Dave on Demand: For that performance, hand Tiger the gold

It was fitting that Tiger Woods' televised clemency hearing took place during the Winter Olympics, because his appearance yesterday resembled a challenging ice-skating program more than it did a round of golf.

There were several compulsory elements to this public apology, and the real danger that, no matter how much Woods had rehearsed, he could end up sprawling on his backside.

Yeah, it was a real pressure cooker down in Ponte Vedra Beach, Fla. And the guy just absolutely nailed it. Dead solid perfect. No wonder he clocks crazy oil-sheik money on the golf course. Woods is clutch.

It was a superb act of contrition. He delivered the required litany: acknowledging his mistakes, accepting responsibilty, apologizing profusely, and vowing to change his ways.

And he did it with powerful displays of emotion and a convincing air of sincerity. That was the portion that most analysts projected he would struggle with.

Woods delivered far more than the mandatory admissions. He evinced humility when talking about his inpatient therapy: "It's hard to admit that I need help. But I do."

Near the end, he even got spiritual, alluding to Buddhist tenets and principles. Bet you didn't see that one coming.

There were a couple of minor missteps: harping on his charitable programs for kids (too self-serving) and expressing anger over the paparazzi's hounding of his family (still too early for self-righteousness).

Those slips were more than compensated for by an irresistible ending. After a final plea ("I ask you to find room in your heart to one day believe in me again"), he sniffled quite audibly and then descended from the platform to enfold his mother in a tight, lingering hug.

Nicely played, Mr. Woods. The only way it could have been improved was if you had walked up to the lectern in a hair shirt emblazoned with the Nike swoosh.

On second thought, that's probably too biblical. The crisp navy blue blazer worked just fine.

Nothing but sad songs. The best line of the American Idol season so far was delivered by delightful guest judge Katy Perry. As Kara DioGuardi was rattling on about how an auditioner's tragic life story would make him a great fit for the show, Perry broke in, "This isn't a Lifetime movie, sweetheart."

Unfortunately, that's exactly what Idol has been this year: a maudlin Lifetime movie.

We've had contestants struggling with foster homes, prison, autistic children, grandparents with Alzheimer's, motorcycle accidents, gang backgrounds, poverty, abuse, dead friends, and deformities.

Yikes! Remember when the audition rounds used to be funny? Enough with the sob sisters. Bring back the clowns.

EZ turf. Ever notice how easy it is to dig a grave on TV or in movies? A few crisp clean shovel strokes and before you know it, you've got yourself a big, deep hole with hospital corners. No roots. No rocks.

I was reminded of this cinematic contrivance this week on Lost during the burial of John Locke. The real Locke, not the evil spirit who has cloned his appearance.

The dirt was coming out so easily it looked like they were digging through a patch of chocolate mousse. Ben was even making good progress using a tool jury-rigged out of bamboo.

It's pretty obvious that guys who type scripts have never had calluses on their hands.

Bad form. The worst thing about the Olympics for me has been the way they've used NBC announcers like Bob Costas to set up the commercials for the cartoon film How to Train Your Dragon as if you were about to see a genuine Olympic event. Seems to me this disguising of promotion as content crosses the line in a disturbing fashion.

Searching for clues. Those guys at CTU are sure resourceful. This week, when Jack was captured by ruthless Ukrainian mobsters on 24, the unit's director (Mykelti Williamson) barked into his headset, "There has to be something at the site to help us ID the vehicle - tire treads, transmission fluid, oil residue."

I imagine an army of agents scouring the blacktop. "Hey, look at the splatter pattern on this trannie fluid," one says. "Somebody has a real lead foot. That can only be one man: Yevheniy Pushkar!"