lay off my fotchpak, you big palooka

It was noon and the scallywunches were dillying through a large, brambled meadow of wheapnipples. Treading about griplessly, dwindling their cares around the smell of gripplecrag and horseshoes, they went about the day with reckless wheatabix.

By evening their foppledunks had sweened the entire skyface of Alblama, and little was left for their steps to callhollow like the living and the dead. They sweetened the setting sun with the shipless abandon of a wanton fotchpack, and fro and fro they snithered and swithered, bushing up against the reeds.

Soon the stormbrown consumed the gistings of the day and came down fleetering and fluttering from the hills. It was floon time on the break of slein, and the ballyhollows were saddened by the pollywigged silence of the children.

does the pope shit in the woods?

I is back in dc now, following a brief jaunt through the lands of tobacco. not much to say. the trip was the same as always, aided by the company and good conversation of a hitchhiker, whom I shall refer to henceforce as the Hitchhiker. ah, the internets, point of connection for this lost generation of ours.

yes, I virtually picked up a hitchiker from the messageboards of the craigslist, cyberspace's secret museum of Naples, where all of the universe's desperation is manifest in the textual cries-for-help of individual humans. the rideshare section is quite handy for finding those fellow souls in need of transit, these restless spirits who spend their days pining for places other than the ones under their two feet. she turned out to be an interesting gal, the Hitchhiker, and was very nice to keep me awake despite her own exhaustion.

we (the royal we, of course) are back in the area now for a few more days, and then it's off to Galicia for a merry merry time. Asturias beckons too, with its Peaks of Europe, its bears, and its kingfishers, all eagerly awaiting their chance to devour my sleeping flesh.

then the ArcticChoke will be jumping on the Talgo, the world's slowest choo-choo train, all the way from the scorched lands of sangría and gazpacho, to spend some time in Galicia Country, taking in the sea-grime of Pontevedra's largest city. it is to shine in the setting sun, at twenty-two hundred hours, in all its salty glory.

then what? how about a trip to flamenco country? I shall somehow occupy an internal combustion engine of some sort with the Man-Well and steer it down south through Portugal, where all men stop their vans on interstates so that they can eat their ham sandwiches and feijoada on the roadside (see photo at left of my Portuguese driving outfit).

once in the caliphate of Al-Andalus I shall see my daughter MuhRreah, Jon and his lovely wife Gretchen, the other Manuel, and many other memorable characters, including my arch nemesis, TheRatWhoTalkedBehindMyBack. he knows who he is. grrrr.

who knows what else is in store.

adventure? please see the title of this entry. I shall prove it with a new 1GB memory card.

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

McDoomed

so the McDonald's saga came to a rather anticlimactic close last evening, as I received a phone call from a McDonald's customer service representative. She was too nice on the phone, but I suppose it is not so bad to have someone call you up and offer you free food for the mistakes they have made.

now if only that ass at work who keeps throwing my towel on the ground after 5:15pm would buy me a meal. Not that I would forgive him, that stupid fat ugly jerk. It would lessen my rage, however. Passive-agressive, tree-hugging little piece of chipmunk-shit: do you bike to work? every day? or do you drive your little hippie car? that really saves the frikkin' planet, you dawdling along every day in your fucking KIA. I have no idea who you are, but I know you are there doing "mousercise" at 5PM. on top of it, you're a wussy too. I don't care that there is a note on the wall asking people not to leave towels hanging on the hooks. There are 10 hooks. You are one person. Is my towel hurting you? Because your stupidity is hurting me!

back to the McDonald's case. Apparently some gift certificates are in the mail- yeah! now, it's time for all the parents whose children are morbidly obese to complain to Micky-D's; after all, the company did ingratiate itself with them at an early age, convincing them that happiness is synonymous with eating several pounds of low-quality ground meat bathed in a "secret" grey-mayonnaise-based sauce. And how in the bejeezus is Ronald McDonald not fat as hell? bulimia? lipo?

also, since when did "curvy" become the new euphemism for "so obese that it takes you and your best friend to wrap your arms around me?" "Curved in the way that the Earth is curved" would be more appropriate. and accurate.

alas, I haven't much to report, other than the unending stomach-ache of alienation and utter boredom. I shall be in Chapel Hill this weekend, where I hope to assuage my tormented stupidity by cooling it off with all the vodka I left in Paul's freezer (incidentally, if you read this Paul, please don't forget about the liquor before you go to France). and when will France become "Robo-France 27?" Obviously, the French need to get there asses in gear. However else will the tyranny of chickens spread throughout the "civilized world?"

maybe I should spice up my life by meeting strangers from the internet.

ok children, it is obvious that this weekend I need to get into some sort of trouble so that I can post something funny on here.

love and hugs, and reject all anti-taco legislation,

jo
a
q
u
i n

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.

POST-CONSUMPTION REPORT

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

wanderlust wonderlost

So I am sitting here with a Dude-style White Russian. You know what I mean. Vodka, Kahlua, and top it off with powdered non-dairy creamer. After all, we are both resourceful individuals.

And I wonder on nights like this about this internet through which I write you . Supposedly liberating. But perhaps, a sign of our complete domination by another. My free speech flowing and flittering about the cybercelestial cosmos. As if caught by the stellar wind, we return and return to the place of our defeat.

Silence is shed, left to drift into the distance. A constant morning consumes our nights. Our days are born a morning darkness. In the shade of our house it burns the skins of our names. We relax ourselves and resign ourselves to the peace of oblivion. But forgetting we are not.

There are times in our ears when we catch a memory. Its sound disappears for a moment it seems but forever. But its shadow shines upon our eyes, and its echo continues unending.

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