Computer glitch

I was out of the saddle for the past few days, once again due to my computer’s tendency to occasionally sputter, and hiccup, and even worse in this last instance, to lapse into outright electronic unconsciousness.

My computer guy, a local fellow who is quite good at reviving sickly pc’s like mine, put me on the hook from Friday night until he finally came over early Sunday evening.

He’s always apologetic and very respectful when he finally shows up; and even though, like always, he made me sit in the house all weekend waiting for him, I didn’t dare upset him with even the hint of a grumble. He’s just too damned valuable for me to alienate like that.

(But I SWEAR here and now, as soon as I find a better, or at least a more RELIABLE pc fixer dude, I’m going to give this guy holy hell along with the heave ho….

Then again, maybe not. I just MIGHT need him again, so I better not burn that bridge? Dang it…)

As a matter of fact, less than five minutes after he booted this puppy up he had the glitch nailed down to a mischief making RAM card. Windows spit out some mysterious code and he knew immediately what it meant. He turned around and told me it was a memory problem, probably the RAM. I told him that I happened to know that I had two of them in there, "So you got a 50-50 chance of picking the right one, or maybe its both," I offered.

He snaked his 90-pounds of 5-feet-nothing under my computer table like a contortionist fitting into one of those tiny transparent acrylic boxes and dismantled my pc without so much as a grunt and nary a groan. Without a flashlight, seemingly with bat-vision or perhaps with experienced fingers from having done it hundreds of times before, he dismantled wires, removed panels and screws, and within seconds pulled out and showed me the probable offending cards—so small and yet so vital.

With RAM cards in hand and before uttering another comment he intently studied their style, type, and size. He showed me the one he “knew” to be bad telling me that it was a low frequency card while the other was high, whatever the heck that means. It looked just fine to me, but he said knowingly and without a hint of doubt that it was the malefactor.

He gave me a quote and I gave him about $44 including labor—can’t beat that I guess, at least not until I learn how to fix it myself, and there’s little chance of that ever happening.

Arriving back at my house the next morning, only two hours late this time, computer man pulled a new replacement card from his magical knapsack. He slipped back into his lair under the table, fiddled around inside my pc for a few seconds and popped back out like an irrepressible ferret, pressing the on-button as he slid smoothly into my wheeled computer chair. Windows popped up as if it had never NOT done so and he turned around and grinned victoriously.

“See, all better!”

He didn’t even have to reformat or correct any corruption in my Windows. Lucky me. I HATE when that happens.

So I’m good to go, for now. My fingers are crossed.

I’m thinking back on all the parts and pieces I’ve had changed out on this thing since I bought it in 2003. That was the year I bought this now obsolete dinosaur. I needed it for all those college classes I took thanks to my Vietnam era GI Bill college benefits. The only component still original in this four year old "ancient" hunk of junk is the motherboard.

I really should just buy me a new computer, but with the cost of parts so cheap and labor even cheaper, I just keep putting it off. What’s the point? After all, I only use this thing to surf the web, answer emails, write in PhilippinesPhil, and oh, let's not forget to write causticly longwinded comments in Ed Abbey’s and Katana’s blogs et al.

A Permanent Resident Soon to Fly Home

In less than two weeks I fly back to the states for a three-week visit. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been home now. Let’s see, it’s been over two years, not since the whole family and I went home for my father’s bypass.

This time I’m going back solo, mostly because the girls are in school. In 2005 when we made the trip home with the entire family my wife had paid all the fees and taxes that we Philippine permanent residents “get” to pay.

I’m glad she did pay them then, otherwise it might have ruined the first leg to Japan for me on that Northwest Airlines 747. The reason I say that is because as a holder of an ACRI (permanent resident) card, when you fly out of here you have to take a bucket full of money with you to the airport, and I’d really had no idea.

My little rude awakening occurred a couple days ago when I stopped by the Angeles International Travel Center to ask Danny for a few tips on what I needed to do for a smooth trip. If you have travel or immigration questions or needs, by all means, go see him. He’s a great guy, charges fairly for his services, and won’t let you down. Everyone in the office is like that, but Donny is the “go to guy,” especially for immigration questions and problems. When it comes to that stuff, Donny “knows” people. In this country THAT’S the thing.

I have only ONE problem these days with Angeles Int'l Travel Center, which is in the white building directly "on the point" of that "slice of pie" shaped corner just down from the Petron Station on Perimeter Road. At the moment they’ve stopped taking credit cards. Danny said that it’s a matter of taxes or problems with card payments or some vague thing. He was sort of evasive when he answered the question so I doubt I got a straight answer—it was the typical “avoidance” method commonly used in these parts to get around uncomfortable questions.

Anyhow, I complained that no one in their right mind in this country walks around with the kind of cash needed to pay for international travel, at least not without a bodyguard. I told him I didn’t quite understand how they expected to do business that way. Paying with anything but a credit card is so 40 years ago!

I would have had Angeles Travel book my tickets, but seeings how the travel agency wouldn’t take my MasterCard I bought mine online through Expedia. I think I paid too much at $1350 for the round trip, but what the heck. Next time, I’ll try another site and see if I can’t do any better. After playing around a little it looks like Mobissimo offers some cheaper fares.

I also wanted to ask Donny about my E-ticket. I printed out what I thought was the Expedia E-ticket, but it wasn’t clear that that’s what it was and I wanted to make sure. He looked it over and told one of the travel agents working the counter to print me out a good one, which she did free of charge.

Still needing to know what to expect at the airport terminal using my “new” ACRI card, Danny filled me in on the unkind details. He said to go to the right after checking through with my luggage and pay what I believe he called a travel tax, which only we permanent residents are required to pay. That one runs about 1700 pesos.

After checking in the luggage and entering the immigration area Donny told me to look for a ACRI CARD holder window. There, I will pay my exit/entry fee that goes for a cool 2750 pesos or so.

Finally, there’s the terminal tax, which goes for a comparatively tiny 750 pesos.

I guess its not all that bad, in dollars its not even 100 bucks, but if I were taking both girls and the wife home it would add up to a pretty substantial amount.

My other significant travel expense is paying for the 2-½ to 3-½ hour trip to the airport from here. The van service I use is now charging about 3000 pesos, and it costs the same amount to get home.

We went through a lot to get our permanent residence status and I was considering for a short time—as it turns out, a very short time—giving it up and just doing what many of my buds do, and just go through the hassle of living here as a tourist. But, after talking on the phone just now to one of these fellows I think I’ll just hold on to my present status as a permanent resident. From talking to him I can see that the Philippines really makes residing here as a tourist a total pain in the neck. I still think I have the slightly better deal, but not by much.

He told me that as a tourist it’s costing him about 9000 pesos a year in fees, which he has to pay at the immigration office here in town every three or four months after his first 21 days in-country is up. After 21 days you live from extension to extension. Supposedly, tourists no longer have to leave the country once a year and can stay for two years, although he said he wasn’t sure how that was possible since an onward ticket is required and there are none that are good past 1 year. My pal likes his trips to Thailand though, so he just goes and comes the way the bogus system has always forced him to do. In his case, he flies to Pattaya three times a year claiming it’s a refreshing change of pace.

A lot of American military retirees have chosen Thailand over the Philippines, but most of the guys who enjoy both places and yet have chosen to live here say the primary reason to live here are the women. (That’s right Kat, the WOMEN!) It doesn’t surprise me; I’ve heard it many times over the years. (Filipinas communicate better, they are sweeter, and don't eat HOT food!)

But everyone claims that what IS superior in Thailand are the medical and dental care. The costs are comparable to here, but the expertise and care are purportedly better in Thailand. There must be something to it, because I know at least a dozen guys who go to Thailand every year just to get their annual checkups done. They swear by it.

When I was online checking prices to the US, I checked out fares to Thailand too. It looks like Cebu Air has the lowest tickets going—they run from $250 to $450 roundtrip, and they fly direct from Manila. Not bad.

Oh before I forget, one last thing on ACRI cards. It took us more than two years from the day we paid for and applied for ours before we finally got them issued to us. My wife called the Philippine Immigration Office in Manila and asked why no cards so long after we’d paid for them. Both times she called she spoke to snooty bureaucrats who simply blew her off. We’d gone to the VFW more than two years before when the immigration people had come to Angeles City on an outreach. At the time we were very grateful, as it was a marvelous thing to do for those of us with small children who didn’t want to make the trip to Manila. Jim Boyd, the local US Embassy Warden had arranged it.

We’d completely given up on ever getting those darn things until I asked Danny at the Angeles Int'l Travel Ctr about them. He said he could have them for me in a matter of two or three days; all I had to do was pay him about $50(?) for his time and he’d take care of it. Sure enough, after fighting with those officious unresponsive ninnies for months, we had our long awaited permanent residence cards. Like I said, Donny KNOWS people!

When he handed me ours I asked him how long before we were going to have to go through all this all over again. The “all-knowing” Donny has “heard” from his “contacts” that the cards will probably be good for 5 years. Man, I sure hope so!


If you need to contact him, Donny's number and email address are here at the ANGELES INTERNATIONAL TRAVEL CENTER website.

Part 3 of QA, Mr. Touchy Feely goes "TQM"

parts 1, and 2

When the Air Force put all of its eggs into the TQM basket in 1991 most QA shops simply stopped doing any more inspections. Happily, the Logistic Group commander at Little Rock did not instruct us to stop, even though it sort of went against what the rest of the Air Force C-130 world was doing. In fact, as far as I know, we were the only QA shop not to lose manpower at the inception of the Air Force's reckless dive into the shallow pool called Total Quality Management.

WE continued to inspect, but with a radically different mindset than before. Previously, we had a schedule of inspection tasks basically designed to police our maintenance force, to keep them on their toes through intimidation.

Then, after TQM became the watchword, we inspected NOT to maintain compliance, but to gather data points. Instead of inspecting we “measured.” In keeping with the hottest “quality” tenants at the time, our new job was to identify our organizational processes and THEN work on improving them.

“Continuous improvement,” another famous TQM phrase, meant that nothing was EVER good enough; but the only way to actually know if improvement was at hand was to measure the products resulting from our processes. “Products” meaning those items and services provided to our “customers” like “mission capable airplanes” for instance, and all the logistics that went into making those planes mission capable. Oh, and “customers” were defined as those availing of our data products, such as pilots, aircrew and maintenance personnel, and especially decision makers at all levels. Anyone making use of our measurement products were our customers.

Part of what all this meant is that I got me a new title, two to be exact. In the Air Force, everyone has one or more of them. It’s a requirement if only to be able to fill the “duty title” block on enlisted and officer performance reports, and by the way, having a good duty title is almost as crucial as the rating—the “fancier” the title the better chance at picking up the next higher rank. Previously, I had been a lowly inspector; now, I was a “quality manager” as well as an “avionics advisor.”

I still think getting rid of all those “keep ‘em on their toes” inspections was a bad idea, but honestly, my job in the nouveau quality shop was amazingly gratifying. Now, making workers feel uneasy by my very presence was no longer in play. In my new persona I was there to help make things work better, and I took on that assignment with total seriousness.

Our “big” headquarters boss, called Air Mobility Command, or AMC, was located “up the road” in Illinois at Scott AFB. AMC went right along with our commander’s decision to allow QA to continue inspecting, probably because of Little Rock’s unique position in the command—in several ways we were like no other C-130 base anywhere in the world.

For one thing, we were the “school house” for anyone in the world who flies the C-130, including many foreign air forces. Of our wing’s four flying squadrons, I'm not sure anymore but I believe two were devoted entirely to the purpose of training new pilots, navigators, loadmasters and flight engineers.

(Keep in mind that almost everything I describe here organizationally has now changed and changed again--THAT is the United States Air Force!)

Another LRAFB distinction was the sheer number of C-130s on our flight line. All together, including the Air Guard squadron, there were 5 squadrons of those big planes with as many as 16 to 18 “birds” per squadron. Imagine 90 gigantic Hercules lined up 4 deep. On days when most of the planes were at home it made for quite an impressive display.

With all those C-130s in one place, HQ AMC used to reach out and “use” Little Rock quite a bit for various “projects,” and when there were projects you would ALWAYS find QA people involved in their coordination, if not in their outright management. I loved it, because being in QA, I was constantly right in the middle of “the action.”

An additional significant uniqueness at Little Rock was the CFT or contract field team. The CFT at LRAFB set up shop there in the late 80s, and might still be there now for all I know. A division of Lockheed Martin provided our CFT. Their job was to modify C-130s with various upgrades, all most all of them involving electrical and avionics modifications.

xxx

What made our CFT different from others in the AF was the unusually long time it stayed in continuous operation there--at least 10 years. It became institutionalized and was considered an asset to the wing because of the knowledge stored in all those "old heads" working there. I was considered an avionics "expert" by the wing, but I knew the real corporate knowldege was over there at the contract field team and I never hesitated to consult with them.

One of my “hats” in dealing with the CFT was QAR, or Quality Assurance Representative. Yep, another title, and one of my most favorite. As QAR, I kept an eye on virtually everything the field team did. For instance, I signed off on all the man-hours they expended, especially those designated as “over time.” But primarily, my job as QAR was to accept C-130s back into the USAF after they had been upgraded.

When an aircraft goes “under the knife” with a contract field team it goes into what’s called depot status. By going “into depot,” even though it never actually left the base, the plane no longer is counted on operational rolls. That’s important to the owning wing since they jealously measure the downtime of all their birds, and downtime is not good time.

I did more than simply sign the acceptance documents. I had a pager and I could expect to be called in to sign off “areas” about to be paneled up at any time between 6 am and 11 pm. I didn’t have to do that, but I insisted on it. As part of the mod plan—which was another rather extensive document that I signed off on—I inspected every “disturbed” area on the C-130 in work before it was “closed up” by the team. That’s because once some of those panels went on, many with as many as several score screws, no eyes might see that area again for years.

In other words, I never “bought” anything back for the Air Force unless I first saw, touched and felt every wire bundle, connector, tie-strap, splice, terminal, lacing, and clamp! That’s why they called me Mr. Touchy Feely.

xxx

Just as important was my fetish that all wire harnesses be separated and routed correctly so as never to fail due to chafing or exposure to heat sources. I could go on for paragraphs on all the ways an installation can fail. My guys installed so as NEVER to fail.

I wasn’t exactly unique in the way I did my job as QAR. Eventually, I met nearly every other Air Force C-130 QAR scattered at bases throughout the world. Almost all of them did their jobs exactly as I did, although not all of them insisted on inspecting every single area.

An interesting sidebar to all this is how I ended up getting a “free” trip to Ogden, Utah. I went there at the request of an air force colonel whom we immediately nicknamed “Colonel Burly Man.” Now that was an interesting trip. I think I'll write more about it and that burly colonel in part 4…

Conversation with a "dinosaur"

I had an extended conversation the other day with a retired marine, a grizzled old fellow ten years my senior. We see each other occasionally, maybe twice a week, but we aren’t really friends. Actually, I don’t think I COULD be friends with him. His attitude, although fascinating to me, is also very disturbing. I’d forgotten people like him exist.

Usually, we just speak of mundane and comfortable things, like veteran’s benefits or recent dealings with Social Security. We started out that way, but then we got into other slightly more sinister subjects.

Like most marines he’s been married multiple times; lets just say more than five, actually, many more. I asked him about his kids. He hasn’t kept in touch with any of them. He claims its been 20 years since he spoke to his daughter and even longer to his two other children.

“What about grandkids? Do you have any?”

“I have no idea.” He said.

“How can that be? Don’t you want to know?”

“I don’t think about it. They all know where I am. If they want to talk to me, it’s up to them.”

In disbelief I shook my head and commented, “I can’t imagine at least not trying to reach out every so often. I try to send an email to my 26-year-old boy at least once a month. I tell him I’m thinking about him. Even if he doesn’t answer he still knows I love him. ... And I’m going to go visit my two grown girls and my grandson later this month in Texas.”

He shrugged. “MY boy probably hates me, if he even still thinks of me. I treated him like I did all my marines and I was a hardass as a boss. You know, I haven’t been in touch with ANY of my relatives for a long time, over ten years. The only family I have now is the wife I’m married to now.”

Like a lot of older gentlemen over here, his wife is considerably younger than he is. I think she’s 35 years younger.

I smirked. “You ever going to take her to the US?” I asked him, already knowing the answer.

“Hell no!”

“You’re smart,” I said. “She’s a cutey. Some young guy would try to take her away in a heartbeat. You can’t be with her ALL the time, and those young studs would just be lurking for the chance to swoop in.”

