El Guapo in DC

Sigh...

2009-04-27T20:29:00.000-04:00

Ola my friends, mi amigos of long ago. How are you? Bien? Good.

Have you made love to a Latino man since we last spoke? Do you long for his touch, his stone washed jeans and magical loins? Bueno.

I do not write to you today with something good to say. In fact, of late, there have been tears slowly dropping and clinging to my mustache. My beautiful mustache that is so lustrous in the spring is now damp with Latino sadness. And trust me, Guatemalan tears are often cultivated by gypsies to keep raccoons away, so this is no good.

What makes this Mayan descendant fall to his knees and sob?

The women of Washington, DC. They have once again conspired to make mi vida hit the brick wall of life.

Spring is my favorite time in DC. The skirts get more colorful, shorter and tighter. The Hill interns skip and hop as they learn the business of giving and taking away hope. The Ivy-league graduates come to my city with their new business suites and glasses ready to change the world. But this year is different.

This year something has happened to my city. Is it because I have grown accustomed to the bleach blonde, madras wearing women that have flocked here over the last 8 years? Is it some kind of early swine flu that made things different? That made the women different? That made the women crazy?

El Guapo! What are you talking about???

Calma. Please. Calma. I will tell you what me cringe while I walk down the street of my fair city. I will tell you what makes me overlook the Pakistan-like terrain of the National Mall. I will tell you.

Ballerina flats.

Si, ballerina shoes. The women of DC have for some reason turned to wearing ballerina shoes. Have they done this to spite me? I think so. Is this their way of telling me that I’ve mistreated women in the past? Lo siento. En serio, I’m sorry. Please, por favor, put the heels back on. I cannot take this anymore.

Do you know what ballerina shoes do? NOTHING. They do nothing. Nada. In fact, they ruin everything. They are the footwear equivalent of sweatpants.

Every February I start to think about April. In March I start to pace around mi casa thinking about April. The skirts, the high heels, the beautifully shaped calves that have been screaming “El Guapo, I missed you so much!” Not now. Those days are gone.

Do I blame that Latino president that is in the White House (Yes, he’s part Guatemalan. No black man is that smooth)? I don’t know. I don’t want to point fingers. No fingers pointing at Obama. But there were no ugly ballerina shoes when Bush was in town. All heels. All the time.

Then Obama comes in with hope, walking on water magic Guatemalan smile and the women of DC forget about shoe etiquette. They might as well donate all their heels to charity. Their calves will never recover.

No. I’m sorry. That is wrong. While their calves will never recover, I ask that they put them in the closet to give to their daughters one day. One day, my children will ask me, “Papi, is it true what Mr. Jones said about heels? That one day women decided to ruin the world by wearing ballerina flats?” And I will say, Si. It was an ugly time.

So, basically what I’m trying to say is that our economy’s condition is based solely on the fact that women are no longer wearing heels. Want economic proof?

I’m Guatemalan. That’s my proof.

Please bring the heels back. You look horrible. Seriously.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Adios

2007-08-07T11:49:00.000-04:00

I’ve been mulling something over for quite some time. Mulling. That is not something I do very often. I’m not even sure if I’m using it correctly, but I’ve been mulling. I mull it turns out. I'm not even sure if that's legal...

This blog has been one of the greatest things that I’ve ever decided to do. Miguel likes it because it has given him exposure that he didn’t have before. For me, it has been a place for me to write about my thoughts, feelings and daily observations. All done, from a Guatemalan perspective. Sorry, a mustached Guatemalan perspective. When most have to carry their thoughts in their mind and shoulders, I have had you all. This has truly been a gift.

My anonymity has been something that I have held near and dear. This has been good, because I have been able to write whatever I want without having someone attack me (verbally or physically). It’s also made it impossible for me to meet many of you. I never liked that.

I write this with tears in my eyes, but this is my last blog entry.

There are a million things that I want to write, but I can’t. They say everyone is on a journey. I just need to find mine.

Thank you for all the comments, e-mails and pictures over the years. You all are amazing.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: Always feel free to contact me directly at elguapodc@gmail.com

Glorious Day

2007-08-06T19:09:00.000-04:00

Something glorious happened today.

You’ve probably heard about this Argentine running around DC talking trash about the good Guatemalan people. He’s a hater, but then again, he’s an Argentine, so that is to be expected.

The thing is, he’s Jewish, so he’s chosen. He’s part of the Chosen People. And to be honest with you, there was nothing that annoyed me more than his being an Argentine and Jewish at the same time. You see, I love the Jews. More specifically, I L-O-V-E the Jewish women. Love them. Everything about them.

Let me take a moment here…

Jewish women… Tan bueno.

Ok. I’m back. Anyway, for me, it was a love hate thing. I knew that his being an Argentine would make me want to stay away from him, but knew that his being Jewish would very likely give me the opportunity to meet some lovely members of the tribe. So I never knew what to do.

Until today. Today, I discovered that Argentina isn’t the only place in South America that has Jews. Today, I met a Brazilian Jew. Yes. There are Jews in Brazil. They wander. Even down there.

It turns out that my new Jewish friend had been reading my blog for some time. It also turns out that the Brazilian population in DC enjoys my frequent digs on Argentina. As a thanks, he gave me a gift:

I am told it is a kipa. This one, is made in Brazilian colors. You wear it on your head in reverence to G-d. I was also taught that. You can’t spell out God because it’s too powerful of a word.

Anyway, I’m not sure when I’m going to wear this little hat of mine, but whenever I find myself in any kind of Jewish situation, you better believe that this little guy is coming out and will be placed in reverence to G-d or wherever it needs to be to represent Brazilian Jews and to ensure that the Argentines, even the Jewish ones, are kept down.

A Guatemalan with a mustache wearing a Brazilian-themed kipa. I love this city!

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Blog Interviewer

2007-08-03T21:03:00.000-04:00

It's Friday. I'm about to go out. I had a dream with a red head last night, so I'm looking for her tonight.

This post is really about nothing other than I was just asked to answer a couple of questions at Blog Interviewer.

I also just found out that Guatemala is bigger than Iceland. Eat it Iceland!

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Miguel finds a hole

2007-08-03T00:46:00.000-04:00

“Witches? Witches and wizards?”

Si.

“So, they’re at a school to be witches and wizards.”

Si.

“The whole thing is about them being witches and wizards?”

Si. They go on adventures and beat out forces of evil. Evil witches and wizards.

“But they’re at school?”

Yes. Learning to be witches and wizards.

“How do they get to go to that school?”

I think you have to have powers. You demonstrate powers or have a parent with powers. I don’t know.

“What happens after they’re out of school?”

What do you mean?

“Bueno, if they’re at a special witches and wizard school, then that means that other kids are at regular schools. They’re off being witches and wizards and the regular kids are off getting ready for college to be doctors and lawyers. The doctors and lawyers are going to make money, but how do the witches and wizards make money?”

I think they teach.

“No. That doesn’t make sense. How can every single of the students teach? That’s like every single kid in college going to become a teacher. It can’t happen. So, these kids who have all these fancy powers, they have to make money right? That, or they steal it, but then they’re the evil forces and have all these good wizards and witches fighting them”

Maybe they end up reading palms at county fairs. Maybe they sell potions.

“Maybe you’re an idiota. And people buy these books?”

Yes, millions of them.

“Do they realize that there is an obvious hole and that it shouldn’t make any sense? That their schooling isn’t going to earn them a living? That their world is going to be full of unemployed kids with powers? It doesn’t make sense. How can people still read these things?”

Miguel, honestly, I have no idea. I just don’t think they’re as deep as you are.

"You're right El Guapo. The witches and wizards should have jobs. What message are they sending to the kids? All these powers and no job prospects? It's not right."

Bridges falling, wars starting, polar bears dying and here we have mi amigo worrying about plot holes in Harry Potter. Mi vida. Everyday. Amazing.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Reader submission

2007-08-01T23:25:00.000-04:00

I really love the people who read this blog. En serio. We are a group of people scattered throughout the world who have a sense of humor all of our own. Someday, maybe, we will all get together and take over a country, maybe a small country, maybe Cape Verde. It seems nice there. Bueno, until that day comes, I guess we’ll just have to congregate here.

This was sent to me moments ago by a reader:

El G,

I know that Picture Caption Friday (Viernes) is coming up and I had to share the following pictures with you:

The only thing that could have been more perfect is if they had popped collars. A group of friends scored some really amazing seats to the Nationals (baseball) game in DC and these guys were getting annoyed with our obnoxious screams. Every time we yelled, they would look around in disgust.

Please notice how the two guys (a couple as far as I’m concerned) are wearing identical shirts of a different color. Notice the no sock look. Notice the loving arm around the “buddy”.

There was so much pent up homosexual tension between those two that it was making our whole section cry.

Anyway, you can post this on the Internet if you want. Or, just laugh. I hope you get a kick out of it.

Keep writing.

DC un-Yuppie

Wow. Here I was ready to post some pictures from my most recent trip to New Orleans and you go and send me this.

Gracias. Really. Gracias. I really can’t add much to these fantastic pictures other than my caption is: The Douche Bag Date. I really do LOVE the word "douche." It is very cute that they had the same shirt on. I like it. In mi libro, there is nothing wrong with them, but the no sock thing, bueno, at least he wasn’t wearing Crocs.... I guess that isn't really a collar popper thing.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: Por favor keep sending these pictures in. I love them. If you ever see something funny, take the picture and send it along. It usually makes my day.

Back from Alcoholism

2007-07-31T23:41:00.001-04:00

“Dude, it’s like, five o’clock in the morning.”

I look over to my collar popping friend and then ask Miguel the time. It was, indeed, five o’clock in the morning. Dude.

It has been a long time that I was up at five o’clock in the morning and not in a young redhead’s bed. I am El Guapo. That’s how I roll. (New line and I love it.)

Guess where I was for the last several days? It entails alcohol, shrimp, alcohol and some shrimp.

Oh, also this guy is on TV there:

I was trying to open my eyes from a night on the town when I glance up at the big screen TV in front of me. At first, I thought I saw an out of work transvestite on TV and then wondered what kind of bar I was in.

Then, after looking around and being assured that I was safe, I realized that this was just a regular TV “personality” with perfectly manicured eyebrows and too much eye makeup. Now, I don’t know what constitutes too much makeup, but in a man’s case, makeup is too much.

Come on. You’re a man. A man is not meant to be pretty. We’re supposed to be rough around the edges. A man is supposed to be, bueno, a man. This guy, not so much.

This guy was fired from being a host of a transvestite beauty show and somehow ended up on television.

On television in one of the greatest cities ever to be built in North America. Ever.

I was in New Orleans visiting a cousin of a cousin of a friend of Miguel’s. Other than the guy being some kind of genius stereo installer and having speakers in every facet of his house playing annoying techno music, the stat was great. I have never had so many nights of two hours of sleep combined with shrimp.

Also, were you aware that a “hurricane” isn’t a storm? No. It’s some kind of concoction that makes married women hit on Guatemalan men with mustaches.

Anyway, I’m muy cansado and going to bed. Sorry about the lack of posts. Alcohol, shrimp and this guy aren’t a very good combination.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

For Later

2007-07-25T00:09:00.000-04:00

1I just realized something the other day.

Mi madre thinks that I’m going to hell.

After I just wrote that, it made me stop and look at my unlit candles. Of the about 15 on my windowsill, three of them have been given to me by mi madre. At first, I thought that she was just helping me decorate my room, but now I know that she was giving me a hint.

It’s a strange feeling to have the woman who brought you into this world think that you are going to be spending your afterlife in eternal damnation.

I used to think that I was her favorite child. Turns out, she just wants to spend as much time as she can with me now, because she won’t be able to hang out with me later. She’ll make it up to my siblings in heaven.

Me? Bueno, I’ll just be down there in hell, listening to bag pipes and sipping apple martinis with Maradona. That’s hell to me. Bag pipes, apple-tini’s and Maradona.

I asked mi madre the other day if she thought that I was going to hell.

“You still have time to change your ways.”

Now, I’m really not a bad person. I’m not. Sure, I don’t go to church. I don’t cross myself when passing by a church. I sometimes use the Lord’s name in vain. I eat meat on Fridays. I lust. Big time.

But, I help old women with their grocery bags. I say a silent prayer of thanks when something good happens to me. I buy nothing from the country of Argentina. I try to smile as much as I can. I light candles. Lots of them. I just, don’t like following rules when it comes to Dios. Is that bad?

I believe in God. Very much. God is around me all day long. And not because I’m Guatemalan. I think he’s around all people, everyone, regardless of race and religion. And while God may keep a little distance, he’s even around Argentineans. Again, he keeps his distance.

With mi madre, I once told her that I wasn’t sure if the Catholic way was my way. That all these rules and regulations fit my way of thinking.

In truth, I just believe in God. Dios.

Mi madre loves me, very much, I am her baby boy. But at the end of the day, I’ll still risk the bag pipes.

But… Do me a favor. The next time you’re at the grocery store in the Hispanic section, buy a religious candle. Light one for the saving of my soul. Just in case…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

A Mother's Worry

2007-07-22T10:29:00.000-04:00

“El Guapo! Do you know any women who had artificial insemination?”

Que? Um……Si. I know one.

I was watching TV on the couch and mi madre was yelling from the kitchen. I wasn’t even really paying attention while answering her. This is when I get into trouble with her, when I answer things or say things when I’m not paying attention.

(Ten minute lag)

“El Guapo! Was this girl, the one that went to the sperm bank, could she not find a man?”

I don’t know mama. I don’t think it was a problem of finding men. It was finding one that she wanted around. I didn’t ask too many questions. It’s personal.

By this point, I was fully alert. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that mi madre had just uttered the word “sperm” for the first time in my life. Whatever reason, I was wondering what was going on in that little bunned up head of mi madre’s…

She walked out of the kitchen drying her hands with a dish rag and a somewhat stained orange apron.

“That artificial insemination. It’s dangerous.”

Why? I think they’ve been doing it for a while.

Right after I uttered those words I shuddered a little bit because I knew the continuation of this conversation would only result in mi madre having to say “sperm” again.

“How do they pick the sperm they want?”

I think they have a book of sperm donors. Like a catalog.

“Like a Sears catalog?”

Yeah, a Sears catalog full of sperm donors. It shows all their stats, pictures or whatever. I don’t know. I’ve never looked for a sperm donor.

“El Guapo, it’s dangerous. Mira. Sperm banks, they usually get the sperm from the area where they’re located. So, let’s say one gringo goes in there to sell some sperm. He’s tall, blonde, muscular, smart, well educated, comes from a nice family and has blue eyes. All the women see this man in the Sears catalog and want his sperm. So, in one month, there have been 10 women who used this man’s sperm. In one year, maybe 100. If all these women are from the same area, then maybe half of them will raise their kids here. If they got the sperm in the same year, then their children could maybe go to the same school and grow up together. Maybe they will be friends. Maybe they will date. Maybe they will marry. Then what? Then the world will be full of brothers marrying sisters! It’s very dangerous. Very dangerous!”

I sat there looking at mi madre with the worried look on her face.

“Be sure to tell that friend of yours to tell her child to be careful when dating. You don’t want them to accidentally marry a brother or a sister. This is very important! Tell me that you’ll tell her.”

I’ll tell her mama. I’ll tell her.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Picture Caption Friday

2007-07-20T11:48:00.000-04:00

This week, I was getting my culture on with mi madre. In order to continue the growth and dominance of my Guatemalan people, it is necessary to expand our views and minds.

Yesterday, I was at the Hirshorn Museum along the National Mall. In truth, this is my favorite museum. I've never been into the old classic art with the paintings of gypsies and Dutch landscape. It hurts my precious brown eyes.

Mi mama, is the complete opposite. She likes the masters and isn't into the whole contemporary business her son meddles in.

"This does nothing for me. How is this art?"

Because they thought of it first, mama.

Then, I was walking along and I saw this:

Forgive me for not remembering the exact title, but it was something along the lines of: "Memorial for the Victims of Organized Religion".

As you may know, mi madre is a fan of organized religion. So, her comment is also my caption for this picture:

"Memorial to Buyers of Really Expensive Plastic"

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Bobbish

2007-07-19T00:47:00.000-04:00

Mi madre loves to laugh. She has a loud, deep from the belly laugh that puts you in a good mood. When she finds something funny, you can hear it three blocks down the street.

She has a very good sense of humor, not like mine, a motherly sense of humor. She can still appreciate things that most find funny, but if something is crude, she presses her lips together in a half-smile and shakes her head.

One thing, ay, one thing that she doesn’t laugh at is anything to do with Jesus. Me, I can make Jesus jokes. I’m ok with that. I figure that Jesus would have a good sense of humor about himself. If I were hanging out with Jesus, I may make a joke about the holes in his hands. Not making fun of him, but more like a friendly poke. Not a poke in his side, but you know what I’m talking about. Just kidding around. Kind of like you would make fun of a cowlick.

I asked mi madre who she thought would win in a slap war, Jesus or Abraham Lincoln. I thought it was a good question. She didn’t. I got a lecture about making silly jokes.

“El Guapo, I didn’t raise you to say things like that. How can you have a slappy war with the man who died for you?”

So, you think Jesus would win?

“I’m not going to answer that question. You shouldn’t ask me questions like that. It’s not right.”

