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&TOTSE/totse.com. Old Babbage Bi-Monthly article
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2024-12-17 at 3:25 AM UTC
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2024-12-17 at 3:27 AM UTC
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2024-12-17 at 5:06 AM UTCWozny go back on the seroquel bro
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2024-12-17 at 6:14 AM UTC
Originally posted by ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Then we skin one of them once in a blue moon and have a big barbeque way out in the woods, naked, wearing only antelope and deer heads, as we stare morosely at one another across the flames.
You might run the electric chicken emulator in Toronto but I know you live in San Bruno or South City.
The jig is up, PAL
also Baker Beach and 1989 Unsolved Mystery Season1Episode2 second half
People spoke of this on &Totse in the 90s. I didn't have access like today with youtube to watch this episode, forgot about it over time and then came across it.
I feel bad for this kid but the Pagan Teacher was one of the Totse members (possibly one of the original Mods?) Gabriel Carrillo who apparently has since died; from some research I found. They may have been kidding he was one of the members but they were deep in discussion. Spectral do you have any prntscreens of the original dialup?
I spoke about this before. everyone (NiS) dodged it but they weren't alive back then. You and I are at least 2 former members (not sure if speedy dialed in or not)
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2024-12-17 at 6:23 AM UTCI love this video shot. it shows right were the bridge enters San Francisco and the old South of Market was all warehouses and garages with loft Studio Apartments. that was the 70s and 80s I remember about San Francisco before they tore everything out and built the new DownTown which today is like a fucking ghost town with buildings leaning nearly 3 fucking feet and homeless being placed in old office towers that has since been vacated due to companies angry at SF politicians charging fees for everything and having huge restrictions and forcing DEI hire.
place got fucked. shit rolls down hill. even Cab drivers and Uber people having their feees drop and fewer of them while they hired 500k Middle Easterns her on a work visa.
its fucking insane. the Art culture existed there and was a wild time to be alive. Gothic music and clubbing was just a fun time to be alive.
they spent billions of dollars to build this shit only to watch it be vacated due to Liberal Shittards
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2024-12-17 at 6:44 AM UTC
Originally posted by Landy Pamm You might run the electric chicken emulator in Toronto but I know you live in San Bruno or South City.
The jig is up, PAL
also Baker Beach and 1989 Unsolved Mystery Season1Episode2 second half
People spoke of this on &Totse in the 90s. I didn't have access like today with youtube to watch this episode, forgot about it over time and then came across it.
I feel bad for this kid but the Pagan Teacher was one of the Totse members (possibly one of the original Mods?) Gabriel Carrillo who apparently has since died; from some research I found. They may have been kidding he was one of the members but they were deep in discussion. Spectral do you have any prntscreens of the original dialup?
I spoke about this before. everyone (NiS) dodged it but they weren't alive back then. You and I are at least 2 former members (not sure if speedy dialed in or not)
Originally posted by Landy Pamm I love this video shot. it shows right were the bridge enters San Francisco and the old South of Market was all warehouses and garages with loft Studio Apartments. that was the 70s and 80s I remember about San Francisco before they tore everything out and built the new DownTown which today is like a fucking ghost town with buildings leaning nearly 3 fucking feet and homeless being placed in old office towers that has since been vacated due to companies angry at SF politicians charging fees for everything and having huge restrictions and forcing DEI hire.
place got fucked. shit rolls down hill. even Cab drivers and Uber people having their feees drop and fewer of them while they hired 500k Middle Easterns her on a work visa.
its fucking insane. the Art culture existed there and was a wild time to be alive. Gothic music and clubbing was just a fun time to be alive.
they spent billions of dollars to build this shit only to watch it be vacated due to Liberal Shittards
R u ok -
2024-12-17 at 6:57 AM UTCHe said it was too hot and needed to get out of the house.
I looked up the temp that day 9/9 and it was nearly 100 so in San Francisco no one has A/C units in older buildings (at least back then). so that part was true.
However it's interesting to note that this area known as Lands-End is where one of the entrances to the miles of tunnels built during the cold war as well as connecting to tunnels built in the 1800s. they hid gold in other tunnel areas of the city from the Confederate in case the south invaded San Francisco to get at its new Gold Rush wealth -
2024-12-17 at 6:59 AM UTC
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2024-12-17 at 8:44 AM UTC
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2024-12-17 at 8:44 AM UTCMan scout
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2024-12-17 at 9:04 AM UTCOnce upon a time, in a forgotten corner of a bustling city, there was a bar known only to those who wandered far enough off the beaten path: The Temple of the Screaming Electron, or TOTSE for short. Hidden behind a flickering neon sign and a door with no handle—just a buzzer—TOTSE wasn’t your typical dive.
