Ping-Pong. . . and Bong?

For the last week and a half, I kept my eyes glued to the other side of the world for the Australian Open. I discovered tennis this summer watching the legendary Wimbledon showdown between the former, four-years-in-a-row number one, Roger Federer, and the newcomer, current number one, Rafael Nadal. This sport exemplifies everything great about athleticism: endurance, speed, strength, and, most of all, elegance and flexibility. Some of those backhand shots are balletic. I am amazed. How do they do it? Unfortunately, I discovered tennis just a little too late, since I constantly cheer for the "good looking enough to be a GQ cover model" Federer (whose initials form the core of the word peRFect) who lately is coming up just short. In fact, in the men's singles final down under on Sunday, he actually scored one more point than Rafa, just apparently at the wrong time, since he lost, two sets to three. Don't worry. He still looks good. My sister and I said he is the Ian Thorpe of tennis--the better-looking talent who might be surpassed by the young upstart who arrives in his wake. Rafa is the Michael Phelps of tennis--obviously talented, but certainly a little shorter in the looks department. (Coincidentally, Ian Thorpe happens to be an Aussie.) To prove my point, here's Roger selling Gillette razors, proving he can be clean up and be clean shaven.

Which brings me to my next point. I know I've proclaimed my fascination with Michael Phelps loudly before, but that just leaves me speechless in the wake of recent news. No stranger to a razor himself, apparently he missed the clean part. The saddest part: he only seems to regret that his actions were uncovered, not that they took place. I guess he's learned that public opinion is paying for his mansions and sports cars, but I'm wondering how hard the wake of this event will hit him in the face, especially since he's a swimmer used to swimming in clear water. . .