My, Chanda’s on fire! And she’s even dragging Kournikova’s sorry (though attractive) ass with her! Unseeded Chanda and Anna upset the 7th seed in doubles, setting them up against the dreaded Taiwanese/Indonesian duo of Lee/Prakyusa next.
Spent last night having a very nice time out at The Ballpark (where the ironwork is deeply un-Cajun and really not all that New Orleans in style, which is no doubt what yesterday’s writer really meant). My friend said she wanted to beat traffic out, so we logically left in the top of the 9th, which of course meant missing two home runs. C’est la vie. (Gerry Fraley, the DMN’s great baseball beat writer, has had so much fun this season dissing Chan Ho Park, last night’s losing pitcher. “Chan Ho Park, the Rangers’ ace only on payday…”
I just took a look at that link I put up for The Ballpark in Arlington, home of the Texas Rangers. Quote:
Once inside, there
Teenage wasteland! It’s only teeeeenage waaaasteland! Teenage wasteland! Oh, yeah — teeeeenage waaaasteland They’re all wasted!
Sorry — it’s a Who-quoting kind of day. (Not that kind of Who.)
Had a wonderful time at Shakespeare in the Park last night with Natacha. The Two Gentlemen of Verona was marred only by poor microphone placement and a group of annoying middle-aged, middle-management, golf-shirt-wearing fools behind us who decided to get drunk on chardonnay (ooh, they’re cultured) and be loud jackasses throughout the performance. It’s amazing how a little alcohol can reduce boring old fogies to annoying 14-year-olds. Ah, the fountain of youth.
Anyway, just have to finish a story today, then it’s off to nice seats at The Ballpark to see the Rangers battle for the Silver Boot. (It’s good to know season ticket holders.)
The upsets keep on coming: Chanda whoops up on the 21st seed, the allegedly chunky Tatiana Panova, 6-4, 6-1. I’m going to be bold and say I think she’ll actually give Serena a good game in the next round. Serena’s been having a weak tournament, and she’s as ripe for the picking as she’s likely to ever be. Rock on, Chanda! Win one for John Entwistle!
For everyone who followed the Porn ‘n’ Chicken saga at my alma mater, it appears the first Ivy League porn movie will finally get made — only at Columbia instead of Yale.
And in case you’re the kind of person who doesn’t read a story’s byline — shame on you! — you may wish to check into the author of this piece. Ms. Hancock, herself a Yalie and a former writer at my old college paper, has her own quasi-porn experience. (Photos here.) And she’s even from Texas!
The greatest bassist in rock and roll history, John Entwistle, is dead at 57. I was a big Who fan growing up, and Who’s Next survived my general abandonment of classic rock to remain a favorite. It always sounded as if there were at least two sets of hands on the fretboard when he played; with him on bass and Keith Moon on drums, you had the greatest rhythm section of modern recorded music.
I remember in junior high playing the classic boys game, Supergroup, where you picked the best rock stars on each of the major instruments and imagined what they’d sound like together. The guitar player would vary quite a bit (most often Hendrix or Jimmy Page, but occasionally ill-advised thoughts like Ritchie Blackmore), and the drummer was usually a tossup between Moon and John Bonham. But the bass player was always John Entwistle.
I’ve been on a little sports kick lately, haven’t I? This may be the finale: Two kickers injured by rogue fondue pot.
Jaguars punter Chris Hanson won’t be trying to fondue again anytime soon. “We’ve already thrown out the pot,” he said.
No singles play for Chanda today, but she did get to do something millions of semi-literate FHM droolers would kill for: spend 53 minutes alongside Anna Kournikova. Their doubles team whooped up on some Spaniards, 6-1, 6-1. (Aside: anyone have any theories of why Anna Kournikova has been singled out to be the media-designated sex goddess of women’s sports? To my mind, there are plenty of at-least-as-worthy candidates, some of whom are actually good at the sports they play. Give me Mia Hamm anyday. Hell, Daniela Hantuchova.)
It’s good to know the next generation is keeping up the Ann Landers/Dear Abby snippy rivalry. (Why anyone would value relationship advice from this dysfunctional bunch is beyond me.)
Everybody’s heard by now, but the Pledge of Allegiance ain’t constitutional.
(By the way, what a sterling example of political cowardice by our nation’s Senators, who just voted 99-0 to oppose the court’s ruling. No matter what you think about the issue, I can bet you at least a few of the liberals in that 99 think the court’s right and are just signing onto a document (a) they don’t believe in, but (b) they know will have no real impact and (c) will make them look good for voters. It reminds me of the observation made during the whole can-Americans-elect-a-Jewish-veep debate in 2000 — sure they can, but don’t even think about running if you’re an atheist. That’s still the political third rail.)
My pet peeve about inexact reporting on this: there’s nothing in the ruling that “bans children from reciting the Pledge.” Just as school-prayer rulings don’t “ban children from praying in school.” They ban schools and teachers from leading a classroom or a group of children in the pledge. If a kid wants to say the pledge (or pray, for that matter) any time during the day when it isn’t disruptive, it’s cool.
Every once in a while, I try to convince people that my hometown in south Louisiana wasn’t that backwards. But my efforts are instantly sabotaged if they ask about the public schools I attended through grade 6. Because then conscience dictates I tell them that, after reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and singing the Star-Spangled Banner every morning, we always sang Lee Greenwood‘s God Bless the U.S.A. And that’s when the shame kicks in.