Horsetrionics

Shoein' For a Living -- The Whole Sordid Tale!

2012-01-31T16:09:00.000-08:00

Anvil Magazine Archives [anvilmag.com]
Publisher: Mr. Rob Edwards

From a Series First Published in the 1980's

A Parody on Perpetual-Motion Professions:

(And Coincidentally, Surviving Recessions)

NATCHEZ, MISSISSIPPI, August 12, 1982.

Nobody needs to tell you how hard it is to make a living during a recession. As a reporter for The San Francisco Business News, my assignment had been to search the back roads of this country for the American Dream -- the entrepreneurial spirit that had always made this nation great. I had heard about two Mississippi horseshoers (farriers), who got the idea of forming a business partnership that was not only recession-proof, but required no labor and no raw materials.

According to Harlan Ginder, the self-proclaimed brains of the outfit, this odd business arrangement allowed them to go fishing whenever they wanted, drink beer when they felt like it, and as Ginder told my editor, "to ponder the important things in life, like golf. Soon as Natchez gets a golf course." As such, my editor, Billy Bob Edwards sent me on down to Natchez, Mississippi (economy-class, with a layover in Fargo, North Dakota), to take a look at this unique segment of the American Dream. Billy Bob also suggested that I make the story a New Journalism piece since nobody on staff knew what the hell that meant and that it might make us seem either liberal or smart.

7:45 AM: I wake up at the Three Fingers Motel about ten miles outside Natchez. The air-conditioner is busted and a large cockroach stands between me and the bathroom. Odd noises filter through the wall from the adjoining room: a man and a woman arguing, a lot of howling, like a sick dog and the sound of some kind of machinery, maybe a diesel engine running. I dress and head for my rental car. A scrawled note stuck in the wiper says to meet Harlan at Smokey's Bar out on 41. As I pull out of the motel, three State Police cars race in, screeching to a stop in front of the room with all the strange noises. Shots ring out, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

8:15 AM: I take a seat at the counter of Smokey's Bar. A tattooed guy with a shaved head wanders down to my spot and opens a beer. He stares intently at my Carpe Diem T-shirt, lights a Lucky Strike and belches.

"You from France or somethin'?"

"Uh, San Francisco."

"You a fag?"

"Uh, no. Friend of Harlan Ginder, the horseshoer."

"Harlan ain't got no friends. Not alive anyway. You want the special?"

"What's the special?"

"Grits and bacon."

"Got anything else?"

"Grits and sausage."

He lights another Lucky Strike, blowing the discharge into my face. As the sleeve of his T-shirt creeps up, I see part of a knife tattoo and the word 'Kill.' Kill what I wonder. I order the grits with sausage.

Outside, heat waves are shimmering off the gravel parking lot. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple. August in Mississippi is a slow, uncomfortable dance with your underwear. Even the flies suffer, willing to die for a chance to rest in somebody's grits. As I peer out the front window, I spot Harlan next to a brand new Chevy Dually pickup, his lips surrounding a quart bottle of Bud Lite. My grits arrive, all white and slippery, floating in a puddle of lard. They smell like air that's stayed in a tire too long. I slap five bucks down on the bar and scurry out into the heat.

9:00 AM: As I get near Harlan, he sticks out a big wet hand. "How ya doin' there," he smiles. Around the corner of the truck, Emmet appears -- skinny, about twenty-something, in need of a shave and probably a few other things. A large skinning-knife is strapped to his belt, a cottonmouth-skin affair decorated with beer openers and bits of human hair. When I greet him, he just drops his eyes in the direction of his well-worn boots and mumbles. Then he disappears in the cab of the truck. Harlan slaps me on the back. "Ah, don't worry about Emmet. He's kinda shy, what with a club foot and all. He'll warm up. Just don't mention women. He's real sensitive 'bout women, especially his mother, God bless her."

"Huh?"

"Hop in, got an appointment to keep."

9:30 AM: We head back down Highway 41, past the Three Fingers Motel. Now there are six patrol cars and it appears my old room is on fire. A woman in a black negligee is handcuffed to the mailbox. Harlan waves and the woman gives him the finger. Emmet is engrossed in a Victoria's Secret catalog. I decide it's a good time to probe the secrets of his success as a horseshoer.

"How long you been shoen' Harlan?"

"Shoen'? You mean actually nail'n 'em on?"

"Well, ya."

Emmet, who is riding in the middle, spits out my window. The brown projectile almost makes it outside.

"I don't actually do the work -- I mean, the physical labor part. You've probably noticed that it's a little warm 'round Natchez. Emmet and I have found that doin' a lot of heavy work is quite uncomfortable. That's why we got air-conditionin' -- see, if ya turn this dial toward the blue mark, even the flies get kinda friendly."

"But I see you have some tools in the back." My curiosity was now fully piqued.

"We like to think of ourselves as consultants." Harlan elbowed Emmet in the side. "Right, Emmet?" Emmet just grunted.

"But what about the tools, that anvil?"

Harlan sighed, a degree of frustration hanging on his words. "I inherited that anvil and stuff from Puck Marshall. Puck used to shoe in these parts until..."

"Until?"

"Well, Puck was a little hard on his wife. What you guys in San Francisco call 'insensitive.' 'Bout ten years ago, the little woman got fed up with Puck and stuck a butcher knife in his neck. He'd a probably survived if we hadn't a run outa gas on the way to the hospital."

"You ran out of gas?"

"Actually I didn't. Emmet here was supposed to have gassed up the truck, right Emmet?" Emmet's face turned bright red, his hand sliding down around the sheath of his knife. "Well anyway," Harlan continued, "Puck left me his tools and a few other things. I took Emmet here under my wing cause he was orphaned and all by these unfortunate circumstances, and what havin' a club foot and all, we went into business with Puck's old tools."

"Uh, what happened to Emmet's...uh, Mrs. Marshall?"

"Oh, I believe they hung her. Puck was kinda popular hereabouts."

"You mean Puck was Emmet's..."

"Now, yer catchin' on." Harlan reached under the seat, producing a handful of Advil and another quart of beer. I could feel Emmet starting to vibrate next to me. He kept flipping the catalog pages back and forth.

"Nice butt," I said, pointing to a woman on page 12, sporting little more than a purple napkin. I expected Emmet to nod in agreement, figuring that once we had bonded on some subject, he might warm up to me a bit. Instead, he mumbled something about nose hair and dead chickens and tossed the catalog out the window.

10:23 AM: "Well, here we are," Harlan shouted, as we pulled into the driveway of a small farm. Tied next to the barn were a pair of brown mules. A young man in weathered chaps was trying to hang on to one of the mule's hind legs. After a couple of seconds, the man went flying through the air.

"Well, that's better than last time!" Harlan shouted.

The man smiled in agreement as he rose stiffly to his feet. Emmet set Puck Marshall's old anvil on the tailgate and place a hammer and a couple of shoes next to it.

"Listen, why don't we try shoe shapin' today, Bub?" Harlan handed the hammer to Bub, whose eyes lit up as if he was about to receive the holy sceptre. "Bang that shoe around a little and get 'feel of the metal.' We professional farriers call that 'the feel.' A man's got to get a good feel fer it. I'm gonna check your trimming."

As Bub bent the old shoe, Harlan kneeled down next to one of the mules. "I'm gonna check your medio-lateral balance, Bub." Harlan pulled out a Finnegan Gauge, pointing it at the snortiest mule, a little like a sailor navigating with a sextant. "Aha! I thought so. Too much medial imbalance, Bub. You remember what I taught you about strokin' the rasp?" Harlan crouched slightly, miming smooth strokes with an invisible rasp. "Smooth, smooth, smooth."

"Smooooth," Bub mouthed back. "Smoooth."

"You keep a workin' on those strokes, Bub. I think a few more sessions and we can think about doin' some nipper work."

Bub grinned so wide I thought his face would bust. We piled back in Harlan's pickup. I was totally confused over what I had just seen. I thought about asking Emmet, but he was back to fondling his skinning knife.

11:45 AM: An hour later we were back at Smokey's Bar, a pitcher of beer sweating comfortably in front of us.

"Harlan," I started cautiously. "I've been with you since nine o'clock this morning and I've yet to see you shoe a horse. I don't understand what's going on."

Harlan took a long swallow from his glass. "Okay, I'll tell ya what's goin' on, but this has got to be one of those off-the-record kind of things. See, if this got out, I'd be in a world of hurt." Emmet stood up and limped to the opposite end of the bar where he stood glaring at Harlan.

"God-dammit Emmet! Ah, hell with him. Ya see, when Puck Marshall got that knife in his neck he told me to take care of Winnie, his wife and Emmet there."

"But I thought his wife stuck him with the knife?"

"She did indeed, but this is Mississippi. We let families work out their problems without a lot of meddlin.' Some folks figure Puck had it comin.' Course, then they hung Winnie anyhow and others figured she had it comin.' Balanced out sort of. So Emmet there ended up livin' on my back porch."

"So? What's that got to do with horseshoeing?"

After the trial, I got Puck's tools. Ya see, somebody had to feed Emmet, and what with those lawyer fees and all, and I just had the tools. I saw this advertisin' fer a shoein' school -- one of those two-week jobs. Figured I'd go up there with Puck's anvil and learn how to do it -- you know, become a professional farrier."

"Did you?"

"Well, not quite. When I got there, there was a waitin' list. Lot of guys from 'Bama, Arkansas -- hell, even places like Canada. The boss of the place had a bunch of students from the previous class teachin' us new fellas trimmin' on these old slaughterhouse legs and what not. It was pretty awful. But the boss had this brand new Chevy Dually with chrome wheels and a cellular phone. Everybody wanted that truck and they figured that shoein' horses was the way to get it."

"So you decided to become a real professional farrier?"

"Well, not quite. You see, I figured there was a lot more money in teaching shoein' than actually doin' it, especially with the weather down here. So I cashed in some bonds my momma left me and..."

"Bought Harlan's tools?"

"Nope. Leased that Chevy Dually and went into the teachin' business. Emmet and I cover 'bout fourteen counties -- sort of a correspondence course by truck. Right now, we got about fifty guys we're teachin' how to shoe. Bub is on his twelfth lesson and all he can think about is Chevy trucks. They see my truck out there and go moon-blind. Sometimes they work on their own stock, other times we sort of contract out for our stock. You know, kinda get paid at both ends -- that sort of thing.

I took a long swallow from my beer. "But how...I mean, it sounds like a pyramid scheme. Did you graduate from the school?"

"Hell, no." Harlan lowered his voice to a whisper. "I couldn't shoe a horse if my life depended on it. I got my tuition back and bought some of those fancy chrome-plated hoof knives. Went down to Jackson and leased the truck. From that point on it's been smooth sailin.'"

I wondered how a man could live like that. Cheating people out of their dreams. I finally asked him how he lived with himself. He looked puzzled, like I had asked him what color air he liked to breathe.

"I live fine. Ya see, as soon as these guys are finished with their lessons, I'm goin' to take all that money and open a Chevy dealership. I'm goin' to lease 'em all trucks and tell 'em the real money is in California. Ya see, this is Mississippi. Like I said, we don't hold a grudge down here, especially if a fella is just tryin' to make a buck. It's like me takin' care of Winnie even though ol' Winnie planted a butcher knife in Puck's neck and got hung. I took care of her, Puck's old tools take care of me and I take care of Emmet. If I gotta do all that work, then somebody's got to take care of me, so these guys I'm teachin' to shoe are really supportin' a dead widow and her orphan boy. Once they get that new Dually and turn up the air-conditionin', all this will make perfect sense. My God man, I got all these people dependin' on me. Hell, let's have a beer! You're not goin' to print any of this crap are you?"

Down at the other end of the bar, Emmet was still fondling his knife.

The End.......

Spy vs. Spy vs. Spy vs. Spy...At the Sales

2012-01-29T16:18:00.000-08:00

Spy versus...

What horse?

CIA Has Nothin' Over These Spies

Thoroughbred sales are probably one of the most fascinating venues ever created for the sole purpose of selling an agricultural commodity. Yeah, I'm afraid that $100,000 yearling you just bought is technically: livestock. Sorry, but the USDA and The Jockey Club haven't quite settled on a nomenclature that fits every body's needs perfectly. Especially when the wife asks, "Honey, do we own any cows? The accountant called about it."

Given how really special Thoroughbreds are, and perhaps more importantly, how tricky the end-result of a purchase might be, the industry decided to nurture the development of so-called agents -- bloodstock agents to be completely correct. This was both incredible foresight on the part of Thoroughbred sellers and of absolute necessity to insure any form of repeat business. Yes, agents are a little like heat-shields on a space capsule. They are designed to deflect a certain version of a rare, but sweet-scented wrath that shows up every year about tax time. See, when $100,000 and "out run a Yugo" end up in the same sentence -- well, everybody should have a fall-guy.

Agents know this. That's why every couple of years they change names, addresses, phone numbers, shaving habits, countries, wives, favorite restaurants -- DNA if they could figure out how. But unhappy, financially destitute in-laws are only half the problem. The real competition isn't over clients. They recycle pretty fast. The end-game -- the adrenaline-chili-powder-ragged-edge-tight-cheek-ultimate high: out-flanking another agent. And to be clear, it is not always about buying the better horse.

"Buyers engage in a form of subterfuge of their own and for a very good reason, or quite frankly, a whole collection of personality disorders. Some trainers, owners or agents have a reputation for picking out winners on a somewhat regular basis. Regular is a subjective term. Irregular is an industry standard. Either way, the divine chosen are subject to counter-intelligence operations of epic proportions. People peek at them from under the shed-row, behind bushes, near Sani-Kans, or try to get them drunk at cheap bars and swipe their catalog The object of all these mental manipulations is two-fold: the first is to find out if one's own judgement is hopelessly corrupt, or at the least, shared by one other human on the planet. The second depends on the first, because two people can't possibly own the same secret. Then, the strategy is to either undermine the other potential buyer's confidence in a particular horse or undermine your own. The latter is complicated. It is like buying a used car from yourself. You know the damn thing has a hopeless stain in the backseat and the engine knocks, but the price is...well, you get it. If another guy actually wants to buy it, why are you selling it?"

The shin bone is connected to...the yearling sales.

2012-01-28T10:03:00.000-08:00

iStock images [rights secured]

Cross-dressing...Equine Version:

Over the decades, I have spent countless hours exploring the finer points of equine conformation. Well, female conformation as well, but if I go down that path I'm going to have to invest in a new web site: you know, www.xxx. And the next thing you know the place would be overrun with Republicans and defrocked priests. And if you've read my book, you probably appreciate that I've got enough trouble with UPS drivers, the fire department, The Jockey Club and most of my neighbors. At least the ones that chose shelter-in- place over the witness protection system.

However, if you sell yearlings in the marketplace, conformation is a very, very big deal. Deal-breaker actually. And horse people being either special or perhaps not enamored by detail, have invented their own unique anatomical identification system:

"One of the biggest causes for consternation at a yearling sale is centered around a young horse's knees. They invoke the most poking and prying, for like the ball-joints in your aging car or Joe Namath's hairy landing gear, they are the first part of the anatomy to falter. Why? Well, they carry about 60% of the horse's weight. The hind legs work like a propeller on a ship. Additionally, anatomy tends to cross-dress between species. Knees aren't knees -- they are actually wrists. Hooves are fingernails, everything below the knee is actually a digit -- or, a finger really. The real knees are actually stifles, the hocks are ankles and racing pounds these misguided joints at about 2000psi or more. I know it is confusing, but if you stand up a horse on its hind legs and connect the dots, it will probably make sense. Or maybe it won't."

"Buyers approach the knees like madcap melon buyers. They thump and maul the joint mercilessly. Others get back at a distance and ponder the shape and contour of the joint, stopping occasionally to scratch their heads or write a comment in their sales catalog. Normally, something like, "This horse sucks." The astute buyers pretend to be looking at a gaskin, while stealing a quick glance at a knee. Others put their money on the ankles (which are really hands), or the eye (which really is an eye), or that certain look, though I'm still working out the connection between a horse and a bald-headed bird that cavorts with vultures and hyenas. But that is our dilemma. We parade our yearlings, corrupt the truth as best we can and hope that three drunken optimists try to prove a point when out horse is in the ring."

Next: Spy versus Spy

Shoeing on the dark-side of the moon...

2012-01-24T16:27:00.000-08:00

Hmm...Too Formal?

Scenes from Chapter 13:

'A Pretty Fair Farrier'

We all have those days, those clients, those collections of improbable events that can only come from exploring the the dark-side of the moon without a flashlight.

One of my favorites is the horse that doesn't quite make it through the appointment. And naturally, the owner is at work. And guess where she works? Grisly-Lugnut & Ballsqueezer, LLC. Attorneys-at-Law. Never mind that Bucky was 31-years old, almost toothless and lived on nitro-glycerin tablets. Or that he fell over dead on your new $90 fiberglass shoeing box. The box where your iPad was sitting...next to your prescription Ray-Bans. Just one thing matters: Bucky died on your watch.

Then there is the case of way too much information. That happens because of the nature of the job. Horse owners are always conversing with your butt while your mouth is normally full of nails. It's amazing the things people will tell a horseshoer's butt: "Judy, I think we should do Sparky every six-weeks instead of eight. His feet grow pretty fast." She tells your butt, "You know, I haven't had an orgasm in fifteen years." You change the schedule back to eight-weeks.

