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Raul Ramos y Sanchez

Great news for my dear friend and award-winning author Raul Ramos y Sanchez. The author of HOUSE DIVIDED and AMERICA LIBRE will be on CNN en Español today, February 23, at 6pm EST/3pm PST.

He will be interviewed by CNN en Español anchor Juan Carlos López.

Juan Carlos López

You can watch the interview on DirecTV Channel 419 and Dish Network Channel 859.

¡Enhorabuena, Raul!

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Jeremy never thought a Mercedes DTM C-Class would cause aches in his groin. While he raced the car around the streets of London for his show’s O2 event, the engine’s vibrations shook his muscles so violently that three Jamaican assistants had to squeeze him out of the car.

“For fuck’s sake, be careful!” Jeremy shouted. “Do you know who I am?”

His limousine drove him back to his terrace house on Courtnell Street. Bloody hell, he thought, it feels like a elephant stepped on my chopper. Jeremy grabbed a bottle of scotch from the limousine’s wet bar and poured himself a glass, clean and neat. He took his Android from this jacket pocket and dialed his help.

“Get the steam ready. I will be home in 15 minutes. It better be as steamy as Nigeria when I get there.”

The London Friday traffic was unusually light for February. His team had just wrapped up Season 8 for the BBC and was beginning to test concepts for Season 9. When he was asked to host the show in 2002, Jeremy and the producers were desperate. The show’s ratings were miserable so they had quickly devised a plan to revive it: bring in two younger hosts and start poking fun of anything and anyone. So they did. Everyone was fair game, from stinky Italians, snobby Frenchman, boorish Germans and greedy, fat Americans. All of sudden, Jeremy was loved again. He knew early in the show’s second season that he was on to something when he couldn’t even watch the FA Cup Final at Millenium Stadium without being approached for an autograph every minute. Bugger off, he would say, can’t you see I would like to watch the bloody match? It’s fucking Chelsea and Arsenal.

350 million viewers and millions of pounds later, Jeremy and his lads were the new emperors of the BBC. The praise came from all over the world. Geeks from Mumbai had created apps that made him 30% for each download. A group of elderly Australians sent him homemade pies via overnight parcel, even though he would just have his assistant take the packages and crush them in the rubbish. And the communists, the crazy left Labour socialists who would campaign against him through their liberal snobbish publications? Jeremy would always snicker. They might have their shitty rags. He was a bloody columnist for The Sun.

“Mr. Clarkson, your steam bath is ready,” said Mrs. Lee, Jeremy’s house maid and general lady of all trades. She had already opened the doors of the limousine while Jeremy slid his body out of the back seat, grimacing in pain.

“Fuck, my bloody chopper! Just get me to the steam!”

Jeremy limped his way to his house, a four-bedroom home where he live for the few months he was in London and wasn’t traveling all over the world. This year, the producers suggested that he and the lads do shows in China, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Thailand. As long as they get me a chinky whore for my troubles, Jeremy thought, I would travel to Mars on a bloody scooter.

With Mrs. Lee following behind him, Jeremy walked through the open door of his home and started to go up the stairs. Just then, his Android’s Rolling Stones Limited Exclusive Ring Tone sounded. Today’s tone was”Sympathy for the Devil.” Jeremy glanced at the caller ID. Fuck, it’s Smith. Smith never calls. What in hell does he want? Jeremy took a breath before clicking in.

“Johnny lad, how goes it?”

“Jerry, we are getting 200 complaints a minute right now. Most of them are still coming in from Mexico, but now we get the Yanks chiming in. It’s getting bad.”

“It’s great publicity, John. I mean, I think we can get 400 million viewers this year all because of those two minutes. Ha! And you said we couldn’t get any bigger before we fucking take over China next year.”

“The show’s not running in America, Jerry. I don’t need some looney greasers picketing on CNN and FOX. That is all we bloody need.”

“Who the fuck cares?”

“You need to write an apology, Jerry. Richard has already written his. And Coogan’s piece shitting all over you three is on the front page of The Guardian tonight.”

“Coogan is a wanker.”

“He’s also popular here, Jerry. This is no longer about some Mexicans, this thing is not going away. Write the apology. Publish it in your column this Sunday.”

“Fine, I will apologise.” Jeremy snickered.

“Fuck, Jerry, this is serious. Be sincere this time. They are all over you online. Every minute the great Jeremy Clarkson is called every slur in the Spanisn language. And I think they are starting to appear in Portuguese. Jerry, do you know how many Mexicans watch the show? 10 million. 10 million. And I am not even counting streaming in Latin America. Just apologise. And next time just mock the French. No one likes the fucking French.”

“Sure, John, I will offer my most sincerest apologies, my liege.”

“Do it.”

“Or what?”

“You know what the contract says.”

“How bloody dare you, John. Is that a threat? Who in hell saved the fucking BBC?”

“Write the apology, Superman. We’ll lunch on Sunday. Cheers.”

Jeremy headed back down the stairs, past his marble floors and chef’s kitchen, the countless TV awards from all over globe, his picture at last year’s World Cup with Beckham, Gerrard, and Rooney. He arrived at his study and powered up his laptop. An apology, he thought, they will get their apology.

Why doesn’t Mexico have an Olympic team? It’s because everyone there who can run, jump or swim is already across the border.

This piece is of course fictional in nature. And yes, I can take a joke, but you can decide for yourself by viewing the video below.


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The latest installment from FRANKY BENÍTEZ: A Story of Love, Pain, and Hope from San Juan to Boston:

All rights reserved by ARCHIVO HISTORICO Y FOTOGRAFICO DE PUERTO RICO

 

The torrent of clouds raced over the rays of the Caribbean sun, blackening the colonial port of San Juan within seconds. Holding his only possessions in a leather satchel made by a fat Moroccan from Seville, Octavio Antonio Benítez Aragón, the great-grandfather of Franky Benítez, sprinted past africano porters dragging steamer trunks in the Puerto Rican mud and Spanish nobles opening black umbrellas to find cover from the impending downpour.

Octavio Antonio, seventeen years old, his dark curly hair dangling over his green eyes and olive skin, opened the wooden door of a café at the very moment thousands of tropical rain drops splattered onto the port.

He looked around. The café’s scents of crusty bread and espresso steam held the criollo merchants heading back home from Spain to the island, new arrivals with labor papers in hand, two sugar speculators from New Orleans, three crying babies with their mothers, and two priests reading from a Bible and crossing themselves every time they whispered Jesus from their lips.

“What would you like, young man?” Octavio Antonio heard the voice of an elderly man from behind the café’s glass display of guava pastries, caramel flan, and cheese turnovers.

“Nothing, sir. Just trying to get out of the rain,” Octavio Antonio said as he took his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his only ditto suit, whose sack coat was starting to wear from the long voyage across the Atlantic, and wiped the sweat beads from his brow,

“If you are not buying anything, please leave my café,” the man said.

Octavio Antonio nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He walked back out onto the cobblestone streets of the capital city, the rain soaking his clothes and drenching his boater, which he bought in Huelva the day before his trip with the last reales his father Don Antonio Octavio had given him. The city, if he could call it that, had narrow, winding roads that made walking slippery in the middle of a downpour. Octavio Antonio, not knowing where he was, kept walking, and at times stopped for cover under the bottom of a pastel-colored balcony that formed part of the city’s colonial structures modeled after the houses of Andalusia.

After thirty minutes, the drops vanished from the sky and the sun crept through the remaining clouds, imparting a late afternoon light onto the soaked city. Octavio Antonio noticed he was not far from the city’s central plaza, the Plaza de Armas on San José Street. His meeting place. He took out his handkerchief to dry his eyes and cheeks, as he strolled to the plaza’s main area. Before he reached the plaza’s pigeon-filled fountain, a voice shouted behind him.

“The American ship exploded in Havana! U.S.S Maine destroyed! Read all about it in this afternoon’s edition! El Mundo has the story! American ship exploded! Hundreds dead!”

It was a boy with skin as dark as molasses. He wore no shoes, yet he was able to hold a stack of newspapers under his left arm as he shouted the headlines from the afternoon edition. Octavio Antonio watched as the boy started to run past him and heard towards the plaza. Soon, the island’s merchants would saunter out before their late afternoon coffees with steamed milk and buy a newspaper from the boy.

Octavio Antonio knew this voyage had its risks, but when he had received the letter from his uncle Rogelio six months before to help with Benítez & González Sugar & Rum Company, S.A., all Octavio Antonio could think of was how quickly could he escape his town of Lora del Río in southern Spain and book a steamer ticket from Cádiz to San Juan. His father urged his son to stay, but Octavio Antonio had adventure in his soul. Among the olive trees and frisky bulls that others in his town raised and trained, Octavio Antonio would spend days dreaming about his fortune, his destiny, his freedom. His father was born to cultivate olives. Octavio Antonio was born to lead men, like the Moors who had owned his land centuries ago.

So, convinced that Puerto Rico was his future and ambition, he wrote back to his uncle Rogelio to inform him that he would indeed go to Puerto Rico once he had enough money for the voyage. Octavio Antonio then worked any task he could muster from his fellow neighbors, picking olives until dusk and cleaning stables until dawn. By November of 1897, Octavio Antonio had enough money to purchase his one-way ticket. He celebrated his last Christmas in Spain drinking sherry and confessing his sins.

In late January, just a few weeks before his departure from Cádiz, Octavio Antonio received a letter from his uncle that only confirmed his decision:

15 December 1897 A.D., Juncos, Puerto Rico

To my dearest nephew:

May the Lord grant you blessings, prosperity, and happiness in the blessed new year of our Christ. My joy of your potential arrival was recently overshadow by a even more momentous occurrence: several of my fellow partners have heard through their contacts in Madrid that the Spaniards have granted this island of Puerto Rico autonomous rule! Puerto Ricans will now be able to govern themselves and begin to free their chains from their Spanish brothers. There is talk that a government will be formed on the island before the summer solstice of 1898.

This is indeed wondrous news, since it will allow Benítez & González Sugar & Rum Company, S.A. the opportunity to export its rum without the impositions of the Spanish government. The years of struggle for our independence and freedom have begun to dissipate. When you arrive to this beloved island, it will be active with anticipation. I cannot think of a better place for an industrious young man to earn his fortune. I long to be your age again and not the old man that I am, the one who had first through that the original scream for revolution in Lares over twenty years ago was mere childish folly. Yet when I did finally decide to emigrate to this lush, green island, I discovered quickly that Puerto Rico could become the commercial pearl of the Caribbean and eventually all of Latin American. Like Rodó’s Ariel, it would swirl into a world of profits. And when I began to read the accounts of Betances and others who had committed to a free Puerto Rico, my heart became more attached to my new home each and every day.

Can you imagine it, my nephew? This former Royalist and lover of the Crown joining hands with fellow Puerto Ricans last year as we heard of the news in Yauco, where the first Puerto Rican flag had be flown by patriots, although to Spain, they were dangerous rebels? That day, I grabbed a hammer to one of my finest barrels and let the drink overflow into the mouths of my fellow friends! It was a celebration that had taken decades to occur, and to some whose families lived on the island since the early Spanish governors, the wait has lasted centuries. When the authorities stopped the Yauco liberation, hope still lingered in our souls, since we had already devoured the taste of freedom and of money. We were determined, and our brave leaders ensured everyone that the Spanish Primer Minister, the very enlightened Práxedes Mateo Sagasta, would indeed be granting autonomy to the island.

We did achieve it, and as I take time to pause between another Christmas celebration, I felt the urge to write this to you and inform you that yes, my nephew, you are indeed wise for your desire to live on this island as a free man. Of course, we will not change much in terms of who we are, we still speak Spanish and my accounts on the continent will not vanish once Puerto Rico meets its destiny. Once we are free, we will all be rewarded with riches never seen on this island before!

You are like the island, my dear nephew, you are as bright as the sun that shines on Puerto Rico each and every God-given day. If the Lord is willing, I see a future that will propel you to be able to not only live on the island, but also bring you back to Spain on regular holidays to enjoy the family you will leave behind as well as the country that was your first home. Now, your home will be with me in Juncos, and eventually you will grow to be prosperous, powerful, and mighty.

With this I must leave you to attend to the guests who will soon be arriving. Remember, my nephew, Puerto Rico will be yours and yours will be Puerto Rico. I urge you to come to this island with a mind to challenge our colonial mentality, which has kept us shackled like the africano slaves of Loíza. You represent the island’s progress and what it will become: a country that the whole of Latin America will exhibit as a model testament to the free enterprise markets, political stability, and human dignity.

I wish that our Lord protect you on your journey and bring you to me prepared and at the ready to form our own empire of sugar and rum, not unlike the Crown I used to defend when I was young and thick-headed like you.

May the Lord bestow you blessings. Your loving uncle,
Rogelio

PS Please write to me with the final details of your itinerary so I can make sure to arrange one of my laborers to meet you at the Plaza de Armas near the end of day when you arrive. He will ensure that a private carriage will be made available for your long journey into the mountains of Juncos, where I will be waiting for you at our company with open arms of anticipation and love.

PPS Please share my affection to my brother and sister-in-law. I long for the day when I can return to Spain and visit them. I can assure you that the recent developments will allow me to achieve this goal successfully before we enter the next century. Can you fathom how close we are to a new age? The Pearl of the Caribbean, the Isle of Enchanment, will soon be real!

As he waited for the carriage to arrive in the plaza, Octavio Antonio could still recall the words his father shared with him upon listening to the details of his brother’s letter.

“Fortunes are for dreamers, Octavio,” his father said. “Rogelio has always claimed that such fortune will be found in Puerto Rico. He has been writing the same letters ever since he left us. That is why he had never returned. He cannot pay back his debts.”

Near the plaza’s fountain, another voice began to snuff out Octavio’s memories. He look up and saw a younger man, with skin as mixed as his own, signaling to him.

“Don Octavio? Don Octavio Benítez Aragón?” the voice said.

“Yes, that is I,” Octavio said to the man.

“Your uncle has sent me to find you. My name is Rafael, Rafael Castro of Juncos. I am one of your uncle’s supervisors. The carriage will arrive shortly. It will be a long ride, but you will be provided with all the comforts merited to a young man who has traveled so far to get here.”

Octavio Antonio smiled. Rafael appeared to be a few years older than him, and his mustache smelled of rum. The same rum that Octavio Antonio had battled a bout of seasickness and stale bread so that he could learn from his uncle and become a master merchant.

“I am ready, Rafael. I am ready to go to Juncos and see my uncle. I have never met him since he had left my family before I was born.”

“He will welcome you with an embrace only family can recognize, even those who have never had the pleasure of meeting before. Let us go.”

“Yes, Rafael. Let us go to find my life.”

Three months later, in the very same place where Octavio Antonio Benítez Aragón had arrived on a steamer from Cádiz, a dozen American ships led by Rear Admiral William T. Sampson bombarded San Juan. The city’s residents were in a panic. A month later, the Americans blockaded of San Juan harbor. The month after that, General Nelson A. Miles landed in Guánica, on the southern part of the island, along with over 3,000 American soldiers. The resistance to Nelson’s landing was sparse and weak. By the end of August, Puerto Rico was a colony again, this time under a different master, and Octavio Antonio Benítez Aragón was mourning the death of his uncle and the loss of Benítez & González Sugar & Rum Company, S.A., due to a bankruptcy ruling.

Each night, it was told many years later that the residents of Juncos would hear the wailings Octavio Antonio Benítez Aragón every night at around three in the morning, when the local tavern had closed and he had nowhere else to go.

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Social media is cool. It gets really cool when your networks interact with each other. This Saturday award-winning author of AMERICA LIBRE and HOUSE DVIDED, Raul Ramos y Sanchez, was on an Orlando talk show discussing his novels. And guess what? My dad, Julio Varela, who lives in Orlando, got a chance to talk with Raul. It was a fun conversation. Here’s to social media!

Here is the link to the talk show:

Raul Ramos y Sanchez on the Big 810

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Out first short story submission to #LatinoLit was sent to us by author Gilberto González, a Philadelphia native who writes about life in his city. Born of Puerto Rican parents, González grew up in Philadelphia and understands fi rst-hand the racism and hardships facing the Latino community. “Going through high school was tough. Going through college was tougher,” he said. González did not let adversity slow him down. After receiving an associate degree of fi ne arts from Community College of Philadelphia, he continued his education at University of the Arts, where he earned a bachelor degree in graphic design. In 1989, González tapped his personal motivation and graphic design skills in order to create Cinco Graphics at the Taller Puertorriqueño, a professional training program that allowed high school students to prepare for college or the workforce in graphic design.

#LatinoLit Author Gilberto González

Damaris

by Gilberto González

One summer I walked out of my house, a typical Philadelphia row home. Here everyone knows your business because the walls are thin and everyone is always hanging outside. This day the Kensington streets were crowded when I noticed across the street this amazing girl. We looked at each other and smiled. She was half white and half Puerto Rican. She had light brown hair, very soft white skin, she was a little taller than me, slim, with a nice full ass. I normally would never walk up to a girl because I was shy, but for some reason, I decided to talk to her.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She replied, “Damaris, Maria’s sister.”

“Why are you here?”

She replied, “Babysitting my big sister’s kids for the summer.”

“Why are you so pretty?”

She just smiled and said, “Because my mother made me that way.”

After that first encounter at North Howard Street we were in separable. Every evening, once she finished babysitting her sister’s kids, I would walk her home. She lived about four blocks from my house on 5th and Berks.  Her family lived on the second floor of an apartment building. After a few weeks of walking her home, I became a fixture at her door stoop. When it was time for her to eat dinner we would get up and stand in the foyer of the building. With the doors closed we would start to kiss and the kiss would seem to last a long time. Her lips were soft, not too wet or too dry, and she covered my lips from top to bottom. From the moment she pressed her lips to mine it felt nice. It was one of the best kisses I ever had.

One evening she told me that she confessed to her mom that she loved me and that she wanted me to come into the house. That evening I was allowed upstairs. I met her family and they all seemed to like me. Her mom was Puerto Rican but her father, the white guy, did not live with them. Instead, her mom introduced this little black guy as her stepfather. So now I was introduced to everyone in the house and we sat to eat dinner.

A bit later, during dinner, I asked to use the bathroom. I walked up the dark hallway up to the third floor. Once inside, as I stood at the toilet, I looked around and I saw all the normal things including some picture frames. They were images of barns and the frames were the kind you would see in every household in Philadelphia. They were a pair of black, plastic vine frames. As I was standing in front of the toilet, I noticed a roach crawl behind one of pictures. I thought I’d do Damaris and her family a favor and kill the bug. So I hit the frame in attempts to kill the thing. But, when I hit the frame, roaches came out crawling in all directions. All this happened as I started to urinate. While in a panic about the bugs, I tried to keep control of my bladder. As the roaches ran all over the place I urinated on the rug, the sidewall, the top of the toilet; it was everywhere. Once the roaches disappeared and found new hiding places I began to clean the bathroom. As I was cleaning I soon noticed these dark rings in the toilet and that this was not the cleanest bathroom. As I left the bathroom I began to see bugs all over the house, and that did it for me. I soon realized that Damaris and her family were not the cleanest people in the world. If my mom saw a roach in our house she would scream and beat the bug to hell. I was not a snot but moms tend to pass on their practices to their children and being clean was something my mom beat into me until I got married.

After that, I could no longer look at my sweet-lipped honey without seeing bugs. I walked her home a few more times, but I would refuse to go into that apartment. She would get upset with me and cry. She would asked me  “if I was no longer interested in her.” or “Did you find someone else?”

She cried, and for weeks her family was angry with me. I could not tell her or her family the truth.  I could not tell them that her house filled with bugs grossed me out. Her family continually asked me why am I playing with her. But all I could say was, “Sorry.”

Copyright @2010 Gilberto González

To learn more about Gilberto, here is his story from MyLatinoVoice.

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January, 1954: Caguas, Puerto Rico

The wrinkled baseball card of Victor Pellot rested in the back pocket of Francisco Antonio Benítez’s Levis like a sacred relic in the Vatican. As he walked to the first row of Yldefonso Solá Morales Stadium with his father Don Octavio Benítez, Francisco Antonio’s heart pumped. Today, with 6,500 winter baseball fans drinking shots of local rum and munching on crispy plantain chips, he would meet the great Pellot, the flashy first baseman for the hometown Caguas Criollos and the future bonus baby of the Philadelphia Athletics.

To the Caguas locals, Pellot was their god, even though he had begun to use the name Vic Power on the mainland and some of the more radical nationalists started to call him Tío Tom. According to Pellot, he began to use Power (a variation of Pove, his mother’s maiden name) because when he played in the minor leagues of Quebec, the French-speaking fans would laugh at him. He first thought it was because of his black skin, but Pellot soon found out that his last name sounded a lot like plotte, French Canadian slang for vagina. So, on the mainland, he became Vic Power. In Caguas, he was still Victor Pellot. And every Caguas resident, from the whitest Spaniard to the darkest Africano, would cheer every time Pellot would slowly stroll to home plate, a 34-ounce Louisville Slugger slathered with pine tar and dirt in his Powerful hands.

“Did you know Pellot almost made the Yankees in 1951?” Don Octavio told his son, as they sat right behind the mesh net near home plate. “He would have been the first Negro Puerto Rican in the American League. They took Elston Howeard instead.”

Francisco Antonio loved when his father talked to him about baseball. Don Octavio, whose fortune had begun to grow once he sold his pool halls to a Caguas syndicate and had built a materials store in the city’s center, was frequently flying to New York to buy cloth in the Garment District. In between his negotiations with crusty Jews who made fun of his broken English and baggy suits, Don Octavio would take the subway to Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds, and Ebbets Field. In one week, he saw Mays, Robinson, Mantle, Snider, Ford, Irvin, and Berra. The white corporate Yankees were methodical, cold, passionless. The Giants and Dodgers reminded Don Octavio of the island’s winter league: aggressive, fancy, players jawing at each other in both Spanish and English. The Giants and Dodgers had more Negroes, and those Negroes played in the winter league.

“If you ever saw Mays, Francisco, you could die the next moment a happy man,” Don Octavio told his son. “Pellot is as black as Mays. But the difference between Pellot and Mays is that Pellot is Puerto Rican, Mays is a Negro. Did you ever hear the story of Pellot when he was in the South and walked into a restaurant in Missisippi after a game? The waitress said that they didn’t serve Negroes. Pellot told her not to worry, he didn’t eat Negroes, he just wanted rice and beans.”

Francisco Antonio laughed at his father’s stories, even the ones he told over and over again. Baseball, the game that came to Puerto Rico when American soldiers arrived in 1898 and never left, was what every island boy talked about with his island father.

“Do you think he will hit a grand slam, Papi?” Francisco Antonio asked. “That would be a lot of money.”

For the entire winter league, Don Octavio had been advertising a contest in the newspaper for his store: The first Criollo to hit a grand slam would win a $1,000 check, personally signed by Don Octavio. After 20 games, no one had even come close, not even Pellot. But when the slugger saw Don Octavio at mass earlier in the day, after asking for blessings from the older businessman, Pellot said he had prayed to God for the chance to hit a grand slam later in the game.

“The money would help me, Don Octavio,” Pellot told him.

“I can just give it to you know,” Don Ocatvio said.

“No, Don Octavio,” Pellot said. “I am a baseball player. I will earn that check today. Blessings to you and your family.”

The first three innings of the game against Ponce sped through. Caguas could only manage a hit, while Ponce didn’t even hit the ball out of the infield. After the Ponce shortstop missed a Chichi Olivo fastball for a third strike, Francisco Antonio cheered along with his neighbors. In the bottom of the fourth inning, Caguas loaded the bases. Up came Pellot, and instead of walking towards home plate, he headed over to where Don Octavio was sitting.

“Sign the check, Don Octavio,” he told Francisco Antonio’s father and then looked at the younger Benítez. “And get a camera ready to take a picture with your son.”

Don Octavio smiled as Pellot picked up his bat and walked to the batter’s box. As the Ponce pitcher released a curve ball from his fingers, Pellot crouched his stance, winked and began to swing.

The sound of the wood ricocheted through the crowd, Pellot’s bat smacking the ball and stopping it for a second. The ball’s path sailed up high, towards the mountains of Caguas, past the stadium’s lights, over a two-lane road, and landed 500 feet away in a stable of lazy paso fino horses. Pellot watched the ball like an artist studies his models. He trotted around each base, soaking in applause and chants. When he stepped on home, his three teammates shook his hand and then headed back to the Caguas dugout. Pellot didn’t follow them.

He walked to Don Octavio, who had a check in hand and a photographer with his camera and a flash bulb.

“Viva Pellot!” Francico Antonio said.

Pellot picked up the younger Benítez and stood him up on the field. Together, they smiled for the camera.

“Dreams can come true, son,” Pellot said. “Don’t ever forget that.”

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The frenzy around the social media saga of author Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez and her fight with NBC and Encanto Productions has died down considerably, but it still hasn’t stopped Valdes-Rodrigiez from posting about the situation. Valdes-Rodriguez, who is now finding initial success with her self-published e-book, ALL THAT GLITTERS, recently posted the following on her public Facebook site:

As Valdes-Rodriguez states on her post: “NBC is launching some very good shows and ordering seemingly innovative pilots so far this season. This is comforting to me. Perhaps they will demand that Encanto make the draft pilot script I read Must Less Sucky and Way Less Full of Stereotypes and Generally Smarter and Funnier with Sexy Not The Same As Slutty-n-Dumb. That would be nice. Fingers crossed.”

Valdes-Rodriguez is referring the TV pilot adaptation of her best-selling book THE DIRTY GIRLS SOCIAL CLUB that was optioned to Ann Lopez’s Encanto Productions and was being pitched to NBC. Her social media actions from December 23, 2010 until January 8, 2011 resulted in a rather lengthy public apology that retracted most of her statements directed at Lopez, producer Lynette Ramirez, writer Luisa Leschin, Encanto, NBC, and Creative Artists Agency.

During this time period, the majority of comments in Twitter, Facebook, this blog and other outlets were generally supportive of Valdes-Rodriguez. However, critics predicted that her social media antics were unprofessional and would spell doom for the author’s career. Apparently, signs of career suicide aren’t evident at all as Valdes-Rodriguez indicates in this Facebook post:

Frank Weinmann founded The Literary Group International in 1986 and is considered by many to be one of the top agencies in the world. In the meantime, Valdes-Rodriguez continues to self-publish her latest works, including ALL THAT GLITTERS. Her fourth installment of THE DIRTY GIRLS SOCIAL CLUB is scheduled for weekly installments e-chapters starting in February.

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