during a recent boxing match, Mike Tyson chewed off part of the ear of opponent Evander Holyfield. What a spectacular display of virtual self-immolation! Right there on pay-per-view! Forget Pee-wee Herman, Jimmy the Greek and Richard Nixon. When it comes to bizarre self-destructive behavior, Mike Tyson took the title, hands-down.

Those actually shocked by the incident were pundits, sportswriters and the poor saps who paid to watch the match. Everybody else just thought it was funny. People started e-mailing me Mike Tyson-ear jokes within moments of the incident.

I'm either amused or depressed by this. I'm not really sure. I think I'm just baffled.

Regarding those who were shocked by Tyson's behavior -- before he chewed Holyfield's ear, was he a role model, like, say, Dennis Rodman? Personally, I considered him a sullen, frightening man. Call me a racist, but I would not want to meet Mike Tyson in a dark alley. (Running into Dennis Rodman in a dark alley might be kind of fun though, depending on his mood; as long as I didn't admit I was a Mormon I'd probably be OK.)

On second thought, the Dark Alley is a trope that's always trotted out when race is discussed. In metaphorical America, white people always wander down dark alleys, run into a black man and feel guilty about being frightened.

But does this ever really happen? How many people even venture down alleys anymore, dark or otherwise? Would a black man venture there alone? He might run into a shivering horde of frightened white people. Who knows what might happen.

Try to find a dark alley anyway. There is an alley in back of my building, but it's as well-lit as a stadium. And, as it happens, I did meet a black man back there once. We nodded and went on our ways. I was more frightened by an elderly Russian man who had some obscure conspiracy theory he wished to convey to me in forceful, imperfect English. He was walking two Yorkies with skin conditions. I was lucky to escape with my life.

So let me put it another way: If I were to meet Mike Tyson in a boxing ring, I'd be terrified. But who wouldn't? Therefore, as a white person, I now feel better. (But this isn't about me, is it? Damn.)

I heard a black man on National Public Radio (didn't catch his name, sorry) talking about the "incident" with a panel of other panelists of mixed race on "Talk of the Nation." I'm no Clinton, but I could feel his pain.

The incident just embarrassed him. He'd been getting the "credit to his race" rap from white people all his life, apparently, because he could speak good English in a thoughtful and measured tone. (A Negro! Can you believe it!) Mike Tyson embarrassed him because Tyson, through the incident, had personified the Scary Negro myth so behated by white people everywhere. That he himself had accepted Mike Tyson as Scary Negro did not occur to him. The notion that he was himself a racist, therefore, did not enter his thoughtful remarks.

Man, I'm glad I'm not black. The twists and turns you have to take just to get through a day!

Look at Tupac Shakur! Through no fault of his own, the guy went from private school to the street. This poor kid had to teach himself how to be a "gangsta," lessons he learned so well he got himself killed (or "graduated," I suppose, in Ebonics), with the collusion of the music industry, the police, ghetto culture, white suburban consumers, sound-bite Republicans and Suge Knight. Who killed Tupac Shakur? We all did. (Except me. I wasn't even in Vegas. I have witnesses.)

Black people have to be a role model for somebody all the time. If you're a rap star, you can't just leave it alone when you exit the studio, you have to have bodyguards, limos, guns, bitches, attitude and guns, or white teens will think you're a wimp and won't buy your CDs. What's up with that?

Conversely, to succeed as a conservative black person, you must denounce the Tupacs and Tysons and risk being considered a Tom by tenured neo-Marxist black-history professors.

Do white people have this problem? Yes. But we don't deal with it racially. There are no black serial killers, for instance. (The Atlanta child killer, sure, but he was a white racist trapped in a black body.) There are no black rednecks. A black person will never utter the phrase, "The macro-issue has never been adjudicated," unless he's a Tom.

Who has the "Great White Hope"? Not black people. There are no black aliens doing anal probes in the mother ship. I've never heard a black man express concern about Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow.

White people generally do not have soul. I myself do not have soul. I don't know what I'd do with it if I did. I'd probably stand around with my hands in my pockets, grudgingly admitting that I had it, but only if somebody badgered me about it, somebody with impressive press credentials.

What's my point? I don't know. I feel sorry for Mike Tyson, I guess. I keep thinking of Eugene O'Neill's play "The Hairy Ape." Or Conrad's line from "Heart of Darkness": "Exterminate all the brutes." It's hard being a metaphor, when plastic surgeons, lawyers, spin doctors and writers get involved.

Maybe I should start lighting candles at a little George Will altar. He is, after all, the white person we all aspire to be. Where's the black George Will? Oh God, spare us. Spike Lee is annoying enough.
July 10, 1997

Ian Shoales' new CD, "I Gotta Go," is an anthology of commentaries past, read very fast into a microphone. It is has been released by 2.13.61 Records, and is theoretically available in fine music stores everywhere. It can also be ordered by calling (800) 989-DUCK. Ask for Steve. Tell him Ian sent you.