Cypherpunks has produced a slew of offsprings who are confident the parents have been surpassed, are feeble, ghosts of their once own offsprings of offsprings of offsprings. Some have become mules unable to offspring so bray at one another neuteredly, some tote-packing jackasses for secretkeepers, some little horses in a geek carnival DEFCON, one a jester performing for food, bed and hookup in a banana republic's UK squat, another raising wild pussies on a hilltop armed to the gizzard against PETA warriors, several offshore heroined and drunk in hot tubs of rotgut financial shenanigans, others on a mechanical island harassed by EU revenuers and algorithmic mermaids, quite a few incarcerating themselves in courtrooms pursuing phantasms of conquering an NSA long out of date by new improved GQNSAFSB, half a dozen are dead, dying, diseased or headphoned heads mounted on mathematics college entablatures. One is a high official in DoD cybercommand-panic to the max, a twin doing the same for PRC. A small number of geezers continue to write code, that is hire kids to do that, but mostly consult to crypto cretinous corporations, suckle on NGO-tit extortions, deliver commodious farts on the speaker circuit, the best and brightest take long naps, buy weekly, monthly, yearly lap dances, search Google for their names, spit and shit blood, shed hair and flesh, burst into episodes of cackling obscure hashes in elliptic circles. Eyes and minds dim and flicker, maws whimper, broken teeth and code pukes down shirt fronts, dapper David Kahn dances into darkening visions of splendid failure, crooning No Such Agency to the solo female cpunk whose name is legend. At 01:21 PM 10/29/2015, you wrote:
Good luck!