Couch buddy

Hombre, you need to scoot over.

“Look, this is my bed. I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but this is my bed. Mine. So if you don’t like that I sprawl, then go sleep on the floor.”

You sleep on the floor.

“Yeah, good comeback El Dicko.”

Nice. This is great. What’s your story anyway? You don’t look, sound or act very Brazilian.

“Dude, you wouldn’t know a Brazilian if they did the lambada all over your face.”

No, en serio, what’s your story?

“I’m adopted.”

Do you like this familia?

“Look kid, drop the whole Spanish thing with me. I get it. You’re a sexy, drop-dead gorgeous Guatemalan with a mustache. You don’t have to impress me. Much.”

Look, sorry. I speak Spanish. The Spanish gets mixed in there sometimes. What can I say? Thank you by the way. You’re the first person in this family to say you like my mustache.

“Well, I didn’t say I liked it. I said that you had one.”

Oh.

“Nah, man, look. This family is good. They’re very loyal to one another and like their food and drink. They go hunting every once in a while and take me with them. It’s not a bad gig really.”

Seems like you were adopted by a good family. Are you Brazilian?

“I’m a bit of a mix. They think I have some Portuguese in me, but definitely some German. I honestly have no idea.”

How about the one you always hang out with? Is he a relative of some kind?

“Yeah, he’s slow if you know what I mean. Good guy though. He’s been here longer than me. Real dumb, poor guy. He’s getting old though, so he’s happiest when he’s working on a full stomach and sitting in the shade.”

Look, not to be rude or anything, but when was the last time that you bathed?

“The Guatemalan is giving me bathing advice? Great! Look man, this is my basement. You’re sleeping on my couch. You deal with it. I jump in the river every once in a while, but I don’t really remember the last time I’ve been bathed with that smelly crap they like. Just deal with it. You’re making my eyes tear with your pharmacy-bought cologne, so just back off.”

Lo siento.

“Yeah, look, I don’t speak Mexican. But if you’re saying you’re sorry, well, don’t worry about it. Just go to sleep and let’s act like this conversation never happened.”

Ok.

“Hey, do you have any of those chips left? I’m starving over here.”

I was told that you weren’t to have any chips.

“Stupid Brazilians… Hey man, tomorrow, do you want to throw the stick around tomorrow? You throw it far, I go and get it, then I bring it back to you. You do that a couple of times and I’ll put in a good word for you. What do you say?”

I can do that. Gracias. I really appreciate the gesture.

“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t be spooning me like the last guy. I will bite that mustache right off.”

Last guy? What the…..

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

En serio?

“So, you’re Guatemalan?”

Yes.

I say this while staring at the 6’4 blonde hair, blue eyed, half-Brazilian brother of mi Linda’s. Half-Brazilian? This corn feeding must be fantastic for growth because I could not see anything Latino about this one. He didn’t have a mustache either. In fact, I don’t think that he would be able to grow facial hair at all. I am very confused with this half-Brazilian full Nebraskan thing.

“Guatemala isn’t in the World Cup are they?”

No.

What kind of question is this? Guatemala has yet to make the World Cup and I’m sure that he knows this. This is the worst moment ever. He might as well tell me that he doesn’t like my mustache or mustaches in general.

“So, who’s your team?”

Anyone but Argentina.

“Really? You don’t like Argentina either? Good man.”

What is this? Did El Guapo just find the way to the brother’s heart? Did my candle lighting work?

“Man, I’m so sick and tired of women saying that the Argentinean players are so hot. If I see one more person wearing an Argentina shirt in Grand Island f-ing Nebraska, I’m going to lose it.”

Of course! Why wouldn’t Brazilians and half-Brazilians alike dislike Argentineans? They share a border with them. There is one living down my street and I get upset about this. Perfect, I can roll with this anti-Argentinean thing.

Yes. Actually, I refuse to buy anything Argentinean because I will not support their economy.

“Hey ma, El Guapo here won’t buy Argentinean wine because he refuses to support their economy.”

Maybe I went a little too far here.

Then, mi Linda’s mother, with her large, gold hoop earrings, gold bracelets, and tight clothing (si, she was muy hot too) floated over to me and gave me a hug.

“Did Linda tell you to say that?”

No, but I wish she would have told me that her brother was seven times my size and hated Argentina.

