Worms....the Bulgarian variety.

 

Once More Into the Maelstrom...Smiling!

 

For Now Anyway.....

 

 

 

[image: smh.com]

Boy, one thing's for sure, farriers have a hair-trigger when it comes to subjects close to the heart...or maybe in that frustrating realm where the creativity of the mind makes unreasonable demands on the far clumsier actions of the hands.  Yes, we are talking about art.  A subject of wildly different interpretations and appeal.  But we are also talking about architecture too, for very often beauty and utility are thrown together in common purpose.  Sure, the building must be pleasing to the eye, to the sensibilities of its audience, its surroundings -- but it is of even greater necessity that it doesn't collapse in a heap.  And it is on that note that we visit one of our most humble of creations:  the horseshoe.

What happened next in this story was that a pretty fundamental historical (academic), discussion on a shoe (named for some country), turned into a monstrous firestorm that promised to scorch the landscape and crucify all the heretics.  Uh, huh;  the Bulgarian hind.  Or the Bulgarian hunter hind....or the Bulgarian hunter hind ala massolettes...or Vlad Dracul's favorite sneaker.  We never got far enough in the discussion to find out exactly.   [Better warm up the tar and pluck the chickens -- we're sacking Budapest next!]  

The question was an honest one by someone new to the profession and I might add, new to the United States.  You can guess from where.  The reason for the question was because the shoe, in its current, rather stylized form, bore little resemblance to the traditional Bulgarian shoe and seemed to contradict the 'utility' behind its development.  In her letter, she went to great lengths to explain her enquiry:

But instead of getting an honest answer to an honest question, the person was ridiculed in a rather vulgar fashion by members of this trade who insist that your validity as a student or aspiring farrier is only sanctioned by kneeling at one particular shrine or another.  Pretty pathetic for a bunch of folks that supposedly seek camaraderie in a common pursuit of personal ideals -- most centered on helping the horse and not the needs of a sometimes errant ego.   And to be honest, I don't speak or read Bulgarian, but a friend did.  Here's what HE said that SHE said:

 

     "Ah yes...the Bulgarian hind horseshoe. Some history here.  See, during World War II...do you have any Vodka?  This is a terrible story.  So, in the Bulgarian resistance against those Nazi fellows -- well, there were six or seven of us...not big resistance because, well Bulgarians drink a lot and lose track of things and ya know, we got the cabbages to tend, but a blacksmith here came up with shoe...quite different from this one in contest, but the toe was designed to look like German military boot print. So we put them on the horses. When troops search for us in woods, they see boot prints from horses and think, "Oh, troops already go that way...so we go this way."  Germans weren't too bright, uh, maybe why they didn't win war.  So while they chase around we ride off and blow up train or something.  This new version of Bulgarian hind shoe...gosh, wouldn't fool even the dumbest German I don't think.  Okay? You got the Vodka?"

 

  [Better take a break here -- I hear the tar boiling over.]

[image:wikipedia.com]

But let's back up a minute and look at a few personal observations:  mine of course.  Because this issue is really about horseshoeing competitions and an existing split in ideology between those that compete and those that apparently have better things to do.  And no that's not a negative pejorative but rather a personal opinion.  We're a country of personal opinions -- probably way too many of them.

Believe it not, I did compete way back when -- in the days when the AFA and state associations were an amusing and highly volatile concept.  Reminded me a bit of the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th....Continental Congresses in that the only broad agreement was who would end up wearing the chicken feathers.  In these early days of competing, the work itself covered a broad spectrum from good to...well, some bar shoes were handed in with the tongs forge-welded to them.  (And a certain unnamed person was known to use a crescent wrench in an emergency.)  But, we had a lot fun and it was an excellent venue to connect faces with names and perhaps temper a bunch of competitive animosity that existed in the workplace.  Competing still offers that rare opportunity to share what is a common thread:  shoeing horses -- which apparently is why we bought the $$5-figure truck with the chrome wheels.

However, once competitions evolved a bit, they became more and more of a 'mechanic's' convention in that the actual shoeing of the horse gradually devolved from the picture.  Contest shoes became a matter of schematics, mathematical determiners...worthy of examining with slide rules and calipers.  See, shoes you judge according to standards; i.e., by a template -- horse shoeing?  Well, just ask a certifier (and I was one), how much fun that can be.  It is not an subjective exercise because it calls for one to make a judgement on the execution of a job that has no definable rules. More accurately, few rules that are without debate.  Excessive bleeding probably qualifies as one, but the rest are best left to Tarot cards and tea leaves.  So, with the changing emphasis, the meticulous detail involved, I decided my time was better spent elsewhere.  So I studied horses, their jobs...the politics of trying to remain in business in a different sort of competition.  The one with the mortgage.  In the end, I became, in Michael Clayton's analogy: 'a janitor.'  I fixed things.  It is a wonderful niche to own because the only thing that matters is the results -- that judgement left with the horse and rider.  And no matter how beautiful the crease, how immaculate the clip...the horse will intentionally destroy it or leave it to be admired hanging on a wire fence.  And no, he won't be apologizing for that disrespect any time soon.   

But, that wasn't the only issue.  Just as today, with 'glue-on applications,' various alternative approaches to hoof maintenance, ad nauseum...technology was changing the playing field back then as well.  Yes, we still had to make shoes, particularly in the case of the rising trend in imported Warmbloods, etc., but manufacturers were also polishing their skills.  The need to hand forge shoes became less and less, which by any reasonable standard, successfully accomplished the intent:  to make the job of horseshoeing less labor-intensive.  And of course, sell lots of horseshoes.  The horse population was growing (after decades of stagnation), and better shoes and more farriers were the rule of the day.  Ah, the caveat?  Apparently, the message for some was that technology also meant that those with lower skills could compete equally in America's free-wheeling system.  And why not?  Farriers abhor regulation of any kind -- even when it is designed to protect their own livelihood.  So instead of dusting off our collective house, we blame the individual who embraces a less arduous path.  And it is nothing new and certainly not surprising, for there is great personal security in assuming you have a non-perishable skill.  Hold that thought for a minute and stir the tar.  That crap can catch on fire.

Oddly (maybe), this same resistance to technology showed up earlier in this century with the advent of manufactured shoes.  The source of the loudest hollering?  The racetrack platers.  Prior to the horse making its grand entrance into the world of recreation (things like chasing cows around for fun instead of a purpose), the racetracks were one of the few venues where farriery remained a viable enterprise.  And believe me, swaging shoes by hand, forge-welding grabs and stickers or the even more complex Standardbred shoes were no walk in the park.  In many ways, these platers and shoers probably appreciated  the convenience -- but what lurked in the background was what they saw as an erosion of what had always been seen as a highly valuable skill-set.  The short version:  these new inventions threatened their security as skilled tradesman...artists really, in a world where technology and manufacturing were threatening them with a degree of obsolescence.  It is precisely why the platers' unions held on to their rather archaic testing standards for as long as they could: a well founded fear over the impact of a rapidly changing world and what that meant to a secure living standard.  They failed to realize however, that shoe-making was merely one of many skills needed to service the horse properly and to be realistic, the least important element of the job.  With a well-trimmed foot, a decent degree of balance (no, I have no idea what that means), a person could cut shoes out of plywood and probably get around a course just fine.  Yeah, the truth hurts, but life is full of disappointments.       

[image: comshalom.org]

[image: wikipedia.com]

So now we come to the part where we bring in the psychiatric community for a little behavioral gibberish combined with historical realities. [See, bet you have already forgotten about the Bulgarian hind thing.] 

[image: intropsych.com]

 Nietzsche, Freud  and Jung

 

[image: toptalent.com]

Not much help here actually.  They're dead and not talking. However, they did establish a kind of 'emotional blueprint' for that 4lb. lump of fat between our ears. And whether you believe that a pritchel represents a wondrous monument to phallic penetration of the iron of life; the forge, with its eternal flame is the sacred womb of all the ample gifts of earth, fire and water...and the horse --  well... he is just a horse, so forget that part...and we're completely off track here anyway, though Freud is quietly smiling. 

Who we really need here is Abraham Maslow. He seemed to understand that farriers were actually almost the same as most humans.  Almost.  See, he is really smiling.

 

THe came up with a hierarchy of sorts for human needs, based somewhat loosely on how you might be wired.  Somebody else (probably a math major), came up with the pyramid.  I colored this one myself since it has been kind of a slow week.  The way it works is that as a person develops emotionally and intellectually (gotta do both or it doesn't work), their true needs migrate up the scale. The orange at the bottom deals with just staying alive (many farriers can relate to this one), while the top blue section is for people who say, "Piss-off on staying alive, let's see what's going on over there!"  Also notice that safety is two notches down. That means a lot of people are interested in staying alive through safety.  Dull.  But safe. Also note that people that ask intelligent questions about the origins of Bulgarian hind shoes hang out in the blue and purple zone, while those who offer personal and vulgar retorts wind up in the red.  In case you still don't get it, red means either stop doing that or get T-boned by a large truck.  So now that we're completely confused, let's talk a little about 'safety.'

 

Safety is really about security; more accurately [in]security.  Explains why some people can turn defensive in the middle of an overly long kiss.  See, they suddenly notice that the other person's eyes were open.  Break my trust, you have broken my sense of security.  But please don't dwell on that statement too long, especially if you've got an optimistic rendezvous planned tonight.

[image: foreignpolicy.com]

[In]security comes in many forms.  Personal, national, global....emotional, sexual, mechanical -- the lock on the front door of your house.  It somehow makes you feel safe in spite of the fact that the house has 27 windows made out of glass so fragile that a wrong-way sparrow could shatter it.  Hmm.          

My favorite has always been national [in]security.  Anthropologists have determined that we invented this concept at Catal Huyuk, in modern day Turkey (Anatolia), about 7500BC.  How did they conclude that?  Architecture. The structures were defensive in nature and quite permanent.  Hence, they determined that early homo sapiens had  decided to stop 'hunting and gathering' and instead teach chickens and cows how to obey the leash law.  And immediately thereafter, came the bane of civilization:  'private property.'  And we've been killing people over that concept ever since.

Now in case you haven't noticed, America puts a lot of stock in [in]security.  Kind of our trademark around the world.  That is why we have about 28,000 nuclear warheads in all shapes and sizes. Course that led to some other folks (pictured), wondering about their own [in]security:   



[image: wikipedia]

So they collected about 32,000 of their own and the result was something called: MAD.  Mutual Assured Destruction.  That made everybody feel better.  I guess. 

Oh. What does that have to with farriery?  Nothing, other than the fact that we we work in a field with few absolutes and no enforceable rules.  But it does show how [in]security can stifle friendships and goodwill in a profession that is 80% opinion.  And I suppose how wars start over a simple and honest question about the origins of a modified Bulgarian horse shoe.  So, as good members of civilization (my least favorite word), we yank up the razor wire over our brains and prepare for the siege.  Hell, it is a damn horseshoe -- and whether you make them, buy them, sleep with them; or like my cat, spray them in urine and call them his own...they are simply a mechanical device designed to aid a horse in his daily rounds.  And no, they are not going to add to your personal security.  Hopefully, that lives somewhere else inside you.

The moral of this story?  That mentors and role models have a responsibility that lies outside their personal beliefs.  And that it is just as important to listen as to talk.  That means you need to respect your audience and weigh your message according to the sophistication, naivete or even vulnerability of the listener.  Balance your approach and try to understand that your road, my road or the highway, isn't the only way.  Respect comes with responsibility attached.  And instead of becoming needlessly defensive (which greatly cheapens your opinion), just fess up. "Yeah, I changed it.  I like this version better."  Oddly, so do I, but that doesn't mean I would put it on a horse and it certainly does not diminish the skill required to make it.  So, how can that possibly threaten some body's [in]security?

Lastly, and once again, on a more personal note, I have had many young (and not so young) aspiring farriers query me about the business, about schools, competitions, certification....the drinking age in Idaho -- my answer has been mostly the same:  Try to find an apprenticeship with somebody well-grounded in what this business is about: shoeing horses for money.  Pick their brain, listen and watch. Doesn't matter if they make shoes, buy them at the feed store or steal them from other horses.  Get under a 1000 horses and then figure out what you might really want to pursue, or in some cases, if you want to pursue it at all.  And that is not a bitter or prejudicial statement by any available definition.  Farriery is a lot like the NFL -- your career can be over tomorrow.  One of the last fellows that worked for me (I was on the way to the hospital for one of four retirement parties with the surgeons), was a very skilled fellow of the mechanic's school.  He could engineer just about anything and normally made better shoes than I did, but he wasn't terribly ambitious.  On top of that, he was a bit older than most, had a wife with an excellent teaching job, two kids and a mortgage.  He had a couple of options:  take over my business (remember this point -- there is nothing to sell when it is over, except a few tools and some rather hollow goodwill), or...he had an inside slot to the Electrical Union's apprenticeship program.  Tough to get in, but lucrative via salary and benefits.  Oh...wife was expecting number three.  My answer?  Become an electrician.  That was what he needed to hear and quite frankly, wanted to hear.  Because it was the right truth for his situation, though in some ways it might have been a bad reflection on me.  And as far as I know, they lived happily ever after....no, actually I don't that, but I did want a nice ending before you folks show up with the tar and the bald chickens.     
            

[image: dennis haskett]

Okay....Well, you'll have to Fed-X the tar and feathers since I'm moving.  No, I don't plan on sharing the location. But someplace [in]secure.  Try to remember that life isn't nearly as serious as the alternative. 

  

Trouble in River City...Starts with a "P" and...

UC/Davis staff checking the evidence. {image: horsetrionics.com]

The Pre-Purchase Exam and Other Tricky Situations:

Got into an interesting discussion the other day on the farrier's role (and of course, the veterinarian's), in the Pre-Purchase Exam.  And as we wandered down the minefield of memory lane foibles, the discussion naturally widened to the whole area of veterinary/medical information -- the politically charged arena of "who in the hell's business is it anyway?"  Why is this an issue for farriers?  Bottom line is that we get around, and in the process of our travels, we collect a lot of unpleasantries about the horse's we work on daily.  Not to mention the owners, who often have a propensity to share personal insights with our butts.  "You know, I haven't had an orgasm in fifteen years."  Yeah, that's a quote from my book and yes, I did choke on a mouthful of nails.  I feigned sympathy for her plight and changed my phone number.

In my early days, I spent a little time plating at the track.  Now anyone that has ever worked at a racetrack understands the following conversation:

"Say, Andy...uh, you shoe for Billy Bob's barn...uh, we're thinkin' about maybe claimin' Bushy Bill for a client of mine.  Uh...listen, somethin' I should know about maybe?"

"Uh.  Ya know, that horse sure has a pretty face."

That is about the outside limit of any conversation at any track.  Otherwise, the Stewards will escort your sorry ass to the back gate and terminate your license.  See, horses are in many cases, a business arrangement.  And at the racetrack, both the claiming of horses and the industry of gambling can be negatively effected by so-called "inside information."  The folks with the most access to that information?  Contractors, particularly veterinarians and farriers who service many barns for different clients and acquire a great deal of personal veterinary/medical information along the way.  And no, there are no federal or state statutes (such as HIPPA), to govern the exchange of that information.  But there are the rules of racing, contained in that rather abstract tome the Commissioners draw like a gun, whose purpose is to protect and maintain the integrity of the sport -- better put, to protect the gaming public from subterfuge and espionage "by people in the know."   Ha!  We've all seen those Mickey Rooney movies, right?

Well, it is a good rule.  But you immediately chortle back:  "I don't work at the racetrack!  So what?!"  The answer is that politics and horses aren't just confined to racetracks.  And this is America; land of the free and infested with an abundance of law school graduates -- lawyers.  Further, we no longer deal with the old euphemism known as horsemen/women -- we deal with horse owners.  Folks who understand things like $50k cars with extended warranties and not $50k horses that suddenly develop a bad case of...limping.  Especially when that conversation occurs about a week after the pre-purchase exam. 

Now before you assume this to be a veterinary-bashing session, back up a second and understand a little history of the 'vet-check.'  The process went through some evolution from the notion of 'a heart-beat and a smile' to a highly assumptive process based on technology and really...the expectations of the buying public.  Which meant that a lot of well-intentioned folks got carried along for a pretty unhappy ride.  This culminated in the early 1980's with a rash of litigation over what the pre-purchase exam really constituted -- defined by some as an 'assumed warranty' of some sort.  Insane?  Certainly.  But these cases, and in almost all instances of litigation involving horses, are overseen by a judge and jury who couldn't recognize a horse unless Roy Rogers happened to be sitting on it.  Not a jury of your peers, but a jury of semi-retired real estate agents that have had less than a thrilling experience with a car salesman.  They see it as a broken toy -- a very expensive one.

 

This does not always...

Equal this....

Of course, once word got around, most of this science via soothsaying went by the wayside, the pendulum swinging to the opposite extreme:  "Well ma'am, he's alive.  I mean, he's alive today...uh, I mean this afternoon.  Let's say 3:00, just to be clear." 

Naturally, I'm exaggerating a bit because...hell, it helps to make a point.  And I also want to be fair to both professions -- it is a tough balancing act because veterinarians (and farriers), are also business people, professionals and humans.  Issues of trust, loyalties, confidence, friendship -- opinion, beliefs;  all play into the evaluation of a potential purchase.  And yeah, ego as well, not to mention piles of money.  The latter capable of skewing any body's judgement, even temporarily.  So, certain lines need to be drawn, limits placed; protocols established, because owners (humans as well), are fishing for as much information (realistic or otherwise), as they can garner, very often self-selling themselves on a decision based more on emotion than the facts placed before them for consideration.  Yeah, read the tea-leaves carefully.  Might be more involved than just a conversation about a horse.        

Now for farriers, the pre-purchase can be a wonderful moment for expounding on those years of experience, ingrained wisdom acquired from countless seminars, clinics, contests -- that horse you worked on in 1982.  Opportunities abound to appear as how we all truly want to be viewed as professionals:  smart.  We don't get those moments too often and the temptation often causes us to leap the boundaries of common sense, not to mention the lines of discretion needed to respect the principles of confidentiality.  The reality is that it is none of our damn business, perceived loyalties or otherwise.  Why?  Because the horse is in flux, and as a matter of chattel, i.e., property according to law, the question of ownership at that moment is just that -- a question.  And those kind of questions are best left to the buyer, seller and the veterinarian.  If the vet is wrong, he has insurance. If your opinion jumps into the fray -- right, wrong or up there with the minor Greek gods, you're probably fired -- by somebody.  Since the radiological exam is last (as it should be), the farrier should try to keep it simple...very simple.  Pull the shoes, clean the foot, replace the shoes -- preferably using the same nail holes.  This is the moment to be a mechanic, not a sage.  Feel free to cure cancer or save the world after the check clears the bank and some idea exists on who really owns the bloody animal.

Okay, seems pretty straightforward...maybe.  Excepting perhaps, the nature of your own business as a separate entity from what all these other folks are engaged in.  The question is:  who are you really working for?  No, not always the person writing the checks.  Many farriers aspire to work for the bigger show barns, and with good cause.  Better horses, wealthier clientele, good working conditions...soothing to the ego perhaps.  Slower pay probably, but consistent.  Same dumb questions, but somehow they seem more sophisticated at the end of the day.  But who's the boss around the joint?  Certainly isn't the client.  It is the trainer, and if the trainer brought you into his/her game, then he/she is the guarantor of all relationships under that roof.  They are your job security.

The first thing you need to do is step into their world for a minute. You think you have difficult clients, many with wildly unrealistic expectations?  Guess again.  Most trainers could easily end up with more ulcers than an asteroid if it weren't for the fact that they (perhaps like many farriers), actually love what they do everyday.  Yes, mostly the horses, but since horses can't write checks, clients are part of the deal.  And before I am drawn and quartered by horse owners, please realize that many owners know perfectly well that they can be a pain in the ass.  They are the first to admit it actually.  This normally occurs about five-minutes after Precious deposits them head-first into a 3-foot oxer.  That is the point when we all make the transition from listening to actually hearing.  So, try to love the trainer.  He/she is the only thing between you and a bunch of crazed equestrians.

Now, trainers do not make the majority of their income standing in an arena watching their clients fall off horses.  Their real income is derived from buying and selling horses to and for clients.  Like real estate in many ways, and for these services, they gain a commission.  They also develop horses for the market -- with or without clients -- and it is economically risky at best.  It is also traditional and goes back hundreds of years in all disciplines.  But...big but:  trainers do not always buy horses because they are big, beautiful and sound.  They buy them because a client can actually ride the damn thing without getting killed.  Death = no more checks.  That is exactly why many farriers will look at a new purchase and go, "WTF"...or some variation on that theme.  Why?  Because the client is part of the development process and their needs are in transition.  Sure, they could buy some pretty green monster that looks good in the cross-ties, but the client will gain no confidence in their abilities and the trainer will be the only one riding the horse.  And that is okay too, if that is the plan; i.e., an investment horse.  Know what in the hell is going on before you open your mouth and keep the conversation between you and the trainer.  Beware of clients on brain-picking expeditions that will undermine your relationship with the trainer.  And every barn has a couple of these folks that are more than willing to stir things up. Why?  Make a list of human vices and pick one.  However, do cultivate relationships with grooms.  They know the barn, the horses...privy to the whispers that float between the walls.  Quite often, they are the early-warning system and certainly know more than the trainers when it comes to 'barn politics.'  

Still, you might ask, "Why is this so bloody important?"  Simple. There is more to professionalism than a straight nail line or the ability to make a shoe out of a rasp and three Coke cans.  The first tenet of communication is trust and violating the rules (or not bothering to understand them), will get you fired. You might be the greatest thing since Scotch Tape, but if you kill a sale for a trainer you could easily lose the entire barn.  And sure, you were right!  Shout it from the rooftops.  The horse is a disaster area!  Well, either fix it or walk away.  Just use your skills, not your mouth and as they say, "Live to fight (or look smart), another day!"        

Shit happens...what you do with it is up to you!
[image: horsetrionics.com]



This Belmont speaks to racing's other great upsets...

Upsets DO Happen!

Remembering Onion

[image: auctiva.com]

A great deal of conversation around racing circles this week has centered on I'll Have Another's bid to complete the first Triple Crown in 34-some years.  Comparisons abound naturally and perhaps the most dominating performance was the smashing victories of Penny (Tweedy) Chenery's Secretariat in 1973.  The word 'invincible' was often used to describe this 3-year old son of Bold Ruler and until the running of the August 4th, 1973 version of the $50,000 Whitney Stakes at Saratoga, the handle fit.  But that August afternoon, one optimistic trainer went against popular opinion and saddled a little known gelding with an odd name:  Onion.  But then H. Allen Jerkens had a reputation around the tracks for just that:  Upsets.  A word that entered the lexicon of American sports on the back of another horse appropriately named just that: Upset, who managed to defeat the original 'Big Red,' the great Man o' War.  Then again, Saratoga itself had a reputation as the "Graveyard of Champions," but purely in the figurative sense.  The track boasted a list equally long for famous horses winning AND losing at the upstate New York track.  In fact, they celebrate the spoiler each year by the running of the Jim Dandy Stakes, named for the little known 100:1 shot that managed to defeat another Triple Crown winner named Gallant Fox.

Ron Turcotte headed to the saddling
enclosure for the 1973 Whitney
 Stakes.     [image: timesunion.com]

But, Onion was not your average spoiler.  The son of Third Martini out of the Beau Gar mare, With A Flair had gone off as second favorite at 5:1, partly off Jerken's reputation with the home crowd and partly by Onion himself,  having broke Saratoga's 6-panel track record on a recent (July 24th) outing.  Jerken's optimism was further buoyed after Secretariat turned in a pre-race workout that the trainer described as being 'flat.'

H. Allen Jerkens

 Of course, 'flat' and Secretariat used in the same sentence was subjective at best and the bettors, with few choices anyway, didn't seem to notice, sending the chestnut colt off at 1:10.  Given the odds and short field, the race was restricted to win-only betting.  Only three other horses entered the race, primarily to pick up a check for the title of  'also-rans.'  The race itself was not terribly interesting except for the outcome.  Onion simply broke from the gate, showed everybody his butt and was never headed, maintaining his turn of speed over the 1 1/4 mile distance.  Oddly (given it was five-horse race),  Secretariat experienced traffic problems early and some pundits questioned jockey Ron Turcotte's handling of the horse, including trainer Lucien Laurin.  It was also noted that Secretariat had been running a slight fever before the race, but given the anticipation and turn-out expected for the Whitney, a late-minute scratch would have been...well, it is safe to assume that a lot more was at stake that day than Secretariat's unblemished record and it was obvious that both owner and trainer could feel the heat.

[image: timesunion.com]

Onion never did win another stakes race and in his second meeting with Secretariat (inaugural running of the $250,000 Marlboro Cup), the gelding ran a distant fourth to Secretariat's track record of 1:45 2/5 for the 1 1/8 miles.  However, it should be noted that when Onion retired in 1977 his earnings topped $243,000.  Hardly a couch potato as racehorses go.  But like many, he had dropped to the claiming ranks, went through a series of injuries and mixed fortunes...but retired to the same farm where he was foaled:  Jack Dreyfus Sr's. Hobeau Farm (in Ocala, Florida),  where he died in the fall of 1995.  Dreyfus himself seemed to specialize in upsetting more than just races.  He virtually invented the mutual fund and took it one step further by directly marketing the investment tool to the public. But on the track, his horses staged a number of coupes, including Prove Out who also handed Secretariat a defeat in the Woodward Stakes; Beau Purple managing the consistent Kelso in the Man o' War Stakes; and Handsome Boy, defeating the favorite, Buckpasser for the Brooklyn Handicap.

 


[image: timesunion.com]

Will we finally get another Triple Crown?  Well, not if somebody like H. Allen Jerkens has anything to say about it and perhaps here lies the great appeal of this game.  Because 'upsets' CAN and DO happen.  And the old story turns into a brand new story.  Course I haven't picked a Belmont winner in 17 years so don't look for any sagely advice here!  Try the Ouija Board.


The horse returns...to China

Well, hell. 

 Somebody's gonna have to shoe 'em.

Yeah.  I'm thinkin' again. 

As a previous visitor to the People's Republic of China and points far to the north --  China's version of the semi-wild west, I came to admire the people and the challenges of life in the world's most populous country.  During my academic years, I also studied China's history -- for I believe that the present can never be understood without fully appreciating the past.  A lesson that many Americans fail to appreciate and that sadly, the State Department rarely bothers to explore.  Tunnel vision?  Perhaps. Maybe too, a bit of arrogance at its most counter-productive level.  If the provocateurs of interventionism had taken the time to truly understand the history, culture, geo-political and social realities of Afghanistan, they wouldn't of cared to touch the place (in American jingo), 'with a ten-foot pole.'

Now, while I don't always agree with the Chinese government (or my own, for that matter), I do admire the agility with which it is able to operate.  Concurrently, I also disagree with those that care to push the 'democratic card' in a country with a social burden the size and magnitude found in the PRC.  As I have often said, democracy might be fine for some, but it is not always exportable to countries or regions with markedly differing realities.  But I'll save that argument for a different day.

However, it appears the horse has returned to China.  This is the result of China's rather explosive entry into world commerce.  This has resulted in the creation of both a new middle class for China and the notion of upward mobility through effort and ambition -- here with the blessing, or perhaps reluctance of the central government.  So those of you who wish to keep referring to the PRC as 'communist,' better look up the word.  The first tenet of communism is a classless society.  Well gee, time for everybody to work a little harder at developing a new nomenclature for the country.  Maybe look up the political term, 'corporatism.'  Might ring some of the bells.

What has brought back the horse as recreation and business is what many Americans have been missing of late:  expendable income.  The Chinese government, ever vigil on the nuanced musings of its populace, quickly understood the impact of this new middle class.  It is the garden where optimism and its dangerous sidekick, 'expectation' hangs out.  Most revolutions begin here.  Not when the door is closed and locked, but when it opens just enough to allow a glimmer of light.  Subsequently, the government responded by pouring millions, perhaps billions of yuans into programs and policies meant to benefit (or perhaps quiet), the stirrings of this new element of Chinese society.  While not directly a goal of these new policies, the horse nevertheless made the list and concurrently attracted a lot of outside attention from the more economically astute nations of the west and east. And no, America isn't one of them...yet.

Right now, most of this outside interest (and investment), is is by the Irish, Australians and of course Dubai, the latter by the Meyden Group, the same folks responsible for taking Emirates racing to the top echelons of the sport in a matter of ten short years.  They see a great deal of potential in the PRC and while progress has been slow on the government side (particularly with the adoption of a pari-mutuel type betting system), they do see the wheel gradually turning their way.  Currently, their chief investments include a racing center in the Wuhan prefecture and a $2.6 billion 'Horse City' in Tianjin.  The latter will also include an equestrian college and expects to attract a multi-disciplinary clientele.  Similar projects are underway by the Australians in Chengdu with similar interests (both racing and equestrian), in Shanghai and Beijing.  China has also seen the emergence of numerous and varying 'horse groups,' covering a wide range of disciplines.  And the FEI is watching these developments with a good deal of interest.  But yes, the movement is cautious and painfully slow by western standards.  And communication is difficult at present.  But the interest is high and the participants enthusiastic. 

That leads to my main question.  How to bring the expertise to support this widening industry to China?  Qualified veterinary care, farriery, equipment and an infrastructure on parallel with what may be a monumental investment in our four-legged partner?  Well, when I was at Beijing University in 1991, the Animal Science Department boasted a single dingy office.  That was the extent of the interest in 'animal science' at that time.  Shoeing on the streets was conducted right there...on the street, using flattened rebar and handmade nails.  The only real expertise existed at the two major race tracks in Hong Kong:  Happy Valley and Sha-tin.  The older racetracks, even those found in Inner Mongolia had been abandoned (though oddly, maintained), for decades.

For now, China can certainly import talent to address the needs of this new industry.  But that is both short-sighted and certainly finite in duration.  What I see is a strong need to establish new educational systems in the country, from large animal veterinary science on down.  All areas are needed to train and equip Chinese nationals in what it takes to maintain this new venture, pragmatically and humanely.  A tremendous opportunity exists here and it runs far beyond the avenues of commerce.  It is a chance to bring the wonderful diplomacy and good will that the horse universally represents to a whole new community.  The politicians and the pundits rarely get it right, but the horse...well, they bring a wonderful commonality that doesn't require the language of any single nation.  Bring your passion, leave the rest at home.

[Correction: Status of the Tianjing project, including the equestrian college is apparently on hold due to investment difficulties I am told just today.  It is very difficult to obtain accurate information out of the PRC.]

From this.....

[images: horsetrionics.com/ajuell]


To This....

Beijing [image: beijintourism.cn]

Tianjin [image: dailytelegraph.uk]

More later.....



A horse jumps into presidential politics...

[image: cpepesc.org]

Rocinante For President!

We begin an exclusive series of interviews with Don Quixote's favorite horse:

Rocinante! 

We had thought about beginning this series today, featuring a number of in-depth discussions with the latest of presidential aspirants to enter this year's politically charged and amazingly dirty and disgusting contest for the hearts and minds of the American voter; individuals who, according to Russia's Prime Minister, Vladimir Putin, are "dumber than a sack of hammers."  That aside, we quickly discovered what can best be described as a pretty serious 'technical difficulty.'  Apparently, Rocinante does not speak human.  Initially, we thought it was either bad Italian or maybe an obscure Chinese dialect, but our translator finally figured out that he was snoring.  Unlike humans who need a chair or some other kind of prop, horses can sleep standing up with their eyes open.  Yeah, we thought that was pretty freaky too.  Wait till the Secret Service has to deal with that one!  So, in the interim, we are going to begin with a little background information from Don Quixote himself, who we just happened to locate wandering aimlessly around the outskirts of Juarez, Mexico, though he swears he was in a Methodist nunnery outside Kabul, Afghanistan, where, according to his long and rather convoluted story, somebody had stolen his money, a lovely maiden he had rescued from a topless car-wash and daycare center, and his horse.  He seemed very concerned about the horse, repeating over and over the word,  "rosebud......rosebud."  We're looking into this with the local authorities, but like the problem with Italian, our Spanish is also a little rusty.  The word keeps translating as "nose bleed, nose bleed."  We're starting to draw a rather hostile crowd.  It doesn't help that our cameraman looks like Brad Pitt.         

More information as soon as Senor Quixote...uh, recovers.  

Finally, Don Quixote awakens from what the doctor's described as an alcohol-induced coma.  To avoid unnecessary publicity, we have taken over a Motel 6 on the American side, north of El Paso, Texas.  A few locals give us a curious once over as we prepare the parking lot for the interview. 

"So Senor Quixote...mind if I call you Don?"

"I wasn't drinking.  I was drugged by Taliban bandits, damn you!  And who in the hell are you anyway?  A priest maybe?  Give me last rites a little soon here!"

"Why no Don...if I may?  I'm a political reporter for one of the biggest, most popular programs on American television..."

"Maury Povich?" 

"Well, no."

"You don't look like Johnny Carson.   Not as funny either, I'm afraid."

"Well, he died a few years..."

"Happens a lot in your country.  Look, I'm tired.  What do you want?"

"About your horse, Rocinante.  We wanted..."

"Yeah, where the hell is that old fleabag?  And my servant Sancho...and the woman?  And look, where are my pants?"

"Cut!  What the freakin'...!?"  [The producer's voice...not a pleasant one.]

  "Ah!  I see that moron over there never read the book.  Should have known.  Why are we sitting in this parking lot.  It's hot as that Hades place.  And you know..."

"What?"

"You should be talking to Miguel.  He wrote the damn thing and forced immortality upon me.  Same with the horse.  We're stuck, while that bastard is dead.  Heaven probably.  His life was all messed up and he wanted to sleep in heaven with angels.  Sounded dull, but so is eternity I discover."  A production assistant hands Don Quixote a drink. He tastes it.  "What do you call this?"

"Tequila Sunrise.  You mean Miguel Cervantes?"

"Should be Tequila Sunset.  Yeah, who'd you think I mean?  Miguel, the gardener?"

"Yes, but like you said, he's dead."

"Great!  You finally understand my problem. An hour in the hot sun and we agree that somebody might be dead.  Next question."

I catch the producer's eye.  He signals to continue.  Not smiling...something else.

"So, Senor Quixote.  Why a horse for President...especially, well, the United States is a foreign country, I mean to you...and well, seems...certainly impossible?"

"Yeah, it's foreign alright!  Why do suppose I was in Afghanistan?  Normal people around there. Not here.  And why don't you ask that damn horse!"

"We can't seem to locate him just now.  And, Don...uh, you were in Mexico, not Afghanistan.  We're pretty sure of that."

"Ah, just whistle.  He hangs around at whore houses.  Don't you understand why he is called Rocinante?"  He finished his drink, frowned, but signalled for another.  "Mexico, huh?  A colony.  I'm to live out my days in a colony, huh?  With peasants.  And a horse that likes foul women.  While Miguel dances around heaven with angels.  Just as well I suppose.  Nothing for knights to do anymore in this world.  All a lie."

I noticed my producer spinning his index finger in a circle. Secret producer code for follow-up question.  Which one though?  "So yes, Don...why is he called Rocinante?"

