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Capital of Nasty Vol. 07 Issue 13

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Capital of Nasty
 · 25 Apr 2019

  

Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume VII, Issue 13, AD MMII
Monday, September 23, 2002
ISSN 1482-0471
-------------------------------------------

"1935 will go down in history. For the first time, a civilized
nation has full gun registration. Our streets will be safer, our
police more efficient, and the world will follow our lead into the
future." --Adolf Hitler

-------------------------------------------

Licking open wounds
Soured by rotting memories
Bitterness prevails
-- Danielle Pignataro

-------------------------------------------

1. Why I Hate Computers
2. I Copied a File
3. The Human Dishwasher
4. The Man Who Never Was
5. 'Smoke and Mirrors' by Neil Gaiman
-------------------------------------------

This week's Golden Testicle award:

http://www.deviantdesires.com/

Incredibly Strange Sex

-------------------------------------------

1. Why I Hate Computers

By John Iadipaolo

There was a time, not too long ago, when I considered myself a
member of the Computer Literate. You know. That (reasonably) tech-
savvy, (somewhat) knowledgeable and (generally) proficient group of
individuals who are skilled enough to manipulate, maintain and fix
their machines in most day-to-day circumstances, with a minimum
number of hassles or headaches. Although my most impressive tricks
were probably installing hardware and basic HTML coding (a quick
note to the uninitiated--those aren't very impressive tricks), I
thought that my general level of competency somehow made me immune
to the hardships suffered by my less-knowledgeable peers. I could
install and delete programs properly. I could alter my system
settings and BIOS. I didn't have to pay some stuck-up computer tech
$50 to install a CD burner into my system.

In all honesty, however, I suppose I was that stuck-up computer
tech. I figured I knew enough about my machine not only to keep it
up and running, but also to correct any mistakes I might (rarely)
make. I had little sympathy for people with driver problems; people
whose machines froze; people who resorted to tech support. Looking
down, from my perch atop the lofty tower of the Computer Literate, I
chuckled at the expense of the masses.

But no more:

Now, I'm one of them.

...Or, more truthfully, perhaps I've always been one of them.
Perhaps I've just realized it now, after a string of infuriating pc-
related issues have brought me to my knees. Over the past year,
I've gone from self-assured virtual playboy to technology-fearing
caveman. I've thrown in the proverbial towel (and often came close
to throwing the non-proverbial monitor), bent over, and allowed the
afore-mentioned computer techs to swoop in. Screw being Computer
Literate. It's too much work.

Flattering yourself into believing you're pc-efficient is easy
enough when the majority of your `problems' can be resolved by
upgrading your drivers, reinstalling a program or simply rebooting
your machine. No matter how innocent your computing behavior, no
matter how diligently you defrag your C drive and clear out your
cache, you will always run into programs that inexplicably cease to
function and hardware that occasionally goes on the fritz. That's
the price we pay for the `convenience' of technology (at least as
long as Bill Gates controls an overwhelming portion of the market
share).

The problems I've recently encountered with my machines run much
deeper than simple software hiccups. I'm talking about the
nonsensical, way-outta-left field variety of computer problems that
totally cripple your machine, leaving you perplexed and utterly
exasperated, and often with no idea of how to solve them. For
someone who fancies themselves technology-competent (like myself),
it's a pretty humbling (and rage-inducing) experience.

My first such encounter with an `unsolvable' computer problem
occurred about a year and a half ago, when my system started to
crash unexpectedly. Play a 3D shooter- crash. Write an essay-
crash. Download some wicked goat sex movies- crash. After
countless hours of troubleshooting, trial-and-error experiments and
lots of advice from friends, I thought I had come up with a
reasonable explanation (never mind solution) for my problem: The
machine was overheating due to a faulty BIOS reading. Or maybe it
was my $500 video card (yes, $500. I kid you not). Or maybe,
according to the pc repairman I finally brought my machine to, it
was an error with Windows itself. To make a long story short, after
months of work with nothing to show for it, I ended up conceding
defeat and cannibalizing the box for parts.

That one negative experience would have been sufficient. However,
in the time since, I've been plagued by a number of ridiculously
impossible problems on three or four other machines. I never truly
realized what a huge discrepancy there is when it comes to the level
of expertise required to resolve major issues with a PC- you're
either a pro, or you're hopeless. It makes me laugh to think that
my chances of fixing a computer are quite comparable to those of my
grandmother, and I'm not even sure she knows how to access the
Internet.

They say prides goes before the fall. Well, its come to the point
now where I don't even bother to try and find solutions to my
technology headaches. If my limited knowledge base can't fix a
conflict, I work around it or (gasp) call in the tech support.

Interestingly enough, my newfound dependence on pc repairmen brings
up another dilemma entirely: Should I be exasperated or amused when
they can't figure out what's wrong with my machines either?

---
John is currently attending York University in Toronto, with a major
in Procrastination.

-------------------------------------------

2. I Copied a File

I am so proud of myself. I copied a file.

I can't tell you what a sense of accomplishment I feel. I took a
file from the hard drive, and copied it to a 3.5 inch diskette.
When I checked the disk to see that file was there and saw that it
was, I was ecstatic, in a nearly lost-my-virginity fashion.

And don't mock me. I'll bet there's a lot of people who could not
have copied that file, at least the why I did. Let me explain.

I have a laptop. Or possibly, had. The hard drive has developed
bad sectors, sectors occupied by Windows 98. Well, since I ran
scandisk to fix the bad sectors, who knows where Windows 98 is now?
Win98 certainly doesn't. When I boot up, it flat out refused to
load.

And I needed to get a file off that machine.

Not even Safe Mode would bring up my operating system. However,
there was one thing that still worked. The command prompt.

It has been a very long time since I've worked with DOS. Even in
the days when it was the only way to play, I wasn't particularly
good with DOS, being a non-technical sort. As much as I mock
Microsoft and Windows, I do have to admit that they came up with a
good solution for people like me (although Windows 3.1 was, is, and
always shall be, an affront to computing).

Since Windows 95, I've become a Microsoft cripple. I am too used to
dragging and dropping things. I am too used to graphical user
interfaces, not text driven ones. Recently, my work's administrator
showed me PuTTY, which uses the command prompt style, and my brain
began to whine like a puppy being dragged towards the vet who
neutered him the week before.

So looking at that blinking command prompt, I thought there was no
way I was going to figure this out. But I needed that file.

So I searched my brain, and tried recall all my lessons.

I began to type.

C:\>dir

Okay, getting a directory was simple enough. If not for the fact
that half of it flashed by before I could read it. Anyone ever
think that the developers of DOS put in little secret messages there
like "You bugger sheep!" or "Buy Microsoft" in the middle of long
directories since the odds of spotting them are nil? Maybe I'm just
paranoid.

Ok, now how was it done again? Oh yeah.

C:\>dir /p

The contents of my hard drive came up in little, digestible chunks.
That's better. As I recall, I'd stashed the file under My Documents,
shortened to MYDOCU~1 in DOS. Time to change directories. That I
remembered too.

C:\>cd MYDOCU~1

There we go.

C:/My Documents>

But it wasn't listing the files. That's right, I remembered.
Jumping to a directory doesn't make it last contents right away.
One of the many ways in which Windows spoils you.

C:/My Documents>cd /p

"Invalid switch - /P," it said. What the? Oh yeah. Wrong command.

C:/My Documents>dir /p

That's better. And there's my file.

Now for the tricky part.

I searched my brain for the instructions on how to copy a file. How
easy it is to drag and drop in Windows, or to right click on a file,
and highlight Send To and the A drive!

Okay, concentrate. I believe it was:
C:/My Documents>copy a:fps.doc

I typed that, and I heard my A drive grunt. My heart leapt. But
then, heartache followed.

"File not found - a:fps.doc"

Okay, why wasn't that working? The file was there, I spelled the
whole thing out down to its file extension. What was the problem?

I searched the foggiest corner of my memories. It was trying to
find the file, because it actually accessed the A drive. Then it
hit me. That command told the computer the A: drive was the source,
not the target. It needed to be told where the file was, even
though we were sitting in the directory. How did that command go?
I think it was--

C:/My Documents>copy c:fps.doc a:

A slight pause.

"1 file(s) copied."

YES! Success! I transferred the disk to another computer where
Windows actually worked. There was my file, rescued!

And the point of all this?

Well, one, I did it by myself. I had access to another computer
with an Internet connection, I could have easily looked up the
information. But I didn't.

And two, now I have a greater appreciation for my old skills. There
was a time when DOS ruled computing. There was a time when the
average DOS user could understand what every last file did on his or
her system. Now, with Windows, there are programmers and guys who
build computer networks who can look at a file and wonder what the
fuck it does. Under DOS, you'd know what it was and whether or not
you could delete it. But as anyone who works under Windows knows,
if you don't know what it does, best treat it like an underfed Pit
Bull with a bad rash and leave it the hell alone. So, you've got
megabytes and megabytes of files that you don't understand the
function of.

