Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!husc6!encore!encore.com From: terryk@encore.com (Terence Kelleher) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: reflections/reply/ah well Message-ID: <11690@encore.Encore.COM> Date: 19 Apr 90 03:04:31 GMT References: <8914@pogo.WV.TEK.COM> Sender: news@Encore.COM Reply-To: terryk@encore.com (Terence Kelleher) Distribution: na Organization: Encore Computer Corp Lines: 31 In-reply-to: andyd@pogo.WV.TEK.COM (Laura Davidson) The crash of wood seems out of place here. Glass, yes. Splattering Whiskey, of course. But please, spare the furniture. This place has some of the most comfortable chairs I've seen in a bar. Just like the ones at my dining room table :-) Terry's ears perk up. Imagine the idea. This place not real? "Of course, this is real. Socrates himself said, "I post, therefore I am."." Heading for the nearest soapbox (this place always seems to have at least one vacant one), Terry starts to preach. "If lurkers don't like this place, they should peer into the windows elsewhere. Nobody twisted your arm and said, "Read alt.callahans". As far as value on the net, I can't even count the number of groups I've unsubcribed to, because of the high volume of repetative drivel. Perhaps the focus of this group is narrow. At least it flows with new postings, from a varied source. I LIKE it. It serves a purpose to those who make it a place." The fire dims some from his eye, and his voice changes to that of a father soothing his child at bedtime. "Nobody believes in lurkers anyway. They're just figments of your imagination. Have some warm milk, get a good nights sleep, and they'll be gone in the morning." Mike puts a pot of milk on low sets out a row of mugs. "Be carefull this time, folks. I don't want anybody falling out of their seats. Gets in the way when I sweep up." -- Terence Kelleher Encore Computer Corporation terryk@encore.com Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!cs.utexas.edu!rice!uw-beaver!sumax!amc-gw!phyllis From: phyllis@amc-gw.amc.com (Phyllis Rostykus) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Another Newcomer... Message-ID: <1275@amc-gw.amc.com> Date: 19 Apr 90 02:20:51 GMT Reply-To: phyllis@neptune.amc.com (Phyllis Rostykus) Distribution: alt Organization: Applied Microsystems, Redmond, WA Lines: 96 As Jim stands, waiting for the acceptance or denial of his hug, the door to the bar BANG!!s open and a HUGE black teddy bear of a dog bounces into the bar, his tail a high, waving banner of happiness, and his bright eyes take in everything. Eventhough he's so big, he flows into the room, quickly dodging through the dancers who, being the standing beings in the room, become the chasers of the beastie. He is delighted that so many want to play with him, and starts playing dodg'em. Of course, in playing, he has to watch his fellow playmates, and doesn't look where he's going, and manages to slam into Jim's legs. Being about 135 pounds and having a significantly lower center of gravity, the dog isn't the one that loses his balance. "FEZZIK!! COME HERE!!" A tired-looking, sweaty, nearly 6 foot tall Chinese woman slowly comes in on a scene that is on the verge of chaos. "Stupid dog." she mutters under her breath, as Fezzik pays her command no attention at all. She's wearing a half and half black and white soccer jersey, shiny black shorts, a pair of Patrick soccer cleats, and a pair of sports sox. Her legs have black and blue patches on them, her shins are a mess, and she's visibly limping. Fezzik realizes that there is a wonderful TIGER in the rafters and starts dancing underneath the beast, barking and going into his play crouch. "Whaddyasee, kid?" She looks up. "Whaaaa?... OOMPH!!" as Fezzik decides to try and use his mistress to climb up to the wonderful playmate. "OFF!!" Somewhat abashed, as well as having his ears ring from the volumn of her shout, he gets off of her, but starts whimpering at the tiger, really REALLY wanting to play with such a fabulous beastie. She climbs to her feet with a visible effort, turns to the nearest person and asks, "Do you see...?" She isn't too sure she can say it, so she just points. Viola, just finished with chasing the pup around, laughs lightly and nods and then goes back to join the other dancers. "Goodness." says the woman. "Please, could you get that dog OUT of here?" says the Green Tiger. "Whoops, sorry," she grabs the black beast by the collar, "there. He only wants to play, and wouldn't hurt anybody. Well... " as she gets a glare from