Do 52 New: Item #30 - Go to a Cock Fight

Disclaimer #1 - I went for the cultural experience, not the animal violence. Thus, the animal lovers can feel free to read on, because I assure you that while this post is very picture-laden, you won't see any pictures of battered and beaten cocks.

Disclaimer #2 - I plan to use the word "cock" a lot. Partly because I'm immature and it's funny. Partly because 3rd grade sexual jokes help to lighten the mood of a grim subject. Either way, by the end, you may no longer even enjoy the potential sexual double entendres. You've been warned. . . . . cock . . . . cock cock.
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JERRY: Kramer, cockfighting is illegal.
KRAMER: Only in The United States.
JERRY: It's inhumane!
KRAMER: No, Jerry, it's not what you think it is.
JERRY: It's two roosters peckin' at each other!
KRAMER: What?
JERRY: Yeah!
KRAMER: Well, I thought they wore gloves and helmets, you know, like "American Gladiators."
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This is a picture of me and my best buddy Tyler.

However, I should say that's a picture of me and my old best buddy Tyler. After 14 years of being the family dog, he passed on about a year and a half ago. He had cancer. He had numerous tumors. He had been deaf for about several years. Sadly, it was his time, and I had been preparing for it anytime I got to see him for the 2 years leading up to it, always thinking that as I left my parents house, it may be the last time I got to see him. But despite the prepping, I was utterly devastated, and broke down way more so than I probably should have. I cried the night my mom called to tell me. I cried the next day. I cried the day after that. I cried most nights that week. I cried a week later. I cried once a week for a few months after that. Like I said, I broke down a lot (and even just writing about it all 20 months later is kind of fucking with my emotions. I'm an engineer dammit! I'm supposed live in a glass cage devoid of emotions!).

But like I said, he was my best buddy. I love going home and seeing the family, but he was always the best part of the visits. I mean, I can talk to my mom on the phone. My dad, brother and sister. But Tyler was only available in person (except for one of the few times I used a web cam while talking my mom on the phone. She put the laptop on the ground, and when he saw me, he licked the screen. And yes, it was cute as shit).

And while he was the family dog, when I came home, he was MY dog. When I went to bed, there was no question that he was staying in my room. When I watched TV, he was right there. When I showered, he was right there . . . . outside waiting for me to open the door, you sick bastard. And to explain our connection like only dog people would understand - I would occasionally randomly drive home from grad school, without even telling my parents I was coming home. And as I pulled onto our street, and could see our front door from 150 yards away . . . Tyler was staring out the door waiting. Yeah, he knew, and he already had his toy in hand, ready to play.. We were boys (written while banging my fist twice against my chest).

So needless to say, I'm a HUGE dog person. I love them all, and I swear, they all love me. Cesar Milan? Learned everything from me. And based on my pick-up skills, I'm probably more likely to connect with the true definition of a "bitch" than the slang version.

Cats on the other hand? They can all kiss my ass. My ability to be a dog whisperer is inversely proportional to my ability to be a pussy whisperer (if Jennifer Love Hewitt ever turns to beastiality porn to make a quick buck, I think that's the requisite name of the movie). One time I stayed at my friend Hillary's place in Chicago. When I woke up, her satanic cat was one foot away from my face, ready to scratch a new orifice into it. Cleo, if you're reading this . . . I don't like your attitude.

So when Michael Vick got busted for dog fighting, naturally I had to take a stance on it. I'm a dog person, and having them fight to the death for sport is fucked up beyond belief. And with Michael Vick running the show, my opinion on him was . . .well, it was what he grew up with.

I believe in fighting animal cruelty, but I believe just as much in the theory that everyone is a product of their environment. Say there's a couple of 21 year old racists. They're both probably assholes. But say one of them grew up in Greenwich CT and attended a private boarding school before heading off to Yale to do blow with Skull and Bones. The other grew up in the South in Inbred-a-bama and had a couple of parents whose idea of a comfortable hat was one with 2 eye-holes and a pointy white top. Again, both assholes, but the redneck is going to get a MUCH bigger pass in my book. Frankly, he never stood a chance.

So while what Vick did was disgusting, and heinous, and wrong, and of course I disapprove of it . . . I get it. He grew up with it. No one taught him any better. All his friends did it. He went with it. And while yes, maybe he should have known better because it was illegal, so is drinking under the age of 21, and I figure at least 80% of you reading this got vomit-wasted by the time you could vote, so the "illegal" reasoning isn't going to scare off anyone who's been watching dog fighting since they had an allowance to gamble away.

As for whether or not the guy's legitimately repented since he got caught and went to jail? Totally different discussion. And really, how the fuck should I know? I don't have ESP . . . yet.

So while we were down in Puerto Rico, we needed a rainy day activity to pass the time. And apparently, Puerto Rico is kind of like the US' wacky fun uncle (not in the immediate family's household, but if you head over to his place, he'll let you do stuff your parent won't), because cock fighting is100% legal down there. So while I don't approve of 2 animals kicking each others ass for the sake of gambling, I do like the idea of taking in something that could be considered an exclusive local culture.

So on a rainy Saturday afternoon, we headed down to experience the product-of-your-environment belief in action. It may be illegal here, but it's part of their culture there. And what better way to show that than by opening with a picture of family fun night at your local cockfight!

Yes, this is a family of 5 enjoy an afternoon watching cocks beat the shit out of each other. They are eating fries and what we believed to be, ironically, chicken fingers.

But for the entire cock experience, let's start on the outside. This wasn't what the ring Little Jerry fought in looked like - a gravel covered barn yard back room. This was legit.

I assume this picture is as original as lying down on the Nation Mall with the Washington Monument placed in just the right spot in the background

Our tickets cost $10, but the high rollers paid upwards of $45 to get front row seats in the arena. Yes, the "arena." Behold, the Thunderdome for cocks, complete with mini-Jumbotron.

To get to the start of the fight, you actually have to start at the wall of cocks. All of the future combatants hang out in clear plexiglass boxes for the potential gamblers to size 'em up.

And when each cock's time has come, their cock box gets sent down to the ring via a cable-car like system. The cock in the hanging box below has decided to get amped for his fight by checking out the local tail. Yup - the 2 ring girls would take beer and food orders from the good seats in between fights.

Also done in between fights? Dust-busting the previous fight. Usually feathers, sometimes blood.

Once the cocks arrived in the ring below, the handlers got the cocks even more excited, as they gave them a bunch of little jabs with a stuffed cock. God forbid the match start and the cocks just want to hang out with each other and talk about their family life. The excited cocks were then placed into a pair of boxes, facing each other.

This let the cocks build up some final moments of aggression, as patrons started the gambling process, which looked something like this

Can you understand what bets and what kind of money is being exchanged in this picture? No? Well, with the fast-talking Spanish going on, I couldn't figure it out either. This wasn't like horse racing, where all the horses get odds and you bet against the house/track. There was no "house" here. In the last minute before the fight started (and I'm pretty sure even during the fight), everyone started shouting out what cock they wanted, and how much they wanted to bet. Someone would eventually accept it from across the ring, and the bet was on. No ticket. No enforcement. Who knew a cock fight would have an honor system? At that point, it was time to remove each cock from their box, and let 'em go at it.

So the grim details on the fights. There was pecking. There was clawing. Sometimes there was blood. Often times there were some really messed up cocks by the end. And in about 15% of the fights, we saw what amounted to limp cocks. The fights had 15 minute time limits, but there was a definite winner after typically 3-7 minutes. And while I can't define what a losing cock looked like, like the Supreme Court and porn, you knew it when you saw it. The winners were then taken over to judge, while the losers, who ranged from beaten-pretty-well to barely-lifeless, were escorted out of the ring for what I assumed to be the only bit of "mercy" they would receive - a quick execution.

And to the gambling victors go the spoils. And for the hombres in the front rows, the spoils were grande.

And from 2-10pm, they repeated this process over and over again. We stayed for about an hour and a half and saw around 15 fights. So in an 8 hour day? That's a lot of cock.

But over those 90 minutes, my acceptance of the rampant animal cruelty jumped all over the place. Parking and walking in? Actually pretty excited for something so different. Seeing the first cock go down? Ummm, pretty twisted and fucked up. Seeing 14 more cocks go down? Eh, it happens. When in Rome.

But as we walked out and drove home, and the entire afternoon set in, complete with a mental photo album of 15 animals bloodied and beaten in the name of sport and gambling, the animal lover in me came back. That . . . was indeed fucked, and I don't ever need to do it again. I'm glad I went for the once in lifetime experience, but if I end up back in San Juan again, it will remain a once in a lifetime experience.

Tyler would insist so.
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My favorite part of the afternoon was actually the the people watching. So in no connection to the rest of the story, let's take a look at our fellow cock fighting patrons and make up stories about them