Hacking toward Bethlehem | page 1, 2, 3, 4

If Bunim and Murray were shocked that Abe hacked their system, the first line of Abe's application questionnaire should have been their first clue. Asked to "Describe your job," Abe wrote: "Full time systems analyst (aka punk hacker kid)." Bunim and Murray eventually lifted Abe's "punk hacker" wording for his cast bio on the Road Rules Web site. But they just didn't get it. Abe wasn't being cute with the hacking boast. He was being honest.

The casting process started with a homemade tape in which Abe introduced himself to the producers and proved that he looked sharp on camera. A lengthy and repetitive series of interviews followed; they were conducted mostly by phone, but a few were held in the company's Van Nuys offices. It was during one of those sessions that an interviewer challenged him about the possibility of hacking the office computers.

"They said, 'So, Abe, what have you seen in our computer system?' I just laughed because at that point I hadn't spent any time at all investigating stuff. I don't know if they didn't think it could happen or what. But when they offhandedly made a remark, it kind of stuck in my mind. Then I got bored one night and the next thing you know ..."

He quickly discovered a significant security flaw in the Bunim/Murray network -- namely, that it had no security. The company was running various incarnations of Windows, which, according to Abe, contained gaping holes. Abe doesn't hang out or correspond much with the hacker community -- "I'm not a typical hacker!" he insists -- but he does read "bug reports," in which hackers list the flaws they've discovered in software programs and operating systems. Drawing on that information and several hours of trial and error, Abe found a point of entry. Then he made a quick stop at Cult of the Dead Cow, an active hacker site, where he downloaded a copy of Back Orifice, a "remote control" program that allows someone like Abe to operate a Windows 95 machine from any location via the Internet.

With that capability, he was able to navigate the network and uncover a huge storehouse of Bunim/Murray documents and files. Most of it was eye-glazing stuff -- Excel spreadsheets, legalistic internal memos and other mulch he didn't care about. "It's like a vast empty void," he says. But he also found inside dope: transcripts of casting interviews, meticulous logs of videotapes describing every titter, jitter and palpitation of the characters recorded on tape, story outlines for half-hour episodes distilled from hundreds of hours of film time. This was Abe's pre-show education, his own private screening room.

In typical exchanges, people were asked about their problems growing up, about their appetites for sex. One guy is asked if it's true that all men measure their penises. (His answer: I never have.) "In the interviews they cover this huge range of topics, but what it comes down to is the sex and the conflict," Abe observes. "That's basically what the show revolves around."

Abe is probably right. I search through his archive for something, anything, of deeper interest to mankind, but I come up empty. For me, the sheer banality of it all is the most telling part. But Abe, half my age and far more idealistic, got his hackles up about the manipulative nature of the "Road Rules" experience. For that reason, he felt no compunction about using the information he gathered to take action. But instead of striking back at his Orwellian puppet masters with some sort of brilliant megaprank -- as he easily could have -- Abe used his insider knowledge to bag a babe.

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