Or...

A trainer holds a horse for you. A trainer who never holds a horse for anybody. He starts to tell your butt a story: "Ya know, we didn't win at Tucson last week." (The horse he's holding is Double-Lucky Moon Shot -- a halter horse.) "Judge kept lookin' at Moonie's front legs...like thar was somethin' wrong." Of course, the butt doesn't immediately answer. Case of pucker or something. Then, more information is forthcoming: "You know, I think we need to lower those outsides a little more. Yeah, that's it I think...we should do that." Then your butt hears the horse being snapped into the cross-ties and boots -- scraping the asphalt pretty quickly until they finally fade away. Once you finish, you simply hose the blood off your rasp and head for the next appointment.

Where...

The trainer is at a show. A note on the shoeing board says to check Buddy. You scratch your butt and think, "Buddy who?" You finally find a groom in one of the stalls talking to a horse. She says, "Oh hi!" You ask, "What's wrong with Buddy?" She says, "Oh, he's lame." You seek clarification: "Who's Buddy?" The groom: "Oh. I thought you knew. I don't." You say: "You don't?" She says: "No, but I knew a horse in Florida with the same name. What a coincidence!" You go back to the shoeing board and check the list. Under a horse named Benjamin, is a note that says, "Vet wants you to...." The rest has been smeared off and replaced with...'Pizza Hut -- Tues./4:00.' You gaze down the aisle way in the direction of where you last saw the groom talking to the horse. For a second or two, you actually consider asking her about...instead you change the shoeing board and write: Buddy and Benjamin meet vet at Pizza Hut -- Tues/4:00. Smiling, you head for your truck.

The trouble with 'smart' horses -- conclusion.

2012-01-22T10:50:00.000-08:00

Trygve [image: ajuell]
Fastest horse in the world one Saturday

Trygve:

Part III

Somehow I escaped the sale's grounds, though I believe I was chased for some miles by at least two bloodstock agents from California. I finally lost them on the Bellevue connector where the new Highway 520 abruptly ends -- seems they ran out of money part way to Redmond. You can always tell when things are going badly when they build a three-lane bridge on a four-lane freeway. But the bigger problem still remained: The Mrs.. See, she had already been shopping for the new Cadillac El Dorado -- her ransom for agreeing to live on a farm -- the only decision remaining being the color. Trygve's sale was intended to cushion that annual blow to the finances -- 1 Cadillac = one less unaffordable stud fee. Farm finances and divorce court are all about one compromise or another.

The owner and I agreed to just lie. The horse didn't seem to care -- he was just happy to be home again. We said that Trygve fell down and wrecked his knee. Actually, I fell down and wrecked my knee running from that pack of angry bloodstock agents, but of course I didn't matter in somebody else's lie. I then painted the colt's knee with all kinds of disgusting stuff in case the Mrs. hired a private detective to unravel our story. The Mr. was forced to finance the El Dorado since our cash-flow had taken a turn for the worse. No, we never got caught but since all the conspirators are still alive, there's still a possibility of doing a stint in purgatory with the Cadillac dealer.

So Trygve went on that fall to get broke with the rest of the tribe. Pretty sure he fractured a couple of rider's collarbones in the process since he still suffered from chronic boredom. He didn't like just galloping in one direction every morning so every once in a while he'd just reverse the field so to speak. That normally made things pretty exciting for everybody -- including the stewards, who suggested on a few occasions that the horse might enjoy racing in Europe. And sadly, that assessment was pretty close to the truth. The colt's world had become a mundane, repetitive routine...life on a carousel, and he had begun to shut it out... to quietly sulk.

He didn't race at two, though he attracted a lot of attention just the same. He was fast; damn fast, but erratic. He seemed physically mature, but like a lot of 2-year olds that perception could be a deceptive conclusion, and with his kind of speed it was decided to hold him back. And Longacres had a reputation for producing some pretty fast fractions on its own, which is not always conducive to keeping a horse sound...or alive. But over the following winter, a couple things happened. One day at the feed store I spotted a pick-up truck loaded to the roof, pulling a horse trailer equally stuffed with junk and one old pony horse. It had Maryland plates on it. Inside, I ran into the owner's of this Dust Bowl era menagerie and introduced myself. The two refugees turned out to be Larry and Sharon Ross, a pair that would write their own story in northwest racing over the ensuing decade. But for now, they were new in town, broke and ambitious for a new start. They wanted to train on a different coast and perhaps most importantly, they wanted to train their way. We got them set up with work on one of the breeding farms in the area while Larry began the arduous task of attracting clients, horses and perhaps the most difficult for new trainers, convincing a skeptical racing secretary that they deserved stalls at the track. Stall assignment was a make or break proposition for a trainer.

Trygve went back to the track his 3-year old year. In the interim I had spent a lot of time with Larry and Sharon -- we had become good friends. They had gotten a couple of stalls at the track and attracted a few clients. They trained very differently, constantly altering routines with their horses and rotating them on and off the track. They looked at each horse as an individual and adjusted their routine to fit that horse, unlike most trainers who took the cookie-cutter approach and made the horse conform to the 'system.' Gallop 4, walk 1, gallop 2, breeze on the 7th...ad naseum. And gee, to every body's amazement (resentment perhaps), the pair had immediate success. And in the background was this farm manager, who knew this really talented horse who really needed...well, you get it.

Loyalty is an admirable trait. Sometimes a little too admirable. I lobbied hard for a change in trainers. I honestly believe in the notion of different strokes for...and perhaps the idea that you are either part of the solution or part of the problem. That happens in all facets of life and as unpleasant or perhaps as wounding it might appear to the ego, stepping aside for the bigger picture is not an admission of failure, but rather a salutation to the greater possibilities for the game. But I suppose that can be a hard decision when you are the closest to the flame. I had a little distance, a lot less at stake and perhaps that was the difference between blind admiration and the kind of clarity needed to make that kind of a call. It didn't happen.

Sometime that spring Trygve was also adopted by a stray puppy who had decided to live in his stall. It was a good match, as the colt trained exceptionally well for a couple of months, winning two allowance races and gaining the reputation as one two 'speed' horses on the track. The two would meet a month later, the same year that Mt. St. Helens blew its top. It was one of those races where two horses hook up about a 1/4 mile out of the gate and the rest of the field might as well go home. When it was over, Trygve had won the duel -- the timer's clock showed 107.2, though there was some debate that he had equaled the world mark of 107.1. Either way, it was about the fastest six panels anybody had witnessed in quite some time.

The next week, Trygve's puppy was killed in a hot-walker accident. It was decided that he didn't need a dog. He returned to his erratic ways on the track and those long periods of simply staring out into space. The decision was made to geld him, assuming that might reduce his sulking. It didn't. Finally he began running for a price and was eventually claimed, fracturing a knee somewhere in California. He was given to his groom, an older black man who had a small ranch of his own. He used his savings to have the colt's knee fixed as best it could be repaired, and from what I heard would ride him around in the evenings and introduce him to the neighbors. Normally around dinner time.

The trouble with 'smart' horses...round 2

2012-01-21T13:22:00.000-08:00

Trygve -- Part II

As we all know in the Thoroughbred business, sales preparation is about turning sows-ears into silk purses. Trouble is, when you already have a silk-purse, you're going to be waging an uphill battle. Yeah uphill. See, farm managers are simply the concierge in somebody else's hotel and the first person to fall in love with this remarkable horse already owned him. And believe me, farm managers are all too familiar with the drill. It begins with an off-hand remark: "Damn he is well-built. And look at those nice flat knees! What'd ya suppose he'll bring?" This is where I scratch my head and seek out the best possible response: "Grief if you don't sell him!"

No matter. The die was cast. As the two of us (The horse and I -- the other one was hopeless), progressed in our odd relationship, I began to notice how smart this horse really was -- but not in the sense one might think. See, apparently we both had a case ADHD. No, I'm not kidding. I already had decided that cribbers and weavers were smarter than most horses, primarily because science has proven that it takes a degree of skill to develop a bad habit. Just ask a drunk. It takes skill and cunning to drink yourself to death without actually dying. And in case you're wondering, I can testify on the accuracy of the research.

Trygve -- One of my favorites. [image: ajuell]

Now even though this yearling was smarter than most, he didn't develop those kind of habits. Instead, he exhibited a strong need for surprises, something my own teachers had expressed, only not in those same words. "Fails to pay attention. Stares out the window too much." Hell, they were building Interstate 5 at the time which was a lot more interesting than Columbus wandering around the damn Atlantic Ocean. But keeping a yearling interested in day-to-day life isn't as easy as it may sound. Sale's yearlings are normally kept up by themselves (so they don't get kicked, bit or chewed on), only turned out at night (to prevent sun-fade or bug bites), and if they are a colt...well, you've got those puberty issues and you are not going to geld somebody else's superstar, even if the idea is awfully appealing. So that just leaves you as a sort of equine social director. And since most horses don't speak English, play chess or watch TV, some creativity might be in order. So every day he lived in a different stall, wore a different halter, had different oats for dinner (rolled, whole, crimped -- most days with a little molasses and cider vinegar), traded carrots for bananas with an occasional Guinness thrown-in (carrots are actually an acquired taste, as opposed to beer which seems to just occur naturally), and every day I'd wear a different hat. Most evenings I'd take him on a walk to meet different neighbors. Not sure that was always appreciated, especially since we'd show up around dinner time.

It finally came time for the long-awaited Select Yearling Sale held at the new pavilion adjacent to Longacres race track. My new friend Trygve and I seemed to get a lot more attention than we planned. Everybody wanted to stop by and say 'howdy,' often spending more time with the horse than me. I became a little suspect over their cordiality, but figured that was how it probably went at a sale. One fellow in particular came around a little more often than I needed, particularly since we had already met on numerous occasions -- the boss. Most times he visited, he was a little red-faced and sweaty, spoke nervously and kept looking over his shoulder like somebody was following him. Somebody was it seemed. A large Italian guy. No, not the mob. He was the man who owned that San Francisco treat, not to mention more than a few racehorses, most of whose names ended in a variation on the word: Roni. And my boss, well, he was on the brink of some kind of nervous condition. All Trygve and I could do was....watch.

The morning of the sale, the two men collided in front of Trygve's stall. At first, the conversation seemed friendly...and like most, 80% bullshit on the weather. Then quite suddenly it became a little ominous. The Italian gentleman sidled up to my boss and said matter of factly, "I'm gonna buy that colt and name him Kiss My Roni!" Well, if anybody has ever worked on a bomb squad and cut the wrong wire, this was one of those moments. The boss went from red to plum purple, mumbled something in Norwegian and headed for the sales office. Over his shoulder, he yelled back at me, "Load him!" Of course I just shrugged since I was a little busy with a rather predatory looking group of bloodstock agents. Those boys get a little upset when you piss all over their commission. I pulled down Trygve's sale sign and shut the top door of his stall -- then went looking for a double Gin & tonic and a disguise.

Yeah, the boss pulled the horse out of the sale. The sale's committee said something like, "You can't do that!" The boss said, "Watch me!" I said, "I don't care what size the sweatshirt is, just make sure it has a hood!"

Tomorrow: Part III

The trouble with 'smart' horses...

2012-01-20T16:41:00.000-08:00

Trygve -- One of my favorites [image: ajuell]
6 Panels in 107.2

Trygve

Part I

I think everybody who has worked with horses has a favorite. If you're like me and work with thousands of horses over many decades, you probably have quite a few. Especially if you hold horses in higher regard than most people. No, that's not quite as severe a statement as you might think. See, we all have 'circumstances' in our lives that ultimately cement the foundation of our viewpoint -- good or bad. Most of these are not of our own choice necessarily, but rather the result of what we can derive from the environment around us. And if we're quite young, perhaps unskilled in the nuances of human behavior, we may draw the wrong conclusions. Hardly matters. We still must draw some conclusion from our experiences. Survival alone demands that much. But sadly, that search very often consumes its own collection of extremely priceless years and in the interim, we could sure use a friend or two. And some horses just naturally step up to the plate, especially when horse and human discover a common bond: we were both a couple of outliers.

Trygve was part of a 3-1 package that the farm purchased from a Kentucky breeder in the late 1970's. He was sired by Groton and arrived at our farm still on his dam, a Bupers mare that had never raced herself. She was also carrying a foal by *The Axe II and both ended up half-brothers to a suddenly rising star: Shadycroft Lady. Good for us, you could say.

The mother was an odd sort though. Not particularly fond of humans, though not in the sense of being fearful -- perhaps like myself, suspicious of those intentions that weren't always obvious to a bystander. And as mothers sometimes do, she shared this skill with her offspring. Farm managers always appreciate that sort of parental guidance. So Trygve, unnamed at that stage of his life, became one of my problem children. And not because he was recalcitrant, naturally stubborn or just a knot head, but because he was smart. As a rule, trainers don't appreciate 'smart' in a horse. They figure that for $100 a day or more, one genius in the barn is more than sufficient. But of course, the racetrack was still two-years off in a future that is always muddy at best.

With the success of Shadycroft Lady, a whole new scenario had opened up. After a good deal of thought, consternation and downright angst, it was decided that business logic should prevail and the colt would be sold at the WTBA Select Yearling Sale. I personally disagreed with that decision, though I both understood the reasoning as well as the financial burdens that face most small breeding farms. By the time Trygve was a year old, he already looked the part and more...much more. This was clearly substantiated when the inspection scores were revealed for that year's sale. He was the only yearling in the history of the sale's venue to receive a 10. That made me nervous and the owner of the farm insane -- well, a little anyway. Both of us. It was obvious that he would top the sale and quite likely set a new standard. Interest was being expressed as far away as California and Kentucky -- agents. Not the kind of folks who drool over a pretty face and straight legs. This colt had speed and maturity written all over him. And the looks. He shined like black gold -- ultimately to my everlasting chagrin. You see, the Gods of hubris decided to get playful.

Tomorrow: Just how playful?

Taking the Girl Out -- Somewhere 'Nice'

2012-01-20T10:32:00.000-08:00

8th-Grade French Lessons

Somewhere around the third date, just about every guy (who wants a fourth date), decides to up the ante and take the girl somewhere nice. Now, you need to keep this in some sort of perspective. We're talking about farmers here -- people who get sweaty palms over a world's record pumpkin, actually read the fine print on a bag of fertilizer, or have at one time traveled all the way to Wisconsin just to see the 'National Museum of Manure Spreaders.' Really, I'm not kidding here. It's just outside Racine, next to the old Massey-Ferguson factory.

This is normally the point where a degree of sophistication runs afoul of farm fashion, but you have already discovered that the girl has nice legs, actually shaves them occasionally and you're pretty sure that the pencil you found in your truck (Blue Lagoon), has something to do with make up. So you're optimistic that an attractive woman is hiding somewhere under the ski hat, goose-down vest and rubber boots, just waiting to make some waiter envy your incredible good fortune. But it will never happen at the corner Burger King. So...you decide to take your remedial 8th Grade French lessons (failing to remember that confidence in a foreign language combined with a D+ grade)...well, finesse and common sense are wasted on the young anyway. But still, you book a table for two at Le Foo Foo Marseilles because the girl has promised to wear a dress if you agree to wear a tie. No, you don't know how to tie one, but the bartender up the street probably does, though he's less than impressed with your choice: lavender. With a blue shirt. Grey pants...damn. Where's two black socks when you really need them?

So you press on hoping for dim lighting...and she does wear glasses sometimes and one of your friends once said that 'Europeans dress funny anyway.' Good, you'll fit the theme perfectly. Avant-garde is not for the weak of heart they say, and apparently a fine line exists between 'cutting edge' and what the Salvation Army sells for half-price. And the restaurant evidently knows that 'intimacy' is on your mind. The maitre d' takes you to a quiet, candlelit table next to the men's room. He smiles -- too much. The waiter suppresses a snicker, but you press on. Whew! The menu has English sub-titles and you know what the hell escargot means. Same slimy bastards that overrun the lettuce patch every spring. She smiles and decides on the fish. You frown and look at the price. That was a $28 fish. Anything made of a cow was $32, sheep came in at $36. Then the grinning fool hands you a wine list. The girl in the dress casually says, "Oh, you order something." You hear the waiter say something like Chateau Margaux and $56 in the same sentence. You suddenly have a flashback to your W-2 form -- the part about your yearly salary. You wonder if the place has a back door.

Finally, the meal is over. You had settled on the cow, figuring the extra money saved could go for bail. You're wondering seriously about your credit card limit. The girl's had three glasses of wine -- that's good, she'll probably miss the part when they handcuff you. God, the waiter's back and he's holding the bill...and smiling again. Little does he know, but his tip is going to have something to do with Wednesday's fourth race. He asks, "Anything else, monsieur?" You're thinking, "Ah hell, why not?" So, fortified by the other three glasses of wine, you take one last stab at impressing your future cellmate and order in French -- 8th grade French:

The coffee is the best you've ever had. Then you remember that quaint custom at the local penitentiary -- the one about last meals. You're resigned to the inevitable and further stalling seems pointless. You reach for your wallet while you carefully study the bill. You're thinking it's good for at least 30-days in the slammer when you feel the girl touch your hand. Her eyes look a little blurry, her speech slightly askew. "I'm getting this. I just wanted to see you wear a tie. It was worth it."

One Other Thing --

2012-01-20T08:52:00.000-08:00

The rumor about camels (Bactrian or otherwise), spitting on people is not quite accurate. Actually, they are more inclined to projectile vomiting. I have it on good authority (and photographic evidence), that they can telegraph undigested flotsam about 8 feet.

So...An Explanation is in Order

2012-01-17T15:23:00.000-08:00

[image: ajuell]

Somewhere in Central Mongolia:

I've used this photo quite often, mostly because I like it. That's usually reason enough, especially when it looks better than anything I can produce in my mirror of late. In fact, that pathetic exercise is getting a little harder all the time.

The gentleman on the right is Mr. Steve Xie of Yixing, Jingau, China. Among other things, he is/was a guide, translator and an obedient overseer for English-speaking wanderers in the PRC. I also assumed him to be a bad little communist as he was able to completely absorb the nuances (and rewards), of the capitalist system in under five minutes. In the vernacular of Chinese bureaucracy, he is what is/was known as a 'national guide.' His job, among others, was to prevent any American tourists in his charge (custody might be more accurate), from sneaking into secret military bases, stealing chickens, fomenting trouble with local women, getting screwed on cheap T-shirts and most importantly -- not causing trouble around Tiananmen Square. The Chinese government was more than a little touchy about that one.

I can honestly report that he failed miserably at most of his assignments. No, we didn't sneak into any secret military bases, but we sure as hell snuck into everywhere else. If we'd had another hour and a speedier Bactrian camel, we would have ended up in the Soviet Union. Imagine how popular that might have been? Would have made the cover of Time magazine for all the wrong reasons.

Now aside from Steve's deteriorating political loyalties, he was also experimenting with issues involving sexual preference. China tends to be a little stuffy about these matters, so my assumption was that it was probably safer to explore the possibilities with Americans. We're generally a little more tolerant over these matters and when you are hopelessly lost in Mongolia ('Lost' can be permanent around there since no matter what direction you take, you're still lost -- just somewhere else.), it is always a good idea not to be too fussy about having your knee fondled in an emergency. After all, international relations is a tricky business.

I tried to offer a hint or two. Only sat with the girls in public places, made distasteful comments about female anatomy, showed him a picture of my girlfriend in San Francisco -- and the ones in Boston, Walnut Creek, Bishop, Auckland, Munich, Denver, Saskatoon...well, you get it. He just figured I had a big family and that Mao probably wouldn't have approved of such a thing.

I never did figure out Steve's story and of course in the end it didn't really matter anyway. Sometimes people are just friendly and in a country like China where societal experimentation is discouraged -- even oppressed, identity can be a difficult question to explore. Particularly in a one-child environment where girls were considered a burden -- or worse. And of course, the ramifications of Mao's policies are even now creating an unseen fall-out far exceeding the personal questions of sexual preference or identity. So there is the story -- one of many sidelines offered up by a fascinating world. And all you have to do is step out the door.

Jockeys Don't Always Appreciate 'Fashion.'

2012-01-16T15:09:00.000-08:00

"I skipped a double-cheeseburger for this crap!"
[image: ajuell]

Couldn't help but notice our jockey's somewhat sardonic expression here. He was probably thinking how nice his name would look on that trophy. Seems the horse didn't agree with that early assessment though. Of course, horses don't really express disappointment quite like their human counterparts. In fact, they really don't give a shit one way or the other. Dinner shows up just the same.

However, race tracks sometimes get a little carried away on the winners. See, they put the trophy right next to the scales as a way of rubbing it in on the also-rans. Even the ninth-place jockey has to walk up there and see his reflection in that shiny little monument of pagan idolatry that's destined for the mantel over somebody else's fireplace. And you might notice that the other half of this abysmal experiment is nowhere to be seen. He's off looking for his waiter.

But the real subject of this post is the jockey's outfit. Silks as they are known. This could also have something to do with the expression he's wearing. Around our farm, the mistress of the estate was put in charge -- no, took charge is more accurate -- of this department. And we all know how much women enjoy dressing up men. Hell, they even picked out our very first diapers for us and have micro-managed our bad taste ever since. So it should be no surprise that far too many jockeys end up looking like a Salvador Dali misprint. And if you're looking for a conspiracy -- yes. Who do you suppose is running the sewing machines? Yeah, Mrs. Dali.

And up in the Turf Club, the conversation among owners always follows the race...

The Mr: "Yeah, we got to that son of Bold Ruler pretty cheap. You notice he's got that same high croup."

The Mrs: "The polka-dots are a rayon/silk blend. Amazing stuff. Doesn't fade at all!"

The Other Mrs: "You don't think the sequins are a bit...say gauche?"

The Other Mr: "Some of those Bold Ruler's come up a little short goin' a distance."

The Mrs: "Look through the glasses. See them sparkle! Always know where the horse is running."

The Other Mrs: "Oh dear, not well I'm afraid. I think the one with the lovely mauve sash and matching...filigreed thingy...it's going to win I think. Lovely color combination, don't you agree?"

The Mr: "Damn! Well, think I'll drop him back to a flat mile next out. See what the trainer thinks."

The Other Mrs: "Think I'll try the sequins. Red, white and blue maybe. The Fourth is coming up and how perfect would that be!"

Winning is Everything!

2012-01-15T09:30:00.000-08:00

[image: A. Juell]

So I've Been Told

Afraid that I've always been a hunch-bettor -- worse yet, a dyslexic hunch-bettor. And the epitome of all worseness: self-delusion combined with a jinx or two. See, having raised these young super-stars, I feel it to be a matter of honor that I only wager on the home team. I mean, how would it look if the guy with the most inside information had his mouth and his money occupied elsewhere? And if the boss found out? "Well, you see Doc, I bet $400 on the other horse figuring it would raise the odds on your horse." Doc's eyebrows would rise an inch or two, followed by, "You flunked arithmetic...what, six times?" Five actually. But aside from a few jinxes, misguided loyalty issues, blind love and what not, around a race
track it remains critically important to embrace a 'system.' Serious punters respect that sort of thing. Besides, you've got all that time to kill between races while the track's accountants add up the profits from your last bet. And believe me, they never got less than a B+ in arithmetic.

So one afternoon the cat and I decided to develop a system of handicapping based on what the two of us were familiar with on a day to day basis. Naturally, I wanted to name it after myself. Maybe "Andy's Superhot Guide for Finding the Losers First in Order to Bet on What's Left." The cat thought it was a little wordy. He/she (You ever try to determine the sex of a cat? Not worth it.), preferred "Intestines." No, I don't know why. Assuming some kind of metaphor is involved, but the cat wasn't giving it up just now. We did finally compromise on the number system itself, hoping to settle on the semantics issue later. Personally, it was my kind of science:

"I added the number of times the tractor broke down, multiplied that by the number of moldy bales of hay I was forced to throw away, deducted my salary from the total and added in the inches of annual rainfall for western Washington. I also factored in the dead pheasant count (the cat insisted), promised to start going to church (the cat, not me), and when I figured God was busy elsewhere, threw in a little Haitian black magic."

Okay. That took care of the first race. So, how about the daily-double!

[dhaskett@yahoo.com]

"I would use the firing order on the tractor multiplied by Chet's weight (our neighborhood mechanic), divided by the number of goats that escaped over the summer (you'll have to buy the book to find out how badly that went), subtract the number of dates that Jesse was forced to suffer through (sorry, details are not forthcoming), and subtract the exact number of 16 ozs. beers it took to convince the van driver to help load the yearlings. I was going to use his blood-alcohol level, but the trial's still pending. Believe an 'insanity defense' is in the works. Funny though, they didn't want me to testify.

Well, now you have my our system. Oh, we finally agreed on a name: "Andy's Cat has a Superhot System to Find Intestines or Whatever is Left." That's what happens when you compromise with a cat.

UPS Drivers Always See the Good Stuff on a Farm!

2012-01-08T15:31:00.000-08:00

[fordtrucks.com]

The Weanie Shuffle: Explain This to the UPS Driver!

"Most new weanlings follow the same routine. I call it the weanie shuffle. The weanlings all run around crazy for an hour or so and then congregate in one corner to choose a leader. The guy that gets the long straw picks out a path and head-to-tail, they march around the paddock like soldiers on a scavenger hunt. Every so often, a voice from the wilderness will cause the formation to break up into small, noisy groups that think they heard something important. After a few minutes, they all decide it was a wrong number and return to their treks, only stopping occasionally to see if one of the group happened to sprout a bag. A bag being an unattached mammary gland, preferably one that is both available and full of something close to 2% milk fat. Colts are the worst, as they assume, quite illogically, that another colt's penis has a mystical power to convert urine into milk, leading to all sorts of crotch-snatching and less than sincere apologies. Fillies join in of course, but they categorically fail to reciprocate the favor, choosing instead to kick the offender senseless.

I can only stand about an hour of this nonsense before I retreat into the house. Sure, I feel guilty, but the best thing I can do is to watch the "Wheel of Fortune" and the let the boys and girls process the mess. Besides, this is going to go on for at least a week which is about the length of time it takes me to lose my hearing and them to lose their voices. Now if I could just lose my vision.

UPS Guy: "Sign here, sir...ah, what's that horse doing...is he...?"

Me: "Nothing, nothing."

UPS Guy: "Well, I just took over this route...Geez! Look what he's doin'! Can I get a picture of this??"

The Price of Admission, Part II

2012-01-06T12:19:00.000-08:00

Anvil Magazine Archives [Rob Edwards, Publisher: anvilmag.com]

ZUKE

Part II:

So basically, that means that ~~Andy~~ Bob gets every horse on every other horseshoer's cull list. That includes foundered ponies, manic-depressive Warmbloods, Thoroughbred yearlings that last had human contact in-utero, navicular Quarter Horses (steroidal misfits that assume your spine belongs in your shoes), backyard mongrels with self-esteem issues -- which they passed along to their foals -- socially inept hunters, mean-spirited jumpers, dressage horses who assume you're part of the test, mules, the neighbor's goat and a whole assortment of horses deemed 'frisky' by the local Sheriff's department. Oh. Those are just the animals. ~~Andy~~ Bob also is fortunate enough to get the clients who cover one bad check by writing another bad one. Clients that pay once a decade. 12-year olds who critically evaluate your work and then fire you. Horny fat women who drink too much and want you to do their horse once a month -- preferably on a Saturday night. Wishful thinkers who assume some disconnect exists between the words 'chronic' and 'lame.' People who love to quote obsolete magazine articles on shoeing written by dead people. And of course, all those folks that assume the '81 Dodge you're driving is the result of your excessively high prices. Which means that somehow you have managed to embrace one part of the American dream that apparently nobody else seems to want.

And then along comes Zuke. Zuke was a pure-bred Arabian gelding that was very good at some task that now escapes me. Could have been Arabian western pleasure, might have involved tractor pulling. Whatever the case, Zuke represented what we all know as the 'rights of passage,' meaning that if you got a set of shoes on Zuke, you never had to see Zuke again. He was like a returnable pop bottle with hair. See, the key to this charade was the average length of horseshoeing school in those days: six to eight weeks. So every couple of months...a new batch of young men venture out into the world in search of fame, fortune, an '81 Dodge and possibly a new name. Sorry, Bob is taken. And waiting patiently for all of us is our friend Zuke.

Naturally, until your number was called, you were, in the vernacular of the trade -- screwed. I mean, you had to do it.  Otherwise, the only respect you'd ever garner in the business would come from either your mother or the county coroner. And not only would you be shunned by other shoers, but they wouldn't even bother to bad-mouth you.  Like those days when you still had training wheels on your bike. You remember how much respect rolled around on those wheels?

Unlike most of us novice farriers, Zuke was no fool. Hell, even a year out of horseshoeing school, desperation was written all over our business cards. "Will Shoe For Food," "All Shoeing Guaranteed Six ~~Weeks~~  Years,"  "Horseshoeing & Gutter Cleaning."   Only later would we specialize: "Horseshoeing -- Regular or Corrective." Not sure how it worked since they both cost the same. And then there was always the public relations angle because every horse owner on the planet insisted that their horse didn't need any repairs. Of course, these were the same people who had three cars parked in their driveway and still rode the bus to work.

Zuke was much smarter than the average horse. Well, definitely smarter than the average shoer. And the really frightening part about him was that he wasn't one of these spooky, neurotic, cat-brain kind of horses that couldn't figure out why his own tail kept slapping him in the ass. Instead, he'd just give you a sideways look, the one hind leg resting -- cocked might be more accurate. Little too casual for a near-death situation. And from what I'd been told, he had a way of stepping on you with one foot, kicking you with another and somehow make the whole thing look like it was your fault. The bleeding part was okay, but it was really hard on a young fellow's machismo. See, Zuke's owner was about 23-years old, blond, height-weight proportional or better and extremely single.

I'd been in town just long enough to acquire a mentor. He was an older shoer who took me under his wing because I seemed to be the only person willing to support his personal opinion of himself. In fact, he was kind enough to set me up with the blond, only mentioning later that her horse could be 'a little tough' at times. He couched that revelation by noting that 'it'll be fine -- the vet always comes by and tranquilizes him.' Somehow that elevated my confidence just slightly above the terror level. But it still wasn't enough to dissuade me from, in Daniel Boone's words, "Going to the cave once more to see the monster." You know, death versus ego. No contest.

I arrived at Zuke's boarding stable about 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I scheduled it for later in the day since I had paying customers in the morning. Seemed like good business sense at the time. The vet was just leaving, having administered the usual five or six vials of Ace-promazine. As he sped out the driveway, he yelled, "I hope it's enough!" I really wished he'd left a little for me, since the fear was beginning to eat away at my fortified lunch. Yeah, two cheeseburgers and a pint of Bourbon.

Zuke just stood there quietly, the very picture of drug-induced charm. That is, until I dropped the tailgate of my truck. At that moment, he looked me critically in the eye, then at the blond and casually snapped off the 4 x 6 inch railroad tie he had been anchored to. With the timber in tow, he slowly walked back to his stall, stopping once to cast me a rather disgusted look. I considered following him, but I was a little busy trying to unswallow my tongue.

The blond turned out to be extremely gracious about the whole thing. She told me that it was just not Zuke's day. She paid me for the shoeing job that never happened, but more importantly, she said that as far as anyone was concerned, 'I got the job done.' I still thought about asking her out, but common sense dictated that one test a day was enough. Later, I simply told my mentor, "piece of cake." Sure, I lied, but it seems that some tests aren't about passing or failing -- just the showing up part.

Okay, What Would Happen?

2012-01-03T07:07:00.000-08:00

Universal Birthdates for Children:

"What this all comes down to is that Thoroughbreds race at a fairly young age and they don't get to feel special on their birthdays. Imagine doing that to a child. Little Billy sharing his special day with three or four million other Little Billy's. Plus, how would you handle the invitations? Little Billy #1 couldn't attend Little Billy #2's party since he had to host one at his house. Little Suzy couldn't come either because she needed to welcome the no-shows at her own gala event. The only presents would come from relatives, which meant that everyone got socks, school supplies and pants that didn't fit. A whole generation would grow up unable to grasp the subtle nuances of self-gratification, external validation, conceit, avarice, jealousy and selfishness. Sulking would still be an issue, but then you get to eat a whole chocolate cake by yourself. How bad can that be?"

Zuke: The Price of Admission

2012-01-02T14:32:00.000-08:00

Anvil Magazine Archives [Rob Edwards, Publisher -anvilmag.com]

ZUKE:
The Price of Admission
Part I

Sometime around 1971, I got this wild hair to shoe horses. Personally, I think it was because I fell out of my crib at some point and damaged my brain. Actually I didn't have a real crib. My mother just kept me in the sock drawer till I was ready for kindergarten. Now don't me wrong though. Horseshoeing and brain damage are not mutually inclusive...well, maybe, but let's not get bogged down over the details. Nailing shoes on a large, disinterested and angry herbivore is really not too different from working on the bomb squad.  Unless the guy with the wire-cutters just found his wife's underwear in your car. Always a bad idea to keep souvenirs.

Okay, so it's a really odd way to make a living, especially the first year or so when you suddenly realize that everything the horseshoeing instructor told you about the business was based on depositions from three divorce cases, random observations on back-to-back tours in Vietnam, and a severe addiction to watching re-runs of Gilligan's Island, admonishing the class daily on the notion that the damn boat will get fixed!

So while he lectures away on balance, conformation and elementary ship construction, he fails to inform our anxious and empty brains about: dumbbloods, psychotic clients, obtuse theories -- welding doorknobs on shoes, curing white-line disease through prayer -- horse psychologists who find your problems more interesting than the horse's, what Izumi really means in Japanese and why most veterinarians assume the word farrier is derived from 'fairly stupid.' And of course, how to ask for directions to the nearest dialysis center. Why? Leading cause of death among novice horseshoers: urine retention. Every time I tried to pee in a stall, some 13-year old girl would wander in looking for a bridle, a pony or some other stupid thing. Finally made a catheter out of a Bic pen, an old stomach douche tube and some duct tape. Yeah, patent pending. $14.95 at Wal-Mart.

Even so, the 70's were a great time to take up horseshoeing. The money was astronomical: $14.00 a head. We all got to wear ripped jeans with a bunch of fringy stuff on the bottom and we weren't slaves to the hairstyling industry -- that only came later when disco was invented.  We also took more drugs than the horses for a change, and most of our marketing strategy was based on rumor-mongering over the moral shortcomings inherent in most other shoers. See, we had cold shoers and hot shoers -- or both. Nobody knew what in the hell it meant anyway. The idea was that it probably took more brains to start a fire, though that was merely an assumption of the times. The real skill was in putting out the fire before in consumed the truck. Coal was like that.

Aside from the chronic bladder problems, the slow deterioration of a body that used to look good in jeans and the complete loss of body hair (gas-forges were invented), the real point of this monologue was a horse named Zuke. I say was because I'm assuming the miserable hair bag is long dead and fertilizing some slob's rose bush. Now, before I present the more intimate details of Zuke's behavioral profile, as prejudicial as it is going to sound, I'd like to cast a little personal and historical perspective on this sordid little affair. That means I'm probably going to throw in a misdirection or two. Like change my name to Bob for starters.

I will stick with my earlier confession though -- that I actually did graduate from horseshoeing school in 1971. I was proud, bruised and according to popular opinion, more than likely incompetent. But I was a survivor. The eight-week course started with 21 aspirants and graduated six, though graduation might be a slight exaggeration. They left the certificates blank until the last moment. Something about a subpoena and some medical records. Tetanus was assumed to be fatal sometimes and the school didn't want to waste a diploma on a dead guy. And yeah, horseshoeing school was pretty sexist in 1971. The only girls we ever saw were emergency room nurses and they wore masks. Not sure why, but it was either to protect their identity or something to do with those long hours experimenting with hot-fitting. Something about barbecuing chickens without the feathers.  Even the instructor finally turned up missing after an exciting demo he gave on side-lining a horse that likes to kick people. At first glance it seemed like a remedial IQ test, but after a few minutes it was mostly first-aid & CPR. The doctors were able to wire his sternum back together, though they strongly suggested that he not sneeze for at least a month.

   The first horse I shod -- I mean, for real money somehow developed a bleeding problem so severe that I had use a mop and bucket to clean up the mess. I tried to explain  how some horses have extra arteries in their feet, but the owner was more inclined to simply chase me around the parking lot with .357 magnum. Fortunately, she was a bad shot -- missing me, but making one hell of a mess out of a couple Harley-Davidson's parked near by. I thought that might be the end of it until she gave them $50 to finish the job. No, not the shoeing part.

Once I got out of town, I decided to take my instructor's closing bit of wisdom to heart. He had said to me: "You know, ~~Andy~~ Bob I mean. You really ought to start your business somewhere that you don't like, live. Kind of get rid of your mistakes on strangers. Might be safer."

I took his advice and moved to a small, economically depressed farming community where I had been assured by a local real-estate agent that 82% of the population couldn't possibly afford a lawyer. Of course, given the social depravity of the inhabitants, I was also required to lower my prices to $12.50. And here it began. The slow, tortuous trek to professionalism -- or really, the grand initiation rites into the world of real shoers. You all know the speech: "Why don't you get somebody else to shoe that rotten son of a bitch! I know a guy. Give ~~Andy~~...I mean call Bob. He's lookin' for work, I here."

to be continued...at my leisure

Happy Birthday to all 31, 727 New Thoroughbreds!*

2012-01-02T10:21:00.000-08:00

Notes From Chapter 10:

"In order to insure that an afternoon or racing could be followed by beer and ribs, these early organizers (The Jockey Club), implemented a universal birth date of January 1st for all Thoroughbreds born in North America. Actually The English Jockey Club came up with this plan in the 1700's and it's one of the few archaic English customs that survived the Tea Party. Since the Brits aren't big on barbecuing, it probably had something to do with either the Cod season or the Irish.

Since Mother Nature wasn't consulted by The Jockey Club, 'Mom' has responded by enforcing the old-fashioned tradition of identifying real maturity according to actual minutes spent sucking air. Think if they did this to people. All the restaurants would fill up on January 1st, Hallmark stores would go nuts and everybody would spend the day singing Happy Birthday. It would be like a cross between a mass escape from the local zoo and a polka festival with a no-host bar. The country would come to a standstill because everybody would be too hungover the next day to even sort the mail. Trust me, the old Soviet Union would take advantage of this guttural orgy and overrun Europe. Before everybody digested enough aspirin and tomato juice, the Red Army would be dining in Paris. Once Russians tasted real food, they'd never go home."

*A wild guess based on obsolete and useless information.

Next Time: What if we tried this with our children?

Test posting/bug hunting

2011-12-29T16:29:00.001-08:00

Just testing the system for termites, rogue hamsters or damage from Russian space junk. Will delete shortly -- or not. If this doesn't work I'm going to try pouring Gin on the hard drive.

Resolutions for the New Year -- Same as Last Year.

2011-12-29T15:47:00.000-08:00

First Five:

1. I'll hear a trainer say, "You know, you could be right!"

2. All halter-breaking will take place in-utero.

3. I am going to check my rubber boots for slugs before I put them on.

4. The stallion will learn some manners. I'm sure I can hire somebody mean (or terminally ill), to deal with this one.

5. The next time a horse knocks down a fence, I'm going to declare it environmental revisionist thinking and leave it that way. I have no idea what that means and nobody else will either.

Second Five:

Whoops! I lied. They're in the book....around page 300.

Merry Christmas to All....

2011-12-25T13:42:00.000-08:00

And D...Everybody says you have gone somewhere special.

Well, you know -- you never really left.

An American Thoroughbred in Paris

2011-12-24T10:06:00.000-08:00

Thoroughbred Times, October 16, 1999 copyright; A. Juell

The Horses in War Saga -- The How & Why of American Thoroughbreds in WW I:

Back in 1999 I wrote an article for Thoroughbred Times on the 1909 cessation of all horse racing in the United States. The issues were complex, socially driven and centered on the incredible power that political cartels had garnered in the eastern United States, funded to a great extent by the enormous capital generated by gambling consortium's. Technology, not too dissimilar from today's, played a significant role: Western Union and AT&T, both owed their initial financial fortunes to the gambling factions, operating the wire services between race track and poolroom.

It was also an era of tremendous social strife, driven to a great extent on the heels of massive immigration from Europe -- in New York's case, the Irish is particular were seen as a social and economic threat to the old-guard Protestant power base. Locked out of conventional channels of social stratification, the Irish, in particular, pursued the less desirable paths to upward mobility: gambling. With this financial heft, they also became a political threat to the established power bases, that in turn adding fodder to the grist's of political reformers, those that promoted the evils of gambling as a social disease in need of eradication. Needless to say, the motivation was merely a misdirection -- the real intent to dry up the money machine that was allowing the Irish to gain political power, particularly in New York.

Now, racing itself was not banned, though through various state and federal legislation, gambling on races, as currently conducted was. The various laws were directed at the bookmakers and poolrooms who profited enormously by acting as middlemen. This outside action was also detrimental to the tracks themselves, as like today, the gate was an integral part of the maintenance of the brick and mortar aspect of the game. While individual contracts were negotiated with these 'makers' and cartels, the wire services were making it increasingly easier (and certainly more profitable), to simply usurp the information that was in effect, the intellectual property of the race track. This very public skirmish between the gambling factions simply fueled an already politically charged dispute that had spilled onto the front pages of every newspaper in the country, and virtually guaranteed the election of numerous 'reformist' candidates. With new legislation aimed directly at the gaming interests, horse racing without gambling, was doomed -- The Jockey Club voting to cease all activities in 1909.

The impact on racing was immediate and huge, particularly to those heavily invested in breeding stock, whose value plummeted following the Jockey Club's decision. Some stock was moved to Canada and Mexico, but the purse structures couldn't support the number or value of these new additions. Once it became apparent that the ban was going to be an extended affair, many breeders began moving stock to Europe. However, they were met with a good deal of resistance from European breeders, particularly the English, who felt (with good reason), that the influx of American horses was detrimental to their ability to fairly compete on their own ground. It went so far as The English Jockey Club's refusal to recognize American Thoroughbreds into the English stud book.

Racing did resume in New York by 1913, but without gambling. Hence, no real viability for the sport existed. By about 1915, most state anti-gambling statutes had been overturned by higher courts, this in turn leading to adoption of the Paris-Mutuels system, which in effect, eliminated the bookmaker -- each bettor simply wagering against all other bettors. This was deemed constitutional under existing federal law. But for many Thoroughbreds it was too late. Europe was falling headlong and inexorably toward war -- a war like no other before it. It would be a clash of old and new tactics in a suddenly industrialized world and the ensuing carnage would finally mark the end of the cavalry -- and perhaps chivalry itself in the armed pursuit of a purely political agenda.

Many of the better bred Thoroughbreds survived the conflict, their blood credentials offering a degree of sanctuary from annihilation. But not every Thoroughbred was considered 'priceless,' and in what seemed like an endless demand for 'war horses,' few, if any were spared from the awful task at hand.

The Other Thoroughbred

2011-12-23T16:01:00.000-08:00

Alydar...at Calumet Farm

An Obvious Bias or Two...

Or three perhaps. Somewhere around Chapter 18, I decided to explore my own deep-seated case of equine bigotry. Yes, it's true. I own a bias or two and as we all know, recovery is a long and painful process with a demoralizing 92% rate of recidivism. Like that last word? So did I. All I know for sure is that the forests and fields surrounding many of America's racetracks are the sanctuary of the hopelessly enamored -- those that know in their hearts and minds that nobody but God could have created something as perfect as a Thoroughbred...

...actually it was the British, but to be fair, it was during a period of England's history where quite a few folks might have confused English aristocracy with the Almighty anyway:

"God didn't invent the Thoroughbred, the British did. Okay, that was the painful part. And it gets worse! The British actually stole horse racing from the Arabs. What's more, they also stole the horses, which was probably a little noted side-bar since the British were stealing entire continents anyway. In order to make horse racing seem like a British idea, they had to invent a new horse. Racing Arabian horses outside Buckingham Palace would seem...well, touristy?"

Now you'll have to buy the book to find out what the Boston Tea Party, a bunch of Chinese dope fiends and Lady Balfour had to do with it.

But my real bigotry showed up with the first importations of a European invention known as the Warmblood. It was based on early American experiments with dogs -- notably what became known as the Irish Setter Syndrome, in that they wanted a sleek-looking, fashionable dog with the mental acuity of a potted plant. These equine genetic anomalies began washing up on shore in the Americas in the late 1970's. They were, for the most part, "a work in progress." Whose work and the exact definition of 'progress' based on excessive optimism or whether the buyer's check had already cleared the bank or not. Germany had the thing down to an exact science. Every district had its own kind of horse: Hanoverians, Westphalians...Volkswangoners. The Dutch got into it as well, though they weren't much on details or just how much Thoroughbred in the recipe was really needed. Evidently, not much. However, the French horse breeders, they kept the ratio at about 2/3 TB as compared to the Dutch models which limped in at about 1/16 TB -- "the rest generic DNA scraped from the armpit of a three-toed sloth." Ooh, did I really write that? Well, it was 1979.

Of course the French were pretty realistic about the whole thing. If the experiment went badly, well, the horse always had a second career: fine cuisine. Later in the same chapter, I look at how the Thoroughbred got tapped for a little product improvement in Quarter Horses. And I've included a fascinating interview with Miss 1958 Chevrolet Hubcap on 'mayhem and magnetism in professional rodeo. A must-read for those folks that cruise the masochistic dating sites.

Torn Faith -- First Thoroughbred, First Irony

2011-12-20T16:16:00.000-08:00

[image: Lisa Collins/South Brooklyn Post]

A few of us are forced, at least in the beginning, to ride horses by people who suffer the notion that children were put on Earth simply to fill another roll of film. At a young age, we are loaded into station wagons, driven to the outskirts of Seattle, Washington and placed on the back of Old Roan. Here we sit, wailing in youthful protest while parents and grandparents take our picture. We are positive that we will die, that the horse will eat our small bodies, or that somehow we will be forgotten and forced to spend the rest of our lives attached to the spinal column of a large, hairy animal. Then, quite suddenly, we discover the true value of the horse -- its speed -- and we gallop away, far from the clicking shutters, far from the angry voices. And for a brief, incredible moment, we are free!

My first cognitive memory was of the house catching on fire -- twice in one night. Things didn't really improve after that.

Another Reason to Ride Off to Mexico

2011-12-18T10:59:00.000-08:00

6th-Grade Nuclear War Drills

Ah, the Cold War. In the late 50's and early 60's, nuclear war was considered inevitable, winnable and at the most ludicrous outskirts of wishful thinking -- survivable. We held nuclear war drills in school, learned not to look at the flash, where we were in relation to the 12-mile radius, why we shouldn't play in radioactive fall-out and why our neighbors were suddenly digging up their backyard.

Safeway sold 'home fall-out shelters' out in their parking lots -- next to the patio furniture and barbecues. I'm assuming the 'barbecue' was a pun, but I was a little young for logical argument. Which in the case of all-out nuclear war was little more than one pun piled on top of many others. Eventually, the joke would be on somebody, but nobody was quite sure whom. You see, war, as it had been defined by a generation matured in the conflagration known as World War II, clearly defined a conflict by the outcome: easily definable by lining up the winners and losers. In a nuclear conflict, it quickly became apparent that this pennant race was not winnable -- probably not even survivable. And so the great arms race grounded itself on the rocks of an acronym that only a cynic could love: MAD. Mutual Assured Destruction.

Well, we kept doing A-bomb drills at school just the same. In fact, they were identical to earthquake drills, only we didn't rehearse getting in line to evacuate the building. Didn't seem like we really had anywhere to go anyway.

Paralytic Loading Disease

2011-12-16T16:44:00.000-08:00

You can use your scariest coat!

Very often our equine charges are required to use public transportation. Most horses can't get driver's licenses because of the vision test. You know, when your eyes are located on the side of your head? Well hell, they can't do the written exam either since they can't read English and are assumed to be color-blind anyway. Then there are the difficult hand (hoof) signals, the seat won't go back far enough, hard to text wearing horseshoes and since horses are rather large, the windows steam-up constantly. So they go by bus...or something similar. Now, most horses tend to balk at walking into a dark, metal, noisy contraption that resembles a third-world gas chamber that's bound to exceed the posted speed limit. So a little encouragement may be necessary to overcome this natural reluctance horses experience when they first hear those terrifying words: "Honey, let's take the freeway."

Or a buggy whip -- This handler won't be flossing anymore.

Get more guys! Guys love this shit.

Play hide & seek! That way everybody's lost.

Teach the horse to sit. Real crowd-pleaser!

Research Re-invents the Roadapple-- Saves Racing

2011-12-15T21:01:00.000-08:00

Doktor Herr Bob Einstein

[Note: Was freelancing some years back when a marketing guy got hold of me looking for a little 'ghost writing' help. He asked what I knew about his gizmo -- whatever the hell it was. I said, "I can write 1500 words about horse shit if you like."

He said, "Okay smart ass. Fire away." So I did. No, I didn't get the job, but it was kinda fun anyway.]
[Images: wikicommons]

DAVIS, CALIFORNIA: March 30, 2006

—Research veterinarians at the University of California-Davis announced today a rather unusual discovery: A truly biodegradable plastic bag produced entirely from the Large Animal Hospital’s most prolific by-product – horse manure.

The team, composed of senior veterinary residents from the UC School of Veterinary Medicine and chemists from Dow Chemical, and led by Dr. Bob Einstein (nephew of Albert), of Munich University weren’t seeking the world’s most environmentally friendly plastic bag. As Dr. Einstein explained it, “Sometimes in research you look for da cure for cancer and discover a new jet fuel. You never know where da research will take you mister.”

The team was actually put together under a grant from the Department of Agriculture as part of the Obama administrations package to re-stimulate questionable research at state universities. The project’s goal was to seek a non-surgical solution to the second leading cause of death among racehorses – caecum impaction or what is commonly known as ‘sand colic.’ The affliction has become increasingly common due to both the mechanization of hay and pellet production in the United States, as well as the adoption of synthetic racetracks, which unbeknownst to developers, turned out to be edible. In the case of the former, mechanization causes a great deal of silica (dirt or sand) to accumulate in the feed during processing. This was further complicated by the composition of synthetic racing surfaces, which chemical analysis showed to be about an equal mixture of ground fish, pulverized hemp and shredded coconut. (See formula at right.) This combination was apparently very appetizing to racehorses, particularly 2 year-olds.

In mammals that ruminate, like the cow or goat, they are able to separate and expel this material in the normal course of digestion. The horse however, does not have that ability. Instead of multiple stomachs as typical in cattle and goats, the horse has a pre-stomach and the caecum, a very large and muscular organ that does the hard work in breaking down the heavy cellulose found in the stalks of hay, the outer shell of most grains and of course, throughout the hemp plant. A combination of extreme pressure by the circular musculature of the caecum combined with a unique combination of bacterial flora allow the horse to turn this almost woody mass into a digestible carbohydrate. The rest is expelled as water, held together by the remaining undigestible cellulite matrix.

