rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

the windows are open. the fan is on. I can smell the trees.
the phone rings, and it’s my brother. “what are you doing?” he wants to know.
“watching war movies.” war movies are on all day. “‘The Battle of the Bulge’ is on.”
Telly Savalas rips across the screen in a Sherman and blows some Kraut right to hell.
“war movies,” he says. “you know they’re the reason we exist?”
how do you figure?
“well.” he draws his breath, like he’s picking something up. probably the kid. “dad was watching these same movies when he was, like, 8. and then one day when he was older, a bulb turned on in his head and he said, ‘I’m joining the marines.’”
and the rest, as they say, is history.

for more on the kind of dumb asshole war movie I am describing, please revisit my May 2005 achievement, Anthony Quinn is too real for you.