I’ve been so discombobulated of late I lost the thread of the Tiger Woods story. Last I checked, we were talking about an essentially nice guy who’d stepped into it by “having affairs” outside his marriage.
Yesterday afternoon I finally had a minute to hit Gawker, which sent me to Deadspin, the sports blog, where I discovered that the story is now about a sexual compulsive with a bottomless appetite for strange, whose “lover” is actually his pimp/personal assistant, netting major bucks for stocking his larder, not actually cooking the food. By the time I reached the part with the porn star, I started thinking that the precipitating incident in all this may well not have been a National Enquirer dispatch, but a closed-door session between a grim physician and Mrs. Woods, followed by a prescription for embarrassing drugs.
So yeah, I have to agree with Eric Zorn, who surmises that the reason Woods didn’t get out in front of this story is because there’s no getting in front of an avalanche of sewage, that the best — only — strategy is to take shelter under a rock, wait for it to pass and see what’s left of his image in six months.
And since I was in a sewage-y state of mind, I also foolishly followed the link Brian provided yesterday, to that Lisa Schiffren bilge in the American Thinker, which seeks to tie Woods to Barack Obama. Because why? They’re both successful and…what else do they have in common? I can’t imagine.
And because by then my nose was starting to get numb to the smell, I stupidly started reading the comments on the piece, and, well, that’s not something I can recommend. But I will remind you that Lisa Schiffren is not some fringe crank but Dan Quayle’s former speechwriter and a more or less respected member of the right-wing commentariat. If you can imagine Dee Dee Myers someday writing for the Symbionese Liberation Army newsletter, that’s the equivalent.
Ick! Let’s go for a palate cleanser, shall we? Two photo stories on hunting should do the trick. The first, from the NYT, on the Inuit of Greenland, all in black and white for those of you who are squeamish about seal blood. The other, from the Irish Times, on the Waterford Hunt, which goes after fox. No dead foxes in this one, because as all fox hunters know, a dead fox isn’t the point of a fox hunt. It’s galloping and jumping and drinking from stirrup cups and hound music, a sample of which is included in the audio portion of the slide show. Turn your speakers up — recommended for fans of Ireland, horses, hounds and the countryside, and who isn’t included in that group?
With that, I’ve opened the tavern and thrown sex, race and blood on the table. Surely we can have a lively discussion about that. I’m off to do the crossword and catch up on some reading.