Mother fuck.

So last weekend, I go out with this girl and she tells me about this new talking Hugo Chavez doll. "That's hilarious," I say, "I'm totally gonna look into that for a story."

Then, of course, I went on to traumatize myself dancing salsa and later calm my nerves with several delicious cokteles. Chavez-doll went out the cerebral window.

So imagine my surprise when I hear Chris and bureau chief discussing the latest rave: Chavecito.

Goddamn, I so shoulda jumped on that - I'm really kicking myself. 'Not exactly demonstrating any shrewd enterprising skills down here. D'oh!

Then, around 6pm, I get an email from my J-school counterpart working in the AP's Sao Paolo bureau, Paulo, asking if I've seen how Venezuela's state oil company will be offering cheap heating oil to the poorer neighborhoods in Boston and New York - something Chavez mentioned back in August.

Huh. Hadn't seen that. I ask the Dow Jones guy. He hadn't seen that. So, like a schmuck, I go ask my bureau chief.

He hadn't seen that. ...but why don't I write something up?

So I write a brief. As in, "quick, because it's mother-effing past 6 on a Friday." You know, business-style - 100 words. My bureau chief reads it, and suggests I flesh it out a lot more, politically. (Read: "This sucks, I expected more out of you, rookie.")

So, with the help of the AP archives I churn out my second story of the day (the first one not being anything cool and interesting like Chavecito, remember) and Chris edits. We leave at 9pm.

What I'm really trying to say is, I hate you Paulo. Why don't you come work in Caracas since you seem to be breaking news here from all the way in Sao Paolo, smart-guy?

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get ready. Chris the sharp enterprising Chavecito-writing reporter and his girlfriend will be picking me up in about a half-hour, to go crash a Reuter's party.