Las Vegas connotes radically different images to radically dif
ferent folks. The Rat Pack of Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy
Davis Jr. elicits up the glistening self-indulgent imagery of
Vegas' neon organized crime in the '50's (Ocean's Eleven
displayed only minor hacking skills.)
Then there's the daily bus loads of elderly nickel slot gam
blers from Los Angeles and Palm Springs who have nothing better
to do for twenty out of twenty four hours each day. (Their
dead husbands were golf hacks.) Midwesterners now throng to
the Mississippi River for cheap gambling.
Recreational vehicles of semi-trailor length from East Bullock,
Montana and Euclid, Oklahoma and Benign, Ohio clog routes 80
and 40 and 10 to descend with a vengeance upon an asphalt home
away from home in the parking lot of Circus Circus. By cul
tural demand, every Rv'er worth his salt must, at least once in
his life, indulge in the depravity of Glitter Gulch.
And so they come, compelled by the invisibly insidious derelict
attraction of a desert Mecca whose only purpose in life is to
suck the available cash from addicted visitor's electronic
purses of ATM and VISA cards. (Hacker? Nah . . .)
Vegas also has the distinction of being home to the largest of
the largest conventions and exhibitions in the world. Comdex
is the world's largest computer convention where 150,000 techno-
dweebs and silk suited glib techno-marketers display their
wares to a public who is still paying off the 20% per annum
debt on last year's greatest new electronic gismo which is
now rendered thoroughly obsolete. And the Vegas Consumer Elec
tronic Show does for consumer electronics what the First Amend
ment does for pornography. (Hackers, are we getting close?)
In between, hundreds upon hundreds of small conferences and
conventions and sales meetings and annual excuses for excess
all select Las Vegas as the ultimate host city. Whatever you
want, no matter how decadent, blasphemous, illegal or immoral, at
any hour, is yours for the asking, if you have cash or a clean
piece of plastic.
So, it comes as no surprise, that sooner or later, (and it turns
out to be sooner) that the hackers of the world, the computer
hackers, phone phreaks, cyber-spooks, Information Warriors, data
bankers, Cyber-punks, Cypher-punks, eavesdroppers, chippers,
virus writers and perhaps the occasional Cyber Christ again
picked Las Vegas as the 1994 site for DefCon II.
You see, hackers are like everyone else (sort of) and so they,
too, decided that their community was also entitled to hold
conferences and conventions.
DefCon (as opposed to Xmas's HoHoCon), is the premier mid-year
hacker extravaganza. Indulgence gone wild, Vegas notwithstanding
if previous Cons are any example; but now put a few hundred
techno-anarchists together in sin city USA, stir in liberal
doses of illicit controlled pharmaceutical substances, and we
have a party that Hunter Thompson would be proud to attend.
All the while, as this anarchistic renegade regiment marches to
the tune of a 24 hour city, they are under complete surveillance
of the authorities. Authorities like the FBI, the Secret Serv
ice, telephone security . . . maybe even Interpol. And how did
the "man" arrive in tow behind the techno-slovens that belong
behind bars?
They were invited.
And so was I. Invited to speak. (Loose translation for standing
up in front of hundreds of hackers and being verbally skewered
for having an opinion not in 100% accordance with their own.)
"C'mon, it'll be fun," I was assured by DefCon's organizer, the
Dark Tangent.
"Sure fired way to become mutilated monkey meat," I responded.
Some hackers just can't take a joke, especially after a prison
sentence and no opposite-sex sex.
"No really, they want to talk to you . . ."
"I bet."
It's not that I dislike hackers - on the contrary. I have even
let a few into my home to play with my kids. It's just that, so
many of the antics that hackers have precipitated at other Cons
have earned them a reputation of disdain by all, save those who
remember their own non-technical adolescent shenanigans. And I
guess I'm no different. I've heard the tales of depraved indif
ference, hotel hold-ups, government raids on folks with names
similar to those who are wanted for pushing the wrong key on the
keyboard and getting caught for it. I wanted to see teens and X-
generation types with their eyes so star sapphire glazed over that
I could trade them for chips at the craps table.
Does the truth live up to the fiction? God, I hope so. It'd be
downright awful and unAmerican if 500 crazed hackers didn't get
into at least some serious trouble.
So I go to Vegas because, because, well, it's gonna be fun. And,
if I'm lucky, I might even see an alien spaceship.
For you see, the party has already begun.
I go to about 30 conventions and conferences a year, but rarely
if ever am I so Tylonol and Aphrin dosed that I decide to go with
a severe head cold. Sympomatic relief notwithstanding I debated
and debated, and since my entire family was down with the same
ailment I figured Vegas was as good a place to be as at home in
bed. If I could survive the four and half hour plane flight
without my Eustahian tubes rocketing through my ear drums and
causing irreparable damage, I had it made.
The flight was made tolerable becuase I scuba dive. Every few
minutes I drowned out the drone of the engines by honking uncon
trollably like Felix Ungerto without his aspirator. To the
chagrin of my outspoken counter surveillance expert and traveling
mate, Mike Peros and the rest of the first class cabin, the
captain reluctantly allowed be to remain on the flight and not be
expelled sans parachute somewhere over Southfork, Texas. Snort,
snort. Due to extensive flirting with the two ladies across the
aisle, we made the two thousand mile trek in something less than
34 minutes . . . or so it seemed. Time flies took on new mean
ing.
For those who don't know, the Sahara Hotel is the dregs of the
Strip. We were not destined for Caesar's or the MGM or any of
the new multi-gazillion dollar hotel cum casinos which produce
pedestrian stopping extravaganzas as an inducement to suck in
little old ladies to pour endless rolls of Washington quarters in
mechanical bottomless pits. The Sahara was built some 200 years
ago by native slave labor whose idea of plumbing is clean sand
and decorators more concerned with a mention in Mud Hut Daily
than Architectural Digest. It was just as depressingly dingy and
solicitly low class as it was when I forced to spend eleven days
there (also with a killer case of the flu) for an extended Comdex
computer show. But, hey, for a hacker show, it was top flight.
"What hackers?" The desk clerk said when I asked about the show.
I explained. Computer hackers: the best from all over the coun
try. "I hear even Cyber Christ himself might appear."
Her quizzical look emphasized her pause. Better to ignore a
question not understood than to look stupid. "Oh, they'll be
fine, We have excellent security." The security people, I found
out shortly thereafter knew even less: "What's a hacker?" Too
much desert sun takes its toll. Proof positive photons are bad
for neurons.
Since it was still only 9PM Mike and I sucked down a couple of $1
Heinekens in the casino and fought it out with Lineman's Switch
ing Union representatives who were also having their convention
at the Sahara. Good taste in hotels goes a long way.
"$70,000 a year to turn a light from red to green?" we com
plained.
"It's a tension filled job . . .and the overtime is murder."
"Why a union?"
"To protect our rights."
"What rights?"
"To make sure we don't get replaced by a computer . . ."
"Yeah," I agreed. "That would be sad. No more Amtrak
disasters." The crowd got ugly so we made a hasty retreat under
the scrutiny of casino security to our rooms. Saved.
Perhaps if I noticed or had read the original propaganda on
DefCon, I might have known that nothing significant was going to
take place until the following (Friday) evening I might have
missed all the fun.
For at around 8AM, my congestion filled cavities and throbbing
head was awakened by the sound of an exploding toilet. It's kind
of hard to explain what this sounds like. Imagine a toilet
flushing through a three megawatt sound system at a Rolling
Stones concert. Add to that the sound of a hundred thousand flu
victims standing in an echo chamber cleansng their sinuses into a
mountain of Kleenex while three dozen football referees blow
their foul whistles in unison, and you still won't come close to
the sheer cacophonous volume that my Saharan toilet exuded from
within its bowels. And all for my benefit.
The hotel manager thought I was kidding. "What do you mean
exploded?"
"Which word do you not understand?" I growled in my early morning
sub-sonic voice. "If you don't care, I don't."
My bed was floating. Three or maybe 12 inches of water created
the damnedest little tidal wave I'd ever seen, and the sight and
sound of Lake Meade in room 1487 only exascerbatd the pressing
need to relieve myself. I dried my feet on the extra bed linens,
worried about electrocution and fell back asleep. It could have
been 3 minutes or three hours later - I have no way to know -
but my hypnogoic state was rudely interrupted by hotel mainte
nance pounding at the door with three fully operational muffler-
less jack hammers.
"I can't open it," I bellowed over the continual roar of my
personal Vesuvius Waterfall. "Just c'mon in." The fourteenth
floor hallway had to resemble an underwater coral display becuase
the door opened ever so slowly..
"Holy Christ!"
Choking back what would have been a painful laugh, I somehow
eeked out the words, with a smirk, "Now you know what an explo-
ding toilet is like."
For, I swear, the next two hours three men whose English was
worse than a dead Armadillo attempted to suck up the Nile River
from my room and the hallway. Until that very moment in time, I
didn't know that hotels were outfitted with vacuum cleaners
specifically designed to vacuum water. Perhaps this is a regular
event.
Everyone who has ever suffered through one bitches about Vegas
buffets, and even the hackers steered away from the Sahara's
$1.95 "all you can eat" room: "The Sahara's buffet is the worst
in town; worse than Circus Circus." But since I had left my
taste buds at 37,000 feet along with schrapneled pieces of my
inner ear, I sought out sustenance only to keep me alive another
24 hours.
