During the height of the cold war, back when the United States and the Soviet
Union stared each other in the eye from behind stockpiles of nuclear missiles
and before Ted Turner bought the television rights to the story, the
government used to teach school kids how to protect themselves if nuclear
bombs ever started falling. "Duck and cover" was one of the frank
suggestions. As soon as they saw a blinding flash over the horizon eat any
large, nearby city, they should drop to the ground and assume a fetal
position, covering their neck and closing their eyes. That would assume, of
course, that the flash hadn't already vaporized them, or liquefied their
retinas before they were even capable of registering the imagery. The U.S.
government provided these lessons in survival mostly as a morale booster, in
that it gave people the confidence that they could live through such an
attack. Of course, there was no way that dropping to the ground and covering
your eyes would protect you from one of the 25 or 50 megaton bombs typically
assumed to be targeted at most major U.S. cities. All the same, people
believed that techniques such as "ducking and covering" were effective and
would protect them. Some people saw through the many obvious logical and
factual deceptions, but they were probably commie spies anyway.

And so with that, I would like to introduce those of you who are still
reading to the fifth Rubi Con Volunteer Newsletter, perhaps the only
volunteer newsletter not written by, with, or for any manner of volunteers
whatsoever. I think it's funny the way that worked out. I realize that this
newsletter is somewhat late when held up against the patterned history of
previous installments, but I ask each of you to be flexible and accommodate
me when I see the necessity to throw open the proverbial floodgates and
subject the gentle masses to my Prose Bazooka. Duck and cover.

As is always the case, this newsletter originates from the worn keyboard of a
certain Jim Tantalo. Given that, individuals who wish to receive the periodic
installments of the Rubi Con Volunteer Newsletter can achieve those ends by
sending a message to tantalo@mail.id.net indicating as such. Those of you who
are fed up with Mr. Tantalo's laughably inaccurate lessons in history, his
suspiciously Freudian references to some odd "Prose Bazooka," or his tendency
to refer to himself in the third person may send an email to the
aforementioned address with an appropriately negative and rejectory response.

Along similar lines, archives of past newsletters have been cryogenically
frozen for future generations to snicker at. View said newsletters on our
website at http://www.rubi-con.org/list.html.


AND SO NOW, HAVING RUN OUT OF STUPID THINGS TO SAY IN THE COMPLETELY
UNNECESSARY PROLOGUE, I GIVE TO YOU... ACTUAL CONTENT:


1. Not that there should be very many people who do not already realize this,
but we have recently instituted a fully functional mailing list on our web
site. Access to said list is available on the web through the following
address: http://www.rubi-con.org/mailing. People can also subscribe to the
list at the aforementioned address. The mailing list is designed to be a
public forum for issues thought too banal for the blunt hammer blow of this
newsletter. The crucial separation between the Rubi Con mailing list and the
Rubi Con Volunteer Newsletter is that the newsletter seems to serve as little
more than my own private soap box from which to expound on various issues and
happenings in the Rubi Con universe, while the mailing list is designed, I
guess, to allow everyone to participate in the discussion. The mailing list
adds much needed reciprocity to the relationship, I suppose.

To post something to the mailing list, just send a piece of email to
rubicon@rubi-con.org. Such a message will be distributed to the subscribers
of the mailing list, and posted to the web on the html incarnation of the
mailing list which is available through the aforementioned URL.

Go ahead and use the mailing list for whatever wicked ends you see fit, but
it would be nice to get some discussion going on something. In fact, I'll
even get you started. 

WITNESS A FUNNY KINKO'S STORY:

A few days ago Ron "The Machine" Ulko and myself made a trip to a friendly
local Kinko's to make more Official Rubi Con Propaganda. The process we use
to make our vast stores of posters and leaflets has always been to print out
a few high quality copies on the slick dye sub printers they have there and
then just Xerox thousands on the copy machines. It's a fairly cheep method of
mass production, the quality of which I am usually satisfied with. In fact,
the process is especially cheep when you consider how well we have learned to
hack Kinko's. I shall tell the story of just such a raid, brought on by the
stupidity of Kinko's employees, and a willingness to do illegal things in
full sight of unblinking security cameras.

We left my house at 7:30 or so on a Friday night with all the necessary tools
in hand; an external bootable hard drive, $5.37 in small bills, Ron's
piece-of-shit truck, a few empty back packs, and a good excuse in case we got
caught.

The Kinko's in Plymouth Michigan is a short drive away, and we soon arrived
in the stark parking lot with adrenalin in our veins and fear in our hearts.
We entered the building, and as I went to the counter and signed out a
computer, Ron hid behind a large copy machine for several minutes so as to
avoid detection.

"Okay, do you want a Mac or a PC?" the college-aged and nicely aproned
service man asked. I told him that our operations would be Mac-based tonight,
and provided him with the appropriate identifications and signatures. The
Macintosh was preferable for the particularly delicate task ahead of me for
two reasons. First, I have always found Macs all too easy to hack into, and
second, the Visual Impartation Arm of the Rubi Con Propaganda Division
happens to run on Macintosh computers, and so the issue of compatibility had
to be considered here. If you have an ill opinion of Macs... bite me.

The minimum wage Kinko's employee, swanky apron and all, walked with a rapid
and nervous gait back to the computer area. I followed in tow. He typed my
name and the ultra-secret-superduper-high-level password (kinkosusa0485) into
the appropriate fields and then had the audacity to ask if I knew how to use
the machines. I handed him a Rubi Con flier and retorted, "Do you?" He waked
away clearly disgruntled.

After the Kinko's drone had left, Ron emerged from behind the concealing
foliage of a nearby potted plant and sat down next to me. We now prepared
ourselves for the "hack" ahead of us.

For those of you who are not familiar with the inner workings of the subtle
Kinko's computer security programs, all they really do is log how much time a
person spends working, and how many documents they print. Users finish by
logging out, which returns the computer to a password-protected state and
sends a recite to a printer behind the cash register. There are several ways
around the programs they use, perhaps the most straightforward being to boot
up the computer on an alternative hard disk, bypassing any system-wide
restrictions or special programs that might be in place. This is particularly
easy on the Macintosh, where all you really need is an external SCSI hard
drive with an operating system and the right keyboard combination. The ROM
takes care of the rest.

I logged out of the computer and looked about, hoping for a spare power
outlet to plug my drive into. The computers charge in increments of 20
seconds, and by logging out after having been on for less than 10 the receipt
sent to the register would have indicated a charge of $0.00, which they
usually disregard as being an impossible error. On this night, it ended up
causing us some problems down the line, but it still did what we needed it
to. Mostly.

The wily designers of the modular computer alcoves at Kinko's, probably in
the name of elegance, only installed two power outlets for each computer.
Now, this was fine for what they wanted to do with their computers; power a
CPU and a monitor. But it was not very effective for what we wanted to do,
which was to add my cool external hard drive to the mix. Under ordinary
circumstances we would appropriate power from the adjacent computer or
monitor for our own perverted use, but on this night both were in use by some
white trash po' bucker and her ugly daughter.

There were overheard mumbling: "Okay, do you know how to print stuff? There
really are a lot of pretty colors on this TV. Why does that little arrow keep
moving around the screen? Oh, that's from the mouse, right? I wonder if they
got the Information Super Highway on this computer."

I was tempted to take out the 18 inch crowbar that I always carry around in
my jacket and beat them to death, but instead I decided to offer false
information under the frail guise of "assistance."

"Do you guys need some help?" I asked with a glow in my voice.

"Yeah," they said, "we're trying to get this thing to turn off but it keeps
telling us that there are other programs running and that it can't."

"Hmmm... That's weird. Do you suppose that maybe the problem is that there
are other programs running?" I offer, trying not to use the word "savages"
anywhere in my sentence.

"I don't know! I don't know this stuff. Who do you think we are? We've never
used a computer before," they retorted.

"Okay, well let me see what I can do. Do you see that little picture of a
floppy disk sitting there?" I tapped the monitor where the icon was. "Click
on that once."

I waited while the daughter worked the "little arrow thingy" over to where I
had indicated. "Okay," she said, proud of herself and enthusiastic to forge
now along the right path under the guidance of a master.

"Now, there are little programs running on that disk of yours, and you have
to get rid of them before you can shut it down. That's what the computer is
telling you. So do you see that long gray bar up at the very top of the
screen?" They both looked up over the top of the monitor to the parking lot
beyond. "No, I meant right here," tapping the glass again to direct their
attention. "Bring your mouse up to where it says ÔSpecial' and then click
it." The mouse was slowly and awkwardly moved to where I had indicated.
"Okay, now click and hold down the mouse button. Now drag it down to where it
says ÔErase Disk' and let go." The mouse slowly moved down, burdened now with
the extra task of holding a button down up top of moving a cursor around the
screen. She slipped off the menu a few times, and had to retry, but
eventually she selected the option. "What's on that disk anyway?" I asked.

"Just some stupid school project," she responded. "It's like a really big
one, but it's not done yet and I just wanted to print out a rough draft
tonight."

"Hmmm," I replied casually, validated that I would be destroying something
important with what I was about to do. "Okay, now what you're looking at is
called a Ôdialog box,' and it's asking you if you really want to stop those
programs. So click the big Ôokay' button and you'll be on your way."

