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The Cuckoo's Egg: Tracking a Spy Through the Maze of Computer Espionage

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Clifford Stoll
Clifford Stoll

Clifford Stoll is an American author known for his works on computer security and personal privacy. His writings often explore the impact of technology on society and the role of individuals in technological advancement. more

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“Grateful Dead performances were by design not consciously planned, often reaching their artistic peak when the collective stumbled upon something stunning, when "the music played the band," as it were. Instead of using set lists, the Grateful Dead chose songs by experimenting together until a pulse, rhythm, phrase, or riff emerged from the group, suggesting a song. Their collective, improvisatory musical works communicate felling like any other artwork.”

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“One final note one the [Rolling] Stones, though: When they came through the Bay Area earlier on that tour for regular concerts at the Oakland Coliseum Arena [before the Altamont free concert, 1969], 'They blew up all their equipment at the first show,' Betty Cantor-Jackson relates. 'They had all this Ampeg equipment, and it just went Ffffffttt! They were in a panic, so [Larry] Ram Rod [Shurtliff] and [Unknown maybe Rex?] Jackson raced to our [Grateful Dead] warehouse and brought down a bunch of our [rewired, kicked up, tinkered and experimented with] Fender amps for them, and the next show we sat up onstage while they played, and it sounded amazing. That was one of the times Bill Graham was nice to us,' She laughs. 'Anyway, I remember the first note Keith {Richards} played through Jerry's [Garcia] amp, and his mouth just dropped open. 'Woah!'. He couldn't believe the power and the clarity.'.”

Rolling StonesGrateful DeadKeith RichardsJerry GarciaFenderAltamontAmpegBill Graham
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“Not knowing how he had come to sit behind the steering wheel, he considered driving into town for help but was too fucked up to walk much less commandeer Emma’s truck. The hike into the canyon where her body would be—500 feet beneath the Claw and at least a 90-minute jog from the truck—was too much to consider, the stream requiring being forded at least a dozen times. Paralyzed by indecision and the horror of seeing her jump, he pounded the steering wheel with palms, tears soaking his face, collecting like dew drops in the wiry strands of his beard. “What the fuck? What the fucking fuck? Goddammit Emma…” Desiring nothing other than to have her back, he felt the urge to lie down on the seat and cry himself into oblivion, having no more control over himself than he had over the way Powerball had spun the universe, spitting out random equations from a spinning cage. So maybe, his mind conspired, she didn’t jump and was still wandering around the Claw, lost, searching him out. But the image of her stretching her arms wide and leaping was crystalline in its authenticity, tangible and substantial. She’s not here. The voice returned, stripping earthly context from reality. Go look somewhere else. “...the other half found me stumbling around and drunk on burgundy wine,” the tape player shattered his thoughts as though someone had thrown a large rock through the windshield, the engine suddenly idling. Like it just happened on its own, there was no way he’d touched the key. Fumbling for the cassette deck’s knobs, he watched his hand disappear into the dash, lacking mass or substance, sensation, an immaterial thing dangling uselessly from the end of his arm. Outside the truck, the mountain and trees pivoted, the world turning on a spindle, the turnout giving way to the meadow and the rutted path back to the gate. Gooch watched the speedometer needle bounce back and forth, wind tumbling the dashboard trash and debris so that everything danced against the windshield in time to the music. “I’ll get up and fly away….”

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“Tomorrow We Starve by Stewart Stafford Grey aftertaste of dawn's biting light, In emptied pockets, lint lesions blight, A funeral march, with posture askew, To a larder bare, options few. A cup of tea's transient balm, Rip open bills in the trembling calm, Hope flickers in redemption's seam, Vanishing as we scratch a fragile dream. Wages held back, our pleas ignored, To cloudy ivory towers, we implored, Shadow people ground to a husk, Tiny crumb specks in the dusk. An overseer's laugh, a cruel facade, The golden rule's sick charade, Fingers sear in the dying flame, The keening wind calls my name. Reflections shatter, a distorted view, Pipe dreams, strangled at birth, through, The shaming shade exacts its cost, Each pore clogged with penury's frost. In darkest siege, a spark may ignite, Defiant ember beacon's twilight, Hope battered, but refuses to die, Whispered lifeline to the coldest sky. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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