diminished effect, a wave of nausea without vomiting, perhaps.
        Rudy discovered that the Puker had the same effect no matter how
   far away from the head you held it. The Puker sent a pencil-thin beam
   of energy straight out from the glass disk. Rudy found that he could
   stand in a doorway and point the disk toward a pedestrian and, if he
   aimed right, induce a frenzied display of wet gagging from thirty feet
   away. The limit seemed to be about 50 feet--further away than that,
   and there was no reaction. And you had to aim pretty carefully and be
   sure the laser light hit the person's head. It was a yes/no effect --
   it never made the victim a little bit sick, it was either full-tilt
   puking or no effect at all.
        Rudy was able to puke people and grab their wallets without any
   danger, and he and Donna were getting along a lot better. He made a
   puker for Donna, but she wasn't into mugging people. Then one day she
   was leaving her waitress job at midnight and some gang kids were
   there. "That's a cool coat you got, why don't you let me have it?"
   said the tall one and the other two nodded. They pulled her toward the
   alley and said, "We want your ass, too."
        But Donna pulled out the puker and zapped the three guys and it
   worked like a charm. Suddenly the alley was no longer a prison, it was
   just a dark street where a guys were puking desperately on the ground.
   All you could hear was the puking. It sounded so good to Donna. She
   exhaled loudly and hiked away.
        "You got to make one of these for my sister," Donna told Rudy
   when she gets home. "You could sell these things for big money, you
   know. Every girl on my shift would want one."
        "Say," said Rudy thoughtfully, "they're having an auction of all
   the junk from the VMX building, and I saw the lists... nobody is going
   to bid on those things... I bet we could buy crates of the things for
   real cheap..."
        And thus did true democracy finally come to America.
        It was the perfect defensive weapon.

-----

Tech Talk

   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: BOB BLAYLOCK (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53260 (OS/2)
      I enjoyed reading, and empathized with most of, your comments.
      As far as the 8080/8085 evolution is concerned, the two chips are
   very similar. I learned my computer hardware theory while studying for
   an EE inelectronics engineering, almost a decade ago. At the time, the
   8080/8085 was the "prototype" CPU that we had to dissect -- thus, I
   just happened toknow a bit about them and their evolution into the
   8088/86.
      Although it is true that the 8088/86 was evolved to maintain
   hardware compatibility with the 8085, the CP/M influence WAS very
   great, but in theOS arena. Thus, the first release of MS(PC)-DOS was
   VERY CP/M-like, especially in the area of file management (as opposed
   to other system services). DOS 1.0, we should remember, didn't
   implement hierarchical directories and through all DOS versions (even
   5.0) you can still create/manipulate files by using File Control
   Blocks (FCBs), which were a direct port from CP/M. Of course the
   "recommended" method (and frankly better method) for file access has
   been to use file "handles."
      I have always felt that the Motorola 680x0 chips were technically
   better than the Intel line. And there is no question in my mind that a
   32-bit OS,with all the "transparent" features you wisely mentioned,
   will be a MAJOR advance over ol' DOS -- and rightly so. Which one it
   will be -- OS/2, Unix, Windows NT -- will NOT be decided by rational
   discussions amongst technically literate people (e.g., you and me),
   but by marketing hype and clout. I again cite the contest between Beta
   and VHS video formats -- there are few technically knowledgeable
   people who will claim that the "better man won"! But such is life.
   Windows is OK -- not great, but OK -- and Windows NT will be better by
   a mile. Given MSoft's track record in thebusiness vs. IBM's, I have
   little trouble predicting that Windows NT will nbe the dominant OS on
   the desktop for the better part of this decade.
      Apple pioneered the commercial implementation of the GUI -- it was
   Steve Job's baby. Thus, we should not be surprised at the leading-edge
   features in the Next machine: it's truly remarkable. However, my
   enthusiasm for Apple in the early eighties was inspired by Jobs and
   the Woz! When the Woz left, my spirit became restless. When Jobs was
   "booted," I was more than suspicious! Then, as a certified developer
   for Apple, I watched their evolution from an inspired company into
   just another MBA-management controlled corporation. The Mac had its
   chance several years ago: if Sculley had dropped the price to be truly
   competitive against the PC, I honestly believe that the Mac might have
   become the dominant desktop platform. But,MBAs are seldom inspired
   enough to make those kinds of decisions. In fact, I suggest that a
   company's slugishness may be directly proportional to thenumber of
   MBAs they retain.
      I personally direct my attention and efforts toward those machines,
   OSs, applications, languages, that do, or are most likely to, dominate
   the market -- not those I might feel are "the better Man!" Atthe
   present moment, if asked to predict the "killer" machine two years
   from now, I would say: a desktop PC running Digital's Alpha CPU,
   Windows NT OS, with video I/O through a local bus to a dedicated TI
   graphics processor, and a high-speed 32-bit I/O buss, with on-board
   DSP capabilities. I think both Intel and Motorola are going to have to
   hop pretty high to keep up with the pace.
   
   From: BOB BLAYLOCK
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53263 (OS/2)
      Compared to the actual IBM products, or to IBM-compatible machines
   made by companies of similar repute, Apple's Macintosh line has always
   been very well priced. It's only when you factor in the hoardes of
   low-end fly-by-night clones that the Macintoshes start to look
   expensive.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: BOB BLAYLOCK (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53266 (OS/2)
      Well, Bob -- for some years now, the "masses" have been bypassing
   what you call "actual IBM products" and companies of "similar repute"
   (e.g., Compaq?). You seem to be implying that the Dells and Gateways
   of the world are "low-end, fly-by-night clones." The actual facts are
   roughly this:
      * Apple sales account for something like 15% of the total PC
   market, up from about 10% since they unleashed their "hordes" of
   cheap, disappointing models;
      * The IBM-compatible PC is a COMMODITY now; i.e., people no longer
   need the security of buying a NAME, which is what IBM, COMPAQ, DEC and
   HP have been trying to do, with declining success, for the last ten
   years; COMPAQ appears to have gotten the message; I don't think IBM
   ever will;
      * Despite the hype, a "clone" built by a reputable dealer will be a
   BETTER QUALITY, BETTER PERFORMING machine than ANYTHING you could get
   from IBM for almost TWICE the price. In advising clients, I don't just
   recommend that they buy a clone -- I strongly advise that they don't
   go with an true IBM brand machine unless they enjoy throwing money
   away and don't mind backing themselves into a proprietary corner!
      * Apple is still trying to sell a NAME. Unless they market their
   HIGH-END machines at a competitive price, and preferably license their
   ROM, OS and other enabling technology, to "clone" makers (in order to
   really saturate the market), I doubt they will ever significantly
   increase their present market share.
      * I can buy the following system for about $2500: a 33Mhz 486 with
   8MB ram, 170 IDE HD, SVGA video, 2 FDs, mouse, 2 Ser.Ports, 1 Par.
   Ports, 1 game port... Name a MAC system with that capability for
   anything near thatprice! We're talking a machine that rivals an
   entry-level Quadra. When Apple starts letting Quadras go for $2500,
   they might gain ground. I am not arguing the relative merits of any
   particular computer, as I've said before. I AM talking about computing
   power/dollar and where the great majority of the world is. That's how
   I plan to make my living for years to come.
   
