The birth of the critic in me … it all started blacking out teeth on supermodels in Redbook or Cosmo or Teen or whatever else my older sister left laying around. It wasn’t just me. All of us eviscerated those magazines, not with words but making hag faces, whiskers, wrinkles and black eyes on the smooth, perfect and unhuman image of ’70s disco beauty. Fuck all that. And who doesn’t love an easy target. Who doesn’t want to take a crap on the elite, and where are the elite more crap-worthy than latin america. Yes, I might run this risk of crossing some boundary on crossing a border, but the brand is more originates in the crass anglo-images of the fair-skinned conquerors, of euro-races, in the notion of purity and that something better is imported from somewhere that miscegenation (supposedly) doesn’t exist. I promise, nest time I’ll challenge myself more.