ElGuero
Jeremiah Lopez (CoT OtB)
Barcelona, Spain 
Member Since: Jan 24, 2008
Last Login: May 11, 2009
Profile Views: 4198
Points: 990
Status: Dead computer.. be back eventually (4 months ago)
Birthday: Jun 19, 1987
Occupation: Interpreter/Student/Musician
About Me:
I'm half Irish, half Mexican, born in Mexico, lived in Ireland, Mexico, and Puerto Rico, and Ohio. Now I live in Barcelona, Spain. They call me "El Güero" ("Whiteboy") because a guy with light skin and blue eyes is somewhat of a rarity in Mexico and Puerto Rico. The Wu-Tang Clan got me into chess. I love nearly every form of music. I've been playing guitar for 10 years, bass for 6, and drums for 4. I've been singing pretty much since I could talk. I speak Spanish, English, Irish Gaelic, French, German, and a bit of Icelandic. Let's chat.
As white, my favorite openings are the Queen's Gambit and the Catalan. As black, I like the Semi-Slav, Sicilian Najdorf, Sicilian Dragon, Nimzo-Indian, and King's Indian.
My style: Swift and efficient. I'm always looking to trick you, to sneak in behind your back and capture your king. I strive to be an assassin of the 64 squares.
Favorite players: Kasparov, Tal, Carlsen, Waitzkin, RZA
And now, a poem:
"La guitarra" — Federico García Lorca
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil
callarla.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora monótona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora por cosas
lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin mañana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama.
¡Oh guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.
"The Guitar" — Federico García Lorca
The crying of the guitar
begins.
The cups of the dawn
are broken.
The crying of the guitar
begins.
It is useless
to silence it.
It is impossible
to silence it.
It weeps, monotonous
as the water cries,
as the wind weeps
in the snowstorm.
It is impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for
far-away things.
Hot sand of the south
that pleads for white camellias.
It cries, arrow without a target,
evening without a morning,
and the first dead bird
upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart badly wounded
by five swords.