Dateline–Chicago

Software to preserve 20th-century novels

“Memorized any good books lately?” The question, asked by University of Chicago linguist Prof. Hardin Wyatt, has an almost ominous tone.

Sitting on the edge of his desk in the basement of the Regenstein Library, the 78-year-old Wyatt is excitedly holding court with a group of librarians from the National Archive in Washington, D.C. When the assembled shake their heads, Wyatt’s devilish smile widens. Leaning forward, he teases, “You will.”

For most of his 36-year tenure at the University of Chicago, Wyatt has studied the effects of modern technology on Western civilization. To the wiry professor, who was raised on a farm in Oklahoma during the Great Depression, “modern technology” means everything from the printing press to the electronic pager.

An old-fashioned scholar, Wyatt is best known for The American Telephone and Telegraph: Language in the Modern Age, a treatise on the telephone and its impact on spoken English. Released in 1967, the two-volume study was also his last published book. By 1970, the academic was already immersed in a new and mysterious project. It would be almost three decades before the world would again hear from the linguist.

Down the hall from Wyatt’s office is a cramped, well-air-conditioned room filled with two hulking computer mainframes and a lone terminal. Here lives “the Epic Engine,” the culmination of 30 years of meticulous research, nearly $10 million in development funds, and the life’s work of one inspired man. Despite its lofty name, the Epic Engine performs only one function: translating English-language prose into metered verse.

Though many might question the usefulness of a computer that can rewrite any sentence into iambic pentameter, Wyatt insists that his system will play a key role in the preservation of the modern era’s cultural artifacts.

“The Y2K phenomenon,” argues Wyatt, “betrays a deeper concern about the possibility of a blackout that could last not one day or one week but one hundred years. In essence, it’s a fear of another Dark Ages. And when you look for the embers of civilization that have already survived several ‘dark ages,’ what you find is metered prose. The Aenid, the Illiad, the Torah, etc. That’s what the Epic Engine is all about.”

Technically, the Epic Engine is a suite of software designed to run on large mainframe computers. It combines a massive database of English words and a powerful analysis program in order to parse the meaning and structure of a text and then rearrange its stressed syllables. In other words, a line from a detective novel goes in, and out comes something akin to epic poetry.

In order to test his program, Wyatt has been slowly translating Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 into blank verse. Wyatt says, “I needed a text loaded with American idioms but also complex in nuance and rhythm. Of course, it is a happy coincidence that the story is also full of linguistic issues.”

Those familiar with the 1966 Pynchon novel and its author’s dense, often difficult style, will not be surprised to learn that early “rewrites” of the novel by the Epic Engine were less than inspiring. The clunky excerpt below, a reworking of the book’s first sentence, was produced by an adolescent version of the “cyber-bard” in 1983:

One summer afternoon came home one Oed-
Ipa Maas who had just left a tupperware
Affair at which the hostess had put too
Much kirsch in the fondue to find that she
Was named executor, or she supposed
Executrix of the estate of one
Pierce Inverarity, a Californ-
Ia speculator who once lost two mil-
Lion bucks in his spare time but still had ass-
Ets tangled such that sorting it all out
Was more than honorary.

Stilted and often distressingly punctuated, this passage nonetheless evinces something quite radical for a work that was drafted by a computer: a hint of spirit. Although the Epic Engine is not the first computer program to recognize and record the rhythm of written statements, it is the only one that strives to capture their “historical weight.”

To be successful, the Epic Engine must be faithful not only to the meaning of a work but also to its more intangible aspects. This ability to preserve the subtleties of a “classic” make Wyatt’s creation less of a scientific tool for the exclusive use of linguists and more of a landmark innovation in the art of writing.

Less than a year old, the latest incarnation of the Epic Engine has already garnered open praise from both academic and financial circles and may be poised to usher in a new age of “intelligent” – or, at least, very cultured – machines. Last month, in an ironic twist to the professor’s half-century career, AT&T entered into licensing negotiations with the University of Chicago for use of the Epic Engine in “undisclosed future applications.”

