Sunlight Through The Shadows 1993

Sunlight Through The Shadows

Volume I, Issue 5 Nov. 1, 1993

Welcome........................................Joe DeRouen

Editorial......................................Joe DeRouen

Staff of STTS.............................................

Special Survey (READ THIS PLEASE!)........................

------------------ MONTHLY COLUMNS -----------------------

Letters to the Editor.....................................

Monthly Contest...........................................

The Question & Answers Session............................

Upcoming Issues & News....................................

------------------ FEATURE ARTICLES ----------------------

Michael Elansky: Anarchist?....................Gage Steele

STTS Survey Results............................Joe DeRouen

From the Journals of..(pt.4)...................Gage Steele

ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Advertisement-Channel 1 BBS

---------------------- REVIEWS ---------------------------

Movie Reviews? Where Are They?.................Joe DeRouen

(Music) Yes I Am/Melissa Etheridge.............Joe DeRouen

(Music) Driving Home/Cheryl Wheeler........Heather DeRouen

(Music) Bat Out of Hell II/Meat Loaf........Jason Malandro

(Music) Up On the Roof/Neil Diamond...........Wendy Bryson

(Book) Thief of Always/Clive Barker.......Heather DeRouen

(Book) Way Things Oughta Be/Rush Limbaugh....Robert McKay

ÿ Advertisement-Exec-PC BBS

---------------------- FICTION ---------------------------

It's All Greek to Uncle Thaddeus...............Joe DeRouen

Get a Life....................................Robert McKay

A Christmas Tale............................Franchot Lewis

---------------------- POETRY ----------------------------

Triad...............................................Tamara

Do-Wop......................................Patricia Meeks

Buzzing Floor Essence..........................Kurt Becker

A Silver Shaft Appeared at the Temple.............Jim Reid

Sailing the Seas of Cyberspace.................J. Guenther

ÿ Advertisement-STTS BBS

----------------------- HUMOUR ---------------------------

Freud on Seuss.................................Josh LeBeau

Top Ten List...................................Joe DeRouen

Cartoon Law of Physics......................Author Unknown

-------------------- INFORMATION -------------------------

How to get STTS Magazine..................................

** SPECIAL OFFER!! **.....................................

Submission Information....................................

Advertiser Information....................................

Contact Points............................................

Distribution Sites........................................

Distribution Via Networks.................................

End Notes......................................Joe DeRouen

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Welcome

Welcome to Sunlight Through The Shadows magazine! In this issue, as well

as in the future, STTS will strive to bring you the best in fiction,

poetry, reviews, article, and other assorted reading material.

STTS Magazine has no general "theme" aside from good writing, innovative

concepts, and the unique execution of those concepts.

STTS wouldn't have been possible without the aid, support, and guidance

of three women:

Inez Harrison, publisher of Poetry In Motion newsletter. Her's was the

first electronic magazine I ever laid eyes upon, and also the first such

magazine to publish my work. She's given me advice, and, more

importantly, inspiration.

Lucia Chambers, publisher of Smoke & Mirrors Elec. Magazine and head of

Pen & Brush Network. She gave me advice on running a magazine,

encouragement, and hints as to the kind of people to look for in

writers.

Heather DeRouen, my wife. Listed last here, but always first in my

heart. She's proofread manuscripts, inspired me, listened to me, and,

most importantly, loved me. Never could I find a better woman to live

life by my side, nor a better friend.

Now that that's said and done... Again, welcome to Sunlight Through The

Shadows Magazine! I hope you enjoy it.

Joe DeRouen

STTS Editorial

What, it's this time again? It seems like only yesterday when I was

finishing up the October issue. Time does indeed fly when you're having

fun.

With this issue, STTS hits the five month mark. I'd like to thank

everyone who's been reading it since the beginning, as well as the new

readers and SysOps who've "discovered" us along the way. Truly, you make

it all worth while.

In this issue, Gage Steele explores the strange case of a Hartford,

Connecticut SysOp accused of promoting anarchy. Fact really IS stranger

than fiction, as you'll see when you read MICHAEL ELANSKY: ANARCHIST?.

BBSing, though it's been around since the late 1970's, is still a

relatively new medium. Constantly changing, the BBS world doesn't quite

seem sure how to regulate itself. We've all heard the stories of BBS's

being "busted" for pirated files and users trading illegal credit card

information through the electronic airways.

To be sure, BBSing *does* need to be put under just as close of scrutiny

as does any other form of communication. "Pirate boards" SHOULD be

illegal, just as it's illegal for someone to sell copies of pre-recorded

VHS movies. But where does the rightful policing stop and persecution

begin?

Irving, Texas recently made a ruling as to just what GIF files can and

cannot be placed on a BBS. While this applies to adult/nude GIFS and I

myself don't see much use for them, the ruling worried me. As long as

one person's perversion (for lack of a better word) doesn't hurt anyone

else, who is the government to decide just what they can and cannot look

at?

Coming full circle, Mr. Elansky was arrested for having a file on his

BBS which allegedly gave instructions on how to build a bomb. Proof on

the file's existence and certainly it being accessible by anyone under

18 seems sketchy, but nevertheless the SysOp sits in jail on a half a

million dollar bond.

Censorship scares me. Always has. I also see a need for policing. Is

there a happy medium? I wonder sometimes. If we police ourselves, maybe

there won't be a need for the government to come into play. Or maybe

they'll just find something new to persecute. Only time will tell.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Joe DeRouen, 10/29/93

The Staff and Contributing Writers of Sunlight Through The Shadows

------------------------------------------------------------------

The Staff

---------

Joe DeRouen............................Publisher, Editor, Fiction

Heather DeRouen........................Book Reviews

Bruce Diamond..........................Movie Reviews, fiction

Jason Malandro.........................Book Reviews

Randy Shipp............................Movie Reviews

Gage Steele............................Feature Article

Tamara.................................House Poet

Joe DeRouen publishes, edits, and writes for STTS magazine. He's had

poetry and fiction published in several on-line magazines and a few

paper publications as well. He's written exactly 1.5 novels, none of

which, alas, have seen the light of publication. He attends college

part-time in search of that always-elusive english degree. In his

spare time, he enjoys reading, running his BBS, collecting music,

playing with his five cats, singing opera, hunting pseudopods, and

most importantly spending time with his beautiful wife Heather.

Heather DeRouen writes software for the healthcare industry, CoSysOps

Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS, enjoys playing with her five cats,

cross-stitching, and reading. Most of all, she enjoys spending time

with her dapper, charming, witty, and handsome (not to mention modest)

husband Joe. Heather's help towards editing and proofreading this

magazine has been immeasurable.

Bruce Diamond, part-time pseudopod and ruler of a small island chain

off the coast of Chil‚, spends his time imitating desk lamps when he

isn't watching and critiquing movies for LIGHTS OUT, his BBS movie

review publication (now syndicated to over 15 boards). Bruce started

reviewing movies for profit in 1978, as part of a science fiction

opinion column he authored for THE BUYER'S GUIDE FOR COMICS FANDOM

(now called THE COMICS BUYER'S GUIDE). LIGHTS OUT, now a year old, is

available through Bruce's distributor, Jay Gaines' BBS AMERICA

(214-994-0093). Bruce is a freelance writer and video producer in the

Dallas/Fort Worth area.

Jason Malandro resides in Dallas, Texas, and has for most of his 24

years on Earth. He enjoys reading, writing, bowling, fencing, and

several other unrelated activities. Jason works in the publishing

industry and runs a successful florist business part-time. Single, he

shares his apartment with Ralphie, his pet iguana.

Randy Shipp is a sometimes-writer who specializes in half-finished

works, an idea he decided was chic and the sign of genius after

hearing about some unfinished symphony. The generous offer from Bruce

Diamond to join him in publishing (plus free movie passes!) led Randy

to take up movie criticism. When he's not picking movies apart, he's

showing conservative political thinkers the error of their ways,

reading, or playing bass or the guitar (depending on the day of the

week) He occasionally works selling computers, too. When he grows up,

he expects to teach high school history.

Gage Steele, illegitimate love child of Elvis Presley and Madonna, has

been calling BBS's since the early seventies. Having aspired to write

for an electronic magazine all her life, Gage is now living the

American dream. Aged somewhere between 21 and 43, she plans to

eventually get an english degree and teach foreign children not to

dangle their participles.

There is very little known about Tamara, and she prefers to let it

remain that way. She's a woman of mystery and prefers to remain hidden

in the shadows of the BBS world. (Actually, I still haven't gotten her

profile. But it sounds much more enigmatic this way, don't you think?)

Contributing Writers

--------------------

Kurt Becker............................Poetry

Wendy Bryson...........................CD Review

Lucia Chambers.........................RIP Cover

J. Guenther............................Poetry

Jim Reid...............................Poetry

Josh LeBeau............................Humour

Franchot Lewis.........................Fiction

Robert McKay...........................Fiction

Patricia Meeks.........................Poetry

Glenda Thompson........................ANSI/ASCII Cover

Author Unknown.........................Humour

Kurt Becker finds himself writing in his car, when gridlocked

in traffic between home, work, and college.

Wendy Bryson, the well traveled, well read, and highly exotic music

critic, (most famous for her works of the 1970's) speaks seven

languages, none of which are spoken on earth. If her writings baffle

you a little, don't feel too bad; she's puzzled by them as well.

Lucia Chambers, thirty-something, shares SysOp duties of Pen & Brush

BBS with her husband John. Aside from running a BBS and a network of

the same name, Lucia publishes Smoke & Mirrors, an on-line/elec.

magazine which features fiction, poetry, and recipes. She works as a

consultant in the Washington D.C. area and also writes for a living.

Grant Guenther, sometimes known as J. Guenther, confesses to be from a

long-lost Martian colony, but in-depth investigations reveals that he

was born and raised in a small but well-to-do community called

Hartland in Wisconsin. A senior, he has written several collections

of poems, and won many awards from his high school literary magazine,

including 1st place for poetry and short-short fiction. He is the

editor-in-chief of the school newspaper and writes as a humor

columnist (or at least he thinks so).

Jim Reid is a hard-working federal employee who lives in Virginia with

his lovely wife Kris and two equally pretty daughters. He manages

people for a living, programs shareware for the challenge, and writes

poetry to vent the stresses created by the other two activities.

Franchot Lewis lives in Washington, D.C. He is the proud owner of a

modest 386 computer and a 14.4 modem. As we know, he doesn't know

anyone named Wally.

Robert McKay was born in Hawthorne, California, one of the few native

Californians in existence. He calls the area north of Goffs home,

though he currently lives in Marlow, Oklahoma, and has in fact lived

in Texas and Oklahoma since 1980. The setting for several of his

stories comes from the desert west of Needles, where he grew up. He

has one wife and two daughters, meaning he's seriously outnumbered in

any argument. He writes mostly science fiction, with some horror

thrown in - Lovecraftian horror being his favorite, followed by

non-conventional vampire stories. He's been published in three

elecmags - Sunlight Through the Shadows, Smoke & Mirrors, and Ruby's

Pearls - and is currently waiting on the publication of two science

fiction novels on disk.

Considering herself a "closet writer" Tricia Meeks has spent most of

her life writing stories and poetry that no one ever sees ...until

now! Inspired by her friends, she has finally screwed together her

courage and let her poetry be exposed to the public realm. Outside of

writing, Tricia is a professional psychic, sings at Karaoke Clubs and

has dance for 20 years of her life. Her other interests include

camping, karate, reading, playing the keyboard occassionally, BBSing,

working in finance, and spending time with her dog and cat, Ringo &

B.J. and riding her horse Sudanna in Waxahachie. She is single and

has lived in Dallas all her life.

Glenda Thompson spends most of her days sleeping, but when she's not

doing that, she's BBS'ing around the metroplex or creating ANSI

screens for STTS. Her hobbies include: writing, poetry, music, and art

done with various media. She was never sentenced to prison for a crime

she didn't commit (or even for one that she did) and someday hopes to

marry cereal king Captain Xavier Q. Crunch.

Author Unknown (oddly enough, his real name) has had several stories,

poems, novels, plays, and pieces of artwork published throughout the

world dating back to the dawn of man. So far, he hasn't received one

red cent in royalties.

STTS Survey

NOTE: Yes, this is the same survey that was in last month's issue.

I've decided to keep it in until the end of the year in hopes

of more responses. If you haven't already replied, please do

so today.

Please fill out the following survey. This article is duplicated in the

ZIP archive as SURVEY.TXT. If you're reading this on-line and haven't

access to that file, please do a screen capture of this article and

fill it out that way. If all else fails, just write your answers down

(on paper or in an ASCII file) and include the question's number beside

your answer.

Everyone who answers the survey will receive special mention in an

upcoming issue of STTS.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

1. Name: _____________________________________________________________

2. Mailing address: __________________________________________________

__________________________________________________

3. Date of birth: (Mm/Dd/YYyy) _______________________________________

4. Sex: ______________________________________________________________

5. Where did you read/download this copy of STTS Magazine? (Include BBS

and BBS number, please)

___________________________________________________________________

6. Do you prefer to read STTS while on-line or download it to read

at your own convenience? ( ) On-Line ( ) Download

7. Are you a SysOp? ( ) Yes ( ) No (if "No", skip to 10)

8. If so, what is your BBS name, number, baud rate?

___________________________________________________________________

9. Do you currently carry STTS Mag?

( ) Yes ( ) No ( ) I don't carry it, but I want to

I carry STTS: ( ) On-Line, ( ) For Download, ( ) or Both

10. What do you enjoy the MOST about STTS Mag?

___________________________________________________________________

11. What do you enjoy LEAST about STTS Mag?

___________________________________________________________________

12. Please rate the following parts of STTS on a scale of 1-10, 10 being

excellent and 1 being awful. (if no opinion, X)

Fiction ___ Poetry ___ Movie reviews ___

Book reviews ___ CD Reviews ___ Feature Articles ___

Question&Answers ___ Editorial ___ ANSI Coverart ___

Misc. Info ___ Humour ___ RIP Coverart ___

13. What would you like to see (or see more of) in future issues

of STTS Mag?

___________________________________________________________________

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Return the survey to me via any of the following options:

A) Pen & Brush Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site

->5320. In any conference.

B) RIME Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site ->5320,

in the COMMON conference

C) WME Net - A PRIVATE message to JOE DEROUEN in the NET CHAT

conference.

D) Internet - Send a message containing your complete survey to

Joe.DeRouen@Chrysalis.org

E) My BBS - (214) 629-8793 24 hrs. a day 1200-14,000 baud. Upload the

file SURVEY.TXT (change the name first! Change it to something like

the first eight digits of your last name (or less, if your name

doesn't have eight digits) and the ext of .SUR) Immediate access is

gained to my system via filling out the new user questionnaire.

Alternately, logon with the handle STTS SYSOP and password: STTS and

skip the new user questionnaire and upload the file.

F) U.S. Postal Service - Send the survey either printed out or on a disk

to: Joe DeRouen

14232 Marsh Ln. # 51

Dallas, Tx. 75234

ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿

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³ Monthly Columns ³ ³

³ ³ ³

ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³

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Letters To The Editor

Send any and all comments you have concerning STTS Magazine to Joe

DeRouen, via any of the routes covered under CONTACT POINTS, listed

elsewhere in this magazine.

Now, on to a few letters...

------------------------------------------------------------------------

STTS Magazine,

I really enjoyed Brigid Childs' article on Halloween. It was informative

without being condescending, which I really appreciate. It's nice to

learn a little about the past and what it means to today.

Sincerely,

Laura Drake

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Joe,

I really liked the ANSI coverart! Too cool! Of course, the articles

inside weren't bad either. :) I always enjoy the fiction and poetry.

Keep up the good work!

Thanks,

James Mitchell

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunlight Through The Shadows Monthly Contest

--------------------------------------------

Do to a decided lack of interest, the monthly contest/prize giveaway is

no more. Public interest in the contest just didn't warrant keeping it

in.

We'll probably have other various contests/giveaways from time to to but

as it stands now, at least for the time being, the monthly contest is

being shelved.

--Joe DeRouen, 10/28/93

Question and Answers

Each month, we'll ask a (hopefully) interesting question to users on

various nets and BBS's across the world and include the best answers

we get in this column.

The question we asked for this month was: "What are you thankful

for, and why?"

This seemed like the perfect question to ask for the November issue,

with Thanksgiving and all. :)

The original message and responses are reproduced here in their entirety,

with the permission of the people involved.

========================================================================

Number : 46 of 50 Date : 10/06/93 22:27

Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine

From : Joe Derouen

To : All

Subject : Question and Answers..

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What do you have to be most thankful for in your life?"

That's the question we're asking in the Nov. issue of STTS Magazine.

(It seems appropriate since this is the month of Thanksgiving)

Those who reply give their implied permission to have their message, in

it's entirety, reproduced in the Nov. issue of STTS Magazine.

As always, we'll publish the most interesting replies.

Thanks,

Joe

========================================================================

Number : 47 of 50 Date : 10/07/93 18:16

Reply To: 46

Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine

From : Don Bird

To : Joe Derouen

Subject : Question and Answers..

------------------------------------------------------------------------

JD> "What do you have to be most thankful for in your life?"

Easy one....God, My Family, My Country....In that order....What about

YOU?

Have a Great Day,

-=DON=-

========================================================================

Number : 48 of 50 Date : 10/08/93 07:13

Reply To: 46

Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine

From : Grant Guenther

To : Joe Derouen

Subject : Question and Answers..

------------------------------------------------------------------------

What I'm most thankful for? Well, certainly not Calculus...

But seriously, I'm most thankful for having free thought and being born

in a country that not only allows people to express it but sometimes

cherish it.

And Poptarts aren't all that bad, either...

========================================================================

Number : 49 of 50 Date : 10/14/93 21:46

Reply To: 46

Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine

From : Shawn Aiken

To : Joe Derouen

Subject : Question and Answers..

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joe,

What do I have to be most thankful for in my life? That's an easy one.

My mother. Who else would have brought me up in the way that she did,

and who else would be helping to support my writing career? Not many.

Probably no one. No one except ner. And that is what I have to be

most thankful for. Sappy, aint it.<G>

Shawn

========================================================================

Number : 50 of 50 Date : 10-16-93 20:45

Reply To: 46

Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine

From : Robert Mckay

To : Joe Derouen

Subject : Question and Answers..

------------------------------------------------------------------------

JD>"What do you have to be most thankful for in your life?"

JD>That's the question we're asking in the Nov. issue of STTS Magazine.

JD>(It seems appropriate since this is the month of Thanksgiving)

JD>Those who reply give their implied permission to have their message, in

JD>it's entirety, reproduced in the Nov. issue of STTS Magazine.

JD>As always, we'll publish the most interesting replies.

My faith, my family, my health, my writing talent. I believe that sums

up the things I am most thankful for.

---

þ QMPro 1.01 11-1111 þ Only made it out to Needles. --Three Dog Night

========================================================================

Many thanks to the people that took the time to read and answer the

message. As usual, I'll now attempt to answer my own question.

What am I most thankful for? Why, life of course. I've always been a bit

of a pessimist (just ask my wife!) but there really ARE a lot of things

out there to be thankful for, if you just open up your eyes and look. As

for myself, I have a wonderful wife who loves me, 5 fine (if

occasionally annoying) cats, several great friends, and I'm getting to

do one of the things I enjoy the most: write! Who could ask for more?

Oh, I could. My wife's sick, and I want her to be well. I'm

middle-class, and I really wouldn't mind being wealthy. I've yet to sell

a novel, and I'd really like to.

You have to live with what you're dealt, though, to mix metaphors. My

wife's sick, yes, but she'll get better. Of this I have no doubt. I'm

not wealthy, but I manage to get by. And I WILL sell that novel, given

time. <grin> I have a talent for writing, and of this I'll always be

grateful to whatever mix of genes or deity decision made it so.

All in all, I have a lot to be thankful for.

Thanks for reading THE QUESTION AND ANSWERS SESSION!

Upcoming Issues & News

ADDITIONS TO THIS ISSUE...

I've included a STTS Magazine survey in this issue. It's Article # 4 in

this issue, and also SURVEY.TXT in the archive. *Please* read it and

fill it out. Send it back to me per the instructions included with the

survey.

Gage Steele breaks the story on the Michael Elansky case (a Hartford,

Conn. SysOp accused of trading illegal ararchy files). Are law

enforcement officers making the BBS world safer for us all, or has

justice gone awry? Read Gage's article and find out.

RIP Graphics! Thanks to Lucia Chambers, STTS Magazine now has a RIP

graphics cover. Of course, if you have RIP capabilities, you probably

already noticed that. <Grin>

Humour section! We've added a whole new section to STTS, guaranteed to

at least cause you a minor chuckle or two. Check it out, and let us know

what you think!

SUBTRACTIONS FROM THIS ISSUE...

The monthly contest/prize giveaway is no more. There just didn't seem to

be enough interest in it to warrant the cost of coming up with a new

prize to give away every month. We'll probably have other contests from

time to time, but, at least for now, the monthly contest is shelved.

Due to unforseen circumstances, STTS won't have any movie reviews this

month. Barring disaster and the german measles, they should be back in

full force next month.

DECEMBER...

Look for more great fiction, poetry, and reviews in December. Also,

Brigid Childs (who did the wonderful article on the origin of Halloween

for the October issue) is working on a similar piece for Christmas/Yule.

December will also carry several "Christmas oriented" stories, poems,

and articles. 'Tis the season, after all..

FUTURE ISSUES...

Look for a round robin/continuing story soon, as well as more feature

articles, and more "theme issues".

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³ Feature Articles ³ ³

³ ³ ³

ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³

ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

Michael Elansky: Anarchist?

MICHAEL ELANSKY: ANARCHIST?

by Gage Steele

When does the "long arm of the law" extend too far? Michael Elansky,

of West Hartford, Connecticut, found out this summer.

22 year-old Michael (aka "The Ionizer") ran a BBS called The

Warehouse. He was also a member of the International Information

Retrieval Guild, a computer group very much concerned with freedom of

speech and freedom of information. Like the group with which he was

affiliated, Michael felt strongly about our First Amendment rights, and

it was this belief that ultimately led him to trouble.

Michael is currently in jail, unable to post his $500,000 bail. Says

the prosecutor, he created risk or injury to a minor and advocated

violence against law enforcement agents. Those are some mighty hefty

infringements, true, and carry a maximum of 10 years imprisonment if

convicted.

Police say a file found on Michael's system gave instructions on how

to build bombs and other explosives, and that having it on his BBS was in

conflict with the law. The text itself was written 4 years ago by "Deth

Vegetable" (who was a teen at the time of writing, and unable to be

reached for comment). It contained information similar to what you might

find in numerous publications, including highschool- and college-level

chemistry textbooks, and the infamous _Anarchists Cookbook_. All can be

purchased in many bookstores, as well as borrowed from most local

libraries, without fear of breaking the law. In fact, minors are able to

purchase or borrow the _Anarchists Cookbook_ itself, from numerous venues.

So, why, then, was it illegal for Michael to make a similar,

electronic version available to his users? This remains unanswered, as

do many aspects of this case. While researching, I came to numerous

inconclusive pieces of evidence, some possibly fact, some possibly

fiction.

In Detective Richard Aniolowsky's unsworn officer's report, he

states:

" That I, Richard Aniolowsky, am a member of the West

Hartford Police Department and have been for ten years

and 7 months and was promoted to Detective in September

1990.

[...]

That it was on May 28, 1993 that Detective Goodrow of

the Hartford Police Department gained access to the

"Warehouse", a modem accessible computer

[...]

That Goodrow said the "Anarchy'" [sic] file he obtained

access to the Warehouse bulletin board through one of

the users systems. "

Although Detective Aniolowsky's writing is somewhat difficult to

follow at times, mixed with typos and grammatical errors, this last

sentence does seem to read that Detective Goodrow used someone else's

account to log onto The Warehouse. This would be classified as a class

C felony under Connecticut General Statute 54-41 ("...Unauthorised or

illegal inception of wire communication of any person...").

Also, when Michael's BBS LOG file was made available for inspection,

only two incidents were found of the file ever having been downloaded.

Neither incidents occured on May 28th, 1993, the date which Detectives

Aniolowsky and Goodrow contend they acquired it through download from The

Warehouse BBS. Both accesses of the file in question were made previous

to the May date.

Did the detectives investigating the case commit a crime?

Unfortunately, I was unable to reach either Aniolowsky or Goodrow for

comment.

"Misguided Youth" (whose true name I cannot divulge, upon his

request), a user of The Warehouse BBS, had this to say when I spoke with

him on the telephone:

" Detective Aniolowsky came to my house and made me sign

a statement saying I had seen anarchy and bomb-making

files on Warehouse and that I had spoken on the phone

with 'Ionizer' many times.

My parents only witnessed me signing.

But later it got changed to '...I had spoken on the

phone with 'Ionizer' many times about making bombs.'

I have never had an interest in anarchy files. I never

got any from 'Ionizer.' I have never cared to download

them. "

Neither I, nor "Misguided Youth" could grasp the reasoning behind the

later alteration of the statement he had signed. He also seemed to feel

that the police pressured him in the situation. I found "Misguided Youth"

very pleasant to speak with, and do not understand why such apparent

"strongarm" tactics were used to ensure his signing of the statement.

When I spoke with Michael Elansky on the telephone, he was sincere,

at ease, and very willing to talk with me. He did, however, have a bit of

information to add to the complexity of it all:

" I was supposed to be arraigned in Hartford Court.

My lawyer was present when we went down. The

arrest warrant had the bond set at $20,000. But,

Detective Aniolowsky said that I needed to be

taken to the WEST Hartford Court to be booked.

So, my lawyer said 'okay,' and he waited at

Hartford.

So, Aniolowsky [took me to West Hartford Court] and

rushed through booking, prints, photo. Then he

took me upstairs where they proceeded to arraign me

- without my lawyer present! Aniolowsky made a

motion to set my bond at $500,000, which it was.

Of course it was! My lawyer wasn't even there to

say anything, and Aniolowsky knew he wasn't there

and knew he was waiting for us back at Hartford

Court. "

From the way Michael was treated, it looks as though his right to

counsel was compleatly ignored. I don't want to pass judgement, but isn't

that... unjust?

I asked Michael about minors on his BBS, and what sort of files they

had access to. He assured me that no-one under 18 could look at the adult

areas. When I asked specifically about the text in question, he said:

" No, no-one under 16 could even see that stuff.

Only one guy under 18 had access to it, he's 17,

but he's a member of the International Information

Retrieval Guild, and had to have access to it. "

For clarity, that means this 17 year old had clout over Michael in

the hierarchy of the computer group. It was rather like part of the 17

year-old's job description to ensure that Michael ran his system within

the guidelines of the group, and therefor required a very high level of

access to The Warehouse BBS.

Ever-optimistic, Michael also added this:

" [There's] no way in hell I'd ever plead guilty to

these two charges, nor would I ever cop a deal

forcing me to plead guilty to these two charges.

I did nothing wrong. I am confident that the two

charges will be dismissed. "

Meanwhile, pretrial hearings are filled with deliberation, and some

headway. And - Michael remains behind bars, waiting.

The Elansky case could have staggering effects on electronic-based

media and publication. If the prosecutor finds Elansky guilty as charged,

maintains that the file is illegal and worthy of felony prosecution with

possible imprisonment, then the basis for attacking a BBS, but not a

bookstore or local library, is not defined. In fact, were Elansky to be

found guilty, it would seem that the prosecutor reneged all First

Amendment rights and protection under such simply because the text was

electronically bound and not paper bound.

The Internationl Information Retrieval Guild and Michael Elansky

asked, as a favour, that I also include the following. The Elansky Family

is having a terrible time assuaging the cost of legal fees. Because of

this, a fund has been set up, and they are asking that anyone able, donate

whatever he/she can afford to his legal defense.

Send what you can to:

Free Ionizer

c/o David Elansky

25 Maiden Lane

West Hartford, CT 06117

Make cheques or money orders payable to Michael Elansky. This way,

you are assured that all funds go directly to his defense. The bank's

account number for the fund should also be written on the cheque or money

order: 02-060-573652

My thanks to: Dan, International Information Retrieval Guild;

David Elansky; "Misguided Youth;" and Michael Elansky. If it weren't

for them, this article could not have been written.

Survey Results

The results are in from the survey in the October issue, and tabulated

below for a median score. I didn't get as many results as I might have

liked (do surveys ever?) so I'm keeping the survey in until the end of

the year. Please respond.

I'd like to thank the 20 or so people who *did* respond. I'd print their

names here, but I forgot to include a statement in the survey asking

them if they wanted their names listed. Much thanks just the same,

though. You know who you are.

In the survey, I asked the readers to rate the sections of the magazine

on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the best and one being the worst. Here's

the averages, taken by adding all the scores for an indiviual section

(eg: fiction) and dividing it by the number of survey's received that

scored that section with something other than an "X" for no comment.

Magazine sections are ranked in order of scores, from highest to lowest:

SCORES

ÄÄÄÄÄÄ

Fiction: 9.5

Poetry: 9.5

Book Reviews: 9.0

Editorial: 8.6

Feature Articles: 8.6

Movie Reviews: 8.5

ANSI Coverart: 7.5

CD Reviews: 7.0

Question & Answers: 7.0

Summary: Fiction and poetry seemed to prove the most popular, as I was

sure it would. Nothing really received *bad* scores, though,

which is promising. Of the reviews, the book reviews seemed

to be the most popular, followed very closely by the movies

and, lastly, the CDs.

What the above scores really *don't* tell is that the surveys

seemed to be divided into camps. There were several people that

read STTS mainly for fiction and poetry, and almost as many

people who read it exclusively for the reviews. Both groups

scored their interest group high while X'ing a "No Comment"

on the other sections.

Again, many thanks to those of you who took the time to fill out and

send in your surveys. As noted elsewhere, I've decided to extend the

survey to Nov.'s (this issue) and Dec.'s issues.

If you haven't already, please fill out the survey. It's article 4 in

this issue of STTS, and it's duplicated in the .ZIP archive as

SURVEY.TXT.

From The Journal Of...

[Names of people and places have been changed to protect the innocent

and avoid any nasty lawsuits that decide to rear their ugly heads]

"From The Journal Of..." Part Four

About the time I began working for JEannie, Gertrude began to show

the first real signs of age. At first, I tried to ignore the problem.

So what if my hard drive had a few bad sectors and my "C" key no longer

"fun tioned," I thought. But, truth be known, by that time, Gertie

needed 15 minutes to warm up before booting, and she was seriously

beginning to come apart at the weld. She'd served me well, and maybe I

hadn't seen the performance of a hotrod, but Gertie never purported

herself as such. She knew she was just a Honda - strong and

dependable, but disposable after 100,000 miles; I found myself forced

to face that fact, as well. Her suddenly more drastic degeneration

was, I suppose, her way of telling me, "Mom, it's time. I'm tired."

My first problem was what to replace her with. Another PS/2 would

bring the same intrinsic limitations. A new system was more than

slightly beyond my chequebook. So, after carefully packing Gertie and

her accessories away in the attic, I hauled in:

"Must See - Must Sell! Hardly used at 2 years old!

Full-size tower houses 286/12 board, 150W, SVGA,

100 MB HD, 5.25 & 3.5 floppies! Ideal for later

expansion. $1250.00, OBO."

Now, it took a lot of convincing to get Mom to forward me that

much money from my college fund. I showed her adverts for new 386's,

listing in the middle $4,000 range. I pointed to the awe inspiring

glossy spreads of the 486's - we both laughed at the price tags on

those, wondering who would really drop 6 months' wages on such a thing.

I don't know that Mom understood everything I tried to say, but the

feeling was there. She helped me talk the guy down to $1,000.00, and

cut the cheque.

Oh, why didn't I get rid of Gertrude altogether, you ask? I

couldn't have sold her for more than scrap metal pennies, for one

thing. I couldn't throw her in the bin, either. I just couldn't.

We'd been through too much together.

Everything about the 286 was faster. I felt like I'd been living

in the dark ages! Immediately, I loaded up every game and programme I

had just to see a 100 Meg hard drive and Super-ultra-rad-it-doesn't-

get-any-better-than-this-VGA at work.

The novelty, though, quickly faded. I was soon staring at the

modem, wondering what was going on in the electronic world. I couldn't

go back to JEannie, not with MY Scottish pride and Irish pighead.

Paragon was close to making me ill, especially the users that whined

about not understanding the place (?!). It was time to move on, but to

what?

Now, I'd called private BBSs before, but hadn't gotten into them

much. I heard people chattering on and on about their systems, but at

the time, it all seemed... "hokey" to me, like a fad, I guess. I just

couldn't see what a dinky BBS run by Joe Schmoe could have that might

rival corporate whazoo-run JEannie with her mega filebases and

international chatting. Besides, both JEannie and Paragon had local

dialups, while, last I'd checked, private boards were scattered, the

nearest being a hefty long distance call for me. Last I'd checked...

THAT was nearly 10 months previous!

Resigned to the notion that I'd have to settle for second best

while waiting for something better to come along (hmm, a commentary on

life? That isn't what this piece was to be about), I picked up a local

computing newspaper that often ran BBS ads, and scanned the listings.

It seemed, judging from the column plus of local boards shown, that

while I'd been sidetracked with JE, private systems had spread and

grown. A few were touted as having 400 megabyte or more online. That

did it. If BBSs really were to be flash-in-the-pan fads, at least I

would be able to say, "Been there. Yawn. Did that," and nab a few

files on the way through.

Of course, the first place I connected with (and you'll never

believe this one in a million years as I still have trouble with it and

I was there) was something of a "pirate" board. Okay, so back then, I

couldn't tell a pirate from a pickled pancreas, and why such a board

was listed in the magazine, I don't know, but there it was. And,

rather suddenly, so was I.

I know now that boards much like the one I connected with that day

have security tighter than Jesse Helm's buttcheeks. I also know why I

was allowed access, even though I was a "lamer-newbie" (again).

Because I'm a girl.

Oh, I almost forgot: I flirt just a tiny bit, too.

Now, before I have the bureaucrats beating a path to my door, let

me tell you I outgrew that scene (you can tell the nice men in the

white vans to go home, now, thanks). I was already too old, often 4 or

more years older than the SysOps, when I got there. I never was big on

"zero day" crap, anyway; The "mine is bigger/badder/faster/newer that

yours" mentality I found all over those boards really grated on my

nerves. Penile shadow boxing, I called it.

I was much more interested in collecting odd little programmes

that no-one seemed to have around anymore. My collector instinct led

me to the PD boards, and eventually to the subscription BBSs. It

wasn't long before every floppy in the house was filled with files and

my hard drive hadn't enough space to store my writing.

It was my mother who first vocalised the idea I have lived to

occasionally regret. Tired of the subscription costs and phone charges

I was now racking up, Mom asked, "Why can't you just make your own file

place and have everybody send you stuff?"

So, I did.

ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿

³ Voice: 617 864-0100 ³³ ³³ Channel 1 ³

³ 14.4 v.32: 354-3230 ³³ The Best BBS on the Planet ³³ PO Box 338 ³

³ 16.8 HST: 354-3137 ³³ ³³ Cambridge, MA 02238³

ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

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³ þ High-performance FAST system ³

³ þ Reasonable membership fees, with optional Internet E-mail ³

³ þ Humungous up-to-date library of Windows, Graphics, Music, Games, ³

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³ plus a special Free files area for first-time callers ³

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ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

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³ 85 lines þ 100,000+ archives þ 30 gigs þ 3,500+ forums ³

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ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿

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³ Reviews ³ ³

³ ³ ³

ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³

ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

Due to unforseen circumstances, STTS won't be carrying the usual movie

reviews. Randy Shipp and Bruce Diamond's THROUGH THE MAGIC LANTERN and

Bruce's LIGHTS OUT movie reviews should make a reappearance with next

month's issue, barring disaster or German Measles.

We're sorry for any inconvience this might have caused.

Joe DeRouen, 10/31/93

Lyrical Leanings

YES I AM

Melissa Etheridge

Island Records

1993

With her release of 1988's MELISSA ETHERIDGE, Melissa Etheridge shoved

her way into the folk/rock world with an energy and intensity not to be

rivaled. SIMILAR FEATURES, the album's hottest single, proved Etheridge

a force to be reckoned with.

1989 and 1992 saw, respectively, the release of BRAVE AND CRAZY and

NEVER ENOUGH, both critically acclaimed by neither having the much

sought after selling power of her first album. Both CD's contained a lot

of good music, but none embodied that original passion and energy that

characterized her first release.

YES I AM, Etheridge's fourth album, returns us to that dark intensity

and passionate rage that made the first one such a welcome guest in my

CD player. Far from being just a knock off of her debut album, YES I AM

songs are crafted with precision wit and intelligence as well as

something new: the confidence of a established artist who isn't afraid

to take chances.

The album's first single release, I'M THE ONLY ONE, is a powerful

exhibition of Etheridge's music skills (one of the best all-around

guitar players in the business) as well as her songwriting ability.

(Please baby can't you see/My mind's a burnin' hell/I got razors a

rippin' and tearin' and strippin'/My heart apart as well) The single

recaptures the intensity of 1988's hit single SIMILAR FEATURES, but

doesn't just copy it.

COME TO MY WINDOW, the CD's third track, is an achingly beautiful

rendition of a forbidden love. Laced with a curious mixture of

sensuality and sadness, it's possibly the best all-around track on the

CD. (Come to my window/Crawl inside, wait by the light/of the moon/Come

to my window/I'll be home soon)

TALKING TO MY ANGEL, the last (10th) track on the CD, is an achingly

bittersweet tale of a woman who's searching for something she can't find

and running away from what she has found just the same. (Don't be

afraid/Close your eyes/Lay it all down/Don't you cry/Can't you see I'm

going/Where I can see the sun rise/I've been talking to my angel/And he

said it's allright) It's a hauntingly remorseful tune, with just the

hint of hope and promise.

All in all, there's not really a bad song on YES I AM. That's a feat

rarely accomplished by even the experienced veterans of the music world,

and one to be celebrated. With a strong mix of excellent musical ability

(Etheridge playing acoustic and electric guitars, Kevin McCormick on

bass) and beautifully crafted, energetic and passionate songs, this is

one CD that can't lose. Check it out.

My rating, on a scale of 1-10: 10

Melissa Etheridge CDs, all published by Island Records:

YES I AM (1993)

NEVER ENOUGH (1992)

BRAVE AND CRAZY (1989)

MELISSA ETHERIDGE (1988)

CD Review

DRIVING HOME

Cheryl Wheeler

Philo Records

1993

When looking for music by Cheryl Wheeler, one can never be certain in

which category it might be located. She has been classified as Pop, Country,

and Folk, and her music rightfully fits into all of these categories. The

only times I've seen music videos or performances by her have been on The

Nashville Network, but she seems to have her own individual style, denying

a definitive niche for her work. This individualism could be the reason

that she is rather obscure as an artist, and her work hasn't ever really

found a loyal following (besides myself, my husband, and a couple of our

friends).

Her first and second releases ("Cheryl Wheeler", and "Half a Book") had

very strong C&W influences in them, but her last two releases ("Circles &

Arrows" and "Driving Home") are less twangy, much more pleasant and easy

to listen to.

Each of the tracks on "Driving Home" provides the listener with what

I feel is an intimate insight into the type of person that Cheryl Wheeler

is. She is to music what Erma Bombeck is to humor, connecting all of us

with common threads that help us to not feel quite so alone.

There is not a track on this CD that is bad, many of them evoking strong

feelings of wistfulness, longing, and a couple of chuckles. I strongly

recommend this CD for anyone who has an interest in Folk, Pop, or Country

music.

(NOTE: Border Books has this CD in the Folk section.)

Rating (on a scale of 1-10) 9.999999 (just because I rarely give anything

a 10)

Other Cheryl Wheeler titles:

DRIVING HOME, Philo Records, 1993

CIRCLES AND ARROWS, Capitol Records, 1990

HALF A BOOK, Cypress Records, 1987

CHERYL WHEELER, North Star Records, 1986

Music Review

BAT OUT OF HELL II: BACK INTO HELL

Meatloaf

MCA Records

1993

In 1978, an unknown musician calling himself Meatloaf released BAT OUT

OF HELL. A pop album curiously infused with Wagnerian opera (ala

composer and songwriter Jim Steinman), it become an almost overnight

sensation and ended up topping out at number 14 on the billboard charts.

15 years later, in 1993, BAT OUT OF HELL II: BACK INTO HELL rests firmly

atop the charts in the number 1 slot. Call it retro rock, call it 70's

nostalgia, call it anything you'd like - the album's actually good.

Reuniting with partner Steinman seems to have added the missing

ingredient Meatloaf needed. Of course, recycling the album title

probably didn't hurt either.

I'D DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE (BUT I WON'T DO THAT) currently holds the

number 3 slot for top singles, with a bullet. A stylistic sequel of

sorts to BAT OUT OF HELL's best-selling single PARADISE BY THE DASHBOARD

LIGHT, the song's destined to become a classic.

Some of the songs are more original than others, but there's isn't a bad

one in the group. Everythings well done, energetic, and creative. That's

a hard combination to achieve when doing a sequel to a 15 year old

album, but Meatloaf and Steinman manage to pull it off admirably.

Check out the artwork as well. You wouldn't normally buy a CD for the

artwork, but it sure doesn't hurt. The front of the CD itself displays a

beautiful recreation of the album's cover, depicting a motorcyling

wizard racing into the bowels of hell to save an angel. The coverart as

well as the 7 other illustrations found in the CD booklet are courtesy

of fantasy artist Michael Whelan and fit into the overall package

perfectly.

High-quality artwork, great songs, and a well-deserved comeback. Who

could ask for more?

My rating, on a scale of 1-10: 9

CD Review

"UP ON THE ROOF" SONGS FROM THE BRILL BUILDING

Neil Diamond

Columbia

1993

"Nostalgic", best describes Neil Diamond's salute to the song

writers he starved with in the late 1950s and '60s. For those of

us who are old enough to remember, the sounds on this CD will

prompt warm memories. There are no original works recorded here,

as the artist states that this album is a salute to those who

pushed and inspired him in his youth.

For those "die hard" Diamond fans, you will find this CD in

his usually style of being fully orchestrated, and well done at

that. The CD definitely has a sing along appeal.

However, for those who loved the writer more than the singer,

there is little offering here. Diamond is simply the singer on

this album. Since there are none of his own works, the flavor and

feeling that usually permeates his work is lost.

For the most part, this CD is pleasant listening, but don't

get a ticket running to get a copy. Wait till the price falls a

little.