   From: BOB BLAYLOCK
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53277 (OS/2)
      Whether the name itself really means anything or not, the simple
   fact is, that there are certain companies who, having developed a
   solid reputation, can charge more for their products. Even today, IBM
   and Compaq products command higher prices than products from GateWay
   or Dell, or any of the hoards of other similar companies. And it's not
   just because these companies are greedy, and out to screw the
   consumer; it's because in general, the consumers perceive these to be
   superior brands. Apple has this same kind of name-brand value too.
   Whether the quality of the product really lives up to the name's
   reputaion or not, it's a simple fact that the name does carry
   considerable value.
      So, when comparing Apple's prices to those of IBM-type machines, I
   think it's only fair to compare Apple's prices to those of similarly
   reputable IBM-compatible manufactures. After all, you wouldn't
   criticise a Mercedes Benz for being overpriced, simply because it
   happens to cost more than a Hyundai.
      And every time I have had occasion to compare, Apple's prices have
   been very competetive against thse brands of IBM-compatibles that come
   from manufacturers with similar levels of name-brand value.
      In fact, when I bought my Mac II back in 1987, the only other true
   32-bit personal computers available were the Compaq DeskPro '386 and
   the IBM PS/2-80, bot of which cost considerably more than the Mac II.
   I recall observing that the IBM model which came in at about the same
   price as the Macintosh II was the PS/2-60, which was an 80286-based
   machine. At the time, the Macintosh II was also the only 32-bit
   personal computer thatyou could actually use as a 32-bit computer.
   
   From: HARVEY WHEELER
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53277 (OS/2)
      Both Gallant and ABI have offered me a 386 40mhz with VGA, 170mg
   HD, two floppies, regular ports, 2400 baud modem & mouse for approx
   $1400.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: BOB BLAYLOCK
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53304 (OS/2)
      If you insist that it's "only fair" to compare Apple's prices with
   those IBM compatibles who are marketing a "name," I have failed to
   make my point.
      The marketing of a name was a viable approach to profits by many
   companies back when the public was less informed and PCs were still
   novel technology. My point is that that time has past. A personal
   computer is a COMMODITY; there are enough good-quality, low-priced IBM
   compatibles around to present a serious challenge to the
   "name-vendors," and that is where the market is.
      I am not criticizing Apple's technology, by any means. The Mac is a
   good machine with a good CPU and a good OS -- in fact, from a
   technical viewpoint, I would assert that the 680x0 is better than the
   80x86, chip for chip, and System 7 is superior to DOS-based Windows.
   But, the market issues are something totally different. If Apple
   abandons the "name-selling" game (like Compaq has, and IBM hasn't) and
   substantially lowered the price of their high-end machines, they could
   make a real splash. If they don't, I think they will eventually come
   to be known as one of those 80's technology companies that couldn't
   keep up.
   
   From: NOAH'S ARK
   To: ROBERT KEITH MCHENRY (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53190 (OS/2)
      There is a meeting of the disktop pub. group tonight thurs. and
   there is a guest speaker and the talk will be on os 2 they should be
   able to ans OS 2 questions they meet at the gol. libeary 7:00 pm frist
   thrs. of the month. everyone welcome. tonight OS2
   
   From: ROBERT KEITH MCHENRY
   To: NOAH'S ARK
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53315 (OS/2)
      You stated "frist thrs. of the month". Today is the LAST thrs. of
   the month. What gives? Are you a week ahead of sched.?
   
   From: NOAH'S ARK
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53207 (OS/2)
      I donnot know about all u but any system that makes all my software
   obsolete will have to be reallllllllllly gooooooooooood. I have a big
   investment in software and upgrades. I just sent off another 119 for
   the picture pub. update. do u mean all the old dos programs will be
   obsolete or will all the win programs also need upgrading. if so that
   winx will not play very well with me. win 3.1 made me have to upgrade
   vido drivers but that was it. hope u are wrong and they can figure a
   way to run old dos stuff and still take advanage of the 32 bit.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: BOB BLAYLOCK (Rcvd)
   Subj: 8088
      P.S. -- Re IBM's decisions in the PC market. I could never
   understand why IBM persisted in using the 8088 through so many
   iterations of the PC. If I am not mistaken, they were still putting it
   into their XT-type models just a couple of years ago. The clone people
   immediately adopted the 8086 and a 16-bit buss. That's one reason why
   almost any clone will perform better than a True Blue machine.
   
