Button It

Alas, poor Tim. We figured it couldn’t last.

They were asking his opponent if he thought the match would be “tougher,” which strikes me as a particularly stupid question. What is the guy supposed to say? “Well, yeah, I did think he’d be tough, but then he caved at the end and I walked all over him?”

In other sporting news, I was reminded the other night as I watched the US Olympic Gymnastic Trials that Tabitha Yim is doing her floor exercise to "Blues for a Clock," which we know from that old Maya Usova/Alexander Zhulin ice dancing piece.

Or as my father put it: "Attack of Vladimir the Mad Zither Picker."

I’ll admit that I have a little trouble telling a lot of the gymnasts apart. Too many Courtneys. Mohini is definitely my favorite because she’s still going after so long and because she went to college and had a life instead of peaking at sixteen.

Oh, and, yes, I do know that Pamela Anderson sponsored her training. I heard you the first dozen times you told this story and have a fairly good short term memory. It isn't really necessary to repeat yourself every five minutes.

Quote of the Day

I signed up for this e-newsletter from the BBC about what I assume is their nightly news program, Newsnight. (Catchy title, guys.) I assume, of course, because I don't get the BBC and have never actually seen the show, but that doesn't stop me from reading about what they are going to be talking about.

Especially when I get little bits of humor tossed in like this:

Today's Quote for the Day comes from the England player Gary Neville talking about well, guess what?

"We're not dead yet."

Not dead - okay. But "yet?" What does he mean by "yet?"

All I get from American newscast is overly somber white guys in dark suits looking serious. Or that anchor on the local news who puts weird breath-pauses in as he speaks. I am incapable of listening to him without cringing, but I'm never entirely able to put my finger on what is driving me so crazy.

Hair Mutants

I have always suspected that all those women in the Pantene commercials are genetically engineered in a back-lot somewhere. Now I have proof: according to the LA Times (registration required, sorry), ten "Frizzled 6" genes determine how crappy your hair is going to be. If you're missing them, you're doomed to "lifetime cowlicks and stubborn hair whorls on the side or that back corner of your head."

It explains so much.

When Bad Announcers Attack

I’m listening to the French Open on the official RolandGarros.com website right? And these two idiots who are calling the Tim Henman match are giving Dick Button a run for his money. I realize, of course, that Henman has hit the Chicago Cubs portion of the tournament. This is when, having gotten everyone’s hopes up, he proceeds to crash and burn. This one announcer, however, seems all too proud of the descriptive phrase "spread the cream cheese on the bagel."

And he didn’t just say it once; he keeps repeating it. He and the other guy took two minutes out of condescending about how Henman can’t catch a break to save his life to describe just what kind of bagel is being spread and whether or not they should add onions to the cream cheese.

I assume this is some kind of metaphor for how badly Coria’s creaming poor Tim, but huh?

It almost makes me miss the US Open over the radio. There are no announcers at all there, just, "Squeak. Squeak. Grunt. Thwack. Squeak. Grunt. Thwack. Thwack. Grunt. Applause."