The computer took a minute to format the disk, and when it was done I told
them how to log out of the computer so that I might get on with my life. They
left, disk in hand, thanking me for my help. "No problem," I replied.

Freed of the computer-morons and able now to redirect power from the their
box, I savagely yanked the power cord out of the CPU and stretched it under
the desk. I plugged in my hard drive and rebooted. "Welcome to Macintosh," it
said, obviously trusting me much more than it should. Sun Tzu said that in
greeting, your enemies always smile the widest, and so I bowed my head to the
screen, and returned the salutation knowing full well who had the upper hand.

For those of you not entirely versed in the intricacies of Macintosh
hardware, there is a little piece of battery-powered static RAM on all Macs
called parameter RAM or PRAM, similar to the BIOS on the PC architecture, it
stores all manner of hardware settings and preferences. The PRAM indicates
such things as screen depth and resolution, network ports and speeds, and
which of the available hard disks should be used to boot off of. It can only
be accessed or changed through software and while under the full OS, but due
to previous encounters this particular Kinko's computer has had with me, it
was already set to automatically boot off of my hard drive whenever it was
available, and so in only seconds we were on track and screaming forward into
the black unknown that is the future.

The computer situated itself, and I printed out my Quark and Illustrator
documents as fast as I could. I did several runs of everything, and ended up
with about 15 or 20 different prints. After proofing them to make sure they
would be acceptable, we turned everything off, replaced the power cords, and
put the Kinko's computers back in order. They say that criminals always leave
evidence of their crime, and I guess I can agree with that. But if there is no
evidence of a crime, has one taken place at all? I don't think so, but I
wasn't about to find out.

I put my prints and my hard drive into my back pack and walked up to the
counter to "pay." Ready in my mind is the axiom known to anyone versed in the
art of social engineering, "When in doubt, act stupid." Or Nieken's Third Law
of Getting Away With Shit, which tends to be more universally applicable,
"Always act as if you're *supposed* to be doing whatever it is that your
*not* supposed to be doing."

I leaned against the counter, trying to act as casual and nonthreatening as I
could and waited for an employee to come over. Much to my disappointment, I
was serviced by the same gentlemen who had first signed me the computer.
Hoping that perhaps he would not completely remember, I feigned
disfamiliarity. "Hi, I was using one of those computers back there," I
gestured by throwing my thumb over my shoulder. "And I think I'm done."

"Okay, you were ÔJim,' right?" His simple question putting my strategy back
several steps.

"Um... uh... yeah," I said, milking the "act stupid" rule for all it was
worth.

The Kinko's drone shot his head back to the receipt printer, searching for
the neon-green paper that would indicate my charges. Seeing none he queried,
"Did you log out?"

"What? I don't know. I don't know this stuff." I can act stupid with the best
of them, but I had decided to put into practice some of what I had learned
from the mountain people I had "helped" a little while ago.

He maneuvered around the counter and back to the computer alcove. I followed
behind him, not wanting him to come to any conclusions that I did not help
form. He queried again, "Do you know if you logged out or not?"

The computer showed a proper log in screen, suggesting that I had either
never logged in or that I had, in fact, properly logged out.

He ran back over to the receipt printer, and waited for it to produce the
information he felt sure was to come. I stood by the computer, wishing to
express a quality of personal helplessness and intellectual incompetence. He
waited a few minutes, and when he was satisfied that there would be no
forthcoming printouts, walked back to the computer. The drone was visibly
agitated and, sensing danger perhaps, Ron climbed up into an air duct to hide
in the ceiling tiles. He dispersed his weight by getting down low against the
tiles, and spreading his legs and arms out as far as he could. Then, with
face pressed against the tiles, he waited.

The drone moved in front of the troubled computer and, pushing me to one
side, sat down. He logged in with with the superduper-secert password and
printed a document. He then logged out and ran back to the receipt printer. I
followed him back for the last time. I must say, I was almost impressed by his
problem-solving skills and analytical abilities. Computers, however, were
obviously not his calling.

Much to his surprise, the bright green paper of a recite had been pushed out
of the printer. Betraying that I actually knew what was going on, I matched
his outward emotions and proclaimed, "My God, it works. I wonder what the
problem was."

He claimed not to know, which was just as well because he didn't actually
solve the problem anyway. The printed receipt was his, not mine. Mine, you
could say, was lost in the Ether.

He threw up his hands in frustration, knowing not what next to do. I was
getting a little sick of it all, and decided to cut my losses and accept the
act of bewildering a perfectly good Kinko's drone as reward enough. "If it
helps," I offered, "I know I printed out like two things."

The drone seemed to take this as an acceptable alternative to an actual
receipt, given the circumstances. "Two?" he verified.

"Yeah," I said. "But I don't know how long I was on."

"Oh, we can just subtract the time you signed in at."

"Blast!" I screamed inside my head, betraying my anger with a tightly
clenched right fist. I knew that I was in trouble now, and that my
cost-cutting tactics would be all but compromised. The log sheet would
indicate at what time I had signed out the computer, which I knew would end
up being much longer than I had actually used the computer. But I decided
that there was no reward in arguing with him now.

As the drone tallied up my charges, Ron ducked out from behind a display
stand of greeting cards and stationary and took up a position at my side. I
knew that my final charges would be much greater than I had planned for, and
I steeled myself for the eventual realization. 

Reflecting on the situation further, I decided that perhaps this would be a
fair exchange. Money for entertainment. I chucked quietly to myself in the
knowledge that no matter what I was charged, it would be well worth getting
to see a perfectly good Kinko's drone stumble around in the dark, grasping
for answers he could never understand. And let's not forget the mountain
people I had "assisted." That was at least as fun.

"$4.51 is your total," he said flatly. 

I paid and, thanking him for all his help, left the store. Ron and I laughed
on our way back, concluding that a good time was, indeed, had by all.

We headed for the nearby Livonia Kinko's branch to make thousands upon
thousands of free copies. But that, my friends, is a different story all
together.

THIS CONCLUDES THE FUNNY KINKO'S STORY

Ahem. Now ask yourself, how do you feel about the disreputable exploits of
our antiheroes Jim and Ron? Were they right for trying to take advantage of
an honest business like Kinko's? Was it best that they ended up paying almost
the full price for the services they used? Should they have admitted their
theft, and offered to wash dishes in the back until they had paid their
bills? Did Jim have any right taking advantage of the stupidity of those
patrons? How would you like it if someone did that to you? Did Jim *really*
have to go on for 80 pages as he did, or could he have shortened his little
tale? Will this silly little mailing list matter, considering as how the
Rubi Con web site seems never to be functioning? 

As you arrive at conclusions for these and many other questions, send your
comments to rubicon@rubi-con.org and begin discussions on our cool mailing
list. Try your best to ignore the arguments and logical points of others
participating in the discussions, and instead strive to make the Rubi Con
mailing list like the best newsgroups on the net by focusing on the spelling
mistakes of other respondents. Take things out of context and begin long,
bitter arguments with each other. And remember: the only way to *really* win
on the Internet is to lob personal insults, or to add those with whom you
disagree to a kill file. I tell you, it'll be great...


2. As I'm sure each and everyone of you can clearly recall, in the last
newsletter I talked about how we were currently looking for people to donate
cool things to our Prize Patrol. We got a lot of good response from people
and are currently heading in the right direction in terms of our prize
stockpile. But on the other hand, and not to appear too unprepared, we are
also looking for all kinds of other junk with which to run the infrastructure
of the con. These issues are being overseen by the impersonal, monolithic
bureaucracy of the Rubi Con Ministry of Appropriations, and they are always
looking for more converts. More specifically, we are officially asking people
to look out for or to think about temporarily donating audio, video, computer
and networking equipment to The Cause.

Even more specifically, we are looking for hubs, routers, as much RJ-45 as
you can get your hands on, and spare ethernet cards. We also are looking for
LCD projectors, speakers, amps, microphones, and other such sexy electronics.
Unlike donations to the Prize Patrol, the Ministry of Appropriations returns
all items, and only needs things on a temporary basis.

We have already received enormous amounts of support from different people on
this, but if you think you may be able to help us out with anything please let
us know.


3. I've always been straight forward with this fact, and I have no intention
of carrying on a farce, or living a delusion. There is no need, it is safe in
saying, to go on based on anything but the truth. I'm not coming out of the
closet, I'm slamming the door behind me. Out with it then. I AM NOT A HACKER!
There, I said it. Can you all feel the weight being lifted?

I am not a hacker, by any definition. Hell, I'm not even a computer geek. I
wear lots of brightly colored clothing, and I don't even own a trench coat.
Not that this really means anything for Rubi Con, because if you'll recall, I
am just the guy with the keyboard.

Anyway, the only reason I bring this up is because there have been a few
changes regarding what Rubi Con is and what Rubi Con means. Not to
disenfranchise anyone, but it is no longer intended to act as a hacker event,
per se. That is, while we may very well have started out moving in the
direction of a underground computer event, we have come to the conclusion
that our reach must be broadened if we are to affect as many people as we
would like to. Rubi Con is still Rubi Con, and we are not selling out to the
Man or whatever foundational punk fears we were running on before. Simply, we
will be moving in a direction of increased open mindedness, and perhaps even
increased maturity. DEFCON, it has been decided, should not be the yard stick
with which we measure ourselves. Rather, DEFCON will be the thing we look at
only to determine what we *should not* be doing. Now, not that any of us have
any problems with DEFCON or all of the other incredible hacker conferences out
there, only that if we don't do something unique and new, then what is the
point of doing *anything*?

Along those lines, we want Rubi Con to be a really cool computer and
technology conference where people can come to learn a lot and have a good
time. That hasn't changed. But we do not want people to see us as a spin off
of all the other hacker cons out there. We have to be different, and perhaps
the most profound way of doing that is to not make it a hacker con. Simple,
surly, but shifts in thinking can often be difficult of people.

Rubi Con, then, will strive to act as a technology conference not just for
the teenage sociopath with an "I luv Linux" tattoo. Rather, we have tried to
make this event appeal to a wider audience while retaining the intellectual
elitism that might otherwise invite *too much* riffraff. Our official line
now will be, "A suit? Sure you can wear a suit!" as opposed to what we always
used to say, which was "If you don't have it in you to wear black clothing for
three days straight, don't even bother coming."

Don't think of this as a change of focus so much as a realization of what
Rubi Con must be. And speaking of changing focus, if anyone out there can
think of a way to segue from operational paradigm shifts and the
reinterpretation of a institutional philosophy into how much I like donuts,
please let me know. I spent hours trying to think of a good way to do it, and
just *talking* about it was the best idea I could come up with.


4. Greek mythology celebrated a magical substance, called ambrosia, as the
food of the gods. Ambrosia was said to be the most delicious food imaginable,
tasting of gold and smelling like the sweetest flowers imaginable. It also
conferred immorality to any who ate it, and was likewise revered by the gods.

My only comment: screw ambrosia, *donuts* are the *real* food of the gods.

I've got a dozen donuts sitting here next to me, and I'm just as happy as can
be. True, it doesn't take much to please me, and were I a god I would probably
set my sights just a little bit higher, but that doesn't change the fact that
no matter what ambrosia may have been remembered for, donuts are simply
better.

Let's see *you* resist the temptation of raspberry jelly, surrounded with
fried dough, and then we'll talk.


6. We have recently started listing resources for Rubi Con caravans, and if
anyone else has any interest in ride sharing, room sharing, or starting their
own caravans please get in touch with someone. If you set up some manner of
web page or other such system, we will list the appropriate contact
information.

I might also say that it would be great to see more activity in this area, as
it does add some amount of obvious public interest. This is a good thing, much
like donuts. So if anyone wants to set up something like that, or sent me
donuts, you know where to find me.

Brace yourselves now as we make a sharp deviation in the present topic, and
careen toward the  last section of this newsletter. It's rather late, and
this being the last note, I have not the energy to set up and execute one of
my classic and elegant segues. Usually I plan *thousands* of words ahead for
just how I'm going to switch from the subject of, say, Ron, to why I like
C-SPAN so much. It's not too hard if you sit down and map it, but it does
take a certain amount of tact. And as can be seen by the Donut Situation,
sometimes it's just too damn hard. So here, dammit, take it:


7. Surly I'm not the *only* person who *never* has anything to do on Saturday
nights. Surly there are people who suck just as much as I do, and who are just
as ostracized by their family and friends. Surly I'm not deluding myself into
some comfortable lie that, maybe, I'm not that much of a looser.

Anywho, the Rubi Con Propaganda Division, in conjunction with the Rubi Con
Logistics Department, and with the support of the Rubi Con Indoctrination
Division, will be holding some pre-Rubi Con gatherings in the future. Many of
you are well aware of this, but we are just trying to drum up more support.

Basically we would like to spend a little time with some of our local
volunteers before Rubi Con occurs, so as to establish where everyone is
coming from. We usually take the opportunity to do something fun like
propagandizing and other social terrorism. So far we have meet with people in
Ann Arbor and in Novi, and we have other gatherings planned. We'll try to plan
something every two weeks or so, on Saturday nights, and if you think you will
be able to join us, please do. The better we know each other now, the smoother
Rubi Con will run in May. This is the real reason, as we would rather we trust
each other now instead of later.


SWEET LORD! YOU READ THAT WHOLE THING?! GO TAKE A BREAK, GRAB A SHOWER, AND
JUST BE GLAD YOU STREACHED BEFORE GETTING INTO THIS ONE...


Jim Tantalo
Official Rubi Con Wordsmith