And think of how many other things in your life are like that. I
can drive a car, but if one breaks down, I am fucked. I have never
even changed a tire. I could probably do it, but I would be nervous
as hell. I know people who understand how their cars work,
basically. So they can look under a hood and maybe spot some
trouble. They aren't mechanics, but they know enough to fix basic
things. And they drive more confidentially as a result.

This is why you need to learn math without a calculator, how to send
a letter by regular post. It prevents us from being a child
culture, spoiled and dependent. Maybe we need to get drafted into
another world war to teach us some self-reliance. Manual things
work when the slick technological way is broken down, which these
days seems to be the case more often that not.

I have learned a valuable lesson about self-reliance today. And I'm
going to keep on learning. Tomorrow, I'm going to go out and kill
my own breakfast.

---
C:\WINDOWS\JASONMACISAAC\EDIT.COM ?

-------------------------------------------

3. The Human Dishwasher

by REVSCRJ

What a crazy place this was to work. So stoned... so drunk... so
stressed...

The owners of this place, Bill and Mike, had been given this place
to run by their mother who owned another bar up in Cupertino. I
think it was to try and make them settle down but ultimately, it
failed. They were NOT ready to be in control of a bar.

In so far as substance abuse goes, these two brothers put frat
houses to shame--truly, if they weren't drunk one could safely
assume that folks were shivering in Hell. Seriously, there would be
times in which no one but employees would be present in the building
for large spans of time because the ENTIRE staff was out back
puffing a bowl.

Before I worked here I used to come in to write and drink coffee.
It was actually the first place I really started writing poetry on a
regular basis. I liked the chaos, it helped me focus. I was the
underage fixture there.

Being a dishwasher wasn't all that bad, in general, as it kept me
pretty much to myself and without having to interact with the
public, unless I wanted to. Besides, there is something vaguely
pleasant about working with hot water and soap.

My shifts, unfortunately, were terrible: I worked the closing shift
on the weekends when all other bars were closing at 2 AM we would
stay open until 4 AM. Or 5 AM... depending on how much drunken-fun
Mike or Bill might be having. The rush between two and four would
be so big that I would have to lead with nasty ketchup covered
dishes just to get people to squeeze in and let me get back to the
kitchen. It was Hellish in its predictable, repetitious, pain-in-
the-ass nature of it. One could set one's watch by the sudden burst
of business that would gorge the place.

There was this cook, Jeff that I worked with a lot. Short, squat,
greasy guy who claimed to be the ex-bassist of T.S.O.L. "before they
made it big" (which I never verified, but simply assume was pure
bullshit). Jeff was a little "off" in the ex-hardcore-punk-
metalhead kind of way--all aggro, dark and hyper-enthusiastic... a
brute.

He had this war going on with the mice that had invaded the
building. I don't mean he had some little grudge against them, or
that he was upset by their presence--no, I mean a full fledge war,
in all it's sick ugliness.

I walk into the kitchen one day with a full bus-tub of dishes and he
is standing, facing me, pointing at the stove-area. He is standing
with a slingshot pulled back, poised to fire.

"DONT MOVE!" he yells in an exaggerated whisper.

"What?"

"DONT move!"

"Uhhh, yeah okay." So I stand there as he is fixated on a point
behind me over my shoulder.

"Man, this is getting heavy Jeff."

"WON'T be long...."

I kinda try to look real impatient, but he IS holding a projectile
weapon, best not to make any sudden movements.

Suddenly he says, "Little mother-" BOOM he releases "-FUCKER!" and I
hear this high pitched squeal. He bolts toward it. I set the dish-
tub down at last and hear him yelling at the mouse how he "finally
got it", how the "little bastard" was "gonna pay", etc. I start
washing up the load of dishes and he disappears out back only to
come quickly back in a few moments later.

"Sean!?"

"Yeah?"

"You wanna watch the little fucker die?" he was giddy and smiling.

"No man, I don't." I just looked down into the dishes as I washed
them.

"You sure? I dropped him in the tallow barrel out back, I give him
three minutes TOPS."

"No. I'm sure man. I don't want to see that." Sick bastard.

"Okay!" and smiling he dashes back outside, I assume to watch the
mouse drown in putrefying grease. So when I say he had a war going
with the mice, I mean it in the foulest of senses. Disturbing.
Really disturbing.

Of Mike and Bill: one time a friend of mine, Dave, lived with them
and I was over one evening. Neither Dave nor I had any dope and we
were 18, punks, and in desire of a high. We asked Mike and Bill if
we could pick through their carpet for dope. They both laughed at
us, called us "jonsers" and such. We ended up gathering about 2
grams of pot from the space between their couch and their table.
See: they packed so many sloppy bong loads that we likely could have
extracted another gram if we were bent on it. At seeing our spoils
they ate crow and partook with us.

Eventually Mike's liver gave out, Bill later had to hit rehab and
despite that, I would have stayed there for a long time if it
weren't for that two to four rush.

Then again, considering how twisted the long-time employees were,
perhaps it was probably for the best that I left.

---
REVSCRJ is a writer/musician living in Monterey, California.
Constantly on the verge of homelessness, he hopes that you enjoy his
work or else his life has been in vain. Contact REVSCRJ at
revscrj@cloudfactory.org to lodge complaints, notify of lawsuits, or
receive spiritual advice.

-------------------------------------------

4. The Man Who Never Was

By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

In the spring of 1943, with the African Campaign coming to a
successful conclusion, the Allies began to consider the invasion of
Hitler's "Fortress Europe." The most obvious target to start the
invasion was Sicily, which was not only in a strategic location that
would act as a springboard for the rest of Europe, but it would've
allowed for the elimination of the Luftwaffe, a danger to allied
shipping in the Mediterranean Sea.

There were problems: to start, the Germans were well aware of the
importance of Sicily to the Allies as the logical place to start an
invasion. Add to that the mountainous landscape of the island, a
joy to defend but impossible to attack. And lastly, the invasion
(Operation Husky) would require such a build-up of armaments that it
would be next to impossible to go undetected by the Germans.

For Operation Husky to succeed and not turn into a blood bath for
the Allies, the German High Command had to be fooled.

On April 30, a fisherman off of the coast of Spain picked up the
body of a British Royal Marines courier, Major William Martin.
Attached to his wrist was a briefcase, which contained personal
correspondence and documents related to the impending Allied
invasion of Sardinia. Spain immediately notified the Abwehr (German
intelligence).

After this discovery, Hitler promptly moved two Panzer divisions and
an additional Waffen SS brigade to Sardinia to prepare for this
Allied invasion.

Major William Martin of the British Royal Marines had been dead long
before he had even hit the water, much less served in the armed
forces. Major Martin was a decoy devised by Sir Archibald
Cholmondley (with the appropriate name Operation Mincemeat) and put
in action by Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu of Naval
Intelligence.

Major Martin had to appear as though he had drowned, probably after
his plane crashed off the coast of Spain. This necessitated finding
a corpse whose lungs were already full of fluid, so that any doctors
who examined the body would accept that he had been at sea for some
time.

A 34-year-old man was found, recently departed after ingesting rat
poison and developing pneumonia. He'd have to appear that he had
been dead for a while before falling to enemy hands so that the
effects of the seawater would disguise the obvious decomposition.

Intelligence secretaries wrote love letters to Major Martin, one of
them even including a photo of herself in a swimsuit to pass for the
Major's girlfriend, Pam. Sir Cholmondley carried the letters in
his wallet for several weeks to give them an authentic worn look.
Martin's persona was further enhanced by adding overdue bills, an
angry letter from his bank manager, a letter from his father,
tickets, keys. All the sort of things that a real person would
happen to carry, along with the documents that told of the Allies'
plans of invasion.

When Operation Husky finally took place, the Allies found so little
resistance from the enemy in Sicily that the Germans had to retreat
all the way to Messina. The invasion was a complete success thanks
to the mission carried out by a dead man.

Some sixty-years later another great plan is at work.

As some of you may have noticed, the Bush administration announced
the decision for military action against Iraq. This imminent
invasion has been declared, examined, criticized, cheered, re-
examined and re-criticized to ad nauseam.

Newspapers freely talk about the impending invasion, detailing the
possible day it would happen. Other articles talk about war games
and the immense number of troops that have been recalled to take
action in the impeding attack.

Even Time magazine had an elaborate article on it, including the
amounts of troops, type of aircraft involved, the places where they
would most likely be stationed. Helpful diagrams over the map of
Iraq showed where three attacks would start, all converging on
Baghdad.

All of this while Bush acted on the telly like that impatient child
in the back of the car asking if we "can attack yet, can we attack
yet?" This image of great pressure being put on the government to
approve of this upcoming attack seemed to be the top news item.