“Now I know why Linda likes you so much. You’re not only good looking, but you’re also very intelligent.”

I like her accent. If you have never heard a Brazilian speak English, you must seek one out immediately. They speak English by elongating their vowels in a melodic fashion. It’s like Spanish, but without the bones.

If making fun of Argentina was going to get me in the good graces of this family, they were going to be putting my picture up on the mantle before I leave. I am the master of hating Argentina. I have enough material to last me several years.

Then again, I am El Guapo. These corn-fed giants haven’t seen a mustache like mine. Why wouldn’t they like me?

“El Guapo, you’re going to be sleeping in the basement,” her father yelled at me from the smoky downstairs dungeon where the countless dogs seem to congregate.

The basement? En serio? I haven’t slept without mi Linda in several months. The basement? Do they not realize that I am a full-blooded Guatemalan?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Porque Nebraska?

Why in the name of all that is holy would Brazilians make their way to the state of Nebraska? Porque? No entiendo.

I am told that Brazil is a beautiful country full of beautiful people and customs. Mi Linda is half-Brazilian and it is mi opinion that she represents her half of herself with perfection. Her other half, whatever mix of European blood it is, thanks everything that is holy that they were able to say they now have a Brazilian in their midst.

Why am I speaking about Brazil and Nebraska? Bueno, this last weekend I had embarked on a trip to meet mi Linda’s familia. Her half Brazilian familia, who happen to live in Nebraska. I know, I didn’t know it was a state either…..

We took an airplane to Lincoln, a city, I imagine, was named after the American President who abolished slavery. In mi mind, you name a city after a man like this, you’re going to see a true melting pot of a city. Bueno, how do I put this without sounding crude? The last time I saw more blonde hair and blue eyes was the time that Miguel’s direct TV was stuck on a Swedish TV channel. Oh, yes, they all wore red. Almost 80% of the people in this strange place wore red t-shirts with the picture of corn. They must be very proud to show what they like to eat. No entiendo.

Ok, keep your head up El Guapo. If a Brazilian family thought that it was a good place to raise children, then it can’t be that bad. They lived in a city called Grand Island. Now, I wasn’t aware of Nebraska being a real state in the first place, but it further amazed me that there was an island of a city in the middle of the United States. I wondered what the waters surrounding this island city would be like…

Her father, a gringo, met us at airport with his 6’5” frame and a green hat with a picture of a deer named John. He did not have a mustache. This surprised me because he was somehow able to attract a Brazilian woman. Muy interesante.

You could see that mi Linda was her daddy’s little girl and that she could do no wrong by him. It was nice to see this relationship, but I still wondered how he was able to attract a Brazilian without a mustache.

“So, El Guapo, I understand you’re Guatemalan.”

Yes sir.

“How’s your Portuguese coming?”

Slowly but surely.

“Don’t worry buddy, I still don’t have it down after almost 30 years.”

That makes me feel much better sir.

Is being called "buddy" a good thing or a bad thing? I wanted to call Miguel so that he could help me out with this one, but I couldn't.

I really wanted to ask him how he was able to attract a Brazilian woman without a mustache and I couldn’t stop thinking about this. I believe I suffered what the gringo people call a “panic attack” and mi madre calls “overreacting” when I couldn’t stop thinking about this.

Instead of asking him this most pressing question, I decided to look out of the window. When Dios made this land, it was during a moment of lost inspiration. I tell you, I have never seen a land so devoid of originality in mi vida. It was simply flat. All that was around was corn, corn, corn, and then a family of Mexicans drove by in their truck.

How did I know they were Mexican? Well, I was told that there were some Latinos in Nebraska, but what gave it away was the large Mexican flag sticker plastered perfectly on their truck window. Chicano! Represent, Represent.

Still, how could there be an island city in between all of this corn? How could a man attract a Brazilian woman without a mustache? Were there any Guatemalans in this “state”? Why does everybody wear red?

These were questions that I would soon have answered….

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

On the bookshelf

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t El Guapo. You’re not looking too guapo now. Look at you. You look pathetic. Oh, in case you forgot, mi nombre es Miguel.”

Miguel, go away.

“Ah, mira! He remembers mi nombre. Wow. Should I feel honored that El Guapo remembers my name?”

Miguel go away. En serio. My shoulder is killing me.

