Malcolm McLean, known to his friends as "Mal" or "Colm" or "Colmover" or "You with the hair," was a mere five years old when his real parents, a pack of wolves, abandoned him in the rural backwater of Whistlewicket, North Carolina. His adopted parents raised him tenderly on a ketchup farm, where he learned to read at the astonishingly early age of ten. One day, following a terrible accident with the ketchup thresher, Malcolm ran inside the farmhouse covered in ketchup and blood, unable to communicate to his parents that he was bleeding all over, because his parents did not speak English on weekdays.

      It was only when his mother noticed the vacant look in his eyes that she assumed he was high, and beat him with a broom handle until he could draw her attention to the wide lacerations on his chest (ever since this incident, Malcolm has had a bitter aversion to manual labor). It was determined that Whistlewicket was not the place for Malcolm, and so he was sent to a distant relative's house in Virginia. Here he learned how to use a typewriter and splice together 16 milimeter film, skills which became obsolete the following Tuesday.

     Following a brief foray into cash register piloting, Malcolm conned his way onto a reality show, where he studied filmmaking by day and canine dentistry by night. After the show's cancellation, he decided it was time to complete his degree, which he began somewhere in the second paragraph. He is currently living in the North Carolina piedmont, where he is completing his final course requirement, with a wistful gleam in his eye.


Malcolm's website– a bastardized contraction of sorts – is so titled because in the course of his life, only one person has spelled his full name correctly on the first try. He is no longer sensitive about it, but he does cringe at the thought of spelling out his web address over the phone. He may be reached via: mclean (at) mcmean dot com.