Heather and Mike Tyson? Only at NoChance.

Normally I spend countless hours carefully handcrafting the articles you read on NoChance (or at least keeping the whip hovering over the heads of the Malaysian children I have working for me) but some urgent matters have come to the forefront which demand my immediate attention. A writer’s work is never done…sigh.

*Some reader mail: For those of you who may have missed it, NoChancer Heather from the great state of Texas (a.k.a. Mexico part 2) had a follow-up question to the tattoo article. Here’s the essence of the response:
"I think I would have to add one obnoxious question to your list though... this is the one that gets me themost. "So, what does it mean?" I probably asked you that about your first one way back in the day, but I have become much more older, wiser and more tattooed since then, so I'll just skip the apology. Also, I have no problem with friends asking me this, but strangers... WTF! To me asking what the tattoo means or why I chose the ones I did is fine from friends but from perfect strangers it seems like a very personal question. It is along the lines of "so, what kind of person are you, anyway?" or"do you believe in god?"

Preach on sister! In order to address the “what does it mean” dilemma we have to consider both sides of the question. On the one hand, it’s like asking “what’s art?” one of those questions posed to hopelessly enthusiastic freshman in humanities classes (oh the good old days). Tattoos can be intensely personal and symbolic, or simply serve the same aesthetic function as a Rothko painting. In the spirit of full disclosure, all the tattoos on my sleeve are taken directly from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. The large flaming-headed demon on my forearm is named dharmamahakalapala, and for those scoring at home my spellcheck just has an aneurysm. He’s the guardian spirit of the Dharma (the Bible of Buddhism) and also the protector of the East. Plus he looks badass. So basically he’s the badass guardian of words that come from the East, rather appropriate for yours truly, no?
On the other hand, some tattoos are stupid and meaningless; don’t be afraid to think so. When I lived in San Diego, I knew I guy who had an enormous crying clown tattooed on his leg. What could have possibly been the story there!? “My dad was a circus clown who died one morning in a terrible pie accident, so I got this tattoo to memorialize him?” “I love clowns, but I hate happiness, so I got this crying clown tattoo to properly express the paradox that is my soul?” It wasn’t just a tattoo, it was his entire leg. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times, people are stupid. You read this column, so you’re obviously at the apex of intelligence. Use your best judgement; if it feels appropriate, ask someone about the meaning of their tattoo, you just may get a fascinating story. And if they have a huge crying clown make a mental note, and then rush home and write me so NoChanceNation can collectively mock them. I love reader mail!

* On a completely different note…there’s no way to say this without sounding like the epitome of LA, so I’m just going to go for it. I met someone famous, actually infamous would be the proper term. That’s right, I met Mike Tyson. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life. There is an endless parade of minor celebrities in my gym desperately working the elliptical machine like their career depended on it (I’m looking at you cast of Real World/Road Rules Challenge), but a bonafide celebrity is rare. The sequence of events was completely ordinary; I’m walking to the squat rack, the large black man in front of turns around, his face is tattooed, and it was Mike Tyson. Sometimes you see a celebrity and there’s that moment of “Is that? Could it be? Oh my God it is.” This was not one of those moments. This was more like the type of “Sweet Jesus that’s Mike Tyson” moment that gazelles must feel right before they spot a lion creeping towards the watering hole. It was all I could do not to pee my pants. He was surprisingly calm, like he was on serious psychological medication calm, but I was ready to run at any moment. He could have pulled a trident out of his gym bag and speared Jeff Goldblum and I wouldn’t have been surprised. We were essentially face to face when he asked me something in such a soft voice I had to ask him to say it again.
“How are you?” asked the former heavyweight champion of the world.
“Um, I’m fine, how are you,” I responded numbly. It would later dawn on me that this was an extraordinarily dangerous question to ask someone who once bit another man’s ear off, but it only seemed polite at the time.
“I’m wonderful, just wonderful,” lisped Iron Mike, “it’s important to be wonderful, are you wonderful.”
“Um, yeah, sure, I’m wonderful,” I responded. At his point every moment I was still alive was a wonderful moment.
“Good, I want you to be wonderful,” said Mike as he walked away to do some sit-ups.
That was it. Nothing spectacular, but I can legitimately say I’ve never been so terrified of another human being in my life. My heart was racing for an hour afterwards. And one last bit of tattoo advice, someone with their face tattooed has officially announced that they have no chance of joining the normal world, not even for a moment. Mike Tyson is so far outside the normal world he makes Flava Flav look like Tom Hanks. I’m not sure that analogy technically makes sense, but you get the idea.
I’ll post a more worldy relevant article next week, that is if Tyson hasn’t hunted me down and eaten my unborn children. That’s basically a direct quote, he actually threatened another boxer with such a fate during a pre-fight press conference. God, I feel so blessed just to be alive right now. Until we meet again…