Noisebridge - User contributions [en]

User:Stefek99

2017-10-02T18:19:48Z

199.249.224.41:

* Michal Stefanow
* 0044 758 629 4279
* email@genesis.re
* MichalStefanow.com

Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.

User:Beka

2017-10-02T18:19:38Z

199.249.224.41:

I'm Darryl, tho on IRC and Slack I go by Augur. Not auger with an e, but augur with a u. Two u's actually. On Twitter and Github, I'm psygnisfive. My email address is psygnisfive@yahoo.com.

At the time of writing (2016-12-1), I'm working on various personal projects at Noisebridge, including a rod logic computer, a robotic snake arm, an open-ended vacuum tube/chamber, and a mini semiconductor fabrication project. I also teach people how to use the laser cutter.

I also work on AI (http://www.languagengine.co) and programming language theory/type theory (both recreationally, and as a researcher at IOHK.io).

Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.

User:Ⅹ

2017-10-02T18:19:24Z

199.249.224.41:

What's up: [[Talk:Noisebridge]]

360 Video Test from Stupid Sh!T Hackathon @noisebridge https://youtu.be/3-IDnE8nQPg

360 Video Player ([https://aur.archlinux.org/packages/gopro-vr-player/ Arch], Others: [http://www.kolor.com/gopro-vr-player/download/ kolor])

spacial media spec: https://github.com/google/spatial-media

[[File:X.jpg|1000px]]

X

SMS: 510.900.8576

Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.

User:Ruthgrace

2017-10-02T18:19:13Z

199.249.224.41:

* My personal website: http://ruthgrace.github.io/
* My instructables: http://www.instructables.com/member/ruthgrace/
* My Medium blog: https://medium.com/@ruthgracewong
* Pinterest (check out the ideas I've tried): https://www.pinterest.com/ruthgracewong/

'''Older stuff'''
* GitHub: https://github.com/ruthgrace
* Hackathon projects from when I was in school: https://devpost.com/ruthgrace

'''Links so that i can start pages'''
* [[Noisebridge Vision & Safe Space Agreement]]

Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.

User:Tman66

2017-10-02T18:19:01Z

199.249.224.41:

===Hello world!===

My name is Julio but you can call me '''J'''. I moved in March 2014 from L.A and work in the tech field. When people ask me why move since I had a decent gig and place to live in L.A my answer is this: "Simple, people from all over the world come to L.A to work in the Entertainment Industry, Movies, TV, etc. If you want to be in the show biz then the City of Angels is the place to be. But, if you are in the Tech Field and want to be in the Mecca of technology then The Bay Area is were you want to live". Now I've been teaching [[Circuit Hacking Mondays]] since April 2015 here at Noisebridge.

[[File:450px-Chm01.jpg]] [[File:800px-NB_Kids_Field_Trip.jpg]]

I like to tinker with stuff just for fun. I've done several projects over the years, some are practical that solve real problems, some are just for my own amusement. I never call myself an expert in anything because things change so quickly and there is always someone that knows more. I've been working with Windows since the DOS and the Windows 3.11 days. I've been working with Linux since 2010. My first programming language is BASIC on an Apple IIe and I am currently trying to learn Python. My 1st project was fixing a simple video connection issue on my NES when I was a kid and one of my last projects was modding an original Atari 2600 to work on a modern TV. I made old legacy applications (we are talking NT here) work on Windows 7 for my company and I've made Pikachu FLY and do EARTHQUAKE on a couple of games. Lately I've been looking at messing with other stuff aside from computers since my work takes a lot of computer time, so I also mess with aquariums and terrariums as a hobby.

[[File:600px-Atari.jpg]] [[File:800px-Links_Pad.jpg]]

First system owned: Atari 2600

First system I ever opened: Nintendo Entertainment System

First PC owned: Gateway P100 8MB RAM 500MB Hard Drive 28.8 Modem(Top of the line 1995). Broke it on my 2nd day owning it, fixed the next day, broke it again, fixed it again. The first and last desktop I bought out of the box until I got a Mac Server some time ago.

===What is a Hacker?===
To me hacking is much more than coding and computers. Hacking is about of solving problems, making things with what's available, thinking outside the box, a way of looking at the world, a way of life. Hacking is not about being a criminal and hurting innocent people (although some hackers do). Hacking is not about using code that they got from some website to "spy" on people yet have no understanding of how it works (We call those "script kiddies", I prefer "script kitties").
 

[[File:Funny-computer-hacker.jpg|400px]] [[Image:ScriptKITTY.jpg|450px]] [[File:Scriptkitty2.jpg|500px]]

 
 
Real hackers, in my opinion, are makers, inventors, creators, innovators. Hackers are curious by nature and love learning new things, they want to understand how things work. They will take things apart, reverse engineer things, spend countless hours tinkering with things just for fun. A real hacker does not necessarily care about being rich and powerful but they want to change the world. Every hacker that I know wants to improve things and believe that knowledge and the power of learning should be accessible to everyone. I can go on and on but I want to invite you to do your own exploration. The link below is a good way to start:

[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hacker_ethic The Hacker Ethic]

 
 
[[File:Growth_hackers.jpg|center|1000px]]

===J===

Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.

Surreptitious RAM

2017-10-02T18:18:25Z

199.249.224.41:

Bunnie Huang wrote about "surreptitious RAM" on p. 206 of his book ''Hacking the Xbox''. Surreptitious RAM refers either to memory modules or memory module adapters that provide some interface other than the commands coming from the memory bus on the motherboard. For example, we can imagine a memory module that has a standard DIMM form factor and interface but that also provides an external USB interface which lets another computer read (and maybe write) the current contents of RAM as a USB mass storage device. The ability to access the contents of RAM over an external interface provide a convenient way to defeat any memory protection policies enforced by the operating system and MMU (even on systems where DMA can be disabled). This is pretty powerful for forensics, debugging, or computer security attacks (given physical access to a PC); Bunnie and trusted computing developers have also described it as a practical way of attacking the implementation of TPMs in PCs. Does anyone want to try to make some surreptitious RAM or a surreptitious RAM adapter? [[User:Schoen|Schoen]] 16:38, 30 January 2009 (PST)

=== Relevant literature ===
[http://books.google.com/books?id=FdPNE6beKcMC&pg=PA204&lpg=PA204&dq=surreptitious+RAM&source=web&ots=vwmKMThkKQ&sig=Vz5yf2Qhre3n8kuE-flaL25v-Ig&hl=en&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=2&ct=result Google books reference ]

=== Pre-built Hardware interfaces ===
[http://www.busboards.com/products/memory/ddrii/ddrii400dc/ ddrii400dc]

Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.

User:Maltman23

2017-10-02T18:18:13Z

199.249.224.41:

[[Category:Awesome]]
Mitch Altman is much more than a hardware hacker who knows a great deal about TV remotes. That doesn't stop him from turning off every TV on the planet in his general area. He's crafty and kind.

[[Image:Mitch-IR.jpg]] 

Mitch is a San Francisco-based hacker and inventor, best known for inventing [http://tvbgone.com TV-B-Gone remote controls], a keychain that turns off TVs in public places, he was also co-founder of [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/3ware 3ware] (a SillyValley RAID controller company), did pioneering work in Virtual Reality at [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/VPL_Research VPL Research], invented the [http://neurodreamer.com NeuroDreamer sleep mask], and created the [http://archive.makezine.com/10/brainwave/ Brain Machine], one of [http://archive.makezine.com/pub/au/Mitch_Altman MAKE Magazine's] more popular DIY projects. He has contributed to [http://archive.makezine.com/pub/au/Mitch_Altman MAKE Magazine], has written for [https://www.2600.com/ 2600], and [http://www.makery.info/en Makery], and wrote a chapter from the popular book, [http://www.amazon.com/Maker-Pro-John-Baichtal/dp/1457186187 Maker Pro]. For the last several years Mitch has been leading workshops around the world, teaching people to make cool things with microcontrollers and teaching everyone to solder (as he does at [https://noisebridge.net/ Noisebridge] every Monday night when he's in town). He is also co-founder of [https://noisebridge.net/ Noisebridge], and President and CEO of [http://www.CornfieldElectronics.com Cornfield Electronics].

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitch_Altman Wikipedia page]

[http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/Mitch-Altman-at-TEDxBrussels TEDxBrussels talk: "The Hackerspace Movement"]

Contact email: '''mitch''' ''**at**'' '''CornfieldElectronics''' ''**dot**'' '''com''' 
Twitter: [https://twitter.com/maltman23 @maltman23] 
Facebook: [https://www.facebook.com/maltman23 maltman23] 
Google+: [https://plus.google.com/+mitchaltman23 +maltman23] 
Ello: [https://ello.co/maltman23 maltman23] 
LinkedIn: [https://www.linkedin.com/pub/mitch-altman/1/493/736 Mitch Altman] 
Diaspora: [https://joindiaspora.com/u/maltman23 maltman23] 
Flickr: [https://www.flickr.com/photos/maltman23/sets maltman23] 

Please feel free to contact me for any reason, any time.

{{ActiveUsers}}

Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.