"I'd be throwing the rubble... on YOU."

I've spent a short amount of time (actually check that- an inordinate amount of time) researching the career of Mr. Marshall R. Teague, better known to Road House fans as the fabulous pool-cue-vaulting Jimmy. I must say- you need to check it out. Click here. I'll wait.

Now, keep that in a window and follow along with me. He begins his career doing one-off TV appearances as peripheral characters, as I'm sure many middling-to-low-end actors do. No big surprises there, except... Look at the resume. An episode of Knight Rider opposite Hasselhoff. 3 (count 'em- 3) episodes on The Fall Guy opposite Lee Majors. An episode of The A-Team, in which he must have almost certainly run into Mr. T. A little of this, a little of that, right? Next comes an episode of Moonlighting with Bruce Willis, an episode of Who's the Boss with Tony Danza, an episode of Quantum Leap with some Bakula thrown in for good measure. Wait, there's more! He's been seen hangin' with Peter Falk on Columbo, making jetpacks out of Silly String and paperclips with Richard Dean Anderson on MacGyver, and then cruising the beaches with his old friend, Kaiser Hasselhoffenstein, on Baywatch. After a sci-fi interlude on two different Star Treks, Babylon-5, Stargate SG-1, and Sliders, and two separate daytime soap opera runs, and a consistent military current running throughout his career, he's still found the time in recent years to buddy up with Chuck Norris on Walker: Texas Ranger and apparently hold a consistent role on a show called American Heiress which a) had a 65-episode run and b) I've never in my life seen nor heard of.

Why do I mention all this? No reason, really, except that it's kind of awesome. I like the idea of a guy slumming around Hollywood looking for roles that require Badassitude (TM). I also like the idea of (the original) Michael Knight, Lee Majors as The Six Million Dollar Man, B.A. Baracus (and Hannibal, for that matter), Bruce Willis as Bruce Willis, Tony Micelli, Dr. Sam Beckett, MacGyver, and Chuck Norris as Chuck Norris all cast together in some sort of intertwined plot, like a comic-book crossover of bad-to-middling 1980's TV. If Don Johnson could be involved, my head might explode. If the Duke Boys could be involved, all of our heads might explode. Maybe Mr. Teague is the guy that can bring them together. Maybe his buddy Patrick Swayze can help. And maybe Sam Elliot will stop by for a beer, too. I love when a plan comes together.

As for Jimmy... What is there to say? He's not the prime source of evil in the movie... He's just the most hilarious. I'm not going to re-hash the intricacies of the plot, the subtlety of the acting, or the inherent philosophy of the script. I will say: this movie has bar fights, blind guitarists, boobs, filthy language, power drinking, explosions, guns, explicit sex, boobs, drug use, Sam Elliot, blond doctors, kung-fu, monster trucks, murder, boobs, moments of zen, guns, knives, sharp sticks... And a record for most memorable quotes in a single movie script until it was eclipsed by The Big Lebowski in 1998.

As for me... Well, the hits just keep on comin'. Let me channel my inner "cooler" for a moment...

Dalton: Take the biggest guy in the world, shatter his knee and he'll drop like a stone.

Yeah, my knee still hurts.

Jimmy: (after Dalton rips his throat out with his bare hand) Cough..gurgle... squish.

Yes, for the nth consecutive big moment in my athletic career, I've managed to catch a cold before the most important event of that given season. I had bronchitis for the junior year football playoffs. I was sniffling before my senior year district wrestling meet. And now, my landlardass has decided to take his sweet time fixing the boiler so my apartment doesn't have any heat. I'm making do by turning my stove on while I'm awake in my apartment; not exactly fire-safe or efficient, I'm sure, but it at least gives me some satisfaction knowing that instead of footing my own heating bill via electric space heaters, I'm burning the natural gas that he pays for. I have high hopes that the bill I'll never see will be four times what he would have paid had he just fixed the damn boiler.

This doesn't change the fact that on Wednesday I woke up with a scratch in my throat. Or that Thursday I wanted to die. Or that now, even as I feel myself getting over the cold, I realize that the last day I exercised in any real fashion was Tuesday, on which I did 6 miles on the elliptical machine and spent the next two days hobbling around not because of my knee but because, apparently, the elliptical works my calves a wee bit more than they're used to. Now I'm terrified of doing anything, running or otherwise, for fear of sabotaging the few parts of my body that actually function correctly.

Other than that, everything's peach.

As for the booze this week, Tim peer-pressured me into 4 1/2 beers during the debacle of college quarterbacking that was the OSU-PSU tilt on Saturday. I followed that with two beers at TK2k8. 6 miles elliptical, 6 1/2 beers... Well, TK, happy birthday. I lost this week for you.

Which brings us to Marathon Week. The above might lead you to believe that I'm not feeling very good about what's to come on Sunday. Your conclusion would be half-right; in truth, I'm dreading it. My knee won't be ready and my lungs will likely be compromised. On the other hand, I've put in the work. I know it. I was ready three weeks ago, I'm just a bit less ready now. It's going to hurt a bit more than I'd hoped. But it's going to get done.

So I've thought about villains for this week, the week leading up to the Hours of Truth. Jose Mesa came to mind as a potential object of bile. Realistically, though, I feel like the constant vitriol aimed at his person by the City of Cleveburgh after his 1997 World Series Game Seven blown save, effectively ruining his confidence, his career, and his marriage (well, I heard Carlos Baerga had more to do with that than Cleveland)... Well, that's enough punishment for a one-out sac fly. More appealing is John Elway, who managed to seemingly single-handedly browbeat the best Browns teams of my lifetime in 3 of 4 AFC championship games, only to crap the bed each time in the Super Bowl. He then went on to become THE John Elway, modern superhero, much like Bill Belichick has become THE Bill Belichick, coaching genius, after he laid waste to the Browns of the early-to-mid '90s. Then there's Art Modell, soulless millionaire, Michael Jordan, greatest player ever (at Craig Ehlo's expense), Dennis Kucinich, D-bag...

And then.. it hit me. There's really only one person I'm running against. And it isn't Petrov.

It's me.

Welcome to Matuska Week. More to come as the muse suits. Stay cool- you know I will.