The Hacker's Encyclopedia 1998

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==Phrack Magazine== Volume Five, Issue Forty-Six, File 19 of 28 **************************************************************************** DefCon II: Las Vegas Cyber-Christ meets Lady Luck July 22-24, 1994 by Winn Schwartau (C) 1994 Las Vegas connotes radically different images to radically dif ferent folks. The Rat Pack of Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. elicits up the glistening self-indulgent imagery of Vegas' neon organized crime in the '50's (Ocean's Eleven displayed only minor hacking skills.) Then there's the daily bus loads of elderly nickel slot gam blers from Los Angeles and Palm Springs who have nothing better to do for twenty out of twenty four hours each day. (Their dead husbands were golf hacks.) Midwesterners now throng to the Mississippi River for cheap gambling. Recreational vehicles of semi-trailor length from East Bullock, Montana and Euclid, Oklahoma and Benign, Ohio clog routes 80 and 40 and 10 to descend with a vengeance upon an asphalt home away from home in the parking lot of Circus Circus. By cul tural demand, every Rv'er worth his salt must, at least once in his life, indulge in the depravity of Glitter Gulch. And so they come, compelled by the invisibly insidious derelict attraction of a desert Mecca whose only purpose in life is to suck the available cash from addicted visitor's electronic purses of ATM and VISA cards. (Hacker? Nah . . .) Vegas also has the distinction of being home to the largest of the largest conventions and exhibitions in the world. Comdex is the world's largest computer convention where 150,000 techno- dweebs and silk suited glib techno-marketers display their wares to a public who is still paying off the 20% per annum debt on last year's greatest new electronic gismo which is now rendered thoroughly obsolete. And the Vegas Consumer Elec tronic Show does for consumer electronics what the First Amend ment does for pornography. (Hackers, are we getting close?) In between, hundreds upon hundreds of small conferences and conventions and sales meetings and annual excuses for excess all select Las Vegas as the ultimate host city. Whatever you want, no matter how decadent, blasphemous, illegal or immoral, at any hour, is yours for the asking, if you have cash or a clean piece of plastic. So, it comes as no surprise, that sooner or later, (and it turns out to be sooner) that the hackers of the world, the computer hackers, phone phreaks, cyber-spooks, Information Warriors, data bankers, Cyber-punks, Cypher-punks, eavesdroppers, chippers, virus writers and perhaps the occasional Cyber Christ again picked Las Vegas as the 1994 site for DefCon II. You see, hackers are like everyone else (sort of) and so they, too, decided that their community was also entitled to hold conferences and conventions. DefCon (as opposed to Xmas's HoHoCon), is the premier mid-year hacker extravaganza. Indulgence gone wild, Vegas notwithstanding if previous Cons are any example; but now put a few hundred techno-anarchists together in sin city USA, stir in liberal doses of illicit controlled pharmaceutical substances, and we have a party that Hunter Thompson would be proud to attend. All the while, as this anarchistic renegade regiment marches to the tune of a 24 hour city, they are under complete surveillance of the authorities. Authorities like the FBI, the Secret Serv ice, telephone security . . . maybe even Interpol. And how did the "man" arrive in tow behind the techno-slovens that belong behind bars? They were invited. And so was I. Invited to speak. (Loose translation for standing up in front of hundreds of hackers and being verbally skewered for having an opinion not in 100% accordance with their own.) "C'mon, it'll be fun," I was assured by DefCon's organizer, the Dark Tangent. "Sure fired way to become mutilated monkey meat," I responded. Some hackers just can't take a joke, especially after a prison sentence and no opposite-sex sex. "No really, they want to talk to you . . ." "I bet." It's not that I dislike hackers - on the contrary. I have even let a few into my home to play with my kids. It's just that, so many of the antics that hackers have precipitated at other Cons have earned them a reputation of disdain by all, save those who remember their own non-technical adolescent shenanigans. And I guess I'm no different. I've heard the tales of depraved indif ference, hotel hold-ups, government raids on folks with names similar to those who are wanted for pushing the wrong key on the keyboard and getting caught for it. I wanted to see teens and X- generation types with their eyes so star sapphire glazed over that I could trade them for chips at the craps table. Does the truth live up to the fiction? God, I hope so. It'd be downright awful and unAmerican if 500 crazed hackers didn't get into at least some serious trouble. So I go to Vegas because, because, well, it's gonna be fun. And, if I'm lucky, I might even see an alien spaceship. For you see, the party has already begun. I go to about 30 conventions and conferences a year, but rarely if ever am I so Tylonol and Aphrin dosed that I decide to