Picture Caption Friday

This is a picture that was sent to me a while back by a reader:



Every time I look at this picture I cry a little bit inside. I can't even blame Argentinean heritage on this because I know no self-respecting Argentinean would make their family dress like this.

I see three generations of people who are forever stuck with psychiatrist bills.

Porque? Why do this to your little children? Why?

My caption: "A psychiatrist's dream."

Yours?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Song sent by God

I saw a beautiful woman today. She had shoulder length blonde hair, 5’4 frame, cute feet with unpainted, manicured toes and some kind of straw heels. She had a quiet swagger. The type that people have when they were told they were beautiful, but long ago.

We made eye contact at a corner and later down the block she slowed down and made more eye contact with me. She had beautiful green/blue eyes. The kind that I could look into for a while. The kind that if looked into long enough, you could see someone’s soul.

I did nothing.

It was strange. For a moment, we were walking side by side, each of us looking to the side with our eyes only, but not saying anything. As the man, I should have been the one to say something. Something good, not too tried, but witty. As if this moment were written by Jesus Christo himself, a car drove by with the song “You’re Beautiful” blaring. The windows were down in an unbearable heat, but whatever power that controls mi vida made it so that this song was playing.

I did nothing. Nada. Absolutamiente nada.

Why? What the hell is happening to me? Why am I being like this?

Lately, I have been different. Afraid. Not myself.

If one did not know me well, you would think nothing different, but there is. I feel it. I’m afraid of getting back there.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve thrown myself out there and there have been women who take me, but I’m not ready. I wish I could be like some of mis amigos. I wish I could have a different woman in my bed every night. I wish I could delete names from my phone every day. I wish that I didn’t have a conscience. I wish so many things so that I could get through each day easier, but no.

I’m afraid of love. I’m afraid of vulnerability. I’m afraid of having mi corazon broken yet again. I’m afraid to trust. I’m afraid of so many things that it makes me feel un-Guatemalan.

Where are you? Where is the woman who will make me trust again? Where is the woman who will make me feel at ease again?

I feel pathetic. I feel alone. I feel, for the first time in mi vida, un-Guapo…

Estoy cansado.

To the woman on the street, I hope our paths cross again. You are, by the way, beautiful. I wish I had a chance to tell you that.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Own It

“What people fail to realize is that there is a great variation in the size of women’s vaginas.”

Mi gente, when you read the above sentence, what is the first thing that comes to mind? I’ll tell you what should come to mind, that the above sentence was definitely, 100%, bet your salary on, that it was NOT uttered by anyone from of Latino persuasion.

The person who said this did not have skin kissed by the sun gods. The person who said this did not have a mustache so perfect that it attracts hummingbirds. The person who said this most definitely did not have a sweet accent melodic enough to woo the clouds to start their orchestra.

Let me describe this individual to you: Glasses, shaggy hair, maroon t-shirt with an obscure band, and clogs. Bueno, I have no idea what these things were, but they looked like clogs. But they were brownish with holes in them. Brownish with holes in them… Ay…

This is the type of conversation that should never be uttered in a public place.

There I was, going outside to enjoy one of the beautiful nights DC is having and enjoy a beer with mi amigo Miguel, when I hear this comment. Picture two Guatemalans walking as if to go somewhere then suddenly, stop, on a dime, to listen more. On a dime.

“I mean, I don’t get it. Why do I have to be the one who gets ridiculed? No one ever talks about her issue. It’s me. I look like an idiot to everyone now.”

I look down at his feet and wish to tell him that he is being ridiculed for wearing brownish clogs with holes in them.

Miguel, by this point, is snickering delight. I see that he’s holding himself back. I count silently to myself. 10…he scratches his the top of his head. 9, 8, 7…his feet start to do hit the pavement in a kicking movement. 6, 5, he’s off.

“Amigo. You need to own that. You must make it yours. If you do not make it yours, she will walk away with stories.”

“What? Dude, mind your own business. I don’t even know you.”

“Si, amigo, you do. I’m the one that she leaves you for. Why? Because I own it. I go down and make sure she knows I own it. It’s mine. It’s never like anything she’s ever had. And don’t think because it’s because I’m Latino. It’s because I make sure she knows that I care about nothing else, but her happiness. Nothing else but her. That moment. It’s all I care about. And you? You wear shoes with holes in them and smoke menthols. You must own it. OWN it.”

“What? Who are you? What’s your problem? Leave my friend and I alone. Thank you.”

