El Guapo in DC

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

Thursday, September 28, 2006

The Morning

My eyes slowly open and my head turns away from the object that disturbed my slumber. It’s no longer dark out, but the sun isn’t out. What do they call this? Dusk? Dawn? Bueno, you know what I’m talking about. It is early.

“El Guapo, are you up?”

Morning, the devil’s hangover. Why do you torment me so?

“El Guapo, are you up?”

I feel pressure against my arm in a tapping manner.

“El Guaaaaaaaaaapo, are you up?”

I have a confession to make to all of you. For almost one year you have read about how absolutely perfect in all ways the Guatemalan man is. You have read in a sometimes long-winded fashion about how this Guatemalan was the Guatemalan of Guatemalans with his Guatemalanness. You have read about my perfect Mayan hair, my tan skin and the mustache that could very well inspire poetry. You have read about my skill on the dance floor and with the women of the world, well, you may have read about my prowess in the bedroom. Well, I’d like to speak about this last point and something that I have had a difficult time with.

You see, years ago I decided that I no longer recognized the morning. It was a time of the day that I frankly could do without, so I removed it from mi vida. My life has been perfecto without it. The only problem I have with this is that the rest of the world has yet to adopt my belief system and continue to acknowledge its presence. This includes mi Linda.

Not only does mi Linda acknowledge and partake in morning activities, she believes the morning is a good time for amorous encounters.

In the beginning of our relationship, like all men in the beginning of a relationship, I ignored my belief system and gave into her advances. I did this not only for my pride, but I did it for Latinos everywhere. It is very important that the image of the Latin lover continues. And who am I to disrupt this image? But now, it has been many months and my belief system has started to strengthen once again.

Mujer, not in the morning. I know how hard it is to lay next to me and actually close your eyes to sleep, but I’m tired. Let me sleep for just one hour, maybe two. Por favor! Close your eyes. I know it's hard. No pun intended.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Tuesday, September 26, 2006


“Mr. Guapo, we have to talk about your cholesterol level. It is much higher than the last time you were in here.”

I’m Guatemalan doctor. Like I told you on several occasions, we tend to go above and beyond what people like you feel is average. I don’t want to be average. Do you want to be average?

“…erm, Mr. Guapo, having high levels of cholesterol can lead to coronary heart disease and eventually a heart attack. We’re going to have to start watching your diet since Hispanic men tend to be more prone to heart disease.”

It figures. Doctor, it just wouldn’t be fair if we Latinos were so perfect. I guess Dios had to give us one little defect.

“Ok, Mr. Guapo, what is it that we’re eating that is raising our cholesterol?”

Doctor, I’m having a bit of an issue with your saying we here. What is it that we are going to do?

“Sir, I’m just trying to determine what in your life has changed to explain the rise in your cholesterol level. Do you have a sweet tooth? Do you eat fried food?”

Doctor, have you noticed that I’m Latino?

“Yes, you have mentioned it once or twice before.”

Well, doctor, sweets and fried food are two of the major food groups of mi gente. That is what we eat. We don’t eat tofu, your fancy seaweed or your egg whites. Do you know what we eat? We eat flan. We eat pupusas. We eat foods so savory and delicious that they require you to roll your r’s when pronouncing them. So unless you want me to stop being Latino, then I suggest that you back off and stop trying to take my flan away from me.

“Mr. Guapo, I don’t even know what flan is, but I’m going to write you a prescription for some Xanax. If you ever feel like you’re getting upset with your flan or others trying to take your flan take this pill. I think you can benefit from it. Your health is your choice, but at least try to cut back on fried foods.”

You went to Harvard and you don’t know what flan is? What kind of nonsense are they teaching you in that third tier medical school? Flan most likely contains all the nutrients in the world and can’t possibly be bad for you.

“Fine. Eat all the flan you want then.”

Hey, you’re the one with the degree from Harvard. You know best.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Sunday, September 24, 2006

El Guapo's World

I found myself stuck at home during “girls night” earlier this week and while I contemplated shoving guacamole in my ears, I thought about life.

Do you even understand how absolutely incredible life would be if it were El Guapo’s world? Please, come with me as I tell you about it.

First, I would change television. American television has a lot to learn from the Spanish channels. Every single television program would have scantily clad, bouncing up and down women. I don’t care if it is CNN, ESPN or a press conference from the White House. I want women in the background bouncing up and down. Slow news day? No problem because Jasmine y Candi are in the background with her green bikini top and little shorts. Just perfect.

Bueno, don’t think that the dancing women are only going to be for the television. No, in El Guapo’s world, these women would also be available in other situations. Did you get stuck watching a hanging on a railing, Celine Dion song in the background, man wearing linen pants flapping in the wind on a beach with a tear rolling down a cheek? Don’t worry. You have the option of having the woman dancing in the background during these situations as well. You women are likely scoffing at this idea of ruining your movie, but you’re talking to El Guapo and I’ve thought of this. The dancing woman isn’t ON the movie screen. It’s in holographic form somewhere else in the room. Maybe in the corner of the room so that it doesn’t distract you. This way, we can lay on the couch with you, but be watching the dancing woman. Perfect world.

Flan. Available everywhere. In every store, restaurant, and vending machine. Flan. Perfect world.

Popped collars are illegal. In fact, if you pop your collar, you get smacked over the head. It will be just like in the barrio where everyone in the neighborhood feels that they can discipline you. You pop your collar, head gets smacked. Perfect world.

If you are a doctor you are not allowed to be over six feet tall, have amazing abs, prominent chin, crystal clear blue eyes and zero body fat. Lo siento, but this is not allowed. Mira, this is El Guapo’s world. You already have four extra years of studying the human body. You’re not allowed to look like a perfect one. Does this rule stem from some insecurity that I have about not doing what mi madre wanted me to do and somehow not really being able to live up to her standards in this world? No. Why would you think that? Oh, this only applies to male doctors. Perfect world.

The rest of my world is pretty great, but I could honestly write a book about it, so I won’t bore you. I can tell you that there would be no wars, but world leaders would have face slapping events where they would take turns slapping each other in the face until someone gave up. This, of course, would be televised. Do I worry that the world super power would probably be one of those guys from Estonia that you see throwing logs on television? No. I haven’t thought about that yet. I just want to see Hugo Chavez fight George Bush.

Oh, one more thing. No more one piece bathing suits for women. Bikinis only. If you are wearing a one piece, then amiga, you are topless. Perfect world.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Caucasian Card

“Baby, try this wine.”

I don’t like wine.

“Baby, try this wine. It goes really well with this cheese.”

Wine and cheese. I’m a Guatemalan with a mustache. I don’t really do wine and cheese, but to make mi Linda happy sometimes I try these things.

Country music, wine and cheese, khaki pants and John Grisham. Thank God I still have my amazing mustache.

“Dude, that guy is trying to get his CC.”

I heard the term “CC” while in Austin and wasn’t sure if it was an Austin-specific term or if the tie-dyed wearing, dread lock having gentleman ate too many grows-under-feces mushrooms.

Excuse me, what is a “CC?”

They looked at each other in shock because it seems their feces undergrowth had altered their hearing. They had no idea they were speaking so loudly above the blaring Flaming Lips that I was able to hear what they said.

What I was told shocked me. At first anyway. Then, well, then it all made sense. I had heard tales about this mythical CC for years, but had just thought it was just the wishful talk of an older generation. But no, it wasn’t. It did exist. And to think that you all had hidden this from me for so long. I thought we were friends.

CC = Caucasian Card. They were not able to tell me exactly what was needed to obtain this “gold” card, but I was told that there were 42 things that a non-Caucasian must do in order to obtain this card. Wine and cheese? Si. Country music? Si. John Grisham. You betcha. Saying “you betcha?” You better believe it hermana.

While these white Bob Marley impersonators were telling me the rules of the CC they were whisked away by two burly, bald-headed men wearing Lacost shirts.

“This didn’t happen. We know who you are.”

I realize that my writing about this may very well put my life at risk, but I had to tell as many people as possible about this. Having a Sears card isn’t the greatest thing in the world! I’m not exactly sure what magical powers this card will give the holder, but I think there is this Peruvian guy on my block that has one. He is a horrible dancer, pops his collar, has a mortgage and has a gray Volkswagen. I don’t know when I will find out more, but I feel there are some of you out there who can shed more light on this find. I too would like a mortgage, but I think the loan officers are all jealous of my mustache. I need this CC…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Keep Austin Weird

I went to Austin, Texas fully expecting to come back with tales of trucks, gun racks and confederate flags. Not today. This Guatemalan truly fell in love with the city of Austin and its people.

Did I see people walking around with shirts that said, “Fuck you! I’m from Texas”? Yes. I did. Do I blame the Buena gente of Austin for this? No. I can not.

