Fried & True (11 page)

June 2004

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

THE SPYWARE THAT SHAGGED ME

Now I'm being spied on. And not by Attorney General John Ashcroft, who I would expect to do so. No, I'm being spied on by my own household computer. Although Ashcroft may have my file on his desk as well.

Is this what being published brings? Is it the result of my name and the word lesbian being inexorably linked in some Google algorithm? Or maybe it's random. Or maybe it's not.

Now before you call me completely paranoid, I have to tell you that this was NOT to be my topic for this column.

In fact, I was surfing the net for confirmation about a factoid I wrote about Cicadas—those beady-eyed disgusting shrimp-sized bugs that have descended on the D.C. metro area in recent weeks.

I was set to tell you that there are about a million reasons why I love that I moved to the beach, but right up there, especially this month, is that I missed the attack of the 17-year locusts. I'm delighted that the vermin don't cross the Chesapeake Bay and invade Delmarva.

Truth is, I was going to relate my run-ins with the swarm of Brood X Cicadas (not to be confused with Generation X, which swarms in our local watering holes) that came out in both 1987 and way back in 1970. Point of fact, I came out in 1980, having nothing to do with locusts. But those tales will have to wait.

A funny thing happened on my way to the Cicada story. My computer was invaded by spyware. I went to Google to search for Cicadas and I got an eyeful of pop-up ads, followed by strange grinding noises from my hard drive and then my computer went on a slow-down strike. I could eat my dinner, and in fact, did, while waiting for Google to do a search. I came back and tried to get my e-mail but the machine worked like it had swallowed a fistful of Quaaludes.

When the thing worked at all it was with pop-up ads for casinos, prescriptions by mail, liposuction clinics, and methods of enlarging an organ I do not have.

“You have just won!!!!” “Get the drugs you need!” “Sweepstakes Winner!!!” and my favorite, “Be Bigger and she'll love you!” Boy, are they barking up the wrong tree house.

I tried to close the ads and the computer froze up like a lesbian in a room full of Promise Keepers. Did this have something to do with the wireless cable doodad under my desk that's been blinking at me ever since I threw over dial-up for broadband?

“Hello, Comcast? My computer pops up then poops out.”

“Hmmmm. It sounds like spyware has invaded your system.”

Do I call Bond. James Bond? Do I go to the C.I.A.? Ghostbusters?

The tech support guru explained that my computer had a bad case of this spyware phenomenon. It's not a virus or a worm, mind you, but software that watches what you are doing and zaps you with ads against your will. I'd rather have a virus. This feels more like a rapist.

How the hell did this happen?

“I have no idea,” said techguy, “but it happens a lot.”

“But my machine was fine yesterday.”

“Yeah, it can happen in a minute. One click, one piece of spam, you never know.”

Then he told me to go to
Download.com
and find a free software called Spybot, download it and run the program on my machine. If the instructions hadn't come directly from Comcast, I would have been very wary, indeed. But I checked out the site, downloaded the program and ran the “Search and Destroy” feature. I would have laughed at the video game nomenclature if I hadn't been so pissed off.

But here's the shocker. The Spybot program located 66 different spyware programs that had invaded my computer between noon yesterday and today and were lurking there just
waiting to help me enhance my breasts. Or my bank account. Or my sex drive.

In the ten minutes it took to seek all the spies and destroy them, I learned spyware names like Scratch and Win (at least it wasn't scratch and sniff), Gratisware (thanks for nothin'), FunWeb (who says?), I-SPY (does it come with Bill Cosby?), ICU2 (not if I see you first), and my favorite, Usucker (exactly).

We're all suckers, sucked in by this marvelous technology and then at the complete mercy of tech support crews who are now more valuable to us than doctors or plumbers.

When I ran my first search and destroy mission and found all those intruders I realized that the proverbial once was not enough. Five minutes after cleaning my computer off, the damn things were back again, popping up in my face with their sleazy, sneaky messages.

