El Guapo in DC

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

Thursday, August 31, 2006

The Arfani shirt

“El Guapo, look at this.”

Miguel walks over and hands me his colorful, striped shirt that he wears on big dates. He has the dry cleaners bag pulled up to the top and I secretly wish the plastic was black because the colors burn my retina.

You have a date?

“Of course I have a date El Guapo. Have you seen me lately? Pay attention! Look at this shirt. Look what they did to the buttons.”

I grabbed the shirt and saw that several of the shirt buttons looked chalky. I touched one and it crumbled.

Looks like you have cheap buttons.

“Eres un idiota. I’m going to the dry cleaners. They’re paying for this shirt.”

I like it when Miguel gets angry. It is probably wrong for me to say this, but I get in a good mood whenever mi amigo feels the need for vindication. Does this make me a bad person?

“Look, my buttons were fine before I brought them here. I’m not sure what kind of crazy stuff you’re doing in the back, but it’s your fault that the buttons are like this.”

The Korean gentleman puts on his glasses and carefully inspects the buttons.

“Cheap button. Not my fault!”

Without even looking my way, Miguel forcefully points my way as a warning to not say “I told him that.” I did though. I just needed him to admit that. This was such a perfect moment in my life. Miguel’s veins were starting to pop out of his neck and in a couple of moments, there it is, he would begin tapping his front teeth together, a nervous habit he’s had for years. From past experience, I took a step back.

“These are not cheap buttons! This is an Arfani shirt. That’s Italiano, get it? I want money for this shirt.”

“No refund! Not my fault.”

Miguel put his palms on the counter, looked to the side with closed eyes and took a deep breath. Was he going to throw the man across the room? Was he going to rant and rave for 10 minutes about the dry cleaning mafia?

“Ok, fine, then just give me money back the cleaning of the shirt.”

“No refund! Not my fault.”

Mi amigo is getting old. What he asked for was fair. I mean, it would be $2 at the most, right?

“Fine.” Miguel grabbed his shirt and stormed out of the shop leaving me uncomfortably in the corner.

That was it? I walked over here for a “fine”? What kind of gringo move was this? Where is his Latinoness? This is a sad moment for me. Then, I see Miguel showing his shirt to a woman about to enter the store.

“Don’t go in there. Look what they did to my shirt. They will ruin your clothes.”

The woman looked at his shirt then walked to the shop a couple of doors down.


That’s mi amigo. The Korean gentleman looked at me in a way that asked what he should do. I mean, what do you do when a Latino is screaming while toting Joseph's Technicolor Arfani shirt in front of your store?

I’d give him the money.

He reached into the cash register and quickly handed me one dollar.

Come on. Give him five.

He hesitated for a moment then cringed when he heard Miguel approach yet another customer with his “designer” shirt. Then, he gave me a five.

I walked out and handed him the money. He grabbed the note slammed it against the storefront window and yelled, “Gracias mi amor!”

I guess the Latinoness was just taking a break. Miguel too does not let the man keep him down.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Not invited

It turns out that I’m not cool enough today, this Sunday. Domingo.

Is this God’s way of punishing me for not going to church? Well, I hope so. Because God, if you happen to read my blog, you know, every once in a while when you’re not doing this and that, please note that I enjoy being punished in this way. Now, I’m not sure what the “rules” are for punishment or if I should be telling you that I enjoy one of your punishments, but I do, so there. I’m sorry. Lo siento.

I was never aware of this, but it seems that there are groups of Americans who, unlike me, were invited to sit around a television to watch people from television tell each other how wonderful they are.

Exciting right?

Si, I was not invited to an Emmy party and I would like to thank everyone who is hosting one for not inviting me. Really. I mean this. Never invite me to something like this. Ever.


Actually, after I wrote that last sentence I am wondering to myself what it is that I’m missing. What if watching an awards show is like the greatest thing in the world and I’m dismissing it so easily? What if my requested “punishment” could have been one of the greatest moments of my Guatemalan life? I wonder what I’m missing. I need my magic chips to help me imagine this mysterious world of award show get togethers…

Bueno, I’ve had a couple of chips and now I can imagine things very clearly. Well, maybe not clearly, but my imagination is rather vivid right now. I picture a large room with a glass tabletop or coffee table of some kind which is littered with wine glasses, Yeung Ling beer and Corona Light. All of these are, of course, on coasters. Maybe someone, perhaps the host, wanted to find a way to get everyone involved in this fun party and put together a pool that people could enter for $1. I imagine this is done so that the guys who are invited can high-five each other for picking the winner of the Best Supporting Actress in a Mini-series. Mierda! I wish I could be there!

I also imagine all the shoes to be neatly piled at the door because the host doesn't like outside dirt inside her house. Because of this there is one girl, probably attractive, who is uncomfortably sitting on her feet because she knows she's the cause of the blue cheese smell everyone is trying to ignore, but can't.

The hostess of this party I imagine to be gummy. You know exactly what I’m talking about. A woman (or man) with an abundance of gums. I imagine an abundance of gums and an unnecessarily high pitched voice. The kind of voice that makes you die a little bit inside when she talks about something you really weren’t paying attention to. All I can see is gums. Please stop speaking.

I said what the hell, and turned on the TV to watch the Emmy Awards, but then, I noticed this ant crawling on the wall. What is going on with those ants? How can they do that? I mean, do they have some kind of glue on their feet? Really amazing. Then I glanced back over at the TV, realized that The King of Queens hadn’t been cancelled yet, and once again got distracted by the ant who seriously must have super powers. People, this ant is walking on the wall! I mean, really, what is it that ants cannot do? They’re amazing little creatures.

Oh yes, the Emmy Awards. Thank you gummy women of the DC area for not inviting me.

If you ever invite me, so help me God I won't use coasters. Don't push me on this one.

Mucho amor,

El Guapo

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Voting, Cable TV and Jesus

I’m not sure if everyone knows this, but residents of Washington, D.C. pay taxes like everyone else in the United States, but don’t have voting rights in Congress. It’s actually a great deal. The U.S. government basically says:

Hey, amigo, listen, don’t worry about a thing. You go to work, you give us money and we’ll take care of things for you behind the scenes. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about anything. We have all these great, rich guys from amazing places like Alabama, Minnesota and even tropical South Dakota to make decisions on your behalf. So listen, don’t you worry about a thing. Pay your taxes and we’ll take care of things behind the scenes. Don’t pay your taxes and, well, luckily the IRS is just down the street.

See? It’s an amazing deal! It’s like having your very own corner used car salesman taking care of things for you. I love it! We even get to have these really cool license plates that say “Taxation Without Representation.” Get it? It’s a reference to the Boston Tea Party? That’s our way of saying thank you to Congress for making life so easy for us.

I always figured that since we didn’t get a vote that we got something in return: free cable television. All of a sudden someone tells me that it’s not LEGAL to borrow cable from your neighbor and that you have to actually PAY money to a company to receive cable, something that was, as far as I’m concerned, our free gift from the US government for having to take it up the brown ying-yang for so many years. See, I didn’t get that flier.

Being that I fight the man with the best of DC residents and the fact that I hate Comcast more than I hate Argentina, I decided to not get cable. That’s right. You see, that’s how I roll. You’re welcome DC. I don’t want you to say that I don’t stand up for our rights.

Luckily, mi Linda has cable. She gets it free at her building, so I figure watching hers doesn’t really count and since I’m sticking it to the man by getting it free, I’ve been watching mucho. Tons. All the time. If I could TIVO all channels all the time so that I could watch what I wasn’t watching at any given day, I would.

But, the Guatemalan scientists (who invented TIVO by the way) have yet to do this, so I have to settle with watching my new favorite show all the time: Dog the Bounty Hunter.

Now, I haven’t really watched all of the episodes (yet), but this is a show about a tough gringo bounty hunter who catches criminals with the help of his sons (all from different madres) and his busty fake blonde wife. Oh, all of this takes place in Hawaii. Sounds amazing right? Hold on there, I have more. AFTER he catches someone (usually by tackling them), sprays them in the eyes with pepper spray and tells them that they’re going to prison for 20 years or so, he starts talking about Jesus.

It’s great. “Listen, you’re going to prison for a long time. I hope they give you the maximum sentence of 20 years. Your parole officer hasn’t even been born yet. But guess what? Jesus loves you brother.”

What does this do for me? Well, in truth, I just enjoy seeing the look on someone’s face when they realize that they’re going to lose all of their freedom for 20 years, but are simultaneously being told that Jesus loves them. I know, it’s sick. But hey, it’s on free cable and I’m sticking it to the man.

