Back in 1979 I was working at Hurrah’s, Manhattan’s only punk disco. My girlfriend, a blonde B Model from Buffalo, was rightfully jealous of my late hours. We had met at the Romantics’ concert. Lisa was so beautiful that I abandoned by live-in girlfriend for her. She was wrong to suspect my doing the same to her. I was faithful throughout our yearlong affair. Women don’t like being wrong and one night as I was leaving for work she smacked the back of my head with the new frying pan that my mother had brought as a Christmas gift. I dropped to my knees, thankfully my mother had bought steel instead of cast iron.

“Don’t hit me again.”

“You’re not leaving this apartment.” Lisa swung for the fences at my head.

I ducked the blow and disarmed Lisa. My income from Hurrah was split two ways. I chucked the frying pan in the corner and stormed from the apartment. Lisa never said she was sorry, giving me the unwanted insight into the murderous temper coursing in a woman’s veins and the famed golfer Tiger Woods might have have experienced a close encounter of a very jealous woman the other night.

Police report his leaving his Florida house in the early morning. 2am. I know that part of Florida. There is nowhere to go at that hour. His SUV hit a tree. The police came to the scene of the accident. His injuries were not those attributable to a car crash. Fingers point to a broken golf club wielded by his blonde wife. Police are investigating the matter, but Tiger should seriously consider sleeping away from his gated community for the next couple of weeks, because his wife probably has a better swing than my Lisa.

Motive for the attack.

Another woman.

Tiger was guilty whereas I was innocent.

Then again all men are guilty in the eyes of a jealous woman.