The moment you stepped in, the hum of electronics filled the air, as if the walls themselves were alive. Old CRT monitors looped static and cryptic messages. The jukebox didn’t play songs; it emitted distorted sounds that somehow felt like music after your third drink.
At the bar, the drinks had names like "404 Not Found", "Packet Lost", and "Electroshock Martini"—each one stronger and stranger than the last. The bartender, a mysterious figure with a soldering iron instead of a bar spoon, swore he could "reboot your soul" if you had the right mix.
The regulars were misfits: hackers, writers, philosophers, and conspiracy theorists—all huddled in booths, whispering about secrets that could change the world or ruin it. Every so often, someone would get up and scribble something on the chalkboard behind the bar: a manifesto, a piece of code, or a question that no one could answer.
TOTSE wasn’t just a bar; it was an idea—a place where the unspoken got spoken, where chaos met creativity, and where you were always one drink away from uncovering the truth or losing your mind entirely.
And if you ever found yourself there, you didn’t stumble upon it by accident. You were meant to find it.The following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire! -
2024-12-17 at 9:11 AM UTCWozny is my guardian gayngel
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2024-12-17 at 9:20 AM UTCIn a forgotten alley, where the streetlights buzzed with dying voltage and shadows swallowed the pavement, there was a bar only whispered about: The Temple of the Screaming Electron, or simply TOTSE. No one advertised it. No flyers, no Yelp reviews, and certainly no website. But if you needed to find it, somehow, you did.
The entrance was easy to miss—a narrow door, blackened by time, with no handle and a single brass buzzer below a faded sign. The letters T-O-T-S-E were etched unevenly, like someone had carved them with a knife in a moment of frustration. If you rang the buzzer, there’d be no response at first, just silence. Then, a voice—warped and distorted—would crackle through a hidden speaker:
“Shall pass no law”
The door opened inward, and suddenly you were inside.
The first thing you noticed was the sound. It wasn’t music, at least not in the conventional sense. Speakers mounted in the corners hissed static, interspersed with fragments of broken transmissions: a news broadcast from the '50s, a Soviet-era number station, the chirp of a modem connecting to nowhere. Underneath it all, the low hum of electronics pulsed like a heartbeat.
The bar itself sprawled in impossible ways. At the center was the counter, a slab of old, pockmarked steel lined with mismatched stools. The bartender, an enigmatic figure known only as “Warden”, never smiled, never laughed—just served drinks with the precision of a machinist. A pair of thick, taped glasses magnified his eyes to cartoonish proportions, and his stained apron seemed to have more burn marks than a welder’s coat.
The drinks were infamous. No cocktails with umbrellas or sugared rims here. Instead, there were concoctions named "Short Circuit," "Blue Screen of Death," and the lethal "Rootkit." Rumor had it the last one contained absinthe, espresso, and something that glowed faintly under black light. Warden would sometimes mix them without looking, as though the bottles knew exactly where to land in his hands.
The regulars at TOTSE were the kind of people you didn’t meet anywhere else. In one corner sat a man known only as “Null,” tapping endlessly at a mechanical keyboard hooked up to nothing—no monitor, no wires. Across from him, a woman with silver hair and mirrored sunglasses argued passionately with a man wearing a tinfoil hat. They spoke in riddles, throwing around phrases like “signal interference,” “crypto-lattice walls,” and “the electron is screaming again.”
Scattered booths with torn upholstery lined the walls, each one home to a different enigma. Writers hunched over notebooks, scribbling furiously. Hackers tapped away on laptops with cracked screens, the keys worn bare. Philosophers leaned over half-empty glasses, muttering about the collapse of society, the rise of machines, or the beauty of chaos.
And the chalkboard. The blackboard behind the bar was sacred. Anyone who thought they had something to say could stand up and write on it—whether it was lines of code, fragments of manifestos, or a question no one could answer. Warden would always wipe it clean by morning, but somehow, pieces remained, buried under layers of chalk dust like ghosts of ideas unspoken.
