Superpimp Recalls One Sporting Customer — Tiger Woods

Jason Itzler, the owner of New York Confidential, the most successful escort agency ever, has written a book about his life. He made and lost a fortune owning a phone sex business, went to jail for smuggling Ecstasy, then started New York Confidential. He was closed down by Eliot Spitzer, but then his information helped bring Spitzer down.
It’s an incredible story. A movie is being made of his life from this book, and another company is filming a pilot for a reality show about him. Our book, called Superpimp, is being shown to publishers as I write this. It is raw and gritty, a very interesting read.
During his career, which took place in South Beach and in Manhattan, he made the acquaintance of Tiger Woods when Tiger was a teen sensation, and later one of his girls bragged about her date with Tiger, and recently another of his girls, Cori Rust, was named as one of Tiger’s long-time girl friends.
Here is what Jason had to say about Tiger Woods:

I first met Tiger Woods in 1994 when he was about nineteen years old. This was in South Beach, Miami when I was the phone sex king. I was very good friends with Chris Paciello, who was the biggest host of the stars at the time and maybe ever. He owned Liquid, the in club. Chris was dating Madonna, and that was pretty awesome.
Chris came up to me in Liquid one day and he said, “Do you want to meet Tiger Woods?”
“Are you kidding? Yeah, I want to meet him.”
I had a drink with him. Tiger was a much bigger deal than Madonna because he was so mysterious and rare. Here was this kid who was being treated like a God. He was young and so wide-open, and I could see how much he loved pussy. He was addicted right away.
Liquid had the hottest girls in America, and this was a gold digger, star-fucker place. South Beach was always fun and free. The girls circled around Tiger like he was gold.
He had money, power, and fame, and he didn’t try to handle it at all. If he hadn’t gotten married, no one would have cared what he did, but after he was married for just three years, fifteen girls came forward saying Tiger had affairs with them, and it turned out he was a crazy sex addict.
It was a miracle he didn’t get exposed years ago with his reckless behavior. He was a time bomb.
The cocktail waitresses and the super hot girls were floating around him, and he didn’t need me hanging around him, and after five minutes I excused myself.
Years later I would own New York Confidential, the finest escort agency in the world. While I was there one of my girls boasted about how much fun she had with Tiger, and years later another of my girls would surface as one of his many mistresses.
While Joe Dinkie and Ron Sperling were filming Inside New York Confidential for a reality show on VH1, a model-type came in with her husband. He pulled me aside and said his wife wanted to work with me. That had never happened before. Very chic.
I said to him, “She’s a classy girl, a pretty girl. I can make her thirty, forty thousand dollars a month if she works hard.”
The girl, whose name was Cori Rist, had a model body and a model attitude, light brown hair. She looked like she had done a little too much coke in her youth, so she didn’t turn me on, but she looked like money. She looked like she worked for Ford or Elite or another modeling agency.
As her husband stood beside me on camera I said, “This is Cori, who wants to be an escort with the permission of her husband.”
Cori worked for me, and then in 2009 she reappeared when the names of Tiger Wood’s mistresses started to surface.
Cori wasn’t the only one of my girls who had been fixed up with Tiger.
Sometime in 2004 I got a call from one of my best customers, a Goldman Sachs guy who had an apartment in Trump United Nations on a high floor. He was a class act, and once a month or every three weeks or so, he’d call me and say, “Jace, I have three young men I want to reward. I want your finest. Three hours. Overcharge me. Whatever you want.”
On this occasion he said, “Send your best,” and I sent him Kaitlin, one of the few hot shit working models making a lot of money, a nineteen year old Brooke Shields look alike. I sent her over thinking it was a Wall Street guy she was taking care of, but when she came back, she was dancing the hula, all excited, bragging about Tiger Woods. She said it was wonderful, that Tiger was amazing, an athlete, and that she was in love. We didn’t pay much attention to her then, but in light of what’s come to light about Tiger, it’s obvious he’s always had great taste in women.

What Would Jackie Robinson Think?

As I watched the concert in front of the Lincoln Memorial yesterday, I couldn’t help but wonder what Jackie Robinson would have thought and felt. Jackie, who died a young man in 1972, was frustrated and angry all his life at the slothful pace of the civil rights movement. Before he died he made a speech saying how happy he would be to see a black man managing a major league baseball team or even coaching at third base. None were. It’s been a scant 27 years since then, and in large part because of eight years of a disastrous presidency run by a Yalie drunk, know-nothing frat boy turned born again warrior, this country was in such bad shape economically, morally, and spiritually that beleaguered Americans had no choice but to vote for the smartest person in the room as its next president. That person just happened to be black. Under George W. Bush both of my Republican friends lost close to half the value of their hard-earned investments. Nevertheless, they find every reason to blame everyone but George W. Bush. (“He kept us safe.”) I hope they show their appreciation when Obama figures out a way to get us out of his mess and restores their fortunes.