It is this matrix that caught the attention of Dow chemist Dr. Luigi Boyardee. The research team had noted the role that the matrix played in bonding with the silica, sand or tarry hemp oil in the caecum, and how it behaved very much like the reinforcing rebar used in concrete construction. Surgical removal of these masses (some weighing over 100lbs.) was the only option. However, such surgery carried a 35% mortality rate and a potential for loss of service even if the horse survived the operation. Researchers hoped to find a ‘biological solvent’ of sorts that would break down these masses either completely or to a more manageable size.

It was at this point that Dr. Boyardee (a chemist specializing in polymers and the inventor of canned Ravioli), noticed something rather remarkable: The cellulite matrix was almost identical to those found in most poly-carbonate plastics, such as those used to make the unpopular plastic shopping bag. The only difference was that the cellulite matrix was extremely brittle, making it unsuitable for the extruding process necessary to stretch the material. Not one to give up easily, Dr. Boyardee began experimenting with a number of substances, finally settling on gum arabac, a common starchy food additive used in most kinds of pasta sauce. When added to the matrix, the resulting material was capable of stretching five thousand times its length on a microscopic scale. What’s more, it appeared to have greater tensile strength than the poly-carbonate plastics in common use.

The Dow chemist produced some sample bags at the company headquarters in Los Angeles and shared his process with UC-Davis team members. He explained, “This process is rather simple. You dehydrate and sterilize the manure samples, leaving only the remaining matrix. This is then
combined with the stabilizing agent, in this case the gum arabac in a zero-gravity cintering oven. I can not disclose the actual process, but the end result is a finished polymer of sorts. It is then fed through the extruding process and – presto! A plasti…,well, a bag anyway.”

This bag is a different animal though. The team pointed out that it will degrade in the environment in as little as five days, faster if exposed to urine or diesel fuel, being both UV-sensitive and by all accounts, edible. Common microbes will find it as a convenient food source, leaving little more than some spent hydrogen ions in the environment – ions commonly known as air.

The team continues its work on the original goal of developing a biological solvent to aid the ongoing efforts to find a surgical alternative to caecum impaction in the horse, stating that they believe to about six-months out from a breakthrough. Right now they are focusing on the side-effects of a very promising substance previously used as an defoliant in southeast Asia. As for the bag? Team lead Bob Einstein states that both Dow Chemical and UC-Davis are transferring the patent rights to the newly formed Department of the National Horseracing Czar in the hopes that proceeds from the process will help racing to overcome a hostile takeover by Austrian auto parts interests. The President has promised the full cooperation of his office and the Army Corp of Engineers to nationalize the country's supply of horse manure, most controlled by the nations surviving racetracks. The jovial Bavarian veterinarian did however have a name for his discovery. “Yaa, ya, we’re calling it da pferde hosen. The horse sock. Ha, see here, it holds six bottles of beer!”

Pictured above: Dr. Luigi Boyardee & Axel Pedigrew; National Horse Czar (Appointment pending federal tax revue.)

Chapter 21: What Horse Breaking & Plumbing Don't Have in Common

2011-12-13T10:39:00.000-08:00

"If it Ain't Broke...Well, What is it Then?"

"In the Thoroughbred world, the terminology gets turned around. Something that is broke is actually ready to do something constructive, while those things that are unbroke are sent back to the factory for some warranty work. Yearlings are an obvious example of such nationwide recalls.

Where the term broke actually came from is a subject of wide debate. Originally it was thought that breaking a horse involved some sort of religious encounter in which the horse's natural wild spirit was traded in on a saddle, or some other object of equal worth. Other authorities tend to think the term was invented by a drunken, dyslexic Australian...."

Thoroughbreds Are Only Fed the Best Hay...Uh, That was a Subjective Kind of Statement.

2011-12-11T15:58:00.001-08:00

Best Hay?

"This hay snobbery was created by a bunch of defrocked scientists on the hay payroll who circulated a lot of rumors to the press. Stuff about dead frogs, baled up slugs, recycled newsprint, etc.. The truth was that they were actually right, but like the White House, they needed to justify being wrong by dreaming up absurd research to prove they were right. After your migraine subsides, this will somehow make sense, though in a very convoluted manner. Just think back to that Iran-Contra thing and how Reagan wormed his way out of that mess. Same principle involved

Now, racehorses naturally require the best possible feed available, being the the high-strung, fickle animals they're known to be. Owners embraced this notion completely because they were also high-strung and fickle themselves. So the PR folks invented all sorts of wild claims about nutritional value, digestibility, protein levels, Secretrariat's favorite brand -- nothing was out of bounds. Even people started eating alfalfa for their own health, not realizing that a bale of hay is about 20% bugs, both living and dead. And since hay sort of grows on the ground, where everything else on the planet eventually ends up, it also contains leftover pesticides, herbicides, dead rats, tractor exhaust, satellite parts, marijuana plants, snakes, gophers, diesel fuel, beer cans, cigarette butts and probably Jimmy Hoffa's wallet and car keys. And those fields are a long way from the nearest outhouse."

So You Want to Write a Book, Huh?

2011-12-09T08:54:00.001-08:00

The new book is now up to 270 pages. Now, if you ever want to write a book, you should really consider how much insanity might be required for the project. The caveat though, is that there are no enforceable rules. Well, maybe spelling...

I started out wanting to write a children's book. Then I discovered that children are a tough audience. I mean, they can see right through your bullshit. They only become naive and dumb once they become adults. That scared me off. So, I figured 'young adult novel.' Except by the second chapter I needed the 'F' word. Twice actually. Sometimes no other word works. Fudge, phooey, gosh darn...they don't do it. So, change course. Just make it a novel. I also decided I wanted Fidel Castro in the cast. No, I don't know why. Writers are a little bent upstairs, so don't look for logic. Hell, I don't even have a plot at this point. With Castro, that meant it would have to be a 'period piece.' So I thought, "Hey, nobody has written a novel based on the Cuban Missile Crisis that had nothing to do with the Cuban Missile Crisis." Hell, why not? By chapter 5 though, I had too many characters. It was so out-of-control that I had to put butcher-paper on all the walls of my office and make notes with different colored Sharpies. So then I figured, I needed to kill off some people. Parents seemed the likely choice since they were kind of weak characters anyway and probably wouldn't be missed. So the two main characters would then be a 14-year old girl and an 8-year old boy. Wanted to center the book around the boy, but after a mere 2800-words, the girl took over. What a surprise!! Also thought there should be some teen romance, so I hooked her up with the class weirdo. I was a class weirdo myself once and I wanted to see the weirdo get the girl for a change. I'd kill the parents off in Canada. No, I wasn't sure why. Foreign intrigue maybe. The story also needed some sexual tension and since the girl was too young, I invented an attractive blond teacher who wore frumpy dresses and librarian glasses, but had some real Lolita things going on in the background. I gave her an illegitimate child fathered by her psychotic ex-fiance and just had the cops kill him later as he was just background material anyway. Then I hired a lawyer to handle the parent's untimely death and thought it would be nice to hook him up with the Lolita woman. Also, since it was the 60's, I needed to throw in some race and gender issues. So I created some black characters in leather jackets and an aggressive female lawyer from New York. Waiting to see how that works out. Then, I had to get this whole mess to Kentucky since I needed to have a damn horse in the story! Otherwise the title wouldn't make any sense and that's how this whole escapade got started in the first place. I picked Paris, Kentucky because I was there once and thought it was this cool, old-fashioned kind of iconic Kentucky town. Trouble was, about three chapters later I went on Google Street View and it was the wrong damn town. Oh, too late to change that. Then, I invented two horse farmers -- a couple -- about sixty-years old, unmarried, ex-bootleggers -- one that questioned God and the other that warred with God. See, I wanted some Baptists in here because they are more interesting than Lutherans, so...Okay, all you budding authors. Still want to write a novel?

Can Horses Go to Jail for Kicking an Owner?

2011-12-08T13:27:00.001-08:00

An interesting question in an era that has witnessed a 5-fold increase in random horse/human violence. Some authorities attribute it to global warming, others impeach the violent content found on television today. One researcher even found a connection between random, violent acts and the import of so-called Warmbloods from areas of Europe known to support factions with anarchist tendencies. Then, there is the economic card -- horses being fed sub-standard oats imported from China and non-organic, generic carrots.

In Chapter 26, 'The Vice Squad,' of his marginally best-selling, overly self-centered and wordy book, the author expounds on his newest theory: "Horses are From Somewhere Else & So are Humans." Through the use of pie-charts, colorful graphs and secretly recorded interviews with agents of the Humane Society, the author expounds on how horse violence has permeated the nation's conscience and forced many worried horse owners to buy cats. The issue of criminality in the prosecution of what agents have identified as "socio-pathic hairballs," has gone all the way to America's top court in Washington DC, where just yesterday, the Court handed down its preliminary conclusions. Here we offer the author's interpretation of that ruling.

"Currently, horses enjoy an immunity from prosecution based on a ruling by the Supreme Court (2-1 with six abstentions), that basically stated that whoever had the larger brain had 'primary responsibility for getting the hell out of the way.' This point of jurisprudence was argued on that Biblical definition of horses as "dumb beasts," and apparently, since the Court was stacked with Reagan appointees, nobody wanted to cross-examine God. As such, the Court decided, most punishment handed down would be limited to frowning, finger-pointing and/or banishment to another stable. Repeat offenders would just move more often."

So there you have it. Looks like no jail time for these four-legged felons.

The Race Card -- A Hunch Bettor's Heaven!

2011-12-07T07:02:00.001-08:00

Horseshoer of Leisure -- Until I Tried to Get a Visa Card

2011-12-04T13:21:00.001-08:00

In the banker's office one fine morning. I was feeling smug. Too smug. Thought it was time to get one of those Gold Cards!

Loan Oifficer: Strumming through a pamphlet entitled: Adjusted Salary Expectations in Isolated Trades. "Farmer, framer, ferry boat captain, furrier...you're not a furrier? Hmm. Furniture finisher, fraud investigator...well, no farrier. Just what is a farrier?"

{A lot of conversation omitted here as a cheap commercial teasing device. My publisher swears by this tactic.}

As I left his office, I pocketed the booklet on Adjusted Salary Expectations in Isolated Trades. It was published by the American Banking Information Clearinghouse in Elgin, Illinois. The loan officer was right, farriers weren't listed. But if I had applied as a magician, a road-reflector technician, an ice-cream man, or a greeting card author, I would have been issued a card. There was even a card with a $500 limit for 'people currently incarcerated by the United States government.' But no farriers.

"Eldorado" by Edgar Allan Poe, via John Wayne & James Caan

2011-12-03T17:05:00.001-08:00

Always had a thing for the poetry of a Quest.

We know this from the John Wayne movie, El Dorado.

But, did we know hence it came?

Edgar Allan Poe, 1848

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old,

This knight so bold-

And o'er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow-

"Shadow," said he.

"Where can it be-

This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride boldy ride,"

The shade replied-

"If you seek for Eldorado!"

How Racing Works: The Stewards

2011-12-03T14:42:00.001-08:00

Typical Race, Typical Track

Inside the racing office was a cantankerous troll, who I learned had got his job through nihilism, nepotism, cronyism, blackmailism, obscene forms of patronage and the ability to not only collect a lot of dirt on the racing commissioners, but actually remember who's dirt was whose. This was the Racing Secretary. Trainers spent many hours of their mornings groveling at the troll's feet in order to get a number, which allows a horse to enter a race it can't possibly win. It is a system based on cheap gratuities, mostly gifts of coffee and jelly donuts, and the abilty to shamelesslly lose at golf or poker almost continuously. The office is also home to the Stewards, the guys (yeah, it is kind of sexist), who try to enforce the rules of racing. Mostly they confiscate batteries, conduct field sobriety tests on horses, oversee urine testing (horses can pee about a gallon, so that's a lot of overseeing), and admonish jockeys about road rage, illegal amphetamines and citizenship issues. They also make sure nobody has watered the bourbon in the Turf Club, parked in their private parking space or kidnapped a trainer's pharmacist in order get him to throw a race. Most Stewards are retired racetrack types, who got the job because their tab at the backstretch kichen was out of control. Racing people take care of their own.

However, the Stewards Notice that Something is Amiss!

The Horse Show: Always Bring Beer...Vodka, Gin.

2011-12-02T14:55:00.001-08:00

I guess you could say that we are still in the dating women with a horse category. The woman invites you to go to a horse show. You're thinking it is probably like going to Wimbledon where an overdressed waiter never lets your drink get to half-staff. You're also thinking that sex might be involved. Of course, you thought that too when you went on that romantic oil-changing expedition. And you thought that...

However...The first job was to reset Brownie's shoes. The second job was to unload the truck. This was a two-day show, which meant unloading and loading basically took place in the same twenty-four hour period. Added together, this amounted to relocating about six-hundred pounds of 'stuff.' Among the collection was a tack trunk the size of a coffin, tack room curtains made of lead macrame, saddle racks (plural), potted plants, rugs, brooms, brushes, hay, grain, buckets, bridles, tent stakes and a refrigerator.

"This must be for the beer?" I quipped.

"It's for Brownie's medication. He has arthritis."

"You're going to make this poor arthritic horse jump over fences? Boy, we both better get some beer."

"It's illegal."

"Beer is illegal!?"

"Not for you, for Brownie. They test for drugs. All this medicine is organic. This is aloe vera, this is biotin, and this stuff is Yucca. It really helps."

I read the price tag on the Yucca. $84.50 an ounce. Heroin was cheaper.'

Later, the question about sex as a possible reward for hours of manual labor was clarified: Jesse slept in the cab of the truck and I slept with two bales of hay and a sweaty horse blanket. Talk about romantic. I smelled like the inside of a gym sock.

[image:old-picture.com]

2011-12-01T13:41:00.001-08:00

ISBN #978-145750-492-1

Should have "Open for Business" at this site by next week.

Allows direct ordering here!

Romeo & Juliet? Hopefully with a Different Ending

2011-11-30T08:42:00.001-08:00

"A first date shouldn't be one of those instances where your life feels like it is being sucked out the front of your shoes. Sure it's a little tense at first, what with your whole life seemingly at stake, but it's just a date. Two people, sacred shitless, eating something messy like spaghetti in a public place -- with other people watching. Other people that instinctively know it's your first date because you're eating too much garlic bread. And the waiter -- he smiles a lot for somebody on minimum wage. Don't forget the valet. He parked two vehicles. One with a dog and another one that smelled funny and had a cat inside. And you're sitting face to face. Distance. No chance for accidental body contact. It's just a date! Besides, I read somewhere that you can't get dumped on a first date. Abandoned in a parking lot, but not dumped."

Part II

3rd Date Protocols:

"Good thing she never found the toilet seat up. Co-mingling toilets only happens after seven, maybe eight dates. For now, it was off-limits. I was in toilet etiquette training anyway. Little Post-Its that read, "Flush -- Lid!" plastered on the mirror along with horse snot from you know who. Funny, but she could probably accept a horse in the bathroom, but not the lid thing. Or was I projecting? You know, I'll do this because she'll be anticipating the opposite in hopes of me noticing her anticipation and thereby adjusting my behavior because I noticed her discomfort in what I was thinking about doing, but didn't. There. Makes perfect sense."

Part III

You Must Know the Hierarchy:

[The story's heroine was horsey, subsequently, certain rules exist.] "This allows a man the most ingracious of faux pas (that's plural in case you were wondering), if it involves a horse. Somehow, in the broken logic of Jesse's (the heroine's) mind, her mother could be offended as long as the offense first travleled through Jesse's horse. I could not offend either one directly without the horse, and further, I could not offend the horse unless it had first offended Jesse, but not her mother. Fathers were out of the loop completely and I was never able to clarify third-party offenses aimed at groups in general or somebody else's horse. However, I could be offended equally by all, including Jesse's horse, and retalliation was considered the worst sort of response, bringing me full circle as far as offenses went. It was a little like doing the seating arrangements at the UN. "Hey Kofi, let's put Syria next to Israel -- see if they swap recipes or something." Hell, the rules were so complicated I had to write them on my arm."

[image: crazywebsite.com]

2011-11-28T13:48:00.001-08:00

But, As Luck Happens in Marginal Fairy Tales

2011-11-27T14:45:00.001-08:00

h my Gosh! Rudy's sick!" she wailed. Glancing around the stall, she finally found the source of Fast Rudy's distress. Lying in his feed tub was a half-eaten fruitcake. And was it ever hard!

Fast Rudy -- Vignettes From a Marginal Fairy Tale

2011-11-27T14:33:00.001-08:00

Our hero has a race in mind!

The race meet was scheduled to close on December 24th, a mere five days away. The final race of the card, The Last Gasp Handicap, run at 22 furlongs, looked to be the spot that Rudy had always needed. With a purse of five golden rings, three French hens and some other bird in a pear tree, a victory would save Mrs. Jack from the poorhouse. Eat the birds, hock the rings. Real simple......

Fast Rudy -- Vignettes From a Marginal Fairy Tale

2011-11-27T14:11:00.001-08:00

nce upon a time, in a faraway land, a young lad named Young Jack was sent on an important family matter. Wearily trudging through the countryside, Jack hoped to trade his last bag of magic beans for a $5000 claimer. Jack's mother, who trained some runners at a local track, was having a terrible season. In fact, she was down to her last horse, a sad looking gelding named Fast Rudy, who had never been able to get in a race because of a red spot on his butt. It really wouldn't have mattered in most cases, except that it had been overlooked on his registration papers, a discrepancy that the evil Sheriff of Nothinghappening, happened to notice, who coincidentally moonlighted as a racetrack identifier, duly appointed by the Governor to rob the poor and stop those 20-1 shots from walking away with a race................

Jobs in a Tough Economy: Mare Watchers

2011-11-26T11:50:00.001-08:00

Mare Watchers:

Need to be extremely attentive to boring details, semi-conscious during working hours and should know basic First-Aid, self-defibrillation and a rudimentary knowledge of bowel surgery and/or self-hypnosis. Marginal derangement, amphetamine addiction or chronically narcoleptic individuals encouraged to apply. No previous experience desirable.

Hobbies/Activities Encouraged:

Ability to appreciate the migratory habits of dead spiders.

Experimental Microwaving Projects.

Playing strip-poker with the barn cat.. and losing on purpose.

Practicing chopsticks with warm Jell-O.

Strongly Encouraged: An Ability to Converse with Local Crisis Clinics:

"Hello, Crisis Clinic, Hello?"

"Pepperoni and olives. Uh, did I pick up my dry cleaning?"

"Hello?"

"Heeerre's Johnny!"

"This is the Crisis Clinic. How much French roast have you had?"

"Oops. Can't talk now, my shoe's untied!"

"Do you want us to send an ambulance?"

"Sure, can they bring along the pizza?"

"Ever considered de-caf?"

"Wasn't he the president of Israel?"

"We're trying to help."

"And I appreciate that in a pizza parlor!"

Openings Begin January 1st at Breeding Farms Throughout Your Area

The Generational Continuum: War

2011-11-21T16:43:00.000-08:00

[I never gave up on Don Quixote, though I often gave up on myself. The children of warriors are no less of a casualty in the conflicts of man.]

Over the decades, I have met a great many special kids -- special perhaps by a curious default --these children of the storms as I know them. That sad kind of trustless distinction that far too many of them carry for the remainder of their lives. You find them a lot in the company of animals and very often around the wonderful world that keeps and cherishes horses. These children are broken, damaged -- often unknowingly -- flotsam it seems, barely afloat in a foul sea by the sheer will of life itself, or perhaps the honest generosity of some creature. An animal deemed unworthy of God's grace; soulless by divine circumscription, a beast of burden, a toiler for the great canons of righteous warfare, and yet, denied that simple holy distinction by the sheer weight of humanity's ceaseless need of a selective and ultimate symbol for the validation of a uniquely human disease: self-predation.

In 1989, I wrote an essay for The Chronicle of the Horse, entitled "Horses: An Investment in Youth." I had come to recognize these children, for one is only granted acknowledgement in such a secretive society through the forced abandonment of all others. A code that lives in the eyes of the victims, as if blood alone can cleanse an open wound. We all know each other by our scars, the invisible marks of penance for the crime of existence -- or convenience. Or that in a world of incomprehensible giants, a denial of simple mercy. For in those moments of hatred and confusion, love must flee for the safety found at the ragged outskirts of our imagination. With the door bolted shut behind us.

We never cease to be somebody's child. Even in death, we are remembered as once being born. A matrix of miracles really in a world where violence and apathy dictate the lyrics of a long and oddly persistent hymn. A requiem perhaps. Taps. Pipes echoing through barren branches of an old forest. A flag neatly folded, heads bowed at half-staff -- the cold earth beckoning. And one war is never enough.

I've spent the better part of five decades wandering backwards through the wreckage of a half-dozen or more wars -- each with a participant that carried my name, my blood, ultimately my future, locked in the primal puzzle of a shared DNA. And what also seemed like a shared responsibility to enforce the dictate of a purely political manifest -- rightly or wrongly, on this tumultuous and perhaps chronically reckless planet. And children continue to fight these wars, for it seems that the 'sins of the fathers' are never enough to satisfy the insatiable greed contained in a stubborn point of view; so powerful in a single moment, so dwarfed by the continuity of all the moments.

We cannot live in a world of faith and war. Some dichotomy exists, forcing the spirit to serve two separate masters, as if the pastor and the politician can only possess the same truth on different days of an identical week. We say, Thou shalt not kill...but we kill just the same. Because we are right, because we are justified, because...it is what we do. And we look into our children's eyes, we tell them it is wrong, it is a horror, it is against God...but please child, take up this gun one more time.

Generational. The dance of the damned it would seem, for war makes prisoners of the betterment we're truly capable of achieving in this world. An inheritance that lingers in the minds and hearts of all we touch, all we make and all that follow. Somehow, sometime, we need to break the bonds of our relentless ambition and leave one single generation at peace. It just might catch on.

Cute Dogs Sell Books!

2011-11-20T10:54:00.000-08:00

370 Pages & An Automatic Upgrade

2011-11-20T10:22:00.000-08:00

The author during a period of 'critical self-examinination,' combined with a completely useless attempt at lowering his cholesterol.

However, once you publish a book, you receive an upgrade from merely a lowly writer to a debt-ridden author. You suddenly find an irresistable urge to smoke a pipe, wear Cardigan sweaters and only use words with five syllables or more. People mob you in the produce section at Safeway, force you to autograph body parts and Google finally decides that you are moderately interesting.

Andy Warhol was right. Fifteen-minutes is about all you get.

News on the Book

2011-11-20T09:46:00.000-08:00

ISBN #978-145750-492-1

Currently available through Amazon.com or any retail book outlet. Horsetrionics.com to be up shortly. 360 pages, some completely useless illustrations -- $18.95, paperback. Alfalfa flavored and semi-edible in a desperate moment.

Useful Horse Communication Advice:

2011-03-30T17:22:00.000-07:00

EARS

EARS FORWARD: Signals the approach of food, sex or a predator. (Humans fall under the last heading.)

ONE FORWARD, ONE BACK: Sometimes it is a case of watching you and the road. If they turn both ears around then you have gone from a curiosity to an annoyance. Relocation is imminent.

EARS SIDEWAYS: Actually it is a genetic anomaly or the ears are broken. Otherwise, it doesn't mean a damn thing.

EARS FLAT BACK: Unabashedly pissed off. Good time to walk away quietly.

Benito Gets a Nod...sort of.

2011-03-16T17:15:00.000-07:00

So What's Benito Mussolini Got To Do With It?

First off, the guy looked pretty good on a horse. Much better than I do, which is why I'm not including a picture of myself. Notice the heels down, the leg position, spine straight, head under the body. Horse is actually awake.

You see, I studied Mussolini in conjunction with my senior thesis at the old alma mater...University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Washington. As the preface in the book explains, somewhat lamely, this was after my illustrious career as manager of the also-rans. In the process of researching fascism -- the Italian model, I discovered:

"I did learn one thing from Mussolini's mixed-up political non-system: that being the notion that I was probably a fascist farm manager. I mean, think about it. I was a quasi-dictator, I controlled the labor force (a cat and a backhoe operator and I seemed to have my hands all over the 'supply and demand' sector: hay, oats, manure and diesel fuel. Plus, my subjects were either too naturally rambunctious to form a quorum, or bound to the sacred oath of the Herd Lodge, which basically meant that in either case, it would take years for any of them to pick a leader. And if they did, well, as soon as the election was over, I'd just sell the winner."

Ronald Reagan also made the book as well. Not quite as pretty on a horse.

Heard About This Book

2011-03-01T18:09:00.001-08:00

Didn't believe a word of it.

Yes, There is a Dog Story in the Book!

2011-02-28T16:01:00.000-08:00

Two Different Views of the Little Assassin

Chapter 20 is all about Emily, a sweet little JRT that kills things. The picture on the left is how Emily views herself. Kind, considerate...sleeps in the bed. You know. The picture on the right was posted on YouTube by a hamster shortly before the video feed went blank. We would like to think that it was just a dead battery or something...but.

"Emily bludgeoned her way through life as if each encounter was to be her last -- a tormented poet really, seeing peace as a lousy alternative to war and anarchy. She dreamed of grabbing little hamsters by the head and shaking them to death, burying their broken bodies under the house. If she were human, her ghastly crimes would have ended in the gas chamber, a pellet of cyanide for the bad little dog."

Well, we know that's not going to happen.

Chapter 2: Horseshoeing School or...Denial Part IV

2011-02-25T14:57:00.000-08:00

Somehow I imagined that horseshoeing went something like this. Hang around with nice looking women, eat a little watermelon, do most of the work with one hand and a slightly insincere smile. Or is it a lecherous grin? They kind of look similar.

However, truth and reality often change places, mostly because one is always more painful than the other. What I got was...

"[On the first] Friday of the class, we started working on the frozen legs. We wrapped the bloody parts in burlap and tied a string to one end. The other end was tied to a post so we could hold the leg between our legs, which sort of imitated real life conditions. Those of us with money had a heavy leather apron, those without, bloody jeans."

[We did get some real horses to work on eventually. Maggots had eaten most of the dead legs anyway.] "There were three horses and all were caked with mud or manure or both. Two immediately pissed on our dirt floor, turning in into a kind of foamy mud with little steam vents next to each submerged leg. This made it a little hard to determine [the instructor's] interpretation of proper balance -- or maybe in this case, flotation."

It took another five years for things to improve much.

Our Staff at Red Planet Publishing

2011-02-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

This photo was taken during our 'Fundamentalist Period.' Shortly thereafter, we heard about Islam's no alcohol rule. Well, to be honest, that was a toughie at the time. We flipped a coin and became Lutherans.

That lasted about a week. On further examination it appeared that Lutherans were allowed to dabble in the spirits, but as a general rule they were too normal, awkward at parties and most of them seemed to live in Minnesota.

Next we tried Catholicism. The red wine was a nice touch, though both of us experienced difficulty with the part about when you kneel and when you stand. Both of us have pretty bad knees (horseshoeing does that to a person) so we would just drink more wine. After a bit, we just decided to lie down in the pew and hope for divine intervention, or the room to quit spinning. We weren't excommunicated -- more like a situation where the priest rejects your application because it is so much easier than listening to your confession -- which is just about as long as my book and not nearly as funny. Well, there was that part about the three tattooed women at the car wash...

Did I say the book was fiction? Good. Wouldn't want any misunderstandings here.

Chapter 10 Explores the Ramifications of Genetic Engineering with Thoroughbreds

2011-02-15T18:06:00.000-08:00

"It's All in the Name"

'Boo Boo' was a mistake. Just possibly the ugliest yearling ever to qualify for a summer sale, she was purchased because Doc was staring at the wrong catalog page....

.....After winning a few minor races, she entered the farm's broodmare ranks and abruptly founded a new line of odd-faced foals. I named one 'Insect Eyes,' another 'Llama Lips'....

You can figure out the rest.

The Book is Based in the Outback of Seattle

2011-02-09T15:29:00.000-08:00

Chapter 6 -- Mud

So we all know what that means:

'Sure, Seattle gets its fair share of 'rain' jokes, normally perpetrated by California weatherpersons who don't have anything to talk about anyway. They sit for hours staring at the Doppler radar looking for one cloud with some sort of potential. Most of the year, a chipmunk with an alcohol problem could do the weather. "Geez, itttsss goin' to be sunny...where the hell did my tail go?"'

'Rain and horses also created another, well situation: I was stuck with approximately 482,586,000 tons of mud. Most of the world's supply. Felt like Saudi Arabia on a cocky day.'

The Look of Eagles

2011-02-08T16:07:00.000-08:00

The important question here is why anyone would compare a race horse to a bald-headed scavenger that hangs around with buzzards and hyenas. And is too lazy to catch any food that isn't already dead.

Actually, I don't know. But I also can't figure out why people work in submarines.

"I'm not sure what Man O' War what was thinking when the shutter snapped -- how naive -- I know perfectly well what he was thinking about. The breeding shed was only fifty-feet down the road."

Kid Shows Interest in Veterinary Medicine

2011-01-27T14:37:00.000-08:00

I did know that when it came to mice violating the cornmeal law, mother preferred to dish out death with a glue trap. Which meant that the only possible escape was to leave a leg behind. I got pretty good at mouse orthopedics. A couple actually healed up enough to be released, only to show up missing two legs.

Mom moved on to neck snappers. I had to close my clinic.

The Book is Full of Questionable Human Activity!

2011-01-24T19:45:00.000-08:00

Chapter 22 is called 'Paralytic Loading Disease and Other Afflictions.' This chapter focuses on how you find really dumb volunteers to risk their lives trying to get a horse on the wrong bus. The horse really should be pointing the other way. Or not.

In a later chapter I'll explain how to import banned farm chemicals from Central America and how you dispose of a manure pile without the fire department finding out.

There's a kid growing up with obvious problems!

2011-01-24T14:25:00.000-08:00

-The counselor told me that my mother was probably deflecting some leftover hostility involving two divorces, three car accidents and the appearance of my step-brother. At least that's what the counselor thought. I figured she was working on her doctorate or something since I had no idea what she was talking about. I still nodded politely at the end of every sentence. I wanted to avoid the next step, which involved a piece of lumber and the Vice-principal. Nodding politely didn't work in his office.

-I had to suddenly switch to Marlboros. Used to be Lucky Strikes. Stole them from the 'It' that kept catching the house on fire...
...I didn't smoke because of peer pressure. That was because I was the peer pressure. Funny how you can go from social outcast to idol with the addition of one bad habit.

Nancy Arbuckle's Hair?

2011-01-24T14:19:00.001-08:00

"Good. Very observant. Actually, she did have a small fire in her hair. Seemed the eighth-grade class at Morgan Junior High set her head on fire up on Hiway 99...I got thirty pages of paperwork, workmen's comp crap...you have to take over her route."

"Oh."

Probably explains why she wouldn't let go of the fire extinguisher.

2011-01-21T20:21:00.000-08:00

1. Torn Faith

2. Under the Spreading...Tarpaulin

3. Nancy Arbuckle's Hair

Maybe I should explain what happened to Ms. Arbuckle's hair. Seems she drove a school bus. Eighth-graders as I recall.

"It's like this," he began. "You know Nancy Arbuckle?"

"Yeah. Well sort of, I mean not really. Her hair looks funny, like it caught on fire or something." I was fishing.

More on this mystery later.

[image: Ron & Joe.com]

Coming in April 2011!

2011-01-13T19:24:00.000-08:00

About the Book:

Mares, Foals & Ferraris is a hilarious and convoluted tale of one man's quest to quit driving a school bus and become some sort of farmer. Like most quests, this one went a little siderways. Instead of turnips, he got racehorses. But underneath this story is another: a child trying to understand a violent world, a young adult trapped between a reluctant acceptance of what is and that wonderous free flight born of the what if. And finally, the insatiable curiosity of an old writer -- born in the bright dawn of Camelot, yet destined to wander the endless catacombs that shelter the what was.

Two puzzling questions the book will finally answer: Why children run away to live with animals? And on the more capricious side of life's mysteries, why people breed racehorses when they could just as easily own a Ferrari? Maybe two.

About the Author: A. Allan Juell has been writing about horses and the...well, those folks that tend to hang around with large, hairy mammals for roughly thirty years. His work appeared in periodicals such as The Washington Thoroughbred, EQUUS, The Chronicle of the Horse, Western Horseman, Thoroughbred Times, Anvil Magazine and many others. He picked up a few obscure literary awards along the way, as well as copious amounts of 'enlightened' criticism.

He spent twenty-five years as a farrier and farm manager and about fifteen years as an intinerant journalist, wandering most of the world's habitable continents and questionable bars. He holds a degree in history (international affairs) and sometimes attempts to further confuse the world's problems at Demokracy.com. He lives in North America...sometimes.

Fiction, available through the normal outlets in April 2011. Excerts here and at Horsetrionics.com around February.

The Horseshow From Hell

2009-06-21T16:45:00.000-07:00

Late July, 1990. Arco Arena, Sacramento, California.

Every year a merry band of brigands—judges, stewards, jump crews, trainers, riders, vets & farriers embark on the Grand Prix circuit – a quasi-carnival of sorts that tromps around the western United States in search of glory, money, free beer, a shot at the Olympics – maybe just next week’s rent. A lot of this activity is simply designed to make a good horse a little better. It’s called mileage.

This particular show was added to the summer circuit. Think the promoter called it The Sacramento Grand Prix. Hardly mattered. Seems the promoter was already on parole for a previous promotion that went…well, south.

A lot of folks might think that ‘horse show people’ are snobby, uptight, ego-centric types that can’t take a joke. Actually that’s true, but they can pull together when it counts.

The promoter had rented the Arco Arena, promising a truly spectacular, audience- centered horse show, including a rare event in American show jumping: the Puissance Wall, an eight-foot something tall monstrosity designed to clarify the meaning of ‘jumper.’ That was a 5K class with a 25K Grand Prix to follow. The smooth talking gentlemen had also pre-sold about 5000 tickets to the public. Shortly thereafter, he was spotted on I-5 heading south – literally and figuratively.

Well, after a little discussion it was decided that the show would go on. The officials, the crews, the volunteers – even the exhibitors – all banded together and put on the show. The audience had paid for just that. Nobody got paid, nobody got their ribbons or year-end standings and the winner of the $25,000 Grand Prix of Sacramento got a round of applause. Not much else.

We nicknamed it “The Horseshow from Hell,” but in the end it was a lesson about doing the right thing at your own peril. I think they call that integrity. Hope some of the folks in this picture wander by again.

Never Look A...Mechanical Engineer in the Mouth

2009-05-02T12:38:00.000-07:00

(Photo-Garry Jones, AP)

One of the bright spots in pre-Derby week was an article by TD Thorton in the Boston Globe about one Michael (Mick) Peterson Jr. (pictured at left), an unassuming sort of fellow that holds advanced degrees in both theoretical and applied mechanics – two subjects that hold interest for me (from a horseshoeing angle – pun intended) and also drive me marginally insane when ‘absolutes’ and ‘horse’ end up in the same sentence. More on that in a minute. Peterson is also a fan of racing. Definitely a bonus.

What the Globe article drove home is that answers begin with questions and great ideas often come zinging in from left field on a day when you can really use the lift. As Peterson stated, it all started with a “naïve question – what kind of standards do we have to meet?” Hmm. The focus had always been on real or potential problems and not on what might be ideal because that parameter had never really been established. No data existed to support the good news unless it was subtracted from the bad – that information buried in what the science bizz calls ‘undefined variables.’ Or something to that effect. And of course the horse, the biggest variable of the bunch. Peterson’s point: You can’t seek an ideal without identifying it first, a deductive process. That requires data and more importantly, an unbiased mind.

What does it have to with horseshoeing? Simple. Overturning tradition with either new information or in Peterson’s case, a better question. I started shoeing in the early ‘70’s – shortly before the union busting years at the tracks. I was licensed under some pretty questionable circumstances, but it hardly mattered since it sort of qualified under the ‘rules of racing.’ Yeah, they were pretty vague. I plated for a couple of years, but found the track superstitious, traditionalist and really, moribund. The last thing anybody wanted was an idea. Switched to jumpers. More creativity, but a lot of the same mindset as the track – a great deal of it invented by the veterinary community. They wanted to run our affairs primarily because they had no idea what we really did. They were the self- anointed chiefs’ of the mystics. As such, every time an article appeared in the Journal of Veterinary Medicine, a new fetish showed up in the barn. For a few years, it was wedge pads. Everybody was enamored with the angles of a horse’s hoof – an ideal. Nobody ever bothered to ask what the horse did for a living. We were plagued with soft tissue injuries. Pulled suspensories, check ligaments ad nauseam. We were shoeing to aesthetics, not athletics.

By the early ‘80’s, performance horses began to circulate around the country more. We got a chance to look at more horses from back east and reluctantly exchange some ideas or simply extrapolate a theory on the available evidence. Horseshoers were still not to the communication phase when it came to the competition. Two shoers back east, notably Brady and Fitzgerald seemed to be on a different wavelength, though they weren’t talking. However, their work had a lot to say if you really took a look at the subtleties. One thing you didn’t find were gimmicks, including wedge pads. The shoeing was focused on the job description of the animal, how that animal was constructed and really, with a certain amount of humility. These were the best horses in the world at their job – Olympic level grand prix horses. The idea was to not mess with something that’s not broken. Focus on the task at hand.

Around the same time, some research veterinarians, notably Dr. Hillary Clayton, at that time working out of the University of Saskatchewan in Canada were studying biomechanics with extremely high-speed video filming. I knew Dr. Clayton pretty well, (having traveled with her in China, looking at alternative medicine options) but admittedly we didn’t always agree on conclusions. Taking research from the lab to the real world is a difficult transition and is often based on a preconceived assumption, and when dealing with horses, a host of variables. There is also the inherent agenda that exists when academic medicine gets married to outside funding. However, we still get to keep the information.

During this period I also met up with a theoretical mechanics guy that worked in the aerospace business at Boeing. He also didn’t know much about horses, but was sort of fascinated by what I did – more accurately, how I decided what to do. We talked a lot about things like angles, weight distribution, psi, ground impact (something he didn’t like to think about with aircraft) and spent time with the films. He was particularly focused on how the fetlock of the horse seeks the ground when landing off a fence. Quite similar to a racehorse when the animal’s body passes over the front leg at the end of the extension process of a stride. He wrote some things down for me. I said, “I don’t do math.”

He said, “It’s like this. Ever see a woman sprain her ankle in a pair of high heels?”

Well, I hadn’t personally, but let him go on. “If the angle of the hoof is too high, then the horse will fall off his foot. A lower angle would seem better as the horse would be more on his leg and not so much teetering on his foot. Of course, you’ll need a bigger shoe since reducing the heel will create more posterior length to the hoof. Your ‘tip’ point will be greatly reduced.”

Oh.

Well, I took a lot of this heart and changed my thinking, which is really difficult if you happen to be a horseshoer. I also took a lot of flak, particularly from veterinarians up in the grandstands or other shoers. Partly because it wasn’t their idea and partly because it began to cut into their day money. Tendon and ligament problems dropped precipitously. The overall hoof was greatly improved. And the talent level went up. Jumping horses have a distinct need to feel confident about their landing gear. Over the ensuing years I was very fortunate to work on some very talented horses, including many of the members of six national teams at the international level. It was kind of humbling in a way, though that too is difficult for a horseshoer. But I did learn that answers sometimes show up disguised as a Boeing engineer. And when you have a talented horse to work on, then focus on doing the least, not the most, because it is really about his talent and his job, not yours.
So thank you Mick for taking a look at our bizz and asking that very important question. That’s the first step toward an answer.

A Little Accountability Would Be Nice

2009-04-18T17:02:00.000-07:00

Ray Paulick (The Paulick Report.com) thought it might be a good idea to at least try to invest some of our time in good news. Hence ‘Good News Fridays.’ It seemed to be a chance to lessen our focus on accountability by folks who never really grasped the concept anyway. Accountability, responsibility, integrity – these are learnable traits, though admittedly, some painful instruction is included in the curriculum. If you can’t pull at least a ‘C’ well – one more disinterested, self-centered sociopath hardly matters does it?

Granted, there seems to be a lot wrong at the moment. In my neighborhood, we have Mt. Bay Meadows. It is this huge, concentric, rat infested monument that the San Mateo City Council evidently created as an abject lesson on the dangers of littering. Or was it loitering? Or maybe a case of litter, loitering. It’s hard to tell since the Council was so cash-struck on the idea of another thousand tax parcels that they forgot to see if the developer owned a dump truck. – or even a shovel. The Bay Meadows Land Company’s response? The economy went south. The City Council’s response. “Well, gee, uh, well, Bob was supposed to take care of that. Bob? Oh, Bob?” The real problem? The ink they use to print money. Causes the DNA to mutate into something resembling an infected molar.

Ray’s idea did cause me to pause and take a good look at the traffic flow. Greed seemed to be about the same. Avarice about par. Murders and robbery up, but hell, it’s a recession. Scams way up, but then scams are what they are and not wrapped around silly posturing like, “I’m going to save racing.” Even robbery has a certain honesty to it: “Gimme your money!” Not, “Sure, you can afford this house.” Pens, guns or Ford starter motors, all things seem about the same. And that’s what bothered me.

I believe the real problem is that the flow of information is exceeding the speed limit of our brains. It also makes it damn hard to keep a secret or weed out superfluous details. Twittering is specifically designed to not get to the point – ever. And it has been at least two years since someone said to me, “Let me think about that and get back to you.” Get back to me? Are you bloody insane?!

So let’s look. Mouth syringe in the security barn? Stupid, but not new. 'Milkshakes', pasta loading, packed red blood cells -- dried bat wings? Neglected, underfed (or abused, but one needs to be careful with that term) horses? Common as dirt if you really look around. That seems to upset a lot of folks and rightly so, but how does it compare to 100,000 children facing starvation in the Sudan? Can someone from PETA or the steward's box point out Sudan on the map? Racing is a lot about perceived advantage, not too different from any other competitive venue with one major difference. The horse is out of the loop in most, if not all decisions concerning its own well-being. A lot like a child. Due diligence needs to be conducted from the comfort of your own brain – that’s where accountability originates. Sure, we publicly chastise bad guys a lot quicker, but we’ve done little to reduce the overall supply of bad behavior because we embrace the very source of the illness.

Yeah, racing has some really serious difficulties. Most of the industry though is still above ground, as they say. Especially Bay Meadows. All of it is above ground. That in itself is both sad and irrelevant. A dead man’s testimonial to his own murder. Other cities might want to view the crime scene for themselves. Integrity is about making the right choice at our own peril. If we practiced that a little more, we might get two 'good Fridays' a week instead of one.

Why All This Ink?

2009-03-07T10:00:00.000-08:00

Well, I’d been away from racing for about 20 years, though I don’t believe that you’re ever really away. Life shifts you here and there, but as long as you are above ground, you’re not truly away. Here in California a lot of ink had been printed on the impending closure of Bay Meadows. I remembered a similar obituary for a place called Longacres up in Seattle. Beautiful track in a nice city. Of course, that wasn’t enough in itself to save it. Never is.

The plight of Bay Meadows naturally piqued my interest on how racing had progressed in my absence. So I googled. I discovered the term “Racino.” Thought it was some kind of reality TV show, maybe hosted by Robert DeNiro, or maybe a new Bond movie. Had that cheap allure to it. Then came ADW’s, which I immediately confused with WMD’s. I don’t know about you, but that sent me on an acronym hunt for at least an hour. I thought maybe it was “Almost a Weapon of Mass Destruction,” or “Already Mass Destroyed.” You know how things get messed up when you go from Arabic to English in a hurry, especially if you’re fooling around with something like a bomb. Plus, it’s doubly difficult for me since I’m dyslexic. That’s why when I learned that Magna Entertainment had lost $600 million, I figured it was no big deal. The federal government had just given away $3 trillion and seemed pretty happy about it. When you have dyslexia, all those little zeros just look like happy rabbits jumping down a hole.

Next I looked into Betting Exchanges. My first thought was that it might be a place where you could say, trade two 5-2 shots for maybe a 20-1 that was due to figure out how his legs worked. That was of course, incorrect. But you could place a bet on something that wouldn’t happen. Now that interested me. I hadn’t picked a winner in 22 years so this had real possibilities. I started doing the math…then I remembered I don’t do math because of the ‘d’ thing. However, I could probably make a buck or two by just resorting to something like random physics or chaos theory. Maryland is settling the slots issue in the same fashion. Kentucky gave them the idea. If you don’t do anything, nothing happens and if you’re in England, you win money! Who said you couldn’t save racing? Sorry, that was a Stronachian slip.

In spite of the fact that the world seems to be collapsing at our feet, people in this business still seem to find time to laugh, argue, debate the pros – condemn the cons, search, seek and try to make sense of things they can’t hope to control. They say a racing man or woman, can never die while he or she has a good two-year old prospect in the barn. That’s the optimist in us. God, we have to be. We stake our livelihood on an 1100lb animal that sometimes behaves like something out of the cat family.

When they tore Longacres down I felt that thing in my gut like a dozen lug nuts rolling around. Kind of anger and powerlessness wrapped up in some intense form of sadness that goes beyond the destruction of bricks and glass, into some deeper place in you that’s rarely visited on purpose. It was personal. It’s why ghosts haunt old buildings. It wasn’t our time to leave.

It still isn’t.

I have a love of history. It’s kind of what I do, though I really don’t know why. More often it is kind of a forensic examination of human motivations under various forms of stress and absurdity. I merely connected the dots between 1910, 1975 and now. Each period seemed to hold a wake for the industry, but could never quite get the body in the ground. That indicates resilience that perhaps we’ve lost touch with lately. Maybe if we tossed out the shovels and worked our pencils a little harder, one solution could be found for our 38 common problems. Oh, I’m sticking with Dunkirk. If ever there was a hunch bet for just such circumstances, this is it.
And yes, I am dyslexic.

"Will the Horses Stop Running...Again"

2009-03-01T09:02:00.000-08:00

Part III
Catching the Horizon Before it Gets Here

Has the Fat Lady Sung, or Just Fallen Off the Stage?

In the years between 1985 and the present, a number of scenarios have played out. As attendance dropped in the decade following the Pugh-Roberts Report, racetracks experimented with a number of options. The first was expanding the racing calendar, or actual days in a typical meet. This was outlined in the Report as a highly flawed strategy. As expected, this action resulted in the take-out being derived from a reduced handle – there were simply not enough fans to fill those expanded dates. Yet the lights were still on, the employees on the payroll and the plant not earning enough money to repaint the bathrooms. Tracks within the same region began to experience overlapping racing dates, this further exasperating the need of racing secretaries (the folks that write races) to find quality horses to fill the program. This led to unnecessary competition between tracks and in some cases a temporary inflation of purses (that the tracks naturally couldn’t afford) in order to have a full card. Gamblers do not like a short field because it diminishes their potential return. On top of this, were the physical limits of the horse itself. Trainers were caught between owners losing money and racing secretaries screaming for horseflesh. Economics were forcing trainers to make highly questionable decisions, and in this kind of atmosphere, both horses and jockeys were placed directly in harm’s way.

Racetracks initiated a virtual plethora of promotional stunts aimed at getting people through the front gate. Everything from free beer to petting zoos – some opening up the infield with low-cost admission and alternative activities. They even had ‘dog days’ at some tracks, though that folly quickly ended when loose dogs held up the races for hours. Some of these promotions actually did prove successful, particularly on weekends, but overall, they did little to help the track. Two issues proved difficult to address; one the fact that the majority of racing took place during working hours – weekday afternoons. Secondly, the folks that took advantage of these promotions wagered substantially less than regular patrons. Serious punters felt they were being marginalized in the process and the tracks began to experience the aura of a bad afternoon at Chuck E Cheeses, actually inflating attendance at nearby OTB parlors where the focus still happened to be horse racing.

Nothing Worse than an Untrained Elephant

The untrained elephant that follows racing around is of course, gambling. The preferred word is ‘gaming,’ but that always sounds like something that involves guns, the Endangered Species Act and Land Rovers bouncing across the Rift Valley of Kenya. Gambling is the core activity involved here, and while a certain degree of moral indignation might be involved in any discussion of the subject, what filters down at the end is the usual suspect: Money. And more importantly, ‘the who gets what part.’

IOTB was inevitable, and more importantly, useful to the business of racing. The Pugh-Roberts Report was pretty clear on this topic. However, they were just as adamant on how it needed to be structured. They weren’t interested in “My Old Kentucky Home,” or the long dead Secretariats and Ruffians that caught the attention of non-fans across the country. They were a bunch of pragmatists lecturing a moribund industry about the dead rabbit tossed on their front porch: The industry was out of players –period.

What Pugh-Roberts couldn’t anticipate was the rapid evolution of the communication industry. These were ‘the make it happen’ people that basically changed the way we do business, entertain ourselves – even how we process information, how we basically think. In racing, six panels in 1:08 and change is fast. But it is nothing compared to the speed of light. Even now, the world of Internet wagering is creating another hurdle for racing, another division of another slice of an already diminishing return. And how will racing respond?

Three primary issues seem to be competing for space on racing’s less than ample lap: Advance Deposit Wagering (ADW), “Racinos,” and Betting Exchanges. All are elephants and all want to consummate a marriage with racing. Trouble is, the pre-nuptials keep changing and the minister isn’t getting any younger. And racing still has that old case of natural indecision and competing priorities.

Slots in Every Stall

According to horsemen in some states, racing is content to go from the show to just a side show. In the eastern United States, where competition in market areas first became an issue, some horsemen are all “a blush’ over the addition of slot machines at racetracks. In some cases, Pennsylvania being an example, this has had a benefit of returning about 12% of slot revenues to purses. (As an aside, revenues from slots have outrun those from racing in a mere two years.) Maryland boasts a projected $140 million annually from slots going to purses, causing a projected rise of 45% by 2013. They also project an infusion of $40 million back into capital improvements on the facilities (‘facilities’ aren’t clearly defined) in the same time frame. Fifteen of the top 20 tracks in the country may follow suit. Ohio voters turned down gambling in their state three times and their track revenues dropped 23.8% in 2008. Next door in Indiana, where slots are legal, Ohio trainers are going after the higher purses Indiana has to offer. Even Kentucky has opted for video gambling at their tracks, “in order to keep Kentucky as the horse capital of the world.” Seems the $5.00 Mint Juleps couldn’t quite balance the books.

Who owns racing now? The new term is Racino, whereas a casino is built around, on top of, or inside a racetrack. Actually, the racetrack is more of an accessory, since it only operates on racing days, those normally appointed by the state racing commission. Some tracks actually look about the same, while others are a completely new experiment. The key issue though is the introduction of casino style gambling, primarily slots and video venues that were previously illegal in those states for reasons that everybody seems to have forgotten.

The key to the development of the new Racinos was of course the law. The scenario unfolded over time, but the basic theme was that revenues from racing had been nose-diving for a number of years, the states’ share dwindling with it. However, a state’s ability to spend never decreases in either scope or desire. Gaming, always seeking new inroads basically had an opportunity to polish their image: “We’ll save racing in your state and increase revenues. We just need a few slots to round out the deal.” They would also prop up the breeders programs with incentives (that makes two votes), throw some money into education (3) and promise a few bucks to paint those bathrooms at the track – making an even four. California passed a lottery proposition in 1985 on the ‘money for education’ bandwagon and currently ranks 47th in the country in academic achievement. Gambling with a social conscience seems popular of late, particularly with the extinction of balanced budgets, but what happens in ten years? Gambling revenues are up and so is racing’s inherent overhead – employees, facilities and purses. Gambling has the law and racing has too many bills. Since the state government is now addicted to a higher grade of heroin and unwilling to consider rehab, then where does logic proceed?

Advance Deposit Wagering (ADW) is merely the next step in Interstate Off-Track Betting (IOTB) designed to take advantage of the possibilities inherent in on-line gambling. Patrons set up an account, similar to a pre-paid credit card and are allowed to place bets (to the limit of that card) on races simulcast from various tracks to the comfort of their own hard drive. The ADW extracts a fee for their services, similar to any OTB parlor and negotiates a separate contract ( known as a ‘source market agreement’) with the horsemen’s group representing a particular track or meet, defined for these purposes as a Class 1 Racing Association. Naturally, this is all quite illegal under the Federal Wire Act but nobody seems to care. The fly in this system is that horsemen felt that they should receive about 1/3 of the revenue from ADW wagering while the on-line industry found 6.75% more comfortable – that figure a left-over from the one-sided negotiations on OTB splits in 1975. Horsemen did have leverage – they could choose to turn off the signal. Of course that decision would result in receiving 1/3 of nothing, along with the unbridled wrath of horseplayers all across the country who had been denied access to those races. Perhaps the greatest irony found here is that ADW platforms may have done to IOTB parlors what they first did to racing.

ADW also required each track and each meet to negotiate these contracts separately. This is a cumbersome process for folks that know more about the quality of Timothy hay or the health of a horse’s knee than the sometimes abstract math involved in the ‘who gets what’ department. And horsemen don’t necessarily agree on the need for ADW contracts at all. The issue had literally split many horsemen’s associations at tracks, resulting in no contract to simulcast and consequently, the reality of lower daily purses. Arizona horsemen went so far as to lobby for a law to ban ADW’s in agreement with the federal law so that the ADW’s themselves would sue the state. Their reasoning assumed the ADW’s would win the suit, thereby giving the horsemen a negotiating position they didn’t have before. Absurd? Not really.

One positive did emerge from this anarchistic system of splitting the loot: The formation of the Thoroughbred Horsemen’s Group, the closest thing to a national bargaining system that the industry had yet conceived. They offered their services across state lines and became the chief negotiator for horsemen in their contracts with the ADW industry. They operated on the premise of serving the needs of their clients and managed to bring a great deal of continuity and clarity to the contract process. More importantly, they were able to temper the emotions that were undermining any form of collective bargaining on the part of horsemen. For once, a common voice seemed to be emerging, albeit an act of possible desperation.

Betting Exchanges are a direct off-shoot of the power and creativity of the Internet. They have enough detractors and fans around the world to start a rather unconventional war. They operate in a similar fashion to a stock exchange in that it is peer to peer gambling, or many to few, as the wager may evolve. It relies on technology and speed, so that all bets are matched almost instantaneously – with no limit, as long as another bettor, or multiple counterparts match the bet. The exchange receives a commission of 2-5% for handling the action. Most bets are conducted via the Internet by the use of debit or credit cards. The largest betting exchange, Betfair, based in England, witnessed a 57% rise in its customer base in one year. One unique feature to betting exchanges is that they offer the opportunity to ‘lay,’ i.e., wager on something that will not occur, the normal position of the bookmaker. Detractors view this issue as a serious threat to the integrity of the sport as it is far easier to ‘arrange’ a horse to lose a race than to win one. Other negatives are familiar – exchanges don’t give enough back to racing, that 57% increase in customers co-mingling with a 13.4% decrease in prize money (purses) in Great Britain alone. Australia broke it down a different way: For every billion (Aust$)) wagered, racing receives Aust$14 million from betting shops, $7 million from ADWs and $1 million from exchanges. (These figures are of course skewed, since the whole country has not jumped on the bandwagon.) And it’s estimated that Betfair, the world’s largest Betting Exchange, processes more than six times the number of trades daily as the London Stock Exchange.

The third issue found troubling with exchanges is the anonymity afforded punters that lay off races. Betting Exchanges have been required to enter into agreements with the regulatory agencies, including the English Jockey Club for full disclosure if requested by such agencies. This is a prerequisite for licensing, and to date it has generated mixed results. The exchanges cooperate fully, but racing’s primary concern is integrity before the fact, not after.

Quite a few countries (including Australia, South Africa, France, Japan and New Zealand) view betting exchanges as a serious threat to their racing industries. The state of Tasmania in Australia breaking with the rest of country, apparently choosing to follow the American example of anti-federalism. The United States appears to have no view, though at present it is prohibited under the Federal Wire statute. Caliifornia signed a ‘letter of agreement’ with an exchange under the guise of promoting California racing abroad, while really seeking the ‘required approval’ to license a betting exchange. This latter proclamation by California goes directly to the issue other states have adopted concerning OTB issues – that being the validity of the Federal Wire Act. The courts have enforced a double standard by ignoring it internally while applying it externally. That is exactly why the World Trade Organization ruled it an ‘illegal embargo.’

What’s a Fella To Do?

Racing truly is a three-ring circus. In one ring stand the horsemen (owners, trainers and breeders), in the second, the racetracks and out in the stands, the myriad of punters that make the whole system complete. The guy in the top hat with the bullhorn represents the government and while he makes the most noise, he contributes little to the entertainment of the crowd.

The Pugh-Roberts Report lamented racing’s loss of a fan base as a primary reason for its overall decline, a trend that continued well into the 1990’s. They found racing’s leadership non-responsive, a little lethargic and perhaps even old-fashioned. The issue of OTB was both threatening and promising, depending upon how this new concept was structured and more importantly how it was nurtured in the marketplace. A tremendous potential existed for this tool if greed and territoriality could be censured in favor mutual benefit. All would give up a little and the industry could get back a lot. That requires courage and unfortunately it was missing when the issue first hit the table. Perhaps it is still lacking.

Racing does have a tremendous fan base. It has merely shifted to cyberspace. Visit any chat room that horseplayers haunt and they are there by the millions. And they have valid opinions on the game. They also have wants. Take-out needs to be reduced from the sometimes high of 20% to parity with most table stakes – 5%. They are of sick of cheap fields and short fields. They get very unhappy when horsemen and tracks can’t settle their differences and block simulcast signals. They say the product is stale, the wagering levels are stale, and that corporate mentality has infested the tracks to such a degree that the owners don’t understand their own product. They are also fed up with medicated horses and in some cases, artificial surfaces, which they blame for inconsistency in performances. That’s an awful lot of ‘theys’ for one paragraph, but they have been paying for this product for some time and the quality is not there. Deliver a quality product and fight for its value.

What’s really gone missing is the gate. Putting its face on a milk carton won’t
help – it’s going to stay missing. Gambling is what fuels racing and those folks don’t plan to drive 30 miles to a track for the ‘experience.’ Technology has eliminated the middleman, and it’s the guy that charges $5.00 for parking. Racetracks need to downsize and refocus on what might work for local patrons, while keeping their races competitive for the wider gaming audience. This led to the hybridization effect in developing these so-called Racinos, but these enterprises cannot and should not represent racing. Their priority stake is not racing and their actions in the past are a good indicator of the future. Even as this is written, casino gambling and horse racing interests have been linked in the current impeachment proceedings against Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich. Guilt or innocence isn’t the issue, it is simply a matter of linkage in the public eye.

The gate and the reduced take-out are issues that can only be resolved by the state re-appropriating its part of the pie. Pugh-Roberts initially suggested 0.5% to the tracks for the purpose of improving the product. That’s barely enough to scrape the mold off. The states are the lame-duck element of this enterprise and they need to step up and start earning rather than just skimming. They too can do the math: 1/3 of 0 = 0. Trouble is, in this current climate of government induced fiscal suicide, the average legislator would probably view zero as a positive. Accountability might be a better place to begin.

Some tracks need to close. That’s a sad fact of life in any business. Ask General Motors. Racing is not a sport that thrives on mediocrity. The emergence of Racinos in many parts of the country actually degraded horse racing by making it a secondary enterprise in a casino environment. Casinos are about money -- other people’s money, and the fastest way to empty pockets is at the slots or on the tables. Racing will be turned into little more than the expensive slob that always tags along for the ride. But maybe that’s okay. When an industry spends most of its time infighting instead of working together against a common threat, somebody needs to question the motivation, or at least ascertain if one exists. The issue between Ohio and Indiana is tantamount to showing up for a duel with a howitzer – evidence of how the issue of gambling and its revenue base can pervert mutually beneficial relationships into a bad day in the Balkans. Horsemen in these states would rather resort to cannibalism than try to be good neighbors because one state has effectively marginalized the other. This isn’t healthy competition, it’s a legislated mugging, a war of attrition being waged by the gaming interests and proxied by racing. This kind of competition only has one winner and isn’t it the guy holding the horse. The northeast is rather infamous for factional infighting, and now they’ve managed to export it to the corn belt.

Horsemen need to understand the changing dynamics of racetrack ownership. A great many tracks are now owned by multi-interest corporations that are counting all the beans, not just the ones with the starting gate parked out back. The newspaper business experienced this phenomena two decades ago when news organizations were bought up by manufacturing, financial or entertainment interests, adding another tier of management to an already top heavy business. The ‘news’ ceased to be the product. And like racing, indifferent upper management, portfolio values and the Internet have driven newspapers into the ground. A good example is Magna Entertainment, which owns Pimlico, Santa Anita and six other tracks, including Golden Gate Fields in San Francisco. They are also responsible for the corpse known as Bay Meadows. Magna also boasts four other bodies in the trunk, most of which were operating under the Racino format. Granted, one victim was a Greyhound track but it still made the coroner’s report. Two other properties were sold, one to a casino interest and the other to a Pennsylvania racing group that just inherited 5000 or so slot machines.

Magna’s interests also include a racing television network, AmTote International, XpressBet (an ADW) and until recently, real estate management and holdings under a separate corporate title. They are bleeding a lot of red ink and selling off Golden Gate Fields seems to be part of the fix. The land value exceeds any potential for a racing venue under California law, and the city of Albany (home to the track) would rather have latte parlors and open space instead. California is drowning in open spaces and they are a negative revenue producer. Track management claims profitability, but it is based on extended racing dates inherited from Bay Meadows. Percentages are actually down for 2008, mirroring the Pugh-Roberts negative appraisal of extended racing dates as any sort of solution on the bottom line. What this probably means is a complete cessation of racing in northern California. And in the south, sits Santa Anita, another ailing Magna property along with Hollywood Park, the latter subject to a great deal of speculation on its own ability to survive.

So here is a company that once flaunted its desire to ‘save racing,’ evidently from itself. Magna currently holds title to nine tracks, the majority of which were acquired between 1999-01. Approximately six others were closed or sold, most in the Racino format. Of the nine remaining, at least half are in serious trouble and the other half have embraced conventional gambling venues opened up by evolving changes in state laws. 2008 losses up to Sept. 30th run at $116.1 million, of which $29.2 million were attributed to Racino operations. The company has had to resort to a reverse stock split to avoid a de-listing by NASDAQ, and is about to get the same lecture again. Bankruptcy lawyers have been seen prowling the hallways of the Ontario (Canada) based corporation, no doubt on a bone hunt for whatever is left. If Maryland voters hadn’t approved the addition of slots to racetracks for 2009, the Triple Crown might have lost a member. Without them, the track was set to demolish ‘08’s downturn of 22.5%. Racing and gambling certainly have mutual interests, but they also have opposing needs. Muddy up that distinction and somebody is going to leave the party on a stretcher.

[Since this was written, most of the rats have fallen out of the sack. The lesson here for racing is the same one the newspaper business received: Your job security needs to be about writing good stories -- not the number of lightbulbs (or spark plugs, maybe) sold in Minnesota last year.]

Why is this important? Because it is imperative for horsemen to know who they might be negotiating with and just how outgunned they might be. This is where an organization similar to the Thoroughbred Horsemen’s Group has value. This might not be the right group or the perfect model, but it can be viewed as a step in the right direction—or maybe any direction. Simulcasting and Internet gambling are the present and probable future of racing. Accepting that notion is the first step. The second is to be able to sit down as equals and work a deal that will insure that racing receives the right price for its product. This will never happen until the racing states sit down and agree that the whole is more important than the parts.

Maintaining racing’s fan base may not be as difficult as it might seem. In the world of the Internet, it is much cheaper to build an ADW platform than it is to build a racetrack. Given that, the quality of the available product needs to improve. Part of that improvement will be a result of the inevitable contraction of the industry, both as a result of available entertainment dollars, and the competition for those dollars. Fans, for the most part are going to stay home. The overall public trend is to embrace technology, which dictates that racing needs to accept that model and exploit it, not argue about it. Somewhere between 6.75% and 33% lies a figure that racing and ADW’s can agree on. But this figure can’t be argued arbitrarily across state lines, subject to political whims or malfeasance, or like Chief Joseph’s dilemma, having your neighbor decide for you.

Betting Exchanges are coming to the United States. The fans of racing have already decided. They offer an alternative to what many punters describe as a ‘stale product.’
The largest of the bunch, Betfair is an aggressive, malignant and cash heavy monster. Their entrance into American markets is simply a matter of when, not if. It is absolutely imperative that racing gets on the same page with this issue. Forget the nostalgia and the mint Juleps, these folks are sharks. Work on this issue needs to begin yesterday and the first order of business is a cohesive plan on how to confront this new benefactor in racing’s future. Yes, it too can be a positive. However, racing needs to initiate action on the repeal or possible amendment of the Federal Wire Act. Simply changing the Interstate Horseracing Act is insufficient because the courts will not rule when statutes either conflict or appear ambiguous. The stakes are this: The issue has been before the World Trade Organization and that body has ruled in favor of the plaintiff: Antigua. Not much trade involved there. What if England follows suit? Or Australia? Neither is likely since in diplomatic circles that would be considered ‘bad manners,’ but given the global impact of recent economic events, a pro-active stance is not only prudent, but imperative. If not, this will be a repeat of the Massachusetts debacle, but on a massive scale. Racing needs to come to a consensus now – and act on it. Virtually every state in the Union is practicing a new form of economic alchemy. The legal impasse created by the selective enforcement of the Wire Act, combined with the federal government’s inability to reign in the rather jingoistic behavior of the states will once again hand racing the conditional terms of its own surrender.
Develop the product, fight for it, and show up at the table with one agenda and some sharp teeth.

NEXT POST: Why all this ink?

Horsetrionics

Shoein' For a Living -- The Whole Sordid Tale!

Spy vs. Spy vs. Spy vs. Spy...At the Sales

The shin bone is connected to...the yearling sales.

Shoeing on the dark-side of the moon...

The trouble with 'smart' horses -- conclusion.

The trouble with 'smart' horses...round 2

The trouble with 'smart' horses...

Taking the Girl Out -- Somewhere 'Nice'

One Other Thing --

So...An Explanation is in Order

Jockeys Don't Always Appreciate 'Fashion.'

Winning is Everything!

UPS Drivers Always See the Good Stuff on a Farm!

The Price of Admission, Part II

Okay, What Would Happen?

Zuke: The Price of Admission

Happy Birthday to all 31, 727 New Thoroughbreds!*

Test posting/bug hunting

Resolutions for the New Year -- Same as Last Year.

Merry Christmas to All....

An American Thoroughbred in Paris

The Other Thoroughbred

Torn Faith -- First Thoroughbred, First Irony

Another Reason to Ride Off to Mexico

Paralytic Loading Disease

Research Re-invents the Roadapple-- Saves Racing

Chapter 21: What Horse Breaking & Plumbing Don't Have in Common

Thoroughbreds Are Only Fed the Best Hay...Uh, That was a Subjective Kind of Statement.

So You Want to Write a Book, Huh?

Can Horses Go to Jail for Kicking an Owner?

The Race Card -- A Hunch Bettor's Heaven!

Horseshoer of Leisure -- Until I Tried to Get a Visa Card

"Eldorado" by Edgar Allan Poe, via John Wayne & James Caan

How Racing Works: The Stewards

The Horse Show: Always Bring Beer...Vodka, Gin.

Romeo & Juliet? Hopefully with a Different Ending

But, As Luck Happens in Marginal Fairy Tales

Fast Rudy -- Vignettes From a Marginal Fairy Tale

Fast Rudy -- Vignettes From a Marginal Fairy Tale

Jobs in a Tough Economy: Mare Watchers

The Generational Continuum: War

Cute Dogs Sell Books!

370 Pages & An Automatic Upgrade

News on the Book

Useful Horse Communication Advice:

Benito Gets a Nod...sort of.

Heard About This Book

Yes, There is a Dog Story in the Book!

Chapter 2: Horseshoeing School or...Denial Part IV

Our Staff at Red Planet Publishing

Chapter 10 Explores the Ramifications of Genetic Engineering with Thoroughbreds

The Book is Based in the Outback of Seattle

The Look of Eagles

More on the Table of Contents

Kid Shows Interest in Veterinary Medicine

The Book is Full of Questionable Human Activity!

There's a kid growing up with obvious problems!

Nancy Arbuckle's Hair?

Table of Contents

Coming in April 2011!

The Horseshow From Hell

Never Look A...Mechanical Engineer in the Mouth

A Little Accountability Would Be Nice

Why All This Ink?

"Will the Horses Stop Running...Again"