So I was reading this article about cockfighting in Forbes Life, and….
Well, of all the ways to start a blog post.
But it’s true. The son of a writer for Forbes, kinda like a Chris Buckley rerun, meanders through the story of his last year between working as an investment banker and then bumming around Asia. He starts it out like this:
Bloodied red feathers are swept to the side of the ring. Spectators throw thousands of tightly rolled Filipino pesos back and forth on the floor of Manila’s Araneta Coliseum to settle bets. The victor, a Sweater Kelso cock, is rushed to get his wounds stitched, while the limp body of a yellow-legged hatch, the challenger, is carried from the ring. It’s the last fight before the halftime show: a routine by the Thunderbird Girls, a chicken-feed company’s cheerleaders. Scantily dressed in schoolgirl outfits and dancing to T-Pain’s “Take Your Shirt Off,” the girls make the crowd, overwhelmingly male, Catholic, and Filipino, lose control. Welcome to the World Slasher, the twice yearly Super Bowl of cockfighting.
This is the coliseum where Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier fought out their epic Thrilla in Manila, where Pope John Paul II once led Mass, and where Taylor Swift would perform in two weeks. (Her face flashes on the JumboTron between fights.) As the Thunderbird Girls conclude, the announcer’s voice beckons over the loudspeaker: “Now to honor our distinguished international guests….” I’m wedged in a line between Third World business tycoons and Tea Party–esque expats from West Virginia, Louisiana, California. As we head past security guards and through the VIP section, our names are being called out.
What the devil does that mean, Tea Party-esque expats? I mean, other than a handy way to imply Tea Party-minded people like cockfights?
I wonder if it’s supposed to mean anything else.
