Hacker Chronicles 2/HACKER2.BIN/638.S&M0493.PGE

Microsoft Windows Help File Content | 1993-03-28 | 154KB | 2,585 lines

:Main
          Smoke and Mirrors
April 1993
|A Pen and Brush Publication
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:Intro
Smoke and Mirrors
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         Writing is an art and a science . . . and a little bit of magic.
    The storyteller is sleight-of-hand artist, guiding his audience with
    feint and flair.  The storyteller's aim is to entertain and inform by
    weaving a web of words scintillating to the senses.  Writers are
    storytellers, above all else.
         Gathered here are storytellers.  Poetry, fiction, gardening,
    and cooking--with a little bit of legerdemain in all.  It's all just
    smoke and mirrors . . .
?Contents
:(Contents)
:Contents
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Table of Contents
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   1* Smoke: "Laudamus Te" ............................ by Cecilio Morales
   2* The Muse: "Bringing On The Muse"................ by Phil Gottfredson
   3* "Is There a Doctor in the Car?"...................... by Del Freeman
   4* "Writer's Block"................................... by B. Z. Niditch
   5* "Virtually A Summer's Day"........................... by P. A. Brush
   6* "The Wall" ........................................... by Karl Weiss
   7* "When You Ain't Here the Circus Ain't Fun"........ by Franchot Lewis
   8* Why John's Diner? ................................. by John Chambers
   9* Review of John's Diner ............................ by John Chambers
  10* John's Diner Story:  "Ruby Does D.C." ..............  by Del Freeman
  11  Recipes from John's Diner:
       11a*   Figs and Walnut Bread ........................ by Dave Winer
       11b*      Jane's Baked Grits ........................... by Jane Winer
  12* Garden Feature: "Landscaping a Fragrance Garden".. by Lucia Chambers
  13* ArtTech: "Lead Antimonate Yellow" .............. by Phil Gottfredson
  14* Gorgeous VGA GIFs: "Shells" ..................... by Michael Heinich
  15* "A Messaging Aid for BBSers" ...................... by Jack McGeehin
  16* Mirrors: "I'm Getting Better?!?" ................... by Michael Hahn
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    Credits*      Others* to Read      Submit* Info      Acknowledgements*
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:Acknowledgements
Acknowledgements
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|"When You Ain't Here the Circus Ain't Fun" Copyright (c) 1993 Franchot Lewis.
|"Landscaping a Fragrance Garden" Copyright (c) 1993 Lucia B. Chambers.
|"Is There a Doctor in the Car?" Copyright (c) 1993 Del Freeman.
|"Lead Antimonate Yellow" Copyright (c) 1993 Phil Gottfredson.
|"I'm Getting Better?!?" Copyright (c) 1993 Michael R. Hahn.
|"Bringing On The Muse" Copyright (c) 1993 Phil Gottfredson.
|"Canyon" image Copyright (c) 1993 Lucia B. Chambers.
|"Shells" image Copyright (c) 1993 Michael Heinich.
|"Writer's Block" Copyright (c) 1993 B. Z. Niditch.
|"Laudamus Te" Copyright (c) 1992 Cecilio Morales.
|"Murphy's Law" Copyright (c) 1993 B. Z. Niditch.
|"Ruby Does D.C." Copyright (c) 1993 Del Freeman.
|"The Wall" Copyright (c) 1992 Karl Weiss.
|"Why John's Diner?" (c) 1993 John Chambers.
|"Review of John's Diner" (c) 1993 John Chambers.
|"Virtually a Summer's Day" Copyright (c) 1993 Pen and Brush,
|property Lucia B. Chambers; author rights belong to those who
|contributed to this story.
?Contents ?Credits ?Others? ?Submit
Laudamus Te
by Cecilio Morales
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                    Great dollar god
                    gracious dime
                    in this our time the unshod revile thee.
                    We work for thee
                    we give thee thanks
                    we whisper in thy Holy Banks
                    we bow before NASDAQ
                    before Dow;
                    the beggar knows not how.

                    Infidel, he squanders healing
                    treasures not thy budget ceilings:
                    Panderer to the poor;
                    his spoor, a trail of children wanton,
                    haunts thy grail, skill-less,
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Laudamus Te
     continued
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                    debasing productivity and growth:
                    Thy hand, invisible, shall smite him.

                    Thy prophets profit
                    thine acolytes count
                    thy trust rides secure the dreaded bust
                    thy stocks unlock the horn of plenty;
                    turn thy gaze to us, thy workers,
                    we discount all gloom
                    (at its proper rated credit)
                    and we abate the debit
                    of payroll-bloating shirkers.

                    How sweet the scent of anxiety
                    its piety
                    its spur to maximize!
                    We awaken to thy prizes
                    to our video and to our VCR,
                    to our car, without a care ...
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Laudamus Te
     continued
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                    small, unstoppable
                    the urge to hold Thee in the palm;
                    another day, another pay
                    thy grace speeds my pace
                    leaves the maudlin to their own.
                    I avoid the goblins of doubt
                    and the pints of stout
                    that degrade and threaten thy empire:
                    I devote to Thee, to appeal and to desire,
                    my finest waking hours.
                                   ---

