Dr. Dobb's Journal July 2000
There was a brisk wind from the north that night at Foo Bar. I wondered what it might blow in. At first I thought that the wind had pushed the door open, but then he stepped over the threshold, almost shyly in his flannel shirt and blue jeans. He came slowly across the floor, picking up speed as he neared the bar. He was about 35, clean-shaven, pale-faced. I gave the bar rag a workout and him the once-over as he straddled a bar stool and picked tentatively at the peanuts in the bowl I slid in front of him. What I did next -- well, let's just say it was a slow night and I was bored. I don't usually taunt the customers.
"Guess the Mounties got their man, eh?" I said, referring to the RCMP's bust in April of Mafiaboy, the 15-year-old Montreal cracker who was suspected of being involved in that rash of DDoS attacks earlier this year.
"I wouldn't know anything about that," he said. "I'm not a lumberjack. Or a fur trader."
I hadn't heard that Mafiaboy's contacts in the world of distributed denial of service were either, but his words confirmed the suspicion that I had been harboring since the moment he shuffled in.
"Still, how about those ATI graphics chips, eh? MacAddict gave the Rage Orion its 'Freakin' Awesome' Award. Not bad for some obscure outfit out of Thornhill, Ontario."
His voice was growing louder, more confident. "I don't live in an igloo or own a dog sled, okay? And stop saying 'eh?'" He hesitated. "But if you've got some Tim Horton's donuts, bring 'em oot. These peanuts are stale."
I pulled out a baker's dozen of Tim's finest that just happened to be under the bar and swapped them for the peanuts. "Been keeping up on the presidential race?" I asked. "Think the Microsoft verdict will have any effect on the outcome of the election? Or vice versa, gosh darn it? Pardon my French."
He stood up, pushing the stool back. "Look, I have a prime minister, not a president. I speak English and French, not American, and that guff about wearing suspenders and a bra is just a nasty rumor."
"I was merely curious," I said. "Personally, I think Corel's a great company. I don't care what they say aboot it -- I mean, about it. A lot of people still use WordPerfect. And it's an even greater company now that it's picked up some good American technology with the Borland/Inprise and Metacreations acquisitions."
He had backed up to the middle of the room and all eyes were on him. He was talking loudly enough to be heard out in the parking lot, even with the wind. "I believe that all traffic signs should be written in two languages," he said, "I believe in stocking caps, not stock options; venison, not vichyssoise; and that the beaver is a proud and noble animal." There were murmurs from the other patrons in the bar, and they weren't happy murmurs.
"Canada's the largest source of crushed ice, the first nation of sports violence, and the first part of North America, at least if you number from the north. If you number from the south, the first part is Panama, only it's half in South America, so I don't know if that counts."
"That's great," I said, deciding I'd better rein him in before we had an international incident. "You want to sit down, pal? There's a tendon in your neck that's as tight as Neil Young's guitar strings. And if you haven't noticed it, you're starting to get hoarse. Why don't you let me get you something to drink, and while I'm doing it how about we make with the social amenities. My name's Mike."
He sat. After a minute he said, more quietly, "My name is Joe C., and I am Canadian."
"Recognizing you have a problem is half the solution," I said, and poured him a Molson.
Michael Swaine
editor-at-large
mswaine@swaine.com