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3/19/2013

Otros habitantes de Albuquerque

Rudolfo Carrillo
Photo credit: Kevin Eddy 

by Rudolfo and Samantha Anne Carrillo

¡Bienvienido!

Come, come my friends, to the beautiful banks of the Rio Grande. Most of the geese are flying north, but come to Albuquerque anyway. Bask in the deceptively shallow waters of the river; you'll get a kick out of it and maybe you will be reminded that water used to flow through some of the arroyos here, too. You know the ones we mean, right? They're mostly up in the Heights and covered in concrete. 

The Heights is where they have all the restaurants. There's so much food up there and, one time, we heard about a grocery store that went on for miles, in the shadow of the mountain where they keep all the nuclear bombs.

You might think that's odd, but, when we looked around, that's what we saw. We've also seen other things you might not like to look at it. But, if you do, then maybe that will give you the final push you need to drop everything and come on out west. 

Don't worry—like we said—there is plenty of food. Water's getting scarce, though. But, if you keep an eye on things and don't expect a green lawn ... you'll be just fine.

Here's the first of what we saw this week. From the below picture, we can already tell the future is here. 

Photo credit: Metropolitan Detention Center

According to the teevee news, the above-pictured fellow—who goes by the name Felix Romero and has called this spinning ball of dirt home for 30 years—is a local who has been on at least two high-speed chases with la jura in the past five years. Just sayin'.


While, we're at it, this is the lady that was driving Romero around right before his latest flying metal, human-endangering escapade. She is called Meagan Fitzgerald, in case you want to know. She was arrested on our lovely, tree-lined boulevards for harboring a felon and possession of a dirty brown horse.



Photo credit: Metropolitan Detention Center

Speaking of evil chemical compounds, here's a picture of someone representing something that happened with the aid of methamphetamine. That mierda may be making Heisenberg rich on teevee, but it's a ruinous substance. From meth mouth to mental incoherence and bizarre manifestations of ultra-violence; speed kills, man. Example given: Timmithy Stover, 27, of Hobbs, N.M, who allegedly committed murder-death-kill after an intimate association with the poison.

Photo credit: Metropolitan Detention Center


Those are certainly heavy iterations of reality here in Burque town, but it's not always so dark. Sometimes, it's dusk or twilight. Young Billy Espinosa faced the long arm of the law when he tried to gank gear from a local policeman's home. He never had a chance, though he initially made off with a "...duty-issued 9 millimeter gun, bullet magazines, a police baton, handcuffs and even pepper spray." 


Photo credit: Metropolitan Detention Center

Then, there's the case of Terry Anderson, a woman—described by observers as a "crazy lady"—who came into contact with the boys in blue after breaking windows in the Heights. Police say they tricked her into coming out of her house; she exited wielding a baseball bat and attempted to hit a man with it. When responding officers tried to stop her, she began to swing at them and was subdued with a stun gun. 


Photo credit: Metropolitan Detention Center

Well, that's a bit like Bleak House on the Rio Grande, but you've got to admit it's kind of a hoot. The beauty of complexity and irony and all that jazz. Maybe next week we'll do this again, but with places instead of people. Don't worry. We're not about to ask the city for an office. We prefer the dark.

3/02/2013

The Colonist, Day 17803

Rudolfo Carrillo

So far, the weekend has been decent. 

The sun is visible in these here parts; now it comes into view earlier and earlier with light from yonder star filtered into invigorating shades of vermilion and other colors that have citrus analogs but begin transmuting into purples and blues once the fiery orb is aloft over the city.

I counted thirty Inca doves roosting on the dead apple tree in the backyard. I'll be good and goddamned if the tree comes back this time. The cold snap two winters back conquered it, mostly. There was one live branch left over, but I reckon those cold early-January mornings did the rest. The birds like it fine as it is, but all of them, in a grey flock like that, make the dogs bark unreasonably.

After watching them flutter and gambol like feathery hands, and when the hounds were done with nature and I with the winter light, we all retired to the atomic stove by the window. It popped a couple of times during the ignition sequence, but otherwise came on just as expected. We were all warm and I drank a mild stimulant beverage common among the planetary stewards of the era. The other animals et processed meat, by the way.

The computer was still on from last night.

For one thing, it glows. For another, it has some sort of tunnel in it. The tunnel connects to a library and information center that is like a circus, but infinite, if you get my drift. You view it all through a glass screen.

There was some snow in the mountains, for instance, but not enough to ameliorate the rage of drought that now follows the yearly solar ascent. It is possible to cross most of the rivers here by walking through them, I thought.

Just then, a woman with a neck tattoo of an eagle, the words "La Perrona" drawn in black ink above the crudely drawn predator, knocked on the door. So, I detuned the nuclear heat approximator, rose and said, who is there, as I spied her, from out the velvet-curtained window.

Well, she goes on about how she is my neighbor from four doors away, and I yell through the door that I know better because I have an electronic tube that sends me information and have heard all about the burglars and cretins combing the southeast heights. They are looking for easy prey.

You have to let them inside for crazy, unforeseen, and potentially life-threatening scenarios to arise says I to the dogs who are going crazy. One of them is biting the door knob like it is a ten pound pork chop.

After a fashion, the inky interloper crawls back to her car and it chugs off, missing on a cylinder and leaving a half-pint of dirty oil on my driveway.

I wander over to the glass screen, say hello and start reading about how two visions of public education are currently at odds and being debated by a legislative body that meets sixty miles north of here, where they still get snow once in a while.

Before you knew what happened exactly, except that it must involve celestial mechanics, it is dark again and so I sit down and type this out to let you know how my stay in your city, on your block, in your town, in your state, and ultimately on your planet, is going, more or less.

Like I said at the start, so far the weekend has been decent.

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