The Laundromat; Or, My Tutelage, Hermitage And Quest Towards Writing

The wrinkled old man I briefly spoke to, slammed the door, and left.

He accused me of stealing jobs, because I told him I am from far away.

And it occurred to me, that one can either be stupid, or mean.

Because both, just comes across as comedy.

I don’t remember, what the timer on the washing machine said.

But, I sat there forever, long enough to comprehend what that place was.

It was an in-between place, brutal, arrogant, but welcoming.

From here, you either notice…

That after weeks at the woods, your hands are stained with pine, and dirt.

Or, you try to remember, how long it was for Mr. Crusoe.

28 years, he was out there, for 28 years.

Joshua Slocum, took three years, to circumnavigate earth.

Thoreau’s Hermitage, was Two years and two months.

Alexander Supertramp, traveled for two years or so.

There was no going back for any of us, every day was simply brighter.

While, I desperate needed my books, it was not a Tutelage,

It was a Hermitage, something compatible with being a cast away.

Which is what you get, when you reject following orders – fair enough.

Having watched my bullies all those years, I rejected everything, that is shallow.

My English teacher, called me a bad penny.

She kept throwing me away, and I kept coming back.

But getting off the ground, was my greatest achievement.

I watched my bullies line up, they thought it was a game.

I put on my headphones, Christoper Hitchens was speaking.

I love the Four Horsemen conversation, the content is massively simplified.

On purpose, to make it easy to grasp, and approachable.

But content, is not everything, the surrounding class is the other half.

I noticed movement in a secret little room, it was the owner, no doubt.

They were ecstatic with all the new quarters, they gathered that morning.

I imagined them examining each quarter, with a magnifying glass.

Searching for something, that only makes sense to them.

Whilst making, happy little noises.

Then my drier finally paused, and dramatically beeped.

I was done, that was all the cleaning I needed.

Spotless, no wrinkles.

I took off the headphones, a real American Philosopher was speaking.

The content wonderful, but I cared for the class.

The way now late Mr. Dennett carried him self, like Christopher, like Dawkins, and Sam.

Unlike the idiot coward who hurried out the back door, I left the Laundromat through the front.

The sun was blinding, loving.

I have a very serious rule of adventure, you stop for every antique store.

And if there is time, used book stores too.

That is where I was headed next, the book store across the US 31.

I smiled, because the antique store, I discovered on my way in…

Well, for some suspicious reason, o a particular kind of hunger.

Had a box of Ocean Shells, I bought a bunch to scatter them by lake Michigan.

All the “vacationers” were ecstatic to find them, never noticed the expertly applied varnish.

To this day many of those shells, grace many a book shelf.

I ended up buying a bunch of stuff, I remember caring thick books to the car.

I scored an encyclopedia, for a quarter, and that made my day.

Back at my castle, a camping site facing lake Michigan, so magnificent.

That it can only be referred to as a castle, and even that does not do it justice.

I sat my programming diagrams aside, and tried to comprehend.

A particular style of writing, which I will never do justice.

Those are real writer, natural born masters of the art.

But non the less, Gaimans most audacious symbolism as I comprehend it.

Mixed with what made Killgore Trout, a living creature in Vonnegut’ magnificent style.

Where do you start? A cafe at the edge of the universe.

Or a laundromat, at the crossing of two worlds.

The world of obedience where arrogant politicians, pluck teenagers for their war games.

And the other world, the world of wisdom, of depth.

Not of variety of character, but its excellence.

We should treat my idiot friend well, to this day I care not to steal his job.

But he is one of us, and like us he needs a real education.

Wisdom and greatness, it would certainly keep his family whole.

Spewing nonsense at the laundromat, is very sad.

At the very least, he should be like Thoreau.

He could certainly build his own cabin, with those old worn hands that never shyed away from a hammer.

Excellence of character, of class, the highest of virtues, and dignity.

Here Ms. Rand, who made a fool of every teacher, as always was right.

You have to become a Philosopher first, you may stat at cafe or laundromat.

But you fix what irked you first, so that those that come after you have a chance.

But, I will never drive characters like Gaiman or Vonnegut, I do that in my computer programs all the time.

And that always makes a complex mess, that needs more tools and diagnostics than one can shake a stick at.

The sun had set, my dinner was slowly turning to delicious charcoal.

And I muttered, “I should not create characters”, “letters, maybe then”, I wandered.

And then, just like I went back to my beginning fix school, I went back to the first piece of text I loved, as a young boy - The Hacker Manifesto.

And so I sat there with my mouth open, the odd couple of words hanging in the air “Inspirational Poetry”.

I was even less prepared for that, than following the other odd couple Gaiman and Vonnegut.

Bewildered is what I do in programming, hence the diagnostics tools.

So bewildered is where I was going to start with inspirational poetry, “The School Bus Is Not For Us”, it practically wrote it self.

Finally, I will now read, the wonderful, text that impressed me, when I was clearly still growing up.

Please do not listen to it as an adult, get tired of being pushed around, ordered.

And find this text, alone, at night, at some forlorn BBS with a local extension.

The Conscience of a Hacker by The Mentor - Written on January 8, 1986

Another one got caught today, it's all over the papers. "Teenager Arrested in Computer Crime Scandal", "Hacker Arrested after Bank Tampering"... Damn kids. They're all alike.

But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950's technobrain, ever take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him? I am a hacker, enter my world... Mine is a world that begins with school... I'm smarter than most of the other kids, this crap they teach us bores me... Damn underachiever. They're all alike.

I'm in junior high or high school. I've listened to teachers explain for the fifteenth time how to reduce a fraction. I understand it. "No, Ms. Smith, I didn't show my work. I did it in my head..." Damn kid. Probably copied it. They're all alike.

I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because I screwed it up. Not because it doesn't like me... Or feels threatened by me... Or thinks I'm a smart ass... Or doesn't like teaching and shouldn't be here... Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike.

And then it happened... a door opened to a world... rushing through the phone line like heroin through an addict's veins, an electronic pulse is sent out, a refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought... a board is found. "This is it... this is where I belong..." I know everyone here... even if I've never met them, never talked to them, may never hear from them again... I know you all... Damn kid. Tying up the phone line again. They're all alike...

You bet your ass we're all alike... we've been spoon-fed baby food at school when we hungered for steak... the bits of meat that you did let slip through were pre-chewed and tasteless. We've been dominated by sadists, or ignored by the apathetic. The few that had something to teach found us will- ing pupils, but those few are like drops of water in the desert.

This is our world now... the world of the electron and the switch, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore... and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge... and you call us criminals. We exist without skin color, without nationality, without religious bias... and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good, yet we're the criminals.

Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for.

I am a hacker, and this is my manifesto. You may stop this individual, but you can't stop us all... after all, we're all alike.