Jim, "not purposefully, anyway. He's just a bit of a doofus, sometimes. And he doesn't often get to play with another beast that's his size, and he'd probably really love to just wrestle with you..." She cranes her neck to get a better look at the Tiger, "Sorry, I think I'm babbling...". She heaves a sigh and mutters to herself, "Either I'm going crazy or getting far saner than I used to be to think that I can talk with a tiger." "What?" "Uhmm... nothing, not really." She visibly shakes herself, looks around and her eyes widen at the multitude. "Was just wondering if my teammates had made it here. We were supposed to meet for beers after the game, but I guess I came to the wrong bar. None of the Samuri Penguins are here, are they? It's a little hard to tell with all the people that are wearing black, here..." Mike suddenly speaks up, "No, I haven't seen any soccer players come in, but you'd be welcome back here, some other evening." "Do you serve Thomas Kemper's Helles?", she asks while still looking over the crowd with a growing wonder. Mike frowns, rumages a little around behind the bar and smiles as he hefts a liter sized brown bottle and extends it to her. "This it?" She peers at it, "Wow... just the last bottling, too. Great! I've never been to a bar that actually stocks the stuff. It's usually 'All Greek to them'. If you promise to refrigerate it I'll be back soon." Keeping a tight grip on the dog's collar, she starts to trot it to the door. "By the way, what kind of dog is that?" asks Zach with some curiosity. "It's a little like this place is for me." "Huh?" "Fez is a Newfoundland." She ducked at the groans and headed on out the door. "Hey! What's your name?!" yells Zach. "It's Liralen, Liralen Li." -------------- Phyllis Li Rostykus phyllis@amc.com -- ------------------ Phyllis L Rostykus phyllis@amc.com A Curious Spider - Specializing in turning straw into gold, nettles into velvet, wool into cobwebs, and logic into rainbow silicon. Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!think!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!brutus.cs.uiuc.edu!psuvax1!husc6!encore!encore.com From: terryk@encore.com (Terence Kelleher) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Hello, did any one hear me? Message-ID: <11691@encore.Encore.COM> Date: 19 Apr 90 03:53:11 GMT References: <11551@encore.Encore.COM> <2926@unisoft.UUCP> Sender: news@Encore.COM Reply-To: terryk@encore.com (Terence Kelleher) Organization: Encore Computer Corp Lines: 11 In-reply-to: greywolf@unisoft.UUCP (The Grey Wolf) Hildy pets the grey muzzle so close to her lap. "May I give you a hug? I seem to be in need of alot of them these days. I've never had to mourn a family member before and am finding it difficult. I have the strength to get through it but on occasion it does need bolstering." "Jim, I Know there are no words to help ease a mistake that is unfixable. I have a hug for you when you are ready for it." -- Hildy Kelleher "Its not just these few hours, but I've been waiting since I toddled, for the great relief of having you to talk to." - J. Sebastian Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!jarthur!nntp-server.caltech.edu!tybalt.caltech.edu!teneyck From: teneyck@tybalt.caltech.edu (Ross TenEyck) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: ... and another newcomer enters Message-ID: <1990Apr19.043522.3302@laguna.ccsf.caltech.edu> Date: 19 Apr 90 04:35:22 GMT Sender: news@laguna.ccsf.caltech.edu Organization: California Institute of Technology, Pasadena Lines: 74 The door to the Place opens, admitting a gust of wind, rain, and a figure in a dark blue cloak. He closes the door behind him, takes off his cloak, shakes it, and hangs it up on the coatrack. Underneath his cloak, he is wearing a leather tunic over dark brown hose, and moccasin-style boots. At his side, he wears a worn-looking broadsword and dagger. The newcomer is a bit over six feet tall, and large-framed. His hair is light brown, and very long; he wears it loose but neatly combed down his back. A short beard and mustache combine to make him look rather furry. Glasses clash somewhat with his medieval costume, but he doesn't seem to be aware of the incongruity. He walks to the bar, pulls a single out of his belt pouch, and says, in a deep but soft voice, "Mountain Dew, please. On the rocks." Taking his glass, he goes over to the chalk line. He glances around at the crowd, and raises his glass. "Good evening, people of Callahans. I stumbled across the Place recently -- although I had read the stories some time ago -- and decided that I should stop by, for a while, at least." He opens his hand with the glass in it, and the glass floats gently an inch or two over his palm; he watches it, bemused. "The virtues of a virtual world." He reclaims the glass and sips from it. "And in that vein, it behooves me to explain my current guise -- since, unlike the real world, I am free to choose it as I will here, and so my choice deserves an explanation." He drinks again, and looks thoughtful. "I am here as Sir Papillon, knight sans peur et sans reproche. But a knight more in the tradition of Don Quixote than of Lancelot, I think. The guise is an affectation, of course. But a deliberately chosen one, and so, in it's way, a truth. "It is tempting, of course, to think that life's troubles can be solved with a bright sword and a pure heart. Most of them, unfortunately, can't. Swords, ultimately, can only kill; and innocence is not virtue, nor especially desirable. "Nevertheless, while tilting at windmills is ultimately futile, is is very important that somebody tilt at them. Chivalry, the chivalry that was nine- tenths braggadacio, may be dead; and just as well, for it's time has been and gone. But there was a truth at the core of the code of chivalry; a truth about honor and gentleness, a truth that had nothing to do with slaying dragons." He pauses again, for a moment lost in thought. "I have been, in the real world, described numerous times as a 'teddy bear,' or similar terms." He smiles, briefly. "Basically, it comes down to the fact that people aren't afraid of me. And while that may at times rankle with the old male chest-pounding ego, it's actually a very good, and somewhat deliberate thing. "Because that's what chivalry is all about, really. It's not for nothing that the best knights were 'gentle.' It's something that I try to be, in the real world, and also, now, here." He drinks again, and contemplates the glass. "So, basically, that's who I am. A knight tilting at windmills, without even the excuse of Don Quixote's mild madness to justify it, and who therefore is forced to wax philosophical in defense of his hobby." He looks around the room again, and raises his glass. "A toast, therefore, to new friends, and to windmills -- may the world never run short of either!" He hurls the glass at the fireplace, and it shatters, raining glass in tinkling piles among the flames. He bows. "Thank you, my friends." And retires to a table. -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sir Papillon, a.k.a. \ "Think as I think," said a man. "Or you are Ross TenEyck \ abominably wicked, you are a toad." And when I had teneyck@tybalt.caltech.edu \ thought of it, I said, "I will, then, be a toad." Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!husc6!encore!encore.com From: terryk@encore.com (Terence Kelleher) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Touch Message-ID: <11692@encore.Encore.COM> Date: 19 Apr 90 04:33:57 GMT References: <9004171550.AA12040@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM> Sender: news@Encore.COM Reply-To: terryk@encore.com (Terence Kelleher) Organization: Encore Computer Corp Lines: 102 In-reply-to: jane@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM (Jane Beckman x4030) Appologies if this reply is coming a second time. It did not post back on this machine, so I'm trying again. In article <9004171550.AA12040@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM>, jane@fsdcupt (Jane Beckman x4030) writes: > >As a victim of various kinds of abuse, I can tell you that I'm a whit >weird at the edges because I've got a few defensive modes (many of which >operate on a purely instinctive basis) and residual touch-oriented >instincts, which were very scary to deal with at first, because I tended >to regard touch as a threat. (I'm still a lot more comfortable being >touched by women than men, and it's not socialization---it's that I >react badly to men sometimes because I associate them with sexual >abuse. This is ingrained on an almost instinctive core level. This sounds *VERY* familiar. I was abused by both men and women, but its women I have a problem with. Abusive men at least tried to make me feel physically good (ego stroking on their part). Women used me to validate their own power. They felt impotent, so they proved they weren't on me. Sexually abusive women can get very mean. At least mine were. >Why do people dislike being touched? I dislike being touched by people >who treat me like a possession or an inanimate object, to this day, no >matter what mode I'm operating in. Who doesn't? Being touched like that is dehumanizing and if its one thing we are, its human. > I think the key is in what the touch >means. If the only time I were going to be touched was in a sexual >manner, I'd resign from the human race and go be a hermit somewhere. >Unfortunately, our society has major segments where the only time folks >touch is in interactions related to "mating behavior." For people like >me, who are conditioned to reject such things as ultimately threatening, >this would create total isolation. > Unfortunatly, science has made it that we don't even have to have sex to produce children. People CAN go through life without sex. I can't. Although, in my own experience, it started out as an ugly idea/touch, I've been able to see the beauty and the warmth that being close to a person can bring (notice I said person, not male/female. As long as its a person you can care for and cares for you it isn't ugly). It took me a long time to overcome the conditioning and see the sharing of emotions that sex can bring. >Inside one's walls, there is a certain amount of envy in watching the >touch-related interactions, especially when you are only touched when >people want to exploit you in some way. You feel anger, reject the need >entirely, get hostile toward those who interact easily, because you are >not one of them. It's a craving and fear, all wrapped up in one >unhealthy package. I am speaking only from personal experience of my >college years and earlier, so I do not presume to speak for anyone else. Yea, it is. I've been through it too. How did you get through it? >However, if my words rouse a response of anger in you, at the mere >concept of craving and fear and need interlinked, you might do well to >look at why you feel that way. It was my first (though long-ignored) >clue as to how far amiss I had strayed. I became angry at even the >suggestion that things might be different, that I could possibly *want* >anything different. I might add that I disliked touch and felt >physically ill when people behaved affectionately. It was a Pavlovian >reflex, at that point. > >I remain convinced that those who dislike touch dislike it because it is >somehow threatening, an invasion, interpreted as an impingement on >personal boundaries. It needn't be. But for those who think this way, >it must be actively UNLEARNED, and one must learn trust, and learn to >feel safe being touched. It should never come uninvited. But it befits >one little to play armored porkypine, either. Because, as humans, as >primates, part of our validation is in touch. It's programmed into the >cells of our being. >actively harmful. > You don't arouse anger because I learned to deal with that a long time ago. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't be alive today. My first clue that I was wrong was when I found out that men had emotions. That was my first real "*SHOCK*". Not everything they did had to do with how verile they pictured themselves or wanted themselves pictured. WOW, imagine that! Then I met Terry. He wanted to hug ME, not my body (God knows why), and it felt good. The next thing I unlearned was the defense mechanisms that kept away the healthy touches that I needed. Not everyone that touches you wants to hurt you and if there's a part of your body (ie: little finger, left elbow, right heel, etc) that doesn't automatically replay the ugliness in your past, cultivate touches there. Maybe if you can trust people with that part it will spread to others. The next thing I'm unlearning, even now, is that there are good women also. They care and they hurt also. Jilara, if you will let me hug you, it may help me also. May I please give you a hug? > > ---Jilara the Exile (I hope.) > "If I'm not home accepting what I cannot change, I'm out changing >what I can't accept." ---Ashleigh Brilliant > -- Hildy Kelleher "Its not just these few hours, but I've been waiting since I toddled, for the great relief of having you to talk to." - J. Sebastian Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!sdd.hp.com!elroy.jpl.nasa.gov!ames!dftsrv!mimsy!chris From: chris@mimsy.umd.edu (Chris Torek) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: reality (Re: reflections/reply/ah well) Message-ID: <23831@mimsy.umd.edu> Date: 19 Apr 90 05:48:47 GMT References: <8914@pogo.WV.TEK.COM> Reply-To: chris@mimsy.umd.edu (Chris Torek) Distribution: na Organization: U of Maryland, Dept. of Computer Science, Coll. Pk., MD 20742 Lines: 50 After Lyra is done, Chris emerges from his corner to philosophise a bit. `As Lyra says, as Jilara has said, ``The Place is real; we have RECREATED IT.'' For those who may doubt its reality, consider: Must something be an object to be real? Concepts are not objects, yet most would believe they are ``real''. Emotions, too, are just as ``real''. Even those who will not admit to these will probably agree that these things---concepts and emotions---have a basis in reality in chemical reactions in our brains, if naught else.' Chris pauses to obtain yet another Ginger Ale. `Thus, I would claim that the concept of the Place is real. The emotions felt by those here are real. The help offered and received is real, for all that it is represented only in magnetic patterns on spinning platters and in chemical and electronic patterns in human and computer brains. It matters not that the representation is fleeting. What matters is that we can come here, to alt.callahans, and find a friend to speak with, to share joy or pain, to help or be helped or merely to observe, as we wish.' (Chris pauses to revert to older, baser forms of net.communication :-) ) >... Lyra looks angry. >"And I cannot believe you called the lot of us psychotics who belonged in >mental institutions! Though yuo **ARE** driving me in that direction!!" > ^^^^^^^ >Lyra looks furious, and glares about. > Her glance lands on an empty chair nearby. She picks it up and throws >it, HARD, into a corner. You hear splintering wood. Then she starts to cry >(cry, not CRY) uncontrollably. `Cry if you want. The feelings are neither good nor bad; they simply are. I too am angry, and disbelieving, that some would form such an opinion of us from what they have seen here. We may be imperfect---I know I have my share of neurotic fears and needs---but we manage to get by, day after day, doing constructive things, often enjoying life in spite of its setbacks. Sometimes we act in ways we might not like, but we try to do what we think is right. We are basically good people, and we can do without claims to the contrary.' Chris pauses, and changes a few bits, and the corner with the splintered remains of the chair shimmers. The splinters re-form into a sign saying alt.callahans: a virtual reality everyone welcome house rules: no name calling no judgements: your opinions are just that: *yours* -- In-Real-Life: Chris Torek, Univ of MD Comp Sci Dept (+1 301 454 7163) Domain: chris@cs.umd.edu Path: uunet!mimsy!chris Path: mit-eddie!rutgers!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!unmvax!carina.unm.edu!midi From: midi@carina.unm.edu (Midi Amin) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Still another entrance Message-ID: <1990Apr19.044618.8176@unmvax.cs.unm.edu> Date: 19 Apr 90 04:46:18 GMT Sender: news@unmvax.cs.unm.edu (The News service) Reply-To: midi@carina.unm.edu (Midi Amin) Distribution: alt Organization: Ubiquitous Rubber Chicken Hacking Lines: 70 A normal level of conversation had been sustaining itself for a few minutes before the hole opened in the corner and the first shots were heard. They weren't normal gunshots, rather they sounded strangely like the kind of blasters that Imperial Stormtroopers are keen on, and strangely enough it was just that kind of blaster that the short alien was running from when he came flying through the hole. Sprawling across the floor, he completely fails to notice the hole close behind him. He jumps to his feet, blaster in hand, and upon noticing that he is completely surrounded, jumps straight up for the rafters. From this vantage he finally realizes that there isn't a gun in the whole place that's pointed at him. Fortunately, he doesn't notice the emerald tiger he's landed next to so he doesn't freak out and decides to drop back to the floor, put his pistol away and examine his surroundings. He has a strange look on his face the whole time which turns into a look of almost absolute shock that almost puts him on the floor when he finally gets a look at the bartender and realizes where he is. He walks over to the bar, jumps up, plants his hands on the edge of the bar and holds himself there until Mike comes around to take his order. Mike looks the bald, brown alien over as he places his order, noticing his green eyes, brain jacks, the armament that is somewhat concealed in his black body armor, and the cord running from the jack behind his left ear, down his neck, and seemingly into the jacket itself. Whoever he is, he seems to think he's prepared for anything that might happen to jump out of a dark alley at him. "Name's Stack. Deck jock." He reaches a hand into his jacket, balancing himself on the other hand (and not having a very hard time with it), and pulls out a bill. "Snag a Blue Reesie Level 2? JTkopf troopers 'most fried me then." He slides the bill to Mike who hands him a snifter containing, not surprisingly, a blue liquid. Stack sips the liquid, smiles, jumps to the floor, and walks to the line. "Friendly carbs. Nice change. Name's Stack, deck jock 'n' recon guy. Smoked me lang chip," tapping a small line of chips on the back of his neck, "'n' you mightna b'able t' grok me lang, so I better change." Red hair sprouts from his head as he starts to stretch and his skin lightens somewhat, changing a 4' dark-skinned alien wearing all black into a 6' light-skinned human with long, red hair wearing blue 501's, a black jacket and red hi-tops. The cord behind his ear seems to have changed into a thin braid (or is it just concealing the cord that's still there?). "My name's Midi Amin. Actually, it's just an alias I cooked up some time back and it's stuck. Most of my close friends know me as Midi so that's what I go by. Stack is a bit of an alter-ego, and since he's often hard to understand, I figure I ought to do the talking." He sips again and smiles. "This is good, Mike. Thanks." Mike smiles back but gives him a kind of strange look as if he's seen this person before, maybe on a different time- line. Midi reads a look in some of the faces in the room. "Yes, I'm a musician. I play a lot of things, including keyboards, but mostly I've been concentrating on bass guitar. This is getting a bit long, so I should probably refrain from going on much further." A peanut hits him in the side of the head. "Hey! Honestly, that was accidental!" He ducks a few more. "Right. I'll stop now before I really get in trouble. For more info, read my plan file. For now, the toast: "To new friends, and a place to take off some armor." The glass flies in a slight lateral curve into the fireplace and shatters. Midi opens his jacket to expose the black Mickey Mouse t-shirt underneath, walks over toward Jake and Eddie and sits down. A smallish Ibanez bass appears in his lap with a cord running into his jacket somewhere and he starts to walk a simple bass line. The sound of the bass seems to come from the back of his jacket accompanied by the voice(s) of Bobby McFerrin (or what he thinks Bobby would sound like on this particular tune) singing a melody on top of it and the three of them play around on an F blues for a good long time. -- Midi Amin (midi@carina.unm.edu) Sysop of $F0: The System Exclusive (SysEx) "I feel like... a Pepsi!" (You call that a commercial?) 505-266-7114 Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!att!dptg!pegasus!psrc From: psrc@pegasus.ATT.COM (Paul S. R. Chisholm) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: a taxing story Keywords: April 15th (16th, this year); story poker? Message-ID: <4657@pegasus.ATT.COM> Date: 19 Apr 90 05:37:28 GMT Organization: AT&T Bell Laboratories Lines: 71 This past Monday night, two folks around here had far more luck than they deserved. I was one of them. I didn't *exactly* put my taxes off until the last minute; we'd figured them out a couple of months ago. (Okay, my wife figured them out; I found all the pieces of paper.) But we owed both the state and the feds, so it seemed reasonable to wait until we put the checks in the mail. So, here it is, ten thirty on the last night of filing, and I've come close to last year's record-breaking performance (I got to an open post office at 11:53 p.m.) I've read in the paper that the nearest post office open until midnight is in Hazlet, but I'm hoping against hope that the Eatontown office (much closer) will be open again. I figure that my local P.O. will have the info, so I toodle on down there, and sure enough, it says that the local box will be emptied at the normal (6 p.m.) time, and that the Hazlet office was open. Climb back into the car, head off, and realize I don't know where the Hazlet post office *is*. The note on my local P.O. had the Hazlet address, but I don't remember it. My county map doesn't help. I've gotten a few miles from home at this point, and I don't want to backtrack; so I decide to stop by the Red Bank post office (it's almost on the way), and get the address of the notice on *their* door. I get to Red Bank, and that notice is there. So's another, saying that the following Red Bank mailboxes will be collected from at midnight, and the contents will have the magic April 16 postmark. Including the two boxes immediately to my left. *phew!* That just saved me a half-hour's drive each way. I open the box on the right (it feels funny), put in the forms, close the door, re-open it to make sure they went down . . . close and re-open it again . . . *push* the door all the way closed, check it, yup, they're in now. The mailbox was *full*! It's eleven p.m., and on the average, a couple of cars are pulling up every minute, all going to the same sign, then to the mailbox. I warn a few folks that the one box is full. A police car pulls up. Out of the passenger side comes a man about fifty years old; it looks like he might be the father of the driver, a uniformed officer. As he walks up to the sign, I say, "They're collecting from these boxes at midnight, but don't use the one on the right, it's full." "Hmm? Oh, okay, thanks." He turns around and walks back to the police car. "Um, sir? You're not going to mail your forms?" "Oh, I'll mail 'em. I've just got to scrounge up a stamp somewhere. I'll find one by midnight." "You have a quarter?" "You have a *stamp*???" he asks. In answer, I pull out my wallet and found a stamp. The cop in the car was laughing; "You could have gotten a *lot* more than twenty five cents for that!" he said. So, anyway, two of us walked away happy, luckier than either one of us had a right to be. There was no reason I should have found the closest collected-at-midnight mailbox in my neck of the woods, and the other guy never should have found someone to sell him a stamp, right at the post office, at eleven at night. But that's the way it worked. Paul S. R. Chisholm, the guy with half an ale att!pegasus!psrc, psrc@pegasus.att.com, AT&T Mail !psrchisholm I'm not speaking for the company, I'm just speaking from my heart. Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!think!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!att!dptg!pegasus!psrc From: psrc@pegasus.ATT.COM (Paul S. R. Chisholm) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: parental support Message-ID: <4656@pegasus.ATT.COM> Date: 19 Apr 90 05:07:51 GMT Organization: AT&T Bell Laboratories Lines: 34 In some expired article, nap92@campus.swarthmore.edu (Nao Parkhurst) wrote of being afraid to call her parents about her grades . . . and then talking to her dad and being amazed at how supportive he was. That happened to me, too. Mid-way through the fall semester of my second year as a computer science graduate student, I was convinced that I was going to flunk out. I called home (at five minutes before eleven, just missing the cheaper rates, which tells you how upset I was if you know me) and woke my dad up (it was nearly midnight at home). I poured my heart out, waiting for him to either accept my failure or be upset with me. He did neither. Instead, he told me how proud he was of me, and all that I'd done in my previous years of school. (Which wasn't all that inconsequential; I already had a B.S. in physics, and an M.S. in math, after four years of college. I'd gone to Wisconsin to get a Ph.D.) He told me he'd accept whatever I did, but that he knew that I could finish what I'd set out to do. I neglected my teaching duties somewhat, but I got an AB (halfway between an A and a B) in the courses I was taking. I didn't realize til much later that, that was it, I'd finished the requirements for my master's. I took two seminars the following semester, forgot about my doctorate (all of the people who'd *flunked* the third year prelims were smarter, more studious, and knew more C.S. than me), and got a job here with the Labs. So, a toast: from Paul Scott Richard Chisholm, to Richard Joseph Daniel Chisholm . . . for believing in me, and helping me believe in myself. (And an apology to Dr. Leonard Uhr, who ended up doing some work I left behind in order to make it home for Christmas that year.) Paul S. R. Chisholm, AT&T Bell Laboratories att!pegasus!psrc, psrc@pegasus.att.com, AT&T Mail !psrchisholm I'm not speaking for the company, I'm just speaking my mind. Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucbvax!savage.UUCP!zap From: zap@savage.UUCP Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Hi Guys! Message-ID: <9004190836.AA21485@ames.arc.nasa.gov> Date: 18 Apr 90 04:36:42 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 9 This is basically a test to see if a portal to Callahans works. If it does, I'll say hello again in a few days. Zap --- Zap Savage Savage Research, Inc. "Someday, all this'll be yours!"