Coming of age

Apparently, it is very important to have "hobbies". I was made aware of this the painful, and embarassing way, when a Frenchwoman asked me over dinner what mine were.

I was not embarassed that I have practically none. It was the number of times I had to go "Beg your pardon?", because for the life of me I could not figure out what "o-bees" were. It also took a VERY long time to figure out that I had been agreeing that the food was good at "Glutton Square", not "glue-tone Square", the "o-ker center".

(There were other non-native English speakers, who carried on thusly, and I felt terribly confused throughout dinner. But it is small peanuts when you have someone ordering "r'violeee". Thankfully, no skinny men in tight Eurotrash clothes.)

Anyway, after a troubled silence - the expat crowd here follows a regimen of Yoga, pilates, diving, wakeboarding, partying, dragonboating, behaving badly, and god knows what else, to the last man and woman - I said "tennis".

Then, after a very long time, I triumphantly told the audience my "o-bee" was: writing. Bring on the publishing contracts, I say.

Sightings

I was settling into the lounge at Newark when I noticed a really hot woman with a telltale tennis kit by her exchanging words with the service personnel. Wait a minute, I thought! That looks like my favorite tennis player Flavia Pennetta.

Besides being hot in a tight t-shirt with an interesting neckline and trashy torn jeans, she was more or less unnoticed - no mobs, no one even seemed to recognize her, and she had a more or less deadpan/severe face sitting by herself. Then she went off somewhere, and I later saw her using the common PC in the lounge.

As I boarded and settled into my seat, I noticed her walk past me, and I asked her if she was "Ms Pennetta". At first just a "Yes". I turned to sit, then I told her I saw her play on Monday at the Armstrong Stadium. Beginnings of a smile. She started asking which match, and I said the one where she beat Mauresmo. I laid it on, saying it was a good match (it was, actually). Then there was a full-blown smile, some mumbled thanks and she walked on.

Phew!!

Sadly, I did not see her at Changi later on, I suspect she was connecting onward.

Let's stop skirting the issue

The issue being why do women tennis players pretend to wear a "skirt" or a "dress"? Firstly, these never descend below the ass cheek, barely at that. Second, they keep flying up all the time especially as they rise to serve; and thirdly, and very clearly in the case of the ongoing Williams match, the pink panties are the main course, not the black skirt.

Having been a few feet from several female players recently, I can assure you it is not faintly titillating. Except for Pennetta, who wore a modest skirt that was pleated and so did not keeping billowing up, and had what I thought was a derrier to take home.

On a serious note, why is it that the more women celebrate liberation, the more its expression is effectively propagating objectification of their sex?

And the cutest ass medal goes to...

I think they should give out medals to all the losers, just like they do in beauty pageants - why waste tears and snot by denying awards to just the winner and runner up? And not to forget world peace.

Anyway here are my awards:

1. Cutest (butt): this clearly goes to Flavia Pennetta. I was early for my courtside seat at Louis Armstrong, and ended up watching her practice (not knowing who she was until later). Oh my, what a cutie this one is... and she whipped Amelie Maursmo's ass (figuratively speaking, of course).

2. Most likely to have been formerly Bulgarian: Dinara Safin. If not for the pink outfit and long hair, only a few pounds of muscle and a couple of inches (height, I mean, perverts) separate this dead ringer for her brother. She beat Anna-Lena Groenfeld, who is a candidate for most likely to wear muffin-top low-slung jeans.

3. Guaranteed crowd pleasers: Bryan brothers, who end their matches by jumping-and-thumping their chests. Spent the longest time humoring autograph seekers.

4. Best match of the day: Del Potro versus Nishikori. Straight sets, yes, but the Japanese guy produced some beauties. I am sure Del Potro's being almost a foot taller helped him as well.

5. Best tanned spectator: me, of course!

First impressions on Flushing

Flushing Meadows that is. Arthur Ashe stadium is grossly too large - being up on the promenade makes the players seem like ants. It may be that or the sun, but most of what I saw seems like fleeting memories from some disembodied dream.

It is nice to be an Amex card holder, but I should not waste my precious blog plugging for Big American Credit Card. Instead, I would like to point you toward AOBA - pronounced just as it is written. Their indefatigable advertising, spearheaded by a pair of cute alpaca calves (are they called that?), white and brown, side by side, wearing Benetton and singing "I'd like to buy the world a Coke"...

Waittaminute, I got carried away. Anyway this is very exciting, and at the next opportunity I am going to breed some alpaca, noting my limited success at the same activity among my species. Go Aoba!!

Anyway to finish the story, I saw: Jelena Yankovic win (or as a friend calls her, Olive Oyl); Federer whip ass; and Roddick too, but I did not stay through that match. I was not sure if I was in the stadium or having an out of body experience from my perch high on above.

Program your DVR!

For two consecutive days on Labor Day weekend, I will be at the US Open watching some good tennis. All day long! Or so I hope.

Will Serve and Volley triumph over Baselining? Will there be a replacement for Justine? Will Nadal finally smile, or be exposed for the android he is? What is hidden in the Williams' butts? Will we find out how Federer caught mono (yeah, hehe)? Will they let me in the court with a ticket that says the owner is Jacqueline B___? Will they kick me out for drooling at the women - players or otherwise? For this and more... look closely at the backhand corner of Louis Armstrong stadium, first row - and I will beam you my thoughts live from Flushing Meadows.

But seriously, it seems like a nice way to kill a weekend in New York while not overstaying my welcome with my friends. After all, they seem to be seeing me every few months now that I am only visiting New York, as opposed to never when I lived here, thanks to work and personal strife... er, I meant life.

What's there not to like about the U.S.Open?

The opening ceremony for sure. "Earth Wind and Fire"? Maybe I am using Beijing 2008 as my yardstick. That's not fair.

Volim te!

Today I had to ask a male friend, who is so straight he makes jokes about chewing gum and hookers, how to say "I love you". In Serbo-Croat.

I am of course preparing to make a public declaration of my undying love to Ana at the US Open (Flushing Meadows - not the golf crap) in a couple of weeks. I suppose in retrospect, despite all my ribbing of Parisians and the French Open, it would have been cool to do that at Roland Garros. Unfortunately only crappy male French players were in the draws I watched.

But anyway, I hope Ana's injuries get better. Because I am gonna be there for you, baby! Volim te!

Roland Garros: When not to fuck with the French

After many hours of standing around in a sub-optimal queuing system at Roland Garros, I managed to get into a couple of matches. One of them featured the awesome Nadal, but that was definitely less exciting than...

... the unseeded Frenchman playing a seeded Swede. I have never seen such a lopsided and parochial crowd, cheering everything the patriot won and every single mistake the outsider made. The poor Swede, I swear, was a victim of great psychological ops and seemed to fold and quit, despite winning the first set. The French guy won.