This may appear at first as the work of an idiot, carelessly
announcing their invasion plans, having blind confidence in the
overwhelming power of the United States army, especially after the
Afghani experience, considered by some as an outstanding success.

But really, Bush never intended to attack.

Running a war is expensive. You don't just send a bunch of ships
and planes in and blow things up. Troops have to be rotated, food
and supplies brought in, maintenance, pay for troops and many other
things.

The war in Afghanistan had an estimated cost of 1.2 billion dollars.
Per month. Include the fact that Bush had lowered taxes as part of
his election promise and you find yourself with a country already
with a huge deficit, powered with a great arsenal of weapons but no
money to actually run a second war.

So what do you do when you want to scare your enemy into thinking
that you are going to attack when you have no intention to doing so?
You use CNN, the modern equivalent of Major William Martin.

That's why media outlets were able to provide so much in-depth
information about this attack that is so imminent.

The Iraqis watch CNN constantly talking about an attack in their
homeland. They see large amounts of troops getting called in to
prepare themselves for attack. Stock-footage of big, lumbering
bombers being prepared. They see a President itching with
impatience in blowing shit up real good, to continue the holy work
his father had left off. They read about all the plans being worked
out to arrive in their capital. And they watch over and over that
the only thing that has been holding the Americans back is the
discussions taking place in congress. But how long can that last,
they wonder?

That's why they suddenly changed their stance, by letting arm
inspectors back in. They know the Americans are crazy enough to
attack. And they will. Honest. It will happen real soon. In
fact, we're so eager to do it, it has just recently postponed to
2003.

---
Leandro likes to pretend he has a grasp of what's happening in the
world he is on, but really, he's not fooling anyone.

-------------------------------------------

5. 'Smoke and Mirrors' by Neil Gaiman

Reviewed by Melissa DeWilde

I just finished this book. Truly, about five minutes ago. 'Smoke
and Mirrors' is a book of "short fictions and illusions."

I will rarely read a short story book, cover to cover, unless I
really love the author. Neil Gaiman is one of my new favorites, as
the more astute readers may have guessed. 'American Gods' hasn't
left the "5 Books to Read" list since it was first put up. But the
fact that I sat down and read this book, all of the stories, instead
of picking one to read every so often, says a lot about it and the
author.

'Smoke and Mirrors' is a collection that ranges from 1984 to the
book's printing in 1998. Many times, in a collection by one author,
you can tell the early material from the newer. You can see the
writer mature and improve. Not so with Gaiman. The oldest story
was, in my opinion, the funniest and no less worthy than the rest.

It's a rare gift to find an author who can be as funny, as twisted
and weird, as witty and wholy remarkable as Neil Gaiman can be. One
of the reasons I don't like short stories that much is that I rarely
get as much out of them as a novel. But Gaiman can do more in five
pages than the average novelist can do in fifty.

I really am in love with this man. And I really was heartbroken
when I found out that he was 20 years older than I.

On to the stories. This is about them, after all.

The narrative of the queen and stepmother from a popular children's
tale gives another view of the story. The wedding gift that tells
an alternate history of the marriage as the couple ages. The angel
who solved the first murder. A cure for cancer with curious side
effects. A widow who finds the Holy Grail, but keeps it because
Galahad is good company. A few true stories as well, and
introductions to each piece that give the reader an insight to how
they were all written or conceived are included in this anthology.

And so I tell you your duty. Go buy a Neil Gaiman book, dammit.

---
Melissa DeWilde - All the fun, half the nicotine.

-------------------------------------------

CoN would not be possible without the great help of Scriba Org.

CoN: "That reminds me... I have an ass kicking quota that I need to fill."

Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine "media you can abuse"
In memory of Father Ross "Padre" Legere
Published every second Monday (or when we get around it)
Disclaimer: unintentionally offensive
Comments, queries and submissions are welcome

http://www.capnasty.org ISSN 1482-0471

A bi-weekly electronic journal. Subscriptions available at no cost
electronically.


Available on Usenet newsgroups alt.zines and alt.ezines. This mailing
is sent exclusively to those poor souls who chose to subscribe to
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Spread the word! If you have friends who would like to receive CoN,
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Brought to you by C.C.C.P. (Collective Communist Computing Proletariat)
Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro Colin Barrett
<leandro@capnasty.org> <tyrannis@capnasty.org>


ZimID 708EC8D1 1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32 7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D

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