But the twice-retired Wyatt says he is not interested in “farming out” his invention for strictly commercial use. He is pressuring the university to ensure that cultural institutions like the National Archive and other public libraries will continue to have subsidized or even free access to the Epic Engine. He has also contacted private foundations to set up a fund for the “preservation of modern classics.”

Says Wyatt, “This is a very, very long-term project. We’re not going to put the cart before the horse on this one.”

Dateline–San Francisco

San Francisco stripper infuriates the left.

In a small windowless room two floors above bustling Mission Street, the main artery of San Francisco’s embattled Latino neighborhood, the Committee for U.S. Cuba Friendship is holding its monthly “action update” meeting. Speaking to a crowd of more than three dozen activists, Marjorie Roth-Gomez cautions the gathered faithful that time is running out for the island of Cuba.

“As you all know,” confided Roth-Gomez, “the warmth and openness of this unique culture is not just being threatened by the embargo, it’s being held hostage.” Turning the floor over to a visiting economist from the University of Havana, Roth-Gomez notices a stranger slip into the crowded room through a door at the rear.

The veteran organizer was dumbstruck by what she then saw. The man who had just entered the room was wearing dark olive military fatigues, a beret, and a patchy beard. Immediately the costumed figure, who was carrying a large boombox, made his way to the front of the room. The speaker had fallen silent and the crowd sensed something had gone very wrong.

Roth-Gomez feared the worst. Flanked by two older men from the audience, the 64-year-old retired physician rushed to confront the intruder. “Our guest was a prominent Cuban official,” recalls Roth-Gomez, “and suddenly this man in military garb appears holding a big black box it was very frightening.”

But before they were able to intercept the disturbing visitor, he set the cassette player on the floor and pressed the play button. Suddenly the music of the Cuban national anthem filled the chamber. Within seconds the patriotic anthem was taken over by a throbbing techno beat and the stranger in fatigues began to dance.

It was then that Roth-Gomez and others present recognized the dancer’s costume as that of Ernesto “Che” Guevara, the legendary Latin American revolutionary who died in 1967. Dancing provocatively, the Che impersonator began pulling off articles of his clothing piece by piece. In a startling strip-tease, the hard-bodied dancer shed his jacket and pants until he was wearing nothing more than a red lamé thong emblazoned with Che’s trademark star.

The spectacle stunned the assembled audience of pro-Cuba leftists. “No one could move,” says Sergio de la Peña, a singer-songwriter and active member of the Committee for U.S. Cuba Friendship. “No one knew if it was supposed to happen or if it was supposed to be funny or a protest or what.” But the crowd’s initial confusion quickly turned into anger. Committee secretary Ryan Kuder telephoned police while others detained the Che stripper. He was eventually arrested and charged with trespassing.

It was not the first time that J.J. Cienfuegos had been arrested for performing “lewd and lascivious acts” while disguised as Che Guevara, the famed guerrilla fighter also known as “el Comandante.” In fact, the Cuban-born 33-year-old has been picked up five times and charged twice with trespassing to indecent exposure.

“To stay focused, I try to do the Che thing at least once a month,” explains Cienfuegos, who supports his fledgling performance art career by working as an exotic dancer. “But when there’s a conference on ‘The Soul of Cuban Music’ or a lecture that’s, like, ‘The Cuban people are unique and happy despite everything…’ I could do it every day –what can I say, it entertains me.”

But clearly, not many of those who have been subjected to the “Stripping Che” would describe Cienfuegos’ routine as “entertaining.” Besides the arrests, Cienfuegos’s even claims that he has been assaulted by political activists who took offense at his “blasphemous” use of Che’s persona.

As far as Cienfuegos is concerned, such offense is the highest form of compliment. “I’m sorry, but who’s more obscene a stripper or political tourists who make suffering into a badge of courage?” Cienfuegos wants the American Left to get past its romantic vision of the Cuban revolution and especially its patron saint, Che Guevara. Though he admits that his striptease is more shocking than informative, he insists it plays a positive role in bringing the debate on Cuban affairs up to date.

“I’m not a rocket scientist. I’m not a politician. I’m not even an activist,” Cienfuegos concedes, “but I am a Cuba that exists and I’m going to keep Che dancing.”

Dateline–The Mission, SF

Bizarre Auto Theft Crisis in trendy Mission Neighborhood

Paxton’s has everything a finicky gourmand could want in an upscale urban bistro: organic produce, a rotating roster of eight top-notch chefs, and a masterfully stocked wine cellar. But the restaurant, which opened less than a month ago, does not have valet parking at least, not officially.

Julie Knapp found out about Paxton’s “underground” parking service the hard way. Late for a dinner reservation she had made two weeks before, Knapp double-parked her 1999 Lexus LX470 in front of Paxton’s. A neatly dressed young man wearing a white jacket and polished shoes waited at the curb. She handed her keys over to the attendant and rushed inside to her table without a second thought.

While the restaurant’s impeccable service and creatively presented four-course dinner surpassed her expectations, Paxton’s “parking service” left much to be desired. When she exited the restaurant, the valet was nowhere in sight. After waiting five minutes Knapp returned to Paxton’s and asked the hostess to call the valet. Dumbfounded, the hostess responded, “But we don’t have valet parking.”

Knapp’s brand-new SUV had been stolen. But when she called the police to report the theft, they told her she could not report the missing vehicle as stolen. According to Police Sgt. Kevin Bacon (no relation to the actor), “Technically, it’s not theft if you freely hand over your keys when there’s no duress or deception involved.” In other words, Knapp had lent her Lexus to a stranger and there was little the police could do to retrieve it.

As odd as Knapp’s story may sound, it is not the first time such a mishap has occurred in San Francisco’s up-and-coming Mission District neighborhood. While there are no firm statistics, the city’s police department estimates that at least a half dozen vehicles have been lost under similar circumstances in 1999 alone. Even more surprising is the fact that all of the misplaced vehicles were eventually found, most only a few blocks away from where their owners unwittingly handed them over.

Sgt. Bacon points to the suddenness with which the Mission District has been transformed from a working-class Hispanic neighborhood to a fashionable bohemian hangout as the impetus for the bizarre string of “zero-interest car loans.” Suggests Sgt. Bacon, “A lot of people come into this neighborhood from other parts of the city and they’re just not aware enough of their surroundings.”

Yet according to Eric Stefani who temporarily lost his BMW Z-3, most visitors to the Mission District are very aware of the neighborhood’s high crime rate. “Cars get broken into in the Mission. It’s a known fact. That’s why I was looking for valet parking.” Stefani, enraged that police would do little more than look out for his missing convertible, is now considering filing a civil suit against the city. Asks an incredulous Stefani, “Why can’t the police bust people for impersonating valet parkers?”

In response to Stefani’s complaint, the District Attorney’s Office says that its hands are tied because most of the reported incidents have apparently involved “mistaken identity rather than fraudulent impersonation.” Assistant D.A. Allison Cheek warns against a climate in which police are encouraged to interrogate well-dressed young men under the suspicion that they are impersonating parking attendants.

“You can’t go after a young Latino wearing a dress blazer and nice shoes just because he happens to be standing near a pricey restaurant,” argues Cheek.

For now, restaurants are handling the crisis quietly on their own by hiring specially uniformed valet staff. Many are even alerting patrons who call to make reservations not to mistake neighborhood youth for restaurant employees. Paxton’s owner, Bill Paxton, believes that the measures will only be needed in the short-term.

“It was a tragic misunderstanding but the media has sort of blown it out of proportion,” asserts Paxton, “Things are a lot more integrated already and it’s highly unlikely this kind of thing will happen again.”

Dateline–San Francisco, CA

Charismatic leader challenges affluent gay men to transform political agenda

The crowd of more than 200 men could be mistaken for a gathering of young Republicans. Sharply dressed and well heeled, the invited guests fill both floors of the Kenneth Cole boutique in downtown San Francisco and are spilling onto the sidewalk by the time the evening’s program begins.

Shortly after 7:30 p.m., a lithesome man in his early 30s takes the stage. After making a few off-microphone jokes with reporters at the front of the room, Clay Beauchamps announces, “Brothers, you are here to pick up where your late boyfriends left off.” The room falls silent and then slowly fills with applause.

During the next two hours Beauchamps and other speakers will implore, beseech, upbraid, encourage, and motivate the audience to fight for everything from immigrant rights to low-income housing and even universal mental health care. Rather than being put off, the crowd, sipping complementary Absolut cocktails and mingling in a room where $300-a-pair shoes are not uncommon, is electrified. By 10 p.m. nearly three quarters of the men have pledged their time or money – or both – to Beauchamps’s revolutionary campaign.

For the last two years Beauchamps and his small cadre of politically active and financially successful gay men have been organizing similar events in metropolitan areas across the country. Based in San Francisco, the loosely knit team is single-mindedly pursuing an ambitious agenda of transforming the political identity of gay men in the United States.

“Have you heard the one about how to keep minorities out of the country club?” Beauchamps asks. “You let one in and then he keeps the rest out.” Without missing a beat, the wry financier laughs knowingly at his own joke. It is vintage Beauchamps.

Perhaps the key to Beauchamps’s almost cultlike draw is the persistence with which he has challenged well-to-do gay men to “embrace their minority status.” He contends that gay men are at a crossroads and that they can either take a stand for something more than their own welfare or be absorbed into the mainstream.

“In the past, the cause was AIDS, AIDS, AIDS,” Beauchamps explains. “But if all of America is tuning in, our cause must be AIDS and poverty and education and racism. We’re card-carrying minorities with money in the bank. Who better to fight the good fight?”

The scion of a wealthy San Francisco family, the handsome Beauchamps could pass for a stylish jet-setter were it not for what his friends call a “bad case of political Tourette’s.” From the age of 19, Beauchamps has had a knack for putting himself in the center of some rather unlikely debates.

During his college years, the irascible heir to a sizable shipping fortune first angered his parents by picking a very public fight with former California governor and family friend Pete Wilson on the subject of Iran-contra. After graduating, the Stanford economics major camped out in downtown San Francisco for a week to protest the plight of the city’s homeless. Throughout it all, members of the Beauchamps clan have refused to comment publicly on Clay’s polemical escapades. Of course, it doesn’t help matters that this political wunderkind is also unapologetically gay.

Today, Beauchamps’s campaigns are inspiring more than his family’s ire. In the past two years he has raised millions of dollars and deputized hundreds of influential gay men in crusades on behalf of causes not traditionally associated with the gay community. Building shelters for battered women. Funding research on environmental racism. There’s even a job training program for ex-convicts with Beauchamps’s name on it.

Despite his role as catalyst of an unlikely political zeitgeist, Beauchamps bristles at recent press depictions of him as a powerful populist with p.c. leanings. In fact, he attributes his success as much to the social networking opportunities afforded by his “rabble-rousing” events as to the inherent worthiness of the political causes he advocates.

Calling the politicized gay man an endangered species, Beauchamps believes mainstreaming has unsavory cultural as well as political consequences. He defends his own lavish lifestyle as vigorously as he pursues the concerns facing other minorities. “I’m certainly not taking a vow of poverty for any cause,” declares the financier who favors Helmut Lang suits and hundred-dollar haircuts. “However, I’m willing to do just about anything else to help others who are on the outside looking in. I like to think the revolution will be catered.”