Gambling Event

Most people may not know this about Guatemalans, but we are avid gamblers. We tend to bet money on just about everything. Sports, cards, cows, pigeons and now one of our favorites: The National Spelling Bee.

The 2007 Scripps National Spelling Bee is an event where kids under 16 years of age from the U.S., Europe, Canada, New Zealand, Guam, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, The Bahamas, and American Samoa compete in their ability to spell long and useless English words.

It’s amazing.

In the United States, it is televised. We have almost every male in mi barrio involved in this. Miguel has a war room set up in his place and is in charge of all the bets. Pictures of the final 15 contestants and the words they spelled correctly to make it to the finals.

Intense.

My money is ALWAYS on the Indian kids. Why? Because they are ALWAYS the ones with the premature mustaches. ALWAYS.

My good hard-earned money is on my main man Prateek Kohli.

Look at that mustache. LOOK at that mustache! Look at his shirt buttoned all the way up. Look at the way he parts his hair. While other kids are reading magazines showing some skin, Prateek has a dictionary in his hand. He knows the country of origin for the word onychomycosis. Hombre, when that mustache fills out he's going to dominate.

“You can’t just bet on the mustaches El Guapo. The white kids always surprise you. The ones with the devil’s mark win too!”

Devil’s Mark?

“Freckles. Connor Spencer is my choice. He spelled amphipneustic. Before that, he was straight up amazing. He can hang with me any day, papi! That, and he has two last names! You have to go with him. Oh, he breeds parakeets.”

There was even a favorite that was eliminated this year: Samir Patel. Samir misspelled the word “clevis”. Idiota... His mother appealed his elimination. Why? The U.S. media didn’t seem to know. Luckily for all of you, I know the real reason. His madre came down to the barrio and placed a nice bet on her boy Samir.

It’s just too bad that the competition isn’t open to Guatemalans. We would dominate.

Was the word pupusa a word in the competition? Probably not. Gringos are afraid of our flavor.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

$2.43

(On Hold for 13 minutes)

Thank you for calling Comcast. How may I help you?

Yes. Hello. I have a question on my bill. I’m being charged an Admin Fee of $2.43 for Comcast High Speed Internet Service.

Let me take a look. Yes. Everyone is charged that fee.

But, I don’t have Comcast Internet Service.

Um… That’s because it’s for like the Public channels.

Public channels? Public channels are free. No? If I don’t have cable, I don’t have to pay anyone. Why do you want me to pay this now?

Um… It’s because now you have cable.

May I please speak with someone else?

(On hold for 11 minutes more)

How can I help you sir? That Administrative fee is a misprint under your bill. It happened on all the bills. It shouldn’t be under Internet.

I don’t get it. Administration fee for what? Are you typing letters for me?

Anytime you call in to add or change service there is a fee involved. You called in for the Sports package and you’re being charged a fee.

Oh. Si. I remember. You mean when I was calling about your being 7 hours late for an installation? Si. I remember. When I decided that it would be a good idea to add the sports package? You are charging me a fee for this?

Yes.

You’re charging me for calling in to complain about your being seven hours late and then telling you that I even want to give you more money? I called to say, “I want to give you more money,” and then you say, “Thank you, but for wanting to give Comcast more money, I’m going to charge you $2.43 for that honor.” Is this right? Can you hold for a second?

I put my phone down and went outside to get some fresh air. I thought about being an hombre about standing for his principles, but then I realized that it’s fucking $2.43. My life was pretty great if that was my biggest problem today.

I came back inside and did what any of you would do.

I left that cabron on hold while I enjoyed what $2.43 gets me.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

New Tourist Attraction!!!

Washington DC is a tourist town. Tourists come here from all over the world to see museums, monuments and to witness the American government at work. Sure, at night they go to the finest restaurants, bars and clubs to support the local economy and to have a great time, but is that enough?

As the official Guatemalan-Washingtonian ambassador, I feel it is my sworn duty to inform tourists and hell, residents alike, of a monument that isn’t often (read: ever) discussed in your tour books and to do guides of DC:

A whore house!!! A brothel!!! A house of ill repute!!!

That’s right! You too can make a visit to a Washington DC institution right on the bustling 14th street corridor.