“Di-os Mi-o. Look at El Guapo. You don’t even have the common decency to call and tell me that you’re having surgery? I have to hear about it on the street?”

Miguel, it’s shoulder surgery. It was minor. I’ll be ok in a couple of days. Who cares?

“Oh, I seeeeee. Only shoulder surgery? Bueno, in that case…..”

Punches me in the shoulder

Jesus Christ!!! Estas loco? I just had surgery you crazy bastard!

“But it’s only shoulder surgery, El Guapo. It was minor. You’ll be ok in a couple of days. Who cares?”

Who let you in?

“I let myself in. The front door guy thought I was delivering food. Look at you. You have a front door guy. Here, I brought you pupusas.”

I’m not hungry.

“Oh, I see Mr. Front Door Man. Too good for the pupusas? Too good for the barrio? Is, is that a cat?”

Look, Miguel, I’m in a lot of pain. I can’t deal with this right now. And no, I’ll never be too good for pupusas. Vamos…. You’re seriously going to do this to me now?


“Remember when we used to be friends? Like, when we used to go out and pick up gringas? Remember those days?”

Miguel, you have got to get me a pain killer. They’re over there on the top of the bookshelf.

“Why are they on top of the bookshelf?”

Mi Linda says I’m getting addicted.

“Ave Maria…..,” he says while putting his face in both of his hands. “She’s hiding your pain pills from you? Ave Maria encantada…..”

She’s just looking out.

“Why is your hair so long, hombre? I haven’t seen your hair that long since you were 18! You’re looking greasy man. Come on, what did you always tell me about looking greasy?”

To not do it.

“Si, to not do it! Why is your hair so long? Is that your Linda’s doing as well?”

…

“Ave Maria encantada…. Remember when El Guapo used to have cojones? That was awesome. Remember that? No? Yeah, I can barely remember either. Oh, no, I’m not going to get the pain pills for you. Ask your pet cat to get them. El Guapo has a cat. Wow. Did you hear that? The great El Guapo has a cat.”

Miguel. En serio. Get me a pill man. I can’t open the bottle because it’s a child proof cap.

He gets up, gets a chair, walks over to the bookshelf and stares at the pictures while he props himself up to get the bottle.

“Who is this guy?”

One of her ex-boyfriends.

“Hmm. Why does she have a picture of her ex-boyfriend up when she’s with you?”

She’s still friends with him.

“Hmm. Do you have any pictures of your ex-girlfriends up?”

No.

“Maybe you should put some up.”

I’m not friends with any of my exes.

“Hmmmm. Interesting. I like his blond hair and blue eyes. He seems nice. Maybe he'll be my friend too.”

Miguel, give me a pill.

“No.”

Seriously?

“Si. But, what I will do, is take this one pill with me. This one pill is mine. It is payment for the last couple of months.”

Miguel, I’m seriously in a lot of pain.

“Here,” he says as he hands me the cat. “Give him a hug. I hear animals make pain go away. They used to bring dogs to visit mi abuela at the hospital. It only made her sneeze, but who knows, maybe the cat will make your pain go away. This pill, however, is para mi.”
Some friend you are Miguel.

“That’s right, El Guapo. I am some friend. Your BEST friend. Try not to forget that. Enjoy the gatito. I’m out. Mucho amor to you, bitch.”

Touché mi amigo. Touché.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Shaving Surgery

Mira, I’m a bit drugged right now.

I’m typing with one hand as my arm is in a contraption designed to keep me down. It is maroon in color. How dare they give a Guatemalan a maroon sling… It just took me 2 minutes to write that last sentence. Does it hurt? Well, thanks to these beautiful white pills it doesn’t hurt so badly. Who painted the ceiling yellow?

Bueno, I had a plan to write about my experience from arriving to the hospital to leaving etc. I have since changed my mind. Not because of a lack of moments, but because algo happened to me at the hospital that has struck my beautiful Guatemalan soul to its core. I’m at a loss for words. Well, not really at a loss of words, but this is your American saying and I’m drugged and you have to deal with how I borrow your language. What was I talking about? Ah yes, I’m at a loss for words. (But not really.)

So here comes a woman with blonde hair to tell me that she’s going to give me something to make me relax.

Sweet, sweet Drugs….. Sweet, sweet legal drugs. This is, of course, what I am thinking.

