El Guapo in DC

I am El Guapo. The most Guapo man in all of DC. Mucho Amor

Friday, June 30, 2006

cough, cough, cough, cough, cough

Dear Argentina:

cough, cough, cough, cough, cough

Sorry about that. My throat…

In case you missed the game today, it is my sincere pleasure to inform you that your afraid-to-admit-you-are-Latino-nation is going to have to wait another four years to choke yet again in the World Cup.

In case you missed the game today, several of your players were crying after losing to Germany. There must be something magical in the tears of an Argentinean because with every tear, I became happier and happier.

Today, an amigo of mine asked me why most of the Latino world has such disdain towards the Argentineans and I summed it up like this:

Do you know a guy who has slicked back hair, wears too much cologne to mask the body odor that never goes away? The guy who does the motion of gun with his fingers and makes a “clicking” sound when he sees you? The guy who truly believes that he is God’s gift to women and the world, but in reality repulses everyone unlucky enough to walk by him? The guy who wears that ridiculously colorful shirt that burns your retinas and gives you a headache? Yes? Well, that is Argentina. Argentineans truly believe they are better than everyone and for no reason.

This is why, today, I am muy feliz. It was just so beautiful to see them fall apart that it made my day.

Argentina, gracias for choking.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Oh, I know this is old news, but it was awesome when England kicked your ass out of the Falkland islands. I wish I had been old enough to enjoy that.

Oh, something else, you are and will always be, Brazil's little bitch. Today, you are Germany's.

cough, cough, cough, cough, cough

My throat... Argentina, any idea how to stop this choking?

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Passion and a Decision

As a Latino male I feel that I have cheated you all by not talking about something which is near and dear to my heart. For this, I am sorry.

It is something that that has the ability to make all of life’s worries disappear from your mind if only for 90 minutos a day. But mis amigos, it is the greatest 90 minutes split into 45 minute halves that exist.

Quizá some of you are wondering what it is that I am rambling about, but I know that most of you know exactly what it is that makes me feel this way: The World Cup.

The World Cup is a soccer tournament that seems to forget about the country of Guatemala, but I forgive them for this. The Guatemalan people are perfect in many ways, but for some reason our ability to score on the field has yet to be perfected. I do predict that that mi country will one day make it to the world’s greatest stage. But, it may take some time. A long time… I wish to not discuss the topic of Guatemalan soccer. Please, do not bring it up because it brings tears to my eyes.

Watching soccer is something that is special to Latinos. We watch men whom we idolize run up and down the field while secretly wishing that we could be them if only for a second. This dream is a dream that is born the moment that a soccer ball touches our feet. A dream that begins while watching our fathers, uncles and brothers yell at the television and radio with passion and fury. The sport of soccer is something that flows through our veins sometimes so strong that it wouldn’t surprise me if our blood is black and white like the ball we dream to dominate.

There is a game this Friday, however, that makes me confused. It is the match of Germany against Argentina. Now, I usually cheer for Latin American teams. I find something in common with them and wish for them to win. But we’re talking about Argentina. Argentina. How can I cheer for Argentina? It would go against everything that I believe to cheer for a team that plays so dirty that I believe water cries when forced to bathe them (if they even do bathe).

But Germany? Germany? I have nothing in common with any of players on the German team. I am Guatemalan, beautiful, sensual, perfect. They are, well, they are German. Blonde and normal. German. Just German. How can I cheer for them?

I made it my duty as a Guatemalan to find reasons to cheer for Germany so that I didn’t, for one second, cheer for anything Argentinean.

What is it that the Germans do or did that should give me a reason to root for them?

Well, did you know that Levi Strauss, the inventor of blue jeans, was German? Si. Does this give me reason to cheer for Germany? No. While I appreciate the idea of Levi’s, I am Guatemalan and only wear Tommy Hilfiger jeans. Was he German? No. Next.

Karl Benz invented a car with an internal combustion engine. Does this make me want to cheer for Germany? Cheer for Germany because some hombre invented a coche that I can only dream of owning? No. Next.

Elevators. Yes. Invented by Werner von Siemens. I like elevators. They take me up and down when I don’t feel like taking the stairs. That’s good, right? No! I didn’t know it until moments ago, but it is because of a German that we are lazy. Bastardo Siemens made it easier for people to cheat the impulse to exercise. Mierda! Why is this so hard?

Flourescent Lights- German Inventor
Diesel Engine-German

Aspirin, Ave Maria encantada purrisima! A German invented Aspirin? I can’t cheer for them because of that. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed by the German people for failing to invent one thing, uno pedazo de mierda, that would make me want to cheer for them. Damn you Germany!

So, here I am, left in what the Caucasians call a “conundrum.” I’ll be damned if I ever cheer for Argentina, but I have no reason to cheer for Germany. Their food is too fattening, their wine is too sweet (I made it into a wine bar recently…) and their women wear too much eye makeup.

Whatever. I’ll wait for the Saturday matches. This is too hard. Maldito Germany…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Monday, June 26, 2006

Texas beaches

The beach in Texas is an interesting place.

I saw a gringo with dreadlocks with the word “NAZI” tattooed on his chest. You may think that the tattoo threw me off, but it was, in fact, the dreadlocks that threw me off. A rasta white boy so pale that the sun was squinting with dreadlocks? No, not going to speak to him.

Texas was full of tattooed gringos. I saw several prancing around with Chinese tattoos. Si, you read me correctly. White people with Chinese character tattoos. No, I didn’t speak with them. Porque? Well, I make it a rule to avoid white men bearing Chinese tattoos. It’s a very simple rule, but think about the people you know who have these. Wouldn’t it have been better to have never spoken with them? You see?

Then I saw the sun-beaten, mullet having, skin begging-for-a lift-men wearing the leopard skin speedo. Leopard skin. Are there any women out there who have a strange attraction to any kind of leopard, zebra, tiger, cheetah print anything? Por favor, let me know. In my years I’ve come to realize that the men who sport this style seem to repel women, but for some odd reason I see them in hordes at the playa. Why is this? Was there a memo that I missed? I would like to know if there is a secret society of animal print loving women. Many of these men also had Chihuahuas. No comment here...

Then I saw a kid, who was actually Latino (BUT NOT GUATEMALAN) running around with a jelly fish on a stick. He was running after his sisters/cousins/friends with his arm outstretched, and his right hand holding a long stick with a purplish jellyfish dangling about. The girls shrieked in terror in fear of being stung, but my only thought was, “Oh great, the Latino kid is running around with a jellyfish. I’m too close to Mexico. I'm going to be blamed.”

I thought that I could feel people staring at me, but they weren’t. I'm in Texas. I'm not a rarity here and it seems these people know that being a moron isn't a racial trait.

They were actually laughing at the kid. While he was running, the wind had blown the tentacles (is this what they’re called?) and got him on his arm. It was he who was doing the shrieking to the amusement of his brothers/cousins/uncles/father.

I was too far away to hear what was going on, but I did see the kid shake his head “no” in a violent manner. Then, about 5 grown men held him down. I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen a scene like this. All of a sudden the men crowd around one man while a stream of urine began to splatter on the child’s arm. Every single person on the beach was laughing, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the muchacho. His arm may have stopped hurting, but he still got peed on. He’ll be reminded of this at ever single family gathering for the rest of his life: “Oh, you’re Susana’s boy? Yes, I heard Jorge peed on you at the beach.” “Papi, did uncle Jorge pee on you?” "Yeah, maybe you scored that goal on me, but no one has ever peed on me." "So what if you got all A's. You still got peed on." It will be a never-ending cycle. Pobrecito.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Don't mess with Texas

A mi no me gusta driving. True, I’m probably the best driver EVER, but I still don’t like driving. There are too many rules. I’m Latino. I need to be free. I can’t be constricted to the rules invented by a gringo with tight brown polyester pants and rosacea.

Go this fast, slow down if chicos are around, watch out for the deer, this light means that, that light means this, this road freezes, ducks everywhere… Mira, I can’t be bothered, but since we live in a society that functions because of rules, I follow them, but I still don’t like it.

Don’t mess with Texas

In Texas, there aren’t any signs denoting the speed limit. There are, however, Don’t mess with Texas signs every 5 or so miles. While driving and seeing these repetitive signs I wondered what would happen if I did indeed mess with it. What is so special about Texas that it has to remind you not to mess with it?

Shouldn't I mess with a state full of pick-up trucks with gun racks?