Forget about calling an escort from the phone book or calling a DC madam.

Come on by and take pictures with the local prostitutes and johns. There are no hooker cut outs here, you can take pictures with real life women of the night (and day and afternoon since the place never seems to close) to send home to your grandmother. Nothing says I love you like a picture with a herpes-ridden hooker.

El Guapo! This sounds exactly like the type of place I want to take my kids! Please tell me where I can find this!!!!!

Oh yes, the location. Right on 14th street NW between Spring and Quincy. Look for the big C&K Entrance sign prominently displayed with red lettering. It’s on your right hand side if you’re going north on 14th street.

Driving at night and can’t quite see the sign? No te preocupes!!! You can often find it by looking for the windows with bed sheets as curtains. They are very high class at C&K!

El Guapo, wow, this is great!!! Why are you telling us about this great hidden gem of the DC tourism???

Bueno, the place as been up and running for years and since the DC police don’t seem to mind, I imagine they want the public to know about it! I’m just helping them spread the word.

It is SUCH a joy to have a full out brothel steps from my house that I really wanted to spread the love (pun intended).

Oh, if you enjoy what this little piece of brothel heaven does for your sightseeing, please send our Chief of Police a comment here.

Enjoy!

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

My balloon

I haven’t been out of my house since Friday afternoon. The shades have been drawn down to numb the sun and the only exercise consists of movements from my couch to the refrigerator and the bathroom; not in any particular order.

I’ve been dreading this weekend since last year. I knew it would come right before June brought the sweltering DC heat. I knew it was going to come for some time and this Friday, I simply decided to prepare myself by hiding. From the world. From the sky. From myself.

Today is Memorial Day. Today, like all Memorial Days I would go to pay my respects at the Arlington National Cemetery. Today, however, was different. Today, I would visit a gravestone of a fallen friend.

Nobody deals well with death. It’s a natural occurrence, but an unnatural emotion. Losing my friend was like telling me that the color yellow was to exist no more. I am constantly reminded of his absence with every smile I enjoy.

My alarm sounded at 9:59, but I couldn’t get off of my couch until close to 1. My chest felt like there was a full balloon inside, but no matter what I did, I could not get it to burst.

I looked at the thousands of white headstones marking those who fell fighting for someone’s freedom. The hairs of my skin were at a constant attention as I walked by families and friends paying their respects. My feet guided me where my eyes did not wish to look. My feet guided me onward at a quick pace.

There it was. His section. His mother had told me how to find it. She knew that I would be going this Monday and had mailed me a card with the instructions inside. She knew I would be there. She knew that I would have found it on my own, but she wanted to make it easier for me. His mother, who now had no more son, was thinking about me. The balloon filled with more air.

And there he was. His name. His birthdate. His death.

He was older than me. Now I am.

I looked down on his gravesite hoping that the proper words or actions would come out of me, but they didn’t. I stood there, with sunglasses in my hand, waiting for tears that I had been holding back to drop. They didn’t.

Many times I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing, not even empty air would come out. No wise words. Nothing.

I was on my knees in front of his grave. Above his body. I placed my right hand on his grave as I did his shoulder before I last gave my goodbyes to him.

“See you later,” I said, not believing in goodbyes.

Later never came.

My knees were wet from yesterday’s downpour, but my eyes had forgotten to blink. I put both hands on my cheeks in a motion that would normally cause tears, but nothing. I could not cry for my friend. The tears were hiding from him as if to refuse to actually say goodbye.

Then, a man, an older man with gray facial hair and a black bandana firmly placed his hand on my own right shoulder. I stood up and embraced him. The tears finally came. The tears that had been stored for months poured onto this strangers shoulders. His black shirt. He embraced me firmly as to let the air out of the balloon that had been holding air for far too long.

Thank you.

I walked away, still crying, not wanting the tears to stop because I needed this release. I needed my balloon to go away.

I am not a politician, nor have I ever claimed to know about great worldly events. What I do know, however, is that I never want to cry at the grave of another friend lost in a faraway land.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Lo siento: An apology to Senator McCain

“El Guapo, I like you man. You make me laugh with your stupid stories. Stick with what you know tho. Talk about flan, dancing, hookers and smoking weed. Leave the politics to those who know better. U made yourself look like an ass with your McCain post.”

