ust when the last ham radio brouhaha, involving our Section Manager, was thought laid to rest, a new imbroglio has rocked the foundation of Portland's oldest amateur society. the sPARC gap has learned at press time that a bloc of dissident members has initiated a lightning-blitz electoral assault on the group's leader, Ed Buress, KC7GFX. AL7W issued a "STOP PRESS!" order just as this issue was about to hit the mail, so that, as always, you the reader would be up to date with the latest information. (The intended lead article, "Simple Suborbital Chronosynclastic Infidibulators Constructed from Duct Tape and Recycled Cigarette Filters," by John White, K7RUN, will appear in a future issue).

According to the vague contents of an anonymous manila envelope left under AL7W's windshield wiper outside McMennamin's on Broadway, the insurgents demand the immediate recall of Mr. Buress on numerous grounds, and vow to press their demands as soon as a quorum is attained at a general meeting of the club. Reportedly, the cell of radicals has taken out a special 99-year lease on a parking spot at One Liberty Place to ensure they are present in the event such a quorum occurs in their lifetimes.

Due to the underworld nature of this intrigue, the sPARC Gap has dispatched to the field a member with ties to the criminal milieu; defense attorney Kevin Hunt, WA7VTD, as special correspondent, to dig up further details. What follows is an amalgam of quickly-filed field dispatches from Mr. Hunt, furiously pasted together by Your Editor with additional information gleaned from a flurry of emails hitting his electronic mailbox, bearing the return address parcmember@yahoo.recall.net. In our effort to bring this news to you first, certain journalistic conventions have been cast to the wind for the sake of timely information.

(OREGON CITY, April 1). The cell phone springs to life with the special ring designated for our clan-destine contact: "Inna Godda da Vida." After seventeen minutes, I check the caller ID: "867-5309."  Winding the crank of Eric Stephenson, KK7UE's, portable AM/FM radio, lifted for me from Eric's 72-hour kit by a client released from jail due to budget shortfalls, I quickly tune across Portland's broadcast radio wasteland, catching the end of that old hit just in time. The wait through the commercial break is excruciating. On my third capsule of Garlique, the familiar voice of Art Bell emits from the tinny speaker. "Could Art be part of this conspiracy?" I think aloud.

"That's for us to know, and for you to find out...don't turn around!" barks an electronically-altered voice, as the telltale end of a paper clip presses into my back.

"What's with the paper clip?" I inquire of the interloper.

"Only thing we could get through airport security," he responds. "Now put this over your head."

An HRO bag is pulled over my head, and I am stuffed into an SUV that has screeched to a stop at the curb. As I flop onto the rear bench seat, I reach into my pocket for the "ON" switch of the Tiger Tracker APRS transmitter Fred Harwood, KC7WKN, has loaned me, knowing my pal will track my whereabouts. But it is to no avail. The device has a Kirkland battery and it is dead.

After a high-speed drive on a freeway, then up a series of tight curves, the vehicle abruptly halts, the door is thrown open, and I am tossed to the pavement. A manila envelope is dropped next to me, and I am given clear instructions: "Don't take off the bag for five minutes. You'll find our demands in the envelope." The SUV peels away in a cloud of odious exhaust. "Hmmmm...vintage 1975 Suburban," I note. Clawing my way through the sea of discarded East River Trout, my hands reach the slope of a grassy knoll. Tearing the bag from my head, I immediately recognize the scene as Kelly Butte Park. "These guys are for real," I surmise.

Strapping on my NET team headlamp, I tear open the envelope, and read the manifesto. There is no time to lose, so I immediately cell phone my editor.   

"Lea, I have their demands!" I exclaim breathlessly. "They are all right here, in this manila envelope. But they are kind of vague."

A quick comparison of our manuscripts reveals that I have apparently been had. My documents are nothing more than old sPARC Gaps. "I got the same thing here," Lea responds. But on closer examination, we realize that each old issue contains something bizarre related to President Burress. "Meet me at McMennamin's," I instruct my editor. "I believe we are about to crack the mystery."

Three pitchers of Terminator later, it suddenly becomes obvious that we are dealing with a very serious mutiny. In sum, the grievances of the rebels may be enumerated as follows:

1. Mr. Burress has subjected the club to potential criminal liability and public humiliation, as well as loss of ARRL VE certification, by causing an amateur radio license to be awarded to his dog.

2. Mr. Burress has instituted a veritable PARC dictatorship, and issued undemocratic orders from a ruthless junta that threaten the personal autonomy and liberty of every PARC member, as exemplified by the pronouncement that all members must change their first name to "Elmer."

Also named as a co-conspirator of Mr. Burress is Pete Rodabaugh, W7PR.

Contacted at press time, Mr. Rodabaugh insisted he "was merely following orders," and begged to not be quoted in this article. Offers of three pints of Black Butte Porter, a railroad spike, and a Captain Crunch whistle failed to compromise your news-hounds from their duty to bring you this story.

Always being Fair and Balanced, the sPARC gap attempted to reach Mr. Burress for comment. Two additional pitchers of Terminator later, it became apparent that Mr. Burress was not responding to the speed-dial numbers my fingers punched into my cell phone. Or perhaps it was indeed he who, with thinly-disguised falsetto voice, answered those calls with such an obvious diversion as "Mistress Jessica's House of Domination."

After the cab ride back to the sPARC Gap's world editorial offices, this report was compiled. Attempts to initiate further contact with the mutineers, by replying to the return address on their emails, failed, as the Yahoo page for the authors of the electronic correspondence revealed only blank fields for name, address and other profile information.

As further details of this situation portending a coup d'etat in our beloved club unfold, the sPARC gap will continue to