Meteo Xavier

Do I know you?

You all are going to hell.

Well of course I'm talking about stock libraries, although some stuff like Battery 3, Guitar Rig, Session Strings have a weird, "thick" and for lack of a better description, "lightly distortioned" quality to them that I really don't like. It's only recently with the West Africa library and Alicia's Keys do they really sound like they have a professional clarity to me, but as I struggle to articulate my thoughts beyond that, I suggest not putting too much stock into those opinions. Point is... well I made it already in the post above, but yes I'm generally talking about stock libraries.

Komplete 8 Ultimate VS Composers Collection? Not bad. Tough call. East West clearly wins in the sample quality category, but Komplete 8 Ultimate gives you the ability to do a wide variety of genres with an admirably but still noticeably "hobbyist" quality to them (although newer sample sets may be different). Plus Komplete offers software thats industry standard for a lot of other sample/synth sets - Kontakt being obvious, but FM8 for electro stuff, Absynth for cool ambient stuff, and Reaktor. I myself find I've enjoyed Composers Collection a lot more than Komplete 6, I'd probably buy that one again so I can switch out a couple of them for Gypsy and Goliath so I can still have a wider range of things.

What kind of pixel art? Free or paid work?

No one on the internet has a life. That's why we're on the internet instead of somewhere else.

Y'ever wondered. what it'd be like. t'have a pretzel. take a bite outta you!?

I'm tempted to take credit for it just for the lulz. It seems like something I'd do.