The lights above the bar flickered unpredictably, casting shadows that didn’t always make sense. Some said the wiring was shot; others claimed the bar was alive. Occasionally, the hum would shift to an eerie silence, the kind that made you hold your breath without realizing it. That’s when you’d hear the stories.
People said TOTSE had always been there, in some form or another. Before it was a bar, it was a speakeasy during Prohibition. Before that, a forgotten basement where alchemists mixed poisons and cures alike. Some claimed it was older still, built on ley lines, drawing power from energies no one could name. But in its current form, The Temple of the Screaming Electron was something else entirely—a sanctuary for ideas no one else would host.
The hum, the walls, the name itself—it all echoed a singular philosophy: Speech is power, and power must never be silenced. This was TOTSE's creed, scrawled above the bar in jagged letters:
“Freedom of speech: Enter at your own peril.”
Here, words were sacred, dangerous, and limitless. People came to TOTSE because they had nowhere else to go—no other place where they could speak without fear, where their ideas could live or die on merit alone.
Some newcomers embraced it. Others fled, overwhelmed by the raw, unenhancemented nature of it all. But those who stayed? They found a kind of freedom most people only dreamed of. They became part of the conversation—a chaotic, electric current that screamed across the dark void of silence.
TOTSE wasn’t just a bar; it was a battleground for ideas. Some were mad, some were genius, and some were both. But all of them were given the space to exist. And if you walked out those doors feeling unsettled, electrified, or forever changed—then TOTSE had done its job.
Because, as the Warden often grumbled while wiping down the bar, “Speech is free. But freedom? That’ll cost you.”
When you left TOTSE, whether it was after one drink or a lost weekend, the outside world never felt quite the same. The city seemed quieter, the air heavier, as though some unseen force had rearranged the atoms of reality while you were inside. Streetlights buzzed louder, their glow harsher, and even the graffiti on the walls seemed to watch you with newfound intent. The hum of traffic no longer blended into the background—it gnawed at your ears, sharp and insistent. People on the sidewalks moved differently too, faces down, eyes blank, their conversations muted and empty compared to the chaos and electricity you’d left behind. The world felt sanitized, muffled, as if someone had turned down the volume on life itself. You’d check your phone, only to find it frozen, or your clock inexplicably wrong, as though time had been rewritten while you were gone. And lingering in the back of your mind, like the fading whisper of a dream, was the hum—the low, pulsing reminder that you had been somewhere real.The following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire! -
2024-12-17 at 3:08 PM UTCThe beauty of the baud.
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2024-12-17 at 8:46 PM UTC
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2024-12-17 at 8:47 PM UTC
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2024-12-17 at 8:51 PM UTCBeauty and the balls
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2024-12-17 at 9:49 PM UTC
Originally posted by Landy Pamm Beauty AND the Baud
No. The Hacker's Manifesto specifically states it's the "beauty of the baud."
https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/495797-this-is-our-world-now-the-world-of-the-electron
“This is our world now… the world of the electron and the switch, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore… and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge… and you call us criminals. We exist without skin color, without nationality, without religious bias, without clothes… and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good, yet we're the criminals. Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for.”
― The Mentor -
2024-12-17 at 10:27 PM UTCI was just making a pun of sort or play of words, Spec. You dont' have to worship Jeff Hunters cock so fucking much
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2024-12-17 at 10:42 PM UTC
Originally posted by 🦄🌈 MORALLY SUPERIOR BEING - vaxxed and octoboosted 💉 (we beat covid!) 👬💕👭🍀 (🍩✊) In a forgotten alley, where the streetlights buzzed with dying voltage and shadows swallowed the pavement, there was a bar only whispered about: The Temple of the Screaming Electron, or simply TOTSE. No one advertised it. No flyers, no Yelp reviews, and certainly no website. But if you needed to find it, somehow, you did.
The entrance was easy to miss—a narrow door, blackened by time, with no handle and a single brass buzzer below a faded sign. The letters T-O-T-S-E were etched unevenly, like someone had carved them with a knife in a moment of frustration. If you rang the buzzer, there’d be no response at first, just silence. Then, a voice—warped and distorted—would crackle through a hidden speaker:
“Shall pass no law”
The door opened inward, and suddenly you were inside.
The first thing you noticed was the sound. It wasn’t music, at least not in the conventional sense. Speakers mounted in the corners hissed static, interspersed with fragments of broken transmissions: a news broadcast from the '50s, a Soviet-era number station, the chirp of a modem connecting to nowhere. Underneath it all, the low hum of electronics pulsed like a heartbeat.
The bar itself sprawled in impossible ways. At the center was the counter, a slab of old, pockmarked steel lined with mismatched stools. The bartender, an enigmatic figure known only as “Warden”, never smiled, never laughed—just served drinks with the precision of a machinist. A pair of thick, taped glasses magnified his eyes to cartoonish proportions, and his stained apron seemed to have more burn marks than a welder’s coat.
The drinks were infamous. No cocktails with umbrellas or sugared rims here. Instead, there were concoctions named "Short Circuit," "Blue Screen of Death," and the lethal "Rootkit." Rumor had it the last one contained absinthe, espresso, and something that glowed faintly under black light. Warden would sometimes mix them without looking, as though the bottles knew exactly where to land in his hands.
The regulars at TOTSE were the kind of people you didn’t meet anywhere else. In one corner sat a man known only as “Null,” tapping endlessly at a mechanical keyboard hooked up to nothing—no monitor, no wires. Across from him, a woman with silver hair and mirrored sunglasses argued passionately with a man wearing a tinfoil hat. They spoke in riddles, throwing around phrases like “signal interference,” “crypto-lattice walls,” and “the electron is screaming again.”
Scattered booths with torn upholstery lined the walls, each one home to a different enigma. Writers hunched over notebooks, scribbling furiously. Hackers tapped away on laptops with cracked screens, the keys worn bare. Philosophers leaned over half-empty glasses, muttering about the collapse of society, the rise of machines, or the beauty of chaos.
And the chalkboard. The blackboard behind the bar was sacred. Anyone who thought they had something to say could stand up and write on it—whether it was lines of code, fragments of manifestos, or a question no one could answer. Warden would always wipe it clean by morning, but somehow, pieces remained, buried under layers of chalk dust like ghosts of ideas unspoken.
The lights above the bar flickered unpredictably, casting shadows that didn’t always make sense. Some said the wiring was shot; others claimed the bar was alive. Occasionally, the hum would shift to an eerie silence, the kind that made you hold your breath without realizing it. That’s when you’d hear the stories.
People said TOTSE had always been there, in some form or another. Before it was a bar, it was a speakeasy during Prohibition. Before that, a forgotten basement where alchemists mixed poisons and cures alike. Some claimed it was older still, built on ley lines, drawing power from energies no one could name. But in its current form, The Temple of the Screaming Electron was something else entirely—a sanctuary for ideas no one else would host.
The hum, the walls, the name itself—it all echoed a singular philosophy: Speech is power, and power must never be silenced. This was TOTSE's creed, scrawled above the bar in jagged letters:
“Freedom of speech: Enter at your own peril.”
Here, words were sacred, dangerous, and limitless. People came to TOTSE because they had nowhere else to go—no other place where they could speak without fear, where their ideas could live or die on merit alone.
Some newcomers embraced it. Others fled, overwhelmed by the raw, unenhancemented nature of it all. But those who stayed? They found a kind of freedom most people only dreamed of. They became part of the conversation—a chaotic, electric current that screamed across the dark void of silence.
TOTSE wasn’t just a bar; it was a battleground for ideas. Some were mad, some were genius, and some were both. But all of them were given the space to exist. And if you walked out those doors feeling unsettled, electrified, or forever changed—then TOTSE had done its job.
Because, as the Warden often grumbled while wiping down the bar, “Speech is free. But freedom? That’ll cost you.”
When you left TOTSE, whether it was after one drink or a lost weekend, the outside world never felt quite the same. The city seemed quieter, the air heavier, as though some unseen force had rearranged the atoms of reality while you were inside. Streetlights buzzed louder, their glow harsher, and even the graffiti on the walls seemed to watch you with newfound intent. The hum of traffic no longer blended into the background—it gnawed at your ears, sharp and insistent. People on the sidewalks moved differently too, faces down, eyes blank, their conversations muted and empty compared to the chaos and electricity you’d left behind. The world felt sanitized, muffled, as if someone had turned down the volume on life itself. You’d check your phone, only to find it frozen, or your clock inexplicably wrong, as though time had been rewritten while you were gone. And lingering in the back of your mind, like the fading whisper of a dream, was the hum—the low, pulsing reminder that you had been somewhere real.
write about the rat that caused the whole bar to shut down