   From: BOB BLAYLOCK
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53264 (8088)
      Hmmm. Are you sure of that? I've seen a few exceptions, but the
   vast majority of XT-type machines that I looked into well enough to
   see, were all 8088-based.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: BOB BLAYLOCK (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53267 (8088)
      If you've looked into an IBM machine, you will have seen 8088s.
   From day one in the clone market, the IBM PC was improved. My memory
   is foggy, but I seem to recall that COMPAQ lead the way many years ago
   with the 8086, and every clone maker I was familiar with followed
   suit. The other CPU improvement was NEC's chip (was it the V5, or
   something like that?). In recent years (e.g., the last 6-7 years), IBM
   is the only PC maker I know of who has continued to produce machines
   with an 8088 and an 8-bit buss.
      Instead of learning from the advances of their competitors, IBM has
   consistently pursued a self-defeating, opposing course. A couple of
   examples:
      1.) When IBM brought out the AT running @ 8 MHz, techies quickly
   realized that they could increase the clock speed by simply replacing
   the clock xtal. IBM's response?: They altered the OS POST tests to
   make the machines test their speed and not boot if they were running
   faster than 8 MHz. The PEOPLE's reply: They let their machines boot at
   8 MHz to satisfy IBM's PC DOS fetish, then boosted to turbo speed for
   the rest of the day!
      2.) After the initial success of the original PC, IBM decided that,
   "Hey! Perhaps Apple is right -- there IS a market for computers among
   the little people. Let's make a REAL personal computer." The result:
   the PC Jr., with so many proprietary features that people who still
   own them are hoping to sell them to the Smithsonian, or convert them
   to duty as ignition controllers for Edsels.
      3.) More recently, pursuing the old "proprietary technology"
   gambit, IBM designed the 32-bit MCA buss. The response of everybody
   else: the EISA buss. The latter is comparable to MCA in most
   performance respects, but doesn't charge a proprietary fee for
   independent vendors who develop adapter boards for that buss; and, the
   EISA buss allows consumers to continue using their older (and
   ubiquitous!) ISA adapters. Surely, EISA has more appeal to us "common
   folk" -- and market penetration of each buss design reflects that.
      Let's face it: IBM has failed us and, in doing so, has failed
   itself. That's a big part why the headlines today say: "IBM to get rid
   of 32,000 workers." That a few days after DEC announced tehey will lay
   off another 20,000. Getting those huge companies to respond to today's
   volatile market and fast-paced technology is a little like "kicking a
   dead elephant down the beach!"
   
   From: HARVEY WHEELER
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53278 (8088)
      These have been very interesting and informative messages, Gary;
   many thanks.
      And in addition to your points I think that one of the problems
   with the information technology companies is that they have followed
   the production, marketing and style obsolescence models of
   conventional consumer high ticket hardware and I feel that an entirely
   new model-change process will have to emerge with new obsolescence and
   updating criteria. Possibly the modularity of the 486 points toward
   the solution.
      But in addition to those who enjoy, or profit from, life on the
   leading edge - which obviously includes many others in addition to
   yourself on this board - there is also need for a newly engineered
   mass market "appropriate technology" modular, low cost, "Volkswagen"
   computer, possibly with pay-as-you-lease fiber optic accessed,
   engineer-personalized, applications for the most expensive and
   difficult to configure software.
      For example, you could start one of the new miracle WAN based
   operations containing site licensed versions of the most sophisticated
   software items and then offer to provide clients with personalized
   configurations for lease - whose file products they would save and
   keep secure on their own machines. Something of the sort seems to be
   necessary for the short term (five to ten years) future.
      Maybe IBM (and I agree with nearly all of your indictment of it as
   well as of "Yuppie-generation Scully") was closer to the mark with its
   mainframes.That is, sell or lease the hardware but lease only the
   software, and keep it all operating, updated, and serviced constantly
   on a contractual basis.
      Maybe with the modular, updatable, 486 as a base, people like
   yourself, in addition to the prior software application deal, could
   furnish mid-sized firms with hardware and applications on a
   contract/lease basis, a la IBM main and mini frames, with the ability
   to upgrade everything on a fee basis.
      In fact, I might be interested in partnering such a business with
   some HiTech guys.
   
   From: MARVIN JOHNSTON
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53278 (8088)
      Just a slight correction on your 8 MHz IBM; it was actually a 6 MHz
   machine that IBM came out with that could be speeded up to 8 MHz until
   the BIOS check was added.
      BTW, on a related subject, I just saw for the first time 128K chips
   that appeared to be 2 64K chips (4164s?) piggybacked onto each other.
   I read someplace that until the 128K chips came out, the two
   piggybacked chips were used as a substitute. Any idea of what is
   actually going on there?
      Somehow, just piggybacking two 4164s seem like it wouldn't work,
   although I haven't really looked into it. I have one of the 6 MHz IBM
   AT motherboards that I will probably end up framing as a display piece
   similiar to the core memory boards I have.
   
   From: BOB BLAYLOCK
   To: GARY ALBERS (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53278 (8088)
      Well, I have to admit that there are probably a lot of XT-type
   machines that I didn't examine. I am aware that Compaq had an
   8086-based machine, but I think it was the exception rather than the
   rule. Off the top of my head, I can think of three XT-type machines
   that I have delved deeply enough into to know for sure. None were
   genuine IBM, and all were 8088, not 8086 based. I know that a common
   "soup-up" operation for XT-types of all brands was to replace the CPU
   with an NEC V-20, which is an 8088, not an 8086 clone.
      I just now remembered a fourth specific machine I have tinkered
   with, which was also an 8088. I also just now remembered from the
   computer maintenance class that I took at SBCC a few years ago, where
   we had a sizeable assortment of XT-type machines of various brands to
   dissect, that I did not notice any which were 8086-based, and that the
   schematices we were given to work from all described 8088-based
   systems.
      I am aware that there were some 8086-based XT clones, including at
   leastone from Compaq, but I think these were really the exception, not
   the rule.
   
   From: BOB BLAYLOCK
   To: MARVIN JOHNSTON
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53303 (8088)
      <<I just saw for the first time 128K chips that appeared to be 2
   64K chips (4164s?) piggybacked onto each other. I read someplace that
   until the 128K chips came out, the two piggybacked chips were used as
   a substitute. Any idea of what is actually going on there? Somehow,
   just piggybacking two 4164s seem like it wouldn't work, although I
   haven't really looked into it. >>
      Well, lesse, a 64Kbit chip would have 16 address lines into it. Is
   that right? Seems right, but I don't think the chip has that many
   pins, or at least not enough pins to have 16 address lines, plus the
   other lines it would need. I guess I'll have to look up the pinout of
   a 4164 some time.
      Anyway, each 4164 would also have, I am sure, a chip-select line.
   Probably you could have all of the pints of a pair of chips connectd
   together, except the chip select lines. There's be a little bit more
   logic needed, then, to assert the chip select line on the appropriate
   one of the two chips, depending on what address is being accessed.
      I guess I don't know enough about the way RAM chips are accessed to
   know exactly how this would be done, but I do know enough to have a
   vague idea of how this could be done.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: HARVEY WHEELER (Rcvd)
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53288 (8088)
      Interesting comments, Harvey. The French seem to be ahead of us in
   these matters. I'll be interested to see if Al Gore implements any of
   these ideas, should he become our next VP. (I'm not optimistic that
   Dan Quayle would be inspired in this direction, should we be doomed to
   another four years of "Quayle in the Bush" politics). I don't know
   that much about him,but I understand Gore has been a real innovator in
   the hi-tech areas.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: MARVIN JOHNSTON
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53303 (8088)
      Thanks for the correction, Marvin. My memory is foggy for things
   that far back. No, I don't know the technicalities behind
   piggy-backing 64K chips, although I remember having a disagreement
   once with a local hardware expert, who claimed that the world jumped
   directly from 64K to 256K memory chips. I informed him that there had,
   indeed, been a short appearance of 128K chips. How time (and
   technology) flies!
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: BOB BLAYLOCK
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53305 (8088)
      Could be, Bob. That was not my experience, but my memory is vague
   and I make no claims to omniscience. What is not in question is the
   superiority of the 8086 over the 8088. If I were to be designing an
   XT-class machine, I would certainly be lured toward the 8086. Wouldn't
   you?
   