go with a severe head cold. Sympomatic relief notwithstanding I debated and debated, and since my entire family was down with the same ailment I figured Vegas was as good a place to be as at home in bed. If I could survive the four and half hour plane flight without my Eustahian tubes rocketing through my ear drums and causing irreparable damage, I had it made. The flight was made tolerable becuase I scuba dive. Every few minutes I drowned out the drone of the engines by honking uncon trollably like Felix Ungerto without his aspirator. To the chagrin of my outspoken counter surveillance expert and traveling mate, Mike Peros and the rest of the first class cabin, the captain reluctantly allowed be to remain on the flight and not be expelled sans parachute somewhere over Southfork, Texas. Snort, snort. Due to extensive flirting with the two ladies across the aisle, we made the two thousand mile trek in something less than 34 minutes . . . or so it seemed. Time flies took on new mean ing. For those who don't know, the Sahara Hotel is the dregs of the Strip. We were not destined for Caesar's or the MGM or any of the new multi-gazillion dollar hotel cum casinos which produce pedestrian stopping extravaganzas as an inducement to suck in little old ladies to pour endless rolls of Washington quarters in mechanical bottomless pits. The Sahara was built some 200 years ago by native slave labor whose idea of plumbing is clean sand and decorators more concerned with a mention in Mud Hut Daily than Architectural Digest. It was just as depressingly dingy and solicitly low class as it was when I forced to spend eleven days there (also with a killer case of the flu) for an extended Comdex computer show. But, hey, for a hacker show, it was top flight. "What hackers?" The desk clerk said when I asked about the show. I explained. Computer hackers: the best from all over the coun try. "I hear even Cyber Christ himself might appear." Her quizzical look emphasized her pause. Better to ignore a question not understood than to look stupid. "Oh, they'll be fine, We have excellent security." The security people, I found out shortly thereafter knew even less: "What's a hacker?" Too much desert sun takes its toll. Proof positive photons are bad for neurons. Since it was still only 9PM Mike and I sucked down a couple of $1 Heinekens in the casino and fought it out with Lineman's Switch ing Union representatives who were also having their convention at the Sahara. Good taste in hotels goes a long way. "$70,000 a year to turn a light from red to green?" we com plained. "It's a tension filled job . . .and the overtime is murder." "Why a union?" "To protect our rights." "What rights?" "To make sure we don't get replaced by a computer . . ." "Yeah," I agreed. "That would be sad. No more Amtrak disasters." The crowd got ugly so we made a hasty retreat under the scrutiny of casino security to our rooms. Saved. Perhaps if I noticed or had read the original propaganda on DefCon, I might have known that nothing significant was going to take place until the following (Friday) evening I might have missed all the fun. For at around 8AM, my congestion filled cavities and throbbing head was awakened by the sound of an exploding toilet. It's kind of hard to explain what this sounds like. Imagine a toilet flushing through a three megawatt sound system at a Rolling Stones concert. Add to that the sound of a hundred thousand flu victims standing in an echo chamber cleansng their sinuses into a mountain of Kleenex while three dozen football referees blow their foul whistles in unison, and you still won't come close to the sheer cacophonous volume that my Saharan toilet exuded from within its bowels. And all for my benefit. The hotel manager thought I was kidding. "What do you mean exploded?" "Which word do you not understand?" I growled in my early morning sub-sonic voice. "If you don't care, I don't." My bed was floating. Three or maybe 12 inches of water created the damnedest little tidal wave I'd ever seen, and the sight and sound of Lake Meade in room 1487 only exascerbatd the pressing need to relieve myself. I dried my feet on the extra bed linens, worried about electrocution and fell back asleep. It could have been 3 minutes or three hours later - I have no way to know - but my hypnogoic state was rudely interrupted by hotel mainte nance pounding at the door with three fully operational muffler- less jack hammers. "I can't open it," I bellowed over the continual roar of my personal Vesuvius Waterfall. "Just c'mon in." The fourteenth floor hallway had to resemble an underwater coral display becuase the door opened ever so slowly.. "Holy Christ!" Choking back what would have been a painful laugh, I somehow eeked out the words, with a smirk, "Now you know what an explo- ding toilet is like." For, I swear, the next two hours three men whose English was worse than a dead Armadillo attempted to suck up the Nile River from my room and the hallway. Until that very moment in time, I didn't know that hotels were outfitted with vacuum cleaners specifically designed to vacuum water. Perhaps this is a regular event. Everyone who has ever suffered through one bitches about Vegas