700 Sundays by Billy Crystal

Dr. Irving Kolin, a brilliant psychiatrist/friend who was so helpful in explaining George Steinbrenner’s behaviors for my upcoming biography, and I went to see the Orlando Magic basketball team on January 9. The Magic, led by Dwight Howard, JJ Ridick, and a fabulous kid I had never heard of by the name of Courtney Lee, scored 71 points in the first half in what appeared to be a near-perfect performance. At halftime I chatted with Pat Williams, founder and PR jockey extraordinaire for the Magic, who confirmed this is one of Orlando’s best teams since Shaq played for them a while back.
After the game Irving handed me Billy Crystal’s book, 700 Sundays, to read. The next morning I woke up around 6 and started. The book is a memoir that details his childhood. There was no more loving son. His descriptions of his cast of relatives is memorable, but most touching were his memories of mom and his dad who died suddenly at age 50 when he was fifteen years old, leaving a hole in his heart and a boulder to carry on his shoulders.
My dad passed away in November, and so I could feel his sadness. My dad lived to be 93, so the shock wasn’t nearly as great but final is final. Billy is extraordinary because he is so in touch with his feelings. I can’t even begin to access mine.
Billy has always played warm characters in such movies as When Harry Met Sally and City Slickers, and his movie 61, about Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris, was hailed for its tribute to The M&M boys. 700 Sundays was not only moving, but it was a chuckle a page as well. Pick it up and read it. You’ll be glad you did.

I want Bagger Vance as my caddy

Every once in a while a good book comes along, and the movie made from it is even better. In this case I’m talking about Stephen Pressfield’s Legend of Bagger Vance, which was on TV this afternoon. I’ve seen it before, but it’s one of those movies that when you start watching it, you can’t let go until the conclusion. It’s among the finest performances of both Matt Damon and Will Smith. In the movie Matt Damon’s character, last name Junuh, plays Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen in a golf tournament in Savannah, Georgia, set up to save his former girl friend’s country club from rapacious bankers. Junuh had been a golf prodigy who went into WWI and became a drunk after suffering shell shock. The match is his return to golf, and he plays terribly and falls way behind until he decides to listen to the advice of his caddy, Will Smith’s Bagger Vance. If you try Vance’s advice yourself, you’re still going to stink, because it’s a bunch of hokus pokus like “You have to see the field,” and “let the one perfect swing find you,” but no matter. Junuh magically regains his form, and of course he ends up winning the day. Before his final putt, a self-satisfied Bagger Vance walks off into the sunset. Then at the end Jack Lemmon, who during the match was a ten-year-old boy who caddied for Junuh, does too — forever as it would turn out. When you talk about the great sports movies, I put Bagger Vance right up there. It’s a perfect movie. Not a false note, except perhaps the part about seeing the field. A really great movie.

Ira Glasser, for many years the head of the ACLU, has written a powerful article about civil rights abuses forty years ago in today’s Huffington Post. I am reprinting it here. Ira, who is from Brooklyn, has been a battler for constitutional freedom his entire life. See the article below.

Hilda Chester in the Country of Brooklyn

The Tampa Bay Rays this year handed out cowbells to its fans, and by the end of the year the rooters from the visiting teams would hear a cacaphony of noise every time they tried to organize a cheer. The Rays fans don’t know it, but the cowbell idea came from Stu Sternberg, the Rays’ owner, who was a big fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers. The Bums’ number one fan was a woman by the name of Hilda Chester, and she would bring a big, loud cowbell to the game, and you could hear her all through the ballpark. Here’s an excerpt from my book BUMS about Hilda and the fans of the Brooklyn Dodgers:

Under [Lee] MacPhail and [Leo] Durocher, the [Brooklyn] Dodgers finally became a team deserving of its loyal and worshipful fans, many of whom had been waiting since the early 1920s for the Dodgers to once again become competitive. Charley Ebbets had always thought first of the fans, but when he died in 1925, though the fans had stuck by their team through thin and thin, management hadn’t reciprocated. The players, however, recognized that the Brooklyn fans were special, and often they went out of their way to show their appreciation.

….There was an informal, nonprofessional quality to Ebbets Field and the Dodgers. It was very personal. The fans loved the players. The players loved the fans. All a player had to do was walk out onto the field, and the fans would begin waving at him and hollering to be waved back at, and they would throw down little vials of holy water and religious medals, and when a ballplayer had a birthday, there would always be one or two homemade cakes in the clubhouse for him.

In Ebbets Field there might be 5,000 fans in the park, but it would sound like ten times as many. Five fanatical fans that made up the Dodgers Symphony would play and dance on top of the dugout and walk through the stands playing their ragtime music, and when the umps came out before the game, they would play “Three Blind Mice,” until the year when the National League added a fourth umpire to the crew, lousing up their little joke. If an opposing pitcher was knocked out, the symphony would razz him by playing “The Worms Crawl In, The Worms Crawl Out,” and they would wait for an opposing batter who made [an] out to return to the dugout and sit down, and just as the player’s backside would touch the bench, the cymbal from the symphony would crash, and the Dodger fans would applaud and chuckle at the player’s embarrassment.

….Never had there been such involvement …. At Ebbets Field before each game, the fans would line up along the railing, and the players would walk along and shake hands with everybody and sign autographs and chat about that afternoon’s game. For many of the fans, the Dodgers became part of their family. And every once in a while, the Dodgers made a fan part of theirs.

IRVING RUDD: “I remember when I was a kid, I used to major in hooky. I would run off to the ballpark at the drop of a hat. And one day …. I was hanging around outside the ballpark, holding my scrapbook under my arm, when Al Lopez came out of the clubhouse. He was a kid catcher, about twenty years old, and he’s got with him a guy by the name of Hollis Thurston, who had been a good pitcher with the White Sox, and a guy by the name of Louis ‘Buck’ Newsom, who was Bobo later, Jake Flowers, and Clise [Dudley] …. Lopez says to me, ‘Hey, kid, how ’bout going to dinner with us?’ I said, ‘Gee, I have to ask my mother.’ He said, ‘Give her a call.’ Who had a phone in those days? …. I told him we didn’t have a phone. They asked me where I lived, and I told them, ‘Powell Street in Brownsville,’ and Lopez said, ‘We’ll drop you off on the way home. You ask your mother.’ And he added, ‘Wash your face, too, and put another pair of pants on.’ I was a sloppy kid in those days.

“So we got into the car … and they drove me to Brownsville.

“I went upstairs, and my mother came down to say hello. ‘Take care of my son,’ she says. They say, ‘Sure, Mom, don’t worry about it.’ And they took me to a Spanish restaurant near the St. George Hotel. Lopez knew about this joint. I had arroz con pollo. And after they fed me, they brought me back to the hotel, and we sat around until midnight bullshitting about baseball. And then they brought me home.

“It was so different then. I remember going up to Dazzy Vance, when he was leaving the ballpark. I said, ‘Hey, Daz, that pitch you threw in the ninth inning…’ He said, ‘Kid, let me tell you about it. Now, you got a guy like Hack Wilson playing against you…’ and as we walked, we talked about the game. And that’s the way it was then.”

….The Dodger fans were part of the show, part of the sights and sounds that made Ebbets Field so special. Some of those fans became almost as renowned as the players they came to watch. The other Dodger fans may not have known their names, but they could count on them being there and adding to the noise and craziness.

….The most famous of the Dodger fans — perhaps the most famous in baseball history, was named Hilda Chester, a plump, pink-faced woman with a mop of stringy gray hair. Hilda began her thirty-year love affair with the Dodgers in the 1920s. She had been a softball star as a kid, or so she said, and she once told a reporter that her dream was to play in the big leagues or start up a softball league for women. Thwarted as an athlete, she turned to rooting. As a teenager she would stand outside the offices of the Brooklyn Chronicle every day, waiting to hear the Dodger score. After a while she became known to the sportswriters, who sometimes gave her passes to the games. In her twenties Hilda worked as a peanut sacker for the Stevens Brothers … who owned most of the concession stands across the country …. [I]n her capacity as peanut sacker she was able to work and attend the Dodger games. By the 1930s she was attending games regularly, screaming lustily, one of hundreds of Ebbets Field regulars.

Shortly after suffering a heart attack, she began her rise to fame. Her physician forbade her from yelling, and when she was sufficiently recovered, she returned to Ebbets Field with a frying pan and an iron ladle. Banging away on the frying pan from her seat in the bleachers, she made so much noise that everyone, including the players, noticed her. It was the Dodger players in the late 1930s who presented Hilda Chester with the first of her now-famous brass cowbells.

In 1941 Hilda suffered a second heart attack, and when she entered the hospital this time, she was an important enough personality that Durocher and several of the players went to visit her. As a result Durocher became Hilda’s special hero, and by the mid-1940s she was almost the team mascot. Sometimes during short road trips, Hilda even went with the team….

During the games Hilda lived in the bleacher seats with her bell. Durocher had given her a lifetime pass to the grandstand, but she preferred sitting in the bleachers with the entourage of fellow rowdies. With her fish peddler voice, she’d say, “You know me. Hilda wit da bell. Ain’t it trillin’? Home wuz never like dis, mac.” When disturbed her favorite line was, “Eacha heart out, ya bum?”

One night in Philadelphia, where she had faithfully followed the Dodgers a local fan began criticizing Dixie Walker, calling him a has-been. “You’re all through!” the Philly fan shouted.

“Oh yeah?” Hilda yelled at him, pointing to Walker in right field. “Look where he is, and look where you are.”

Hilda had a voice that could be heard all over the park. It stood out above all the other voices, and the players could hear her raspy call followed by the clanging of her cowbell all through a game. At least once Hilda even was involved in a game’s outcome.

PETE REISER: “I remember one time, it was either in ’41 or ’42, we were in the seventh inning of a game. I was going to take my position in center field, and I hear that voice: ‘Hey, Reiser!’ It was Hilda, There could be 30,000 people there yelling at once, but Hilda was the one you’d hear. I look up, and she’s dropping something onto the grass. ‘Give this note to Leo,’ she yells. So I pick it up and put it in my pocket. At the end of the inning I start heading in.

“Now [Larry] MacPhail used to sit in a box right next to the dugout, and for some reason he waved to me as I came in, and I said, ‘Hi, Larry,’ as I went into the dugout. I gave Hilda’s note to Leo and sat down. Next thing I know he’s getting somebody hot in the bullpen; I think it was Casey. Meanwhile, Wyatt’s pitching a hell of a ballgame for us. In the next inning, the first guy hits the ball pretty good and goes out. The next guy gets a base hit. Here comes Leo. He takes Wyatt out and brings in Casey. Casey gets rocked a few times, and we just did win the game, just did win it.

“….[A]fter [the]game … he goes into his office and slams the door without a word. We’re all sitting there waiting for him to come out. Finally the door opens and out he comes. He points to me.

“‘Don’t you ever give me another note from MacPhail as long as you play for me.’

“I said, ‘I didn’t give you any note from MacPhail.’

“‘Don’t tell me!’ he yells. ‘You handed me a note in the seventh inning.’

“‘That was from Hilda,’ I said.

“‘From Hilda?” he screams. I thought he was going to turn purple. ‘You mean to say that wasn’t from MacPhail?’

“I hadn’t even looked at the note, just handed it to him. Leo had heard me say something to MacPhail when I came in and figured the note was from Larry. It seems what the note said was: ‘Get Casey hot. Wyatt’s losing it.’ So what you had was somebody named Hilda Chester sitting in the centerfield bleachers changing pitchers for you.”

The Yankees are the Yankees are the Yankees

Ever since the Yankees spent $423 million on C.C. Sabathia, A.J. Burnett, and Mark Texiera, there’s been a loud outcry from around the league. But if you look back in history, what the Yankees did is not new. When they bought Babe Ruth from the Red Sox, there was a howl. They bought Joe DiMaggio from the San Francisco Seals. And when Charlie Finley goofed and allowed Catfish Hunter to be a free agent, it was the Yankees that paid him millions, as they did Don Gullett and Reggie Jackson,who were along the first group of free agents.
The Yankees are moving into a new stadium, and ownership feels the team must play up to the status of their new digs. Hank Steinbrenner was right when he said the Yankees were the flagship organization of baseball. He also said he would do whatever it takes to make the Yankees a winner again. A lot of club owners refuse to do that. Why would anyone root for a team where ownership refuses to put a competitive team on the field? (Here in St. Pete, we had an owner who for years took all the salary tax money from the Yankees and Red Sox and put it in his pocket. Every year except one the Rays finished last. Now he’s gone, and good riddance.)

The Rays Owners are Smart

When it was announced that the Tampa Bay Rays were abandonning Al Lang Stadium and moving their spring training headquarters an hour or so south to Port Charlotte, there was a lot of gnashing of teeth about the move. The Rays owners said their motive was simple: to attract fans from south of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. Skeptics and conspiacy theorists wondered whether this was the first step to take the Rays to Oklahoma City or Las Vegas or Mexico City. But no, Stuart Sternberg was telling the truth. He was looking for more fans. Last week Annie Miller, who helps run the Eckerd College Elderhostel Program, and I traveled to Port Charlotte to see the new digs. And they are beautiful. The stadium seats about 6,000, and already the best seats have been sold out to those buying season tickets. The name of the Class A Rays affiliate is the Port Charlotte Stone Crabs, and the logo is a hoot, a snarky crab with bg claws. I predict their shirts will become a hot item for Rays fans.