I smiled while thinking of all the ways I could mess with the state when my train of thought was disrupted by the shriek of a siren.

“Bueno El Guapo. We’re like 5 miles from Mexico and you’re getting us pulled over? They’re going to send us all back!”

Was I speeding?

“No lo se. I was thinking about your hermana."

Mierda, I messed with Texas.

"Que? Mira, remember how we talked about getting pulled over a couple of weeks ago? Well, let’s do what we talked about.”

Miguel and I, while eating chips, sometimes discuss ridiculous scenarios where we save the day or get out of an uncomfortable situation. You know, what do you do if you're on a date and don't have enough money for the bill; what do you do if you get excited at the pool; what do you do if an angry cat starts chasing you... We’ve never actually had to do any of the “what if” scenarios we’ve talked about because while they sound incredible while eating chips (the cat one is awesome), in reality, they’re idiotic. But, what the hell, estoy de vacation and this could be fun.

I pull over to the side of the road and look at the state trooper who interrupted my drive. He’s at least 8 feet tall with a scowl that could make Maradona stop using his hands. This may be a bad idea.

Miguel and I look at each other and slowly put our hands out the window like we’ve seen too many times on television. Wrists to wrists by the side view mirror. Just like when the crack dealers get pulled over by the police on TV. Just like on TV.

This isn’t going to work.

“Howdy gentleman. What are ya’ll doing?”

Sir, we just want you to see where our hands are. It’s for our protection and yours.

The trooper looked very confused. He took a glance inside our car and nodded his head. We seem to have disrupted the “pull over checklist” because he seemed to be going over his next step in his mind.

Officer, my cousin is in the force over in San Antonio and he told me to do this if I ever get pulled over. One of his friends was shot doing a routine traffic stop and he’s still cautious when he walks up to a car. This way, you know that it’s safe to approach.

“Yeah man, that’s good. What’s your cousin’s name?”

I name a very common Latino name. He nods.

“Man, ya’ll were going almost 20 over the speed limit.”

Officer, I don’t doubt it. I think I made a wrong turn about 5 miles back and was looking at the map when I should have been paying closer attention to what I was doing.

“Where ya’ll tryin’ to go?”

I show him, he shows me a shortcut, he makes fun of Miguel’s shirt, I laugh, Miguel smirks, he takes my license and goes back to his car.

You think this is going to work?

“What’s the matter with this shirt?”

It’s purple. Here he comes.

“All-righty, I’m going to give ya’ll a warning. Pay closer attention to the signs on the road and try to have your buddy with the violet shirt read the map when you’re drivin’.”

Will do officer. Thank you very much.

I start the car back up and drive off.

It worked!

Miguel looks angry.

“I like this camisa. It was a gift.”

Yes, the violet bring out your eyes. I still can't believe that worked. It's seriously, bueno, it's genius.

"Stupid gringo has no style. Not everyone can wear this color. I make it look good."

It's not genius. It's Guatemalan.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Thursday, June 15, 2006


I will be on vacation at the playa for the next week or so.

Please behave yourselves in my absence.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Tuesday, June 13, 2006


What happened?

"I don't want to talk about it."

What happened?

"El Guapo, ahora no. Not now."

Lo siento. Tell me what happened..

"El Guapo, sometimes, sometimes, a man just can't take it anymore."

Did you punch someone in the face?

"No," said the great Miguel as the words came out of his wide as the Rio Plata grin. It was one of those grins that just put you in a good mood because you knew there was an amazing story behind it.

Digame. Vamos.

"Ok. It's pretty bad."

Yeah, no kidding. Come on. Let me hear this.

"Ok, you know George, the day assistant manager? Well, he was riding me the whole day. He had nothing to do. Dean (general manager) was out and all of a sudden the pinche idiota was on a power trip."

So what? Most restaurant assistant managers have power trips. It's the fun of being an assistant manager. You get to boss people around for the first and only time of your life.

"Si, El Guapo, pero this guy was out of control. He wanted to give me tests on the appetizer list, he kept walking around my tables finding things to complain about. It was like he was putting fire ants into a sore. So, I key culo'd him."

I looked at my childhood friend with squinted eyes and lips pressed tightly together. I knew that I wanted to know what the hell that was, but at the same time I really didn't want to know. I nodded my tilted head at him and motioned for him to tell me.