My rating, on a scale of 1-10: 6

Book Reviews

THE THIEF OF ALWAYS

Clive Barker

Harper Fiction

$5.99 US, $6.99 Canada

Having never read one of Clive Barker's books before, but having seen

a couple of the movies based on those books, I embarked upon reading this

book with the expectation of vivid special effects, intense emotions

in the characters, and a thrilling roller-coaster ride of a tale. Herein

was my downfall, because none of these things was evident in "The Thief of

Always".

I should have been forewarned by other horror writers' attempts to write

fairy tales for children and try to market them to both adult and child

audiences. Does anyone remember Stephen Kings "The Eyes of the Dragon"?

This same type of condescenscion is evident in "The Thief of Always".

Barker assumes that none of the readers, whether adult or child, would be

smart enough to spot the obvious logic lapses in the plot and lack of

clear-cut plot resolution. This was one of the most unfulfilling and

cumbersome books I've read in ages. If one can trudge through the muck and

mire of tedious dialogue, it is evident that the author goes to great length

to provide visual imagery that really doesn't tell us anything whatsoever.

(Example text: "The great gray beast of February had eaten Harvey Swick

alive. Here he was, buried in the belly of that smothering month, wondering

if he would ever find his way out through the cold coils that lay between

here and Easter.")

About the only redeeming quality that I found in the book was that I only

wasted about 2-1/2 hours reading it.

If you can't tell by now, I wasn't really all that impressed by this book.

I guess I'll stick to his movies. (If you haven't already seen "Night Breed",

based on his book "Cabal", I highly recommend it.)

My score (on a scale of 1 to 10) 3

Book Review

*Almost Always Right - 97% of the Time*

* * *

*The Way Things Ought to Be*

Reviewed by Robert McKay

Everyone knows who Rush Limbaugh is. This "harmless little fuzzball" is a

household word even among those who neither watch his television show, listen

to his radio program, nor care for his views. The words "dittohead" and

"megadittoes" have entered the language of our day; they may not last any

longer than "groovy" or "boss" did, but for now they're familiar to many. In

other words, Rush Limbaugh is a phenomenon.

His first book "was" released in paperback, according to the copyright

page, in October of 1993 (I'm writing this on September 23). The title

reflects Rush's view that he knows *The Way Things Ought to Be*. I'm not

certain, however, that the title is a completely accurate reflection of the

content of the book.

It'll come out before I'm through, so I'll say it now - I agree with Rush

Limbaugh. I am not, however, a convert. Nor am I a mindless sheep. I heard

the same things he's saying from the time I was old enough to listen to the

political discussions that went on in my family (and almost everyone I've

talked to since has espoused the same views I heard then). When I began to

think seriously about political matters for myself, I found that I came to the

same conclusions my father so vociferously espoused. When I first heard Rush,

therefore, I was already a dittohead - I'd been saying the same things for

years.

The book contains this kind of thinking - conservative thinking, stated

well. Rush is certainly no William F. Buckley when it comes to command of the

English language (even if you loathe Buckley's political views, you should

listen to him speak just to learn how a well-constructed English sentence is

put together), but he does have an admirable talent for stating matters in

such a way that anyone can understand them. Not since Will Rogers has a

popular commentator been able to so effectively convey, in easily-understood

language, his views on what's going on around him. Rush is, even though he

lacks a full college education, well-equipped to utilize our language in

stating his positions.

A book is not, obviously, a spoken monologue. And Rush is, above all

else, a speaker. He began in radio, became famous on radio, and only when

radio propelled him into television and speaking engagements did he enter

those forums. He is not - and he admits this - a writer by trade. The book

at times has the flavor of a wannabe monologue. However, it is apparent that

Rush is aware of his weaknesses, and there is strong evidence throughout the

book that he tried hard to make it less of a "spout-off" and more of an

adaptation of his speaking style to the printed page. He deserves an A for

effort as far as his writing goes; even with the flaw mentioned in this

paragraph, it is well done, and with practice he could become a really good

writer.

I have already mentioned another flaw in the book - it does not quite

match the title. Now, Rush does tell us in the book how he thinks things

ought to be. Indeed, he could no more stop doing that than Congress could

stop spending money tomorrow. However, at least as much space is devoted to

denouncing (one plus - Rush does not bemoan) the way things are and describing

how Rush got to where he is. There's nothing wrong with this, of course, but

it does render the book at most only half about the way things ought to be.

Rush admits in the book that he is, primarily, an entertainer. I have

believed since I first heard him that much of his apparent abrasiveness,

silliness, and pomposity is a shtick. While he clearly does have an ego, the

well-honed ability to play the clown, and a style that is sometimes

potentially if not actually offensive, the book makes it clear that much of

this is for effect. Rush does not alter *what* he says, but in order to be

heard he'll put on a show and thereby get attention from people who at first

are merely "looking at the funny man." William F. Buckley is admirably suited

to reach the calm, controlled intellectuals in our country; for the proverbial

man in the street, sated with extremes in writing, television, and movies,

Rush is just the attention-getter that is needed.

Rush is, though an admitted entertainer having fun at what he does, also a

purveyor of political commentary. And here many will no doubt diverge from my

opinion. I think he is indeed "almost always right 97.9 percent of the time."

It is my sincere conviction that he is indeed on the cutting edge of

commentary in this country. I am persuaded that Rush is no more than telling

the truth when he claims to know *The Way Things Ought to Be*. But then, as

I've said, I've agreed with his views since I was young. Those who disagree

with his views will find no solace in the book; they probably will not be

entertained as much as I was.

Rush is no diplomat. Tact is seldom found in his vocabulary. He does

indeed use such terms "feminazi" and "Slick Willie." He'll never be Miss

Congeniality, though he is not vicious in his name-calling. His weapon is not

abuse, but ridicule. He seeks not to injure feelings, but to provide a loud

and visual *reductio ad absurdum*. Thus, when he states his position, he is

not only setting himself against liberalism ideologically, but

terminologically as well. He blasts, he mocks, he prods, he ridicules.

However, if those who disagree with him can see past the rhetoric and the

shtick, they will find much to think about in *The Way Things Ought to Be*. I

do not say they'll agree. I do not say they'll be converted to the

conservative position. But they *will* find food for thought. They may find

Rush's egotistical claims to near-infallibility galling, but the facts and

figures in the book will take study and thought to refute, if indeed they can

be refuted. Even if liberals manage to show that the book is a tissue of

fabrications and distortions, they'll have to put serious thought into their

own positions and how those positions are presented, for Rush very accurately

diagnoses why many average Americans simply don't find liberalism credible.

Perhaps you who are reading *Sunlight Through the Shadows* don't care to

read *The Way Things Ought to Be*. That is of course your privilege.

However, whatever your political views, whatever your opinions of Rush

Limbaugh either as a person or as a political commentator, I think it's safe

to say that if you don't read the book, you'll be missing much food for

thought and much entertainment.

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ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

It's All Greek to Uncle Thaddeus

Uncle Thaddeus was a retired travelling salesman. During his

career, he'd sold just about anything from aluminum siding for cars to

diet edible underwear. No matter how ridiculous the concept was, Uncle

Thaddeus could sell it.

What was his secret to the Great Sell, as people often referred to

it? He talked them into submission. Something about their lives or the

product would remind him of a story he'd once heard (or, more likely,

lived) and he'd just take it from there.

Thaddeus was by far the best in his field. People would often buy

anything at all from him just to get him to shut up! If there was

anything he loved to do more than smoke Royal Cuban cigars, it was to

talk. And he didn't just talk, he told tales. Tall tales, to use a

phrase from days gone by. Oh, we could never prove that his tales

weren't true; he crafted each with the precision of one of those little

ship-in-a-bottle builders.

We'd learned to avoid his stories whenever possible, or suffer the

always-jolting consequences of his punch line. Often, though, it just

wasn't possible.

We were all sitting around the fireplace, waiting for Aunt Louise to

bring out the Thanksgiving turkey. My brother Bobby, Heather (my wife),

and, of course, Uncle Thaddeus. "You'll have to come over more often,

Joe!" Roared Uncle Thaddeus, between puffs on his Royal Cuban cigar. His

red face beamed down at me, and he smiled. "It's been ages! Why, we

have so much to catch up on!"

"Umm. . . I think I hear Aunt Louise in the kitchen." I replied

hastily, knowing the signs of Uncle Thaddeus gearing up for one of his

stories. "She might need help with that turkey."

Heather smiled at me. "I'll go. You stay here and visit with your

uncle." She rose with a flourish from the couch that we shared and before

I knew it was through the kitchen doors and gone.

"Damned woman. . ." I muttered to Bobby, who shrugged with

resignation.

Uncle Thaddeus managed to stand, his hulking 6'4" frame just

clearing the roof support beam above. Crimson cheeks spread out in a

smile, and he blew a generous puff of smoke in my general direction.

"This reminds me. Did I ever tell you about my friend Penny Stein? No, of

course I didn't. You'd remember something like that." He paused

expectantly, waiting for me to say something.

"No, I don't think you have." I almost sighed, relinquishing myself

to the unavoidable.

Throughout this exchange, Bobby had edged further and further away

from the edge of the couch. He was just about to make a run for it when,

quick as his frame could take him, Uncle Thaddeus was beside him.

"You'll want to hear this too, Bobby. It's a marvelous tale!" He

thundered, slapping my brother on the back. "You see, it all began many

years ago, when I was dating a reporter by the name of Penny Stein. Ever

heard of her, Joe?"

"I don't think that I have, now that. . ."

"Probably a little bit before your time." He frowned, rolling the

cigar around in his mouth. "You see, she was an up-and-coming

investigative journalist then, and had her eye on the biggest story of

her career. You see, the King of Shag Gydo'G had just died." He paused for

effect, then cleared his throat to continue. "Shag Gydo'G was, and still is,

I imagine, a curious little island off the coast of Greece. Being a

curious little island, it naturally had curious and quaint little

customs to go along with it.

"Tradition held that a King's soul was so full and rich that he

needed more of a vessel for it that the human body would normally

provide. On a King's 13th birthday, he was taught in the ways of

ceramics. By the 14th birthday, he was to have sculpted and created a

urn of great and magnificent proportions. This urn was to help house his

soul and, ultimately, see his demise."

"And what a magnificent urn the King created! There were gold

inlaid runes on one side, depictions of great battles on the other, and

great diamonds and rubies everywhere else! Truly, the urn was fit for a

king!"

Bobby and I groaned in unison, knowing that the worst was yet to

come.

"When the King died, he would be cremated and his ashes sifted into

the urn, and dumped - urn and all - into the Aegean sea, upon the hour

of his birth."

"So all of his life, the king was expected to preserve this vessel,

guarding it with his very life. If the King didn't keep his urn, as it

were, he'd soon be out on the streets."

That one hurt! I stifled a groan at my uncle's pun. I'd never let

him know that one got to me!

"Of course," He continued, seemingly oblivious to my lack of

response. "I wouldn't expect either of you to understand. After all, it

IS just Greek to you."

"Oy vey!" Bobby slapped his head in mock-rage, apparently unable to

show the great restraint I'd thus far managed.

"This King," Intoned Uncle Thaddeus, the barest hint of a smile

visible on his full lips. "had been born at the stroke of noon, and

would go out the same."

"I think I need to. . ." Bobby started, then fell quiet as Uncle

Thaddeus' gaze turned to meet his.

"It's no use." I sighed to Bobby, leaning back in the couch.

"Penny had stowed away on the yacht that had been assigned to take

the King's ashes out to sea. You see, the Crown Prince Hali was also on

the yacht, and the world awaited with bated breath to see the new King's

visage. Penny planned to shoot a few pictures and then escape on a

rubber lifeboat she'd managed to hide aboard the yacht, and, with a few

photos, make her career. What she hadn't planned on was terrorists from

H'Chali, a small island off the *other* coast of Greece, and mortal

enemies of the great King of Shag Gydo'G."

"Penny had managed to steal a few shots of the Crown Prince Hali,

and was just about ready to make her escape when it happened. The

terrorists were upon the boat in seconds, just half an hour before the

urn was due to be dumped. The terrorists - there must have been hundreds

of them - overwhelmed the Shag Gydo'Gians, slew the Crown Prince, and

set the yacht on fire, all in a matter of minutes. And then they were

gone."

"Penny drew herself out from the lounge she'd managed to hide

behind, only to discover everyone dead and the ship going down in

flames. Her film forgotten (alas, for she never gained the fame she

rightly deserved) and her hidden lifeboat blocked by flames, she let her

instincts for survival take over. Running to the ceramic urn, she dumped

the King's ashes into the sea. With a wish and a prayer, she jumped into

the urn, pulled the plug in over her, then rocked herself until the urn

tipped over the bow of the burning ship and into the waters below."

"Just about a week later, the urn washed up on the southern coast

of Greece. Dehydrated and half-starved, Penny thanked her lucky stars to

be alive. She'd lost over half her body weight during her week-long

ordeal but, of course, everyone agreed that if they couldn't have the

full Penny a ha'Penny would just have to do. Truly, she must have been

blessed!" Thaddeus smiled, scoring another stifled groan from Bobby and

myself. "You see, the moral of this. . ."

"Ahem." I coughed, barely able to contain myself. A smug grin

spread over my face. I had him! "May I?" Uncle Thaddeus look

non-plussed, then motioned for me to speak with a grand sweep of his

arms. I smiled again to myself. Finally, I was going to beat him at his

own game. "The moral of the story, of course, is this: A Penny urned is

a Penny saved."

Bobby smiled, the light of truth finally dawning upon him. "Hey,

you're right!" Thaddeus reduced us both to silence with a single nod.

"Close, my boy, but," He paused to sit his still-smoking cigar in a

nearby ashtray. "No stogie. You see, your moral is a good one, and

partly true, but it doesn't quite capture the essence of the story."

"Oh C'mon!" I was starting to get annoyed. I had him, and he knew

it. I'd finally beaten him at his own game.

"Hear me out." He smiled, a merry twinkle dancing through his eyes.

"The Shag Gydo'Gians hadn't been paying attention. I said it was

half-an-hour 'til noon when the terrorists attacked. That wasn't

altogether true, though it was from their standpoint. You see, they'd

crossed a time zone only hours before, but failed to take that into

account. It was actually 12:30 PM when the terrorists had boarded their

ship, half an hour *after* they were to have dumped the urn. If they'd

been on time, Penny would have been forced to go down with the ship."

Uncle Thaddeus winked at us, on a roll now. "You see, if the Shag

Gydo'Gians had been better clock-watchers. . ." He paused, plucking his

cigar from the ashtray. Things grew hazy as he sucked on the end of the

Royal Cuban, billowing out a stream of smoke, then stepped through it.

