I saw Mike Tyson live last night. He’s doing a one-man show directed by Spike Lee where he tells stories from his insane life.
After work I headed over to Newark where I met my brother and father-in-law. Pops used to box back in the day and it seemed like it was going to be a good night.
And it was. Tyson came from the heart. Even though his speech was often garbled in a fury of lisping emotion, he was right there in the moment the entire time—laughing, tearing up, reliving the stories he was telling.
How does a guy go from $400 million in the bank to being so in the hole he’s gotta do this show? The IRS is all over his ass and he makes no bones about that.
If there’s any prevailing theme in Tyson’s story it’s the persistance of life. He’d risen frome the dregs of the Brooklyn projects to the height of global fame and wealth, only to fall into public scorn, and then achieve what at least felt like some kind of redemption in the theater last night. We were all with him.
The guy lost a daughter for god’s sake. Four years old, choked on an electrical cord.
And yet there he is, in the flesh, tribal tattoo and all, gyrating around and showing us his impersonation of a wild dog attacking a black gazelle.
Whether we like it or not, life persists. It’s comforting and depressing and altogether true. Until it stops.