Memorial Day

This is a repost of my Memorial Day 2009 publication. It resonates, as Grader Boob faces great struggles, and could give a hoot about tennis this year. I miss our annual Brother-Sister exchanges over the various Opens and Wimbledon, etc. But I look forward, as well, to renewing that old tradition next year, and starting some new ones this year.  

Turn, turn, my wheel!  All things must change
To something new, to something strange;
  Nothing that is can pause or stay;
The moon will wax, the moon will wane,
The mist and cloud will turn to rain,
The rain to mist and cloud again,

  To-morrow be to-day.
-- Longfellow, excerpted from "Kéramos"

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[do you recognize the racket to the right? my first, my favorite!]

It's that time of year again, hooray!

Men's Singles Draw

Women's Singles Draw

The greatest joy, though, comes in the form of communication with the Brother-Unit known as Grader Boob. Some siblings talk every Thanksgiving Day, or on birthdays -- The Grader Boob and I arrange our lives around tennis Grand Slam events.

Of course, it is also Memorial Day. (Please to ignore the grinding sound of my shifting gears.) A day of remembrance "of those who died in their country's service."

There are so many ways of dying, but I won't belabor the obvious -- nor mention the scrambled grey matter of the walking brain-injured, the stress-disordered, the illusionless.

When I was in high school, the adults around me thought I was a phenomenal writer. No, I was a phenomenal people-pleaser, terribly hyphenated.

We had to write an essay for English class, and "the best" was to be submitted in the local VFW lodge's Memorial Day Essay Contest.

I wrote something that was very good, that was quite facile, as all discussions of war and death ought to be. It's not the most subtle of things.

Not Crispus Attucks, killed during the Boston Massacre -- not anyone whose name we know and parrot -- just someone -- that's who figured in my essay. SumDood. Killed -- and Killer -- in the Revolutionary War.

He's not "just a boy." He's not a white-haired geezer. He is intelligent and understands the theories and desires behind the idea of revolution (but not the red coats and ramrod-straight lines of his purported enemies).

Reality is a lot like a very bad movie.

He faces off, squares his body to the face and the body mirrored back at him -- though he has no bayonet, he is just as well-equipped for this ridiculous point-and-shoot exercise -- fish in a barrel.

There was a lot of lyrical writing at that point, ephemeral and awful.

I brought the boys, the men, to the moment of firing their guns. Muskets. Weapons.
Water Balloons. Slingshots. Whatever.

Not bullets, but balls.

The average soldier armed with a smoothbore flintlock musket was expected to fire off a shot every 20 seconds.

What was he doing in those 20 seconds? A lot.

According to the Continental army training manual, there were 13 steps to firing a musket. In short, a soldier had to get a cartridge, tear it open with his teeth, put a little bit of powder in the firing mechanism, put the rest of the powder and a gun ball down the barrel, ram the ball and powder home, cock the musket and fire.

The musket was not an accurate weapon, so even after all that work, the soldier didn’t have the greatest chance of shooting his intended target.

I've always loved the mathematical notion of The Limit, and felt it could find no better bastardized application than that of an ever-approaching, never-arriving bullet. Ball. Buckshot.

Whatever.

Death by some projectile or other, tossed about by generally nice young men, scared, but not scared enough. Those wise enough to not be found in front of a gun were safely closeted somewhere, designing the raids, envisioning the massacres, ordering the taking of a hill, a lane, a town, signing treaties, drawing up important documents, sometimes weeping and proud. Yes, but.

Yes, but probably more mindful than your average war-mongers, the cause being just and all.

We certainly are thankful for the sacrifice.

My essay did not so much end as fizzle, extinguish, tire of the wait. In it, the two shooters actually manage to see one another, to wonder -- a bit -- at the other's world. In my essay, one shot was enough to kill -- but the moment managed to stay an eternity.

In that same moment are men and women dying today -- and I am forever out of high school, undefeated on the tennis team, voted most improved at almost everything, french-kissing that enlisted boy with the cystic acne (in the park across from school, remember the smell of autumn leaves, a smokey sky, the unfiltered Camel), making out with the pitcher on the baseball team the very first night of Junior/Senior weekend (sloe gin fizz), happy as a clam, they tell me later, running running running into the surf, screaming because I always knew The Limit was just a construct for snotty kids hiding behind an education.

Please God, don't let it be my "way of life" or "freedoms" for which they fall.

Please don't allow that Crap Thought, that neat turn of phrase, to gain more of a hold.

I so look forward to speaking with The Grader Boob, to laughing, to bolstering my picks for the semis, for the championship. To forgetting the shrunken men at the VFW lodge, long dead now, who called me "honey," and gave me a $500 U. S. Savings Bond.

Fly Boys

Poor, dear Buddy remains captionless in his recent dead-eye photo.  He looks absolutely devastated, but then, he always looks absolutely devastated.

When I was in high school, I was extremely bored, extremely obsessed with tennis, and determined to develop a reputation as a bad ass.  The tennis obsession was hard to hide, impossible to discourage, and resulted in being undefeated during my entire three-years on the team.  Of course, I played #6 singles and #3 doubles, so how hard could it have been, right?  We fervently "stacked the deck," but not in my case.  Our number 3 in singles was actually our number one, and our number 5 was actually our number 2 or 3, depending on how hard her week was.

She was, for a while, my best friend.  Her name was Teresa.  I thought she was beautiful, with long straight hair that looked professionally streaked, but wasn't.  She walked with a lilt, sort of took a little bounce when she pushed off the ground with her big toe.  Her face was very plain, but so was mine, so I thought she looked pretty.  Her father took a long time to die of lung cancer.  He was career military, air force, a flight mechanic, and somehow I thought that all meant that they were being taken care of.  Her mom worked a lot.  Her dad lived in a brown plaid recliner -- which would not recline -- with an oxygen tank hung over the back left of that Archie Bunker chair.  It struck me as odd, even knowing how sick he was, that I never saw him in uniform, be that a zip-up flight suit, overalls, blues.  No name tags, no decorations.  Their oven never seemed to be in working order, they did not leave each other notes, and tended to rarely look one another in the eye when conversing, and most conversations ended "okay, okay, okay."

They didn't have a lovely calligraphic version of Royal Canadian Air Force's John Magee's sonnet, "High Flight," beautifully framed and subtly spotlighted.  Some kids learn Bible verses by heart as their earliest accomplishment in Rote.  Not I, though I tended to stop, sometimes suddenly, sometimes joyfully, half way through the fifth line.  When my father built his "dream" house, with his "dream" study, the poem was hung behind his ominous desk, and carefully offset by fine photos, finely framed in matching dark woods, of all the "birds" he'd ever flown.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of --Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

I've wondered sometimes, as I have become a decrepit piece o' crap, myself, if it wasn't so much that the butt ugly chair would not recline as it was that Teresa's Dad's arms and legs had become either too weak or too mavericky to make the darned thing obey.  I have what used to be a lovely leather recliner, bought at the suggestion of MDVIP Go-To-Guy, back when my right leg started to go really, really bad.  The cats loved it, and I was stupid enough to think I could train them quickly and well enough not to want to arch their tight little backs and stretch those claws luxuriously into that leather.  I used the cats as my Frustration Referent because I was too embarrassed to admit that my legs couldn't push the chair into position.  Structurally, there's not a thing wrong with the chair, and I even bought a cheap (but cute!) matching ottoman to make up for my physical inability to make it metamorphose... but I am embarrassed by how it looks.

He was something of a dedocated dick, as some men are, but he was her father, and so Teresa lived a life of hard work, kept her head down, helped her Mom, cared for her younger siblings, and somehow managed to keep everyone's hands and minds off of her tennis.

I would pick her up, a quick beep on the ominous horn of my 1965 baby blue pristine Cadillac, and she'd come bouncing down the front concrete steps, neat as a pin in one of her three tennis outfits.  She had two white, classic tennis dresses that she reserved for competition and a pair of white shorts to practice in -- like most everyone, really, except that she alternated the same two tee shirts, one orange, one blue, both plain, advertising nothing.  She wore Tretorn tennis shoes with incredibly white anklets.  She was the first person I knew who was completely sold on Yonex rackets.  Her racket made my shots sit up, begging to be clobbered.  In her hands?  She was the Queen of Spin, deadly at the net.  And yet she had one of the flattest serves ever, with a toss so high that I was sometimes tempted to jog around the court a few times while we all waited for the ball to descend enough so that she could flatly whack it.

That was the only element of our doubles play that got under *my* skin.  The return of her serve tended to be aimed at my mouth or perfectly down the alley as I cowered near the ground, protecting my plain face.

Now... as for what might have irritated Teresa about my doubles game?  Well, choking comes to mind.  Not an occasional choke for those occasional tight moments.  No, choking like not holding service -- not even once -- during an entire match.

It came in the form of a frozen back and a spastic arm.  My lower back refused anything remotely like an arch;  My toss began at hip level, entirely powered by a jerking wrist.  It was the ugliest thing ever.

And she'd never turn around.  She never came to talk it over.  She never had any suggestions (not by then, not at match time... in practice, sure, but always something like: "So why can't you do that when we play X and X?").

My coach would disappear to the other end of the courts.  She never talked to me about it either.

The one time I got my Dad to come watch me compete, I started my period during the match, lost one of my contacts (even then I was "legally blind"), and, yes, choked.  He left before I won.

My greatest familial experience with tennis came with Brother Grader Boob, home from college, where he was quite the racquetball phenom, bearing, in fact, the titles of both singles and doubles champ for his area. He competed both indoors and out, but preferred three-wall outdoor sport.  There seemed to be infinite variations to the game, something that tennis is sorely lacking.  Even messing around with "wall ball" avec Brother Boob was a riot.

So he would play half-court, using his short racquet, and a standard fuzzy tennis ball.  I'd play the way I usually played.  Of course.  We messed a bit with the rules, something about number of bounces, something about service lines, but not much.  It was so much fun, particularly when the courts over at the country club were full and Suzy Q and Buffy were forced to join the rest of us slugs at the beautiful downtown courts in the park.

Anyway, I choked through our entire state doubles match.  I drop-served, so as to at least get the ball into play.  We lost.  You can probably guess by exactly how much, if I tell you that we played beautifully when receiving.  But between her flat, here-I-come serve and my oh-hell drop-serves, well...

Teresa ended up with a tennis scholarship -- one of those female things, a drop in a bucket, added to an offer to work slave hours at the library, all glommed onto the heft of a loan.  It was a good school, and I hope she did well there, had maybe some fun, too.  It was a shore-side state university, a lovely place to be, a very different place from where she'd been.

Ha!  You'd never guess where this post was meant to go.  I referred to little Buddy's "dead-eye" photo, which made me think, of course, of "Dead-Eye" Jones, my English teacher.  She had an artificial eye, she was big, pretended to be mean, and I loved to imitate her.  Until the day, that day that happens to every bad high school jokester, the day the person you are aping appears behind you without you having the least clue.

As in my favorite crucifixion song goes:  "[She] never said a mumblin' word."

She did not need to.  She owned me for the rest of high school.  And she never turned me in for playing tennis during fifth period when I was supposed to be in French.  She laughed big long belly laughs when we barracaded a classroom against an unloved substitute who kept stomping her little foot in anger, yelling "Open that door, open that door, right now!" She never called my folks about the pimply airman I french-kissed while waiting for the fifth period bell to ring.  She gave me good advice on the last day of school.  "Everything you think shows on your face.  Be careful with that."

Then, I wanted to write about tennis, it being French Open time and all.

I didn't mean to write about Teresa, and looking back at what I did write... I wish I really had.

We did not have a fight or officially even end our friendship.  It died a natural death, in my opinion.  In my stepmother's opinion, it was an impossibility to begin with, due to different social strata.

My stepmother.  Now that'd be a post.  She'd have been a perfect Brahmin.  Teresa was not untouchable, except, well, really, yes, she was.  Her clothes may have been clean, neat, and mended, but nothing matched in that breathless, thrown-together matchy way.  She didn't accept invitations to our home.  She was ugly. (As for me and my beauty?  The first time I plucked my unibrow, she said, swirling a scotch and soda, "Oh, profderien, that was your one good feature.")

Teresa and I were both barely hanging on, and we hung on through tennis.  We knew we could always find each other on a court somewhere, and that town had three options -- on base, at the country club, or in the lovely, lovely park.  She hung on through some very tough things, as did I.  Thanks to life and tennis, we learned to let them go, and in so doing, we lost each other.

Teresa and her bleeping slo-mo flat-as-a-pancake serve and a slowly suffocating father.  Me and my social anxiety, my various shames.

We'll call this the Father's Day-French Open combo post.

But I still want some suggestions for Buddy's Caption.  If it tugs at your heartstrings at all, Fred is determined that Buddy is feeling ill, or at least, "blue."  He is basing this conclusion on the fact that Buddy has decided to sleep on the living room rug rather than in the ether of his cat tree condo.  Some dude who passes himself off as the Cat Whisperer on Animal Planet claims that this is a bad sign.  Cats should want to be as high as possible and when they go low... well, uh-oh.

My point of view?  Buddy runs around like a crazed rabbit, plays fetch with abandon, chows down with gusto, drinks, pees and poops as if these were the most natural things in the world.  He comes to me for head pats and gentle finger chews.

Give the lad a caption, would 'ya?

Oh, and Happy Father's Day, and congratulations, Rafa!

In terms of what's actually happening -- surgery is Monday, June 18.  Today is another surgical pre-op, with one more later this week.  I'm stressed.  My hips were x-rayed and the one that is killing me looks okay, but the one that I put up with is in dire need of replacement.  Ha. Ha. Ha.  A former fracture of my sternum (from CPR) has decided to torture me again.  Why, no one knows.  I look the wrong way and bones break.  Breathing is interesting.  My kidney labs might look screwed up to the uninitiated, but really they are fine, I am just dreadfully dehydrated from daily fevers.

Ustjay aysay onay otay ufflesray!

If ever there were a woman not meant to wear ruffles on her tennis clothes, it is Francesca Schiavone.

Topical Rubs

One of my CRPS MedWorm RSS feeds delivered the following non-news news to my inbox this morning -- an announcement that the targeted enrollment number for a Phase 2b trial of a topical cream has been reached. Yes, I know. Kind of a meh-moment.

The meh-moments have been accumulating around here.

The Internet's medical router -- "over 6000 authoritative RSS feeds go in, hundreds of new RSS feeds by category come out" -- MedWorm is a terrific tool for the lazy researcher. Check it out if you try to stay on top of breaking medical news. You know, like for topical creams...

Before addressing that pressing news, though, I must report that Ivan Ljubicic, now in a tied fifth set with American (and ultra-cool dresser) Mardy Fish, needs emergency fashion advice.

Actually, the situation is not an emergent one, as Looby has long defied dictates of color, fit, and the remotely chic. He is a tall, pale man sporting a shaved head (almost always adorned with a *white* headband). His height is undeniably 6'4" but I refuse to believe that he weighs in at the reported 200 pounds.

I further deduce that the sun did not shine in the Serbian-dominated part of Bosnia of his childhood -- nor, apparently, are there opportunities for tanning in his current home of cloudy-dowdy Monaco. He looks positively jaundiced in a bright yellow shirt that fades rapidly to white, ballooning over white shorts, white socks, white shoes. Badly stained white, of course, as this is the terre battue of Roland Garros, after all.

My eyes! My eyes! Ljubo just treated the viewing audience to an around-the-world hip rock, hoping, I think, to approximate Elvis, but... well, failing. Next up for The Lube-Meister? Brazil's Bellucci, and more bad white clothing. I mean, at least wear *bright* white in lieu of the dirty-white, dishwater look.

Ljubicic is actually signed with designer Li Ning... a fact which begs more questions than it answers. Li Ning is one of the leading sports brand enterprises in the PRC. I know when I think of tennis fashion, the PRC fairly leaps to mind. Jelena Jankovic is also sporting their clothing/shoe line.

In the interests of full disclosure, let it be known that I'm a fan of "the war child." Only a fan would care about the nefarious effect of red clay on His Whiteness.

What am I wearing? An oversized, longitudinally-striped night shirt and dark grey chinos. My stripes are pastels, my fabrics all very worn, soft cotton. Turquoise earrings. [No bra, no underwear of any sort, no socks, no shoes -- I cannot tolerate any of them against my skin, or pulling on my shoulders. That's a bit of trivia I bet you wish you had not read.]

In other meh-news, when did Baghdatis achieve a 25th ranking? No offense, but he's basically a country club sort of player. I enjoy watching him, and root for him because he has always seemed to represent the good local player whose level of game rises against better players, making for some exciting points before he eventually winds down to his actual level of proficiency.

He tends to respond in kind... that is, if he is given a fast, flat ball, his return will be faster and flatter. He is a counterpuncher but lacks the speed and placement capabilities required to win majors.

I might feel differently were I sporting undies or red stilletos.

Maybe if I get ahold of some of EpiCept Corporation's analgesic topical cream, I would be able to once again wear proper foundational garments. How's that for a segue?!

Targeted Patient Enrollment Reached In Phase IIb Clinical Trial For Epicept™ NP-1 In Chemotherapy-Induced Peripheral Neuropathy

EpiCept Corporation (Nasdaq and Nasdaq OMX Stockholm Exchange: EPCT) today announced that the targeted enrollment in a Phase IIb trial for EpiCept™ NP-1 in chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy (CPN) has been attained. The trial is being conducted by National Cancer Institute (NCI)-funded Community Clinical Oncology Program. EpiCept™ NP-1 is a patented topical cream formulation of two FDA- approved drugs, 4% amitriptyline and 2% ketamine, and is intended to provide long-term relief from the pain of peripheral neuropathies. CPN may affect 50% of women undergoing treatment for breast cancer.

The double-blind, randomized placebo-controlled study has enrolled more than 400 patients suffering from painful CPN for at least 28 days following the conclusion of chemotherapy. The primary endpoint of the 6-week trial is change in average daily neuropathy intensity scores from baseline to the endpoint. Secondary endpoints include the percentage of patients whose neuropathy intensity decreases at least 30% from baseline as well as various other measures. Topline data is expected to become available by year end.

About EpiCept™ NP-1

EpiCept™ NP-1 is a prescription topical analgesic cream designed to provide effective, long-term relief from the pain of peripheral neuropathies. Peripheral neuropathies are medical conditions caused by damage to the nerves in the peripheral nervous system. The peripheral nervous system includes nerves that run from the brain and spinal cord to the rest of the body. Peripheral neuropathies are associated with conditions that injure peripheral nerves, including herpes zoster, or shingles, diabetes, chemotherapy, HIV and other diseases. Peripheral neuropathies can also be caused by trauma or may result from surgical procedures. EpiCept™ NP-1 Cream is a patented formulation containing two FDA-approved drugs, amitriptyline (a widely-used antidepressant) and ketamine (an NMDA antagonist that is used as an anesthetic).

I shouldn't make fun -- EpiCept's idea of compounding amitriptyline and ketamine for relief of neuropathic pain is well-founded, logically, and I am glad to see it in the pipeline. I don't know enough about the various types of neuropathic pain to say whether the CRPS incarnation is truly comparable to this focus group of chemotherapy patients, but I would imagine some applicable correlation. Besides, it is virtually impossible to have meaningful test results if the cohort is limited to CRPS patients -- I tire of reading about results involving all of 4 or 13 subjects, 3 or 12 of whom have dropped out due to side effects...

In the Supportive Care in Cancer journal (ISSN: 0941-4355 Print; 1433-7339 Online), a similar study announced its results on 24 May 2010. The topical gel used here has the addition of baclofen in its compounded form: baclofen 10 mg, amitriptyline HCL 40 mg, and ketamine 20 mg in a pluronic lecithin organogel.

Again, from a lay point of view, the combination makes beaucoup sense. It's ironic that I can't use topical meds -- I cannot tolerate lotions, creams, gels. Still, it sure sounds like a good idea!

Abstract

Background
Chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN) is a troublesome chronic symptom that has no proven pharmacologic treatment. The purpose of this double-blind randomized placebo-controlled trial was to evaluate a novel compounded topical gel for this problem.

Methods
Patients with CIPN were randomized to baclofen 10 mg, amitriptyline HCL 40 mg, and ketamine 20 mg in a pluronic lecithin organogel (BAK-PLO) versus placebo (PLO) to determine its effect on numbness, tingling, pain, and function. The primary endpoint was the baseline-adjusted sensory subscale of the EORTC QLQ-CIPN20, at 4 weeks.

Results
Data in 208 patients reveal a trend for improvement that is greater in the BAK-PLO arm over placebo in both the sensory (p = 0.053) and motor subscales (p = 0.021). The greatest improvements were related to the symptoms of tingling, cramping, and shooting/burning pain in the hands as well as difficulty in holding a pen. There were no undesirable toxicities associated with the BAK-PLO and no evidence of systemic toxicity.

Conclusion
Topical treatment with BAK-PLO appears to somewhat improve symptoms of CIPN. This topical gel was well tolerated, without evident systemic toxicity. Further research is needed with increased doses to better clarify the clinical role of this treatment in CIPN.

In the women's draw, Serena is looking very good, Venus, also. As I've consistently noted, I am not a fan of the Williams sisters. It's a snooty attitude and I try to revise it every year.

First impressions do endure: I was a non-fan from the beginning. Initially, they seemed to be cobbling together victories with novelty shots and spurts-and-bursts of brilliant power that alternated with amateurish errors.

Venus can thrill me at times, when she moves well to the ball, and executes once she gets there. I am frustrated on her behalf when she hustles to get there, then seems unable to convert the hustle into a point. Another hold-over of my hypercritical past (I am downright magnanimous now) because she is, of course, awesome in her court presence.

The sisters sometimes smother my potential enthusiasm by their attitude -- conveyed as much by a lazy overhead as by a blistering verbal outburst. Then, too, I think they've both sometimes made excuses for poor play that was inexcusable, and have failed to adequately respect their opponents off court.

Okay, okay, none of that is true. It all comes down, really, to fashion sense, to The Togs. They are both accredited designers but who can forget Serena's Klingon industrial black affair from that long ago U. S. Open? One piece, of oh-so-breathable spandex, it is the iconic image conjured whenever I hear her name. Ridiculous and unfair, as it has been eight years now, but that's the way it goes.

It must have been meant to convey the trend toward unrepentant female strength and power, but as Robin Givhan noted back then, it came off as "trash talk," and was a "disservice" to Serena. There was a brief attempt to make it a "teachable moment," during which White America was to confess its discomfort with the Black Female Butt. Clearly, there is truth to the notion that eurocentric white standards continue to dominate, and clearly, Serena and Venus have both enjoyed providing an in-your-face response. I promise, though, if Anna Kournikova were to sport the rubbery unitard? I would have been equally disapproving. Less disappointed, perhaps, because I've not the visceral connection with Kournikova that I share with the American Williams, but no less turned off by it.

It is late-coming, but I might turn the corner as a Serena fan. I like that she is now so fit and that her form is consistent. I'm sure she's very relieved that I am coming around...

I may have to let the catsuit issue die a natural death.

As for Venus, whose heart didn't stall when her skirt flew up to reveal... flesh colored tennis underpants? Actually, my heart didn't skip a beat but I understand much of Paris required resusscitation. I even like the corsetted red "bustier," and if she can tolerate the feel of all that lace, well... cool.

I will never forget the frilly, white, totally retarded looking tennis undies that my stepmother so wanted me to wear. There was no way not to feel stupid, no way not to be totally focused on one's own ass. They were as kryptonite to my forehand crosscourt passing shot and my blistering backhand.

Millions of women are reveling in her diss of the white ruffled bloomer and the attitude and times represented by that infantilizing bit of elastic and polyester.

As many again are thrilled by her incredible and unapologetic behind.

CNN has put together the obligatory long view of the Williams' sisters various fashion statements.

The woman I hope to see win is Justine Henin, someone who also sometimes suffers in the vagaries of body types and sexual tensions. I remember totally losing it a few years ago -- she had just won one of her four French Open titles and I was whooping it up online with fellow enthusiasts when there came a barrage of comments about the size of her breasts. She had just finished schooling the world on pristine clay court play, only to be assessed by her bra cup measurement. It was infuriating, frustrating.

Witness this "Mister Poll" and its enlightened stance:

What do you think of Justine Henin's looks?

She is so ugly I want to vomit!
She looks like a man!
She is just an average girl - not my type
She is ok I've seen better
She is nice
She is so hot she makes me hot thinkig about her!

What do you think of Justine's breasts?

She is a titless wonder - yuck!!
She has got really tiny breasts - I'm turned off..
Her breasts are really tiny and I love them!!!
I never noticed her breasts
They are just an average size pair

How would you feel if you were Justine henin and had her breasts?

My shame would be so great I would never go out
I'd be straight into surgery. Boob job please!
Padded push up bras with extra padding please!
I'd be so embarressed but I would cope somehow.
It would be ok I'd just be fine.
I would love it I'd be out topless bathing!!

Should Justine be punished for her public display of small breasts?

Yes - make her play topless and laugh at her!
Yes - bend her over and spank her bare bottom!
Yes - ban her from tennis she is ugly!
No - as long as she has a boob job!
No - She is ok.
No - She makes me hot.
No - But I still want to see her play topless!!!

Would you have sex with Justine Henin?

No way - She is an ugly dog!
No way - She is probably half man!
No way - with that titless wonder! ha!
No thanks she is not my type.
Yes - but I need lots of alcohol first!
Yes - She is so hot.
Yes - I've got to have her now!!!

It boggles the mind.

Well, I am in a shitload of discomfort and am now off to find an opiate. Maybe I will exchange my oversized, longitudinally-striped night shirt for something more appropriate to day wear. Maybe, like Venus, I can titillate the boys of The Manor by mere illusion and suggestion... because, unlike Venus, I don't have the goods to pull off a flirtation based on anything else.

Postscript: Fred and I just butt heads over... Well, over Venus' butt. I confess to having hit Shrill Tones pretty quickly. Poor Fred. He saw nothing problematic about the black-lace-over-red-corset design but became apopleptic about the tennis undies. What sent me into Shrill Land was his insistance that it was not the flesh-colored aspect of it... No! It was the "fit"! I think my eyes were bugging out. We were watching Venus play Dominika Cibulkova. Now, Dominika's tennis attire bothered me more than Venus' playful dress, mostly because it just looked so damned uncomfortable. I tire of women being uncomfortable on purpose. It's a pet peeve. Most every time I have seen her play, Cibulkova wears the same approximate thing -- a tight, bunched up sheath-type dress that is very short, over shorts that appear equally tight and bunched. I kept asking Fred if the "fit" of Cibulkova's tennis undies did not bother him, as they appeared as form-fitting (that was our chosen euphemism) as all get-out to moi! He kept muttering something about them being fine and "more like shorts." Jesus H. Christ, we do not want to tell our truthes, do we?

He dusted off his usual mumblemumble example -- doyourememberonetimewhenwehaddinneratredlobster? A large [black] woman came into the restaurant wearing see-through leggings without benefit of sufficient tunic to cover her nether regions. He apparently hasn't gotten over it. It was pretty disgusting. We were and are in total agreement on that point. What it had to do with anything, though? I dunno.

Am I NOT supposed to challenge that? Am I NOT supposed to ask what in hell that has to do with Venus Williams, a professional athlete wearing tournament-approved clothing? Am I REALLY supposed to believe that Fred's issue is with the fit of her undergarment and not the fact that she has a beautiful black butt that makes him... nervous?


To summarize: No problem with the coquettish lace and bustier... No problem with the undies virtually disappearing due to their flesh-coloration. BIG PROBLEM because they were clearly too... tight.

Well, hell.

Let's get out of this mess with something we can all be comfortable with. If you appreciate Andy Roddick like I appreciate Andy Roddick, you will appreciate this insightful analysis of his game. View it many times in succession to allow the tennis tips to meld with your Inner Athlete. If his unclad upper body bothers you? Take it up with someone else, as I am fresh out of Shrill:

French Semis

In semi-final action, little Cibulkova just won the opening game, breaking big, bad Safina's service.

Cibulkova hits nice and deep, pretty flat, and is moving Safina around, at will.

I'm just sayin'!

Could be a trend. (I *do* like Safina; More than individual players, though, I love a good match!)

Serena may not know what to say next about rankings...

On the men's side, I continue to have trouble pulling for Federer. Don't know exactly why, given that Nadal is not around to divide my loyalty.