In Miguel’s own way, he was trying to help. The holed shoe man did not want to listen.

“Actually, nevermind. I thank Dios that there are people like you. It makes sure that my bed always stays warm. And you? You blame your problems on her, when you just have a little pinga. Pobrecito.”

Pobrecito is right. Poor fellow. Has holed shoes…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Picture Caption Friday

Estoy siempre walking around MY streets of DC taking pictures with my outdated phone that has met the sidewalk so many times that I'm surprised I'm still able to screen phone calls.

Last night, in a drunken stupor, I must have taken this particular picture:

I have no idea what was going on in my mind when I took this picture other than the note associated with my picture was: "Not Latino".

This is why I wish Virginians stayed in Virginia at night. Frankly, I'm tired of their vanity plates...

Your turn to make captions.

Miguel's was: Go F yourself Joe.

Not really a caption, but a comment, but it still works. For the record, I hate Joe a little bit.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

SLAP WARS

When we were growing up, there wasn’t a lot of money for the extras. But as kids, we never really knew the difference. You can’t miss what you don’t have and don’t see. So, as any group of neighborhood kids do, we made our own fun without the use of the usual store bought toys.

When we were around 12 years old we would often have the conversations common among boys of our age:

“I bet my cousin Manny could kick your dad’s ass.” “Would you have sex with your sister for one million dollars?” “Do you think Mrs. Kraft (choir teacher) wants me?”

And you get the idea. We would sit around for hours discussing the most ridiculous scenarios and argue vehemently one side or the other. It was great times.

However, the BEST game that we have ever come up with, and likely ever will, was SLAP WARS.

The idea of a Slap War is simple. There are two participants. It is decided who goes first. Bets are made on who will last longer. The two participants then open hand slap the other across the face as hard as they can, one at a time. The person who doesn’t quit wins.

It is fantastico.

There are just a couple of rules:

1. Slaps must be done with an open hand. No back-handed slaps. No fists. SLAP WAR is a fun game. Not a fight.
2. You can’t switch sides of the face you are hitting. If you start with the right side, you must finish with the right side.
3. Slaps must be administered to one side of the face. No side slapping, ie, no slaps that also hit the nose. This is a friendly game of slap war.

I once saw a Slap War go on for almost an hour. You would think that the face is the only thing that hurts in a slap war, but your hand becomes extremely sore after several slaps. It is a game that requires the participants to be very calculating in how begin and finish the war. If you start off too hard you run the risk of hurting your hand, but also can put your opponent in pain.

To this day, when we are randomly sitting around, you will hear one of us say,

“Who do you think would win in a slap war? George Bush or Bill Clinton?” “Maradona or Ronaldo?” “Marion Barry or Adrian Fenty?” “Ronald McDonald or the Hamburgler?” “Tom Selleck or Erik Estrada?” “Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan?” “Daddy Yankee or Mace?” “Crocodile Dundee or the Crocodile Hunter?”

You get the picture. Hours of fun are Slap Wars. Watching, participating or discussing. BEST GAME EVER.

Any match ups you envision?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

A Washington DC Father's Day

I was walking back home from my weekly Sunday Rum Day when I happened upon this sign:

Start Your Dad’s Day Right!
22 oz Drafts $3.99
and
$5.49 Mojitos

Wow…

Nothing like knowing dad is going to get drunker, cheaper. Thank you Ruby Tuesday’s!

Now, I’m going off to the corner to cut myself.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

New Technique

A large group of mis amigos were at a bar yesterday when one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen sat two seats down from me. Her hair was dark and straight, her eyes were a faded blue and her lips were pouting for something. She wore a low-cut dress that made even me stare for a moment too long. She was gorgeous. If she told me to vote Republican, I’d actually think about it.

You may be thinking why I didn’t go up to her right away, but I couldn’t. You see, she had two guys with her. I quickly disliked them. One had the glazed eyes of a chipmunk and the other had a top lip struggling with his overbite.

It’s very hard to approach a woman when she is with two guy friends. The guy friends always have a dream that they’re going to fall in love with them and get offended when guys approach because ‘how dare the guy not assume that she’s with him’ type of thing. That’s where Miguel steps in.

“El Guapo. I see you looking the difficult situation here. Are you going to try to break the wall or stare the whole night?”

Miguel and I have discussed this conundrum on several occasions. By this point, lip quiver had noticed the attention his amiga was getting and was making unnecessary touches to ward us off. I’m Guatemalan baby, I can’t be shooed away so easily.

“El Guapo, tengo una idea. I’ve been thinking about this for some time. It is the ultimate wing-man approach and I’d like to try it out.”

This should be interesting.

“Do you know how women love gay guys? Women ask them to touch their butts, breasts and other things I probably don’t even know exist. Right? Well, what has NEVER been tried before, is to use a gay guy as a wing man.”

A gay guy as a wing man?

“Si. Pay attention. You have a gay guy. And you have the gay guy go up to a woman you’re interested in. Think about it. A gay guy can walk up to that woman and say in his gay voice, ‘Honey, listen. I’ve seen many breasts in my day, but yours, oh my, yours are just fabulous,” and that would be perfectly ok.”

Oh my.

“Si, pay attention. Then, the gay guy wing man introduces you as one of his best friends. Are you kidding me? It’s gold. A woman would love that you are comfortable enough with yourself to have a best friend who is gay.”

Miguel, that’s pretty good.

“Good? No. It’s genius. I am a genius. You are lucky to be around me. Tonight you should light a candle in my honor.”

What happened next was classic. Miguel told me that he owed me for being a good wing man, so he was going in. He dipped his fingers in his beer and spiked his hair with it. Interesante. Then, he walks right up to the woman and says, “Mi amor, ay, you, look, FABULOUS. Who made that dress? It looks perfect on you.”

And, well, that was that. No details, but I walked her home.

Miguel, the best wing man ever.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Good News Friday

I know. A picture that says a thousand words. But does it? Read below:

http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,2004580002-2005100513,00.html - Best story ever.

Jessica Alba, I'm coming mi amor. Just wait right there. What you need in your life is a nice Guatemalan with a mustache. That's where I come in.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wrong again... Some gringos can dance

I have written, on several occasions actually, that gringos can’t dance. I may have said something along the lines of gringos making my eyes cry from their lack of rhythm; or that I throw up in mi boca a little bit when I see a gringo try to salsa; or that every time a gringo steps on the dance floor an angel dies. Something along those lines.

Bueno, I’d like to take this moment and apologize. Lo siento. I was wrong. Some of you can dance. I was just looking at the wrong kinds of gringos.

Last evening an amiga of mine informed me that I was going to a concert with her. Note that I wasn’t asked to go, but informed, told, instructed. Si, mi amiga is known by her moniker, ‘Little Miss Bossy’.

So LMB takes me to the 9:30 Club to see a British-Lebanese guy named Mika.

His name sounded like that of a Romanian soccer player, but I had never heard of his music. I listened to something before I ran out the door and remember thinking that it was interesante. Muy interesante.

So I go to pick up LMB and the first thing she asks me is how her breasts look in the shirt she’s wearing. Isn’t she great? Latin spice, and all looked nice.

So we arrive at the club and I notice that there are a lot of gringos dressed better than me. Way better than me. I was seeing accessories that I simply could not compete with. Interesting. Very interesting.

Then, we get inside, and I notice the music being played before Mika came on included a lot of disco music. A LOT of disco music. Interesting.

Then, I notice that there is a lot of shoulder rubbing. Man on man shoulder rubbing, singing along to the disco music, and yes, man on man grinding.

I see. It seems that Mika attracts my gay gringo hermanos. This was going to be interesting for me.

Then, the music started and the gringos started to dance, and well, very well. I’m not saying that they were up to the mustached Guatemalan level of dancing, but let me tell you something, they were close. They all had hips. They all moved to the rhythm. Some even had these fun little hand movements that they would do in unison to the music. Truth be told, I got a little jealous that I didn’t know the fancy hand movements.

So, it turns out that I was wrong. Once again. Some gringos can dance. Just not the straight ones.

Oh, and by the way, Mika put on an incredible show. I haven’t had that much fun listening to live music in a long time. I know they say that he’s British-Lebanese, but I’m pretty sure that at least his mother is Guatemalan. There is some Guatemalan blood in there somewhere. Of this, I am sure.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Oh, I took a video of the finale of the show. It involved all of the band members dressing up like furry creatures, big air-filled balloons dropping from the ceiling and confetti cannons. It was from my cell, so the quality isn’t great, but you get the point. Yeah, it was good. Hand motions and all.

Lacoste. Le Douche

Lacoste.

The little alligator.

The brand had disappeared from my eyes until sometime in 2000 when the French decided to make it cool again in the United States.

I remember seeing the blonde haired, blue-eyed children wearing the shirts that were simply “a collared shirt with an alligator”, but were beyond mi madre’s budget. She once sewed a salamander type creature onto one of my shirts to make me feel better, but it didn’t. I wore it to make mi mama think that it was the same, but for it was hard to be the kid with the mutant reptile on his shirt.



I always wanted to be one of those perfect blonde haired kids, with their Osh-Kosh B’Gosh and the shoes that never seemed to be dirty.

Then I wanted to push them in the mud. Not a violent push. More like gently leading them into the mud.

Anyway, the Lacoste brand was always something that I associated with the elite of the world. As a simple Guatemalan with a mustache that makes the birds sing, I realized that some things were just not meant to be. But deep down, I wished to have some kind of a Lacoste collection.

But no more. No. Never again. Actually, I am really glad that I could never afford a Lacoste shirt because of this:



What is this? This, mis amigos, is Macy’s way of telling me, telling the world, that Lacoste is sooooo 2005. (Imagine Paris Hilton saying that)

Green hat + Alligator + Green collared shirt + Popped collar + Alligator =Douchiness.
Blue hat + Alligator + Blue collared shirt + Popped collar + Alligator = Douchiness.
Yellow hat + Alligator + Yellow collared shirt + Popped collar + Alligator = Douchiness.

Questions? It's very easy to explain:

Once something makes it to Macy’s you know that it stopped being cool and is just within my financial grasp when it makes its way to the TJ Maxx or Marshall’s (discount stores) of the world. Mira, I know that being Guatemalan is pretty much the most amazing thing one can be, but even I can admit that once the Guatemalans can begin affording to buy something, it's no longer cool.

Look at what happened to Tommy Hilfiger. It's now the brand of choice for all the crack dealers in mi barrio.

Just like that. Lacoste is done. It has now become a symbol of the American douche. Gracias Macy’s. Gracias for pointing out to me, what should have been so apparent long ago.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

New shirt

I come home to find Miguel sprawled out on my couch, beer in hand, empty yogurt cups on the floor, one boot on and the other on top of an old bookshelf.

Cabron, your boot is on my bookshelf.

“Si. I took it off when I was over there. Here, give it here. I need it for later.”

I stand there with my hand on his work boot trying to decide if I’m going to throw it at his face or actually hand it to him. I hand it to him. Why? I have no idea. I’m left thinking what a boot to the face would do to my friend and his habit of eating all of my yogurt.

“Do you like my shirt? I found it. It is by far the best shirt ever made in the history of man.”

Your nephew calls me daddy

That’s pretty funny. You found that?

“No. I had it made. I thought of it while I was sleeping and I had it made. I had one made for you too. I put it inside your cupboard.”

Oh, that’s a good place to put a shirt. Gracias though.

I walk over to my cupboard and sitting in between a couple of my glasses is a gray t-shirt with the words “Your Nephew Calls me Daddy” sitting above a drawing of a child with a blanket.

You really want to walk around with a shirt that basically tells people that you slept with and impregnated their sister?

“Si. It’s brilliant. I, mi amigo, am a genius.”

Why don’t you just get a shirt made that says “I fucked your sister”?

“Porque? Why? I’ll tell you why El Guapo. And that is basically the basic difference between the two of us. I have a thinking man’s humor. I'm a thinker. I like to say things that makes the world reflect, while you just want to come out and say words like ‘fuck’. My shirt says that I got your sister pregnant, but in a way that is going to make the person realize it 10 minutes later. I’m making the world better by speaking and making shirts.”

Yeah. You're quite the philosopher. So you want everyone to know that you slept with their sister?

“Si. Because I probably did.”

That’s why I like you Miguel. You’re a true humanitarian.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

An idea

The other day I was writing about how the DC police don’t seem to care about brothels being open for business in Washington DC. Today, I’d like to talk about the drug problem.

Gringos don’t like to call it a problem. Especially since Washington DC citizens have no rights and is “overseen” by white people from all over the United States. The white people like to call our drug problem the “drug issue”. It’s an issue for them.

“Hombre, I have glass stuck to the bottoms of my boots! I keep stepping on the crack vials every time I go to throw my trash in the dumpsters. This is a fucking serious problem!”

“No, my brown colored friend. This is an issue. A real issue that needs to be addressed.”

I’ve always been a “half a pupusa left” kind of guy, so I look at the “issue” of drugs in Washington DC in a positive light. Let’s break it down:

Q: What is the most popular drug in Washington DC?
A: Crack.
Q: What does crack attract?
A: Crack addicts.
Q: What special skill do crack addicts have?
A: They are fast?
Q: What?
A: They are fast. Faster than an Argentine on bath day.

This is true. Crack addicts are the cheetahs of the human race. If you challenge a crack addict to a foot race you will lose. You may be walking down the street, humming a Daddy Yankee song, minding your own business then all of a sudden there is a crack addict next to you asking for money.

“Yo brah. How you doin’ amigo. Hook a brotha’ up over here.”

By the way, this particular crack addict, “Johnny”, is white. He likes to be called a “brotha’” and tilts his hat to the left. He is the fastest white man I have ever seen in my life. I once watched Johnny dart from shadow to shadow in an alley on his way to the dealer down the street. As the clouds changed the trajectory of the sunlight he would dart, skip, jump and dash his way to the darkness of a shadow. I wanted to remind him that it was the middle of the day and everyone could see him, but it was nice to see this ghetto ballet going on behind my house.

I think it would be a good way to raise money for the city to have crack addict races. Seriously. They could be sponsored. They could run up and down 14th street. It could be televised. We could have play-by-play announcers:

“Well Bob, it looks like Laquita has taken the lead by bashing Johnny over the head with what looks to be, yes, I’ve been informed that it indeed is, she bashed Johnny over the head with the hood of a 1994 Geo Metro. Wow, look at that Nubian run.”

Nubian... That is my 37th favorite word. (Juxtapose is #38...)

I have yet to see a Latino crack addict in Washington, DC, but I GUARANTEE that he/she would be the fastest. We’re small and compact and I’m sure we would move like the wind.

I’m not sure what the prize of the race could be, but probably crack. Or a Geo Metro.

Some of you may say that I’m being too hard on the DC police. You’re right. I am being hard on them. I think that they are moving in the right direction by putting up cameras all over DC’s “high risk zones”.

Now, I know this is a move in the right direction, but is that camera supposed to be pointed directly into mi hermana’s bedroom? Every time she comes home all of a sudden 3 police cruisers appear out of nowhere. Why is this?

Anyway, crack races. Sponsored crack races. Nubians. Juxtaposing. Think about it.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Scotland

I'm huge in Scotland. Huge. Like Maradona in Argentina, but without the lard and cocaine.

I received note that imports of Flan to Scotland has increased 10 fold since I started writing this blog. You're welcome Scottish people.

The truth is that I always thought Scotland was a country made up by Mel Gibson in Braveheart, but when I discovered that it was a real life country with real life people walking around, I was amazed.

I discovered a man, named Kim, who sometimes graces my blog. While he is going through a mid-life crisis, he is the type of man that I feel has life figured out. He is in a happy marriage to an artist with a sexy Scottish voice that I can't understand and a loving daughter who draws pictures. He even has a beard, the distant cousin of the mustache, which he proudly shows to the world.

He asked me to write a post for his site and I took about 17 months thinking of what I could actually write for the blog of a man named Kim.

This is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy.

Mr. Kim, I hope that when I grow up I can be as wise as you are, but without the Scottish accent. I need mi mama to understand the words coming out of mi boca.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Restaurant closed

Hombre, what’s the matter with you? You’re all uptight. Where is your little friend? Miranda, Monica, Marcela, or whatever? What’s her name?

“Monica. I was over there earlier. She’s in a mood.”

What did you do?

“El Guapo, I did nothing. Nada. I just went over there and she started yelling at me.”

Oh…

“Si. Her special visitor is among us.”

Ah. That’s not so bad though.

“I know. I don’t mind it either. But when it comes, she shuts down.”

What do you mean she shuts down?

“She shuts down. You know. She shuts down. It’s movie time when her special visitor comes. Movies with John Cusack. It’s horrible.”

I still don’t get it. Why does she shut down?

“She says that she doesn’t like it when her visitor is in town?”

She doesn’t like it?

“She doesn’t like it. The restaurant shuts down.”

But why does it have to shut down? She’s just out of arroz con leche. You can still have flan, ice cream…

“Fruit, pupusas, tamales, si, I know. Not with her. If she’s out of arroz con leche, she shuts down the restaurant. It’s closed for a couple of days.”

Restaurant is closed.

“Restaurant is closed.”

So what are you doing tonight?

“I don’t know. I can’t deal with that. I'm hungry. I’m going to go see if there are any other restaurants open tonight. Interested?”

You better believe it.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo