rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

who wants to hear about my bowel movements?
great! so, where to start…

last night after I got out of here, me n’ Uhleesha went and got eats. at the only restaurant open all night that doesn’t sell sliders or donuts: Steak n’ Shake.
now, when I left, I had to, you know, take a shit. not horribly, but it was on the horizon. earlier in the day, I had gotten the footlong veggie sub with a chips-and-drink combo from Subway. old faithful, as I call it.
(interesting side note: the Subway I go to is the one that Jared Fogle used to go to when he was still a fat fuck and not yet an advertising phenomenon. he was an IU student when he decided fast food and exercise was a great way to get in shape. consequentially, our other famous alumni are, count ‘em: Kevin Kline and Jim Jones.)
so yeah. lunch had just about worn out its welcome. but I figured, what the hell, might as well eat dinner. I was hungry.
so I had a bowl of chili and a cup of soup. and about half a milkshake. Alisha was disgusted and horrified by my choice of meal. she called the pairing of chili and vegetable beef a “mindfuck.” I get that a lot. also, it should be noted that she was a huge pain in the ass about sharing her fries.
now, I shouldn’t even have to note that chili is, how you say, a dump enabler. in the annals of time, man has always recognized chili as an eternal fast track to taking a shit. in a minimally circulated but critically acclaimed research report for the American Archaeologist, a team of professors and graduate students from the University of Leicester noted that chili and its constant companion shit were found represented in pre-pharaoh Egyptian tombs in hieroglyphics, and in cave drawings in southern France. I mean, that’s fuckin’ amazing, man.
so. when you eat chili, you prepare for the consequences. I knew what I was dong.
so afterward, Alisha dropped me off and went home; she had to work in the morning. I went in and prepared for the inevitable by watching the Lifetime at 1:30 in the morning for about a half an hour. I had to get my head straight.
but after a while, you get tired, and you go to sleep. there’s only so much bad television to watch before anyone calls it a night.
so I woke up in the morning. did my stuff. now I’m here at the paper.
still haven’t felt the wrath of the chili/veggie sub combo. what the fuck!?
I fear it, with every step I take. I’ve got some horrible gas, serving as a constant reminder of the onslaught that is to come. it’s only a matter of time now. it has to be…

christ, I’m bored.

sitting here, listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “Nebraska.” “reason to believe” is a great song. trying to go over stats notes. first exam is on wednesday. I feel better about this one, but we’ll see. won’t be easy.

guess who’s coming to IU next month for Black History Month?
James Earl Jones!
“DEPEND ON CNN (MOTHERFUCKERS)”
he doesn’t actually say that last part in parentheses, but I sure wish he did.

oh, and guess who else?
Ann Coulter. not for Black History Month, though. ha! I think the College Republicans are having her.
her name used to make my blood boil, but not anymore. I guess that’s a sign that I’ve grown older and wiser.
check this out: last spring David Horowitz came here, trying to drum up support for kicking “politically biased” professors off campus. this rule only applies to liberal professors, but no matter. I went. bunch of hippies sat in the back row and screamed shit, interrupted him until they were taken out by police, while the conservatives sat up front and got indignant. it was a giant clusterfuck – the hippies made sure to look exactly like every tree hugging stoner you’ve ever seen, and the conservatives made sure to act self important and glower at them. ridiculous.
Horowitz, by the way, is a sham. wanna know how I can say that with certainty? if he weren’t, he wouldn’t have taken visual pleasure in dressing down idealistic political science undergrads during the Q&A. he’s not important, though they get red in the face and bitch about issues to people who already agree with him. his ass could disappear and the national average IQ would jump a few points.
christ, I hate pundits. “Crossfire,” thank fucking god, is off the air, and Tucker Carlson, Begala and the rest of the gang have finally been relegated to obscurity. all of those guys needed a swift kick in the ass. but they aren’t the only ones. now we watch different idiots fume at each other, and it brings the level of political debate down to a depth no one knew existed. cause since when do people like Robert Novak get to set the tone of the national discussion? why, god, why? really, nothing says “self important blowhard” like a cable news talking head.
which brings us to Ann Coulter. supposed to be extra security for her appearance at the IU Auditorium. you’ll have to sign a waiver and agree that you won’t fuck around and interrupt her speech. so you don’t throw shit at her or rush the stage. people have thrown pies, apparently.
I think I made note of that in a previous post. maybe I was congratulatory. if I was, I take it back. whoever did that, you’re a fucking moron.
attention is what gives people like Coulter legitimacy. if anyone shows up to counterprotest, screaming shit like “we don’t tolerate hate” and locking arms, you’re just building the myth that whatever Coulter has to say is actually fucking relevant.
really. what’s she going to talk about? what can her talking points possibly be?
somebody, please, tell me. one liners about how liberals are evil/communists/pussies don’t count.
this bitch graduated from fuckin’ law school, and this is the career path she chose. she’s a carnival act, meant to entertain people with a specific taste. that taste happens to be political conservatism. so let the College Republicans have their fuckin’ circle jerk, complete with the local red menace being dragged out by the overzealous campus police, and let them come out feeling signifcant and justified in their beliefs. I could care less, cause she’s not worth getting upset over. she’s as insignficant as I am.

hey, I think I have a column idea for next week. bonus.

went to Wal-Mart for rich people (Target) today.
everytime I go in that place I shudder. I hate it. so many bad memories.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before: I worked the graveyard shift in the stock room at Target for the summer a few years ago. it fucks up your sleep cycle, doesn’t pay well, and makes you hate life. hate it.
but, when you’re shopping for clippers, there aren’t a whole lot of choices.
I paid 30 bucks for them. but, that’ll come back to me in the long run. so long, barber shop! I’m on my own, now.

I also bought two bags of peanut M&Ms. bonus.

so now, head shaved, I’m at the paper. there’s a David Nosko story in the queue, which is a fucking shame. he takes a story that could be written in a two paragraph blurb, and overloads it until it’s about 1500 words. he’s the superfluous writer the paper employs, and editing his story is like Biggie-sizing it; it’s just not necessary.

Mar, I called Mike today and asked him what the fuck was going down with Bridget’s wedding (our cousin apparently called off her engagement), and he said, “dude. don’t gossip.”
and I realized he was right, Mar. the cousin e-mail list is turning us into tools. don’t fall victim!

“Negotiation is not our aim. Negotiation is a method,” Zahar said.

I can’t believe they fucking put Hamas in power. well, no, I can. but, I can’t believe how fucking stupid that was.
okay, great. Hamas provides social services in Palestinian slums. they also blow up Jewish civilians in restaurants in the name of god. shit like that doesn’t cancel itself out.
don’t get me wrong. I have no love for the state of Israel. when I watched those little fucking zealots in orange wailing as the IDF pulled them out of their settlements in august, I just wanted to grab one of them, shake them and scream, “you dillusional little prick. do you have any idea how you’re making the other half live?”
but that’s neither here nor there. Palestine, come on: Hamas? you bunch of assholes. go get fucked.

okay, so friday night.
I got obliterated.

the Kouts krew was down. Pug (Phil’s boorish but ultimately pretty cool cousin), some guy named Bone, and John (Josh’s super-cousin: their mothers are sisters and fathers are brothers) were all there. Roger was over. Doug was there. had a whole box of condoms “cause he was meeting this chick at Bluebird later, and she has hot friends.”
when you get all of these people together, it’s like hanging out with Mongols. on top of that, it was Smith’s birthday. Khokhar came by, which is a rare occurance. either way, before we had even gone anywhere, somebody tried to throw the television out of the window, Josh and Pug wrestled in the flower bed in front of the neighbor’s, and somebody threw a plastic cup full of shitty beer all over Doug’s pants. he went home and changed.
then, after intense debate, we got in two cars. and we went, I shit you not, to Nightmoves.
Nightmoves is Bloomington’s resident seedy strip club. it shares a parking lot with the Meineke down on south Walnut, near the high school. there’s a porno shop in the basement. I’d never been in either before – I’d never been in a strip club at all – but hey: there’s a first time for anything.
now, I won’t say I really knew what to expect. but, it is a strip club, and there’s supposed to be attractive naked women dancing around for tips in there. ultimately, it’s all about sex. they sell sex, or sexual desire, or something like that.
for what it was supposed to be, that was one of the most profoundly non-sexual experiences I’ve ever had.
first off, it’s loud in there. bad music is pumping. drunk rednecks are congregating. etcetera.
secondly, well, I don’t know. I do know I didn’t sit next to the stage, as I didn’t want to have to tip the dancers all night.
obviously, though, I know jack shit about strip club etiquette.
the dancers do rounds of sorts. they’ll come up to you and suddenly, a single mother of two with a tattoo of a rose on her right boob is grinding her knee into your crotch and batting you back and forth between two pierced nipples. then you give shove a dollar in her g-string (hurriedly and politely, so she’ll move along), she kisses you on the cheek, says something like “thank you, baby,” and that’s that.
this scene was repeated like five or six times, cause they’re coming up to you, like it or not. and, I swear to god, I didn’t get half a stock once.
me and Josh and Roger were sitting there, watching this one stripper on stage. blonde hair, kinda tall, not too bad looking. somebody said as much, and Roger goes, “yeah. ask her about her kid.” cause she’s got one, and Roger’s met him. they used to be neighbors. it was funny, in a horriblly depressing way.
it just wasn’t doing anything for me. oh well.