Liar! If by “relax” you meant to say “knock you on your Guatemalan ass” then I wish you had just said that. I am Guatemalan. I have suffered at the hands of jealous boyfriends for many years. I know what it is to be knocked out. Please do not lie to me. I will remember your face oh blonde doctor woman. I will remember.

I wake up with a man clapping in my face. There is a rule I have to punch anyone who claps in my face, but for some reason I thought it to be funny. He was some sort of minority and was clapping to a beat. I started to sing a song but was asked to keep it down. I almost went into a rant about being Guatemalan when I noticed something.

Mi Linda had just made her way into the recovery room when she saw the puzzled look on my face.

“What’s wrong my darling?”

Wrong? Something is terribly wrong.

“Baby, you just had surgery. Of course something is wrong, but not terribly wrong. Are you sick?”

No. I do not get sick.

“Yes, I know, you’re Guatemalan… Seriously. Baby. Do you feel sick?”

Mi Linda, my leg. It’s, it’s different.

“You mean your shoulder? Yes, your shoulder is all bandaged up.”

My hands had somehow managed to explore their way underneath the hospital gown and were feeling something odd on my leg.

Mi Linda, something is terribly wrong. Some hijo de una puta shaved my leg!

Now, mi Linda was very good about trying to contain her laughter, but as I showed her my newly smooth thigh, she couldn’t help but smile.

Now, I like her smile, but this was no smiling matter. I had been violated. That blonde doctor was seriously going down.

WHO THE HELL SHAVED MY LEG?

I saw some old man in a Lazy-Boy type of chair laugh at this, but hey, his gown was pink, did he know this?

A nurse ran into my curtained room to see what the matter was.

Mira, El Bigote (The Mustache), come here. Some funny guy, and I think it was that blonde doctor, decided that it would be a funny joke to shave my leg. Now, I’m not sure what kind of operation you’re running here, but if I come in for a shoulder surgery I don’t want anything below my stomach to be touched. Shoulder is up here. Thigh is down there. Understand?

“El Guapo, they do that because they had a monitor on your leg during the surgery.”

This male nurse was very quick with his answers. Almost too quick for my tastes. He must surely be jealous of mi mustache. His was nice, but not Guatemalan. You could tell.

Hey! Did they shave your leg? I yelled this across the room to another guy my own age. He wasn’t Guatemalan either. Was I the only Guatemalan in here? Do they need special tools for me?

“Probably dude. I had knee surgery.”

Check your arms then. They’re tricky here.

I was getting “shhhhhhh’d” by both Linda and the male nurse with the mustache. He handed the plastic bag containing my clothes and asked her to start getting me ready.

Check to see if my wallet is in there. That blonde doctor probably stole it after she shaved my leg. Mi Linda, go find that blonde doctor.

“El Guapo, I’m not going to find the blonde doctor right now. We’ll find her later.”

Mi Linda was very amused by all of this, but she willingly shaves her legs. I am not a swimmer. I am not a biker. I am not Argentinean. I do not shave my legs. I WILL find that blonde doctor. Guess how many candles are being lit tonight to aid in my search for this unnecessary leg shaving doctor? Well, none. For some reason Dios doesn’t like to help in my spite-driven tirades. I will do this on my own.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: Surgery went well and I’m on pain medication. I now know why gringos become addicted to this. Mi Linda is starting to be a bit stingy with the pain medication, but I’m ok for now.

Magic sidewalks

“Excuse me, sir, are you looking for something?”

I’ve been spending a lot of time at mi Linda’s place lately. It is in an area that is muy different from my neighborhood. It has gotten some getting used to.

As I rode the bus home this evening I looked around to realize that I was the sole Latino on the bus. Everyone was white. I didn’t even know that white people knew about the DC bus system. It was strange, but a good strange.

Looking out the bus window was a different type of strange as well. Gone are the Spanish signs, liquor stores, funeral homes, Chinese take-out, and my beloved Pupuserias. I rode by some kind of a place called a “wine bar”. A wine bar? What in the name of holy Tecate is a wine bar? Do you sit at a bar and only order wine? Do you sit around twirling your glass? Do you put a lime in any type of wine? I’m afraid to go into that place. I’m afraid that I would cry.

I’ve been on the 30 buses several times and have yet to see a fight break out. Not even one. Actually, I saw a guy try to get a couch on the bus. He had some choice palabras to give the bus driver, but that was the most activity that I’ve ever seen. Yesterday the bus driver spoke with the passengers about their day. I wasn’t even aware that the bus drivers were allowed to speak with the passengers. I actually wished that I could talk about basketball to join in on a conversation, but then realized that basketball isn’t even a real sport. But still. What a wonderful world this is.

On the walk from the bus stop all the houses are perfectly manicured. Where do people keep all of their used beer bottles? Why aren’t they all over their lawn and the street? I don’t understand…

Not even a weed in between the sidewalk cracks. Are these magic sidewalks?

“Saw you looking around and were wondering if you’re lost.”

Have you heard of a strange land called Lebanon? Neither had I. Turns out that Chinese take-out is very out of date and the people in this neighborhood order food from merchants from Lebanon. There is a restaurant that caters to the people with the magic sidewalks called Quick Pita. They serve strange foods like Shawarma, Kabab, Falafel, and Hummos.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “El Guapo, all those words sound like things you avoid like the plague.” I agree my amigos. In mi mind, I think of those words and would use them like, “Si, I went out with this girl two months ago, one thing led to another, now I have this falafel growing up and down my place.” Or maybe, “Dude, you need to get that checked out. That definitely looks like a baba ghanouj on your lip!” The thing is, once I got past their unappetizing names, it tastes bueno. Actually, muy bueno. Does it beat a pupusa? Oh no. The Lebanoneners have yet to reach the peak of their culinary skills.

The people of this neighborhood are obviously not used to seeing someone as guapo as myself because I often catch them staring at me as I walk by their homes. One woman shielded her young teenage daughter as I walked by. She needn’t worry. I am taken.

“You sure that you’re in the right place?”

Yes officer. I am positive. Gracias. I’m going home.

Even the police officers are nice here. It must be the magic sidewalks.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Clavicle: Not a Greek God

“Mr. El Guapo, the results from the MRI came back showing that you have cysts all along your rotator cuff and clavicle.”

There must me some mistake. I’m Guatemalan. We don’t get cysts.

“Mr. El Guapo, I’m afraid that there aren’t any studies precluding the Guatemalan people from having this condition. No need to worry, however, this is very easily fixed with surgery.”

Look, I’m not sure where you went to medical school, but Guatemalans don’t get cysts. I’m not even sure if I have a clavicle, so why don’t you go ahead and re-check the results.

“Mr. El Guapo, the clavicle is medical term for the collar-bone. All humans have two clavicles.”

Dr., did you by any chance go to medical school in Argentina? It’s best if we get that out of the way first.

“I attended Harvard Medical School.”

Couldn’t get into Johns Hopkins then? I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m Guatemalan….

“Mr. El Guapo, this surgery is very simple. I would shave a couple of centimeters off of your clavicle and clean up any torn cartilage around your shoulder joint. The procedure itself would last about 2-3 hours and you’d be going home that same day.”

Mira, I’m very attached to my newly-found clavicle. I’m not so sure I want you shaving any parts of it off. What would happen if we just left it as it is?

“Pain for the rest of your life every time you move your left arm.”

Fantastico… Surgery. I found myself looking at my doctor wondering if maybe I should see a physician that didn’t go to a second-tier medical school. I’m a Guatemalan and not supposed to have any kind of physical maladies. This doesn’t make sense.

Ok, Mr. Doctor man, I’ll let you operate on me. I just have a couple of questions for you. Are you Argentinean or in any way affiliated with the country of Argentina?

“I went to Buenos Aires when I was in college.”

I see. What are your feelings regarding the Argentinean people in general?

“I’m not sure I know how to answer this question taking into account your underlying resentment towards everything Argentinean.”

Listen Mr. Doctor. There is nothing underlying about my feelings towards Argentina. I’m sorry. I’m being a bit emotional. I have cysts, need surgery, and all of a sudden have two clavicles. This is a lot for me handle in one day.

“Don’t worry Mr. El Guapo. I’ll take good care of you. Let’s schedule the surgery.”

Joder. My body isn’t what it used to be. I guarantee, however, that it’s much better than Rhett Miller’s gringo frame…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Vegas Baby, Vegas Final

The Las Vegas gambling community asked me not to post anything regarding my complete domination of their institution for fear that Guatemalans worldwide would flock to their beloved city and bankrupt them all.

It is not my fault that Guatemalans are known to not only be extremely good looking, but also expert gamblers. I apologize to every casino for taking their hard earned money. A special thanks to the two well dressed 300 lb men who gave me the advice to leave Las Vegas. I will say, however, that you should maybe pay a visit to your casino doctor. I don’t think you are supposed to sniff as often as that.

As you all know, I was in Las Vegas with mi Linda and several of her gringa friends. It was quite an experience. I learned many things about gringas that you don’t learn when you are seducing them on the dance floor. Did you know that gringas have a top five lista of men that they are allowed to bed if given the opportunity? Bed, without any kind of repercussion from their significant other.

Turns out that mi Linda also had such a list.

“Matthew McConaughey!”

No entiendo. He doesn’t even have a mustache. Why would you want him?

“Have you seen his body? Have you heard his accent?”

No, but have you seen my body? Have you heard my accent? I know for a fact that he is not Guatemalan. Wait, wasn’t he in the Wedding Planner? A real thespian that one.

“Rhett Miller!”

Who?

“He’s a singer/songwriter.”

For the record, I hate the label “singer/songwriter”. Mira, I’m a singer/songwriter. If you sing in a band, you damn well better be able to write a little musica. I looked him up when I had the time. No mustache and not Guatemalan. Is that a mole on his chin or does he like chocolate?Oh, again with the blue eyes. What is going on with mi Linda? Is she trying to tell me something?

“Brad Pitt used to be on my list, but not anymore. Not since Angelina Jolie.”

Ok, I was starting to get a little worried here. Brad Pitt, while no longer on the list, was definitely not Guatemalan.

“Patrick Dempsey!” All the gringas giggled at this.

Again with the light eyes… Again with the no mustache… The last name Dempsey, nope, not Guatemalan.

So, wait, you get to have 5 people on a list and if you get the opportunity you can sleep with them and I can’t get upset?

Interesante….

Who would be on my list? I start thinking about my list then. If mi Linda gets a list, I’m going to make my list too.

So, who is beautiful in my mind? Ok, there is a gringa that I have always been infatuated with: Demi Moore. I know, I know, but I stand by it. All she needs in her life is a Guatemalan named El Guapo.

Then I quickly go through the beautiful women who should go to bed with me: Carmen Dominicci, Ana Claudia Talancon, Penelope Cruz…..

Wait, can anyone be on this list? And you can’t get mad at me for sleeping with them?

As much as I would like to have the women listed above as my lovers, I had to be realistic. What were the chances that I would meet these women? Sure, once they met me it would be a done deal, but would be the chances that I would meet them? So, I did what any gambling man would do: I changed my list a bit.

Who is on my list?

Zaidra (no last name known) – She works in the Pupuseria down the street from me. We’ve all seen the way that she gives me extra cheese in my pupusas. Can there be return visits or do you have to cross them off the list?

Girl with tight jeans on my bus – She is in love with El Guapo. I’m not sure if she is Guatemalan, but I know that she is infatuated with my mustache. She tried to touch it one time. She’s definitely on my list.

Penelope (next door neighbor) – Look, she’s kind of been on my list before I even knew anything about lists, but she made her presence known. She also makes the cut.

Look, if you get to have a list, you have to put people that you have a realistic chance of being with. Why do you think that I am el rey of Las Vegas? I play the odds!

Oh, look, I can still have two more on the list. Fine, I’ve played the odds enough.. Demi Moore gets to be on the list.

Not to be completely corny and un-Guatemalan, but, I would have to, put mi Linda on mi lista. This is just one that I wouldn't want to cross off, ever.

Oh, for the record, Matthew McConaughey, Rhett Miller, and Patrick Dempsey, if you’re reading, stay the hell away from mi Linda and DC. Trust me, you can’t handle her. It takes a mustached Guatemalan for this. Te lo prometo.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Vegas Baby, Vegas Part II

Has anyone noticed a shortage of silicone and striped shirts?

Si? Well, they’re all in Las Vegas.

In all of my years, I have never seen so many silicone breasts in one location. No lifeguards are needed at the hotel pool because these chicas never have to worry about sinking. When several of them go out in the deep end they bob up and down like a plastic toy soldier every time a fake wave came by. If you drink too many Coronas with lime, you can just grab right on to them and wait for a wave to carry you to shore.

Do the Cuban refugees know about the buoyant properties of silicone breasts? Did they get that wire?

You may wonder if it was difficult for me to keep my eyes from straying in front of mi Linda. Bueno, at first it was. Then, something miraculous happened. Her gringa friends began playing a fantastic game called: Are they real or not? By playing this game I was suddenly able and allowed, without any guilt, to look at all the silicone in the world. I could even look at non-silicone tops under the guise of playing this most beautiful of games. I was the happiest Guatemalan (read: only) in all of Las Vegas.

I must find out if there are more gringa games that are similar in fashion to this.

Now, the only thing in Las Vegas that ruined the silicone was the abundance of striped shirts. Sometimes there were so many guys walking around in groups of striped shirts that I felt I was staring at one of those crazy posters that were cool in the early 1990’s. You know what I’m talking about. Those posters that make you lose focus for a second then a sailboat miraculously appears in front of you.

Well, I didn’t quite see a sailboat, but I did once hear the rebel yell: Long Island in Da House. Then, I passed out from the fumes of their hair gel and impostor cologne. Did you know that men from Long Island develop a skin condition where their skin is mysteriously orange? Why is this? Can someone explain? Also, why do they sit around and talk about their pecs instead of playing the Are they real or not? game? Please, someone explain this to me. I do not understand.

I love Las Vegas.

To be continued…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Vegas Baby, Vegas

Did you know that Bugsy Siegel had a Guatemalan nanny? Si, it is a well known fact among the Guatemalan population that Guadalupe (Lupe) Martinez was his nanny during his infancy and is rumored to have given him the idea for Las Vegas. Yes, this is true. Legend has it that she whispered that his fortune would be found in the “deserts to the west”. When the opportunidad presented itself to go and visit the city inspired by a Guatemalan, I jumped at it.

Was this to be a bachelor’s fiesta with strip club-inspired activities? Claro que no! I am El Guapo. I do not do strip clubs.

I was going to celebrate the 30th birthday of one of mi Linda’s gringa friends. This occasion marked two milestones for me: 1) My first venture outside of the East Coast; 2) My first trip with mi Linda.

Now, I’m not a fan of airplanes mainly due to the fact that they were not invented by Guatemalans and so, I don’t trust them. I know this is ridiculous, but it can not be helped. I fear airplanes for the reason that I don’t know who is going to be sitting around me. Will there be a madre changing the diaper of her baby in the aisle next to me? Will I sit in the middle aisle of two Jennie Craig drop-outs? Will the stewardess flirt with me the entire flight and not let me sleep? You see, these are all very big issues and I was quite nervous.

Mi Linda was very gracious to allow me to have the aisle seat in the airplane. I am not a man of tall stature, so the need to stretch out my legs isn’t great, but I feel less claustrophobic in the aisle.

I looked around the airplane and was quite happy with the crowd. Turns out that taking children to Vegas wasn’t as prominent as I had expected, so there were no children on board. Since I was in the aisle, I didn’t have to worry about sitting next to anyone, but mi Linda, so I was bueno there. Look at this, El Guapo was going to have a pleasant flight after all.

Then it happened. My flight was ruined.

What started as a murmur, slowly grew to a yelp and disturbed my slumber. The ultra preppy gaggle of slicked back hair, tortoise shell colored glasses, bright colored polo shirt wearing mid-twenty “dudes” started speaking a strange languague.

Ehhhh. Uhhhhhhh. Uhhhhhh. We. We. We.

Dear Dios, this is a five and a half hour flight. Please, por favor, do not allow the men behind me to be speaking the language that I think they are speaking. Please. They made me throw away the candle that I attempted to bring on board, so I can not light one in your honor. Please, make them not talk. Please make them not speak the language I think they’re speaking.

We. Non. Merci Blah- Blah Blah.

It turns out that God does not answer my prayers when not accompanied by the lighting of a candle. The stupid people at the check in were not happy when they "confiscated" 7 of my candles from my carry on.

Angry Airport Man: Sir, what are these?

Candles, for prayer.

AAM: Are you aware that it is against federal regulations to bring any kind of flammable material onboard an airplane?

No. I am but a simple Guatemalan.

AAM: I'm going to have to go ahead and ask you to take out all the candles in your possesion.

