what does it mean to be a manigator in bolivia?

metaphysics of the savage, part two

a new series distributed exclusively to salmoncolored will explore the rise of genetic mutations among indigenous bolivians, and the prejudices these so-called manimals must face in conforming to the animist and totemic cultural beliefs of their own communities and gaining a foothold in mestizo society that views such mutants (cholos) with anxiety bordering on hysteria, at once denigrating their syncretic cultural-biological practices and resisting their attempts to assimilate. already in el alto, a sprawling slum that has emerged on the foothills just beyond la paz in the last fifteen years, what has become known as the 'manigator problem' has at times eclipsed the growing debate among mainly aymara and quechua leaders over the prospects for substantive change under evo morales. citizens speak in hushed voices of packs of amphibuous youngsters demanding representation in the constituent assembly, and of mothers flushing their mutated young ones into the city's sewers, which, unfortunately, do not exist. among santa cruz's white elite and the mario vargas llosa reading, ian mckellen worshipping kipling apologists, fear of an alien invasion and, with it, the usurping of their political and economic advantages, has spurred the development of a renegade group of 'maya men' intent on policing the lowlands should evo morales fail to do so. stay tuned for more on this exciting story.

all i know is that i don't know nothing

i survived the insurgency and all i got was this lousy militia.
i survived the taqfiris and all i got was this genocidal interior ministry
i survived fallujah and all i got were al-sadr's oakleys
i survived the apostates and all i got was this clubbing vest

cerebral palisades

something new, if not a revelation:

w., j. and i (a.) are no longer together, have not been for some time, do not inhabit the same salmon colored mental or physical space in providence, much to our chagrin. but we have interests and outlets and, of course, other blogs. well, namely, j. has another blog, while i'm initiating one to replace the ruined momentofapocalypse.blogspot.com.

j. is out cavorting with gaia right now, having initially aimed for a year-long marriage now settling for a less impressive four or five month jaunt north on the appalachian trail. a fetid mutation of modest mouse and smashing pumpkins had been metastasizing within his being for some time, and i guess it eventually transformed from a fetal being into an amorphous gestalt sort of thing burrowing around various openings and closings, internal and external and back again. so he can be found at thisisalongwalk.blogspot.com.

w. is newly engaged to a tomb of tomes and i imagine is pondering his next blog move, whether a return to the salmon colored world or a severing of worldly ties, salmon colored and otherwise tinted: naturally, everything shall be asked of him, and in return i imagine everything shall be granted.

i'm in buenos aires right now, waiting for a sign or a vision. soon i'll be doing this in la paz, bolivia, where i hear signs and visions are being constructed and had more rapidly and with higher impact, a little more authenticity for your beleagured louie v. wallet, a higher tapestry thread count, you get the picture. the forthcoming tell-all can be previewed at catsinthecraddle.blogspot.com.

on a side note, it seems that there are indigenous tribes calling it quits, asking journalists to explain to them the concept of "the future". (obviously, i would like to have such a job at some point.) this is in colombia, while in the arctic circle some inuit villages are decamping, calling it a culture, throwing in the seal skin. the solution--if not an inuit-nukak-maku master race--might be a reentry curriculum for failed (okay, exhausted) indigenous tribes, standardized and taught in a number of discreet but mildly victorian classrooms strategically positioned across the world. simple lessons, like the concept of money and exchange (and, soon enough, capital, social security, W2 forms), the future, time, airplanes (those aren't invisible sky roads, silly), city council campaigns, and proper monkey-grilling etiquette when you're among mixed company.

so if anyone else wants to sign on, fund this project, or just help me make some monkey jerky, send a telegram.

sentimental renewal pogrom

something from the archives:

"A soul that knows it is loved but does not itself love betrays its sediment: what is at the bottom comes up." -Friedrich Nietzsche

I woke up alone on Tuesday, a witness to the wreckage of romance, failed and successful, thorough and gentle, Coldplay's "Clocks" pulsating from the deepest recesses of my head without reason. In the kitchen, a minefield of dishes from one housemate's five-course gift to his girlfriend: salad, wasabi mashed potatoes, broiled salmon, chocolate mousse, and the memories of several hours of sex a few feet from my head. In the living room, the post-breakup schizophrenia of another housemate, a volatile cocktail of festering vulnerability and embryonic scar tissue, whiskey-fueled ramblings of eternal recurrence and dream machines and the future of the Baghdad warehouse scene. I had emerged from post-breakup depression and the subsequent mordant mood only weeks prior, around the time the groundhog saw its shadow. Now, as I sat down to an 11:30 breakfast—coffee, salmon and goat cheese omelet, veggie sausages, half a grapefruit—I recalled what one drunken wise man had exclaimed to me at Around the Corner bar a couple nights prior, weathered hands digging into the region between my shoulders and throat: "Take it from me, one day you'll wake up and you'll be forty and it'll all be over. This is YOUR time!" I nodded my head as the three televisions played endless reruns of last season's Red Sox ALCS victories, the regulars slamming their drinks down with every run scored, as if for the first time.

Here, in the Indy offices, my time is spent among piles of obscure music video DVDs sent by forlorn glassy-eyed boys and girls at distribution companies in faraway urban locales—also alone. Frat rock promos also fill our shelves. And though we meet them with spite initially, perhaps we are too quick to dismiss the words of bands like Jacaranda, our comrades in love, loss, and Bacchanalian revelry: "Smokin' doobs and thinking of you / Why do I do the stupid things that I do / When you're not around, I've got nothing to do / Except smokin' doobs and thinking of you." So thank you T-Bone (bass, guitar), thank you Funkdaddy (keys), thank you Pirate (drums), thank you Lou-l (vox, acoustic guitar). Sometimes it's difficult to remember that these truly are the best days of our lives, and they must be shared.