Sunday, June 17, 2007

Life & Times Of Tiger Woods

Eldrick "Tiger" Woods (born December 30, 1975) is an American professional golfer whose achievements to date rank him among the most successful golfers of all time. Currently the World No. 1, Woods was the highest paid professional athlete in 2005, having earned an estimated $87 million. It is estimated that he will become the first ever athlete to become a billionaire from winnings and endorsements. In 2006, at the age of 30, he won his eleventh and twelfth professional major golf championships and has more wins on the PGA Tour than any other active golfer. He is the only active golfer in the top 10 in career major wins or career PGA Tour wins.

Among his achievements, Woods has held the number one position in the world rankings for the most consecutive weeks and for the greatest total number of weeks. He has been awarded PGA Tour Player of the Year a record eight times, and he has led the money list seven times (one behind Jack Nicklaus' record). He has been named Associated Press Male Athlete of the Year four times, a record he shares with Lance Armstrong.

Woods, who is multiracial, is credited with prompting a major surge of interest in the game of golf among minorities and young people in the United States.

On June 14th, Forbes issued its list of the 100 most influential celebrities and Tiger came in second. He is the first athlete in history to bank $100 million in a year, thanks in part to a raise he finagled out of long-time endorser Nike. (The sneaker giant's Tiger-oriented golf division is now a $600 million-a-year business.) He also signed a new deal with Gillette and upped his usual lucrative overseas playing gigs, where he can command, on average, $3 million a pop. His Swedish wife Elin is pregnant with the couple's first child, due this summer. Wonder if he's hoping for a boy? Visit his website at:

Research info taken from: and

Here's today poems:

& Any Number Of Similar Requests

She says her dreams are always erotic and occur at a
time when postage stamps cost eighteen cents. I say
mine stand in a crowd of people watching fireworks
and tires to lift a man’s wallet. We both laugh when I
tell her the wallet has no credit cards and just enough
for coffee money.

Sometimes her dreams fall in my lap and never bother
to say I’m sorry. On those occasions they wear shoes
that lace up to about two inches above her ankles. The
shoes are always red and genuine leather. They talk
themselves off, then stand in the corner and take notes.

“I once followed the yellow brick road and ended up in a
strange apartment on the 9th floor of a very inhospitable
building,” she admits, as she encloses me in a series of
rectangles. “I once went through all the belongings of a
dead person and only found several porous insults,” I reply,
willing to scrape her thoughts with my rough hairy hands.

And neither of us mind the noise of the railway station. Fact
is, we have a lot in common. We both fear laundromats.
We both feel that only toxic waste entrepreneurs are true
tycoons and that the best gin wears safety pins. And, neither
of us are willing to offer an amended version.

No Ordinary Dream, Wearing Go-Go Boots

It was no ordinary dream.

It wore a halo and walked out of a grotto full of
flags wearing go-go boots and a big Afro wig.
It made seductive promises of an all-night
café where I could OD on caffeine and
order raw hamburger with an egg
yolk floating in the middle. I
hate eggs. But I love
pickled relish and fish when
it doesn't smell. The place gleamed
and the ashtrays were brimming over.
There was even a pinball machine that would
let you tilt it to win. The waitress was bow-legged
with a hearing-aid on strike. Her name tag read
"Peaches" but they only came in a can. Did I
mention the homemade biscuits? By the
time I finished the meal I felt like the
longest rap song in a stanza. For
dessert she offered a freshly
mown lawn covered in
dew. I declined but
my dream
ordered a hunting
license and spent the
next day taking buck-shots
at the VP, who was kind of beige
and covered by funny decals. Mysteriously
enough, the pads of butter the waitress put on
the table could be sliced in half, in case the dream
wanted to shoot through them.

Poems first published online at:
Copyright 2007 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
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1 comment:

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