I hearby submit this entertainment literary context as a PART 1 for the FREEFORM SUBMISSIONS as per previous arrangements and void where prohibited. Simon and Garfunkel: Cops Undercover! II: The Deep North! Part 1 Warning: This story contains puns. "You're a loose cannon, Simon!" screamed the Chief of Police. "Only in bed, chief." Paul Simon responded with his signature cool tone. "So, I've learned! The stains on my bed will never come out... I got word today my daughter is pregnant with five babies. Three of them yours, and two of them..." the chief's red-hot glare drifting towards Garfunkel, " ...are yourrrrssssss...!" he sneered at long last. His cheeks swelled as though his rage had formed acorns and he was gathering them up for a long winter. He sneezed acid and leaned forward with a menacing gout forming in his eyes. "That's it, boys. Hand 'em over." "Chief?" "Your badges, motherfucker! Hand 'em over! That's right, an dale! Hand it over, you curly haired, toe headed freak!" He pounced and collected the iconic Tallahassee City Police medallions from sweaty Jewish palms connected, at length, to heads that looked at each other with mild confusion and amusement. The chief, less of a man now than an embellished pastiche of the human condition overflowing and bursting from the seams, dislocated his ribs and widened his throat like the froggy little fucker he was for the next event, "I swore I'd do this one day and now I'm glad I left the house without eating anything. Twenty fuckin' hard years in the making! Harrumph! Munch! Grommph! Hmm! Munch..." And Simon and Garfunkel watched, in genuine alert and surprise, as the chief finally made good on his age-long, constant promise to have their badges for breakfast. Simon, a man whose prowess of libido is singularly responsible for Carrie Fisher's lesbianism and the Rwandan Civil War, and Art Garfunkel, a man who once had sex with his own mother because he literally believed doing so during the menstrual week would cure his herpes, shared the same wide-eyed look and suppressed giggling as they watched the show. Teeth broke, blood and bones cracked and spit between gorges of Sweet Lady Justice on the desk, the floor, and the chief's brand new tweedy sports jacket, but the deed was done. "huff.... huff... you see? I'm not fucking around here! I mean business!" The chief said as he was still technically choking down their emblems of honor, trying to hide leviathanian pain from the sudden injection of bronze into his blood stream. "Now listen up, you two double dumbshits. You gotta plane leaving in ten minutes for Montreal. We gotta crack this case today! Today! It's gotta be done today!" he pointed a finger at Simon, "You screw up this case, and so help me God, next time, I'll have your butt for breakfast!" "Would you like seconds, sir?" Garfunkel asked and farted a mighty Jewish fart. "Get the hell out of my office! Take your free-wheeling, folk-singing, Central-Park-reuniting ass on the road! Get your...." The chief stopped short and clutched at his chest, breathing shortly but heavily. "Ack! Ackkk! My chest is burning...! The bronze in the badges are oxidizing! Oh shit! Oh shiiiittt! Call an ambulance! Ack! Acckk!!" "Sorry chief, but we have a plane leaving in ten minutes..." Simon said as he donned the signature sunglasses that he had never worn until he still thought mimicking David Caruso would somehow attract women (instead of simply David Caruso himself). The chief dropped to the floor in agony while his mortality leaked out in the form of bubbly man-suds as he foamed at the mouth. He gargled for help, begging Allah not to take him twenty-nine minutes before retirement. "Let's roll, Garfunkel..." Simon said as he kicked Caruso off of sucking his ankle. Garfunkel drank the last of the chief's brandy from his brandy cabinet and followed his main man out the door. The chief writhed in agony and screamed for help until he lost his voice - the oxidizing pressure causing him to shart his vocal chords and make enough police chief haggis right there for all the city to enjoy if they wanted. When his secretary found him, it was already too late - she had completely lost interest. * The next day, shortly after 2:00 PM, Simon and the Garfunkel woke up early in their disheveled apartment/detox center on the rough side of Tallahassee where they both grew up, went to school, went to college, went to police academy and eventually started experimenting with each other together. Simon was the youngest son of his oldest sister, Nancy, and Garfunkel was somehow Simon's biological father, though neither were completely aware of it. Both men had lived in this tiny shack-within-a-shack for the whole of what could only esoterically be considered their "lives", and they both hoped to grow old in it as well - spending their golden years remembering their incredible adventures out in the world - fighting crime, recording music, becoming irrelevant, winning throwaway humanitarian awards and inventing the taco salad corndog cake which they dreamed of marketing to underprivileged children who couldn't smoke crack. Yes, the American dream lived on in the hearts they swiped from the evidence locker and they proud to be alive in all these generations both were singularly responsible for destroying. They left a note for the girl they shared until brunch as well as an open bottle of pills and a glass of water to down them all with. Simon locked all doors and windows from the outside; Garfunkel tossed their bags into the Cadillac as they rode into the sunset for northern territory just in time to escape carbon monoxide poisoning! Ah, the adventure of the dusty highway! The thrill of the wind whipping through their wigs! The fresh air of freedom blowing their fatty jowls and turkey necks clear back to the trunk of the car! This would be the first time they ever got to go on a real road trip together to solve a case. Back in their touring days, they were always too busy playing in the troubadours and folk clubs and recording hit singles that you had to turn the volume all the way up even for a hint of sound to prove you didn't just spend good money on a blank record with their name on it. There were tough days on the road back then; plucking super-soft acoustic guitars and whispering into the microphone to stoned audiences and the ugliest multi-gender hippies you've ever seen when all they really wanted to do was solve murder crimes, bring justice back to the streets and knock up those same hippies. "Where're we headed again, Simon?" asked the Garfunkel behind the wheel as he jammed both hands down the front and back of his pants for a little personal "pick-me-up" to keep himself awake. "The Deep North, Garfunkel, my good man. An area in far upper United States along the Atlantic Coast; descriptive of a complete lack of plantations and Mexicans; plus opportunities for cultural allegiances to Canada. A land accented by beautiful mountain landscapes, deep gorgeous lakes, moderate temperature all year long and long held by superstitions of political liberalism, open-mindedness, and New England charm." "Sounds like a real shit shack." Garfunkel responded as he lost control of the vehicle, violently shaking his stalk and screaming like a constipated banshee as he beat it against the car horn. "God, I love driving through the country on a road trip. It reminds me of America. In fact, I'm going to write a song about it. Right now." And Simon reached in the back of the now-runaway caddy as it veered off the road and plunged off the cliff into a deep canyon for his acoustic guitar so he could write his past hit, America. "What do we do once we get there?" Asked Garfunkel as he pleasured both of his private parts simultaneously in tremendous free fall towards the center of the Earth. "We're supposed to get to a town called El Condor Pasa. There've been three murders there under mysterious circumstances. The investigation report says there is evidence of foul play and possibly conspiracy to commit murder one." Simon explained as he finished recording the song while the caddy crashed through the glass roof of the main lobby at the bottom of the gorge where luckily there was a retirement community and several retirees to break their fall. The car smashed two former radio promoters who worked for Alan Freed during the heyday of the American Revolution or whenever it was that he was popular and bounced steadily off the ground with the wheels still turning. Upon landing for the final time, the caddy burst forward and drove through the crowded hallways of helpless old people whose prayers of euthanasia had now only met them halfway. "What kind of mysterious circumstances?" Garfunkel, still masturbating furiously to the rhythm of the "bumps" they were driving over, asked as he ducked gunfire by resort administration staff. "All three victims were found dead with a crystal-like substance smeared on their nostrils. Investigators who looked at the scene earlier didn't find any signs of foul play initially and no one was seen with them. However, now they suspect foul play as they started connecting the deaths together." The caddy plowed through the wall and a set of elderly twins into the game room where the car only sped up and not a single person was left standing. It drove out a window onto the gardens, dragging some of its victims behind and destroyed the fountain in its lust for carnage. They made doughnuts in the main yard (which soon after became a graveyard) until one of the old people becoming one with the soil had interrupted the force and caused the car to flip over at twice the gravitational lift of an Ariane 5. "How could they not think it was foul play, initially?" Garfunkel said, shouting so he could hear himself over the tidal wave of dying moans and last rites washing around them as they bulldozed head-over-heel through the on-site church; disturbing a wedding, a funeral, a circumcision and every one who was present to watch the onslaught unfold like the foreskins that were now launching into the punch bowls. "Well, the northern area has been plagued with drugs for years." he said as the car finally came to a horizontal stop and drove straight forward again at Mach II, hurtling like a flaming, four-wheel drive asteroid through the AARP dinner banquet and liquefying the surviving members of "Gunsmoke!" who were to be honored. "It's not uncommon to find three or more people dead at an isolated period of time with traces of narcotic residue around them." "So they think it was drugs that killed them?" Garfunkel asked, his arms getting tired from hyperbolic masturbatory labor. He decided to compensate by getting his feet in on the action too. His knee knocked the steering wheel to the right and they swerved across the battlefield to the caretakers' dorms where the resort staff trained the lasers on their turret cannons to fire. "Undoubtedly, but when investigators took the residue to the lab and found they all contained the same uncommon chemical properties, they started looking into foul play. That's why they called us." The car careened on a dime to the extreme right just as the turret cannons fired everything they had at the caretakers' dorms. Their nuclear weaponry demolished the series of buildings in a high-grade fission flash; making martyrs of every caretaker on site and fusing the souls that escaped to heaven with unstable plutonium that combusted them and poisoned the air with radioactivity forevermore. "So why did they call us to investigate?" Garfunkel asked, accidentally wedging his foot into the fun part of his coccyx again as United States Air Force Bombers circled above. "Apparently because we've personally handled over five thousands metric tons of recreational narcotics - more than any other investigation team in the U.S." "Really? I thought we smoked most of that." The bombers locked their targets and dropped the bombs on the Cadillac below. The eruption of force lifted the car from behind and carried it up through the air in geosynchronous orbit. It would stay sky-borne for three full minutes and rotate ninety five times before pulverizing its next target. "Hey, let's stop and get something to eat." Simon said as he pointed toward the cafeteria they soon drilled into. The car sliced through the metal frame of the building from above and crashed volitantly into a dining room next to a hot buffet table. At least half of the post-elderly patrons died of shock while the other half envied their now fallen friends and made extravagantly immediate efforts to join them. Simon pointed to his friend a sign, "Oh, hey, it's Pancake Thursday!" Garfunkel rolled out of the wreckage and rested his eyes on a morbidly obese, one hundred and fifty year old woman. He looked her in the glaucoma and screamed, "Hey, baby. Want a fuck-and-a-pancake?" To be continued

