Copyright. We've all seen the signs. You know, that little "c" with the circle around it. We know it means something; we suspect it means we're not supposed to, well, copy whatever it's stamped on. So what's all this fuss about "copyright wars?" Are the little circled "c's" animating themselves, picking up battleaxes and crossbows and entering into some kind of semiotic fracas? It would be an entertaining event, but alas—it's not quite the problem. The copyright wars we hear about in the media are something a little more abstract, yet (unlike most abstract subjects) they actually have a direct impact upon the way you lead your day to day life.

Ever burn a DVD, or watch a streaming video on the internet? Ever "borrow" a CD from a friend and then "permanently borrow" it onto your computer or iPod? Ever listen to (or perhaps even record) a mash-up song or cover song? Ever read a piece of fan fiction? Ever draw a picture of Mickey Mouse? Then you, my friend, have already implicated yourself—to some degree or another—in today's copyright wars. Take a seat, soldier: it's a (legalistic) bloodbath out there. You might as know what you're getting yourself into...

Copyright: All Rights Reserved

Before we dive headfirst into the complicated tensions between various factions of the copyright wars, here's a quick overview of U.S. copyright law, as it stands today.

Not to insult your no-doubt formidable intelligence, but basically copyright is "the right to copy" something. That "something" can entail a diverse range of creative work, including books, poems, paintings, cartoons, sculptures, radio broadcasts, TV shows, CD tracks, choreographed dance routines, and even industrial and architectural designs. If you can think it, and you can make it, and you can prove that nobody else has made it before, you can copyright it.

But like all good things, copyright doesn't last forever. In most cases, copyright on a product, image, or piece of  "intellectual property" (like a piece of computer software, or a cooking recipe) expires 50 to 70 years after the creator's death. At that point, whatever has just expired is free and legal for anyone to use as they please—that's why it's "free" for a theater company to put on a production of Shakespeare's Macbeth, but hypothetically costs money (in the form of royalties) to produce Death and Longing at Starbucks, the play you wrote and copyrighted last Thursday during your 10 am latte break.

But copyright goes beyond royalty payments -- in fact, it gets much more complicated. For example, what if you want to parody something that's already been copyrighted—in other words, to produce a piece of satire? Are you violating copyright if you draw a crappy version of copyrighted cartoon character Homer Simpson with money symbols for eyeballs and the words "Fox Television Kills Braincells" across his domed, yellow head? In a word, no. Thankfully, most copyright schemes allow for satirical replications—as long as it's clear that the satire is not intended to reproduce the original copyrighted work for sale.

So how, exactly, do lawyers define that filthy act known as "copyright infringement?" Well, at first glance, it's pretty simple—but like most legal issues, it quickly grows confusing.

Take this hypothetical scenario: let's say you buy a CD (I know it's unrealistic—who "buys" CDs anymore? But suspend your disbelief for a moment and run with me) and you burn five copies. You sell each copy for $5, winding up with a tidy little profit—or not, depending on how much the CD cost in the first place. Profit or not—have you violated copyright law?

Scenario number two: you take that same CD and make five copies, as before, but this time you don't sell them for money—you trade them for baked goods, or daffodils, or shoulder massages. You're definitely a dirty hippie, but are you also a copyright criminal?

Scenario three: Buy CD, five copies, blah blah blah. Just like before. But this time, in a flourish of generosity, you just give them away to your friends. For free. End of transaction. Sure, you've copied a product, but you never had any intention of selling the copies for filthy money or trading them for homemade granola, so have you really violated copyright law?

In each of the scenarios stated above: yes, yes, and yes. You cheating bastard.

Congratulations: you're a fugitive from the law. You wouldn't steal a handbag, but you've sure as hell stolen a song—and would probably steal a movie, too, if you had the chance. You're crazy like that. They call you Crazy Joe, the CD Bandit. You're wild. You're dark. And you don't really care—after all, ripping a mix CDs for your girlfriend or boyfriend isn't exactly mass genocide, is it?

Happily, most people—even (gasp!) copyright lawyers—are inclined to agree with you. The fact is, we live in a digital age. Burning, copying, ripping—it's a part of everyday life, and no amount of incendiary anti-copyright propaganda at the beginning and end of Hollywood films is going to make it stop. Given the reality of the situation, the challenge for lawyers and consumers is this: how do we allow for sane, reasonable replication and usage of products (particularly CDs and DVDs) while still allowing artists, creators, and inventors to earn the money and receive the recognition that is rightfully theirs?

It seems like an impossible compromise — but according to a new wave of liberal copyright laws, known colloquially as "copyleft licensing schemes," peace is possible.

Copyleft: All Rights Reversed 

Allow me to introduce "copyleft": copyright's amiable stoner cousin. Copyleft is a lot more relaxed than straight-edge copyright. Copyleft isn't afraid of getting a little freaky. Copyleft's been known to get a little blurry around the edges, even a little bombastic. "Sure, you can copy me, baby! It's all good." But copyleft isn't a sloppy drunk—no matter how funky the situation becomes, copyleft still has self-respect. Copyleft can keep it together. Copyleft has a plan—and it most situations, it works.

At its most fundamental level, copyleft law gives every person possessing a piece of creative work the same rights as the work's creator. These rights include:
1. The freedom to use and study the work
2. The freedom to copy and share the work with others
3. The freedom to change the work
4. The freedom to distribute changed (aka "derivative") works.
Sounds pretty hot, right? Unfortunately, bare-bones copyleft schemes like the one stated above don't afford a lot of income (or recognition) for the artists behind the work. In other words, they're a tad unbalanced: fantastic for the consumer, but unfair for the creator. And to make matters worse, the scheme doesn't ensure that derivative works will be distributed under the same copyleft terms, nor does it ensure that the list of copyleft rights stated above won't be revoked at a later date. Clearly, there's some legal tidying up that needs to be done. Consider, in contrast, the revised copyleft scenario below, which demonstrates how copyleft law can be tightened up and balanced out, allowing greater benefits for both producer and consumer:

Imagine that a left-leaning musician has just recorded an album titled Songs in the Key of Free. Instead of getting a standard copyright on the album, making it 100 percent illegal to copy, distribute, re-mix, mash-up, play at schools, prisons, and oil rigs etc, the musician devises a copyleft scheme instead. The musician works with a similarly left-leaning attorney, and perhaps consults a copyleft organization like Creative Commons (more on them later) to create a personalized set of legal restrictions and allowances for their particular album. The copyleft scheme might, for example, allow consumers to use music from Songs in the Key of Free in future movies without having to pay the musician royalties, but only if the movie's creator promises to place the movie under an identical copyleft scheme. In this manner, the musician behind Songs in the Key of Free relinquishes some, but not all, of the rights they would normally be entitled to under basic copyright law. Their work isn't completely in the public domain—that is, devoid of any protection, like Shakespeare's plays—but isn't rigidly confined to outmoded, unrealistic copyright law, either. The musician still gets paid (and acknowledged), their album gets listened to, certain forms of replication and usage are allowed, and people who abuse the terms of their copyleft scheme still get punished. All right! Or rather, all left!

Creative Commons: Some Rights Reserved

One of the major legal groups campaigning for increased application of intelligent copyleft law is Creative Commons, an online/offline licensing organization that helps artists (and their attorneys) create customized copyleft plans.

Creative Commons: it's copyright's tech-savvy, forward-thinking younger sibling. A Creative Commons license can legally cover any type of work normally protected by copyright law: books, photographs, films, videos, songs—even websites and blogs. By letting artists personally dictate how others can copy, adapt, distribute, and re-sell their work, these licenses empower creators and innovators while realistically allowing for varying degrees of consumer usage.

Aside from increased flexibility within pre-established copyright law structures, Creative Commons licenses have a few other nifty features as well. Suppose you take a photograph of a dying kitten for your documentary photography portfolio, "Sadness and Woe in the Animal Kingdom." You place the image under a Creative Commons license allowing others to use the image in films, collages, and on CD album covers. A heavy-metal band called KittenKrush uses your photograph of the dying feline as the cover image for their album Krush All Kute Things. Horrified, you demand to have your name removed from KittenKrush's album cover, a "derivative" work. Under the terms of a Creative Commons license, you can clear your good name and avoid potentially career-destroying creative associations. Whew.

Dying kittens aside, what, exactly, are the terms of a Creative Commons license?

Licenses can be broken down into four major types: Attribution, NonCommercial, NoDerivatives, and ShareAlike. With an Attribution license, artists dictate exactly how they wish to be acknowledged by consumers who re-use, re-vamp, or recycle the artist's work. With a NonCommercial license, consumers cannot use the artist's work "in a manner primarily directed toward commercial advantage or private monetary compensation." A NoDerivatives license states that consumers can make "verbatim copies" of an artist's work, but can't adapt or modify it. And finally, a ShareAlike license allows a work to be adapted or modified, as long as the new work is licensed under an identical Creative Commons license. Naturally, there's room for negotiation within the framework of each type of Creative Commons license, which is just one element of their growing appeal.

Copytheft: All right, someone's gonna pay for this!

It seems as though fair and balanced copyleft laws, like those coordinated by groups like Creative Commons, could be the ultimate healing balm to soothe the sores of the copyright wars. But copyleft is still a relatively new concept, and not all artists, creators, inventors (or corporations) are completely convinced that it's the ideal solution. In the meantime, the 'war' is escalating—and as we all know, thanks to continuously updated technology, it's getting easier and easier to steal stuff. As consumers continue to abuse existing copyright laws, corporations are being sent into a tizzy: desperate to salvage lost financial revenue and protect the remaining vestiges of their client's creative work, they've been cracking down—hard. The result? Lawsuits, lawsuits, lawsuits.

It's a war zone out there, folks. To quote the Electronic Frontier Foundation, a non-profit public interest group dedicated to defending consumer's "digital rights," rampant copyright lawsuits force ordinary citizens "to pay thousands of dollars to music and movie industry lawyers, while many innocent individuals have been caught in the crossfire." Whoa—pretty heavy stuff. What kind of "crossfire" are we talking about, exactly?

Just recently, EFF was instrumental in exposing the seedy, sketchy, incredibly shady "Sony Rootkit Scandal." As EFF proudly proclaims, "Sony BMG included dangerous software on millions of music CDs as part of a misguided attempt to restrict consumer usage. After pushing Sony BMG to take the CDs off the market, EFF filed and subsequently settled a class-action lawsuit that forced Sony to repair the damage already done. EFF also successfully pressured Sunncomm, the creators of one of the harmful technologies, to fix the security flaws."

So, friends, this is the kind of "crossfire" we're dealing with, whether we're actively involved in current copyright issues or not.

Since its formation in 1990, EFF has accrued a long list of courtroom triumphs, like its recent victory over Sony BMG. Their track list is impressive, and their motto—"Fighting for a constructive solution that gets artists paid while making file sharing legal"—is exciting. But new conflicts crop up just about every day, and, as the good people at EFF state so eloquently, "These lawsuits have no end in sight, and it could get even worse—the industry has pushed Congress to ratchet up civil and criminal sanctions for file sharing and to restrict innovation."

So what can you do to help? Well, probably more than you think. The Action Centre at www.eff.org, where you can directly impact the preservation of online civil liberties, is a good place to start. But while there's safety in numbers, joining a large-scale group like EFF isn't the only way to fight back against unfair consumer manipulation. Plenty of outspoken individuals, like the innovative blogger, fan-fic/sci-fi writer, USC professor, and novelist Cory Doctorow have heaps to say about copyright laws and digital rights in the new millennium.

Cory(is)Right: Sharing is Caring

"Ever wonder how the copyright wars started?" Cory Doctorow asks. "I think it has a lot to do with the national frenzy over the 'information revolution' in the '80s and '90s and the certainty that the future would be all about selling bits." Doctorow continues his intelligent assessment of contemporary copyright law by arguing that "trading the US manufacturing sector to preserve the entertainment industry was especially dumb in the 'information age', because from here on it, it's just going to get easier and easier to copy information."

Too true. But copyright is hardly a passing interest for Doctorow, whose thoughts on the issue have been showcased in numerous publications—including Locus magazine, which featured Doctorow's article "How Copyright Broke":

"The idea that copyright confers the exclusive right to control copying, performance, adaptation, and general use of a creative work is a polite fiction that has been mostly harmless throughout its brief history, but which has been laid bare by the Internet, and the disjoint is showing.

Theoretically, if I sell you a copy of one of my novels, I'm conferring upon you a property interest in a lump of atoms—the pages of the book—as well as a license to make some reasonable use of the ethereal ideas embedded upon the page, the copyrighted work."

Doctorow's popularity in leftish circles is largely due to his frank, straightforward approach to copyright law, which (unlike a lot of legal documents and mandates) radically takes everyday reality into account. Well, this, and the fact that he practices what he preaches—almost all of his fiction writing is freely available, governed by a liberal Creative Commons license. A later section of "How Copyright Broke" introduces a comprehensible solution to the copyright wars, using the analogy of a novel as a disputed creative work:

"The answer is simple: treat your readers' property as property. What readers do with their own equipment, as private, noncommercial actors, is not a fit subject for copyright regulation or oversight. The Securities Exchange Commission doesn't impose rules on you when you loan a friend five bucks for lunch. Anti-gambling laws aren't triggered when you bet your kids an ice-cream cone that you'll bicycle home before them. Copyright shouldn't come between an end-user of a creative work and her property."

No one, Doctorow concludes, should "put up with the indignity of being treated as 'licensees' instead of customers." But until the copyright wars have ended, and some sort of artistically inclined, internet-appropriate Geneva Convention has been drawn up and approved by artists, corporations, and hopefully consumers, that's exactly the role we're forced to occupy. So polish your broadsword, or your keyboard, or whatever weapon you choose to armor yourself with for the duration of the "war." Copyleft or copyright—we've got to fight the good fight.