Maybe I live in another world, another time.  I got a friend who has started calling me Retro Man, but I don’t care.  I know I can’t bring back Whitney Reed (and amateur tennis from the late 50’s), but I can’t identify with any of these keh-zillionaires on those grass courts at Wimbledon.   I frankly don’t care about them and don’t have much interest in watching the stuff on TV.   You wanna know why?  I’ll tell you why.  I’ll tell you what really gets me sick:  It’s the camera panning in on celebrities who have nothing to do with the match.  It’s just more celebrity  worship and gossipy TV.  I can’t take it.  I want to kill the director, and I can’t help screaming when a camera checks out the bloodsucking wife of one of the players and  the various stooges in the entourage perched next to her.   When Whitney Reed once played in Wimbledon, they told him to bow to the royal hangers-on, those blue-blooded parasites in their imperial seats.  He bowed, all right, to the stands in the opposite direction, giving the royal leeches a good look at his behind.  Yep, I’d rather be in 1959, sneak into the Forest Hills Stadium (I did sneak in once; the fence was broken behind the bleacher seats) and watch an inebriated Whitney Reed – bringing his 6 pack with him on court –  play Manuel Santana.  And they weren’t paid zilch (maybe Reed got the beers for nothing).  Which is how much I’d pay to go to Flushing Meadows and watch the new batch of keh-zillionaires in September.   Lao Du