   From: GERRY CHING
   To: HUGH MANDESON
   Subj: CDROM
      Forget the request for the lastest version of the Microsoft CD-ROM
   extensions (MSCDEX.EXE). It is available from Microsoft on their
   downloading service. However, an address/phone number for the drive
   manufacturer might be handy in the future if I need an updated drive
   device driver.
   
   From: NOAH'S ARK
   To: JOHN KALSTROM
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53178 (TOSHIBA LAPTOP)
      I have a toshiba and one time that happen to me. There was a little
   switch on the side on my 1200 hd and I had moved it with out knowing
   it so I call toshiba and they told me move the stwitch back. easy fix
   let me know if that was it.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: NOAH'S ARK
   Subj: 32-BIT OS
      There's no question that the migration to a 32-bit OS will be
   painful for the DOS world. Unfortunately, there is a serious tradeoff
   between the requirements for a true protected-mode, 32-bit operating
   system, and the seamless running of DOS applications. I have always
   liked programming under DOS, bacause it allows me to bypass anything I
   want and talk directly to hardware, video buffer, keyboard, etc. Such
   things can not be allowed if we are to also want an OS which will run
   multiple programs concurrently and protect each from the other.
      I've been happy with DOS, frankly. I have software that runs
   flawlessly and does everything I need it to do, from word-processing
   to CAD. In fact,I feel a little schizoid right now, because I do my
   applications in the DOS world, but am learning tools I'll need for the
   future. And part of me just doesn't see the need for much of this
   "progress." I think it's market-driven, for sure -- a market curiously
   molded by the "supply-side" players instead of the "demanding"
   consumer.
      Microsoft is slowly, but surely, dropping the other shoe about
   their forthcoming Windows NT OS. They now claim that support for DOS
   applications will, indeed, be limited. They are looking at the "top
   100 DOS applications" and will tailor compatibility around that
   market. You can bet that MS WORD, EXCEL, and other MS products will be
   at the top of their list of applications to support. Nonetheless, over
   time, we will have to adopt new upgrades if we want to migrate to the
   32-bit world. I'm hoping that most vendors will offer upgrades at very
   reasonable prices -- but it's still SOME price, isn't it?
      Some people have recognized the persistence of the DOS world, even
   the text-mode world. E.g., Symantec has brought out their text-based
   Norton Desktop for DOS. I think there will be ways to stay in the DOS
   world for a long time to come, and ways to make the transition to
   32-bits gradually.
   
   From: GARY ALBERS
   To: HARVEY WHEELER (Rcvd)
   Subj: CHEAP PC
      Yup, Harvey. That's my point. Sounds pretty good for a
   "kick-around" home consumer machine, doesn't it. By the way, what were
   the "names" of those machines again -- I don't think I'm familiar with
   them. . .
   
   From: HARVEY WHEELER
   To: GARY ALBERS
   Subj: REPLY TO MSG# 53322 (CHEAP PC)
      I did not get brand names from either Gallant or ABI however I was
   able to help a friend buy two 386 33, (that was before the drop in
   price of the 40s) VGA, just under 100 mg HD and an authentic copy of
   DOS 5 for a little over $1000 f rom Gallant. That has been about 9 or
   so months and they have held up fine. The prices go up steeply if you
   need big memory HDs. A 386 40 with 80 meg is now about $850 and may
   come down a bit soon.

-----
     
The Creature and Society
Transcribed and edited by Robert Ziller
                                      
   SUSAN: What would Shakespeare have done with Frankenstein? As a
   character.
   
   JILL: He would've made Frankenstein royalty. A lot of Shakespeare's
   kings are really no less monstrous than Frankenstein. Leontes, for
   example, or Lear --
   
   ROBERT: Or he might've made Frankenstein an actor who is so exhausted
   by his own personhood that he decides to become a monster.
   
   JILL: I'd like to know what Frankenstein would've done with
   Shakespeare...?
   
   SUSAN: There were only two kinds of creatures in Frankenstein's world:
   women and enemies, and --
   
   ROBERT: So essentially Frankenstein was a proto-feminist, then?
   
   JILL: You are Frankenstein, Robert.
   
   SUSAN: What does the Frankenstein story tell us? For one thing that
   once someone is dead, you should let them stay dead. Imagine being
   freed from earthly existence and inhabiting the warm ubiquitous glow
   of the afterlife; suddenly some mad scientist back on earth puts your
   brain into a corpse, gives it a jolt of electricity, and all of a
   sudden your soul is sucked out of the afterlife and plugged into this
   earthly body. But now you have no spirit with which to relate to the
   world. And probably no real mind, so you're just --
   
   JILL: I think the problem with Dr. Frankenstein -- the monster's
   creator -- was that he had no appreciation of Frankenstein the monster
   _as a person_; he was interested in the monster just insofar as he
   embodied a scientific experiment. Dr. Frankenstein was a lot like a
   behaviorist; an early B.F. Skinner, only considerably more original
   than Skinner.
   
   ROBERT: Wait a minute, Jill; how could Dr. Frankenstein have related
   to his creation as a person? He wasn't a person, he was a monster.
   
   JILL: Well, what exactly makes a person?
   
   ROBERT: Come on!
   
   JILL: No, really. If you say for example that someone's gay because he
   has such-and-such condition in his hypothalamus, someone's violent
   because of such-and-such chromosomes, someone drinks lots of alcohol
   because they have such-and-such chemical imbalance, well then...where
   is there room left for a person?
   