Jane Heller defends the Yankees’ free spending

Here’s another take on the Yankees by a die-hard Yankee crazy

Loving the Yankees Means Always Having to Say You’re Sorry
By Jane Heller

Jane Heller is the author of the coming memoir, “Confessions of a She-Fan: The Course of True Love with the New York Yankees.” (Rodale)

“Unseemly.” “Insensitive.” “Galling.” “Grotesque.”

These are among the kinder adjectives being attributed to the Yankees after they spent nearly half a billion dollars to acquire three players. How dare they engage in conspicuous consumption when the rest of the country is suffering! What nerve flaunting their wealth during the worst economic catastrophe since the Great Depression! What a slap in the face to the small-market, payroll-slashing Have-nots in baseball, proving once and for all that the Yankees are a detriment to the sport and to humankind!

Over the top? Not on the blogosphere, where it’s a great time to be a Yankees hater. Even Yankees fans are behaving like Yankees haters. If I get one more e-mail telling me I should “wise up and dump the losers,” I’ll –-
Well, I just wish everybody would stop. I’m a grown woman. I can make my own choices. And I’m sick of having to apologize for loving a team with assets, as if that makes me some sort of “trophy fan” who’s in it strictly for the money. The fact that the Yankees do have money and aren’t afraid to lavish it on the people they care about isn’t so wrong, is it? It’s not as if they’ve roped us all into some giant Ponzi scheme and bled our retirement plans dry.
Actually, I pay no attention to the lifelong, die-hard, truly intransigent Yankees haters. They hate us just for breathing.
But to all the self-loathing Yankees fans that fear their team is buzz-killing the holidays for the denizens of San Diego, Minneapolis and Kansas City? It’s not your fault that the Padres’ owner needs to sell his team; not your fault that the Twins trade away their best players; not your fault that the Royals thought signing Kyle Farnsworth was a smart idea. Sure, you’re tempted to walk the earth in sackcloth apologizing to everyone everywhere, but you’re not responsible for society’s ills. Just get used to the idea that being a Yankees fan means always saying you’re sorry.
Besides, look at all the perks that go along with being a Yankees fan.
You’re getting a spectacular new house in April with every possible amenity. It combines the latest in interior design (wide-screen television, state-of-the-art sound system, gourmet kitchens, multiple baths) with outdoorsy charm (distinctive facade, park-like acreage, well-tended lawn, professional groundskeepers).
You get Brian Cashman, the modern-day equivalent of John Beresford Tipton, the guy on the old weekly TV series “The Millionaire” who dispensed million-dollar checks to unsuspecting, deserving individuals. Personally, I’m looking forward to seeing how his latest recipients will handle their wealth -– Will they use it for good works or fritter it away? -– just as I used to anticipate the fates of the TV show’s new millionaires.
Speaking of “new,” some fans are stuck with the same old dreary personalities year after year. Not Yankees fans. Our team always seeks out the most intriguing players, whether young or old, rookie or veteran, robust or chronically injured. As a result, Yankees fans are never bored. Sometimes Cashman keeps us entertained by pulling fast ones on us. Like the year he said Enrique Wilson was our third baseman, only to spring Alex Rodriguez on us. Or the time he swore that Bubba Crosby was our center fielder, only to fill the position with Johnny Damon. He told us Nick Swisher would be our first baseman this year, and now Mark Teixeira will be guarding the bag on Opening Day.
Fans of other teams accuse our team of overpaying for players, as well as awarding them large signing bonuses. Excuse me, but isn’t that the very definition of a good employer – an organization that’s generous with both salary and benefits?
As a Yankees fan, you get to root for a team that represents the largest city in the country. Frank Sinatra sings your theme song. You have your own cable TV network. You’re an international brand; people in foreign countries parade around in your interlocking N.Y. You are not the Kankakee Yankees and never will be, and there’s no reason to apologize for that, either.
Another thing to remember is that the Steinbrenner family has a diversified portfolio that includes the breeding and racing of thoroughbred horses as well as the ownership and management of eight Florida hotels. You picked wisely when you hitched your wagon to them. They are not asking Congress for a bailout.
And the next time a Yankees hater gives you the old “You people think you can just go out and buy a championship?” Don’t apologize. We’re fully aware that money doesn’t guarantee a World Series ring any more than it guarantees happiness. We’re not as clueless as our detractors think.
So please, Yankees fans. No more hand wringing. There will be plenty of opportunities for that once the season starts.