I don't agree with that, clearly I'm not the only guy out there looking for repair places. I would think more would pop up as the system gets older and the needs for things like this increase.

Any reason why besides the rather stretchy masturbation subtlety? Sent a PM to Flik. He seems reliable, I just wonder why so few are willing to repair SNES consoles these days.

I suppose I could do it again, but really that connector pin is corroded to hell from 20 years of use. I think its time for a new one.

It's a good reason to me and I can afford it easily, that's all that matters.

Fair enough, I just didn't want him going to trouble to make these other samples that weren't really something I could make good on my promise for.

Or you could make a melodic one that someone could actually use - since there is a dearth of them available individually, a really good one could boost your business significantly.

I want to fix the one I have.

Oh yeah, I made this topic... Anyway, it seems now that I need to replace the 62 pin connector as now games aren't showing up great on there at all (and the connector pins have seen about 20 years of use), while, ironically, the sound seems to be fine now. Unfortunately, this business of repairing SNESs seems to have dried up over the years and no one is offering services anymore, instead offering a myriad of DO IT YOURSELF DERP videos plus unhelpful and bizarre suggestions like REPLACE IT DERP, EMULATE IT DERP or BLOW INTO THE CARTRIDGE SLOT DERP - like I'm an idiot and never heard of any of those options before. Sometimes a man just wants to fix the machine he's got.

Do some Celtic flute samples with atmospheres/ambiences and I'll be your first lifelong customer

Good God, who does your album artwork? That is seriously some of the best album artwork I've seen all year.

Yeah - Mitsuda

This same concept already exists 4-5 times over in existing mixes. http://ocremix.org/game/16/chrono-trigger-snes/remixes Pretty much anything but a Chrono Trigger bluegrass tribute would be repetitive.

My SNES is malfunctioning and I was wondering if there was something close to a tech expert on that system or in general I chat with (maybe even hire $$) somewhere in the community here. Any thoughts or ideas? Thank you!

My main computer is going to be down I think a week, but please continue to send me things via my gmail account. I'm still relatively available if people need a reasonable amount of help and Rozo can't be found - which I guess is often enough.

Alright then. Yeah I was pretty confused by the way he was wording that.

I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be filesharing items you openly acknowledge might be illegal here. Edit: If that is indeed what you're doing. The way you post is very difficult to specify exactly what you're trying to do.