   SUSAN: Can I interrupt? I want to steer this away from becoming an
   unentertaining philosophical debate.
   
   ROBERT: Just one more note on that, please. What did Frankenstein
   want? He wanted a room with no fire in it, enough food to eat, and a
   mate. That was the full extent of his ambition. That hardly seems very
   human to me.
   
   JILL: Well, what you've just described are the goals of most ordinary
   people. We decorate those three main goals -- food, shelter,
   sensuality -- with all sorts of rituals, but really that's what our
   lives boil down to.
   
   SUSAN: Let me broach this idea: Could Frankenstein ever have been
   integrated into society? What would happen if he were created today?
   Certainly we're much closer to being able to animate dead matter today
   than we were a hundred years ago.
   
   JILL: Well I think American society has developed extraordinarily
   sophisticated techniques for modifying deviant personalities. In some
   cases it works backwards; social pressures instead of imposing
   uniformity on a divergent person end up pushing him or her further
   away from the norm, and that often leads to criminality.
   
   SUSAN: As does forced uniformity, though often in different ways.
   
   JILL: I think if Frankenstein were alive today, he might be turned
   into a "normal" individual. You could see him eating a banana split at
   the ice cream parlor, or wearing Nikes; you could see him working at a
   bookstore, or --
   
   ROBERT: Or teaching at a university, or singing in a choir.
   Frankenstein could be a celebrity, like on MTV --
   
   JILL: No, Frankenstein's personality is too strong, he wouldn't make a
   good celebrity. Celebrities obliterate their real personalities in
   order to adapt to current fashions; once they learn a particular vogue
   way of acting and looking, society embraces them, revels in them
   overnight, then spits them away. And most celebrities can only mold
   themselves to one single fashion; once they come to be associated with
   that one...context, they seem out of place in any other context. And
   anyway, how many times can you transform yourself without becoming
   vacuous? So most celebrities only remain hip for several years. Then
   after that they're worse than obsolete; they're embarrassing. They're
   contemptible. The society that cherished them for becoming mindless
   instruments of titillation now hates them for having had such low
   standards. Society will never forgive them. And in their own souls,
   they can never escape the fact that they were once in the Partridge
   Family, or on Gilligan's Island, or whatever.
   
   ROBERT: But there are also people who become celebrities just because
   they have such charming personalities, because they're --
   
   JILL: Oh, they're even worse off! Their personalities become public
   property and their status as private individuals is wrecked.
   
   SUSAN: Taking your reasoning through a slightly different turn, Jill,
   I think some people might see all celebrities as Frankensteins;
   manufactured creatures.
   
   ROBERT: But speaking of Frankenstein not being able to be a celebrity,
   in the past decade or so we've seen several movies dealing with
   Frankenstein.
   
   JILL: Well but that's not to say that Frankenstein is in fact a
   celebrity; he's just a role that anyone can fill so long as she or he
   adheres to the basic Frankensteinian guidelines on monsterhood. Anyone
   can be Frankenstein in this society, just like anyone can --
   theoretically -- be President.
   
   SUSAN: You said "she or he." Let's talk about Frankenstein's bride.
   Was the monster couple capable of having a family?
   
   ROBERT: And if so, what church would they have joined? What would
   their politics have been? Could Frankenstein himself have become
   President?
   
   SUSAN: I thought the '80 and '84 elections answered that...
   
   JILL: Well, again, I think if Frankenstein were alive today we'd be
   hard pressed to distinguish him -- at least on the surface -- from an
   ordinary man.
   
   SUSAN: So you're saying, Jill, that like Dr. Frankenstein who just
   wasn't interested in what you called the personhood of his monster and
   therefore totally ignored him, contemporary society essentially does
   the same thing to its individuals by forcing them to obey some picture
   of the model citizen?
   
   JILL: More or less; I don't think --
   
   ROBERT: That notion's belied by the fact that our society has such
   admiration for true individuals, such as Frank Zappa, Henry David
   Thoreau, Ross Perot, --
   
   JILL: Well on what grounds do you consider them true individuals? It
   seems to me they're just magnifications of features of our social
   consciousness which may not be obvious, but which are nevertheless
   very in keeping with our national character. When you get real
   individuals, like Emma Goldman, Eugene Debs, Polly Baker, these people
   are hounded by government agents, periodically imprisoned -- as was
   Thoreau. Essentially their lives are spent at war with their society.
   
   ROBERT: But those people were genuine threats to the social order --
   for good or for bad. How do you think Frankenstein would threaten us?
   
   JILL: He'd threaten us in our self-identity. He'd show us that we're
   just as monstrous as any of the horror-movie monsters we've imagined.
   
   ROBERT: Isn't it just extraordinary that human beings actually spend
   time sitting around worrying about their own status as beings? Why is
   this so important to us? Would a true monster go through this
   ontological insecurity?
   
   JILL: I think the Frankenstein story tells us this: Lighten up; take
   it easy; live and let live; the world is full of evil, so stay away
   from it as much as possible. Aside from that, just relax and enjoy
   life.
   
   ROBERT: That is a such a shallow hedonistic interpretation! How can
   you think that?
   
   SUSAN: Before we go any further, I'd like to thank you both; we are
   out of time.

-----

Alone, by Johnston Kinds
   
        The house of the dying man was surrounded by twenty thousand
   acres of central Californian land. A colony of illegal Mexican
   immigrants lived there and farmed the land for the decrepit Alan Daley
   and his sons, Tracy and Lisle.
        The laborers rarely left the property; when their village was
   established Alan Daley created two stores where he charged the workers
   non-profit prices for food, clothing, liquor, etc. Life on the village
   was self-contained and provided the tenants more comfort than they had
   known in their politically tumultuous homeland; Alan Daley was
   probably the only man in America who gave illegal immigrant laborers a
   fair deal.
        At first Daley had a doctor visit the village regularly, but the
   workers ignored him; they had their own medicine; most of them were
   Ginash Indians who practised traditional healing.
   