"Key culo. I invented it. I stuck my finger en mi culo. I put it in real deep and rubbed it around the sides. If you're going to key culo someone you have to dedicate yourself to this. I was in there for a long time. Deep tambien. Muy deep. It's better if it's deep. Then I wiped it all over George's key board, mouse and the little pad where his wrist goes by the keyboard. I REALLY put it on that. The smell is going to be on him for ever. Even if he washes his hands, he probably won't wash those gordo wrists of his. Perfecto."

Key culo?

"Key culo, El Guapo."

Miguel, you're a genius. So, what happened?

"Bueno, I sat there and watched him go downstairs to probably make someone's mierda schedule. Then I saw him come up to look at the counter. He scratched his nose. He smelled it then. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Have you ever seen someone smell their finger in a way where they're hoping people don't notice, but everyone always notices? He did that like 20 times. He washed his hand in the bar sink a bunch of times, I even saw him rub lime wedges on his fingers. Lime wedges. So, I go over to get a dish and I asked one of the waitresses what that smell was. She pointed at George. I turned to him and winked at him."

"He will never be able to prove anything, but he knows that I did something to him. He kept on being a dick, so I told him that I quit."

You quit?

"Bueno, I told him that I couldn't work with a manager who didn't have good hygiene. I told him I was concerned for the customers. When I told him this, he rubbed his fingers all along his forehead. I've never been happier in all mi vida. So, que piensas?"

Stay away from my computer.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Herpes of the Eye

Miguel has taken a liking to mi Linda’s pool. He has become a frequent visitor/guest/remote control holder. He is annoying at times, but it is bueno to have mi amigo around.

Neither of us had to work today, so we decided to hang out by the pool.

Most of the residents of this particular building are retired, so we were by far the youngest and most Guatemalan at the pool.

“Mira.” Miguel gestured with his chin with a backwards tilt of his head. “Did you see that?”


“That old vieja. I think I saw a pube.”

Jesus Miguel. Don’t make me look at that.

“El Guapo, calm down. Don’t get all nervous around these people. They’re just upset because we’re not cleaning the pool. You know, I could get used to this.”

Maybe you’re right. Just don’t make me look at things like that.

Miguel put his hands behind his head and laid out on the yellow colored pool recliner. He had his Ray Ban’s and was truly enjoying life. I like Miguel. He doesn’t worry. He has no concerns. Sure, we have shed more than a tear over the years, but at the end of the day he just wants to be happy and smile. I like that about mi amigo. I’m jealous of this quality.

“Did you see that?”


“All the gringos are wearing bikini briefs. If I were that gringo, the last thing in the world I would wear is that. Does he know that we can see his pinga? It’s not much of a pinga, but that’s what’s there.”

Why are you looking at that?

“El Guapo,” he taps my chest with the four fingers of his hand in a dismissive wave. “Come on. You were looking too. Just admit it. I think I’m going to wear one of those. Make all the ladies crazy.”

That’s a great idea…. Probably the best idea you’ve ever had. Make sure it’s a pretty color to match your pretty eyes….

The old person gazing went on for about another hour until thirty 10-year olds descended upon us like a herd of yapping Chihuahuas.

The children/Omen extra’s were directed by the Mongolian lifeguard that they needed to follow the following rules:

No screaming.
No splashing.
No going to the right side of the pool.
No pushing others into the water.
No diving.

“Just tell them they can’t have fun!”

Miguel, don’t. The lifeguard is cool.

“I’ve never seen an Oriental lifeguard before.”


“Whatever. Think he can roll his r’s?”

Miguel asked me a couple of questions regarding the country of Mongolia and he finally became quiet after he discovered one of his favorite dishes hailed from that country.

“Think he knows how to make that? I love that.”

I ignored him for a while until several of the little Chihuahuas, who had been staring and pointing at us, followed their tall freckled leader over to speak to us.



“Do you guys live here?”

“His girlfriend does.”

“Oh, yeah, we didn’t think you lived here.”

Oh no…. The freckled pasty leader was brave and putting us down made his cohorts come closer to us.

“Why didn’t you think we lived here?”

“It doesn’t matter. Why aren’t you guys at work?”

We don’t have to work today. Why don’t you kids go play in the pool and have some pizza?