after we got out there, went back to the apartment. more beer was consumed. I had three or four more shots of Buffalo Trace, and we set out for the bars. for some reason – I don’t know why, cause if I were sober I would have vetoed it immediately – we went to Kilroy’s. for those of youse not in the know, Kilroy’s is the bar where frat boys and frat pledges go to pick up attractive girls with low self esteem. (a knock of sexism from someone who had just come from a strip club; I know.) half the bar is usually underage, and there’s hardly any space to move. and it’s about as loud as a lawnmower running a foot from your ears.
I quickly decided that I wasn’t drunk enough (I was) and ordered a double shot of whiskey. I tend to drink hard alcohol rather than beer. I’d rather go hard in one direction than fuck around with something that’s more filling. like, persay, I’ll have a shot and sip a beer for twenty minutes instead of having to pound five to get a buzz. if you want to get drunk, then it makes sense, I think.
the rest of the night was a haze. I think we went into another bar, but eventually I ended up ordering a sandwich, and running into a guy from the paper. I think… I woke up eight hours later, clearheaded but tipsy. like, still a little drunk – didn’t feel like moving cause I’m temporarily having vertigo – but mentally stable.
after I got a hold of myself, Smith and I went and saw “the Matador” for the paper. as we were walking out, the landlord had shown up. he was scheduled to show Phil and Josh’s apartment at 1 pm. at 12:55 that day, the place smelled of stale Miller lite and was littered with beer cans and crushed cigarette butts. someone had drawn a tasteful rendition of a vagina on the beer pong table, and Pug and bone were asleep on the love seat and couch. we told Linnemeier to show our apartment instead, if he wanted to have any chance of renting the place. bunch of savages up there, I swear.
as far as the movie: it was pretty god damned good. I normally don’t like Pierce Brosnan cause he plays the same character over and over again – the suave super spy – but he’s a revelation in this role. it’s funny and deep. and I bet it’s totally fucking better than “Annapolis” or “Nanny McPhee,” Ashley. either way, I gave it an A minus. I’m proud of the review, too.
came home. worked at Dagwood’s. got off at 9 pm, almost prepared to do the same bullshit from friday night again, but then thought better. hung out with Alisha instead.
she went home friday night, and she came back with a cat. it’s a girl, and either has a bad case of worms or is pregnant, cause she’s got a little bit of a gut. nice cat, though. very friendly.

and that there, germs, is it. I’ll have to wait for a while before pulling any similar shit.

yeah. still listening to Tom Petty.

this is pretty funny. older post from some “professional blogger’s” blog.

from the comments:
“I have a dream, that one day you racist motherfuckers will all eat shit and die.”

“the essential principles of our government … form the bright constellation which has gone before us and guided our steps through an age of revolution and reformation. the wisdom of our sages and blood of our heroes have been devoted to their attainment. they should be the creed of our political faith, the text of civic instruction, the touchstone by which to try the services of those we trust; and should we wander from them in moments of error or of alarm, let us hasten to retrace our steps and to regain the road which alone leads to peace, liberty and safety.
… nah, fuck that. let’s bomb them.”

it’s been a crazy weekend. let’s recap, quickly:
work, alcohol, more alcohol, Pug, titty bar, more alcohol, bar, alcohol, Jimmy John’s, asleep.
that was friday.

actually, let’s cut it off there. I’ve got copy to read. but trust me, when I get my thoughts together, I’ll write it all down.

if you type in “grozny” and “pictures” in Google, you get this.
I’d love to visit the Caucasus some day, if it didn’t seem so fucking lethal.

so, apparently, there’s a family email list.
see, when my grandmother on my dad’s side died, everybody rushed up to fill the void left by her death. good ol’ grams was kind of the family linchpin. now that she’s gone, everybody’s emailing everybody else to make god damned sure we keep in touch, god damn it.
so now I get zealous, enthusiastic, exclamation point-heavy messages from all of my cousins – from the “Nixon” part of the family, according to Mike. Mar too.
so me and Mar are standing in her dorm room, staring at her laptop screen, like savages. we didn’t have any idea what to make of this new devilry.
so, being the “smarmy asshole” branch of the McMullan tree, we wrote back this:

what’s good, family?
same old, same old. everyone’s got to come out here. we have the hugest keggers.
like, last weekend, matt and i, this past weekend, went to a raging bender. itwas so much fun, but i blacked out after my third keystone light, and the next thing i know, im waking up to an ER nurse pulling shattered glass from my skull while matt sat in the waiting room without any pants on.
bloomington is totally boss. none of the bars card, there’s a poetry reading every other night, AND there are hardly any homeless people…anywhere!!!
if you’re rolling out, hit the celly!

mar n map

only, thing is, Mar and I got a lot of emails back thinking we’re serious. serves us right for being so obnoxious, I suppose. we keep this shit up, and some day, nobody’ll talk to us anymore.

and finally: the movie review. I bathe in your adoration, ye writhing masses.

Tom Petty – “yer so bad”
verse one:

my sister got lucky.
married a yuppie.
took him for he was worth.

now she’s a swinger,
dating a singer.
I can’t decide which is worse.

but not me, baby.
I’ve got you to save me.

I’m not going to try and pretend there’s a lot to the lyrics. but that doesn’t especially matter.
because Tom Petty is one hard motherfucker, and “Full Moon Fever” is a great album.
seriously. I love Tom Petty. is he taken?

so check out my man here.
“buying candy” my ass. someone probably had a well hidden drug habit.

my main man Warner at the Weekend desk hooked me up.
I got the lead review this week, which was “Annapolis.” I requested it, because it was one of the only ones available, and the lesser of multiple other evils. there was “Big Momma’s House 2″ and “Nanny McPhee.” no. I refuse.
he was kicking around Philip Seymour Hoffman as “Capote” and “Transamerica” (which I requested), but the local movie theatre conglomerate didn’t budge. no independent movies around here, thankyouverymuch.
see, there’s only two theatres in town, and they’re both owned by Kerasotes. neither theatre ever bothers to get something you can’t see anywhere else. they actually own an old abandoned theatre downtown, but they refuse to rent or sell to anyone who intends to show films there, as that would infringe upon their business.
it’s an Indiana historic landmark, that building is.
what a bunch of cocksuckers.
okay, back to the point. anyway, I get the assignment email, and I got “Annapolis,” which was the lead. but no one else had taken a film, and a couple of the shitty ones he had scheduled weren’t coming for another week. so he threw “the Matador” out there. and I want to see that.
so I offered to give up “Annapolis” and the lead for “the Matador.”
and instead, he gave me both: “the Matador” as the lead.
again, Warner is my main man. are you paying attention?

alright, here’s more copy. I’m back later. word.

I. am bored. as fuck.

feel like a pinball, like I could go bouncing off the walls right now. maybe I just have to take a dump.

went to class this morning, and then to Ladyman’s cafe for breakfast around noon. black coffee and the NY Times. I’m such a fucking progressive it makes me sick.

now I’m here, three hours through a five hour shift, waiting for it to end. I’ve got nowhere to be when I get out of here, but, alas, the paper is boring today. very boring. not a lot of copy coming through, and my copy editors aren’t the liveliest bunch. no one’s saying anything. no conversation. to be fair, I haven’t said anything either, and I’m in charge; position of power, it’s more expected of me to be friendly.
eh, fuck that. not right now, at least.

I wanna see “Grandma’s Boy.” I could stand for a little retarded, frat boy humor right about now. wonder if it’s still in the theaters around here. let’s see… it’s not. fuck.
maybe “Brokeback Mountain.” George Bush hasn’t seen it yet. and he’s a rancher! what the fuck?!
seriously, that’s a news story today. somebody in a Q&A asked him about it at KSU last night. honestly, who the fuck cares? what, do you think Bush is going to say “I hate homos” to a bunch of (albeit red state) college students?
but really. I want to see that movie. Ang Lee doing a movie about gay cowboys? I’ll take two!

well. how about that.

I’m not particularly proud of it. I would have much rather have written something more insightful or entertaining on my first time out the gate. I’m self conscious like that. but it is what it is.
I think the best thing about it, though, is “has big guns,” and my photo, in the print edition. I look surly. real, real surly. the campus probably thinks I’m some sort of a sociopath, a deviant. right. heh.
dad read it. he called, and was congratulatory, in his own way. he said, “you aren’t, eh, going to actually go train hopping. are you?”
I told him I would hope he would think enough of me not to tell him, in print, if I was. he laughed, said “that’s true.”

not much else to tell today.
bought: “Nebraska” by Bruce Springsteen, and
“dirty deeds done dirt cheap” by AC/DC. listening to it right now. they fuckin’ rule, dude.
also bought a burrito. ate that.
finally paid that delinquent SBC bill, and I’m halfway through beating the Indianapolis Colts on all-pro. 24-0, Chicago Bears at the half. it’s exciting being me.

stay real, young world.

okay, fo’ real this time.
tomorrow, the column runs.
it’s not as bad as I remember it being, but it still sucks. I am capable of more, I swear.

either way, check this out: you’re allowed a slug at the top. a lead in. like, this one dude, Brian McFillen, his says “anti-social scientist.” Kehla West’s reads “Westside.” Maggie Bozich’s says “large and in charge.”
mine says, “has big guns.” fuck you, that’s awesome.

check it out. yesterday, when I was delivering, some guy called the store, said that he didn’t get his bag of chips, and complained I was rude.
rude!
see, this is what happened. this dude who lives in Terra Trace (which is quite near the atheltics complex) called and ordered food, mid-basketball game. Purdue was in town yesterday, and that’s big. Indiana/Purdue men’s basketball, even when one team’s mediocre, is big. instate rivalries, all that shit.
so he orders. I take him his shit. I get back to the store.
there’s a lull in deliveries for about ten minutes, where nobody calls. it’s like the calm before the storm, cause when the game ends, there’s going to be about thirty thousand people in cars on the north side of campus.
so guess who calls again?
the guy from Terra Trace. his buddy is ordering this time.
the game lets out.
it’s fucking pandemonium.
so I get up there. there’s people everywhere. took me ten minutes to get to the fucking place, which is ridiculous. it’s like a three minute car drive, normally.
run up the stairs, to the door, I’m in a hurry. trying to get out before too many cars pack in, and fuck me. I’m almost done with my shift.
so the guy opens the door, signs for his credit card order, and hands it back to me. I give him the bag. he says, “hey, I got a drink.”
I tell him, “it’s in the bag” without turning around. I leave. took me 20 minutes to get back to the store. god damned alumni.
anway, I guess we forgot his bag of Ruffles.
he called back, Mark (other driver) answered the phone, and when the guy said the driver was “extremely rude,” Mark cracked up. then the guy described the situation. and when he told him what I said, he did it in the stupid voice.
we all know what the stupid voice is. don’t deny it. denying it makes you less of a person.
when you’re relating a story, or an anecdote, or complaining about somebody, whoever that punchline or that person is gets all of his quotes in “the stupid voice.”
here’s an example:
so I asked Ted if he ate the rest of the pizza I ordered last night, and Ted was like “no!”
when you say “no,” it sounds like you have a mild baritone and are used to speaking only in vowels. you know what I’m talking about.
so yeah, I was rude, and represented in the stupid voice. awesome.

okay, back to work.