The unreleased Commodore HHC-4's secret identity

Once upon a time (and that time was Winter CES 1983), Commodore announced what was to be their one and only handheld computer, the Commodore HHC-4. It was never released and never seen again, at least not in that form. But it turns out that not only did the HHC-4 actually exist, it also wasn't manufactured by Commodore — it was a Toshiba.

Like Superman had Clark Kent, the Commodore HHC-4 had a secret identity too: the Toshiba Pasopia Mini IHC-8000, the very first portable computer Toshiba ever made. And like Clark Kent was Superman with glasses, compare the real device to the Commodore marketing photo and you can see that it's the very same machine modulo a plastic palette swap. Of course there's more to the story than that.

Ward Christensen dies

There was initially some issue verifying this, but there appears to be direct confirmation now that Ward Christensen passed away October 11 at the age of 78, co-founder of the pioneering Computerized Bulletin Board System in February 1978 with Randy Suess — now believed to be the first BBS — and developer of the XMODEM transfer protocol. Although his notional job was at IBM, where he worked for 54 years, he became better known for his prolific public domain software output which was widely used in the early 1980s and his innovations with computer-based telecommunication. He was reportedly found dead at his Illinois home after a welfare check on October 13. Ars Technica has a nice summation. Rest in peace.

Refurb weekend: the Symbolics MacIvory Lisp machine I have hated

Every collector has that machine, the machine they sunk so much time and, often, money into that they would have defenestrated it years ago except for all the aforementioned time and money. Yours truly is no exception.

That machine is my first Lisp Machine and my only one actually using real Lisp Machine hardware, this Symbolics MacIvory III in a Macintosh IIci host. To date it's cost me over $6000 total, primarily its initial purchase price, but also to rehabilitate it and just keep it alive. That's nearly as much as what I paid out of pocket for my $7300 (in 2018) POWER9 Raptor Talos II Linux workstation and my $10,000+ IBM POWER6 server, which I acquired in 2010 and in 2024 dollars would be over $14,000 — and both of those machines have been substantially less troublesome.

For those of you unfamiliar with the general world of Lisp machines, they are, as their name implies, workstations entirely designed around the Lisp programming language. That doesn't just mean using conventional processors with a Lisp runtime either: these devices are built to run Lisp from the silicon up with specific hardware support. (Some of these systems could also run Prolog, my personal favourite AI-adjacent language. We'll play with a surprising small Prolog implementation in a future article.) They existed in highly technical environments as workhorses of the first wave of AI hysteria (you crazy kids today with your LLMs) for applications like natural language processing and expert systems. The genre more-or-less flourished from the end of the 1970s to the early 1990s and included some of the first systems to implement advances like bitmapped displays, networking and pointer devices. In turn, those unusual capabilities caused them to also develop distinctive user interfaces for their unique feature set, years before today's GUI and keyboard conventions we almost unconsciously take for granted were even conceived of. Working with a Lisp machine can be a remarkably different user experience from modern computing and the occasionally jarring nature of those differences isn't something present-day emulators fully capture.

Unfortunately, their rarity also makes them the whitest of white elephants sometimes. Besides what I had to do to get it working properly to start with, the hard drive started timing out and it randomly froze during boot or shortly afterwards. (There was also the matter of me never finishing its setup, let alone getting it networked.) I'm not letting this benighted thing die on me after all I've put into it — it's time for a Refurb Weekend.

So thieves broke into your storage unit - again

If you've been wondering why entries have been a little slow lately, let me tell you a story.

All collectors tend to be a bit obsessive by nature, and us classic computer nerds probably pick up more hardware than we can (or should) store in our residence — especially if the loves of our lives aren't as enthusiastic about the hobby than we are — and thus have storage units for the overflow. I have two small "cold" climate control units, kept small so that I can be out of one or both relatively quickly, as well as a larger "hot" conventional unit at ambient temperature. The hot unit is indoors and not exposed directly to the sun, so it's not particularly hot for sunny southern California, but I keep working spare electronics, hard disks, tapes, etc. in the cold units as a precaution and use the hot unit for non-working parts units, books, magazines and other household items.

Of course, climate control units cost more, sometimes substantially, and thieves use this as a signal that more valuable stuff is likely to be kept there:

Both times I've been burglarized, they were the cold units. August was the second time. So, with crime being a nationwide topic, let's talk about what happens when your storage unit gets broken into and how to recover from it.

Programming the Convergent WorkSlate's spreadsheet microcassette future

In this particular future, we will all use handheld spreadsheets stored on microcassettes, talking to each other via speakerphone, and probably listening to Devo and New Order a lot. (Though that part isn't too different from my actual present.)

It's been awhile since we've had an entry for reasons I'll talk about later, and this entry is a doozy. Since we recently just spent a couple articles on a computer whose manufacturer insisted it was mostly a word processor, it only seems fitting to spend some time with a computer whose very designer insisted it was mostly a spreadsheet.

That's the 1983 Convergent WorkSlate, a one-of-a-kind handheld system from some misty alternate history where VisiCalc ruled the earth. Indeed, even the "software" packages Convergent shipped for it — on microcassette, which could store voice memos and data — were nothing more than cells and formulas in a worksheet. The built-in modem let you exchange data with other Workslates (or even speak over the phone to their users), and it came with a calculator desk accessory and a rudimentary terminal program, but apart from those creature comforts its built-in spreadsheet was the sole centre of your universe. And, unlike IAI and the Canon Cat, I've yet to find any backdoor (secret or otherwise) to enable anything else.

That means anything you want to program has to be somehow encoded in a spreadsheet too. Unfortunately, when it comes to actually programming the device it turns out the worst thing a spreadsheet on an 8-bit CPU can be is Turing-complete (so it's not), and it has several obnoxious bugs to boot. But that doesn't mean we can't make it do more than balance an expense account. Along the way we'll examine the hardware, wire into its peripheral bus, figure out how to exchange data with today's future, create a simple game, draw rudimentary graphics and (with some help) even put it on the Internet with its very own Gopher client — after we tell of the WorkSlate's brief and sorrowful commercial existence, as this blog always must.

Pretty pictures, bootable floppy disks, and the first Canon Cat demo?

Now that our 1987 Canon Cat is refurbished and ready to go another nine innings or so, it's time to get into the operating system and pull some tricks.

As you'll recall from our historical discussion of the Canon Cat, the Cat was designed by Jef Raskin as a sophisticated user-centric computer but demoted to office machine within Canon's typewriter division, which was tasked with selling it. Because Canon only ever billed the Cat as a "work processor" for documents and communications, and then abruptly tanked it after just six months, it never had any software packages that were commercially produced. In fact, I can't find any software written for it other than the original Tutor and Demo diskettes included with the system and a couple of Canon-specific utilities, which I don't have and don't seem to be imaged anywhere.

So this entry will cover a lot of ground: first, we have to be able to reliably read, image and write Canon disks on another system, then decipher the format, and then patch those images to display pictures and automatically run arbitrary code. At the end we'll have three examples we can image on any PC 3.5" floppy drive and insert into a Cat, turn it on or hit DISK, and have the Cat automatically run: a Jef Raskin "picture disk," a simple but useful dummy terminal, and the world's first (I believe) Canon Cat, two-disk, slightly animated and finely dithered, slideshow graphics demo!

But before we get to pumping out floppy disks, we first need to talk about how one uses a Cat. And that means we need to talk a bit about Forth, the Canon Cat's native tongue. And that means we should probably talk more about the operating system too. Oh, and we should go down to CompUSA and buy a brand new floppy drive while we're at it.

Two tiny 65816 DTV consoles

The 21st century direct-to-TV game console: a dirt-cheap toy dragging poor ports of cherished games to a more downmarket age. If you couldn't afford the real device, your alternative was these inexpensive, inadequate facsimiles faithful only to one's gauzy recollection. As their chipsets are generally grossly underpowered and optimized solely for cost, the vast majority didn't even try to run the original games precisely as they were, and the quality of the resulting rewrites sometimes showed their software to be as rushed as the hardware. (Even today, where true emulators are more plentiful, the SoCs these devices use often still require compromise.) There were certainly standouts that are practical miniatures of the original systems, notably the Commodore 64 Direct-to-TV and Atari Flashback 2, but the remainder during their zenith in the early 2000s were more like this Intellivision and two Atari 2600 imposters, playing uneven resurrections on unrelated silicon.

But it turns out these three (and others) have something in common besides the bargain bin: they're all derived from our favourite chip, the 6502. In fact, the two Atari imposters even embed the 6502's 16-bit descendant, the 65816. How do we know this? Rampant speculation, foggy memory, datasheets and vidcaps — and taking them apart, of course.