"Hah!  Sounds better than Sancho!  Sancho means piss-ant or some such thing. Rocin...first part is for humility they tell me.  Means, 'rough man.'  No quality.  Ante means 'before,' though I don't see what has changed myself.  Like this: Nombre a su parecer alto, sonoro y significativo de lo que habla sido cuando fue rocin, antes de lo que ahora era, que era antes y primero de todas los rocines del mundo.  So, now you know."

"Know what?  I don't speak Spanish.  You have an English version?"

Don pointed over at the producer.  "He comes to interview a horse and he doesn't speak Spanish, much less whatever the horse talks!  What do you think the horse's talk?  I certainly do not know. You smart guys drove a long way to be disappointed, but you know that already I think."  He pointed at his glass. "Another one...and skip that red piss stuff."

"So then?"

"Okay.  A name, to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all hacks in the world."

"Ah, a man of the people then?  I think I get it Don Quixote!"

"No, apparently not.  He is still just a horse.  You know, these drinks are much better without the red stuff.  You should try one."

The producer throws his clipboard to the ground and yells, "Take ten and let's relocate the train, wherever the hell its gone to!"    

"La Mancha." 

"What?"

"You forgot...Don Quixote de la Mancha."

"I care less about you every second.  Where is the damn horse?!"

"Ah, that is good.  I am not real anyway.  Better to talk to the horse, wherever that animal has gone.  But you people, you Americans don't like real characters anyway.  You are like me, but you don't like it...no you don't at all."

"Another drink, Don?"

"Ha!  More I drink, the better truth becomes.  Maybe that producer should drink more."

"He quit drinking for his health...mental maybe."

"Ah, and how's that working?  Never start what you might need to quit. Why I am a knight and he is a producer.  Like a chicken laying eggs.  All your country does...lay eggs, pick wars with losers.  No honor, only dead people.  You leave food on the table and surprised by cockroaches!  What a system!"

"Just how old are you Don Quixote...de la Mancha?"

"Trick question, huh?  Four centuries and eight. I'm only alive if you are reading me. They keep reprinting Miguel's damn book!  I moved on, but you people can't, so here we are exchanging pleasantries once again.  First me, then the damn horse.  You know he lies about everything!"

"And you, Senor Don...you only deal in the truth?"

"No.  Not my truth.  Miguel's truth maybe, but he got all blown up in Lepanto fighting with some Turks.  Dented his head, maybe.  So now I fight for Miguel's truth, but maybe there is no truth.  There certainly is no Don Quixote de la Mancha.  Maybe you need to tell that producer before he starts all this nonsense again.  Or maybe another drink...and some sausages maybe."

"We found him!  It's a him, right?  The horse I mean!"  The producer had re-appeared from a distant room, still talking on a device.

"Wonderful!  Better hide the women."  A new drink appeared, along with something to eat.  "What's this?  Not sausages for sure."

"Big Mac.  All we could find."

"I said, 'what,' not 'who.'  Looks like what Rocinante leaves in the street.  You pay money for this crap?  Whew!  Smells a little like it, too.  Think I'll stick to drinking, much safer in this country it would seem.  Where's the damn horse?"

"About ten miles from here.  Seen outside a movie theater."

"Well, better send a truck.  You don't think he's going to walk here?  You be waiting a long time on that horse.  He's pretty lazy.  And he hasn't got shoes on."

"Oh.  He lost them?"

"Ha, no!  He sells them.  Then him and Sancho go to the movies.  Happens all the damn time.  Don't you know?  Horses are not dumb, just very dishonest mostly.  Donkeys?  Ha!  Much worse!"

"Okay, send one of the trucks, dammit!  I'd like to finish before next week!"   

An hour later, the truck returns.  There is much commotion inside the van and finally the door drops and Sancho peeks out, one hand holding a rein.  He does not look happy, more like an orphan who ran away in search of the truth, but didn't find much.  He carefully navigates the steep ramp, the single rein finally revealing a horse's head attached to a reluctant body.  The head looks gallant, but after a single step, the back legs collapse and the horse slides down the ramp on his haunches. And there he sits, at the bottom of the ramp...indignant, though apparently satisfied with his method of arrival at that particular spot.

"Are you shittin' me?  This is what all the fuss is about!  That's not a horse, it's, it's..."

"Bag of guts I would say for sure.  Better have another drink.  This is going to be way too interesting."

"I was expecting...well, a knight's horse would be full of fire, shine brighter than the sun, bedecked in the finest silks and leather, armor of silver and gold...."

"Yeah, you and Miguel must have been reading the same damn books.  How much you think they pay knights around here?"  He looks over to his servant, who is trying to be invisible.  "Hey Sancho!  What movie this time and don't lie!"

Sancho peeks over the still seated Rocinante.  "Apocalypse Now!"

"Figures.  All about chivalry gone wrong. Story of my life it would seem.  That Martin Sheen fellow, he went on a quest and look how that one turned out!  Ha!  And his son, something wrong with that one for sure."

"How is your drink Don Quixote?  And what are these books you speak of?"

"Books of chivalry.  Miguel had me read them, but I'm not real, so you figure it out who was turning the pages, eh?  That dent in his head.  See, he kept going off to war and getting blown up and wanted a purpose for all that shooting shit.  So here we are in this damn parking lot.  Go figure if you want."

"Is that horse going to sit on his ass all afternoon?!"

Ha! That producer makes a joke.  Horse sitting on somebody's ass!  Funny.  Sancho!  Bring Rocinante over here.  Let's see what he has to say.  Yes, this should be good.  Maybe get him a drink too!"  

"Uh, how...well Don, do I just ask a question to this horse...or to you?  Seems kind of weird I mean.  Is it like Mr. Ed on the television?" 

"Ah!  Maybe no, I think.  Watch his body movement and it will reveal something I hope.  If he craps, ask a different question maybe.  Be careful though, he can get pretty obscene."

"Boy, he smells pretty bad."

"No, that is Sancho.  Sancho, go stand by the truck!  Man doesn't bathe.  Thinks it makes him closer to God.  Personally I think it is why we don't see God around here too often.  So.  What is your question for Rocinante?"

"Okay, well...boy this is odd.  So, Rocinante...why run for President in this country...in America?"

"Ha!  First off, this animal does not run anywhere.  Why we got the van!  Oh.  I get it.  Yes, compete with other hopefuls.  Okay, watch his eyes for twitching."

"Twitching?"

"Yes.  See there!  He answered you.  Okay, next question."  

"Wait!  What did he say?!  I didn't hear anything!"

"You have to be fast mister.  He said, 'Why not?  A woman run, an African run, a movie actor run, a Mormon run...lot of running he thinks.  Must be good food in that white house they all talk about.'"

"Oh.  He said all that?"

"Well, mostly.  I know him pretty well."

"What about his political views...uh, is he conservative or liberal in his thinking?"

"He's pretty liberal with gas.  Phew!  Damn horse eats popcorn all the time.  Need to sit down-wind for sure.  This conservative...what does it mean anyway?"

"Well, small government, free markets...Christian morality.  Big on morality, marriage, family values."

"Ah!  The horse like that free market I think.  He's very selfish and hey, free food sounds good.  We could use some right now and not what that Big Mac fellow brought.  Sausages maybe...and another drink.  And sour beer like those Monks make.  Rocinante likes that terrible drink.  But forget the morality stuff.  Like chivalry...for suckers it seems.  While you turn other cheek, they steal your shoes."

"Cut!!"     

"What?! We going good here."

"He wants to hear from the horse.  You kind of went off there, Don.  So, maybe Rocinante is more liberal in his thinking?"

"This liberal.  He doesn't know this word."

"Uh, let's see, socially responsible...progressive, tolerant...distribute wealth more evenly. That sort of thing."

"Ah.  Rocinante says he swings both ways.  Steal the money and give it to poor people.  Like that Robin Hood guy maybe.  Then the rich people can't start more wars and get us horses involved in such nonsense.  Just a minute...something else.  Oh.  Rocinante says what's this moral crap?  These conservatives, as you call them...uh, can't train snake to stay at home.  Not sure what he means here." 

"So, he'd be a moderate kind of president then?"

"Still be a damn horse!  Moderate his filthy habits maybe, but I doubt it.  Once a hack, always a hack maybe.  Improvement seems a human problem.  I become a knight-errant and matters go down hill fast.  Even Dulcinea wander off to find herself she says.  Ha! I bought her a mirror.  No good.  She wants to find other herself.  Why I drink maybe."

"Guys!  We're off-track again.  Can we get back to the horse, pretty please!  Losing daylight."

"Why drink?  You don't really get drunk even, Don.  I mean..."

"Course not.  I am a figment.  So is the horse, so is fat figment Sancho Panza, the bean counter.  Ah, but you are real.  That producer is real.  Rocinante the President will be real, but only with reading Miguel's words.  You notice I drink all this stuff and don't piss.  Should be a good clue about who might be real in this world."

"Hey!!!" 

"Okay, okay...so Rocinante...what about American foreign policy.  North Korea, Iran?  How would you address the inherent dangers in the world?"  

"Just a minute.  Oh, okay.  He says what's the worry with a country called I-ran.  'I ran where to?' he asks.  Makes a joke I think.  No, he says to steal their clocks...and their clothes.  Naked people who don't know what time it is will change thinking real fast.  Oh.  See, horses don't wear clothes or stare at clocks all day.  No sense of self-consciousness with them.  Boy, horse uses some big words here."

"What if America is attacked?"

"Ooh...he pooped here.  Didn't like that question I think.  Let us see...ah!  He asks who would attack this crazy place?  He says...boy, he crude today I guess.  He says, 'like a cowboy trying to rope a fart.'  Well, okay then.  Maybe we should find him some oats and beer.  Might make for better answers.  Sancho!  Feed this miserable animal!"

"Cut!!  Okay, somebody feed the damn horse."

"Finally, sausages.  I'm wondering about something here.  One faith only you say of the conservatives.  I defend all faiths.  You are circumscribed it seems."

"What?  You mean...uh?"

"Hey, Rocinante's words, not mine.  Drinking Monk's beer loosens his lips.  He says your faith kills your imagination so no other truth can get in door.  That is why I was beaten and left in the road.  Happens a lot when you defend all truth it seems."

"How would that work if your horse, Rocinante, were President, Don Quixote?"

"Good question.  Badly, I think.  Seems your president is called 'defender of free world,' but remains prisoner of one truth.  Hold on.  Damn horse is mumbling with mouth full of food.  Has bad teeth you know from eating popcorn.  Oh.  Sancho!  More beer!  Ah, he says they confuse greed with faith."

"Who?"

"Who what?"

"Confuses things."

"Ask the horse, he said that.  Maybe the evil enchanters.  You ever been to an Inquisition?  Not pretty I tell you.  Nowadays they call them 'candidate debates at town hall place.'  The inquisitors look for this loss of one faith.  It is this duality thing.  Heaven and Hell never stay put it seems.  Like the horse, wandering here and there seeking an answer that works out for him.  And then I must defend it because it is somebody's truth even if the horse is a liar.  Hard job, this knight-errantry.  Should have been a damn blacksmith, I think!" 

"Yeah...I always wanted to be Park Ranger, or maybe Charlie Sheen."

Rocinante stops chewing and looks over at Don Quixote.  "Horse says you on right track to be burned at stake for sure.  Or very rich.  He wants to know what you think about being vice-President maybe?  Just in case things don't work out real good."  

"Hmm.  Might be better than this job is going.  I mean, I'm in a parking lot interviewing a horse and a figment...I think, of a dead guy's imagination.  Or is it my imagination?  Oh.  Is Rocinante saying something?  His lips are moving.  God, he spills half what he eats.  What a mess!"

"Uh, well is being profound maybe.  Always profane or profound.  Hard to tell with this horse.  Says, 'maybe try electing criminals and let the office purify them, instead of seeking an honest man to destroy.'  Something like that.  Probably the beer talking.  You know, that damn horse voted for Nixon...twice I think.  Hard to figure a horse's thinking sometimes. 

"Cut!  And wrap!  I give up...." 

  

 

Off on a quest....

Smiles cross all languages!

Culture Shock with a Smile:

As a friend heads off on a very American sort of adventure, I find myself recalling certain conversations we had on the 'culture' of horseshoeing in this, 'the land of opportunity.'  And aside from the occasional recession, the constant political infighting and our failure to agree on much of  anything, opportunity here does continue to flourish.  Just not quite in the same celebratory fashion, or with the boundless enthusiasm as we once coveted this American prize.  Why?  As my chief protagonist in the new book, The Littlest RaceHorse likes to say, "My dear, it's complicated." 

In this country, we have both ignored and prized the educated mind.  I say ignored, because we chronically fail to prioritize the educational process, or for that matter, willingly accept the responsibility for its cost.  Instead, we play the blame game -- pointing our bony little finger at Congress, the President, maybe the local school board or even the teachers, many of whom have lost what little enthusiasm they had to spare. Begging for pencils and paper does that to a person.  Politicians, these bastards of our own creation, born of our chosen system of government, who we willingly and concurrently cast shame upon -- our many little Frankensteins -- remain the chief targets for our self-righteous wrath.  But who are these villains other than the brigands of our own making -- our choice, our agenda, our priorities.  They do our bidding while we claim no ownership of the crop we have sown.  Dust Bowl farming at its ludicrous best.
      

Making something from nothing...a rare thing today!

And now, in this 21st century, it appears that we have also exceeded the need for the many $150k baccalaureates we still manage to produce each year, and whose expectations this country can apparently no longer accommodate.  We have become, perhaps, like the present Egyptian dichotomy, a country in need of a Spring, or maybe just a serious look at where the train seems to be headed.  Or do we simply offer the business as usual shrug, and toss around the same old  tired recriminations while piously praying for our ultimate salvation from...well, ourselves.  Remember the cherished credo of our founders: "In God we trust.  All others, please submit cash."  Well, the bill has come due on our slovenly, complacent -- even arrogant mindset -- the bare-ass ostrich with his head in a hole.  Proud and blind?  That third-world duality where we covet, even celebrate the papered tiger, yet quietly admire the tradesman, because his skills, as remedial as they might appear to the collegian, guarantees that  his children are not in rags and their stomachs are rarely empty. This, while we in our popular enlightenment, have exported the technology, the jobs and the economy they mutually generate and like Egypt, sadly watch as our middle class children service the needs of others -- a new round of feudalism, the creation of young serfs for the emerging class of mere profiteers, those that casually broker the wealth and effort of others. Urban strip-miners who are just now beginning to feel the hard edge of the anarchy and the social madness they have unleashed.  For this society, like many others in this new age, is rapidly tumbling out of balance, spinning perhaps inevitably toward a point of being unsustainable as a coherent and stable democracy.  For as the middle class falls from view, the very fiber of a compassionate society is stripped away along with it, and the naked beast, the cunning animal in all of us, takes to the street.  He is out there now, watching, waiting -- growing in both strength and determination.         


