Welcome to Marlinspike Hall, ancestral home of the Haddock Clan, the creation of Belgian cartoonist Hergé.
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Enjoy your stay! There are some fuzzy slippers over there somewhere, too.
Isner is out, losing in a fast, straight-sets match to Thiemo de Bakker, during which the American had no aces -- versus the 113 aces served to Mahut on Tuesday... Wednesday... and Thursday.
Today's match, over in 94 minutes, was the shortest men's match thus far in the 2010 Wimbledon tourney.
I'm surprised he was able to move at all.
For my daily whine: why, oh why, must Clijsters be paired against Henin?
Noteworthy: Mauresmo, very happy, it seems, in her retirement, is coaching Michael Llodra... who lost a close 4 set match to Roddick on Wednesday. Now she can chill and have a little beaujolais on some veranda somewhere.
Funny -- after her win at Antwerp, where someone awarded her a nice bottle, she said, "Tout le monde va penser que je suis alcoolique"!
I haven't been very forthcoming about my picks for this year... I am, to be honest, pretty sick, as well as emotionally drained by nursing Sam-I-Am. He will only rarely take food, and then only small bites from my hand. It is uncomfortable for him to lower his head to a bowl -- so my hands are met in offering every half hour -- a dish of water, a plate with small palatable morsels, treats of all kinds. I will spare you the play-by-play, as it is quite simple: He is a dying cat, much loved and well-cared for, and loving and caring, generously, in his turn. We hope he will turn the corner and live months, maybe years longer, but it does not look likely.
Anyway, I will go with my sentimental favorites -- why not? So that'd be Roddick and Henin. I apologize, in advance, to them -- as I have an extensive history as a Sport's Jinx.
It's more dried stinky stuff (That's potpourrito 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 justdeserts, 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...
I'm not going to blog my way through the U.S. Open the way I tend to with other tourneys.
I'm not.
I'm really not.
It's just that no one in Marlinspike Hall (not even the Feline Four), deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé, will watch tennis with me. College basketball?* You bet. Tennis? No one. That leaves me with but two choices: rapidfire email exchanges with Grader Boob, my darling brother-unit or blogging away my anxious excitement and forcing strangers to live my vicarious angst.
[Truth? Since I lost my mobility, I am often overcome with my many fond memories of spending entire days on the tennis court, and I tend to fall into a big puddle of self-absorbed regret. And don't talk to me about wheelchair tennis. Just don't.]
But I just gotta say: Imagine the difficulty of having to begin play, after two days off, with the score 6-7, 6-6, and in the middle of a tie-breaker! Now imagine you're playing Rafa.
Whew.
I really feel for Fernando Gonzalez -- but I do wish folks wouldn't smash their racquets. And he does it entirely too often. [When did I grow old?]
Okay, one last thing. I hope it isn't the kiss of death, as my rooting tends to jinx the objects of my interest. Don't assign me some anti-American sentiment, but I do hope Kim Clijsters beats Serena.
I'm sure you've been wondering about my relative silence on the premier annual tennis event on U.S. of American soil. Well, wonder no longer (and blame it on a nasty gastrointestinal virus).
There is much to be excited about in the women's draw, what with the return of Kim Clijsters and the excellent play of young Melanie Oudin. Venus is out, but Serena remains. I am not a fan of the sisters -- though I prefer Venus to Serena, if forced to opine. The crowds are going wild for Clijsters -- I think because she is as close to an Honest Player as it gets. What's an Honest Player? An unspoiled person who is gifted -- and who honors the gift with hard work.
Does that make any sense at all?
John Isner managed to piss me off by eliminating Andy Roddick. Were he talented enough to win the tourney, I'd not mind, but he isn't. Yes, I suppose I ought to be more properly upset with Roddick... but I'm not.
But the most exciting thing in the entire tourney thus far?
It seems likely that Rafael Nadal will be wearing (relatively) normal clothes when he faces, and beats, Federer in the final.
No more silly vanity muscle shirts or tweedy capris that make him look all stumpy-legged.
