This is a picture of me getting fluids in a Tibetan hospital in Dharamsala, shortly after I shit my pants in the Tibetan hospital, in Dharamsala. Some of you have heard the story. Now you have a picture too. Woo hoo!

Shit My Pants in a Tibetan Hospital.JPG

Until that day at the Rec Center.

Walt and I had just come back from our weekly new comics run, and were quietly sitting in the Rec library, bagging and boarding our books. The kids hadn’t gotten out of school yet, so it was deaf-child silent in the building, save the metal rantings of King Diamond emanating on low volume from a nearby boom-box. Then, suddenly, the stillness was shattered, as a sent-home-from-school-early Mewes kicked the Rec door open, marched into the building Groucho Marx style, and proceeded to fellate everything somewhat phallic in the room.

Walt and I watched with wonder as Mewes grabbed a pool cue and pretended to suck it off. Losing interest, he ran up to the phone on the front desk, grabbed the receiver from the cradle, and pretended to suck that off. He grabbed the flag pole and did the same. He grabbed a whiffle ball bat and did the same. This went on for twenty minutes, with seemingly no regard for our presence whatsoever. He never looked at us as if to say “Are you seeing this shit?” He never looked at us at all. He didn’t seem to care that we were even there. This wasn’t a show for our benefit. It was as if he’d been walking around Highlands moments earlier, took a gander at his watch, and was like “Wow – it’s two o’clock. I’d better get down to the Rec and suck everything off.” The kid had an agenda, and he was actively fulfilling it.

It was when he finally reached the Rec’s only video game – a standard “Asteroids” kiosk that time had forgotten – that he finally paused. Studying it momentarily and finding nothing dick-like to pretend to suck off, he seemed stymied. There was no joystick to give him purchase; just a roller ball and a fire button. Walt and I watched with great curiosity, waiting to see how he’d overcome this unforeseen obstacle.

After what felt like five minutes, Mewes shrugged, bent down to the game controls, and started working the roller ball like it was a clit - his tongue darting in and out of his mouth, lapping at the orb as he spun it with his finger.

That’s

Silent Bob Speaks... About Jay's Addiction

In the years since it opened in 1993, KGB has become something of a New York literary institution. Writers hooked up in the publishing world read here with pleasure and without pay to an adoring public over drinks almost every Sunday evening (fiction), Monday evening (poetry), and most Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. The crowd loves it. Admission is free, drinks are cheap and strong, and the level of excellence is such that KGB has been named best literary venue in New York City by New York Magazine, the Village Voice, and everyone else who bestows these awards of recognition.

This looks bad ass. Thomas Pynchon's 'Mason Dixon' release party was here. Mason Dixon being an essential influence on Stephenson's baroque trilogy. Anyone ever been? I really, really wanna go.

KGB Bar

Sofia Vasilyevna Kovalevskaya (Софья Васильевна Ковалевская) (January 15, 1850 – February 10, 1891) was the first major Russian female mathematician and a student of Karl Weierstrass in Berlin. In 1884 she was appointed professor at Stockholm University, the third woman in Europe to become a professor.

Sofia is the supposed topic of Thomas Pynchon's next book.

Sofia Kovalevskaya - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

After the publication and success of Gravity's Rainbow, interest mounted in finding out more about the identity of the author. At the 1974 National Book Award ceremony, the president of Viking Press, Tom Guinzberg, arranged for double-talking comedian "Professor" Irwin Corey to accept the prize on Pynchon's behalf (Royster 2005). Many of the assembled guests had no idea who Corey was, and, having never seen the author, they assumed that it was Pynchon himself on the stage delivering Corey's trademark torrent of rambling, pseudo-scholarly verbiage (Corey 1974). Towards the end of Corey's address a streaker ran through the hall, adding further to the confusion.

This made me laugh. Is it pointless to blog wiki entries?

Thomas Pynchon - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

One theory identifies James J. Kilroy, an American shipyard inspector, as the man behind the signature. During World War II he worked at the Bethlehem Steel Shipyard in Quincy, Massachusetts, where he claimed to have used the phrase to mark rivets he had checked. The builders, whose rivets J. J. Kilroy was counting, were paid depending on the number of rivets they put in. They found that they could erase the chalk marks J. J. Kilroy made and get paid double. J.J. Kilroy decided to use a yellow crayon instead; being harder to erase, the cheating stopped. At the time, ships were being sent out before they had been painted; so when sealed areas were opened for maintenance, soldiers found an unexplained name scrawled. Thousands of servicemen may have potentially seen his slogan on the outgoing ships and Kilroy's omnipresence and inscrutability sparked the legend. Afterwards, servicemen could have begun placing the slogan on different places and especially in new captured areas or landings. At some later point, the graffiti (Chad) and slogan (Kilroy was here) must have merged.(Michael Quinion. 3 April 1999.[1])

...

There are many legends attached to the Kilroy graffiti. One states that Hitler himself believed that Kilroy was some kind of American super spy because the graffiti kept turning up in secure Nazi installations, presumably having been actually brought on captured Allied military equipment. Another states that Stalin was the first to enter an outhouse especially built for the leaders at the Potsdam conference. Upon exiting, Stalin asked an aide, "Who is this Kilroy?" Another legend states that a German officer, having seen frequent "Kilroys" posted in different cities, told all of his men that if they happened to come across a "Kilroy" he wanted to question him personally.

The graffiti is supposedly located on various significant and/or difficult-to-reach places such as on the torch of the Statue of Liberty, on the Marco Polo Bridge in China, in huts in Polynesia, on a high girder on the George Washington Bridge in New York, at the peak of Mt. Everest, on the underside of the Arc de Triomphe, scribbled in the dust on the moon, inside a restricted outhouse at the Potsdam conference, in WWII pillboxes scattered around Germany, around the sewers of Paris, and, in tribute to its origin, in the WWII Memorial in Washington D.C.

Really interesting wiki article about a popular WWII Graffiti.

Kilroy was here - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Punk Rock Dysentary.

DSCN5081.JPG (JPEG Image, 2288x1712 pixels) - Scaled (33%)

agga-Jungle.com radio is back in full force!

High Speed (128k) - http://www.ragga-jungle.com/tunein.m3u
Dial Up (32k) - http://www.ragga-jungle.com/tunein-low.m3u

The radio system rotates all of the ...

Jungle radio station

Ragga-jungle.com :: Home

I do think I understand marketing and public relations, and I am astounded by the naivete of young people — black and white — who actually buy the canned rebelliousness not just of rap music but of most pop music.

It's all such an obvious con game. We hear so much about how kids today are cynical, skeptical, media-savvy and so forth. But if they're buying this hooey, they're idiots.

Want to be a real rebel? Read a book.

Kanye West is a Fake

Antonio Carlos Jobim
Even if they can’t name him right away as the composer, just about everybody knows some of the bossa nova music of Antonio Carlos Brasileiro de Almeida Jobim. His dozens of beautiful melodies have become part of the standard song repertoire throughout the world.
Tom Jobim, as he was known familiarly, was born in l927 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and died in l994. As he liked to tell it, he was just another middle-class Carioca "beach boy" hanging out in the bars and coffeehouses along the white sand of Copacabana and Ipanema until the day a peddler, selling roses, stopped before him one afternoon.

Antonio Carlos Jobim - Verve Records