The Blog Albom

I just wrote that.

That's not right.

The last time the Tigers were in the playoffs, I had yet to appear in Entertainment Weekly.

The last time the Tigers were in the playoffs, I had only made one appearance at the Waldenbooks in Wonderland Mall.

I might have had a color television back then, but I'm not sure.

At any rate, check the current issue of Entertainment Weekly.

:(

http://www.godzilla.stopklatka.pl/hydra.jpg

From a distance, it doesn't look so bad.

Once you pull up, however, you might as well be in a tanning booth stocked with 100 Best Buy fluorescent lights.

Not that I would know anything about tanning booths.

http://image.allmusic.com/00/amg/cov200/drd300/d311/d31182g8ep7.jpg

Reminds me of my prize fighting days.

I miss Mr. Joel's toughness.

It was here that he fought like a champ.

http://image.allmusic.com/00/amg/cov200/drd300/d311/d31182g8ep7.jpg

Reminds me of my prize fighting days.

I miss Mr. Joel's toughness.

It was here that he fought like a champ.

Please be patient with me.

Or maybe Alfred Slote.

Take your pick.

Joe Buck said to me tonight, "It's funny how Ivan Rodriguez has a nickname that doesn't suit him. I should mention that tonight."

Joe Buck is an observant man.

George Harrison: Cloud Nine
Robbie Robertson: Robbie Robertson
John Cougar Mellencamp: The Lonesome Jubilee
Sting: Nothing Like the Sun (not too weird in retrospect)

I suggest you seek me there if you want to discuss this matter.

This would probably be a good time to mention that I'll be at the Borders on Liberty in Ann Arbor on Saturday.

Not very mobile, and with nice hair.

Craig Monroe's wife is named Marilyn.

Think about that for a second.

Alright?

I mentioned these facts, and how they relate to one another, to Tim tonight.

When I told him, he looked confused for a second.

He then reached for a pen and pad, just as Billy Joel would if he were struck by an idea for a song in the middle of the night.

Only, imagine if someone whispered it in his ear.

He really wasn't the one who came up with the idea.

Think about that for a second.

Make that mother.

A special thanks to my crack fact-checking staff.

A little voice slipped through his ears.

"Ooooh for fourrr. Woooooh. Ooooooh for fourrr."

What happened? He had been clutch during the regular season and hit .300.

"Oooooh for fourr. Wooooooh. Oooooh for fourrrr."

Pudge sat up, his forehead damp from cold sweat.

Like a sinker from the very Yankee pitcher who reduced him to a pair of flailing limbs and squinting eyes, the sweat dropped -- from from his brow to his shirt.

"Ooooh for fourrr. Four left on baaaase."

Where was the voice coming from? Whose voice was it?

"Hey, look, Pudgels -- you now have to face Mike Muuuuuussina's devious knuckle cuuuurve."

Pudge likes few things less than being called "Pudgels."

Pudge likes being called "Pudgels" like he likes a lukewarm caramel apple empanada from Taco Bell.

He likes it almost as much as he likes seeing a Jehovah's Witness at his doorstep on a Saturday morning.

He likes it almost as much as he likes being spiked in the eyes.

Needless to say, Pudge was not happy.

And he was sweating, too.

To be continued.