New #1

Last week, Justine Henin, the number one rockin' hardcore tennis star who is my size amidst a bunch of giants, retired. The WTA rankings have officially (and finally) acknowledged this fact and Henin is no longer listed in the rankings. The former number two, who trailed by something along the lines of 2000 points, has now claimed number one. She is none other than Maria Sharapova. And though she bugs me as a player (see any of Novak Djokovic's impressions), I fully respect her game and her new ranking. But...I wonder....

....if you gain the number one ranking by default, what is the celebration like?

Excitement? I'm sure. A party? Eh, the training appropriate type. But it cannot be the same as if she had earned it. And, in saying that, if it has come off sounding like I mean that she did not exactly earn it, it's true. She didn't. Granted, she was playing better than Henin. She earned second place and first place quit. Have you ever gotten second place in a contest, athletic, scholastic, or otherwise, and then had the first place person resign from the competition? That person was better than you and yet you end up walking out with the first place title and a second place feeling.

Sharapova has to feel ecstatic and displeased. She's a competitor. She has a drive that says she wants to earn it. She wants to work for it and receive credit when credit is due. Does she deserve the credit yet? Frankly, it doesn't matter. She's got it.

Why KT Rocks

On Monday night, Marni and I went to the Wiltern for KT Tunstall's LA show and we had a blast! It's not the first time we've seen KT live but it was the biggest production we've seen starring the Brit pop artist. We last saw her at a Tower Records, before she had made it in the States, where it was just her and her echo box (which was freakin' awesome!) performing songs off of her first album. This go-round, we got to hear some of the old stuff and some of the new goodies, too. And she's still as rockin' as ever. Here are just a few reasons why KT rocks.....

1. She wears glow-in-the-dark Ghostbusters tees.
2. Her signature boots. I want them.
3. Her witty and entertaining banter. There were brief diatribes on plastic surgery, jazzercise, and the Salvation army. Plus, when someone in the audience yelled, "Take off your shirt!" There was no time for breath before she responded, "Why? I love this shirt."
4. She dances as she plays.
5. Her sound, obviously.
6. She's got the power to be, the power to give, the power to see. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
7. And, in non-concert-related awesomeness, her album notes for Drastic Fantastic are in comic form.

On the Road Again

In one of the few home games this year, and even fewer televised matches, the WNT took on Australia in Birmingham this weekend. I had heard good things about the changes being implemented by new coach (does "new" still apply?), Pia Sundhage. The weekend's game was my first chance to see it.

And I like it.

It's not quite to where I expect they would want it to be (rather obvious with a 5-4 final tally) but what I'd heard appears to be true. Once again, there is a transition in American women's soccer. It's not a direct attack strategy but something that requires possession and a bit of (dare I say it?) finesse. And, at least for the first half, that game plan looked quite good. Midfielder Carly Loyd controlled the game and everything seemed to flow through her feet. The players switched the field often and took chances to pass the ball when traditional thought would say shoot. It caught the defense off-guard and caught several balls in the back of the Aussie net, two belonging to my favorite player, Lindsey Tarpley.

The defense obviously had some holes, which I attribute to more than just the defensive line but the combination of the middle and back lines. The change in team dynamics towards a more progressive offense hasn't fully developed in its defense. So far, it has left it rather vulnerable.

Things are looking good. They're not perfect; they're not even great. But there is time yet to improve and correct in the next three months. I think it's safe to say, "The team is in good hands."

Second Time's A Charm Though Not So Charming

I'm at that age where I'm beginning to see a consistent number of successful athletes who are younger than I am make some pretty impressive showings. Usually this leaves me a little enamored and a little upset. Sacha Kljestan is no exception. The Chivas midfielder scored his third goal of the season this weekend in an amazing goal quite similar his second.

Near the edge of the 18, Kljestan attacks on the dribble with a simple fake--lean outside, cut inside-- and then strikes the ball in such a manner as to curve it from wide right into the far upper corner. Kljestan has done this twice now early in the season, proving outrightly this is a forte in his arsenal, not a rare (and awesome) effect.

The team lost miserably despite the Klejstan first-half goal that tied the match at 1-1---all besides the point. That strike, that goal, sealed the deal for me. The kid ought to be wearing colors similar to Chivas this summer in Beijing.

Chivas/Galaxy Highlights

Vodka Gets Healthier , Less Intoxicating, in the Second Round

In today's world of literature, biographies and autobiographies are not as cool as memoirs. And though I'm not entirely positive I'm clear on the distinction, I'm glad they're enjoying serious success because I love reading them. I don't tend to care much if it's a biography, an autobiography, or a memoir; I get a kick out of reading about real people and seeing what it is you can learn about them, even though they (or their families) have likely been able to filter what content you have access to. You're likely to find a story no one could have ever created.

I've read a number of Kate Hepburn and Anne Sexton books, a couple of specific runners or teams of runners, several nobody's with crazy childhoods, and a few nobody's in extreme circumstances. In fact, one of my favorite books, Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett is a memoir. But no memoirs compare to the Chelsea Handler's memoirs.....not even Chelsea Handler's.

About a year ago, I read the first of the comedian's releases. And though she's rather more crude than is my general taste, I could not help but laugh at the escapades of My Horizontal Life: A series of one-night stands. The image of her climbing into a kitchen window dressed as a green m&m is particularly memorable. Having had such a good experience on the first go-round, I eagerly awaited the opportunity to ride again. This month, Handler's second book, Are You There, Vodka? It's Me Chelsea was released. I ordered it and read it in a matter of days (much like I had with the first). But I read this one quickly for a different reason than the first. The first time, I didn't want to stop laughing; the second, I wanted to find the place where I would laugh like I did in the first.

I do not mean to say the second is not funny or enjoyable or even worth the read but the topic of each vignette was less enjoyable than the sex-obsessed first book. It's no secret Chelsea is candid about everything (if you need a sample, watch her late-night show) and humorously so but her humor simply isn't at it's best when it focuses more on family outings than intoxicated soirées. Her story-telling capabilities can't be called into question (though her editor's proofreading can).

Summer is the season for an entertaining and easy read. I suggest you give Handler a shot, though odds are she's already had enough to drink. But if you're only going to have time for one read, stick with the original. The sequel doesn't live up to it.

Mastermind: Lemony Snicket

If you're unfamiliar with the unfortunate, that's unfortunate indeed. Writer Lemony Snicket has created a series of lovable and laughable, if at times equally annoying and amounting, books in his series A Series of Unfortunate Events. The series is thirteen books long and, having completed each individual book, with each individual sentence (even the ones that were written backwards... yes, you heard me, backwards), permit me to say it is completely worth it. Obviously, there has to be some commitment to the cause as you're not likely to complete all 13 books overnight (though you could do it fortnightly with some serious time or insomnia on your hands). The characters are endearing, however, and manage to acquire more complexity with each book. The Baudelaire orphans are headed by Violet, the eldest, who is quite the little engineer. She is followed by Klaus, her brother who has a knack for research. And the youngest Baudelaire, Sunny, who begins as a baby but grows into early childhood, has a mouth fetish, to say the least.

If only to reach the final book in the series, The End, each book is worth the adventure. For what other author, in a thirteenth book of a series, could combine biblical allusions, insult The Little Engine that Could, and come up with several Shakespearean and Melvillian (?) references in a package that actually leaves you wanting more?

You'll see what I mean once you travel through the story of unfortunate events, past The Bad Beginning, The Reptile Room, The Wide Window, and The Miserable Mill, through The Austere Academy, The Ersatz Elevator, The Vile Village and The Hostile Hospital, over The Carnivorous Carnival, The Slippery Slope, The Grim Grotto, and The Penultimate Peril, to adventurously arrive at The End . You'll be quite fortunate to have done so.

The Queen's English Society Makes Enemies of Poets

Over the weekend Southern Cal had sun,
But it was really quite dark over one,
The Queen's English Society in Britain
Was busy establishing poetic corruption.

For poetry to be poetry, they declared,
It must be how we like it prepared,
With meter and rhyme (and the English behind)
Like Shakespeare, John Donne, or Chaucer.

Without the free verse of the times,
And with only their orderly rhymes,
They can call to esteem the ones that they deem
So old English poets might reign supreme.

So much for the creative blood flow
That plants seeds of novelty to grow
Over the rigidity of words that plateaued
Hundreds of years ago.

Such originality must be quenched
For, they dare say, it does leave a stench
Not pleasing to their noses, although one supposes
They smell their own rotten trench.

Bury the nay-sayers, they proclaim,
And carry them away in their shame.
We'll say it's their fault, they provoked the assault
For not all becoming the same.