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Dannyyy's

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City: Boston
State/Province: MA
Country: US

Age: 23
Height: 5' 10"
Weight: 135 lbs.
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Body Type: Slim
Ethnicity: Latino

Occupation: Student

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Music

Autoplay: ON Shuffle: ON

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Interests

Interests/Hobbies

Wine, Coffee, Candle-lit Dinners, Running, Cooking, Eating, Writing

Music I Like:

Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Madonna, Kylie Minogue, M.I.A., Amy Winehouse, Duffy, The Cranberries, The Gossip, Sigur Ros, Designer Drugs

Films I Like:

Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Volver, Marie Antoinette

Literature I Like:

Perks of Being a Wallflower, I Am Not Myself These Days, 1984, Ferdinand, Being + Time

TV Shows I Like:

ANTM, Proj Run, Sandra Lee Semi-Homemade, 30 Rock

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• Advocates • c2c • Cam 2 Cam • David Bechtel Photography • GAY PORN LOVERS • GuyStyle • HUNK OF THE WEEK • I <3 Cuddling • Restore CA Marriage Equality *2010* • Runners! • Sexy Mexican Men

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Dannyyy

was bit by a dog

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DList URL: http://www.dlist.com/Dannyyy

about

Dannyyy

Flow sweetly,, hang heavy

*Ahem*

Hi everyone,

My name is Danny, not Daniel or Dan. I was born in Mexico City where I live until I was four. Then I moved to Salt Lake City, Utah. You are probably wondering if I am Mormon. Ask.

I decided to move to Boston for college because I am the youngest child and I could get away with going to a private school two thousand miles from home. Now that I graduated from school I find myself wondering where my little corner in the world fits.

I just came back from living in Cuba for three months. Havana changed my life beyond beyond and beyond. You may ask me about it someday, but I probably won't say much.

If I have hobbies they include cooking dinner, eating dinner, shopping for dinner, and thinking about dinner. I hate the idea of elitist food snobs who name their chicken with Franzia dish "coq au vin". Bitch please. I prefer to stick to humble, simple food that Marie Antoinette would find herself ordering for take-out after a champagne splurge. Oh, that's another thing I love champagne.

My little pet peeves include men who think things are moving too fast, men who don't move anything at all, and men who don't buy me dinner before bed. I'm a lady.

That's about it for now. I guess you will have to figure out the other pieces by saying "hay".

And yes I do know that horses eat hay. I'm Mexican, but I probably speak better English than most bois.

ta ta

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Pictures

(16)

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Blog

¡Rum for Your Life!

For the Cuban gal (or guy) on the go.

skipping, skipping (8/22/09) [View | Hide]

Gal is back (6/16/09) [View | Hide]

The Last Mojito (4/15/09) [View | Hide]

First, I don't think my words can reach the potential of my dear friend Megan's. Please visit meghabana.blogspot.com
My words cannot even tickle that spot the way she has, to say about what we learned in Cuba. I'm a believer.

What I do want to say is that what I've been through in Cuba was an incredible adventure beyond what anyone can imagine. Never could I think a 23 year old Mexican from Utah be involved in such tales of adventure, irony, heartbreak, loss, anger, fragility, and moonlight stillness.

I want to highlight my top things I did in Havana.

The walks to "Opportunities"
In a country where food variety is sparse there exists a beacon of food choices at this place down the Malecon called "Opportunities". We could get chicken croquettas, chicken patties, beers, the occasional bottle of Havana Club rum, and ice cream. We would mosey down the cracked pavement, past the building with the leaky hose, sometimes in our sweats and sandals all in the name of chicken opportunities. I still can't forget the time Tara demanded we buy 50 chicken croquettes, 20 for herself. We ended up buying only 30 because, frankly, the poor guy working behind the counter didn't have 50 croquettes to sell.

There was that time I walked with Honorio in the middle of the night hoping to spot the last of the chicken. The waves from the ocean were hitting the Malecon so hard the water spilled over and Opportunities was closed. Del Mar, Opportunities' competition, was opened so we went there instead. We got two Buccaneers and two pizzas. The gal with the yellow shawl handed our pizzas in plastic bags.

Climbing up the stairs for breakfast
Honorio and me shared what we called 'the maid's chamber'. It was a room apart from the main house and we would have to go through the unlocking and locking process of 6 doors to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. This chamber had no windows so circulation and sunlight were not part of our early mornings. Everyday, we would wake up at 8:30 to a pitch black cave-like environment. One of us would crack open the door and our eyes would be fondled and violated by the sunlight. Imagine some cruel person shining a flashlight onto your frail eyeballs. Then imagine that person also throwing some hot oil, a pack of chilies, mustard, and a sizzling side of bacon onto your eyeballs. That's what it felt like coming out of our room every morning.

But we still got up for Maria's famous scrambled eggs, the intoxicating and lubricating coffee, and the sometimes soft rolls. The gals usually told stories from the night prior. What they did, who they did, where they did it. And sometimes I would throw in my own stories of JR. Although breakfast was usually the same (eggs, rolls, butter, pineapple, guava, and coffee) it always felt exciting to sit at the table. Every morning felt like something amazing was going to happen, even if it was just going class. No matter how tired or hung-over I woke up in that room it felt thrilling to start a new day in Havana.

All those times on the Malecon
Through sun, wind, day, or night we were always on the Malecon. The Malecon is this massive levee type situation where all of Havana goes to sit on when the temperatures are toasty. You can sit on it and look onto the ocean. I swear I could almost see Miami at night and I swear I also saw the famous golden arches once too. Sometimes we would sit on the Malecon and have a drink or 3. Sometimes we would sit quietly on a cloudy day and listen to our iPods. Sometimes we (Tara and me) would slip and fall on a wet day. Sometimes we would have rendezvous at night with our partners in crime. The special thing about the Malecon is if you sat facing the Havana streets and the Vedado high-rises you could watch life happen. If you sat facing the ocean you could totally tune out everything around you; time stops. If you were lucky, sometimes all of Havana would come out and sit with you on the Malecon at night. The street musicians swoon the oblivious tourists while Cuban men bear-hug their gals. I would stare at the Cuban women with their confident, primary-color fashions and the shirtless fishermen rolling in dinner.

I promised someone in Havana that someday I will write about Cuba. There are of course a dozen more things I want to write about that I loved like the coffee gal, the 50 cent hot dogs on 23rd, Maria screaming gals names when they had a phone call, doing laundry al fresco. I could write about all that on here, but as a true gal on the go... I have to go for now. Stay tuned for

Cuba: The Novel, Cuba: The Movie, and then watch out for Cuba: The Ride.

Adios chicas,

Attention Shoppers: I am Freaking Out (4/6/09) [View | Hide]

La ultima pena (3/29/09) [View | Hide]

And there I was... (3/27/09) [View | Hide]

Hola Estudiantes (3/17/09) [View | Hide]

One Moment (3/10/09) [View | Hide]

Ms. Frizzle and Her Magic School Bus (3/5/09) [View | Hide]

Ride That Smoother Than a Limousine (3/2/09) [View | Hide]

I spent possibly one of the most relaxing weekends during breakfast and dinner times. There was no rush for dairy or meat goods and everyone at the table in general was in a splendid mood.

Today I was supposed to spend "all" day studying for an exam and equally as cautious about a paper due tomorrow. Instead of worrying about academics I went to the beach at Megano. In this country people can't pronounce the name Megan, but they can sure pronounce the name Megano.

On our way to the beach Songe contracted this gentleman

who drove a private Russian-inspired-tin sedan who could take us for about $25CUC. There we were, Courtney, Steph, Me, Songe in the back seat and Emmcicle and Megan in the front. The car was about two inches off the highway with our weight. I blame the tin of Pinocho soda crackers Emma was cradling around.

At one point I see Emma leaning forward towards Megan's lap. I had no idea what was going on, but I was offended by the suggested position. The driver explained that Emma had to hide because in Cuba a small sedan can only legally carry 5 people. We had 7.

So there we were all family-like in the car when the cops pull us over. The driver gets out of the car to talk to the cop. Ahem, if you do that in the US the cops will shank you. You never get out of your car when you're pulled over. Anyway, the driver ends up getting a ticket and off we go again.

Everything was dandy until this blue truck honks at us and points to the back tire. Our driver starts pulling over and as he's doing this the car starts jolting. We were like gangsters low-riding and bumping in this tiny car as we pull over. When we get to the curb the tire slants off the car. One of the bolts fell off and we were probably seconds away from three-wheeling it to death.

The driver assures us everything is going to be A Ok as he unscrews a bolt from the front tire and bolts it to the back wheel. We stand there on the side of the road watching him, unconcerned about how safe this procedure is.

When we get back into the car he tells me to sit on Courtney's lap so we can fit 5 people in the back so the front tire doesn't carry much weight. As much as I would have loved to sit on Courtney's lap I thought it would be best that Megan sit on Courtney instead. And off we go. The doors are shut. Megan, Courtney, me, Sonya, and Steph in the back-seat while lucky Emma sits in the front next to the driver who at one point rub hers knee, for good luck I'm sure.

In a matter of minutes the car gets pulled over again for the same reason, but it's cool because we already got one ticket and apparently we can't get another. Eventually we make it to the beach after about 45 minutes of car drama. That's the thing about Cuba. You think you'll have a simple car ride to the beach, but you never know what's going to happen. We gals are living on the edge.

What's Better Than a $5 Footlong? (2/25/09) [View | Hide]

I was held hostage in some strange woman's bedroom (2/22/09) [View | Hide]

Only in Cuba.

So before I begin to explain the title I have to fill in on some background.

Last week the gals and me went on a little adventure to a drag show slash gay dance club right outside Havana near a park dedicated to Señor Lenin. In order to get to this outdoors-drag-dance-destination one must walk to the Yara Theater and axe a cab driver to take you to "la fiesta". The cabbies are savvy and they know exactly what you be talking about. This is what Honorio, Emmsicle, Songe, and me did.

The ride to such parties is about half an hour. I was sitting next to Emma who was sitting next to Songe who was sitting next to a strange man we met at a smokey gay café. Typical. At one point I gave Emma the side-eye and saw that she was sleeping in the cab. "What are we doing with our lives?", I thought.

The party was a blast. There I met someone and his name is José Raúl Yopíz. His name is full of accents and his character is beyond normal. I've been seeing him for a week and so far I've been to the emergency room with him due to his heart problems, talked to his grandmother over the phone various times, found out he was diabetic after feeding him rum on his 28th birthday, and been told via Chelz that he's in love with me. He also calls me at least twice a day and demands to see me every night. Don't worry, this is all very traditional Cuban dating behavior.

Last night our plans were to find a room for the night and braid each other's hair. There we were walking around Havana ringing on his friend's door bells and asking if there was a room available. Eight doors later we still couldn't find a room. Why couldn't we go to his place you axe? There is currently a crime investigation in his building and everyone of his neighbors is on the look-out for strangers.

After taking a 30 minute bus ride to some beach town with no luck again we made it back to Havana near the capitolio. José knocked on some gal's door and she answered in her PJs. By this time the sun was already up. Her place was tiny, think loft minus the chic factor. On the floor was the woman's son sleeping with his girlfriend (?) and on the loft there were two beds. One for the gal and one for us. I was so exhausted I didn't even think about the fact that this gal was going to sleep with us. Originally I was going to sleep in my shirt and jeans until the gal told me not to be shy and take my shirt off so I can be comfortable. Of course, because the only awkward and horribly uncomfortable part of this nap was having my shirt on.

And there I slept in this tiny loft with no windows with some strange woman to my right and José to my left. After sleeping until noon I needed to get up and leave. Not only were my feet bleeding and bloated from walking so much, but I smelled and had to poop. I couldn't find my keys and realized José had them. I tried to wake him up and get my keys, but he ignored me. I shook him, held his nostrils shut, poked his ear, anything to wake him and get my keys. After two hours of this nonsense he got sick of my poking and said he wasn't going to give me my keys back. That's when he spider-monkeyed me. The only way I can describe this is a sort of aggressive cuddle. This man was holding me hostage and his weapon of choice was cuddling. I never felt so trapped.

Eventually he let loose and we left the gal's loft around 4PM. In the end, we did not braid each other's hair.

The Cheese Ain't Right (2/16/09) [View | Hide]

Is It Done Cooking? (2/11/09) [View | Hide]

Today is one day after my bee day and I still feel like an innocent 22 year old. Granted, I have a few more silver hairs going on. I'd like to think that when I reach my thirties I will be a handsome fox like Mr. Cooper from See En En.

Anyway, this weekend we returned from a trip outside of Havana in a place called Matazanas. I won't even tell the whole story because there is way too much turmoil and strife to report. All I will say is that I lost $100 US dolls, ate bleeding chicken for lunch, and developed a bus drinking problem. The following pictures describe (perfectly) our weekend.

When we came back from Matanzas it was time to get down to business: my birthday. The gals bought me my people's drank (tequila) along with my real drank (vodka) and some of my adoptive drank (rum). Basically we could have made a Long Island drank with all the provisions I got for my birthday. We also had cake. Real cake. With c h o c o l a t e. Until one goes to Cuba one does not know what it means to go without real chocolate. Usually the stuff here tastes like condensed cocoa powder left to dry in the back of a 7 11 warehouse.

Once we did the routine (and genuinely heartfelt) happy birthday sing-a-long dedicated to me, we devoured the cake, drank some drank, had some laughs and went out. Normally for a birthday I would have liked to go out to a bar/club, danced the night away, but no...this is Cuba. Instead of club-hopping, pimple-poppin, we went to a stand on 23rd street where they sell the best hot dogs in Cuba. Before we even fully inhaled our 'dogs we stumbled over to Tal Vez, the best restaurant in all Havana. There we ate pizza with real cheese, slurped milk shakes with real chocolate, and dipped fries into real mustard. In the most surreal and bright manner, it was one of the most satisfying birthdays I've had since my Batman themed party in 2nd grade.

Fotos thanks to Meg and Tara respectively.

No Spring Chicken (2/9/09) [View | Hide]

Oh, Look at that Rock... (2/3/09) [View | Hide]

The Hipster and the Sea (2/1/09) [View | Hide]

The Power of Wet Ones. (1/27/09) [View | Hide]

My “professor” while here in Cuba belongs to the Santeria religion and he sent us to his Padrino (godfather) so we can have our shells read. Basically, Padrino (Padre as I call him) does this intricate ritual where he throws a handful of seashells Sally sold him on the seashore and he determines the future. Think Turkish coffee ground remains.

So I got my shellz on and the Gods told Padre that while in Cuba I have to be very suspicious of food. I must sniff, look at the color, and cautiously nibble everything I eat outside of my residence. Padre warned that perhaps I will be invited to a gathering of sorts where I will be served bad meat and inherit a parasite that I will need to be operated for while I’m here. At the same time, I should be equally cautious of street food. This makes sense considering I’m a frequent, valued customer at the local street food joints. The question is: don’t all travelers to developing countries take their magnifying glasses everywhere they eat? Imagine that.

Furthermore, Padre said I will be involved in a tug-a-war of sorts with a woman and her boyfriend. Love triangle? Eh, nah I don’t think so. Will I be involved with the gal or the guy is another question. I actually wanted to test Padre out by being on my best behavior and not limping the wrists.

Oh yeah, I also shouldn’t seat in the front of taxi cars for I will be involved in a bloody and terrible accident.

Padre didn’t really tell me anything positive. He did say my Santeria guardian angel is Obatala, king of kings who loves to don all white (even after labor day). In an effort to avoid loosing a limb or pooping my guts out I should bathe in water infused with cotton plant leaves four nights in a row. There I was last night, drunkenly cotton-fusing my water and bathing.

Our pal Megan was said to have negative vibes. In order to bring positive forces to her she needed to light a candle and offer three candies to her God. So right after she got her shellz on Padre lit the candle, offered the candies and waited for the candle to burn. All the way. There we were, all chillin’ at the Padre’s living room watching this candle burn.

It took about an hour and a half for the candle to burn a quarter of the way.

I can’t really say if I believe any of this, mostly because I don’t entertain the idea of religion anymore. My mother is a prime example of why I see religion as a crouching evil. I’m still going along with the rituals until I’m cleansed. Why not? It’s something spiritual and maybe it's about time I need to be pouring myself with cotton leaves. Unless I develop a rash, what harm can it do?

Yes, We Did. (1/21/09) [View | Hide]

Some Fun (1/16/09) [View | Hide]

Skinny Beans (1/13/09) [View | Hide]

I had the best breakfast today. As I stepped into the dinning room I saw bright pink and lukewarm yellow. I immediately knew I was going to have guava and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Surprisingly I wasn't hung over or disoriented like every other morning I've been in Cuba so I devoured my food with quick grace.

After I cleaned the table I ran outside to check on my laundry I dutifully cleaned the night before. There in the Havana sun lay all my hipster American Apparel tees swinging on wire with clothes pins. I've never done laundry like this before, but it felt so liberating. It reminded me of when I used to live in my uncle's bungalow in Salt Lake. We had a washer and a dryer, but the dryer gave up on life leaving the washer to do all the work. Every weekend my mom washed the clothes in the machine, hand-rung the excess water out, and clawed our clothes onto wire supported by our maple trees. I had to chuckle for a little seeing my own clothes that I washed myself floating on a Cuban rooftop. My mother would be proud.

Our classes from 10AM to 2PM today were semi-expected. We had this Margarita woman I've become fond of teach our first class. We suspect she's daughter of the man who represented Cuba in the United Nations during the cold war. She also loves her coffee and snaps her fingers backwards. I call her Crackfingers. She's a great gal, albeit a bit liberal because she called The Nation and The Huffington Post neutral news sources. As a firm believer in Obama she whole-heartedly agrees in Palestine and the Cuban medical scene, both of which are unfortunately currently unstable.

Then after our coffee/crack class session we had our elevator music class session. Well, it wasn't elevator music it was actually Afro-Cuban percussion music and culture, but our guest professor made it as thrilling as a ride up the Macy's department store. Although our professor was intense with his loud voice and furious facial expressions he managed to leave nothing but a subtle mark on our hungry college souls.

Coming back from classes I had ordered a ham and mustard sandwich from a food stand next to our apartment. It amazing I can pay the equivalent of 25 American cents for lunch. While waiting for my 'wich to be toasted I saw a boy I had seen earlier in the week. He's probably in his early 20s and a total hipster with his grey tee (American Apparel?), black skinny jeans, and black wayfarers. There is no way he is from Cuba, but this is the second week I've spotted him. I'm intrigued and not in a "hey he's cute" sort of way, but in a "hey he seems like he knows my music" sort of way. Nonetheless, he's inspiring me to wear my skinny jeans in this humid weather.

Very well, I'm off to the roof to drink a mojito box. Children in the States have their juice boxes and us gals in Cuba have our mojito boxes. God probably does exist.

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