Chief Tecumseh

Another newspaper appointment was coming up, and once again I had only been thinking about earning money, car repairs, and accompanying my child on their week at the country school, and I hadn't written a single article.

Atlanta is home not only to Coca-Cola, but also to IBM research facilities and our next computer congress. The best computer club magazine I'd ever had as editor-in-chief lay languidly stretched out on the hard drive, eagerly awaiting my messages. Time was of the essence, and I really had to act quickly—in a one-man operation, what I'd learned in the course on proper delegation is difficult to put into practice—I don't know why. Nevertheless, a true, full-blooded editor doesn't give up and uses the internet to fill the pages.

Not everything in this article is true—with one possible exception: my computer magazine was probably the best you've ever read. Some things are completely made up, brand names are mixed up, manufacturers too—I don't want any lawsuits, after all. Nevertheless, you'll recognize some of it from your own experience, or will soon. You'll go online at some point, won't you? You have email, don't you? Are you "in" yet?

It must be said at some point that many a veteran programmer has been shipwrecked on these newfangled data highways. And that this was less often due to the veteran programmer's own fault than you think or than we are led to believe.

For the sake of clarity, it should be noted that all of this happened "back then, in the day." These days, internet connections are completely trouble-free and incredibly fast, modems and lines work perfectly, and of course, the stork still brings babies...

Perhaps you too have a mailbox like mine: in the hallway by the front door, all the residents' mailboxes are lined up in a long row. When you get home, you grab your briefcase in one hand, your cell phone in your mouth, and your keys in the other. Then you unlock the mailbox, flip open the narrow door—yes, there's a lot of mail again—and then you drag the scoundrels out of the mailbox in bundles. If they'll let themselves be dragged, that is.

Sometimes someone sends a thick manual or Microsoft its latest price list; then it can be quite a hefty package, and you have to tug and pull at this monstrosity until it comes out—more or less undamaged. Phew, done, but it almost got stuck in the narrow doorway.

Last week it happened again. Of course, I'm no longer a punch-card dinosaur, and naturally, I don't receive my mail via a post office box anymore; I'm in the e-business world now! Naturally, I've been posting more or less successfully via internet email for the past few years. There have been a few hiccups here and there, but all in all, it works (when it works, which is often not the case). Objectively speaking, my communication frenzy has only increased, because it's now incredibly easy to send a few lines across the Atlantic. Previously, such a call would end with a glance at my Swatch (it's 3:15 a.m. in Toronto now) or with the first few pages of the phone book (a minute costs €27.50).

But e-business is the way to go! As the editor of a market-leading trade magazine (you're holding it in your hands), I have email contact with most of the authors/editors – that's my e-business. Yes, readers can also reach me directly and without bureaucratic nonsense (come on, they'd need a stamp on that, wouldn't you?) via our website or my personal email address. Maybe I should publish my first time in the "My First Time" section (BRAVO has a "My First Time" section too!).

My first time

I, a wired PC user, can join in for around $25. A fairly straightforward identification process at IBMNET, insert the floppy disk, type INSTALL. Snore snore, and completely unexpectedly: it installs without any ominous MRI-xxxx or other error messages! Joy! Emotion! Fatherly pride! What's your name, which is your nearest IBM dial-up node (select your phone number from the drop-down list), your credit card number, or do you want to cancel (back in the day, it was: money or life)? And that's essentially it. 30-day trial, after which it becomes a monthly subscription of, as already mentioned, about 0.25 kiloshillings, or $25 per month. And it would be worth it, if...

Or rather, if not.

Joy in the newsroom. Baby sparkling wine and a bag of peanuts are offered to the gods. Almost everyone and everyone connected to the editorial team now has an internet address. IBM employees, of course, all do, and anyone without internet access is simply out of touch.

Pure bliss and semolina pudding. Atlanta, here I come! Well. No matter how much the Atlanteans might advertise, I just don't like the CoCoLaLaLight. The best are still, in my opinion, the old 0.2-liter bottles, which, half-empty, can be topped up with White Coruba Rum. Just a side note, though; in truth, Courvoisier Dreistern surpasses both.