“John McCain was an American POW and an American hero. He can call anyone he wants a varmint. Argentine wannabe.”

“EG why don’t you just come out and say that you’re a gay liberal Dem. Stop making fun of all the Republicans. You suck.”

And so went a couple of e-mails that I received about my last post. I didn’t realize how many McCain supporters and Republicans graced my little corner of the Internet. I’m honored that you read me and I am truly sorry that I made Senator McCain look like a racist.

I totally didn’t read the entire article. I totally didn’t get the mocking reference. I totally made an Argentine of myself. Lo siento. I’ll try to stay away from politics.

I also would like to apologize to John McCain. I’m sorry. To make it up to you, Senator McCain, I’m going to write about you in this post. In a positive light. Luckily, I’m the greatest Guatemalan blogger based in Washington DC and will make things right. Here are the top five things that you didn’t know about John McCain:

1. Much like the Republican mascot, John McCain is hung like an elephant. It’s true. I had an amigo who saw it in the Senate gym. He had to swing it over his shoulder so that he wouldn’t get rug burn.
2. England didn’t go to war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands. They just sent John McCain, who single-handedly kicked their lamb loving culos.
3. John McCain didn’t need to wear bullet proof vests when he was in the Vietnam War. His chest hair repels bullets.
4. John McCain is perfect. He shits flan.
5. Ronald Reagan always remembered who John McCain was.

Again, I’m sorry for calling John McCain a racist. I’m even going as far as giving him an honorary Latino card through the month of July.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

For shame

"Maybe his solution will be to get out his small varmint gun and drive those Guatemalans off his lawn."

Once again, the good Guatemalan people are strewn through the mud for pathetic, political gain. These words were uttered by US Presidential candidate John McCain.

Small varmint gun...

Are the good people of Guatemala small varmints to Mr. McCain? Is that how he views Latino people as a whole? Nothing but the small varmints who make your lawn look green in the middle of the summer? Are we to be shooshed away by a "small varmint gun"?

I am not a small varmint Mr. McCain. Guatemalans are not small varmints Mr. McCain. The good Latino people are not small varmints Mr. McCain. We are hard working people trying to get our piece of the American dream. We are not "varmints". We may be blue-collared, but we are people.

Is there a large Guatemalan-American swing vote? Not yet, but we're growing. I do know that the Latino population may not take lightly to your referring to one of their own as a small varmint. This is not the way to garner votes. Or as in your case, respect for the blue collar worker; of which, it is apparent, you have none.

It's easy to pick on the little guy. It's just a shame that a man who wishes to lead this country has to do so.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

The lesson

“Um, sorry, do you realize that you’re tipping 20%, actually, no, 25% after tax?”

In the United States, it is customary to leave at LEAST a 15% gratuity after a meal. It’s something that I not only religiously adhere to, it is something that has, in the past, paid my rent. I frequent the same places. The people there know me. The people there know I tip. The people there take care of me because I always take care of them.

“You all had one more drink than me. It’s divided incorrectly. I should owe $2 less.”

This is a problem I find when you go out to eat in a group with an unknown. Today, Tara, is that unknown factor. Tara, by the way, pronounces her name like Tah-rah, not Teh-rah. Tah-rah. Not Teh-rah.

“I should only be paying $47. I’ll take care of my own tip. I don’t want the tip to be included. Actually, wait, $46.75.”

I look up and realize that Miguel, sitting in the corner booth, is staring right at Tah-rah. It is the pauses before Miguel speaks that sometimes makes life worth living. Miguel does this. He stares until the person acknowledges the stare. Tah-rah was taking her time doing this, so Miguel grabbed his knife and tinked her glass.

“Teh-rah…”

“It’s Tah-rah.”

“No it isn’t. It’s Teh-rah. You’re Americana. You pronounce it Teh-rah. Get over it. But that is not what I want to talk about right now. I want to talk about two things. One, You’re new to this group and you’re acting like low-class, spoiled, carrying daddy’s gold American Express card, living in a furnished studio in Dupont Circle, wants the dressing on the side, three olive in the martini, go easy on the pepper little brat. Two, on top of all of this, you’re being cheap.”

