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| Xeogaming Forums - - Posts by Stitch |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie!          Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Dad was an odd fellow. He had his last son--me--at the age of 60-something. He was retired government, but refused to tell either my mom or me what he used to do. "I was a technician," he'd tell me, "and you're going to be one too. None of this doctor shit." He hated doctors. Never saw one.
I used to spend hours sitting in front of my "computer"--a concoction of an Etch-A-Sketch resting on top of my typewriter. I wasn't allowed outside unless under the supervision of my mother, and the one friend I had wasn't allowed in the house. He was a little black boy, whose name I can't remember, that lived in the same condominium complex. My dad, as I learned years later, was a huge racist. I learned to hate him even in the years after his death. I also learned, years later, that he never wanted me. I was an accident that got through. But, we'll touch on that later. I had to talk to my friend through the door. Once, my mom let the child in, and we played for hours until my dad came home. He was so furious, but he couldn't do anything. My mom would just not let him. At five years old, I absolutely despised my dad. I didn't even cry at his funeral. But, somewhere deep inside, I do miss him. I cry now. My dad was a huge enterpreneur-type man. He motivated me to do things. At six years old, I had my own paper hat business. I sold them to the neighbors for a nickel each. The company ran for two weeks before I lost interest. I made ten cents. We lived in a beautiful complex on Neil Armstrong Dr. in Montebello. Our home, on the second floor, was a two bedroom condo with a beautifully large living room, dining room, and two bathrooms. But, I was five, so everything always seems bigger. I used to wake up with my mom to watch the sun rise. Dad spent his days watching TV. I spent my days destroying things. I took apart my model cars to find out how the steering mechanisms work. I destroyed clocks, dismantled my stereo, broke open the smoke detector, and stared at the movement of the typewriter as I typed. Standing in front of the mirror, I would stare at my mouth as it created words; completely fascinated with language. I had one other friend, Noser, a snooty Hindi boy that lived down the hall. I could see his door from my bedroom that I never slept in. He would take me to his home to show off their projection TV, suspended from the ceiling and projecting a huge image onto a giant screen. I was amazed to watch M.A.S.H. on such a magnificent screen. His home smelled of curry and spices, and his parents were always so nice. He was little turd, but it was someone to talk to. As the years went by in elementary school, we grew apart. One friend. I had but one friend in kindergarten. The special ed kid. Steven. He had a drooling problem. I was easily squeemish. But, it worked to an extent. I also had girl troubles. Brenda--the classroom whore--had developed a crush for me. I hated her, and she was the source of my trips to the principal's office. I was too smart for kindergarten. My teacher, Ms. Boyd, suggested bumping me up to first--even second--grade. My father wouldn't have it. "He's too young," he'd say. I was six. In kindergarten. I only entered school in the first place because my mom forced him to sign me up. He wanted to hold me back. He didn't want me to learn. He'd do my homework assignments so that I wouldn't learn. My teachers wised up, and sent home a fake letter stating that no homework was to be given to the kindergarteners under a new curriculum mandate. It worked. My dad stopped checking my backpack, and I started learning more. Because of him, I didn't learn to read until mid-first grade. I could do basic multiplication, recite the alphabet forward and backwards in three languages, was ambidexterous, could write in cursive, and could program in BASIC in kindergarten. I wasn't noticed. I was a dot. I didn't exist. Sharing was a weird concept to me. It didn't make sense. If there's a giant tub of Legos right there, why do I have to share the small handful I have? It just didn't make sense. I scored horribly in sharing because I refused to do so. I still tend not to share. I showed my teacher once that I could write my name in cursive, with my left hand, upside-down. She took my paper, crumpled it up, and issued me a new one telling me that "it wasn't nice to show off." What the fuck is that? Nurture a youth, for pete's sake. Ugh. First grade was no different. I was tormented by a little black girl that hated me for some reason. She used to get me in trouble by staging accidents where she'd be the victim. She once asked for the glue. I passed it to her. She opened the bottle, and spilled it on herself and started crying. My teacher didn't believe me. I had detention for the first time in first grade. And, the last time. My father came, and scared the teacher so much that I never got detention again. I did throw up twice in class though. Those days were awesome. Second grade is mostly a blur. I remember going by the name of "Wesley" for about two weeks. Nothing much else. My father died shortly after second grade. I felt nothing. In the hospital, I saw the tubes and wires. I heard the beeping heart monitor. I smelled the sterile environment. He was a shell, a loveless carcass. It makes me tear up now. It did nothing for me then. My mom received a call one morning. He had passed. She cried for hours. I, having no emotion and not knowing what to do, sat in my room and drew on the Etch-A-Sketch I had shoplifted. Then, the bill collectors started calling. Apparently, my dad had maintained our "rich" lifestyle by racking up charges on credit cards under my mom's name, his name, and my name. We filed bankruptcy, and moved up the street to a nice apartment that we could afford. For a while. I had a bunny. Named him Tony under the guise that he wanted that name. Turns out that the gesture I had mistaked for a nod was actually the bunny sneezing. Back in the condominiums, I had created an elaborate network of drinking straw piping from the kitchen to the bunny's cage so that he could drink water. It worked, until dad came home and dismantled it. The earthquake of 1989 found me in the closet playing with my toys. A large bookcase we kept near the door filled with medical references, do-it-yourself encyclopedias, and religious references collapsed across the door. It took my father and the neighbors an hour and a half to move the bookcase and free me from the closet. I came out of the closet--literally--at the age of seven only to do it again almost fifteen years later--figuratively. My father had a real direct approach to things. I learned about babies from the medical references. I knew where they came from. I knew how they were conceived. I wanted to be a doctor. He stopped teaching me from the references after that. At the age of five, I knew there was no stork and no Santa Claus. No Easter Bunny either. I was, and still am, a cynical little boy. My mom told me stories of how my father would take her to the park on rigorous walks while she was pregnant with me. He was attempting to cause a miscarriage. He hated me. He didn't want me. I was an accident. He married my mom in January of 1981. I was born in November of 1981. I used to stick waffles in the VCR because the machine got warm after a while. Fascination caused me to stare at the new see-through VCR displays at Sears. I loved watching those gears swirl around. The Disney channel and PBS were my friends. I could play the piano at the age of two, solely learned playing by ear. I wanted a real piano; not my toy piano. Dad wouldn't have it. "Watch TV," he'd say. I played house. I was the mom. I loved it. I guess that was the first sign. There were many signs, come to think of it. I loved wearing my mom's pumps. I loved her dresses. I adored my father's business suits. I played dress-up in his shoes. I was always the mom at school. I like playing games with the girls, picking flowers, being a rope turner for double-dutch. The summer after second grade, we moved again. This time, into a small room at one of my mom's friend's home. Tony, my bunny, died that year. I found him. Stiff and strangled from his makeshift leash. My mom was receiving government help. We were practically poor. That's when I decided I never wanted to be poor again. We used to walk, my mom and I, everywhere. Down the winding streets of Rosemead to my school and back up the hill. Walk the three blocks to the bus stop to head out to the Montebello Galleria. I loved her so much, and even more now. Her eyes were so full of love and sorrow. She loved my father very much. I never asked again why she married him after learning about my being an accident to him. She married him to keep me. It makes me tear up every time I think about it. She put up with his stubborn shit to raise a wonderful child. She allowed him to ruin her credit and force her to sleep in a separate bed in order to give me a better life. In first grade, we received fortune cookies with our meals. My fortune changed my view of karma for the rest of my life. My father, being the one I despised, died within a year, almost exactly to the day. My mother, whom I love more than anything in the world, still lives well into her 60s. In the summer before third grade, I discovered I like writing stories. I illustrated them as well. My mom, seeing that this helped to cope with the loss of my father, encouraged my writing. I'm glad she did. It inspired me to continue writing. To be continued...still in progress, this is all one big rough draft posted as the memories flow. (Last edited by Zabuza on 12-05-05 06:53 AM) |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| There 792 in my area, and I'm only a few miles from WhiteRose. None in the immediate area of my living, but meh. At least they're not near the schools.
Some aren't, anyway. I mean...no, I'm not going to start a debate now... |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| It was a bomb, wasn't it? Please, tell me it was a bomb...I'd be much happier. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Growing up, the neighbor kids used to like to take my BMX, peddle as fast as they could, and activate only the front brakes...flying off the bike and landing on the front lawn.
I never understood the fun in that. I want a new bike now, mostly because the short trips to things and errands would save on gas. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Industry development kit machines run anywhere from $5000 to $15,000 per machine. That's why they're mostly only available to the gaming industry. They're similar to retail machines, but have certain tools that enable you to test games on it better for the entire world. The PS2/PS3 dev/debug machines are stripped down versions...meaning that they don't play DVD movies because it's not needed for game testing.
The PS2s look like regular PS2s, but they have TEST printed on the side instead of PS2. Picture of a Debug Kit PS2 XBOX 360 Development/Debug Kits XBOX Debug Kit XBOX Development Kit GameCube Development Kit For all practical reasons, the only difference in the GameCube is that is doesn't read standard retail discs, but special NR discs only available to developers. The Development kits don't play retail titles, and will only play burned DVD-R development encoded builds of games. The Debug kits play both the burns and retail titles. These are the consoles we use at work. Our PS3 dev kits look nothing like the actual console, but rather something like this: PS3 Dev Kit PS2 Dev kits start at about $5000, but it comes with the software needed to create the games. Bigger companies, like Activision, get mild discounts on purchases of multiple units...something to the tune of $1000 per machine. PS3 Dev kits are really expensive, but I don't have a definite price...we were told it was somewhere in the $15K to $20K range. XBOX Dev kits are expensive as well, starting in the $15K range. XBOX Debug kits are relatively inexpensive compared to the Dev kits, but start around $10K each. To understand this, if anyone of us broke or mistreated any test machine during our daily working shifts, we would be immediately terminated. Each machine alone was worth more than what any of us received as salary in a year. While working on the XBOX 360 projects, we were locked in a secured room (authorized key card access only) with seven cameras trained on the entire room. If anyone so much as damaged a controller, they were placed on suspension--or fired. Even stricter security measures were taken with the PS3 Dev kits. PSP Dev Kit Hint: That's a PS2 Dev Kit shell next to the PSP Dev Kit box. The PS2 Dev kit box is about the same size as the PS3 Dev kit box. The shells (the ones that look and act just like the retail versions) tend to cost less. They're mostly available to the industry because of their hefty price and you have to prove to the companies that you are a developer. They're usually bought directly from each respective company, themselves. Or, they're lent out to companies, and the companies are held liable if anything happens to the systems. Smaller companies usually have to buy the dev/debug kits. Larger companies, like Activision as well, both purchase and borrow these machines. Three of the XBOX 360s were purchased. The rest are on loan. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| OOS: My correction, earthquake was 1989...I think. I corrected it...
And, yes, I'm writing as the memories flow. It'll all be re-organized and re-written for the print version, not the online version. I used to create stories, and share them with my third grade class after moving to Paramount. Paramount was a nightmare when we moved in. My mom had pulled a few strings to keep me enrolled in Lincoln Elementary because they had an excellent GATE--Gifted And Talented Education--program. I was started in KEYS (I don't remember what it stood for). I was a loner in third grade, but quickly became friends with the other loner in class, the school psychiatrist, and the school P.E. evaluator. Because of my father's recent death, I was forced to attend weekly sessions with the psychiatrist, a short Asian woman maybe no more than 25 years old. There was one session where I was told I would get a gold star if I could sit without fidgeting. I don't remember what we talked about during the sessions, but during this one time, she reached underneath the table and steadied my shaking leg. After that, our talk distracted me, and I walked away from the session with a gold star. I was proud of myself. The P.E. lady, whose name also escapes me, was assigned to special cases of students that just seemed not to able to advance on their own. I found documents years later of my progressive evaluations. "Is able to throw and catch a ball from ten feet apart." "Can jump robe consecutively ten times." "Interacts with other students; possible candidate for classroom P.E." "Able to kick a ball fifty feet. Requires immediate praise." I laughed at the thought that my special P.E. apart from the rest of my classmates was to condition me for re-introduction into the society of school. My psychiatry sessions served the same purpose, but mostly, they just wanted to make sure I was the genius I had tested out to be. My psychiatrist and I would spend some sessions sitting outside under a huge tree in the middle of the main quad. She'd sit with her notepad, jotting down notes as I talked about the leaves, the way the sun filtered through the branches, and about my life. We talked about how I felt in class. We talked about my homework, my classmates, the city, my house, my room, the world, anything. Then, one day, she told me that I wouldn't be seeing her anymore. I was saddened. But, as a parting gift, she handed me a box of gold stars. I treasured those stars...until I lost them in another move. My toys had been "lost" among my little cousins when we moved from Rosemead. We were staying at my cousin's home on Third Street. It was a horribly grotesque home. Cockroaches ran around at all hours of the night. We had to wear cottonballs in our ears for fear that anything might crawl in them while we slept. I couldn't wait to move again. My mom managed to secure a place across the street from my aunt on Georgia. It was a converted garage, but it was home. I had my first birthday party, at the tender age of eight, there. I had my first communion party while living there. I had my first experience with flooding the bathroom and kitchen there; my mom was not pleased, but she wasn't mad. I destroyed a fragile relationship with my half-siblings while living there. It was a nice year at that house. We moved across the street to a property my aunt owned the following year. Fifteen years later, we still live there. On Adams, around the corner from my aunt with the big avocado tree. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| If you're friended on my LJ account, you've probably already read this. If not, here goes:
I started my accelerated schooling in third grade, after testing had discovered I possessed an IQ of 162 thanks in part to my father and his diligence to have me study the medical references, learn to speak three languages, write cursive, execute basic multiplication/division/algebraic equations, program in BASIC, and lastly, enjoy reading and writing. Being ambidextrous with the ability to read and write upside-down and backwards, I found that I was different from everybody else. But, I had a fatal flaw...I felt not the need to prove myself to anyone. I was arrogant, for a third grader, and it would be the downfall of my school career. My tests proved the intelligence, my homework proved the lacking drive to accomplish anything. I was (am) a dreamer. I talk to myself, regularly, all day as a result of having little or no friends growing up. So much now that I've created entire personalities and people that only exist in my head. It's great if I'm a novel writer (and I am), but not if I'm just fantasizing while driving to pass the time because my MP3 watch died. The genius testing continued on all of us in the program for the remainder of our school careers. To my knowledge, out of the forty that started in my class in fourth grade, the remaining twenty or so that made it to graduation featured only nine students that were still concidered "Gifted and Talented". I was one of the nine. To my surprise and elation, our valedictorian was no longer. She was proven to have the drive to accomplish things--labeled a "hard-worker"--but lacked the native intelligence to be maintained in the genius level of students. Student A awakes on the day of the SATs, first time taking them, with a heavy onset of the flu. The student arrives at school forgetting to bring along a calculator, and feeling horribly foggy, having a runny nose, a headache, and nausea. The student is admitted to the test anyway, and sits through the whole thing suffering through the onset of sickness. The student barely struggles through it, and walks home with feelings of a failure. Student B has studied diligently for the SATs. Has taken the PSATs several times. Has read every SAT prep book ever printed. Memorized new words. The student arrives at school prepared for every possible contigency. The examination begins, and the student breezes through the sections, having enough time to review the answers for each section. The student is confident, and noticing Student A's demeanor, feels even better about themselves. A few weeks later, results have arrived at each student's respective homes. At school, Student B finds Student A and asks what how A did on the test. You want an answer, keep reading. Our valedictorian is Student B. To an extent, I was Student B, until the onset of middle school where I became corrupted when I discovered my weirdness could get me friends. Real friends, not those that my overactive imagination had created. I think it's time to name off the people I've created in my head. If you catch me talking to myself, it's probably to one of these (whom I do voice, have their own personalities, and I do answer): Brandon Nelson--personal assistant. Straight. Engaged to be married to Janine, one of my former students at the Oakridge University in Oakridge. Valuable asset to the company. Ensures I can run my day despite my own lacking of organization. Is my human (kind-of) personal organizer. Brian--head of my CBIS (Creative Borrowing Information Systems) collective. Corey--head of creative services for Almodovar Enterprises. Lives in Tokyo to stay with his boyfriend and oversee my AnimExcel company in Tokyo. Fun man, and high attention to detail keeps the anime division of the company producing gold. Kenneth--senior driver. Takes care of all vehicles. Handles repair and maintenance. Hans--actual driver. Picks me up at the airport, and goes along on trips with me. Great driver, but horribly absent minded person. Kathy--absent-minded receptionist for Almodovar Enterprises -- Los Angeles. Cute girl, but a little ditzy. Oddly perky. Carol Nelson--Brandon's mom. My original assistant. Now, receptionist for Almodovar Enterprises -- New York. Pat Urquidi--fight coordinator for Excelsior Productions (based on someone I actually know). Stevan Krystofer Almodovar-Martyn -- my fifteen year old straight son, somehow born from an invitro fertilization combination of both mine and Ian's sperm, with Salina as a host mother. Quirky kid, found it quite difficult to disclose to his fathers that he is straight. Hates that his initials spell SKAM, and that I took such artistic/linguistic endeavor in creating his first and middle name. Jamie--Stevan's girlfriend. Has known Stevan since third grade. Strong girl, obviously the pants in the relationship. Quirky as well, but calls me rich dad and Ian the cool dad. ...and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I was Student A in that scenario. My valedictorian approached me to inquire as to my score, given my condition during the examination. I inquired as to her score first, after all, she is valedictorian. Nine hundred. Total score. Her score was 900. The first time. After all that studying, a measure of cranial capacity yielded a nine hundred. Then, and now, I understood that her measly score was greatly offset by her GPA. She needed to work hard because she lacked the innate intelligence to get into a university. "So, what was your score, Lee?" These words are so sweet and innocent. I had to crush her. So, I told her the truth, and showed her my results. "1200." And, satisfied with my efforts, I grabbed my results and walked away. My GPA wasn't the best in school, but I ranked in the top 50 students, so I was quite content. Very smug, very snooty, but content. The smile couldn't have been bigger. My day was uplifted. Her shock and awe was my validation. Later that year, under the coaxing of my counselor, I retook the SATs. She was there again, and this time I came prepared. I even studied. Luckily, they keep the higher score, because apparently studying makes my brain turn into mush. "850." Eight-fifty!? How the fuck did I score an eight-fifty? I tell you how, I studied. She managed to raise her score to a 1100. No matter. A final time, my counselor forced me to retest using the same method I had the first time in hopes of a better score. So, I didn't study. I arrived at the test without my calculator. I sat down in the Little Theater, pencil and eraser ready, and stared at the clock. A few hours later, I emerged into the subdued sunlight. A few weeks later, I delivered my sealed results to my counselor. She sat in her office, a cacophony of 60s style decor complete with lava lamps, and held my envelope. She opened it carefully, and I watched her eyes widen as she read my score. I closed the door. She stood up, came around her desk, and hugged me. But, it was an empty hug. The kind of hug you get when "you've tried your best". What? Was it lower? "1200, Lee." I stood there for a moment. "I told you," I paused and removed another letter from my backpack, "and I got in to UCLA and CSU..." she cut me off. I was muffled by another hug--this time feeling as real as ever. She was proud. She had suffered so much as my counselor through the years, and now her hard work and favors had finally shown through. "But," I started, "we can't afford it. Even with financial aid, I can't afford to go." She let go, and sat on her desk. I had killed her dreams. I lost touch with her after graduation. Back to my genius. That little me that used to sit with the girls and make flower necklaces, talk to himself, and just stare at the clouds nurturing that 162 IQ still runs around inside me wondering what happened. At graduation, I tested at 164 IQ. A barrage of tests in college confirmed what I had feared, I was losing it. 150 IQ. And dropping. Why? I don't nurture it. I've become a techy. Rather than keep my brain "muscles" flexing, I let them get weak. I let them die. I let my younger self down. Shit's gotta change. And it will. Technically, I'm still considered a genius. But, why has it gotten me nowhere? I love museums. I love the written word. I adore Ian. I study languages, civic engineering, computer science, gaming design, and a myriad other subject on my own! I have so many books they're strewn about my entire house and car! So, where did that younger Lee go? Is he still lying on that field, staring up at the clouds wondering why his older self is such a loser? Am I justified in feeling this way? Have I let myself down? Or, is it just the horrible tendency to compare myself to other people? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Does love count? Anyway, no, I guess it falls under "Horrible coughing..."
I have bronchitis, that I've refused to treat with western medication and hope just clears up and goes away. I'm trying to build up my body's immunity, and I don't want to do it artificially with medication. So, eastern and chakra treatments abound. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| It's a word-play riddle that doesn't exactly work well in written form, but true flight's right. Unless, you phrased horribly...in which case, I don't understand. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| It's didn't, but I got it. And, my buddy that's in Iraq actually told me that it was okay as long as I didn't hit on him. I told him he was way under my league.
