It ain’t your mama’s software:

Dead Man’s Switch, inspired by the locomotive hardware of the same name, is a piece of hardware which, if you ever fail to do the periodic reset it demands of you, will embark on a series of tasks you have decided upon in the event of your demise, such as sending out emails or posting to internet newsgroups the news of your passing, and password-encrypting sensitive files on your computer (to which you’ve presumably left the password with those you intend to see those files). The New York Times wrote about it in May, 2002, and Wired in June:

” The man in charge of archiving and maintaining electronic copies of Norway’s most important historical documents is dead and so is access to those archives.

So the director of the Norwegian cultural center is pleading for hackers to help him crack the center’s password-protected database. “

Anyone know if the Norwegians ever got their database decrypted? [Of course, the Dead Man’s Switch developer wouldn’t publicize it if it had…] Update: Yes

. [thanks Walker]

Related? Those Norwegians are just showing themselves to be world-class-threat hackers, aren’t they? Yahoo! News

An Exhibition That Borrows Brazenly —

“The exhibition ‘Illegal Art’ (and its accompanying CD and Web site) asserts that American copyright laws are overly restrictive and outdated…

It sounds like a plan for drawing hordes of screaming lawyers to your door: create compilation CD’s with sampled music from the likes of the Beatles, James Brown and Johnny Cash, not to mention the voice of Dan Rather; include as many songs as possible that have already sparked legal battles; do it all without getting permission from the copyright owners; and distribute the CD’s at a nationally touring art exhibition.

Oh yeah, and give the music away online for the millions of people around the globe who can’t make it to the show.” NY Times

61 of 77 Dream Songs by John Berryman (1964):

Full moon. Our Narragansett gales subside

and the land is celebrating men of war

more or less, less or more.

In valleys, thin on headlands, narrow & wide

our targets rest. In us we trust. Far, near,

the bivouacs of fear

are solemn in the moon somewhere tonight,

in turning time. It’s late for gratitude,

an annual, rude

roar of a moment’s turkey’s ‘Thanks’. Bright & white

their ordered markers undulate away

awaiting no day.

Away from us, from Henry’s feel or fail,

campaigners lie with mouldered toes, disarmed,

out of order,

with whom we will one. The war is real,

and a sullen glory pauses over them harmed,

incident to murder.

On this day in 1972, Berryman died by his own hand.

Leuschke calls it quits, at least for now. I’ll miss ‘im…