Another year of refusal.
Today Steven Patrick Morrissey turns the big 5-0. It’s a happy day for one of Brit-pop’s most prolific voices. His tone though, is and has always been melancholy since Morrissey birthed a seminal career as the front man for the Smiths over twenty years ago.
2 girls, 1 kiss.
Voyeurism used to mean something. So did privacy. But there are just a few things that if you just ignore the idea that you are being watched, can be simply blissful. The great thing about this video is that you can’t tell exactly who the kissers are, which adds another level of mystery. I lifted this from my old blog as a nod to the summer of 2006, when stuff like this would get a rise out of folks. Maybe it still does. You can appreciate the humor in one of the best (post-college) tasteless barbecues ever…to a crisp.
Step to the rear.
What is round, pink on the inside, and is the object of every man’s affection? The juicy Mulher Melancia, which means “Watermelon Woman” in Portuguese. [Ed. Note: She is also listed as Garota Melancia, translated to "Watermelon Girl."] Get it? OK, even if my riddle doesn’t make you roll on the floor laughing, instead you’re rolling on the floor panting at the sight of Mulher Melancia’s sensational body. Now as far as shapely women go, let’s face it, there are the usual suspects: Beyoncé, Trina (in her hey day), Kim Kardashian, and most recently Joe Budden’s wife Tahiri that hold the title for their pear-shaped frames stateside. Go south of the equator, you’ll find Andressa Soares, and her lower half.
After all the rage of SXSW last month, I managed to stumble upon a video from Diplo’s premiere of Favela On Blast. According to Mr. Paper Planes, the DJ/producer’s new film, which profiles Brazil’s renowned favelas took 25 years to make. An exaggeration I’m sure, but I can honestly say it took me at least 27 years just to get a glimpse of life in the impoverished neighborhoods.
Photography by DJ Treats and Steven Weiss
Living in New York, I thought I’d never visit the homeland of any Spanish-speaking woman. Why go to Puerto Rico when I can hop a train to the Lower East Side? Dominican Republic? No thanks. Washington Heights in Manhattan has all the Dominicans I need. Ah Latinas, I’ve dated many, and undressed a bunch with my eyes. I mean, really, who with New York’s selection at their fingertips would even think of breaking the bank to see more anywhere else? I now stand before you, a new man.
I tried flying south to Miami for a taste of the imported Cuban flavor. Sadly, the only ladies that put out were tourists. I need authenticity dammit! And I got (almost) just that in Spain. Yes, Spain my dudes. Far, but as close to good as it gets.
Calling Spaniards simply white girls with bigger butts is an understatement, aside from an insult, depending on the person.
I personally consider them a little more polished than your average American WGs, which are all good in my book. But I digress. From the moment I stepped off the plane, I was blindsided by everything of all ages. I’m not ashamed to say it either. 16 year-olds looked 32, and 40 year-old cougars looked 20. But guess who was on the prowl.
Yours truely journeyed to the home of Christopher Columbus, damn near fluent enough to negotiate the price of controlled substances, and humbly charmed some of Madrid’s finest into posing for Complex a la Street Detail. In the two weeks I spent traveling Spain, ogling country sides, and three-dimensional backsides, I luckily never landed myself in jail, nor impregnated anyone. That said, enjoy the souvenir.