Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!wuarchive!decwrl!ucbvax!PICA.ARMY.MIL!skitchen From: skitchen@PICA.ARMY.MIL ("D. Scott Kitchen", CCH-V) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Travel Announcement!! Message-ID: <9003270930.aa12648@CC1.PICA.ARMY.MIL> Date: 27 Mar 90 14:30:17 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 13 Just dashing off a quick note here. Anybody want to come visit me when I head down to the Baltimore area? I expect to be there at least between Thursday and Saturday of this week. If you want to arrange a quick meeting somewhere drop me a line, or give me a call at (201) 724-6609 before 4:15 PM today. I may very well be traveling tomorrow (love these short notice trips!)... Cheers! ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Scott Kitchen Send mail to: skitchen@cc1.pica.army.mil Mechanical Engineer ICBM: 40.88 N 74.56 W ----------------------------------------------------------------------- I have an announcement to make; I'm bored! -- Bart Simpson Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!brutus.cs.uiuc.edu!psuvax1!xavier!news From: nap92@campus.swarthmore.edu Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: TinySWAT..... Message-ID: Date: 27 Mar 90 18:33:52 GMT Sender: news@xavier.swarthmore.edu (USENET News System) Organization: Swarthmore College Lines: 11 Nao comes to with a start and a yawn, scribbles a note on a piece of paper, and posts it on the wall. She then crawls back into her armchair and falls asleep again. The note: Paul Chisholm has reminded me (thank you!) That I didn't say _how_ to connect to the guest account. once you've telnetted in, type connect guest guest. -Nao (aka. Maris) ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | Nao Parkhurst (Maris) |"Light is the left hand of darkness | | NAP92@campus.swarthmore.edu | and darkness the right hand of light." | | NAP92@swarthmr.bitnet | -Ursula K. LeGuin | Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucbvax!PICA.ARMY.MIL!skitchen From: skitchen@PICA.ARMY.MIL ("D. Scott Kitchen", CCH-V) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Visit to Baltimore -- Rescheduled within 10 minutes of posting! Message-ID: <9003271101.aa16548@CC1.PICA.ARMY.MIL> Date: 27 Mar 90 16:01:43 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 14 Love this accurate information. My visit to the Baltimore area has been moved back to Monday of next week, meaning I will be arriving Sunday and staying at least two days, maybe more. Same things still apply. If any of you would like to get together while I'm there, send me e-mail before Friday, or give me a ring at (201) 724-6609 before then, and we'll see what we can do. Cheers! ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Scott Kitchen Send mail to: skitchen@cc1.pica.army.mil Mechanical Engineer ICBM: 40.88 N 74.56 W ----------------------------------------------------------------------- I have an announcement to make; I'm bored! -- Bart Simpson Path: mit-eddie!mit-amt!snorkelwacker!usc!wuarchive!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!samsung!noose.ecn.purdue.edu!mentor.cc.purdue.edu!f3w From: f3w@mentor.cc.purdue.edu (Mark Gellis) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: The Man Who Talked with Books Message-ID: <8909@mentor.cc.purdue.edu> Date: 27 Mar 90 18:08:08 GMT Reply-To: f3w@mentor.cc.purdue.edu (Mark Gellis) Organization: Purdue University Lines: 18 The door opens and a man walks in. He is smallish, perhaps 5'6", slender but well-built, brown-haired, with a blonde mustache. Large green eyes are partially hidden behind glasses. He is wearing jeans, an blue oxford shirt, white sneakers, and an expensive leather jacket. He gives the impression of being well-read, of having travelled far, of having learned a little about the world around him (and perhaps, like one of Lovecraft's heroes, a little too much). It is difficult to tell how old he is, but it would not be incorrect to say that he appears to be in his middle-to-late twenties or early thirties. He sits at the bar and orders a Harp. He waits and listens. He knows the people here are basically good, although some are very troubled, and he is not yet ready to explain how he knows that. He has always been interested in people, and this place, like a few others he has found, seems a good one to indulge that fascination. When the time is right, he will let people know what he thinks. Path: mit-eddie!bloom-beacon!shelby!lindy!news From: HF.ZMF@forsythe.stanford.edu (Miriam Ferziger) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Emotions Message-ID: <8693@lindy.Stanford.EDU> Date: 27 Mar 90 19:23:05 GMT Sender: news@lindy.Stanford.EDU (News Service) Distribution: usa Lines: 88 A newcomer walked into the Place. Nothing terribly surprising about her appearance. Long brown hair tied back in a ponytail with a large bow, jeans, and her favorite sweatshirt: the New York skyline white on black, set with rhinestones. She looked around, noting the assorted cats and warm fuzzies, looking just a little confused. She walked to the bar and placed a dollar on the counter. "Roamin' Coke, please Mike." (This is a place for time (and other) travelers, isn't it?) Today the newcomer is relaxed and quite composed, still under the warm glow of high praise from one she frequently thinks of as her arch nemesis: her mother. "To emotions and mothers!" she called out. She emptied the glass, and tossed it gently into the fireplace. Miraculasly, it landed unbroken amid the shards and logs. A neat, if underhanded trick. "I knew that some day I would find this Place, and I think it is fortuitous that that I stumbled into the middle of a discussion on emotions. Everyone I have (over)heard speak has pointed out the dangers of keeping emotions locked inside. I do not disagree with that, because my beloved nemesis, my mother, is a prime example of that. (In fact, I intended to talk about her for my first visit to the chalk line, but it seems much more appropriate to show a different perspective on the emotions issue.) "From the time I was nine or so, my parents eschewed the old-fashioned, painful (in more ways than one) 'If you want to cry, I'll give you something to cry about.' They realized that emotional discharge (crying, laughing, yelling, shaking, etc.) is both natural and good. Thus began my life as a co-counselor. What my parents and other adult co-counselors neglected to tell me, or I didn't bother to hear, was that there are times and places that showing your emotions will hurt you. "I am certainly not advocating burying your emotions, it is one of the most destructive things you can do to yourself. But I had virtually no control over my emotions, and they would burst forth at the drop of a hat. "In a nutshell, here is my story. After I graduated from college, I returned to my parentsU house to look for a job. Graduating was traumatic for me. I knew I would infrequently see the dear friends I had garnered over the past four years (I have only gone back to Oregon once). I _still_ didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up, and then came the clincher. . . "After nearly 27 years of marriage, my parents broke up. It was the messy, evil, vile breakup worthy of a soap opera. I was the only child still at home, and caught in the middle of knockdown, dragout fights. I became a peacemaker in the middle of a violent war. I became an emotional time bomb. Anything that that remotely resembled my family situation made me cry: sitcoms, plays (I wept hysterically on my friend's shoulder at a comedy one time), etc. "My life seemed so overwhelming that I kept falling apart at my temporary agency. Since I was obviously unstable, they stopped placing giving me assignments. When I finally probed deep enough, I got them to tell me the problem. I offered a simple solution, which eventually led to a long-term assignment, which led to the job I now have." She stopped talking and headed back to the bar. "Another, please, Mike," as she placed another single on the bartop. She drank down enough of the liquid to slake her thirst and resumed her position on the chalk line. "To honesty, even when it hurts!" she toasted as she hurled the glass into the fireplace. This time it broke. "I decided that day to reign in my emotions. I am still a hyper-emotional person, yet I don't think I would have it any other way. "I try not to fall apart in public any more. Instead I schedule counseling sessions, cry on friends' shoulders, or cry on my own shoulder. I am a much happier person today, because people don't feel like they have to tiptoe around me and aren't afraid I am going to fall to pieces. "Well, goodness, I sure have rambled on and on. Thank you for listening." And with that farewell, the still unNamed newcomer slid out the heavy oak door. --------------------- A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenious paradox -- W.S. Gilbert hf.zmf@forsythe.stanford.edu -------------------- Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucbvax!CS.UOREGON.EDU!jdrew From: jdrew@CS.UOREGON.EDU Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: As promised, it's after Spring Break... Message-ID: <9003272040.AA02258@dogmatix.cs.uoregon.edu.cs.uoregon.edu> Date: 27 Mar 90 20:40:08 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 11 A pair of eyes -- two pair? -- three? -- several pair of eyes are noticed at a window near the door, peering in. They weren't there a moment ago, and who knows how long they'll stay. If things look cozy enough, they'll come in. *********************** Jim Drew "Life's a death, then you BITCH!" jdrew@cs.uoregon.edu - unknown source (SCA: Colyn du Corynthe) Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucbvax!FSDCUPT.CSD.MOT.COM!jane From: jane@FSDCUPT.CSD.MOT.COM (Jane Beckman x4030) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: anger and what Message-ID: <9003271419.AA12102@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM> Date: 27 Mar 90 22:19:54 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 30 Jilara stands up, draws her rapier (well, it's a fencing foil, for now...) puts it to her forehead, kisses the blade, and salutes Thalen, the blade whistling appropriately on the downstroke. "Greetings, brother-by-the- sword. There seem to be many of us, here, who touch on this pointed topic and are masters of the ripost." Grinning wickedly, she sheaths her blade and sits down again. "You are actually allowing yourself to feel anger, so I don't think that's so much of a problem. It's not when the anger doesn't last, it's when you don't allow yourself to feel it at all, because it scares you too much. Once upon a time, I'd not feel anything for years, but about every three years, I would totally blow my cork, take something apart, and scare everyone around me. Once it was a chain link fence. No kidding. I ripped it apart, like the incredible hulk. Then there was the time at an SCA tourney where I was picking up 100+ pound chunks of granite rip-rap, hoisting them over my head, and chucking them into the Willamett River... I couldn't understand why everyone was so freaked until later, when I realized this is not normal stuff. At least I was venting on inanimate objects, not on people. Alaric tells me he used to do pretty much the same, says he's a reformed berserker, now allows himself to get upset over stuff so that he doesn't reach that point. I'm trying to learn that. It's pretty scary when you're having all-or-none reactions." Finished being serious, she grins. "You've been planting a lot of puns, but I don't know if I've got the thyme to think up too mulch more. But honesty allows a lot of heartsease in minting a new turnip of events, so lettuce not be squashing the movement." ---Jilara the Exile jane%fsdcupt.csd@urbana.mcd.mot.com "Fantasy loves company." Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucbvax!FSDCUPT.CSD.MOT.COM!jane From: jane@FSDCUPT.CSD.MOT.COM (Jane Beckman x4030) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Nightside Message-ID: <9003271530.AA12765@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM> Date: 27 Mar 90 23:30:13 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 79 Somewhere in the background, you can hear Chris de Burgh's "I Love the Night" ("I love the element of danger and the ecstacy of flight...") playing. Jilara is toying with her glass, and there is an odd, almost sinister, smile on her face... "First off, I want to just add to Chris Phoenix's comments, before I get into another topic. It plays in, nicely, too. In "Harvey," Elmer P. Dowd explains "I've found to get along in life, you have to be oh-so- smart or oh-so-pleasant: I've tried smart, I recomment pleasant." An intellect is a terrible burden to bear, my friends. We who are cursed with this, contrary to being conceited, usually try to hide it and pass. My own IQ is high enough that it scares people, and like Chris, I usually succeed at things. But I don't use it to define myself. If anything, it makes me insecure, afraid it will isolate me from friends. So I pass... "Which brings me to my next topic. Some people have problems with winter and lack of light... I have problems with high summer, when I feel uncomfortable with too much light. Which may be symbolic of some side of myself, which needs shadows to hide in. I started "Nightsiding" again this last weekend, and it scares me when I do that. It's when I start to crave a worldspace like something out of cinema noire, or Bladerunner, with the element of danger and weeping skies, and darkness to hide in. I start getting urges to hang out with P.I.'s again, or go looking for places where I am needed, to befriend the friendless, rescue the innocent, do what I can to throw a wedge into the avalanche of a world going mad... "Ever read a comic called "The Huntress," the new version? No superpowers, a woman prowling the night, listening for screams, 'defender of the innocent,' is her byline. I've always had a bit of a hard time with these comics, because they hit too close to my reality. Lately, the character is in therapy, explaining the schizm of Helena and The Huntress, how she was trained to be a mousy, unassertive little victim, and how The Huntress stepped in to fill the other role. That's too close to the Jane/Jilara schizm. She wakes from nightmares, even as I... My mother wouldn't even let me read fairy tales, because they were too violent. She tried to censor my very thoughts. So there is the dayside Jane, a mousy and unassuming person, who is very "good" and does what Mother would have wanted, and there is Jilara, or maybe "Beckman," (a name from when I hung out with guys with switchblades, as "the only girl you can trust") who is the Darksider, and rescues people from bad situations with acts of daring-do and hangs out with the wrong crowd. When I describe my life as resembling that of a superhero, I'm not really joking. I keep honing my skills, figuring out people, how to handle situations, and have had more practical applications than some of my cop friends. But I sometimes wonder what I'm doing, because it's a perilously thin line to walk, that could get me killed. It's come damned close, a couple times, close enough that even I could feel an icy breath of wind from the Grim Reaper. The time a drug dealer tried to poison me with PCP, as vengeance for "stealing" a woman he had targetted as his prey, was one of those. "Why do I do this, my friends? Is it because too many of the people in this world refuse to "get involved" and someone has to take up the slack? Am I saving myself, or my mother (who had some pretty horrible experiences along life's pathways), again and again? Or is it just that I need something from putting myself in danger to help others? "What worries me is that there is a certain exhileration to cheating the Grim Reaper or Unkind Destiny, sometimes. I was stalked by a guy who was probably a rapist, in a remote section of a local rural park, last year. He was coming after me with a shovel, and I sprinted up the trail to a picnic grounds with a couple people, turned and fell into a martial arts stance, plotting how I was going to take the shovel, if I had to, and turn it against him. He dropped the shovel and headed off when he saw what I was about. I reported it to the rangers. But what worried me was that I felt a certain heady---triumph? afterward. Like I'd tested and proven my worth, again. Like I still had the edge, I guess. I worry about what this means, in terms of my needs and identity. "I guess I'm just sounding off. I'll let my therapist try to make sense of it. But I worry that she'll think I'm delusional if I say "Hi, I get this urge to play superhero, and hang out with cops and P.I.'s and help people being victimized by the fringes of society. Thanks to all you Callahanians for listening. I just needed to talk for a minute, after realizing this weekend that I'm cultivating my local narc, on the theory this could save my ass someday, and it's getting to be a thin balance to walk, again. But he knows everything that goes on in the neighborhood, and I feel like I need to know it, for reasons I'm not even sure of, at this point. It just gets to be compulsive..." ---Jilara the Exile jane%fsdcupt.csd@urbana.mcd.mot.com "My email went to urbana, and all I got was this stupid router..." Path: mit-eddie!mit-amt!snorkelwacker!apple!usc!ucsd!network.ucsd.edu!hp-sdd!hplabs!hpfcso!daq From: daq@hpfcso.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: The Cynic tells a story and makes a toast Message-ID: <9060048@hpfcso.HP.COM> Date: 27 Mar 90 03:13:47 GMT Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA Lines: 102 Entering the bar, Cynic scans quickly, checking to see who is here. He waves at a nameless friend in the corner. She waves back and they share a dark smile. He sees that Oktave, Betsy Bo, and Diana are all absent tonight. He spots who he is looking for and crosses to the table, nodding to Chris P. on the way. Spike looks up and and exhibits an inquisitive look toward the black garbed, besunglassed figure before him. "Hey dude, you said you wanted to make some toasts with a list of people. I saw my name on the list, so I came to propose a toast." First I would like to tell a little story. Spring fever seems to be a theme here now, but it is still winter here in the Rockies. I drove up to the reservoir tonight and sat outside my car. The air was heavy with the feeling of ice and snow just waiting their chance to waylay the town of Fort Collins once more. As the chill slowly ate into my limbs and the grey sky slowly ate into my spirit, I gazed down upon the lights of the city. The lights grew stronger as the darkness increased, and they looked like the coals of a very large fire fueled by the passions, the hopes, and the fears of the people trapped within the tendrils of the city's network of roads and avenues and gas stations and corner super markets. It seemed to me as if this passion should set the world on fire, but as it is, it did not even prevent the air from numbing my fingers. It was beautiful. As I sat there on my little hill, pondering what benefit it is to lose the world but gain your soul, I began to hear the sirens. Brief flashes of red and blue appeared in the network of lights, flashes accompanied by the distant wail of the predator. These metaphor monsters grew closer and closer, screaming their approach boldly and savagely as if content in the knowledge that no simple herbivore could possibly escape their lust and power. As they rose up the hill, I followed their progress, the nicotine adding a rush of excitement. On they came, first one, then two and three, and finally four. The hunt was big. They prey must be abundant. As they raced by, I was touched by their metallic majesty. Surely they would cast fear into the hearts of even any clever omnivores whose paths they might cross. They dropped below the hill behind me, and I lost the sound of their rage and lust. After a few minutes, I picked it up again off in the distance. I wondered whether they were still hot on the trail of the prey, or if they were screaming success and exulting over the body of the poor beast crushed beneath their wheels. When the voices died, I felt oddly peaceful, knowing that these beings of man and metal were present in my world to safeguard the weak and comfort the crestfallen. I returned to my car, and cranking up the Einsturzende Neubauten on the stereo, I drove slowly back to the warmth of my apartment. Anyway, that is springtime in the Rockies. Cynic then speaks with Spike briefly, and they nod in agreement. Cynic goes to the line and begins to ramble: "First, I wanted to toast Diana, but I will save that for the day of her return, assuming she does, so that she can drink with me." "I discussed my toast with Spike, and he seemed to think it appropriate." Cynic raises a glass that he seems to have procured without describing how. "To bleeding all over the living room carpet." "I would like to thank you, Spike, for seeing the dark humor of the toast." "No folks, I am not talking about suicide. I am just talking about pain." Cynic. Hello, is there anybody in there... Path: mit-eddie!mintaka!yale!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!zephyr.ens.tek.com!orca.wv.tek.com!pogo!andyd From: andyd@pogo.WV.TEK.COM (Andy Davidson) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: another newcomer Message-ID: <8774@pogo.WV.TEK.COM> Date: 28 Mar 90 05:55:34 GMT References: <8748@pogo.WV.TEK.COM> Reply-To: andyd@pogo.WV.TEK.COM (Andy Davidson) Organization: Tektronix, Inc., Wilsonville, OR. Lines: 62 In article adam@chaos.cs.brandeis.edu (The invertabrate punster, so slug me.) writes: >The traveler in elephants leans over (gently so as not to strain the >highbacked chair that his portly bulk is resting within) and looks >inquiringly at the snake delicately wrapped around a delicate seeming >lass, "Hmm, bold pet, bold woman one would assume. Pretty animal. >But are we not all poisonous at one time or another? Why even love >can poison someone, unless they are selfless enough to bear it's >trials and tribulations beyond all dificulties and seperations." "Yes, well, Hsana here has never bitten anyone, though she has come close a couple of times. Mostly she's friendly - but DO NOT touch her on the head. For some reason, if anyone besides me does, she tries to bite them. Oh well." >is reminicent of the fun we had as an ntet ... Talking of which, is >someone going to strike up a band with this assortment of instruments >we have here? I know that we cannot hear the lute if there is even >another instrument in the room ... and the bag-pipes (grand pipes?) >tend to get a little loud, but with all of this congress, they must >have some common ground. I know we can have some earthy music ..." " Sigh . . . as to that, I might as well say that I do a pretty mean (virtual) dragon's flute. I also play the trombone, but not as well. Now ain't this fun, all?" >"But anyway, Laura, it is good to have you here. Do you dance? Not >physically, I don't know much about that, but verbally. You seem to >have nice balance of words, while I just have my dragon in the shower >voice. "Yes, to a certain degree - but that's a liability as well. I have trouble expressing my true feelings because I pay too much attention to the words, not the meaning. Oh, and, you may not have heard yet, but," rather plaintively, "could you please call me Lyra?" >people, everyone ... I just wonder if it is a learned tallent, or does >one have to be born with it." "The truth? I don't know. Oh well." >"Oh an m'lady Laura? Why praytell doesn't your watch work? Are we on >the fringe?" "Uh . . . no, not exactly. I'm prone to fits of temper, if the truth be known, and I got irritated and threw it (HARD) against a wall. I wear it to remind me to control excessive physical violence in reaction to anger. In other words, temper tantrums." (she has the grace, here, to look somewhat embarrassed) "Well, hmm . . . maybe solitary tables are a BIT much . . ." She wanders over and sits down, still at an empty table, but now in the midst of the crowd. Somehow, she doesn't look out-of-place anymore. And the wistfullness is gone from her expression. She picks up a tiger kitten and rubs it behind the ears for a while. -- To other Mages: the prosperity of full power and good luck. To non-mages, | Shannalyralythia | well, there's always the *next* incarnation! | Using the account |*If you love something, let it go. If it comes back |_of_Andy_Davidson__|*to you, it's yours; if it doesn't, it never was.