The Colonel T Show

In order to maximize your enjoyment of this story, I must first tell you that Elizabeth’s favorite baseball player in the whole world is Sandy Alomar Jr. This was true when he played for the Indians, and remains true today as he plays for the White Sox. If Sandy is batting on television, everyone in the room must be silent. If we are at a game and Sandy is batting, the entire section must clam up.

So it wasn’t entirely out of left field when she called me from work today to ask “How tall is Sandy Alomar, Jr?” I figured she just wanted to talk about him. Maybe she was bored and needed a pick-me-up.

A quick ESPN.com search revealed that Sandy Alomar Jr is 6-foot-5, and that he earned $700,000 last year. I asked Elizabeth why she needed this information.

“Because,” she said, “I’m 99% sure he just walked into the store. I greeted him, and now I’m helping him and his wife shop for furniture.”

Now, as many of you know, Elizabeth did the majority of Jim Thome’s Christmas shopping at Gander Mountain three years ago. She sat in the back of the store with him for hours, talking with him and doing all his gift wrap too. Elizabeth is crazy-cool in these situations. She doesn’t freak out, and keeps the conversation light.

So if indeed this was Sandy Alomar, that means Elizabeth has personally served nearly 23% of the 1995 Cleveland Indians starting lineup.

2.5 hours later, Elizabeth calls me back. She informs me she has completed a sale to one “Santos Alomar.” Elizabeth and Sandy traded stories about Cleveland and Chicago, neighboorhoods and traffic, families and friends. The only time baseball came up was at the very end, when Elizabeth was collecting his address, phone number, and payment information. He asked her “Do you need my name?” And Elizabeth replied, “No, I know who you are.”

His wife wants Elizabeth to “come over” and finish designing some rooms in their house. And as they were leaving, Sandy called out “Bye Elizabeth! Thank you and see you later!”

How is Elizabeth not shaking? I am shaking. This is why she is cool, and I am not. What are the odds of this happening? Not only does he walk into her furniture store, but the designers all rotate customers. She was “up” just as he came in. It’s extraordinary – 40 people work in that building.

Now why can’t William Shatner come into my office and ask for tax software?

…will anyone bother to tune in next week?

They left Leo lying in the woods. Left him to die in the woods. IN THE WOODS. What has happened to this show and these characters is an absolute tragedy, and it makes me nauseous and angry and I know it’s only television, but it’s one of the only shows I watch and it used to be perfect.

I quote Ma-Sheen from several years back:

Do you have a best friend? Is he smarter than you? Do you trust him with your life? Make him your Chief of Staff.

The man who said that no longer exists. Feh. Enough said.

In other news, the Movie Meter will exist here, and I’ll also have a link for it on the side of this page. My initial test seemed to work — there are some formatting issues I have to resolve over the weekend, but it should be good to go by Monday.

I just spent the last three hours rearranging my entire office. I unhooked every last piece of electronic equipment, moved furniture, hooked everything back up, and miraculously it all still works.

So I’m tired and I’m not going to write much tonight. I’ll make it up tomorrow. Besides, the feng shuificiation of my office will be conducive to lengthier, more insightful entries. I’m doing it for you, true believers.

As part of this office renewal program, I went through a massive stack of old papers. Six reams worth, easily. I generally come back from business trips and dump everything that’s in my backpack onto a shelf. Hence the six reams. Tonight I found training manuals I wrote back in the seventies, when I was teaching in Taipei as part of the “L’il Slugger Trainer Exchange Program”.

FYI, I’ve got an idea about converting the Movie Meter over. Because Blogspot gives us the power to edit all the HTML that lies beneath, I might be able to start a second blog just for the Movie Meter. I would maintain the code in my perfectly legal and unpirated version of Dreamweaver, and copy/paste it into the blog. That’s the theory, at least. The Movie Meter was easily the most popular feature of the old Colonel T.com, and it seems criminal to deny it to you any longer.

With that, I present another Movie Meter blurb:

14 – Anchorman

Without a doubt, the funniest movie I have seen in the 21st century. The trident gag is my favorite — possibly the best trident gag in the history of cinema.

My beloved Cleveland Browns fell to the Philadelphia Eagles 34-31 in overtime today. A heartbreaking loss, to be sure, but I’m proud of my boys and how they played. Donnie McNabb and Terrell Owens will be the NFC representatives in the Super Bowl come January, and we almost took ‘em down. If not for a couple turnovers (and how many times do we have to say that with the Browns?) the day would have been ours.

I called the Browns “beloved”. That word just kind of spilled out of my fingertips. I didn’t even think about it.

I’m 30 years old. In my lifetime, the Browns have had 10 winning seasons, and really, only three of those seasons (86, 87, and 89) were truly glorious ones. All of them ended in the AFC championship game at the hands of the Denver Broncos and their nefarious leader, Horse-Face.

Since then, the Browns have been to the playoffs just twice, once in 1994 and once in 2002. And don’t forget the Browns didn’t even exist between 1996 and 1999.

I remember the 2002 game vividly because Elizabeth and I watched it at the Fairfield Inn here in Geneva. We were house-hunting and took a break to watch the game. That game was a wild shootout, and I spent much of it on the phone with my Dad who remarked that even though we were winning at halftime, he didn’t feel a victory coming. As he often is, he was correct.

Indeed, considering that 2 out of every 3 seasons, the Browns are statistically likely to have a losing season (and indeed 1 out of every 10 seasons the Browns are statistically likely to not exist), why do I remain such a fan? It’s the memories, I suppose. The “Browns Parties” we would have every Sunday at our old house in Hudson.

Mom would make the Triscuits with melted cheddar and bacon bits. I would obsess over Bob Costas and the NBC pre-game show (an obsession that I maintain to this day and is rivaled only by the Shatner obsession). Dad would yell and scream at the television. My favorite warcry was “AL BUBBA BAKER! AL BUBBA BAKER!”, shouted every time the eponymous defensive end would go in for a sack. (Actually, Dad would yell that any time anything good happened regardless of the player involved.) When the inevitable angry swearing would start, Dad was guaranteed to frighten my brother and sister and often me out of the family room.

I remember Dad storming out of the house and down the street when it looked like the Browns were going to lose by a last minute field goal. When the opponent missed that field goal, I had to run down the street to bring Dad back for the rest of the game.

I remember being so devastated by a loss to the Oakland Raiders that I went on a protest march around the dining room table. I think I did 200 laps before I realized no good would come from it, other than blowing off steam.

I remember Browns Simulated Season, and how much fun it was to get drunk on cable access television. I also remember how many times the station forgot to put the tape in, and how angry I got when my family couldn’t see the show.

Being a Browns fan, and really being a Cleveland sports fan in general, is an exercise in extreme frustration, but it’s also about sharing that frustration, and hope, with my family and friends.

I would literally strangle a small woodland creature to death if it meant getting to watch the Browns play in a Super Bowl with my Mom and Dad.

P.S. – In researching the win-loss records, I realized that the Browns have had only eight different starting quarterbacks in my lifetime. I’d have thought it’d be more, but nope, only eight.

I have no memory of Mike Phipps, so my first real Browns quarterback was Brian Sipe. Then there was an interim guy, Paul MacDonald, who took up space before Bernie Kosar. Bernie is who I think of when I think of Browns QB’s — the man had a theme song, for god’s sake. Bernie got shafted by Bill Belichick, who brought in the worthless Vinny Testaverde. Tim Couch (AKA L’il Timmy Couch on my cable show) led the expansion Browns nowhere. Kelly Holcomb started last season, but was injured for most of it. And now we have Jeff Garcia, who loves to drink and date Playmates, just like me. Maybe the eighth guy’s the charm. As always, I’m hopeful, and I’ll be watching until the final snap.

I trimmed my new beard on Friday. The upper-cheek trimming went smoothly. The neck trimming, not so much. I went too high. My team of experts insisted it looked okay during the Saturday meeting, but they’re a bunch of suck-ups and will say anything just for a taste of my approval. I went too high, and I knew it.

My fears were confirmed Saturday night.

I couldn’t sleep, and I was flipping channels. I came across a “Family Ties” episode – the one where Mallory gets a job at a clothing store and it turns out she’s some sort of retail Einstein. The hours are long, though, and her grades slip. So Mallory makes a deal with her parents – if she can score B’s on all her exams, with Alex’s help, she can keep the job. I fell asleep, and I’m I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know what happened. No matter; the intricately woven tapestry that is the plot of this “Family Ties” episode is not the our focus today.

The point is that Steven Keaton’s beard is flawless. If you watch the earliest “Family Ties” episodes, the ones where he doesn’t have a beard, he looks like a freak. The beard makes him whole. Complete. Perfect. Good lord, the women at his public television station must be crawling all over him.

His neckline is exactly what I want my neckline to look like. The problem is this: I’ve got two square inches of neck that are a week behind the rest of my beard. How to catch it up? Sweet Jesus, this is a problem.

Steven Keaton, your beard has driven me crazy. I can only bring myself out of the delirium through haiku:

Hark! It’s Keaton’s beard!
What treasures lie within it?
Probably some corn.

No, no, no. That won’t do at all. How about this one?

Alex P. Keaton
Did not grow a beard. Result?
Parkinson’s Disease.

Oh, I’m so going to burn in Hades. I will quit while I’m ahead.

Someone kindly loan me $200,000. It’s for a good cause.

I write this as I’m cooling down from a 3-mile run. 3 miles is as far as I’ve ever gone, and I’ve only done it once before. I’m sure whomever uses this computer next will appreciate the dried up sweat that I’m releasing all over my chair and keyboard.

I started running regularly during the summer of 2003; “regularly” being defined as three times a week. This summer, I’ve bumped that up to four or five. When we moved to Chicago, I needed something to replace Karate and running seemed as good as anything.

There’s a 1.5 mile loop that goes down my street and up a bike trail; it’s pretty much perfect for running. I’ve also got a 2 mile straight shot down a 4-lane highway that I call “The Borders Run,” since it climaxes in the parking lot of a Borders. Today I was planning one trip around the loop, but I felt so good I did another. That’s the “runner’s high,” I guess. I don’t get it often, so I take advantage of it when I can.

The key to running, for me, is controlling the breathing. Inhale, hold a four count, exhale. It’s another one of those things I learned in karate that I can apply to other aspects of my life. (Kind of like the weight-shifting, power from the Earth thing I discovered 15 holes into my first golf game a few weeks ago.) I don’t know why I didn’t figure this out until I was 30 — controlled breathing would have served me well running the mile in gym class and saved me much ridicule from the gym teachers whom I hate to this day. Not bitter.

The breathing also keeps my mind off the distance and the pain. I don’t run with music. I used to run with a MP3 player and the “Rocky” soundtrack, but I’d find if I didn’t finish before the second chorus of “Living in America” that I’d get discouraged and not run for five days. So it’s just me, my thoughts, and the road. James Brown stays at home.

Hey! A quick trip to a metric conversion website shows that 3 miles is roughly equivalent to 5 kilometers! Don’t people sign up for 5K races? Hmm, maybe next summer? I’d get to wear one of those numbers and everything. I’m taking endorsement offers starting right now.

“The Colonel T 5K” sponsored by Lucky Strike cigarettes. Sounds good to me.

All in all, today (yesterday, now) was a good day.

I helped Elizabeth with one of her school projects, which is an all too rare event. Granted, I merely resized some scanned pictures and printed some captions, but at least it was something. I just looked at the finished product (one of those design boards mounted with fabric and finishes, like the famous designers make on the teevee) and I was absolutely blown away. I have zero talent when it comes to drawing, color, and design — I described one particular fabric as “the one that looks like where Q*Bert takes place.” She has mad skills, my ladyfriend does.

She took time out to watch the end of Game Seven with me. We don’t watch a lot of sports together, but we do share a hatred of the Yankees. We also enjoy pointing out the many Red Sox grooming issues. Johnny Damon’s alone could fill a spiral notebook. More props to Elizabeth for this gem: “The only reason Manny Ramirez is still standing out there is because they told him he’d get a treat when the game’s over.”

She has Saturday off, and we will go see “Team America” even if I have to use chloroform and throw her in the back seat. It’s naked puppets for heaven’s sake.

Other good news: my “mentor” at the unnamed place where I work decided to come back on a part-time, contractual basis. “Mentor” is really the wrong word…it would be more appropriate to call him “the guy who let me pester him with endless stupid questions during my first 18 months of employment.” Regardless, I would not be doing what I’m doing now without his guidance, motivation, and patience. It’ll be good to have him back, even if we are two states apart and working on totally different projects.

Tomorrow (now today) marks the one week anniversary of my not shaving. That’s right! It’s been seven days since I last scraped hair off my chinny-chin-chins. I’m having a team over this weekend to evaluate the progress, and to determine whether I should continue growing it out or abandon the attempt. I’d like to have a beard for the winter. Frankly, I think we’d all like that.

Finally, we’ll have to wait at least another week to see what Leo’s doing alone in the woods, wearing a sport coat, leaning against a tree, making the most god-awful wailing noise you’ve ever heard. Jed made him stay in the White House all night. And did you check out the guns on Will Bailey? Dang.

P.S. – I’m back on the Kerry train again. Something about not seeing or hearing him speak for 48 hours has made him much more palatable. Temporarily, at least. I’ll keep you posted.

I really don’t intend to turn this blog into “Crazy Things I Found on the Internet” but in this case I can’t resist. Just insane.

I hate the Yankees.

I despise the Red Sox.

So is it overstatement for me to say that tomorrow night’s Game 7 could be one of the single greatest sporting events…pretty much ever?

To my Boston readers: How ya holding up?