Sigh...

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

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

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

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

“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

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

“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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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

“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

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

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



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

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

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

My caption: "A psychiatrist's dream."

Yours?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Song sent by God

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

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

I did nothing.

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

I did nothing. Nada. Absolutamiente nada.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Estoy cansado.

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Own It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pobrecito is right. Poor fellow. Has holed shoes…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Picture Caption Friday

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

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

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

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

Your turn to make captions.

Miguel's was: Go F yourself Joe.

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

SLAP WARS

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is fantastico.

There are just a couple of rules:

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

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

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

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

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

Any match ups you envision?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

A Washington DC Father's Day

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

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

Wow…

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

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

New Technique

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

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

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

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

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

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

This should be interesting.

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

A gay guy as a wing man?

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

Oh my.

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

Miguel, that’s pretty good.

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

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

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

Miguel, the best wing man ever.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Good News Friday

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

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

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wrong again... Some gringos can dance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

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

Lacoste. Le Douche

Lacoste.

The little alligator.

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

Questions? It's very easy to explain:

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

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

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

New shirt

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

Cabron, your boot is on my bookshelf.

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

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

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

Your nephew calls me daddy

That’s pretty funny. You found that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Si. Because I probably did.”

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

An idea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Scotland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo