In fourth grade he published the weekly-ish Mike’s Magazine. Thrilling recaps of intramural floor hockey at Edwards Elementary and the obituary of a decent goldfish.
“Sure is Mike’s Magazine,” his parents observed. “All about you.”
Stung, McCormick considered covering Barbara’s stripping and staining of antique furniture, or Bill’s controversial decision to plant watermelon that far north. But those stories never ran.
Who knew—in the 70s, in Montana—that the ego motivating Mike’s Mag would become uber modal? Who foresaw this culture of tweeting presidents and the Instagram Famous, of which McCormick’s hundred little words is such a faint echo?