By mid afternoon, I had convinced myself that outside was not the
place to be. After only eighteen minutes of 120 sidewalk egg-
cooking degrees, the hot desert winds took what was left of my
breath away and with no functioning airways as it was, I knew
this was a big mistake. So, hacker convention, ready or not,
here I come.
Now, you have to keep in mind that Las Vegas floor plans are
designed with a singular purpose in mind. No matter where you
need to go, from Point A to Point B or Point C or D or anywhere,
the traffic control regulations mandated by the local police and
banks require that you walk by a minimum of 4,350 slot machines,
187 gaming tables of various persuasions and no less than 17
bars. Have they no remorse? Madison Avenue ad execs take heed!
So, lest I spend the next 40 years of my life in circular pursuit
of a sign-less hacker convention losing every last farthing I
inherited from dead Englishmen, I asked for the well hidden loca-
tion at the hotel lobby.
"What hackers?" There goes that nasty photon triggered neuron
depletion again.
"The computer hackers."
"What computer hackers. We don't have no stinking hackers . . ."
Desk clerk humor, my oxymoron for the week.
I tried the name: DefCon II.
"Are we going to war?" one ex-military Uzi-wielding guard said
recognizing the etymology of the term.
"Yesh, it's true" I used my most convincing tone. "The Khasaks
tanis are coming with nuclear tipped lances riding hundred foot
tall horses. Paris has already fallen. Berlin is in ruins.
Aren't you on the list to defend this great land?"
"Sure as shit am!" He scampered off to the nearest phone in an
effort to be the first on the front lines. Neuron deficiency
beyong surgical repair..
I slithered down umpteen hallways and casino aisles lost in the
jungle of jingling change. Where the hell are the hackers?
"They must be there," another neuron-impoverished Saharan employ
ee said as he pointed towards a set of escalators at the very far
end of the casino.
All the way at the end of the almost 1/4 mile trek through Sodom
and Gonorrhea an 'up' escalator promised to take me to hackerdom.
Saved at last. Upstairs. A conference looking area. No signs
anywhere, save one of those little black Velcro-like stick-em
signs where you can press on white block letters.
No Mo Feds
I must be getting close. Aha, a maintenance person; I'll ask him.
"What hackers? What's DefCon."
Back downstairs, through the casino, to the front desk, back
through the casino, up the same escalator again. Room One I was
told. Room One was empty. Figures. But, at the end of a
hallway, past the men's room and the phones, and around behind
Room One I saw what I was looking for: a couple of dozen T-shirt
ed, Seattle grunged out kids (read: under 30) sitting at uncov
ered six foot folding tables hawking their DefCon II clothing,
sucking on Heinekens and amusing themselves with widely strewn
backpacks and computers and cell phones.
I had arrived!
* * * *
You know, regular old suit and tie conferences could learn a
thing or two from Jeff Moss, the man behind DefCon II. No fancy
badge making equipment; no $75 per hour union labor built regis
tration desks; no big signs proclaiming the wealth of knowledge
to be gained by signing up early. Just a couple of kids with a
sheet of paper and a laptop.
It turned out I was expected. They handed me my badge and what a
badge it was. I'm color blind, but this badge put any psychedel
ically induced spectral display to shame. In fact it was a close
match to the Sahara's mid 60's tasteless casino carpeting which
is so chosen as to hide the most disgusting regurgative blessing.
But better and classier.
The neat thing was, you could (in fact had to) fill out your own
badge once your name was crossed off the piece of paper that
represented the attendee list.
Name:
Subject of Interest:
E-Mail:
Fill it out any way you want. Real name, fake name, alias,
handle - it really doesn't matter cause the hacker underground
ethic encourages anonymity. "We'd rather not know who you are
anyway, unless you're a Fed. Are you a Fed?"
A couple of lucky hackers wore the ultimate badge of honor. An
"I Spotted A Fed" T-shirt. This elite group sat or lay on the
ground watching and scouring the registration area for signs that
someone, anyone, was a Fed. They really didn't care or not if
you were a Fed - they wanted the free T-shirt and the peer re
spect that it brought.
I'm over 30 (OK, over 35) and more than a few times (OK, a little
over 40) I had to vehemently deny being a Fed. Finally Jeff Moss
came to the rescue.
"He's not a Fed. He's a security guy and a writer."
"Ugh! That's worse. Can I get a T-shirt cause he's a writer?"
No way hacker-breath.
Jeff. Jeff Moss. Not what I expected. I went to school with a
thousand Jeff Mosses. While I had hair down to my waist, wearing
paisley leather fringe jackets and striped bell bottoms so wide I
appeared to be standing on two inverted ice cream cones, the Jeff
Mosses of the world kept their parents proud. Short, short
cropped hair, acceented by an ashen pall and clothes I stlll
wouldn't wear today. They could get away with anything cause
they didn't look the part of radical chic. Jeff, I really like
Jeff: he doesn't look like what he represents. Bruce Edelstein,
(now of HP fame) used to work for me. He was hipper than hip but
looked squarer than square. Now today that doesn't mean as much
as it used to, but we ex-30-somethings have a hard time forget
ting what rebellion was about. (I was suspended 17 times in the
first semester of 10th grade for wearing jeans.)
Jeff would fit into a Corporate Board Meeting if he wore the
right suit and uttered the right eloquencies: Yes, that's it: A
young Tom Hanks. Right. I used to hate Tom Hanks (Splash, how
fucking stupid except for the TV-picture tube splitting squeals)
but I've come to respect the hell out of him as an actor. Jeff
never had to pass through that first phase. I instantly liked
him and certainly respect his ability to pull off a full fledged
conference for only $5000.
You read right. Five grand and off to Vegas with 300 of your
closest personal friends, Feds in tow, for a weekend of electron
ic debauchery. "A few hundred for the brochure, a few hundred
hear, a ton in phone bills, yeah, about $5000 if no one does any
damage." Big time security shows cost $200,000 and up. I can
honestly say without meaning anything pejorative at any of my
friends and busienss acquaintances, that I do not learn 40 times
as much at the 'real' shows. Something is definitely out of
whack here. Suits want to see suits. Suits want to see fancy.
Suits want to see form, substance be damned. Suits should take a
lesson from my friend Jeff.
* * * * *
I again suffered through a tasteless Saharan buffer dinner which
cost me a whopping $7.95. I hate grits - buttered sand is what I
call them - but in this case might well have been preferable.
Somehow I coerced a few hackers to join me in the ritualistic
slaughter of our taste buds and torture of our intestines. They
were not pleased with my choice of dining, but then who gives a
shit? I couldn't taste anything anyway. Tough.
To keep our minds off of the food we talked about something much
more pleasant: the recent round of attacks on Pentagon computers
and networks. "Are the same people involved as in the sniffing
attacks earlier this year?" I asked my triad of dinner mates.
"Indubitably."
"And what's the reaction from the underground - other hackers?"
Coughs, sniffs. Derisive visual feedback. Sneers. The finger.
"We can't stand 'em. They're making it bad for everybody." Two
fingers.
By and large the DefCon II hackers are what I call 'good hackers'
who hack, and maybe crack some systems upon occasion, but aren't
what I refer to as Information Warriors in the bad sense of the
word. This group claimed to extol the same position as most of
the underground would: the Pentagon sniffing crackers - or
whoever who is assaulting thousands of computers on the net -
must be stopped.
"Scum bags, that what they are." I asked that they not sugarcoat
their feelings on my behalf. I can take it. "These fuckers are
beyond belief; they're mean and don't give a shit how much damage
they do." We played with our food only to indulge in the single
most palatable edible on display: ice cream with gobs of choco
late syrup with a side of coffee. .
The big question was, what to do? The authorities are certainly
looking for a legal response; perhaps another Mitnick or Phiber
Optik. Much of the underground cheered when Mark Abene and
others from the reknowned Masters of Destruction went to spend a
vacation at the expense of the Feds. The MoD was up to no good
and despite Abene's cries that there was no such thing as the
MoD, he lost and was put away. However many hackers believe as I
do, that sending Phiber to jail for hacking was the wrong punish
ment. Jail time won't solve anything nor cure a hacker from his
first love. One might as well try to cure a hungry man from
eating: No, Mark did wrong, but sending him to jail was wrong,
too. The Feds and local computer cops and the courts have to
come up with punishments appropriate to the crime. Cyber-crimes
(or cyber-errors) should not be rewarded by a trip to an all male
hotel where the favorite toy is a phallically carved bar of soap.
On the other hand, hackers in general are so incensed over the
recent swell of headline grabbing break-ins, and law enforcement
has thus far appeared to be impotent, ("These guys are good.")
that many are searching for alternative means of retribution.
"An IRA style knee capping is in order," said one.
"That's not good enough, not enough pain," chimed in another.
(Sip, sip. I can almost taste the coffee.)
"Are you guys serious?" I asked. Violence? You? I thought I
knew them better than that. I know a lot of hackers, none that I
know of is violent, and this extreme Pensacola retribution
attitude seemed tottally out of character. "You really wouldn't
do that, would you?" My dinner companions were so upset and they
claimed to echo the sentiment of all good-hackers in good stand
ing, that yes, this was a viable consideration.
"The Feds aren't doing it, so what choice do we have? I've heard
talk about taking up a collection to pay for a hit man . . ."
Laughter around, but nervous laughter.
"You wouldn't. . ." I insisted.
"Well, probably not us, but that doesn't mean someone else
doesn't won't do it."
"So you know who's behind this whole thing."
"Fucking-A we do," said yet another hacker chomping at the bit.
He was obviously envisioning himself with a baseball bat in his
hand.
"So do the Feds."
So now I find myself in the dilemma of publishing the open secret
of who's behind the Internet sniffing and Pentagon break ins, but
after talking to people from both the underground and law en
forcement, I think I'll hold off awhile It serves no immediate
purpose other than to warn off the offenders, and none of us want
that.
Obviously all is not well in hacker-dom.
* * * * *
The registration area was beyond full; computers, backpacks
everywhere, hundreds of what I have to refer to as kids and a
fair number of above ground security people. Padgett Peterson of
Martin Marietta was going to talk about viruses, Sara Gordon on
privacy, Mark Aldrich is a security guy from DC., and a bunch of
other folks I see on the seemingly endless security trade show
circuit. Jeff Moss had marketed himself and the show excellently.
Los Angeles sent a TV crew, John Markoff from the New York Times
popped in as did a writer from Business Week. (And of course,
yours truly.)
Of the 360 registrees ("Plus whoever snuck in," added Jeff) I
guess about 20% were so-called legitimate security people. That's
not to belittle the mid-20's folks who came not because they were
hackers, but because they like computers. Period. They hack for
themselves and not on other systems, but DefCon II offered some
thing for everyone.
I remember 25 years ago how my parents hated the way I dressed
for school or concerts or just to hang out: God forbid! We wore
those damned jeans and T-shirts and sneakers or boots! "Why can't
you dress like a human being," my mother admonished me day after
day, year after year. So I had to check myself because I can't
relate to Seattle grunge-ware. I'm just too damned old to wear
shirts that fit like kilts or sequin crusted S&M leather straps.
Other than the visual cacophony of dress, every single
hacker/phreak that I met exceeded my expectations in the area of
deportment.
These are not wild kids on a rampage. The stories of drug-in
duced frenzies and peeing in the hallways and tossing entire
rooms of furniture out of the window that emanated from the
HoHoCons seemed a million miles away. This was admittedly an
opportunity to party, but not to excess. There was work to be
done, lessons to be learned and new friends to make. So getting
snot nosed drunk or ripped to the tits or Ecstatically high was
just not part of the equation. Not here.
Now Vegas offers something quite distinct from other cities
which host security or other conventions. At a Hyatt or a Hilton
or any other fancy-ass over priced hotel, beers run $4 or $5 a
crack plus you're expected to tip the black tied minimum wage
worker for popping the top. The Sahara (for all of the other
indignities we had to suffer) somewhat redeemed itself by offer
ing an infinite supply of $1 Heinekens. Despite hundreds of beer
bottle spread around the huge conference area (the hotel was
definitely stingy in the garbage pail business) public drunken
ness was totally absent. Party yes. Out of control? No way.
Kudos!
Surprisingly, a fair number of women (girls) attended. A handful
were there 'for the ride' but others . . . whoa! they know their
shit.
I hope that's not sexist; merely an observation. I run across so
few technically fluent ladies it's just a gut reaction. I wish
there were more. In a former life, I owned a TV/Record produc
tion company called Nashville North. We specialized in country
rock taking advantage of the Urban Cowboy fad in the late 1970's.
Our crew of producers and engineers consisted of the "Nashville
Angels." And boy what a ruckus they would cause when we recorded
Charlie Daniels or Hank Williams: they were stunning. Susan
produced and was a double for Jacqueline Smith; we called Sally
"Sabrina" because of her boyish appearance and resemblance to
Kate Jackson. A super engineer. And there was Rubia Bomba, the
Blond Bombshell, Sherra, who I eventually married: she knew
country music inside and out - after all she came from Nashville
in the first place.
When we would be scheduled to record an act for live radio, some
huge famous country act like Asleep at The Wheel of Merle Haggard
or Johnny Paycheck or Vassar Clements, she would wince in disbe
lief when we cried, "who's that?" Needless to say, she knew the
songs, the cues and the words. They all sounded alike. Country
Music? Ecch. (So I learned.)
At any rate, ladies, we're equal opportunity offenders. C'mon
down and let's get technical.
As the throngs pressed to register, I saw an old friend, Erik
Bloodaxe. I've known him for several years now and he's even
come over to baby sit the kids when he's in town. (Good prac
tice.) Erik is about as famous as they come in the world of
hackers. Above ground the authorities investigated him for his
alleged participation in cyber crimes: after all, he was one of
the founders of the Legion of Doom, and so, by default, he must
have done something wrong. Never prosecuted, Erik Bloodaxe lives
in infamy amongst his peers. To belay any naysayers, Erik ap
peared on every single T-shirt there.
"I Only Hack For Money,"
Erik Bloodaxe
proclaimed dozens of shirts wandering through the surveillance
laden casinos. His is a name that will live in infamy.
So I yelled out, "Hey Chris!" He gave his net-name to the
desk/table registrar. "Erik Bloodaxe."
"Erik Bloodaxe?" piped up an excited high pitched male voice.
"Where?" People pointed at Chris who was about to be embarrass
ingly amused by sweet little tubby Novocain who practically bowed
at Chris's feet in reverence. "You're Erik Bloodaxe?" Novocain
said with nervous awe - eyes gleaming up at Chris's ruddy skin
and blond pony-tail.
"Yeah," Chris said in the most off handed way possible. For
people who don't know him this might be interpreted as arrogance
(and yes there is that) but he also has trouble publicly accept
ing the fame and respect that his endearing next-generation
teenage fans pour on him.
"Wow!" Novocain said with elegance and panache. "You're Erik
Bloodaxe." We'd just been through that said Chris's eyes.
"Yeah."
"Wow, well, um, I . . . ah . . . you're . . . I mean, wow,
you're the best." What does Sylvia Jane Miller from Rumpsteer,
Iowa say to a movie star? This about covered it. The Midwest
meets Madonna. "Wow!" Only here it's Novocain meets Cyber
Christ himself.
Like any other security show or conference or convention there is
a kickoff, generally with a speech. And DefCon II was no excep
tion. Except.
Most conventional conventions (ConCons) start at 7:30 or 8:00 AM
because, well, I don't know exactly why, except that's when so-
called suits are expected to show up in their cubicles. Def
Con, on the other hand, was scheduled to start at 10PM on Friday
night when most hakcers show up for work. Most everyone had
arrived and we were anxiously awaiting the opening ceremonies.
But, here is where Jeff's lack of experience came in. The kick-
off speaker was supposed to be Mark Ludwig of virus writing fame
and controversy. But, he wasn't there!
He had jet lag.
"From Phoenix?" I exclaimed in mock horror to which nearby hack
ers saw the absurdity of a 45 minute flight jet lag. Mark has a
small frame and looks, well, downright weak, so I figured maybe
flying and his constitution just didn't get along and he was
massaging his swollen adenoids in his room.
"Oh, no! He's just come in from Australia . . ." Well that
explains it, alright! Sorry for the aspersions, Mark.
But Jeff didn't have a back up plan. He was screwed. Almost four
hundred people in the audience and nothing to tell them. So, and
I can't quite believe it, one human being who had obviously never
stood in front of a live audience before got up in an impromptu
attempt at stand up comedy. The audience was ready for almost
anything entertaining but this guy wasn't. Admittedly it was a
tough spot, but . . .
"How do you turn a 486 into an 8088?"
"Add Windows." Groan. Groan.
"What's this?" Picture the middle three fingers of your right
hand wiggling madly.
"An encrypted this!" Now hold out just the middle finger.
Groan. Groan.
"What's this?" Spread your legs slightly apart, extend both
hands to the front and move them around quickly in small circles.
"Group Air Mouse." Groan.
The evening groaned on with no Mark nor any able sharp witted
comedian in sight.
Phil Zimmerman wrote PGP and is a God, if not Cyber-Christ him
self to much of the global electronic world. Preferring to call
himself a folk hero (even the Wall Street Journal used that term)
Phil's diminutive height combined with a few too many pounds and
a sweet as sweet can be smile earn him the title of Pillsbury
Dough Boy look alike. Phil is simply too nice a guy to be em
broiled in a Federal investigation to determine if he broke the
law by having PGP put on a net site. You see, the Feds still
think they can control Cyberspace, and thereby maintain antique
export laws: "Thou shalt not export crypto without our approval"
sayeth the NSA using the Department of Commerce as a whipping boy
mouth piece. So now Phil faces 41-51 months of mandatory jail
time if prosecuted and convicted of these absurd laws.
Flying in from Colorado, his appearance was anxiously awaited.
"He's really coming?" " I wonder what he's like?" (Like every
one else, fool, just different.) When he did arrive, his shit-
eating grin which really isn't a shit-eating grin, it's just
Phil's own patented grin, preceeded him down the hallway.
"Here he is!" "It's Phil Zimmerman." Get down and bow. "Hey,
Phil the PGP dude is here."
He was instantly surrounded by those who recognize him and by
those who don't but want to feel like part of the in-crowd.
Chat chat, shit-eating grin, good war stories and G-rated pleas
antries. Phil was doing what he does best: building up the folk
hero image of himself. His engaging personality (even though he
can't snorkel to save his ass) mesmerized the young-uns of the
group. "You're Phil?"
"Yeah." No arrogance, just a warm country shit-eating grin
that's not really shit-eating. Just Phil being Phil. He plays
the part perfectly.
Despite the attention, the fame, the glory (money? nah . . .) the
notoriety and the displeased eyes of onlooking Computer Cops who
really do believe he belongs in jail for 4 years, Phil had a
problem tonight. A real problem.
"I don't have a room!" he quietly told Jeff at the desk. "They
say I'm not registered." No panic. Just a shit-eating grin
that's not a shit-eating grin and hand the problem over to the
experts: in this case Jeff Moss. Back to his endearing fans.
Phil is so damned kind I actually saw him giving Cryptography 101
lessons on the corner of a T-shirt encrusted table. "This is
plaintext and this is crypto. A key is like a key to your hotel
room . . . " If only Phil had a hotel room.
Someone had screwed up. Damn computers. So the search was on.
What had happened to Phil's room? Jeff is scrambling and trying
to get the hotel to rectify the situation. Everyone was abuzz.
Phil, the crypto-God himself was left out in the cold. What
would he do?
When suddenly, out of the din in the halls, we heard one voice
above all the rest:
"Phil can sleep with me!"
Silence. Dead stone cold silence. Haunting silence like right
after an earthquake and even the grubs and millipedes are so
shaken they have nothing to say. Silence.
The poor kid who had somehow instructed his brain to utter the
words and permitted them to rise through his esophagus and out
over his lips stood the object of awe, incredulity and mental
question marks. He must have thought to himself, "what's every
one staring at? What's going on? Let me in on it." For the
longest 10 seconds in the history of civilization he had abso
lutely no clue that he was the target of attention. A handful of
people even took two or three steps back, just in case. Just in
case of what was never openly discussed, but nonetheless, just in
case.
And then the brain kicked in and a weak sheepish smile of guilt
overcame this cute acne-free baby-butt smooth-faced hacker who
had certainly never had a shave, and was barely old enough to
steer his own pram.
"Ohhhhhh . . . . noooooo," he said barely louder than a whisper.
"That' not what I mean!"
I nearly peed laughing so hard in unison with a score of hackers
who agreed that these misspoken words put this guy in the unenvi
able position of being the recipient of a weekend of eternal
politically incorrect ridicule.
"Yeah, right. We know what you mean . . "
"No really . . ." he pleaded as the verbal assaults on his al
leged sexual preferences were slung one after the other.
This poor kid never read Shakespeare: "He who doth protest too
much . . ."
If we couldn't have a great kickoff speech, or comedian, this
would have to do.
The majority of the evening was spent making acquaintances:
"Hi, I'm Jim. Oops, I mean 'Septic Tank," was greeted with "Oh,
you're Septic. I'm Sour Milk." (Vive la difference!) People who
know each other electronically are as surprised to meet their
counterparts as are first daters who are in love with the voice
at the other end of the phone. "Giving good phone" implies one
thing while "Having a great keystroke" just might mean another.
The din of the crowd was generally penetrated by the sounds of a
quasi-pornographic Japanese high tech toon of questionable so
cially redeeming value which a majority of the crowd appeared to
both enjoy and understand. I am guilty of neither by reason of
antiquity.
And so it goes.
* * * * *
Phil Zimmerman must have gotten a room and some sleep because at
10AM (or closely thereafter) he gave a rousing (some might say
incendiary) speech strongly attacking the government's nearly
indefensible position on export control
I was really impressed. Knowing Phil for some time, this was the
first time I ever heard him speak and he did quite an admirable
job. He ad libs, talks about what he want to talk about and does
so in a compelling and emotional way. His ass is on the line and
he should be emotional about it. The audience, indeed much of
counter culture Cyberspace loves Phil and just about anything he
has to say. His affable 40-something attorney from Colorado,
Phil DuBois was there to both enjoy the festivities and, I'm
sure, to keep tabs on Phil's vocalizations. Phil is almost too
honest and open for his own good. Rounds and rounds of sincere
appreciation.
Hey kids, now it's time for another round of Spot The Fed.
Here's your chance to win one of these wonderful "I Spotted A
Fed" T-shirts. And all you have to do is ID a fed and it's yours.
Look around you? Is he a Fed? Is she under cover or under the
covers? Heh, heh. Spot the Fed and win a prize. This one-size-
fits-all XXX Large T-shirt is yours if you Spot the Fed. I had
to keep silent. That would have been cheating. I hang out on
both sides and have a reputation to maintain.
"Hey, I see one" screeched a female voice (or parhaps it was
Phil's young admirer) from the left side of the 400+ seat ball
room. Chaos! Where? Where? Where's the fed? Like when Jose
Consenko hits one towards the center field fence and 70,000
screaming fans stand on their seats to get a better view of a
three inch ball 1/4 mile away flying at 150 miles per hour, this
crowd stood like Lemmings in view of Valhalla the Cliff to espy
the Fed. Where's the Fed?
