From: cate3.osbu_north@XEROX.COM
Newsgroups: rec.humor
Subject: Life  3.8
Date: 27 Aug 92 05:28:54 GMT
Reply-To: cate3.osbu_north@xerox.com





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

LOS ANGELES (AP) - The only son of Academy Award-winning actor Ray
Milland was found dead in his West Los Angeles apartment with a gunshot
wound in the head and a rifle by his side, police said today.
  "It's apparently an undetermined cause of death right now," Detective Sgt.
Glenn Varner said this morning.  "We don't like to jump into conclusions."

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

From an article on meteorites in last Sunday's New York Times magazine:

"Very large meteorites, however, ... strike the earth without slowing down at all. 
Because they are more massive than the column of air they displace during their
passage through the atmosphere, the atmosphere is incapable of decelerating
them."

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

Self-Defeating inventions (edited):

1. Elevator Earth Shoes
2. Heat n' eat popsicles
3. See-through mirror
4. Revolving basement restaurant
5. G-rated pornflick
6. Economy car conversion - fiberglass VW body on a Porsche chassis
7. Roll-on hairspray
8. Solar-powered foghorn
9. Moped exercycle
10. Objective journalism
11. Braille speedometers

Also... 

"A commercial on KMPX ... for Michel's Crepes - pronounced "crapes" by the
announcer - ends with 'It's like having a French chef in the freezer.'  Pauvre
Pierre."

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

I read in the paper the other week that Ohio State University researchers have
devised plastic "trees" that attract woodpeckers to nest in them.  The Plastic trees
are made of a soft polystyrene that is similar to rotten wood.  They want the
woodpeckers to come back to get rid of tree eating bugs.

Isn't this a great country we live in were we can't leave a few old trees stand for
woodpeckers to live in but put up genuine simulated rotten trees made of plastic
instead.

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

             Inducing the Body To Form New Bones. . .
 
    BOSTON - can induce the body to form new bones of its own - a
discovery that may have many uses in correcting birth defects,
treating accident victims and fighting dental disease. Slug AM-New
Bones. New, will stand. 500 words. Embargoed by source until 11 p.m.
EDT. Laserphoto BX12.

---------------------------
OBSERVER: The Legal Pitch
By RUSSELL BAKER
c. 1981 N.Y. Times News Service

	NEW YORK - Since the Supreme Court granted lawyers the right to
advertise, a few of the more adventurous new law firms which cater to
middle-income Americans have been testing the television commercial as a way
of attracting mass business.  So far their commercials have been duller than a
lecture on torts, which is a pity, because we middle-income folks really need
reasonably priced legal services and would flock to them in droves if they were
advertised persuasively.
	To help the cause, I would like to suggest just a few of the many
irresistible commercials that might be produced on behalf of, say, the firm of
Burger & Warren.
	The first would open with a shot of a jeweler cutting a large, expensive
diamond.  We see the blow struck.  The diamond shatters into ruin.  The jeweler
rises in despair.  Enter Robert Young, carrying a pot of Sanka brand.  "Bill,
what's the matter?"  he asks the jeweler.
	"My doctor says it's too much caffeine," says Bill.
	"Why don't you drink Sanka brand?" asks Robert Young.
	At this point a stern man in a snap-brim hat enters, lays a heavy arm on
Robert Young's shoulder and slaps a legal document into his hand, at the same
time saying:  "Mr. Young, this is a restraining order issued by Judge Hardy at
the request of Burger & Warren, attorneys for Bill."
	"That's right, Mr. Young," says Bill.  "I got so nervous about expecting
you to pop in here with Sanka brand every time I ruined a diamond that I
couldn't cut the mustard any more, much less the diamonds.  Then I heard about
Burger & Warren's low-priced legal services."
	He embraces the man in the snap-brim hat, who smiles into the camera,
saying, "Our restraining orders are available in a wide selection for as little as
$37.50."
	"This doesn't mean I'll have to go to jail, does it?" asks Robert Young with
a chuckle.
	"No, sir," says Bill, "but if you ever do, remember, Burger & Warren can
get you out with a habeas corpus for only $19.95."
	"Fees slightly higher on weekends," says the snap-brim hat.  Everybody
chuckles.
	The second commercial opens with a middle-aged woman seated at her
living-room desk.  She is frowning as though unable to balance her checkbook. 
Off camera we hear a voice, obviously a strange voice which does not belong in
this house, probably an actor's voice which belongs on a stage.  The voice says,
"Something wrong, Mrs. Murkin?"  Mrs. Murkin looks up at the camera.  "Just
not feeling myself today."
	Whereupon the unseen man asks, with insinuating insolence,
"Constipation?"
	At this moment we hear the voice of Officer O'Leary saying, "All right,
Mac, get those hands up."  The camera turns to show us Officer O'Leary holding
an actor at gunpoint and, behind him, a man in a snap-brim hat.
	"Take him down to headquarters and grill him, O'Leary," says the
snap-brim hat.  "You'll probably find he's the same housebreaker who's been
terrorizing housewives down on Walnut Street by turning up in the laundry
room to ask why they use inferior detergents."
	The camera cuts to Mrs. Murkin, speaking to the audience.  "I didn't
know there was any way to stop actors from walking right into my living room
and asking me vulgar questions until somebody told me about Burger & Warren,"
she says.
	"That's right, Mrs. Murkin," says the man in the snap-brim hat, wrapping
the strong arm of the law around her shoulder.  "For a consultation fee of only
$20, we were able to tell you that these embarrassments constituted criminal
breaking and entering by a professional actor."
	"And now," says Mrs. Murkin, "I can look worried in my own living
room without ever having to discuss my bowels with strangers again, thanks to
Burger & Warren."
	In the next commercial, an aged, arthritic housewife is seated behind a
table on which sits a heavy iron skillet.  Off-camera an unseen man with an
actor's voice says, "Mrs. Klomp, I want you to try to lift that skillet with your
aged, arthritic old hand."
	Mrs. Klomp starts to lift the skillet, then shrieks with pain, doubles up in
agony, drops the skillet on her foot and collapses on the floor.
	"What's wrong?" cries the actor's voice.  "You're just supposed to tell me
you couldn't pick up the pan until you got a dose of aspirin."
	"That was before somebody told me about Burger & Warren," says Mrs. 
Klomp, smiling in agony.
	"That's right, Mrs. Klomp," says a man in a snap-brim hat, entering left. 
"Thanks to Burger & Warren, you were able to learn that the sums to be gained
in court for pain and suffering far outweigh the fee for doing aspirin
commercials.  How is your leg?"
	"Feels broken in two places."
	"Congratulations, Mrs. Klomp," says the man in the snap-brim hat.  "You
will never have to work again."
	The actor's voice off camera says, "There's a name for this kind of game."
	"And if you want to know what it is," says the snap-brim hat, "phone
Burger & Warren for an appointment."

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

  YONKERS, N.Y. (UPI)  An enthusiastic Blue Cross computer sent George and
Mary Blagmon 2,500 bills for the same $183.03 charge 2,499 more bills than
they should have gotten.
	"When they first started coming, I thought it was a joke, you know.  But
then every day, stacks and stacks of bills would arrive," Blagmon said
ayesteray(sic).
	The bills, all for $183.03, began arriving April 8, with payment due at the
end of the month.
	"I called Blue Cross and told them what was happening, but at first they
didn't understand," she said.
	"We had never had anything like this hapopen before," said a spokesman
for the health insurance plan.
	He said the bill-typing machine operates at 6,000 characters a second.

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

What If It's a Tie?
    TUCSON, Ariz. (AP) - Bruce Mackenzie-Low and Steve Roberts are
determined to get their quarter's worth out of a space-age war of man
against computer.
    At last check, the computer was fast approaching battle fatigue.
    Mackenzie-Low, 21, and Roberts, 19, stopped by a 7-Eleven
convenience store here around 1:30 a.m. Thursday to play the
electronic game Asteroids.
    ''We're not trying to kill off the machine; we're trying to prove a
point - that you can get to a point where you're virtuous enough to
get your money's worth,'' said Mackenzie-Low.
    Spending 25 cents - the cost of their initial game - they had
amassed 7 million points by Thursday afternoon and, according to
Mackenzie-Low, were ''going strong. We've got it technically down to
where every 10,000 points the machine throws in an extra ship.''
    He said they wanted to better the 17 million mark, which they claim
would tie any known world record for the game.
    The two Tucson steak-house employees play the game ''quite a bit,
but it's not like we are fanatics,'' Mackenzie-Low said, taking a
break while Roberts, also known as ''Cozmic,'' manned the space guns.
    ''It's kind of like the battle of the galaxies. We're going to see
who dies first - us or the machine. I think the machine is
weakening,'' Roberts said. ''We'll beat it by tomorrow, God willing
and 7-Eleven willing.''
    
