'Over the weekend the vultures got into the Presidential Palace'

This place is dying for carnival. We need to get away from the clergy for a while. Build up some good old-fashioned sins to confess. Seasons change, and with them come the smells of the past: The lover you put down on the hood of your Olds, the fight you won by virtue of your bowling alley friends. We were gods once, and indifferent. Uncaring in the meager light of the neon signs. But now everything seems so important. Infants crying in baskets. Taxes and mortgages. The slow motion apocalypse of an economic meltdown. It's hard to remember that time when our revolution would not be televised. There are those of us that ache for something real. The promise of our childhood cereal boxes, that perhaps, one day, we would be relevant. If not, then not. We have screams in spades, and we're warning you...