Friday, August 21, 2009

Downfall of an athlete, emergence of a change agent

Can Michael Vick bring down dog fighting in America? I supremely doubted this when he was convicted 2 years ago. Matter of fact I was too infuriated to contemplate how dog fighting could benefit from Vick's downfall.

Two years later Vick has been reinstated to the NFL after signing a deal with the Philadelphia Eagles for $1.6 million with the second-year option worth $5.2 million. Hearing the terms of the deal my first reaction was to hope some or all of the earnings would be seized or matched for animal relief agencies. But Wayne Pacelle, President & CEO of the Humane Society saw an implausible opportunity and recruited Vick as a spokesman against dog fighting. Of all the rabid Vick opposition the Humane Society could very well be the most virulent, which raises eyebrows for this partnership. Pacelle offers this justification:

“I sat with the man, but I still don’t know what’s in his heart. He told me he did terrible things to dogs. He said he grew up with dogfighting as a boy, and that he never sufficiently questioned it as he grew into manhood. He said this experience has been a trauma and he’s changed forever. And he said he wants to show the American public that he is committed to helping combat this problem. He asked for an opportunity to help. I want to give him that opportunity.”

Pacelle scratches on the ultimate driver for Vick's potential success as an agent of change - street credibility. Vick witnessed his first dog fight at the age of 8 years old. His experience is the norm in inner urban cities. The Anti-Cruelty Society in conjunction with the Chicago Police Department offers these frightening statistics: "More than 25% of K-6th graders had attended at least one dog-fight. When asked about his experiences, one 3rd grade boy responded that dog fights are a great place to meet girls. The children who are taught from ages as young as four and five that animals are meant to be fought to the death and treated with cruelty are more likely to be future violent criminals."

The Humane Society has worked diligently since 2002 to combat the alarming trend of dog fighting. However legislation in the form of anti dog fighting laws has not been able to stem the proliferation of the sport. Conservative statistics indicate 40,000 professional dog fighting rings exist with an additional 100,000 street fights, mostly gang driven.

What's the allure? Money for one as some fights can offer a purse of $100k. But undermeath the financial payoff lies a deeper problem rooted in socio-economical struggle. And it starts with kids. Statistics indicate the most active dog fighters are aged 13 - 17 rampant in almost every urban city. Dog fighting has become a means of acquiring social stature for children born to low income families, living in dense urban cities, where the likelihood for education, much less income above the poverty limit, is hopeless.

Dog Fighting establishes their reputation for toughness and macho street cred. And while the fights are more skirmishes than the gladiator pits of organized matches the result are the same; tens of thousands of emotionally maimed, physically mutilated or dying dogs and a generation of juvenile owners self taught in apathy and violence.

But in the end it all does end in violence. For the dog reared in abuse & aggression. For the thousands of household pets stolen from happy homes and used as "pit bait". For the kid raised to view animals and brutality as entertainment. Where hope does a child have coming from the degradation of an animal? Obviously none. It's pretty obvious the only place to go from commiting a crime on an animal is escalation to violent crime committed on a human.

Hopefully Vick will be able to penetrate the dispassion for the sport and the glamour it holds. In a 60 minute interview he says "Blame me."

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

What's Road Rage Got to Do with It?

Sometimes premonition is not enough. The inkling of something bad on the brink of happening is not enough to prevent disaster. Saturday night was one such episode. Leaving the city, just departing the Lincoln Tunnel and I'm sideswiped by a big white commercial laundry truck. Just moments before, as the truck lumbered next to me racing up the helix I thought, go as fast as you want bucko, just don't hit me. Then slam! Crunch! and I'm being grinded into the median.

That's pretty sucky in its own right. Getting slammed on a busy concourse like the Lincoln Tunnel. The Transit folks hate a breach in their precious traffic patterns. And the cops sure as hell hate having to endanger themselves for twisted metal. But wait, it gets worse. After taking off most of my front bumper and annihilating my right rear view mirror, the bastard drives off. First I thought he plans to pull over at a convenient exit. But after passing 2 such exits I realized the POS intended to pull a hit and run. This enraged me almost as much as animal cruelty or human trafficking. Confronted with two options - let the rat bastard drive away without accountability or chase him down. I chose the latter.

Luckily my Honda CRV earned its ranking as the highest rated SUV, even post body trauma so when I hit the gas she raced up the helix in pursuit of the hit and runner. I cruised by the passenger window and vehemently motioned for the truck to pull over. I believe I used words to the effect of: "Pull the fuck over. You hit my car." The passenger blithely denied any collision until I forced him to pull over in the median between Route 3 West and Exit 15E of the NJ Turnpike.

At this point I had no idea the extent of damage my CRV had sustained. Luckily the fender, hood and right front door were the victims. I pulled out my camera and took shots of my car, their truck, especially their license plates, which were NY state. At this point they began protesting. There was no damage to their truck, the driver said pointing meaningfully to his aged white piece of crap. My response was calling 911.

It must have been a quiet day for I was immediately picked up by an operator. She dispatched 2 cruisers who arrived within minutes. I am happy to report the first question everyone asked is, Are you ok ma'am? The officers were young and friendly. They didn't strike me as authority thirsty gun-loving men. Matter of fact, to depressurize me one asked if I had a nice evening. Was I enjoying the weather?

The tactic worked and provided no end of amusement to my GFs in later tellings. I told the officers my story, to which they nodded but were unable to issue an accident report given their limited jurisdiction. Apparently the WPD - Weehawken police department were the only ones capable of capturing my report. So they requested a dispatch from the appropriate department. Meanwhile, given that we were in the middle of traffic the officers escorted us to a gas station. Antsy to get along his merry path of destruction the truck driver almost side swiped me in an effort to follow the cops! Dude! can you be more incriminating?

Well, alls well that ends well, I suppose. The Weehawken PD issued me a report, corroborated that the accident was the truck's fault and kindly hammered the fender back into place with his fist.

I didn't even think of myself as a road rage instigator, but upon reflection I suppose that's exactly what I was. I won't make a habit of it, that's for sure. Although I felt fine from the impact when I got home I was nauseous all night long.

Must have been all that road rage adrenaline.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Music makes the world go round

Sometimes you work in an office with colleagues that synchronistically compliment each other. Each brings a specific set of talents to the table, which in turn get absorbed into the mother talent pool and becomes a greater entity than its individual components. Kind of like the Borg. My office had such a dynamic. Men and women with disparate and infinitely unique skills would meet everyday to flex their specialty muscles and bounce off each others.

I say HAD since we are no longer the team we used to be. Some of us have been abruptly pulled away to work for new masters. Again like the Borg. What you have left are splintered groups of a former team. Contributing to the mission but like shells of our former selves. Need I say it again, like the Borg?

That is until we are reunited not at the beckoning of our masters but for a much more primal call - to fill our guts with booze and enjoy the musical stylings that only karoake can bring. Wednesday night found 12 of us crammed into a tiny booth, colored twirling lights casting psychedelic beams on the walls, knees crammed to chests, microphones clutched in hands no longer programming or updating content.

It started off a nostalgic note: Dream by the Everly Brothers. It stayed pretty high brow with Shea squeezing out Blondie's One Way or Another, unfortunately playing 5 keys to high. Then it got silly with yours truly and Damarys lisping I know you want me (Calle Ocho) by Pitbull. Any song by a man named Pitbull is destined for disaster, especially I don't speak Spanish and Damarys had to heroically brave forward.

Drinks aplenty arrive. Manali must always do one retro song that has us simultanously laughing and blushing at the lyrics. This time it was a George Michael song, does it matter which one. Really now?

More revelers arrive. The newly married Mrs. ah Yang (I guess as she doesn't intend to change her name) and her hubby Peter. Jamie, the English hubby of Mariana shows up. The joint is packed but no deterring us, as long as we have room to sit the drinks. Ping shows us what he's been practicing at home no doubt (that boy MUST have his own karoake machine. how else to explain his impeccable timing and throbbing baritone?) Push and Mack the Knife.

Mariana doesn't usually sing but this time she makes a request. It's Big Balls by AC DC. Just read them and you'll know why we watched her in slack jawed shock. Michael sang a few Irish ditties very well with a pint of beer in his hand. Last thing I remember before fleeing the scene was another duet with Damarys. This time Push It by Salt and Pepa. We helpfully provided choreography in addition to the lusty lyrics.

Monday, August 03, 2009

Beer at the White House

Getting a kick out of the Beer Summit President Obama threw for police Officer Crowley and Harvard Professor Henry David Gates. Read my comment in Newsweek.

I think it's a brilliant way to diffuse a volatile situation. Especially impressed that an off the cuff comment by officer Crowley was the impetus to this landmark summit. If only the White House kitchen served bread instead of nuts and pretzels we could have witnessed the parties breaking bread. Talk about civilized.