I quit

That's right. I quit. This job is impossible.

Impossible to take seriously, that is. Try as I might, I can't. Two years after being hired for the city and politics job, and armed with all the political savvy of the donkey on "Shrek," I officially quit taking myself or my job with any seriousness.

How can I, when I still walk into events with a camera, pen and notepad; interview people and take pictures for hours, only to have people come up and ask me afterwards, "so what do you do for a living?"

How can I when people complain about me misspelling words like "atrocious" or "recidivism," and then leave messages looking for reporter Morongo or Mortega?

How can I when people complain about me not coming to their meetings, and when I finally show up, they talk all nervously for about 30 seconds, turn to me, and say, "could you please leave the room?"

And that's when things go right. When things go wrong, look out. Goofiness oozes out of the mouths of people like the filling out of a Twinkie.

Like that politician who said "I am really slimy!! (she was holding a fish at the time.) Or that activist who said, "This is not a partisan issue, but if it wasn't for those Democrats…"

Or when that politician said of another politician, "he's a slimeball, but he's a good friend of mine." And, of course, all those times I get the mother of all backhanded compliments, "Congratulations, Sebastian! That was a really good article Brad/Matthew/Aimee wrote!"

You learn pretty quickly to keep your guard up and your sense of humor handy to keep a sliver of sanity. You see people change with the drop of a word. Tell them you want to interview them and they'll threaten to sue if you use their name. Then, tell them the interview is to praise them for their community service, and they'll go "David E. Smith. S-m-i-t-h. My friends call me Dave. Say, did you bring a camera?"

You visit pretty cool places, too. Not Disneyland or Hard Rock Cafe-cool, but with its own little charm. Like the cafe in Walla Walla that offers free internet, free coffee and free love. Or like that gas station in Moses Lake, where the attendant grabbed a copy of the Herald and said to me. "This is a good article, and that one, too. But this one, by that Moraga fellow, whoever he is, he just can't write!!"

The origins of this particular species seem to be particularly troubling to some of the folks I have talked to. I am not referring to the forgivable mistake of calling my country Chili, or the punishable-by-death sin of adding "con carne" to the end of it. Those are commonplace things and I have heard 'em all before.

I am talking about the people who ask me in what part of Mexico Chile is located, or what part of Africa I am from, or better yet, the people who call our publisher and rant, "I am never buying your paper again, because of you, and because of that Russian reporter of yours!"

I don't think they mean Matthew Weaver, even though he's a Marxist if I ever saw one. Just last week he wrote an article about a new business bringing good jobs at good wages, and yet, his headline was "Death to Capitalism."

Comrades, please. It's Chile. Chee-lay if you must. And the closest I have been to the Kremlin is Moscow, Idaho.

But don't feel bad. Sometimes, this Chee-Lay-un screws up, too. Like when I went to cover an event focusing on safety on the highways, listened to endless speeches, then drove home and got pulled over for speeding.

Or when I was asked to translate for a Mexican fellow, and I said okay. Then I proceeded to talk in English to him and in Spanish to his American friend.

Or when I got lost on my way to Yakima because the Red Sox were beating the Yankees on the radio. I missed my exit and I got there out of breath, out of money and out of gas, just to hear Sen. Murray say "Thank you all for coming! Good night!"

And finally, that unforgettable day in February of 2004, when I heard a dude in a suit at a dinner say he was running for governor. He looked too young and too nervous, and I figured he would fade away. His name? Dino Rossi.

I don't know what I am going to say to him if he ever hears about this and confronts me about it at the Governor's Media Day in January.

I'll probably look all confused, take on an accent even heavier that the one I have and say "Excuse me, comrade Governor, I just quit me job. Vhich vay to the Kremlin?"

Sebastian Moraga is the Columbia Basin Herald's city and politics reporter. Despite his occasional rantings, he loves his job and hopes to stay on until his passport to Russia is cleared.