   * * *
   
     Tracy
   
        The Daleys' quiet, monumental home was far from the workers'
   village. A mile north of the house was a cliff overlooking a canyon
   with a stream snaking through its floor of sand, rocks, and low, dense
   bushes. Oak trees spotted the wide fields around the house. There was
   an oak tree at the edge of the canyon cliff on which Alan Daley made a
   swing for his sons when Tracy, the oldest by a year, was nine. The
   swing still hung from the old tree; it carried people beyond the edge
   of the cliff; sitting on the swing the boys looked down in
   exhilaration at the cool floor of the canyon forty feet below. Now
   twenty-four, Tracy continued to use the swing when he was upset about
   things.
        Tracy was moody and inconsistent. Sometimes he fell prey to ennui
   and sat for days in front of the television. Sometimes he vanished
   periods of up to two days then returned, exhausted, with scratches on
   his pallid face and his body. He spent almost all his time in
   seclusion at their estate, which they called the Range.
   
   * * *

     Lisle
   
        Lisle took trips down to Los Angeles to see movies, go to clubs,
   to throw himself like a spark into unfamiliar circles of people; he
   would befriend, embrace, use, and offend them. These pilgrimages
   satisfied any therapeutic needs he had; they were exercises in
   indulgence.
        After one of Lisle's trips he brought back to the Range a
   doctoral candidate from UCLA named Hannah. Hannah took to the Range
   right away; within days her demeanor hinted that the house was as much
   hers as it was Lisle's and Tracy's.
   
   * * *
   
     Alan
   
        By this point their father Alan was in a state of unconsciousness
   interrupted only by brief periods of delirium. A mouse-like, nearly
   invisible nurse lived with him in an isolated section of the house. It
   was expected that he would die soon. Despite its ever more concrete
   certainty, that expectation had escaped fulfillment for four years.
   Lisle and Tracy found visiting their father uncomfortable; Tracy
   because he loved his father, and Lisle because he loathed him.
        Years ago Alan Daley would wake up screaming; his scorching voice
   reverberated throughout the house until the nurse drugged him. But for
   the past two years he had been quiet; sometimes his drained voice
   muttered soft nonsensical poetry, but no one heard it.
   
   * * *
   
     Hannah
   
        Lisle was away during the day. He enjoyed the crude business
   operations of his father's estate and spent much of his time with the
   foreman, gradually taking over the job of the old, trusted friend of
   Alan Daley.
        Hannah did not miss him. His non-sexual company was a limited
   stimulus. The appealing thing about staying at the Range was being
   away from the toxic urban world. And at the Range she had sex every
   night, didn't have to buy her own food, and had plenty of peace and
   quiet in which to work on her dissertation.
        But after the first couple of days Hannah found herself
   distracted. Her dissertation began to seem trivial, while the country
   around the Range with its pathless purity was dazzlingly idyllic and
   made her feel primitive. Fully alive. Hannah found she was actually on
   vacation. And then there was Tracy.
        Hannah had deliciously light conversations with Tracy, whom she
   adored. Tracy -- like his brother -- could not handle challenging
   discussions, so they talked about plants and animals on the Range,
   television shows, politics, and so on.
        Tracy took walks for hours every day. Hannah once asked Lisle
   where he went. "Damned if I know. He's probably building a treehouse
   or something. Who cares?"
        Finally Hannah felt comfortable enough with Tracy that she could
   ask him. "I don't go anywhere, really. I mean I go...well I go places.
   But, you know, there are things to do and all that. Nowhere in
   particular."
        "Can I come sometime?" Tracy was surprised.
        "Can you come with me, you mean? Oh, no! I mean, you wouldn't,
   you'd be bored. Anyway, anyway, it's, it's...no."
        Needless to say, Hannah's curiosity was heightened by Tracy's
   staggered reply.
   
   * * *
   
     Alan
   
        Alan Daley's nurse stared down at the old man's lips. They moved
   but brought no sound to air. For the first time in two years, Alan
   Daley looked directly at the nurse and she became tense. Afraid that
   he would begin screaming again, she removed a syringe from her bag and
   prepared a tranquilizer.
        Daley's voice rose like a fossil breaking out of stone: it issued
   wandering, unintelligible tones. His eyes became enlivened, and his
   stream of vowels became civilized by consonants. He spoke to the nurse
   as if he were conscious.
        "Nurse, nurse...I need to talk to Tracy. I need to tell him about
   his mother. I lied. I lied..."
        "Relax, Mr. Daley."
        "No, no...I need to talk to Tracy. I just need to tell him about
   his mother. I just need to, I -- oh, Jesus --"
        Seeing his excitement growing to a dangerous pitch, the nurse
   gave Alan Daley the injection.
        He would never be conscious again.
   
   * * *
   
     Lisle
   
        Tracy, Lisle, and Hannah were never together at once because the
   two brothers avoided each other. There was no open hostility between
   them, only institutionalized silence.
        Lisle became uncomfortable with Hannah's fondness for Tracy. He
   knew that Tracy -- with his enigmatic personality, his Martian
   consciousness -- was more interesting than he was. Their father never
   disguised his favoritism towards Tracy.
        Lisle didn't know how to confront Hannah, but he was jealous;
   Hannah became mirthful and lively when she was with Tracy, but with
   him she seemed blase, perfunctory, disinterested. Their only quality
   contact was sexual.
        Why the hell was it that everyone was so fond of Tracy? For
   Lisle, being with Tracy -- a rare occurrence -- was like being with an
   animal; being with a non-human.
   
   * * *
   
     Lisle
   
        The question about the destination of Tracy's daily excursions
   was soon answered. Lisle went with the foreman of the estate to the
   workers' village one afternoon and, at a distance, saw Tracy walking
   out of an immigrant family's hovel. Tracy left the village without
   noticing Lisle. After Lisle finished his business, he visited the
   house. He found it peculiar that his brother was socializing with one
   of the immigrant families; all their lives they had stayed separate
   from the workers.
        Lisle introduced himself to the family and was welcomed in. The
   purpose of Tracy's friendliness became clear: standing by a window at
   the back of the main room was the family's only child: a stunning
   young woman. She was wearing earrings and clothes that were bought
   outside the village; her parents were aware of her beauty and were
   spending most of their money on her. The woman's name was Lucia.
        Lucia. If he wasn't involved with Hannah, Lisle thought he might
   consider her. Matter of fact, if Hannah and Tracy got much
   friendlier...
   