Mi madre likes Jesus. One time, I dated a Jewish girl. When I came home, she had so many candles lit that the Russian cosmonauts could see her house from space. Then mi madre told her neighbors and they all had candles. The fire marshall had to speak to me about my dating habits because it was turning into a fire hazard.

Mama, Jesus wasn’t a Christian. What if his name was Bob? Would we then just be Bobbish?

“El Guapo, what a thing to say! How can you say that?”

I’m just saying, if his name were Bob, then you would be Bobbish. He was Bob AND Jewish. So, you would be Bobbish. Makes sense.

“El Guapo, sometimes I wonder what I did wrong with you. I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours. I’m going to light a candle.”

So many candles… The candle makers are sending their kids through Harvard, many times over, because of mi madre.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Rocks by the bench

2007-07-17T11:18:00.001-04:00

She walked with her hips leading the way and her shoulders cocked back and breasts out. She glided across the floor in a way that is difficult to reproduce. A way different than you or I walk; with our each step expressing some kind of a jostle in our shoulders. Not her. Each step was placed in such a way that nothing moved in her gait. If you didn’t look at her moving legs, you would have thought she was on a conveyor belt.

I sat that on the park with the sun watching her glide by and I froze. I froze because the sun was blinding my sunglass-less face. I froze because my stomach was still growling from a morning without breakfast. I froze because for the first time in years, my heart ached because of her.

It had been almost seven years since I last watched her glide away from me, bags in hand, on a trip away from my life. At the time, I couldn’t fathom how I was going to go on each day without watching her glide across the room. I couldn’t fathom how I was going to live without her placing her hand on her hips when she caught me pulling her leg. I couldn’t fathom how I was going to live without her kissing me on the corner of my right eye, between my temple.

There were stones around the bench and they screamed at my peripheral vision to notice them. It didn’t. I just stared.

She was older now. The sun and smoking had taken its toll on her skin. The regular running had produced a still amazing body, but now, I could see that she favored her right knee even more. Her wardrobe was upgraded significantly, but she still had the worst taste in shoes.

What would have made me smile now, really left me with no emotion. None.

I had often wondered what I would do if I ever ran into her again, in this city that is small enough to create such situations. Would I confront her and express all the hurt that she had caused? Would I spit in her face? No. Never. Would I hug her and give her thanks for leaving my life because, God knows, it was the best thing in the world? No.

I sat on my bench enjoying the sun. Her glide took her away and I didn’t even bother to have my eyes follow her down the street. I didn’t care. My eyes didn’t care. My heart, mi corazon, could care less.

Time past is an interesting thing. You only notice when it is put directly in front of you.

My time in the sun was long enough. I picked up a stone, put it in my pocket and went on my way. Today is going to be a good day.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Dear Argentina

2007-07-15T19:19:00.001-04:00

Dear Argentina,

How are you? I feel like we don’t really talk anymore. We shouldn’t go so long without chatting. Really. En serio. It’s like you’re avoiding me.

What’s that? I say not so nice things about you? You’re right. Lo siento. Really, I’m very sorry. Sometimes, it’s just so easy to make fun of you that I black out. Then, when I wake up and start making fun of you again, I realize that it’s wrong.

So, I’m going to say something nice about you. Your women. I like them very much. Please keep sending them to DC. I will continue to take care of them. Your women are the chief Argentinean export to my bed.

What else? Your wine! Well, in truth, I’ve never tried it because I have never done anything that would in any way, shape, or form help your economy. Again, I’m sorry. I may have once said something along the lines of wanting to drink the blood of a bat than your wine, but I’m turning a new leaf. I hear your wine is very good. I hear it’s one of your growing exports.

Your whine is also a great export of yours. Every time I’m around an Argentine, I hear a glorious whine… Joder! I was being so nice to you. I didn’t even say anything about your greasy, long hair worn by your men. Joder! Again.

Ok, here goes again. So, how was your Sunday? Go to church to confess your arrogance, I mean general non-Argentine arrogant sins? My Sunday was good. I was outside for most of the day then I went to a bar to watch a soccer game. Did you watch this soccer game? You must have. You were in it. I believe that you were playing Brazil.

Did you catch the score? No? Oh, good thing I watched it. You lost 3-0 to Brazil’s team. The same team that didn’t have several of its stars playing. You could actually say that this was Brazil’s B team. But yes, you lost. Again. No penalty kicks this time. You were simply dominated.

What’s that? Guatemala’s team? No. Our team wasn’t in this tournament. In truth, it’s not really fair for you to compare Argentina with Guatemala. We are a small and poor country. Most of our men are out in the fields or in the United States working. Soccer has unfortunately been a luxury that we haven’t been able enjoy as much.

You know what? I’m sorry Argentina. I can’t be nice to you. Every time I try, I have little pieces of pupusa coming back into my mouth. Seeing you lose is one of my favorite pastimes. I’m actually planning a vacation in the Falkland Islands to prove this point.

Use your sleeves to dry the tears. I hear they work well.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Calle 13

2007-07-12T21:54:00.000-04:00

While standing, I put my hand on her hips. One hand on each hip. I pressed gently with the beat to show her when and how to move her body. A little to the left. A little to the right. A little to the left. A little to the right. Move a little around in the middle to the beat. Move like you’re making love, but a little harder.

Not that hard. You have to have to make it smooth. Use your hips. Bend your knees a little bit. Si. Bueno.

I went to see Calle 13 this week at the 9:30 club. Calle 13 translates directly into 13th Street, but they’re not named after DC’s 13th street. Turns out Puerto Rico also has one of those, but of course, it isn’t as cool.

Calle 13 is a reggaeton band from Puerto Rico. I can’t tell you how nice it was to have all of mi gente in one place enjoying some music. I brought a gringa. The most gringa of all gringas. She was nearing 6 feet and had reddish blonde hair.

“Why are all these girls giving me dirty looks?”

Que? Ah, really? It’s your imagination.

“No. That girl walked across the floor and stepped on my foot.”

Latina women. They are interesting creatures. During the concert, women by the stage were yelling such suggesting obscenities at the lead singer that it made him blush. They made a Puerto Rican man blush. Then, with mi gringa, well, sometimes they don’t take a gringita taking away one of their starters.

“While you were at the restroom, this guy totally came up to me and grabbed my ass.”

Alcohol, suggestive music and a gringa. They never would have done this if they had seen me around her, but in truth, I find it funny. It’s wrong, I know, but I laugh that mi gente waited until she was alone to do a little grabbing.

Did they say anything to you?

“Yeah, but I don’t remember. What does polla mean? Doesn’t that mean chicken or something?”

Si. Chicken. They were probably asking you to go eat.

“That’s so strange. To just come up to someone, grab their ass, then ask them out to eat.”

Yes, we are strange sometimes.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: Alternative Spanish Dictionary

Manners

2007-07-09T00:20:00.000-04:00

“El Guapo, you have to walk on the outside of the sidewalk when you walk with me.”

Mi abuelita was always making rules for me when I was growing up.

But abuelita, why?

“Because you are a man. When a man walks with a woman, he should walk on the street side of the sidewalk.”

But, I’m just a boy abuelita. And you’re mi abuelita.

“El Guapo, every respectable man with manners walks on the outside of the sidewalk. It’s the polite and gentlemanly thing to do.”

But abuelita, why does it matter?

“When was I was a girl growing up in Guatemala, the streets were made of sand and rock. There weren’t any sewage drains, so when it rained, the sides of the streets would be muddy puddles. When carts went by, they would splash everywhere. The man, the man with manners, who would be walking on the outside of the sidewalk, would be splashed and his woman would stay dry.”

But wouldn’t she get splattered?

“Oh, El Guapo. Your imagination… Si, maybe she would get splattered, but the important thing is that most of the water would be on the man. The man with good manners and respect. You should always do this when walking with a woman.”

Even when it’s not raining?

“Si, El Guapo. Even when it’s not raining.”

Mi abuelita would always move me to the outside of the sidewalk when walking with her. Always. She did it so much that it became second nature for me to always walk on the outside.

Later in life, I was able to tell my hermanitas about this. I would tell them that they should only be with a man who walks on the outside of the sidewalk. No real man would ever allow a woman to walk on the outside.

The other day, mi hermana told me that for the first time in her life, she had found a man who walked on the outside of the sidewalk. She told me this with a smile in voice because he did it on his own, without any prodding. I am happy for mi hermana.

Even if the man was a gringo, with spiky hair.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Picture Caption Friday

2007-07-05T21:12:00.000-04:00

DC is a great place for protestors. People come to the sidewalks and they complain about this thing and that thing. Sometimes, I stop to listen. Sometimes I cross the street because I know that they are annoying.

For the last several years there have been a group of large black men who take over a corner by Metro Center. This group, I like to stop by and listen. They sit around wearing what seem to be fly fishing pants, camouflage, bandanas and beards. And they scream. They scream about the white man. And how the white man is the devil:

They once screamed about how the new Spiderman movie is about how white men are better than black. They say when the “hero” doesn’t have his costume on, he’s the little, simple, clean white man with glasses. But when he becomes evil, he of course, becomes a black demon. Clean: White. Evil: Black.

I wanted to tell them how I thought the Blair Witch Project was about the People's struggle in Cuba, but I didn’t find it to be the right time.

They list the 12 tribes of Israel. Guatemala is not listed. This confuses me because Puerto Rico is.

But, they always tell me how Jesus was a black man. I like Jesus. Maybe he was black. I wouldn’t mind. Pero my entire I life I never really was sure until the other night when I walked by this:

It is a picture of Mary, mother of God. But here, it is a black Mary. Claro, if Jesus the son of God was black, he must have had a black mother. At least a black father. But then he would have been a mulatto Jesus and the angry men on the corner didn’t say anything about a mulatto Jesus.

Now, some of you may be confused and think that the mother of God actually appeared to me, El Guapo. Although Guatemalans are known to be visited by saints and the such, this is just the case of a statue. I wish I remember where I was walking back from, but I believe it was off of H st NE. Turns out gringas live there now...

One thing I ask… Why hasn’t there ever been talk of an Asian Jesus?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino

2007-07-04T20:53:00.000-04:00

“Hello, sir! How are you?”

The upward inflections used when she said “sir” and “you” made me realize that this person was a bit too happy for 8 AM.

“While you wait, would you care to try a sample of our new Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino?”

At 8 AM, I don’t think there is anything that I want less than a Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino. I close my eyes, but my lips together and shake my head politely.

While the woman in front of me was giving her thirteen word coffee order, I took a moment to look around the new surroundings. There were couches. A guy was on the Internet. A spectacled couple was reading the newspaper silently at a wheelchair accessible table. The walls were an orange yellow color. The music was some kind of ethnic. Starbucks has arrived to Columbia Heights. Mi barrio has a Starbucks Coffee.

I’ve been to Starbucks before. I like their coffee, but it was just a little unnerving to see a Starbucks coffee in mi barrio.

I grabbed part of the newspaper when the spectacled couple wasn’t looking and began to read about how important it is to have friends in high places. Then I was distracted by another friendly young lady asking me if I would like to try what I believe was a “bunt cake” and then was offered another tasty sample of a Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino. I don't even know what a "bunt cake" is. I don't trust any food that ends in unt...

Never in all of my life have I come across such friendly Starbucks employees in DC. They were smiling. It made me wonder how long until they became bitter and stopped smiling.

Mi barrio, my neighborhood, is changing. The addition of the Starbucks has some people excited about the changes in the neighborhood. After all, crack isn’t usually dealt in front of a Starbucks. This is great. I don’t like to watch crack being dealt when I drink my coffee.

Then I realized that the employees were so friendly. I mean REALLY friendly. Friendlier than any other coffee franchise employee that this Guatemalan has ever seen. Was it something in the air of Columbia Heights that made them this way? No. They’re this way because it’s new. The friendliest employees in all of DC Starbucks were probably plucked to get the neighborhood excited about this new genericification of the neighborhood.

I fear, that in time, these employees will stop feeling the excitement of the newness and result to being the indifferent employees of DC Starbucks that I have come to know. Then, I fear that the rest of the neighborhood will lose its flavor along with the free samples of the Raspberry Mocha Frappuccinos.

By the way, I finally had a sample. It tasted like mierda.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Tequila vs. Beer

2007-07-01T14:39:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I drink. Sometimes I drink with Miguel. Sometimes I drink very much with Miguel.

For me, there are two types of nights: 1) Beer nights and 2)Tequila nights.

They are muy diferente. I am not a good beer drinker. Beer is cheap and plentiful. When I drink beer, I can know for certainty that I will not be going home with any gringa because chances are I will not even be able to walk. If you see a gorgeous Guatemalan on a park bench, I was drinking beer.

Miguel is the opposite. He can drink beer all night long and you’d never know it. He’s even a better driver when he drinks.

Tequila, is better with me. If you find yourself being lured by an irresistible mustached Guatemalan, I’m either sober or was drinking Tequila. Miguel, bueno, Miguel is the opposite.

Miguel should not be allowed to drink Tequila. Ever. Nunca. Every bar in Washington DC should have his picture up with the words NO Tequila next to it.

Last night was a Tequila night. I know this for a couple of reasons. Miguel is on my floor beside the couch. You may ask why he is on the floor, but I put him there. Actually, I shoved him there. And then after I shoved him, I punched him a couple of times.

He didn’t fight back. Don’t worry. He’s not dead. Not yet.

Why the violence? Bueno, let me explain. I wake up this morning and see that my restroom trash bag is full of urine. It seems that Miguel felt it would be better to urinate in my trash bag than in the toilet, inches away.

Oh, it also appears that my stereo speakers also resemble a toilet because, well, my speakers are a bit sticky. I just got these speakers.

I don’t even know what to say right now. I think I’m going to punch Miguel some more. That seems to make me feel better.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Update 11:28 PM: The smell of Guatemalan urine is so putrid, that I don't know what to do with myself. I threw away my speakers and dumped the urine in the alley where the homeless usually go. I later discovered that mi "amigo" went in the corner behind a bookshelf. I don't even understand what that's about. In order to get the urine back there, he had to wedge his... Nevermind. I hate Miguel.

Picture Caption Friday

2007-06-29T02:18:00.001-04:00

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

2007-06-26T22:26:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-25T00:55:00.000-04:00

“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

2007-06-22T09:44:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-20T14:45:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-18T21:57:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-17T14:48:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-14T19:27:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-13T22:27:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-12T17:10:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-09T12:53:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-06T00:56:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-04T23:46:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-02T14:43:00.000-04:00

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

Gambling Event

2007-05-31T15:39:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-30T20:22:00.000-04:00

(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!!!

2007-05-30T01:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-28T15:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-23T20:23:00.000-04:00

“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

2007-05-22T13:09:00.000-04:00

"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

2007-05-20T21:12:00.000-04:00

“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

2007-05-18T00:21:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-17T11:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-14T18:53:00.000-04:00

“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

2007-05-10T01:16:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-08T23:39:00.001-04:00

“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

2007-05-07T00:50:00.001-04:00

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

2007-05-01T22:32:00.000-04:00

“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

Marxism...

2007-04-29T19:20:00.001-04:00

My evening was cut short by the sound that glass and metal make when brought against each other. Three cars. In this order. One white cab. One blue two-door that has seen better days. One brand new, black German car.

The sound caused an immediate whip of my neck to see the source of the sound. I immediately grabbed my cell phone to call the police when the import took off at a high speed with the blue junker following quickly after her. Was she trying to get away or were they getting out the intersection to talk? Probably the former.

“They don’t speak any English and the girl is lying in the grass.”

The latter.

I walked over because I figure the language they do speak is mine. I was right.

The blue car was now angled in front of the German import in a blocking manner. I looked at the damage and am surprised by the driver being able to conduct such a maneuver while driving on his rims. The back of his car was destroyed. Impressive driving. Then I realize that the driver of the imported car looked like she had spent the last few hours getting beaten by a bottle of tequila. The bottle had won.

I was the interpreter for the night.

The two back seat passengers didn’t want to go to the hospital because they didn’t have any insurance. One of them, a 17-year old woman, kept fainting. I convinced them to go the hospital explaining that they were hit from behind and would be covered if the woman had insurance. She did. They went to the hospital.

This was their only mode of transportation. It was how they got to and from work everyday. It was how they dropped off and picked up their 7-month infant to be watched by a family friend. The German import was fine.

Their car had to be towed to a lot in DC. They lived in Maryland. They would have to pay extra in order for their car to be taken to Maryland. They didn’t have any money.

The driver didn’t have his wallet with him containing his ID and insurance. I think you can get arrested for that. Great. No money for towing, no money for whatever fine he’s going to get. Here, give me your registration. What number is this? Oh, it’s your license number! Gracias a Dios! In Maryland, they put your license on the back of your registration. Que suerte hombre!

The driver of the import is arrested. At least she’ll have to spend the weekend in jail. No? $500 gets her out? That’s it? You can pretty much ruin someone’s livelihood, attempt to escape the scene of an accident, injure people and still be able to spend the night in your own bed? Interesante.

It makes me wonder. The poor will continue to be poor because the laws are made to help the rich. It’s times like these that I wish I had paid for attention to the Karl Marx quotes written under the juice caps. Then I’m sure I could quote some very intense line about the poor always being at the mercy of the rich. But I can’t. I am but a simple Guatemalan who just writes what he sees and what he feels without being able to very much to change the system. Joder.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Tired at night

2007-04-25T00:23:00.000-04:00

I used to love watching her drink red wine. She would sit at a wooden bar, legs crossed with papers under a penned hand. My presence would often remain hidden for as long as I could stand being without a kiss just so that I could see her green eyes swallow the words and her thin lips savor the grape.

Her high heels would dangle from her pedicured feet swaying like a ribbon tied to a fence. With each subtle movement her toned legs would send my eyes darting from the arch of her foot as far as her skirt would allow my eyes to go before my memory and imagination took over.

With each sip of the grape a contained pleasure that I believe only I can see as the wine is swallowed slowly enough to allow all of the taste buds a chance at glory. With each sip, her eyes widen and my gaze deepens until my presence is felt in a way that only lovers can feel each other.

I’m tired. And sometimes, I’m in no mood for feelings.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Stone Quirks

2007-04-22T20:38:00.000-04:00

I threw a rock into the stream and watched the quick disruption that I caused. It isn’t often that I take a break from life when I actually go out of my way to sit by a stream exposing my thoughts to the nothingness it needs.

“You’re too American.”

It was a comment said to me this Friday that seemed to be bothering me more than I had originally let on. It was a comment that I would have given anything to hear when I was growing up, but now, bueno, it bothers me. Why? I am not sure.

The country that gave mi familia a better life didn’t always make me feel at home. Mi madre’s accent, the different food smells in my house and, of course, the color of my skin. Our skin. We weren’t white. We weren’t black. We were brown. We were the ones cleaning tables, cooking food, washing clothes, we were the dirty ones. There was a time when I was ashamed of my roots.

I wore the Nike shoes, I listened to shitty music and stopped speaking my Spanish. I wanted so much to be American with the American walk and the American talk, but, in the end, I realized that I was impossible to be like my blonde hair blue eyed friends. I was El Guapo, Guatemalan with a budding mustache.

When I became comfortable with myself I also became a happier person, which is what you see today.

“You think like an American.”

When for years a comment like that would have made me smile the smile of all smiles, today, today it bothered me. I side armed a perfect stone across the stream and watched it skip four times.

Then, as I relived that stone dashing across the water, I smiled. I am Guatemalan, but wait, I am what I call a Guatemalan-American. I have the skin, mustache and dancing that don’t lie, but it seems that I have what some of my recent-to-the-US Latino friends feel to be very American quirks.

But, during this very American-movie-like-throwing-stones-side-armed-into-a-stream moment, I smiled. I’m ok with that.

Because at the end of the day, it is all my quirks that makes me, me.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Left Behind

2007-04-18T20:22:00.000-04:00

Throw me that blanket. It’s cold in here.

I’m making a visit to Miguel’s house. I saw a red blanket that was just out of my reach and asked my amigo for some help.

“That’s not a blanket?”

He barely looked up from the television, but I sensed a little bit of annoyance in his voice.

Miguel, come on. I’m cold. Give me the blanket.

“It’s not a blanket. It’s a sweater.”

I annoyingly got up to grab the red blanket that was soon make the cold go away when I realized that mi amigo was right. It was, indeed, a sweater. A red one. With a hoodie. I held it open and realized that it made up two of me.

Say Miguel, this is quite a sweater. A hoodie? Very cute. Why haven’t I ever seen you wearing this before?

“El Guapo, not now. Soccer is on. I had a special guest visit me last night. She left me a souvenir.”

Ah yes, I was familiar with the overnight guest souvenirs. For reason women of the world tend to “forget” items over at our houses when making a special guest visit. This is a phenomenon that continues to amaze me to this day. Earrings, hair clips, hair bands, sweaters, jackets, toys (don’t ask), bracelets, anklets, and sandals. Women, for some reason need to leave items behind.

The most difficult part, for me, in my newfound single life, has been to remember this strange phenomenon when I have special visitors. Why do you women leave behind items? Are you trying to mark your territory? Is it really so hard to sleep with your earrings on? Can’t you put the hair bands around your wrists? If it was cold when you got here, do you not need that hooded sweatshirt when you leave?

I have lost exactly one item of clothing in my teen years: a braided belt. I loved that belt. It had a buckle made of silver (probably fake) with an eagle holding onto some kind of green branch. I loved that belt. But did you see me go back to get the belt? Did you see me call to get the belt? Did you see me go up to one of her friends in an attempt to get the belt? No. I let it go. It was a great belt, but now, well now it was her belt.

Women, I’ve learned, are unable to do this. I say this because almost every time I’ve had something left behind they come calling wanting to get it back. I don’t understand. If they are your favorite earrings, why, why in the name of all that is holy would you leave them behind? Why would you take them off?

And God forbid your girlfriend finds a remnant of a visitor past… I have never cheated on a woman in my life. It’s not my thing. But because of these past special visitors, I have been accused of being a “whore,” “cheating bastard,” and a “typical Latin dickhead.” Earrings… Why must you take them off?

The phone rings. Miguel ignores it.

Who was that?

He looks and nods at the red sweater.

She wants it back?

“Si, but it is mine now.”

He grabs the sweater from my hands and puts in over his shoulders to protect himself from the cold. I look at his exposed left wrist and notice he is also wearing a yellow hair band…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Falcon

2007-04-17T00:34:00.001-04:00

“Falcon.”

Falcon?

“Si. Falcon.”

You want to name your first child Falcon?

“Si. Falcon.”

Like the bird?

“The greatest of all flying creatures.”

But why do you want to name your child, your human child, after a flying bird?

“Because Falcon is easily the manliest of all names possible. I have been giving this much thought and it was between Falcon and Jaguar.”

Oh, claro, Jaguar. That is a manly name. Why did you settle on Falcon?

“It wasn’t an easy decision, but anything that can fly is tougher than something that can just climb trees.”

Mosquitos can fly. Why don’t you name him Mosquito?

“El Guapo, this is why your first born will never be feared on the playground. Falcon, bueno, Falcon will be feared on the playground while your Mosquito cowers under his wings.”

Falcon.

“Si. Falcon.”

What about the T-Rex or another dinosaur.

“You’re an idiota. You can’t name your child after an extinct creature. There are rules to these things.”

Of course not. Why would I even think that…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Helmets and Peanut Butter

2007-04-15T16:43:00.000-04:00

You know you had too much to drink the night before when you are laying in bed, wishing, just wishing you had an empty bottle by your bed. The thought process, the self-convincing thought process, that it would actually be a really good idea if I could just relieve myself into a bottle to avoid the headache that is sure to come. Last night, bueno, last night was a good night.

I just wish I remembered it…

This morning I walked into a kitchen that showed off why one shouldn’t mix Tecate beer with Johnny Walker Black.

Peanut butter, from what I am sure you know, is (for the most part) a staple item in the American household. I acquired a taste for this brown cream by visiting the homes of friends as a child. In a drunken rampage, it seems that peanut butter becomes one of the main ingredients of my hunger. Of course, there is a Guatemalan twist…

My kitchen is a mess. Just a mess. The extra large, extra chunky container was left open and I found pieces of dried papaya inside the container. It seems that dried papaya, in this Guatemalan household, replaces the American celery used as a dipping utensil. My face cringed when I saw what I was eating, but then I decided to try it. In truth, not bad. Not bad at all.

There were also flour tortillas lying on the counter. Please note that everything that I had seemed to be half eaten. In this instance, I decided that it would be a good idea to have tortilla, chunky peanut butter, honey and pieces of avocado. From the half-eaten state of this feast, I wasn’t sure if I should try it sober. Well, you only live once and I figured that nothing could hurt as badly as my head. Luckily, it was delicious. The tortilla is a genius item that I believe you can combine with anything. Combine avocado and peanut butter and you have what is possibly one of the greatest snacks known to man.

I will not claim to be the first to combine these items as a snack, but will only say that it is damn good. Not fresh flan good, but damn good.

I even thought about eating in a healthy manner yesterday. I found this out by the lonely red pepper left untouched on my counter. I have no idea what my thought process was, but I’m sure that it involved some peanut butter dipping.

Where was Miguel in all of this? When I woke up this afternoon, he was passed out underneath a table wearing a motorcycle helmet and a soccer ball in his arms. He was also wearing both of his socks as gloves because his hands get cold when he sleeps. Why the motorcycle helmet?

Sometimes, I just don’t ask.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Lost in Translation

2007-04-09T19:22:00.000-04:00

Miguel had family friends visiting from Guatemala this weekend. They were studying English in California and came to DC to spend a few days at his madre’s house. There were three of them, ages 20-24, just like the demographic. They wore tight clothes liked people to look.

“They are my cousins. You are not allowed to look and you are not allowed to touch.”

I was not allowed to look or touch, but I was asked to go out with Miguel to show them a good time. Dancing was out of the question, according to Miguel, because that would require my touching them. You see, Miguel knows the powers of my hip, so he keeps his cousins away from me and the salsa.

Since Miguel would not allow any kind of dancing, we drank like the white man. Miguel was already in a bad, chaperone mood and the Coronas seemed to make it worse. The joking and the giggling of his primas was starting to get on his nerves. Every advance made by men at the bar resulted in Miguel giving them a death stare.

Finally, the ring-leader, Tina, told him off:

“Look, I know we aren’t from here! I know we don’t speak the language very well, but stop acting like you’re our dad. Let us have some fun. Stop being an ass!”

Miguel doesn’t react well to being called any names. He never has. Never. I thought, for only a quick moment, to walk away, but no, not ever have I walked away from seeing Miguel do something when angry.

“Ok. You are right. Have your fun. Do not call me an ass.”

“You are being an ass! Stop it!”

“Ok.”

That was it? That was it? Mi amigo is getting old. For the next hour the ladies were ladies and I was even allowed to dance, but I danced poorly. I did not wish to make mi amigo angry with me.

“El Guapo, how do you say “bangs” in English,” Tina asked me while pointing to her bangs, the extra hair hanging on her forehead. I really couldn’t remember how to say it in English.

“Miguel, do you know?”

“Cunt.”

“Cunt?”

“Si. Cunt.”

“I need to cut my cunt? Es correcto?”

“Si. Muy correcto.”

Soon, they were all saying it. The C-Bomb was flying left and right. It was their new favorite word.

“Your cunt looks great.” “My cunt is too long.” “I wish my cunt looked like yours.”

At one point I wanted to tell them, but was quickly given the I will kill you look by Miguel and decided against it.

Never in my life have I had the pleasure of listening to grown women throw the word around with such laughter and joy in their voices. Never have I felt so guilty knowing that they were going to use this word in a classroom setting and make their teacher blush.

Look, don’t call Miguel and ass. It’s just not worth it.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

A little peek

2007-04-04T21:32:00.000-04:00

I shouldn’t have done it. I want you all to know that I felt bad before, during and after I did it. If I went to confession I would have potentially confessed to it. I’m not sure that it’s actually considered a sin, but priests like to hear these types of half-sins.

Dating is interesante. You get exposed to different types of people and sometimes, bueno, sometimes you want to get ahead of the game a little bit. You want to get some information that you aren’t getting while speaking to the person. I don’t call it cheating. I don’t really know what I call it, but I’m guilty of it. I’m guilty of looking through medicine cabinets.

I know. I know. It’s wrong. I feel bad about it. Trust me, I have a Catholic mother. I’m guilty enough.

So, this week, I was on a date. It was a “set up” by una de mis amigas. I was told that I dated too many Latinas, so I was set up with the gringa of all gringas. I believe this one was from Arkansas, the most confusing state to pronounce.

Anyway, I had to use the restroom, so I had a little peek. A little peek never hurt anyone, no? Si! It hurts me!

Porque? Because this is what I saw: Diclac. A box of pills with the words “BACK PAIN” written on the box with a black magic marker. Why the extra reminder for prescription medication? Oh, the girl from Arkansas had prescription pills from Brazil. Brazilian pain pills. Yes. This is my date.

I look through the drawer some more and find Advil, Aspirin and Ibuprofen. But wait, back pain. No big deal right? Right. The Brazilian pills were strange to have, but hey, pills, pain, we all have it sometimes. Next Item.

Tucks. Hemorrhoidal Pads with Witch Hazel. Medicated Pads. Soothes. Cools. Comforts. Safe for septic and sewer systems.

I have no idea what this looks like. I very much wanted to open this so that I could describe them to you, but I could not. Witch hazel? I was on a date with a gringa from Arkansas who had hemorrhoidal pads. Pads that soothe, cool and comfort. This was too much for me. Next item? Si, next item.

Hemorid. Hemorrhoidal creme. With Aloe. You see, for this gringa from Arkansas, the pads that soothe, cool and comfort aren’t enough. You see, aloe is also needed for the hemorrhoids. The soothing, cooling, comforting feeling isn’t enough. Aloe is also needed. I’m on a date with a girl from Arkansas that also needs aloe. Next item? Next item.

Dr. Scholl’s Deodorant Foot Powder. Contains Chlorophyll. Stops foot odor. Use daily for fit feet. Fit feet. My gringa date from Arkansas, with back pain and hemorrhoids also has foot odor. Foot odor. Foot odor. Hemorrhoids. I didn’t even know how to spell hemorrhoids until just moments ago. I didn’t need to know how to spell that word. I didn’t even know how pronounce Arkansas until a couple of days ago and I was very happy. Now, bueno, now I know how to pronounce Arkansas and spell hemorrhoids. It has two r’s. Two of them. Just one r doesn’t bring it home. It has to have two. It just has to.

As for the date, there was no date. Why? I wish I could tell you that it was because I was taken out of the mood, but it wasn’t. It was because the gringa from Arkansas with the soothed, cooling bottom with foot odor felt that I was invading her privacy and asked me to leave.

Now I’m the bad Guatemalan. I tried telling her that the hemorrhoids didn’t matter to me and she got very upset. She had one of those squeaky screams. She could really push though. She was a hard pusher. She pushed me out. Hard. It kind of hurt my back a little bit.

Good thing I kept some of the Brazilian back pain pills for myself. Addict...

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

A New Leaf

2007-04-03T12:13:00.000-04:00

“Sir, you should know that we also have appointments between 4-7PM for those customers who prefer the later times.”

This week, I did something that I never thought I’d do. Never. This week, I decided to pay for cable television.

“Yes sir, I apologize. We try to schedule appointments knowing that some will take longer than others. Our technician just got backed up today. Are you sure you don’t want to re-schedule for another time?”

As a resident of Washington, DC, it is my inalienable right to steal (borrow) cable television from my neighbors. Unfortunately, my neighbor of choice hasn’t been reliable in his ability to pay his utility bills and I was constantly having to suffer through having his/my cable cut off.

“I am going to give you a $20 credit. Again, please accept my apologies.”

Gol TV. That was the reason I decided to pay. I could have two channels dedicated to soccer if became a legal subscriber. It's hard for me to think of something better on TV.

“Sir, my apologies. I will give you a $20 credit for this tardiness.”

It’s almost 5 PM. You guys were supposed to be here between nine and twelve. You’re going to go bankrupt if you keep giving me $20 credits. I’m trying to pay you money for TV. I was getting it for free before.”

“Sir, you know that it’s illegal to steal cable television?”

What? Really? Well, I’m trying to turn a new leaf in mi vida. I want to pay for a service that keeps me waiting for 8 hours without any end in sight.

“Sir, again, I apologize for that. I see here that we have given you $60 in credits today. Is there anything else that I can do for you?”

I REALLY appreciate your giving me the $60 in credits. But what I really want is to have a slight idea of when to expect your technician.

“Sir, I suggest you reschedule for another day.”

Yes, I appreciate the suggestion, but see where I’m coming from. I’ve been sitting here for the entire day when I could have been doing things like playing craps in the alley, attending cock fights, or, I don’t know, going to work to earn money to pay for the not free cable television that you can’t seem to want to give me. So, I would reschedule, but I’m afraid that it will be another day of not being able to do anything. Can you guarantee that your technician will be here at an exact time?

“No sir.”

So you want me to take off of work again so that you may be able to come?

“Sir, I see that you are signed up for our Sports package. Would you be interested in receiving a free month of our adult oriented package due to this inconvenience?

Are you bribing me with porn?

Very smart Comcast. VERY smart.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Morals

2007-03-31T16:44:00.000-04:00

It was a long night. I was cansado. Muy, muy tired. The sort of tired that makes your knees numb after a night of dancing on cheaper than you should have purchased leather-soled shoes. But, there was someone. When there is a woman with such melodic hips on the dance floor, you forget about the knees. You forget about many things, because those hips, those hips.

The invitation back for a “night cap” comes as a welcome surprise. Other than dancing circles around my “competition” and easily having the best mustache in the club, I didn’t do much talking. There were smiles and wise cracks, but, like I explained, I was tired. I still do not understand from where the term “night cap” comes, but I have always been a fan. Of any cap really. Morning, afternoon, dusk, whenever.

The first thing I saw upon entering her apartment was a flag of Venezuela. I like Venezuela. I believe there is something special in their water because the women do not disappoint. I believe that the United States wouldn’t have political issues with Venezuela if Hugo Chavez were a beautiful Venezuelan woman.

The night cap started, as all night caps start, with a tour of the apartment. A tour. Why is it that women find the need to give me a tour when I am invited back to their place at three in the morning? Si, it is polite, but come on. Why the tour at three?

We then made it to the most important room in the house, the bedroom, when I was violently pushed onto the bed. Venezuelan women are not only beautiful, they are also strong. The night cap was becoming one of my favorites as my new amiga straddled me on the edge of her bed as her skirt eased up her sides. Did I mention that I like Venezuela?

I embraced her like this for a bit with my eyes closed until I made the error of opening my eyes. In the beginning, it was not an error. It was beautiful. To see an olive-colored sun kissed Venezuelan gyrating on you is a blessing, but my peripheral vision once again was there to haunt me.

I saw something horrid out of the corner of my eye. If I had kept my eyes closed, things would have been perfect. Even Hugo Chavez would have slapped me on my back and congratulate me on a job well done. But no. I, for some reason, had to open my eyes. Me, being curious by nature, wanted to see her room. Why? I don’t know. Because I really could care less about her room, but, at this moment, I wanted to see what adorned her walls. It ruined it.

I have to go.

“Que? Porque?”

I forgot that I have to do something early tomorrow.

“Are you serious?”

I was serious. Unfortunately, when I opened my eyes, I saw a man staring at me that took away all desire to be here with this woman. I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the morning. I couldn’t do it.

I ran back to the bedroom to snap a picture for you:

You see, I cannot be in the bedroom of a woman with a picture of an Argentine on the wall. No matter how much of a cult hero he may have been, I could not bring myself to continue. Not now, not ever.

To be with El Guapo, one must be free of all things Argentinean. I do, however, think back and remember her flower-covered satin skirt and black high heels and wonder what could have been…

Sabes, sometimes, I am a true idiota.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Punch in the stomach

2007-03-27T01:56:00.000-04:00

“Hey, man! What’s up?”

It is early and I’m tired. I find myself watching the flashing white man without reacting in my usual way. The cold makes me more tired and for a moment, I forget that I’m supposed to blink.

“From the other night. The Super Diamond show. We met your friend.”

En serio? It is too early for me to hate Miguel. I know that he has once again made my life a little too interesting for my taste. Monday mornings are not meant to be eventful. Monday mornings are meant to pass by until the coffee kicks in. El Guapo does not like to speak on Monday mornings.

“Yeah man, some show. Good times afterwards too.”

This man with the too blue shirt was balding. Bueno, it seems like it was his decision to keep the quarter sized clump of hair on the center of his forehead. The rest of his hair hadn’t received the notice because it was no more. But, the quarter-sized piece of hair held on. It wasn’t ready to go.

“You should have come man. It was fun.”

The look on the man’s face… I hated myself a bit at that moment for allowing my friend to make this man’s face move in such a fashion. His face made the expression of someone who had lost his soul. He would make eye contact for a fleeting moment before speaking, while staring at an unknown spot on the pavement.

Threesomes. I have understood the novelty of the act, but have never partaken. Not once. Nunca. Never. Why not? Because I am Guatemalan and do not share.

But El Guapo, two women at once? Come on. Do you know how amazing that would be?

No. I have no idea and I will never know. The threesome is the invention the French. A true lover does not wish to take his attention away from his partner or wish to share his partner with another. Me? I do not share.

Do I not share because I fear the effect that mi Guatemalan love would have on two women at once? Bueno, I have thought of this, but no. I do not share. Ever. Because when you share the love, it makes someone look like this man.

I had no words for him. No words of mine would take away the feeling of getting punched in the stomach repeatedly. I nodded and thought about the anonymous commenter making a crack at my perhaps giving him a $20 bill. No. Not today. Money isn’t going to make this guy, this chap feel any better.

When another man is with your woman, any woman in your life, even one of your past, it changes the part of you that cares. I can do nothing for this man who was only trying to make his woman love him.

I can do nothing for him. Well, I could always punch Miguel in the stomach.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Kentucky Woman vs. Sweet Caroline

2007-03-25T23:16:00.000-04:00

“El Guapo, trust me.”

I do not always like it when Miguel gets that look in his eyes. It’s a strange look, not unlike that of the cheetah I’ve seen on television.

“Trust me. It’s going to be amazing. Just trust me.”

I do not like it when he tells me to trust me several times. It makes me want to not trust him. Similar to when people begin sentences with “no offense or anything,” I automatically begin to not trust him.

So tell me again. This is a band that charges $22 to see them play someone else’s songs?

“Si, but you don’t understand.”

And then while they are charging you $22 to listen to them play someone else’s songs, they also dress up like this person?

“Si, but you don’t understand.”

And this “band” is vocally plagiarizing songs written by a guy known as the “Jewish Elvis”?

“El Guapo, shut your boca for two seconds and pay attention to me. Women, bueno, American women, love this type of music. I guarantee that this place will be full of the nieves. The ratio is going to be amazing. AND, please pay attention to these words, we will be the only Latino men there. I promise. Te lo prometo.”

I left Miguel to do some research on this Jewish Elvis. I checked out this song called Cherry Cherry which is pretty much a catchy song that repeats and rhymes words like move and groove. Interesante. Then I listened to Sweet Caroline. My, what a catchy song. So I realized that Neil Diamond songs were not songs for a thinking man. Bueno, I realized before this, that these songs were not songs for men at all. Mi amigo was right. This place was going to be crawling with women.

We arrived at the 9:30 club to find that we were indeed the only Latin men there and, gracias Miguel, the crowd was easily made up of 80% women. I would like to thank whomever sent the memo to Miguel.

The band was made up of 6 men who all wore rhinestone shirts and had some sort of sideburn activity. Many were balding and perhaps a bit overweight. The great thing? It didn’t matter. These gringas loved the way they moved and sang. The band was fun because they didn’t take themselves seriously. Yet the women, I believe that by the end of the show, they all wanted to make sweet, magic love.

One gentleman in the crowd, who for some reason felt the need to speak to Miguel and me rather than the 900 single women in the club, told me that it was “cougar central.” I had no idea what he meant by this and wished for him to take his green shirt and halitosis somewhere else. He kept reminding Miguel that he was going to “pull major ass” and how American women like to be “thrown around by Latin-types.”

It was during Kentucky Woman that I told him a particular woman had been staring at him.

“Oh, that’s my wife. Look buddy, truth be told, she wants me to ask you if you’d be down for a three way. Interested? She’s crazy in the sack and has always wanted a Spanish type.”

I had no words then and I really have no words now. I just looked at the guy with a look puzzled enough to send him back to explain his failure.

“Did he just ask you for a threesome?”

Si.

“Turned it down? Did you see her? Idiota!”

And I sat there as mi amigo sauntered over towards the couple. Yes, he sauntered. I saw the look in the woman’s eye and quickly realized that Miguel was not interested in a threesome. I then saw the look in the man’s eyes when he realized he was going to spend the evening watching poker on television. Latino men do not share their women.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Blaming the Mexican for the Sweater Vest?

2007-03-21T19:59:00.000-04:00

Sweater Vests. Can someone explain this to me please? I do not understand.

It’s a piece of clothing that is meant to protect against the cold weather, but without the sleeves. It is like someone woke up one morning and said, “Man, it is cold outside, but not that cold. I do not want to commit to a full sweater because then my arms will be too warm.”

So then, there are people out there with long sleeved shirts and a sweater, which for some reason is usually a red or brownish tint.

Was there a sale on sweater vests that made them just too good to pass up? Is this happening anywhere else or is it just DC that has sweater-vest fever?

I will tell you this. You will never see a self-respecting Latino wearing a sweater vest. Nunca. Jámas. Do you know why? Because we commit. We commit to a theme. We don’t do the half sleeved world of fashion. If a Latina woman is wearing something tight, everything she is wearing is tight. We commit. If we are cold, you are more likely to see us wearing rabbit fur-lined everything (hat, gloves and socks). We commit.

Wait, I just thought of something. There is one Latino out there that I’m pretty sure has sweater vests: Alberto Gonzales.

For those of you who do not know, Alberto Gonzales is the attorney general of the United States. The very moment I heard of Mr. Gonzales being asked by President Bush to be the President, I thought, “Great, now he has a Mexican to blame for something.”

I knew, I really truly knew, that some were just going to be licking their lips for something else to go wrong in the Bush White House. Why? Because they were then, able, to finally, blame a Mexican.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hell, I don’t know. The Mexican did it!”

Why not? It’s so perfect. Blame the brown guy. Ave Maria…

I bet some wish that Gonzales was around before troops were sent into Iraq. “The Mexican told us there were weapons of mass destruction.” “It was the Mexican who said that, not me.” “Whoa, don’t point your finger this way, it was the Mexican.”

But what do I know about politics? Very little. I do know, however, when the game “blame the brown guy” is being played. The last to be picked in elementary school dodge ball Tom Tancredo must just be loving this. Tom Tancredo, he does commit, but he totally wears a sweater vest.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Green Beer

2007-03-18T21:05:00.001-04:00

As you may have guessed from my name, I am not of Irish descent. I was not blessed with pale skin, red hair, or freckles. My people do not get burnt by the sun, name their children Danny, or center their meals around the potato. So, what could I do on Saint Patrick’s Day? I drank. I drank heavily.

One does not know the power of St. Patrick’s day until they find themselves throwing up green beer in an alleyway, then going back inside for more.

Why must they make things green? Green. The color of mold. The color of things gone bad. On this day, green food is good food. Praise be.

This is the day that every Caucasian, no every person is able to say and wish and hope that they are Irish. What is it that we celebrate? I truly have no idea, but an old Irish man told me that it had something to do with ridding Ireland of snakes.

“Snakes. St. Patrick the country of Ireland from the snakes! Buy my friend a drink!”

When I say that this gentleman was Irish, I do not know this with certainty. He had a strong drawl, a Guinness mustache and eczema. He could have been from West Virginia. I do not know, but he bought me a beer and taught me of St. Francis. Turns out St. Francis also converted many pagans over towards Christ. I guess that’s a good thing. I will drink to that.

Imagine me, a gorgeous Guatemalan who was blessed with not so pale skin, inside a very Irish bar in the middle of “dancing” Irish dances. Why the quotation marks? Because jumping up and down while bringing your ankle to your waist is not dancing. It’s a standing seizure. But, it turns out that the redheaded ladies seem to enjoy seeing two Guatemalans do their version of the Riverdance, so on this St. Patrick’s day, I Guatemalaneded it up. It was glorious.

“Where did you learn to dance like that?”

Did you like that? My grandfather was Irish.

“Oh yeah. You look Irish. What was your grandfather’s name?”

Francisco, I mean, Francis O’Douls.

“Oh, O’Douls. That’s hot. I like that. You must be a Black Irish.”

Oh, my little sweet red-haired princess, I’ll be anything you want if you just keep talking to me. Then, of course, the green beer that had settled nicely in my stomach expressed its strong desire to escape my Guatemalanness with a belch. A green belch. My little redhead didn’t take well to that, but luckily my shirt was green.

Green vomit does not stain a green shirt. But a belch, bueno, a belch ruins even Irish foreplay.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

High School Classmate

2007-03-15T00:12:00.000-04:00

“Nothing?”

Nothing.

“Because you don’t like them?”

Si. That’s about right.

“They have good wine.”

I wouldn’t know.

“Good steak too.”

I doubt it’s any better than what they make here.

“Hmmm. Leather goods. They have really good leather goods.”

I’m not in the market for a whip right now. I’m ok.

“Do you think you’re better than them?”

Them? Yes, I am. Only because they think they’re better than me which automatically makes me better than them.

“Why again?”

Because anyone that thinks they are better than another person is automatically placed beneath that person.

“Because of what?”

Rules. Rules set forth for being a decent human being.

“How about people who go around talking about how good looking they are and how great of a mustache they have? What about them?”

Guatemalans are in a category of their own. God himself decided to make all Guatemalans amazing looking. This cannot be helped. Do not hate the Guatemalan people because God prefers them. It is not our fault.

“What do you think God thinks about Argentines?”

I think he places them in the same category as Albania.

“Was that the first country you could think of that started with an “a”?”

No. I thought of Afghanistan, but I think God likes the Afghanis more than the Argentines.

“But Argentina is better than Afghanistan in soccer.”

Oh yeah, I guess they were too busy kicking the Russians out of their country and being oppressed by the Taliban to get much practice in for soccer.

“I think God likes the Argentines. Have you seen their women?”

Yes.

“Didn’t you date an Argentine back in high school?”

No.

“Yes you did. You did. I remember. You lost your virginity to an Argentine.”

No, that was Ricardo.

“Oh no. That was you. Now it all makes sense. I get it now.”

I get why I haven’t made any attempt to see you since high school.

“Didn’t it go down on a water bed during the 4th of July or something?”

I no longer wish to have this conversation.

“You love the Argentines…”

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Ladder

2007-03-12T19:14:00.000-04:00

Ladder.

“What?”

Ladder. Say ladder.

“Ladder.”

The “d” sound you just made? In ladder?

“Yeah?”

That is the same sound as the “r” sound in Español.

“Really?”

She proceeds to say ladder over and over again. Then she started to say words like Ramón, burrito, rápido, rápidamente, and aburrido.

“Estoy muy aburrida, El Guapo.” (I’m very bored, El Guapo)

Oh, I’m sorry that I’m not amusing you. I’m turning you into a professional Spanish speaker. You really sold me when you said, “Ramon wanted a burrito rapidamente.” That was great.

“You think that was great?”

I was very impressed. Muy impresionante. I like how one of the first words you chose to say after learning how to say the ere was “burrito”. That was nice. It made me have a good feeling about you.

“Oh. I see. You’re making fun of me. Are you going to make a joke about how I’m racist because I said “burrito”? Are you going to shoot me another sly smile? Are you going to run your fingers through your hair again?”

Not now I’m not. I was going to run my fingers through my hair and shoot you a sly smile, but if it’s not going to have any effect on you, then I don’t want to waste my time.

“Oh, you’re not wasting your time honey. It totally works. It’s doing the trick. I just want you to know that I know what you’re doing.”

And to think I just thought you were another girl attracted to mustaches.

“Yeah… Who your age has mustaches?”

It is nice, no?

“Yeah. You actually pull it off. Estoy muy MUY aburrida. Vamos El Guapo. It’s my turn to teach you something.”

And so it was. El Guapo is back.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Papaya

2007-03-07T22:12:00.000-05:00

I don’t understand. What do you mean by that statement?

“I just don’t like papayas.”

That makes no sense to me. How can someone not like papayas? You must be eating them out of season.

“No. I’ve had them during different times of the year. Even in different countries. I just don’t like them. I think it’s the texture I don’t like.”

The texture? You don’t like the delicious papaya because of the texture? What is the texture?

“It’s stringy. And they have those sticky, black, round seeds in them. I don’t like the way they look.”

Stringy. Sticky, black, round seeds. Because of this you don’t like the delicious papaya?

“Why are you making such a big deal about this?
---
“What do you mean she didn’t like papayas?”

She said she didn’t like the texture. The seeds were black and sticky.

“The texture? What does that even mean? Why does she care about the seeds? You don’t eat the seeds! The seeds don’t matter! You scoop out the seeds.”

That’s what I tried telling her, but she said something about not liking to eat something that touches sticky, black seeds.

“But the papaya is delicious! Maybe she’s had it during the wrong times of the year?”

Yeah, no. She just didn’t like the papaya. I tried to cover all angles.

“So what happened?”

I’m not sure I can be with someone who doesn’t like the delicious papaya. I could not even have a conversation after that. I started wondering that maybe she didn’t like the delicious mango or the tamarind. I just couldn’t do it.

“Guava.”

What about it?

“She probably doesn’t like them either. They have seeds inside. Coconut. No seeds, but she probably doesn’t like the texture of the coconut meat either.”

I hadn’t thought about the coconut. I love coconut.

“Who doesn’t? She probably doesn’t! This whole conversation just put me in a bad mood. I’m going home. I never want to meet her.”

Miguel will never actually meet this one. I will likely never see her again, but she was nice. That is, if you like the papaya hating type.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

My Mr. Wendal

2007-03-06T01:23:00.000-05:00

I hate the nighttime. I fucking hate the nighttime. Too much quiet. Too much darkness. To much time to think. I’m tired of thinking. Fuck thinking.

Tonight, the moon was out and it seemed like a good night to go for a walk. It seemed like a good night to go walking when it was too cold, too dark and too late to run into anyone. A perfect night to go out for a walk.

The steps on the sidewalk sound different when it’s cold. The leather soles seem to stay less time on the ground as they step away from the cold. With the wind blowing in your uncovered ears, you suddenly begin to walk to the beat of whatever song is playing in your mind. The Ramones, for some reason, are in my mind. I do, however, want to be sedated.

“Brotha’ man. You got a dollar?”

Brother man. I have, for some odd reason, always wanted to be called “brotha’ man.” I saw the gentleman trying to escape the wind in a doorway of a boarded up house. Brother man. I think it was that Arrested Development song from a long time ago.

I gave him a twenty.

“Damn son. A twenty? I was gonna say “penny for thoughts”, but I ain’t got the time.”

I chuckled. I did.

No worries mi amigo. Buy something warm. I wish I had more, but that is all I have.

I show him my empty wallet.

“Don’t be taking out your wallet boy! You some kind of fool?”

Yes. The best kind.

“Boy the moon is out tonight! You best be careful.”

Yes sir. It’s time I go home. God bless you.

I haven’t asked God to bless anyone in a long time, but it just came out of my mouth. Strange.

“Thank you brother. Remember, life is gonna happen no matter what you want. It just gonna happen. No sense in fightin’ it. Just let it happen and try to smile as much as you can. Ain’t all dark corners out there.”

This coming from a man who was now escaping the wind in a doorway. Ain’t all dark corners out there…

He’s right.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Cutting Corners

2007-03-04T22:01:00.000-05:00

Mi amigo Alberto recently purchased his first house. He has been talking about getting a house of his own since we were 18 years old, so this was a big moment for him. I was very happy that mi amigo had worked so hard and had achieved one of his dreams.

We all have dreams, but it’s interesting to note that very few of them actually come true. I will tell you that his eyes beamed with pride as he showed me around. It is nice to be around someone who has accomplished a dream. It is a good vibe that puts you in a good mood.

“El Guapo, these last several years have been tough. I’ve put every extra penny into the bank and cut corners everywhere I could.”

It was funny that he said this because he was the friend who would drink the grocery brand soda or maybe order water when we went out to dinner. I hadn’t paid much attention to it until he actually pointed it out.

“I actually hate the generic cola. It tastes moths and radish. I can’t wait to start buying actual brands. I’m tired of Terry the Lynx cereal.”

I was proud of mi amigo. Maybe his bad moods could be attributed to drinking something that tasted like a flying nuisance and a root. Mi madre told me that everything that is worthwhile is hard. Alberto has had a hard road and he got to where he needed to be. I left him with the rest of the guests and went to visit the office (bathroom).

I won’t get into the details of my trip to the restroom, but when I went to reach for the toilet paper my heart stopped. What in the name of San Luis Abispo is this? One ply? En serio? He is cutting corners here? One ply? Why? Why would you cut corners here?

Generic toothpaste. Fine. Generic cereal. Fine. Hell, even generic Q-tips is fine. But here? Toilet paper? One ply?

This particular “brand” was so cheap that it didn’t even have the perforations to make a nice, straight tear. Look, I like to have a nice, straight tear. Now, the tear is all over the place. Look at this… I just made a 45 degree tear. What’s the use of that? Now I’ll have to use more.

Is this made of a thin cardboard? Are those pieces of sand? This is not going to be good.

It wasn’t good. It was hell. I understand cutting corners, but this? No. No person should save money like this. When I go to a restaurant, hotel or office and I see this type of toilet paper being used I cry. I cry holy Guatemalan tears. I cry because I realize that whomever bought the paper didn’t respect me, the customer. Why would I want to go somewhere that didn’t respect me?

Now I understood why Alberto was always in a bad mood. In his attempt to cut corners, he crossed line. Toilet paper is something that touches a delicate part of your, well, of your soul. Well, maybe not your soul, but if your behind is unhappy, then your soul is unhappy. So, it could be said that your behind is the gateway to making your soul happy.

Ask any proctologist. If your ass is unhappy, you are unhappy and then your soul is unhappy.

I believe that the makers of cheap toilet paper own stock in Preparation H. It is a conspiracy.

I walked out of the restroom and punched Alberto in the face.

Cheap bastard.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: The Preparation H website was a bit too much for me. The company actually took the time to make the site interactive. Yes, you can actually see what anal discomfort looks like by moving your mouse over the pictures. What will the marketing geniuses think of next?

Wondering at 2 AM

2007-03-03T02:02:00.001-05:00

I know it’s cliché. But when I look at the stars, I wonder if you're looking at the same time. And maybe, maybe you’re thinking about me when I’m thinking about you.

That lull in conversation when your eyes draw upwards at the sky and you pause, you pause whatever you’re doing to look at the stars. I wonder if you’re looking at the same time. And maybe, maybe you’re thinking about me when I’m thinking about you.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

The beginning

2007-03-01T23:52:00.000-05:00

My neighbor got a new job and his cable got turned back on. It’s about time. I almost called Comcast to actually pay for cable. Then I realized that I’m a resident of DC and it’s my God given right to get free cable.

While I was watching TV a commercial came on showing that, wait for it, Disney was going to release Peter Pan on DVD. Now, normally, I could care less about the DVD I was going to be forced into buying for one of my little cousins, but Peter Pan, well, Peter Pan was special to me.

As I sat there watching the commercial, I remembered a moment in my life that I hadn’t thought of in a while. One of my first sexual thoughts was to the Peter Pan movie. Yes, to a cartoon. To Tinkerbell. Dios, I’m so glad I write anonymously…

You see, throughout the movie, Tinkerbell gets spanked in the ass for her fairy dust. I have no idea why that did something for me when I was but a kid, but the thought of people spanking the girl in the green mini-skirt did something to me. You know, the “No mama, I just don’t want to stand up right now. Si, my legs are asleep again.” type of thing.

After having this memory, my mind wandered to other moments in my young Guatemalan life that brought sex into my mind before I even knew what it was.

Annie.

Yes, the musical. But it was a movie, so back off.

Anyway, I was a kid when mi madre took me to the theater. Early 80’s I believe. I remember the scenes with the girls, who at the time seemed so much older than me, dressed in rags.

I for some reason had visions of breaking into the orphanage and saving all of them and being their hero. I didn’t even have a mustache to hypnotize them with, but I imagined swinging from a rope through the windows and saving each and every one of them. From their rags. They would be with me, El Guapo, for ever.

Then there was She-Ra and that crazy little cat that always had to ruin everything; the girl in El Chavo that always wore that mini-skirt; that cat woman creature in Thundercats…

But Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell will always be my first. The one that made me realize that I will forever live a life where I chase women.

If only they all wore those little mini-skirts and had magic dust come out when I slapped their bottom. If only…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Behind Compliment

2007-02-28T20:10:00.000-05:00

“So, what do you think?”

“It looks great! Get it and let’s go.”

“Yeah… I like it too, but does it make my ass look too big?”

I was dragged to Saks by my newly 18 year-old hermanita for her birthday present when I overheard this conversation. Normally I find a corner with the purse I am being forced to carry and cower in fear. I cower because I know my eyes will be forced to see and my mouth will be forced to speak opinions over perfectly similar outfits. However, today, I wanted to wander.

My eyes wandered to places they hadn’t in a while. My eyes liked what they saw. I never realized how many blondes there were in DC. So many blondes with ten pound diamonds on their hands. Saks… My eyes thank you.

El Guapo felt like he was in a flan specialty shop with all the sweet things around. It was truly a marvel.

Then, then I heard that conversation. Make your ass look too big? What? Too big? I, I don’t understand. Too big?

American women, no, lo siento, women, women of the world. Por favor. Too big? Mira, I get bumps on my skin when I think that there are women out there ashamed of culos. In the eyes, mind and heart of this Guatemalan, there is no such thing as too big.

Too small! That is what you should be uttering. You should worry about your culo looking too small, not too big. If you have the ass, own it. That’s your ass hermana. Jesus Christ gave you that ass. Let the world know that you’ve arrived. And if you knock them over with your backside, so be it.

I love curves. And when a woman walks into a room loving her curves, I fall in love with them. Just a little bit.

Hi. May I? You, mi amor, look amazing. Amazing. Ninety-five percent of the women in the world would dream to have a behind like yours. You should never be ashamed. Yours, bueno, yours is perfect. Just perfect.

Both women smiled uncomfortable smiles as I walked away. I was not looking for a response. I was just spreading the gospel.

“Great. Guys with mustaches are going to think I look good.”

“HOT, guys with mustaches. Latin guys dig your booty! That’s a compliment!”

You better believe it’s a compliment.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

The rat, the hammock and memories

2007-02-26T22:34:00.000-05:00

Today, I saw a mouse stuck in a trap. It was a small mouse; about half the size of a thumb. It was a humane trap. One that didn’t kill the mouse with a metal snap, but simply used glue to render the mouse immobile. The mouse doesn’t die instantly. It starves to death. It seems starvation is more humane.

One afternoon, when I was young and innocente, I lay with mi madre on a red hammock enjoying a rare summer breeze. When I lay in the hammock with mi madre, nothing was wrong with the world.

There suddenly was a commotion and I saw several of my cousins run with broom handles. There had been a trespasser.

I stood up to go and see, but mi madre held me back.

“El Guapo, stay here.”

Mama, I want to see what they’re doing.

“El Guapo, stay here with your madre. It’s a rat. They caught a rat. They’re going to get rid of it.”

I want to see mama!

My cousins. My older cousins. I didn’t want them to have any fun without me. At this, I escaped the grasp of my mother and ran to see my cousins jump around with their broom handles.

When I got closer, I saw the rat trapped in the corner among some shrubs that never really gave life. The rat went back and forth, wall to wall, side to side as the broom handles muffled the ground.

I will never forget when the rat made eye contact with me. It was only for a split moment, but there was eye contact. It was look. An almost human look. A look that asked why I wasn’t doing anything to stop this. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what was going to happen.

Just as quickly as I got the look, one of my cousins pressed the broom handle against the rat’s stomach and it squealed. It squealed and tensed up around the circular handle in a way that I have never seen before. It cranked its head up and squealed. It bit the handle with such force that it momentarily eased the pressure. It squealed a squeal that resonates in mi mind to this day. My body became cold and I took a step back as I looked at the smiling faces of my cousins.

Then, just as quickly as I escaped my mother’s grasp, I ran back to it. She had been watching me from the hammock. When our eyes met, she knew that I had seen pain and suffering. I had seen what mothers shield. I jumped into the red hammock and cried in my mother’s arms.

“Shhhhhh, Shhhhhh, Shhhhhh, it’s ok El Guapo. Mama is here. Shhhh, Shhhh, Shhhh.”

The look. I never did anything to help. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

Today, however, I knew. I ripped open the paper trap and poured vegetable oil on the glue, dissolving it. The mouse was weak, not moving, but it came to. I took it outside and it disappeared amongst the bushes.

I know that it will never make the memory go away. Bad memories are meant to remain. I just hope happier ones will overshadow them.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby SLAM

2007-02-26T08:17:00.000-05:00

“Baby, how is your food?”

At this table, no one seems to care about my food.

“Baby, wasn’t that a great movie?”

No one seems to care about my opinion in this matter.

“Babe, you look beautiful tonight. El Guapo, doesn’t she look beautiful tonight?”

Oh, look at this. I’m being involved in a conversation. This is nice. How do I answer this? Bueno, is there any other way that I can answer this question?

Very beautiful. You are a very lucky man.

“I know. I’m lucky to have the most beautiful woman in the world next to me.”

It has been a long time since I wanted to lose my hearing and my sight permanently. It’s incredible what being single and around the ‘perfect couple’ can do to you.

Mi amigo Roberto has a new woman and he is deeply in love with her. I do not think that he has uttered those words, but I can tell.

I can tell by the way his attention moves to her every movement; how he hangs on each word as if it were the gospel according to Mary; how his blinks seem to be a bit slower so that he can visually digest her a little longer.

We all remember being like this. Some will say that they detest being around couples in love. And while there were times that I secretly hoped I would slip and knock myself out on the marble floor, I was happy for mi amigo. Then, I realized, I was jealous.

I remember having this and loving every moment of it. Better to have loved? Now I understand.

Now I understand that stupid saying that had haunted me for so long. The saying that made me cringe upon hearing it.

Better to have love and lost… I agree. I continue to be a better man because of the love I had. The love that changed me. The love that will hopefully (please, God make it so) lead me to happiness.

“Baby, you want to share a dessert?”

I wanted a dessert. This restaurant has flan, but he doesn’t care about El Guapo right now. And frankly, that is ok. His baby is more importante. It is not always about El Guapo.

Even when flan is involved.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wind Dancing

2007-02-23T10:16:00.000-05:00

I was walking down the street today and tears were streaming down my face. Not because I was sad, but because the cold wind was fighting with my tear ducts, forcing them to fight back with salt.

The people walking down the street were not being friendly and most stared towards the sidewalk in the hopes that the wind would forget about them due to their averted gaze.

Then, randomly, I saw a piece of paper fluttering in front of me. At first I didn’t pay much attention, but it was dancing in such a way that it grabbed my attention.

My walk and my destination were put on hold as I followed the piece of paper that seemed to be enjoying its last moments of life.

I stopped its dancing as it flew past my chest to see what it was. It was a handwritten note torn out of a lined notebook paper:

I am going to order pizzza and listen to music and dance and try to remember what it felt like to be happy

I read and re-read then read the piece of paper again. It was beautifully sad and I wondered about the author. Had they indeed danced? Did it make them feel happy? What song did they choose? Was the author a he or a she?

I stood motionless with this piece of paper in my hand not noticing the wind induced tears.

Then I looked up towards the God who is always conveniently above my head, closed my eyes, and said a prayer for the anonymous writer.

The happiness will indeed return someday and know that your words began their journey towards joy by beginning the dance in the cold wind.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Purple Wall

2007-02-19T23:01:00.001-05:00

Purple wall. Purple wall. Purple wall. Not my wall.

The secret, if I remember correctly, is to not change your breathing pattern. You always notice a change in breathing patterns. I do not know why this is, but you can not change your breathing patterns.

Yellow sheets. Yellow sheets. Yellow sheets. Not my sheets.

The sun had not yet come out completely and the blues of the morning were beginning to filter in through the wooden shades. Oh, wooden shades. Definitely not my shades.

I felt a warmth of skin against my left calf. Oh tequila… Porque me tormentas? Why do you torment me?

Pieces of the night before begin to come back to me. An arm drapes around me. It’s a white arm. Hairless. Some freckles. Soft. Warm. An arm drapes around me. Breathing pattern theory is done. My heart doesn’t seem to follow my rules and my breathing must keep up with the faster blood pumping through my body. My heart does not follow my rules. Does it ever do what it’s told? What is right?

The hand, manicured, but not painted, begins to rub my chest.

“Good morning.”

Buenas.

“I’m Marjorie.”

El Guapo.

“So, it looks like we met each other last night.”

Oh yes?

“Oh yes! See that pile over there? That’s my shirt and those are your pants.”

Well, at least we put them neatly in the corner. Mi mama always told me to put my clothes away.

“Wow… Talking about your mother in bed with a stranger? El Guapo, come on!”

I realized how ridiculous it was, but I am out of practice. I hadn’t been making much eye contact, but I looked over after she made that comment and realized that she had a look of playfulness that made me have a relieved smile.

Feel free to talk about how your father never hugged you to make up for it. We’ll then call it even.

It went like this back and forth for several minutes. The conversation came easily. I saw what she was doing. She was trying to put me at ease, make me relax, make me laugh. It worked.

“You’re quite a dancer.”

Gracias.

“You definitely have some moves I wasn’t aware of.”

She winked as she said this and once again made me laugh. I needed that laugh.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Holiday

2007-02-13T17:51:00.000-05:00

“El Guapo, we must prepare. Tomorrow is a big night.”

Que?

“Do not play stupid with me El Guapo. You taught me about tomorrow. You were the one who walked me through the rules and the importance of tomorrow.”

What day is it tomorrow?

“Ay Santa Rosa! El Guapo, mira, por favor, please, pay attention to the words that are coming out of my mouth. You, need to find your cojones. I don’t know where you put them, where you left them, or who has them. Enough is enough. Tomorrow is a holiday. And you, mi amigo, are coming out with me.”

I’m not going out.

“Oh, but you are. You see, I am tired of your little cry for me Argentina attitude lately. Basta. You, tomorrow, are coming out with me. We are going to have a fun. If I see you grimace, make a smart ass comment or hang in the back of any room, I will kick you in the groin. Your groin will be kicked. Hard.”

Fine! Jesus Cristo! What day is tomorrow?

“You actually forgot. How sad. The famous El Guapo forgot about tomorrow. Tomorrow, mi mustached friend is Valentine’s Day. And we are going to make some new friends.”

I’m not going out tomorrow.

“Oh yes you are. Because your heart is broken. We’re going to use that. Because even though you are a pathetic little Guatemalan right now, there are going to be many many many gringas out tomorrow who feel empty inside. You are going to make them feel less empty. And I, bueno, I am going to be there for their friends. I am going to be there for every gringa who is sad. There is plenty of Miguel to go around.”

I’m not going out tomorrow.

“Oh yes you are. You are coming out tomorrow. I know your heart is broken. I know this. But I’m going to get you laid tomorrow. Because you don’t have no girl and you don’t have anything to do. Tomorrow you will smile. You will make a nice gringa smile. I am going to make a gringa smile. Hopefully I will make two smile at once, but there will be smiles. You are going to return to being my wing man. I have waited a long time to have you back. Tomorrow El Guapo returns.”

I’m not going out tomorrow.

He winked at me and walked out the door. I guess I am going out tomorrow. It can’t be that bad. I’m still not back.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Jam in New England

2007-02-11T13:53:00.000-05:00

“El Guapo, yet gain, you are being an idiota. Un grande idiota.”

Look, I disagree with you. Yet again.

“Men can not be friends with women. I saw it on Sabado Gigante and know from personal experiences.”

I just don’t agree. Lo siento. I think you are able to be friends with women.

“If you are ugly, maybe. MAYBE, but you always have the sex on the mind. The Sex, El Guapo, as you know, gets in the way. How many female friends do you have? Not the ‘hello, how are you’ friends. I am talking about friends that you hang out with often. The kinds that you talk, cry and drink with? How many?”

…

“Exactamente! Not one. You may have had female friends while dating, but after you stopped dating, you stopped seeing them as much. They are your acquaintances. They are not your friends.”

Interesante.

“Interesante is right! There are men out there, who are the friends of females. Every man in the world has had run ins with this type of man.” They are the type of man who hang on every word your girlfriend is saying, laughs at all of her jokes and always seems to be around when you are trying to have a night out with your woman. This is the man who is feminine enough to make you wonder about him, but you get yelled at if you ever bring it up. He is the type of guy who annoys you, but, out of pure pride, you are unable to actually get jealous of him. Because he has glasses, can’t kick a soccer ball to save his life, is allergic to animals and is likely lactose intolerant. We have all experienced this guy.”

Mi amigo, through his rant, was right. I was indeed familiar with this guy. Well, some derivation of this guy, throughout mi vida.

“Remember that waitress I dated from the fancy seafood restaurant? Remember that little manager that was always around? The one with the bad hair and horrible taste in clothes? The one that made every man pray that his son would grow up to be the complete opposite of him? I am serious. I have lit candles to ensure my sperm is unable to make something like him. Do not laugh. Bueno, about three weeks after I broke up with the waitress, he got down on one knee and declared his undying love for her. Pathetic, really. And you know what? The waitress bought into it. They dated and everything. It drove me crazy at the time because I always saw it coming. But, it just made me laugh.”

Are they still together?

“No El Guapo! He is married to some guy named Richard and sells jam in New England somewhere, but that is not the point. The point, is that every man who is physically attracted to a woman, and probably vice-versa, is unable to have a true friendship. And trust me, since I know nothing I talk about with you is sacred, and you will post this on the Internet, feel free to ask your readers. Every single one of them has someone that is just lurking in the corners waiting to pounce on their “waitress”. Ask them. They all have someone. But you know what? They will all end up selling jam out of a pastel-colored station wagon with some guy named Richard. Trust me!”

I am not so certain, but mi amigo had a point. I just pray and thank God that I am not, nor have I ever been a lurker. Jam…Richard...New England... I love Miguel.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Prozac

2007-02-09T01:27:00.000-05:00

Lately, I have found myself closing my eyes before looking into the mirror.

It is not anything unnecessarily dramatic, but there is a pause.

Do you ever fear that you will not like the person looking back at you? Do you ever feel that the smiles will stop?

Mistakes. I have made them. I have learned from them. But what if I made a mistake so big that no lesson can be learned? What if a mistake is so great that I have to go through life constantly pausing before looking in the mirror? What if the mere sight of my own face results in a reminder of that mistake?

An anonymous commenter (it’s always the anonymous ones) suggested I take some Prozac to stop complaining. Maybe he is right. Maybe I need some chemical influence to stop my mind from racing and making me pause before looking in the mirror.

I have memorized every crevice of my bedroom ceiling because I stare upwards as I pray for sleep to take me away. Yet when the sleep comes, she is there. She is always there. She haunts my thoughts and my dreams.

What do you do when you are reminded of a woman when you feel a cool breeze across your face? Do the pauses stop?

Patience. Time. These things, they say, heal all. I do not believe this. Not today. Some things do not heal.

I would like to meet they. Ellos. They who come up with the sayings that are supposed to make you feel better. Misery loves company; better to have loved and lost than never loved at all; time heals all… They are idiots.

Today, I saw a man stop in the middle of the street to enjoy the sunshine on his face. He stopped, looked upward and smiled. I think he even sang. How amazing it must be to enjoy the warmth of the sun on your face. I would like to have this again.

Give me the Prozac. Por favor.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Depeche Mode Part II

2007-02-05T19:13:00.000-05:00

I could see words. They were coming out in different colors depending on the sound the made. Any kind of a hard “c” or “k” came out in an orange hue. The “y” sound was a teal color. I wasn’t as much hearing what people were saying, but more translating through the colors coming out of their mouths. It was surreal, but funny. I liked it.

As the short-on-one-side-hair-cut-girl spoke to me in her prism of colors I put my hand against the wall to hold myself up. Seeing colors come out of someone’s mouth isn’t for the weak. As I placed my hand on the wall I noticed the wall ripple against my hand as if someone had thrown a pebble into a pond. The ripples spread throughout the bathroom and the bear kept waving at me through his new plaster pool.

“Dude, you are seriously tripping.”

Pisada… Who does this to someone? A drug through a kiss? What color could I hurl at her to make her know how I did not approve of this? The walls kept increasing in their movement and I was getting dizzy. The bear was starting to get afraid as well and showed it by jumping up and down.

I looked down at her legs which would normally soothe me, but her black and white leggings turned into running zebras jumping as fervently as the little bear on the wall.

The music filtered through the door in a gray-blue tone and that is how I shall forever associate the sound of Depeche Mode. It sounds horrible sober and it looks horrible through my newfound color language.

The little bear was angry. He was doing flips now. Backward and frontward flips. I no longer wanted to look at myself in the mirror because my mustache was doing strange things. I saw the light of the bathroom ceiling. I actually saw each beam of light come down and rest on my body. Each individual beam dancing on my body declaring it his. To feel light is one thing, but to see it, well, I needed out.

I rushed out of the house to go home. Every time I blinked a wave of psychedelic colors, psychedelic waves, haunted my vision. I tried not to blink. I didn’t want to blink. Too much color. Dry eyes...

Each step I took created a wave on the sidewalk and I had to steady myself on the bleeding cars parked on the street because the sidewalk was acting like a bucking horse. Waves of cement rippling higher and higher bringing my knees to my chest. Where was I? I needed to get home, but the waves were too big. They were getting too violent. I don't have sea legs.

I saw a bench that seemed to be withstanding the onslaught of cement waves and I stumbled towards it. I could see that the ground had become a stream of monkey skulls opening and closing their mouths in no particular order. Each step I took would send the monkey skulls scattering across the street as if I were parting the Red Sea. I was kicking monkey skulls away because I was afraid they would bite. Get away monkey skulls!

The bench provided me shelter and the wooden planks grew to protect me from the monkey skulls. I looked over my new bench boat and breathed a sigh of relief that the monkey skulls wouldn’t get to me.

The moon was out, but there were no stars. The moon spoke with me. Soothing colors came from the moon and I eventually fell asleep on my bench boat and dreamed of hiking to find a God. I didn’t go high enough, because I could only hear him. Yellows and pinks, all yellows and pinks.

I woke up at Miguel’s place with him passed out on the floor. I wasn’t angry, but I was perturbed. He must have carried me home.

I opened up his fridge, ate all his flan, then left.

And while I was able to see speech, light beams and a waving teddy bear, the running on monkey skulls is something I would rather soon forget. A beautiful Guatemalan like myself shouldn’t be running on monkey skulls.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Depeche Mode Part I

2007-02-04T21:46:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I don’t like Miguel. Not because I sometimes think that he is actually certifiably crazy, but because of the situations he causes for me.

This weekend was interesante for me. Miguel made me come out with a couple of girls that he met because, as he says, “I need some gringas on my mind.” Whatever. I’ve been blowing him off for so long that it didn’t make much sense for me to stay indoors.

So I find myself in a group house full of East coast educated women with colorful tapestries on the walls and Depeche Mode on the I-Pod. I looked at the ladies in the room and noted their very black mascara and ill-washed hair. One had black and white leggings with a short skirt and a one side longer than the other hair cut. It was that type of crowd, they were cute, but I wondered how in the name of everything holy did Miguel get hooked up with them.

Then, I realized why. I looked up at mi amigo and noticed that he became very chatty. He was using his hands a bit too much and really being more annoying than normal. One of his new amigas, a quiet one, wearing all black, was also rubbing her nose. I understand. They found each other through a love of snow. How romantic. Miguel has always loved the nieves, but I wasn’t aware that he was playing with the snow too. Oh well, it is his nose. Who am I to judge?

Then the woman with the black and white leggings suddenly began dancing, well, “dancing” in front of me while I sat on a futon covered by yet another colorful tapestry. I smirked and wished that there was a TV I could watch or maybe a baseball bat that could hit my head. She was nice looking and everything, but the Depeche Mode and nose rubbing was beginning to make me nervous. I politely smirked.

“You’re shy aren’t you. You’re the silent type. I like that.”

Baby, I’m not silent. I just don’t want to be around when the music stops. Then she straddled me while still gyrating her hips and arms. Interesante. Depeche Mode chicks dig me. It is the mustache. Then, she kissed me. It was not a good kiss. Mostly because I did not want to kiss her and mostly because it was a kiss full of teeth. Her teeth clanked against mine and I could feel my face tighten as I felt her wetness.

“There, that will cheer you up a bit.”

I didn’t know what the hell she meant by that. Did a dentist teach her to kiss? Why would that cheer me up? God, is this what being single is going to bring me? Sitting in a ill lit room with Depeche Mode in the background?

Then I tried to put that moment out of my mind and listened to the words of the music and watched Miguel Latin dance with the women to Depeche mode. This man will dance to anything as long as he can move his hips.

The laughing, the dark lights, the tapestries, the music. They were all becoming one. The nose scratching was making me dizzy. I needed to go to the restroom.

The restroom had a picture of a pink teddy bear that seemed to smile at me. I did my business and watched my hands. Then, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was looking particularly good looking today. Look at that mustache! Perfectly trimmed. I think I’ll just stay in here and look at myself. That bear, I can see it in the mirror. It waves at me and winks at me. I like that bear.

“What are you doing?”

Just looking at myself in the mirror. Have you seen me?

“Yeah, you’re hot. Come out here and dance.”

No. I rather get punched in the back.

“Well, I’m going to pee.”

Go ahead.

This scene repeated itself several times. Several girls came into the bathroom and talked to me while they relieved themselves. One tried to kiss me, but I was having none of it. All I would allow them to do was speak with me and wash their hands. The mirror was mine.

Then the kisser came in.

“Ah. Didn’t do what I thought it would. I was hoping it would relax you, but out there.”

I’m just going to look at myself in the mirror.

“Yeah… I’ve never seen someone trip in the bathroom before. At least you’re not freaking out.”

How can I freak out? I have a mirror in front of me. And that bear. That bear is so nice. Waving at me.

Then, I realized it. The tooth grinder put something in my mouth when she kissed me. I had felt something, but just thought it was my imagination. No. I was “tripping” on something. No wonder I was starting to enjoy Depeche Mode…

To be continued….

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Friday

2007-01-31T22:10:00.000-05:00

“Here. Gracias.”

What is this?

“A check. For the money you lent me.”

You’re giving me a check?

“Si. For the money you lent me.”

A check. You’re giving me a check. For the money I lent you. Miguel, I lent you $15. Can’t you give me cash?

“El Guapo! Stop being such a drama queen! It’s the same damn thing coño!”

I am going to have to walk to the bank and get charged for seeing a teller because you couldn’t give me cash.

“Just deposit the damn thing at the ATM so you don’t have to pay a fee. Stop being simple.”

I don’t like doing that. They only credit your account the next day. Sometimes in two days. It’s annoying. I don’t like that.

“El Guapo, do not get annoyed with me because of your anal retentive nature! You lent me money and I’m paying you back. I do not wish to owe mi amigo money. Money ruins relationships.”

Ok... Fine! Gracias! Gracias for paying me back. Gracias for paying me back with a check. I’ll deposit it tomorrow.

“De nada. Wait, what?”

I said, gracias! I’m not even being sarcastic. En serio, gracias for paying me back. I had forgotten all about it.

“You’re going to deposit it tomorrow?”

Si.

“No, don’t deposit it tomorrow. Don’t deposit it before Friday. Actually, only on Friday afternoon just to be safe. Gracias hermano. I will see you later.”

Miguel pats me on the shoulder and walks out eating a banana yogurt. My last one...

Friday… For fifteen dollars. Why not?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: Thank you to my friend who helped me determine the difference between lent and leant. I was right. You were wrong. Guatemala in the house!

New Underpants

2007-01-29T23:37:00.000-05:00

I was almost beaten up by a bunch of 13 year old kids today.

No soy the pugilist I once was, but I’m pretty certain that if one 13 year old tried to fight me, that I could hold him down by his shoes with wheels. However, when there are 6 shoes with wheels, that can be a bit of a problem.

“What the fuck are you looking at nigga’?”

Ay Dios… I looked up from my paper to see who was unfortunate enough to have these words thrown at them. Then I realized that the angry eyes which belonged to the young, angry voice was being directed at me.

“That’s right nigga’. I’m talkin’ to you!”

Ay Dios… I bit my lower lip to take in the situation. There I was, a gorgeous Guatemalan, who up until that point was having a pretty good day. Then, I find myself getting surrounded by half a dozen kids in oversized winter coats.

A couple of scenarios flashed through my mind and one of them involved me breaking into a Latino Jackie Chan segment with Chris Tucker in the back of the bus yelling nonsense. Another involved me waking up in the hospital with my face beaten to a pulp and mi madre praying her rosary beads. My face… Mi beautiful Guatemalan face…

Should I rely on my wit in situations like this? Maybe I could make these caballeros laugh at my Latino observations.

“Answer me motha’ fucka’!”

Perhaps I could find a better time to make someone smile. These kids were just in the mood to fight.

“He don’t understand what you sayin’ Arnie.”

Arnie… This kid’s name is Arnold. No wonder he’s angry.

“What’s the matter bitch? All you understand is tacos and burritos?”

Yo quiero Taco Bell.

I realized the words coming out of my mouth and wanted them to go right back in. Get back in!!! What the hell was that? Yo quiero Taco Bell? That was the best that I could do when I’m about to get jumped by a couple of teenagers in black marshmallow jackets. Why Diós? Why now? Why must I do my impression of the Mexican Chihuahua, why?

Then, it happened. I saw it start in the back and filter through the group. I even heard an old woman (who should have had my back in the first place) try to contain a chuckle. Then the kid with the angry mouth cocked his head, pressed his lips together and winced his eyes in a playful fashion.

Playful fashion. This is a good thing, yes?

“Yeah money. I want some Taco Bell too. We’re getting off here!”

And so, it was. They left.

Pobre Arnold. Going through life angry that his parents named him Arnold. Don’t be angry Arnold. Don’t be angry.

Now I just need new underpants.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Seattle

2007-01-25T19:03:00.000-05:00

I was in Seattle this week. What was a drop dead gorgeous Guatemalan like me doing in Seattle?

Legally, I am unable to get into very much detail. I will tell you, however, that it involved a bag of peanuts, a braided leather belt and a horrible miscommunication with the staff of a major airliner. This and that happened, and I am able to fly for free within the continental United States on a carrier I am unable to mention in any way shape or form.

I never really took full advantage of this “settlement” because of my fear of leaving the confines of my beloved Washington DC. But I realize that sometimes I should give different cities the benefit of the doubt and grace them with my Guatemalan presence.

Let me tell you my friends, Seattle needs more Guatemalans.

I had a very hard time differentiating between the homeless and the Seattle natives. They all dress exactly the same. It is as if the Seattle residents suffered through a giant flannel grenade that was tossed in the middle of the city. Sad really… Muy triste.

No one ever told me that Seattle was colonized by the lost tribe of the Ugly People. I know, I know. I am being mean. Maybe the people that go out during the day and night on Tuesdays and Wednesdays aren’t Seattle’s finest. Maybe all the good looking people in the entire city of several million were sick. Maybe I was there on their off days. But hombre… I read somewhere that Seattle is a great place for single people. The reason for that is because no one wants to commit to another ugly person. They await their magical Guatemalan to better their ugly genes so their offspring needn’t suffer to a lifetime of averagidity (new word invented just for Seattle).

On a random note, I will say that all the good looking people in Seattle seem to be working in the restaurant business. Good people, good food, good times.

Ok, Seattle, bueno. I went to their famed Seattle Art Museum, but it was closed. Ok, fine, so I walked to the Seattle Aquarium and saw some otters, seals and sharks swim around. It was fun. Like watching milk congeal.

So then I went to the World Famous Pike Place Fish Market. You know the one where they toss fish around? The people that worked there were very nice, but I didn’t see them toss around any fish. When do they toss the fish? I was in Seattle wanting to see fish getting tossed. Nothing. No tossing.

Did I mention the homeless and the non-homeless dressing exactly alike? I did? Ok, well let me mention that the homeless of Seattle are the most aggressive that I have ever seen in mi vida. If you make eye contact, like I am known to do, they will ask you for money. If you do not give them money, they will follow you. I was followed for two blocks by what seemed to be a flannelled up, 35 year old, taller and brunette version of Kurt Cobain. I was debated taking off my shoes to beat him, but then I decided against it. He disagreed with my decision to not give him money and I accepted this.

I was getting harassed by the homeless quite often. How did they know I was a tourist? Oh yes. I remember know. I am muy guapo.

Seattle is, by far, one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Maybe being surrounded by so much natural beauty makes the residents of Seattle give up on looking halfway decent. I do not know. I do know, that it Dios was happy to have me in Seattle because it did not rain, not once, while I was there.

I kept being told by residents to not tell anyone on the East coast about the great weather they're having. They didn't want any more of "us" moving there. Don't worry.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Intervention

2007-01-24T02:48:00.000-05:00

“El Guapo, I am convinced that you have developed a vagina.”

Miguel is angry because I haven’t been in the mood to be his wing man.

“El Guapo, I am seriously concerned about you and have brought all of your friends here today to tell you that you have a problem.”

Miguel has staged an intervention for me because my “game” has retired.

“We stand here, today, in front of you, to tell you that you need to snap out of whatever it is that is making you have a vagina and come back to being the old El Guapo.”

Miguel equates my not being in the mood to pick up women with having a vagina. He has gathered most of my friends under false pretenses. Many of them like that I am no longer the scavenger Miguel has become.

“Miguel, leave the man alone. He is retired. He no longer wishes to prey on the nieves around town. El Guapo has become mature and responsible.”

“Vincente! I did not invite you to this intervention. You too have a vagina and must deal with your demons in another way. There are too many vaginas in this room right now and you must leave at once!”

I like Vincente. He has been with the same woman for over 5 years. They have the type of relationship that everyone wishes they have one day. He completes his her sentences. She can order his dessert when he is in the restroom. They still hold hands and steal kisses from one another. I like being around them. Everyone likes being around them. They are in love without being annoying.

“Miguel, you just want El Guapo around because you can’t do the same things with Modelo.”

Modelo is a childhood friend who is a fantastic person until he starts drinking. He is that person who I have seen drink an entire case of beer by himself. He is not what Miguel looks for in a wing man.

“Vincente, you are forbidden to ever attend an intervention again. I never even invited you. Like I said, guys with vaginas are not allowed to be here. You must leave. Your vaginitis is starting to spread to the others and we can not afford to have an entire DC Latino male population suffering from what you have. Do you want the gringos to come after our women in retaliation?”

Miguel truly believes that one day the gringo men of the world will unite and take all of the Latina women in retaliation for decades of our ravishing their women. He speaks of this when he eats too many chips.

“El Guapo, por favor. Come back to the world. The nieves have started to forget about the legend of El Guapo.”

At that moment, as I saw the gold chains flay about over mi amigo’s mustard colored shirt, I realized one thing. I needed more gold chains. Oh si, I also realized that I had little desire to be the man some of my friends wanted me to be. This is my journey. I am going to make my own path.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Latino Humor

2007-01-23T03:12:00.000-05:00

One of the things that greatly separate the Latino people from the rest of the world is our unique sense of humor. It has always interested me that regardless of the country of origin, the Latino sense of humor is something that carries over across borders and beliefs.

And frankly, I think it is only fair that we all share something in common because I’m tired of everyone being so jealous of the far superior Guatemalan beauty.

What is it about our humor that intertwines all Spanish/Portuguese speakers south of Texas? We tease.

Si, we tease. This is something that sometimes causes problems with our gringo friends because they do not understand that we mean no harm through our teasing. We tease because we love.

I have a Brazilian friend who refers to everyone south of Texas as ‘Mexican’. If we happen to be watching something on television about Guatemala, he will say something along the lines of, “El Guapo, I’m not sure what you Mexicans are thinking, but you are all crazy.”

If a gringo heard this comment, he may think that my Brazilian friend is being a bit racist, but no. He is far from being racist. He is actually making fun of the American ignorance of believing that everyone South of Texas is actually ‘Mexican.’ It is funny. Laugh.

Our way of building camaraderie is done through a little tease here and there. A playful nudge. We mean no harm. It is only a tease.

We love nicknames. We love them. Love them more than anything in the world. Our nicknames make life more fun for everyone around us. If you have a large group of Latino friends, chances are you have a nickname. The way we develop our nicknames is actually an art form. We usually do one of two things: Take a feature/flaw and call you by that feature or flaw OR we Take a feature/flaw and call you the complete opposite of that.

Example? Miguel has a friend who has a large forehead. It is not something that makes people turn around when he walks down the street, but I’m pretty sure that I could project a movie off of his forehead if I wanted. Nickname: Testudo. From the Spanish word Testa = Forehead/Head. Simple and beautiful.

Another is a friend who has very suddenly gained weight. Nickname: Botón/Buttons Porque? Because Miguel told me that he has, on many occasions, heard the buttons on his shirt cry out loud from the pressure of his stomach.

“I have heard the buttons cry to me. They are in constant fear of flying across the room!”

There is very little that is off limits in the Latino humor except sisters and mothers. In some very specific cases, a sister joke can be made, but you must be almost best friends with the person. Mother jokes are off limits. Period. In the Latino culture, the mother is a saint and held above all else.

Now, if you read this blog on a somewhat regular basis, you know that I litter my posts comments on the Argentines. Do I do this because I love them deep down? No. Not at all. I do that because Argentina fancy themselves THE MAN and enjoy to keep the rest of Latin America down. I am simply the voice of reason in the form of a Mayan deity who just happens to have a mustache so lustrous that it melts snow.

Don’t cry Argentina. Don’t cry.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Snow, the Bus and Circling Words

2007-01-18T19:02:00.000-05:00

Well look at that. It’s snowing. I wonder what Alberto Gore has to say about that.

I sat there looking at the streetlight watching the rain turn to sleet/snow as my bus failed to arrive on time. I like the winter. What I don’t like is having to hear the “Well, I guess winter is finally here,” comments that I’ve found to be far worse that the heat/humidity comment.

Lo que sea, whatever. It is cold when it is supposed to be cold and I am a happy, gorgeous Guatemalan.

I sat on the bus rumbling around staring into nothing while I listened in on the conversation going on in Spanish next to me. Nothing exciting, but their talk made me hungry.

Then a man, a white man, with a 15-day old beard entered the bus and sat next to me. He was in his forties, had on a leather Redskins jacket and army fatigue pants. He was homeless. Like many of the homeless of Washington DC, he was likely a veteran. Odd that he is homeless in the capitol city. I guess this is our way of saying thank you for actually fighting for the freedom we take for granted. I still bet he puts his hand on over his heart when the national anthem plays. Interesting country this is…

Then I see him take out the Express (daily DC paper). No big deal, but he pulls out a pen and begins to circle and underline random words throughout the articles. Interesante. I looked at his face and was surprised to see that he wasn’t as sun-weathered as many of the homeless of DC. He had very blue eyes and a nose that had met many a fist. It was still a good nose. A prominent nose. A hawkish nose that screamed “don’t fuck with me.” But it was his eyes. His eyes contributed to his alert facial expression as he mechanically circled and underlined words.

Was he intercepting messages for his past colleagues before his journey took him to the streets? Was he still on his journey? CIA, NSA, something maybe so cool that I don’t even know about? Maybe.

I wanted to ask him what he was doing, but I didn’t. What business is it of mine if the Express serves as a communication vehicle for spies?

So, I said a quiet prayer thanking him and all the others who will sleep exposed to the elements while I take my lumpy bed for granted.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Conversations

2007-01-16T21:22:00.000-05:00

I’m lucky to have close friends. I’ve known most of my best friends ever since I was old enough to throw rocks at cars and blame the Honduran kid down the road. With my amigos, bueno, there are no limits to our conversations. We cover topics far and wide without ever having to worry about what people think.

“I think you’re wrong El Guapo. I think Jesus Christ was really fast. Don’t you think that he had some kind of a super power other than the whole bringing people back to life and the whole wine thing? Vamos. He’s the son of God. I bet he was really fast. I don't buy the whole 'built like a carpenter' business.”

Miguel and I often discuss the potential superpowers of biblical characters. I personally don’t think that Jesus was very fast. I’m sure he was pretty quick, maybe even above average in speed, but I can’t see him being track star fast. Not with those sandals. Lo siento. I don’t see it. Miguel also believes that Noah's beard was used as a prop during his on board magic shows...

“It’s not cheating if she doesn’t know about it. I don’t care what you say. And no, if a tree falls when no one is around I don’t think it makes a sound. So there. If she has no clue about it, then it never happened.”

Miguel also believes in being able to date as many women as he likes until he has the very specific conversation saying that he won’t see other women.

“The conversation must be VERY specific. I must say that I will not make love with any more women. Because making love to a woman and “seeing other women” are two very different things.”

I’m not sure if many of you know this, but Latino men, especially those from Central America, enjoy wearing the tank top undershirt. We usually have this underneath all articles of clothing and enjoy lounging around while wearing this, jeans and our Timberland boots. Si, this is how we roll.

One day, a Uruguayan came over wearing Birkenstocks. He is no longer our friend. No self-respecting Latino allows himself to wear Birkenstocks. If you are Argentinean, si, then I am told this is allowed, but no. Not around me.

“He was your amigo El Guapo. No friend of mine would wear them. I don’t even know what he was doing. If I hadn’t been busy throwing him out of your door, I would have taken away his Latino card.”

Si, I don’t like them either, but did you have to burn them and mail them back to him?

“Claro! It must serve as a warning to all every Latino in this area. The wearing of Birkenstocks will not be tolerated.”

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Seat Change

2007-01-14T14:51:00.000-05:00

A woman walks onto a plane after a layover that lasted 3 hours longer than they had originally promised. They had finally “located” a crew and frankly, all she wanted to do was to go home.

The flight, as usual, was packed. This particular airline seemed to pinched pennies to the limit because the air conditioning wasn’t even on. Whatever. She was on her way home.

She looks at the open seat in front of her and double checks her ticket. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she breathily murmurs as she slams the yellow attendant button.

“Yes? How may I help you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She says this pointing to the passenger sitting in the middle seat to her left. Her gold bracelet jingle jangles as her French manicure points at him.

“I’m not sitting next to a black. You have to move me.”

“Oh wow, I’m sorry, but this is a completely packed flight. But tell you what, let me see what I can do.”

The flight attendant returns moments later as the woman taps her nails against the baggage compartment. She’s visibly annoyed and glad to see that the flight attendant didn’t take her sweet little time.

“Like I said before, the flight is unfortunately at capacity in coach class. Now, there is one open seat in First Class, but it is rare that we allow a coach passenger to sit there. As I’m sure you’re aware, the price difference is great. However, this airline believes that a passenger shouldn’t have to sit next to someone who was so obviously foul.”

The woman smirked because, frankly, this had taken long enough.

“So sir, if you wouldn’t mind grabbing your carry on luggage and coming with me, I have a first class seat with your name on it.”

The other passengers, who were forced to witness this scene, began clapping. Many stood up.

The man pushed his tortoise colored glasses closer to his face, grabbed his briefcase from under the chair and followed the attendant to his chair. He never turned around to look at the woman who had caused a scene. Never even made a comment. He has class.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

*Translated from an e-mail I received and posted in honor of Martin Luther King Day.

MUSK

2007-01-12T00:54:00.001-05:00

Smell me. En serio. Smell me. Don’t be afraid of the mustache. It will hypnotize you, but won’t bite.

Do you smell that? I call it Guatemalan Musk. Do you like it? Of course you do.

Smell my jacket. Do you smell the musk combined with the Polo Sport cologne? Nice, no? Yes, finally, the people of Washington, DC can smell my musk. Why? Because smoking has been banned in bars and restaurants in mi capitol.

I had not been a fan of the ban when Indiana Jones was talking about it on the news, but I have to say that I am a fan now. Just the fact that Washington DC can enjoy the Guatemalan musk is reason enough to thank the DC council.

“Dios, that was the bartender that was serving us? I thought she was a goddess. Que pasó?”

Bueno, maybe there are downsides to the ban. You can actually see people in the bar instead of sifting through the smoky haze. One of Miguel’s favorite bartenders ended up being a 45 year old woman from Long Island.

“I didn’t even know she had that annoying accent? The smoke must have affected the sound.”

Miguel has theories about how smoke can alter sound. I won’t get into it right now, but I will tell you that he once talked about the sound an orange makes when it hits a leaf covered forest floor. Aren’t you jealous of mi vida?

“El Guapo, I like this a lot. Now, I know who to go after.”

Oh yes. Miguel only goes after smokers when he’s prowling like a cheetah. That’s another theory of his.

“Smokers are more fun in bed El Guapo. Same with Republicans.”

Yeah… Miguel has theories… Now all the smokers congregate outside the bars smoking in what some call anti-social clusters, but Miguel views as his very own watering hole.

“When you stop being a vagina, you will actually jump on a grenade or two for me.”

El Guapo doesn’t jump on grenades. Not now, not ever. Smoke or no smoke. It just doesn’t happen.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Ring My Bell

2007-01-09T23:57:00.000-05:00

Miguel wouldn't ring the bell.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Chicago and Chipmunks

2007-01-08T23:24:00.000-05:00

“So, you’re going to sit there like that the whole night?”

Si.

“You don’t want to go out?”

No.

“I have to sit here and look at your sorry face the whole night?”

No. You can leave.

“No, I can’t leave. I want to see you cry.”

I’m not going to cry.

“If I stay here long enough, you’ll cry.”

Why do you want to see me cry?

“Two reasons, really. Uno, you make a really funny sound when you cry. Kind of like a chipmunk dying. Dos, it will be good for you.”

How do you know what a chipmunk sounds like when it dies? I don’t feel like crying.

“Sure you do. Just let it out. Here, listen to this.”

You’re playing a Chicago CD. Why?

“Just close your eyes and listen to the words. He’s talking about love. See that? You don’t have that anymore. Feel like crying?”

Tell me again why I hang out with you? Turn that off Miguel. That’s seriously really bad music.

“Just cry El. Just cry. Trust me hombre. It will make you feel better.”

Eres un grande idiota.

He is right though. It does make you feel better. And for the record, I don’t sound like a chipmunk dying. Not really.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Questions in a Dessert

2007-01-07T22:10:00.000-05:00

Today I looked up at God and asked him to make sure he knew what he was doing with me. I didn’t say it in a stern voice, but I did say it in a concerned one.

Accept what comes to you each day.

This little piece of paper fell out of my fortune cookie today and it seems fitting after my conversation with God. They say he works in a mysterious ways and my God decided to send me a message in a Chinese dessert. I always figured he’d send me a message in flan or a pupusa, but no. He chose a fortune cookie.

For the last year, I have shared details of my life with you. You have been there for both happy and sad times and tonight is one of those times that I will share with you.

This week mi Linda and I decided to go our separate ways. It is extremely hard for me to write this because I feel like my chest is imploding with each breath I take. I am still trying to comprehend how two people can love each other so much and realize that this may not be the right course. That it may not be the right thing at the right time.

Tonight will mark the first night that I go to bed without her and I fear the darkness that my room will bring me. I have only the sound of raindrops on my roof to keep me company.

Mi Linda is one of the most amazing women I have ever had the pleasure to meet. She has a radiance that attracts people to her and makes them smile. She is a truly genuine person in a sea of knock offs. I believe that I became a better person every minute that I was able to spend with her.

While I realize that some things must happen, I will still look up at the sky to make sure that God knows what he’s doing.

Because I sure as hell don’t.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Why Must I Cry?

2007-01-04T23:52:00.000-05:00

Why must I cry?

Have you seen this? No? Por favor, take a moment to watch it. Do not worry. I will wait for you. The video is about 4 minutos, but I promise that it is worth it. I will be right here. Don't have the time? That's ok. See below.

…

Watch it? Confused? Do not worry. I am fluent in the art of homemade hippety hop videos. I will translate for you:

00.00-00.04 Black man appears on screen sporting gold capped teeth and long gold chain. He is wearing camouflage because sometimes, you just gotta hide. Unkept facial gives the illusion that this man is a “thinker.” Listen to the beat. Uh uh.

00.05-00.11 Black man, sorry, tone deaf black man appears on screen. Is it the same man? No one knows. Yes, he has the same gold capped teeth and chain, but the camouflage is gone. Furthermore, he is somewhat clean shaven. His dialect screams mentally disabled, or is this just a cry for help? Let us watch.

00.12-00.17 Oh no! Is that an aquarium and fake trees in the background? The sad, tonedeaf, gold capped tooth man (with matching chain) is sitting on a LazyBoy without a shirt. Why, God? Why is he so sad? Why?

00.18-00.28 Sad black man is in the shower! Soap appears below the belt, but he is sad in the shower. So dirty. Dirty! Clean the sadness away shower. Please, clean the sadness. Note that the gold chain has been removed to protect the blang. (Not bling, blang) Note that sad black man touches the sliding shower door to exude emotion that is left out with the image of a sad, tone deaf black man showering.

00.29-00.35 Suds everywhere! This time we see the black man covered in soap suds and he appears to be rubbing his behind. It is dirty and must be cleaned by the cleansing waters of the shower. This will surely take away the sadness. Then he dances. Wait, he shimmies and disappears into the darkness that is the white shower.

00.38-00.52 This is too good. Black man is seen running through the woods with a striped shirt tucked into his jeans. He is also wearing a cap with a roly-poly ball attached to a string. He’s dressed up because the shirt is tucked in and striped. But why? Why is he running through the woods? Is the witch getting him? Is he running from the man? Why tone deaf black man? Why are so sad? He tiptoes around the forest like someone trying to make their way through a dog shit littered back yard. He is not at home in the wilderness. Did I mention that he’s wearing a metal studded belt ala Billy Idol? He is. Back off.

00.53-00.56 Black man is seen throughout video looking sad by the aquarium. This scene will repeat itself throughout and we will not be revisiting this again. It’s too powerful of an image for most of us. The swimming fish is an obvious cry to man being contained by glass ceilings and walls. Wow. What a powerful image.

00.57-01.07 This very well may be the best part of the video. Note the man is now wearing an army jacket and driving in traffic. You can see him wanting to look at the camera, but he MUST keep his eye on traffic. In this scene, traffic, is the MAN. If he doesn’t keep his eye on the MAN he will go down/crash his car. The best is when he stops the car. To the lay person, this may seem like the car in front of him stopped. But no! This is his attempt at showing us that he will pause for the MAN so that he can get on later. Drive on brother. Drive on.

01.08-01.09 This is just a shot of the artist’s X-Box playing lover. I think it’s cute. They make a nice couple.

01.41-01.46 Remember how I said that another scene was the best part of the video? I lied. This is. There is gun on the floor and the black man dives to “quickly” get it ready while someone is about to shoot him. Again, to the lay person, he may seem like a mongoloid, but what he is saying is that THE MAN is too slow for him. Even at the speed of a sloth, he can beat the MAN. Cock that gun. Cock it real good.

The video goes on to repeat itself until a white woman comes into the picture. This is his way of taking down the man. Notice how he wears a do-rag among the crowd of overweight white people. Again, his revenge over the man.

Oh yeah, then he showers some more, has kids with the white woman, tries to climb a tree then puts a gun in his mouth. Genius. Pure, pure genius.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Recap

2007-01-03T19:43:00.000-05:00

Ah Christmas. Navidad. Nogochiconoko. Whatever it is that you call it, it has passed. You are most likely a bit heavier and maybe, like Miguel, can’t remember who “Trudy” is that keeps text messaging him from New Year’s.

It is a time of year that you spend with family and friends and all the rest of the sentimental blah blah blah that I’m sure that you have already read. Not here. Mira, I love this season because of mi family, but I’m glad it’s gone. My fingers are hurting badly as I write this, but I figure I’ve been in a testy mood since not sharing the goings on of an incredibly good looking Guatemalan man with a mustache that makes flowers grow.

Here is a catch-up breakdown:

1. Apocalypto - The movie. “Si, this is a Mel Gibson movie. It is coming out around Christmas, so it must be about Jesus Christ our savior.” If you saw any Latin women in the theater it was because they had this thought. Mi familia went to see this Mel Gibson Jesus Christ movie because mi madre somehow thought it was about Jesus and the indigenous Mayans. Bueno, mi madre is no longer a Mel Gibson fan. Mi hermanita still has nail marks from my mother having to witness native Mexicans being killed in an assortment of ways that only Mel Gibson could imagine.

Dying of frog poison? Si. Having your head cut off and thrown down a pyramid? Si. Having several dozen wooden stakes slammed through your body in a boobie trap fashion? Si. Twice. Gracias Mel Gibson.

2. Hermanita and her gringo boyfriend – Mi hermana brought home another gringo this holiday season. He is from Oklahoma. He says ya’ll. His family belongs to a liberal Catholic church which mi madre believes is a cult. He has spiky hair. He does not have a mustache nor am I certain that he has the ability to grow one which could ever compete with mine. However, he makes mi hermanita happy, so, I am happy.

3. Other Hermanita has a Mexican boyfriend – I haven’t told you this before, but I have a younger hermanita with a Mexican boyfriend. Mi hermana calls him a Mexisexual, a play on the “metrosexual” description due to the fact that he is never out without a shirt that was purchased at the Polo outlet store or Abercrombie & Fitch. He, however, calls me sir. I like this. Oh si, he makes mi hermanita happy as well, so I am happy. I will note, mind you, that he has the genes to grow a nice mustache, but I will never let this come to fruition. There can be only one.

4. Sewing machine - I bought mi Linda a sewing machine for Christmas. She doesn’t sew. I’ve just always wanted to walk in the house and say, “Mujer, make me a shirt!” or maybe something like, “Mujer, sew me a button.” I also got her a necklace. The sewing machine has already found a spot on the very top of her closet. It seems that she liked it so much that she wants to keep it in the box, unopened, to ensure that it stays new… She wears the necklace.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Where I have been...

2006-12-31T02:41:00.000-05:00

I feel rather stupid/Argentinean writing this post. The reason that I haven't written in a while is because I was in an accident. No, no te preocupes, it wasn't anything serious. Not life and death serious anyway. I'm in pain, but I will live like a gorgeous Guatemalan with a traffic stopping mustache should. I was just in an accident, of sorts.

Two fingers. Dos dedos. Wrapped in gauze that has a hard time staying white.

A beetle. The car. One of the old ones with rust on the doors and over by the tires. A car door. My fingers.

It hurts to type. My left hand... Will be back with more, hopefully soon.

I tried to get Miguel to post, but he refuses.

Happy New Year.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

All I Want For Navidad

2006-12-19T22:04:00.000-05:00

When we are young, we live with our dreams in our hands. Perhaps we place our dreams in our shirt pockets close to our hearts. We live for our dreams because, when young, there is no way that our dreams can not come true.

When we grow older we may decide to place our dreams on hold, for a bit, to do something that needs doing, in the hopes of coming back. Some of us make it back. Most of us, like me, never do.

The reasons for not making it back are unimportant. What matters is that we made the decision to turn away from our dreams. That is life. That is the decision that was made.

What destroys me inside is when a child isn’t even given the chance to dream. When circumstances take away the ability, the possibility for a child to dream. And frankly, what is childhood without dreams?

So, mis amigos, for this holiday season, I ask that you give what you can to an organization located here in DC named Bright Beginnings. You can read about what they do on their website, but in my words, they give children the chance to dream.

Every child should be able to dream. Every child.

If you can, donate through PayPal or donate through the Network for Good.

Tell them that El Guapo sent you.

Feliz Navidad.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: If you are unable to give money at this time, that is ok. Keep them in mind when you can give a dollar or two. I'm sure they would love volunteers.

Open Letter to Sons of Bitches

2006-12-18T23:15:00.000-05:00

We have all been there. All of us. Si, even you in the back with the ginger hair and dark glasses. We have all had that one person at work, that one boss, that one co-worker, that one teacher, that one teammate. We have all had that one person in our lives that made us clench our teeth and question humanity. I would like to take this opportunity to say a few words to this person, these people, who can very easily be clumped into one nice piece of shit.

Open letter to sons of bitches of the world:

Hello. It is amazing to me that you exist in all parts of the world, in all industries, and in all ages. Please explain to me how you can go through life smirking while you push people down? Please explain to me why it is that you go out of your way to ensure that those around you become so miserable that they find themselves wishing you ill?

I have seen many of you sons of bitches in mi vida. The kid who was held back two grades and would always throw the dodge ball at your face. The coach who would demean you in front of your friends. The teacher who would make you feel stupid. The co-worker who would point out your mistakes to the boss. The boss who would condone such behavior. The boss, who, no matter how hard you worked, how hard you toiled, how much you sweat, would always give the raise to the co-worker who was the rat. You sons of bitches do not go away and it makes me question life.

Did your mother not hug you? No, I can not blame this on a mother. I blame this on your just having lost your soul. Your having forgotten what it is like to make someone laugh and smile. If people hate your type so much, why do you still exist? I will tell you why. It is because we as human beings have, a long time ago, decided to cower instead of stand up. Somewhere along the line we have decided that standing up was too much of a risk.

Well, I will take the lead because I do not wish to live in a world where the eager and hardworking are pushed down and back because of the sadistic whims self-serving ego-maniacs. I will no longer cower.

I will no longer watch as you create a hell for me and my fellow man. Your time has come. There are too many of us, too many good people to allow any more of your kind to keep us down from achieving happiness.

There are those of you out there who will also stand up with me. I believe that if enough of us stand up and speak up, these people will disappear. They will become relics of humanity. I’m a realist. I’m not looking for a utopia. I’m just looking for a world free of sons of bitches. Is this too much to ask?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Lessons learned

2006-12-16T15:39:00.000-05:00

As veces a man is never too old to learn a lesson. Although I am Guatemalan and am pretty much knowledgeable with all things in the world, I learned two things today.

1. When your woman has spent hours cooking for a party and asks your opinion on how something (completed) tastes, remember to never say, “I think it needs more salt.”

This is especially the case if your mujer is of Latina descent. I have learned, albeit slowly, that mi opinion is not really of importance. Women already know the answer and simply would like to have affirmation of what they know is right.

The same thing goes for the question, “What do you think of this outfit?” This one is tricky. Never pause, not even for a half a second when answering this. If you do, they will believe you to be lying. You MUST answer this question immediately or, well, or else. If you for some reason know of and are crazy enough to have an alternate combination of the outfit then say it immediately. Otherwise, just say she looks beautiful and smile.

2. Never give an excuse for why you shouldn’t make love.

“El Guapo, not now. I have to go get my hair done. When I get back.”

But then your hair will be all done and it will get messed up.

“Good point. You’re out of luck.”

Please mentally kick me like an Argentinean for this one. I know, yo lo se… I am right now about to lose my Guatemalan card for this one. Dios…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Drunk Borracho

2006-12-15T22:12:00.000-05:00

Hola. I am muy drunk. You have may wondered by why I did not write and it is because the man has kept me down this week. "Short staffed" is what they call it , but I call it being kept down by trhe white man. The white man.

"Take one for the team."

You know what? STick it up your ass Rick. You take one for the team, hijo de una puta.

"Come on man, you have to show your people how it's done."

You know what, Rick? I will kill you! I will stomp on your face until you plead with your white New Jersey family to take you back to the basement. Don't flash that fancy assistant manager badge around me, white man.

"We have to wear many hats."

Fuck you and your hats. I don't wear hats. I am Latino and have amazing hair. IT IS NOT mi fault that you have shitty hair from your Irish ancestors. Don't be doing that tap dancing around me. I will beat you!!!

"Corporate is coming down on me."

Corporate is coming down on you because you are a douche. You are the douche of all douches. You aren't even given the bag. I hate you and hope you die a sad earmuffless death.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Note to self (Written the next morning) Don't drink and blog. I won't change my original posting because it truly is ridiculous and pathetic, but I would like my parole officer to know that the wishing of death on anyone is solamente said in jest. I love all people. Except for Argentineans.

Air Revolution

2006-12-11T01:00:00.000-05:00

“I am no longer allowed to fly on Southwest Airlines.”

Why?

“Because I’m more intelligent than the entire airline industry. That’s why. It is a vast conspiracy El Guapo, and I finally had it.”

But why aren’t you allowed to fly on Southwest?

“I told you hombre! It is because the world airline industry refuses to accept that I am more intelligent than them. They have tried to hide behind their little rules for too long and I am standing up for passengers everywhere.”

What in the name of Santa Guadalupe are you going on about? You’re making no sense. You and your little conspiracy theories Miguel. Vamos. What happened?

“I’ll tell you what happened. I stood up to THE MAN and he didn’t like it. He pushed and I pushed back. But like an armadillo pushed up against a cement corner, he attacked me.”

How do you know so much about armadillos?

“I just do. I like them.”

Ok, whatever. Just tell me what happened?

“Do you know how they always tell you to turn off your cell phone when you’re in the plane?”

Si, of course. It affects the airplane’s equipment?

“Of course you would say that El Guapo. When are you going to take the cotton out of your eyes and realize that this is one of their tricks? Do you really expect me to believe that a cell phone is going to affect the sophisticated equipment of an airplane? Of course not! I have NEVER turned off my cell phone on a plane. Not once! And has the plane crashed? No. Does the plane ever have any problems? No.”

Maybe one phone isn’t going to do anything, but if everyone had it on then it could mess with the systems.

“I will light a candle tonight for you El Guapo. You have become so sweet and innocent in your un-single life. Que paso with you? The airlines have gotten together with the governments of the world to forbid the use of phones on planes so that they make you use their online phones. If you did a little research, you will find that the FCC is trying to SELL the ability to offer cell phone services on the plane. If they are going to sell this, why is it illegal now El Guapo? Why? I will tell you why, it is because we are all lemmings who jump when the government says jump. Not me El Guapo. Not me.”

So you didn’t turn off your phone?

“No, the stewardess noticed my phone plinking in my pocket and spoke loudly in my ear. I tried to start a revolution on the plane and was asked to be quiet by the stewardess with sideburns. I asked for everyone on the plane to turn on their cell phones, but the stewardess with the sideburns was very strong El Guapo. Very strong.”

So what happened?

“When we arrived in Baltimore I was escorted off the plane and “interviewed” by some fascists. Nothing happened El Guapo, but look (hands me paper), I am no longer welcome on Southwest. You should leave your phone on the next time you fly. Everyone should stand up to the man by leaving their phones on!”

You are like a Latino Gandhi. I will join this revolution with you Miguel. I just can’t wait until I have to overhear phone conversations on the plane. It will so bueno…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

E-Vites, Miguel and Midgets

2006-12-07T23:38:00.000-05:00

“El Guapo, you are really an insensitive prick sometimes!”

I was just telling you something that Miguel told me.

“Yes, but you really thought it was funny!”

Come on mi Linda. You know it is a great idea.

“I am NOT hiring a midget to come to my party!”

Ok, so Miguel gets his very first E-Vite to mi Linda’s holiday fiesta. He is confused.

“Why do people write little messages? Why don’t they just click on “yes” or “no”?”

I don’t know. Gringos like to write witty messages.

“El Guapo, these aren’t witty messages. These messages make me want to throw crackers at the back of their heads. Look at this girl. Her message does nothing but to let the world know that she is a lawyer. How many people like this are going to be at this fiesta?”

Probably many.

“So, I should write something witty? Ok. I will write something witty.”

My midget friend and I will be there.

That is what you wrote?

“Si. I’m going to hire a midget and bring her as my date.”

He disappears into my refrigerator to find the yogurt that I’ve hidden. Unsuccessfully.

You’re going to hire a midget?

“Si.”

You can just hire a midget like that?

“Ay… El Guapo, you can hire just about anything.”

Is the midget going to do tricks?

“No. Not all midgets can do tricks El Guapo. (shakes his head in disgust) I’m just going to have her walk around the party and mingle.”

You’re going to hire a midget to just walk around and mingle at mi Linda’s party?

“Si. Just walk around and mingle. Maybe I'll have her follow the girl who wants everyone to know she's a lawyer.”

What if she can't reach things that are on the table?

"El Guapo, you are really an insensitive prick sometimes."

Yes, I am definitely going to get in trouble for this one.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Remembering the Story

2006-12-04T23:16:00.000-05:00

Oh Navidad season. Why must you torment me so?

Why must a gringo wearing a Tag Heuer watch always be around me when I’m trying to shop for mi Linda?

Why are some American women nicknamed “Pussy?”

Why must there always be someone wearing a Santa Claus hat on the metro?

Why must I have that desire to punch him?

Why must diamonds be a girl’s best friend?

What exactly is butterscotch?

Why is flan never on sale?

These are some of the questions that I have been asking myself as I walk through the streets of DC trying to find answers.

Then, I found it. I found my answer:

What is this you ask?

Bueno, this is a midget, of sorts, blowing glass with the help of that white dog/dragon from The Never Ending Story.

There I was, a beautiful Guatemalan, walking down the streets of greatest city in the world when the brand new Macy’s window decorators made me see what it was that I was forgetting.

Si, I had forgotten all about the magical Christmas story of the midget blowing glass with the help of the white dragon. Don’t you remember this story?

It’s the story about how the white dragon flies over the manger where Jesus Christ himself was about to be born, but realized that he didn’t have a gift to give the savior. So, he flies to the moon and tries to enlist the help of a dyslexic midget to make a gift for little baby Jesus. The midget doesn’t want to help at first until the white dragon blows a magic fairy dust into her face which makes her cooperative. Do you not remember this wonderful story from the Bible?

Macy's did. Macy's is always there to make us really remember what Christmas is all about: Flying dog dragons.

Gracias Macy’s. Gracias.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Miguel, Yogurt y No Spoons

2006-11-28T23:53:00.000-05:00

Miguel came over today as he does most days to eat my food. I have a better selection of food he says. Why doesn’t he buy the same things that I buy? He says that he forgets. He never washes the dishes after he leaves. He comes over, eats, talks and leaves. A real amigo that one.

Today, he was eating my yogurt. He likes yogurt. Banana.

“I like this banana yogurt, El Guapo. It’s the one name of a fruit that is the same. No one can make fun of me for the way I say it.”

I was actually out of spoons today. They were dirty, in the sink. Miguel, bless his heart, ate my yogurt with a knife.

You’re that lazy that you can’t wash out a spoon? You have to eat it with a knife?

“El Guapo, that’s the difference between you and me. You, bueno, you wash out the spoon. Not me. I eat yogurt with a knife. Just an ejemplo of how I live life on the edge.”

Do you eat soup with a machete?

“You have soup?”

This week, when he wasn’t pilfering my food, he bought a new wallet. Miguel is able to buy nice things for himself because he saves money on food.

Why am I telling you this today? Bueno, today I did something that I haven’t done in a very long time. Let me just say that many years ago I was a different person. Guapo as always, but different with mi vida. I have chosen a different path since then, but the skills acquired from that period in mi vida remain. Now, only used as party tricks and as practical jokes. So, anyway, before Miguel left, I borrowed his wallet.

In part, this is your fault, because I now feel the need to share what I find amusing with you:

Is this not the ugliest wallet you have ever seen in your entire life? I feel this wallet gives you a very good idea of Miguel. Only a “Miguel” could have such a wallet. It is so unnecessarily big that it doesn’t fit in any of his pant pockets. He claims it is made of crocodile, but I believe it to be made from some sort of rat. It is so obscene that people laugh when he pulls it out.

Me? No, I don’t laugh. Because only a man who eats yogurt with a knife can have such a wallet. Solamente un Miguel...

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo