JOHNNY PLANTAIN
Johnny Plantain is a collection of shirts, prints, and artwork inspired by the people, places, and cultural oddities that shaped my childhood. Some are uniquely Miami, like La Vaquita or the THIEF stamps at the Miami-Dade County Youth Fair. Others, like Walter Mercado, belong to a much bigger Latino story. Together, they're small love letters to the shared memories that make people stop, smile, and say, "I haven't thought about that in years."
LA VAQUITA
If you grew up in Miami, there's a good chance you've been to La Vaquita.
Part bodega, part cafeteria, part neighborhood institution, it was the kind of place where you could grab a cafecito, a pastelito, a gallon of milk, or a lottery ticket, all without getting out of your car. Long before Starbucks drive-thrus took over, this was how Miami did convenience.
As a kid, I never thought twice about it. It was just part of everyday life.
The front of the shirt pays tribute to the iconic sign that every Miamian knows, while the back features a throwback menu inspired by the prices I remember growing up. If those numbers don't make you feel old, I don't know what will.
A little love letter to one of Miami's greatest institutions.
MUCHO MUCHO AMOR
Every Latino household had that one thing that, no matter what was happening, somehow brought everyone into the living room.
For us, it was Walter Mercado.
Like clockwork, my parents and grandparents would stop what they were doing to hear what Walter had to say. Whether it was Aries, Pisces, or Capricorn didn't matter. He'd sweep onto the screen in a bedazzled cape, speaking with the confidence of a king and the vocabulary of a poet, and the entire family was locked in.
As kids, we didn't fully understand why everyone took him so seriously. We just knew you didn't interrupt Walter. Somewhere between the dramatic hand gestures, the endless jewelry, and his signature "Mucho, mucho amor," he became less of a TV personality and more of a member of the family.
Looking back, it's kind of amazing. A flamboyant Puerto Rican astrologer somehow became one of the most trusted voices in millions of Latino households. There will never be another Walter Mercado.
This print is a little nod to those evenings, to our parents and grandparents who swore by him, and to every kid who sat there wondering how one man could know so much about everyone just by looking at the stars. With a little death metal influence thrown in because... why not?
FEIHT
Back in the early ’90s, when parents still dropped you off places without a helmet or a GPS tracker, my parents would take us to the Dade County Youth Fair. If you aren’t familiar, the Youth Fair was a huge deal to us Miami kids. This was our Coachella, except instead of flower crowns and overpriced drinks, it was funnel cakes and kids projectile vomiting on the Himalaya.
The Fair allowed you to buy tickets that you could use up for specific rides OR you could buy the more expensive unlimited rides pass. But unlike Coachella, the unlimited rides pass didn’t come in the form of a wristband. It was a stamp. Half-smeared ink on your wrist that meant you were amusement park royalty for the day.
My dad, like so many in Miami, figured out a hustle. He’d pay for one pass. They’d stamp my wrist, and before it dried, I’d be back in the parking lot pressing it onto my brother’s wrist. Then our friend’s wrist. Then another friend’s wrist.
One stamp became four. Unlimited rides. No questions asked. We were basically running a black-market amusement ring in broad daylight.
And it worked, until it didn’t.
Years later, the carneys catch on. They start adding the word THIEF to the stamp under the logo backwards like some secret message from the FBI. Now if you tried to pass it on, you’re basically branding your buddy a criminal.
That’s where we drew the line. We weren’t trying to start a crime syndicate, we just wanted to ride the Double Looper while saving our parents a few bucks. And just like that, we retired the hustle.
That story recently popped in my head, so I decide to recreate that stamp as an 8x10 print. Smudged, imperfect. The way it looked on our wrists.