Sad Travesties

I stayed up for the sad travesty of a fight last night. I kept telling myself and others I was going to bed. I don't like staying up late. Netflix was a joke in many ways. Stupid commentators. Dumb celebrities of a second or third order. Nobody of any rank was there. And, of course, Netflix can't do live broadcast and the image kept freezing, the little circular dial spinning. . . spinning. I was texting with an old colleague and some others. They were having the same problem. I decided to try watching on my phone. That worked. I told my old colleague.  Same. 

But it was taking too long. The fight would not start until after midnight. 

"I've had it. I'm going to bed."

Then, later. . . "I lied." 

I should have gone to bed. The roller derby was more entertaining than the Tyson fight. It was inevitable, of course, but we all want to believe in miracles, don't we? How odd, though--people were rooting for a felon, a man who bit off another boxer's ear, a rapist, and just an overall mean man. 

"Good things happen to good people," I heard one of his ex-trainers say. Ha! That one broke me up. 

"He's in a good place now. He has a lovely family, loves his children. He has settled."

Tyson has a wife? Kids? WTF?

But the fight might have proven his former trainer right. Nothing good happened to Tyson last night. He looked old, worn, and maybe worried before the fight had even begun. His legs were stones, his reflexes about a half second behind. He didn't look like a boxer anymore than Jake Paul did, but Jake was having his way. A second rate fighter would have destroyed either of them. 

That's what we all get, though, those kids who were rooting for Paul and all the old men hoping to see a miracle defeat of time. It was, in the end, what we all knew deep down it would be, a scam. A joke. 

Remind me NEVER to think I can fight anyone ever again. Not even Carrothead. 

Earlier in the day, I found out what happened after I left the party Thursday night. It got crazy. 

"You would have loved it," Tennessee said. "Small hands was asking for you."

We call her small hands because the first night we met her, she laughed at all our stupid shit and was very gracious about it. She was well paid for her pleasantness. When we left, I went over to apologize for my stupid friends as if that would exonerate me, and I shook her hand. A real shock ran through me. Her hands were tiny. Outside, I told the others about it. They became obsessed. It was so odd, I wasn't certain I was right, but the next time we saw her, Alain shook her hand and confirmed it. 

"Bullshit," I said. 

"No, I'm not kidding. When we walked in she asked me where my buddy was."

Oh, golly. . . how I want to believe that is true. However. . . I don't. 

"She called some of her friends and told them to come up, that her boys were here. They were all early twenties and university students. Everybody started ordering shots and then somebody broke out the Peruvian marching powder. It got crazy."

Tennessee was going to come help me fix a plumbing problem but he said he was too sick to do it. 

"Monday," he said. 

He sent me pictures of the girls. Hmm. 

"They like older men," he said. 

"Sure. How much did they chip in on the bill? Sure they like older men."

Turns out that Black Sheep took one of them "out" after the bar. 

Later in the day, I was telling the story of what I had missed the night before to a woman prof who has a kid in his early 20s. 

"For this generation, it isn't bad. It's just transactional. It isn't shameful. They don't think it as wrong. It's not like other generations who would say prostitute. It's just having fun."

"Sure. Like they say, 'I'm not gay, but $50 is $50." 

I had upped the price a bit for this story. 

"Yes, something like that."

I was absolutely glad I had come home. I felt worse on Saturday than I did on Friday. I was hoping, I guess, that it was a flaring up of diverticulitis and not something worse, so I had only Gatorade and canned chicken soup with a little white bread all day. I sat on the couch and watched tv until the fight. It was stupid to stay up, but. . . . I went to bed at one. 

All this under a full moon. Perhaps it was the cause of it all. 

I missed a most beautiful autumn day. I thought of women who loved other men being excited and happy by it, going to cafes and festivals and feeling the joy of life, living and loving as I sat alone in fair pain thinking about dying and death. I pictured them smiling, giggling, and happy under the prettiest skies and feeling the freshest air on their cheeks. 

"I love you," I could hear them say. . . to someone else. Their husband. 

And Mike Tyson is a happily married family man?!? 

Surely God hates me. 

I am hoping to feel better today. If not. . . the worse or worst. 

No matter. I watched time's victory last night. I saw the ravages of living. The Baddest Man on the Planet looked to be the Saddest Man. Had he fooled himself? Don't we all? 

That time is best, 
Which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer.

It is Saturday.  It is beautiful outside.  I hope to take a walk.