   * * *
   
     Lisle
   
        Lisle decided to go to L.A.; he was uncomfortable with Hannah and
   he wanted to visit an old girlfriend. A trace of instinct told him
   that if he left for a few days and Hannah still valued him, she would
   begin to miss him, and all her original infatuations would be renewed
   upon his return -- at least briefly. But if she did not react with
   reborn joy at his return, the relationship was over. Lisle went to
   find her to tell her he was leaving.
        She was not in the house. Lisle went outside and scouted the
   terrain. 
        From the site of the swing, he looked down at the stream
   forty feet below and saw his brother and his girlfriend standing
   together, watching the stream and talking.
   
   * * *
   
     Lisle
   
        That evening Lisle and Hannah ate dinner in the kitchen.
        "I'm going to L.A. tomorrow." She looked up at him.
        "You are?" He nodded, not meeting her eyes.
        "Well, I haven't gotten any work done, so I don't really have any
   reason to go to UCLA."
        "I wasn't asking you to come with me, Hannah."
        She put down her fork and looked at him. His head was still
   tipped down. "Why are you going?" Lisle paused. His head jerked up.
        "Because I want to get the fuck away from here for a few days."
   They were both silent. She brushed a cluster of hair behind her ear
   then folded her hands on her lap.
        "Are you upset about something, Lisle?" His lips trembled.
        "I want to visit an old friend, all right? I want to get out of
   here. Look, you're not going to be alone -- you're going to be with
   Tracy, I'm sure you have no problem with that. I'm tired of this
   goddam place."
        They were silent.
   
   * * *
   
     Tracy
   
        After eating dinner with Lucia's family, Tracy sat with her on a
   bench at the threshold of a field just outside the workers' village.
   It was nighttime, and she looked at his face under the light of the
   full moon; he looked blissful, but he did not look at her; he was
   staring at the sky. Although she had never been to a school Lucia was
   sophisticated, and Tracy's shyness was irritating as hell.
        "To think my mother warned me about you, Tracy!" He turned to
   her; he looked serious. "You've said a total of about twenty-three
   words this evening, nineteen of which were 'uh,' you've made eye
   contact with me twice, you --"
        Tracy leaned over and kissed her. The kiss lasted; his other hand
   joined hers on her lap. She forced herself up from the bench in mock
   alarm. When he stood up she spun around and ran into the field. After
   several seconds she looked back and found him chasing her. The night
   air rushed past her and she laughed.
   
   * * *
   
     Lisle
   
        Lisle noticed that Hannah had gained weight since she arrived at
   the Range. It was a tiny change; as they lay in bed, he moved his hand
   across her compact breasts and over her ribs, her belly; she was more
   solid. They had had sex without exchanging a word. He looked at the
   dark shape of her face. Her body was pure passion; if only she wasn't
   such a willful girl.
        "I found out where Tracy goes, Hannah."
        She was asleep.
   
   * * *
   
     Lucia
   
        When Lucia reached the oak grove at the edge of the field she
   turned around. Tracy was nowhere to be seen; the full moon threw blue
   incandescent light upon an empty field. How could she have lost him
   out in the open?
        She took a step back towards the field, then froze; in the
   impenetrable shadows of the oak grove behind her there was a sound.
   She felt somebody there. Cold tension reached out from her stomach. A
   hand clamped over her mouth and an arm passed around her waist. She
   screamed into the hand, then laughed. She spun around and kissed
   Tracy.
        They knelt on the ground and broke through their clothing into
   the company of darkness; he pushed her onto her back and laid upon
   her. He moved into her and she gasped, then kissed him again. She
   closed her eyes.
        After several minutes, his breaths began to sound like a steel
   shovel scraping against a cement sidewalk. She opened her eyes in
   alarm.
        The strong moonlight behind Tracy's head created a silhouette;
   she could not see his face. "Tracy, are you OK?" A cloud passed over
   the moon and in the moment that the light was distributed evenly
   around them his face became visible: his eyes were puffy and
   bloodshot; his cheeks had become densely hairy; strands of drool
   strung down from his mouth, where she saw on each jaw a pair of long,
   white, glistening canine teeth. Lucia felt the drool spill from the
   creature's jaws onto her breasts, and she fainted.
   
   * * *
   
     Shelly
   
        The colored stage lights slashed violently through the atmosphere
   of the nightclub. Lisle was preoccupied, and this annoyed Shelly; she
   had not seen him in two weeks and now his presence was fractional.
        Shelly took a tube of lipstick from her purse. "So did you talk
   to the lawyer? Are you going to inherit the Range?"
        "I don't know; they wouldn't let me look at the will. I fucking
   doubt it, though. Tracy is Alan's prince; as long as he's around I
   won't get anything. The best I can hope for is that Tracy will keep me
   on to run the fucking place." Lisle paused to light a cigarette. "It's
   so degrading. I hate that guy."
        "Well...my lease expires at the end of this month," she said,
   alluding to a promise he made before he met Hannah to let her move in
   with him. Lisle was embarrassed. He became angry.
        "Shelly, I want to fuck you; let's leave."
   
   * * *
   
     Lucia
   
        Lucia awoke with a jolt at dawn. Through bleary eyes she glanced
   around her in the oak grove. She was alone. There was dew on her body;
   her clothes lay several yards away. In panic, her thoughts collided.
   She remembered how passionate the night was until...had it been a
   dream? Lucia launched off the ground, dressed, and rushed back towards
   the village.
        She felt imbued with purest energy as she strode across the
   field; she had never felt so refreshed after waking up. She wondered
   if it was because she was so scared; or was it that when men came
   inside you and you didn't become pregnant, you digested their semen
   like food? Or had Tracy -- the creature -- cast a spell on her?
   Another thought exploded in her mind: Maybe she was pregnant with his
   child.
        Who would she tell this to? Her mother was a good friend of the
   women's shaman -- Ginash Indians had different healers for men and
   women. The shaman would be able to tell her what to do, and whether
   what she saw just a vision.
   
   * * *
   
     Hannah
   
         Hannah was awakened by the engine of Lisle's car. Lisle had
   sabotaged his muffler to make the engine louder. Hannah got up from
   bed and went to the window. Seeing the car surge down the driveway and
   disappear, Hannah felt relieved.
        Hannah's boredom with Lisle was overburdened the night before by
   his moodiness; Lisle wasn't worth maintaining a relationship with; the
   stylishness which initially caught her attention now seemed contrived.
   Besides, he was an ignoramus. Tracy, on the other hand, was something
   interesting. Hannah She took a shower, dressed, went down to the
   kitchen to make breakfast and wait for him to wake up.
   