"Suffice it to say that a switch in time saved Stein."

I groaned with defeat, barely able to discern my uncle's crowning

smile through the gauzy screen of smoke.

[255D[0;1;31m[255D

Get a Life

by Robert McKay

Gardner's thin form moved through the empty streets. ELO had once

done a song about "Night in the City" - that was the time and place

now. He was not downtown - that forest of skyscrapers and their winds

did not interest him - but he was fairly near it. He could look up and

see the tallest buildings tearing at the low clouds that scudded

overhead.

On these cold, damp, raw nights, it was not a pleasant task to

move through the darkened streets of this neighborhood. Yet it was the

task Gardner had set for himself. He was lightly bundled for the

night, wearing a black turtle-necked sweater, jeans, and a battered

pair of running shoes of indefinite brand. His face carved a path

before him, its marble features sharp. His hands were thrust in his

pockets; had he withdrawn them, they would have been surgeon's hands,

long, slender, and dextrous to a fault. Small beads of condensation

glistened on the wool Gardner's sweater and rested on his hair as it

swept back over his collar and partway down his ears. A spangle of

crushed diamonds glittered as these drops passed under the rare

streetlight.

Turning a corner, Gardner spied a figure a block away, on the next

corner. His pace remained steady, but his head came up and his

nostrils flared. He had been seeking someone such as this. Her

clothing was outrageously unsuited for the weather; the short skirt

provided no protection at all, and the low cut of the neck must have

chilled her thoroughly. Working no doubt out of sheer necessity, she

was forlorn and alone on the corner, at an hour when most traffic had

ceased.

Gardner approached. He saw as he drew near that the woman was not

as young as she dressed, or to be more precise, had aged more than her

clothing was designed to lead people to believe. A hard and

unrewarding life had clearly been hers, for the lines had gathered

around her hard eyes and the too-heavily made up mouth.

"Whatcha want, honey?" the woman asked, mercifully popping no

bubblegum.

"You," replied Gardner, firmly taking her elbow. "You are all I

want."

* * *

The patrol car cruised by the alley, the passenger cop idly

shining his spotlight down the length of the cluttered passage. "Hey,

stop!" came the voice through the window that was slightly open to

allow cigarette smoke to be sucked out. "There's a body in that

alley!"

The car stopped with a flash of brake lights. Thrown into

reverse, it came slowly back until the light could shine down the alley

again. Inside, the driver was patient. "Are you sure it was a body?

I mean, there's drunks sleeping in these alleys even in winter, with

the snow and ice on the ground."

"I'm sure. It wasn't lying down like it was asleep. It's

position was - there it is!"

The doors of the car popped open and the two officers climbed out,

stuffing batons into the rings on their belts, and making sure their

guns were loose in the holsters. They approached the figure lying in

the muck and wet of the alley. Shining a flashlight on the figure, the

driver of the car saw a woman, dark roots showing under the hard blond

of her hair, her dress only slightly disarranged, her skin beaded with

the mist that was falling. "Is she dead?"

"I dunno." The passenger crouched beside the body, his hand

feeling for the carotid pulse. "Feels like it. No pulse, and cold as

an ice cube. I guess we gotta call this one in as a DB."

"All right, I'll make the call. You start marking off the scene."

An hour later, as the coroner's wagon pulled out, a detective

finished scribbling in his notebook. He'd been taking information from

the first two officers on the scene, the occupants of the patrol car

that still stood near the mouth of the alley, its lights now flashing

garish tints over the crumbling brickwork. The officer before him -

the driver of the car - cleared his throat. "Say, sergeant, did the ME

say what killed her?"

"He said he didn't know for sure, but it looked like she just

died. No cause. She just . . . died."

* * *

An office in the suburbs. Computer terminals winking on as

secretaries, programmers, data entry people, and others come in for the

day. Among them, a man who looks like youth personified - though a

youth that is not quite sunny, not quite wholesome.

Gardner's suit was black, with a white carnation in his lapel.

Many envied him the Porsche he drove today, as well as the Jaguar he

had driven the day before. Gardner passed through the outer office to

his sanctum, where he flicked on his own array of monitors.

There were a few minutes before the phones would begin their day-

long ring - time to scan the monitors with something approaching

leisure, time to pull off the coat and hang it carefully on the rack,

time to scan some papers left on the desk. Gardner signed one letter,

initialed two reports, and chucked the rest in a basket to be filed.

He wouldn't notice when the papers were removed from his desk; the

phones were beginning their serenade, and the monitors were one by one

coming to scrolling life as price quotes displayed themselves.

One monitor, placed squarely above the array and centered above

the top row, was devoted to headline news - local, national, and

international. Gardner's scanning eyes moved over it as they moved

over the rest of the display, taking into account reports of unrest in

Turkey, a bombing in London claimed by the Provos, a new oil strike in

the Russian Republic, a ranch merger in Texas. He noted the picture of

a face on this monitor - a face he knew. The hair was dark in the

picture, taken from police files. The lines were slightly less

prominent, but he recognized the woman he'd met last night. She had

been found dead in an alley, about three hours after he'd seen her.

Gardner held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and continued

his conversation, while tapping on computer keys with two fingers and

blinding speed.

* * *

Gardner's house rested on its lawn with suburban typicality. The

cars in the drive, however, denied the standard suburban mold, quietly

displaying money. Gardner had lived in the house for 12 years, never

bothering to move to a better neighborhood as his bank accounts grew.

In the back yard, the pool sat dry. It had not been filled since

Gardner bought the house - he never swam. He'd never covered it,

either, and the collection of leaves, grass, twigs, and other litter on

the bottom was threatening before very long to rise up and create new

land. When it did, the grass that grew on it would be as immaculately

manicured as the lawn surrounding the vacant pool.

Inside, Gardner, on this Saturday, lay along the sofa. The sun

outside glared around the edges of dark shades fully drawn. In the

corner, the television flickered, an old black-and-white movie playing.

Gardner's attention was not on the movie, however; his nose was stuffed

into a book. The doorbell rang, an incongruous sound in the air

conditioned dark of the house.

Gardner quietly laid his book down, marking the place with a strip

of hammered gold. The bookmark had been made for him, and the price

had been paid in cash.

Striding to the door, Gardner's dark jeans and black short-sleeved

shirt made his pale skin gleam. At the door he grasped the knob and

pulled. On the concrete step outside, a delivery man sweated in the

summer heat. Gardner smiled slightly.

"You Gardner?" asked the delivery man.

"Yes."

"Package for you." He held out the package and thrust his

clipboard at Gardner. "Sign on line number 35."

Gardner laid the package on a small table by the door, and

scrawled his signature. "Is it hot enough for you?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm glad this is my last delivery - I'm about to

melt."

"Why don't you come in and have something cold to drink? I have

water, of course, and some Cokes in the refrigerator."

"Sure, why not?" The delivery man stepped inside, wiping

perspiration. "Boy, if it gets any hotter, they'll have to haul

icebergs down from the north pole!"

Gardner closed the door behind the delivery man. As he turned to

follow the visitor, his eyes glowed red in the dimness of the entry.

The next morning, the delivery man's body was found in his van

three miles out in the country; the medical examiner could determine no

cause of death.

* * *

Gardner sat comfortably at the table. Facing him was a mirror

that, he knew, concealed a room with someone watching and listening.

Across the table from him was a sweaty detective, who chewed Wrigley's

with much fervor and no class. He had just bustled in, 20 minutes

after Gardner had been shown into this room by a uniformed cop and told

someone would be with him shortly.

The detective flipped through a folder. Without glancing up, he

asked, "You know why you're here, right?"

"I am being held for questioning in the case of a suspected

homicide."

"Yeah." The detective looked up for a moment. "You musta gone to

some fancy college, the way you talk."

"Is that a question? If it is, I submit that it is hardly

material."

"Yeah, yeah." The detective closed the folder and looked straight

at Gardner. "You of course know where you were when - those questions

have already been asked. So I won't waste our time asking again. I'll

ask another one. What do you know about the death of Jeffry Sulman?"

"Who was he?"

"He delivered a package to your house two days ago. It took us a

while to discover this. Someone had balled up the list of stops and

tossed it into a pasture. We were lucky some cow didn't eat it."

"Were there any fingerprints on the paper?"

"Only Jeffry's. You can bet, buddy, that if we'd found yours

you'd be in jail right now."

Gardner smiled coldly. "I suggest, officer, that you release me.

Clearly that paper hadn't been wiped off, or it wouldn't have the

driver's fingerprints on it. And it most certainly didn't have my

prints on it, or, as you said, I would be in jail. You have no grounds

to hold me."

"Yeah, we got grounds. We know that the guy was alive when he got

to your place. That was his last stop, and he delivered a package,

which you signed for. You're the last person we know of who saw him.

So you're a number one suspect, and that's grounds."

"Are you prepared to place me under arrest?" asked Gardner.

"We're thinkin' about it, yeah. We'll let you know. Now, do you

have anything to tell me?"

"Only this. I did not kill Jeffry Sulman. I do not know who did.

And if I am not either placed under arrest or released within a few

hours, I will contact my attorney and file legal action against the

appropriate parties."

The detective stared. "Oh, yeah? We'll see." He rose. "Don't

go anywhere."

The door closed behind the policeman. It was locked, of course;

Gardner had no doubt of that. He looked straight at the mirror. A

slow smile came over his face, and for a moment, his reflection ceased

to appear.

* * *

At work, comments were going around about Gardner's appearance.

No one dared broach the subject in his presence - his tongue could cut

like the finest razor - but the office was rife with speculation. Over

the past six months he'd aged dramatically. His patrician face had

grown lined, and had fallen in alarmingly. His hair was both thinning

and graying at an abnormal rate, and his hands were shaky. His voice,

once clear and powerful, was now a scratchy parody of what it had been.

Age spots were breaking out in legions, more each day, and Gardner's

gate had gone from a vigorous stride to an elderly shuffle. No one

knew why.

That is, no one besides Gardner knew why. His life was draining

away. He'd lived for a long time on borrowed energy, and now, forced

by police attention to restrict himself and draw on that stored

vitality, he was consuming himself. Just as the body of a man deprived

of food will, eventually, turn on itself and burn muscle tissue in the

vain struggle to remain alive, so Gardner's life had turned on him,

killing him by inches to avoid death by yards.

Gardner had known of his situation for some time. He'd known

that, after having been released for lack of evidence in the case of

the dead delivery man, the police had instituted surveillance of his

house, his job, and his person. He had to compliment the police on

their capacity for discretion, for the officers were not obtrusive and

would have been missed by someone less vigilant and capable. But they

were there, and for six months they'd hovered over him like vultures,

waiting for a slip, a move, a word or gesture that could link him with

the delivery man's death. The strain was, literally, killing him.

As he shuffled out of his office at the end of a fall day, Gardner

knew that he must either recharge himself, or die. He could last, at

most, another couple of months. After that he would be too weak to

move, too weak to reach out for the life he needed even if it were

brought into his reach. He had to act, or die; he had no other choice,

and the observation of the police had to be circumvented somehow, for

die he refused to do. He'd waited as long as he could, hoping the

authorities would give up, but they had not. Tonight, then, he would

slip out of their sight.

That night the plan went into motion. Standing before the full-

length mirror in his bedroom, Gardner smiled a faint echo of the cold

expression he'd long used - and his image faded out of the mirror. He

hobbled out of the room, switching off the light as he did so.

Proceeding toward the back door, he wavered, became translucent and

then transparent, and finally was a mere shadow of iridescent mist

dancing in a small shaft of moonlight coming in around the drawn shade.

The sliding glass door came open a crack, and the mist exited. The

door remained open.

The spindle of shaky mist passed slowly over the grass, and

filtered through the cedar fence that surrounded the yard. It moved

slowly down the alley, startling a cat as it staggered - if mist can

stagger - by the feline's crouching place. The mist passed out of the

alley into the street, and disappeared in the glare of a streetlight.

* * *

The patrol car cruised the downtown area. The skyscrapers towered

into the clear air, the crisp bite of fall swirling around them in the

perpetual wind created by any collection of massive, upward-springing

structures. The car's spotlight moved over doorways, sometimes

illuminating a security desk, where the occupant would wave at the car

before returning to his monitors and his cheap novel. No winos were in

evidence tonight; they tended to keep to the back ways of downtown in

good weather, coming out onto the main sidewalks only when it grew cold

and it became more imperative to make a pitiable impression. The cops

in the car knew that some of these homeless people were genuinely

homeless, trying desperately to find a way out of the gutter. They

also knew that most were derelicts, winos, addicts, and other flotsam

who cared not what dismal shore they were cast upon, as long as they

were left alone when comfortable, taken in by a shelter when it got

cold, and tossed enough cash to buy the next bottle or needle or bag of

powder.

The patrol car turned a corner, leaving the downtown buildings

behind and coming into an area of crumbling brick where the structures

were older, lower, and less hygienic. The car cruised this area,

noting that the hookers had for the most part been allowed to go home

by their pimps. A few pushers hung out, carefully doing nothing

suspicious while the car was in sight; as soon as the cops disappeared

around a corner, the officers in the car knew, the traffic would resume

with a vengeance. The officer riding as a passenger shook his head and

rubbed his eyes. He must be getting tired - he thought he'd seen a

small mist emerge from an alley and for a moment, before it was

swallowed by the glare of an electric lamp, faintly resemble an old

man.

* * *

An hour later, on the same street, a powerful man strode along.

His stocky form was well suited to his business, which was carrying and

using concealed weapons. His bulky shoulders and chest made the hiding

of a pistol in a shoulder holster rather easy. He had good eyes, quick

reflexes, and no conscience. He was wanted for several petty crimes,

and was suspected in a couple of murders. As he walked down the

sidewalk, he had a purpose, for he had been hired to break up,

permanently, a floating book that had not bothered to obtain the

authorization of the local gambling entrepreneur.

As the man passed a dark doorway, a sparkle appeared behind him.

He made a few more steps, and then the sparkle materialized into the

form of a tottering old man. The trembling hand reach out and seized

the gunman's shoulder; the hired man whirled, in these circumstances

his hand diving into a pants pocket for a switchblade.

The old man smiled, a slow, chill movement of his lips that held

no mirth. It was a cruel, hungry smile, one that made the hired man

think vaguely of death, and of where he would rather be at the moment.