|Copyright (c) 1992 by Cecilio Morales
?Contents ?2
Bringing On The Muse
by Phil Gottfredson
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             Bring on the Muse!  Muse is an interesting word, sounding
     indifferent to its intended meaning....."He mused awhile, but not
     in doubt, not trace of doubt was there, it was the steady solemn
     pause of resolute despair..." Is it not different for different
     people?  I muse awhile but not in doubt, no trace of doubt is
     there, just the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.
             Seriously.....I get my inspiration from the person I'm
     doing the work for.  I listen intently, not at the words so much,
     but to their heart.  I study the piece I'm framing, I look for
     line, balance, texture, color, subject, and most of all I try to
     see the piece I'm framing through the eyes of the Artist, or the
     client.  I use my imagination to empathize, feel what they feel,
     then channel that information to my artists' soul.  I become
     emotionally involved with my task, then I again channel that
     emotion into my artists' soul.  I then interpret all that I have
     heard and seen and felt into the piece I'm creating.  All of the
     parts and elements that I use to make my frame are my dictionary
     of terms, every color, every texture, each line and curve are
     words.
              To illustrate, I recall one evening when I sat with my
     client on the front steps of his house.  Above, the city below,
     we had this spectacular view of the valley.  In the distant sky
     was a thunderstorm, and as we watched the lightening and listened
     to the thunder, he told me something about himself when he was a
     boy.  "I was very frightened by thunderstorms," he said.." I would
     hide and cry and prayed that I would be okay.  When the clouds
     parted and I could see the shaft of yellow sunlight streaming
     through, I had hope, hope that all would be okay." He went on to
     say...."Phil, as you create the entry hall of my house, I want
     you to do something that will give me hope.  When I come home from
     a long day, tried and frightened from the battles I have fought
     to earn my keep, I want to come into this entry hall, look up and
     feel hope, hope that all is going to be okay."
             I sat there as the evening sun with its golden light
     broke through the clouds, just the way he had described it to me.
     I felt the warmth, I felt the hope about which he spoke.
             The focal point of the entry hall was the ceiling dome,
     twenty-two feet from the floor.  A perfect place to paint the
     storm that ends with the golden rays of hope.  Surrounding the
     dome, I placed seven mystical white horses with golden manes and
     hoofs emerging from the storm to carry my client to safety.
     Surrounding the dome and all its parts, I colored the ceiling
     with the softest azure blue, my way of saying, "All is well, all
     is well."
             As I relate this story, my eyes fill with tears.  I still
     feel the same emotions I had when he told me his story six
     years ago.  My client was an elderly man, and it was not easy for
     him to admit he was so vulnerable; to do so went against his
     ruthless masculinity.  As for me, being vulnerable is my asset,
     yet I'm ruthless when I create.
             My `muse' is awakened by my interreaction with the people
     for whom I create.  I engage them in conversation that causes them to
     share their passionate side, which sparks my imagination and
     desire to create for them in a way that has purpose in their
     lives.  I think motive has a lot to do with turning on the `muse;'
     without this interreaction with my clients, I have no `muse' at
     all, just wasted energy, and a palette of colors dry and covered
     with dust.
|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Phil Gottfredson
?Contents ?3
Is There a Doctor in the Car?
by Del Freeman
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          He replayed his friend's suggestions in his mind like
     fingering an endless string of worry beads. Should he? Should he
     not? No flower petals to disengage toward resolution of the
     problem. No eeney, meeney stuff. Only his own "good sense."
          "You have a problem," she'd said definitely. "Granted, it may
     be a problem no one knows about yet, but it is a problem with great
     potential for revelation. Now, just who do *you* think is in the
     best position to put a positive spin on it? I say this as your
     friend as much as a former investigative reporter, Don - take the
     bull by the horns before it throws you off and gores you to death.
          Well, he couldn't deny the good sense part. It could only help
     him to give his own interpretation - might even be a political
     asset, as she'd said, although he had his doubts. Still, facts were
     facts and if they came out - well, there would be nothing for it
     except to offer lame excuses that would ring as hollow as she said
     his head was if he didn't heed her advice.
          Jeez, what had ever possessed him to run for office in the
     first place, he wondered, knowing full well the answer. It was that
     part of his past life that best fed his ego - that time when he was
     firmly in office almost a decade ago - long before the booze
     brought him down from his lofty position; down all the way to his
     knees and beyond. Part of the challenge was to see if he could get
     there again. Part of it to see if he could resist the temptations
     which had destroyed him the first time around.
          He spoke about his recovery - frequently. She agreed with him
     that it was politically advantageous to do so. After all,
     statistics indicated the number of recovering addicts was maybe the
     only thing on the rise in the waning recession, which still clung
     to the economy like the aroma of early morning stale beer to a gin
     joint.
          "Hey, America loves a come-back," she said bluntly. "There
     are enough people recovering from something or other to put you in
     office with their votes alone, and the ones who've never been down
     and out will support you because they believe it is the humanely
     right thing to do. Who among your opponents is foolish enough to
     stand up and declare that you don't deserve a second chance?"
          He'd smiled. She was savvy, his new friend. He was inclined
     to trust her, despite their brief acquaintance. She'd moved to
     Miami after Andrew whipped through and left mounds of destruction,
     following her husband whose pseudo-construction line of work placed
     him in high demand and high remuneration. He'd liked the two of
     them immediately, but trust ... well, that was something else
     again. That she'd been an investigative reporter was an open fact.
     Whether she still was, was the question that bothered him; caused
     him to wake bathed in sweat after dreaming that the both of them
     were in cahoots to do an expos
 on him. When he'd told her about
     that she'd only smiled. They both had.
          "It's only smart to reveal your shortcomings yourself,
     presenting them in your own spotlight, Don," she'd urged that
     morning. "God knows, the other side's spot is pretty intense and
     unforgiving.
          Hell, he knew that. What sort of moron did she think he was
     anyway? He'd figured all the odds before he'd gotten back into the
     crap shoot, and thought he had a pretty good chance. He also
     thought there was a good chance he'd skate through without
     detection. If he didn't, however, the advantage of presentation
     would be lost, just like she'd said. He felt like he was being asked
     to choose between column A, fatal accident, and column B, fatal
     disease. It was a little like committing suicide while still in
     perfect health.
          "What are you gonna' do lad," he murmured aloud. "What are you
     gonna' do?"
                                    ***
          The sunlight fell warmly on his thinning hair, bathing the
     crown of his head in a heat that caused a light perspiration to
     mist his brow. He shaded his eyes and looked up toward the podium
     where his opponent stood. Would he say it? Did he know? If so, it
     would be impossible to learn who might have told him... anybody
     could have done so.
          "Is that rental property where you live in the Gables, Mr.
     Harlan? Can you give me the name of your landlord?" The reporter
     had either been asking an idle question or was a heck of a
     good actor. Don had casually answered that he was renting a room
     from his former business partner while attempting to locate an
     efficiency    apartment in the area. The hurricane had placed a premium
     on housing, as    the reporter well knew, and Don thought his answer
     had satisfied him, but the speaker's words would soon reveal
     whether the phone interview had been a set-up.
          The empty rhetoric went on - droning like a fat, lazy bee. His
     thoughts drifted to the stunt that had turned this thing in his
     favor. That too, had been her idea. Of course, she'd presented it
     like a joke, laughing as she spoke. He'd laughed in response.
     Laughed, and then sobered. "Alert the media," she'd advised. "It
     can't hurt you, and it might just be the kick in the pants this
     campaign needs."
          And he'd done it - doubtful to the last. Still, she'd been
     right again. The media gathered around like zoo animals at feeding
     time - giving him the opening he'd needed and he'd swooped in for
     the kill. "That's a bit much, isn't it Mr. Harlan? Don't you think
     those who are truly down and out might resent this?" "What? Resent
     a man for carrying a sign saying 'Will work for votes?'" he'd
     countered. "I don't know why - it's true." "Sure, but everybody in
     the race is working for votes. What makes you different?"
          Ah! Pay dirt! Lord love the inquisitive, earnest-faced
     journalism graduate. He assumed his most serious expression.
         "You're incorrect in that assumption, sir, although it is a
     natural enough mistake. My worthy opponents are quite content to
     campaign for votes. Working for votes, however, is a concept
     totally foreign to the political persona. I think it's safe to say
     that I am the only one who will work for both votes and the
     voters."
          That had drawn a round of applause, some appreciative smirks.
     They had seen it coming - the veterans of campaigns of old - but
     they admired his finesse, just the same.
          The crowd's applause as his opponent finished up brought him
     back to the moment - the revelation obviously hadn't come. Stunned,
     almost as though he'd been awakened from a deep sleep, he felt
     himself moving lethargically toward the podium, slowly
     comprehending the latest narrow escape. Yes, he decided in the
     split second before he reached to adjust the microphone - yes, she
     was right. He'd bloody well do it.
                                    ***
          He looked out at the mass of smiley faces, recognized that of
     his friend and her husband. The husband smiled. It had been
     painful. And embarrassing. For a while, he thought he'd thrown away
     any chance he had. The press had questioned him - grilled him, more
     like. He'd held firm. She had sold her article, and it had helped
     as much as anything else. And she'd been right. Everywhere he went,
     people said they were for him - would vote for him. Hell, if he'd
     known it would be such a boost to his campaign, he'd have announced
     his candidacy from his back seat, he thought. Still, who could know
     the voters would understand a candidate who virtually lived in his
     car? And that's what it amounted to when it all boiled down. Maybe
     in another time, one less aware of how fast the good times can turn
     bad - some time when a killer hurricane and a faltering economy
     hadn't touched so many lives... . But this wasn't another time.
          They'd played it for that and a great deal more, maintaining
     that the address under which he'd qualified was that of a long-time
     friend; and a residence where he did occasionally sleep over,
     shower, shave, eat a meal; he'd also admitted that at least part
     of the time he lived in his car. And they'd bought it. In a Miami
     where the vacancy rate was less than one percent for rental
     property, the public understood and accepted his housing dilemma.
     In a world of therapeutic treatment for every known maladjustment,
     they respected his status as recovering alcoholic. The bugaboo had
     been let out of the closet, dressed in regalia of his choice and
     introduced to the world by his friend's article - in words he'd helped
     form. The image was favorable despite its dis favorable limitations.
          "See, I told you it could be turned to advantage," she'd said
     following publication of her article, when the phone at the AA club
     room had been ringing off the hook. "Who, but someone who's been
     there, could be as valued to the homeless, once in office? Look at
     these quotes...". Again, she was right. The newspaper was full of
     opinions from the man on the street, almost all saying they'd vote
     for what they considered one of their own. It had followed as
     naturally as could be - from his front-page photograph holding
     aloft the "will work for votes" sign as he stood in the middle of
     U.S. 1 afternoon traffic, to admitting that he, too, was literally
     as homeless and needy as the next guy holding a sign. It had been
     as easy as falling off the proverbial log. He looked out at the
     audience, caught her eye and nodded. And why not? He'd won easily.
     Thanks to her advice and skillful handling of the story, he was the
     first-ever homeless commissioner to be elected. He'd turned his
     addiction into an asset before she came along. She'd helped him
     turn his homelessness into the winning stroke.
          "Candidates will be moving into refrigerator cartons and old
     cars in droves," he'd laughingly predicted, patting the fender of
     his ancient Buick. "Unless somebody comes along who lives in a
     Volkswagon, I'll be in office indefinitely."
          "Don't get too smug," she'd cautioned.
          "Me?" He'd laughed. "Not me. But I'm going to plant a square
     foot garden under the radiator; erect a patio awning and buy a
     hanging plant." He felt like a million bucks. He'd had the best
     medical attention a would-be politician could hope for: that of a
     born spin doctor."
|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Del Freeman
?Contents ?4
Writer's Block
by B. Z. Niditch
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                          Among sunless times
                          falling like paperweights
                          in polished midnights
                          wanting pot
                          when I do not smoke,
                          railing to ride out
                          this second wind,
                          looking at playbills,
                          bookjackets, my watch
                          thinking of moron jokes
                          about time,
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Writer's Block
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                          murdering this donut
                          taking the whole spring
                          to lose out,
                          hating this winter cold
                          but without family remedies
                          for a cough that droops
                          into the morning.
                          I watch the large Evergreen
                          socketed by rain
                          wondering if it's all
                          about reflection.
|Copyright (c) 1993 B. Z. Niditch
?Contents ?5
Virtually A Summer's Day
 by P. A. Brush
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        I sit in the darkened room, the soft glow of the monitor before me
   is the only light in the house.  Nothing breaks the silence.  After
   taking a few more swallows of that amber liquid that quiets the fever in
   my brain but makes my throat burn, I lift a wisp of gray hair from
   before my eyes and turn to face the computer.  The antique keyboard is
   warm and comfortable under my hands.  If only my dreams were as empty as
   my days life would be tolerable.  Not pleasant, or the least bit
   worthwhile, but at least livable.  But memory doesn't sleep, and
   without the liquor to damp it at night it comes alive and invades my
   dreams.  If only I could suffer a mere nightmare!  But no, all too often
   my dreams are the real images of the terrible past I want to leave
   behind and recreate at the same time.  It is the only way I will ever
   see any of them again, and wanting that more than anything, I still
   can't pay the price of my dreams.  You see, in spite of all that
   occurred I am still proud.  Oh Arabella and Markus, forgiveness is too weak
   a word for what I have to ask of you!  How could a man be as arrogant as
   I was, and as blind to the danger that I put us all in.  If only I could
   pay for my conceit myself, but no, if there is a God it is crueler than
   that.
        I watch my age-spotted hands on the keyboard as they call up the
   communications program and begin the nightly ritual that I long since
   gave up hoping would help to right some of the horrors that I
   perpetuated that January evening so long ago.
        Those of you who still have your youth probably know something of
   what I felt.  Knowing that I was different, special, could do more than
   others, and do it better.  I was going to leave my mark on the world
   (and so I did, but in so awful a fashion that I could not speak of it to my
   closest friend).
        All was light and laughter when the experiments began, and it
   stayed that way much longer than it should have.  That is what deceived
   me.  That something that appeared so innocent could have so much power,
   and be so vengeful still seems incomprehensible.  It was just the next
   logical step in the exciting microcomputer revolution at the end of the
   millennium.  The experiments with virtual reality were of special interest
   to me, and I must admit that I accomplished things in this field that
   have never been equalled.  The price I have to pay for my success is the
   two silent boxes in this dark, dusty room where the two people who meant
   most to me in the world once sat.
       I reached for the tattered postcard once again, and in the dim light
   reflected by my ancient monitor, read aloud the phone number
   shown in smudged black ink.  "Take A Chance BBS" was embossed on the
   front of the card. "Most interesting," I thought,  "indeed."
           My hands trembled for just a moment and then my fingers swept
   the keys so expertly that individual motions were impossible to detect.
   I whispered, "Computer please dial now," and reached for my glass,
   waiting to see what would happen next.
           All of my promises and all of my dreams merged for one flat
   instant when all was forgotten and time collapsed into trivia. I was
   young and excited for that second between DIALING and WAIT and Markus
   and Arabella grew dimmer and dimmer in the shadows of my room...
           The screen flickered and then went black except for the green
   characters in the center,
                             Who are you?
           I typed,          Dr. Alfred Stringer
           and pressed Enter.
   The screen returned:
                    Thank you.  One moment, please . . .
       "Welcome to Take a Chance.  You've stumbled upon one of the truly
   unique opportunities in today's modern society.
       This electronic bulletin board is dedicated to enlightenment,
   encouragement, and excitement.  Too many people in today's
   technological jungle feel isolated.  They spend their days entering
   useless bits of information in computer terminals much like this one.
   This is the era of simulated realities, instantaneous travel, and
   globally networked environments.
       Many people have advocated a return to the ways of simpler days.
   We at Take a Chance regard our modern society as a new opportunity,
   however.  Take a Chance is an avenue for personal growth, wealth,
   and sexual satisfaction.  In this information renaissance, more is
   available than at any other time in our past.  The key is in finding
   your access to opportunity.  With Take a Chance, we hope to provide
   that key.
       Please, sit back, relax, and prepare yourself for a new adventure.
   In a moment, your journey into the world of Take a Chance will begin.
   We are sure it will be a truly rewarding experience.  You may leave
   the world of Take a Chance at any time by typing "Stop", or pause your
   session by typing `p'.  Type `help' for assistance.
                   Hit `enter' to continue, please . . .
           "Useless bits of information," I echoed.  Yes, that was what
   Markus had said when our virtual reality experiments had just begun and
   we were only defining universes and not immersing ourselves within them.
   I started, rubbed my eyes, and vowed to not get lost within my memories
   until I'd at least tried out this BBS.
           I pressed enter, and watched a delightful menu print out
   on my screen. The options:
                   1. Enlightenment.
                   2. Intense Sexual Gratification.
                   3. Soul Mates.
                   4. Personal Wealth
                   5. Power and Fame.
                   6. Global Thermonuclear War
           Enlightenment.  Arabella often said that a new Renaissance was
   upon us, but that to partake of it, we must prepare to add to it.
   She was convinced that the term "enlightenment" referred to a state of
   mind and in fact, her insistence was what inspired me to propose our
   initial experiments.
           I could hear my heart pounding as I reached for the "1" on
   the numeric keypad. I typed the "1," and then pressed Enter.
           The screen cleared to black, and then an image which sent me
   careening into the depths of horror presented itself with utmost clarity
   on my screen:  Four Doors.  These doors had no description, no
   numbers, but each was a different color.  They seemed to be suspended
   in space, and as soon as my mind registered "space," clouds appeared behind
   them.  I wanted to turn off the machine and I wanted to try each door
   simultaneously.  I could not resist the temptation to explore what was
   presented to me, yet I knew with certainty that each door was a virtual
   reality unknown to me and yet all too familiar in my worst nightmares.
           In the end, I couldn't resist.  I typed, "The Red One," and
   the red door within the universe of my screen slowly opened wide.
       Behind the door was an intense, three-dimensional red grid.  At
