Of course, there is no Underground -- or Untergrund, as those German new-age kids like to call the movement whose orders they have sworn to follow. The age we all remember -- the cliff-green turbocharged convertibles, cigarettes hanging loose in the corners of our mouths, and those trigger-happy fingers always ready for the quick hack -- is long gone.

In retrospect, it all seems like a candy-colored dream, and it may very well be -- after all, there was never any proof that the Untergrund ever existed, and even if it did, we can be sure the obedient followers of the shadowy movement leaders have long burned the papers, subjected the hard drives and diskettes to interminable sessions of the junkyard magnet, and eradicated all shreds of memory from the brains of those who might have talked through long sessions of Tcl hacking to the sounds of Celine Dion records.

Yet there are those who still covet membership in that secret cult -- to gain access to its powerful lore, to usurp invidious and powerful superiors, or simply to impress their girlfriends. For those lost souls of the modern age, I have a few words of advice:

It's not a question of ``membership'' -- silly merchandise and ridiculous certificates. If you are truly meant to be part of the Untergrund, you will know. The Untergrund will find you.

Alas, probably not.

     April, 2003