The Return of Enrico Sebastian....His Notes on the Iowa Caucus...
Editor's Note: It had come to the attention of the RGV Politics Re-Visited Desk that Enrico Sebastian, long time guest blogger, had begun moonlighting for another Valley blog--The Metropolitan http://www.bordermetro.blogspot.com.
Red flags were raised, especially when it came time to sign up for life insurance:
"You either work for us, or you work for them," commanded Hector Gomez, RGV Politics Re-Visited creator and editor.
"Screw that, Gomez," Sebastian yelled, "I'm a freelancer, tried and true, nothing can hold me back. Not you, not this blog, nothing and nobody!"
"Fine, good riddance," Gomez said, "but Sophie remains an RGV Politics Re-Visited writer. And she is not to be used as a personal assistant under any circumstances."
"She told you about that, huh?" Sebastian asked.
After much haggling and bickering which sent the office into an all out war zone, Gomez and Sebastian arrived to the only logical solution. RGV Politics Re-Visited would be Sebastian's prime blog site. Posts appearing elsewhere must be approved and posted on this blog site first.
When asked about the agreement, Sebastian would only say, "It's none of your damned business what goes on between Gomez and I. Get back to your jelly donuts, and barbacoa tacos, you punk, before I......."
Suffice it to say, Enrico Sebastian has returned to RGV Politics Re-Visited.
What follows is the post he wrote for The Metropolitan. We at the Editor's Desk believe the post speaks for itself. The Lord have mercy on us all.
The First Annual Caucus Rally--All IowansWelcome...BYOB...She's Not Middle Eastern,Hoss....She's Portugese....Notes on the Iowa Caucus Part One....--By Enrico Sebastian, National Affairs Desk of The Metropolitan
"We'd like to welcome everybody, fellow Iowans, to the First Annual Caucus Rally here at the club house inside The Love Trail Winter Texan RV Park"---Margaret Schulz, Host and Emcee of the First Annual CaucusRally.
La Villa, Texas--"Come on, Marge, show us a littleskin!" came a cry from somewhere in the middle of the room. The hysterical laughter that followed was deafening. I noticed Sophie, my beautiful assistant,tremble a little as I led her through the standing room only crowd inside the club house of The LoveTrail Winter Texan RV Park just outside the outskirtsof La Villa, Texas. "Don't worry," I told her, "keep your head down, or at the very least don't stare directly in their eyes."
"Why not?," she asked, "we're here to cover a story. Besides, we have an invitation just like everybody else. We deserve to be here."Not exactly, I told her.
She almost froze in fear as she heard me explain that I got advanced notice of this little schin-dig that local Iowan visitors were putting on. So I called some contacts in the invitation printing business and had them FedEx to the office official looking invitations. One for me, and one for my assistant."So, you see, I wouldn't necessarily considerourselves 'welcome'," I told her.
"Since when did I go from being a fellow writer to an assistant?," she demanded.
"Never mind!," I yelled through the whoops and hollers as the 72" HD television was finally set up by someone Margaret described as a local boy named Ruben who,according to Margaret is a very talented 'la-teen-oh'. He blushed as he raced off the main stage.
"Listen, Sophie, what matters is that we're here," I said.
"I'm not comfortable with this. You tricked me," she cried, "Does Hector know about this."
"Of course not, he's too busy with the graphic novel," I tried to console her. But she was having nothing of it. She stormed off inthe general direction of what seemed to be a bar."Bring me the usual," I yelled, "Post haste!"I thought she heard me, but one can never be too sure. Especially with all the loud talking and laughing,and beer guzzling going on. Jesus, this is worse than the afternoon buffet at Mr. Gatti's. Dozens, maybe a good sixty temporary aliens around these parts. Iowans...Red-faced...giddy...and demanding more pretzels.
"You looking for a place to sit?" I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Yeah, sure, um...just another local friendly wanting to see what all the huh-bub is about," I smiled.
He smiled back, but there was a definite twist to his smile. "Sit right here next to me, big boy," he said.
Definite twist, an almost perverted sense that something was not right. But it wasn't the first time a Winter Texan invaded what professional psychologists refer to as my 'personal space'. There was that'Welcome Winter Texans' Rally in Nuevo Progreso back in October, and things were definitely touchy-feely that night. "Come here, amigo, ARGHHH" they'd say as they fondled and grabbed every dark skinned man,woman, and child walking the streets of Nuevo Progreso trying desperately to get Dad's tequila, Mom's dietpills, and the kid's churros back across to the otherside.
"Where'd you say you were from?" he asked."I'm a local. Born and raised," I answered.
"Naw, can't be," he was surprised, "a guy your size,what you got to be at least 6'2"?"
"6'4"," I answered, "but I stopped measuring back when I was ten.
"Hah!", he let out a cackle and slapped my shoulder. "I like you, son. And I don't mean nothing by it, you know against your kind and all," he continued, "it's just that I thought all 'law-teen-ohs' was small fellers. I ain't never seen a Mexican as big as you."
"Oh yeah," I told him, "we're farm raised, you know. Like catfish. A sort of Aztec rebirth. Hell, we had to do something against the New World Order; otherwise, you all might have us lynched."
He eyed me for a moment, unsure of what I had just said through the loud hollers surrounding us. He did the polite thing and just nodded his head. Hoss, as it turned out he wanted to be called whether that was his real name or not, ordered another pitcherof Old Milwaukee. Not the best tasting beer, but'when in Rome' you know.The rest of the night was a blur. Confusion sets in just after the tenth pitcher when laughing spells are followed by long moments of awkward silence, then a loud noise to bring you back to your senses. A good slap on the shoulder to the person next to you to make everything right again. Laughter continues.It was like that for a while, as best as I can remember. Nothing but dirty jokes, and innuendos.
I had to find Sophie, but Hoss was being uncomfortably'clingy'.
"No, no, I'm going to the bar, man!" I yelled, "get us another pitcher!"
"Hey, hey!" he cried, "you think you can bring backthat pretty little middle eastern girl you came in here with?"
'Middle Eastern Girl?' What the fuck? Jesus, I thought I was the one on acid."Who?!" I said."
"That little middle eastern girl you come in here with," he replied, "ay, hey, uh...hey, yeah, can,could you innerduce me to her, eh? eh?" He laughed ashe raised his eyebrows.
"Sure, I'll see if I can lasso her in," I said.
"Lasso! Ha, ha, hah!," he broke out.
I walked off, laughing sarcastically. A nervous twitch slowly shooting up my arm. I staggered to and fro. Beer's not my drink of choice. I haven't the right genes for it. Normally, I can down a bottle of straight Seagram's 7 and still be up in the morning eating three bowls of cereal with milk. But beer? Oh god, don't even mention milk. Not at this moment. Not when I need to find Sophie, and call it quits. Wait a minute....SHIT! Sophie! They think she's middle eastern!
It's a trap of some sort, drummed up during a late night orgy when the whips and the buttermilk could no longer cut it. Here I was thinking I could just saddle into an otherwise festive, and safe communityparty with a bunch of retired beer addicts with deteriorating tastebuds, and a growing lust for all things 'kinky'. But it's the other way around.
How else could a 6'4" guerrilla journalist make hisway past Roy, the sixty year old front gate security guard who got burned out of a bogus 401K plan in order to pay off his children's college loans. With a car full of booze, and peanut butter sandwiches, and a brand spanking new, official invitation.....Of course!
Damn you Sergio Serna! I should've never trusted your ass. So I owe you twenty bucks, so what?! You castrated chivo, you'll burn in hell for this. Kiss your printing press gig goodbye, Sergio, it was a cheap shot at a quick buck, like bogus raffle tickets around Christmas time. And not many people will mourn it's passing, not after hearing what you did to a well loved guerrilla journalist with an eye for the truth, and a lovely office assistant around his arm.
Wait, no, this can't be happening. I need to find Sophie. Snap out of it, Sebastian!Remember, SUDDENLY SOBER! Right.Forget these loudmouth, sexist, bigots getting their kicks out of watching a caucus that has no real bearing on the overall scope of a full fledged, blitzkrieg of a Presidential campaign.
"Bring on your black dude!!" cried a woman in a flowered mu-mu.
Laughter all around....Hysterical...Ominous...Frightening.
If they got their hands on my Sophie, she's a gonner for sure. I can just read the headlines now:
Local Adminstrative Assistant found wandering naked down FM 1015...Gives new meaning to the term--SweetOnion...Cries "Bloody Murder!!!"....Peaceful Community shocked at her allegations of wrongdoings and cheap parlor tricks..."We're just normal, peaceful folk,"snarls one, "Hell, we don't even OWN a goat.".....Details at 10.
Terrible, nasty pictures in my head. I feel light headed. The room is definitely spinning now. Did that overweight, tatooed gorilla with a pinkrose tucked behind his ear spike my drink? Some special concoction known only to Iowans? A mixture of corn oil, roach spray, and horse manure?? Doesn't matter now. I'm drifting....all that matters is....Sophie....I must find Sophie...
Red flags were raised, especially when it came time to sign up for life insurance:
"You either work for us, or you work for them," commanded Hector Gomez, RGV Politics Re-Visited creator and editor.
"Screw that, Gomez," Sebastian yelled, "I'm a freelancer, tried and true, nothing can hold me back. Not you, not this blog, nothing and nobody!"
"Fine, good riddance," Gomez said, "but Sophie remains an RGV Politics Re-Visited writer. And she is not to be used as a personal assistant under any circumstances."
"She told you about that, huh?" Sebastian asked.
After much haggling and bickering which sent the office into an all out war zone, Gomez and Sebastian arrived to the only logical solution. RGV Politics Re-Visited would be Sebastian's prime blog site. Posts appearing elsewhere must be approved and posted on this blog site first.
When asked about the agreement, Sebastian would only say, "It's none of your damned business what goes on between Gomez and I. Get back to your jelly donuts, and barbacoa tacos, you punk, before I......."
Suffice it to say, Enrico Sebastian has returned to RGV Politics Re-Visited.
What follows is the post he wrote for The Metropolitan. We at the Editor's Desk believe the post speaks for itself. The Lord have mercy on us all.
The First Annual Caucus Rally--All IowansWelcome...BYOB...She's Not Middle Eastern,Hoss....She's Portugese....Notes on the Iowa Caucus Part One....--By Enrico Sebastian, National Affairs Desk of The Metropolitan
"We'd like to welcome everybody, fellow Iowans, to the First Annual Caucus Rally here at the club house inside The Love Trail Winter Texan RV Park"---Margaret Schulz, Host and Emcee of the First Annual CaucusRally.
La Villa, Texas--"Come on, Marge, show us a littleskin!" came a cry from somewhere in the middle of the room. The hysterical laughter that followed was deafening. I noticed Sophie, my beautiful assistant,tremble a little as I led her through the standing room only crowd inside the club house of The LoveTrail Winter Texan RV Park just outside the outskirtsof La Villa, Texas. "Don't worry," I told her, "keep your head down, or at the very least don't stare directly in their eyes."
"Why not?," she asked, "we're here to cover a story. Besides, we have an invitation just like everybody else. We deserve to be here."Not exactly, I told her.
She almost froze in fear as she heard me explain that I got advanced notice of this little schin-dig that local Iowan visitors were putting on. So I called some contacts in the invitation printing business and had them FedEx to the office official looking invitations. One for me, and one for my assistant."So, you see, I wouldn't necessarily considerourselves 'welcome'," I told her.
"Since when did I go from being a fellow writer to an assistant?," she demanded.
"Never mind!," I yelled through the whoops and hollers as the 72" HD television was finally set up by someone Margaret described as a local boy named Ruben who,according to Margaret is a very talented 'la-teen-oh'. He blushed as he raced off the main stage.
"Listen, Sophie, what matters is that we're here," I said.
"I'm not comfortable with this. You tricked me," she cried, "Does Hector know about this."
"Of course not, he's too busy with the graphic novel," I tried to console her. But she was having nothing of it. She stormed off inthe general direction of what seemed to be a bar."Bring me the usual," I yelled, "Post haste!"I thought she heard me, but one can never be too sure. Especially with all the loud talking and laughing,and beer guzzling going on. Jesus, this is worse than the afternoon buffet at Mr. Gatti's. Dozens, maybe a good sixty temporary aliens around these parts. Iowans...Red-faced...giddy...and demanding more pretzels.
"You looking for a place to sit?" I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Yeah, sure, um...just another local friendly wanting to see what all the huh-bub is about," I smiled.
He smiled back, but there was a definite twist to his smile. "Sit right here next to me, big boy," he said.
Definite twist, an almost perverted sense that something was not right. But it wasn't the first time a Winter Texan invaded what professional psychologists refer to as my 'personal space'. There was that'Welcome Winter Texans' Rally in Nuevo Progreso back in October, and things were definitely touchy-feely that night. "Come here, amigo, ARGHHH" they'd say as they fondled and grabbed every dark skinned man,woman, and child walking the streets of Nuevo Progreso trying desperately to get Dad's tequila, Mom's dietpills, and the kid's churros back across to the otherside.
"Where'd you say you were from?" he asked."I'm a local. Born and raised," I answered.
"Naw, can't be," he was surprised, "a guy your size,what you got to be at least 6'2"?"
"6'4"," I answered, "but I stopped measuring back when I was ten.
"Hah!", he let out a cackle and slapped my shoulder. "I like you, son. And I don't mean nothing by it, you know against your kind and all," he continued, "it's just that I thought all 'law-teen-ohs' was small fellers. I ain't never seen a Mexican as big as you."
"Oh yeah," I told him, "we're farm raised, you know. Like catfish. A sort of Aztec rebirth. Hell, we had to do something against the New World Order; otherwise, you all might have us lynched."
He eyed me for a moment, unsure of what I had just said through the loud hollers surrounding us. He did the polite thing and just nodded his head. Hoss, as it turned out he wanted to be called whether that was his real name or not, ordered another pitcherof Old Milwaukee. Not the best tasting beer, but'when in Rome' you know.The rest of the night was a blur. Confusion sets in just after the tenth pitcher when laughing spells are followed by long moments of awkward silence, then a loud noise to bring you back to your senses. A good slap on the shoulder to the person next to you to make everything right again. Laughter continues.It was like that for a while, as best as I can remember. Nothing but dirty jokes, and innuendos.
I had to find Sophie, but Hoss was being uncomfortably'clingy'.
"No, no, I'm going to the bar, man!" I yelled, "get us another pitcher!"
"Hey, hey!" he cried, "you think you can bring backthat pretty little middle eastern girl you came in here with?"
'Middle Eastern Girl?' What the fuck? Jesus, I thought I was the one on acid."Who?!" I said."
"That little middle eastern girl you come in here with," he replied, "ay, hey, uh...hey, yeah, can,could you innerduce me to her, eh? eh?" He laughed ashe raised his eyebrows.
"Sure, I'll see if I can lasso her in," I said.
"Lasso! Ha, ha, hah!," he broke out.
I walked off, laughing sarcastically. A nervous twitch slowly shooting up my arm. I staggered to and fro. Beer's not my drink of choice. I haven't the right genes for it. Normally, I can down a bottle of straight Seagram's 7 and still be up in the morning eating three bowls of cereal with milk. But beer? Oh god, don't even mention milk. Not at this moment. Not when I need to find Sophie, and call it quits. Wait a minute....SHIT! Sophie! They think she's middle eastern!
It's a trap of some sort, drummed up during a late night orgy when the whips and the buttermilk could no longer cut it. Here I was thinking I could just saddle into an otherwise festive, and safe communityparty with a bunch of retired beer addicts with deteriorating tastebuds, and a growing lust for all things 'kinky'. But it's the other way around.
How else could a 6'4" guerrilla journalist make hisway past Roy, the sixty year old front gate security guard who got burned out of a bogus 401K plan in order to pay off his children's college loans. With a car full of booze, and peanut butter sandwiches, and a brand spanking new, official invitation.....Of course!
Damn you Sergio Serna! I should've never trusted your ass. So I owe you twenty bucks, so what?! You castrated chivo, you'll burn in hell for this. Kiss your printing press gig goodbye, Sergio, it was a cheap shot at a quick buck, like bogus raffle tickets around Christmas time. And not many people will mourn it's passing, not after hearing what you did to a well loved guerrilla journalist with an eye for the truth, and a lovely office assistant around his arm.
Wait, no, this can't be happening. I need to find Sophie. Snap out of it, Sebastian!Remember, SUDDENLY SOBER! Right.Forget these loudmouth, sexist, bigots getting their kicks out of watching a caucus that has no real bearing on the overall scope of a full fledged, blitzkrieg of a Presidential campaign.
"Bring on your black dude!!" cried a woman in a flowered mu-mu.
Laughter all around....Hysterical...Ominous...Frightening.
If they got their hands on my Sophie, she's a gonner for sure. I can just read the headlines now:
Local Adminstrative Assistant found wandering naked down FM 1015...Gives new meaning to the term--SweetOnion...Cries "Bloody Murder!!!"....Peaceful Community shocked at her allegations of wrongdoings and cheap parlor tricks..."We're just normal, peaceful folk,"snarls one, "Hell, we don't even OWN a goat.".....Details at 10.
Terrible, nasty pictures in my head. I feel light headed. The room is definitely spinning now. Did that overweight, tatooed gorilla with a pinkrose tucked behind his ear spike my drink? Some special concoction known only to Iowans? A mixture of corn oil, roach spray, and horse manure?? Doesn't matter now. I'm drifting....all that matters is....Sophie....I must find Sophie...
posted by Hector at 8:41 AM
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