Dick....

Five and one half hours of the French language and no candles to make them go away.

Now, I never was one to jump on the hating of the French in general. I appreciate them for their wines and berets. Their language? Well, I could do without it. At first it didn’t bother me, but I kept hearing “We, We, We, We” and suddenly I had to go to the restroom.

I then started to play a little game to pass time where I was pretending to know what they were saying:

French Guy 1: You know, I really like to eat rabbit. Uhhhhh yes?
French Guy 2: Pierre, yes, I agree with you. Rabbit is good. Have you ever seen that cartoon Pepe Lepew? I hate it.
French Guy 3: I also hate that cartoon. It is so American to make us not smell good.
FG1: Ever notice how American women fall for our accents? I’m not even that good looking, but here I’m like a regular Tom Cruise.
FG2: I agree Jacque. In France I had to wait until 3 AM to be able to convince a woman to go home with me. Here, I say that I’m a painter and it’s a done deal.
FG3: God, I love being French. Have you seen my new beret? It’s so increi-bleh.

Yes, this became boring after a while. So, I did what anyone would do. I took an Ambien.

To be continued:

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Barrio Poetry

Ay Dios mio. So, I just walked in the house after witnessing something that made me laugh. Now, some of you will not find this very funny, but I’m here to help you. In fact, after reading this, your life may very well be changed.

I live in the ghetto where the gringos are transitioning the hell out of the place. You throw a crack rock and chances are you’re going to hit a new condo development. Hey, I hear it’s muy trendy to say you live in a loft that overlooks a crack house.

Anyway, you get the point. Construction everywhere. With construction, come construction workers. With construction workers, come Latino construction workers (except on the Day Without Immigrants). With Latino construction workers, come some of the most imaginative phrases ever put together.

Now, if I were to see a beautiful woman at a club, I would approach her with my very sexy Latino accent and say:

“Hello. I saw you trying to dance with this “man”. A woman with your beauty should not be in the embrace of such a gorilla. Allow me to show you the proper way.”

Please read the above line with a very sexy Guatemalan accent. It only works if you do it with a very sexy Guatemalan accent. Imagine saying the word “oranges”, but be sure to roll your “r’s”. That is how sexy I speak. That's right. Calma yourselves. Ready? Vamos.

A Latino construction worker would never approach the woman. He would yell at the top of his lungs from across the room, “Hey baby, come over here and let this Guatemalan rub you real good on the dance floor so that I can get you in the mood and show you my banana.”

Construction workers like detail. The beauty of their vernacular (new word for El Guapo) is how descriptive they get.

A regular man may say, “Hey, nice ass!”

Never a Latino construction worker. They know that they represent proud men and women who have can make words dance with their adjectives and verbs. They would never shame their ancestors by simply saying “nice ass”. No. Nunca.

A Latino construction worker would say, “Hey mami! I want to rest my head on your juicy ass while you jump up and down on my bed full while we eat watermelon off of each other and spit the seeds into each other’s mouth.” Or something like that.

A regular man may say, “Want my banana?”

A Latino construction worker would say, “Heeeeeey. I got my right leg shot off in a war. This isn’t my leg. It’s my banana. You hungry?”

I’m very proud. This is mi gente.

Now, unless you like to hear about war injuries and their lunch menu, this can be avoided. In fact, cat calls by Latino men can be avoided altogether if you wish.

Do you know why they make these comments to you? It’s because you made eye contact. That’s it. Si. Latino construction workers, hell, Latino men believe that if you look at them you want to make sweet amor with them. Not just love. Sweet, Sweet magic love.

Have sunglasses on and they can’t see your eyes? Well, you’re looking at them as far as they’re concerned. Look, if you look in their direction then you’re looking at them.

How do you avoid this? Well, you can act like you’re looking for a lost pupusa and stare at the floor, but even then they may think you’re just shy and really want to look at them.

Sometimes it’s hard out there for a Latino. Knowing that you are so very sexy yet not being in an environment conducive to verbal harassment (barrio poetry).

For the record, if you see me, you will welcome my cat calls. For the record (if mi Linda is reading this) I wouldn’t make cat calls because I find them to be demeaning and sexist and frankly any man who has to make himself feel superior by using this type of language doesn’t even deserve to breathe….

Mucho Amor,

El "Try not to make eye contact" Guapo