I continued my tirade, “And no matter how much the little ladies declare their love for you over here, THAT all changes when some young buck starts to tell ‘em lies over THERE.”

“Yup,” he said matter of factly, “American guys have absolutely no respect for another man’s wife. I’d be crazy to take her back there…

He continued…

...Besides, I spent nearly my entire career over here in the Pacific, and after a while, over here became more home than back there. I really don’t have any reason to go back; not since my mom passed away.”

Nodding, I agreed, “Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s like we don’t have anything in common with civilians back home. It seems like they don’t know what we know, because they haven’t been anywhere or done anything that matters. They are weak willed and just don’t get it. Sometimes I watch the news and just feel sick with disgust.”

His turn to nod, “Yup. We don’t fit in back there. That’s all there is to it.”

Our conversation bounced from one disparate subject to another. As I said, the guy fascinates yet repulses me. His hard heart and innate meanness intrigues me. It brought back memories of other guys I used to know like him all those decades ago when I too was a marine. Believe me, Air Force people and marines are two totally different creatures and whenever I talk to this guy I am reminded of that. He has several purple hearts from combat action during at least two tours in Vietnam and he served in several skirmishes and wars all the way through Desert Storm, more than 24 years in all.

The disgraced senator from Idaho, Larry Craig, came up and we joked about the weak explanations he gave for his encounter with the vice cop in the public toilet stall. My former marine friend explained to me with apparent inside knowledge that when a man bumps another’s foot that he’s letting on that he wants to be the one to “give.”

I laughed, “What! How do you know so much about that stuff? What’s up with that?”

He shrugged without a hint of embarrassment, “I’ve got law enforcement experience after my time in the Corps. We learned all the “tricks” sickos use to troll for public sex. That’s how you catch them. That senator is as guilty as sin.”

I joked, “I guess Craig is a true believer in that old saying, eh? The one that goes it’s better to GIVE than to RECEIVE!”

Some how we started talking again about what a hardass he was as a boss in the Marine Corps. He came up with an example of just how hard his ass truly was,

“…It was legal to wear them but I NEVER let any of my marines wear those sissy ass high gloss patent leather low quarters. They either wore spit shine shoes or they took a lot of shit from me until they did wear them.”

After I graduated bootcamp I used to wear those pansy ass patent leather dress shoes and I told him so, trying to goad him a little…

“You ARE right man. I would have hated having you as a boss. I bought my first pair of Bates Corfram dress shoes as soon as I could. Spit shined shoes look like crap after you try to walk around in them. Besides, I volunteered to be in a color guard when I was stationed at Alameda and we ALL wore the high gloss shoes with our dress blues because they LOOK so good. Damn man, you WERE a hard ass weren’t you? Sure glad you weren’t MY boss!”

“Maybe so, but that was my policy.” He harrumphed.

The last of our longer than usual exchange took place in the parking lot. He stood at the door of his car while I took the rain cover off my scoot. We started talking about Iraq and that’s when he REALLY started to make me feel uneasy.

His eyes became as lifeless as a shark’s as he started to talk,

“I spent a lot of time in that f***ing place and as far as I’m concerned I hate all those bastards. I say kill them all and let God sort ‘em out.”

I watched his face for any clue that he might be half kidding, but no, he was deadly serious. And he went on in the same tone.

“I don’t blame those young marines one bit for killing everyone they see. Sometimes you can only take so much. You take explosions from inside a village; you blow everyone away in the damn village. F**k ‘em all! You lose buddies and all you can think about is getting payback”

That’s the moment I began to see signs of unwarranted anger and I realized his PTSD was kicking in. I’ve seen it dozens of times from other combat vets. Still, I tried to reason with him.

“Dude. You can’t fight an insurgency that way. If we actually do what you’re talking about we lose before we start. You’re not serious right?”

Oh, but he was.

‘Damn,’ I thought, ‘I’m glad this guy is out now. I wonder how many more of these obsolete old dinosaurs still think this way on active duty? Man, I hope not many!’

I tried to deflect his seething anger in another direction.

“You were in-theater for the 1st Gulf War. I still say that Powell and Bush the 1st ended that one about a month too soon. Nothing of this bullshit insurgency would be happening now if ONLY we’d taken Baghdad back then…”

He didn’t let me finish. Looking up he shook his head and interrupted me,

“No, that wasn’t it. The war ended when it did because we had no more ammo to expend. It was ALL used up. We scraped the bottom of the barrel as it was. We had to stop shooting because there was nothing left to shoot.”

He’d mentioned this bit of inside knowledge to me before, but it still evoked a strong reaction nonetheless…

“Oh my God! That just seems so impossible for the mightiest military in history,” I nearly exploded. “We had five freaking months to get the factories churning out bombs and shells, and get the supply pipeline going, so how the hell did we run out?”

“I know, but I’m telling you we had virtually nothing left. We shot our entire load.”

I jammed my hands into my hips and kicked at a pebble in disgust at the thought of it. He continued…

“You know, twice we had the tactical nukes on deck prepped and ready to fire. We all knew if the Iraqi’s used chemicals on us that we had the go ahead to use tactical nukes on them. We were fired up! The whole crew knew we were just waiting for the word. We were PSYCHED! Then we got word that it looked like the Iraqis HAD used chem on us and we were ready to retaliate. But then, goddamn it, the captain came out and gave us the thumbs down sign and told us to put ‘em away. It really pissed us off.”

He’d told me that story before, but I hadn’t noticed so much animation from him the first time he told of the prospect of actually using nuclear weapons for the first time in war since 1945.

Holding his hands a couple feet apart to show the size of a tac-nuke he exclaimed, “Hell yeah! One of those little babies will take out a square mile.”

I grinned awkwardly, and suddenly unaccountably felt embarrassed. I was having a hard time believing a person, much less a group of them, could really be so filled with anticipation at the thought of using nuclear weapons. At that moment an article popped into my mind that my brother had forwarded to me by Robert Kaplan called “Rereading Vietnam.” At the end of the article Kaplan writes:

"…The Iraqis and my own men saw how broken the system was, and some felt it was easier just to kill these guys the moment we apprehended them. After all, it would have saved lives. But," he continued, "I told them, 'oh no. Here is where I have to draw the line.' It was important to have an officer in charge who had studied ethics." The enlisted chief petty officers of his SEAL team—reminiscent of some of Larteguy's centurions for all intents and purposes—were the finest men he had ever commanded. But they required supervision.

A frustrated warrior class, always kept in check by liberal-minded officers, is the sign of a healthy democracy."

Until talking to this crusty old retired warrior the other day I thought Kaplan's comment about needing "liberal-minded officers" to keep frustrated warriors in check was so much baloney. After all, I thought, in this modern “enlightened” age I didn’t think soulless men still served who could possibly think it a good idea to wipe out entire villages for “revenge,” or that the idea of using tactical nukes could be exciting. I HOPE people like that are not the rule!

I suppose I’ve changed my mind. Now I say thank goodness Kaplan's liberal-minded fellows exist, for without them we are no better than the beastly people we seek to defeat. We DO need to come up with a better phrase to describe them though; one that doesn't include the word "liberal." Sheeeesh!

Michael Vick, off with his head?

The dog fighting controversy swirling around Michael Vick has got me thinking. Allow me to talk this thing out while I freewheel some thoughts on the matter…

Until I met some dogfighters the only thing I knew about their “sport” was what I'd read in the Jack London novel, White Fang.” London dramatizes the horrific stomach turning violence and yet makes the reader unable to STOP reading. There is one chapter about a fight between White Fang, the wolf dog mixed breed, and Cherokee, a bulldog, that absolutely mesmerizes. Just now, I finished reading it again, and STILL it captivates. Check it out here if you dare.

With Vick, the dog fighting charges have turned into a “black thing,” at least for some African-Americans, and they just might have a point, albeit a feeble one. It seems that in recent times dog fighting has become common fare in the hip-hop culture as some kind of twisted status symbol, but all the guys that I knew who fought dogs are white.

In rural Birch Run, which was once as Caucasian as anyplace could be, kids used to talk about the rumors of dog fighting that “might” be taking place thereabouts. Once, a buddy and I made a bicycle trip to an abandoned farmstead in an overgrown woodlot where it was said that fights took place on occasion in the dark of night. We found the perfect spot for a dog-fighting ring in that spooky place within the three-feet tall foundations of a long demolished weed grown ancient outbuilding.

I’m sure a lot of the appeal of such a thing is its forbidden nature. Want to make something popular? Tell people they can’t do it.

The fellows I knew who train fight dogs, as unlikely as it sounds, they love their animals. There’s a macho element to it—the breeding, training and fighting of muscularly fearsome creatures. There’s no appeal in it for me, but I can see why it might to others.

It’s been some time, but they spoke of their animals like coaches referring to athletes. I asked about dogs getting hurt or killed and they scoffed, saying there’s no way they’d let their animals get too injured. The fights are supposedly stopped before anything too damaging happens, or so they claimed.

I HAVE seen cockfights though. Well, just one; because one is all I could take once I learned that its more about gambling than chickens, and I can’t think of anything more boring than gambling. I once went to a horseracing track with a fellow marine someplace in the Bay Area. After the first race I went stir crazy. I hated it—I spent most of a day at that track; but without the gambling, there was no real reason for me to be there.

I CAN tell you this—people who engage in fighting roosters or dogs are very passionate about it—that’s the commonality. They are obsessed with the training, feeding, and breeding of their animals, and continuously think ahead to the next matches. For these guys, animal fighting becomes a habitual lifestyle. They make bets with each other, go on trips together, and it’s all they talk about. They enthusiastically go over past matches as if speaking of the World Series or NFL playoffs.

The stuff Vick was supposed to be doing—the killing of his losing dogs—I’ve never heard tell of it. That seems to be a special kind of gratuitous cruelty reserved for meaner circles. Such a thing would seem unlikely for most, because those dogs are not cheap. Only someone with a lot of bucks would ever consider destroying their animals so nonchalantly. Vick probably did it to show off his wealth and how “bad” he is. Some men think the more cruelty they show the more street credibility they rate. It’s that “gangstah” thing again.

It’s now a foregone conclusion that Vick’s going to go to jail—perhaps for years. The way law enforcement works they start loading up on laws and statutes violated, in this case for such things as transporting fight dogs across state lines, illegal gambling, conspiracy, or any one of the other dozens of illicit possibilities of which he came within smelling distance. Once the feds “want” you, they WILL get you.

Here’s where all those comparative morality and philosophy classes I’ve taken over the years start to kick in. Those courses taught me to look at matters more than just on the surface. For instance, because of the “animal life” that Vick destroyed, his own “human” life is now finished. He KNEW he was breaking the law, but did so anyway. Even more damning is that it’s certain that he knew of another sports figure, another NFL player, who was imprisoned a few years back for similar offenses and STILL Vick did it. So, its cut-and-dry right? Well, not so fast...

Now for the tricky part! I personally don’t understand the existence of laws with penalties that can put a man in jail for years, in Vick’s case as many as five, when it’s for killing or being cruel to animals. It seems disproportionate and hypocritical. I’ll explain.

I’m not belittling laws prohibiting animal cruelty, but there seems to be a proportionality and duplicity issue when there are scads of other legal activities that involve the killing, maiming and “torture” of animals.

Is it that only “certain” animals are deemed worthy of society’s protection and ONLY in certain situations? For instance, we eat chickens by the millions, so why is it against the law to fight them? Would it be illegal to fight other non-human animals, such as beetles, crickets, mongoose, snakes, etc? No one will ever go to jail for trying to get two mice to fight. Why are dogs different than, say, crickets? Is there some kind of animal kingdom hierarchy written into law decreeing that we imprison people for certain activities involving only specific animals? It seems that there is. My question is why?

Think about this: It’s legal to fish and hunt. If you’re familiar with hunting you know that many animals don’t die directly after being shot by bullet or arrow. Many are gut-shot or wounded non-lethally and so escape the coup de grâce, only to die a slow agonizing death elsewhere. It happens a lot.

When fishing, anglers don’t kill the fish as soon as they catch them. To keep them fresh, they put them in a creel or on a stringer where they linger on in apparent agony for hours. Shouldn’t we start sending people up the river for that? I’ve heard people claim that fish don’t feel pain, that all that flopping around as they die is just involuntary muscle spasms. Is that not a ridiculous assertion?