   * * *
   
     Lucia
   
        The old woman blew her nose into a handkerchief, then leaned back
   and closed her eyes. "Lucia, the first time you told me this story,
   you made it sound like he raped you. Now you're making it sound like
   you were as willing as he was. Did he rape you, or did you want him to
   fuck you?"
        "I wanted him to..."
        "What did he look like when his appearance changed?"
        "Like he was turning into a wolf..."
        The old woman was not a true shaman; she had left her instructor
   in Mexico when she was only a neophyte; and much of what she was
   taught she had forgotten.
        Nothing this bizarre had come to her before. But the notion of
   hallucination was totally foreign; there were visions, but visions
   were meaningful. Something had to be done about this. The old woman
   improvised.
        "You have its baby inside you. You have to kill it. You have to
   kill both of them. I will give you a drink to kill the thing inside
   you, but you also have to kill the creature that impregnated you. I
   will give you a knife."
        Lucia shook her head. "No. No, it was just a dream! God damn it,
   I had a great time, I would probably -- "
        "This creature you met, its father must have been a man and its
   mother an animal; that doesn't happen naturally. This is some sort of
   curse."
        The old woman explained that for anything in nature to work it
   has to complete a cycle. To complete the cycle started by the
   creature's father, she told Lucia, "You have to castrate this creature
   and feed its organs to a female wolf."
        The morbidity of the assignment overwhelmed Lucia; the whole
   situation, the chaos, the unreality. Lucia began crying. She cursed
   herself for having told the old woman.
        When Lucia left, darkness fell over the old woman's sagging face.
   She had no idea whether she had given Lucia the right advice. She blew
   her nose again, and hobbled to a cupboard. Inside she found a stack of
   disposable dust masks and more than a dozen tubes of model glue.
   Holding one of each, she moved laboriously back to her chair. She
   squeezed glue inside the mask, then held it over her face. She leaned
   back in her chair and breathed deeply.
   
   * * *
   
     Tracy
   
        The blinds on Tracy's windows were closed; beams of sallow
   sunlight penetrated the cracks, and particles of dust swam through
   them amoebically.
        Tracy awoke with a start; he had no recollection of having gone
   to bed the night before; the last thing he remembered was running in a
   field with Lucia. A feeling of dread consumed him. He had suffered
   black-outs before. As he searched through his memory for fragments
   that might tell him what he had done, he examined his body. Sometimes
   he woke up with scratches and gashes on his flesh; some of them seemed
   to be from branches or nails, some seemed to be dog bites; some were
   unidentifiable.
        Not a shred of recollection came to him; no fragmentary visions,
   no memories of tastes or smells. After other blackouts Tracy recalled
   stray impressions -- images of nighttime forests and fields, usually
   illuminated by the moon; the taste and feel of icy running water;
   images of the dark interiors of strangers' houses; the taste, distinct
   and slightly metallic, of blood; sounds of dogs barking and howling.
   But most disconcerting was the emotional residue of the black-outs;
   the haunting, vague feeling that he had done something terrible.
        It was an after-image from one the black-outs that led Tracy to
   meet Lucia. He struggled with a memory of the insides of an unfamiliar
   house to perceive a clue that would enable him to figure out where it
   was. The structure seemed primitive and temporary, and there was
   nothing high-tech in it. Through the window Tracy could see,
   illuminated by a full moon, the outline of one of the two stores in
   the workers' village. Tracy found out which house it was and tried to
   discover by talking to the tenants why he had a memory of their house.
   He learned nothing from the owners of the house, but he met their
   daughter, Lucia.
   
   * * *
   
     Hannah
   
        Hannah looked for a stereo in the house, but could not find one.
   She watched television until a nagging feeling of guilt impelled her
   to shut of the TV, go to the living room, and subsume herself in her
   dissertation notes. Scanning the pages with a wandering mind, she
   fought a war with distraction for several hours -- until Tracy
   appeared in the doorway, smiling. The war was lost.
        "Good morning, Hannah!"
        "Hi!"
        "You look really busy, maybe I should..."
        "I'm so bored; let's do something."
   
   * * *
   
     Lisle
   
        Lisle woke up and for an instant could not remember where he was.
   He reached out and touched the body beside him. It mumbled something,
   and he looked at his watch.
        "Shelly." He shook her gently. Shelly mumbled again. "Shelly,
   come on, I have to leave. I need some breakfast."
        Shelly looked up through her tangled hair. "Are you going home?"
        "Yeah."
        "I thought you were going to stay here for a few days."
        "I have to take care of something. I'll be back here tomorrow."
        "Lisle, what's going on?"
        He looked at her. "Do you still want to move into the Range?" Her
   eyes widened. He went back to the Range to finish it off with Hannah.
   
   * * *
   
     Tracy
   
        Hannah and Tracy walked slowly upstream; they were flanked by the
   orderly splash of water on the left and the tall stone cliff on the
   right. Tracy asked Hannah to tell him about her dissertation.
        "It's on prehistoric art. About a year ago I saw a bunch of cave
   paintings of animals and people, and I had a couple of ideas. I
   sometimes get this feeling of being able to reach back into history
   and touch the past. So I had this thought: how far back can our sense
   of history go? Can our sense of history go back to the souls of the
   cave people? I think it can. And what if you're one ofthe cave people?
   How far back in evolution can your sense of history go?
        "My great dud of a theory about cave paintings was that they were
   motivated by the cave people having a sense of history that reached
   way back into the point on the evolutionary scale when the highest
   life form was the bison, or the antelope, or whatever -- the animals
   that they painted. I thought the collective unconscious was carried
   like a torch by the cutting edge of evolution; that the collective
   unconscious, for lack of a better term, determines our real identity,
   and since this collective unconscious never really dies, in a sense we
   are animals.
        "A more watered-down theory was that these drawings were messages
   being sent to their dead ancestors; they were being drawn in rock
   because rock is the earthly substance that comes closest to being
   eternal.
        "Well, after doing research on evolution I saw that it couldn't
   work. And besides, no one has proven that a collective unconscious
   exists. Then I came up with a sort of weird reversal of that idea;
   that the cave people were not trying to reach into the past, they were
   trying to reach into the future; that they were trying to send future
   people a message. I thought these people were trying to tell something
   to us. Or maybe people