“I’m not being cheap! I don’t understand why you people want to leave an over 25% tip! It’s not my fault they’re waiting tables. They should have studied more in school!”

Miguel is a waiter. He has been doing this for a very long time. Normally, I’d step in, but bueno, she dug her own grave.

“What are you studying? Architectural History? (Nod) Well, by the looks of it (picks up her credit card), Dr. Jonathan Nabisly III is going to be paying your bills long after you graduate. That, or you’re going to trick some poor gringo into believing that you have a soul until it’s too late and you’ve spawned two children who you’ll raise until to be as ignorant as you, but until then, when you’re sitting at a table with me, you treat the wait staff with RESPECT and YOU FUCKING LEAVE A TIP.”

I’m not sure if Tah-rah had ever been spoken to in that way. You see, she’s a hot a girl. Hot girls normally have the world at their beck and call. Hot girls with designer clothes and daddy’s credit card have a little more at their beck and call. Bueno, most of the time, men like Miguel are at their beck and call, but he has his limits.

Tah-rah paid her bill and left a tip. The reason I know she left a tip is because Miguel made sure she did and nodded his approval. She was quiet for the rest of the night, but decided to go out dancing with us afterwards. Later in the evening I looked up from my ravishing of a little red-headed gringa to see Miguel dancing with Tah-rah.

She was laughing. She was smiling. She actually had hips. She must have had some Guatemalan in her, because she had hips!

Miguel left with with Tah-rah that evening. It’s been almost 24 hours and I have yet to hear from mi amigo. Either she killed him, or all she needed was for a Latino to stand up to her. I hope the good Dr. approves.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

My Thursday Night of Terror

I never really wished someone’s fingers to cramp up so that they would stop playing the guitar. Until tonight.

I was dragged down to the 9:30 club to listen to a band called Son Volt. It’s hard to describe their sound, but it made my mustache melt. It is the closest thing that I can imagine to squirrels crying with a couple of guitars.

Really. I almost grabbed the chopsticks being used as a hair holder upper from the woman in front of me to stick in my ears. I needed the pain to stop. I have never walked out of a concert early, but tonight was the night.

Maybe I’m not being fair. I’m Guatemalan and my first language wasn’t English. For those of you out there who, like me, learned English second, you know that sometimes listening to English-language songs is difficult. I can’t always understand what they’re saying. I pick up a word here and there then hope the chorus is good and slow.

With these guys, I’m not sure, I think I heard the following words: limestone, shorts, jeans, shore, sad, tears and opaque. This could, of course, just be my gorgeous just had his mustache melted off by the sounds of hell, mind playing tricks on me, but I’m not so sure. After a while, I started to make up lyrics:

Through the grounds of limestone
And your sweet jean shorts
My tears of sadness just seem to moan

I remember your smile by the side of the lake
Back then you weren’t wearing blue
Oh baby it was opaque

Then after a couple more lyrics that made me realize that almost every song they were singing could easily be included on my Suicide Playlist, I left. I couldn’t deal with it anymore.

They should walk up to the side of the lake and toss all of their instruments in the water. The fish will probably all die and the lake will become barren for hundreds of years, but hey, that’s what you have to do to save humanity. I’m serious. My mustache melted.

My Internet is back.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Awkward Moment

So my neighbor discovered that I had been "borrowing" his wireless Internet access for the last several years and he went ahead and password protected his Internet. I know, I'm a little annoyed about this as well. Everyone else in my neighborhood is not as giving with their Internet and they all password protect it.

It's not as easy as "borrowing" cable. I'm currently in an Internet Cafe on 14th street that I believe is a front for something that is going on upstairs. There is only one computer here and it was built in the 1980's. I'm using a dial up modem... The paint on the walls is peeling and there is some commotion going on upstairs. Men in flannel shirts come in with their shirts tucked in, but leave disheveled. I believe I'm in a Brothel Internet Cafe... What a concept.

I should be back up next Monday unless the phone company keeps me waiting which they probably will.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

In the meantime: Tequila

Fellatio and Mitt Romney

“Hey you! What’s your problem?”

Me? I don’t have a problem. What’s your problem?

“Me? I used to be famous! But you? You’re just a cocksucker.”

Oh yes?

“Yes! You’re just a plain old cocksucker. But me? I used to be famous! Bitch!”

You see, my problem is that I make eye contact. I’m an eye contact guy. I look people in the eyes. If I shake your hand, you better believe that I’m going to maintain eye contact. It doesn’t matter if you’re older, younger, uglier, hotter, dumber, richer, or whatever than me. I look you in the eyes. Everyone deserves the respect of a firm handshake and a complimentary flash of my beautiful Guatemalan eyes.

Sometimes, however, I get penalized for this. Today, I was informed of his past fortunes and reminded of my fictitious fellatious past.

Is that a word? Fellatious? My Microsoft Word is saying that it’s not a word. I guess Bill Gates doesn’t want people who have regular acts of fellatio to be described. Is Bill Gates a prude?

Speaking of prude, I am, for some odd reason, on the mailing list for Mitt Romney, a presidential candidate in the United States. This troubles me. Right after getting called an un-famous cocksucker, I get a request for money from one of the most conservative presidential candidates out there. This troubles me. It bothers me and annoys me on several levels.

One of the main things that bothered me is that I actually took the time to read his four page request for money. He spent about a page and a half talking about how he’s against same sex marriage. Why is it that politicians care so deeply about what people are doing behind closed doors? Why does Mitt Romney care? From what I know, gay people don’t recruit. If they find out that you’re not gay, they leave you alone. Mitt Romney, he recruits. He’s Mormon. Mormons are the biggest recruiters out there. I’m against the recruiting.

Religion, like love, is something personal. People shouldn’t be bothered by either. To actually take the time to ask for money while saying that some people shouldn’t be able to get married bothered me.

Mr. Romney, next time you send me a letter, please do me a favor: Send it on softer paper because I’d like to use it for one more thing before it becomes refuse. It’s recycling after all. You believe in that, right?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Guest Post

So a couple of weeks ago I saw that mi Scottish amigo Kim Ayres wrote a guest blog about a restaurant experience on Restaurant Gal. It got me thinking about my first experience in a restaurant and I thought her blog would be a great place for it. She was gracious enough to let me post mi story on her blog. I hope you enjoy.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

The Hybrid

“What do you mean a hybrid.”

It’s a hybrid. It’s a bike that is both a road bike and a mountain bike.

“You live in a city. Why do you need something for the mountain? You don’t even know where the mountains are. Why didn’t you just get a city bike?”

It’s a hybrid bike. This way I don’t have to worry if I decide to go off-roading. If I do, I know that the bike will handle it?

“Off-Roading? You don’t even know what that means! Handle it? Is this why you have these yellow springs on there for?”

Miguel, mira, it’s a hybrid. The guy said it would be a good idea for me to buy it since I didn’t really know what kind of biking I was going to be doing. Who cares?

“Who cares? The guy sold you a bi-sexual bike.”

A bi-sexual bike?

“Si. A bi-sexual bike. You own a bi-sexual bike. You’re going to be riding down the street and people are going to say, ‘Oh, look at that man with the bi-sexual bike. He just can’t make up his mind.’ You’re embarrassing the good name Guatemalans have made for themselves by riding this thing. It’s horrible.”

It’s not that bad.

“You have a fucking water bottle on your bike! Where are you going that is so far that you’re going to have to reach down and get a drink? What are you doing?”

It’s a water bottle. I got it for free.

“And this helmet? Didn’t you have that same helmet when you were in the 3rd grade? Is that a bell? You have a bell?”

Hombre, it came with the bike.

“You are this close to losing your Latino card. Do NOT think that I won’t take it away. If anyone asks you, tell them that you’re from Argentina. I can’t believe that I’m still friends with you.”

With this, Miguel grabbed two apples out of my fridge and walked out of my house, but not before giving my bi-sexual bike a death stare. It’s a hybrid…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

I bought a bike

I bought a bike today.

I already had a bike, but it was one that I have been riding since I was seven. I decided it was time.

Miguel was over at my house one day spouting off about something he had read regarding global warming.

“One day, we’re going to swim to work because all of DC is going to be underwater.”

Thank you Al Gore for making mi amigo paranoid. Even though most of what he was ranting made no sense whatsoever, his comment about the driving of Hummers being for “inverted dickless wonders who like to take up 19 parking spots” made some sense to me. I don’t drive a Hummer, but I do drive and frankly, I don’t like to swim, so I decided to buy a bike.

I usually only see one guy riding his bike to work and he always wears brown pants, squared glasses and has a beard. An un-kept one. I figure that if the hippies want to really get their message across about saving the world and global warming, they need to get the brown polyester wearing, beard having, look like they have been constipated for the last 13 weeks type of people off of the bikes. They look like assholes. The helmets, ay, the helmets don’t help either. Is there anyway to make the helmets cool looking? Anyway…

I decided that it was up to me to help save the world. I figure that if the great people of DC see a sexy Guatemalan like me riding a bike, bueno, maybe they would begin to ride their bikes too. And then maybe we won’t have to swim to work or ever listen to Al Gore again…

The main problem that I have found in riding my bike is that there are cars, trucks and buses on the same street. I quickly made a promise to myself that I would no longer drive extra close to bikers in the hope that they would crash into parked cars. Turns out it isn’t very much fun when it’s being done to you. Oh yes, the game of opening your parked car right when a biker is riding past? Also not going to be playing that one.

After having a couple of drivers show me that they owned the road, I decided that wearing the helmet was a good thing. To the untrained eye, I was just an extremely sexy Guatemalan riding his bike (which is also brown), but I felt like an ass in that helmet. I have decided that I would paint my helmet the colors of the Guatemalan flag and maybe put on an eagle of some kind on this bike helmet. I need to do what I can to make bicycle riding acceptable.

Oh, one more thing. Feel free to punch any bicycle rider who has any kind of horn, bell or other noise making device. They are of the un-kept beard having crowd. It makes me sad to think that I may need to recruit some collar poppers to ride bicycles, but I hope that it never comes to that. Then again, anything is better than having mi amigo quote Al Gore.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

That was a purr

“So, you want some company?”

Random, no real reason other than we can, road trip to Atlantic City. It’s strange. It turns out that Miguel goes to Atlantic city all the time. It also turns out that Miguel has a “system” for playing slots. It also turns out that Miguel plays enough to have his room paid for by the casino. As veces, I am in awe of mi amigo’s secret life.

In places like Atlantic City, one is often approached by ladies of the night. For me, it is always an uncomfortable conversation where I am trying to tell them that I am truly flattered that they chose me to be persuaded into paying them for some kind of sexual act, but that I was going to try and not pay for something which is free.

Usually Miguel is the same. Usually he waves them off. Usually.

It had been a bad night for Miguel. His “system” wasn’t working and he had one too many glasses of scotch.

“Wheel of Fortune wheel! Why aren’t you my friend!!!????!!! Why don’t you make love to sweet Miguel? Porque????”

He was yelling loudly and at times sensually massaging the machine in front of him. I was sitting further to his side so that he couldn’t see me shake my head and laugh. I was staying for free on his bill after all…

I didn’t see her walk up, but I can imagine that she glided through the casino on her blue high heels and made the mistake the mistake of thinking that Miguel was a good target.

“Hi there. Having any luck?”

Miguel turned his head, looked the couldn’t be older than 22 year old brunette up and down, then returned his gaze to the flashing screens.

“What do you think about having a little company back in your room?”

“Company? Amiga, you can’t handle what I got.”

“Oh yeah? Mmmmm. I like that. Why don’t we go somewhere to find out?”

“What would that take?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Ah. I see. It’s complicated. You see, I’m actually in the business myself. And um, I charge a lot more than that. Maybe you should try something that is in your budget?”

“What do you mean? I don’t get it.”

“I know. It is very confusing. Pay attention. I, do what you do, but for a much higher price. So, and this is very confusing, so pay attention, if you want to have my company, you better go to the ATM or get a cash advance on your credit card. Then, go buy some Red Bull because baby, I will make you forget that you’re wearing your prom dress in a casino. Rrrrrrrrrrrrr. That’s a purr mami. I'm bringing sexy back!”

She walked away without saying a thing and Miguel just returned to his game.

That was a purr.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo