THE BLOGGER BLOGS

Exercising and writing are parts of my life. I started doing push-ups and sit-ups when I was in grammar school. I was a skinny kid with big ears. Desperate, I embarked on a self-imposed program to escape the fate of a 98-pound weakling.

My emergence as a writer was more accidental. My parents raised their children without the distraction of television. They forced us to read. I majored in literature during college. Most the professors smoked dope and gave their students passing grades for merely showing up for classes and participating in the discussions. I discovered existentialism as the perfect excuse for a hedonistic lifestyle.

I was in my mid-twenties when a friend suggested I apply for a sports writing job at The Brownsville Herald. I haven't put the pen down since that date except to pound the keyboard. I am addicted to both exercising and writing. I do hit the wall occasionally.

Why am I walking an hour each day when I'm destined to suffer, wither and die? Why am I reporting on Brownsville and humanity when our general condition worsens rather than improves? Tired physically and mentally, I take a break, but I begin to detest myself. I don't feel right. I can't think right. Slowly I recover my will.

Summer rules the mornings and evenings. 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 editor 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. In fact, 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 Austin 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 filming him. That doesn't mean these bastards aren't getting away with murder on a daily basis.

I wish I had an office at the Cameron Hotel and I was writing about Brownsville 24/7. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Downtown is a treasure trove of prose and poetry. It is also a treasure trove of photos. It is art. It is a living museum. And the border is a cornucopia of copy.

I'd like to saunter across the border and record my impressions of Matamoros. I used to know that town well. Unfortunately, I'm not willing to risk my life for a Tecate.

As I sip wine and 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 St. restaurant for breakfast and friendly bantering with the waitresses. I stayed home.

I threw passes to my son. I'm reading a mesmerizing account of the Civil War. I exercised Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I didn't abuse alcohol. I washed my clothes. I prepared my wardrobe for the week. I called my mother. She is 87 years old. My father passed seven years ago. He may be gone, but both of them inspire me to pick up the baton and resume running again.

I am a cop on the beat. It is important to keep a watchful eye on organized crime, known locally as the Cameron County Democratic Party. It is important to keep a watchful eye on our drunken and depraved politicians. Who aren't they screwing both literally and figuratively? Why are we naming schools after these renegades? Isn't it enough that we are paying them for doing nothing?

I find it horrendous that UTRGV graduates receive their diplomas in the shadows of a building named after Mary Rose "Miss Piggy" Cardenas. Why don't we construct a statue embodying stupidity and dedicate it to her?

It is important that I 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, as well as a 10,000-seat arena.

As to those who criticize me for being no better than the people I criticize, they are absolutely right. I love this blog. If the best I can do is write shit, then I'll write shit. And if you're a sucker for faith, don't make an even bigger fool of yourself by placing it in the Cowboys.