black in back

it has been some time since I have updated so here I am again on my own, going down the only roam I’ve ever knowed.

back in chapel hole/thrill waiting endlessly for my first paycheck. I am now at Duke taking classes and such.

sorry this post is missing my usual dryness, bitterness, sarcasm, and general obscurity that tends to follow me like a cloud throughout my world of cultural interaction.

many projects in the upcoming weeks. organize a nighttime biking club with marcaco. will most likely only have two members for a while. _volutions magazine.com fall issue is to come out. eventually. the _volutionary movement will be a big part of this issue. more to come. eduardoramos.net undergoing a major redesign. all hail unproductivity.

my knee and ankle are badly twisted.

this morning I found out that my cricket, George Harrison, is probably just a singing cockroach. I left some coffee grounds out for her to feast on at night.

I am increasing my intake.

ADD is resistance. or probably not.

so I hope all are well. peace be with y’all. and also with you.

US

plopped across the puddle

in case any of you ever worry about me (judging by the massive amounts of email I get…), I have made it safely. to Vigo. here I am after two flights–a fluctuating temperature transatlantic with britishair, a four-hour wait in LHR, and an iberia flight to santiago that I have no recollection of. a bus then whisked me to vigo amongst the constant banter of a cute little girl with down´s syndrome, [re]created here:

girl: mom, why is there a cross on the window?
mom: that which you think is a cross is not a real cross. it means “no smoking.”
girl: so what happens if you smoke?
mom: well, then you have to get off the bus?
girl: all by my little self?
mom: well yes, unless someone got off with you…
girl: I suppose I would have to cry then, no?
mom: if you wish to…

several dozen pine and eucalyptus forests later, I was seeing the shores of vigo´s estuary.

now I am here, again, as I was before, and as I hope to be again.

trying to stay awake until midnightish, combat jetlag and bad memories of sweating, smelling unpleasantly, flying, not sleeping, not dreaming…….

y´all take care now, ya hear?

jb and the hair bear bunch

Eddie is such an asshole

quinogaita: you know what really makes me mad?
greatocelot7: GOTTA GO TURN IN MY THESIS . . .tALK TO pAUL
quinogaita: when hitler is used as the maximum expression of evil
quinogaita: what if i started comparing bad people to andrew johnson?
quinogaita: i bet people would think of the trail of tears right away… MY ASS they would, they’d think about the $20 bill
quinogaita: : fucking post-WWII, cold-war fueled, empty American pastiche constructed quasi-sense of decency
greatocelot7: : THE MAXIMUM EVIL IS THE THIRD CHIPMUNK
quinogaita: : igh
quinogaita: : you little batch of chipmunk scat

A story that really made me mad. Why should he apologize? Because he dared compare our gulag filled with non-white combatants to one filled with white non-combatants. how dare he.

So now I have assumed a new personality. Eddie Branches. Why? Because he is an asshole. And we all know that in life, assholes win. Big-time. A kind ladyfriend was so inspired by my embracing of this truth in life, that she has decided to become ditzy, stupid, and unquestioning. A revolution, in the making? Or is it just: gas?

quinogaita: wait until you meet edward branches, professional asshole
greatocelot7: do it
quinogaita: i am already
greatocelot7: your soul will be forever corrupted
quinogaita: i need to buy some sneakers and unstylish clothing
greatocelot7: your spirit will sink to the bottom of te abyss
quinogaita: you are just jealous cause I am gonna get all the girls
greatocelot7: i know you will

I shall be getting all kindsa messed up this weekend, and we shall be getting all kinds of begetting.

How dare Hershey’s claim to make “chocolate?” I have stepped in horse dung that has higher cocao content.

So, my children. I leave you again. I shall be in Chapel Thrill. Till sun-day. I leave you with this:

when i was in 6th grade, we had this really fat teacher name sister richard who was a nun, and one day she forced the class to make a music video for another fat and mean old lady who was (thanks be to hail holy queen) retiring. we had to all sing “so long, farewell” and do the instrumentals vocally. scarred. scarred for life.

Love– I mean– Hate,

Eddie Branches, Asshole

here we go again on my own… to Pollo Campero

going on the only internet I’ve ever known.

So last night, Andy and I decide that we are in the mood for some gastronomic adventures.

When suddenly, things took a turn for the gastrointestinal worst.

We decide that nothing suits our appetites better than a restaurant that has sticky tables. A restaurant that could provide the world with millions of gallons of used cooking oil every year. A restaurant that has locations in Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and Bailey’s Crossroads.

YES, last night we went to POLLO CAMPERO. The Chicken of the Fields that offers us fields of deep-fried chicken. The happy yellow clucker that offers us his menu of various fried combinations of the hacked-apart pieces of his brethren.

We walked into the joint, surprisingly empty (there were people waiting in line since 3 am last year when it opened), and we were immediately confused. The restaurant was segregated. Two distinct (but equal?) sections: EAT-IN and TAKE-OUT (or id-in and teic-aut in Spanish). We were directed, visibly disoriented, towards an order-island in the middle of the eat-in section, after mumbling the magic words, lacking confidence: queremos comer aqui.

Andy and I examined the menu. They are picture-based. And every item is more or less the same, a combination of the three menu items. Fried chicken. beans. rice. Un pedazo. dos pedazos. tres pedazos. And for those with a true desire to turn their stomachs into a diesel-combustion engine simulator, cinco and seis pedazos.

We ordered. I got the three-piece, Andy, wiser and more wary, got the two-piece. We sat down with our paper placemats and were happy when the smell of TACA arrived at our table. the rich bounty of POLLO CAMPERO.

And we ate. The beans were in a separate container, garnished with a mystery meat that I over-enthusiastically consumed. Perhaps foolishly. The rice was rather good. The chicken had successfully been infused, the milky love of cloudy month-old oil penetrating every pore and fiber. I was given a 24-oz. horchata. Way too big a container for rice-milk. They don’t even sell them that big at Whole Foods (aka Whole Paycheck). And I drank its grainy sweetness.

We returned to the car after dawdling for a few minutes in the restaurant, examining the post-industrial quasi-latino wall-art. We were particulary amused by the latino history wall, which (amongst other designs) featured a yellow chicken holding a bubbling green vial of something (probably the base for their cooking oil) and thinking in one of those comic bubbles “E=MC2.” Yes, you heard it. ALBERT EINSTEIN WAS LATINO. And, to top it off, the THEORY OF RELATIVITY is based on the molecular disturbances in POLLO CAMPERO cooking oil.

There were some nice pictures from Guatemala on the back wall. Andy showed me the pyramid that he fell off and almost died on.

In any event… we lollygagged our way out to the car, happy to see it still in one piece (this is Bailey’s X-roads, not McLean). On the way back, Andy noted the increasing tremors in his stomach, perhaps the impending signs of gas pains to come. He mentioned possibly needing to use my bathroom. I laughed, assuming he was kidding, shrugging off the grisly possibility of his evacuation. He said he was serious.

We arrived at home and had some coffee liqueurs to settle down the potential intestinal insurgencies. I felt fine, and I felt like I had won some foolish contest, some perverse Russian-roulette of the belly.

I slept well last night.

But this morning, I awoke to find that, without my permission, Pedro the Pollo had hosted a party in my innards to which I was not invited. I felt as if he and his barnyard buddies had decided to use my stomach as a piñata. And apparently, no matter how hard they beat me, I yielded no satisfying candies.

Luckily I have survived. But I felt really quite drained as I rode the 13 miles to work this morning.

Methinks I shall play it safer tonight.

Love,

j, e, and j.e.

McDizzamn!

So as usual, I rode my bike to work today, unfettered by 90 degree+ temperatures and a heat index into the 100’s.

However, I neglected to bring food, or cash, and thus left myself at the mercy of a person with a car, or an act of unexpected charity, in order to fulfil my substinence-eating habit. You know, LUNCH.

Needless to say, I had to bike my ass to go get food at any place that would take my tattered credit line. Fortunately, a tailwind and the nearby bike trail promised to get me there on a paved surface.

Knowing that the nearest food establishment was nearly two miles away, uphill, I tried my hardest not to sweat as I sailed down the trail, aided by the ample cloth of my long-sleeve shirt. Suddenly, a giant “M” protruded ahead of me and above me, higher than the trees, beckoning me to enter its sanctuary of fast food: the golden arches of McDonald’s.

Being that the next nearest places were impossibly far, and with butt cheeks already sticking to the melting leather of my bike saddle through my jeans, I decided to succumb to the deliciousness of globalization and late capitalism. I coasted over to Micky D’s.

Upon arrival, and realizing my lack of a bike lock, I made a run for the drive-thru, where I was told to go inside. Apparently I lacked an eternal combustion engine, 2 tons of weight, and high-intensity air-conditioning. Thus, deflated but not defeated, I went inside with the rest of the rabble.

Promptly, I was yelled at: “HEY, YOU CAN’t BRING THAT IN HERE!” as I got into the coveted number two position in line, in what was a virtually empty interior. I stammered. Then I argued. “THERE ARE NO BIKE RACKS OUTSIDE!” I protested. To no avail. I was told, leave it outside or leave.