   its center was a silver, sexless figure.  The figure approached and
   began to speak.
       "Good evening, Dr. Stringer.  Welcome to the world behind the Red
   Door.  I am your guide--you may call me Derfla.  You are here seeking
   enlightenment, and I must warn you:  All enlightenment carries a
   price.  Are you willing to accept the terms of this universe?"
       I reached for the keyboard to respond, but my fingers had become
   silver, digitized images.  I floated toward my guide, settling inside
   the virtual universe.  I regarded the grid around us; I gazed for a
   long moment at the figure before me.  We were mirrors of one
   another--silver and sexless.  "Yes," I said, "I accept your terms."
       "Very well, Doctor," it responded.  "Follow me."  The grid
   expanded, rotated, began to swirl.  It formed a vortex with a dot of
   blue at the center.  We swept toward the blue dot at a dizzying speed,
   the spinning of the virtual whirlpool increasing as we approached its
   center.  We broke free of the vortex, and the blue dot expanded
   rapidly.
       It was the earth, floating in a field of stars.  We rushed toward
   it, the continents resolving themselves as we approached.  We rushed
   nearer and nearer, toward North America, toward the eastern seaboard,
   toward Boston.  I suddenly realized our destination, and with the
   speed of thought we settled before an apartment house in Cambridge.
   It was a place I hadn't seen in forty-five years.  It was the place my
   torment started.
       We passed through the walls of the building like ghosts, moving
   toward the large apartment in the back.  In the apartment were three
   people--myself, as I had been at eighteen; Markus, my older brother
   and closest friend, and Arabella, the woman we both loved.
       And I fall into melancholy, into thought and into
   memory. "Arabella... Arabella?"   I think of Arabella.  I see my
   Arabella.  The fragrant maiden who the angels named--Whore! No! No,
   no. . .  She was my friend.  My sweet friend.  My blessed friend.
        "I am back there--in a rain storm. I'm rained upon. I am a
   rubella: a fellah without an umbrella, all because of Arabella.
       "Arabella, Arabella--my silent Belle.
       "I dwell in this cell where I fell. It's hell, this shell.
       "Arabella--I worshipped you, mademoiselle. I cursed you as a Jezebel.
   I mocked God. I was an infidel. I cried at the highest decibel.
        "I bellow like a noteless cello. I was yellow. I wouldn't say
   hello, it's me who needs you. I was jello.
         "Arabella, I dream of your bella--ah--your belly. It's naked. I
   kiss it. It's delicious like deli jelly--and I read to you from
   Shelley.
       "How could I?  Arabella, not then, you belonged to another, who was
   my friend and brother too. What could a poor depressed, repressed fellah
   do?
       "Over the years I've thought of you and little else.  I've kept my
   jealousy to myself. Why now is all of this bursting forth? I am an old
   man. I know I am an old man. I am young. I am here. I am there. I am
   eighteen. I am sixty-three.  My body is hard and lean and young.  I feel hard
   and strong and want and need. I have the power to take. You, Arabella,
   are beautiful.  But, oh, darn, darn, darn, Markus is still my brother."
        These are my thoughts, only my thoughts. I dare not speak them
   aloud to myself, or to Arabella or to Markus.
        Arabella sat curled up on the upholstered chair with a glass of wine
   in her hand.  Her long curly red hair framed her delicate small face--
   such a beautiful face with features so soft that they belied the
   intense intelligence within. She was laughing that easy laugh she
   always made available for one of Markus' risque jokes.  He was
   so much better at telling jokes than I.  I always screwed up the punch
   line.  Markus was sitting on the couch opposite of Arabella and I was
   perched on the stool in the middle.  We were having a wonderful time
   just as we did 45 years ago.  Drinking, laughing, so full of promise
   and hope, ignorant of what lay ahead.  God, I miss them so.
        But this was the night that it all began, the night when we began to
   lay the foundations of a new level in the information renaissance that
   had swept the nation and the world--virtual reality. We had often
   talked about the promises of virtual reality and what rewards that
   could be realized for the betterment of humanity, but tonight we
   would embark upon the journey to a new plateau of awareness. A
   new development in virtual reality that not only gave the individual
   the perception of being in an artificially-generated environment, but
   also provided stimulus to the remaining senses of the human
   experience, i.e., senses of touch, taste and smell. A complete
   environment of escape from the present into alternate worlds without
   the use of chemicals or hypnosis.
        Tonight, we began that journey to create a world that gave so
   much, but took much more in return.
           Arabella's smile slowly faded into the prisms within her eyes,
   and she distractedly tapped a fingernail on the rim of her glass.
           "Alfred, all of our preliminary tests indicate that our original
   premise was right on target.  You can't isolate one specific incident to
   the contrary.  So why are you so nervous?"
       "I'm as excited about this as you and Markus.  I just don't feel
   that we're ready to launch a human being into any of our pre-defined
   virtual realities.  At best, they're too sketchy."
       Markus recrossed his legs and rolled his eyes. "Alfie, you're
   wrong.  Arabella re-defined the weight ratios, and every single
   result indicates success.  You can't argue with Crayon!"
       "I'm not arguing with the Cray. I just don't think we've thought
   of everything.  And stop treating the Cray as though it were a
   real, thinking human being; you trust it too much."
       Arabella stood up and began pacing the room.  She looked like
   a caged animal, tense and ready to leap at the slightest provocation.
       She suddenly stopped in front of the window, looked out into
   the snowy streets, and said, "Okay. Let's define our first human
   reality.  Alfred is right, we've been playing with mice and it's time
   to develop the next level of depth.  I say we begin our structure by defining
   the sense stimulation realities for, oh, a grassy park somewhere."
       Markus and I exchanged silent nods, he walked over to the
   blackboard, and I flipped on the video-recorder and sat on the edge of
   the old oak desk. Arabella turned to face us both, and we all three felt
   electric, the adventure beginning all over again.
       Markus reached up and pressed the "clear" button, and the
   blackboard first turned gray and then black, clean and ready. He leaned
   back and glanced at the paper supply, and then picked up his stylus.
       "Arabella, you go first.  Give me all the sensations a woman would
   detect in a grassy park."  His stylus was poised over the blackboard,
   waiting for input.
       I felt uncomfortable again.  "Wait.  We must refine this with
   empirical fact.  Let's agree to make some preliminary definitions
   and then back them up by going to the grassy field and recording our
   sensations."
       "Agreed."  Markus smiled. "Always the skeptic, and rightly so."
       "Right," Arabella grinned at me.  "First, smell.  Slightly ozone
   such as ten percent, and perhaps another ten percent sweetly mossy. I
   think another ten percent should include whatever trees are nearby,
   including their bark and if there are flowers on them, and add five
   percent for damp and humusy earth.  We can refine these numbers later,
   oh and let's add two percent body talc, presuming awareness of self."
       I was suddenly in agony.  I looked at the Cray and began to back
   out of the room, painfully aware that this moment in history was the
   exact beginning of our disaster.  Arabella's words continued to echo,
   and the three of them continued to define that grassy knoll, as my
   present self was swept out of the room and backward, weightless, through
   a red door.
       "Tumbling through the crayon door, and for a canyon that seems
   to have no floor, I begin to fall like lead.  Mists, sounds, and ghosts
   rethread dread in my sorehead. I've been a blockhead, I know.  A
   bonehead.  Never a hothead--still my forehead burns!  What's ahead?  More
   of what I dread?"
       "Doctor Stringer!" Derfla snapped, breaking the spell.  He was
   once more an image on a screen, and I was once more a flesh-and-blood
   entity.
       "Why must we always return to the beginning?" I asked.
       "The enlightenment you seek must begin with an acceptance of the
   causes of the disaster.  In all the years you've suffered, you've yet
   to accept the full measure of your responsibility in what happened."
   Derfla softened his tone.  "Doctor, you must accept what happened and
   your part in it before you can put it behind you."
       "You're right, of course.  May we begin again?" I asked.
       "No, that door is now closed to you," my guide responded.  "You
   must choose another door."
       "Then I choose the yellow one," I said, and as it opened, my
   consciousness once again leaped into a virtual universe.
       I and my silver companion sped along a landscape that strongly
   resembled the circuit diagram of a computer.  A very powerful
   computer, it seemed, and I realized we were moving along the
   data pathways of the Cray system Markus had called Crayon.
       We reached an output junction, and exploded into a meadow.
   Arabella, dressed in a gossamer gown of pure silver, stood gazing at
   the grass and flowers that surrounded her.  She took a deep breath,
   and I could see the delicious curves of her breasts outlined by the
   sheer fabric.  I felt a flash of arousal, followed immediately by a
   flash of guilt.  She sighed, said, "Exit," and began to fade.
       My silver guide and I also faded, rising into a room with a couch,
   medical monitors, and a terminal for Crayon.  Arabella was regaining
   consciousness on the couch, as Markus monitored Crayon's output, and I
   monitored the medical displays.
       Arabella sat up, and smiled.  "Very close, guys.  We still don't
   have the scents down, though.  I could only smell the ozone, not the
   flowers."
       "Neural induction has its limits," said the young Alfred.  "We
   need some way to enhance the interface."
       "Little brother, you can figure it out.  You've put us on the
   right track with this direct neural stimulus.  Programming Crayon for
   the environments is easy--converting those environments to a form our
   sensory nerves can directly access is difficult.  But we're getting
   there!"  Markus seemed so sure of himself and of us.
       I had my doubts.  I had my jealousies, too, as he bent to kiss
   Arabella.
        I knew that if I wanted to change anything, to recreate my
   present and future, that I would have to stay in this past, but I
   couldn't bring myself to do it.  I just couldn't.
       Once more I tore myself out of the simulation--a trembling,
   sweat-soaked human in an old leather armchair, sitting before an
   obsolete video monitor.  The expressionless face of Derfla regarded me
   from the screen.  We watched each other for a long moment, human and
   video image, before he spoke.
       "Dr. Stringer--Alfred, we must continue.  You were very close just
   then, before you abandoned the scene."  He swept his arm backward to
   the two remaining doors.
       I shuddered.  I'm an old man.  I don't have the capacity for too
   many shocks at one time, at least not any more.  But I felt compelled
   to play out this little drama, perhaps to find what I once lost.  I
   took a deep breath.  "The blue, please," and once again found myself
   moving at lightspeed, a silver image in the mind of Crayon.
       We were pioneers in a technology that would become the standard by
   the end of the twentieth century--and be outlawed a scant ten years
   later.  The crude neural induction system I designed became a direct
   cortical implant.  People could feed information directly into their
   synapses.  The world was a better place . . . for a while.
       Too many people began to live in a virtual reality.  The real
   world became a pale imitation of the scenarios they designed.  The
   first deaths took the world by surprise--locked in a world of their
   own making, the victims died of dehydration just a few feet from the
   kitchen taps.  The disappearances were even more startling.
       These were my thoughts as I sped along the circuitry of Crayon,
   the Cray mainframe that housed our early programs.  It was on display
   in the Smithsonian now, and this electronic bulletin board had somehow
   accessed it.
       Derfla and I left the Cray, travelling along the cable to the
   neural induction array that a young Alfred Stringer was working on.
   We entered his hands, his mind.
        Goddamn William Shakespeare. Shall I compare thee to a
   summer's day? shall I create thee a summer's day? Shall I make THEE
   a summer's day?  When I heard Markus muttering these hackneyed
   sonnets to Arabella, I began to lay my plans.  They wanted the
   virtual reality of a summer's day?  Well how about I make Markus
   into a summer's day?  Arabella could only love a summer's day so
   far, no matter how beautiful and temperate.
        I began studying wet ware, and biosensors, everything having
   to do with biological components of electronic systems.
        Everything worked perfectly.  We all three "went in"
   wet wired through the contacts most people would have permanently installed
   to directly access their cortexes at the end of the 20th century.  Arabella
   and myself were standing in a beautiful park.  Markus was nowhere to
   be seen.  She wasn't too upset at first.  I reassured her that it
   was probably a hardware problem--a malfunctioning line or jack,
   and that Markus would be sitting in the computer room when we got
   home--fuming over missing our first outing.  In the meantime I
   basked in the glory of her undivided attention.  We strolled down
   the lawn, and paddled our feet in a little pond, and fed some
   squirrels.  Both of us marvelled at the reality we were
   experiencing.  We were so proud of our work.  I was especially
   proud, because I thought I knew exactly what happened to Markus,
   and knew that now Arabella would be all mine.
        But she kept saying "I can't believe Markus isn't here!  It
   just feels like he should be here."
        And indeed, I felt Markus's presence strongly.  Especially by one
   large live oak tree in the middle of the park.  Right where I
   sent him.
        When we finally exited the program and she found Markus's
   empty contact-cluster sitting on the floor she was distraught.  Then I
   pointed to the time.  What had seemed minutes to us, and taken
   slightly over 12 hours.
        "Markus is probably at home sleeping, or getting something
   to eat somewhere."
        "No, He went with us didn't he?  You know something you
   aren't telling me!"
        "Really, Arabella,  I'm sure that you are overreacting.  You
   call his house, and I will look through the house here."
        I wandered upstairs calling his name.  My heart was full.
   Arabella was mine at last, my brother was gone forever. When I
   got back to the comp room Arabella was gone.  There was a note to
   me on the screen of the small lap-top computer that just said.
      "I've gone looking for Markus."
       At first I assumed that she went to Markus's home.  Then I
   saw the program on the screen of the Cray, and realized that
   Markus's cable now ended in Arabella's chair. She had re-executed
   the virtual reality program using Markus's terminal.  Now they
   were both a mere summer's day in the virtual reality we had
   created.
        No matter how many times I tried to go back to that summer
   day I couldn't find it.  I began to feel that Markus and Arabella
   were playing games with me.  Leading me on a chase through the
   microcircuitry, and laughing like children behind my back.  They
   obviously had the ability to change the virtual realities from
   within because I accessed the same programs to find alien
   landscapes, arctic winters, and sometimes total blackness.  I
   always felt them nearby, but never managed to connect.
       They were gone, and they'd left me behind.  They were dead, and I
   had killed them.  Guilt drove me out of the program once again.
       As we faced each other now, I recognized my guide.
   Derfla--Alfred.  He was me, I was him.  He was the part of me I left
   behind with my betrayal, the part that reported two missing persons to
   the Boston police.  I knew where they were, though, or at least what
   was left of them.
        "Let's go for the last door."  I said, and allowed myself to
   be swept through on a tide of electrons.
        I was sitting in the den once again.  But I couldn't
   remember if this was real or created.  There was only one thing
   left to try, and I knew there was no going back once I tried it.
   I picked up the cluster that I had rigged for Markus so long ago and
   slipped it onto my head.
   It was a summer's day in the park.  Markus and Arabella were
   feeding the ducks at the pond.  Arabella turned and looked up at
   me as I approached.
       "Oh look, Markus, he's finally here!"
       "How long has it been?" Markus asked as he turned and laughed.
       "Forty-five years."  I began to sob.
        Arabella came and held me.  As my sobs slowed, I began to
   beg them to forgive me.  I looked up and saw Arabella scowling at
   Markus.
        "You'd better tell him.  I told you it was a cruel thing to
   do!"
        "Hey, he was going to turn me into a tree!  Listen, little
   brother, don't feel bad.  You didn't do anything to us.  We've
   been fine.  I saw what you were doing, and wrote a different
   virtual reality program working on a closed loop and taking
   feedback directly from your subconscious.  You see, you've never
   left your virtual reality.  Wherever you've been--whatever you've
   done from the moment you plugged into that Cray was created by
   your own devious mind.  It may have seemed like 45 years, but in
   real time it's only been about an hour.  I had it working off a
   timer in the den."
        "What are you saying Markus?  You mean that you and Arabella
   have been sitting around the park here while I've been suffering
   the tortures of hell for killing you both?"
        "Well, the short answer is yes.  But remember that whatever
   tortures you suffered you also created for yourself.  Your
   conscience just wasn't up to fratricide, little brother, and I
   guess we both knew it at heart. "
        I didn't know what to feel.  Relief, anger, and dismay fought
   for attention in my psyche. Before I could say another thing
   Arabella spoke.
        "Why, it looks like rain, did either of you program rain
   into this reality?"
        "Hey, you did remember to turn on the surge protector didn't
   you?" Markus asked.
        A huge bolt of lightning flashed out of the sky and hit the
   live oak tree that I was once convinced was my brother Markus,
   and everything went black.
                            #        #        #
        When the smell began, the neighbors called the police
   department.  A few firemen and cops were casting about in the
   ruins of what was obviously a long-abandoned house.  There were
   no records of the owner, or owners, and it was a bit of a mystery
   what should be done with the house and lot.  They found a room full
   of ancient electronic equipment, and what was left of the body of a
   man seated in an old leather armchair.
        "Jesus, Al, look at all of these antiques!  They must be
   worth a fortune to a collector.  There's a keyboard and a two-
   dimensional monitor, and look--printers that use paper."
        "Yeah, and look at this little dandy." Al said holding up a
   dusty cable with a nasty looking bundle of wires on the end.
        "Wow, bioware.  That's been outlawed for at least 20 years.  I
   wonder what happened here?"
       "We may never know, you know."  Behind the two men, a single line
   blinked on the ancient monitor:
                              NO CARRIER
                                 -end-
|Contributors:  Lucia Chambers, Michael Hahn, David Holloway,
|Franchot Lewis, and John Wallace.  Final edit by Michael Hahn.
|Copyright (c) 1993 Pen and Brush
?Contents ?6
The Wall
by Karl Weiss
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 36 43 lightred]
>.hilite[2 64 76 lightred]
              I walk along the path
              and a chill wind sends shivers up my spine.
              I reach panel 9E
              and my unseeing eyes look beyond
              to the crash and flames of the past.
              My fingers press into the stone, unfeeling,
              bringing remembrance.  Again,
              the pain, the sorrow.
              I look inward, and see through my tears
              long forgotten places, our callow, shallow faces,
              aged long before our time.
              I remember!  I remember the wrath
              of the Gods of War,
              bringing fire, shrapnel,
              burning flesh, loose entrails,
              ours, theirs.
              Wiping my eyes, I continue
>.pause[]
The Wall
  continued
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 36 43 lightred]
>.hilite[2 64 76 lightred]
              down the stone path, hearing my heels
              click in the dark.
              It is 2 in the morning.  Dark.
              The best time to be here.
              I see others, dressed like me,
              field jackets, boots.
              We acknowledge/don't acknowledge each others presence.
              With a nod, or not.
              Lost in our own memories,
              sharing a common bond, never
              understood by those who were
              never there.  Brothers.
              Each of us lost in our own memories
              from that time of the not distance enough past.
              I stop at 5W.  Tenderly run my fingers
              along the stone, remembering friends,
>.pause[]
The Wall
  continued
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 36 43 lightred]
>.hilite[2 64 76 lightred]
              days of heat, light, sound, fury that came from the
              clear sky, ending day and night for so many.
              My eyes fill once more.
              When I can see again I look at
              the things left behind.  Detritus of our
              past, or healing?  Boots, medals, pictures.
              Some have meaning to me, others I can guess at.
              Some are totally private.  A stuffed bear, an
              empty candy box.
              I cry again.  Through the tears I
              see pictures - some against the wall, others
              from my past, lost in time and space and my mind.
              I wander to the end of the wall, not seeing
              the others, them not seeing me.  Each alone.
              I wonder why I am here, and others are not.
              Will I ever find peace?

