Ho and hum. Another lousy day in Paradise. Palmy breezes, the wooze-inducing splash of the emerald surf, lechón and steaming alcapurrias on every hilltop. Soon enough swampy summer will befall us, bringing its usual torpor. Until then, we can enjoy the homicidal, reggaetón-maddened hugger-mugger of perpetual rush-hour, a hysterically non-functional body politic where bare-knuckles and knuckle-headedness combine strenuously to impede community service or progress of any kind, and an amiable but implacable air of “What, me worry?” that comes at you out of every kiosk and back of every counter with an insouciant “si Dios quiere, mano.”
Some call Puerto Rico “la isla del encanto,” but those who’ve plied its teeming, potholed byways know it as “la isla de idiotas con celulares.” Most of all, the island seems to have become a distant, sun-kissed playground for the FBI, the ideal fun spot to try out some pepper-spray on a band of pesky journalists or off a popular independence-movement leader with a cool new armament.
Art-wise, “as it is in Arcadia and Neverland, so it is in Hogsfart and Bumfuck.” (My granny used to say that in the bewilderment of her declining years, but it made a lot sense to me then and makes a lot of sense today.) Youths are doing youthful things, and old farts are complaining about it: “That reggaetón! That's not music!” And so forth. As if Spamarama was the height of jollity and wit.
But enough jibber-jabber. The meat of the matter follows, here: an appraising look at recent shows and island treasures. To learn how to support all this crackpottery, another page of fun snideness and slowly-loading graphic horror follows, right here. This link takes you to the mother of all pages, “Home,” or the so-called “Rotund Tree of Life.” Buen provecho.