What is a Hacker?

Between the commercialism of the sponsor, and the innocence of the radio audience we find a delightful creature called the Disc Jockey.

Disc Jockeys come in assorted sizes, weights and colours. But all disc Jockeys have the same creed: to fill every minute of every hour of every day with records and commercials. And to protest with noise, their only weapon, when the last programme has finished and the radio sponsor switches his interest to television.

Disc Jockeys are found everywhere -- radio stations, golf courses, advertising agencies, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running away to, on top of **OLD SMOKY**.

Mothers ignore them, little girls don't understand them, older sisters tolerate them, adults HA! Heaven and the advertising agencies protect them.

A disc jockey is truth with a script in his hand, beauty with a bloodshot voice, wisdom with a cut of the profits, and the hope of the sponsor with a frog in his throat.

When you are busy a disc jockey is a inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to play a beautiful melodic record his brain turns to jelly. Or else he becomes a savage sadistic jungle creature bent on destroying his Hooper rating and himself with a brass band playing into an echo chamber.

A disc jockey is a composite. He has the brain of an adding machine, the ulcers of a banker, the persistency of an auctioneer, the diction of a train announcer, the subtlety of a meat cleaver, and when he has to put a record on the turn-table by himself he has five thumbs on each hand! <CRASH>

He likes free albums, swimming pools, Dixieland records, cadallics, money, sponsors (in their natural habitat), free passes and the girl-across-the-street.

He is not much for music, song sloggers, other disc Jockeys, the sales department, engineers, and the girl-across-the-street's husband.

Nobody else is so early to rise or to late to supper.
Nobody else gets so much fun out of old joke books, loud records, fan mail and females. Nobody else can cram into one half hour so many commercials about soap, falling hair, toothpaste, deodorant, non-skid tyres and a large chunk of unknown substance.

A disc jockey is a magical creature. You can turn him off your radio but you can't turn him off your neighbour's radio. You can get him out of your mind, but you can't get him out of the air. He's a bleary-eyed, syrup-voiced, fast-talking, bundle of noise.

But, when you wake up in the morning with only the shattered pieces of your sleep and dreams he can make you wish you'd never been born with the two magic words:

GOOD MORNING!

Between the commericalism of the MSIS department, and the innocence of the Real User we find a delightful creature called the Computer Hacker.

Hackers come in assorted sizes, weights and colours. But all hackers have the same creed: to fill every byte of every disk of every machine with source code and old news. And to protest with flames, their only weapon, when the last process is KILLed and the computer centre switches to a "better" computer.

Hackers are found everywhere -- univerities, colleges, corporations, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running away to, on top of **VAXen**.

Management ignores them, secretaries don't understand them, Customer Support tolerate them, administrators HA! Heaven and the greatful user protect them.

A hacker is intelligence with a head ache, elegance with a core dump, daring with a secure backup, and the hope of the admin with the root password.

When you are busy a hacker is a inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding, resource hogging process. When you want him to solve your problem his brain turns to jelly. Or else he becomes a savage sadistic jungle creature bent on destroying his reputation and your data with a misplaced 'rm -r'.

A hacker is a composite. He has the brain of a adding machine, the stealth of a thief, the percistancy of a tiger, the resourcefulness of cracker, the subtetly of a meat cleaver. And when he has to put a tape in a drive by himself he has five thumbs on each hand! <CRASH>

He likes USENET access, e-mail, source code, nethack, money, admins (in their natural habitat), free accounts and the new-girl-in-the-operator's-room.

He is not much for paper work, code grinders, other hackers on his machine, the MSIS department, dummy money, and the new-girl-in-the-operator's-room's husband.

Nobody else is so late to rise or to late to supper.
Nobody else gets so much fun out of old news files, loud records, junk food and females. Nobody else can cram into one half hour so many requests for restores, bulk chowning, increased disk space, more processer time, faster CPUs and a large chunk of unknown substance.

A hacker is a magical creature. You can kick him off your terminal but you can't kick him off your neighbour's terminal. You can get him out of your mind, but you can't get him out of the batch queue. He's a bleary-eyed, syrup-voiced, fast-talking, bundle of keystrokes.

But, when you are editing, with only the shattered pieces of working code backed up, he can make you wish you'd saved sooner with the two magic words:

SYSTEM CRASH!