rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

so I’ve been sending out resumes and cover letters and shit. three today.

lots of cut and paste.
I noticed, when going through my “sent” folder, that I wrote “asst. edtior position” in the subject line for one of the jobs.
these are for editing positions, mind you.
and this is after I spent about twenty minutes proofreading everything.

World Cup is ON, son. I just leave ESPN2 on all afternoon. Poland shit the bed in stoppage time today. and lost to the Germans, again. that’s gotta burn.

also heard a story about how Polish and German hooligans got together before the game and staged a warm-up/practice fight.
that’s the most ridiculous shit I’ve ever heard of. a practice fight?
“alright, lads. we’ve got a pretty good squad of undereducated, alcohol soaked, meathead burnouts this year. and this is the World Cup. so we better beat the fuck out of our counterparts; I want that trophy, so work on your eye gouging and nut squeezing during pre-fight drills.”

I wish we had hooliganism stateside.

“rent’s due, motherfucker,” said Josh to the sleeping Dan.
he’ll sleep anywhere, on anything.

I saw “X-Men: United” tonight.
sucked.

i’m starting to get the fear, man. about getting a job.
the real deal is, I’ve been dragging ass about getting anything done. I need to buckle down and send out about thirty resumes an evening, and in actuality, I haven’t sent any. it’s mid June. and I’ve got about seven weeks left.
that’s not true, actually. I sent a family friend my resume; he works for the a website that covers state news nationally; stories on state-level funding in Richmond, Indianapolis, Harrisburg, that kind of thing.
nothing is guaranteed with that. job is located in Washington, and supposedly, the Post just downsized, laying off a lot of staff writers. so there’s lots of fish in the sea in DC right now.
so I’m going to apply for a proofreading job in Chicago.
sounds killer, I know. got to play to your strenghts, though. and I can catch an irrelevant compound modifier at 40 yards, motherfuckers, so clear a path.

wrote a review of “The Omen” today. I’ve been out of touch. I haven’t written anything in a while, so it took me a long fucking time. grasped at about a million different ideas and points and then just made fun of the film’s flaws. not my proudest literary moment.

and now that I think about it, it’s been a real trend. on the blog too. I feel sluggish about writing; I want to keep it up, but I don’t really have anything to write about. that’s never stopped me before, but I guess that right now I don’t feel like dancing just to dance.
I’m looking for something meaningful to write about, right at this moment, and anything in that category is off limits, either due to legality or ethics.

the stories I could tell, if only you knew.

so let’s just say I’m talking about beastiality, cocaine, and the state’s republican party. ugh, I need a shower.

and there’s no escaping from constant escape. distracting ourselves. avoiding confrontation. getting past the moment. jacking off. television. denial.

chapter 46, “Choke,” Chuck Palahniuk

went and got new wheels for my inline skates today. and while I was over on that side of town, I had to go to White Castle. that was like seven hours ago.
I’m halfway through the Crave Case.
went and played basketball, and I just got back about twenty minutes ago.
the gas is killing me, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to vomit.
when I was buying it (with the money Smith loaned me) I said to him, “dude, I know I’ll regret it. I know. but I want it anyway.” so delicious.
it just makes you bloated for a couple days. kind of like menstruation for those who don’t have ovaries.

alright, I’m sorry I just compared menstruation to eating White Castle. unnecessary. no basis. but it’s still pretty god damned involved to eat those hamburgers every once in a while: involved enough that I’ll make note of it here.

so I was just watching “the simple life 3″ on E! about ten minutes ago.
yeah.
the whole show plays up their public feud for ratings. Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton, I mean.
there’s no way those two are mad at each other. no way.
if they’ve been best fucking friends for so long, then why the fuck are they sketching off an important friendship?
seriously! I’ve discovered it. it’s gotta be some sort of media ploy set in motion by whomever their publicists work for; advertising firms, movie studios, the like. it keeps us all enthralled with television for that extra twenty seconds of our time that they want – that little blurb about the celebrity feud between two rich do-nothings in designer clothing – and by that time that the afformentioned twenty seconds are spent, we’ve recieved that repetitive commercial for teeth-whitening toothpaste again. so the next time we’re at the supermarket your hand glides gracefully past the competition to the brand name that subconsciously reminds you of a better outward appearance.
they could be selling beer, or laundry detergent, or prescription drugs, or websites.
all of it, a big plan.

behind it, Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton.

I’ve been banging my head softly for the past couple hours.
I’m telling you, man. Wolfmother. they’re the shit. check out “white unicorn.”
follow me here. they have a song called “white unicorn,” and they’re dead fucking serious. so awesome.
in the spirit of my adoration, I’ve been reading reviews of the album. their big knock is that they’re ripoff artists; covering ground that’s been trampled many times before. but if you ask me, well, so be it. they do it well. to quote Prefix Magazine,

“unlike the Darkness or Eagles of Death Metal, these guys don’t think this shit is funny, and instead of making them ripe for mockery, it makes Wolfmother that much more respectable.”

word.

tomorrow, I gotta buy some allen wrenches. if you haven’t seen me around town, I’m back to running these streets on my inline skates.
haven’t fallen yet.
waiting for it to happen.
until then, I’m doing four mile laps around this motherfucker on my K2s.

rented “the three burials of Melquiades Estrada,” “Red Eye,” and one single disc containing both “Conan the Barbarian” and “Conan the Destroyer.”
I’d assume the mention of those last two films made all the ladies reading this “ready.” it’s understandable. a ripped governor Schwarzenegger is the pinnacle of raw, masculine sexuality. I’m getting hot myself.

tonite’s feature:
“Red Eye”
standard Wes Craven fare. the same running-from-the-bad-man shit that made the first “Scream” work. didn’t dislike it save for its implausible storyline, but I wasn’t really impressed. it moved effortlessly but gracelssly through its motions, providing the necessary scares and (un)expected moments, and left you almost satisfied that you didn’t just kill an hour and forty minutes of your life.
casting choices: I’m surprised both Cillian Murphy and Brian Cox signed up for it. well, no; Cox is an acting whore who’ll do anything, but Murphy is better than this. he’s still young and his options are still open.
Rachel McAdams is in it too, and you’ll be amazed at what changing your hair color and losing your mini skirt can do to an appearance. she’s in “Mean Girls.” I just watched that. and she’s completely someone else! so to finish,
my mind is totally blown.

was playing basketball last night. me and Josh vs. Phil and Dan.
we won the first two games. the third game, Dan backed me down in the motherfucking post and got the easy layup for the last point. I was pissed. I yelled “motherfucker” and kicked the ball as it came down. almost took off Josh’s head.
this belies a larger problem. the old McMullan temper rearing its ugly head. I almost took off my teammate’s face because we lost the game. deep breaths, Matt.

Smith’s bogarting my recent CD purchases. he puts everything that I buy and he likes on his iPod. therefore, he’s got almost my entire album collection in his car, while I can’t even find half of my CDs after a while.
I know this is stupid, but for some reason, that bothers me. I mean, I won’t deny him the music, cause I’d just be being an asshole, but I won’t pretend it doesn’t piss me off a little. I guess I’m a very small person like that.

I’ve got to send a resume and writing samples to a family friend I know who works for the Pew Research Center. which is kind of intimidating, cause they’re legit, and I say “fuck” a lot in my columns and reviews. but hopefully it works out. I need professional experience, homey.

speaking of reviews, I lost the review for “the Omen.” I’m not going to see it until tomorrow night, and to meet deadline they’re going to need it early, like before tuesday ends. I can’t deliver, so I canned myself. fuck.
but that means I can get drunk before/during/after it now. hooray.

check this shit out. Frank Frazetta is my senior citizen-homeboy. remember all the covers to those Conan movies back in the 70s? that was him. all of his pictures are about neanderthals and vikings and mongols and chicks who don’t wear tops and have nice asses. you should be high and listening to metal when you view his photo albums.

still listening to Wolfmother.
I’ve decided that they’ve put out the best album I’ve purchased in a while.

just watched “Oldboy.”
hmm. some thoughts.
knife in the back. eating a live animal. Seoul, South Korea. hammer fight. interfamiliar fucking. tongue n’ scissors.
figure that out for yourself.
I’ll give it a B.

also rented “The Omen” and “In the Mouth of Madness.”
I haven’t seen the second one, and I’m watching “the Omen” so I can see the original again before I see the remake this tuesday. that’s right: 6-6-06, motherfuckers. game time.

just bought Wolfmother. pretty good, man.