“Look kid, we had the day off.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a waiter.”

“Figures. My dad said that all waiters are stupid asses.”

Oh no…. Dear Santo Antonio, por favor, please help Miguel find his self control. Por Favor. Not a scene. Not at mi Linda's pool. Santo Antonio, por favor.

“Oh si? Your papa said that? Well, I hope your dad gets herpes. I hope he gets herpes of the eye.”

Before Miguel even responded, I had already begun walking away. I agreed with Miguel. There is nothing worse than having someone insult what you do for a living, but he had wished an STD on a child’s father. While extremely funny now, I was terrified of the child’s bleach-blonde 35ish mother who was lurking close by.

“I’m telling my mom you said that!”

“Phhhht. Go ahead. She has the bottle of Valtrex herself. Go tell her."

I make eye contact with Miguel and he smirks...

"Tell her El Guapo says hello. Hey, Miguel! Espera!”

Miguel, you are a bastard. Bueno, I never really liked the pool anyway. I don't even own a bikini brief. But if I did, I'd surely look guapissimo.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Monday, June 05, 2006

What does MBD mean?

You were supposed to be here about two hours ago.

“Bueno, Latino time. You know how it is.”

Miguel, couldn’t you have called? I don’t mean to be a mujer about this, but I was waiting around for you.

“You’re right, I’m late coming here, but technically I came to your building on time. Oh, tonight is on me.”

Oh really? Mr. Money bags all of a sudden? Did you pull a double or did your sister’s boyfriend pass out on her couch again?

“Two things El Guapo: 1. You’re an idiota; 2. My sister’s boyfriend put a chain on his wallet. I can’t pull that trick anymore.”

Then how are you going to pay for tonight?

“I got here on time, bueno, I was late, but only by 15 minutes. The moment I walk up to the building some white old man throws his keys at me. At first I was going to throw them right back at his face, but then he said:

“Park it in the front row. I don’t want to have to look for it later.”

“Then, he hands me a $10. I started to tell him that I wasn’t the building valet, but he told me that his whole family was coming behind him and to park their cars next to his. So, I parked the guy’s car thinking that he was just a crazy old gringo. Ten dollars is ten dollars.”

You’re wearing black pants and a white polo shirt. I think when they have fiestas the valet guys wear that. They thought you were a valet parker.

“El Guapo, you’re probably the smartest person I’ve ever met in my life. Wow. Nada is over your head…”

Fine, so you made $10. Then what?

“Well, it turns out that the valet service never came today, so every time I came back to come upstairs there was another gringo ready to give me their keys. I parked 15 cars.”

Are you walking around with 15 sets of keys?

“El Guapo! Jesus Christo in heaven! Shut up! Let me tell you the damn story. I don’t have the fancy blog to tell stories. Can you do that, El Guapo?”

Lo siento. Go ahead.

“Ok. Anyway, I realize that I have 15 keys in my pocket. I mean, they don’t use wires or a screwdriver to turn on their car over here, so I needed to figure out what to do with these keys. I was starting to look around to see what bush I was going to put them in, but then I realize that you’re the only Guatemalan in the building and that they’d blame you. So, I walked around your building and found the party.”
You walked around the whole building?

“Si. I was looking for party noises, but I found out that white people have what they call “dinner parties” that don’t make noise. El Guapo, white people don’t even dance at these parties. I don’t understand… Anyway, I knock on this door where I heard music and this 45 year old white woman named Delores answered the door.”

How do you know her name?

“We got to talking and she invited me in. Anyway, I left 45 minutes later when she told me where the party was. When I got to the party the man was so thrilled that I actually brought up the keys that he gave me $50 and asked if I could do his next party.”

Whoa, you were in there for 45 minutes?

“Yeah, but these people have “dinner parties” all the time and I’ll be parking their cars. My cell phone was shut off, so I gave them yours. Call my house when he calls you. Oh, you have to answer the phone MBD Valet Services.”

MBD? What does that mean?

“Miguel’s Big Di..”

Ok, got it. Eres un idiota Un grande idiota.

“Yeah, an idiota with $200 for drinks. Let’s go neighbor.”


“Oh si. I’ll be back. I have a friend in this building who will definitely answer my calls.”

Miguel, I hate you. I hate you so much. Let's go. I want my free drinks.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo