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  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
                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
                  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
                    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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved


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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved


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 Chilé, 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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved

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
   [e-mail]

E) My BBS - [phone] 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






   ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
   │                                                 ├─┐
   │                 Monthly Columns                 │ │
   │                                                 │ │
   └─┬───────────────────────────────────────────────┘ │
     └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘




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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved


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.

========================================================================
<PUBLIC><HAS REPLIES>
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
========================================================================

========================================================================
<PUBLIC><RECEIVED>
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=-
========================================================================

========================================================================
<PUBLIC><RECEIVED>
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...
========================================================================

========================================================================
<PRIVATE><RECEIVED>
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
========================================================================

========================================================================
<PUBLIC><RECEIVED>
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.
---
 ■ QMPro 1.01 11-1111 ■ 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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved


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".





   ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
   │                                                 ├─┐
   │                 Feature Articles                │ │
   │                                                 │ │
   └─┬───────────────────────────────────────────────┘ │
     └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘




Michael Elansky: Anarchist?
Copyright (c) 1993, Gage Steele
All rights reserved





                   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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved


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
──────

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...
Copyright (c) 1993, Gage Steele
All rights reserved


 [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.


┌──────────────────────┐┌─────────────────────────────┐┌──────────────────────┐
│ Voice: 617 864-0100  ││                             ││   Channel 1          │
│ 14.4 v.32: 354-3230  ││ The Best BBS on the Planet  ││   PO Box 338         │
│  16.8 HST: 354-3137  ││                             ││   Cambridge, MA 02238│
└──────────────────────┘└─────────────────────────────┘└──────────────────────┘

     ▀▀▀▀▀█   █    █   █▀▀▀▀█   ▀▀▀█ █   ▀▀▀█ █   ▀▀▀▀▀   █         ▀█ (R)
     █        █▄▄▄▄█   █▄▄▄▄█   █  █ █   █  █ █   █▄▄▄▄   █          █
     █        █    █   █    █   █  █ █   █  █ █   █       █          █
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┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ ■      High-performance FAST system                                         │
│ ■      Reasonable membership fees, with optional Internet E-mail            │
│ ■      Humungous up-to-date library of Windows, Graphics, Music, Games,     │
│        Business & Finance, Adult, Education, Programmers and Tech files,    │
│        plus a special Free files area for first-time callers                │
│ ■      Closing stocks, funds and daily financial markets news               │
│ ■      Online Games Gallery, including chess tournaments                    │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ 85 lines     ■     100,000+ archives     ■     30 gigs    ■   3,500+ forums │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘




   ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
   │                                                 ├─┐
   │                      Reviews                    │ │
   │                                                 │ │
   └─┬───────────────────────────────────────────────┘ │
     └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘






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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved


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
Copyright (c) 1993, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved

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
Copyright (c) 1993, Jason Malandro
All rights reserved


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
Copyright (c) 1993, Wendy Bryson
All rights reserved



"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
Copyright (c) 1993, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved


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
Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay
All rights reserved


                    *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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   ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
   │                                                 ├─┐
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   │                                                 │ │
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     └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘




It's All Greek to Uncle Thaddeus
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved



     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.

DD
Get a Life
Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay
All rights reserved



                               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
Copyright (c) 1993, Franchot Lewis
All rights reserved




                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."






   ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
   │                                                 ├─┐
   │                       Poetry                    │ │
   │                                                 │ │
   └─┬───────────────────────────────────────────────┘ │
     └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘




Triad
Copyright (c) 1992, Tamara
All rights reserved



 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.


(written online now....by Tamara...(c) 1992)

Do-Wop
Copyright (c) 1993, Patricia Meeks
All rights reserved


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
Copyright (c) 1993, Kurt Becker
All rights reserved



"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
Copyright (c) 1993, Jim Reid
All rights reserved



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
Copyright (c) 1993, J. Guenther
All rights reserved


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.

  ████████                          ·                       ·
▄██████████▄                                   
████████████                                                              ·
▀██████████▀           .        S u n l i g h t  T h r o u g h
  ████████                           T h e  S h a d o w s (tm)       ·
  ▀ ▀▀▀▀        ·                        O n - L i n e
                           .      ·                                    ·
       .                      .     [phone] v32 v42bis
                         .            ·                           ∙
             ·            .    .               .         ·
                                                                          ∙
      .         .         .             .      .             .     .
                                   .           ║      ·
                  .                            ║
                                              ▒                       ·
                              │     .         ▒          ·
        .      ▒      .      ▒         .      ▒
     .         ▒    .        ▒       .        ▒                ▒
              ▒            ▒                 ▒                            ▒
     █        ▒        █   ▒            ▒   ▒

                                                                        JD'93







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   │                                                 ├─┐
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   │                                                 │ │
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     └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘




Freud on Seuss
Copyright (c) 1993, Josh LeBeau
All rights reserved





                        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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved




 Top Ten Ways To Tell You're Having a Really Rough Day In BBS Land
 ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────


 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.





   ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
   │                                                 ├─┐
   │                    Information                  │ │
   │                                                 │ │
   └─┬───────────────────────────────────────────────┘ │
     └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘





 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: [e-mail]

  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.
                    [phone]. 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
  [phone]  12/24/96/14,400 Baud

  InterNet: [e-mail]

  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    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    (Sorted by area code, then alphabetically)

    BBS Name ........... ModemNews
    Location ........... Stamford, Connecticut
    SysOp(s) ........... Jeff Green
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... Lobster Buoy
    Location ........... Bangor, Maine
    SysOp(s) ........... Mark Goodwin
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... File-Link BBS
    Location ........... Manhattan, New York
    SysOp(s) ........... Bill Marcy
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Poetry In Motion
    Location ........... New York, New York
    SysOp(s) ........... Inez Harrison
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Archives On-line
    Location ........... Dallas, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... David Pellecchia
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... BBS America
    Location ........... Dallas, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Jay Gaines
    Phone    ........... [phone] (9600 baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (9600 baud)

    BBS Name ........... Bucket Bored!
    Location ........... Sachse, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Tim Bellomy
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Chrysalis BBS
    Location ........... Dallas, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Garry Grosse
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (9600 baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... Collector's Edition
    Location ........... Dallas, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Len Hult
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... New Age Visions
    Location ........... Grand Prairie, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Larry Joe Reynolds
    Phone    ........... [phone]

    BBS Name ........... Old Poop's World
    Location ........... Dallas, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Sonny Grissom
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Opa's Mini-BBS (open 11pm-7am CST)
    Location ........... Plano, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... David Marshall
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)

 *  BBS Name ........... Texas Talk
    Location ........... Richardson, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Sunnie Blair
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... User-2-User
    Location ........... Dallas, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... William Pendergast and Kevin Carr
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)

    BBS Name ........... Right Angle BBS
    Location ........... Aurora, Colorado
    SysOp(s) ........... Bill Roark
    Phone    ........... [phone]

    BBS Name ........... Ruby's Joint
    Location ........... Miami, Florida
    SysOp(s) ........... David and Del Freeman
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Pegasus BBS
    Location ........... Owensboro, Kentucky
    SysOp(s) ........... Raymond Clements
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Badger's "BYTE", The
    Location ........... Valentine, Nebraska
    SysOp(s) ........... Dick Roosa
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Megabyte Mansion, The
    Location ........... Omaha, Nebraska
    SysOp(s) ........... Todd Robbins
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Aries Knowledge Systems
    Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland
    SysOp(s) ........... Waddell Robey
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Port EINSTEIN
    Location ........... Catonsville, Maryland
    SysOp(s) ........... John P. Lynch
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Puffin's Nest, The
    Location ........... Pasadena, Maryland
    SysOp(s) ........... Dave Bealer
    Phone    ........... [phone] (16.8k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Robin's Nest BBS
    Location ........... Glen Burnie, Maryland
    SysOp(s) ........... Robin Kirkey
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)

    BBS Name ........... Chatterbox Lounge and Hotel, The
    Location ........... Penn Hills, Pennsylvania
    SysOp(s) ........... James Robert Lunsford
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Exec-PC
    Location ........... Elm Grove, Wisconsin
    SysOp(s) ........... Bob Mahoney
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (9600 baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... First Step BBS, The
    Location ........... Green Bay, Wisconsin
    SysOp(s) ........... Mark Phillips
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Lincoln's Cabin BBS
    Location ........... San Francisco, California
    SysOp(s) ........... Steve Pomerantz
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... High Society BBS
    Location ........... Beverly, Massachusettes
    SysOp(s) ........... Chuck Frieser
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... SoftWare Creations
    Location ........... Clinton, Massachusettes
    SysOp(s) ........... Dan Linton
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Channel 1
    Location ........... Cambridge, Massachusettes
    SysOp(s) ........... Brian Miller
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (16.8k HST)

    BBS Name ........... Bubba Systems One
    Location ........... Manassas, Virginia
    SysOp(s) ........... Mark Mosko
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... Arts Place BBS, The
    Location ........... Arlington, Virginia
    SysOp(s) ........... Ron Fitzherbert
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Pen and Brush BBS
    Location ........... Burke, Virginia
    SysOp(s) ........... Lucia and John Chambers
    Phone    ........... [phone] (300-12.0k baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... Sidewayz BBS
    Location ........... Fairfax, Virginia
    SysOp(s) ........... Paul Cutrona
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)

    BBS Name ........... Anathama Downs
    Location ........... Sonoma County, California
    SysOp(s) ........... Sadie Jane
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... InfoMat BBS
    Location ........... San Clemente, California
    SysOp(s) ........... Michael Gibbs
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... Renaissance BBS
    Location ........... Arlington, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... David Pollard
    Phone    ........... [phone] (9600 baud)

 #  BBS Name ........... Second Sanctum
    Location ........... Arlington, Texas
    SysOp(s) ........... Mark Robbins
    Phone    ........... [phone] (2400 baud)
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)


    United Kingdom
    --------------

    BBS Name ........... Hangar BBS, The
    Location ........... Avon, United Kingdom
    SysOp(s) ........... Jason Hyland
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)


    Portugal
    --------

    BBS Name .......... B-Link BBS
    Location .......... Lisbon, Portugal
    SysOp(s) .......... Antonio Jorge
    Phone    .......... [phone] (14.4k baud)

    BBS Name ........... Mailhouse
    Location ........... Loures, Portugal
    SysOp(s) ........... Carlos Santos
    Phone    ........... [phone] (14.4k baud)

STTS Net Report
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved


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
[e-mail] 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
[e-mail] 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
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved

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