The cracked voice of the old man was a mere whisper in the night.

"I believe you'll do. You are eminently vital, and that is precisely

what I require."

"Mister, I don't know who you are, or what you're doing, but you'd

better just back off. I'm ready for whatever you're offering, and

frankly, old-timer, I don't think you're ready for much of anything."

"Oh? Perhaps you're right. On the other hand . . ."

Suddenly the old man's hand darted to the thug's temple. The hired man

jerked, trying to avoid the touch, but he wasn't quite fast enough.

The bony fingers touched, clung, and tightened. Those fingers actually

held the thug upright, while the old face leaned close, the eyes, now

glowing a molten red, glaring into the man's face. And, as the hired

gunman slowly weakened, sagged, and finally collapsed to the ground,

the old man straightened, brushed back his now-black and thick hair

with both hands, and strode away with the energy of one who is only

middle-aged.

On the sidewalk, the gunman lay, nothing showing how he had died.

* * *

Gardner killed twice more that night. Each time he grew younger

in appearance, more vital in his actions, more deadly. His cruel

fingers latched onto the temple of a wino lying in an alley and a

priest coming home from administering last rites, and as the leering

eyes bored close, drained the life from them. Gardner sucked the life

he needed from his victims, and left them where they fell, for the

coroner to finally decide that the deaths has no discernible cause.

As he straightened from the last kill, that of the priest, the

patrol car came around the corner just a block away. Engrossed in his

work, Gardner's attention had been focused away from his ears, and he

had not heard the engine or the tires on pavement. The officer in the

passenger seat happened to fling his spotlight on the patch of sidewalk

where Gardner still half-crouched over the priest's body.

Gardner froze, startled. The car accelerated, and the loudspeaker

called upon Gardner to remain where he was and make no sudden moves.

He complied. Straightening slowly, he stood over the body as the car

pulled up next to him and the two officers climbed out, their hands

resting on the butts of their weapons.

"What are you doing here?" asked the driver.

"Minding my own business, officer, as I suggest you mind yours."

Gardner's voice was cold with controlled fury. His eyes glinted a

faint red, the fire banked in their depths.

The passenger from the patrol car had been examining the corpse.

He now stood, drawing his gun. "This man is dead. Please put your

hands on top of your head and turn around."

The fire in Gardner's eyes grew more evident, but he complied.

His reflection appeared in a storefront window, and the driver of the

car was puzzled to see that reflection smile, though it was a hunter's

smile, not the gesture of a man who is amused. And then, as the

officers approached to cuff the suspect, the reflection vanished in an

instant.

The split-second of reaction was all Gardner needed. Whirling, he

lashed out with a clubbed fist at the nearest officer, the driver,

whose handcuffs went clattering into the street. The officer's blood

and brains spilled onto the street as he fell, his skull shattered; he

fell solidly, like a tree.

The other officer, just out of Gardner's reach, fired his weapon.

The full clip, at such short range, took Gardner in the chest. The

policeman could see the impacts shake Gardner, could see the holes

appear in the black leather of Gardner's jacket, but could discern no

blood or pain. And then Gardner, taking a step forward, swung.

The officer ducked, and Gardner's fist grazed the top of his head.

The cop dropped as if poleaxed. Gardner turned, and as he stepped

slowly away, swirled into a dense bank of glittering mist that rose

into the air and passed from view.

The stunned officer recovered. Gardner was never seen again.

Within two weeks, three unexplained deaths had occurred in a city 200

miles to the south.

A Christmas Tale

A CHRISTMAS TALE

by Franchot Lewis

Tina hears the thumping noises of her grandmother's

footsteps and she begins to predict the future. The footsteps

mean that her grandmother is agitated again, and Tina is

about to get yelled at. Tina's facial muscles twitch and she

feels a churning in her stomach. She hunches her shoulders,

sinks down in the sheets, and tries to hide, so to become a tiny,

little lump in the bed, hoping to be invisible. She sucks in

her breath as she hears the footsteps in the hallway out side

the bedroom door.

She fears that she can't - but knows she must continue

to stay in her grandmother's house. But, how can she? She

feels, she can't and be afraid this way? She skulks about the

house, moves in every shadow she can find. She avoids eye contact

with her grandmother and tries to avoid anyone who comes to her

grandmother's house. This is a fretfully, worrisome, way to stay

alive until her parents come for her. To her young mind, it

seems like she has been living afraid forever. Already, she has

spent three weeks living in her grandmother's house. She is

convinced that everything in the house, including the furniture,

is determined to subdue her. The ugly walls want to smother her.

When she goes to bed she can hear her grandmother moving about,

and she worries that her grandmother's friends might come

sneaking into her room. To hide from them, she slides down in

the bed under the blanket and covers her head. She prefers the

darkness under the covers. She dreads sleeping with her head

uncovered, making herself an easy target in the glow of the

night light her grandmother keeps on in the room, for her, her

grandmother says. She thinks the light is there for her grand

mother and her grandmother's friends to spy on her.

She worries: What if her parents never come back? What

if they know how hard their little girl finds living in her

grandmother's house, and they don't care? She wonders. Certainly,

they will return. After all, she is their daughter. Their

only child. They know how horrible life is with the grandmother.

Her mommy called the woman "an old bag". Her daddy called the

woman "an old busy body". They placed her in the woman's house

because there is no place else for her to go. How could she

survive if she didn't have her grandmother's house as a place

to stay until her parents's return? The house is a roof. The

house is shelter, four-walls from the cold outside.

It is too frightful a thought to think, yet she knows it

could easily happen. Any day, her grandmother could explode and

kick her out before her parents returned. She knows of her

grandmother's terrible temper. Her mommy told her of the time

the woman exploded violently.

When her mommy was a little girl, her mommy was a pretty

girl with long bangs. Her mommy was very proud of those bangs,

and spent hours admiring them and herself in the mirror. Well,

the woman asked her mommy to do something that her mommy didn't

do and so as punishment, the woman sat down in a chair, grabbed

her mommy and using clippers cut off her mommy's bangs. Her

mommy cried and screamed. Her mommy said the tears came like

rain.

After her mommy told her that story, Tina disliked

the old woman thoroughly. Sleeping in the old woman's house

is a particularly hard ordeal for Tina. Tina has bangs like

her mommy had as a little girl. And, Tina has seen that gray

straw-like wire peeping from under the old woman's wig, and

feels that the old woman is probably jealous of little girls'

bangs. She has seen her grandmother without the creams and

preservatives the old woman puts on her face. She glimpsed

that moldy face in all its horror going into the bathroom

early one morning last week, and she trembled and sneaked

away, quietly, back into her room so that the hag face old

woman wouldn't know that Tina has seen the ugliness.

Tina just knows, the old woman doesn't like her. The old

woman gives Tina shelter, and feeds her, but stares at her while

she eats like she is stealing food. She trembles as she thinks

further of her grandmother and her grandmother's friends. She

heard them talking. The first week after she came, she heard

her grandmother talking about her to another fat old lady, a

friend of her grandmother's. Tina's head aches at the thought

of being talked about. Her mind fills with the awful memory of

her of getting up in the middle of the night to go to the

bathroom to pee, and of hearing her grandmother down stairs

talking about her like she is a thief.

"I can see, I'm going to have problems with that grand

daughter," her grandmother said. "When she gets up some size

she's going to be a bitch ..."

A bitch, the old woman called her. Tina mumbled. Her

grandmother, calling her a nasty name in the middle of the

night, hurt. Tina wondered what names her grandmother must be

calling her during the day. She listened, feeling pain and fear,

but sort of,[ kind of], glad that she woke up to catch her

grandmother in the act of disrespecting her. Tina felt that

there was no reason why she should try to be nice to the old

woman.

The two old bitties were telling one another of how hard

it is now-a-days to communicate with grand children. Her

grandmother said, "I do every thing for that child I can: I

cook for her, I lay her clothes out, make sure she has clean

socks and underwear, I leave them on the bed ..."

Tina was horrified. Her grandmother was discussing her

underwear! Tina felt as though her grandmother was discussing

executing her.

"That child's always winding and complaining," Tina's

grandmother said. "Saying, we don't do it like that in my

house, we don't cook like that, we don't make it like that."

Tina listened. Her grandmother's fat friend made a snort

like a pig. It sounded to Tina as if the old women were

either snacking or drinking. Tina's grandmother said, "The

child's always winding about I don't do this right, or that,

in my house, I felt like telling her to get the hell out of

my house."

"You didn't?" the fat friend asked.

"I felt like it," Tina's grandmother replied, and both

of the old women laughed.

Tina eyes began to tear. They were now laughing at her.

She was angry, so angry that she turned around and knocked

over a broom that her grandmother had unintentionally left in

the hallway at the top of the stairs. She became terrified

that they would discover her easedropping. She cowered for a

moment, standing still in fear, but they hadn't heard the

broom fall, they hadn't stopped their laughter and chatter.

Tina thought that there have to be places where she could

go where staying out of the way until her parents returned

wasn't so difficult. She wondered why her parents sent her to

her grandmother. She was a good child. She didn't think that

she could have done anything to merit this punishment. She

wondered why her parents were being so mean to her by taking

so long to return. They weren't mean like her grandmother.

They wouldn't leave her unless something was to matter,

unless they had no choice. She wondered: What were they supposed

to do? They had to leave her somewhere, where she could sleep

and eat.

She doesn't blame her parents, and thinking about them

only makes the wait longer. She has told herself often that she

won't think about them, that they will come when they will come.

She is a big girl and not a baby. She won't cry. She will fend

for herself, with and against the old woman, until her parents

return. So far, she has managed to get through three weeks. She

feels certain that soon it will be the day that her parents

will return. Her parents will be with her like they always were,

and it will be like it has been always since she can remember.

She just knows that soon they will come for her and take her

home, and like last year, they will take her out to a big lot

where there is a happy, smiling man with red hair and a green

coat. In his lot is all the Christmas trees in the world. They

will buy a big one, take it home and set it up with sparking

lights and bright ornaments. They will sing together, spend

plenty of time together. She will watch her mommy cook. Her

mommy will cook and cook and she will eat and eat. In the three

weeks she has been at her grandmother's house she hardly ate.

When she does, she eats very little. Her mommy will come home

and Tina will eat and eat and get some meat on her bones. Her

daddy will lift her up, and then will ask her to show him her

strength. She will flex her muscles, showing him the good use

her body puts to her mommy's cooking. Her daddy will hug her,

and her mommy while holding her, and she will squeeze, tight,

against them both and feel safe and loved.

She hunches down to sleep, hopeful that there won't be

too many more nights before the morning daylight will bring

the return of her parents.

She hears her grandmother coming into the room. She holds

her breath and waits for the old woman to leave. A long moment

passes, but not long enough. Tina's grandmother sits on the

bed and pulls the covers off Tina's head. Before Tina can

speak, she cringes. Her grandmother flips on the room's light,

and the brightness of a hundred watt bulb floods into the

child's eyes.

Her grandmother laughs, "Caught you by surprise?"

Tina decides to yawn.

"Sleepy, sleepy head?" her grandmother ask. "Didn't you

hear somebody rummaging around downstairs?"

Tina jumps up out of the bed as if she doesn't have time

to get up without jumping. "Mommy and Daddy!" she screams.

Her grandmother's face freezes. She looks unable to speak.

She holds her breath, hoping to find words to say to the

child. Before the old woman finds a single word, Tina is off

the bed and is running down the stairs, happily skipping steps

as she hurries.

Tina is downstairs scurrying around, through the whole

downstairs, running this way and that, and calling to her

parents to come out and get her. She runs from one room to the

other for ever so long. She thinks that her parents are playing

hide and seek. Finally, she stops.

Her grandmother is now downstairs. She asks her grandmother,

"Where is my mommy and daddy? You said they be here?"

Her grandmother tells her that she is mistaken. Her

grandmother does not try to stop her when she inches away and

huddles in a corner, behind the big Christmas tree her

grandmother has set up. The tree is tall, almost as tall as

Tina's daddy. It has silver bulbs that shine and many flashing

bright, red and yellow and blue lights. There are boxes under

the tree, wrapped in bright shiny paper and filled with many

things. On some of these boxes is written Tina's name. Tina

does not look at these boxes, nor does she look at the many

other gifts her grandmother has sat unwrapped about the room.

Tina stares in the direction of the floor as she inches herself

even further into the corner.

Her grandmother tells her, "I would wake up your mama,

very early, on Christmas morning like this, while it was

still dark outside, as soon as Santa Claus was gone, and

she would come running down those steps, her face all lit up,

her mouth squealing ... And she would attack the stacks of

boxes with her name on them, and seeing her my face would

fill with light and joy I would squeal too ..."

Tina says, "My daddy's gonna pick me up."

Her grandmother sighs, "We've explained this. You know

where your parents are?"

Tina does not reply. Her grandmother asks, "What did you

tell me? That they were in church sleeping?"

"My daddy's going to get me, take me in his car, and

we're going home."

"They are gone, but we're not alone, we're safe and

alive".

Tina lifts her chin. She looks up at the Christmas

tree at its tallest point, at the lighted angel at its very

top.

"Yes," she hears her grandmother say, "Your mama and

daddy are in Heaven with God."

Tina snaps, "They're going to pick me up, they're coming

for me!"

Tina's grandmother's patience snaps. "If they are, you

let me know, because I don't want to be here when they get

here, because they're dead, " her grandmother was frowning.

"They're dead and they aren't coming back."

Tina's eyes waters and her grandmother flinches as if

struck by a piercing pain, and then another, as Tina began to

cry, " You, ugly, old thing, I want to be with my mommy."

"Damn, " the old woman fusses. "I've no business keeping

you, I'm too old to raise another child."

Tina is about to poke her tongue at the old woman, then

she sees something that the old woman has kept hidden from

view: tears. Tina's old grandmother is crying. "Baby, baby,"

the old woman bawls and holds out her arms toward the child.

Tina stops her own crying and takes a cautious step toward the

old woman. Suddenly, Tina finds herself pressed into the old

woman's sagging chest. She feels the wet face of the crying

old woman pressing next to hers. She smells the woman's

perfume, all musty and hard to take, unlike her mommy's

sweet, pleasant scent. She is about to pull away from this

foreign chest and run back into a corner when she hears the

old woman sob, "I loved your mama, and I love you."