Not quite the looker, he is. Anyway, I need to put some pants on and get out of the house. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I know...I just have this tendency to wonder why my cousins are able to afford a brand new BMW (Junior's older brother) and why I can barely scrimp by month-to-month. Damn it! I want my Prius. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Electronic Arts acquires Jamdat Mobile for $680 million
The anticipation could be felt as we all gathered in the lobby of our 5th floor office awaiting the news. Were we fired? What's happening? Where's our cut of the $680 million (paid in cash)? Some questions were answered; others weren't. We'll have definite answers by Feb. 2006. Apparently, EA Mobile wasn't doing so well, and since Jamdat is one of the top mobile gaming companies worldwide, rather than compete EA just bought us up. So, I guess we'll be a division of EA Mobile. Technically, at least until the merger is completed, I work for EA now. "Los Angeles-based Jamdat, best known for mobile games such as "Tetris," "Bejeweled" and "Jamdat Bowling," went public in mid-2004 and is seen as the leader in mobile gaming in the United States. Global revenue from games played on mobile phones reached about $1 billion in 2004 and the market is expected to double to roughly $2 billion this year, according to industry research firm Screen Digest. Jamdat and Gameloft of France accounted for almost 30 percent of game download revenue in the United States and in Europe in 2004, Screen Digest said." I guess I work for EA then... |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Different house. The old house was a converted garage. This house is just a house. With a Whitey next door. The half-siblings will come up later. I'm organizing my thoughts into chapters, and the half-siblings thing isn't important right now. Nope, I checked government records, it was 1989.
Let's fast forward to the early 21st century for a moment. Power was always something I held dear. In late 2003, I was granted a piece of it. I became a Federal Agent for the US Department of Homeland Security. I had a security clearance, I knew more information than I need to, and I had (very little) power of civilians. I was swimming in the power, and it ultimately caused my demise with the Government. The TSA, Transportation Security Administration, unknowingly provided me with so many resources that I didn't know what to do with them. I had studied UNIX and Linux in the past, so the interface used to control the x-ray machines was not foreign to me. In a matter of one year, I learned enough about explosives to make even the anarchists envious. And, to my benefit, my brain works in a manner that the government finds threatening. So what if I constantly think of every possibility for a security undermining. I would think that doing that would help strengthen a security environment. They, however, felt otherwise. The airport appears secure, but we won't get into that here. This is a public board. They have people to evaluate the security of the airport and act accordingly, they don't need the lower level drones executing that work. I'm tired. Going to work. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Thanks...it's just that I'm so used to being the person that tells people to do the obvious that I forget to take my own advice. I just needed somebody else to yell at me.
*hug the oni!* |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| You know they have made more than just Christmas music. I have Mannheim Steamroller Does The Mouse--Disney music done by them, and that was the most awesome album I had for quite awhile. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Working on a rewrite of the Demon, turning it into a furry version of it. Anyway, decided I'd take a spin on creating a random Konoha ninja as a wolf.
Got this: 
Yeah, I know it sucks, but I tend to draw more technical things now like building designs, computer distribution networks, bridges, tunnels, vehicles, aircraft, etc. Never could draw hands, so their always hidden. Can't do face features, so furry aminals are always better for that. And, since I draw on a slant, all my drawings always appear slightly crooked. Meh. Working on a larger scale drawing featuring Ookami and his partner, Kitsune. Kitsune's concept art:  (Last edited by Zabuza on 12-14-05 02:14 AM) |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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Originally posted by Vulkar Thank you. I couldn't have explained any simpler, really I couldn't. I more of a long-winded lecture yelling at you for being so stupid kind of person. It's true about the AIM speak, but it's more accurately referred as AOL speak since it started with AOL chat rooms, and not AIM instant messaging. Before AOL chat, there was (is) IRC, but with the introduction of AOL and its provision of internet to the masses, the degredation of language followed suit. "PWN" came about from a misspelling of "own" that stuck (notice the close proximity of the letter p to the letter o). Other words followed suit, and with the proliferation and hollywood-ization of hackers, a mutation of 1337-sp34k and AOL speak created the internet slang we have now. Toss in the mass hyping of gaming culture, and you've got the mindless babble that so few older adults understand. Just for clarity, most real hackers don't use 1337 speak anymore. Myself included. That's how we identify the posers, script kiddies, gamers, and wannabes. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Do you think it's a smart idea to tell the world on a public board that you smoke and possess marijuana? Especially when one of the members is periodically tracked online by uppers of the US Government?
Just wondering, as well... And, my mind operates in that manner under its own power... |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I thought selling their god to the American public would be an awesome thing for them. I guess they don't like chocolate. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| We've done this without the moppy attachments when Sammy was still chasing after me crawling around the house. Made the kitchen quite clean. Should be attached to furry doggies and housecats...like Fappy. |
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| Xeogaming Forums - - Posts by Stitch |
