Before I tell you about my weekend, let me mention this: the Catskills towns were fucked in about 40 different ways by Irene. Whole hamlets, like Margaretville, Arkville and Roxbury, look like war zones. It's hard to imagine how they could really rebuild from what remains. If you can, give a little.
Now for something completely frivolous.
The Featureless Saint gave me a tennis ball for my 40th birthday. With it was a promise that we would go to the US Open this year. And we did.
If you are not a tennis geek, this picture will mean nothing. If you are, then you may feel a little flutter in your chest when you see the backs of the ESPN 2 commentators outside of that fountain in front of the Ashe court. I fluttered. I squeed.
That black blob is Andy Roddick. The other blob is Jack Sock. Even watching the game from what Wertheim calls the "FAA seats" at a night game is magical. Even with the obnoxious New Yawker behind us, who kept saying "that Riddick is a hell of a player."
But what's even better is a grounds' pass.
On the non-show courts, you are close enough to get beaned by an errant serve. Seriously - there is no zoom in play here.
And to see what the line judges do during changeovers.
Watching all of the bits you can't see on TV was part of the fun, really. The ball kids are amazingly well orchestrated - and not all kids. You get a better sense of how fast the ball is moving - and how you'd curl up into the fetal position if you ever saw, say, Fish's serve coming at your head.
We saw a lot of tennis, including the aforementioned Fish. We wandered around just absorbing the whole thing. We sweated more than you can imagine. I proved once again that I burn just by thinking about sunshine and that I'm crap at getting all of the spots that are exposed.
Still, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Plus, I got to do it with my best friend.
Even if we can't frame a dang picture.