Aha! Following search and destroy, I had to immunize. That's right, I had to run part two of the program and inject my computer with anti-spyware serum. The program had to immunize my computer against all known bugs, viruses, Trojans, and everything but Whooping Cough.

Of course, part of my weekly routine will now include updating my spy software for new bugs and running my weekly search and destroy missions. Ugh, and I had vague hopes that my life was getting simpler.

The good news is that there seem to be dozens of programs available to combat this twenty first century problem (some solutions for free, some, of course, for hefty fees).

Just so you know, spyware can also be called adware or malware. This malicious programming consists of files that allow the people who think them up to snoop on your browsing activity, see what you purchase and send you “pop-up” ads they think you will love. They are sadly mistaken if they think that everybody who surfs the CAMP Rehoboth site (or Matt Drudge, or
CNN.com
) wants their member enhanced. Or needs Cialis. Or wants a new mortgage. Okay, here's the thing. I just realized that I hate pop-up ads worse than I hate Cicadas.

I'd rather be bombarded by flying beady-eyed shrimp-bugs (which I was, on Charles Street in Baltimore, in my Mustang Convertible, in 1987, but I didn't get to tell you all about it because of malware!!!) than bombarded by virulent and disgusting pop-up ads on my own home computer.

And the government wants us to use completely computerized voting for the November election? I'm even more opposed to that idea than I was yesterday, before a brood of spyware infested my computer. I'd rather walk ankle deep in dead Cicadas (which I did in 1970 in Bethesda, Maryland…) than have to worry that malware and spyware will invade and hijack our critically important upcoming national election.

I say bring back paper ballots and number two pencils. I say we should all demand paper back-up and whatever other measures are necessary to make sure that computer hackers, netspys, software terrorists or virtual Cicada swarms don't make technological idiots out of us all.

Spyware. It's a brand new fear factor. Trust computers? I'd rather eat a Cicada.

June 2004

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

GOT INK?

“Is that a henna?” I was asked last night at a party.

“Um. No.”

“It's real? You got a tattoo? No you didn't, it's a henna.”

“No, it's a real tattoo.”

“You didn't. It's henna.”

“I did. It's not.”

“I can't believe it. You're having a mid-life crisis. Tell me the truth, did it hurt?”

“You betcha!!!!”

I must have been in some kind of altered state as a result of the hoopla surrounding this book business, otherwise this never would have happened.

On Memorial Day Weekend, under threatening skies (although I wasn't personally being threatened, which makes this whole thing extra weird), I went to the Ancient Art Tattoo Studio on Route One and got tattooed. I've got a rainbow-colored seahorse etched into my ankle. Bonnie got one too. Now we don't have to invite people home to see our etchings, they travel with us.

So, in 21st century vernacular, I've had my body modified. I would have thought that the first modification I'd ever try would be liposuction, but instead of shedding something I've actually had something applied.

And I love it. Now. The morning after the modification fest my spouse and I looked at each other, looked at our ankles, and said, “Holy _____. Do you believe this?”

But of course, buyer's remorse is moot. No three-day rescission clause on this baby. It's a keeper.

And I'm still trying to piece together the events that led to my foray into body art. Me, who pales at dental anesthetic and freaks when the pups get kennel cough boosters. How did this
happen?

It started with our son the actor Eric, whose corporate career in diversity work once took him to a classroom discussion of Native American dream interpretation. One of his recent dreams had featured a giant turtle and he and the instructor decided that his good luck totem would, forever more, be a turtle.

What followed was pretty natural. Eric installed turtle lawn art at his Capital Hill townhouse, decorated the coffee table with gift turtles from friends and relatives, and pretty much had a cool little collection going.

Until Memorial Day weekend when he started to, as Emeril Lagasse says, notch it up a little. Bam! He wanted a big old turtle tattoo.

“Okay, lesbian moms, are you going to get tattoos, too?”

Oddly enough, this was not a question out of the blue. Over the past few years, we've flirted with the idea. Much like we've flirted with Cadillac Escalade ownership or the cutie cashier at the hardware store. But it didn't mean we planned on actually taking either of them home with us.

We'd often thought about getting a little seahorse stenciled on a shoulder blade or other circumspect site. Why this design? According to Bonnie, all of Baltimore's old-time lesbian bars (and there were surprisingly many) had a seahorse symbol by the door. The seahorse represented a species where boy seahorses birth and nurture babies, while mommy seahorses play softball or something. The symbol has completely fallen off contemporary gaydar, but it's still a cute tattoo image.

Fast forward to Route One, May 29, Ancient Art Tattoo. Now, if any son of mine is going under the needle, the operatory better be sparkling clean and sanitized. Peggi Hurley, an award-winning tattoo artist and a woman who knows a thing or two about body art runs a clean as a whistle shop and takes her craft seriously. In fact, she worked with the state government and the health department on tattoo parlor regulations. So it was Peggi we went to see.

The place was packed. While Eric searched through patterns for his turtle of choice, Bonnie and I flipped through pages and pages of massively inappropriate and ugly, if not frightening, selections. Vipers, Harleys, naked ladies, barbed wire. I think not.

One young girl eyed a sweet little puppy template for her rump. I didn't want to be the one to tell her that it was destined to become a Shar-Pei. Likewise, the chippy who wanted Snoopy on her ultra flat stomach—when this young woman is nine months pregnant Snoopy could quite possibly explode. At any rate, he'd have jowls by 2034.

And these gals were giving us advice. I'll admit, it was disconcerting hearing body art counsel from sweet young tattoo candidates with pierced eyebrows, tongues and goodness knows what else. One Valley Girl could have strained linguini through her ears. When I couldn't quite understand what one girl was saying I realized she was trying to orate with a brand new tongue stud. I think she told uth getting a tattoo doethn't hurt. Hell, it already hurt feeling like Grandma Moseses.

Finally, we located a viable seahorse design. Incredibly, we didn't go screaming out the door.

Okay, we'd had the advice, next came the consent. Naturally, Eric knew he had to go first if there was any chance we'd follow. For forty-five minutes he sat in that chair, smiling and chatting as Peggi engraved a Native American turtle totem on his upper arm.

When it was my turn, I showed Peggi the seahorse I wanted and told her I was wavering between shoulder blade, lower back or the flight or fight response. She was so nice and reassuring, and so quick to suggest that I'd really rather have a tattoo where I could show it off, I immediately agreed to the ankle site.

Well. Only after she started buzzing me with the black ink outline did I realize just how good an actor our boy Eric really is. Getting tattooed hurt like hell. Although, I was somewhat distracted by Bonnie, who had turned ghostly pale and
seemed to be panicking. At that moment I realized she had banked on my chickening out and she'd be spared. “Fooled her!” I thought, although that was little consolation. Fortunately my seahorse tattoo was just a 15-minute job, and pretty soon I was out of the chair and pain-free, watching Bonnie cave to peer pressure and get her very own seahorse appliqué.

Truthfully, the whole thing was pretty shocking. I hadn't felt like this much of an outlaw since 1970 when I accidentally wandered into a campus Vietnam War protest and got tear gassed. Even then, all I had to do was be hosed down. Jeesh. Now I'm seahorsed for life.

“Okay,” said Peggy, as our trio stood stupefied, staring at our body art, “go home and wash with mild soap and water, keep it clean and have fun.”

Our seahorses hurt like mild sunburn for a week and then they were fine. We are both delighted with our pathetic little middle-aged rebellion. If this is a mid-life crisis, we can only hope that the nursing home folks will be admiring Peggi's handiwork when I'm 112.

Of course, as we drove to New York to visit my parents last week, I wondered if I was the only AARP member in history worried about telling an octogenarian dad about a tattoo.

Got ink?