Anti-NATO drawing by Carlos Giménez printed (among other places) in El Víbora #75, spring 1986. My translation:

Staying in NATO increases the danger of war, requires the installation of nuclear weapons, creates enemies, limits diplomatic relations, increases military spending, increases the militarization of our country, and empowers the weapons industry. Therefore…

“No to NATO, poop”

The author authorizes the free reproduction of this drawing.

“Among the most important sources of happiness are: a sense of security; a good outlook; autonomy or control over our lives; good relationships; and skilled and meaningful activity. If you are unhappy, there’s a good chance that it’s for want of something on this list.”

Happiness and Its Discontents - -

hahaha let’s all lie down on the floor how do we get any of these things hahaha futility and despair

(via abbyjean)

Yeah, wow, 0 for 5.

Itz Tiffany, “Dance (Neke Neke)” (2013)

The third entry for my Ghana team in the Pop World Cup. I won’t be so vote-grubbing as to suggest you tick its box without even listening to any of the other entries first, but I’m confident you’ll arrive at the correct conclusion on your own.


Which is part of the point, both of Martin’s crossover pop and of this whole travelogue: Latin identity is not — cannot be — tied to some travel-brochure stereotype of UNESCO World Heritage frozen-in-amber cultural practice. Latin people live in the present tense, and Latin pop is modern pop; whatever and whenever that is.

Writing is a war of attrition.

these are some muscles I haven’t stretched in a long time. it would be easier, of course, if my laptop played sound. 

fifteen. christ. I’ll never get to twenty.

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Okay, I’m in.

Pinup pages in various 1985 issues of El Víbora by (in order) Toninho, J. Farriol, María, Das Pastoras, Jordi Gual, and Max.

Liberace, A Brand New Me (1969)

When the United States of wood and brick and riveted girders was swallowed, bit by unironic bit, by the United States of Formica® and Plexiglass™ and Styrofoam™ in the middle third of the last century, the barbaric yawp of the middle-aged soul yearned to be satisfied by consonant means. Old enough to remember Rachmaninoff as the very model of the modern touring music star, too working-class and immigrant to care about longhair ideals or highbrow cultural codes, too aware of what has gone before to be satisfied with the simulacra of urgency that imputedly fired their children. Play a tune we recognize; doll it up as you like, with all the color and razzle-dazzle and choking surfeit of a chain supermarket; perform, indeed, plastic surgery on it, stretching it out to unwieldy length and puffing it up with overwrought bombast and stuffing it full of twinkly orchestration; make it sound like everything else you do, an antiseptic perfection, because the comfort we take in the familiar is the only comfort left in a world so radically changed from the one we grew up in.


i feel like grace kelly is the absolute most lowbrow vintage icon you can adopt

I’d have said Jayne Mansfield, but I can see an argument for Princess Grace and her Harlequin-cover dullness.

Edit to note that I reblogged this before seeing the rest of rgr’s posts that led up to it. I’m way off-topic, sorry!

My favorite TV drama is Deadwood, which despite its roiling, perceptive, and widespread view of human nature does not care enough about certain kinds of humanity to treat Native Americans, for instance, as anything other than a mute, impersonal force of nature. David Milch’s grand vision of chronicling the intricacies of alliance and betrayal on which the birth of civilization is founded is fundamentally flawed because when confronted with the original betrayal on which all American “civilization” is founded, he blinks. The ruthless evil of Hearst is as nothing compared to the ruthless evil of every other character on the show even being there in the first place.

Jesus Christ. Sin City is to Alack Sinner as, I dunno, Transformers is to Blade Runner. The navel-gazing narcissism of English-language comics culture is violently depressing.

Jesus Christ. Sin City is to Alack Sinner as, I dunno, Transformers is to Blade Runner. The navel-gazing narcissism of English-language comics culture is violently depressing.

I would like to take this moment to deeply and sincerely thank the many Spanish-speaking comics obsessives who have made it their business to scan and pirate some seventy years’ worth of Spanish-language comics in both original serialized formats and in latter-day collected formats, and to wish that their Italian- and Dutch-speaking peers were anywhere near as comprehensive.