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Triad

Transitions permutate existance

To live, to die, to be reborn

is the privilege of life's dance

tho the veil is old and worn

the shedding of masques

is a timeless rite unbourne

To die is a painful task

if the choice is a matter of chance

To Life! A toast...unasked.

Do-Wop

Do-Wop, Beep, Bop, Bop, Do-Wop,

The trumphet blairs

and your foot starts to tappin,

Do-Wop,

That big band sound,

starts to make things happen,

Beep, Bop Do-Wop,

The other foot joins,

and your fingers start snappin,

And before you know it your up and dancin',

Swingin' and a turnin' to that triple step time,

It's that 50 's era a startin' to make you smile.

Doop, da do da Do-Wop,

Da-Do, Da-DAAAA,

DO-WOP!

Buzzing Floor Essence

"Buzzing Floor Essence"

Amid voices murmuring

soft in tones into nes-

tled phones:

warbled then

shouldered with a half-shrug

quickly cradled with a plastic click,

Ships of pudgy people

bellowing sails

walking in-

vestments suit-

able for their offices,

Under rectilinear clouds

suspended glowerings

in a chip-board matrix

the heads in empty doldrums float

bobbing lightly cycloids

over a mazing sea of truncated cubes -

Foot strides

sloshing in their holds

liquid cargo coffee.

A Silver Shaft Appeared at the Temple

A silver shaft appeared at the Temple

shining among the gold.

Did it appear overnight like a Spring mushroom,

or was it there much longer - hiding?

Anomaly, or portent? I wonder...

I prayed for a sign that I might know:

Does this foreshadow the end of the present,

or perhaps the beginning of the next?

Silence.

I searched the temple carefully. More silver

where once only golden gleamed.

Silver on the crown and the crest, too.

And the golden shafts are thinner now -

worn away in friction with time.

When did I stop growing up

and start growing old?

Sailing the Seas of Cyberspace

Sailing the Seas of CyberSpace

version 1

by J. Guenther

(dedicated to & inspired by Jess M. and Ken D.)

In the rocking seas a ship sets sail

over their billowing waves and frosty tails;

Its wooden hull, its mast so frail,

it sails so fast with the nightly gales;

I can read her words and see her smile

across the seas of CyberSpace;

Amongst the games and lengthy files,

I think I can see her shining face;

Through the seas of CyberSpace,

our ships find a friendly dock;

And though the days demands more haste,

our ships ignore the ticking clock;

But we surrender to our crew,

and must submit to the annoyed alarm;

The night has blanketed our ships two,

and the morning stars have stolen its charm;

My ship, oh ship, with its grimy rust,

readies for its course homebound;

Good night, good friend, and you can trust

that tonight a friend you have found.

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Freud on Seuss

a book review by Josh LeBeau

_The Cat in the Hat_

by Dr. Seuss, 61 pages. Beginner Books, $3.95

The Cat in the Hat is a hard-hitting novel of prose and poetry in which the

author re-examines the dynamic rhyming schemes and bold imagery of some of

his earlier works, most notably _Green Eggs and Ham_, _If I Ran the Zoo_,

and _Why Can't I Shower With Mommy?_ In this novel, Theodore Geisel,

writing under the pseudonym Dr. Seuss, pays homage to the great Dr. Sigmund

Freud in a nightmarish fantasy of a renegade feline helping two young

children understand their own frustrated sexuality.

The story opens with two youngsters, a brother and a sister, abandoned by

their mother, staring mournfully through the window of their single-family

dwelling. In the foreground, a large tree/phallic symbol dances wildly in

the wind, taunting the children and encouraging them to succumb to the

sexual yearnings they undoubtedly feel for each other. Even to the most

unlearned reader, the blatant references to the incestuous relationship the

two share set the tone for Seuss' probing examination of the satisfaction

of primitive needs. The Cat proceeds to charm the wary youths into engaging

in what he so innocently refers to as "tricks." At this point, the fish,

an obvious Christ figure who represents the prevailing Christian morality,

attempts to warn the children, and thus, in effect, warns all of humanity

of the dangers associated with the unleashing of the primal urges. In

response to this, the cat proceeds to balance the aquatic naysayer on the

end of his umbrella, essentially saying, "Down with morality; down with

God!"

After poohpoohing the righteous rantings of the waterlogged Christ figure,

the Cat begins to juggle several icons of Western culture, most notably two

books, representing the Old and New Testaments, and a saucer of lactal

fluid, an ironic reference to maternal loss the two children experienced

when their mother abandoned them "for the afternoon." Our heroic Id adds

to this bold gesture a rake and a toy man, and thus completes the Oedipal

triangle.

Later in the novel, Seuss introduces the proverbial Pandora's box, a large

red crate out of which the Id releases Thing One, or Freud's concept of

Ego, the division of the psyche that serves as the conscious mediator

between the person and reality, and Thing Two, the Superego which functions

to reward and punish through a system of moral attitudes, conscience, and

guilt. Referring to this box, the Cat says, "Now look at this trick. Take

a look!" In this, Dr. Seuss uses the children as a brilliant metaphor for

the reader, and asks the reader to re-examine his own inner self.

The children, unable to control the Id, Ego, and Superego allow these

creatures to run free and mess up the house, or more symbolically, control

their lives. This rampage continues until the fish, or Christ symbol,

warns that the mother is returning to reinstate the Oedipal triangle that

existed before her abandonment of the children. At this point, Seuss

introduces a many-armed cleaning device which represents the psychoanalytic

couch, which proceeds to put the two youngsters' lives back in order.

With powerful simplicity, clarity, and drama, Seuss reduces Freud's

concepts on the dynamics of the human psyche to an easily understood

gesture. Mr. Seuss' poetry and choice of words is equally impressive and

serves as a splendid counterpart to his bold symbolism. In all, his

writing style is quick and fluid, making _The Cat in the Hat_ impossible to

put down. While this novel is 61 pages in length, and one can read it in

five minutes or less, it is not until after multiple readings that the

genius of this modern day master becomes apparent.

Top Ten List

Top Ten Ways To Tell You're Having a Really Rough Day In BBS Land

ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ

10. SysOp changes your handle to "Ima Leech"

9. Microsoft releases Windows NT, and you're happy

8. Psych 101 paper gets juxtaposed with alt.sex file from Internet

7. President of local computer user group marries your sister

6. FIDO doesn't like your front-end mailer - and neither does Spot

5. Your wife finds your GIF collection

4. National debt pales in comparison to your upload/download ratio

3. You find your *wife's* GIF collection

2. Chastised by angry RIME conference host for being off topic

1. Artificial Intelligence program won't hot chat you

Cartoon Law of Physics

----------------------

Cartoon Law I

=============

Any body suspended in space will remain in space until made aware

of its situation.

Daffy Duck steps off a cliff, expecting further pasture land. He

loiters in midair, soliloquizing flippantly, until he chances to

look down. At this point, the familiar principle of 32 feet per

second per second takes over.

Cartoon Law II

==============

Any body in motion will tend to remain in motion until solid matter

intervenes suddenly. Whether shot from a cannon or in hot pursuit

on foot, cartoon characters are so absolute in their momentum that

only a telephone pole or an outsize boulder retards their forward

motion absolutely. Sir Isaac Newton called this sudden termination

of motion the stooge's surcease.

Cartoon Law III

===============

Any body passing through solid matter will leave a perforation

conforming to its perimeter.

Also called the silhouette of passage, this phenomenon is the

speciality of victims of directed-pressure explosions and of

reckless cowards who are so eager to escape that they exit directly

through the wall of a house, leaving a cookie-cutout-perfect hole.

The threat of skunks or matrimony often catalyzes this reaction.

Cartoon Law IV

==============

The time required for an object to fall twenty stories is greater

than or equal to the time it takes for whoever knocked it off the

ledge to spiral down twenty flights to attempt to catch it

unbroken.

Such an object is inevitably priceless, the attempt to catch it is

inevitably unsuccessful.

Cartoon Law V

=============

All principles of gravity are negated by fear.

Psychic forces are sufficient in most bodies for a shock to propel

them directly away from the earth's surface. A spooky noise or an

adversary's signature sound will induce motion upward, usually to

the cradle of a chandelier, a treetop, or the crest of a flagpole.

The feet of a character who is running or the wheels of a speeding

auto need never touch the ground, especially when in flight.

Cartoon Law VI

==============

As speed increases, objects can be in several places at once. This

is particularly true of tooth-and-claw fights, in which a

character's head may be glimpsed emerging from the cloud of

altercation at several places simultaneously. This effect is

common as well among bodies that are spinning or being throttled.

A `wacky' character has the option of self-replication only at

manic high speeds and may ricochet off walls to achieve the

velocity required.

Cartoon Law VII

===============

Certain bodies can pass through solid walls painted to resemble

tunnel entrances; others cannot.

This trompe l'oeil inconsistency has baffled generations, but at

least it is known that whoever paints an entrance on a wall's

surface to trick an opponent will be unable to pursue him into this

theoretical space. The painter is flattened against the wall when

he attempts to follow into the painting. This is ultimately a

problem of art, not of science.

Cartoon Law VIII

================

Any violent rearrangement of feline matter is impermanent.

Cartoon cats possess even more deaths than the traditional nine

lives might comfortably afford. They can be decimated, spliced,

splayed, accordion-pleated, spindled, or disassembled, but they

cannot be destroyed. After a few moments of blinking self pity,

they reinflate, elongate, snap back, or solidify

Corollary: A cat will assume the shape of its container.

Cartoon Law IX

==============

Everything falls faster than an anvil.

Cartoon Law X

=============

For every vengeance there is an equal and opposite revengeance.

This is the one law of animated cartoon motion that also applies to

the physical world at large. For that reason, we need the relief

of watching it happen to a duck instead.

Amendment A

=======================

A sharp object will always propel a character upward.

When poked (usually in the buttocks) with a sharp object (usually

a pin), a character will defy gravity by shooting straight up, with

great velocity.

Amendment B

=======================

The laws of object permanence are nullified for "cool" characters.

Characters who are intended to be "cool" can make previously

nonexistent objects appear from behind their backs at will. For

instance, the Road Runner can materialize signs to express himself

without speaking.

Amendment C

=======================

Explosive weapons cannot cause fatal injuries.

They merely turn characters temporarily black and smoky.

Amendment D

=======================

Gravity is transmitted by slow-moving waves of large wavelengths.

Their operation can be witnessed by observing the behavior of a

canine suspended over a large vertical drop. Its feet will begin

to fall first, causing its legs to stretch. As the wave reaches

its torso, that part will begin to fall, causing the neck to

stretch. As the head begins to fall, tension is released and the

canine will resume its regular proportions until such time as it

strikes the

ground.

Amendment E

=======================

Dynamite is spontaneously generated in "C-spaces" (spaces in which

cartoon laws hold).

The process is analogous to steady-state theories of the universe

which postulated that the tensions involved in maintaining a space

would cause the creation of hydrogen from nothing. Dynamite quanta

are quite large (stick sized) and unstable (lit). Such quanta are

attracted to psychic forces generated by feelings of distress in

"cool" characters (see Amendment B, which may be a special case of

this law), who are able to use said quanta to their advantage. One

may imagine C-spaces where all matter and energy result from primal

masses of dynamite exploding. A big bang indeed.

ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿

³ ÃÄ¿

³ Information ³ ³

³ ³ ³

ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³

ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

There are several different ways to get STTS magazine.

SysOps:

Contact me via any of the addresses listed in CONTACT POINTS listed

elsewhere in this issue. Just drop me a note telling me your name,

city, state, your BBS's name, it's phone number and it's baud rate, and

where you'll be getting STTS from each month. If your BBS carries RIME,

Pen & Brush Network, or you have access to the InterNet, I can put you

on the STTS mailing list to receive the magazine free of charge each

month. If you have access to FIDO, you can file request the magazine.

If you don't have access to any of these services - or do but don't

wish to use this option - you can call any of the BBS's listed in

DISTRIBUTION SITES and download the new issue each month. In either

case contact me so that I can put your BBS in the dist. site list for

the next issue of the magazine.

(Refer to DISTRIBUTION VIA NETWORKS for more detailed information about

the nets)

Users:

You can download STTS each month from any of the BBS's mentioned in

DISTRIBUTION SITES elsewhere in this issue. If your local BBS isn't

listed, pester and cajole your SysOp to "subscribe" to STTS for you.

(the subscription, of course, is free)

If you haven't any other way of receiving the magazine each month, a

monthly disk subscription (sent out via US Mail) is available for

$ 20.00 per year. Foreign subscriptions are $ 25.00 (american dollars).

Subscriptions should be mailed to:

Joe DeRouen

14232 Marsh Ln. # 51

Addison, Tx. 75234

U.S.A.

* Special Offer *

[ Idea stolen from Dave Bealer's RaH Magazine. So sue me. <G> ]

Having trouble finding back issues of STTS Magazine? (This is only the

fifth issue, but you never know..)

For only $ 5.00 (count 'em - five dollars!) I'll send you all the back

issues of STTS Mag as well as current issues of other magazines, and

whatever other current, new shareware will fit onto a disk.

Heck, I'll even send you a *registered* version of my shareware program,

Quote! v1.4 (a random quote generator) What could be better than that?

Just send your $ 5.00 (money order or check please, US funds only, made

payable to: Joe DeRouen) to:

Joe DeRouen

14232 Marsh Ln. # 51

Dallas, Tx. 75234

U.S.A.

Tell me if you want a high density 5 1/4" disk or a high density 3 1/2"

disk, please.

(The following form is duplicated in the text file FORM.TXT, included

with this archive)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Enclosed is a check or money order (US funds only!) for $ 5.00. Please

send me the back issues of STTS, the registered version of Quote!, and

whatever else you can cram onto the disk.

I want: [ ] 5.25" HD disk [ ] 3.5" HD disk

Send to:

________________________________________

Submission Information

----------------------

We're looking for a few good writers.

Actually, we're looking for as many good writers as we can find. We're

interested in fiction, poetry, reviews, feature articles (about most

anything, as long as it's well-written), humour, essays, ANSI art,

and RIP art.

STTS is dedicated to showcasing as many talents as it can, in all forms

and genres. We have no general "theme" aside from good writing,

innovative concepts, and unique execution of those concepts.

The only payment we can offer for your articles, stories, and poems is

that of exposure. As STTS grows, we expect it to reach markets through-

out the USA, Canada, Europe, Japan, and parts of ASIA. Through the

distribution system we're using, the possibilities are practically

limitless.