The middle class has always thrived on the notion found in bettering the lives of the next generation; the children.  It is the foundation of a class that always sought the open road, rarely asked for the easy path and took its minor achievements with both humility and grace.  A success deemed worthy of the effort by standards that only the participants can honestly judge.  And as the middle class continues its downward spiral, what dreams that do remain are rapidly eroded, eaten away by world realities that no longer find it necessary to embrace personal ambition, or the ideals so richly coveted by the individual.  Both represent a kind of sustenance for the human spirit, a purpose for the struggle of existence, and perhaps most importantly, the tangible evidence of your passing this way. 

A little corny?  Sure.  More than a little bleak?  Yes.  But like the shark, it is the subtleties that will kill you.  He bumps you, maybe rubs against you, then bang!  Your leg is missing and he consumes you at his leisure.  But the macro examination is always very relevant in assessing the personal picture.  In these many conversations with the aspiring student, I tried to stare down the clock and re-examine my own motivation for going into a line of work that was physically demanding, complex in the number of skill-sets necessary to succeed, not particularly appealing financially and by some accounts, frickin' dangerous -- especially in 1972, where every other horse you ran into behaved like a dysfunctional Pit Bull...or worse.  But that retrospective task was hampered by a shifting paradigm and one of those anomalies of life that roughly follows the winding path of that old cliche:  "If I knew what I know now...then!"  Well, who says maturity always leads to clarity.  Gray hair, prostate problems, but not always clarity.  The truth was probably that I didn't play well with others...or the myriad of examples found in the first three chapters of Mares, Foals & Ferraris.  You can just pick one and run with it if you like.  Certainly okay by me. 

And the other problem?  Different era with different strokes. Oh, the parameters were certainly similar, but we also had a career breaker, especially if college or inherent wealth wasn't on the plate:  the draft -- and a full-fledged shooting war to go along with it.  Not some video store punk-reality distortion.  Real bullets, real death, real funeral.  Kind of took the fun out of long-term planning.  Honest answer:  rather spend my time with horses than humans.  Still do.

That's my Excuse...What's Yours?

So fast-forward to the present day.  First off, most jobs for marginally educated individuals are now running about par with those for well-educated people and like the draft, you have a job/life expectancy of probably 8-months or less, working for a boss with fewer brains than a hubcap.  So, why not a career instead?  Get a little training, hang out a shingle and find out that 'hubcap and boss' are sometimes mutually inclusive and amazingly, now share the same mirror every morning.  No, psychiatric therapy isn't always tax-deductible.  And the light at the end of the tunnel is a long way off since they never finished it anyway.  Gotta be something else going on.

Be an independent man!  Nope. Instead of working for one hubcap, you've got 300 of them and the same problem with taking a tax deduction on your mental health costs, which seem to be escalating.  And your wife knows how to use a calculator.  And she has been checking the want ads for you.  Thinks a 'real' job might make more sense.  So does your bank manager, your barber, the guy you picked up hitchhiking...most of your clients?  Hmm.

The job?  A hoof full of well-aged horse shit and maggots, a mare that pees on your head if you rub up against her at the wrong time of the month; burned, mashed and rasp-slashed fingers, mud, far too many homicidal horses named, "Princess," checks that are always in the mail (somebody else's mail), people who say, "shoed" once too often on a bad day; rain, snow, sleet, hail...and no, you're not with the Post Office and finally, being fired by a 10-year girl on Ritalin who thinks it is cool to ride the short bus.  Nah, not here.

Ah!  Enlightenment.  OWNERSHIP!  The product is completely yours.  Well, almost.  The truck is made in Japan, the rasp comes from Spain, the nails from Sweden, the shoes from Holland or Germany, the propane from Saudi Arabia, the tires are Chinese knock-offs.  Oh, the anvil?  Canadian.  Close.  But the resultant job is yours and the only thing you exported was your taxes.  Yeah, the IRS has now opened an office in Beijing.  Next year your refund (you don't get one because you're self-employed), will be in yuans.  They look just like dollars, only instead of George Washington, they have a picture of a smiling guy named Mao something.  And now we truly know what the grin was all about.  So...as much as you tried to escape from the nuance and uncertainty of global economic raping and pillaging, the pirates still got everything except the sweat.  That you get to keep...for now.

Oh. The other OWNERSHIP!  The intrinsic, esoteric, metaphysical one!  What was I thinking?  Yes, a rare thing today.  A job where you make something pretty out of nothing of value, to place on an animal who will ultimately shit on it, piss on it and finally destroy it in a fit of remorseless sociopathic disinterest.  Only God could come up with such a ridiculous way for humility to flourish on such a selfish little planet.  And yet, it is the only explanation that makes even marginal sense.  You see, Zuckerberg can't do it, Gates can't and Jobs...well, he's dead anyway.  Tangibles.  Nostradamus meets up with da Vinci to forge the earth's iron for the hooves of Don Quixote's great warhorse, Rocinante.  That rare combination of the mind dictating a creation through the inherent dexterity of the hands.  Builders of rare art in the palaces of the modern-day skeptics, those who radically assume that all self-worth is a niggardly ration handed out reluctantly by the paper-hangers who ply the decrepit corridors and uninspiring offices at Visa or American Express.  Bean counters who actually believe that the road to heaven crosses a toll bridge.

Hmm.  The aspiring student?  Not sure she knows the answer just yet, but she did seem pretty thrilled about seeing both da Vinci and Rocinante on the same afternoon.  That's enough for her.  For now, anyway.           

  

[images: Sandra Mesrine]

                      

    

More shameless commerce...coming summer 2012

Some days, we all feel like orphans.  In the fall of 1962, the whole world almost shared in that sudden realization; that in the end, we might all be completely alone.

A boy, a girl and a horse...discards from a world gone slightly mad.

On a hard journey home...back to reason, to trust, to the infinite possibilities found in simply being alive. 

400 pages...very expensive!  You have any idea how hard it is write that many pages?  Geez...

**********

And yes it has lots of horses, a worthless dog, bad weather, pigs, a really serious ringworm infection, mystery pseudo-sex (you have to work this out in your own imagination), a crotchety old bastard that sounds too much like the author, Velveeta cheese, nuclear weapons, indoor plumbing, bad liquor, fleas, lice, Baptists, Negroes in leather jackets and at least six lawyers in 3 cities: Seattle, Toronto and little ol' Paris, Kentucky. Sorry, no horseshoeing, but we have a little fun with an equine vaginal speculum and an Erector Set. Ha!  Yes, it is quite possible that I'm completely 'round the bend.  First book already proved that point!