Plugging into the Networks

By Philip Elmer-DeWitt

Americans with modems swap gossip, recipes, even on-line "sex"

By day he is a 32-year-old bureaucrat from Queens, N.Y., investigating claims for the Social Security Administration. Each night he is transformed into "Sir Weej," a pseudonymous writer whose breezy essays on music, politics and life in the electronic age have attracted scores of readers. His followers, however, do not look for him on the printed page. Sir Weej's medium is his modem, the book-size box that connects his home computer to his telephone and puts him in touch with similarly equipped people all over the nation. "I feel as though a world has opened here in my living room," he writes in phosphorescent characters on his video monitor. "The amazing thing is that I am no longer talking to myself."

Although Sir Weej, whose real name is Luigi, spends a couple of hours a day hunched over his terminal, he is neither a computer professional nor a thrill-seeking whiz kid. He is just an ordinary citizen who yearns to communicate. Along with tens of thousands of other computer owners who share that urge, Sir Weej has discovered that he can tap into the outside world with his home machine for more than just a peek at stock quotes and airline schedules or an occasional trespass on the turf of the military-industrial complex. Increasingly, as more and more home terminals are hooked into the telephone system, the lines that connect computers are being used for personal networking, carrying the raw materials of human intercourse: gossip, elephant jokes, pesto recipes and even the murmurings of long-distance seductions.

The equipment necessary to play the game can cost less than $300 or more than $5,000 for a deluxe system that combines computer, modem, printer and disc drives. Once the machinery is installed and the modem plugged in, there are hundreds of computer networks accessible by phone, from bulletin boards geared to specific machines to on-line dating services that anyone can join. The most popular pay-for-connect-time utilities, like The Source (40,000 subscribers) and Compu Serve (70,000), advertise in newspapers and computer magazines. These commercial operations offer their subscribers news, horoscopes, games and travel tips. The phone numbers of smaller systems pass by electronic word of mouth. All it takes to get started is one working telephone number; most networks carry extensive lists of other services. One data base in New Jersey offers a catalogue of 1,300 different phone numbers to explore, and many of them attract more than 5,000 calls a year.

At the end of each phone line is a computer that has been programmed to store and display messages. Most of these machines are operated free of charge by a self-appointed system operator (Sysop), who donates his equipment and services out of enthusiasm for this new form of communication. Some, such as Miami Big Apple, TRADE-80 and AMIS (Atari Message and Information System), are for owners of particular computers, offering them a place to trade hardware. The Aviators Bulletin Board (pilots) in Northern California and HEX (handicapped) in Maryland are forums for special groups that want to share experiences.

Attorneys in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area use Lawyers-on-Line to compare notes on troublesome judges. In other cities there are separate systems for astronomers, doctors, photographers, gardeners, senior citizens and gays. There are teen-agers everywhere, swapping software and trading tips to the latest high-tech adventure games. Pirate's Cove, Sherwood Forest and Warlock's Castle are hangouts for hackers and phone phreaks who want to bootleg copyrighted programs or get passwords for the computers at banks, schools or government installations.

Among the most popular systems are the so-called conference trees. Rather than storing messages in the order they were written, tree systems are organized by subject matter. This encourages topic-oriented discussions on anything from college tuitions to Middle East policy. Users start at the "trunk," a list of subjects for debate (NEIGHBORHOOD-POWER, NUCLEAR-ARMS), and climb "branches" of subsidiary messages (GIVE-PEACE-A-CHANCE, NUKE-EM-ALL). As subsequent callers add their own opinions, the trees can grow into dense thickets of give and take. In Santa Cruz, Calif., a conference called START-A-RELIGION began with a manifesto that declared, "Religion is too important to be left to the churches or to the profiteers," and invited tree people to "create one we can be comfortable with." Ten months later, the computer had become so clogged with ideas that the Sysop was forced to delete 95% of the messages to leave room for other users. The discussion eventually evolved into a loosely organized movement called Origins, whose members now meet in Santa Cruz on Sundays for brunch.

Part of the appeal of the computer networks is voyeuristic: like party lines in the early days of telephones, they permit strangers to listen in on personal conversations. Although some may find the fishbowl atmosphere intimidating, others, like Sir Weej, are exhilarated to discover an audience that will respond to their thoughts. "I sense fertile ground here," he says. "I have not felt so connected and vital in a long time."

Inevitably, some telecomputers have discovered ways to use the new medium for the most intimate form of human communication. Subscribers to Compu Serve's "Citizen Band" facility have taken to exchanging fantasy sexual scenarios with strangers. "We're dancing in my living room," begins a typical CompuSex seduction. "And I'm unbuttoning your blouse."

Not every CompuServe subscriber is entranced. In the current issue of Ms. magazine, Writer Lindsy Van Gelder describes an encounter her twelve-and nine-year-old daughters, masquerading as sophisticated older women, enjoyed with a long-distance correspondent. "I'm French-kissing you now," cooed the would-be seducer. To which the kids promptly typed: "P-tooey!!!"

-- By Philip Elmer-DeWitt This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.