Meet the Feds

Hackers from all over the U.S. met for their annual convention in Las Vegas, NV this summer. There are two points I found amusing about this annual convention, besides the fact that computer hackers have an annual convention, and one is the slogan contest.

Two winning slogans: "Society doesn't understand us, technology fears us" and "Where geeks stay sober so you don't have to."

The other point, which is more intriguing, is the change in the climate at the convention. In years past undercover FBI agents would infiltrate the convention in covert operations to bust the more high-profile, threat-to-society Hackers. Now days, the Federal Bureau of Investigation sets up a recruitment booth at the convention.

In a computer driven world (even the enemies use 'em), Hackers are a sought after talent. On a radio program I heard one nasally Hacker stumble out a question to the Feds booth: "what makes you think I would want to go to work for your regime, may I call it a regime?" A thick-neck sounding Fed chuckled deeply "because we make a lot of money and have a lot of fun." (Oh great, that's our Frat Boy Government talking).

Another benefit for a Hacker joining the FBI is that a newly recruited Hacker can have his/her past "sins" pardoned -- one has to have a clear record to go to work for the FBI. Hackers also need not worry about a standard crew cut and uniform dress code, as thick-necked Fed pointed out, "some guys even come to work in black t-shirts!"

Seven Or So Years Bad Luck

I just broke a chain email message a minute ago. Instead of finding riches or love within one hour, three days, etc. (depending on how many people I was supposed to have sent it to), I am cursed with so many years of bad luck.

I don't believe one trashy word of that hog-wash. But for one second, as I annoyedly hit the delete button, cursing my email-happy relatives, I had a moment -- a math filled moment. I did a quick calculation (seven times four-hundred-sixty-seven, approximately, equals . . .). As the saying goes, if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

Mpozi Tolbert

The radio aired a program today that photographer Mpozi Tolbert passed away suddenly at age 34. I regret that it was because of his passing I was able to hear of him for the first time, but I was very moved by the story and by the description of him and his work. When I got home, I did some research on the web. People who knew him had this to say of him:

"“He liked looking at things, and he was able to see things in a unique way,” Jackson said. “He was able to see beauty and political value in very common things around him." -- and --

Ryerson said he had "a big heart, and a kind heart. I have seen him several times with subjects he was photographing, and he was, with them, as he always was with us -- totally courteous, with a kind sense of humor."

His photographs are even more moving than these quotes can explain. I found a number on Indystar.com, he was a photographer for The Star in Indiana (check it out! -- sorry I don't take the time to learn how to make the name of the web-site a link).

On the radio, an editor from The Star was being interviewed and told the story about the first time he met Mpozi when he was 26 y/o. He said he just HAD to meet this young photographer who beat out other big name photographers for the coveted position. He asked Mpozi, How did you get this job? Mpozi reportedly answered, "it was the Jedi Force." The editor said he loved him instantly.

Check out more photos by Tolbert of The Roots on Allhiphop.com.

It's A Nice Day For A Snorkel

I come home, body racked, aching as if I had been in a roll-over car accident (Scott said later his body felt like he had played a game of football, but I don't know that experience to compare to). I had a nice red slash across my stomach, a bruised knee, a very bruised tailbone and several other small cuts to commemorate the day. And it was a GREAT day!

With mask and snorkel strapped to our faces, we set out as a motley crew of underwater bandits, menacing our way down the North Fork of the American River. Well, ok, we weren't quite menacing (how menacing can you be with a fat mask smashing your face and a tube of plastic for breathing sticking out of your mouth?). But we were quite the crew. Brent, Cole, Keegan, Scott and I journeyed over two hours starting from the Clementine Dam riding down to the Confluence. Some spots on the river were lush and beautiful, popping with skiddish fish; some were dark and dense, suffocating with mystery; and some were rough and tumbly, throwing us over swift moving rapids.

I found an interesting dynamic of group camaraderie and solitude in the water. You can see your snorkel partners and share some sights, but the thickness of the water and the way you can hear only yourself breathing makes it a very unique, alone experience at the same time.

And although we were shivering, hungry and heavily pruned from spending two and a half hours in river water, we were definitely satisfied to the core at the finish.