THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, June 4, 1996 TAG: 9606040020
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: THE GATEWAY
SOURCE: BY MAC DANIEL, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 81 lines
IN THE OLD DAYS, when people wrote with pens and licked stamps, it was a chore to pass yourself off as someone else. Write a letter under another name and the penmanship would give you away.
Things are different today. It's now easy to become someone else via the Internet.
Recently someone assumed my identity, electronically. And all it took - all someone took - was my e-mail address and signature file.
In the Land of Ones and Zeros, after some clever cutting, pasting and e-mail rerouting, fake e-mail is easy to concoct.
Mail with my address and signature file was sent around the 'Net along with sometimes crude messages that - I swear - were not from me.
For human beings untouched by the Internet phenomenon, a signature file is something placed at the end of e-mail messages. It contains the sender's name, e-mail address, phone number, etc. It's the electronic equivalent of your signature or return address on a piece of snail mail.
Since my Internet account is used primarily for work, this newspaper's name and my work phone number were included in my signature file.
No warning bell told me this had happened. The only way I realized something was up was that humans with computers have a weird habit of responding to ludicrous Internet messages.
It all began as a relatively innocuous prank, when my e-mail address was sent to a group of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fans, of which I am not one. For weeks, I received a steady stream of minutiae from excited fans about the impending release of yet another solo album by some grizzled member of this group.
Then things got more serious.
To a feminist computer group, my signature file was attached to a message that basically said I was horny. Why anyone would think I would post such a message along with my signature file is beyond me. But they did - proof positive that the Internet isn't making us monkeys any smarter.
And because the message requested that anyone sharing my alleged special feeling should e-mail me, the monkeys did.
``hey there, bigboy. . . ,'' began one reply. ``heehee. Maybe I've got something you want..*wink*''
Most of the replies, however, expressed shock.
``Please keep these kinds of messages to yourself,'' wrote somebody working off a government server. ``I personally don't care what you are desirous of in the least. If this is for some kind of article, your methods have a lot to be desired!''
Next, to a group discussing Rush Limbaugh, a message allegedly from me asked whether the cumulative IQ of the group contained three digits.
Then I allegedly offered pictures of myself to another group.
I received lots of replies. Initially I didn't respond, in hope that this e-mail hassle would soon end. It didn't.
Finally, a female professor in California called the paper and talked with my editor, wanting to know what the deal was with this horny reporter and his messages.
When I began writing back to the folks who replied, I asked for their help in finding where the messages had come from. But because of the nature of some of these groups, no real answers came forth, just embarrassed lowercased responses like: ``sorry. hope you find whoever did this.'' No one left a name.
In my mind, everyone was a suspect - past loves, friends, enemies, editors. Friends with computer expertise, even those who were helping me out, were never far from suspicion. In the end, however, I was utterly defenseless and completely helpless.
Friends with computer prowess helped me snoop around. The culprit or culprits were sophisticated. Based on some cursory research, they had sent the messages from their e-mail accounts through my account and then out into the world. The end result were messages that appeared to come from me and me alone, though this was - I swear - not the case.
One friend suspected someone in Canada had randomly sought me out. Other friends suspected other friends. Some theorized it could be one of my coworkers or someone with an account with my Internet provider.
I'll never know. Just as soon as I began to snoop, when I started to gather information and gain confidence, it ended. No more replies. Everything stopped.
In the end, it was a valuable, if not scary, lesson that has curtailed my use of the Internet quite a bit. I never post anything on a ``usenet group,'' from which an unknown prankster could have copied my signature file. And I have fully deleted my signature file, in hopes that my e-mail will be less attractive to copycat pranksters. by CNB