|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Karl Weiss
?Contents ?7
When You Ain't Here the Circus Ain't Fun
by Franchot Lewis
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 16 55 lightred]
>.hilite[2 60 76 lightred]
        "Yo, Wanda?"  He called from the other side of the park. She
    turned. She looked, taking care not to lose her place in the Book.
    She placed her finger on the word where she had stopped. She
    looked again. The blurred shape of his face formed. He was not
    in range. She sighed. She wished he would walk faster. She hoped
    he would learn to come on time. She mumbled to herself, "Why
    should he?" He knew that she would wait.
        His features formed slowly. Her eyes went back and forth,
    from him and to the Book. He took small steps. She mumbled,
    he was waiting for her to get up and jump. He was her favorite
    one. She mumbled, she would go anyplace with him, and even in a
    room where he had broken wind - providing he had cracked open
    a window, enough for a breeze.
        She saw him now. He brushed his hand across his crotch.
    The heat of the summer-like day was shrinking the cotton of his
    slacks.  He smiled at her, as she squinted her eyes to see him.
    "Where are your glasses?"
        She squinted more. He shook his head, "Stop peeping at me
    like that."  He took her glasses from the purse in her lap. "Put
    them on, four-eyes," he said.
        She glanced away from him, and at the Book in her lap, then
    she looked back, and when she did her eyes glared. They went
    through the puffy whites of his eyes and the red that seemed to
    have drifted to the side. She smiled when she realized, he was
    teasing and asking her to laugh.
        "How dare you call me four eyes?" she said. "Imagine
    how I would look with four eyes? I would have one in my forehead,
    the other extra one in my ear."
        He quickly bent forward and kissed her cheek. She frowned
    again. The stubble of his beard scratched her, and she remembered
    him bearded, with hair growing wild around his face, and her
    hair, bunched up, and in dread-lock rolls like his, and growing
    down to the top of their backsides. She wanted no more hair
    like that, or of them in their little hut house, the one room, and
    the shared bath down the hall. He shaved, kept his hair
    short, and she kept hers shoulder length and combed, but for some
    reason, he had not gotten all the hairy stubs. To her, for a
    moment, they looked the same as the thick beard that grew when he
    and she lived gross.
        He sighed. He said, "I can't think of anything that could
    make me happier now."
        She pulled back. He took her face in his hand and gazed
    as if considering kissing her again, then he heard her
    complaining, "You didn't shave?"
        "Man, I did," he answered.
        She pulled free, gently, and smiled softly, blushed. If
    she was not careful, then she would be right back in a grungy
    room. She knew why he was there, though he was late.
                                 II.
        She awoke. She saw her Daddy's eyes, his hawk face
    glaring. His gruff voice has caused her head to buzz like
    a swarm of wasps had stung her. She sat on the bed, shaking
    from remembering while she slept what her father had told her
    about junk. "I don't mess with that bad ass stuff anymore," he
    said. "Not this hard head, no way. When I got off the stuff,
    back then, in the not enlightened times, when nobody shed a tear
    over a fool. The way they got you off of stuff was to put you
    in a straight jacket and lock you in a cell. And they let you
    scream. I remember how I screamed - and everyone of the giant
    spiders that crawled out on me - and the gorillas, grabbing my
    bounded arms,  and my legs, biting them."
        "Ugh,"she groaned at the crumbs and the trash in the
    bed, the residue from the box of cookies he had eaten. She
    mumbled, "He's making roaches." He always left crumbs on the
    bed and floor. She knew the crumbs would draw more roaches.
    "Gawd!" she cried. He wet the middle of the bed with sticky
    glop. "What is that?" Chocolate syrup. She wondered what had
    he been doing? "Shit, this place stinks," she said. The smells
    of the sheet, the sweat and syrup, the sex and the feet were
    almost as bad as that of the dead mouse, she found under the
    bed the previous week. She had almost died. She only stayed
    in the room because the manager promised that professional
    exterminators had been killing the mice, and he gave them a
    night's free rent.  The smells of the sheet on the bed made
    her almost barf, but she could not barf. She had nothing on
    her stomach. She coughed up spit, and placed her hands over
    her mouth to prevent the spit from running. Still, some spit
    dripped from her fingers and on the sheet. She flung herself
    up from the bed and wobbled on her legs as she tried to stand,
    then she leaned against a chair.
        Four pages - one a summons, one a warning, one a notice,
    the other with the numbers of her lawyer and of her mother -
    lay on the night stand. These were important papers dealing
    with her court dates. She glanced at his paper - one raggedly,
    wrinkled sheet, with many stains, soiled like a mat on which a
    barnyard rooster had stood. The paper lay on the floor where he
    left it. Pieces torn from the paper, as though a rooster
    pecked and tore the paper - All over the paper, numbers and
    letters were  written as though the rooster had scratch them
    there.
        "Hey," she called to him. She reached for the paper, her
    legs were still wobbling. She mumbled. "His paper probably's
    too ruin to touch." She left it. "Do you know your court date?"
    she yelled.
         The door to their room opened and he walked in, "What
    you yelling about?" His hair was wet. He wore a robe. He had
    showered.
        "Oh? You were out there?" She spoke in a trembling, loud
    whine.
        "If I were you, I would get to the shower while it's empty,
    before the rock stars wake up, and the hot water's gone."
        "We're out our minds," she whined. "What are we doing
    here? On this floor are the rock stars, on the top floor,
    the winos."
        "You want me to help you in the shower?" he asked.
        "No."
        "You better put some speed on the rump," he said. He
    slapped her on the butt.
        "Darn, don't hit me," she said.
        "Don't be flaky," he said. "I don't hit you, that was
    a sexy slap on the butt."
        "I've got to get something solid on my stomach before
    I throw up."
        "Don't you want to shower first?"
        "Where are the crackers?"
        "Gone."
        "Food disappears when you are around, don't it?"
        "Do you want me to run and get you something?"
        "No, if it's not too much bother."
        "What do you want?"
        "Food."
        "Let me get dress."
        She dropped into a chair and waited. He dressed and went
    out for food. The room was quiet, except her head buzzed. Loud
    people in the hall, on the floor above, in the street outside
    her window, kept making noise. She cursed. The noise did not
    stop for a blessed moment. She mumbled, why had she followed him
    to this rat and roach hotel?
                               III.
        "What would Mama say about him? Daddy would hate him.
    He reminds Daddy's little girl of Daddy ..." she whispered
    and mooed softly, as she lazily rolled her tongue up his
    sleeping face, pouring gross amounts of love that she long
    held, stored for her prince. She stopped at his lips. Her
    tongue pushed opened his mouth. She showered her love on his
    two chipped teeth. "I've got bowls and bowls of good stuff for
    you," she cooed in his ear. "If you wake up now, you will think
    you've got yourself one flaky woman."
        She met him on the bus while she dropped sixty pennies,
    one penny after another, into the fare box. The fare was one
    dollar. She held up the line for two long minutes. The bus
    driver became angry. He growled, "Lady!"
        "What?"
        "There are people who want to get on this bus, some of
    them are on their way to work, others are on their way home
    to their children."
         She barked back, "I'm paying my damn fare."
         "Humf!" the bus driver grunted.
         At sixty pennies, she stopped, waited. The driver gave
    her a hard stare. After a moment, she sneered, "Now who's
    holding up the bus? Give me my damn transfer."
        "Put the rest of the fare in, lady."
        "Say what? You've got the fare from me, a solid dollar
    in pennies."
        "Look, this bus is going to sit here, and these people
    are going to get mad at you until you put the rest of the fare
    in the box."
        "I've put a solid dollar in. You want me to open up that
    damn box and count out all of those pennies for you, again?"
        "Look, lady, bring your head around here and look down
    there. See that? It's something new, an electronic coin
    register. Metro is concerned about passengers being short
    with the fare. This here registers the amount that people
    drop in the box."
        She looked. On the back of the fare box was a digital
    dial showing the number sixty in red light. "It must be
    broken,"  she said.
        "Lady, put the rest of the fare in or get off the
    bus."
        "I've given Metro all I've got," she said.
        "Lady, get off the bus."
        "Bertha," he called. He was waiting to get on the bus.
    Three people were ahead of him. "Girl, what you doing
    getting ahead of me? I told you, I've got the damn transfers.
    What you doing paying that man for? God in Heavens knows we
    can't have the same mother. Let me get up there." He pushed
    his away passed the three people ahead of him. He climbed
    the steps and pushed her away. "Bus driver, our mama dropped her
    when she was a baby and she ain't been right since." He
    stopped and glared as she rolled her eyes at him. He pushed
    her. "Girl, get back there and get a seat."
        "What?"
        "Get back there."
        As she sneered, he turned to the bus driver. "She's
    retarded. Here are our transfers."
        The driver nodded, "Thank you."
        "C'mon, Sis."
        She kept sneering as he walked toward the seat across
    the back of the bus.
        "Lady will you take a seat and let the other people on
    the bus?" the driver asked.
         From the back of the bus, he whistled, "Sis," and
    smiled. She went to him.
        "Who in the hell are you?"
        He put his finger to his lips and whispered the word hushed.
        "Fool, who are you?"
        "Sit, Sis," he grinned. "You're on the bus, right?"
        She pouted, "Will you answer me? Who in the hell are you?"
        He smiled.
        Her prince, that is whom he was. She looked toward him
    and smiled as she lifted a half pint carton of milk to her
    lips.
        "You like to drink milk, don't you? " he asked, displaying
    his elastic grin.
        She held the carton from her lips, showing the white
    circle on her mouth. "Don't you wish it was you drinking
    milk from my titties?"
        He laughed, "Yeah, why not?"
        She finished, discarded the carton in the waste can, and
    she belched.
        "Full?" he asked, grinning again.
        She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm full of fast food."
        "Fine, get your shower and we're going out."
        "I stink?" she frowned.
        "Yeah."
        She smiled, "I supposed I do. But, let me sit here for
    a moment. I suppose, I might need you to help me - to scrub
    my back and to help me lather up."
        She waited for a moment, until she felt steady enough to
    stand on her legs. She leaned on his shoulders and giggled
    girlishly, as he took her two hands in his and cradle her
    chin. She brought her hips up close to his. Her breasts
    pulsed, as she felt the heat in him, surging like something
    liquid. "Don't I smell?" she asked.
        "I can't notice," he said.
        "Why did you bring me steak-in-cheese when you know I
    don't like cheese steak?"
        "You needed something solid on your stomach."
        "Where are we going after I shower? Out to get something
    more to eat?"
         "No, I thought -"
         She stopped his mouth with her lips. His body shuddered. He
    pulled her tight, with one hard move, then he relaxed,
    accepting what his nose was telling him, that she needed to
    shower.
        "Let us go to Trios?" she said.
        "The Restaurant?"
        She giggled.
         No, I don't think so," he said.
        She remembered Trios as an early experience in their
    relationship. The day was warm - blue skies and bright sunshine-
    a perfect day for lunching in the sidewalk cafe. The food was
    fresh and good. They ate a big meal, double helpings of everything,
    and two desserts. The waitress was nice, a foreign girl from
    Tanzania who was going to school. They were both nice to her
    until the check came.
        "Leave the rest of the dessert," he whispered. "Don't
    stuff too much, remember you've got to run."
        "It has an almost light taste, I never had cake like
    this," she said too loud, her eyes trying to focus on the
    morsels still inside her spoon.
        He put the green colored check under the empty red wine
    bottle on the pastel colored plastic table cloth. He took a
    napkin scratched a note, begging the waitress pardon, and
    he placed the note under the empty bread basket. He breathed
    in once, then twice, and waited until the waitress had gone
    inside for another patron's order. He whispered, "C'mon,
    now, babe, time to split."
        They were both tall, with long legs and could run. "Trios
    has fat people working in the restaurant," he had told her to
    get her to join him for lunch at Trios. "The food is good. You
    can tell by the fat people working there. They got fat on the
    food. They are good cooks, but no good at chasing customers
    who walk out without paying, and customers like us who are
    going to split and run. Those fat people will get a heart
    attack if they try to chase us. They'll get heart attacks
    and die. They're all middle age anyway. The youngest one is
    thirty, and he's fatter than a hog."
         "C'mon, babe," he said, as she wiped her hand on the
     table cloth.
         She heard a scream. The waitress returned and suddenly
    realized the two of them were running out on the check.
         "Stop! Stop!" the waitress screamed. " Help! The manager
     is going to dock me. Stop!"
         "C'mon, babe!" She was running. She felt her breasts
    swelling, jiggling, as though she was not wearing a bra.
    Carefully, she picked up her feet and ran, as the waitress
    behind her howled. She placed her feet down faster and
    faster in front of herself, as she raced to cover the
    ground between herself and his bouncing butt, and his both
    of his thumping legs. He had the point, pushing people
    aside, opening a path for her to run. Her dress whipped up as
    she ran, exposing her thighs. She usually was careful of
    how she looked, making sure she covered her self. Now, she
    did not care how much her dress showed.
        The waitress, the cooks and the others in the restaurant
    never came close to catching them, and nobody along the
    escape route tried to stop them.
        As she walked with him to the hall bathroom to shower,
    she reminded herself of the incident's thrill. She smiled
    warmly at him. They were younger and invulnerable, and running
    was not as painful. After lunch at Trios, he took her
    to his apartment. It had a sitting room, and a bed, and a bath
    of its own. They fell into bed, she on him. She grinning in his
    face.
        She looked at him now with a look of appreciation. He
    had her stripped. He and her were in shower. He lathered
    both of their naked bodies.
        Somewhere along the line they had found their way into a
    rat hole. Rent had to be paid on the apartment, and the rent
    money went to the newest thrill he showed her, the injection
    of the juice delivered by the crack man. The landlord booted
    them out of the apartment.
         She was not dwelling on the lost of their private bath.
    She was shrieking. He was on her back with his tongue. She
    swore, she felt a telephone pole somewhere on her back. She
    howled and sent both of them flying to the shower floor,
    giggling.
                                IV.
        A week later, they were in the hotel bed. She had cleaned
    the room a little. He told her, he had a couple of dollars for
    food, and a couple of dollars was all the cash he had. She winced
    when he told her of his plan to get some cash by robbing a store.
        "Ain't got no money, we need some cheese," he said. She did
    not like his plan or the sound he made as he explained it. He
    spoke in sputters, in a voice, strained and hoarse. "Gotta get
    some cheese," he croaked like a frog. He cocked his head. "Think
    I'm breaking wind, talking through my ass?"
        She stumbled from the bed, opened the night stand's drawer
     removed her four papers, and the raggedly one, his.
        She said, "Don't need no more beefs, gotta speak to
    these first, Babe."
        He looked grim. "Hello?" he said. "No, you don't have the
    wrong number.  There's no one here named 'Kennedy' or 'Rich
    Heiress.' Either we get the cheese to pay the lawyer or that
    rat is gonna dump us on the tender mercies of the merciless.
    We'll be locked down in a hole until our short hairs turn
    white."
        "No."
        "If you're scared, say you're scared."
        "I'm scared," she said.
        "Ain't that terrible?  Obviously, you think I don't know
    what I'm doing? I know what I'm doing. That is why I don't
    worry about what I'm doing."
        "Man?" she said.
        "Put those papers down. They scare you with them. I
    don't look at such things when I plan."
        "Man, how are you going to rob a store?"
        "With a plan, a gun and a ... backup lady."
        "No," she said.
        "Look at yourself," he said. "Every morning, we wake up
    about this time, and every morning, I get out a ten spot and
    you tuck it in your hot little jeans, and you run out, if I
    haven't already run out for you, and you get a little piece of
    the rock. You never say no then. You never can wait to say
    yes. You need that little piece of rock, Man, like I need
    cheese. I ain't got no more cheese to get you those rocks,
    Man. You're hungry for it like you're hungry for me. I need
    cheese, Man. I need you to back me up."
        Then, she shook her head and softly said, "Oh, shit."
        He whistled and grinned.
        She remembers, something from high school, "Once more unto
    the breech dear friends. Once more unto the breech."
                                 V.
        She screamed, "Hallelujah! My Lord and Savior, Jesus
    Christ!" From the back of the hall, she opened her mouth and
    let out another scream. The scream came deep down from her
    stomach. She had screamed like that only once before, when
    early in her relationship with her lover, she wrapped herself in
    him, while he thrust in her, deeply, showing his love. Jesus
    was in her now. She felt Jesus deep, moving in her.  Every
    head in the hall turned to her. The preacher lady laughed
    and clapped her hands. The other women, except one, joined
    in the clapping. This one person stood in the back of the room,
    and watched the ladies' assembly. This one chuckled to herself,
    when her intended silent laughter got too loud, this
    person coughed, and then began to clap with the others.
        The guard was clapping, the preacher lady was clapping,
    everybody was clapping. The clapping got louder. She knew
    what it meant. Soon she would have to stand, let her
    emotions burst, and testify. Fifty of her fellow prisoners by
    their thunderous applause urged her to stand.
        She fretted. Her mind filled with thoughts, rolling all
    the scenes of her deeds and misdeeds that her conscious
    credited had merited her being there.
        He had robbed a store, and she was with him. They got
    caught. The detective said, they were such bad robbers, they
    were asking to get caught. She did not remember much of the
    robbery. He had let her get a toot. She needed courage. She was
    geeking. Her legs wobbled. She spoke fast, sounding like a bird
    who chirps. She needed the stuff to stay on her feet.
        After the police arrested her this time, her mother took
    charge, got her a legal aid lawyer. Her mother fussed like
    fussing was something a mother must do. "He is no good for you.
    How many times have I told you that? Look at yourself and think
    about where you are, and who you are. Did I raise a child to be
    a fool?" Her mother and her lawyer insisted that the court
    separate her trial from his. He entered a plea of innocence. Her
    mother and her lawyer got her to confess. The judge gave her only
    a quarter of the time he could have given for the crime.
         The court released her lover on personal bond pending his
    trial. He came to visit her in jail, asked if there was anything
    he could get her. "No, nothing," she said. She asked him how he
    was getting along.  He said he would be sweating until the trial.
    "Gotta get some money for my lawyer," he said. "I had a legal aid
    lawyer," she said. "Yeah," he said. "And you're in here." She
    said, "But, we did wrong." He said, "Yeah, but we can't give
    up. After I leave you, I've gotta hit the bricks hard. I've
    gotta get a thousand dollars in my lawyer's hot little hands. I
    gotta sell, gotta sling some rocks -" She said, "What?" He said,
    "You know, I've gotta stay out of jail, gotta get the lawyer's
    money." She said, "Be careful."
        Now, she was being cheered. In a calm voice she was telling
    her story of how she found Christ, and was in the process of
    being born again. She was nervous when she stood, but their
    cheers were like magic. That is how she will describe it in a
    letter to him.
                                  VI.
        "Yes! Yes! YES! I feel fantastic and clean, indeed,"
    are words she wrote him. "I am a witness to the awesome,
    forgiving power of God."
        He wrote back, carefully to print the words slowly, so
    she could read his handwriting. He had gone to trial and
    been acquitted by a forgiving jury of senior citizens, the
    majority of whom were old ladies who lived in government
    housing. Clean shaven and rid of his long hair, and showing
    watery, contrite, puppy eyes, he looked like somebody's grand
    son, a nice, sweet boy. His lawyer beat the prosecutor,
    like the prosecutor was somebody's raw hamburger from a
    Jewish delicatessen.  Feeling regrets, because she was were
    she was, but feeling no regrets because he was free, he
    wrote her a sweet letter, telling her how much he missed her
    and that he could not wait until she is free.
        She wrote back. "Baby, it is by God's Grace that I feel
    good about myself. I have grown spiritually and am a true
    witness for God. I am saved. Baby, I love you, and I want
    you to find Jesus too, and be saved. To help you, I want you
    to be my prayer partner. I want you to kneel everyday at the
    same time everyday and pray. Write me back and let me know
    what time is best for you, and at that time I will kneel
    with you, and stop  whatever I might be doing and pray for us.
    Is that a deal? Things will start going better for both of us.
    I just know it. Stop frowning and smile, and pray with me.
    Believe it or not, this will work."
        He wrote back. "Okay, Babe, how about at seven every
    morning for ten minutes?"
        "I hear you laughing," she wrote. "But, do this for me.
    If you haven't tried prayer yet, try it. Please?"
        He wrote her back, swearing that every day at seven he
    was on his knees.
                                VII.
        He sat on the bench. "What do you want me for?" he asked.
    "In D.C., they shoot wayward lovers, I know. They shot six
    of them in one night last week, all at about half-past three
    in the morning."
        "You're safe, it's just past three in the afternoon,"
    she said.
        "What do you want me for? To put me against the wall
    and shoot me? To have pools of my blood at your feet?"
        "I want to talk to you," she said.
        "Why? We're like dead leaves in the park even though
    it's a sunny day."
        "Shit," she said.
        He asked, "Why do say that?"
        "I love you," she said.
        "Love me? I'm a bit lost. Isn't this the woman who is still
    telling me that she won't leave that other dude?" He took
    her hand and squeezed. She thought of pulling away and
    stopped. She was drawn to the scar on his arm, and she remembered
    a drug deal that went bad. She and he were selling crack to a
    blonde couple. The blonde girl did not want to pay. He threatened
    the blonde girl and her blonde boy friend. The blonde girl began
    to curse. She slapped the blonde girl. The blonde girl went to a
    car and returned with an aluminum bat, and beat her about the back
    and legs. And, he was beaten up by the blonde girl's boyfriend.
    The blonde couple chased them down the street.
         "Baby?" he called her from her thoughts.
         She answered, "Man, I really wished you had come back in
    my life before I fell in love with him. You know, I really had
    intentions on marrying you. Maybe if we had been together,
    and I had been stronger -"
         "You're in love with him? Why do you keep calling me?"
    He scratched his head. "Man, I get this mental image of
    you with this middle age, old dude. He's sixty. He's
    dressed up in a black suit. You have on a black dress.
    It's a cold, gray day, like night, though it is day time.
    He's dropped his black pants and has pulled up your dress.
    He's got you bent, face up, across a short brick wall, and
    he's doing it to you. I know why you keep calling me. It is
    because you need some. You need to melt again. You get no
    thrill, no nothing from him. I see no love there. It gets
    messy between your legs with him. It gets like a waste dump.
    Maybe if you would come clean we can get to developing
    something. We can get busy together and make something
    happen."
        As he talked, she turned out some of the stark ugliness
    of his words. She heard herself thinking, almost aloud.
    This muffled some of his mocking tone. She saw herself
    walking.
        She walks up the stairs toward the bedroom, to sleep
    with dear, old, weather beaten, hard working, long-time
    employed by the same employer, Mister Green. Mister Green is four
    years her senior, but he seems like a thousand years older. Her
    mother likes him. When her mother comes to visit, her
    mother always looks at Mister Green's face and smiles. Her
    mother keeps a smile for Mister Green. Like her mother, at the
    first sight of Mister Green, she looked up and smiled. She calls
    him, Greenie.  However she feels, she always has something nice
    to say to him. She likes him. She is like a child toward him. She
    trusts him. Mister Green is like the windows of his house, clean
    and clear, giving light an easy surface to pass. She opens the door
    to the room. Though the house is big and they are alone, Mister
    Green wants the door closed when they are in the room together.
    Mister Green said, closing the bedroom door is a good habit to
    develop even before the children come. Mister Green wants children,
    as many as he can count on one hand, five. Mister Green has a
    bathroom on every floor for the children. Yes, she is willing to
    be the mother of his babies. She feels Mister Green will be a
    good father.  Mister Green has been borne again and is saved.
        "Maybe this is not a good day for this, you're in a moody
    mood."
         "One thing I want to know is, does that dude know
    about me? And what did you tell him? And have you told him
    about me recently? No, I bet?"
        "Baby-"
        "Man, you know yourself, I'm the one who will go over
    there and tell that dude about us, and if shots get fired,
    well, let the thing be."
        "Why?"
        She has asked herself many times, "why?"
        Why? The need, she answers. The buzz in the head like
    fuzzy whizes until she can't see. She needs clarity. The
    charity of of his penis, she thinks, as she needed the
    charity of his dope.
        She became angry. "Look, Baby. I don't know what kind of
    women you've been dealing with, but I can tell you they were
    not on their jobs." She stopped, listened to what she had
    said, heard herself whining, and started softly. "Don't mean to
    talk about them, but that is really how I feel."
        "My women?" he shook his head. "What about your dude?"
        Her dude, Mister Green - Mister Green or him? She thought.
    With him people disappeared, friends, associates, people you
    knew. They were in jail. Some were dead. Some got tired and
    left. She did not see them anymore - only him. With Mr.
    Green - well, Mr. Green was Mr. Green.
        She thought, she dreamed, she remembered.
        Even with light in her eyes as she lay naked, waiting for
    Mister Green to begin the baby making, and feeling that she
    likes him an awful lot, probably loves him, she can not help
    thinking of him who was her lover before she was born again
    and saved. After sex with Mister Green, she feels less tired
    than she had with her ex-lover. On that first night with Mister
    Green she felt a slight buzz.  With her ex-lover, she thought of a
    rooster, saw a barnyard cock. Mister Green is a dependable husband,
    a homebody. To her, sex to him is like climbing the front steps on
    a slippery icy day - careful, so not to fall and hurt herself. She
    remembered racing up a hill with her ex-lover, fleeing around the
    corner, to the blacksmith's, watching the hammer going hard.  She
    has not counted the number of steps Mister Green climbs as he huffs
    and puffs. Sometimes while Mister Green is climbing, she turns and
    looks at the closed door; other times, she recites in her head a
    poem  she learned in the third grade, a poem that starts, "How do I
    love thee? Let me count the ways."
        "Babe," he tapped her gently on the shoulder. "Where 's
    your mind?"
        "Huh?"
        "You 're not listening."
        "I am," she said. "And, if I left him, I wouldn't have you,
    you're still messing with that crack."
        "What?"
        "Still letting it get the best of you? Huh? I told you
    when I got out of jail if you were still messing with shit -"
        "Shit? Watch your language. You're a church lady now."
        Her face twitched and she looked from him to the
    ground. He laughed. She glared. "If you had stuck with me
    when I got out and stopped messing with all those crack head
    bitches, you'd be better off. Now, see if I left him where
    I'd be?"
        "Crack head bitches?" he grinned. "Church lady has
    dropped her religion. Her religion is a twitching corpse,
    fallen into the dust." He giggled.
        She asked, "Did you ever love me?"
        He replied, "Yes."
        "When?"
        "From the beginning, when I first saw you on the bus.
    Why do you think I gave you my transfer?"
        She smiled. "Are you still hustling transfers?"
        "Man, where is this going?"
        "You're on shit, aren't you?" she asked. He did not
    answer. "Because if you weren't you would have been at the
    circus, yesterday."
        "I'm here today."
        "After I had to call you and leave messages everywhere.
    Anyway, I still love you, though I had to spend my damn
    money on tickets, and I spent the whole afternoon waiting for
    you."
        "I didn't want to go to the circus," he said.
        "You said you did."
        "I didn't want to go."
        "It was your idea."
        "I talked about going -"
        "That's was all you talked about the other day."
        "Since I was a kid, I've always liked going. I mentioned
    it, and you took up the ball and ran with it, said you would
    get the tickets and we would make a day of it together. You
    even suggested a little nookie afterward. But, I couldn't go."
        "Because?"
        "Don't know."
        "Because?"
        "Not going to tell you."
        "BECAUSE?"
        "The circus wouldn't be fun, with you not there for me
    to take home afterward."
        "Baby," she said, "I can't."
        "You've got to go home to that dude, don't you?"
        "Yes."
        "Nothing I say can change that?"
        She stood. She knew. Each night when Mr. Green finishes
    with the baby making, Mister Green smiles and is happy.
    Knowing that Mister Green is happy makes her feel better.
        "My birthday is next month, " she said.
        "You don't want me to forget that, I won't forget
    that."
        "Don't forget," she said.
        "Wait," he said. "Maybe we can go someplace for the
    next couple of hours?"
        "No, you promised me you would get off the shit
    first."
        "Oh, Man," he said.
        "No, baby," she said.
        He raised his hands up in the air, said, "See you," and
    he began to walk away. She called to him, "I'll call you?"
        He waved, acknowledging, and kept walking without
    turning to look back. She watched him until she could not
    see him any longer, then she tucked her Bible under her arm
    and took the subway home.
|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Franchot Lewis
?Contents ?8
Why John's Diner
by John Chambers
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 29 44 lightred]
>.hilite[2 61 76 lightred]
     I remember the first time I ever visited a diner.  The memorable
     event occurred in August, 1968, in Red Bank, New Jersey.  Being
     raised in the South, I had never seen such a marvel before.  Things
     in the South close at 10 pm each evening, just before they roll
     up the streets.

