Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Austin Wireless City guide for community wireless groups

Austin Wireless City guide for community wireless groups

Before you can you have a community network, you have to have a community. There are all kinds of communities, and some communities are better than others at doing certain things. But the likelihood of having the right community in...

Posted in Muniwireless on August 12, 2004 02:03 PM

Punishing the Persona: Correctional Strategies for the Virtual Offender

"Punishing the Persona: Correctional Strategies for the Virtual Offender" in Steve Jones (ed.) Virtual Culture: Identity and Communication in Cybersociety, Sage: London and New Delhi, 1997.


The development of cybersociety poses significant
theoretical and socio-political challenges attributable to a
social space populated by "bodyless" beings. This chapter
explores the phenomenon of bodylessness and its
ramifications for the criminal corrections process. In the
case of a well-known virtual rape, the perpetrator's account
was deleted following a meeting of the virtual community's
members. This virtual execution of his online persona is
rigorously analyzed to determine if punishment of virtual
bodies is a suitable means for meting out virtual
jurisprudence. Guided largely by Foucault's insight into
non-corporal or bodyless punishment, a standard of "just
adjudication" is developed to insure that the punishment
fits the crime. In part, this standard directs punishment
for virtual offenses primarily towards the virtual body.
Accordingly, offline offenses ought to be directed primarily
towards the user. To this end, a classification scheme is
proposed to differentiate virtual offenses from conventional
computer crimes. Three cases are examined in light of this
classification and standard. They are the "rape of legba;"
the University of Michigan student, Jake Baker, who was
arrested and expelled for his Usenet posting of a "sex
fantasy;" and Kevin Mitnick, the infamous hacker accused of
committing several computer-related crimes. It is hoped
that the guidelines developed herein for adjudicating
computer-mediated offenses will insure that the punishment
delivered is commensurate with the crime.

The Social Construction of Rape in Virtual Reality

"The Social Construction of Rape in Virtual Reality" in Fay Sudweeks, et. al. (eds.) Network and Netplay: Virtual Groups on the Internet, Assn for the Advancement of Artificial Intelligence/MIT Press: Cambridge, Mass, 1998.


The current social construction of rape in virtual reality is not a worthwhile endeavor in that it forces theorists to adapt an undesirable concept in order to import it into virtual reality. Rape exists as such in "real life" because of the social construction of women relative to the social construction of men. The relationship of these constructions is not and does not have to be analogous in virtual reality because virtual reality presents an opportunity for social reordering. Among these opportunities is the exploration of the ramifications of bodies presented arbitrarily. Given these opportunities, theorists seeking to pursue positive constructionism ought to endeavor to develop virtual-reality specific constructions which empower rather than import real life constructions which victimize.

Searching for the Leviathan in Usenet

"Searching for the Leviathan in Usenet" in Steve Jones (ed.) Cybersociety: Computer-Mediated Communication and Community, Sage: Thousand Oaks, Calif, 1995.


The purpose of this thesis is to identify signs of Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan in the Usenet computer conferencing network. Certainly nothing that the Usenet users can experience can compare to the Hobbesian scenario in which persons are forced to give up the right to govern themselves in exchange for personal safety. This is certainly true on the surface, but there is another level of interaction within Usenet other than user-to-user. It is the level of the users' "personae," and it is at this level of understanding that the fear of vanishing from existence is ever present and near. For personae within Usenet, life can be described as "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." And it is for their sakes that this researcher has searched for and found a Leviathan in Usenet.

I am

I am

Me awash in a dark sea unwashed and struggling to get my bearings among frantic herrings I am just one among many curiously furiously deposited here

Born here borne by a storm here whirlwind and fear here recently posited here against my will Our will But still ragingly alive with a drive for the first time in our lives

I am

Here with these others these virile brothers in a leaderless not pointless struggle of death and life and I am at sea me among a frantic mob of the mindless mono-purposed like porpoises moving en masse on cue herdlike birdlike

I am

Thirsty to break free Thirsty to drink in a saline void somehow devoid of everything sane yet sanely I persist to exist Thirsty to sink sink yet propelled compelled gun held to my head to continue press on with the others struggling brothers

I am

Swimming to live Swimming to give Swimming brimming doped up hoped up with endorphins like dolphins on speed speeding we are all swimming in the dark without needing without pleading explanation explication we are swimming and

I am

Starting to get tired now Starting to expire now Starting now to stop somehow Others are falling starting to drop They are calling mootly mutely to their deaf brothers who are not dropping who are not stopping who are not expiring like they are like the weak calling to death like the weak

I am

Still remaining Still retaining the desire the fire to exist and persist and resist and to swim swim until we are free free I scream into the stream primally brine-ily and at long last we are near but we fear We can see it and we fear it the light the hope the dream

I am

Pushing and pushed to the front with the pack at my back now strangely unkind with cruel acts they are tripping ripping standing on the backs of others former brothers to see the light to be the light yet it will only be me only just me I see that in this sea it's the purpose for I am the purpose because I am the first

I am sperm

Morning Wood

Morning Wood

In my dreams the fields of corn

Bamboo speed grow for harvest each morn.

The magic crop returns each day

There for the husking, no price to pay.

And from this dreamscape I emerge and feeling good

With silky whispers in my ear and a cord of morning wood.

Yes, morning wood, I said.

Magic crop of the bed

Thriving each sunrise while the rest of me lies dead.

And I wonder what I've done, how I've earned this gift daily

To rise and shine and give God his Glory! Glory!

While strumming chords of gratitude on my special ukelele.

Now I want you to know a secret of mine

This Don Juan of the Dawn, studly steed, my morning equine

It comes without calling, arrangement or invite

Yet I've come to expect its welcome breeze to lift and carry my boyish kite

To crayola clouds dyed in new day's light on the edge of the sunnyside of dreamy, fading night.

Oh yeah, the secret. Okay, here it goes.

But keep it to yourself, 'cause nobody knows

But that tool-like stiffness, hammer handle of Thor

Rock-hard mallet of whacking, capable of cracking

Smiles on the faces of Mt. Rushmore--

Isn't mine.

There! I said it and I know it to be true

For my little pecker couldn't snap dried spaghetti in two

Now don't get me wrong

For I love my ding and the way it dongs

And let's me sing all of my favorite songs

And while it may not crow with the cock chorus of the morning grow

It croons pleasantly when it does

With a friendliness that's hard to miss

And when accompanied by sweet kiss and gentle stroke behind my ear

My fallible, gullible lovejoy spouts

Shiner Bock beer.

No, not really. Just kidding about the beer. But the rest is fair

The fickle in my pickle and the semper fidelis of the morning formation

Do not compare as they should and this has brought me to speculate

About the nature and properties of my morning wood.

It isn't connected in the normal way.

I mean, I can feel that it's attached, its weight and its sway

But the pleasure connectors seem not to be plugged in

It's a dildo from Heaven but crippled for sin

The divine plan eludes me, perhaps rent to own?

But some ethereal organ donor must be connected to my magic bone

And thy Kingdom will come if thy will be done

Except for myself who's been left out of this fun

Stone pestal to slammed mortar, I've put it to good abuse

But when it comes to self-pleasuring

Alas! It's of no use.

Am I making myself clear about the irony here?

To have an ironclad warhorse magical dreadnought of steam

Power to part petals and smash lucky flower

To serve breakfast coffee but to settle for no cream?

It's unknown to me! Magnificent erection of mysterious birth

It's a confection meant for others

The mirth is the girdth.

So the joke told in this chicken-chokehold which I've tried time and again

Since morning wood burns not in my personal stove

I'm fated I guess to give it to a friend

And I have and I do give away my wood gladly

For it comes not for me no matter how madly

But for you, and for you, and for you

This bumper crop I can give to you

For it's non-connectedness to me matters not in your view

And that's your secret.

So in this dream, I'm in this field.

Two rows diverged in the corn and I

Couldn't tell which was the one

Less traveled by.

So there I stood until I could

Each night the dream, each morn the wood

Steadfast there among the corn

Lacking direction every morn

So there I stood until I could

And finally learn to burn my wood.

the feeling of and

the feeling of and

the other woman is a man and i'm him

more or less about me being the man though she wears the dress

we share the same man who's historically straight

man enough for me but queerish of late

and i've been here before once straight now the whore

why the misogyny to deny denigrate imply implicate other women

when the burden should be shouldered by the men who prick other men

while the women they impress again and again

get screwed by these men not man enough to end

the misery of three and the mess that began

when men out on a limb found the him without a her and the her within a him

a feeling of homo

the him in the him

but it's the feeling of and

as in the he and the him

now that's the scariest part out on this limb

but i cannot replace the she in a her and she cannot replace the him in a he

so the question remains or

as in choose her or choose me

The Last Bat

The Last Bat


Poets' Lands

Poets' Lands

I want to spend some time away and visit poets' lands

I want to breathe the air of wine and eat the fruits of verse

I want to learn from poets wise in a universe memorized

Or scribbled and ranted, sometimes recanted

Where tide and time are rhythm and rhyme

Where oceans and land are laid by poets' hands

I want to dip in Dillon's pond

Of tears and memories

Sunset boys with nothing on

To bask for years in the span of a day

Chasing the phrase under shady word play

I wanna go to Minnesota

And walk in Abraham's land

To cross some Northern brooks and shuffle through Northern sand

And Abraham must join me as we stroll his countryside

With miles of verse to be traversed and metered by his stride

I want to train the horses at Patrick's father's side

Who needs to break them of their spirit and make them safe to ride

But I insist that Patrick's there to firmly hold my hand

To unclench my fist and to resist the power of the man

To educate to liberate the fillie and the father

To articulate to propagate with poetry the preciousness of the flower

I want to spend some time away and visit poets' lands

I want to spend some time way and sleep in poets' hands.

Auto Erotic

Auto Erotic

Look both ways

Belt click, leaning back

Music on, the right volume

Adjust the left mirror. Answer click

Adjust the rear mirror. Whistle. Handshake.

Now the handbrake.

Receiving. Ack, ack, ack.

Mission transmission for emission

Two tons of masculinity paused, parking, stalking, stalling in a stall, waiting for magic or just a trick.

Fan spinning, coolant flowing, rubber belts doing what they do wheels poised, axels potent with latency, tailpipe steaming somehow alluring

It's 12:37a.m. and nothing decent yet.

No, not that one. No, not that one, either.

Shoddy offers and riff-raff hustlers

You passersby keep on passing by

like the time on the dash

like my fleeting patience with mediocrity

like the juice in my cellular's battery

like my weakening signal

I'm drained and should go home or find that attachment and plug into the lighter and stay awhile.

It's 12:45 and no bites worth biting back

'cept for the sexy street motion of the black and white slider cruising by

infiltrating my resolve with a thought from those who police

No Stopping, No Standing, or Loitering.

No Cruising, No Pandering, nor Solicitation for Titillation,

Excitation, Imagination, Desecration, or Recreation.

No Exhibition without Permission.

And Definitely Absolutely No Unauthorized Copying.

Thank you, Move Along. End of transmission.

Roger, yeah. 10-4. Right okay.

Thank you for your input, but you do not understand me, Sirs.

But you can be sure that I understand where you come from.

Can you understand why I need to come from where I come from?

I'll not come along with you.

Hey now, unhand me Philistine.

Don't hurt me with that, oh mighty leatherman, gunboy with your shiny star, heavy tool belt decked out and accessorized for effecting the standards of modern arrest control technique with boots and jails and restaints and blink

It's 12:50.

Still nothing and outside it's still.

Windows fogging

I should breathe less hotly or less altogether

Clouds of moisture, my moisture wasted on glass panes

tantamount to licking them

lips pressed on windows

Seeing my breath reminds me to smell it cupped in the palms of my hands.

It's okay, I'm fine. I'm still waiting.

An incoming alert sends my right hand from my lap to my mouse

Fingers sliding on smooth white ergo plastic

as I drive the cursor to the right place and click with anticipation

Click, click-click, click-click-click.

I need a line, an opening move

Put the text to the test, save the rest for the best

Half-truths for your naked dare, savoir faire is everywhere!

But alas, dumbass! Your worldwise strategize vaporize in ruleless games.

No daddy role model, no sage cousel, no big brother to go first.

Make your move or go home, my gonads would say if they could.

So I pushed a pawn to King Four, regretting it instantly.

How Pathetic. How Ordinary. So Missionary and Predictable.

How By the Book in a world of sticky pages where moments ago I feigned defiance at those who would throw the book.

P-K4, at least it's a move,

A first move, in a darkened parking lot or before phosphor screen in an always nighttime world where a good job leads to blow job if you control center, develop your pieces in order, and never ever trade when you're down.

Now it's his turn.

Checking the rear view, his eyes are reflected in his own mirror checking me out checking him out.

My tailpipe, is it still gleaming?

My metal, is it shiny and green enough?

Are my lines sporty enough?

Is my total package new and alluring enough?

Do you want me?

His brake lights FLASH.

Was that for me?

A binary message of a sort?

A clever modulation of libinal drive encoded, transmitted, demodulated then decoded by my hungry limbic brain?

Perhaps I'm reading too much into this event.

Perhaps Joe Brake Light is simply preparing to back out

Drive to his Hyde Park Home,

Lovely wife, his boy Elroy, daughter Judy.

He did it again. Mere coincidence? No.

I tapped mine, too. Not once, but twice.

If a car could wink, mine just did

Tongue ready to slide from the trunk and moisten bumper lips.

He winked back.

It's 1 a.m. now

Message received, two giant modems manufactured by Honda and Ford

We exchanged initial bits in preparation for bites and more.

His wipers twitch and I flicker my fogs

while watching in the mirror as his body tremors

and I realize he's turned on.

My injectors spray explosive mist up inside my carburetor

My mouth runs dry while below I give it a little gas.

His Ford torso creeps backwards, my Honda in motion

Bristling against submission, I accelerate the rate

Hitting the road, while looking back

He doesn't follow.

Paused on the asphault with my right signal beckoning

He's just sitting there

lights on, indecisive and mysterious behind darkened windows.

I strain to be sexy, channeling pulchritude to manifold blowing pheremones out my exhaust

Don Juan engineering trapped in a Honda Accord body

Coyly strutting on my struts, pumping the pedal

I wag my hatch back and flash a reflectorized plate smile.

It works.

He rolls up behind and I drive ahead.

Knowing this time he'll follow.

And he does.

Sit Outside

Sit Outside

Sit outside and bear witness

for just a moment be alone and remember

where you were today a year ago

and the year before then and before then

Poised scarlets and oranges soon to be

piled springtime memories

at curbside

A warm and breezy respite from Texan summer oppression

Mexico-minded birds prepare

for the great circular clashless wonder

and so should you

however tempting the brief Autumn sun--the Winter succubus:

Don't go, stay here with me.

Sit outside while bearing witness and wonder

where you would go

where you are going

and where you thought you'd be

the last time hope withered

the last time Hell's fires burned in the trees

the last time it smelled like October.

Just Words

Just Words

hope is the arch we stood under

ithink youwant ibelieve youneed

in words the masonry

ifeel youknow ihope youwon't

a life is a building together

iseem youought ican't youcouldn't

upon a literal foundation

weshould wecan't weneed wewon't

of propositions to be misunderstood

howdidi howcouldyou whatdidwe wherewereyou

now the crushing reality of living in castles of sand

Monday, November 15, 2004


The creep of roots and rustling leaves

A wooden caress despite mute pleas from anguished hollows.

His sap follows the kiss while salty dew and breezy bliss moisten bark bristling from our tryst

With irresolute branch and bending bough,

Imagined sweat beading upon oaken aching brow.

Knowing your nature, is my conceit, transparent timber.

Despite you, the Speechless, I hear your entreat.

Your non-words unspoken, shouted and cried.

Your timorous, untried love, shaken, belied

Leaves me to the fantasy of secret intercourse with a tree.

Hugging you, loving you tightly inspite of myself

Nightly nestled in naughty arms unrequited where quiet's harms

Ruminate, germinate, grow twisted and strong

While I duet alone our love song of soil and inequity

Recorded in rings within the bowels of a tree.