Breakfast in Catalonia/Spanish Robbin on a bike trip to Málaga

I'm usually not the one to easily fall for hyperbolic statements and dialectical traps of the like, but sometimes I wonder what would happen if Robbin grew just a tiny bit more wholesome than he already is, just a little lovelier. What would become of this world if we added some more sugar and spice to an already perfectly seasoned mix? Is there a possibility of that not turning out well? Would Earth implode? Would Robbin explode? Would we reach peak humanity and subsequently start dying on a massive scale? Can people ever be "too good"? Is "too good" too scary? Is everything that is worth doing worth overdoing? Isn't it obvious that it is? Why isn't it? When did having a pretty fucking well-rounded brain become so subversive? When did excellence turn poor and underground? When did Robbins stop being rulers? When did the best of us lose faith in the rest of us? Stop this life please, I'm getting off here.

All pictures taken between 11th and 12th of August 2017 around an average small town, the FGC and downtown Barcelona, Spain. Special thanks to Guillermous, and extra special thanks to Robbin for not only being an American communist, but also an example to our whole race. He also looks exactly like his mother and owns the most unreliable pink Japanese bike in the world, which just adds to his overall awesomeness. 


Père Lachaise, Iggy Pop, Victor Noir et Barbara

"And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn.
For his mourners will be outcast men
And outcasts always mourn."

Lu à la tombe de Oscar Wilde dans le Cimetière du Père Lachaise, cité de son The Ballad of the Reading Goal (1904).

Toutes les photographies prises le 18 septembre 2017 au Cimetière du Père Lachaise, Paris, France. Merci spécialement a Barbara pour présente-moi à Jim Morrison, Allan Kardec, Honoré de Balzac, Hubertine Auclert, Frédéric Chopin, Ingres, Molière, Édith Piaf, Marcel Proust, Yves Montand, Jane Avril, la famille Cretin, la famille Sauvage, les Illuminati, Victor Noir, les communistes et Iggy Pop. 


Jusqu’ici tout va bien/Deux café gourmand et un bière de neuf euros et trente centimes

"C’est l’histoire d’un homme qui tombe d’un immeuble de cinquante étages. Le mec, au fur et à mesure de sa chute, il se répète sans cesse pour se rassurer: 

jusqu’ici tout va bien, 

jusqu’ici tout va bien, 

jusqu’ici tout va bien.

Mais l'important c’est pas la chute. 
C’est l’atterrissage."

Hubert Koundé à La Haine (1995) parlant de notre vie. 

Toutes les photographies prises le 17 septembre 2017 au Café Montorgueil, 1er et 2e arrondissements de Paris, France. Merci spécialement a Barbara et Gilles pour enseigne-moi le street French.


Aniversario Sor Rita: mi derecho a ser un monstruo

Hasta que no se lo escuché a Felisa Memuero en un poema recitado, no me planteé lo imperioso de la necesidad del derecho universal a ser un monstruo. Incluso el derecho a la autodeterminación, que tan de moda está últimamente, palidece frente al de la legítima monstruosidad individual. Porque la patria, digan lo que digan, la llevo, como mucho y no siempre, escrita en el carné de identidad, dentro del monedero, metida en un bolso o bolsillo holgado. Pero mi cara de engendro monstruoide de la naturaleza la llevo puesta todos los días de la vida, en todo momento, desde que salí del coño de mi madre hasta que me vuelva a meter dentro del mío mismo, más o menos a la altura de los ojos de los demás, casi en el aliento. ¿No convierte la inmediatez con la que los normales desconocidos pueden saber de mi anormalidad, la imposibilidad absoluta de ocultarme de ellos, en un asunto de muy superior urgencia en la agenda legislativa? Si me preguntaran por la tele, yo diría que sí, y sin embargo aquí estamos, teniéndome que ir hasta el Sor Rita para que me miren tal y como tanto la Constitución como la Declaración de los Derechos Humanos ya debería garantizar que me mirasen.

Felicidades y gracias, oh, Sor Rita, con pecado concebida.

Not until I heard it from Felisa Memuero in a recited poem had I considered how imperative the need for a universal right to be a monster is. Even the right to self-determination, which suddenly became so fashionable these days, pales in comparison to that of the legitimate individual monstrosity. Because one's own mother country, whatever they say, exists only, at most and not always, on our identity cards, kept inside a purse, tucked away in a bag or loose pocket. But me, I have to wear this mutant face of mine every day in the life, at all times, since I came out of my mother's cunt till the day I get back inside my own, more or less at everybody else's eye level, it's almost on my breath. Should not the immediacy with which unknown normals can learn about my abnormality, the absolute impossibility of hiding from them, be a matter of much greater urgency in the legislative agenda? If I was to be asked on national TV, I would say yes, it should. And yet here we are, having to go to Sor Rita to get the kind of dirty looks that both the Constitution and the Declaration of Human Rights should already guarantee that I got.

Happy birthday and thanks, oh, Sor Rita, conceived with sin.

Todas las fotografías tomadas el 28 de septiembre de 2017 en la fiesta del sexto aniversario del Sor Rita, Barcelona, España. Especial agradecimiento a Anja, a Sor Rita/Rubén y a Felisa Memuero/Félix por ser unos monstruos.