Those who scream for the head of Vick for his cruelty and “murder,” are just as likely to be completely comfortable with defending a woman’s “choice” to end the life of her fetus. As long as it’s sheltered unseen within the woman’s body then it must not be a living being. Science shows with utter certainty that a fetus IS living. Within a few weeks of conception it looks, moves and reacts like a human. In fact, to many of us it IS a little human and every bit as important, if not more so, than ANY of Vick’s dogs.

The "choicer’s" sputtering retort goes, “Well, THOSE are just unconscious “reflexes,” and do NOT reflect the presence of cognizant life!” My answer: Okay, so YOU say, and the law is on your side at this point. Still, the abortion controversy provides one more example of how subjective ALL these “life” laws truly are; including those Vick is charged with.

Every year, animal shelters and pounds across the nation “put down” hundreds-of-thousands of unwanted pets. Why aren’t all the people seeking the scalp of Michael Vick also up in arms over the slaughter of all those innocent animals? Admittedly, many of them are, but society as a whole is NOT.

If it’s the violence that is objectionable, shouldn’t we also end organized fighting sports between humans as well? Men die every year in the ring trying to beat each other’s brains out. Why is that legal while cockfighting and dog fighting is not? Boxing aficionados say the difference is free will, but put two fighting cocks together and they WILL fight; the same is true for fighting dogs. At least with chickens, if they die in battle we can eat them. In fact, that’s EXACTLY what I did—though it was a little on the tough side.

Obviously, Vick is being made an example just as Martha Stewart was. When the opportunity presents itself, prosecutors seek to take down celebrities. By doing so they become celebrities themselves. I don’t believe the feds are going after Vick so earnestly because he’s black; nope, it’s because of his celebrity status. Prosecutors are primarily politicians. How do you think Rudy Giuliani began his political career?

Personally, I hope this case causes society to reexamine all aspects of this issue. I eat meat, but I don’t hunt for the same reason I don’t collect firewood. That hunting is called a “sport” shows the true nature of its current place in our culture. Simply put, MOST people hunt for the “pleasure” or the “sport” of it. They feel empowered by the act of killing. They argue that “they eat what they kill” as if that makes it okay. They also contend that they are conservationists because without hunting, animals would over populate and starve. Those aren’t strong arguments but weak excuses designed to rationalize the same sort of bloodlust that drove Michael Vick to do what he did.

“But it’s not the same thing!” I hear hunting proponents protest, but I beg to differ. History shows that it’s easy to justify just about ANY wanton behavior, from killing whales, to slavery, to genocide. I’ll be honest, I’m not totally against hunting—it would be unreasonable to even attempt to ban it; but I AM against kidding ourselves as to WHY people hunt. NO one NEEDS to hunt anymore. We can get meat at the grocery store.

The idea that we allow thousands of amateurs with firearms—which most are—to stream out into the woods during certain “seasons” to theoretically winnow out populations of wildlife is ludicrous. I can’t imagine a more inefficient and dangerous way to do such a thing. If we must cull animals then it should be done professionally by people who are not just as likely to shoot each other ala Dick Cheney.

Heck, in Cheney’s case, he was on a “preserve” where birds are bred for hunting—so much for “hunting for conservation.” Watching a bird fall dead from the sky is what drives hunters like Cheney. I’m sorry if this offends hunters, but I only address these issues in the context of speaking argumentatively to the charges against Michael Vick.

Vick, and animal cruelty violators like him, shouldn’t serve time behind bars, at least not until we come to grips with all the other social discrepancies involving the way “we” treat “nonhuman life.” I despise his cruelty and his conceit, but to end his career, and thus his life this way is every bit as wrong. Considering the millions he’s made and could make, why not fine him instead of jailing him? Let him play ball; and let him continue to earn his millions. Then fine him for at least half of the millions he would make while he would have been jailed. How much more good could be done by giving those millions to an organization like the SPCA? Now that would be real justice.

In my opinion, effectively ending Vick’s life is more of a tragedy than what he did to those dogs. Come on, he didn’t murder people; he killed animals. Society LEGALLY kills millions of animals every year in all sorts of horrible ways. Until animals have the same rights as people then we need to rethink how we punish misguided idiots like Michael Vick.