----------------------------------------------------

OBSERVER: How Shall I Dear Thee?
By RUSSELL BAKER
c. 1981 N.Y. Times News Service

	NEW YORK - A friend, as Lyndon Johnson used to say, is "somebody you
can go to the well with."  Not for an instant would I consider going to the well
with Times Square.  I certainly wouldn't invite Times Square home to meet the
folks.  Truth is, whenever I see Times Square on the sidewalk I cross the street to
avoid it.
	Why then do I receive mail addressed to "Dear Friend of Times Square"? 
For the same reason I get mail addressed to "Dear Fellow Angler" and "Dear
Decisionmaker."  Because America is undergoing a salutation crisis, that's why.
	The severity of this crisis is indicated by the "Dear Fellow Angler."  I was
flattered by this form of address at first, thinking it embraced me in the
brotherhood of sharpsters who know how to work the angles.  It has long been
my hope to be greeted as "Dear Fellow Finagler," thus winning membership in
that class for which the income-tax laws are written.  "Dear Fellow Angler"
seemed like a step toward this goal.
	Closer reading, however, showed I was being addressed by the Izaak
Walton League, whose idea of a "dear fellow angler" is someone who hooks fish. 
As one who has not fished since the age of 8 and plans never to fish again, I
was puzzled.
	Being addressed as "Dear Decisionmaker" was downright nerve-racking,
since my paralysis at decision time is notorious on six continents.  Could this
letter be from some cruel master of sarcasm who knew I sat home biting my nails
all weekend because I couldn't decide whether I preferred to see "Stir Crazy" or
"The Devil and Max Devlin"?
	No.  It came from a complete stranger, in fact a large corporation ("our
sales now exceed $500 million"), which wanted to sell me its payroll, accounting
and financial expertise.
	Each of these letters had three things in common.  All were from complete
strangers, all wanted me to pass some money their way and none of the
letter-writers knew my name.  Examination of a two-week accumulation of
money-seeking mail revealed a fourth characteristic.  The people sending these
please don't even know whether I am male or female.
	"Dear Sir or Madam of the Press."  This is a plea for publicity for a new
book.  "Be a columnist and report facts!" it commands.  The fact I want to report
right now is that I am not a madam of the press.
	While I'm at it, let me advise a certain charity which lusts after my bank
account that I am not "Dear Friend of the Arts" either.  Lord knows, I have tried
to be a friend of art, but art has snubbed me for years as a common drudge who
sold out to Grub Street.  It's too late to extend the hand of friendship into my
wallet now, arts.  I know who my real friends are.
	They do not include a certain large institution in Utah which hails me as
"Dear Business Friend."
	I never make business friends.  Years ago Uncle Charlie advised me,
"Never mix business and friendship, boy.  That way you'll never have to cut a
friend's heart out."
	Uncle Charlie also warned me about becoming an investor.  "If you
become an investor," he said, "sooner or later you're going to be wiped out like
all those buzzards in 1929, and while you're waiting to go broke you're going to
have to put up with a lot of mail addressed to 'Dear Investor.' "
	Now I get the mail even though I have followed Uncle Charlie's advice. 
"Dear Investor," says a letter from Wall Street trying to lure me into the gold
business.  I am concerned about these ill-informed salutations.  Naturally there is
a letter that catches my eye.
	"Dear Concerned American," it begins.  But no, it is not about the
salutation crisis.  It comes from a complete stranger who wants me to buy his
novel about the Red menace.  Apparently he cares not a whit about the
salutation menace, although it infects the highest levels of government.
	For evidence, I submit Sen. Daniel Moynihan's newsletter.  It begins,
"Dear Yorker."  Does Moynihan believe he now represents York, Pennsylvania? 
More likely, I think, he has an acute case of salutationitis which produces severe
inflammation of the prose style when the sufferer attempts to compose a mass
mailing.
	It is everywhere and spreading.  An insurance-company scribe writes,
"Dear Policy Holder."  Can anyone imagine a policy holder being dear to an
insurance company in any but the crassest sense of the word?  "Dear Collector,"
begins a vendor of small statuary to a man who has never collected anything in
his life but matchbook covers.  "Dear Environmentalist," writes a nature-lobby
amanuensis to a man who has deliberately chosen to live in New York.
	A wordsmith for a magazine publisher begins with "Dear Civilized
Friend" (my idea of civilization's finest achievement is the 1969 Buick Electra),
and a letter from a public-television station starts out with "Dear Viewer."  Why
not "Dear Moneybags"?  The gun-control lobby that addresses me as "Dear
Potential Handgun Victim" at least knows that I am still alive, which is more
than can be said for New York magazine wondering why a subscription hasn't
been renewed.
	Its author begins, "Dear Silent One."  I have received two copies of this
letter.  They will be forwarded to my late grandfathers.

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


From "Software News"; August 3, 1981
------------------------------------

COMPUTERS CONSUME HACKERS

Psychologists have warned that computers have spawned a group of
addicts, who often neglect nutrition, personal lives or anything
interfering with their activities in front of a computer console,
according to an article in "Science Digest Magazine".

Particularly acute among college and high school-age youths, the
computer addiction phenomenon is just another escape from social
adjustment in many cases.  

"Everyone has problems socially to some degree, and the computer
can act as just another escape mechanism," said Ralph Gorin,
director of computer facilities at Stanford University.

"The youngster (or `hacker' as the addicts have been called)
feels like `I just can't stand it anymore' so he runs down to
the computer room.  The computer doesn't care what time it is
or what you look like or what you may have been doing lately.
The computer doesn't scold you or talk back," he continued.

-- Carry Him Off ---

"I remember one hacker.  We literally had to carry him off his
chair to feed him and put him to sleep.  We really feared for
his health," an MIT computer science professor was quoted as
saying.

Although the typical hackers are attempting to create the
"ultimate program," they seldom make "desirable" programmers,
Joseph Weizenbaum, author and also MIT Computer Science
Professor, claimed in the article.

The so-called "hacker" makes the program so complex and esoteric,
others have difficulty understanding it, he said.  Furthermore,
the hacker rarely keeps records, Weizenbaum added.

"Computers are attractive because, to a higher degree than any
other object, they are interesting and malleable," said Philip
Zimbardo, a Stanford professor of psychology.  Like people, they
interact, and like people, they answer questions.  However, they
answer more questions and respond to them more accurately, the
article pointed out.

-- Subtle --

"The youngsters can form as many subtle nuances and textured
relationships with the computers as they can with people," said
Sherry Turkle, a sociology professor at MIT.

Computers are becoming more and more "our world," the article
concludes, meaning these addicts are not just a freak phenomenon.

"So perhaps hackers are, after all, harbingers of the world to
come," the article concludes.

        --------------------------------------------------
                          END OF ARTICLE
        --------------------------------------------------

I wonder how Jack Webb might have handled this...

******  SCENE FROM "DRAGNET, 1981"  ******

Hacker at console: Let's see, now.  If I hit an escape in TECO,
                   I'll...

Sgt. Friday (bursting in and dragging kid from console):  All
         right, you, up against the wall.  (Slams kid against
         wall while handcuffing him.)

Hacker:  Hey, what've I done?  What is all this?

Friday:  Just shut up, kid.  You're hacking.  It's antisocial,
         unethical, and unsanitary.  Also, you've got long
         sideburns.  I thought we got rid of all you hippies
         back in the 70's.  C'mon, we're going downtown...

[Downtown at "Parker Center"]

Friday:  Got another one, Bill.

Bill Gannon (Friday's partner):  My God, will they ever learn?

Friday:  THIS one's going to.  

Bill:  Where you taking him?

Friday:  The usual place, that big cell we reserve for murderers,
         rapists, drug dealers, longhairs, suspected homosexuals,
         and TECO users.

Bill:  I'm sure he falls into several of those categories.

Friday:  No doubt.  

[  Woman bursts into office.  She has "Motorcycle Mama" tattooed
   on her left forearm  ]

Woman:  What have you done with my son?

Hacker:  Uh, hi, mom!

Friday:  This your son, lady?

Woman:  He is indeed.  What are you doing with him?  What has he
        done?

Friday:  He has long sideburns.

Woman:  I'll admit that's pretty bad.  Anything else?

Friday:  He's a hacker.

Woman:  A HACKER?!  What are you talking about?

Friday:  We found him down at the University computer center,
         working on TECO macros.

Woman:  MY SON!  I don't believe it.  He's always told me he went
        out at night to pick up girls for sadomasochistic sex
        practices.

Friday:  Nothing so innocent as that, I'm afraid.  He may only be
         a small-time hacker now, but that's only the start.  We
         see this sort of thing every day.  They start on TECO.
         Then they progress to display editors.  Before you know
         it, they're writing their own system calls, and there's
         no stopping them!

Woman [sobbing]:  Oh my God.  My God.  

Friday:  He's not lost yet.  We may be able to save him.  We have
         a special "reorientation" course for people like him.
         While we're at it, we'll cut his sideburns.

Woman [clutching Friday's hand]:  Oh thank you.  Thank you.

----------


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