rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

Iverson’s going to the Nuggz.

I have hit the mother lode.
these are all brilliant, and Errol Morris can be singularly given as the reason that I drink Miller High Life beer. it’s pretty standard beer, but these commercials sing out to some bizarre, rust belt francophobia that I totally love. so, if I’m going to drink shitty, standard dime store supermarket alcohol, I’d rather drink this than Keystone Light.

also, there’s a Wikipedia entry on the Victory Auto Wrecker ad. if you grew up in the Chicagoland television area, you know what I’m talking about.

I took some important time out of my day to read the entire Wikipedia article on the WWF’s “Montreal Screwjob.”
this is a feat worthy of mention on its own. it’s unbelievable how much information could go into something such as seemingly ludicrous as the background to a professional wrestling event. but apparently, this shit was big.
I think, oh god, I think I’m starting to appreciate professional wrestling.

Dave used to love this shit back in high school. he’d want to wrestle in my backyard after school, and it would normally involve someone getting sidearmed in the neck at full sprint. or Dave trying to put you into the figure four, or some other incredibly stupid/painful wrestling move.
I didn’t really much care for it. Dave watched Monday Night Raw every week, and a handful of my friends would go over for it. I think that was Ben and Neil’s thing, but I didn’t participate. I’d only show up for the pay-per-views that Dave and his older brother Jay would scrape up the cash for. we’d watch them at the tiny Weinberg duplex over behind the supermarket, sitting on worn furniture covered in cat hair.
there was lots of kitschy shit in that house. Troll dolls and snow globes. doilies that were supposed to stay on the sofa’s arms, if only some moron teenager hadn’t rolled all over it first. an airbrushed picture of a polar bear that said “Brookfield Zoo ’96″ that served as the living room’s centerpiece. some self-portrait Jay had made back in his associate’s degree art school days. and never, under any circumstances, any food in the fridge. or any you were allowed to eat, anyway. getting a pop was a fucking priveledge, man. you had to fight for your Mountain Dew, and you always really, seriously wanted one.

wow. the more I write about this, the more I remember back to the absurdity and chaos that was Dave’s house …
his mom managed a Fashion Bug somewhere in LaPorte and dated a rotund man that Jay and Dave called “Hmph-nah” (in a tip of the hat to the bizarre noise he made when he laughed). I can’t even remember that guy’s name.
their mother wasn’t there very often. when she did show up, walking through a dozen outcast 16-yr-olds fighting for position in front of a television in a small room, she was friendly, but went right upstairs to her bedroom – the only room in the house that was off limits to the rest of us. the godawful ugly persian cats that they owned would instinctively follow her upstairs where she’d brush them. by the time she’d get back from work or Hmph-nah’s pad, they’d be a legitimate tangle of hair. I remember that they actually had to cut a brick of hair out of the side of one of them once, it was so mangy. the cat walked around for a month looking decidedly lopsided.
the bedroom Dave and Jay shared upstairs was a bizarre homage to Dave’s infatuation with Britney Spears, every pop culture reference of the last 25 years and a sophomoric fetishization of Tupac Shakur. there was usually an untuned guitar to trip over. they didn’t even bother hiding the tissue paper they used to jerk off – it stayed immediately next to the keyboard of the war-weary virus/pornography-ridden computer they had, which was randomly covered in magic-markered inside jokes. and the entire apartment hadn’t been vacuumed in years. the landlords probably had to set a controlled fire to clean the place out when they moved out…

I’m losing focus.
either way, Dave (and Jay, to a lesser extent) loved professional wrestling. like I said, they got every pay-per-view. occasionally, their absentee-alcoholic father out in North Judson would have everyone over to watch it on the big screen, and whoever had a driver’s liscence would load the rest of us into someone’s mom’s mini-van and we’d drive 45 minutes farther into the sticks to watch it. they’d order Papa John’s with some bizarre combination of jalapenos and ham and Dave would roll around in front of the TV and occasionally do the “suck it” X to whoever was pissing him off at the time.
and I didn’t like it. I thought wrestling was the dumbest fucking thing I’d ever seen, and I just didn’t get it. I don’t know if Dave “got” it in the way I’m thinking now, but he enjoyed it, nonetheless.

I’m totally romanticizing these absurd hours I spent with my high school friends. but maybe when they were squealing with idiotic glee while watching grown men pretend fight, they were onto something.
I mean, it’s so absurd, man. but the pageantry of it all. the way some people take it so seriously. the glorification of typecasts and stereotypes. the complete objectification of women. the American media blitz. it’s like consumerism, sugared up, in its purest form. the scramble for the spotlight. it’s all staged, and everyone knows it.
I was flipping through the channels a couple of weeks ago, and passed some professional wrestling event. I didn’t stop for more than ten seconds, and moved on to something else. probably “Cops.” but it got me thinking.
at least with professional wrestling, they’re not lying to you. it’s absurd and overblown and full of shit, but it’s an open secret and they don’t bother trying to hide it.
Andy Kaufman got it.
I’m trying to get it.

Neil wants to be a physical therapist.
Ben is probably still recovering from the massive emotional shock of bad relationships in college. he wants to work in film production.
Smith is a legislative assistant for the democrats in Indianapolis.
I’m here.
Andrew got into christian fundamentalism, got out of it, graduated and is working at an alternative school where he “restrains” violent youths. he’s saving for a one-way ticket to the West Bank.
no one’s spoken to Mike Moore in about four years. I think he’s in Florida.
Drew is still in Georgia, I believe.
Kyle was working as a night janitor at the hospital in Valpo about a year ago, but Neil hasn’t heard from him in a while. he’s probably stocking up on ammunition.
Jay is getting married. I’m invited to the wedding. it’s going to be on July 7th of this year. the Weinbergs think that’s hilarious and find it meaningful.
and Dave works nonstop and full time at the Buffalo Wild Wings on Lincolnway in Valpo.
I don’t think he watches wrestling anymore.

… I can do anything dumber than you.

I heard a story about another guy in the newsroom the other day.
I’m a regular fucking gossip queen, man.
this dude, he’s a reporter from the Valley. he was working at the paper and moved out to St. Louis to be with a girl. she’s local. they lived together for a little while, but things went bad and he came back. he had nowhere else to go but home.
he went back to work at the paper, and started talking to this girl again. I guess he halfway patched things up, because he decided to go back to Missouri and move in as her roommate. his intentions, I believe, were to try and make things work again.
this is all third person. so the details are sketchy.
he went back to Missouri, but she was seeing someone else.
and he moved in.
and after a month or two, he came home to the apartment to find all of his things packed for him. and he was told he had to get out.
so he came back to the Valley, again. and her family told him, don’t call her anymore. she’s dead. consider her dead.
again, I don’t know the details.
I’ve been involved with some stupid shit when it comes to girls, but I’ve never gone that far.

I bought a pair of slip-on Vans today. I am now officially Southern California.

I came in entirely too early for work today. it’s 3:45, and I’ve got nothing to do for the next couple hours. I think I’m going to take a two hour lunch break, during which I will eat Subway and watch television.
it will be glorious.

I’m officially at the point where I’ve got the hang of this. I’ve been flying dolo for a weeks now, but for the most part, I’m at ease now. no worries. nothing bad’s going to happen. just put the paper together, that’s all. sure, a curveball may come down the line every once in a while, but that’s to be expected.
this goes to show: a monkey could do this job.
I learned last night that most of my coworkers don’t have college degrees.
let’s see. sports editor, no degree. three of the five reporters, no degree. copy chief, no. managing editor. no degree. one of the other copy editors, I’m not sure, he may.
either way, I’m in the minority, and that surprises me. for those without letters, almost all of them are completely capable in their positions.
which, again, just goes to show: monkeys. they could run this place.

I’m listening to “postcards from Italy” by Beirut, which is a wonderful little song. the guy behind it is the definition of “effete hipster,” but that doesn’t translate into a lack of talent. the trumpet and ukulele work together. while these seem to be the only instruments he plays, he strangles the fucking juice out of them. and “postcards from Italy” is the best result.

what elses.
the mystery roommate betrays his roots. he constantly has the heat on, even when the coldest it gets at night is the high 30s. his preferred temperature is 79, which is like a fucking clambake as far as I’m concerned. so we have this unspoken thermostat war, whereas I’ll turn the heat off whenever I get the chance.
I don’t care if he’s from Arizona. 60 degrees isn’t cold.
at all.
by any definition.
when I sleep, I close the vents in my room and open the windows.
I’m getting catty. you’re all thinking it. I know.

lastly: Irma, the woman who works part time in the pressroom and reminds me of a calmer, Mexican version of my mother, just brought in chili. so I’m going to get a bowl.
let me not mince words: Irma fucking rules.

the view from my bedroom window at sunset.

I went to an Aguilas de Mexicali baseball game last night.
from what I saw, they suck. but it costs about $15 for three tacos, two beers and a ticket. and baseball’s baseball, wherever you go. and I forgot my camera. fuck!

I’m listening to “Maggie’s farm.”

I was going to write an involved post on what I’m thinking about right now, what I’m into. but suddenly, I’m not feeling it.
I just found out that I’m scheduled to close out New Years Eve and Day, which effectively fucks any fun I’ll have over the holidays. and I added a few lines to the Christmas letter, so read it, Mar. more feedback.

I’m listening to “can’t you hear me knocking?”

but that’s about it. nothing interesting. I’m probably going to go to sleep in about twenty minutes; I’m exhausted. so this is the post.
instead of anything interesting or inspiring, here we go; my first foray into pornography.

I’m listening to Tom Waits’ “going out west.”

drove out to Glamis, in the Algodones dunes yesterday. this is what I saw.

apparently, the highway I took on my way into the centro took me right through here back in September. but, it was pitch dark out, and I didn’t see a fucking thing. what a shame.

we worked at the IDS together. Sills is the shit.

“dude. last night I got stoned and watched “‘Rambo 3.’ at one point Rambo was dueling with a tank while on a horse, molotov cocktail in hand; an allegory for ‘man vs. machine.’”

meanwhile, Stallone is returning. and as I’ve got nothing else to do on Christmas beyond drink myself to sleep, you know I’m going to see it.

I’m still working on it, Mar. I just, you know, started typing. the mom, grandma and Aunt Nettie parts could use some work. call me. we’ll discuss.

Season’s Greetings!
Here we are again, a year older and a year wiser. So much has happened since Santa’s sleighbells were last heard ringing in the crisp night air, and we hope the Year’s end finds you in good health and cheer! Things have certainly been busy in the McMullan household, and there seems not enough time to tell it. So we’ll quit with the dilly-dallying and get to the news.

First and foremost, we have a VERY SPECIAL addition to our family. Michael and Virginia welcomed a baby girl, Anna Reilly McMullan, into the world on Feburary 19, and she could not be more adorable!!!!!!! Hammer has her mother’s eyes, and her father’s build. Indeed, Mike has high hopes for his firstborn daughter – that someday she’ll lead the women’s national powerlifting team into competition against the Eastern Bloc and finally bring home the gold – and has already started her on a rigorous training schedule. Anna was quick to learn; if we’re ever to beat the mongol hordes, it will take our blood and sweat.

Mike, when not developing a keen interest in childrearing, has also begun to pursue an old interest of his – surfing. He traveled to Costa Rica this past spring to ride the waves, and came back with good news: “I stood up on the board.”

Virginia finished up her graduate work at Georgetown University, and is now the proud recipient of an MBA in international business. She continues to devote her professional career to non-profit work, and has recently concluded a tour on the international cockfighting circuit, visiting seedy locales in Mexico’s volitile Oaxaca province, Guatemala and El Salvador. Virginia returned with a deep gash running through her right temple that leaves an eye milky white, but the new eye patch does nothing if it doesn’t add character. Accomplished professional, mother, international bloodsport manager; what can’t this woman do?

Meanwhile, deep in the bowels of the midwest, Mary is in the midst of her junior year at Indiana University. she spent the summer leading boy scout troops on canoe trips in Minnesota’s great north woods, and as a result is at least three times as strong as either of her older brothers. never to be one to remain dormant and in an effort to free herself from the god-fearing, knee jerk conservatism of the fair Hoosier state, she is scheduled to spend a semester studying abroad in Europe – Budapest, to be specific.
When asked why she chose such a remote, destitute location, Mary quickly rattled off a list of reasons; its relative affordability, its political instability, its wealth of attractive sex workers and its bustling drug market. Big Mar leaves in mid-January, and we all wish her luck … and expect her to send back pictures!!!!!!!

In Valparaiso, Mom is recovering from the self-induced heart attack she suffered upon learning that her children may actually continue to reproduce. Valerie took a weeklong vacation to Paris in June, where she extensively toured the Louvre and Versailles museums, and trekked to the top of both the Arc de Triumph and the Notre Dame cathedral. In November, she and Grandma Mary Drozda traveled to Washington for Anna’s christening in the same D.C. church that both Matt and Mary were baptised in. That’s right, little Anna is now russian Orthodox, which effectively makes her spiritually bulletproof.

Aunt Nettie Krochta meanwhile, has continued to slip deeper into the warm embrace of Alzheimer’s. She amuses us all with her angry dinner table ranting at Lucy, the family labrador, in between feeding her directly from her plate. She’s been living with Valerie and Grandma Mary for over a year now, and the house is that much warmer with her presence. We’re all in agreement; senility sure does have its perks!!!!!

As for Matt? Well, he graduated from IU after five years with BAs in English and Criminal Justice. And big news! The newsman finally has a news job! After an exhaustive job search during which he turned down many prospective employers, he was hired by Schurz Communications, an Indiana-based media corporation that owns newspapers in the Indianapolis suburbs, as well as papers in Ohio and Pennsylvania. They immediately shipped him to El Centro, California, a desert border town, to work at the Imperial Valley Press. the IV Press, an English afternoon daily, services a mostly spanish speaking population and has a circulation of nearly ten thousand readers (still growing!). He calls every sunday, and has nothing but good things to say about his new position. Oh, Matt, the eternal optimist! We’re all very proud of him!

That about wraps it up in our neck of the woods. Again, we hope the holiday season finds you in good health and cheer, and we wish you the merriest of Christmases!

-the McMullan family

word.
tonight, Spencer and his girlfriend Mary babysat for my brother.
Mike called. “it’s on. like Donkey Kong.”
“what’s on?”
“Spencer and Mary got the hammer.”
it’s about midnight on the east coast. that means he and VA should be walking back into find Spencer passed out on the living room floor, whiskey-drunk, missing his pants and sporting a fresh black eye. Mary will be in the back, listening to Zeppelin at full blast while she looks for a usable track mark.
animals, the both of them.

I just finished building the front page for tomorrow’s paper. I’m on time. but you wouldn’t know it by the pressroom guys. they think I’m semi-retarded, and mutter whenever I resend something.
they can get fucked. I’ve been here for eight hours, too.

that’s all that’s going on. I, uh, “migrated” the blog over to Gmail, I think, and the control panel looks all nifty now. so I’ll screw around with the new features sometime later on.

so, later on.