Feb. 20, 2010

I was sitting in a barber chair on W. 52nd St. when Tiger Woods delivered his nationally televised mea culpa, during which he apologized to everyone in America for having cheated on them with a bunch of industrial strength floozies. From what I could hear over the buzzing of the clippers, Woods appeared to mean what he was saying. He choked up a couple times during his pre-prepared, 13-minute grovel, and he seemed genuinely angered by the media’s pursuit of his wife and kids while this sorry spectacle unfolded.

Woods also admitted, in a move that’s rare among public figures who get caught with their hand in (ahem) the cookie jar, that he failed his family so thoroughly because fame and money made him feel entitled to do whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it, with anyone he saw fit to do it with. If you know what I mean. And I’m pretty certain, by now, you know exactly what I mean, even with the dangling participle.

Frankly, everything Woods said made sense to me, even though there’s probably more to such shenanigans than Tiger merely thinking the world was his plate of beer-battered oysters. As far as I’m concerned, the only pertinent thing he didn’t utter into that camera lens, in front of a gathering of surely squirming friends and family members, was why I should be privy to all this while I was getting a haircut.

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Remember back in the first paragraph, when I said Tiger Woods cheated on you? That was actually a joke. Woods didn’t cheat on you or me or anyone else you know, unless, of course, you know his wife. And you don’t know his wife.

Sure, this implosion of one of the most famous, purportedly pure-spirited people on earth was initially fascinating to watch, and, being the kind of guy I am, I took the opportunity to poke fun at the situation with a bit of tasteless surrealism. But the impetus for that earlier piece was the obvious lack of…how can I say this…radical feminists among Woods’ phalanx of prefabricated concubines. I certainly wasn’t getting back at Tiger for having violated the sacred bond that formed between us when I chugged a bottle of Gatorade with his picture on the label.

But now sportswriters around the country - many of whom, I’m sure, would be banging Hooters waitresses from sea to shining sea if only Hooters waitresses found them bangable - will be deciding whether Woods was sincere enough when he went on television and mournfully admitted to dropping his pants at the drop of a hat. Or a bra. There’s already a common thread running through sports editorials saying that Woods didn’t deliver a “real” apology because he didn’t open the floor to a round of questions from reporters when he was done, as if there’s anything they could possibly ask him that’s any of their fucking business.

Then there’s Woods’ stated intention of once again focusing on Buddhist teachings to help him refocus his existence, which will surely outrage those golf enthusiasts who are certain Jesus Christ is the only figurehead who could possibly relieve him of the existential burden of having copulated with the star of “My First Sex Teacher #12” and “Big Breasted Nurses.”

How can he deny it? It says it right there in the Bible!

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Am I condoning what Tiger Woods did to the people he supposedly loves? Of course not. This wasn't a one-time slip up; he’s revealed himself to be a selfish perpetual adolescent, at least as far as his penis is concerned. But I hope he can put his life back together again because he’s also a human being, and who needs another one of those lying there in a shattered heap?

I tell you what, though, I’ll be happy when some other really famous person gets divorced, or drunkenly punches a pedestrian outside a nightclub, so we can all proceed to a fresher story that keeps us from recognizing just how hellish life has gotten for people who can’t feed their kids, have no medical insurance, or, God forbid, have to dodge mortar fire when they walk down the street.

Feeling betrayed by people we don’t know is so much easier than recognizing we’re betraying the rest of humanity when we so fervently focus on events that, in the grand scheme of things, mean absolutely nothing at all.

I wonder if Ellen and Simon will start screaming at each other on "American Idol" this season.

Paul Tatara