The copyright of said material, of course, remains the sole property

of the author. STTS has the right to present it once in a "showcase"

format and in an annual "best of" issue. (a paper version as well

as the elec. version)

Acceptance of submitted material does NOT necessarily mean that it

will appear in STTS.

Submissions should be in 100% pure ASCII format. There are no

limitations in terms of lengths of articles, but keep in mind it's

a magazine, not a novel. <Grin>

Fiction and poetry will be handled on a pure submission basis, except

in the case of any round-robin stories or continuing stories that might

develop.

Reviews will also be handled on a submission basis. If you're

interested in doing a particular review medium (ie: books) on a

full-time basis, let me know and we'll talk.

ANSI art should be under 10k and can be about any subject as long as

it's not pornographic. We'll feature ANSI art from time to time,

as well as featuring a different ANSI "cover" for our magazine each

month.

In terms of articles, we're looking for just about anything that's

of fairly general interest to the BBSing world at large. An article

comparing several new high-speed modems would be appropriate, for

example, whereas an article describing in detail how to build your

own such modem really wouldn't be.

Articles needn't be contained to the world of computing, either.

Movies, politics, ecology, literature, entertainment, fiction,

non-fiction, reviews - it's all fair game for STTS.

Articles, again, will be handled on a submission basis. If anyone has

an idea or two for a regular column, let me know. If it works, we'll

incorporate it into STTS.

Writers interested in contributing to Sunlight Through The Shadows can

reach me through any of the following methods:

Contact Points

--------------

The Internet - My E_Mail address is: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org

RIME - My NODE ID is SUNLIGHT or 5320. Send all files to

this address. (you'll have to ask your SysOp who's

carrying RIME to send it for you) Alternately, you

can simply post it in either the Common, Writers,

or Poetry Corner conference to: Joe Derouen. If you

put a ->5320 or ->SUNLIGHT in the top-most upper

left-hand corner, it'll be routed directly to my

BBS.

Pen & Brush Net - Leave me a note or submission in either the Poetry

Corner conference, or the Writers Conference. If

your P&BNet contact is using PostLink, you can route

the message to me automatically via the same way as

described above for RIME. In either case, address

all correspondence to: Joe derouen.

WME Net - Leave me a note or submission in the Net Chat

conference. Address all correspondence to:

Joe Derouen.

My BBS - Sunlight Through The Shadows. 12/24/96/14.4k baud.

(214) 620-8793. You can upload submissions to the

STTS Magazine file area, comment to the SysOp, or

just about any other method you choose. Address all

correspondence to: Joe Derouen.

US Mail - Send disks (any size, IBM format ONLY) containing

submissions to:

Joe DeRouen

14232 Marsh Ln. # 51

Dallas, Tx. 75234

U.S.A.

Advertising

-----------

Currently, STTS Mag is being "officially" carried by over 35 BBS's

across the nation. It's also available via Internet, FIDO, RIME, and

Pen & Brush Networks.

If you or your company want to expose your product to a variety of

people all across the world, this is your opportunity!

Advertising in Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available

in three different formats:

1) Regular Advertisement

---------------------

We're accepting business advertisements in STTS. If you're interested

in advertising in STTS, a full-page (ASCII or ASCII and ANSI) is

$20.00/issue. Those interested can contact me by any of the means

listed under Contact Points, elsewhere in this issue.

If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($ 100.00) the sixth month is

free.

2) Feature Advertisement

---------------------

We'll include one feature ad per issue. The feature ad will pop up

right after the magazine's ANSI cover, when the user first begins to

read the magazine. This ad will also appear within the body of the

magazine, for further perusement by the reader.

A feature ad will run $ 50.00 per issue, and should be created in

both ANSI and ASCII formats.

3) BBS Advertisement

-----------------

Many BBS SysOps and users call STTS BBS each month to get the current

issue of STTS Magazine. These callers are from all over the USA as well

as Canada and various other countries.

Advertising is now available for the logoff screen of the BBS. The

rates are $ 100.00 per month. Ads should be in both ASCII and ANSI

format. We're accepting RIP ads as well, but only for the this

advertising option.

Contact Points

--------------

You can contact me through any of the following addresses.

Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS

(214) 620-8793 12/24/96/14,400 Baud

InterNet: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org

Pen & Brush Net: ->SUNLIGHT

P&BNet Conferences: Any

WME Net: Net Chat conference

PcRelay/RIME: ->SUNLIGHT

RIME Conferences: Common, Writers, or Poetry Corner

US Mail: Joe DeRouen

14232 Marsh Ln. # 51

Dallas, Tx. 75234

U.S.A.

You can always find STTS Magazine on the following BBS's.

BBS's have STTS available for both on-line viewing and

downloading unless otherwise marked.

* = On-Line Only

# = Download Only

United States

-------------

BBS Name ........... Sunlight Through The Shadows

Location ........... Addison, Texas (in the Dallas area)

SysOp(s) ........... Joe and Heather DeRouen

Phone ........... (214) 620-8793 (14.4k baud)

(Sorted by area code, then alphabetically)

BBS Name ........... ModemNews

Location ........... Stamford, Connecticut

SysOp(s) ........... Jeff Green

Phone ........... (203) 359-2299 (14.4k baud)

# BBS Name ........... Lobster Buoy

Location ........... Bangor, Maine

SysOp(s) ........... Mark Goodwin

Phone ........... (207) 941-0805 (14.4k baud)

Phone ........... (207) 945-9346 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... File-Link BBS

Location ........... Manhattan, New York

SysOp(s) ........... Bill Marcy

Phone ........... (212) 777-8282 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Poetry In Motion

Location ........... New York, New York

SysOp(s) ........... Inez Harrison

Phone ........... (212) 666-6927 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Archives On-line

Location ........... Dallas, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... David Pellecchia

Phone ........... (214) 247-6512 (14.4k baud)

Phone ........... (214) 406-8394 (14.4k baud)

# BBS Name ........... BBS America

Location ........... Dallas, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Jay Gaines

Phone ........... (214) 680-3406 (9600 baud)

Phone ........... (214) 680-1451 (9600 baud)

BBS Name ........... Bucket Bored!

Location ........... Sachse, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Tim Bellomy

Phone ........... (214) 414-6913 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Chrysalis BBS

Location ........... Dallas, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Garry Grosse

Phone ........... (214) 690-9295 (2400 baud)

Phone ........... (214) 783-5477 (9600 baud)

# BBS Name ........... Collector's Edition

Location ........... Dallas, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Len Hult

Phone ........... (214) 351-9871 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... New Age Visions

Location ........... Grand Prairie, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Larry Joe Reynolds

Phone ........... (214) 264-8920

BBS Name ........... Old Poop's World

Location ........... Dallas, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Sonny Grissom

Phone ........... (214) 613-6900 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Opa's Mini-BBS (open 11pm-7am CST)

Location ........... Plano, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... David Marshall

Phone ........... (214) 424-0153 (2400 baud)

* BBS Name ........... Texas Talk

Location ........... Richardson, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Sunnie Blair

Phone ........... (214) 497-9100 (2400 baud)

# BBS Name ........... User-2-User

Location ........... Dallas, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... William Pendergast and Kevin Carr

Phone ........... (214) 393-4768 (14.4k baud)

Phone ........... (214) 393-4736 (2400 baud)

BBS Name ........... Right Angle BBS

Location ........... Aurora, Colorado

SysOp(s) ........... Bill Roark

Phone ........... (303) 337-0219

BBS Name ........... Ruby's Joint

Location ........... Miami, Florida

SysOp(s) ........... David and Del Freeman

Phone ........... (305) 856-4897 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Pegasus BBS

Location ........... Owensboro, Kentucky

SysOp(s) ........... Raymond Clements

Phone ........... (317) 651-0234 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Badger's "BYTE", The

Location ........... Valentine, Nebraska

SysOp(s) ........... Dick Roosa

Phone ........... (402) 376-3120 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Megabyte Mansion, The

Location ........... Omaha, Nebraska

SysOp(s) ........... Todd Robbins

Phone ........... (402) 551-8681 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Aries Knowledge Systems

Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland

SysOp(s) ........... Waddell Robey

Phone ........... (410) 625-0109 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Port EINSTEIN

Location ........... Catonsville, Maryland

SysOp(s) ........... John P. Lynch

Phone ........... (410) 744-4692 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Puffin's Nest, The

Location ........... Pasadena, Maryland

SysOp(s) ........... Dave Bealer

Phone ........... (410) 437-3463 (16.8k baud)

BBS Name ........... Robin's Nest BBS

Location ........... Glen Burnie, Maryland

SysOp(s) ........... Robin Kirkey

Phone ........... (410) 766-9756 (2400 baud)

BBS Name ........... Chatterbox Lounge and Hotel, The

Location ........... Penn Hills, Pennsylvania

SysOp(s) ........... James Robert Lunsford

Phone ........... (412) 795-4454 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Exec-PC

Location ........... Elm Grove, Wisconsin

SysOp(s) ........... Bob Mahoney

Phone ........... (414) 789-4210 (2400 baud)

Phone ........... (414) 789-4315 (9600 baud)

Phone ........... (414) 789-4360 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... First Step BBS, The

Location ........... Green Bay, Wisconsin

SysOp(s) ........... Mark Phillips

Phone ........... (414) 499-7471 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Lincoln's Cabin BBS

Location ........... San Francisco, California

SysOp(s) ........... Steve Pomerantz

Phone ........... (415) 752-4490 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... High Society BBS

Location ........... Beverly, Massachusettes

SysOp(s) ........... Chuck Frieser

Phone ........... (508) 927-3757 (14.4k baud)

# BBS Name ........... SoftWare Creations

Location ........... Clinton, Massachusettes

SysOp(s) ........... Dan Linton

Phone ........... (508) 368-7036 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Channel 1

Location ........... Cambridge, Massachusettes

SysOp(s) ........... Brian Miller

Phone ........... (617) 354-3230 (14.4k baud)

Phone ........... (617) 354-3137 (16.8k HST)

BBS Name ........... Bubba Systems One

Location ........... Manassas, Virginia

SysOp(s) ........... Mark Mosko

Phone ........... (703) 335-1253 (14.4k baud)

# BBS Name ........... Arts Place BBS, The

Location ........... Arlington, Virginia

SysOp(s) ........... Ron Fitzherbert

Phone ........... (703) 528-8467 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Pen and Brush BBS

Location ........... Burke, Virginia

SysOp(s) ........... Lucia and John Chambers

Phone ........... (703) 644-6730 (300-12.0k baud)

Phone ........... (703) 644-5196 (14.4k baud)

# BBS Name ........... Sidewayz BBS

Location ........... Fairfax, Virginia

SysOp(s) ........... Paul Cutrona

Phone ........... (703) 352-5412 (2400 baud)

BBS Name ........... Anathama Downs

Location ........... Sonoma County, California

SysOp(s) ........... Sadie Jane

Phone ........... (707) 792-1555 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... InfoMat BBS

Location ........... San Clemente, California

SysOp(s) ........... Michael Gibbs

Phone ........... (714) 492-8727 (14.4k baud)

# BBS Name ........... Renaissance BBS

Location ........... Arlington, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... David Pollard

Phone ........... (817) 467-7322 (9600 baud)

# BBS Name ........... Second Sanctum

Location ........... Arlington, Texas

SysOp(s) ........... Mark Robbins

Phone ........... (817) 784-1178 (2400 baud)

Phone ........... (817) 784-1179 (14.4k baud)

United Kingdom

--------------

BBS Name ........... Hangar BBS, The

Location ........... Avon, United Kingdom

SysOp(s) ........... Jason Hyland

Phone ........... +44-934-511751 (14.4k baud)

Portugal

--------

BBS Name .......... B-Link BBS

Location .......... Lisbon, Portugal

SysOp(s) .......... Antonio Jorge

Phone .......... +351-1-4919755 (14.4k baud)

BBS Name ........... Mailhouse

Location ........... Loures, Portugal

SysOp(s) ........... Carlos Santos

Phone ........... +351-1-9890140 (14.4k baud)

STTS Net Report

Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available through FIDO,

INTERNET, RIME, and PEN & BRUSH NET. Check below for information on how

to request the current issue of the magazine or be put on the monthly

mailing list.

FIDO

To get the newest issue of the magazine via FIDO, you'll need to

do a file request from Fido Node 1:124/8010 using the "magic" name

of SUNLIGHT.

INTERNET

To get the newest issue via the internet, send a message to

FTPMAIL@CHRYSALIS.ORG and include as the first line in your message (or

second, if the system you're using forces you to use the first for the

address like) GET SUNyymm.ZIP where yymm is the current year and month.

Example: This issue is SUN9311.ZIP. After Nov. 1st, the current issue

will be SUN9312.ZIP, and so on. Easier than that would be to request

being put on the monthly mailing list. To do so, simply send a note to

Joe.Derouen@Chrysalis.org asking to be put on the STTS mailing list. If

you're a SysOp be sure to tell me your BBS's name, your name, your state

and city, the BBS's phone number(s) and it's baud rate(s) so I can

include you in the list issue's distribution list.

RIME

To request the magazine via RIME, ask your RIME SysOp to do a file

request from node # 5320 for the current issue (eg: SUN9311.ZIP, or

whatever month you happen to be in) Better yet, ask your SysOp to

request to be put on the monthly mailing list and receive STTS

automatically.

PEN & BRUSH NET

To request via P&BNet, follow the instructions for RIME above. They're

both ran on Postlink and operate exactly the same way in terms of file

requests and transfers.

I'd like to thank Garry Gross of Chrysalis BBS and David Pellecchia of

Archives On-line for allowing me to access the Internet and Fido

(respectively) from their systems.

End Notes

STTS Magazine seems to be constantly changing and evolving. This issue,

we decided to shelve the monthly contest and in it's place add a humour

section. (arguably, the monthly contest was humour at it's finest, so

perhaps nothings really changed after all)

The magazine seems to be getting more and more exposure, having recently

been picked up by a BBS in the United Kingdom and two in Portugal. We've

become international! Hopefully as it becomes more and more available to

the public at large, we'll get more and more responses to things like

surveys, submission requests, and monthly contests.

Feedback is important, and, well, vital to any creative process. If you

have any comments at all, please direct them to me via any of the

pathways described in CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this issue. Your notes

will be answered, guaranteed.

Cheers!

Joe DeRouen, Halloween 1993

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Sunlight Through The Shadows 1993

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