Backhands and Compliments

Whenever a player is interviewed on-court at the U.S. Open tennis tournament, the first sentence usually goes a little like this:

So great to be here in New York!

or

Really love it here in New York!

or

So happy to have the support of the fans here in New York!

And in the stands those big city cattle cowpie themselves each time New York is mentioned. Those jaded New Yorkers who have seen it all. Those wile New Yorkers you can't put anything past. Each time they fall for the oldest trick in the book; referencing the hometown.

No one does this kind of pandering at the other Grand Slams, which is weird when you consider that those tournaments also take place in grand locations.

The French Open is in Paris. The city of love. The city of lights. The city where newlyweds go to put a bow on their marriage. The city where oldieweds go looking for a way to tolerate each other for a few more years. The city where gals with terminal illness go to regret not running off with that waiter they thought loved them but who in reality forget their junk-riddled cabooses the second they left the cafe.

Paris is perhaps the most written about city on Earth, yet you never hear players say:

I really love playing on the red clay here is Paris! Red like my heart, 'cause I love this city!

Wimbledon--the most coveted Grand Slam--is in London. The home of the Crown. The nerve center of what not so long ago was the most far-reaching empire in human history. Sam Johnson once remarked that, "When a man is tired of London he is tired of life." Can you imagine a Wimbledon player saying:

So happy to be here under these grimy gray skies in front of you sour snot fans. But hey, that's London for ya! (raises pint glass)

You may laugh at these examples, but are they that much more ridiculous than the spectacle of watching players who travel the world beg for the approval of fans in New York, many of whom are from out of town?

The Australian Open is held in Melbourne. Melbourne, the city of...well, three out of four ain't bad.

If players at the Australian Open bothered to reference Melbourne, it would be something like:

I hate Melbourne. You hate Melbourne. And if it weren't so far away from everywhere else we all know you'd leave.



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Hot Women who Never Hit the Wall

Beauty doesn’t last forever, and sometimes, it barely lasts at all. At some point, most women seem to undergo an abrupt change for the worse. Even beautiful women. One minute they’re hot enough to power Satan’s tanning bed and the next minute they’re just another face in the crowd. It isn’t easy to explain, and isn’t always a function of age. And once that special something vanishes, it never seems to reappear. My friends and I call it “hitting the wall.”

Occasionally there are stunners who dodge Father Time’s cruel machinations and retain the freshness that made them stand out from the other standouts. Some that come to mind:

Chris Evert: Tennis champ, girl next door, and the reason white skirts were invented. The fact that she has aged so well is even more remarkable when you consider how much time she spent in the sun. Ms. Evert played her best tennis at the French Open, where she even managed to appear ladylike while covered in red clay. There is a mud wrestling joke to be made here, but we’ll swerve around it out of respect for this classy specimen.

Alyssa Milano: Definite contender for most attractive Alyssa of all time. A woman whose looks remained top floor even as her career hid in the basement. Usually when the resume gets spotty, the face follows suit. Not in this case. A woman who looks dirty and sweet with her sex drive on repeat. And being a vegetarian, you know the wet spot wouldn’t smell like nitrates.

Marisa Tomei: This perennial knockout might even be getting better with age. And allegedly, she has a lust for uncool sitcom characters. Given my resemblance to Bud Bundy, it is virtually impossible for me not to be in there.

Salma Hayek: In the truly elite stratum of cartoonish sex appeal. Still going strong at 44, motherhood and all. So smokin’ that a source close to the U.N. tells me they are considering a bill that would change the expression to “Gentlemen prefer brunettes.”

Faye Dunaway: So hot in Bonnie and Clyde she should have been preserved in amber and used to create a Jurassic Park full of hot chicks. So hot in Chinatown she made an already tragic story more tragic. You have heard of cheekbones that could cut diamonds. Unlike diamonds, Ms. Dunaway’s cheekbones truly are priceless. It has been said that Helen of Troy had “a face that launched a thousand ships.” If Helen had gone clubbing with Dunaway, she would have spent the first half of the night buying her own drinks and the second half alone at home, wearing sweatpants and reading The Bell Jar for the 75th time.



My Twitter feed is as gorgeous as ever: http://twitter.com/#!/greatMikePayne