I got really pissed off. Dozens of offensive comments shot through my mind. No wonder you’re all so fat. You OPEC-supporting fascist bastards. Late-capitalist pigs. Etcetera. Sadly, hunger got the best of me, and I cleverly placed the bike in the space between the outside and the inside of the restaurant, removed from the view of the mean, bike-hating McDonald’s henchmen. I got a chicken mcgrill and some fries.

So in the end, I have filed an online complaint to McDonald’s for attempting to stifle my environmentalist attitude of not driving.

I shall let you know how it turns out.

Until the next time, love and peace, and no fast food,

Joaquinie

one-up date

new content added to eduardoramos.net, for your intimate pleasures!

vale, venga, Valerenga…

just when things seem like nonsense, they are not. something comprehensible comes from the many voids around us and knocks us to the floor! and the meaningless thus has meaning; nonsense makes sense…

so it has been some time since i have updated y’alls on the progress of our evolution. it goes us well.

working at nwf has become more interesting now that getting there and home requires a 12.96 mile each-leg bike ride through the old w&od railroad trail. when asked how my ride was, i answer “it was great, i ran over lots of wildlife!” of course, nobody thinks it is funny, except for me. perhaps i should tell them about one of the box turtles i saved recently or how i pamper rosie the german shepherd. most people here drive to work.

fortunately the savings i am accruing from not consuming gas are being spent on bike accessories, and accomodating my increased caloric needs.

projects of mine: spend more time writing, less time having stomach aches. meet with friends, old and new. make photo essay of my day. find beauty in the mundane. somehow.

love,
j. edward, joaquin, eduardo, and rosie

killing the world to save it

this seems to be theme of the day, as I my life is sustained by smog-flavored air in a traffic jam on the way to the National Wildlife Federation each and every day. I sit bumper-to-bumper on the five-lane interstate burning fuel to get nowhere at all, until finally movement comes like a blessing and I can consume some more. I arrive at NWF, but not before passing by others who pretend to save the world by destroying it. I am course referring to the two large and unmarked office buildings that are obviously government security agencies, given away by the excessive number of machine-gun-armed guards at their every entrance.

beginning next week, and weather-permitting, I will be biking to work. Next task-installation of a rear rack and trunk on Maude, the trusty LeMond road bike.

it seems that my stomach has won this seemingly unending battle against the aliean amoeba that turned it into a guerilla war zone for the past 5 days. today I have eaten normal food for once, though I enjoyed the chicken soup diet, for it was made with love.

that is all i have to say for now. my apologies again for the lack of news to report. believe me when i say believe me. there is much happening in my mind, as always, welling up and waiting to overflow.

peace and love

joaquin

very merry dysentery

Well, we are back. and by we, I mean the royal We. You know. me and the driver.

I am involved in a multi-day dialogue with my friend Immodium. Yes, A.D. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, well, …

I returned late last night to the US of America, carried over on an Airbus A320 replete with the scents of last-chance Pollo Campero purchases and US-bought colognes. My bottles of Havana Club nestled firmly against my armpits, I stepped through the Department of Agriculture checkpoint and into the smells of excitement and nervosity that to me define Dulles International Airport, IAD.

No more armed guards were there to bid me farewell as I stepped into an unusually cool night. Unusual for one who has spent time in the tropics. My arms wanted to swat at mosquitos but found loved ones instead. I became irate upon seeing the $4 per hour parking fees.

I am back. Home? My friend jostled me today. So you saw your ancestral homeland. Did I? Have I ever? Will I?

The Savior. This is what they called this little piece of Mesoamerica. Aun has de cumplir esa promesa (¿o será una de esperanza?). Not many places are this hopeful. Awaiting a savior promised in their name. Under their names are words of suffering. I knew from the beginning with the drunkard on the plane. We were stuck in the back row, my mother and I. An immigrant next to her downed about a dozen Bacardis on ice. I could smell the liquor coming out of his skin. Even over the smell of airplane. He told how he had not seen his family in years. And how he was a member of the Atlacatl Batalion. (google it if you haven’t heard of it. it was a US-trained death squad during the Salvadoran Civil War).

There are many things I could say about my trip to El Salvador. I could speak forever, so I don’t think I will just yet. But I will say, because I love to talk, that much will be kept with me, and that much will resurface in my life. Resurface like that man from the Atlacatl Batalion or the little girls playing in the slums. Perhaps in my dreams or while I am waiting in line at the supermarket, buying some item that I could probably do without.

joaquin

PS: for an album of the trip, email me.

south for the winter