The Faux Pas Press #12: Ode to Mike Tyson

The Faux Pas Press #12

A Weekly Thought

By Jason Scott Chambers

19 October 2009

Ode to Mike Tyson

I have considered the ever-present notion that no one, I mean no one, on this planet gives a damn about me. Have you? When someone offers you a compliment do you take a short whiff of the perfume or drink a bottle of complement poison? Yes, after all that has been said about your life and work, certainly you must consider that all of it, and I do mean all of it, is really poisonous horseshit. How does a conscious human-being operate with purpose after realizing that every piece of praise is really a cheap perfume that smells nice for a moment only to wear off after a night of glitz and club crawling?

When I was an impressionable young child I attended 3 long, painful hours at the local Mormon Chapel every week with my family. Part of this time was spent with other cute, unsuspecting kids in Sunday school. We were reminded, at almost regular cues it seemed, how important we were, how a loving God with dominion over worlds listened to each child’s prayer, and why it was good for me to honor him for being so loving. A heavy woman wearing a flower-print dress that she had made from a cut-out pattern she picked up over at Joann Fabrics would smile patiently through plastic-framed glasses and a mole that probably plagued most of her life. She would passionately talk about how grateful she was to Heavenly Father. We would sing songs like I am a Child of God and Jesus Wants me for a Sunbeam. I was frightened when she would call me out for singing too loudly. I wondered, “If there is someone out there who really cares about me, why would he appoint this bi-polar, obese woman to tend to me? Couldn’t he have found someone who cared more about my well-being than about the complement perfume she would get for being the Sunday School President? Or, at least someone who would not shake Aquanet hairspray flakes on me when I misbehaved or someone who had the decency to polish her Payless pumps before showing up to the Great and Heavenly Church Show each week?”

You see, I have considered that, in the face of all pretty sounding words, no one really gives a damn about me. They might very well care about what I can do for them but not about helping me achieve Nirvana or find the Elysium Fields of Gold. Yes, the Celestial Kingdom, as my people call it, is up to me. And it is up to you. Take a whiff of that.

On a similar note, Thursday, October 15th, was Opening Night of the Hawaii International Film Festival. I planned on attending, or if nothing else, showing up to the multi-plex to see what all the fuss was about. I speak Chinese so it did make some sense with all the hip foreign movies; however, I did consider another ever-present notion – I might be better entertained watching the spray-painted robot guys at Waikiki Beach bedazzle tourists with an act they caught in San Francisco last year. Putting my pretensions aside, I parked the Chrysler in the Costco parking lot next to the Dole Cinema. I walked through the mall entrance and I started to ponder my illustrious Mormon childhood in Richardson, Texas. “I guess I’ve spent 3 hours of my life doing worse,” I reasoned. As I continued my little commute, I realized that I should have brought a beret or worn a scarf, but the best I could muster up was a tight little Diesel man purse that my wife ordered from Zappo’s (the salvation of good commerce, I might add). Delaying a decision, not on what movie to see but on whether to go at all, I somehow detoured into this quaint furniture boutique - mostly because Elizabeth and I want to buy a new bed and some accessories for the family headquarters.

Well, this Interior Designer girl (or Furniture Sales Representative) approaches me with questions about price range and aesthetic preference. I respond with as many lies as I could squeeze into five minutes of conversation. I noticed the wheels turning, numbers adding up on the commission sheet. With each false implication, my hands become more and more animated, describing the grand plans. As far as she knows, I am refurbishing an old loft downtown. How exciting! Words are powerful and I’m a descent actor. Her face radiated and I think her skirt may have a risen a bit; her nipples probably got harder too. Yes, I could tell that I had a genuine gal on my hands, yes, a gal interested only in the real me and all of my dreams. I told her that I had foreign flick to catch and she handed me a business card, asking me to call her anytime. The Chrysler was waiting and we, the Chrysler and I, decided to head over to Wal-Mart and buy a movie that cost me less than the festival would have. Who needs a film festival; I can entertain myself - telling a bunch lies in a furniture store.

In closing, the movie that I chose was riveting and pays respect to a man who has had to find his Nirvana later in life. Realizing that he’d been poisoned by people who had sold him the complement perfume, he faced many lies - many painful truths as well. Perhaps, he faced the lie that these people actually gave a damn about him. Consequently, this man was on Oprah this week discussing his pain. He showed a striking emotional maturity for a man who has been through more than most people live to see. The film is called Tyson, and I will say it, the Champion, Iron Mike Tyson, shows us who we are as a culture, showing us quite possibly, with all the disdain that we have shown him, that we don’t give a fuck about anybody.

Today let it be known that I say, “Thank You, Mike Tyson. Thank you for enduring years of fickle praise and constant ridicule, for being willing to encounter your demons and showing us how to do the same, for playing the role of the Crucified and being a father that most of us can only dream of being, the kind of father that I hope to be next week.” So, this week’s thought is for you Mike Tyson: I must choose to be happy and serve this world even if no one gives a damn about me.

Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,

Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com