That’s all I can do.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: This marks my 100th post. Thank you to all of you who read and comment regularly. En serio, you make it so much fun for me to do this. Your comments, e-mails and pictures (keep them coming!) make mi vida a lot more amazing! I never knew there were so many people who would appreciate my style of humor. Muchas gracias for your readership. Here is to the next 100 posts!

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

I feel dirty. Oh so dirty...

I feel dirty.

No, not the feeling you get when you wake up in a pool of your own vomit on a Saturday morning surrounded by three slumbering Asian midgets wearing clown outfits with Duran Duran playing in the background. Not that kind of dirty.

This kind of dirty is a little worse.

It’s the kind of dirty when you realize you’ve done something that goes against everything you ever thought you stood for. It’s the kind of dirty that makes you throw your hands up in the air and give up.

I ordered groceries from Peapod today.

Peapod is a home delivery service for groceries. They deliver groceries to your door. They make it so that you don’t have to walk or drive to the grocery store.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, “El Guapo, give yourself a break. People get busy sometimes and need these little luxuries to make their life easier.”

Oh yes? Is that what you think? Well, it would be all fine and dandy if I were busy, but I’m not. Trust me, I have all the time in the world to take my beautiful Guatemalan ass down to the local grocery store and all the time in the world to bring it back with an abundance of food and treats. Frankly, I have become lazy. I mean, I have TIVO now and Dog the Bounty Hunter is on, bueno, pretty much all day.

The last time I was in the grocery store, in the Express Lane, there was a man in front of me who wrote a check for $1.19. He took his time writing out the check, explaining that the address on his driver’s license wasn’t correct and then entering the $1.19 in his check register. Oh, he even turned around and asked me if I had a calculator watch. I’m Guatemalan, bitch, I don’t wear calculator watches.

Later that evening I sat outside mi casa and watched my new neighbor (who sometimes forgets to take off his pointy costume ears) have groceries delivered to his door. What a lazy bastard, I thought to myself. Then, about 5 minutes later, I decided that if Mr. Forgets his pointy ears can have groceries delivered then so could I.

I did it. It was easy. Giant had all of my past purchases right up on the screen because I use their Giant card. I clicked, I browsed, I bought. Ten minutes and I was done. I know I feel dirty. I feel lazy. Will I be wearing pointy ears someday? No. Why would a grown man wear pointy ears anyway?

I will, however, tell you that my online shopping experience wasn’t flawless. You see, it seems that the good people at the Giant grocery corporation aren’t really marketing this product to my fellow Latinos. Why do I know this? Because when I typed in “Goya” into the search field I received 9 hits. Nine hits? For Goya? Seven different cans of beans, pear juice and guava juice? Where the fuck is my flan Giant? Don’t you gringos like flan? Seriously, what the hell is going on with this.

It looks like El Guapo will have to take his lazy but beautiful Guatemalan ass back to the store if he wants to enjoy some of mother nature's finest Goya flan. I swear… The man is out to get me.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Nouveau Cuisine

“You know, I just ate there last week and frankly, I’m getting a little tired of nouveau cuisine.”

TEXT MESSAGE: Cranberry pants is tired of nouveau cuisine…

“I’ll tell you what, I like restaurant week, but I’m really excited for October’s Spa Week. It’s great. I do it every year.”

TEXT MESSAGE: Cranberry pants likes spa week.

Have you ever found yourself in a situation that made you stop breathing and wonder where the hell you were? I’m talking about a feeling where you stop breathing and look around the room only with your eyes hoping, just hoping that none of your friends are there to see you?

Bueno, as you can guess it, I was in one of these moments this weekend. My pain was, however, not experienced alone as mi amigo Paulo was there with me. Paulo is one of mi Linda’s Brazilian friends who look like he stepped off a flight from Dublin. One thing that is not Anglo about him is his sarcastic sense of humor and very Brazilian ability to give everyone he meets a nickname.

One of mi Linda’s girlfriends was “associating” with Cranberry Pants. In truth, I don’t remember this chico’s name because he is one of those people that make me smile every single time I look his way.

He is one of those men who is extremely well put together. You know the type. The guy who has absolutely PERFECT eyebrows? I’m talking the perfect flipped around Nike swoop eyebrows. He’s almost pretty, but in a manufactured way. Does that make sense?

The first time I met him he was wearing Cranberry colored pants. I’ve since been told that these are called “Nantucket Reds.” Nantucket Reds… I, bueno, I call them douchebag pants. Red douchebag cranberry pants. Maybe this is an example of a cultural divide, but guess what? We’re not in Nantucket and your eyebrows are too perfect. Why must your eyebrows be so perfect? Why? I keep on wanting to hit you in the eyebrows. Does this make me a bad persona?

Oh, I almost forgot. He doesn’t drink alcohol. The fact that he doesn’t drink alcohol doesn’t bother me. It’s the fact that he always lets everyone around him know that he doesn’t drink alcohol.

“Yes, I’ll have an ice tea please. I don’t drink alcohol.” Imagine him saying this by shaking his head up and down while smiling with his perfect eyebrows. Mi abuelo once told me that every man should be able to drink whiskey. I respect the fact that some people choose not to drink. In fact, I admire them. I just don’t admire the people that do it for the sake of attention. Isn’t the fact that his eyebrows are perfect enough attention?

"It's ok. I can drive. I don't drink alcohol."

Gracias cranbery pants, but I rather wear an inside out barbed wire condom.

Oh, you’ll love this. He doesn’t drink, he wears cranberry colored pants, his eyebrows are perfect AND he wears the PATCH. Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to mention that he’s never smoked a cigarette in his life. He wears them to stay up. And oh, guess where he puts them? On his biceps. That’s right. His biceps. It’s a very convenient place for him to place them. I've seen him show every girl the biceps. I think his cranberry pants are confusing them all. It's like they serve as a mind roofie. I hate his eyebrows so much.

Mi abuelo once also told me, “Tell me with whom you walk and I’ll tell you who you are.”

Dios, I pray my dead grandfather doesn’t think I walk with this guy… I don’t even know what “nouveau cuisine” means.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Friday, August 18, 2006

El Guapo advice

The website First Date DC asked me to answer a question from one of their readers. Take a look:

regular girl writes,
i’m a regular mid-twenties dating girl (but no girly-girl to be sure). my question: what is the deal with waxing? recently i’ve been getting the impression from girlfriends that it is expected nowadays. have never gotten any complaints from boys. i tend to go au natural.. do guys really expect a good bikini wax (and do girls really willingly shell out the cash and pain that goes along with it), is a shave ok (possibly prickly from time to time), or does anyone really mind if you do only a trim every once in a while? this is so embarrassing to write — but its better than bringing it up in person. i know things are relative but i’m just looking for the norm i suppose…

Prickly? No, no, no, no, no, no, no. A cactus is prickly. Nothing about a woman should ever be prickly. I just wanted to get that out of the way first.

This is a touchy subject. Different men have different preferences. You can have a lot, have some, and have none. The most important thing for me is that you commit to one. You MUST commit. If you decide to have a lightning bolt down there, fine, just don’t let the prickly rain appear around it. If you’re going to be artistic, I shouldn’t have to guess what is going on down there. This area of your body is no place to show that you’re a fan of abstract art.

The “au naturel” is something that scares me a little bit. I once saw a woman who had this style. It looked as if spiders were trying to escape through her underwear. I don’t wish to discuss this any further. The memories are too much.

Remember, when a man sees your “place” they should hear:

How are you?
It’s ok. Don’t be scared.
Hang out for a bit. Come closer.
Let’s get to know one another. See? Nice, isn’t it?

We tend to get disoriented if “too much” is going on down there.

Now, you didn’t mention this in your letter, but I’ll bring it up anyway. The Brazilians are geniuses. Remember that when you ask yourself the question of whether you should have hair in the back or not. There should never be anything back there. This, I promise you, is universal. Even if you don’t plan on doing anything back there it should still be bare. It’s like the guest soap in your home. You never use it, but you want it to look nice.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: First Date DC is a well-written site that offers interesting and funny advice (from a male and female perspective) regarding, bueno, a lot of topics.


Here is what I need right now.

I need someone to write a book titled, “How to get your dog to stop shitting inside the house.” I would buy this book. Look, it doesn’t even have to be an entire book. How about you write a chapter with that title? I’m sitting on a bus reading a book by a fellow Latino who is talking about the “energy” that animals feel. Energy? How I have to use the natural energy of mother nature to make my dog feel like a dog… Fuck mother nature. Just tell me how to make him stop going in the house.

Jesus Christ, I seriously paid money for this? People actually buy into this? I’m going to write a book of my own then. It’s going to be titled, “Don’t buy stupid ass books because there is a fellow Latino on the cover.” I’m not really sure how many people would actually buy this, but now that I’m on the subject of books, there are a couple more that I would write:

Don’t think Sex in the City will help you understand white women.” Trust me. It won’t. I know that a couple of you out there watch the show for tips, but just stop. You're wasting brain cells. Sure, I’m sure they appreciate the effort, but you will end up even more confused than when you before you found out what a Jimmy Choo is. Oh yeah, do guys really wear Prada clothing? Where are these guys?

Don’t date women who eat sushi with a fork.” Now that is a book that I should write. I think every guy has been there. Look, I don’t really like sushi very much. It’s interesting now and again, but not on a daily or weekly basis. Bless the Japanese with their bowing, but I can’t do it. When I do decide to eat raw fish (I still think it’s a Japanese mafia for saving money on stoves) I grab those two little sticks and I give it my best shot. Sure, I’ve had the fish go flying onto the next table many a time, but at least I try. When in Rome right? No, I’ve dated so many women (sorry, usually the gringas) who ask for the fork that it drives me crazy.

Don’t let your best friend date your sister.” It’s not worth it. You know where he’s been and you don’t want your sister to go there. Make it stop the moment it starts. Kick him in the groin so many times that he will forget the name of his abuelita in Guadalajara. Trust me, years later your friends will still throw it in your face.

“Don’t buy your girlfriend stuff that you would enjoy.” I made the mistake of buying mi Linda a TIVO. Now, I know that she doesn’t watch as much TV as me, but hey, I was trying to help her. Maybe by recording shows that I, errr she enjoys, she will be able to watch more. No? Makes sense right? Isn’t a present that can be shared better? No!

I want to kick the guy who came up with the slogan, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend” in the face.” Yes, I realize that is a long title, but I want to kick him in the face. Several times. Shouldn’t cats be a girl’s best friend? Why do women covet something that is obtained by the fingers of a 7 year old Angolan boy? Pretty soon the diamond will be worth more depending on how many people died obtaining it: Yes miss, this one here cost the lives of 3 South Africans and 4 Angolans. It’s quite a piece. No, no, you don’t want to be caught dead in that one. Only one child died getting that.

Lo siento about the mood. I’m out of flan and I had a bad Ethiopian restaurant experience. Stupid honey wine...

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Horses on 14th

I know nothing about dogs.

Mind you that this is very hard for me to say because, as you know, we Guatemalans know just about everything.

I can make a woman quiver in ways she didn’t think possible. I can move on the dance floor without touching the ground. My flan is likely the great panacea for all that ails you.

But, as Chulo stares at me while urinating not two feet away, I realize, una vez mas, that I know nothing about dogs. Nada.

So, since I can use such words like “panacea” I decided to maybe stop asking Miguel for advice and go to the bookstore. Miguel, of course, came with me.

“I would just like to say, once again, El Guapo, that you are becoming gayer by the mi-nu-to. Pay attention. I was just getting used to this whole “monogamy” business that you seem to like so much. Why? I don’t know because I’m not gay. Now, you get a dog together and your level of gayness just, just goes up a lot. Then, THEN you drag me out of the house to go to a BOOK-store. You own a television, BUT, in all of your gayness, you decide that you want to actually read something. Are you going to read anything cool? No. No, El Guapo, you’re not. You’re going to buy a book about dogs. You, for some reason, seem to think that a book is going to tell you how to train a dog. My dog doesn’t go indoors. Why? I’ll tell you why. He would get slapped every time he went inside. He would have his face rubbed in it every time he went indoors. He learned very quickly.”

Jesus, ok Miguel.

“I just wanted to get that out.”

Miguel, your dog hates you. Your family keeps him chained outside the house and he barks at his own shadow.

“That’s not the point. That’s not the point. We’re not talking about how my dog behaves. We’re talking about the fact that my dog doesn’t go to the bathroom inside.”

I don’t even know why I respond. I’ve known him for years, but I still respond.

