THE BLOGGER

I was in my mid-twenties when I applied for a sports writing job at The Brownsville Herald. I haven't put the pen down since that date except to pound the keyboard. The news, unlike our brutal summers, never ends although reading The Brownsville Herald you would think we were living in a crime-free, corruption-liberated gringo town of 20,000 in the middle of Nebraska. The newspaper refuses to meet its responsibilities. Crime and corruption are rampant. Incompetence and ignorance work hand in glove.

But the newspaper won't take a stand. It has sold its whoring soul for a few pesos to its advertisers and the special interests. The publisher has a tongue blistered with open sores that drip pus. The stench from the editor's rancid mouth kills cockroaches.

Enter the bloggers. I became a journalist at an impressionable age and remain a watchdog at heart. Among local bloggers, there is little agreement. Most of us have appeared in court to litigate our differences, but we're all anarchists in a war against those who abuse their authority.

When a local politician is in the dark corner of a McAllen club fingering a young thing's twat under the table, he can't enjoy the escapade to its fullest. He fears a blogger may be observing him. That doesn't mean these bastards aren't getting away with murder on a daily basis.

I wish I had the artistic inspiration to write about Brownsville 24/7. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Downtown is pure prose and poetry and photos. It is art. It is a living museum.

The border in general is endless copy. I'd like to saunter across the border and record my impressions of Matamoros on a more regular basis. I used to know that town well. Unfortunately, I'm not willing to risk my life in pursuit of art.

I think young, but I feel old. My only duties, I tell myself, are to work, rest and earn money for my kids.

"You make no difference," I repeat to myself to keep everything in perspective. "When you die, it will be like you never existed. Your void will be filled by new lovers and father figures."

I don't despair. As I contemplate my present state, I'm devising a new strategy for my blog. I'm promoting the downtown revitalization motif. I need to read more histories, so I can recreate my own past scenes that capture the essence of downtown and Brownsville.

I need to post more photos with nothing more than a headline to keep my audience content with a visual or two. I need to take advantage of the opportunities to stroll downtown when I have free time. I didn't go downtown this weekend even though few excursions give me greater pleasure than buying El Bravo and ducking into a Washington Street restaurant for breakfast and friendly banter with the waitresses.

I am a cop on the beat. It is important to keep a constant eye on organized crime, known as the Cameron County Democratic Party. It is equally important to keep a constant eye on our drunken and depraved politicians. Who aren't they screwing both literally and figuratively?

I must remain firm in my commitment to a better Brownsville. I will accept nothing less than downtown turned into a Spanish Quarter renown for its infamous drink, the Spanish Fly.