Clearly, I am no Perez Hilton or Michael Musto. I don't work for Harvey Levin on TMZ nor the fictional Sid Hudgens, editor of LA Confidential. I am not plugged into the ways of public scandal, titillating tales from Tinseltown, DC party-crashers or your run-of-the-mill celebrity meltdowns and train wrecks-- I simply do not have the celebrity radar to have foreseen that the Tiger Tale had more legs than merely a report of smashed up Escalade, fire hydrant and a wife-wielding golf club.
You can bet your life I will follow this story with all he rabid fascination of, well, a tiger on the scent of its prey. I'll just do it on my own time-- in between trying to learn more about Tareq and Michaele Sahali, and their White House invitation.
The healthcare debate? The troop build-up in Afghanistan? The real-estate market and jobless rate? Too dull and depressing. The travails of the highest paid athlete in the world chasing tail... now, that's an uplifting story. Something to give us a smile.... kick up our collective cynicism a notch... or at the very least, amuse us. It's funny-- I was at friends' house last night for dinner and they had Entertainment Tonight on the tube. Following the extended coverage of the Tiger Woods saga, they had a brief segment of some recently discovered film showing Marilyn Monroe toking on a doobie and passing it on to some eager hemp-head off-camera. What? She's been dead for over 47 years. Cue Elton and light the candle. On second though, that is just too melodramatic and faux somber. Drop a quarter into the Wurlitzer and punch in G4...
Dirty little secrets
Dirty little lies
We got our dirty little fingers
In everybody's pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love dirty laundry
We can do the Innuendo
We can dance and sing
When it's said and done
We haven't told you a thing
We all know that Crap is King
Give us dirty laundry
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're stiff
Kick 'em all around
What began innocently enough (or at least below the aforementioned radar) is turning into the outing and undoing of a certain professional athlete named Eldrick Tont "Tiger" Woods. By comparison, Ron Artest's admission that he swigged from a bottle of Hennessey during halftime has hardly caused a blip on the screen.The text of his warning call to Jaimee Grubbs is currently on countless websites. His own site is peddling Tiger merchandise. Hmmm. Maybe, in some twisted way, his caps with the TW logo will become the new fashion accessory for cocktail waitresses and beautiful people wannabees.
As of this moment, Gloria Allred can't seem to get Rachel Uchitel to spill the beans on Le Tigre. This does not bode well for the spotlight loving lawyer, particularly in light of the fact that at least one of the other implicated women, (Jaimee Grubbs) is releasing phone messages and emails like they were canapés at a private party at the Forge.
TW: Hey, um... it's Tiger--
TW: Tiger. You know, Tiger Woods. The golf guy. You remember... I told you I was going to wear you out...
JG: Can you hold on a sec? (away from the phone), Okay, that'll be two Heinekens, a Bud, a Fuzzy Navel and Sex on the Beach?
(laughter in the background)
JG: Sorry. I'm working, you know...
TW: Yeah, right. Hey, listen... I need you to do me a huge favor. Can you please take your name off your phone? My wife went through my phone and may be calling you. So if you can, please take your name off that. Just have it as a number on the voicemail. You got to do this for me. Huge. Quickly. Bye.
JG: Hello? Hello?
At this point, this story is so out of spin control, beyond a train wreck that Michael Bay is planning on basing his 2012 sequel on it. It once again, shows why fiction writers have such a hard time of it... who could make this shit up? It has gone miles past HUSH HUSH and on the QT.
Thus far, my favorite line spoken about this was by Keith Olbermann, who said that Mr. Woods "was having a problem with his putts."