buffets, and even the hackers steered away from the Sahara's $1.95 "all you can eat" room: "The Sahara's buffet is the worst in town; worse than Circus Circus." But since I had left my taste buds at 37,000 feet along with schrapneled pieces of my inner ear, I sought out sustenance only to keep me alive another 24 hours. By mid afternoon, I had convinced myself that outside was not the place to be. After only eighteen minutes of 120 sidewalk egg- cooking degrees, the hot desert winds took what was left of my breath away and with no functioning airways as it was, I knew this was a big mistake. So, hacker convention, ready or not, here I come. Now, you have to keep in mind that Las Vegas floor plans are designed with a singular purpose in mind. No matter where you need to go, from Point A to Point B or Point C or D or anywhere, the traffic control regulations mandated by the local police and banks require that you walk by a minimum of 4,350 slot machines, 187 gaming tables of various persuasions and no less than 17 bars. Have they no remorse? Madison Avenue ad execs take heed! So, lest I spend the next 40 years of my life in circular pursuit of a sign-less hacker convention losing every last farthing I inherited from dead Englishmen, I asked for the well hidden loca- tion at the hotel lobby. "What hackers?" There goes that nasty photon triggered neuron depletion again. "The computer hackers." "What computer hackers. We don't have no stinking hackers . . ." Desk clerk humor, my oxymoron for the week. I tried the name: DefCon II. "Are we going to war?" one ex-military Uzi-wielding guard said recognizing the etymology of the term. "Yesh, it's true" I used my most convincing tone. "The Khasaks tanis are coming with nuclear tipped lances riding hundred foot tall horses. Paris has already fallen. Berlin is in ruins. Aren't you on the list to defend this great land?" "Sure as shit am!" He scampered off to the nearest phone in an effort to be the first on the front lines. Neuron deficiency beyong surgical repair.. I slithered down umpteen hallways and casino aisles lost in the jungle of jingling change. Where the hell are the hackers? "They must be there," another neuron-impoverished Saharan employ ee said as he pointed towards a set of escalators at the very far end of the casino. All the way at the end of the almost 1/4 mile trek through Sodom and Gonorrhea an 'up' escalator promised to take me to hackerdom. Saved at last. Upstairs. A conference looking area. No signs anywhere, save one of those little black Velcro-like stick-em signs where you can press on white block letters. No Mo Feds I must be getting close. Aha, a maintenance person; I'll ask him. "What hackers? What's DefCon." Back downstairs, through the casino, to the front desk, back through the casino, up the same escalator again. Room One I was told. Room One was empty. Figures. But, at the end of a hallway, past the men's room and the phones, and around behind Room One I saw what I was looking for: a couple of dozen T-shirt ed, Seattle grunged out kids (read: under 30) sitting at uncov ered six foot folding tables hawking their DefCon II clothing, sucking on Heinekens and amusing themselves with widely strewn backpacks and computers and cell phones. I had arrived! * * * * You know, regular old suit and tie conferences could learn a thing or two from Jeff Moss, the man behind DefCon II. No fancy badge making equipment; no $75 per hour union labor built regis tration desks; no big signs proclaiming the wealth of knowledge to be gained by signing up early. Just a couple of kids with a sheet of paper and a laptop. It turned out I was expected. They handed me my badge and what a badge it was. I'm color blind, but this badge put any psychedel ically induced spectral display to shame. In fact it was a close match to the Sahara's mid 60's tasteless casino carpeting which is so chosen as to hide the most disgusting regurgative blessing. But better and classier. The neat thing was, you could (in fact had to) fill out your own badge once your name was crossed off the piece of paper that represented the attendee list. Name: Subject of Interest: E-Mail: Fill it out any way you want. Real name, fake name, alias, handle - it really doesn't matter cause the hacker underground ethic encourages anonymity. "We'd rather not know who you are anyway, unless you're a Fed. Are you a Fed?" A couple of lucky hackers wore the ultimate badge of honor. An "I Spotted A Fed" T-shirt. This elite group sat or lay on the ground watching and scouring the registration area for signs that someone, anyone, was a Fed. They really didn't care or not if you were a Fed - they wanted the free T-shirt and the peer re spect that it brought. I'm over 30 (OK, over 35) and more than a few times (OK, a little over 40) I had to vehemently deny being a Fed. Finally Jeff Moss came to the rescue. "He's not a Fed. He's a security guy and a writer." "Ugh! That's worse. Can I get a T-shirt cause he's a writer?" No way hacker-breath. Jeff. Jeff Moss. Not what I expected. I went to school with a thousand Jeff Mosses. While I had hair down to my waist, wearing paisley leather fringe jackets and striped bell bottoms so wide I appeared to be standing on two inverted ice cream cones, the Jeff Mosses of the world kept their parents proud. Short, short cropped hair, acceented by an ashen pall and clothes I stlll wouldn't wear today. They could get away with anything cause they didn't look the part of radical chic. Jeff, I really like Jeff: he doesn't look like what he represents. Bruce Edelstein, (now of HP fame) used to work for me. He was hipper than hip but looked squarer than square. Now today that doesn't mean as much as it used to, but we ex-30-somethings have a hard time forget ting what rebellion was about. (I was suspended 17 times in the first semester of 10th grade for wearing jeans.) Jeff would fit into a Corporate Board Meeting if he wore the right suit and uttered the right eloquencies: Yes, that's it: A young Tom Hanks. Right. I used to hate Tom Hanks (Splash, how fucking stupid except for the TV-picture tube splitting squeals) but I've come to respect the hell out of him as an actor. Jeff never had to pass through that first phase. I instantly liked him and certainly respect his ability to pull off a full fledged conference for only $5000. You read right. Five grand and off to Vegas with 300 of your closest personal friends, Feds in tow, for a weekend of electron ic debauchery. "A few hundred for the brochure, a few hundred hear, a ton in phone bills, yeah, about $5000 if no one does any damage." Big time security shows cost $200,000 and up. I can honestly say without meaning anything pejorative at any of my friends and busienss acquaintances, that I do not learn 40 times as much at the 'real' shows. Something is definitely out of whack here. Suits want to see suits. Suits want to see fancy. Suits want to see form, substance be damned. Suits should take a lesson from my friend Jeff. * * * * * I again suffered through a tasteless Saharan buffer dinner which cost me a whopping $7.95. I hate grits - buttered sand is what I call them - but in this case might well have been preferable. Somehow I coerced a few hackers to join me in the ritualistic slaughter of our taste buds and torture of our intestines. They were not pleased with my choice of dining, but then who gives a shit? I couldn't taste anything anyway. Tough. To keep our minds off of the food we talked about something much more pleasant: the recent round of attacks on Pentagon computers and networks. "Are the same people involved as in the sniffing attacks earlier this year?" I asked my triad of dinner mates. "Indubitably." "And what's the reaction from the underground - other hackers?" Coughs, sniffs. Derisive visual feedback. Sneers. The finger. "We can't stand 'em. They're making it bad for everybody." Two fingers. By and large the DefCon II hackers are what I call 'good hackers' who hack, and maybe crack some systems upon occasion, but aren't what I refer to as Information Warriors in the bad sense of the word. This group claimed to extol the same position as most of the underground would: the Pentagon sniffing crackers - or whoever who is assaulting thousands of computers on the net - must be stopped. "Scum bags, that what they are." I asked that they not sugarcoat their feelings on my behalf. I can take it. "These fuckers are beyond belief; they're mean and don't give a shit how much damage they do." We played with our food only to indulge in the single most palatable edible on display: ice cream with gobs of choco late syrup with a side of coffee. . The big question was, what to do? The authorities are certainly looking for a legal response; perhaps another Mitnick or Phiber Optik. Much of the underground cheered when Mark Abene and others from the reknowned Masters of Destruction went to spend a vacation at the expense of the Feds. The MoD was up to no good and despite Abene's cries that there was no such thing as the MoD, he lost and was put away. However many hackers believe as I do, that sending Phiber to jail for hacking was the wrong punish ment. Jail time won't solve anything nor cure a hacker from his first love. One might as well try to cure a hungry man from eating: No, Mark did wrong, but sending him to jail was wrong, too. The Feds and local computer cops and the courts have to come up with punishments appropriate to the crime. Cyber-crimes (or cyber-errors) should not be rewarded by a trip to an all male hotel where the favorite toy is a phallically carved bar of soap. On the other hand, hackers in general are so incensed over the recent swell of headline grabbing break-ins, and law enforcement has thus far appeared to be impotent, ("These guys are good.") that many are searching for alternative means of retribution. "An IRA style knee capping is in order," said one. "That's not good enough, not enough pain," chimed in another. (Sip, sip. I can almost taste the coffee.) "Are you guys serious?" I asked. Violence? You? I thought I knew them better than that. I know a lot of hackers, none that I know of is violent, and this extreme Pensacola retribution attitude seemed tottally out of character. "You really wouldn't do that, would you?" My dinner companions were so upset and they claimed to echo the sentiment of all good-hackers in good stand ing, that yes, this was a