Potpourri: The Stuff of Nightmares

It's more dried stinky stuff (That's potpourri to you.). This is what happens when I wake up agitated.

I'm reading a sub-par detective novel and fell asleep with it in the wee hours. It's a John Sandford book -- Hidden Prey. Without giving away the plot, let me just say that there is a "cell" of old school Communists hanging out in a small town in Minnesota -- Sandford's hero, Lucas Davenport, resides in Minnesota, and is something of a "fixer" for the governor. Anyway, there's this sleeper cell, and a bunch of confused Communists, also one or two assassins -- the most interesting still in high school, obsessed with boobies.

So there is that percolating in my head.

Also, I became somewhat upset earlier in the evening, after watching the Clijsters/Williams match. [Aside: Please note that my customary role as jinx and source of mala fortuna did not come into play; That is, my favored athlete did manage to win, albeit not in a way she, or anyone, liked overly much.]

Actually, I was babbling even before Serena was subjected to that IDIOTIC foot-fault call by The Timid and Conniving LinesWoman. No, the smashing of her racket at the end of the first set didn't set me off -- surprising, I know, given my reaction to Gonzalez yesterday.

No... it was Wozniacki's tennis dress. She is the second woman in the tournament to be a fashion disaster in what can only be described as a Failed Dropped-Waist Contraption. And it was beige. Ecru, if you like. Sand. Café con leche. Whatever.

All that beige really brought out Caroline's pale visage and blond hair.

Yes, I know that the dress is from the new fall/winter Adidas line by Stella McCartney. It certainly does not look bad on Wozniacki, a beautiful girl. But imagine it on your average woman. Imagine it on La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, for instance.

I'm sorry. No, I'm not! It reminds me so much of a schoolgirl's jumper, deliberately ugly, with a band that bisects the wearer at precisely her widest point. Oh, and then let's amplify that impression with... RUFFLES. Quite the philosophical construction -- all business up top, very hip, spare, monosyllabic, c'est-à-dire masculine -- and all fluff down below, very flouncy, excessive, babbling, c'est-à-dire feminine. Oh, the dichotomy. Oh, my. My.

Again, put The Castafiore in it and suddenly even the umpire would be howling "Foul! Foul! Fashion fault!" Alternatively, the tennis audience would cry out, in alarming syncopation, "My eyes! My eyes!"

In fairness, or at least in equal time, Wickmayer seemed to be wearing something terribly... polyester. It was shiny, an ugly blue. She was brought to us by Nike, I believe. That's a big negatory to Nike. Wickmayer even suffered from that well-known phenomenon of the inner pocket which tunnels its way out of the tight shorts to hang below the leg line. Yes, that well- known phenomenon. Did I mention polyester? [Shhh! Yes, I know that fabric has come a long way, that there's a wicking action, and blahblahblah. It's still POLYESTER and POLYESTER will always be, for me, a failed sign of the failed seventies.]

Anyway.

I also dreamed about George Carlin, and the "seven dirty words you can never say on television." Just to get it out of the way, those words are --

Shit
Piss
Fuck
Cunt
Cocksucker
Motherfucker
Tits

Purists will remember that "motherfucker" constitutes a duplication, so for some, Carlin's bit is better known as "the six dirty words you can never say on television -- with an asterisk."

Now, I figure that the events of the evening were still at play in my dreams, because Carlin is not someone about whom I would normally build castles in Spain.

I was absolutely enraged on behalf of Serena Williams, even though I know that, technically, the supervisor had no recourse but to follow the rules, and the rules are clear enough. Technically, Serena behaved badly and got her just deserts, made her bed, and got what she deserved.

Still... what idiot makes a foot fault call (and makes it erroneously, making me really wonder about her motivations) in what appeared to be the final game of a semi-final professional tennis match? And, I swear, if one reviews the film, one sees a slight smirk on the face of the Dweeb Lineswoman, as she cowers behind the ref and the supervisor.

Remember Marat Safin, and his cool response to a foot fault call? Let me refresh your memory:



In short, my latest oneiric experiences seem to be an apt commentary -- crazed assassins running around in odd flouncy beige polyester leisure suits ... murdering lineswomen, especially of the Dweeb variety.

I have never been very complicated.

*I want to say that I've long been a fan of Brian Earley, the chief U.S. Open ref, and know that he must have felt very conflicted last night -- though he would never say it...