Of course, I'm still struggling with the quirks of this tiny computer. I wonder how unfair the world is that products like Windows for Workgroups or Windows of this quality make a man like, say, Bill G., the richest private individual in the world; others, like me, type their fingers to the bone and then buy a well-maintained new car (four years old) with only 120,000 km on the clock. Sigh! Goodbye, world!

But—where was I? Oh yes, I wanted to say something about the internet. It certainly takes a while to get used to the tools, especially for a seasoned screen voodoo practitioner like myself. Of course, I haven't really been able to surf properly yet, because my Netscape is incompatible with my co-user's Netscape, who has a university-level version at a discounted student rate and me as his father. It will surely be just as obvious to you as it is to me that Netscape can't possibly be compatible with Netscape, obviously! (Any questions?)

I don't have time to surf the web, I have to work and earn money. So, I'll just use the email part of the internet for myself, and we'll look at Hugh Hefner's colorful pictures with "his" Netscape. Okay. If you haven't yet wondered what word roots Netscape might be composed of (net = network, scape = abbreviated Escape), then that's probably a good thing, because you're a computer specialist, not an etymologist.

The email program (it's called EULALIA) is right up my alley. It's great how clicking on the "Help" button reveals a single, green line. I vaguely remember that in OS/2, green in the Help screens meant "more behind it" (i.e., hypertext). So, I cheerfully clicked on the green text with my nimble hand (the arrow is long gone), and a paid registration form from Qualcomm for EULALIA appeared (let's spare you the details). This registration form beamingly announced that I would then receive more emails from this company from time to time; all I needed to do was fill out this form and submit it with the button. Thank you for using EULALIA. But that doesn't really help me; I need Help right now to actually look at my emails.

Well, that's what friends are for. One of them just came by my fridge and said, "Griaßdioidawigetzda." Beaming, I told him about my EULALIA, which I still don't really know much about. He quickly grabbed a small snack from my fridge, then sat down with his legs wide apart in front of the PC and started clicking this and that. Suddenly, a name directory (NICKNAMES) appeared. He said, "Go on, give me your addresses," and typed in some of the names along with their web addresses. Then he clicked here and there and in the top right corner, and then it said, "New Mail, No Subject, No Recipient." My English is just good enough to guess "New letter, no subject, no recipient," then he launches into it and writes to the randomly selected address at the top: "Tscharli. servas ooida hab grad beim Ischwan eulalia zum laufn brecht der hirsch weiß ned amoi wo er was ei-tippn soi. Pfiatdi, xandl" and before I can even say "giggles," he does a monkey grip SEND click and off it goes. (Haven't heard from Tscharli since).

See, it's that easy. I ask him how things work with manuals and such at EULALIA. With a broad grin (which I only allow my friends to do without reservation), he blurts out, "No manual, intuitive user interface." "Aha!" I say, completely bewildered. It's somehow related to his endless car analogies; oh yes, "If you can drive one, you can drive them all," or something like that. It'll take at least three months, though, if they catch you... Intuitive user interface, and I, the idiot, write a 30-page manual for my customers' intuitive interfaces. Oh well, I can always improve on that.

When he returns from the refrigerator, I ask what this is all about now; I'm completely bewildered. The "demon" sends me a "Non-Delivery Report," or rather, a "non-delivery report from the evil spirit." I'm informed that the address I entered, "I4atdiaus.abaI@traumi.net. komm," is incorrect. A tedious search ensues, oh yes, a minor typo. A thunderous laugh and a resounding slap on my left shoulder; he seems to know Monika's email address as well. "Bring me a little more, then I'll explain everything to you," and so it happens. Soon enough (dawn is already breaking, it seems to me), I'm able to send a message to my friend Alex, attach a Word document to my message, and it arrives.

At least that's what I believe.

Far from it. After an hour and a half, another daemon informed me that the message could not be processed. After deciphering the jumble of English abbreviations that appears at the beginning of every email (if you want to call it that, I know), it turns out that the recipient (an AS/400) couldn't process the Word document. Ah yes, compatibility. I'd forgotten again that you shouldn't put gasoline in a diesel engine (thanks for that helpful example, Alex!).

Email, the wonderful message in a bottle. If I write a message on my completely outdated, yesterday's terminal, I immediately get an error message without delay if the user ID is incorrect or the user is not online, etc. We'll have to get used to it.

My friend Alex pops in briefly from the kitchen ("Hey, I'm leaving now. Because this isn't working. Every time I come, your fridge is empty. I really don't know what you understand by friendship. Bye."). I'm also surprised that the fridge is empty again.

Internet light

Two months have passed. Around 300 emails are stored on my PC, roughly 700MB. I'll probably have to buy a new hard drive, or get rid of some documents. Printing would also be an alternative to a paperless office. It's great that everything has already been so well thought out.

A week ago I discovered: now I can only write. Yes, I can no longer read, or in other words: I can't collect my mail. Then a POP3.CA.US....andsofort. contacted me and said I no longer exist! User RUDAS does not exist, please enter your password: ******.

Seventeen times I tried to pick up mail (CHECK MAIL). Seventeen times nothing. So no connection, the post office won't release anything without—well, without what exactly? I entered my password KAKERLAK a dozen times, always getting OK, then some certain MIME SERVER said, "You do not exist," the sad genie in a bottle! Or how else would you describe the DAEMON of a message in a bottle?!

Well, with the terminal, I know how to help myself, I call the operator and say: this and that isn't working, do something, please!

It probably works the same way with the internet; if my password expires or something, then he should just give me a new one. Wait—who the hell is the internet operator, anyway? And, just out of curiosity, where is he? All I know is that the internet is a system of many, many thousands of interconnected computers. But which one is "the system"?

Now I need to go to the fridge (it's restocked) and get some good advice. After the second or third piece of advice, I remember that there's a funny little reception bell icon in the top left corner of the internet dialer (you remember: Franco Nero rings the bell at the bar in "A Fistful of Dollars" before he starts shooting). By now I'm desperate enough to negotiate with any receptionist—er, operator—even if he's Django or Quasimodo himself. I click on it (now his bell should ring) and—a form appears. Open a new account, change an existing account… no, that wasn't it. Yeah, where is he then?

Then, way down at the bottom, I discover HELP. I click, and a lot of text comes rushing out. I work my way through it, learn a lot about the people at IBM who write these texts—they also prefer manuals—and after some enjoyable reading (manuals are sometimes better than intuition), I find the US phone numbers where you can call toll-free. Of course, that doesn't apply to me (I already had this experience with satellite TV: you can't call the attractive women toll-free from Austria, no matter how good that sounds). Oh, there's something else... local support. Ha! After the inevitable click, a dropdown list appears (well, a list expands in a little window) with the numbers of the worldwide country helpdesks. Yeah! Austria 0660 and something. I call: there's no one there except for the beeping. Helpdesk lite! Does anyone at IBM actually believe that these new helpdesks are worth even a single penny? Truly "valuable"?

Now good advice is hard to come by; a bit of business consulting is needed, so to speak. The fridge is on fire, and Jennifer graciously lends me my key to the bar cabinet. Speaking of business consulting! The saving idea: I'll write to a well-known figure at IBM. No sooner said than done. I know my contacts; he'll get it tomorrow, then I'll call, and so on. And to think some people say a visit to István's Bar isn't worthwhile!

The next day everything will be wonderfully clear (that will surely be tomorrow, I assume, because I can't wait any longer for the help desk to finally get around to writing this article), and my IBM colleague will certainly owe me a piece of good advice or two. Gladly! But what does someone who doesn't know anyone at IBM drink?

Ah, I see. My proofreader asks what "Internet light" is supposed to mean in the headline. Well, I've become quite light on these time-consuming squabbles. It's a light experience until you get this email business somewhat under control. And I feel light on all those who still have it ahead of them.

Chief Tecumseh

Two hunters meet in the woods (admittedly, a very short joke); Friedl and I meet online, "Hey, hi, how's it going? Can you send me something for the newspaper again? — Yes, I'll email it to you, I'm currently in Budapest. — Okay, see you later then!" — Actually, this e-business is quite simple, isn't it?

The very next day, during my sacred morning routine of a cigarette, coffee, shower, yogurt muesli, and the hallowed mail-collection ceremony (in which the "abholze" is only coincidentally included: but the automatic spell checker always suggests "Abholzen" here...) are all supposed to be handled one after the other, I stop short, so abruptly that my cigarette falls right past my coffee cup and into my muesli: mail from Hungary! Aha, Friedl is sending his tips and tricks for the newspaper!

A brief but important architectural digression to illustrate my privacy: my apartment is divided into two parts by a long, narrow corridor: the office/editorial room and the engine room on one side, the private quarters (large audience hall, princess's bedroom, kitchen and pantry as well as the bathrooms) on the other.

So, I'm pacing impatiently in my underwear between the office and the Blue Lounge (TV room), waiting for the "Ping! You have new Mail!" from the email program, glancing back and forth between the internet and Eurosport. The thing just keeps transmitting and transmitting and transmitting, and then finally pings! but only to laconically inform me: Error 10060 timed out by SMTP server.

Ah, I know that one. So, I quickly remixed the muesli in the kitchen, then went back to the PC and cheerfully clicked "Check Mail." My email program then hooked itself powerfully into the IBM network, winding its way past Paris and Ostend directly to Rosslare in Ireland, and from there under the Atlantic to New York, to connect to the smtp-pop3 server of ca.us.ibmnet—that nimble little devil!

I get up to get my yogurt, nut, and nectarine muesli, but freeze mid-movement, which turns into a frozen pirouette: Ping! Error 10060 Timed Out by SMTP Server.

"Honey," chirps a voice from the bedroom, "can't you even fix the socket? The hairdryer's not working!" Beware when a sentence contains "not," so first, a bit of time-saving (double-click on "Hang up," then "Do you really want to hang up at this time?", "Yes + Click") and then straight to the bedroom. A light tap of the elbow on the socket, the ends of the hairdryer's plug are briefly bent apart (why can't the engineers at the manufacturer just produce such bent plugs for broken sockets as standard?!), and then it's whirring again, my sweetie, but I scamper back to the office.

Two timeouts during two bowls of cereal—I haven't had this much bad luck in ages! I log back into the global conflagration (IGNIS, short for IBM Global Network and Information Services, means "conflagration" or "global conflagration" in Latin). Attempts two and three unexpectedly fail after 20 minutes each, and my better half bids me farewell with, "It's not working, honey? Oh, don't take too long, you have an appointment at 9!", then vanishes in a massive cloud of perfume. Tirelessly, I start attempts four and five, then my patience and the next 45 minutes are up, and I inwardly curse the sender of such a timeout-prone mess. For God's sake, what is he writing in such grandiose terms that the server keeps pinging?

To add a special touch: I have a major customer problem to solve—now, and fast, please!—and I seem to have exhausted the possibilities of the local IBM support team. I've been waiting for days for a helpful response from the IBM lab overseas. And with each attempt, I stare at the screen, where I can see that behind this large egg, there are five more packages waiting to be picked up. Inwardly, I'm chomping at the bit with impatience.

Late in the afternoon, I nervously left the client's office and logged back into the email system. Ahh, now it's working! I stared intently at the screen, watching the blue bar slowly count down the hours. "DECODING TIPSUND6.DOC" was now displayed, as the first five attempts had failed miserably. Then, as the timer reached about 75%, the screen flashed briefly, and Error 10060 reappeared—damn it!

Hang up to optimize my phone bill, and I pace back and forth a bit. A new form of reminder? No, I have direct debit. Is my email software...? Sorry. No, it's not even two years old yet and is just entering puberty, right? What else could be causing the problem? My gaze falls on the backup device (Zip drive). The joystick. The mouse. The microphone. The dual speakers. The color flatbed scanner, the laser printer. Of course, the poor PC has to monitor all of this while I try to empty the mailbox! So I quickly grab my tools from the server room, a few turns of the power drill here, a few there, and the joystick, the scanner, the Zip drive, the speakers, the microphone (yes, that too, I can type the DOS commands instead of barking them) etc. are disconnected until the machine can finally breathe a sigh of relief. Sweating profusely, I take off my sweater and other clothes; I want to breathe freely, after all. Then I turn the PC back on and let the email program run wild, unleashed like a wild horse on the POP server, only to immediately (and that wasn't a pun) get the same ping error message again (10060).

My cry must have sounded like the death cry of the Comanches, because the office door was flung open: "Honey, what are you doing there, naked in front of the screen?!" I hastily covered myself with an 8" floppy disk (a 3" disk would have done too, editor's note) and replied: "The mail's stopped working!" She, now curious, crept closer with suspiciously bright eyes and asked: "Oh, and where are the colorful pictures, honey?" I'll just forget about the next hour.

(Later:) I'm sitting in front of the stripped-down PC, listening to Ravel's Bolero and brooding. Timeout error—somewhere, someone's time (what time?) is running out. I picture the mailbox in front of me. Messages arrive at the server via SMTP (Simple Mail Transaction Protocol), neatly queued one after the other, to be retrieved later using POP3 (Post Office Protocol 3). And there, first of all, is a thick package. The POP3 operator arrives, grabs his briefcase in one hand, puts his mobile phone in his mouth, and unlocks the mailbox with the key in the other, but then can't get the thick package through the door. Perhaps a neighbor (let's say old POP2, for example) comes along and wants to get to his mailbox, but there's POP3 standing with his legs wide open in front of my mailbox, trying to pull out Friedl's big package, but he can't move forward or backward — so old POP2 punches POP3 and yells: "I want it too! I want it too! I want it too!" and throws him out with an Error 10060 Timed out.

Yes, that's how it should be. I quickly poured myself another Jaki (Russian nickname for cognac), then stared intently at the screen, took a deep breath, and the next attempt ended again—predictably—with a ping! What would Mr. Spock advise me to do now?

"Captain, people tend to get drunk on Jaki instead of solving their problems. A very strange behavior, sir!"

Oh, shut up, I need to concentrate. "No, seriously, sir, your excessive concentration is transmitting the vibrations of your overloaded—and I must add, alcohol-impaired—brain to the communicator, causing intermittent interference..." Shut up, you pointy-eared fool! All that talk about Allolo...Alloho...Alkolo...

Okay, fine. I settle into the swivel chair, let my feet dangle casually, tap the communicator very lightly with the mouse, refrain from any interruptions... interruptions... uhh, and grin just as coolly at Mr. Spock, who is silently concentrating on his consoles. There! After twenty minutes, it's happening again! 10060 — Ping! Well, Master Spock? Any suggestions?

I won't say a word about the nightmares (nightmares, according to Duden possible) of that night, except that neither Friedl nor IBM nor the SMTP server escaped unscathed, especially the snarky—pushy POP2 neighbor got a real beating... Why IBM, I don't know either, but if they were innocent this time, then it was for something else.

In the morning, I snap at my best friend when she brings me coffee to the computer, which I've been tinkering with for the past hour. She slips off silently to work, not without first hanging a ring of garlic over the door. I hear her spit over her left shoulder three times as she crosses the threshold, and I know she's trying to ward off evil spirits and the Intermi... Interfe... Interthingy. True love.

On a whim, I emailed Friedl, explaining my predicament and asking him to perhaps re-send the email, maybe in a smaller size or even in the correct format for Word 6.0. The brevity of my message must have alarmed him, because shortly afterward I saw in my inbox that there were now six items waiting to be collected. Seething inside, I thought to myself, "Surely the email programmers could have included a button (F2 or a click/there) so you can move a specific item to the back of the queue." But that would be asking too much. I wistfully recalled the (far more convenient) webmail program my son uses, which first displays a list of all items and lets you decide whether or not to forward them. That would certainly save me from my current worries...

The reply from the US must have arrived long ago. Perhaps they're still waiting for supplementary answers from me; these kinds of communications often turn into real "talks." Damn it, I have to keep trying! Attempts 10 and 11 are over so quickly that I barely register the concurrent news report about the life's work of Aldo Castignani, the creator of the Superleggera sports cars. In fact, I even get the impression that the ping! comes just as I'm settling comfortably into my armchair. Who knows, maybe?

Attempt 12: A cautiously cool start to the conversation, a casually whistling stroll out, then standing next to the armchair in the Red Salon. It works! Just don't sit down! Hooray! The blue bar gets longer and longer, Aldo is handing over the reins of the Superleggera to his son Sergio, and ping!, it's happened again. So television has nothing to do with the email problem after all, thank Gates!

During attempt number 13, I patiently stand next to the PC, mute the interview with Sergio using the remote control, and don't make a sound. The progress bar grows longer and longer, and I can't stand the hunger any longer. I tiptoe into the hallway, turn right towards the kitchen, and ping! It's over. Tears of rage mix with the mustard spread, soaking the pickle, and I'm furious, absolutely furious, and I almost bite my own tongue in anger as I chew the jam-mustard-pickle sandwich.

What was always the same? Let's analyze this. Time out. What if the programmer entered a cryptic error code? 10060—it could just as easily mean he doesn't want an improperly dressed person sitting in front of the computer. I was mostly only lightly dressed, and I know from experience how, for example, soldiers react to that (even if only a single uniform button is undone): Fall over! (=ten push-ups, in case you weren't in the army). I shower and comb myself and my beard thoroughly, get dressed, and then spray a generous amount of Eau des Marineurs Bleus Supérieur under my arms.

Attempt number 14, fragrant, perfectly dressed, and impeccably groomed, is a complete flop. Defiantly, I switch off the PC, hop into my "Not-quite-Superleggera" car, and purr over to the client. A rather sensible person who won't make us miserable with e-business.

In the evenings, I really don't feel like dealing with the mail anymore. I listlessly start attempt number 15, go to the laundry room (excuse me, but that's the kitchen, where there's also a washing machine), and empty this oh-so-perfectly-functioning machine (an intelligent, not-yet-internet-connected product) and wait and wait for the ping!, but it doesn't come! Seriously? Can I believe it? After finishing my domestic chores, I tiptoe across the corridor, around the corner, and stare at the beam that's slowly growing and growing. Like an Indian (let's say Winnetou, or better yet, Tecumseh, not everyone knows him), I slowly lower myself and creep on all fours across the office parquet floor to the mail machine, slowly wriggle my way up the swivel chair, and

Ping! Well, I need to catch my breath first. A hundred kilos of Indian weight on all fours takes energy, doesn't it? As I close my eyes, I watch as a thousand tiny explosions behind my eyelids signal the racing pulse of the alerted Gesamtkunstwerk "István." Retinal reflections of the back of the eye, yes indeed, Professor. Reflections of the background? Wide awake, I open my eyes, shake my fist at the communicator, Mr. Spock, and Chief Tecumseh, and start the 16th attempt. I know this one will do it. When I'm finally in the mail server, that window is there again: PROGRESS "Decoding Tipsun16.doc". If I now move the mouse (arrow) beyond PROGRESS (at which point it flashes through my mind that one of the parts of the malfunctioning Russian space station MIR is also called PROGRESS), this arrow transforms into an hourglass (Bill must be the name, and have plenty of time!). Meanwhile, the blue bar, which indicates the progress of the process, jerks imperceptibly by a tenth of a point to the right — that's it, reflections against the background.

I sit there, jerking the mouse up and down, the arrow becomes an hourglass, the hourglass an arrow... the bar grows and grows. Slowly, with my other hand, I fully dress myself while the arrow and the hourglass alternate, send up silent prayers to Mr. Spock, and kneel Tecumseh-style next to the swivel chair, and the bar slowly gets longer and longer, and I couldn't care less that my dearest love is now standing frozen in the office doorway, watching this unusual charade with her mouth agape. The main thing is that the bar keeps growing and growing...

This ritual takes 45 minutes and 23 seconds until the bar reaches the far right and the second, and I can't believe it, the third, and hurray! the fourth, the fifth, and the last email are processed in rapid succession, and a new image appears: "You have new mail! Ping!"