Jeff jumped off the stage in anxious anticipation that yet anoth
er anti-freedom-repressive law enforcement person had blown his
cover. Where's the Fed? Jeff is searching for the accuser and
the accused. Where's the Fed? Craned necks as far as the eye
can see; no better than rubber neckers on Highway 95 looking for
steams of blood and misplaced body parts they half expected a Fed
to be as distinctly obvious as Quasimoto skulking under the
Gorgoyled parapits of Notre Dame. No such luck. They look like
you and me. (Not me.) Where's the Fed?
He's getting closer, closer to the Fed. Is it a Fed? Are you a
Fed? C'mon, fess up. You're a a fed. Nailed. Busted. Psyche!
Here's your T-shirt. More fun than Monty Hall bringing out
aliens from behind Door #3 on the X-Files. Good clean fun. But
they didn't get 'em all. A couple of them were real good. Must
have been dressed like an Hawaiian surf bum or banshee from
Hellfire, Oregon. Kudos to those Feds I know never got spotted.
Next year, guys. There's always next year.
Phil's notoriety and the presence of the Phoenix, Arizona prosecu
tor who was largely responsible for the dubiously effective or
righteous Operation Sun Devil, Gail Thackeray ("I change job
every 4 years or so - right after an election") brought out the
media. The LA TV station thought they might have the makings of
a story and sent a film crew for the event.
"They're Feds. The ones with the cameras are Feds. I know it. Go
ask 'em." No need. Not.
"Put away that camera." At hacking events it's proper etiquette
to ask if people are camera shy before shooting. The guy that I
was sitting next to buried his face in his hands to avoid being
captured on video tape.
"What are you; a Fed or a felon?" I had to ask.
"What's the difference," his said. "They're the same thing." So
which was it, I wondered. For the truly paranoid by the truly
paranoid.
"Get that thing outta here," he motioned to the film crew who
willingly obliged by turning off the lights. "They're really
Feds," he whispered to me loud enough for the row in front and
behind us to hear.
I moved on. Can't take chances with personal safety when I have
kids to feed. Fed or felon, he scared me.
Gail Thackeray was the next act on stage. She was less in agree
ment about Phil Zimmerman than probably anyone (except the unde
tected Feds) in the audience. She, as expected, endorsed much of
the law enforcement programs that revolve around various key
management (escrow) schemes. Phil recalls a letter from Burma
that describe how the freedom fighters use PGP to defend them
selves against repression. He cites the letter from Latvia that
says electronic freedom as offered by PGP is one of the only
hopes for the future of a free Russia. Gail empathizes but sees
trouble closer to home. Terrorism a la World Trade Center, or
rocket launchers at O'Hare Airport, or little girl snuff films in
Richmond, Virginia, or the attempt to poison the water supply
outside of Boston. These are the real threats to America in the
post Cold War era.
"What about our personal privacy!" cries a voice. "We don't want
the government listening in. It's Big Brother 10 years behind
schedule."
Gail is amused. She knew it would be a tough audience and has
been through it before. She is not shaken in the least.
"I've read your mail," she responds. "Its not all that interest
ing." The audience appreciates a good repartee. "You gotta pay
me to do this, and frankly most of it is pretty boring." She
successful made her point and kept the audience laughing all the
way.
She then proceeded to tell that as she sees it, "The expectation
of privacy isn't real." I really don't like hearing this for I
believe in the need for an Electronic Bill of Rights. I simply
think she's wrong. "History is clear," she said "the ability to
listen in used to be limited to the very few. The telegraph was
essentially a party line and still today in some rural areas
communications aren't private. Why should we change it now?"
"Gail, you're so full of shit!" A loud voice bellowed from next
to me again. Boy can I pick seats. "You know perfectly well that
cops abuse the laws and this will just make their jobs easier.
Once people find a way to escape tyranny you all want to bring it
right back again. This is revolution and you're scared of los
ing. This kind of puke scum you're vomiting disgusts me. I just
can't take it any more. " Yeah, right on. Scattered applause.
While this 'gent' may have stated what was on many minds, his
manner was most unbefitting a conference and indeed, even DefCon
II. This was too rude even for a hacker get-together. The man
with the overbearing comments sat down apologizing. "She just
gets me going, she really does. Really pisses me off when she
goes on like about how clean the Feds are. She knows better than
to run diarrhea of the mouth like that."
"You know," she continued. "Right across the street is a Spy
Shop. One of those retail stores where you can buy bugs and taps
and eavesdropping equipment?" The audience silently nodded. "We
as law enforcement are prohibited by law from shopping there and
buying those same things anyone else can. We're losing on that
front." Cheers. Screw the Feds.