viable consideration. "The Feds aren't doing it, so what choice do we have? I've heard talk about taking up a collection to pay for a hit man . . ." Laughter around, but nervous laughter. "You wouldn't. . ." I insisted. "Well, probably not us, but that doesn't mean someone else doesn't won't do it." "So you know who's behind this whole thing." "Fucking-A we do," said yet another hacker chomping at the bit. He was obviously envisioning himself with a baseball bat in his hand. "So do the Feds." So now I find myself in the dilemma of publishing the open secret of who's behind the Internet sniffing and Pentagon break ins, but after talking to people from both the underground and law en forcement, I think I'll hold off awhile It serves no immediate purpose other than to warn off the offenders, and none of us want that. Obviously all is not well in hacker-dom. * * * * * The registration area was beyond full; computers, backpacks everywhere, hundreds of what I have to refer to as kids and a fair number of above ground security people. Padgett Peterson of Martin Marietta was going to talk about viruses, Sara Gordon on privacy, Mark Aldrich is a security guy from DC., and a bunch of other folks I see on the seemingly endless security trade show circuit. Jeff Moss had marketed himself and the show excellently. Los Angeles sent a TV crew, John Markoff from the New York Times popped in as did a writer from Business Week. (And of course, yours truly.) Of the 360 registrees ("Plus whoever snuck in," added Jeff) I guess about 20% were so-called legitimate security people. That's not to belittle the mid-20's folks who came not because they were hackers, but because they like computers. Period. They hack for themselves and not on other systems, but DefCon II offered some thing for everyone. I remember 25 years ago how my parents hated the way I dressed for school or concerts or just to hang out: God forbid! We wore those damned jeans and T-shirts and sneakers or boots! "Why can't you dress like a human being," my mother admonished me day after day, year after year. So I had to check myself because I can't relate to Seattle grunge-ware. I'm just too damned old to wear shirts that fit like kilts or sequin crusted S&M leather straps. Other than the visual cacophony of dress, every single hacker/phreak that I met exceeded my expectations in the area of deportment. These are not wild kids on a rampage. The stories of drug-in duced frenzies and peeing in the hallways and tossing entire rooms of furniture out of the window that emanated from the HoHoCons seemed a million miles away. This was admittedly an opportunity to party, but not to excess. There was work to be done, lessons to be learned and new friends to make. So getting snot nosed drunk or ripped to the tits or Ecstatically high was just not part of the equation. Not here. Now Vegas offers something quite distinct from other cities which host security or other conventions. At a Hyatt or a Hilton or any other fancy-ass over priced hotel, beers run $4 or $5 a crack plus you're expected to tip the black tied minimum wage worker for popping the top. The Sahara (for all of the other indignities we had to suffer) somewhat redeemed itself by offer ing an infinite supply of $1 Heinekens. Despite hundreds of beer bottle spread around the huge conference area (the hotel was definitely stingy in the garbage pail business) public drunken ness was totally absent. Party yes. Out of control? No way. Kudos! Surprisingly, a fair number of women (girls) attended. A handful were there 'for the ride' but others . . . whoa! they know their shit. I hope that's not sexist; merely an observation. I run across so few technically fluent ladies it's just a gut reaction. I wish there were more. In a former life, I owned a TV/Record produc tion company called Nashville North. We specialized in country rock taking advantage of the Urban Cowboy fad in the late 1970's. Our crew of producers and engineers consisted of the "Nashville Angels." And boy what a ruckus they would cause when we recorded Charlie Daniels or Hank Williams: they were stunning. Susan produced and was a double for Jacqueline Smith; we called Sally "Sabrina" because of her boyish appearance and resemblance to Kate Jackson. A super engineer. And there was Rubia Bomba, the Blond Bombshell, Sherra, who I eventually married: she knew country music inside and out - after all she came from Nashville in the first place. When we would be scheduled to record an act for live radio, some huge famous country act like Asleep at The Wheel of Merle Haggard or Johnny Paycheck or Vassar Clements, she would wince in disbe lief when we cried, "who's that?" Needless to say, she knew the songs, the cues and the words. They all sounded alike. Country Music? Ecch. (So I learned.) At any rate, ladies, we're equal opportunity offenders. C'mon down and let's get technical. As the throngs pressed to register, I saw an old friend, Erik Bloodaxe. I've known him for several years now and he's even come over to baby sit the kids when he's in town. (Good prac tice.) Erik is about as famous as they come in the world of hackers. Above ground the authorities investigated him for his alleged participation in cyber crimes: after all, he was one of the founders of the Legion of Doom, and so, by default, he must have done something wrong. Never prosecuted, Erik Bloodaxe lives in infamy amongst his peers. To belay any naysayers, Erik ap peared on every single T-shirt there. "I Only Hack For Money," Erik Bloodaxe proclaimed dozens of shirts wandering through the surveillance laden casinos. His is a name that will live in infamy. So I yelled out, "Hey Chris!" He gave his net-name to the desk/table registrar. "Erik Bloodaxe." "Erik Bloodaxe?" piped up an excited high pitched male voice. "Where?" People pointed at Chris who was about to be embarrass ingly amused by sweet little tubby Novocain who practically bowed at Chris's feet in reverence. "You're Erik Bloodaxe?" Novocain said with nervous awe - eyes gleaming up at Chris's ruddy skin and blond pony-tail. "Yeah," Chris said in the most off handed way possible. For people who don't know him this might be interpreted as arrogance (and yes there is that) but he also has trouble publicly accept ing the fame and respect that his endearing next-generation teenage fans pour on him. "Wow!" Novocain said with elegance and panache. "You're Erik Bloodaxe." We'd just been through that said Chris's eyes. "Yeah." "Wow, well, um, I . . . ah . . . you're . . . I mean, wow, you're the best." What does Sylvia Jane Miller from Rumpsteer, Iowa say to a movie star? This about covered it. The Midwest meets Madonna. "Wow!" Only here it's Novocain meets Cyber Christ himself. Like any other security show or conference or convention there is a kickoff, generally with a speech. And DefCon II was no excep tion. Except. Most conventional conventions (ConCons) start at 7:30 or 8:00 AM because, well, I don't know exactly why, except that's when so- called suits are expected to show up in their cubicles. Def Con, on the other hand, was scheduled to start at 10PM on Friday night when most hakcers show up for work. Most everyone had arrived and we were anxiously awaiting the opening ceremonies. But, here is where Jeff's lack of experience came in. The kick- off speaker was supposed to be Mark Ludwig of virus writing fame and controversy. But, he wasn't there! He had jet lag. "From Phoenix?" I exclaimed in mock horror to which nearby hack ers saw the absurdity of a 45 minute flight jet lag. Mark has a small frame and looks, well, downright weak, so I figured maybe flying and his constitution just didn't get along and he was massaging his swollen adenoids in his room. "Oh, no! He's just come in from Australia . . ." Well that explains it, alright! Sorry for the aspersions, Mark. But Jeff didn't have a back up plan. He was screwed. Almost four hundred people in the audience and nothing to tell them. So, and I can't quite believe it, one human being who had obviously never stood in front of a live audience before got up in an impromptu attempt at stand up comedy. The audience was ready for almost anything entertaining but this guy wasn't. Admittedly it was a tough spot, but . . . "How do you turn a 486 into an 8088?" "Add Windows." Groan. Groan. "What's this?" Picture the middle three fingers of your right hand wiggling madly. "An encrypted this!" Now hold out just the middle finger. Groan. Groan. "What's this?" Spread your legs slightly apart, extend both hands to the front and move them around quickly in small circles. "Group Air Mouse." Groan. The evening groaned on with no Mark nor any able sharp witted comedian in sight. Phil Zimmerman wrote PGP and is a God, if not Cyber-Christ him self to much of the global electronic world. Preferring to call himself a folk hero (even the Wall Street Journal used that term) Phil's diminutive height combined with a few too many pounds and a sweet as sweet can be smile earn him the title of Pillsbury Dough Boy look alike. Phil is simply too nice a guy to be em broiled in a Federal investigation to determine if he broke the law by having PGP put on a net site. You see, the Feds still think they can control Cyberspace, and thereby maintain antique export laws: "Thou shalt not export crypto without our approval" sayeth the NSA using the Department of Commerce as a whipping boy mouth piece. So now Phil faces 41-51 months of mandatory jail time if prosecuted and convicted of these absurd laws. Flying in from Colorado, his appearance was anxiously awaited. "He's really coming?" " I wonder what he's like?" (Like every one else, fool, just different.) When he did arrive, his shit- eating grin which really isn't a shit-eating grin, it's just Phil's own patented grin, preceeded him down the hallway. "Here he is!" "It's Phil Zimmerman." Get down and bow. "Hey, Phil the PGP dude is here." He was instantly surrounded by those who recognize him and by those who don't but want to feel like part of the in-crowd. Chat chat, shit-eating grin, good war stories and G-rated pleas antries. Phil was doing what he does best: building up the folk hero image of himself. His engaging personality (even though he can't snorkel to save his ass) mesmerized the young-uns of the group. "You're Phil?" "Yeah." No arrogance, just a warm country shit-eating grin that's not really shit-eating. Just Phil being Phil. He plays the part perfectly. Despite the attention, the fame, the glory (money? nah . . .) the notoriety and the displeased eyes of onlooking Computer Cops who really do believe he belongs in jail for 4 years, Phil had a problem tonight. A real problem. "I don't have a room!" he quietly told Jeff at the desk. "They say I'm not registered." No panic. Just a shit-eating grin that's not a shit-eating grin and hand the problem over to the experts: in this case Jeff Moss. Back to his endearing fans. Phil is so damned kind I actually saw him giving Cryptography 101 lessons on the corner of a T-shirt encrusted table. "This is plaintext and this is crypto. A key is like a key to your hotel room . . . " If only Phil had a hotel room. Someone had screwed up. Damn computers. So the search was on. What had happened to Phil's room? Jeff is scrambling and trying to get the hotel to rectify the situation. Everyone was abuzz. Phil, the crypto-God himself was left out in the cold. What would he do? When suddenly, out of the din in the halls, we heard one voice above all the rest: "Phil can sleep with me!" Silence. Dead stone cold silence. Haunting silence like right after an earthquake and even the grubs and millipedes are so shaken they have nothing to say. Silence. The poor kid who had somehow instructed his brain to utter the words and permitted them to rise through his esophagus and out over his lips stood the object of awe, incredulity and mental question marks. He must have thought to himself, "what's every one staring at? What's going on? Let me in on it." For the longest 10 seconds in the history of civilization he had abso lutely no clue that he was the target of attention. A handful of people even took two or three steps back, just in case. Just in case of what was never openly discussed, but nonetheless, just in case. And then the brain kicked in and a weak sheepish smile of guilt overcame this cute acne-free baby-butt smooth-faced hacker who had certainly never had a shave, and was barely old enough to steer his own pram. "Ohhhhhh . . . . noooooo," he said barely louder than a whisper. "That' not what I mean!" I nearly peed laughing so hard in unison with a score of hackers who agreed that these misspoken words put this guy in the unenvi able position of being the recipient of a weekend of eternal politically incorrect ridicule. "Yeah, right. We know what you mean . . " "No really . . ." he pleaded as the verbal assaults on his al leged sexual preferences were slung one after the other. This poor kid never read Shakespeare: "He who doth protest too much . . ." If we couldn't have a great kickoff speech, or comedian, this would have to do. The majority of the evening was spent making acquaintances: "Hi, I'm Jim. Oops, I mean 'Septic Tank," was greeted with "Oh, you're Septic. I'm Sour Milk." (Vive la difference!) People who know each other electronically are as surprised to meet their counterparts as are first daters who are in love with the voice at the other end of the phone. "Giving good phone" implies one thing while "Having a great keystroke" just might mean another. The din of the crowd was generally penetrated by the sounds of a quasi-pornographic Japanese high tech toon of questionable so cially redeeming value which a majority of the crowd appeared to both enjoy and understand. I am guilty of neither by reason of antiquity. And so it goes. * * * * * Phil Zimmerman must have gotten a room and some sleep because at 10AM (or closely thereafter) he gave a rousing (some might say incendiary) speech strongly attacking the government's nearly indefensible position on export control I was really impressed. Knowing Phil for some time, this was the first time I ever heard him speak and he did quite an admirable job. He ad libs, talks about what he want to talk about and does so in a compelling and emotional way. His ass is on the line and he should be emotional about it. The audience, indeed much of counter culture Cyberspace loves Phil and just about anything he has to say. His affable 40-something attorney from Colorado, Phil DuBois was there to both enjoy the festivities and, I'm sure, to keep tabs on Phil's vocalizations. Phil is almost too honest and open for his own good. Rounds and rounds of sincere appreciation. Hey kids, now it's time for another round of Spot The Fed. Here's your chance to win one of these wonderful "I Spotted A Fed" T-shirts. And all you have to do is ID a fed and it's yours. Look around you? Is he a Fed? Is she under cover or under the covers? Heh, heh. Spot the Fed and win a prize. This one-size- fits-all XXX Large T-shirt is yours if you Spot the Fed. I had to keep silent. That would have been cheating. I hang out on both sides and have a reputation to maintain. "Hey, I see one" screeched a female voice (or parhaps it was Phil's young admirer) from the left side of the 400+ seat ball room. Chaos! Where? Where? Where's the fed? Like when Jose Consenko hits one towards the center field fence and 70,000 screaming fans stand on their seats to get a better view of a three inch ball 1/4 mile away flying at 150 miles per hour, this crowd stood like Lemmings in view of Valhalla the Cliff to