“Oh look, the dog section is right by the horse section. How convenient to have a horse book section in a city. Maybe, just maybe, you and mi Linda could buy a horse together. That would be cute. You could gallop up and down 14th street with little Chulo pissing all over himself. It would be beautiful, El Guapo, beautiful.”

Miguel, look.

I picked up a book and smiled. My people seem to come when I need them the most. There is a Latino who wrote a book about his way with dogs. Cesar Millan was going to teach me.

“You should buy THIS book. Don’t forget to buy a book full of horse pictures. En serio, it would be beautiful to see you on a horse on 14th street.”

Miguel, I hate you.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Monday, August 14, 2006

Trip to the South

You all know that I don’t like to leave the comfortable confines of Washington DC. I’ve never really known what it is, but whenever I leave the District, I get sweaty, nervous and a little paranoid. I force myself to leave in the name of expanding my Guatemalan horizons, but, again, no me gusta.

“Excuse me, I didn’t have my car today, did you happen to hear NASCAR?”

NASCAR. I stared at this gentleman with my hand on the gas pump without really knowing what to say. I was wearing leather sandals, shorts that covered my knees and a shirt with embroidered designs. What was it about me that made this man with the dull blonde hair ask me this question? Did he not notice my Guatemalan mustache glistening in the sun?

“Oh, I didn’t see your license plate. You probably don’t even know what NASCAR eeeis. You know, I was born in Washington “Blankety-blank” DC. You can fill in what the “blankety-blank” stands for. Thanks anyway man.”

I was perplexed. What does the “blankety-blank” stand for? Who says this “blankety-blank” word? Is a it a word?

Now, this all happened as I was leaving the fine city of Richmond after a “nice little weekend away” and I apologize in advance for M. Night Shyamalanizing, but I had to give you a feel for this weekend. I couldn’t start off with my comment on the confederate flag t-shirts.

Could anyone guess where I was? Mi Linda and I took Chulo for a “nice little weekend away” in Richmond, Virginia to visit some of her friends.

The best way to describe Richmond is a city with people who have just discovered flip flops, ethnic cuisine, and the world outside of the country club. It’s like that doctor’s daughter who suddenly gets into punk music after a life of Lacoste shirts and listening to Simon and Garfunkel. Make sense?

I did see a guy wearing a “You looked hotter on Myspace” walking down the street. I’ve seen people wearing these shirts before, but it wasn’t the shirt that was interesting. It was that he had a herpes blister the size and shape of Madagascar. It was truly incredible. I couldn’t stop staring at it and Chulo couldn’t stop barking at it. I wanted to take a picture of it to show you, but I was afraid it would suddenly explode and ruin the nice little Watermelon festival that they were having. Oh yes, in Richmond, they celebrate the Watermelon. Why? I’m not sure. I felt it was a random fruit to center an entire festival around. I would have chosen a mango, guava or the tamarind, but what do I know? Do you know what we need in DC? A flan festival.

I do give Richmond the El Guapo seal of approval. I will, however, tell you about a shirt that I saw for sale at this Watermelon festival. It had, of course, a confederate flag in the middle with the tag: “If this flag offends you then you need a history lesson.” Normally, I would have been bothered by this shirt, but it was right next to another shirt that said, “White trash and proud.” That, was the only lesson that I needed.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: I know, I know. I went to a festival celebrating a large fruit... Mira, sometimes you do things to make women happy. It makes life that much easier.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

I'm back.


I’ve been gone for quite some time. My apologies for the time off, but life hit me right in the nose above my mustache. It’s one of those things that happens when you’re not paying attention. Life seems to grab a 2x4 and say, “Hey, El Guapo,” then the next thing you know you wake up in a meadow with your pants down to your ankles, a tattoo of a unicorn on your ankle and rabbits nibbling at your feet. I’m not saying that has happened to me or anything, but I was trying to paint a picture. One with unicorns. Hopefully the message came across.

So, what has happened in this last almost 10 days? I’ll give you my “I just drank JOLT COLA” version of what went on:

1) An Australian friend of mine introduced me to Vegemite. He has been singing its praises for years and I finally used it as chip dip during one of my hungry times. Let me tell you something. I have never had the fortune of licking a monkey’s ass, but I believe that the Australians have found a way to bottle this smell and make it into a brown paste. I don’t for one second believe that Australians like to eat this ass-tasting spread. To me, it’s like when the gringos tell me that it is good luck to have a bird shit on your head. I don’t buy it. Why is that good luck? I have feces in my hair, oh happy day… The Australians made the mistake of telling a foreigner that this spread was a delicacy, you know, as a joke. You know, sort of like when you tell the foreign exchange student from Sweden that everyone wears Speedos at the DC public pool. Anyway, the joke took a wrong turn somewhere and the Aussies have had to lie about liking this, this, errgh, it’s so bad. Just admit that you hate it!

2) I forgot to erase the history on my laptop after a day of being alone. Yes, even beautiful Guatemalans take a peek every once in a while. Every man does it. Anyway, it seems that women have a hard time understanding that our “perusal” has nothing to do with how we feel about them. We go click happy and click on everything that comes our way. I blame THE HUN for making it so easy for me to explore things I didn’t know existed. Who knew so much could be done in a van?

3) The couch is getting to be very comfortable.

4) I bought a bulldog. His name is Chulo and he has found a way to defecate on every square inch of my place. If for one second you think that he can’t nudge his way behind your stereo speakers, you’re wrong. He will find a way to soil every piece of floor that you have. He’s fun and I like the responsibility of having a dog. I’m also learning a lot of new things about cleaning that I guess I wasn’t born knowing. Did you know that you aren’t supposed to use Clorox to clean hard wood floors? Yes, it tends to bleach out the wooden color and make the urine and feces stains even more memorable due to the white splotches on the floor.

5) The police officers of DC do not like it when you flip them off. More specifically, the police officer riding a Segway does not like it when you ridicule them AND flip them off. I had the pleasure of being with Miguel when he decided to ask a police officer why he was riding a Segway:

“Who did you piss off to have to ride one of those things?”

“Carry on and mind your business.”

“Seriously, did my tax dollars pay money for that so that your lazy ass can lean-in to move? Why don’t you get a bike?”

At this point, the police officer gets on his walkie talkie and seriously calls for backup regarding the start of a potential riot!

“If you got your fat ass off of that thing, you wouldn’t have to call your friends to help. Hey puerco, sit on this!”

Sure, I wish he hadn’t done this, but hey, I need the exercise and the running was good for me. Am I the only one who wants to push over every single person that glides by in a segway? Am I a bad person for this?

6) Finally, I received this e-mail from an Anonymous commenter from Argentina:

Perhaps you had a bad experience with argentinians, you are obviously a very traumatized, low self esteem central american guy that wishes (most likely) to be whiter and taller, and more handsome...wait a minute...where are you from again? Keep stereotypes for yourself, nasty prick.

I often get e-mails asking me why the world seems to hate the Argentine (not the hot ones though). I hope this answers your question.

Ok, I’m back. I missed you all very much. Especially you.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Thumb Crack

Oye, que pasa, we were just having a conversation. No? I was under the impression that we were having what some would call a “back and forth”, but obviously you disagree with me. Should I apologize? Maybe I should. Lo siento. I’m sorry. That blue, squared device is obviously more interesting than the words that are coming out of my mouth.

You have a Blackberry. You are OBVIOUSLY more important than me.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve wanted to place that little machine somewhere very special. Perhaps somewhere that two thumbs cannot be used with such voracity. Not without practice anyway.

You have a Blackberry. Your job is SO important that it is absolutely necessary for you to be reached, via a written e-mail, at all times of the day.

The thing that makes me scratch my mustache in wonder is why so many government workers need to have a Blackberry. Isn’t this device of Satan meant to speed things up? What branch of the government works quickly? Would the DMV be faster if they all had Blackberries? Because if that’s going to make the woman with the little diamonds in her nails let me renew my driver’s license, then I say give them all one.

I was at my favorite pupuseria the other day when I looked to my right to see someone placing their blackberry on the bar. Why? Why do you do this? Can’t you keep this in your pocket or purse? Why must you mix annoying technology with my pupusas?

Is a belt clip really necessary? I don’t like the feeling of keys in my pockets either, but I fight through the pain because I like to open locked things that are mine. If you NEED to have access to e-mail on the bus then I think you can stand keeping it stored where no one can see it. Too big? Complain so that they make them smaller.

Send them an e-mail, from the bar, while we’re having a conversation…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo