Day of the Devil

“No.”

But mamá, this isn’t the devil’s holiday. You just go around asking for candy.

“No.”

Come ooooooon. Every year I’m the only one at school without any candy.

“Good. You can thank me later when you’re not fat with pimples.”

Mamá, I’m telling you. Trust me. Just let me go out with Miguel for one hour. I promise I won’t do anything to get in trouble.

“No. What is this holiday? Trick or treat? When the kids come by and I ask for a trick they look at me funny. Why do something to celebrate the diablo? No. Not in mi casa. I don’t care if you begin to eat the apple pie instead of my flan, you will not celebrate this holiday.”

Mamá, your flan is the best. You know your flan is the best. I don’t want to eat the apple pie. I just want to go out and get a little bit of candy.

“I know what you want. This is a day for the women to dress like street whores! Why do they do this El Guapo? Why do they do this?”

Mi madre likes to ask me questions only to answer them herself.

“I’ll tell you why they do this. They dress like street whores because it is the devil’s holiday and it is a night of temptation. A night of temptation that mi hijo is going to remain inside giving out the candy.”

Mamá! Why do we give out candy if it is the devil’s holiday? Aren’t you being a bit of a hypocrite?

“Now you call your mother names? The mother who carried you around for 10 months? Maybe I hugged you too much El Guapo. Is this my punishment Díos? Is this how I get repaid?”
Mi madre likes to speak to God who conveniently resides in or around our kitchen ceiling.

Fine. I’ll hand out the candy.

And this is how I spent most of my Halloween nights of my youth. That was until I figured out how to sneak out the back window and go dressed up as “Guatemalan children” with Miguel.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

MJ

“El Guapo, I got a tattoo.”

En serio? Seriously?

“Si hombre. I’ve always wanted to do it and Carlito just got his license, so I said what the hell.”

Carlito? The Carlito we grew up with?

“Si. He just came back to DC. He was in Florida on vacation.”

Oh, Vacation. Is that what they call going to prison in Florida?

“Anyways, he’s back and he got his license. He always was a pretty good drawer and my tat looks awesome. I can’t wait for the nieves to see this.”

This is the same Carlito that used to keep dead birds in his pockets right? I just want to make sure I have the right mental picture of who was giving you your tattoo. What is your tattoo? Is it a mariposa? A hummingbird maybe? A bunny?

“YES. That Carlito. Don't be an idiota. I put mi nombre on my arm. M-I-G-U-E-L.”

Ay Dios mio… You have become that guy. You’re the guy with his own name on his arm. Why did you do that?

“So they never forget my name hombre! Also, when I take off my shirt at the clubs, they can call it out! Plus, I got it done in gangster letters. Check it out.”

Damn. That does look nice. It looks really good.

“See? Carlito is the man!”

Yeah, he is the man. Hey, didn’t Carlito drop out of high school?

“El Guapo, let it go. He’s a new person now with a new career. That’s his past man. His pasado.”

I agree totally with you. I only ask because, bueno, he spelled your name incorrectly on your arm. That’s a “J”. That’s a gangster “J” on your arm. Your tattoo is spelled M-J-G-U-E-L. Actually, wasn’t Carlito dyslexic? But it looks good though. How should we pronounce that? You know, for when they call out your name at the clubs.

“Hijo de una puta…”

Hey! Where are you going? MJ, where are you going? Oh, MJ…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Political Commentary

As you know, I am a Guatemalan man. I have a mustache. It is glorioso. Touching it is the equivalent of dipping your fingers in holy water. My point in all of this? I am not one for political commentary. Not always. As veces.

I did not make one peep when Venezuela began causing problems with my paisano at the United Nations. If you didn't hear, Guatemala was on its way to being a member of the UN Security Council when Venezuela had to get upset about a comment made in the men's restroom at the United Nations.

Yes, sources very close to my Guatemalan entourage may have seen the senior "member" of the Venezuelan delegation in the restroom and giggled. You see, this senior member isn't very intimidating. So, he may have made a couple of comments to the Chinese and Japanese delegation, who found it hilarious by the way, and it spread around the building.

The Chinese started to make comments about how Venezuela would never be on the Security Council because you had to have some kind of an intimidation factor to be efficient. Venezuela got all upset because the temperature in the restroom was "supposedly" colder than usual and then started taking off their red ties and slapping people.

Someone from Jamaica got slapped by a red tie and all hell broke loose. They started saying they had seen this same member in his red speedo back in 1983 during the sweltering heat of the Jamaican summer and to not use that as an excuse etc. The Guatemalans, who had confiscated several red ties and were wearing them wrapped around their heads, couldn't contain their laughter anymore. Then someone brought up the domino match and the fighting once again commenced.

Why am I talking about this? Because I was on the Internet and saw the following headline:

"Bush: No pullout until mission complete."

Yes, I know. I learned that in the 8th grade.

And this, mis amigos, is why I don't do political commentary.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Best conversation Part 2

I’ve been asked for the actual details of the conversation Miguel and I had with our new amiga last weekend. I apologize for not writing them in the last post, but I’m of the belief that posts shouldn’t be longer than one page long. I assume, perhaps incorrectly, that you all suffer from the horrible Guatemalan ADD that has plagued me for years. So, here are the questions, comments and some responses that were made last weekend. Por favor, I apologize for mi amigo and know, that Miguelito meant no harm by his questions. He was like a kid in a lesbian candy store and couldn’t help himself. Oh, si, I guess I should say that these are the responses of one lesbian and in no way shape or form do we believe that her responses speak for the entire lesbian community. We would have to meet a Guatemalan lesbian for that to be the case.

“I was once in a bar and I saw many lesbians dancing. Why can’t lesbians dance?”

“I’m a great dancer. I don’t know where you where.” (He was at Wonderland)

“So, are you the man or the woman in a relationship?”

“That’s not how it works. It’s not like that at all.”

“Oh, so you go and get your nails done together? Get waxed together and things like that?”

“No. I don’t get my nails done. But I’ll totally go shopping together.”

I guess that makes sense. You get to double your wardrobe.

“El Guapo, can you please stay out of this conversation? Your being here is kind of ruining things for me. Why don’t you go over there and play with your mustache?”

“Explain the combat boots to me. The buzz hair cuts. Por favor, why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t get that either. I like my women to look sporty, but combat boots aren’t sporty. They’re militant.”

“Do you have combat boots?”

“Well, yeah, but I just wear them when I want to look cute.”

“You should take what I’m about to tell you and spread it around the lesbian world: Combat boots are never cute. Never. Your life will be so much better if you just follow that rule.”

“Miguel, you’re going to change my life.”

“Hermana, you have no idea.”

She really doesn’t. I apologize in advance to the lesbian community of Washington DC for the actions that mi amigo will most likely do to better “understand” your world.

“So, do you ever miss a man and bring one into your bed with your girlfriend?”

“Nice try Miguel.”

En serio, mi amigo. Nice try…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Best bar conversation ever

“This is seriously the greatest conversation I’ve ever had in mi vida.”

Every once in a while I find myself in a situation that makes me want to give thanks to my creator. It seems like I have been doing this more and more every day, but I guess that just means that life, bueno, life is good. This weekend, Miguel and I found ourselves speaking to a woman, who oddly enough, didn’t want either of us, not in that way anyway.

You see, I have found myself being invited to more and more social activities than in the recent past. Much of this I attribute to mi Linda, but I also attribute it to my mustache, which is growing more and more lustrous with each passing day.

This weekend Miguel and I were at a birthday celebration and were making useless chit chat with a fellow female partygoer.

“Yeah, so like, I don’t know, she’s nice and all, but we just started dating, so I’m going to see where this goes.”

Miguel pushed back from the bar and gave our new friend all of his attention. Over the next 20 or so minutes Miguel was asking this woman an assortment of questions he had for some reason been holding in for over 25 years:

Our new amiga was loving the attention she was getting from us and loving Miguel’s questions even more. She may have taken some artistic liberty with her memories, but she described her first experience with a woman with so much detail and hand gestures that it left these two Latinos without words.

“…I’m talking a full body orgasm. My hair was tingling.”

“And a man can not do this for you? Have you been with a Latino? Really? Your hair was tingling? Mi amiga, I have been in many bar conversations en mi vida and this, right here, is the best.”

I had to agree with mi amigo, but was frankly a bit taken aback by the detail being brought forth by nuestra amiga. I mean, she had the power to twist adjectives in a such a way that we felt we were there with her for her first time and let me tell you, it was beautiful.

“Can you look around this room and tell me who is a lesbian? Is that girl a lesbian?”

“Miguel, just because she has short hair doesn’t mean that she’s a lesbian. I can’t always tell by looking at someone. I kind of just came out.”

“Do you know what you need??? You need a wing man! Please! Let me be your wing man. I was this one’s wing man until he became “monogamous.” Do you know what that means? It means he is only with one woman. Are you like that? Please don’t be like that.”

Miguel spent the rest of the evening asking his new amiga many questions that many would have found offensive, but I promise you that they were asked with the curiosity of a child. If anything, Miguel came away with such a wealth of knowledge that he went to bed with a smile on his face. Then again, so did I. It truly was an amazing conversation. I can only hope to have many more.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Couch Redemption

About 3-4 years ago, I was rummaging through my neighbor’s mail and I came across a furniture catalog that caught my eye. Normalmente I don’t bother with these catalogs, but this one had a special quality that made my beautiful Latino eyes stop. I set aside his copy of Playboy and opened up the glossy pages.

There was a couch contained within these pages that made my jaw drop. Now, note that I normally could care less about furniture, but this couch was beautiful. It seemed to have been splashed with all of the warm colors found in nature and in a Latino household: red, yellow, orange etc etc. It was glorious.

I knew that if I owned this couch, any woman that saw it would say, “El Guapo, please make love to me on this couch right now.” I needed this couch. This was a magical couch.

Unfortunately, the price tag on this couch was very much out of my price range. But I needed this couch. So for the next several months I did side jobs, I saved, I scrimped, not one couch pillow was left unturned until I had saved every penny needed (plus tax) to buy this couch that was surely inspired by the most Guatemalan saint Pedro de San Jose Betancourt, or as we call him, Hermano Pedro.

But mis amigos, I will tell you something. I never did get this couch. When I went to the store, in Virginia mind you, I was treated with indifference and disrespect. I sat on this couch and every hair on my body rose up in excitement. I was finally going to be able to say this was mine. But no. It was not so.

When I asked a man for some help, I received this response:

“Look man, come back another time. We don’t have layaway. I’m busy with my clients.”

Layaway… First of all, we don’t do layaway. Second, I don’t know what happened. I had what was a good chunk of cash sitting in yellow envelope in my pocket ready to be handed over, but I refused. Maybe I should have showed him the money, but I didn’t feel it necessary to make a point. This store was not going to be getting my business.

Then the other night I happen to overhear a conversation. This store was going bankrupt.

Now, I don’t want to take complete credit for this, but I will tell you that a big factor in Storehouse’s parent company going bankrupt is because one of their salespeople was given the Guatemalan curse. Now, do I feel good that people are going to be out of a job? No, I know what this is like. I hope they find something very soon. But do I have something to say to Storehouse? Si. I do. Crate and Barrel is better anyway bitch.

That is all.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

My cojones

Women. Why is it that I need them so? Mira, I love mi Linda. There is no doubt about this, but sometimes, ay sometimes, I do things that make me wonder if I left my cojones in a jar on a high up counter. I will tell you this. Sometimes, I miss my cojones. They are so wonderful.

Why this talk of locked up cojones? Bueno, it is fault of women everywhere that I feel a little lighter in the pants. For some reason, women of the world decided to take a perfectly good occasion, normally celebrated by women only, and thought it a good idea to make men attend.

Baby shower no more. In Washington DC it is now called a Couples Shower.

Mira, I’m very happy for mis amigos when they decide to further segregate themselves from the rest of the social world by having children. The thing is, the occasion of celebration is one that is for women. This is the day that the mujeres decorate a room with pastel colored table tops and unnecessary flowers. This is a day that women giggle, cackle and ogle while a seated pregnant woman is given devices for their child to swing, bounce and sleep. This mis amigos, is no place for a man.

BUT, some female sadist felt it necessary to take away mi very special day when I can spend the afternoon playing soccer, drinking beer, and adjusting the cojones that I used to have.

Look, I can not get excited over a baby swing. I have nothing to add to the conversation.

“Oh Tracy, you’re going to love this swing. My little Jonathan falls right asleep when I put him in it. Isn’t that right Andrew?”

Poor Andrew. I saw the look on this man’s face. I saw him checking football scores on his phone. His hair had the look of a recent baseball hat forced off of him for it was surely not appropriate attire for such an occasion.

“Oh yes. It’s great.”

No, Andrew. It is NOT great. It’s a maldito swing. You don’t care, I don’t care and all the other men in the room thinking about how it used to be when their cojones weren’t kept in a jar don’t care. It’s a swing.

“That swing is pretty great, but it will break in about a month. They should take it back and get the model above that.”

I looked at the man who said this to me and I almost wanted to ask him how long it had been since he had possession of his cojones. Then, I wanted to punch him in the nose for having the audacity to speak in such a way to me. Then, I felt sorry for him. He had accepted his place in the world without his cojones and was just trying to go with the flow. Come on hombre! At least TRY to act like you remember what it was like before you handed them over.

This was my last couples shower. It is no place for a man. I realize that my cojones will be kept in that out of reach jar for other occasions, but not for a “party” where excitement is had at the sight of a blanket. It's a f-ing blanket...

My cojones are far to precious to be wasted on such an occasion.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Ablutomania

It turns out that I have a disease. I know, I know. I’m Guatemalan and supposed to be perfect, but it isn’t so. One night, I couldn’t sleep. Love making didn’t help. A glass of warm milk didn’t help. I even watched Fox News for a bit. I couldn’t fall asleep.

So, I went to the computer to see if I could maybe read myself to sleep. Little did I know that something I did so often was actually a disorder. Si, this Latino suffers from ablutomania.

I was brought up in a very clean household. Touched the counter? Wash your hands. Brushing your teeth? Wash your hands. Use the bathroom? Wash your hands. Eating fruit? Wash the fruit. Changing a diaper? Wash your hands. Cleaning up after the dog? Wash your hands. Cooking food? Wash your hands.

I’m not sure what mi madre did to me, but she raised a family who was clean. Is this bad? Do I have a such a desire to be clean that it borders on a compulsion?

I’ve been to clubs in DC and have seen men walk in and walk out without even glancing at the sink. I’ve seen a guy fix his hair while his hand still glistened from his waste. I’ve even seen men come out of stalls after giving the restroom a flatulent concert and walk right out. Hell, no H20 is what they must believe, but Dios mio! Come on! Wash those hands. It makes the hairs on my arm stand up with the thought.

Miguel once chased a guy out of club restroom to ask him why he didn’t wash his hands.

“Mind your own business dickhead.”

Miguel let this get under his skin and under normal circumstances I would have calmed him down, but not with this. I abhor this act with all my heart and soul. I did nothing to calm him down. In fact, I egged him on a little bit. Why not? I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but he went looking for this guy and found him talking to a group of women.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt. Your amigo here was just in the restroom with me and I wanted to let you know that he didn’t wash his hands. He told me to mind my own business dickhead when I asked him about it.”

“Ewwwww Terry! That’s sick!”

“He’s messing around. I washed my hands.”

“No, Terry. You didn’t wash your Armani Exchange hands. I was watching you the entire time. Good luck with the ladies!”

Take care indeed. The two thumbs up he gave him at the end was priceless.

So you know what? I’m glad I have this disorder. I think it’s the best disorder one could have. I wash my hands too much. So what? Terry… Ay, what a name for a non hand washer Armani Exchange gringo…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Second time

Today, I went looking for God. I paused after writing that last sentence because it seems so ridiculous to read it on my screen. But, I did in fact go looking for God today.

Mi mind woke me up around 7 AM and instead of going back to sleep, I put on my shoes and went walking through the streets of DC. It turns out that life is sometimes confusing and a walk through the streets that give me inspiration is what I needed.

I turned my back on the church shortly after being able to grow a mustache, but today, I had forgotten why. Maybe my life would be complete if I went to the place mi madre and abuela go for answers. Maybe I would feel better if I lit a candle and dipped my fingers in holy water. Maybe God would give me a sign of some kind.

So, I got my bearings and walked to the nearest Catholic church. When I walked in I was amazed at how many people were in the cathedral. People were standing all along the sides because there were no more seats. God was muy popular on this brisk Sunday morning. Then, I looked again. I was wearing the same jeans and shirt that were worn the night before. The men in this church were not wearing jeans.

In fact, they were all wearing their suits and ties, while their women wore elegant church-like dresses. I was wearing tennis shoes and hair that had not been brushed since the previous evening. I felt out of place. Out of place in the house of God. I felt as if I were not worthy to be in the same house of God as the men with suits.

In my shame I looked up at the beautiful vaulted ceilings and noted the many paintings of white saints whose names I did not know adorned with gold plated squares. Gold in the house of God. So much gold in a house that exists to praise the creator. Suits, ties, white saints and gold. Why?

Does God care if you wear a suit to reach out to him? Does God care if you polish your shoes to walk to him? Does God care for his house to be littered with Gold? Not my God.

My God doesn’t require you to have anything. He doesn’t care if you have one, ten, or zero suits. He doesn’t require gold to be praised. He doesn’t require a house to be praised. My God is there when I feel the warmth of a sun ray on a brisk Sunday morning. He is there when I smile at the sight of my entire family seated at the breakfast table. He is there when I say a little prayer of thanks for mi vida. My God is everywhere. A church is not required.

I decided to leave the church after twenty minutes. I instinctively put my fingers into a marble containter for some holy water to be sprinkled on my head. It was empty. I shook my head and laughed to myself as I heard heads turn to see who was leaving church so early.

As I walked away from the church I turned around and smiled. Then, I turned my back on the church for the second time in my life. This time, however, I knew why.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo