missed the saturday dance

Anything done perfectly moves me to some degree. I am always drawn to that which I am not. On most of my undertakings, I will settle for good enough over perfect. And yet, I am astounded by people who are meticulous, who take pride in getting things just right. For that reason, it was a bit difficult to watch Roger Federer the last two days. Federer did not play flawlessly against Lleyton Hewitt, Australian jackass supreme. He played less than perfectly yesterday against Agassi. His level of play is so ridiculously superior that, on a meh day for him, while Agassi is playing some of the best tennis of his career, he beat Agassi in four sets.

Usually, watching a one-sided match is boring because of its predictability. But I rather enjoy watching Federer when he’s in his zone, steamrolling through sets, because it’s an opportunity to witness perfection on the court. This time, Federer waited until the end of the match to exhibit perfection. He could have been bitter about the fact that the US Open audience was 99.99995% (the tiny percentage for him amounts to his girlfriend in the audience... and maybe Gavin Rossdale?!?) in favor of his opponent. He could have gloated about how he floated through the last set with complete dominance. He could have been puffed up by all the talk of how he will most probably be known as the best tennis player ever. Instead, after accepting his congratulations, he asked for a moment’s time on the microphone, having just glanced at a dejected Agassi who was failing to hide his disappointment. And out of the microphone, flowed Federer at his best, once again saluting Agassi for a match well played, encouraging him to stay in the game, hoping that they would meet again on the court.

I swooned. I told you I am a sucker for the sports stuff, even moreso for good sportsmanship. That said, I thought I was rid of Andy Roddick when he choked out in the first round at the US Open. But no. I have to watch him, tail firmly between legs, still shilling out for some credit card company, constantly during the Open. Gah! Someone sign Federer to some sponsors, quick- he might be Swiss, but that just makes him, unintentionally, even funnier. I can see him in Mentos commercials; he'd kill.

Yesterday, I didn’t speak to a single person, unless you count me shouting at the television during the tennis match. I’ve read that some people advocate fasting once a week as a way to cleanse your body of toxins. I don’t buy into that, mostly because I enjoy stuffing my face far too much to subscribe to such a notion. But I do think there is something therapeutic about silencing yourself. I like the idea of spending one day a week turning inward, in a little cocoon, only for me. I’m selfish like that. As penance, I baked a sour cream poundcake. Even that was more fun than usual, because nothing or no one prompted me to do it. No pictures- the vultures at work have picked it apart at this point. I'll take suggestions for next weekend's undertaking, however. I've decided I'm spending a portion of each weekend making something.

In much sadder news, Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown passed away this weekend. He was evacuated during the hurricane, lost all of his belongings, but was already ill at the time. I saw him perform twice in New Jersey, at this complete dump of a place in the backwoods of Northwestern NJ. My soon-to-be-bf at the time was a huge blues fan, and would drag me to these obscure performances, but it was easy to appreciate Brown on his own merits. Even then, he was an old man. But as soon as he started playing his guitar, he seemed fifty years younger. He seemed, in those lights, a young beanpole-like teenager, coaxing his guitar into singing. During a break in the set, you could go right up to speak to him. We did; E tried to convince Brown to hire him as a roadie. Brown told him that maybe he could drive the bus, but that he couldn't get paid for that. When E said he didn't expect to get paid, Brown laughed heartily at him and turned to me, saying, "this kid's crazy." I can remember his slim fingers resting softly on my shoulder. I remember, too, what that encounter told me about E, who had seemed so run of the mill until then. When I hear about a musician passing away, it always takes on this different level, because there is always some direct personal experience that is inextricably part of my awareness of their music.