Austin is like the Scotchguarded area of a carpet. The dirt may be all around, but it doesn’t stick. Not in Austin.

And guess what? I didn’t even get arrested. I followed the advice of a reader and didn’t urinate on the capitol. I even took it one step further and decided to not urinate outdoors. I would never think of doing this, not in Austin. Austin, where I saw people cross the street to pick up a can left on the street. En serio, this is the best city I’ve been to in a long time.

In DC it is sometimes hard for me, El Guapo, to walk down the street without causing a commotion due to my Guatemalanness. In Austin, yes, I still received the stares of admiration, but they were sometimes overshadowed by the women with perfect busts. To the plastic surgeons of Austin, bless your heart.

Oh yes, “bless your heart” is a new saying that I would like to introduce to all of you. It is a genius of a saying that I hope we all start to use in the rest of the world. When you read it, you must be thinking that it is a nice thing to say. In fact, it is, but you say it after saying something horrible about someone. Ejemplo:

“That Staci, hombre, she’s slept with half barrio. Bless her heart.”

“Man, Armando needs to lay off the brisket and go to the gym. Bless his heart.”

“Guadalupe’s breath is so bad that it melted my eyelashes. Bless her heart.”

The “bless her heart” saying completely negates whatever horrible thing was said before it. Try it out. It’s fun.

Austin City Limits was an amazing time. I listened to music that I normally would never have listened to and I think I came away a better Guatemalan for it. I also discovered something in Texas that has been kept hidden from all non-white people for generations: The Caucasian Card. Si, I stumbled upon a conversation regarding this mystical card and I will talk more about this on my next post. Estoy cansado and mi Linda is upset that I’m not in bed.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

I dream of an arrest

I dream a lot.

I had a dream last night that I was pulled over by a very white state trooper and arrested for having a blood alcohol level of 2.5. Now, I’m not a scientist and wasn’t one in this particular dream, but I know that a BAC of 2.5 is impossible. I had read an article a while back about the lethal blood alcohol level being around 0.55 and knew he was wrong. I tried to tell the trooper this (in my dream) and didn’t really get anywhere:

“Sir, please step out of the car. You just blew a 2.5.”

A 2.5? Um, sir, not to call your little black machine there broken, but that’s impossible. I didn’t even drink today.

“Sir, I’m just telling you what the breathalizer is telling me and it’s telling me that you’re drunk. Besides, you were driving erratically. Please step out of the car.”

Of course I was driving erratically! I’m Latino. I don’t know how to drive without swerving. It’s a neurological thing.

“Officer 492, request for back-up. Latino male resisting arrest.”

Then he handcuffed me. Then I woke up.

Most people wouldn’t worry about this dream, but I come from the Latino school of believing that all dreams mean something. What does this dream mean?

I started writing down my dreams moments after waking up several years ago. Sometimes they mean nothing and then other times it gives me a window or a different perspective into what is happening in my life.

Then I realized that I’m going to be going out of town tomorrow, I’m going to Austin, Texas. I’m pretty sure that a lot of drinking is going to be involved. Why do I know this? Well, mi Linda is dragging me to a music festival where I’m sure there will be bad music. Not all bad music, but knowing mi Linda, I’ll be listening to some gringo singing about his Thunderbird, Chevy or both. I know that alcohol isn’t the answer, but it dulls the pain. A Thunderbird shouldn’t be put to music. That’s a belief I have.

Right now I’m convinced that I’m going to be arrested in Austin, Texas. If it was any other state, I wouldn’t be worried, but Texas scares me. The state warns you not to mess with it with signs every other mile. I’m afraid people. So, here we go. For my readers in Texas, I have a favor to ask you.

If you happen to see a ridiculously good looking Guatemalan with a perfect mustache being arrested for blowing a 2.5, please, please, come to his aid.

Austin City Limits here I come.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: I will try to blog from Texas, but I’m not sure if I will be given access to the Internet from jail.

Monday, September 11, 2006


Washington DC is holding its mayoral elections on September 12. Tomorrow. Are you excited? Calm yourself, damn it. This isn’t the time to act like a Peruvian cheerleader on meatloaf Wednesday! This is politics! This is the time to be serious.

Serious? No, not really. In mi opinion, the DC mayoral race is very much like any high school student body president election, you always get promised a soda machine in the lunchroom, but always have to settle for a second-hand drinking fountain instead.

But, like any high school election, we all have to act like we believe the candidates are going to actually make a difference.

So who gets my vote this year? Take a look at the candidates. Can you believe this? I know you had the same thought that I did: Not one Latino candidate! But then, I looked closer and realized something that few people had realized. Adrian Fenty is Latino.

There is something that Latino mothers sometimes do when they have children born in the United States: they Americanize names. Roberto becomes Robert; Miguel becomes Michael; Alberto becomes Albert and so on and so on.

There are some mothers who buck this trend and find American names that go back and forth between two worlds, like, for example, Adrian. In English, well, you know how to pronounce it. In Spanish, it becomes Adrrrrriiiiiiahn. It’s sexier in Spanish, but it does the trick.

I told Miguel about my theory and he was amazed. For once, he was amazed about something I said.

“El Guapo, I don’t think he’s Latino, but I think he’s the perfect politician. He was made for politics. He won’t scare the gringos too much. He’s black, but not too black, so this makes the average white person subconsciously think he has some white heritage and, again, like him more because they can tell themselves that they aren’t racist because they support a black man. The African-American community may wonder why he is light skinned, but see that he will push for their issues because at the end of the day, he is, still, a black man. The Latino community, like you, will wonder if he is in fact Latino because of his name and his complexion. He probably speaks a couple of key words in Spanish. I tell you, it is genius.”

So, you’re going to vote for him?

“No. I don’t vote.”


Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Thursday, September 07, 2006

I have a lot to learn...

I know a lot about most things. You may be wondering to yourself, “Wait, El Guapo, you are Guatemalan, you know everything.” To this I say, si, you are right and I appreciate that you recognize the Guatemalan superiority, but I do not know about everything.

Children. Children are interesting creatures that seem to be popping up everywhere lately. It seems that many of mi amigos have found it trendy to have these slobbering creatures. I always try to continue being a part of their lives, but I always find that I will know nothing about life until I have a child. According to them, that is.

“Oh El Guapo, someday you’ll understand.” “Oh El Guapo, talk to me when you have a kid.” “Oh El Guapo, don’t worry, that will come out with soda water.” “Oh El Guapo, you can NOT still smell that.”

I once referred to a baby as “it” and almost had my beautiful mustache destroyed by the breath of a pregnant woman. I didn’t know if it was going to be a girl or a boy! I was being PC.

Then, every single time a baby is born, I have to go visit the new parents and baby. Mira, I know this is going to offend some of you out there, but I think all newborn babies are ugly. That's right. I don’t care who the parents are. The baby comes out looking like a shedding alien. Notice that we dont' get to see any pictures of Suri when he/she was first delivered. (Sorry, I don't care enough to know if Suri is a boy or a girl. My apologies to Tom Cruise, who, by the way, is not, Guatemalan) Then, they always make me pose for pictures with this howling little alien and I have to act like I’m happy about it. I’m not happy about it. And do you know what? When I act like I don’t care that your child has just thrown up all over me, I’m lying. I care.

No, no, no. I’m sorry, lo siento. I really don’t care. One time I did care because I made the mistake of wearing a nice flannel shirt. But I still do think all new born babies are ugly. Sorry.

Then after they begin to look like actual human beings, if I’m lucky, I get to witness the method they chosen to discipline their child. One of my friends uses the “time-out” method.

“What the hell is a time-out?” Miguel was confused about this.

“Oh, that’s when you tell them to go sit on a stool in the corner when they do something wrong.”

Miguel was pretty quiet after one of our friends shared this “wisdom” with us. Later he shared his thoughts.

“El Guapo, when I did something wrong as a kid, I was beaten. I was never bloodied up or anything like that, but I was hit, hard. Not with a fist, not with the back of the hand, but definitely a slap. It hurt. I never did it again. If the only thing that would happen to me was a nap in the corner, I know for a fact that I’d be in jail by now. I think I’m going to hit my children.”

You know you’re going to hit your kids before you even have any or know what it is that they’re going to do?

“Si. I’m Latino. We don’t have time-out.”

My mind isn’t made up about this just yet. For me, I’ll wait to see what they do.

I do know, however, what I will never do:

I’ve never understood this. What does it do for the children, psychologically I mean, for them to be on leashes? What is this? How can this be legal? That’s a harness they’re wearing. It makes me cry every time I see this.

“Excuse me, why don’t you put them on collars so that they choke themselves when they try to run off?”

“Because, that would be cruel.”

The woman stared at Miguel as if he were asking the dumbest question in the world. He too, obviously, had a lot to learn about life.

Miguel was left with his eyes bulging and a look that showed he was trying to decide which of the seventeen responses popping up in his head he should use. Instead he just shook his head and carried on.

Maybe she's right. I guess that would be cruel...

Some parents should really be beaten. But what do I know?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wednesday, September 06, 2006


“El Guapo, Eddy wants to meet us for dinner tonight. He has something he wants to tell us.”

I like Eddy. He’s that friend who mysteriously disappears for months at a time only to reappear without skipping a beat, as if he hadn’t been gone at all. In my single days I liked to have Eddy around because he always had a horde of women with him. Everywhere we went the ladies would run to him to hug and kiss the famous Eddy.

What does he want to talk to us about?

“Who knows with that chico? I just hope he’s not selling Amway. Mi tia pulled a fast one on me with that Amway crap. Look, I don’t want to buy your stupid soap!”

Amway is a touchy subject with Miguel. Anyway, we left about 10 minutes later than our agreed upon meeting time. Late, you may be wondering to yourself for two reasons: 1) We’re Latino and late by nature; 2) Eddy is always later than everyone else.

We arrive and take our usual booth in the back, sitting across from each other. Miguel gives me a humorous look when we both realize that Eddy has yet to arrive. I order a Miller Light, but changed to Corona after getting a look from Miguel. Where is Eddy?

“Who decided to let criminals into this fine establishment?”

Ah, here was Eddy is all of his glory. Eddy always puts a smile on everyone’s face when he’s around. He was just blessed with being Guatemalan and extremely personable. We loudly lock hands and hug like two brothers who haven’t seen each other in a long time.

“El Guapo, you’re looking guapo as always and Miguel, Miguel, bueno, you’re a good kid.”

“Ha, ha, Eddy, you disappear for weeks then come right back making fun of me. So what’s the big news? Are you going to be a daddy?”

“Sit down boys. Let me go ahead and tell my two amigos a story.”

We sit down and are expecting Eddy to tell us about his latest escapade. He’s a great story teller who usually has us gasping for air with his descriptions and impressions. Eddy is one of those people who can get out of any uncomfortable situation with his sense of humor. Miguel slides over towards the wall as Eddy scooches in next to him.

He puts his hands on the table, takes a deep breath and says,

“I’m gay.”

Miguel and I were caught smiling at him as we had been expecting to laugh. I looked up at Miguel and his smile was frozen. The interesting thing is that I doubt he was surprised. I say this because I wasn’t surprised. It all made a little more sense to me now, but I wasn’t ready for this announcement. In the Latino community, you will call someone “well-mannered” or “with good culture” before you call someone gay.

“So, does this mean you want to make out with me now? Slap my ass?”

Well, if anyone is going to break an uncomfortable silence it’s Miguel.

“Are you going to start wearing a lot of plaid and tell me my clothes are out of season?”

This kid….

“You’re pretty fast, Eddy, are you going to enter those drag queen races in Dupont Circle next year?”

“Miguel, you’re an ass.”

“What? Did you think we didn’t know you were gay? It’s only taken you 25 years to tell us?”

“I never knew how you guys would react.”

“Amigo, you’re the most color coordinated person in the world. I always see the look on your face when I wear flannel in the summer. You hang around the most beautiful women in the world and I know you’ve never touched them. And while we’re on the subject, I saw you one night with your collar popped. I don’t care if you’re gay or not, don’t pop your fucking collar. That’s the gayest thing in the world.”

Agreed. Don’t pop the collar man. You’re gay and Latino. Please. You need to give yourself a chance for people to like you a little bit.

“You breeders love the stereotypes. I never popped my collar!”

“Breeders? Is that some kind of gay world word? Mira Eddy, we’re all breeders. Don’t make me slap you.”

What Eddy did was pretty courageous. Many homosexuals in the Latino community rarely come out of the closet to their family and friends because of the negative stigma around it. Miguel and I make up part of the new, more liberal generation of Latinos in the United States who are open to new ideas and ways of life. In the end, a friend is a friend.

“I thought you guys would be weird about it.”

“Why? Mira, you will always be mi amigo and mi hermano, regardless of where you put your burrito. Just admit that I’m cuter than El Guapo.”

“In your dreams Miguel.”

In your dreams is right.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo