Declared Hiatus

This blog has gone on many unofficial hiatuses in the past, but I am now declaring wherespmac indefinitely suspended, but not the fun kind that involves guns, felonies and over $90 million dollars being lost.

This is just the hiatus that comes from working and going out too much and being too lazy to write about. Maybe one day I'll reach an age where I'll re-read this blog and regret not writing about what happened when I was 23-years-old, but I have never been bored enough now in life where I've wanted to re-read old Justin Adler silliness, so hopefully I won't get that bored in the future.

I promise that if I ever do anything as exciting as move out of the United States again, you'll read all about it here, but in the mean time just assume I am doing awesome things and living a life much cooler than yourself, except for you Jay Rochlin, I've always thought that your day-to-day life is much cooler than my own.

Here are a few anecdotes that you may enjoy reading and I potentially might enjoy remembering in the future.

• I went to Monkey Town on Friday for a Last Chance Dance Party. Monkey Town is/was one of my favorite spots in New York. It's a nice bar/restaurant/theater that has a room with four nice couches where you can watch movies projected on all four walls. Here is a picture of it. I went there once before for a short films movie night. It was amazing. I went there on Friday for a final dance party before it close its doors for good (landlord issues).

The DJ was good. The dancing was good. My close group of friends were good. But my favorite part was watching a girl in the corner who at one point was unconscious with her friends gathered around her trying to revive her. Then seeing her awake and blowing cocaine off her friends hand two minutes after she regained consciousness. She was great.

If Monkey Town ever reopens at another location I hope that girl is still alive because she really made the party for me.

• I slightly alluded to Gilbert earlier, but as a blog that was once loosely dedicated to Agent Zero, I should probably write a few words about him and his recent controversy.

I think if anything the whole gun thing makes me like him exponentially more.

After Gilbert was officially suspended I wrote this e-mail to my friend, who was unaware of Gilbert's greatness.

He went to Arizona.

His rookie year, he was not doing well in the first half so he showered at half time in his full uniform and entered the game in the second half soaking wet.

He sponsored a professional Halo team.

He won sports blogger of the year and was the first athlete to have a hugely popular blog.

He started referring to himself as the Hibachi and only talked in the third person.

He would shoot game winning three pointers and turn around, not even watching them go in.

He once said 'I am an assassin and assassins don't have a conscious."

After a game winner he told the press "My swag was phenomenal."

He ripped off jersey and threw it in the crowd after every game

He altered his house in DC so the air was thinner, like in high altitude air, which helped him train.

He let rookies sleep at his house for their first season in the league.

He turned half his mansion into a paintball arena.

He fired his agent, became his own agent and negotiated a 110 million dollar deal.

After signing the contract he almost immediately tore his ACL and has been out for the past two years.

Because of his recent gun charge, if convicted of a felony, his contract will be void and he'll lose $90 million dollars.

The whole gun thing was over a 25k gambling debt to a shitty teammate, keep in mind that 25k to Gilbert, who was set to make just over $16 million this season, is the equivalent of $77 to someone who makes $50k a year.

He acted like he did not give a fuck and he Twittered a million jokes about the incident.

Before his last game he he fake shot all his teammates in pregame warm ups, further mocking the situation.

He was indefinitely suspended today, now I am sad.

That was all just off the top of my head, except for the numbers part, which Lang Whitaker broke down. Lang also had a good, serious piece on Gil's current situation.

The main point of the story is that when I reach Gilbert's age if I haven't voided a $110 million dollar deal over a gun charge then I have failed. Gilbert is currently 28, I'm 23 and make less then one-sixth of what Gilbert made per game with the Wizards. I have some work to do.

• I printed the picture of Gilbert shooting his teammates in pregame warm-ups and it now sits proudly on my desk wall at work as a reminder not to take anything too seriously. I also have a Knicks season schedule on my wall at work to remind me the same thing.

• Story remitted, may one day reappear.

• I went to NYC's SantaCon this year as well. There is not really much to say about it, but it was amazing. If there is ever a SantaCon in your neck of the woods, you should definitely go.

The same day as SantaCon I went to see JB Smoove (Leon from Curb Your Enthusiasm) perform at Comix. I was tired from drinking all day at SantaCon and from my birthday the night before so I accidentally fell asleep in the theater. Then I woke up and I'm pretty sure JB was making fun of me.

• The other day at work I spoke to about 20 kids from some sports-business organization from Indiana University. It was one of the silliest experiences of my life as I talked to 20 kids who were a year or three younger than myself about my job. They all took crazy notes about everything I said. It was truly bizarre. After the meeting they all came up and shook my hand and begged me for an internship, an internship that I was supposed to have three months ago.

They all acted quite gay. Two of them complimented my sneakers. The best part was that after the meeting my boss gave away his books to kids who could answer the following questions.

Who is the worst Knicks general manager ever? Answer: Isiah Thomas, an Indiana grad.

Who is the worst current New York Knick? Answer: Jarred Jeffries, also went to Indiana.

It was brilliant diss to the proud Indiana kids. One of the kids made a snide comment Jordan Hill after we dissed Jeffries. I immediately responded that Jordan Hill will one day be a first-ballot Hall of Famer because I was in a position of power and I could say anything I wanted and that was just about the dumbest thing I could think of.

• If you like basketball, you should read Chris Ballard's new book. I wrote an article about it here. If you're a hoops junkie, it's a must-read.

• For future reference the commenting on this site is now slightly moderated, just because I was getting a ton of spam comments on older posts. Please don't worry, I'll make sure to allow all witty, hateful posts from the few of you who have constantly amused me with your silly quips in the comment section.

• WPM will be back one day, in the mean time I would like to recommend the following blogs:

Gould's Cardinals Blog - Basically only for die-hard fans of the Cardinals or Gould.

Leia Ting's "Not Margie Mead" - My friend Leia's blog she started while she lives in Costa Rica for a year. Well written. It's a nicely-named blog. It's pretty interesting and Leia's a good person. Check it out.

• Finally, Paul McPherson. I really have no idea where you are. Your coach of two weeks in Argentina, gave me your agents name. After reviewing his shitty website (now updated) I called the number on the front page, which oddly was his cell phone number. He told me he wasn't really your agent, just a friend who helped you out. He was pretty boring as well, too boring to run the interview on this blog. He was representing an up and coming rapper named Boo from Chicago. I liked that part of the interview. He said he had not talked to you in a while and had no idea what you were up to.

Anyways P-Mac if you're out there. My contact information is to the right. I would still love to hear from you.

Things I no longer do

This is a very inconclusive list of things I once did in life, but I now no longer enjoy doing.

1. Watching football on Sundays - Throughout the entire NFL offseason I was extremely excited for the NFL season to start. Then it started and I have not watched one full game yet. Growing up on the west coast, I still can't figure out what time games start out here and I don't have a TV in my room, which makes spending a whole Sunday in my room watching football much harder.

After Brandon Jennings dominates the NBA and decides to take over the NFL, I will probably begin to watch the sport again.

2. Watching the show "Entourage" - Yes, I once declared that this show was my favorite thing in life. Yes, that's the gayest, most pathetic line any person can say. I apologize to my friends, family and humanity. I am happy to announce that I have missed the past three episodes and I don't plan on ever watching this show again.

3. Voting - I had to think for a second if I had voted in my life in order for it to qualify for this list of "Things I once did, but no longer do." I remember fake voting for the presidential election in second grade in a "Kids can vote" school-wide campaign. I remember writing in Abraham Lincoln because we were studying Honest Abe in class and because I somehow knew DeShawn Stevenson would become my favorite player in the NBA and that one day he would get a portrait of Abe tatted on his neck.

I also voted for real in the 2008 Democratic Primaries. I don't really regret voting in that instance, but it just was not for me.

As a goofy child, who grew up far too infatuated with rap music and black culture, I always said I would not vote for a president until I could vote for a black president. Then when the opportunity presented itself, I was in a tiny town in Argentina getting high with some local kids, trying to skateboard, eating pasta and listening to James Brown, all of which were much more important than voting.

At this point I don't see myself ever feeling compelled to vote again, especially now that I have experienced the sublime rush that comes from not voting.

4. Celebrating Thanksgiving - Like so many of us, I once had grand visions of celebrating Thanksgiving with a thugged-out basketball star in Buenos Aires. Last year I envisioned spending Thanksgiving with P-Mac at a rave, bringing home wildly under-aged girls, then giving him a high-five during the middle of some kind of insane Argentine orgy. I have never been to a rave in my life, but P-Mac, Buenos Aires, Thanksgiving and MDMA all seemed like they were meant to be together.

Then P-Mac ended up being terrible at his craft and I knew we would not be hanging out in Buenos Aires. Having to change my plans, I ended up spending the majority of last Thanksgiving on a 16-hour bus ride from Puerto Madryn to El Chaltén. On the day I ate two apples, a bag of cookies and a strawberry yogurt.

This year I plan on again skipping Thanksgiving to remember the mildly somber experience. My roommate Sep and I plan on drinking and hitting Two Bros Pizza for dollar slices. Maybe if I feel up to it I will watch an episode or six of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." Paul McPherson, if you are by chance reading this, please keep in mind that you are also invited to these festivities. And if you want to make it up to me I am sure we can find a Thanksgiving day rave in NYC.

Qs and Z-Bos and lists

A few nights ago I remember spending that period of semi-consciousness between masturbation and sleep researching the Z-Bo/Q-Rich trade that sent Q-Rich back to the Clippers. I'm not sure why this crossed my mind at that particular time, but I remember falling asleep very worried that Alex Acker would not come off the #3 (I don't even know who the fuck Alex Acker is but he is listed on the Clips roster wearing the #3).

I never thought about Q returning to LA again until today when Q-Rich was traded for the third time! this summer for my boy Bassy and some white dudes (I'm not sure who Craig Smith is, but he sounds white).

This is why I like Q-Rich so much:

0. The retard-alien head-bop celebration

1. He played at DePaul with Paul McPherson

2. He is a local Chicago dude

3. His dad drove the L Train even after Q-Rich made the NBA

4. Both his brothers were shot and killed within a two-year span (I'm not sure why this is a reason I like Q, but I find it interesting)

5. He was engaged to Brandy

6. At some point he stopped being engaged to Brandy

7. I once witnessed this exchange:

Q-Rich to his son: "Show Uncle D. Miles what you do after you score"

Q-Rich's son: does retard-alien head-bop

D-Miles and Brandy: faces light up with sincere pride

8. He is a Jordan Brand athlete

This is why I like Sebastian Telfair:

1. He's Steph's cousin

2. He's from Coney Island

3. The movie "Through the Fire"

4. He got caught trying to carry a gun on an airplane in a pillow

5. He was bringing his own pillow with him

6. It was later rumored that he was carrying the gun because he was afraid of his own teammate Zach Randolph

7. This SLAM cover

I'm really happy that somehow this summer Q-Rich, Bassy and Z-Bo were all involved in trades for each other. And I really hope Q-Rich is traded three more times before the season starts and I hope at least one of the teams involved is an Arena Football League team.

By the way next time you see Tarny congratulate him on obtaining his WA license plate (below) that just so happens to be blessed with ZBO and the amount of strippers Z-Bo tried to rape while in Portland. Congrats Tar, we're all so proud of you.

Other things I am interested in:

- For no reason at all I am way too happy about Demar Derozan playing for the Raptors. Maybe it's because it was my dream to grow up in the CPT, get paid a lot of money and bang a lot of girls while playing for USC and then play in a really trill market.

- This Melo wallpaper is too sick. Click to enlarge below.

- I love that whatever Griffin not named Blake the Suns drafted in the second round is now wearing #32.

- I was really, really, really, really hoping Ron Artest would have chose #8 when he signed to the Lakers.

- Still not sure why my boy Channing Frye is gonna rock #8 for the Suns. 44 is retired for Westphal, but 45 is open and I coulda swore 8 was retired for DJ Strawberry.

Chapter 23

The next morning I woke up and ate the free Argentine breakfast which came with my hotel. An Argentine breakfast consists of nothing more than two greasy media-lunas (a thinner, worse version of a French croissant) and a cup of coffee, since I don't drink coffee my body had adapted to eating nothing more than two media lunas and a glass of water every morning.

I then checked out of my room, bought my afternoon bus ticket back to Bahia and went to the market to buy some ham, cheese and bread for what would be my 5,345th ham-and-cheese sandwich of the trip. I also bought the local paper, La Nueva Provincia, to see what the reporter has written about me.

The whole town of Monte Hermosa was peculiar. It claims to be one of the few place in the world where the sun rises and sets over the ocean shore. It was a tiny town of only 2,500 permanent residents, the streets were almost always empty and all the shops were closed for the better part of the day. I found a shady bench in the middle of an abandoned children's play area, made my sandwiches and began reading the paper.

I rifled through the paper and got through the 10 pages of football before finding the basketball section buried deep in the sports section. I had my own headline: “Mochilero y Fanatico de McPherson (Backpacker and McPherson super fan)” along with four paragraphs about my journey nestled next to the game recap in the sports section.

Below is the article in its entirety, keep in mind that the language barrier made some of the facts wrong and I'm still upset with myself for not making sure wherespmac.com got in the article:

Mochilero y fanático de McPherson

“Me enteré que McPherson estaba jugando en este equipo y me vine de Buenos Aires para ver el partido", contó Justin Adler, de 21 años, quien está recorriendo el país, como mochilero.

Justin, nativo de Arizona, Estados Unidos, se llenó los ojos con McPherson cuando jugaba en Phoenix Suns, equipo de la NBA.

"Me encanta que salta muy alto, es impresionante. ¿Cómo lo vi? Ehhh... Me esperas un momento", pidió --la interrupción le vino bárbaro-- mientras se abrió la puerta del vestuario y salió su ídolo, con quien dialogó brevemente. Después retomó su relato.

“Te cuento, llegué hace dos días a Bahía y me vine para acá. Estudié periodismo y estoy la Argentina. Esto es todo muy diferente, muy loco. Lo que sí, ¡hay muchos fierros cerca del aro, es peligroso", se sorprendió Adler.

Su hoja de ruta aún no está definida.

"No sé si ahora ir al Súper 8 o conocer el sur", dudó el visitante, quien no se llevó la mejor imagen basquetbolística de McPherson. De todos modos, con su mochila en la espalda, seguirá conociendo las bondades de nuestro país y, de paso, continuará mirando de cerca al estadounidense que, por ahora, sigue siendo jugador de El Nacional.

Here's the English translation:

Backpacker and McPherson superfan

“I learned that McPherson was playing on this team and I came from Buenos Aires to watch the game,” said Justin Adler, 21, who is traveling the country as a backpacker.
Justin, a native of Arizona, United States, had his open eyes wide open when McPherson played for the Phoenix Suns, an NBA team.

“I love that he jumps so high, it's incredible. Like you saw? Ehh... Can you wait a moment,” he asked, – quickly interrupting – when the locker room door opened and his idol exited, they had a brief conversation. Then he returned to his story.

“I'll tell you, I arrived two days ago in Bahía Blanca and then I came here. I studied journalism and now I am traveling Argentina. This is very different, it's crazy. Like you see, there are a lot of dangers under the hoop,” said a surprised Adler.

His future route is still unknown.

“I don't know yet if I will go to the Super 8 or to the south,” doubted the visitor, who left without the best image of McPherson. Whatever happens, with his backpack on his back, knowledge of the kindness of our country, he will continue closely watching the North American, who for now plays for El Nacional.

I then walked on the empty beach and tried to figure out what it means to find your dreams come true. I wondered where I should go from here now that I had found Paul McPherson, what else is left for me to do? I suppose I could worry about the little things of life such as finding true love or happiness that isn't attached to a washed-up basketball player; or maybe figure out what type of employment I should seek upon my eminent return back to the United States.

But all of that didn't seem to be as pressing an issue as ascending South America's tallest lighthouse, Faro Recalada, which conveniently was located in Monte Hermosa. I walked a four more kilometers along the empty beach until I reached the lighthouse, which appeared to be deserted. I tried the door of the lighthouse, but it was locked.


There were four houses around the base of the lighthouse and an old man stood outside planting some flowers in his frontyard. I asked him if I could go up the lighthouse, he told me to wait a second and then gestured that I should follow him to the back of his house. I was OK with the idea that he might bludgeon me over the head with his shovel and leave me for dead because I had already found Paul McPherson and my life seemed pretty accomplished at the moment.

Fortunately for my family, friends and cranium he did not smash my skull in with his shovel and he instead reached under a window sill and pulled out a key to the lighthouse that was hidden behind his house. He walked me to the lighthouse, opened the door and told me to have a good time. I climbed 75 meters worth of spiraling stairs and made it to the top. Then at the top claustrophobia and the fact that I was 75 meters above the earth in an abandoned lighthouse set in and I decided 45 seconds of looking out was more than enough.


The view of the beach and surrounding fields were nothing epic; unsatisfied I walked down and thought perhaps I should pursue, employment, love and happiness.

Chapter 21

Later on in the evening I headed to the El Nacional game to watch P-Mac's new club play Comodoro Rivadavia, who had just defeated El Nacional two nights earlier.

I bought my 10-peso ticket and sat in the metal bleachers directly behind the hoop El Nacional was warming up on. P-Mac only dunked in the lay-up line once, but it was still impressive as he lobbed the ball off the backboard, caught it with his strong-left hand and slammed it through with ease. The rest of the time he lazily fired off 15-footers during warm-ups.

P-Mac played like shit for the better part of the game, hitting about half his shots as he jogged back and forth between possessions. At halftime I moved over to sit courtside at halftime next to Nené. The gym could not have held more than 600 people and I sat there the majority of the time wondering how the club affords to pay P-Mac 11,500 USD, if they only draw a couple hundred people at 40 pesos a head.

Before the second half P-Mac walked over to me and shook my hand in the awkward way you'd expect a black man from the Southside of Chicago and a white kid from Scottsdale to shake hands. Except this time it was smoother as we had the whole being-from-the-United-States thing in common and he recognized that I was the only one in the building (and probably country) who knew who he was before seven days ago.

Nené was crazy the entire game yelling at players and being just as enthusiastic as any Argentine football fanatico. Argentina is known for its tango, steak and wine, but a little known fact about the country is its collection of knock-off Roger Moores. The other American player on the team was a black man named James Moore, however, few of the fans knew his first name, so everyone just called him Roger. Whenever Moore had the ball, fan would begin screaming “Dale (pronounced Dah-lay) Roger!” “Dale” is the universal Argentine word which has about 8 million meanings, one which roughly translates into "go!"

Somehow El Nacional blew an 11-point lead with 2 minutes left in the game. The game was tied with 12 seconds left and P-Mac was bringing the ball up the court. I stood thinking this was it. P-Mac was going to win the game for me. How truly unbelievable that I get to watch Paul McPherson win a basketball game in Monte Hermosa, Argentina. This is the greatest moment of my life.

P-Mac drove the lane and dribbled the ball off his foot in the paint. The other team picked it up and threw a 85-foot heave toward their hoop that wasn't close as the clock expired. Overtime.

In overtime, some of the El Nacional's better players were fouled out, so P-Mac, who sadly wasn't the best player on the team, ran most of the plays and was in control of the ball often. Unfortunately he didn't do much with it, but he had his chance to redeem himself with eight seconds left in the game and his team down two points.

He brought the ball up the court again. I stood thinking this was it. P-Mac was going to win the game for me. How truly unbelievable that I get to watch Paul McPherson win a basketball game in Monte Hermosa, Argentina. This is the greatest moment of my life.

Then he forced a hideous three-pointer from the top of the arc, in which he awkwardly double-clutched and his shot bounced hard off the backboard, nicked the rim and fell into the opposing team's hands.

Game over. El Nacional's third straight loss and their record became 1-4 since acquiring P-Mac.

After the game I walked to the players' locker rooms and met P-Mac again, since he said he was going to try to give me some El Nacional gear. A reporter from a local paper interviewed me about why I was such a big P-Mac fan. It was a rough interview because at the time it was just one of those moments where I could barely speak Spanish, even though before I met P-Mac I had exclusively spoke Spanish for the last three days.

P-Mac exited the locker room and told me to meet him back at his hotel because he only had dirty clothes and he didn't want to give me the “dirty joints.”

I spoke with the reporter more and told him I was now unsure if I was going to head back to Capital Federal to watch the Super 8, a tournament between the best Argentine teams that was taking place in a few days, or if I was going to carry on with my initial travel plans and head south.

Before I met P-Mac, saw how poor the quality of play was and how shitty of a player he had become I was sure I was going to the Super 8, but now I was full of doubt. In a perfect world I planned on hanging out with P-Mac in Capital Federal, showing him around the city, doing copious amounts of ecstasy and hitting the clubs (I have never done ecstasy but I imagined if I was clubbing with P-Mac ecstasy would be a requisite) and eventually having a Thanksgiving dinner with P-Mac, since the tournament ended on Thanksgiving day.

The reporter didn't hesitate and told me to keep traveling because the team was shit and the quality of play in the tourney would not be any better. I was happy to learn that miserable beat writers were a universal phenomena and not just limited to Tucson sports writers who hated any team they followed and subsequently their own lives.

It was just before midnight, since the game did not start until 9:30 and it went into overtime, I began walking the six blocks from the gym to the team hotel when a little kid who was also walking alone came up beside me. He asked me a few basic questions about where I was from and what I was doing in Monte Hermosa. I learned he was from Bahía Blanca and was only here for the game. As we walked, he interrupted me mid sentence to point out that Manu Ginobili also has a house in Monte Hermosa and it was just two blocks from where we were standing. He told me also plays for the El Nacional junior squad back in Bahía Blanca, I asked if he knew Franco, Marquitos' little brother who plays for the same squad. He told me he did. I was proud of my Bahia assimilation. Then he we parted ways and I carried on to the team hotel.

I walked up to P-Mac's room, knocked on the door and was told to walk in. He was sitting there wearing only a pair of black boxers and a black du-rag. We talked about the game and how shitty he played.

“Man if my boys back home saw me dribble the ball off my foot with four seconds left in the game, I wouldn't be able to return home,” P-Mac said.

“Yeah what the hell happened with that shot in overtime,” I said, feeling pretty comfortable with P-Mac at the time. “That was pretty fucking ugly.”

“I don't know what happened there, that shit was ugly,” P-Mac admitted.

I asked P-Mac about some of his tattoos since they covered his arms and legs. He explained the more obvious ones, such as the tribute to his hometown, a mural of the Chicago skyline with the words “Windy City” emblazoned beneath. He then pointed to his right inner bicep which read “The Gift” with a date beneath it and explained that it was for the day his son was born. On his left bicep it read “The Curse” with an date representing the day his NBA contract expired.

I didn't bother to ask if the Psalm 23 on his leg had an actual meaning to him or was just chosen because he wore the number 23 at DePaul and with the Phoenix Suns.

Then a team manager knocked on the door and said something in Spanish telling P-Mac they were going to eat dinner soon and then catch the bus back to Bahía Blanca.

“Oh we fitna eat?” P-Mac quickly rapped back, failing to take into consideration that the manager barely spoke English and most English-speaking North Americans would have a problem understanding “Oh we fitna eat?”

“Si,” said the team manager who then closed the door and walked away.

I told P-Mac I was going to head down south to keep traveling, but I would e-mail him when I got back to Bahia and we could hang out. He jotted down his e-mail address on my contacts page of my journal. I was pretty happy that my battered notebook, full of people's names and contact information from all over the world now had Paul McPherson's e-mail. Some people had drawn maps of where they live in the world. Other wrote me poems or famous quotes next to their name. P-Mac simply wrote, “pmcpherson@yahoo.com.”

I walked out of the hotel, hit the corner store and grabbed my dinner which consisted of one strawberry yogurt since funds were becoming increasingly tighter. I headed back to my hotel and saw P-Mac and James “Roger” Moore walking down the dark, empty block. I yelled at P-Mac and thanked him for everything.

“Peace dude!” he yelled back throwing up a peace sign over his shoulder as him and the bootleg Roger Moore walked away.

Chapter 20

I used the ride to Monte Hermosa to think of questions I wanted to ask P-Mac. I considered the standard backpacking questions: Where are you from? How long have you been traveling? Where are you headed? They seemed apropos to P-Mac's situation. I decided it would be best if I didn't over think it.

The bus dropped me off right in front of Nené's house. She was ecstatic to see me and I was just as excited. She gave me a breakdown of the entire lodging situation in the town as she did not have any room for me in her house since her grandchildren were all staying with her. She showed me around her digs and proudly displayed photos of her family. She offered me a ride to my hotel, so I threw my backpack in her car and we drove around the town. She pointed out where her son worked, where the El Nacional squad stayed and her favorite eateries before we arrived at the Prince Hotel.

I walked a block to the hotel where El Nacional and P-mac were staying. Through the window, I saw two tall men wearing athletic gear sitting in the lobby. I prepared a little speech and then manned up and went inside. I talked to the guys and learned one was a player and one was on the coaching staff.

I told them I was a big fan of Paul McPherson and I was only here in Monte Hermosa to watch their game. The coach asked me if I had a blog about McPherson. I told him that it was mine and he laughed. He said he found my blog after Google-ing Paul McPherson.

Five more long, awkward minutes went by in which the two El Nacional guys and myself bullshitted in Castellano before P-Mac walked down the stairs into the small lobby. The other player broke his Castellano and let Paul know in perfect English that he had a fan here. I introduced myself and asked if he was familiar with Where's P-Mac.

P-Mac told me he'd never heard of it, which was fairly deflating. I explained to him that it was equal parts running-joke and actual mission to find him. Then I told him how I had been a fan of his since he played for the Phoenix Suns. He was cool the entire time and told me to come back to the hotel at 3:00 when he was done with practice.

I went back to my hotel room, watched three episodes of Los Simpson, ate a really shitty ham and cheese sandwich and contemplated the paradox of finding P-Mac in a country 30 years removed from its "Dirty War", in which 30,000 Argentines "disappeared". Throughout my travels, I had seen several bus terminals with walls still littered with missing persons posters from families who still hoped their children might be alive, and I had simply stumbled upon the person I was looking for.

I returned to the players' hotel and found P-Mac sitting on a ledge outside wearing a pair of all black Nike Air Force Ones, white Nike basketball shorts, a black Nike tee and a black du-rag. Fortunately, I had just had my laundry done for the first time since I left Buenos Aires, so I was able to throw on some clean clothes for the meeting.

I had my expectations set a little too high. I expected P-Mac to have all the answers to life, offer me a job in New York City, become best friends forever and maybe he would have a Microsoft Zune charger as well as battery charger compatible with the Cannon SD850IS. Instead he was just a regular guy who felt like he was in "basketball punishment" for having to play for El Nacional.

After the underwhelming encounter I was wildly depressed, and on top of it all had to think of a new blog name.

On the plane ride to Argentina I had read the book God Save the Fan, in which the author Will Leitch wrote that if you ever hung out with your sports hero, you'd most likely end up hating each other. While that was not quite the case, there was no way my dream of becoming best friends was going to happen either.

P-Mac's background and mine were a little different. I grew up with two and then four loving parents in the affluent community of Scottsdale, Arizona. P-Mac grew up in a single-parent household in the rough neighborhood of Dorchester in Chicago's Southside. P-Mac talked about running with gangs and robbing drug dealers. I never ran in any gangs and the most disrespectful thing I ever did to a drug dealer was eat their last slice of pizza when I was getting high with my drug-dealing friends in college.

P-Mac also talked about how he always hated school, barely graduating high school and how college was just a way to get into the NBA. He brought up an athletic booster from DePaul, the university he attended before he declared for the NBA draft, which kept trying to get him to return, and how he never had interest in returning to the classroom.

I'd like to return to the classroom and give a lecture to journalism students on the most inefficient but fun way to find sources. I would encourage the students to create a blog with the desired source in the heading, and after 18 months of inconsistent posting, pick any country on earth to go backpacking, then eventually your source will just show up.

He didn't have any entertaining stories after playing professional basketball in Europe for four years, killing my biography idea, which was supposed to turn into my career after my travels.

As I'd suspected, the 30-year-old P-Mac was only playing basketball for the money and didn't care what team he was playing with. He wound up in Argentina after his time was up with the French team Hyéres Toulon Var Basket that he was previously playing with.

He had offers to either play in Spain in a more competitive league or in Argentina in a league of lesser quality, but for more money. P-Mac was earning $11,500 tax-free US dollars a month with El Nacional. Plus he was provided with an apartment in Bahía Blanca, which he always called Baja Blanca.

I still hoped that P-Mac would be able to take care of my next obstacle in life and he would have magically have a dream job waiting for me back in the states. However, the only employment he had to offer was working for his wife's daycare business in Chicago, but I had no desire in working in daycare.

If there were any valuable lessons I actually learned from P-Mac, it's that you can't live in the past or dwell on anything too long, because if P-Mac did he'd probably go insane over two regrettable life decisions. He spoke of his two biggest mistakes in life, but reiterated what's done is done as he knows he cannot do anything about it. The first was when he left DePaul after his second season with the school, a year too early since he went undrafted and had to hustle his way into the NBA through the Suns summer league. The second was one year into the league, he fired his agent over a minor argument and ended up hiring a new agent who wasn't half as qualified as his first.

Once my expectations became more realistic, I realized P-Mac was a real cool guy. There is a lot more that P-Mac told me which can never make the blog because it would ruin any career P-Mac may have left.

I left the hotel feeling fulfilled and walked right into some sort of multi-cultural fiesta which had eight men dancing on stage in purple velour tights and one man dancing wearing a horse. This was not quite the setting I envisioned meeting P-Mac, but I guess that's just how life works.

Chapter 18

I had to slap myself again for being upset with silly travel woes. I had to catch an earlier bus than I planned on to leave El Bolson, which ruined my lunch plans with Rogelio. I planned on making Rogelio and Nora cinnamon French toast, one of my favorite meals and something I believed would be a monumental contribution to the El Bolson society.

I also planned on hanging out with this cute hippie vendor who works at the El Bolson artisan market. It's probably for the better that I didn't hang out with her because I would have forgotten all about Paul McPherson and most likely abandoned any semblance of a North American lifestyle after 20 minutes with her.

It was also tough to abandon my original plans to make it to the end of the world, hike Torre del Peña and see the massive glacier in El Calafate, but this blog was not created to find a big glacier.

Then I reminded myself that I was going to Bahía Blanca to meet Paul McPherson and I finally got to ride the second-level shotgun on the bus, so I got this view as we rode through Argentina’s lake district.

If I thought I was excited the night I found out about P-Mac's location, I was absurdly excited now. I just sat there staring out the window, scribbling down notes every few minutes, grinning with excitement.

I hadn't talked to anybody on the bus for the first eight hours of the trip. But when the bus stopped 20 minutes outside of Neuquén, which is a middle-of-nowhere landmark town, I decided to start talking to this women who looked about 60 years old with scraggly grey hair because she was one of the few people who had been on the bus since we started in El Bolson. I asked her where she was going and she told me Monte Hermosa, a small town outside of Bahía Blanca, that happened to be the hometown of P-Mac's current club, El Nacional de Monte Hermosa.

I told her that's where I was going to be in a few days because of a really long story which essentially boils down to their basketball team. Her eyes lit up and she told me she was a “fanatico.” I went out on a limb and asked her if she knew of Paul McPherson. Of course she did and she told me he has not played well in his first few games.

Things were already getting out of control. It was 11:45 at night, I was at a bus stop 20 minutes further removed from the official middle of nowhere and I was talking about Paul McPherson with a 60-year-old Argentine woman named Nené.

For the next half hour of the bus ride I sat next to Nené and asked her a million questions about her team, her town and anything else my tired, El-Bolson-ed brain could translate into Castellano. I got her phone number and told her I would call her when I got into town.

Ten hours later we arrived in Bahía Blanca, I gave Nené a hug and kiss and told her I would see her soon. Then I walked the bus terminal, trying to find a map so I could try to find the town's only hostel. Then a young guy with a thin beard and dark brown hair looked at me and said “Justin?”

Even though I had no idea he would be there, Marquitos, who I had only spoken to in e-mail, was waiting at the terminal for my bus to arrive nine in the morning. He gave me a ride to my hostel because he didn't have any room for me at his place. He made sure I was set up alright and then dipped off to his university.

I dropped my bags off and began to explore Bahía Blanca (which translates to White Bay) and quickly learn that the bay was not close and the town did not have much to offer. Even the people who worked at the hostel told me there was nothing to see in the town. On the way to my hostel Marquitos pointed out the old stadium of El Nacional. El Nacional used to play in Bahía Blanca, but three years ago the town of Monte Hermosa bought the squad, so they now travel the 45-minute bus ride to Monte Hermosa to play one game a week. The team still practices and lives in Bahía Blanca.

I walked two blocks from my hostel to the stadium, which was located in the middle of the city block and did not look like much of a stadium from the outside. A janitor let me in the building and I walked through the dark, decrepit building before reaching the basketball court. At first I passed a room full of antique looking gymnastics equipment. Then I entered a dark empty café with plaid red round tables, four blank walls with the exception of a mural which showed the head of a woman who looked like an 1980s pop star popping out of a Boca Juniors shield. Finally I walked through a narrow hallway into the basketball court. Much of the wood was warped and all of the painted lines were faded. Cracked concrete surrounded the immediate perimeter of the court and the locker rooms resembled prison cells. There were enough wooden bleachers to seat maybe 100 tightly packed people.

“This is no place for a hero like Paul McPherson,” I thought. Then I talked to a secretary who worked in the office above the gymnastics room and learned that El Nacional does not actually play any games there any more. I felt very relieved for P-Mac.

Chapter 14

I woke up the next morning and decided it was time to set an end date to my travels. I crunched some important numbers and figured out where I could go, how much it would cost and if I would be able to continue to eat three meals a day. I started to get travel stress. A weird kind of stress that only exists for people traveling for months at a time. I was starting to get aggravated with my planning my trip and figuring out where I should go. Then I remembered that I am getting upset about where to vacation for the next month and that I could not lose with any of my options.

I finally got out of the hostel and headed to the airplane ticket office to buy a ticket from Ushaia, the southern most town in the world, back to Buenos Aires. I was making a commitment for once on my trip and I was nervous.

I switched out of my sweatpants, I'm not sure why but it helped me feel better about myself, and walked to the office. Then after all the build up. Cerrado. Closed. Of course, this is Argentina who would want to make travel plans on a weekend? I went with plan B: exploring the very touristy town of Bariloche and then going over to the hostel where Carlos, my friend from the mountain refuge, worked with hopes of getting high. Like I said it had been a stressful morning and I needed a way to relax. Because sitting in the park and looking at this view on a perfect day just wasn't enough for me.


After trying out a slew of chocolate samples from the tourist-catching stores I made it to the hostel where Carlos told me he worked. I had no intentions of staying there, I just wanted to kick it with Carlos. He was there and invited me in the hostel backyard to play a futbol game with his friends. We played the game for half an hour until Carlos, like I anticipated, decided we should all take a smoke break. God bless him. We talked about Argentine sports and politics for an hour and drank a lot of soda pop before the group disbanded.

I sat in the park next to the lake for a while longer just wondering if life could get any better. I then went home and checked my e-mail and learned it was about to get frighteningly better.

I received an e-mail a few days earlier from a guy named Marquitos, telling me he found my blog and that I should come to Bahía Blanca (a city in the southwest of the province of Buenos Aires) to check out some basketball. I knew nothing of Bahía Blanca other than the fact that it was the hometown of NBA star Manu Ginobili. I thanked Marquitos for reading the site, but told him Bahía Blanca was not in my travel itinerary.

Then in perhaps the most important e-mail of my life Marquitos told me one Paul McPherson was just traded to a team which plays in Bahía Blanca. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. I raced through a bunch of online news articles as fast as my 56.6 kilobyte-per-second connection would allow and confirmed that P-Mac himself had magically landed in the same country I had been living in for the past four months. Marquitos was my new favorite person ever.

It was all too much too handle. I ran over to my fake parents hotel to tell them the great news and celebrate over a bottle of cheap red wine. After dinner and two more bottles of wine I still had trouble sleeping. I woke up at 4 in the morning and couldn't fall back asleep. My favorite player ever was now within reach. I was finally close to finding Paul McPherson. This must be what it feels like for foster kids who are finally going to meet their biological parents. Will he like me? Will he know about my blog? What kind of guy will he be? I hope he's cool.

I couldn't fall asleep. I was way too excited. Plus I was pretty sure the guy who drunkenly returned to the room at 4:30 in the morning was masturbating.

Closer...

Recently a reader from France named Fab informed us that Paul McPherson was playing in his own backyard on the French team Hyères-Toulon. While we now know where Paul McPherson is, the blog will not be complete until I personally interview him.

In the mean time I decided to have a little Q&A with the French P-Mac fan Fab. It's not the best Q&A ever because of the language barrier and some answers were slightly edited to improve their English fluidity.

WPM: How long have you been a basketball fan?

Fab: A very long time.

W: What got you into basketball?

F: I've started to play basketball in 1988.

W: Do you watch the NBA often?

F: Yes, I watch NBA on my TV. But, the games are so late that it's very tough.

W: Who is your favorite NBA player now/of all time?

F: My favorite player is Kobe Bryant but Michael Jordan was the best...

W: What division is Hyères-Toulon in?

F: Hyères-Toulon (HTV) plays in the first division of French league (ProA). It's a good team with good players.

W: Who is your favorite player on Hyères-Toulon and why?

F: My favorite player is Sean Colson. He played with the Houston Rockets and he's the best point guard of the championship. He is a good friend of Paul Mcpherson.
W: Are their games on television?

F: Yeah, on French tv (Sport+). During the competition "Semaine des As", there were a lot of NBA scouts and television stations from all over Europe covering the game. There is a young player named Alexix Ajinca who should play in the NBA next season.

W: I read that Paul McPherson joined the team in December, how effective has he been on the team?

F: He's a good player, but he plays bad. Last week, he scored 21 points. I hope that he could play good to the end of the season.

W: How much playing time does he get?

F: He plays 20 minutes during a game.

W: Has he had any amazing plays for the team?

F: No, he plays slowly. It's crazy because before games, he always shows off with very big dunks.

W: Are there any good Paul McPherson quotes from local media or any good McPherson stories.

Are there any other great, possibly former NBA players in the league?

F: Not really. He has two nicknames in the media. "The Body" and "Godzilla."
Additionally, Bruce Bowen, Tony Parker, Boris Diaw, Mike Pietrus, Johan Petro and Udonis Haslem played in the French league.

Finally here are some dope pics Fab sent me:
Paul 1, Paul 2, Paul 3, Paul 4, Paul 5, Paul 6, Paul 7, Paul 8, Paul 9, Paul 10.

Reasonable Doubt

I assured you in my last post that Where's P-Mac would never forget its roots, but some see my increased posting on GOAZCATSBLOG.com as a sign that I have given up the quest to find P-Mac.

Here is an e-mail from my friend/long-time reader/first-time caller Gould aka G-Money aka Gouldfinger aka Gouldini doubting my efforts to find Paul McPherson (for the record the e-mail was sent to another one of my friends and then forwarded to me):


All good things must come to an end. The Suns seem to be on the downside of their "great" run the past 4 years. Brett Favre retired. And now a true great explorer has also thrown in the towel on what could have been one of the greatest discoveries ever made by man. This explorer/historian must be considered amongst the greats of his field, Chris Columbus, Jacque Custo, Lewis and Clark, Indiana Jones....Justin Adler.

If you haven't (I'm sure you have) already checked out his new stuff on azcatsblog (or something like that) you should. Still classic. Not the same but still classic. Despite stating otherwise I fear this might be the beggining of the end of the ever important search for Paul McPherson.

McPherson's finding would easily have ranked amongst the greatest discoveries. Indiana finding Jesus' cup of eternal life, Columbus finding the free world Lewis and Clark (I think) mapped out a lot of the western USA and of course how could we forget the importance of Mr. Custo who...come to think of it I have no idea what Jacque Custo did, maybe something on boats, but that really doesn't matter as its overwhelmingly obvious that finding a gemstone as rare as Paul McPherson would have elevated Mr. Adler to the Mount Rushmore of explorers.

I take my 40 oz. and pour a lil out for my dead homie, that being the dream of Mr. Adler and Mr. McPherson meeting face to face, and I now take a large sip and wonder what the future holds for Where's P-mac...

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Available for immediate release:

TUCSON, Ariz. — Wherespmac.com has officially sold all University of Arizona-related blogs to GOAZCATSBLOG.com. Where's Paul McPherson will still update occasionally with random posts honoring silly rappers, washed-up athletes and other WPM-approved items.

WPM's primary mission will not change, as we are still very much in the hunt for Paul McPherson and anybody with any contact information is encouraged to contact Justin Adler. In other words, Fab holla back at me.

-End release-

OK, basically a while ago, I bad-mouthed the shit out of GOAZCATS.com and not everything I said was accurate to put it nicely in my favor. After ranting about GOAZCATS.com, the site's president, Jim Storey e-mailed me. Long story short, I was offered a job as their chief blogger. If I had known job opportunities were as simple as talking shit about someone, I probably would have disrespected Google or Nike.

Regardless I am definitely happy to be blogging for GOAZCATS.com as I will be gaining more readers and earning a couple of bucks never hurts either. Plus I have a lot more access and we have a lot of big ideas already planned for the new blog.

Check it all out as I have invested a lot of time in writing for their/my site and I consider it to me some of my finest work to date. GOAZCATSBLOG.com

For those of you who have been loyal Where's P-Mac fans over the year and a half I appreciate all the support and your time. I will try to update the site at least once a week, but I will definitely be blogging a couple times a week for GOAZCATSBLOG.com, so please add that to your favorites.

Also for those of you who are just craving more Justin Adler writing you can read my throw-away blog (probably a sign I have too many blogs) for my journalism class here. Again don't expect much from it as it gets no more than 20 minutes a week of work.

The best e-mail ever

I just got this e-mail and it made my day/month/year.

Hello Justin,

I am a fan of basketball. I saw that you are a fan of Paul McPherson.

P-Mac play with my team in France (Hyères-Toulon Var Basket).

But, he plays very bad. He could leave the team tomorrow...

look this link, it's Paul : http://htv83.free.fr/gallerie/albums/userpics/10001/HTV-Elan-PAU-12-01-08-057.jpg

Holla

Fab.

Found. Part I

“I couldn’t understand it. I was so fucking mad. They traded me and Corie Blount for Vinny Del Negro. I was like, ‘Get the fuck out of here…Vinny Del Negro!?’”

-Paul McPherson

Found. Finally. I saw the YouTube videos, so I knew he was in Europe, but still I hadn't heard a word about Paul McPherson in forever. Someone left an anonymous (Ted Danson?) comment on one of my posts a while ago letting me know Dime Magazine had a spot on P-Mac and I just now was able to comprehend it any put in on my site.

To start I guess I should probably explain why the blog is called "Where's Paul McPherson?" I guess it's kinda weird that I've had the blog up for not quite a year and ever offered an explanation for the name.

I was in 8th grade when I first saw P-Mac play in an exhibition game with the Phoenix Suns against the Lakers. I remember being in awe as this 6'2'' man, built like Brian Dawkins, wearing the magic number 23 was doing insane dunks in the lay-up lines pre-game. I rooted for him the entire game in the limited minutes he saw. I remember telling my brother, "I hope they put McPherson back in." I remember watching him back down Robert Horry before fading away and hitting nothing but net. I'll never forget when he got a break-away dunk and tried to tear the rim off the backboard.

The whole season I was P-Mac's number 1 fan, I'd always check the box score in the paper, looking to see what it said aside McPherson. Unfortunately he spent most of it in coach Scott Skiles' dog house, which didn't help his stats or highlights. That didn't stop P-Mac from making ridiculous plays whenever he was in the game. My friend JT and I still bring up the "God Play" whenever we hang out. The "God Play" went like this: 2 seconds on the clock, someone lobs it down court to P-Mac, he catches it in the air on the right side of the hoop, gracefully floated under the hoop and hit the reverse lay-up as he fell to the ground. It wasn't a game-winner, but if you saw the video and were a P-Mac fan, it was the greatest 2 seconds (6 seconds with slow-mo replay) of your life. I'd estimate that JT and I tried to emulate the "God Play" at least 100 times on a 7-foot hoop, making only a couple.

Then midway through the season they traded P-Mac, along with Corie Blount to Golden State for Vinny Del Negro. Aside from the day my parents got divorced and when the '95 Magic knocked the Bulls out of the play-offs, this was the worst day of my life.

We traded Paul McPherson, who had an NBA tattoo on his bicep and could jump out the gym for some lame white guy that looks like he should be asking you if you need help finding a printer at Staples. What the fuck?!

P-Mac bounced around the league, never really logging a minute and apparently picking up an assault, gun and drug charge in the process.

In my freshman year of high school, during what P-Mac called the "darkest years of my life" in the Dime article, P-Mac joined the ABA's Phoenix Eclipse. This was after the ABA came back for the first time and before it folded for a second time, although now it's strangely back again. It's that kinda league. The Eclipse played in the Suns old arena, Veterans Memorial Coliseum.

JT and I went to the game an hour early in hopes of meeting P-Mac and getting autographs. For $5 we had tickets right behind the Eclipse bench and we met P-Mac pre-game. He was cool as hell as he talked to us both and gave us autographs. I am pretty sure he was just happy to know someone was watching him outside his family and friends.

P-Mac was killing people the whole game, but I will never forget when P-Mac caught an oop, as he jumped from outside the key, hurdled a defender and threw it down with two hands. P-Mac was/is that godly and that is why I'll always love him.

The Eclipse, with the rest of the ABA went down hill quickly and soon they were playing at local high schools. After the Eclipse season, we never heard from P-Mac again.

P-Mac if you're reading this or any of your family or friends are, e-mail me, justinadler1@gmail.com, so we can do an interview. Thanks for inspiring the blog and the eye patch and pirate hat on the banner is just seasonal.