Tuesday, January 5, 2010
God Bless Annie Leibovitz
Am I offended? Outraged? Suddenly Afraid? Shall I vow to never drink Gatorade again?
(he is a black man, he looks angry, he is wearing a black toboggan)
No I am not. I am delighted. I am having a hard time not wanting to sing BOTH of their praises - him for being that smokin' hot and Annie for being so damned talented as to be given access to the amazing faces she has photographed these past 30 years.
Thank you Annie. Since Tiger Woods first came upon the media scene I have wondered why I never was able to catch a glimpse of him without a shirt. I get to see photos of Matthew McConihotty running in Santa Barbara ALL the time! Tiger is physically attractive. He is fit. And, dare I say it: this is what a world class athlete's body looks like. And, lifting weights is what this athlete must do to stay at the top of his game. Let's face it...he is easy on the eyes and easy to think of as "one of the guys". You would drink a beer with Tiger - if he would drink one with you. And it would be a Coors Light. That is part of his appeal. Has he groomed his media persona so expertly that every racist in Georgia and South Carolina, who would rather spit on than speak to a black neighbor, wears their Nike TW golf gear with pride. It is amazing. He's OK; he's Tiger Woods.
Should I care if my favorite golfer cheats on his wife or has some penchant for young, slinky women? Sex addiction? Narcissistic? Should I care if my favorite late-nite talk show host slept around with his ever-so-willing staff (admit it, he has a quality)? Should I care of my President gets a bj in the Oval Office? Well, now you may have crossed the line - take it to The Comfort Suites like the rest of us. In reality, it seems that rather that watch our media darlings or hero's do good and set solid and inspiring examples, we prefer to laugh as they fall from grace. We feast on TMZ, Perez Hilton, and E! Online until we sit bloated, full of our own self worth and superiority.
I ain't perfect, I do it too. This year, I am going to try to be a little less quick to be secretly pleased that certain famous folk I admire have cracks and flaws. If Tiger Woods walked down Lancaster Avenue and needed directions to Capitol City Gold (locals will get that), I'd plug it into his smart phone for him, grab a Gatorade out of my fridge, a Sharpie, and ask him to autograph the drink and my new issue of Vanity Fair. Then, I would try like hell to get him to take off his shirt!