     I was delighted to find that the local diners in Jersey were open
     24 hours a day, and that I could order a steak at 3:00 am, or
     breakfast at 5:00 pm.  It was a whole new concept for me, and a
     very convenient one. I was 22 years old at the time, and spent
     many late nights and early mornings running the streets of northern
     New Jersey.  A guy could build up quite an appetite doing that
     sort of thing.

     When my tour of duty in New Jersey ended, I very sadly left the
     diners and submarine shops of the northeast for the New Mexico
     desert.  It was back to the South again, and diners were gone
     from my life for many years to come.

     In the eighties I moved to the Washington, DC area.  While I didn't
     find any diners (at first), I did find the love of my life.  Lucia
     was living in New York and making many business trips to DC.  I soon
     began making frequent visits to Long Island to woo my future wife.

     And there I found them.  Names like "Embassy," "Empress,"
     "Princess," even the "Sayville Modern Diner."  All shared similar
     decor, and that 5 pound brown leather covered menu that diners like
     to drop on your table.  I visited almost every diner I saw, and
     delighted in an array of giant plates of hot food, freshly baked
     breads, pies, cheesecake, and endless cups of coffee.  I had truly
     found "Diner Heaven!" For each of my birthdays I was taken anywhere
     I wanted for dinner.  You guessed it - a diner!  Back in Washington
     diners weren't so plentiful, so I plodded along with unacceptable
     substitutes.

     John's Diner first appeared a couple of years ago.  Lucia was
     suffering from "painter's block," and was looking for a subject for
     an oil painting.  In the interest of getting her painting again I
     "commissioned" her to do a painting for me.  We agreed that I would
     provide the subject and the canvas, and she would produce the
     painting.  I had a small postcard of Picadilly Circus in London.  It
     was a very colorful and "busy" little postcard of this famous
     square.  I purchased a HUGE canvas and presented both items to
     Lucia.

     She spent almost a year on the painting, and the final product is a
     joy to behold.  The oil shows London at sunset, just after a rain
     storm (among her many modifications). Amidst all the buildings,
     automobiles, neon signs and posters stands one little store with a
     bright pink neon sign, hidden away in the lower left corner of the
     painting.  "John's Diner" was now a permanent part of the London
     cityscape.  A little gift to me, my name on a diner!

     The diner surfaced again several months ago.  Lucia was naming
     conferences on our bbs, and suggested John's Diner for the Cooks
     Conference.  She passed that by for the time, reserving the name for
     a future newsletter article instead.

     So John's Diner came into being, and has now evolved into what we
     see as a diner in downtown Washington.  It's a nice place to visit,
     and very unique in it's own way.  Open 24 hours. Stop by and visit!
| -end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 John Chambers
?Contents ?9
Review of John's Diner
by John Chambers
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|MEMORANDUM
            TO:       Mr. W. G. Caldwell, Senior Editor
                      Washington Daily Journal
            FROM:     Jeff Epstein
            DATE:     March 28, 1993
            SUBJECT:  Review of John's Diner

    I have completed my assignment to review John's Diner for next
    Thursday's Dining Out section, although I admit I am somewhat
    confused concerning this matter.  Although I have grown accustomed
    to many people in our fair city having some well placed political
    connections, it baffled me as to why we would even consider
    publishing anything about this particular restaurant.  I have since
    learned that things are not always what they seem.  Following is a
    collection of the notes which I have compiled concerning my recent
    visit.
                             -   -   -
    Somewhere along J Street near the heart of our nation's capitol can be
    found John's Diner, an unusual dining establishment.  If you follow J
    Street past the last of the male transvestite hookers of DuPont Circle,
    going not quite to the fake Rolex vendors of Georgetown you can locate
    the newest of Washington's pubs.
    John's Diner is sandwiched between the "Magic Crystal," a shop which
    advertises metaphysical books, crystals, herbs and palm reading by
    FAX, and a small rare bookseller who also peddles lottery tickets,
    cheeses from around the world, and tatoos. It's an easy place to spot,
    mostly due to the very creative and colorful neon sign which flashes
    "EATS" in letters approximately four feet tall. Beneath this
    monstrosity John boldly hawks his "Steaks, Chops, Cocktails, Beer,
    Wine!" -- also noting that the Diner is open "24 hours."
    Once my eyes managed to readjust and react to this visual assault, I
    peered through the plate glass windows to note that a few people were
    actually seated in the diner - in spite of the "CLOSED" sign which was
    displayed prominently on the door.  A slight push to the door allowed
    me entry into one of the more unusual places this reporter has visited.
    The violation of my optic nerves which had been so painful on the
    exterior of the Diner continued in earnest on the interior.  John's
    Diner is filled with a collection of some of the most unusual
    furnishings I've ever seen, a collection even the Salvation Army would
    reject.
    The bar was the least offensive of the furnishings, and was of a highly
    polished cherry wood with the standard brass rail.  As I turned my
    head from the bar I spotted 5 booths which were obviously original
    equipment for the diner when it was first furnished in the early
    nineteen twenties.  The booths had apparently not been refinished
    since their installation, and boasted numerous tears, rips and
    abrasions - many creatively mended with duct tape or merely covered
    with scraps of cloth.  In addition to the booths there were five or six
    tables, all different sizes and shapes.  These ranged from 1950s type
    formica and chrome dinette tables to heavy round wooden antiques, all
    in a state of obvious disrepair.  I noted that several of the tables
    boasted huge chess sets and scrabble boards.  The odd collection of
    tables was only surpassed by the accompanying chairs.  Truly a yard-
    sale-junkies' gold mine, they consisted of every possible shape, color
    and height.  There was even one obviously broken Barco-Lounger
    which had been retired from use in some suburban home.
    I returned my gaze to the bar where a smiling, bespeckled man was
    wiping the polished surface with what appeared to be an old pair of
    boxer shorts.
                "Hi!" he said, "what can I do for you?"
    I noted a distinctive southern drawl in the voice, and walked toward
    the bartender saying "Hi, I'm Jeff Epstein from the Washington Daily
    Journal.  I stopped by to take a look around for a possible article. You
    are?"  The man behind the bar beamed and motioned to one of the bar
    stools bearing numerous strips of duct tape.  "Have a seat.  John
    Chambers, owner and barkeep." He stuck out his hand and continued,
    "Coke or coffee?  Don't have my liquor license yet."
    I asked for a coke, and watched John disappear around the corner of
    the bar.  Located on the wall behind the bar was one of the most
    fascinating paintings I had ever seen.  It was a view of Picadilly
    Circus in London, and was painted to show the busy street scene at
    sunset, just after a summer storm.  I gazed at the painting for a
    moment, then noticed "John's Diner" on the left in pink neon,
    positioned over one of the windows in the painting; on the right side,
    in yellow, "Lucia Chambers, 1992" painted in as a theatre marquee.
    To my left was a painting of swirls of blue and white, with a placard
    underneath titling it "ANGELS by Michael Heinich DO NOT
    TOUCH."
    John returned with my coke and offered to show me around.
    The first thing I noticed was a table in the corner of the bar that was
    covered with a high structure made of saran wrap -- it looked like a
    greenhouse.  "Oh, that's my wife Lucia's orchid collection," my host
    explained. "Touch it and you're dead meat." I didn't touch it.
    We moved on, and John pointed out the ornate ceiling moldings,
    custom-made by Phil Gottfredson, an incredible mural above the front
    door of a french caf
 street scene by "~MAX~" (Maxine Urso), and The
    Bookcase. I should have noticed it sooner, because it ran the length of
    wall along the longest row of tables. I jotted down some titles: "The
    Collected Stories of Michael Hahn," "Ruby's Pearls Collectors' Set,"
    "Poetry In Motion," "The Poetry of Cecilio Morales," "Recipes by Dave
    and Jane Winer," and "Bedtime Stories, by Franchot Lewis."
    Perched above The Bookcase, standing on a wooden dowel that
    supported an incredible tapestry depicting the art of winemaking, was
    a huge blue and gold macaw parrot, staring down at me with general
    disfavor. He was just plain menacing.
    John told me the tapestry was by Karl Weiss and the bird's name was
    Cosmo.  He said Cosmo was just a kid and didn't bite. I didn't believe
    that for a second.
    John opened a couple of doors and I couldn't see too well, but one was
    a storeroom, another was the bathroom, and there was a huge room he
    called "The Back Room" where a couple of people were screaming at
    each other in Spanish.
    John offered me a meal and I accepted, expecting the worst. However,
    John explained that while no-one fussed over any of the decor except
    the orchid collection and the artwork, that John's Diner was about the
    best food to be had in the District of Columbia!  The menu is a
    gourmet fest.  John explained that the dining consultant, John
    Wallace, has made a superb collection of dishes from different cooks in
    the area. I took some notes off the menu: John's Teriyaki chicken,
    Dave's Chili, Jane's Baked Grits, Dave's Foccacia bread, Jeff's Pasta
    Salad, Debbie's Chicken Salad, Lucia's Rosepetal Pat
, John's Bundy
    Burgers...
    I ordered the chili. It was delicious, and, I was told, contains a special
    ingredient that Dave Winer will only tell while on a "Birdwalk,"
    whatever THAT is.
    I was so impressed with my meal, I asked John to introduce me to the
    cook. John dragged out of the Back Room this guy who was whining
    and screaming in Spanish and wringing his hands. John said, "This is
    our chef, Raoul, please tell him you're not with Immigration.  He
    doesn't speak much English.  We found him in a shopping cart out in
    the alley."
    Then, a tremendous noise shook the building. The walls shook, the
    glasses rattled, and I thought we were having an earthquake.  A huge
    motorcycle pulled onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The
    front door blew open.  The biggest guy I have ever seen in my life
    stood in the doorway, blotting out the sun.  This wild-eyed fellow, well
    over six feet tall and covered with tatoos, stared into the diner.  He
    made a Hell's Angel look like Don Knotts. Suddenly I heard a woman's
    voice coming from behind the man, "Get out of my way you idiot!" and
    he was pushed aside by a petite woman with green legs who barged
    into the bar yelling "John, Lucia!  We're here!"
    The giant looked at the saran-wrap tent, his eyes grew big, and he
    rushed over exclaiming "Phalaenopsis!  Lucia added a new
    Phalaenopsis!  Give me some coffee while I look at the new orchid!"
    The petite woman ran over to the macaw, yelling "David Look It's
    Cosmo! We have fruit testicles Cosmo you sweet thing lookie what Del
    brought for you!"
    I didn't want to know.
    While Motorcycle Man "David" gushed over the orchids and "Del" fed
    Cosmo strange yellow things shaped like walnuts and Raoul broke into
    tears at the entrance to the "Back Room," I decided I should leave.
    That's when I noticed the incredibly beautiful black Steinway partially
    hidden behind the front door. The Steinway, as shiny and professional
    as it looked, had some odd assortment of caramel and chocolate stuck
    into the strings. John Chambers wouldn't say what had happened to
    the piano except "Ruby" which I presume has something to do with an
    exploded dessert glaze.

    On top of the piano was a little bulletin board with some green
    thumbtacks stuck into it. Ripped pieces of paper and dollar bills were
    taped to the outer edges. Some of the tape was old and yellowed, but
    the the newest covered a yellow post-it note that said, "Pen and
    Brush, [phone]."  I plan to follow up some time, and give that
    number a call.
|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 John Chambers
?Contents ?10
Ruby Does D. C.
by Del Freeman
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   A Story from John's Diner:
                             RUBY DOES D. C.

        The small group of regulars were gathered at the large corner
   table in the rear sharing a plate of John's Melon Spice, a varied
   arrangement of fresh melon balls lightly sprinkled with a mixture
   of fresh nutmeg and powdered sugar, and sipping mugs of fresh 'house'
   coffee, brewed with just the right amount of cinnnamon, when the chime
   of the front door indicated a new arrival. They looked up, and
   quickly returned their eyes to the melon plate, recognizing the
   nemesis of the Chambers household at once. Starving writers and
   artists they might be, - stupid they weren't. John and Lucia fed them
   out of a concern for the advancement of the arts at no cost, and if
   Ruby Begonia was a thorn in the Chambers' side, well, that was reason
   enough to avoid her.
        "Hi, gang," Ruby greeted them brightly, and they collectively
   murmured polite acknowledgments, concentrating intently on their
   melon balls. "Where are John and Lucia?" she asked of the group
   collectively.
        Everybody responded at once, making it difficult to determine
   who said what, but she clearly heard "...French Foreign Legion..."
   and "Died. Very sad."
        "Ah, you guys are a great bunch of kidders," she grinned. Just
   at that moment, Raoul emerged from the kitchen with a steaming plate
   of fresh pasta and homemade marinara sauce with baby clams which he
   deposited in the center of the large table, removing the empty melon
   ball plate. He deposited bowls and small bread plates in front of the
   regulars and returned to the kitchen, emerging once again with
   a basket of fresh-baked garlic rolls. The regulars looked at one
   another, shrugged, as if to say 'we tried', and fell to devouring the
   food. Raoul moved to a small table for two and continued to read the
   book he had been reading before the regulars appeared. Ruby sauntered
   over and joined him.
        Raoul looked up from the book and crossed himself, murmuring "Es
   muy mala."
        "What'cha readin', Rools?" asked Ruby.
        "Es o si que es," answered Raoul, flinching at her
   bastardization of his name but flipping the cover over for her to see
   nonetheless.
        "1,999 Ways to Prepare Fowl," said the title. Raoul had
   earmarked the page dealing with South American birds.
        "Ferget it, Rools," advised Ruby. "The Chambers are never gonna'
   let you get your mitts on Zack or Cosmo. Besides, I got something
   even better," she promised.
        "No theen ees batter than cook bird," pronounced Raoul. "I
   know." He glared imperiously at Ruby. "Een my country I am master
   kook," he reminded her, emphasizing the ooo' sound.. "I have master kook
   hat." He pointed at the jaunty chef's hat, with 75 flutes, set
   rakishly atop his dark curls.
        "Yeah, well in America hats are pretty commonplace," Ruby
   answered, indicating her own chapeau, complete with ostrich plume and
   felt-heart dotted veil. "A hat's not enough, Rools. You got to have a
   gimmick."
        "Geemeek? What is this geemeek?"
        "It's a ploy. A come on. Something unique to make the customers
   stand up and take notice. And I got it," she grinned proudly. "Now,
   where's the boss?"
        "Boss and Missus gone to awkshun. Buy meny nice theens... make
   restaurant sheek. Back late. Vary, vary late," he added, seeing the
   determined gleam in her eye.
        "No prob, Rools. You an' me'll just do a little innovative
   experimenting while they're gone. Come with me," she ordered,
   plucking him from his chair and propelling him toward the kitchen.
   "You guys stay right there," she called to the regulars. "You can be
   our official tasters."
        Assorted murmurs rose from the table in protest. She made out
   "scheduled root canal," and "open-heart surgery," and turned, placing
   hands on hips.
        "Okay, you bunch of ingrates," she charged, "if you don't want
   to help your patrons turn this into just the hottest eatery in
   Washington, that's okay by me."
        The regulars flinched under her gaze, dropped their heads and
   meekly nodded acquiescence. She disappeared into the kitchen,
   dragging a reluctant Raoul along with her.
                                ***
        "I'm stuffed," said Jeff Epstein, reaching for another
   french-fry. David Winer and Michael Heinich nodded in agreement,
   continuing to much happily. "Ruby, I think you've got a winner,
   here," said Howard Palmer. "What did you say these are called?"
        "Hot mustard fries," Ruby answered, popping one into her own
   mouth. Raoul stood by, watching anxiously as the group polished off
   the last one.
        Randall Hahn, who'd dropped in just as Ruby and Raoul presented
   the first plateful, smacked his lips and winked at Ruby. "They're
   sensational, all right. What's in 'em?"
        "John's secret ingredient," Ruby winked back. "If it works for
   an old white-haired guy in a funny suit with chicken, it'll work for
   John," she declared confidently. John and Lucia entered just as Raoul
   brought forth the second platter-ful from the kitchen, Cosmo and Zack
   seated comfortably atop Lucia's shoulders. Cos promptly hopped off
   and inspected the platter.
        "Fowl?" he inquired, eyeing the crispy-ochre wedges.
        "No fowl," promised Ruby. "Eat it. It's good."
        Cosmo tried one. "Good schtuff, good schtuff," he pronounced,
   snagging another.
        Raoul crept into the kitchen, emerging with a baking pan which
   he held up against Cosmo's length. Cosmo eyed him darkly. "Pierce
   your nose, pierce your nose," he offered, snapping in the direction of
   Raoul's face.
        "RAOUL!" John bellowed. "How many times do I have to tell you?"
        "Slow-witted, slow-witted," explained Cosmo, helpfully.
   "Brain-dead, brain-dead," he shrieked.
        "Ees beeg bird," explained Raoul, dark eyes pleading with John.
   "Make mucho good pollo en shallot weet babee carrots."
        "I don't care what you do in your country, Raoul. In America, we
   do not eat our pets," John insisted. "Now just forget about it."
        "Buzz off, buzz off," ordered Cosmo, capturing another fry.
   "Pierce your spleen, pierce your spleen," he offered again as Raoul
   moved quickly away.
        "So, Ruby, what have you done now?" asked Lucia, approaching and
   peering into the quickly-emptying plate.
        "Only come up with the ultimate weapon to make your diner a
   culinary success in Washington circles, that's all," bragged Ruby.
   "Here," she proffered one of the still-warm fries. "Taste this."
        Lucia took it delicately, examining it closely.
        "Eat it. It's good," advised Cosmo, diving back into the plate.
        Lucia munched tentatively. "Hmmmm," she murmured. "John," she
   turned to her mate with a confused expression, "I think she may
   finally have done something right." He, too, tried one of the
   french-fries. "Wow, Ruby, this is really good," he said.
        "Well, of course it is. When have I done anything that wasn't
   good?" she asked huffily as all eyes turned to look accusingly at
   her. "Okay, okay, maybe coating Lucia's sleep mask in avocado-puree
   wasn't such a good idea. How was I to know it would melt all over the
   couch like that? I still say nobody should sleep that close to an
   open fire, anyway. And didn't the eye doctor say that the green tint
   would wear off her eyebrows eventually?"
        "That was six months ago," Lucia reminded, batting green-tipped
   eyelashes at Ruby.
        "Well, this'll make up for it," Ruby promised. "In fact, it'll
   more than make up for it. It and the mmmpho," she dropped her voice.
        "The what?" asked John and Lucia in unison.
        "The peeahmo," Ruby lowered her voice even more. "Never mind.
   It'll clean, and I can retie that string thingie myself," she rushed
   on. "You'll make millions with these fries. Zillions. You can buy
   another one, if necessary."
        "Did she say piano?" John and Lucia asked one another. "Oh GOD!
   Did she screw up my Steinway?" moaned Lucia.
        "Screw up is far too harsh a term," judged Ruby. "Now about
   these fries..."
        John patted a distraught Lucia on the shoulder and followed Ruby
   and Raoul into the kitchen.
                                ***
       "Yum," exclaimed Ruby Begonia, lifting another forkful of
   John's 'Loaf de tuna with persimmon sauce to her mouth.
        Every available seat in the restaurant was taken and Lucia stood
   at the front door taking names for the waiting crowd. Raoul and his
   cousin, Jesus, worked frantically to prepare meals for the clamoring
   group, of which all but a handful had ordered Washington's new taste
   sensation - hot mustard fries.
        "Ruby, I have to hand it to you... you've come up with a winner,
   this time," John allowed as he watched the patrons exclaim over the
   side dish. "How'd you think of it, anyway. And how do you make it? I
   can't always be waiting for you to come in and add a secret
   ingredient, you know. Raoul has to be able to whip these up himself."
        "Well, Raoul knows everything but the base coat for the fries,
   and I mixed up enough to last 'till my next visit," Ruby said. "Let's
   face it, John - I'm not sure how hospitable you and Lucia might be
   next time I'm in town if I just tell all," she said, studying him.
        "You've got a point. I don't think I've ever seen Lucia quite so
   upset about anything as she was about that piano," John agreed. "She
   spent three days just cleaning the caramel popcorn out of the keys
   and then when she found that broken string I thought she'd have to be
   sedated. You know the piano tuner literally cried? Of course, he's an
   old man and he's been doing this for years, but I don't think I've
   ever seen a man weep quite like that."
        "Sure you have," Ruby reminded him. "Don'cha remember those
   friend of yours that went on the tour of Washington with us when they
   visited last summer? That guy... let's see, Dick... that's it, Dick
   Barkhammer. Don'cha remember? I had that whole case of those
   knock-off perfumes, the ones that came in those cute little
   containers shaped like hand grenades? What was that... Devastate,
   yeah, that was the name of the perfume. Anyway, remember I gave them
   some just to be friendly, and then when Dick wandered onto the White
   House lawn that secret service man grabbed him and frisked him and
   they took him away? He cried. Cried like a baby. How was I to know
   they were real hand grenades? I didn't open them up to smell the
   perfume. That wouldn't have been polite to give a guest a gift and
   then open it. You ever hear anymore from Barkhammer? I thought I read
   that they tried him for treason or some such."
        "Burkhalter. The man's name was Burkhalter, and no I didn't hear
   anymore from him. I understand from a mutual friend that he's still
   on soft foods and lithium, though."
        "Well, anyway, he DID cry, so I don't know why you say you never
   saw anybody cry like the piano tuner. Why, I've seen lots of men..."
        John wandered off, shaking his head as Lucia approached the
   lunch counter, reservation list in hand. As she neared Ruby, Cosmo
   reached out to snatch the jalapeno pepper from behind Ruby's left
   ear, murmuring "It's good. Eat it."
        "Absolutely everyone is here," said an excited Lucia. "I could
   almost forgive you for ruining my piano," she told Ruby. "Almost."
        "You know, I don't understand you, Lucia," said Ruby. "Okay, so
   the caramel popcorn wasn't a great idea, but how about those little
   kitties and bunnies I decoupaged onto the cover? Ya got to admit it
   adds a nice homey touch and it took me hours to cut them out of all
   those children's books you had on the shelf. Jeez, you'd think a
   person would be grateful," Ruby huffed.
        "That was a Steinway, you twit," Lucia said. "And those cute
   little bunnies and kitties you cut out came from an illustrated first
   edition, a personal gift from David Holloway!  Next, I suppose
   you'll try to sprout carrot tops and potato vines in the Baccarat."
        "Not if the Baccarat is that big glass bowl with etched purple
   zebras on the coffee table, I won't," promised Ruby. "It's too
   big for growing veggies, and besides, that's where I put my marble
   collection. They look real pretty through all those little
   handcut designs, except that one rock I had in there sort of
   chipped off a little piece of the edge."
        At Lucia's horrified gasp, Ruby rushed on. "Now don't get your
   panties all in a wad, Lucy. I fixed it. I super-glued the little
   chunk back on and you can hardly tell it was ever broken. If I hadn't
   been eating that peanut butter Reese, you couldn't tell at all. I
   kind of think the chocolate streak adds more color, though."
        "Do NOT call me Lucy," said Lucia, low and menacing. She studied
   Ruby intently. "I may kill you," she mused. "I may have to. I think
   the world will understand." She smiled a satisfied smile at the
   thought.
                                ***
        "Ruby alert! Ruby alert!" shrieked Cosmo, watching her enter
   during the following day's lunch time rush.
        "Yo, Cos, I thought we were friends," Ruby admonished.
        "Bribe me," said Cos. "You got cherry tomatoes?"
        Ruby opened her purse to reveal an assortment of grapes and
   cherry tomatoes.
        "Never mind!" shrieked Cosmo and fell to devouring the fruit.
        "Behave yourself, Ruby. We've got important customers. Senator
   Doal is over in the corner," shushed John.
        "Doal? DOAL? What are you doing serving Sweet William's
   albatross?"
        "The poor guy's having a hard time, Ruby. Give him a break. Seems
   like he's the only one in Washington who is not employing illegal
   aliens. His constituents think he's gone uppity on them. He just
   wants to sit over there and munch a few ouzo Baby Ruths to get his
   perspective back," said John.
                                   ***
        "Ye Gods, they've been over there for three hours, sucking up
   ouzo Baby Ruths like they were going out of style," complained John
   later in the afternoon to Michael Heinich.
        "Well, looks like that's about to end," answered Michael, as an
   unsteady Senator Doal and a perfectly sober Ruby Begonia rose to
   leave.
        "S'no problem," protested the Senator when John expressed
   concern. "My driver's right outside and the lovely Miss Begonia has
   agreed to take a turn around the fountain with me. Perhaps you could
   fix us up a box of those chocolates for sustenance on our journey?"
        John checked his pockets, finding nothing. He remembered the
   last time Ruby tried to help the President. She'd spent a long
   afternoon consuming tequila bon-bons with Senator Joe Byeden. Byeden
   ended up being carried out unconscious and a sober Ruby Begonia left
   the restaurant alone. Later that evening, John discovered where she
   had been secreting the unconsumed chocolates only as a result of an
   amorous advance to his lady fair which left Lucia stuck to the wet
   bar in the rumpus room by a mass of dark goo smelling of tequila.
        Ruby winked at the crowd as the twosome exited into the night.
                                   *****
        "Wow, have you seen this headline?" asked David Winer the next
   morning.
        "SENATOR DISCOVERED DOING BACKSTROKE IN FOUNTAIN" Screamed the
   bold, black type, and underneath, the drop head: "Unidentified female
   companion remains unidentified."
        "How's everything this morning?" called a cheery Ruby Begonia as
   she entered.
        Lucia emerged from the kitchen at that moment with David's
   breakfast, Cosmo on her right shoulder. The scent of fresh basil
   wafting heavenward from the fresh, soft-scrambled eggs. As the
   twosome passed Ruby, Cos reached out and captured the apple slice
   hanging from Ruby's dangle earring, muttering, "Eat it. It's good."
        "You have absolutely no scruples, whatsoever, do you?" charged
   John, glaring at Ruby.
        "Sure, I have. I put the chocolates I didn't eat into the
   deep-fat fryer this time, didn't I?" responded an irate Ruby.
        "Eeeeek," shrieked Lucia, running for the kitchen. She emerged
   with a plate of home fries with onions in some sort of dark sticky
   mass and slammed it down in front of John.
        "This is your fault," she accused. "We are NOT wasting food. Now
   eat it."
        John looked down at the mess. Looked up at Cosmo. "Hey, Cos," he
   coaxed, "Eat it. It's good."
        Cosmo trained one bright eye on the mixture and shook his head.
   "Not none a' me," he declared and snatched the apple chunk from
   Ruby's other ear.
        All watched as John tentatively tasted the unappetizing mass.
        "Hmmmm. You know this isn't half bad," he pronounced. "What do
   you think about hot chocolate fries?"

|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Del Freeman
?Contents ?11a
  Figs and Walnut Bread
by Dave Winer
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     5 C bread flour                     6 oz (1/2 pkg) dried figs
     1 C whole wheat flour               1 C English walnuts
     4 T dark brown sugar                2 oz dark rum
     1 T salt                            2 C water
     1/4 t cinnamon                      3 T butter
     2 pkgs yeast

     Prepare figs: Remove stems, chop coarsely; soak in rum for an
     hour or more. Makes about 1 cup.

     Mix all dry ingredients in a Kitchen Aid bowl with a beater or
     whisk.  Switch to dough hook.

     Cut butter into pieces, add to water, heat to 130
 F.  Add
     water slowly to dry ingredients while beating slowly.  Add figs
     and rum mixture, and walnuts.  Knead for 6 minutes at speed 4
     (medium).

     Put the (sticky) dough into a buttered bowl, cover with plastic
     wrap and place in a warm place to rise for one hour or until
     doubled in volume.

     Punch down dough and form into four equal balls.  Knead each one
     briefly.  Arrange the four loaves-to-be on one or two buttered
     baking sheets; with space for expansion.  Dust with flour. Slash
     tops in any desired pattern, e.g., criss-cross.  Let rise one
     hour or until doubled in volume.

     Preheat oven to 400
 F and bake at this temperature for 30
     minutes.  Remove loaves from baking sheet and cool on rack.
?Contents ?11b
Jane's Baked Grits
by Jane Winer
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      Follow cooking instructions on Quaker Quick Grits box for "Stove"
      Top."  While grits are cooking add: 1/2 stick butter, 1/2 Cup or
      more of chopped onion, 1/2 Cup or more of grated sharp cheddar, 1
      Tablespoon of dry mustard, and 2 lightly beaten eggs.  You may
      wish to add a little cayenne pepper while cooking.

      When cooked, pour mixture into a buttered casserole and bake in a
      preheated 350
 oven for 20 minutes.  Sprinkle top with
      paprika.

      Serve hot.  Leftovers may be sliced and fried for breakfast, or
      topped with chili for an anytime snack.

      Adapted from "Fun for the Cook" from Satsuma Tea Room in
      Nashville, Tennessee.  If you are ever in Nashville, be sure to
      lunch downtown at Satsuma for authentic Southern cooking!

                                             ... Jane Winer
?Contents ?12
Landscaping a Fragrance Garden
by Lucia Chambers
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         By following just a few simple guidelines, you can landscape
     for the purposes of utility, harmony, and fragrance, all at the
     same time.  The simple solution is to plant shrubby herbs in
     place of privets, and then orchestrate a potpourri of scents with
     the prevailing, ever-changing wind.
         A fragrance garden becomes a large perfume vat, where the
     various scents intermingle on breezes, drift on the wind to your
     nose, and then change spontaneously with the next shift in wind
     direction.  You must plan your main garden feature around what
     you like, and most importantly, the scents that will move and
     combine to create your living potpourri.
         First you must decide what your main feature will be.  Do you
     enjoy cooking with basil?  Do you snip rosemary for the stew pot,
     and lemon verbena for your iced tea?  Do you want a large swath
     of color in your garden, or would you rather have a colorful
     blend of flowers, a smattering of pointillism in the shimmering
     heat of summer?
         No matter what style or palette you use, it's best to include
     several plants from the following list of "most pungent" plants
     as your "fixative" so that all other plants will intermingle in
     strongest combination:

               Lavender     Rugosa Roses      Lilies
               Sage         Wisteria          Stocks
               Mint         Daphne            Nicotiana    alata
               Rosemary     Lilac             Hyacinths
               Camomile     Jasmine    Sambac    Orchids
               Basil        Gardenia          Mignonette
               Coriander    Boxwood           Carnations
               Wormwood     Fragrant Roses    Dianthus
               Southernwood                   Violets
               Savory

         You can mix similar fragrances to heighten a specific effect,
     such as mixing lavender with fennel and mignonette to achieve
     an extremely sweet edible aroma, or basil with tomato and lime
     pelargonium (scented geranium) plants for a garden that smells
     like a Bloody Mary!
         When visitors discover the source of the fragrance, they
     often begin to touch leaves, to ask permission to pluck a leaf
     or    tendril, and so you must consider the scented geraniums as
     important    additions to your summer garden as well as the more
     permanently resident plants. All pelargoniums* are excellent in
>.hilite[2 51 51 lightred]
     combination too, and there is an enormous variety of fragrant
     flowering and non-flowering varieties, including: Rober's
     Lemon Rose, Apricot, Peppermint, Lime, Grey Lady Plymouth,
     Oak Moss, Cinnamon, and Rose.
         Boxwood is a good backdrop for any other plant, and in fact,
     makes a more beautiful and denser hedge than privet.  Boxwood is
     an acquired preference though; it's fragrance is both herbal and
     slightly stuffy, an instant reminder of English maze gardens.
         Now that you have identified the base ingredient for your
     fragrance garden, feature it as the focal point to your garden.
     Put the plants right in the center in abundance; or edge your
     driveway with them; or if all you have is a deck, arrange them in
     tall tubs in the center of the deck and place the other plants
     around the perimeter so that their fragrances can easily mingle.
           Where you put the plants is nearly as important as
     which plants you choose, because if they are hidden, or their
     scents waft downwind and away from your house,    their scents will
     be wasted -- lost forever to your neighbors. Use the main plant
     feature in a strategic place, and then carefully place the
     "mixture" fragrances around it, or at least within range of
     the direction of the breezes.
         For example, my own deck faces southwest, and a strong wind
     sweeps around the house from north to west, around from right to
     left and off into the woods.  I choose to trap the wind and force
     the warm convection to bring out the oils in the flowers and
     leaves.  How?  I planted a stiff line of rosa eglanteria, the
     "apple-scented rose" whose leaves smell like fresh green apples in
     rain, heat, and wind.  The eglanteria is right next to the glass
     doors and forms one arch up the wall and over the doors, and
     another arch along the shorter length of the (rectangular) deck.
         At the adjacent corner is a large tub planting of a huge old
     bourbon rose, Madame Isaac Peri
re, and her long canes wrap
     around the entire corner and extend almost half the length of the
     deck (which is 22' long).  Eglanteria's branches stop the wind,
     and the scented leaves give off a very pleasant sweet smell; when
     Peri
re is in bloom she is covered with literally hundreds of
     rose madder blooms, each having at least a hundred petals, and
     each blossom absolutely *stinks* of sweet rosey raspberries.  The
     combination of fragrances is blown into the house through the
     screened glass doors; it is both heady and beautiful.
         Think of the possibilities!  You can use this strategy on a
     line of scented basils with lemon verbena, lavender bushes with
     mignonette and stocks, or if you like the scent of cloves all
     summer, try rugosa rose bushes which will also reward you with
     bright orange hips in the fall.  Line your driveway, plant under
     a main window, or heap in tubs, on your deck.
         Think of the moonlight, and the plants that perfume the night
     air, too.  Nicotiana alata for example, opens her long trumpets
     in the early evening and releases her fragrance to the the many
     moths attracted by the gleaming white flowers.  Plants such as
     this stately annual belong beneath an open window, or along a
     walkway that you favor in the twilight hours.  We have planted
     Nicotiana along the north side of the house, under the livingroom
     windows.  The fragrance mixes with the mossy scent of the woods;
     and the scent is there in the morning, lingering on even during the
     worst dog days of summer.    Dianthus ("pinks") are especially
     fragrant at night, with the white-flowering varieties being the
     sweetest and strongest-smelling of all.
         So far, you have been thinking about main odors, prevailing
     winds and mixed fragrances, and guests wishing to touch the
     fragrant sources.  Let's not forget about another very important
     rule: containers.  Containers can be carried anywhere you
     wish to mix a particular scent!  They are portable, and so
     becomes your fragrance garden.  Move them around, and feature one
     as a focal point.  Raised containers or high planters encourage
     touch, and also bring the fragrance closer to the curious nose.
          I have tried a number of combinations with raised tubs, and
     the least rewarding was a high white pedestal type containing a
     low mat of dianthus "Tiny Rubies." The "rubies" did *not* bloom
     all summer as advertised, and quickly became a boring fixture.  I
     ripped out the dianthus and filled the tub with "Sans Souci"
     lilies ringed with nepeta catmint; the pink freckled lilies
     flutter atop a mass of fragrant blue blooms for the better part
     of a month, filling a wide area with the heady perfume of the
     Nile.  When the show is over, I drag the tub from the center of
     attention to a far corner, leave the blue-blooming nepeta, and
     fill the center with a tall salvia ("Lady In Red," multi-tiered
     glowing rose-red spires), essentially giving it to the
     hummingbirds for the rest of the summer.
          I experimented one summer with a camomile lawn rather than a
     grass lawn.  Camomile has been used for centuries as lawn
     material -- it is beautifully fragrant, doesn't require mowing,
     and revels in being walked and stomped upon.  In fact, the more
     you roll and smash it into the ground, the more it takes root and
     flourishes.  I have since added camomile to various tubs and
     planters because when it is planted around the edge of a tub, it
     will hang over and down most gracefully, and the little yellow
     mid-summer flowers float sweetly in the breeze.  And, now that the
     camomile is in higher places, I am more tempted to snip the
     flowers to make tea or hair rinses, which is yet another benefit
     of a fragrance garden.
         But the camomile example is more than that, it is a ground
     cover, and that is our final rule for fragrance: put fragrant
     plants underfoot so that your walking stirs the air while
     releasing the smell.  Other favorite ground covers for this
     purpose are the very low mints such as mentha corsica (the very
     strongest peppermint-smelling mint), various thymes such as lemon
     thyme or mother-of-thyme, camomile of course, which smells of
     apples, and oregano, which doesn't like to be walked on *too*
     much but will withstand some abuse if you're careful to not break
     any woody stems.
         Favorite sources for fragrant plants (and seeds):

     Shepherd's Garden Seeds, Torrington, CT  [phone]
     White Flower Farm, Litchfield, CT [phone]
     Nicholls Nursery, Albany, OR  [phone]
     The Antique Rose Emporium, Brenham, TX  1-800-441-0002
     Park's    Seed Co, Cokesbury Road, Greenwood, SC  29647
     Wayside Gardens, Hodges, SC  1-800-845-1124

         Books to read:
     "Landscaping with Herbs" by James Adams, Timber Press, 1987.
     "Geraniums for Home and Garden" by Helen Krauss, MacMillan, 1955.
     "The City Gardener's Handbook" by Linda Yang, Random House, 1990.
     "The Scented Garden" by Rosemary Verey, Marshall Editions, 1981,
              published in the U.S. by Random House
NOTE: If you would like more detailed addresses, or a more thorough (and
less discriminating) list of suppliers and books, please do not hesitate
to ask!
|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Lucia B. Chambers
?Contents ?13
:pelargoniums
     Pelargonium v. crispum varieties are the bulk of the
     lemon-scented plants and their leaf texture is notably
     "crisped," the plant, pyramidical.  Pelargonium v.
     odoratissimum (the apple-scented) has flat leaves that feel
     like cool silk and the plants bush low and drape down like
     fuchsias; they make good hanging container plants.  Scented
     geranium leaves are very pungent and contain enough
     essential oils that the perfume industry uses rose-scented
     geranium leaves more often than rose petals for expensive
     perfume extracts and oils.  Their flowers, however, are not
     extraordinary.  P. odoratissimum produces little white
     summer flowers, and the other varieties make small violet or
     pink single "geranium" flowers on and off through the year.
>.pause[] .return[]
Lead Antimonate Yellow
by Phil Gottfredson
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                Some time back, we were discussing the fact
        that the Old Masters would use white pigment only as a
        highlight, and that they would cut their colors with a pale
        yellow to keep the colors from graying out.  I promised you
        that I would research what the yellow pigment was that was
        used to lighten other colors, and allowed the lightened
        colors to remain translucent, which doesn't happen when you
        lighten your colors with white pigments.  Bear in mind that
        there are both opaque and translucent versions of this
        pigment, the latter being a lake color.
                Lead Antimonate Yellow dates to the
        sixteenth-fourteenth century B.C.  It was the only yellow
        pigment in use in the Egyptian and Mesopotamian glazes.
                This pigment was most likely obtained from the
        deserts of Egypt, and the regions of Asia Minor, Greek
        islands, and Persia.  Since the ore was refined to pigment
        largely in Naples Italy, it was given the name of Naples
        Yellow.  The most historic formula would be Pb(SbO2)2 and
        Pb2Sb2O7 mixed with barium sulfate.
                The Naples Yellow of today is most likely an
        imitation of the original formulas, but I believe it is
        still available from a good Colorman, which I'm sure you
        have access to in your area.  Please keep in mind
        that because of the original Naples Yellow being made from
        Lead, and also containing tin, this is highly toxic, and
        today's manufacturers of the pigment will have eliminated
        the lead and are probably making the pigment from chromium
        and sulfates.  But the idea of not using pure white as a
        dillutant for other pigments resulting in dull and murky
        colors is the point of this discussion.  The Old Masters
        used white as a highlight only, this being the reason that
        their palettes were so translucent and opalescent.
                You want Pale Yellow, over moderate, or dark.
                A good example of its use can be seen in the
        painting "Arrest of Christ" by Matthias Stomer (1630-1632),
        and works by Thomas Bardwell (1704-1767), Rubens, and may I
        add that it was also extensively used in stained glass.
|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Phil Gottfredson
?Contents ?14
   Press enter to view "Shells" by Michael Heinich.
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 15 62 lightred]
>.pause[]
>.execute[shells.exe]
This image was created by using 3 different programs.  DKBSHELL was used
to create the shell definitions.  POV was used to raytrace the finished
shells. IMPROCES was used to combine all 4 separate shells into one image.
Correction regarding last month's image, "ANGELS" -  just Fractint
was used to create that image.
                                                     ... Michael
|"Shells" Copyright (c) 1993 Michael Heinich
?(Canyon)
?Contents
 A Messaging Aid for BBSers
 by Jack McGeehin
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  Do you ever feel strongly about something but find that you just don't
  have the time to put in writing? The following simplified message form
  will help you put your beef into words, quickly and accurately, without
  having to mess with all those annoying grammar rules and punctuation. Give
  it a try on any of a thousand and one issues...
  I have had it up to here with ___________; clearly, the fault lies with
  __________; I feel strongly that what should be done is ________. While
  your opinion that _______ was certainly ________ I would have to say that
  _________.  (Optional words of encouragement) __________________.
  Example: the flap over gays in the military
           inexorable homophobics
           let the gays serve in the military
           gays should not be allowed in the military
           well-expressed
           you were wrong
           Hope you have a nice day
|           Copyright (c) 1993 Jack McGeehin
?(Canyon)
?Contents
I'm Getting Better?!?
by Michael Hahn
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        I'm turning thirty-five this month.  Yeah, I know it's not
    supposed to be a big deal, but after a lifetime of filling out
    forms of one kind or another, I find myself moving into a new set
    of demographics.  It's the box titled "Age:"
             -----------------------------------------------
             under 18 []  18-34 []  35-55 [] 55 and older []
             -----------------------------------------------
    and for the last sixteen years, I've been in the second category.
    This year I join the folks in the 35-55 range.
        What does it mean, exactly?  Well, those under 18 are "just
    kids."  The 18-34 crowd is composed of "young adults."  I'm moving
    into the bracket called "middle age."  Middle age.  It brings to
    mind mid-life crises, where middle-aged men divorce their wives,
    buy toup
es, and date high school cheerleaders.  Middle age means
    spreading waistlines, gray hair (provided you don't lose it
    first), and a whole new set of creaks and groans.  Middle age is
    when the music of your youth is now playing on the oldies station.
        I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.  I still have my hair, I'm
    only ten pounds overweight, and I haven't developed any particular
    attraction to teen-aged girls yet.  The creaks and groans are
    beginning to surface, though, and I've found a couple of strands
    of silver among the blond locks.  The morning walk to the bathroom
    seems a little bit longer than it used to be.  I just quit my job
    of the last six and a half years to take a new job in a different
    field.  Oboy.  Mid-life crisis?
        Whatever the reason, I'm feeling this birthday a little more
    than the last few.  Maybe it's that little box on the form.  Maybe
    it's that I'm halfway between thirty and forty.  Maybe it's just a
    shortage of bran in my diet . . .
|-end-
|Copyright (c) 1993 Michael R. Hahn
?Contents ?Submit ?Credits ?Others? ?Acknowledgements ?(Canyon)
:Credits
Credits/Copyright information
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 27 55 lightred]
|The contents of Smoke and Mirrors are copyrighted
|property of Lucia B. Chambers and/or the respective authors.
|The contents may be distributed freely only as a whole
|package containing the complete file package as listed in the
|CONTENT.DOC file enclosed with this package.
|No other changes, additions or deletions are allowed.
|Editor/Publisher: Lucia B. Chambers
|Thank You for reading Smoke and Mirrors!
?Contents ?Others? ?Submit ?Main
:Ruby's
:Others?
Ruby's Pearls
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 34 46 lightred]

       READ:              - RUBY'S PEARLS -


                         Electronic Magazine

       AND:    Call Ruby's Joint (BBS) at 1-305-856-4897
>.hilite[8 33 45 lightred]
?Contents ?Submit ?Intro ?Credits
:submit
    Submit!
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 36 42 lightred]
                        SUBMIT!  SUBMIT!  SUBMIT!
                  (no, this isn't a hypnotic suggestion)
    It's a call to writers everywhere--
                            SMOKE AND MIRRORS
                      (a Pen and Brush production)
    Featuring:
     computer tips and reviews               short stories
     gardening and cooking hints             poetry
     local events                            humor
     book and movie reviews                  art
    Submit all stories, recipes, cartoons, poems, and articles to:
    SMOKE AND MIRRORS, c/o Lucia Chambers. ASCII text preferred,
    but we'll accept WordPerfect format.  Graphics may be in any
    standardized electronic format.
    Upload submissions to Pen and Brush BBS at:
|703/644-5196 (2400-14400 baud)
|703/644-6730 (300-2400 baud)
    Your work will be published on a one-time, showcase basis.  All
    rights are retained by the respective author/artist.
>.pause[]
>.fill[1 2 76 1 white]
>.fill[2 2 76 2 white.blue "*"]
>.fill[3 2 76 3 red]
|Uncle Sam Wants Your Money!
|Have you done your taxes yet?
>.fill[ 7 25 55 12 white.red
>.fill[ 7 25 36 10 white.blue "*" ]
>.fill[ 13 25 55 13 red
?Yes (Canyon) ?No {ohno}
:{ohno}
>.text[ center center 22 75 S 02 Hhatch     ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 20 70 S 03 Mhatch     ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 18 64 S 05 Lhatch     ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 16 56 S 07 ThinSolid1 ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 14 50 S 08 Solid      ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 12 45 S 09 EvenSolid  ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 10 40 S 10 Vdouble    ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 08 35 S 11 Hdouble    ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 06 30 S 12 double     ] .clw[]
>.text[ center center 05 25 S 13 single     ] .clw[]
|Oh NO!
>key=N .beep[ l2o1eeel7c ]
?Cry&DoIt {Murphy} ?MoveOn (Contents)
>.beep[o4t4l4]
:{Murphy}
>.cls[] .window[] .wcolor[text 11 7 2 blue]
Murphy's Law
by B. Z. Niditch
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue]
>.hilite[2 30 41 lightred]
>.hilite[2 61 76 lightred]
                          The cashews
                          were cold
                          and you insisted
                          on watching
                          "The Day of the Triffids"
                          but the video store
                          was robbed
                          and so we agreed
                          to go to the opera
                          though you hated Boris
                          with a Russian passion,
                          kids knocked out
                          the shrubbery
                          and our cook
                          at the Italian was out sick
                          perhaps I should meditate today,
                          but on whom.
|Copyright (c) 1993 B. Z. Niditch
?Main ?Intro ?Contents ?Ruby's
:(Canyon)
>.execute[canyon.exe]
|"Canyon" was made using Vistapro virtual reality software:
|the terrain is the topographic calculation from a fractal.
|I added the balloons in Micrografx PhotoMagic,
|then exported the file to GraphWorks 6.1t and turned it
|into an executible.
|"Canyon" Copyright (c) 1993 Lucia B. Chambers
?16 ?Submit ?Acknowledgements ?Others ?Credits ?Contents