espy the Fed. Where's the Fed? Jeff jumped off the stage in anxious anticipation that yet anoth er anti-freedom-repressive law enforcement person had blown his cover. Where's the Fed? Jeff is searching for the accuser and the accused. Where's the Fed? Craned necks as far as the eye can see; no better than rubber neckers on Highway 95 looking for steams of blood and misplaced body parts they half expected a Fed to be as distinctly obvious as Quasimoto skulking under the Gorgoyled parapits of Notre Dame. No such luck. They look like you and me. (Not me.) Where's the Fed? He's getting closer, closer to the Fed. Is it a Fed? Are you a Fed? C'mon, fess up. You're a a fed. Nailed. Busted. Psyche! Here's your T-shirt. More fun than Monty Hall bringing out aliens from behind Door #3 on the X-Files. Good clean fun. But they didn't get 'em all. A couple of them were real good. Must have been dressed like an Hawaiian surf bum or banshee from Hellfire, Oregon. Kudos to those Feds I know never got spotted. Next year, guys. There's always next year. Phil's notoriety and the presence of the Phoenix, Arizona prosecu tor who was largely responsible for the dubiously effective or righteous Operation Sun Devil, Gail Thackeray ("I change job every 4 years or so - right after an election") brought out the media. The LA TV station thought they might have the makings of a story and sent a film crew for the event. "They're Feds. The ones with the cameras are Feds. I know it. Go ask 'em." No need. Not. "Put away that camera." At hacking events it's proper etiquette to ask if people are camera shy before shooting. The guy that I was sitting next to buried his face in his hands to avoid being captured on video tape. "What are you; a Fed or a felon?" I had to ask. "What's the difference," his said. "They're the same thing." So which was it, I wondered. For the truly paranoid by the truly paranoid. "Get that thing outta here," he motioned to the film crew who willingly obliged by turning off the lights. "They're really Feds," he whispered to me loud enough for the row in front and behind us to hear. I moved on. Can't take chances with personal safety when I have kids to feed. Fed or felon, he scared me. Gail Thackeray was the next act on stage. She was less in agree ment about Phil Zimmerman than probably anyone (except the unde tected Feds) in the audience. She, as expected, endorsed much of the law enforcement programs that revolve around various key management (escrow) schemes. Phil recalls a letter from Burma that describe how the freedom fighters use PGP to defend them selves against repression. He cites the letter from Latvia that says electronic freedom as offered by PGP is one of the only hopes for the future of a free Russia. Gail empathizes but sees trouble closer to home. Terrorism a la World Trade Center, or rocket launchers at O'Hare Airport, or little girl snuff films in Richmond, Virginia, or the attempt to poison the water supply outside of Boston. These are the real threats to America in the post Cold War era. "What about our personal privacy!" cries a voice. "We don't want the government listening in. It's Big Brother 10 years behind schedule." Gail is amused. She knew it would be a tough audience and has been through it before. She is not shaken in the least. "I've read your mail," she responds. "Its not all that interest ing." The audience appreciates a good repartee. "You gotta pay me to do this, and frankly most of it is pretty boring." She successful made her point and kept the audience laughing all the way. She then proceeded to tell that as she sees it, "The expectation of privacy isn't real." I really don't like hearing this for I believe in the need for an Electronic Bill of Rights. I simply think she's wrong. "History is clear," she said "the ability to listen in used to be limited to the very few. The telegraph was essentially a party line and still today in some rural areas communications aren't private. Why should we change it now?" "Gail, you're so full of shit!" A loud voice bellowed from next to me again. Boy can I pick seats. "You know perfectly well that cops abuse the laws and this will just make their jobs easier. Once people find a way to escape tyranny you all want to bring it right back again. This is revolution and you're scared of los ing. This kind of puke scum you're vomiting disgusts me. I just can't take it any more. " Yeah, right on. Scattered applause. While this 'gent' may have stated what was on many minds, his manner was most unbefitting a conference and indeed, even DefCon II. This was too rude even for a hacker get-together. The man with the overbearing comments sat down apologizing. "She just gets me going, she really does. Really pisses me off when she goes on like about how clean the Feds are. She knows better than to run diarrhea of the mouth like that." "You know," she continued. "Right across the street is a Spy Shop. One of those retail stores where you can buy bugs and taps and eavesdropping equipment?" The audience silently nodded. "We as law enforcement are prohibited by law from shopping there and buying those same things anyone else can. We're losing on that front." Cheers. Screw the Feds.