Cyber Christ Bites The Big Apple 
  HOPE - Hackers On Planet Earth, 
  New York City - August 13-14, 1994 
  (C) 1994 Winn Schwartau 
  by Winn Schwartau 
 
(This is Part II of the ongoing Cyber Christ series.  Part I, "Cyber Christ Meets Lady Luck" 
DefCon II, Las Vegas, July 22-24, 1994 is available all over the 'Net.) 
 
Las Vegas is a miserable place, and with a nasty cold no less; it took me three weeks of 
inhaling salt water and sand at the beach to finally dry up the post nasal drip after my jaunt to 
DefCon II.  My ears returned to normal so that I no longer had to answer every question with 
an old Jewish man's "Eh?" while fondling my lobes for better reception.    
 
New York had to be better. 
 
Emmanuel Goldstein -aka Eric Corely - or is it the other way around? is the host of HOPE, 
Hackers on Planet Earth, a celebration of his successfully publishing 2600 - The Hackers 
Quarterly  for ten years without getting jailed, shot or worse.  For as Congressman Ed Markey 
said to Eric/Emmanuel in a Congressional hearing last year, and I paraphrase, 2600 is no more 
than a handbook for hacking (comparable obviously to a terrorist handbook for blowing up the 
World Trade Center) for which Eric/Emmanuel should be properly vilified, countenanced and 
then drawn and quartered on Letterman's Stupid Pet Tricks.  
 
Ed and Eric/Emmanuel obviously have little room for negotiation and I frankly enjoyed 
watching their Congressional  movie where communication was at a virtual standstill: and 
neither side understood the viewpoints or positions of the other.   
 
But Ed is from Baaahhhsten, and Eric/Emmanuel is from New York, and HOPE will take place 
in the Hotel Filthadelphia, straight across the street from Pennsylvania Station in beautiful 
downtown fast-food-before-they-mug-you 34th street, right around the corner from clean-the-
streets-its-Thanksgiving Herald Square.  Geography notwithstanding, HOPE promised to be a 
more iconoclastic gathering than that of DefCon II.  
 
First off, to set the record straight, I am a New Yorker.  No matter that I escaped in 1981 for 
the sunny beaches of California for 7 years, and then moved to the Great State of the Legally 
Stupid for four more (Tennessee); no matter that I now live on the Gulf Coast of Florida where 
the water temperature never dips below a chilly  98 degrees; I am and always will be a New 
Yorker.   
It took me the better part of a decade of living away from New York to come to that 
undeniable and inescapable conclusion: Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. Not that 
that makes my wife any the happier. 
 
"You are so rude.  You love to argue.  Confrontation is your middle name."  Yeah, so what's 
your point? 
 
You see, for a true New Yorker these aren't insults to be re- regurgitated at the mental moron 
who attempts to combat us in a battle of wits yet enters the ring unarmed; these are mere tru-
isms as seen by someone who views the world in black and white, not black, white and New 
York. 
 
Case in point. 
 
I used to commute into Manhattan from the Westchester County suburb of Ossining where I 
lived 47 feet from the walls of Sing Sing prison (no shit!).  Overlooking the wide expanse of 
the Hudson River from my aerie several hundred feet above, the only disquieting aspect of that 
location were the enormously deafening thunderclaps which resounded a hundred and one 
times between the cliffs on either side of the river.  Then there was the occasional escapee-
alarm from the prison. . 
 
So, it was my daily New York regimen to take the 8:15 into the city. If the train's on time I'll 
get to work by nine . . . 
 
Grand Central Station - the grand old landmark thankfully saved by the late Jackie O. - is the 
nexus for a few hundred million commuters who congregate in New York Shitty for no other 
reason that to collect a paycheck to afford blood pressure medicine.   
 
You have to understand that New York is different.  Imagine, picture in your mind: nothing is 
so endearing as to watch thousands of briefcase carrying suits scrambling like ants in a Gary 
Larson cartoon for the nearest taxi, all the while greeting their neighbors with the prototypical 
New York G'day!  
 
With both fists high in the air, middle fingers locked into erect prominence, a cacophonous 
chorus of  "Good Fucking Morning" brightens the day of a true New Yorker.  His bloodshot 
eyes instantly clear, the blood pressure sinks by 50% and already the first conflict of the day 
has been waged and won. 
 
Welcome to the Big Apple, and remember never, ever, to say, "Have a Nice Day."  Oh, no.  
Never. 
 
So HOPE was bound to be radically different from Vegas's DefCon II, if only for the setting.  
But, I expected hard core.  The European contingent will be there, as will Israel and South 
America and even the Far East. All told, I am told, 1000 or more are expected.  And again, as 
at DefCon II, I am to speak, but Eric/Emmanuel never told me about what, when, or any of the 
other niceties that go along with this thing we call a schedule.  
* * * * * 
 
God, I hate rushing.   
 
Leaving Vienna at 3:15 for a 4PM Amtrak "put your life in their hands" three hour trip to New 
York is not for the faint of heart.  My rented Hyundai four cylinder limousine wound up like a 
sewing machine to 9,600 RPM and hydroplaned the bone dry route 66 into the pot holed, 
traffic hell of Friday afternoon Washington, DC.   Twelve minutes to spare. 
  
I made the 23 mile trip is something less than three minutes and bounded into the Budget rental 
return, decelerated to impulse power and let my brick and lead filled suitcase drop to the 
pavement with a dent and a thud.  "Send me the bill," I hollered at the attendant.  Never mind 
that Budget doesn't offer express service like real car rental companies.  "Just send me the bill!" 
and I was off. 
 
Eight minute to spare.  Schlepp, schlepp. Heavy, heavy.  
 
Holy shit! Look at the line for tickets and I had reservations.   
 
"Is this the line for the four o'clock to New York?"  Pant, breathless. 
 
"Yeah."  She never looked up.   
 
"Will they hold the train?" 
 
"No." A resoundingly rude no at that.  Panic gene takes over.   
 
"What about the self-ticketing computer?" I said pointing at the self ticketing computer. 
 
"Do you have a reservation?"   
 
"Yup."  Maybe there is a God. 
 
"Won't help you." 
 
"What?" 
 
Nothing. 
 
"What do you mean won't help?" 
 
"Computer's broken."  Criminy! I have 4 minutes and here's this over-paid over-attituded 
Amtrak employee who thinks she's the echo of Whoopi Goldberg.  "The line's over there." 
 
Have you ever begged? I mean really begged?  Well I have. 
 
"Are you waiting for the four?"  "Can I slip ahead?"  "Are you in a death defying hurry?"  "I'll 
give you a dime for your spot in line."  "You are so pretty for 76, ma'am.  Can I sneak ahead?"   
 
Tears work.  Two excruciating minutes to go.  I bounced ahead of everyone in a line the length 
of the Great Wall of China, got my tickets and tore ass through Union Station   The closing 
gate missed me but caught the suitcase costing me yet more time as I attempted to disgorge my 
now-shattered valise from the fork-lift- like spikes which protect the trains from late-coming 
commuters.  The rubber edged doors on the train itself were kinder and gentler, but at this 
point, screw it.  It was Evian and Fritos for the next three hours.  
 
* * * * * 
 
Promises tend to be lies.  The check is in the mail; Dan Quayle will learn to spell; I won't raise 
taxes.  I wonder about HOPE. 
 
"It's going to be Bust Central," said one prominent hacker who threatened me with electronic 
assassination if I used his name.  "Emmanuel will kill me."   Apparently the authorities-who-be 
are going to be there in force.  "They want to see if Corrupt or any of the MoD crew stay after 
dark, then Zap! Back to jail.  (giggle, giggle.)  I want to see that."   
 
Will Mitnick show up?  I'd like to talk to that boy.  A thousand hackers in one place and 
Eric/Emmanuel egging on the Feds to do something stupid.  Agent Steal will be there, or 
registered at least, and half of the folks I know going are using aliases. 
 
"I'd like a room please." 
 
"Yessir. Name?" 
 
"Monkey Meat." 
 
"Is that your first or last name?" 
 
"First." 
 
"Last name?" 
 
"Dilithium Crystal." 
 
"Could you spell that?" 
 
Now:  I know the Hotel Pennsylvania.  It used to be the high class Statler Hilton until Mr. 
Hilton himself decided that the place was beyond hope.  "Sell it or scuttle it."  They sold and 
thus begat the hotel Filthadelphia.  I stayed here once in 1989 and it was a cesspool then.  I 
wondered why the Farsi-fluent bellhop wouldn't tell me how bad the damage was from the fire 
bombed 12th floor.  The carpets were the same dingy, once upon a time colorful, drab as I 
remembered.  And, I always have a bit of trouble with a hotel who puts a security check by the 
elevator bank.  Gives you the warm and fuzzies that make you want to come back right away.   
 
I saved $2 because none of the bell hops noticed I needed help, but then again, it wouldn't have 
mattered for there was no way he and I and my luggage were going to fit inside of what the 
hotel euphemistically refers to as a 'room'.  Closet would be kind but still inaccurate.  I think 
the word, ah, '$95 a night slum' might still be overly generous.  Let's try . . . ah ha! the room 
that almost survived the fire bombing.  Yeah, that's the ticket. 
 
The walls were pealing.  Long strips of yellowed antique wallpaper embellished the flatness of 
the walls as they curled towards the floor and windows.  The chunks of dried glue decorated 
the pastel gray with texture and the water stains from I know not where slithered their way to 
the soggy carpet in fractal patterned rivulets.  I stood in awe at early funk motif that the Hotel 
Filthadelphia chose in honor of my attendance at HOPE.  But, no matter how bad my room 
was, at least it was bachelor clean.  (Ask your significant other what that means. . .) 
 
In one hacker's room no bigger than mine I counted 13 sleeping bags lying amongst the 
growing mold at the intersection of the drenched wallboard and putrefying carpet shreds. (God, 
I love going to hacker conferences!  It's not that I like Hyatt's and Hilton' all that much: I do 
prefer the smaller facilities, but, I am sad to admit, clean counts at my age.).  My nose did not 
have to venture towards the floor to be aware that the Hotel Filthadelphia was engaging in top 
secret exobiological government experiments bent on determining their communicability and 
infection factor. 
 
The top floor of the Hotel Filthadelphia - the 18th - was the place for HOPE, except the 
elevator door wouldn't open.  The inner door did, but even with the combined strength of my 
personal crowbar (a New York defensive measure only; I never use it at home) and three 
roughians with a bad case of Mexican Claustrophobia, we never got the door open.   
 
The guard in the lobby was a big help.  
 
"Try again." 
 
Damned if he didn't know his elevators and I emerged into the pre-HOPE chaos of  preparing 
for a conference. 
 
About 100 hackers lounged around in varying forms of disarray - Hey Rop! 
 
Rop Gongrijjp editor of the Dutch Hacktic is a both a friend and an occasional source of 
stimulating argument.  Smart as a whip, I don't always agree with him, though, the above-
ground security types ought to talk to him for a clear, concise and coherent description of the 
whys and wherefores of hacking.   
Hey Emmanuel!  Hey Strat!  Hey Garbage Heap!  Hey Erikb! Hey  to lots of folks.  Is that you 
Supernigger?  And Julio?  I was surprised.  I knew a lot more of these guys that I thought I did. 
Some indicted, some unindicted, some mere sympathizers and other techno-freaks who enjoy a 
weekend with other techno-freaks. Security dudes - get hip!  Contact your local hacker and 
make friends.  You'll be glad you did. 
 
From behind - got me.  My adrenaline went into super-saturated mode as I was grabbed.  I 
turned and it was . . . Ben.  Ben is a hugger.  "I just wanted to hug you," he said sweetly but 
without the humorous sexually deviant connotation that occurred during Novocain's offer to let 
Phil Zimmerman sleep with him in Las Vegas. 
 
I smiled a crooked smile.  "Yeah, right."  Woodstock '94 was a mere 120 miles away . . .maybe 
there was a psychic connection.  But Ben was being sincere.  He was hugging everyone.  
Everyone.  At 17, he really believes that hugging and hacking are next to Godliness.  Boy does 
he have surprise coming the first time his mortgage is late.  Keep hugging while you have the 
chance, Ben. 
 
Assorted cases of Zima (the disgusting Polish is-this-really-lime flavored beer of choice by 
those without taste buds) appeared, but anyone over the age of 21 drank Bud. What about the 
12 year olds drinking?  And the 18 year olds?  And the 16 year olds? 
 
"Rop, I don't think you need to give the hotel an excuse to bust you guys outta here."  Me, 
fatherly and responsible?  Stranger things have happened.  The beer was gone.  I'm not a 
teetotaler, but I didn't want my weekend going up in flames because of some trashed 16 year 
old puking on an Irani ambassador in the lobby. No reason to test fate.  
 
* * * * *  
 
Nothing worked, but that's normal.   
 
Rop had set up HEU (Hacking at the End of  the Universe) in Holland last year with a single 
length of 800m ethernet.  (That's meter for the Americans: about 2625 ft.)  HOPE, though was 
different.  The Hotel Filthadelphia's switchboard and phone systems crashed every half hour or 
so which doesn't do a lot for the health of 28.8 slip lines.   
 
The object of the exercise was seemingly simple: plug together about 20 terminals into a 
terminal server connected to Hope.Com and let 'em go at it.  Provide 'net access and, to the 
lucky winner of the crack-the-hopenet server (root) the keys to a 1994 Corvette! 
 
You heard it right! For breaking into root of their allegedly secure server, the folks at 2600 are 
giving away keys to a 1994 Corvette.  They don't know where the car is, just the keys.  But 
they will give you the car's last known location . . . or was it $50 in cash? 
 
Erikb - Chris Goggans - showed up late Friday night in disguise: a baseball cap over his nearly 
waist length dirty blond hair.  "He's here!" one could hear being muttered.  "He had the balls to 
show up!"  "He's gonna get his ass kicked to a pulp."  "So you did come . . . I was afraid they'd 
intimidated you to stay in Texas." 
 
No way! "Why tell the enemy what your plans are."  Even the 50's- something ex-
amphetamine-dealer turned reseller of public-records Bootleg didn't know Goggans was going 
to be there.  But the multiple fans of Erikb, (a strong resemblance to Cyber Christ if he do say 
so himself) were a-mighty proud to see him. 
 
This stunning Asian girl with skin too soft to touch (maybe she was 14, maybe she was 25) 
looked at Erikb by the message board.  "You're," she pointed in disbelief "Erikb?"  Chris nods, 
getting arrogantly used to the respectful adulation.  Yeah, that's me, to which the 
lady/girl/woman instantly replied, "You're such an asshole."  Smile, wide smile, hug, kiss, big 
kiss.  Erikb revels in the attention and hundreds of horny hackers jealously look on. 
 
Friday night was more of an experience - a Baba Ram Dass-like Be Here Now experience - 
with mellow being the operative word.   The hotel had apparently sacrificed 20,000 square feet 
of its penthouse to hackers, but it was obvious to see they really didn't give a damn if the whole 
floor got trashed.  Ceiling panels dripped from their 12 foot lofts making a scorched Shuttle 
underbelly look pristine.  What a cesspool!  I swear nothing had been done to the decorative 
environs since the day Kennedy was shot.  But kudos to Emmanuel for finding a centrally 
located cesspool that undoubtedly gave him one hell of a deal. I think it would be a big mistake 
to hold a hacker conference at the Plaza or some such snooty overly-self-indulgent denizen of 
the rich.  
 
Filth sort of lends credibility to an event that otherwise seeks notoriety.   
 
I didn't want to take up too much of Emmanuel's and Rop's time - they were in setup panic - so 
it was off to the netherworld until noon.  That's when a civilized Con begins. 
 
* * * * *  
 
I dared to go outside; it was about 11AM and I was in search of the perfect New York 
breakfast: a greasy spoon that serves coffee as tough as tree bark and a catatonia inducing egg 
and bacon sandwich.  Munch, munch, munch on that coffee. 
 
I'd forgotten how many beggars hang out on the corner of 33rd and 7th, all armed with the 
same words, "how about a handout, Winn?"  How the hell do they know my name?  "Whatever 
you give will come back to you double and triple . . . please man, I gotta eat."  It is sad, but 
John Paul Getty I ain't.   
As I munched on my coffee and sipped my runny egg-sandwich I noticed that right in front of 
the runny-egg-sandwich place sat a Ford Econoline van. Nice van.  Nice phone company van. 
What are they doing here? Oh, yeah, the hackers need lines and the switchboard is down.  Of 
course, the phone company is here.  But, what's that? Hello? A Hacker playing in the phone 
van? I recognize you! You work with Emmanuel.  How?  He's robbing it.  Not robbing, maybe 
borrowing.   
 
The ersatz telephone van could have fooled anyone - even me, a color blind quasi-techno-
weanie to yell "Yo! Ma Bell!"  But, upon not-too-closer inspection, the TPC (The Phone 
Company) van was in fact a 2600 van - straight from the minds of Emmanuel and friends.  
Impeccable!  The telephone bell in a circle logo is, in this case, connected via cable to a hacker 
at a keyboard.  The commercial plates add an additional air of respectability to the whole 
image.  It works. 
 
* * * * * 
 
Up to HOPE - egg sandwich and all. 
 
The keynote speech was to be provided courtesy of the Man in Blue.  Scheduled for noon, 
things were getting off to a late start.  The media (who were there in droves, eat your heart out 
CSI) converged on the MIB to see who and why someone of his stature would (gasp!) 
appear/speak at a funky-downtown hotel filled with the scourges of Cyberspace. I didn't see if 
Ben hugged the MIB, but I would understand if he didn't.  Few people knew him or suspected 
what size of Jim-Carey-MASK arsenal might suddenly appear if a passive hug were 
accidentally interpreted as being too aggressive. The MIB is imposing and Ben too shy. 
 
The media can ask some dumb questions and write some dumb articles because they spend 12 
1/2 minutes trying to understand an entire culture.  Can't do that fellows!   
 
The MIB, though, knows hackers and is learning about them more and more; and since he is 
respectable, the media asks him about hackers.  What are hackers?  Why are YOU here, Mr. 
MIB? 
 
"Because they have a lot to offer.  They are the future," the Man In Blue said over and over.  
Interview after interview - how time flies when you're having fun - and the lights and cameras 
are rolling from NBC and PIX and CNN and assorted other channels and magazines.  At 12:55 
chaos had not settled down to regimented disorganization and the MIB was getting antsy.  
After all, he was a military man and 55 minutes off schedule: Egad! Take charge.   
 
The MIB stood on a chair and hollered to the 700+ hacker phreaks in the demonstration 
ballroom, "Hey! It's starting.  Let's go the theater and get rocking! Follow me."  He leaned over 
to me:  "Do you know where the room is?"  
"Sure, follow me." 
 
"Everyone follow, c'mon," yelled the MIB.  "I'm going to get started in exactly three minutes," 
and three minutes he meant.  Despite the fact that I got lost in a hallway and had hundreds of 
followers following my missteps and the MIB yelling at me for getting lost in a room with only 
two doors, we did make the main hall, and within 90 seconds he took over the podium and 
began speaking.   
 
"I bet you've always wanted to ask a spy a few questions. Here's your chance.  But let me say 
that the United States intelligence community needs help and you guys are part of the 
solution."  The MIB was impeccably dressed  in his pin stripe with only traces of a Hackers 80 
T-shirt leaking through his starched white dress shirt.  The MIB is no less than Robert Steele, 
ex-CIA type spy, senior civilian in Marine Corps Intelligence and now the President of Open 
Source Solutions, Inc.   
 
He got these guys (and gals) going.  Robert doesn't mince words and that's why as he puts it, 
he's "been adopted by the hackers."  At his OSS conferences he has successfully juxtaposed 
hackers and senior KGB officials who needed full time security during their specially arranged 
48 hour visa to Washington, DC.  He brought Emmanuel and Rop and clan to his show and 
since their agendas aren't all that different, a camaraderie was formed. 
 
Robert MIB Steele believes that the current intelligence machinery is inadequate to meet the 
challenges of today's world.  Over 80% of the classified information contained with the 
Byzantine bowels of the government is actually available from open sources.  We need to 
realize that the future is more of an open book than ever before. 
 
We classify newspaper articles from Peru in the incredibly naive belief that only Pentagon 
spooks subscribe.  We classify BBC video tapes from the UK with the inane belief that no one 
will watch it if it so stamped.  We classify $4 Billion National Reconnaissance Office satellite 
generated street maps of Calle, Colombia when anyone with an IQ only slightly above a rock 
can get the same one from the tourist office.  And that's where hackers come in. 
 
"You guys are a national resource.  Too bad everyone's so scared of you."  Applause from 
everywhere.  The MIB knows how to massage a crowd.  Hackers, according to Steele, and to a 
certain extent I agree, are the truth tellers "in a constellation of complex systems run amok and 
on the verge of catastrophic collapse."   
 
Hackers are the greatest sources of open source information in the world.  They have the 
navigation skills, they have the time, and they have the motivation, Robert says.  Hackers 
peruse the edges of technology and there is little that will stop them in their efforts.  The 
intelligence community should take advantage of the skills and lessons that the hackers have to 
teach us, yet as we all know, political and social oppositions keep both sides (who are really 
more similar then dissimilar) from talking.   
 
"Hackers put a mirror up to the technical designers who have built the networks, and what they 
see, they don't like.  Hackers have shown us all the chinks in the armor of a house without 
doors or windows.  The information infrastructure is fragile and we had better do something 
about it now; before it's too late."   
 
Beat them at their own game, suggests Steele.  Keep the doors of Cyberspace open, and sooner 
or later, the denizens of the black holes of information will have to sooner or late realize that 
the cat is out of the bag. 
 
Steele educated the Hacker crowd in a way new to them:  he treated them with respect, and in 
turn he opened a channel of dialog that few above ground suit-types have ever envisioned.  
Steele works at the source. 
 
HOPE had begun and Robert had set the tone. 
 
* * * * *  
 
The day was long.  Dogged by press, hackers rolled over so the reporters could tickle their 
stomachs on camera.  Despite their public allegations that the media screws it up and never can 
get the story right, a camera is like a magnet.  The New York Times printed an article about 
HOPE so off the wall I wondered if the reporter had actually been there.  Nonetheless, the 
crowds followed the cameras, the cameras followed the crowds, and the crowds parted like the 
Red Sea.  But these were mighty colorful crowds. 
 
We all hear of that prototypical image of the acne faced, Jolt- drinking, pepperoni downing 
nerdish teenager who has himself locked in the un-air-conditioned attic of his parents' half 
million dollar house from the time school gets out till the sun rises. Wrongo security-breath.  
Yeah, there's that component, but I was reminded of the '80's, the early '80's by a large percent-
age of the crowd. 
 
Purple hair was present but scarce, and I swear on a stack of 2600's that Pat from Saturday 
Night Live was there putting everyone's hormonal guess-machines to the test.  But what cannot 
help but capture one's attention is a 40 pin integrated circuit inserted into the shaved side skull 
of an otherwise clean-cut Mohawk haircut.   
 
The story goes that Chip Head went to a doctor and had a pair of small incisions placed in his 
skull which would hold the leads from the chip.  A little dab of glue and in a few days the skin 
would grow back to hold the 40 pins in the natural way; God's way. 
 
There was a time that I thought ponytails were 'out' and passe, but I thought wrong.  Mine got 
chopped off in roughly 1976 down to shoulder length which remained for another six years, 
but half of the HOPE audience is the reason for wide spread poverty in the hair salon industry. 
 
Nothing wrong with long, styled, inventive, outrageous hair as long as it's clean; and with 
barely an exception, such was the case.  In New York it's not too hard to be perceived as clean, 
especially when you consider the frame of reference. Nothing is too weird. 
 
The energy level of HOPE was much higher than the almost lethargic (but good!) DefCon II.  
People move in a great hurry, perhaps to convey the sense of importance to others, or just out 
of frenetic hyperactivity.  Hackers hunched over their keyboards - yet with a sense of urgency 
and purpose. Quiet yet highly animated conversations in all corners.  HOPE staff endlessly 
pacing throughout the event with their walkie-talkies glued to their ears.   
 
Not many suit types.  A handful at best, and what about the Feds?  I was accosted a few times 
for being a Fed, but word spread: no Fed, no bust.  Where were the Feds?  In the lobby.  The 
typical NYPD cop has the distinctive reputation of being overweight especially when he 
wearing two holsters - one for the gun and one for the Italian sausage. Perpetually portrayed as 
donut dunking dodo's, some New York cops' asses are referred to as the Fourth Precinct and a 
few actually moonlight as sofas. 
 
So rather than make a stink, (NY cops hate to make a scene) the lobby of the Hotel 
Filthadelphia was home to the Coffee Clutch for Cops.  About a half dozen of them made their 
profound presence known by merely spending their day consuming mass quantities of 
questionable ingestibles, but that was infinitely preferable to hanging out on the 18th floor.  
The hackers weren't causing any trouble, the cops knew that, so why push it.  Hackers don't 
fight, they hack.  Right? 
 
After hours of running hours behind schedule, the HOPE conference was in first place for 
disorganized, with DefCon II not far behind.  Only with 1000 people to keep happy and in the 
right rooms, chaos reigns sooner.  The free Unix sessions and Pager session and open 
microphone bitch session and the unadulterated true history of 2600 kept audiences of several 
hundred hankering for more - hour after hour.   
 
Over by the cellular hacking demonstrations, I ran into a hacker I had written about: Julio, 
from the almost defunct Masters of Destruction.  Julio had gone state's evidence and was 
prepared to testify against MoD ring leader Mark Abene (aka Phiber Optik) but once Mark 
pled guilty to enough crimes to satisfy the Feds, Julio was off the hook with mere probation.  
Good guy, sworn off of hacking.  Cell phones are so much more interesting. 
 
However, while standing around with Erikb and a gaggle of Cyber Christ wanna-bes, Julio and 
his friend (who was the size of Texas on two legs) began a pushing match with Goggans.  "You 
fucking narc red-neck son of a bitch."  Goggans helped build the case against the MoD and 
didn't make a lot of friends in the process. 
 
The shoving and shouldering reminded me of slam dancing from decades past, but these kids 
are too young to have taken part in the social niceties of deranged high speed propulsion and 
revulsion on the dance floor.  So it was a straight out pushing match, which found Erikb doing 
his bloody best to avoid.  Julio and pal kept a'coming and Erikb kept avoiding.  It took a dozen 
of us to get in the middle and see that Julio was escorted to the elevators. 
 
Julio said Corrupt, also of the MoD,  was coming down to HOPE, too.  Corrupt has been 
accused of mugging drug dealers to finance his computer escapades, and was busted along with 
the rest of the MoD gang.  The implied threat was taken seriously, but, for whatever reason, 
Corrupt never showed.  It is said that the majority of the hacking community distances itself 
from him; he's not good for the collective reputation.  So much for hacker fights.  All is calm. 
 
The evening sessions continued and continued with estimates of as late as 4AM being bandied 
about. Somewhere around 1:00AM I ran into Bootleg in the downstairs bar. Where was 
everybody?  Not upstairs.  Not in the bar.  I saw a Garbage Heap in the street outside (now 
that's a double entendre) and then Goggans popped up from the door of  the Blarney Stone, a 
syndicated chain of low- class Irish bars that serve fabulously thick hot sandwiches.   
 
"We're about to get thrown out." 
 
"From the Blarney Stone?  That's impossible.  Drunks call the phone booths home!" 
 
Fifty or so hacker/phreaks had migrated to the least likely, most anachronistic location one 
could imagine.  A handful of drunken sots leaning over their beers on a stain encrusted wooden 
breeding ground for salmonella.  A men's room that hasn't seen the fuzzy end of a brush for the 
best part of a century made Turkish toilets appear refreshingly clean.  And they serve food 
here. 
 
I didn't look like a hacker so I asked the bartender, "Big crowd, eh?" 
 
The barrel chested beer bellied barman nonchalantly replied, "nah.  Pretty usual."  He cleaned a 
glass so thoroughly the water marks stood out plainly. 
 
"Really?  This much action on a Saturday night on a dark side street so questionably safe that 
Manhattan's Mugger Society posts warnings?" 
 
"Yup."  
"So," I continued.  "These hackers come here a lot?" 
 
"Sure do," he said emphatically. 
 
"Wow. I didn't know that.  So this is sort of a hacker bar, you might say?" 
 
"Exactly.  Every Saturday night they come in and raise a little hell." 
 
With a straight face I somehow managed to thank the confused barman for his help and for the 
next four hours learned that socially, hackers of today are no different than many if not most of 
us were in our late teens ad early twenties.  We laughed and joked and so do they - but there is 
more computer talk.  We decried the political status of our day as they do theirs, albeit they  
with less fervor and more resignation.  The X-Generation factor: most of them give little more 
than a tiny shit about things they view as being totally outside their control, so why bother.  
Live for today.   
 
Know they enemy.  Robert hung in with me intermingling and arguing and debating and 
learning from them, and they from us.  Hackers aren't the enemy - their knowledge is - and 
they are not the exclusive holders of that information.  Information Warfare is about 
capabilities, and no matter who possesses that capability, there ought to be a corresponding 
amount respect.  
 
Indeed, rather than adversaries, hackers could well become government allies and national 
security assets in an intense international cyber-conflict.  In the LoD/MoD War of 1990-91, 
one group of hackers did help authorities. Today many hackers assist professional 
organizations, governments in the US and overseas - although very quietly.  'Can't be seen 
consorting with the enemy.'   Is hacking from an Army or Navy or NATO base illegal?  
Damned if I know, but more than one Cyber Christ-like character makes a tidy sum providing 
hands-on hacking education to the brass in Europe.   
 
Where these guys went after 5AM I don't know, but I was one of the first to be back at the 
HOPE conference later that day; 12:30 PM Sunday. 
 
* * * * *  
 
The Nazi Hunters were out in force. 
 
"The Neo-Nazi skinheads are trying to start another Holocaust." A piercing, almost annoying 
voice stabbed right through the crowds.  "Their racist propaganda advocates killing Jews and 
blacks.  They have to be stopped, now." 
 
Mortechai Levy (I'll call him Morty) commanded the attention of a couple dozen hackers.  
Morty was a good, emotional, riveting shouter.  "These cowardly bastards have set up vicious 
hate call lines in over 50 cities.  The messages advocate burning synagogues, killing minorities 
and other violence.  These phones have to be stopped!" 
 
The ever-present leaflet from Morty's Jewish Defense Organization asked for help from the 
2600 population.   
 
"Phone freaks you must use your various assorted bag of tricks to shut these lines down. 
No cowardly sputterings about 'free speech' for these fascist scum."   
 
The headline invited the hacker/phreak community to: 
 
      "Let's Shut Down 'Dial-A-Nazi'!!!" 
 
Morty was looking for political and technical support from a band of nowhere men and women 
who largely don't know where they're going much less care about an organized political 
response to someone elses cause.  He wasn't making a lot of headway, and he must have know 
that he would walk right into the anarchist's bible: the 1st amendment. 
 
The battle lines had been set.  Morty wanted to see the Nazis censored and hackers are absolute 
freedom of speechers by any measure.  Even Ben sauntering over for a group hug did little to 
defuse the mounting tension. 
 
I couldn't help but play mediator. Morty was belligerently loud and being deafeningly intrusive 
which affected the on-going sessions.  To tone it down some, we nudged Morty and company 
off to the side and occupied a corner of thread bare carpet, leaning against a boorish beige wall 
that had lost its better epidermis.   
 
The heated freedom of speech versus the promotion of racial genocide rancor subdued little 
even though we were all buns side down.  I tried to get a little control of the situation. 
 
"Morty. Answer me this so we know where you're coming from.  You advocate the silencing of 
the Nazis, right? 
 
"They're planning a new race war; they have to be stopped." 
 
"So you want them silenced.  You say their phones should be stopped and that the hackers 
should help." 
 
"Call that number and they'll tell you that Jews and blacks should be killed and then they . . ." 
 
"Morty.  OK, you want to censor the Nazis.  Yes or No." 
 
"Yes." 
 
"OK, I can understand that.  The question really is, and I need your help here, what is the line 
of censorship that you advocate.  Where is your line of legal versus censored?" 
 
A few more minutes of political diatribe and then he got to the point.  "Any group with a 
history of violence should be censored and stopped."  A little imagination and suddenly the 
whole planet is silenced.  We need a better line, please.  "Hate group, Nazis, people who 
advocate genocide . . . they should be silenced . . . ." 
 
"So," I analyzed.  "You want to establish censorship criteria based upon  subjective 
interpretation.  Whose interpretation?"  My approach brought nods of approval. 
 
One has to admire Morty and his sheer audacity and tenacity and how much he strenuously and 
single-mindedly drives his points home.  He didn't have the ideal sympathetic audience, but he 
wouldn't give an inch.  Not an inch.  A little self righteousness goes a long way; boisterous 
extremism grows stale.  It invites punitive retorts and teasing, or in counter-culture jargon, 
"fucking with their heads." 
 
Morty (perhaps for justifiable reasons) was totally inflexible and thus more prone to verbal 
barbing.  "You're just a Jewish racist.  Racism in reverse," accused one jocular but definitely 
lower middle class hacker with an accent thicker than all of Brooklyn.    
 
Incoming Scuds!  Look out! Morty went nuts and as they say, freedom of speech ends when 
my fists impacts upon your nose.  Morty came dangerously close to crossing that line.  Whoah, 
Morty, whoah.  He's just fucking with your head.  The calm-down brigade did its level best to 
keep these two mortals at opposite ends of the room.  
 
"You support that Neo Nazi down there; you're as bad as the rest!" Morty said. "See what I 
have to tolerate.  I know him, we've been keeping track of him and he hangs out with the son 
of the Grand Wizard of Nazi Oz."  The paranoid train got on the tracks.   
 
"Do you really know the Big Poo-bah of Hate?" I asked the hacker under assault and now 
under protective custody. 
 
"Yeah," he said candidly.  "He's some dick head who hates everyone.  Real jerk." 
 
"So what about you said to Morty over there?" 
 
"Just fucking with his head.  He gets a little extreme."  So we had in our midst the Al Sharpton 
of the Jewish faith.  Ballsy. Since Morty takes Saturday's off by religious law, he missed the 
press cavalcade, but as a radical New York fixture, the media probably didn't mind too much. 
 
I was off to sessions, Morty found new audiences as they came off the elevators, and the band 
played on. 
 
* * * * * 
 
In my humble 40-something opinion, the best session of HOPE was the one on social 
engineering.   
 
The panel consisted of only Emmanuel, Supernigger (social engineer par excellence) and 
Cheshire Catalyst.  The first bits were pretty staid dry conventional conference (ConCon) 
oriented, but nonetheless, not the kind of info that you expect to find William H. Murray, 
Executive Consultant handing out.   
 
The best social engineers make friends of their victims. Remember: you're playing a role.  
Think Remington Steele. 
 
Schmooze! "Hey, Jack did you get a load of the blond on Stern last night?" 
 
Justifiable anger: "Your department has caused nothing but headaches.  These damn new 
computers/phones/technology just don't work like the old ones.  Now either you help me now 
or I'm going all the way to Shellhorn and we'll what he says about these kinds of screwups."  A 
contrite response is the desired effect.  
 
Butt headed bosses: "Hey, my boss is all over my butt, can you help me out?" 
 
Management hatred:  "I'm sitting here at 3PM working while management is on their yachts.  
Can you tell me . . .?" 
 
Giveaways: "Did you know that so and so is having an affair with so and so?  It's true, I swear.  
By the way, can you tell me how to . . ." 
 
Empathy: "I'm new, haven't been to the training course and they expect me to figure this out all 
by myself.  It's not fair." 
 
Thick Accent: "Hi.  Dees computes haf big no wurk. Eet no makedah passurt. Cunu help?  Ah, 
tanku." Good for a quick exchange and a quick good-bye. Carefully done, people want you off 
the phone quickly. 
 
Billsf, the almost 40 American phreak who now calls Amsterdam home was wiring up 
Supernigger's real live demonstration of social engineering against Sprint. A dial tone came 
over the PA system followed by the pulses to 411. 
 
"Directory Assistance," the operator's male voice was squeezed into a mere three kilohertz 
bandwidth. 
 
Suddenly, to the immense pleasure of the audience, an ear-splitting screech a thousand times 
louder than finger nails on a chalk board not only belched across the sound system but caused 
instant bleeding in the ears of the innocent but now deaf operator. .  Billsf  sheepishly grinned.  
"Just trying to wire up a mute button."   
 
Three hundred people in unison responded: "It doesn't work."  No shit. 
 
While Billsf feverishly worked to regain his reputation, Supernigger explained what he was 
going to do. The phone companies have a service, ostensibly for internal use, called a C/NA.  
Sort of a reverse directory when you have the number but want to know who the number 
belongs to and from whence it comes. You can understand that this is not the sort of feature 
that the phone company wants to have in the hands of a generation of kids who are so apathetic 
that they don't even know they don't give a shit.  Nonetheless, the access to this capability is 
through an 800 number and a PIN. 
 
Supernigger was going to show us how to acquire such privileged information.  Live.  "When 
you get some phone company person as dumb as a bolt on the other end, and you know a few 
buzz words. you convince them that it is in their best interest and that they are supposed to give 
you the information." 
 
"I've never  done this in front of an audience before, so give me three tries," he explained to an 
anxiously foaming at the mouth crowd.  No one took a cheap pot shot at him: tacit acceptance 
of his rules. 
 
Ring. Ring.  
 
"Operations.  Mary." 
 
"Mary.  Hi, this is Don Brewer in social engineering over at CIS, how's it going?"  Defuse. 
 
"Oh, fine. I guess." 
 
"I know, I hate working Sundays.  Been busy?" 
 
"Nah, no more.  Pretty calm.  How can I help you?" 
 
"I'm doing a verification and I got systems down.  I just need the C/NA.  You got it handy?"  
Long pause. 
 
"Sure, lemme look. Ah, it's 313.424.0900."  700 notebooks appeared out of nowhere, 
accompanied by the sound of 700 pens writing down a now-public phone number. 
 
"Got it. Thanks."  The audience is gasping at the stunningly stupid gullibility of Mary.  But 
quiet was essential to the mission.  
 
"Here's the PIN number while we're at it." Double gasp.  She's offering the supposedly super 
secret and secure PIN number?  Was this event legal?  Had Supernigger gone over the line?  
"No, CIS just came up.  Thanks anyway." 
 
"Sure you don't need it?" 
 
"Yeah. Thanks.  Bye."  Click. No need to press the issue.  PIN access might be worth a close 
look from the next computer DA wanna-be. 
 
An instant shock wave of cacophonous approval worked its way throughout the 750 seat 
ballroom in less than 2 microseconds.  Supernigger had just successfully set himself as a 
publicly ordained Cyber Christ of Social Engineering.  His white robes were on the way.  
Almost a standing ovation lasted for the better part of a minute by everyone but the narcs in the 
audience.  I don't know if they were telco or Feds of whatever, but I do know that they were 
the stupidest narcs in the city of New York. This pair of dour thirty something Republicans had 
sphincters so tight you could mine diamonds  out of their ass.   
 
Arms defiantly and defensively crossed, they were stupid enough to sit in the third row center 
aisle.  They never cracked a smile at some of the most entertaining performances I have seen 
outside of  the giant sucking sound that emanates from Ross Perot's ears. 
 
Agree or disagree with hacking and phreaking, this was funny and unrehearsed ad lib material.  
Fools.  So, for fun, I crawled over the legs of the front row and sat in the aisle, a bare eight feet 
from the narcs.  Camera in hand I extended the 3000mm tele-photo lens which can distinguish 
the color of a mosquitoes underwear from a kilometer and pointed it in their exact direction.  
Their childhood acne scars appeared the depth of the Marianna Trench.  Click, and the flash 
went off into their eyes, which at such a short distance should have caused instant blindness.  
But nothing.  No reaction.  Nada. Cold as ice.  Rather disappointing, but now we know that 
almost human looking narc-bots have been perfected and are being beta tested at hacker cons.  
 
Emmanuel Goldstein is very funny.  Maybe that's why Ed Markey and he get along so well.  
His low key voice rings of a gentler, kinder sarcasm but has a youthful charm despite that he is 
30- something himself.  
 
"Sometimes you have to call back.  Sometimes you have to call over and over to get what you 
want.  You have to keep in mind that the people at the other end of the phone are generally not 
as intelligent as a powered down computer."  He proceeded to prove the point. 
 
Ring ring, 
 
"Directory Assistance." 
 
"Hi." 
"Hi." 
 
"Hi." 
 
"Can I help you." 
 
"Yes." 
 
Pause. 
 
"Hello?" 
 
"Hi." 
 
"Hi." 
 
"Can I help you.: 
 
"OK."   
 
Shhhhh.  Ssshhh.  Quiet.  Shhhh.  Too damned funny for words. 
 
"Directory Assistance." 
 
"I need some information." 
 
"How can I help you." 
 
"Is this where I get numbers?" 
 
"What number would you like?" 
 
"Information." 
 
"This is information." 
 
"You said directory assistance." 
 
"This is." 
 
"But I need information." 
 
"What information do you need?" 
 
"For information." 
 
"This is information." 
 
"What's the number?" 
 
"For what?" 
 
"Information." 
 
"This is directory assistance."  
"I need the number for information." 
 
Pause.  Pause. 
 
"What number do you want?" 
 
"For information." 
 
Pause.  Guffaws, some stifled, some less so.  Funny stuff.  
 
"Hold on please." 
 
Pause. 
 
"Supervisor.  May I help you?" 
 
"Hi." 
 
"Hi." 
 
Pause. 
 
"Can I help you?" 
 
"I need the number for information." 
 
"This is directory assistance." 
 
"Hi." 
 
"Hi." 
 
"What's the number for information?" 
 
"This is information." 
 
"What about directory assistance?" 
 
"This is directory assistance." 
 
"But I need information." 
 
"This is information." 
 
"Oh, OK. What's the number for information?" 
 
Pause. 
 
"Ah 411." 
 
"That's it?" 
 
"No. 555.1212 works too." 
"So there's two numbers for information?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
"Which one is better?"   How this audience kept its cool was beyond me.  Me and my 
compatriots were beside ourselves. 
 
Pause. 
 
"Neither." 
 
"Then why are there two?" 
 
Pause. 
 
"I don't know." 
 
"OK.  So I can use 411 or 555.1212." 
 
"That's right." 
 
"And which one should I use?" 
 
Pause. 
 
"411 is faster."  Huge guffaws.  Ssshhhh.  Ssshhhh.. 
 
"Oh. What about the ones?" 
 
"Ones?" 
 
"The ones." 
 
"Which ones?" 
 
"The ones at the front of the number." 
 
"Oh, those ones.  You don't need ones.  Just 411 or 555.1212.." 
 
"My friends say they get to use ones."  Big laugh.  Shhhhhh. 
 
"That's only for long distance." 
 
"To where?"  How does he keep a straight face? 
 
Pause. 
 
"If you wanted 914 information you'd use a one." 
 
"If I wanted to go where?" 
 
"To 914?" 
 
"Where's that?" 
"Westchester." 
 
"Oh, Westchester.  I have friends there." 
 
Pause. 
 
"Hello?" 
 
"Yes?" 
 
"So I use ones?" 
 
"Yes.  A one for the 914 area." 
 
"How?" 
 
Pause. 
 
"Put a one before the number." 
 
"Like 1914. Right?" 
 
"1914.555.1212." 
 
"All of those numbers?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
"That's three ones." 
 
"That's the area code." 
 
"I've heard about those.  They confuse me."  Rumbling chuckles and laughs throughout the 
hall.  
 
Pause. 
 
She slowly and carefully explained what an area code is to the howlingly irreverent amusement 
of the entire crowd except for the fool narcs.  
 
"Thanks.  So I can call information and get a number?" 
 
"That's right." 
 
"And there's two numbers I can use?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
"So I got two numbers on one call?" 
 
"Yeah . . ." 
 
"Wow.  Thanks.  Have a nice day." 
* * * * *  
 
Comments heard around HOPE. 
 
Rop Gongrijjp, Hacktic:  "The local phone companies use their own social engineers when they 
can't get their own people to tell them what they need to know." 
 
Sprint is using what they consider to be the greatest access mechanism since the guillotine.  For 
all of us road warriors out there who are forever needing long distance voice service from the 
Whattownisthis, USA airport, Sprint thinks they have a better mousetrap.  No more messing 
finger entry.  No more pass-codes or PIN's.   
 
I remember at the Washington National Airport last summer I was using my Cable and 
Wireless long distance access card and entered the PIN and to my surprise, an automated voice 
came on and said, "Sorry, you entered your PIN with the wrong finger.  Please try again." 
 
Sprint says they've solved this thorny cumbersome problem with a service called "The Voice 
Fone Card".  Instead of memorizing another 64 digit long PIN, you just speak into the phone:  
"Hi, it's me.  Give me dial tone or give me death."  The voice recognition circuits masturbate 
for a while to determine if it's really you or not.    
 
Good idea.  But according to Strat, not a good execution.  Strat found that someone performing 
a poor imitation of his voice was enough to break through the front door with ease.  Even a 
poor tape recording played back over a cheap cassette speaker was sufficient to get through 
Sprint's new whiz-banger ID system.   
 
Strat laughed that Sprint officials said in defense, "We didn't say it was secure: just 
convenient."   
 
Smart.  Oh, so smart. 
 
* * * * *  
 
"If my generation of the late 60's and early 70's had had the same technology you guys have 
there never would have been an 80's."  This was how I opened my portion of the author's panel. 
 
The authors panel was meant to give HOPE hackers insight into how they are perceived from 
the so-called outside.  I think the session achieved that well, and I understand the videos will be 
available soon.   
 
The question of electronic transvestites on AOL came up to everyone's enjoyment, and all of us 
on the panel retorted with a big, "So what?"  If you have cyber-sex with someone on the 'Net 
and enjoy it, what the hell's the difference?  Uncomfortable butt shifting on chairs echoed how 
the largely male audience likely feels about male-male sex regardless of distance.  
 
"Imagine," I kinda said, "that is a few years you have a body suit which not only can duplicate 
your moves exactly, but can touch you in surprisingly private ways when your suit is connected 
to another.  In this VR world, you select the gorgeous woman of choice to virtually occupy the 
other suit, and then the two of you go for it.  How do you react when you discover that like 
Lola, 'I know what I am, and what I am is a man and so's Lola.'"   Muted acknowledgment that 
unisex may come to mean something entirely different in the not too distant future. 
 
"Ooh, ooh, please call on me."  I don't mean to be insulting, but purely for identification 
purposes, the woman behind the voice bordered on five foot four and four hundred pounds. 
Her bathtub had stretch marks. 
 
I never called on her but that didn't stop her. 
 
"I want to know what you think of how the democratization of the internet is affected by the 
differences between the government and the people who think that freedom of the net is the 
most important thing and that government is fucked but for freedom to be free you have to 
have the democracy behind you which means that the people and the government need to, I 
mean, you know, and get along but the sub culture of the hackers doesn't help the government 
but hackers are doing their thing which means that the democracy will not work , now I know 
that people are laughing and giggling (which they were in waves) but I'm serious about this and 
I know that I have a bad case of hypomania but the medication is working so it's not a bad as it 
could be.  What do you think?" 
 
I leaned forward into the microphone and gave the only possible answer.  "I dunno.  Next."  
The thunderous round of applause which followed my in-depth response certainly suggested 
that my answer was correct.  Not politically, not technically, but anarchistically. Flexibility 
counts. 
 
* * * * *  
 
HOPE was attended by around one thousands folks, and the Hotel Filthadelphia still stands.  
(Aw shucks.)   
 
My single biggest complaint was not that the schedules slipped by an hour or two or three; 
sessions at conferences like this keep going if the audience is into them and they are found to 
be educational and productive.  So an hour session can run into two if the material and 
presentations fit the mood.  In theory a boring session could find itself kama kazi'd into early 
melt-down if you have the monotone bean counter from hell explaining the distributed 
statistical means of aggregate synthetic transverse digitization in composite analogous integral 
fruminations.  (Yeah, this audience would buy off on that in a hot minute.)  But there were not 
any bad sessions.  The single track plenary style attracted hundred of hackers for every event.  
Emmanuel and friends picked their panels and speakers well.  When dealing with sponge-like 
minds who want to soak up all they can learn, even in somewhat of a party atmosphere, the 
response is bound to be good.   
 
My single biggest complaint was the registration nightmare.  I'd rather go the DMV and stand 
in line there than get tagged by the seemingly infinite lines at HOPE.  At DefCon early 
registration was encouraged and the sign up verification kept simple. 
 
For some reason I cannot thoroughly (or even partially) fathom, a two step procedure was 
chosen.  Upon entering, and before the door narcs would let anyone in, each attendee  had to be 
assigned a piece of red cardboard with a number on it.  For the first day you could enter the 
'exhibits' and auditorium without challenge.  But by Day 2 one was expected to wait in line for 
the better part of a week, have a digital picture taken on a computer tied to a CCD camera,  and 
then receive a legitimate HOPE photo-ID card.  What a mess. I don't have to beat them up on it 
too bad; they know the whole scheme was rotten to the core.   
 
I waited till near  the end of Day 2 when the lines were gone and the show was over.  That's 
when I got my Photo ID card.  I used the MIB's photo ID card the rest of the time. 
 
HOPE was a lot of fun and I was sorry to see it end, but as all experiences, there is a certain 
amount of letdown.  After a great vacation, or summer camp, or a cruise, or maybe even after 
Woodstock, a tear welts up.  Now I didn't cry that HOPE was over, but an intense 48 hours 
with hackers is definitely not your average computer security convention that only rolls from 
9AM to Happy Hour.  At a hacker conference, you snooze, you lose.  You never know what is 
going to happen next - so much is spontaneous and unplanned - and it generally is highly 
educational, informative and entertaining. 
 
Computer security folks:  you missed an event worth attending.  You missed some very funny 
entertainment.  You missed some fine young people dressed in some fine garb.  You missed the 
chance to meet with your perceived 'enemy'.  You missed the opportunity to get inside the 
heads of the generation that knows more about keyboards than Huck Finning in suburbia.  You 
really missed something, and you should join Robert MIB Steele and I at the next hacker 
conference.     
 
* * * * * 
 
If only I had known. 
   
If only I had known that tornadoes had been dancing up and down 5th avenue I would have 
stayed at the Hotel Filthadelphia for another night.   
 
La Guardia airport was closed.  Flights were up to 6 hours delayed if not out and out canceled.  
Thousands of stranded travelers hunkered down for the night.  If only I had known.   
Wait, wait. Hours to wait.  And then, finally, a plane ready and willing to take off and swerve 
and dive between thunderbolts and twisters and set me on my way home.   
 
My kids were bouncing out of the car windows when my wife picked me up at the airport 
somewhere in the vicinity of 1AM.   
 
"Not too late are you dear?"  Sweet Southern Sarcasm from my Sweet Southern Wife.   
 
"Don't blame me," I said in all seriousness.  "It was the hackers.  They caused the whole thing." 
 
* * * * *  
 
Notice: This article is free, and the author encourages responsible widespread electronic 
distribution of the document in full, not piecemeal.  No fees may be charged for its use.   For 
hard copy print rights, please contact the author and I'll make you an offer you can't refuse.  
The author retains full copyrights to the contents and the term Cyber-Christ. 
 
Winn is the author of "Terminal Compromise",  a  novel detailing a fictionalized account of a 
computer war waged on  the United States.  After selling well as a book-store-book, Terminal 
Compromise was placed on the Global Network as the world's  first Novel-on-the-Net 
Shareware and has become an underground classic.  (Gopher TERMCOMP.ZIP)   
 
His  new  non-fiction book, "Information Warfare:  Chaos  on  the Electronic  Superhighway" 
is  a compelling, non-technical analysis  of personal privacy, economic and industrial 
espionage and national security.  He calls for the creation  of  a National Information Policy,  a  
Constitution  in Cyberspace and an Electronic Bill of Rights. 
 
He  may  be reached at INTER.PACT,  11511  Pine  St., Seminole, FL. 34642. 813-393-6600, 
fax 813-393-6361, E-Mail: P00506@psilink.com. 
 
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