Tuesday, December 8, 2009

No Holds Barred - Tiger's Tales

by Blair Sabol

Frankly I have been in shock and awe
at the last week's "whores of distinction" parade. And I am not talking about the White House gatecrashers. No one REALLY cares about them or that "security story." It's Tiger's Tales that I'm mystified about.  

Let's admit and dismiss the fact that Tiger was stupid: leaving his actual name on his mistress's voicemail; sexting his other girlfriend in front of his wife; not having his lawyers and friends sign a confidentiality agreement so that we, the people, don’t have to hear the obscene leakages over his bimbos’/wife current financial arrangements. Actually out here in Arizona's golf world he has been notorious for being rude and cheap (no to low tipping) in tournaments. Which makes me think if you are so tight, what did these girls really get outside of the usual VIP array of limos, hotel presidential suites stocked with complimentary champagnes and extra towels ... what were his promised "perks" really about past his private parts.

But something much more horrendous is surfacing here. I think it backs up into our culture's current craze of TMZ (which is now all of the media) and Bravo's “Housewives of” New Jersey, New York, Orange County, Atlanta and now ... Washington DC. How perfect!!!  In Tiger's case there's Jaimee Grubb, a "cocktail waitress"; Rachel Uchitel, a "PR club hostess" extraordinaire; and Kalika Moquin, a "party marketing director." The trifecta of sex goddesses.  But what kind of "JOBS" are these.  

In the old days of Frank Sinatra and The Rat Pack it was showgirls and hatcheck, cigarette girls. These sound so simple and somewhat chic. Nowadays the job descriptions reek of lapdancing and cocaine connections. Actually these girls make my favorite  much maligned professional Heidi Fleiss look like Jackie O. But my current fave is Ashley Dupre (Eliot Spitzer's professional prostitute). In last Friday's New York Post she came out swinging ... admitting that at least she was an out and out hooker and never squealed for dollars (although she is writing a book but promises no name droppings).  

I always felt Dupre's silence was powerful and her visual was somewhat (other than her hot pants) under control. The rest of these "fame dames" have the exact same caramel hair extended tresses; injected fish lips; and molded "cheeks " (in more ways than one). I guess you have to have a little compassion ... after all competition nowadays is steep. How is a girl going to survive in a NYC Chelsea apt.

Years ago I used to get inquiries from parents about helping their young daughters get jobs in NYC.  In those days it was a deal to get to be a "Soho "gallery girl" or a Conde Nast apprenticed "gofer."
L. to r.: Rachel Uchitel; Jaimee Grubb; Kalika Moquin.
Nowadays you can kiss that goodbye. Today the gig is to hit the street for the "big boyz" (Arabs or Croatian heirs); work the city's dance clubs and the Hampton's circuit for all you are worth. Maybe start in Los Angeles’ high end porn scene with your Uggs, crotchless panties and fur mini skirt. Get any "Daddy to gift you with a pair of 38 DDDs and a $60,000 gold and  diamond Rolex and matching Givenchy tote bag plus a Juicey Coutured rear end ... and away you go.

"Not that there is anything wrong with that," I suppose. A girl's gotta eat. But here I thought that this whole "bimbo 'n bling" scene went the over-and-out way of Bernie Madoff last year. Obviously not.

Now as for the well maintained wives of these high rolling guys ... unfortunately they have never been a factor ... (sorry Elin Nordegen Woods). And sadly, who listens to feminists about their side anymore. Basically it has been the survival of the "botoxically" fittest and fullest.  What is so sad is that I used to admire the toney New York socialite and celebrity elite; the Paleys, The Revsons, the Fords (all dinosaurs at this point). Now all I see are cleavaged pouting "Housewives of New Jersey" posing with politicians, CEOs, and department store executives. No, what's the message here? Class is out. Ass is in. Deal with it. My answer: I'd rather not.

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