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!  



Roadstermania...and other shoeing anomalies

[image: calgarystampede.com]

In Defense of...Sanity,

I Guess:

Found myself in a spirited...well, spirited and I suppose in some ways, mean-spirited discussion the other day (Where else?  Facebook.), over this silly shoe.  And to be honest, I don't think this is a particularly good one.  Might be. Who knows?  When half the world still makes horseshoes out of re-bar and the nails from coat hangers, perhaps this is a pleasing alternative.  Not sure about the answer here either, merely the insight I might want to inject in a discussion about art and the real world.  The real, real world.

See, I referred to this shoe as a 'door-knocker.'  This led to my immediate condemnation as a suppressor of art, a critic of skills, a slayer of the pursuit of something or the other...oh yes, not perfection, as that might be confused with excess hubris, but rather near-perfection on the road to nirvana or bankruptcy.  Not sure which.  But that comment did brand me a heretic though, by most available standards.  That is because we rarely if ever hear from those who make a living, not necessarily this shoe, or any shoe.  And yes, I've made this shoe.  And no, I've never put one on a horse.  As I clearly pointed out, if one of my trainers saw me put this on a horse, he'd more than likely phone for either the police or the Smithsonian.  It is obsolete, impractical, probably a little hazardous and represents little more than a remedial course in equine antiquities, or perhaps a fundamental forging exercise.  Yes, difficult and complicated...as a horseshoe.  But that is all it is and neither the horse, the horse owning public nor a mortgage banker is likely to appreciate the effort found in perfecting obsolescence.

So now that I have thoroughly pissed-off everybody once again, let's look at how this thread (discussion), got started.  Simple enough: an honest question.  An aspiring farrier from another country wanted to seriously look at the culture, educational opportunities, economics and potential viability of American horseshoeing -- before he/she invested in an education here.  He/she came from a European country with a highly regulatory and educational process for teaching the 'trade' of farriery.  In her country, perspective farriers begin their training in high school and will exhaust a good ten years of their young lives in pursuit of that goal -- and the license (the right to practice), that insures, by the available standards...their inherent competency.  And I used the word 'culture' purposely, as in many parts of Europe, a long-standing relationship exists between the unions and guilds that is integrated into the very social fabric of the country.  A gestalt exists based on mutual respect, strict standards and an economic parity based on that investment in education.  Here?  Buy a few tools and hit the road.  The horse is then doomed to establish both your credibility and ultimately your ethics.  And yes, that is grossly oversimplified, but American horseshoeing has always operated on a sliding scale of abilities -- from excellent to mediocre, or worse.  The standards are self-ordained, the business relationships more personal than pragmatic and most judgement or accountability lies after the fact, not before.  To make a bad comparison, the electrician is assumed to be competent because the house didn't burn down...yet.

This potential student also tried to investigate the economic conditions of the trade in America.  Not much to be found. Farriery is not a recognized term here and even horseshoer failed to unearth anything even remotely accurate or timely.  Best he/she found was an 'average-income statistic' of $22,000 per annum (US Dept. of Labor), which by the way, listed it under "non-farm animal caretaker."  Farriery was not even listed.  Which in case you haven't noticed, places farriers near or below the poverty line in all 50 states.  Now, you might not think that to be the case, but those very statistics are what financial institutions refer to in assessing your potential earning capacity.  Of course that is not the whole financial picture, much less the truth, unless of course, you happen to be a bank, a truck dealer or one of the bean counters over at Visa, who don't issue credit based on good intentions and self-esteem.  Instead, they rely on these very statistics in each and every determination.  Even unreliable ones, because it helps them to say, "Fuck off," without the need for guilt or feigned sympathy.  But you see, he/she was trying to develop a 5-year business plan for what would be his/her business -- ultimately a livelihood.  Sensibly, I might add.  For that, the student was roundly scoffed at, ridiculed...told to go home.  When he/she inquired other farriers on the topic, they invariably quoted the Holy Grail of 'price.'  Meaningless, and very often a little shy of the truth.  We're like fishermen.  The fish always gets bigger according to the audience.

I, for one, hate statistics.  But they do hold an inherent value when one is trying to figure out what the hell is going on...or better yet, when things aren't going on, or going well.  In this country we have had a national association for around 30-years:  The American Farriers Association (AFA).  It is a kind of pseudo trade/social group of sorts.  Now, most professional associations start out with a Mission Statement -- something like, "I want to be rich!"  Vagary is important because it needs to be kind of equal-opportunity madness.  An association needs money to function and membership to create group esteem.  That way all the lemmings are convinced that it is the hot place to hang out, even if does happen to be on the edge of a precipice.  But sarcasm aside, that is perfectly supportable.  Next order of business is to 'define' what you represent.  That is where statistics determine your clout in the business world.  It is how you say, "You need to pay attention to us!" without yelling.  It basically means that one of the association's principle tasks is to help sell you in the marketplace.  It is a common voice for disparate ideas and should reflect a common level of competency --  hence, consumer trust.  But it hasn't happened.  The AFA has remained virtually unknown outside its own membership, self-selling it would seem, and after those 30-odd years, still fails to identify its constituency or what this little industry of ours really represents.  But then, we don't really want to give up any information anyway.  Right?

However, the real injustice is leveled at the student.  The next generation of farriers that are forced to ride the coat-tails of all previous horseshoers.  They inherit the bad accounting, the sloppy paperwork, the farriers tax code (Yeah, go ahead and smile), the legal exposure, the questions from the bank, the insurance company...our buddies at Visa; the sundry and frightening list of 'stuff' that has nothing whatsoever to do with shoeing a horse, but everything to do with surviving in a country where failure to cover your ass can be a death sentence.  And the schools do not teach it, farriers do not discuss it and the same old moss-covered boulder rolls downhill to some inevitable disaster that is always predictable...yet always personal:  the divorce, the medical emergency, the repossession, the college fund that evaporated...that surgery you postponed five times.  Sure, nobody hears about those stories, just the fables about the 14 horses you did today at $280 a pop.  Hmm.  No wonder we have an abundance of students.  The Tooth Fairy handles all the marketing.

But, back to roadstermania.  In case you are curious, I also handed the 'doorknocker' speech to Bob Marshall when he showed up in western Canada in the late 70's to teach the 'British System.'  I believe I said something like, "Shit Bob, this is North America for God's sake!  You need to lighten up a bit on this stuff."  Well, we played with it, made a few, had a couple of competitions under the British Team rules...realistic competition though.  First place was barely recognizable as a horseshoe and the second-place shoe had the caulk replaced by a sizable forge-welded clinker.  My specimen shoe caused a furor because I used a Crescent wrench to reverse the caulk I turned backwards.  Didn't seem to be covered in the rule book.  But, a bunch of us needed to get back to work and playing in the fire didn't pay too many bills.  And competing...well, it was getting way too serious and far too irrelevant for many of us.  For you see, we were trying to run a business in a difficult trade, in difficult times and nobody, except perhaps another farrier, gave a shit one way or the other.  And as far as I can ascertain, they still don't.  That might be a sad commentary in some ways, but for the sake of future students, give them both sides of the equation and let them decide.  Shoe a thousand horses cleanly, serviceable, soundly...then worry about art school.  Education has no worth without perspective.  Balance the truth, then worry about balancing the horse.  And the next time a mortgage banker laughs in your face, feel free to join in.  After all, the joke is on you.

  
     

A Shifting Paradigm: Gender Gap Closing in Farriery

Women in the Professions:

[image: sandra mesrine]

 

Happened to be perusing a photo gallery the other morning that pictured opening day at one of America's farriery (horseshoeing), schools.  Eager faces -- almost like any freshmen class at university; studying the syllabus for the coming semester of studies.  But then, I noticed something else and began counting heads (or hats maybe), and noticed that...well, as best I could determine, that somewhere between 40 and 50% of the students were women.  Certainly not shocking, but like most trends, a matter of passing curiosity, especially considering that 20-years ago a female horseshoer would have been a rarer find than 10-cent coffee.  Drinkable coffee that is.  So I took a look at it.

The first obstacle was comparative statistics.  Of course, none exist.  While farriers in the United States have had professional representation for almost thirty-years, apparently nobody is very interested in how many farriers actually practice this ancient craft, much less how many women.  Naturally, this makes it pretty difficult to ascertain if this is actually a profession, or merely a weekend hobby for people with a blacksmithing fetish.  Demographics are critically important for a number of reasons, for in order to make critical decisions about an industry, any industry, one must be able to define the scope and economic impact at the center of the conversation.  Well, maybe some other time.

Women made their greatest inroads to both management and labor on the heels of the Equal Opportunity [in] Employment Acts (EOE), in the 1970's.  Initially, the increase was very dramatic, tapering off (but not down), after 1980.  Briefly, women in professions (2005 stats) were: Engineering, 7%; Medicine and Surgery, 38%; Management/Administration, 57%; Paralegals, 83%; and Dietitians (MA or PhD), 95%.  At the same time, these degreed professions also represented a 79% increase in income level over women with only a high school diploma.  Far more significant that the disparity among men.  However, the trend also produced a separate statistic on equality: no real distinction in unemployment rates by gender, meaning that in a recession year, joblessness is no longer the sole bastion of male workers.

But here we get stuck.  What do you compare farriery with when no suitable model exists and no information is readily available?  We always end up back at veterinary medicine if for no other reason than it might involve a horse.  That makes for a weak assumption at best and really limits the discussion more to sociology than economics, and just how they might intertwine. First obstacle: dramatic differences in the educational systems.  That amounts to a simple ratio of investment to potential return.  (Debt to Income Ratio)  Medicine requires a 7-year investment (at least), while farriery can be as little as 8-weeks.  Apples and oranges.  However, it has led to some dramatic shifts in veterinary medicine, particularly since the application of the EOE laws, which also ended all discriminatory application processes in higher education based on gender.  Canada alone, saw male applicants in veterinary medicine drop from 44% in 1985 to 28% by 1999.  US statistics mirrored those numbers.  But why?

Two papers, presented  [Carin A. Smith, DVM, Vet.Cln Small Anim. 36 (2006) 329-339 & Jeanine Lofstedt, DVM, Canadian Vet Journal, 6-03]  by these authors, basically came to similar conclusions, though placed different priorities on agreeable relevance.  Loftset noted these key themes:

For women:

 
1)  Elimination of discriminatory practices in education.

2)  Improvement of chemical restraint in large animals.

3)  Increase in number of female role models.

4)  Caring image of veterinarians portrayed through books and television.


For men:


1)  Low or stagnant income levels.

2)  Loss of autonomy in the profession.  Proliferation of 'corporate' practices. Decrease in number of practices relative to employed veterinarians.

3)  'Trend effect.'  More women entering the profession -- decreasing professional 'prestige' as a male occupation.  (Ouch!)  But in effect, reducing veterinary medicine to a secondary profession.  The old adage of a 'spousal' job.  [My words, not the authors.]

Cain offered a little different spin on what she referred to as the 'feminization of the profession.'  Most notably, the tendency (and market limits), for women to accept lower salaries than men, which in turn, drops the overall income level for all practitioners.  However, a caveat exists here:  Women don't place income as high on their list of expectations as men.  They (women), tend to find more satisfaction with lower incomes in exchange for a more subjective criteria:  primarily in relationships with colleagues, staff and clients.  She goes on to say that most men look at money as the objective criteria, and further that women are less likely to engage in 'practice ownership,' primarily due to competing demands.  Ownership rates: Men, 61%; Women, 38%.  Almost opposite of the figures applying to veterinary schools.  She goes on to note that it would appear that the levels of care and nurturing have increased in proportion to the number of women entering the field (admittedly difficult to qualify), at the expense of decreased income, but most of this seems to be in the areas of personal preference and lifestyle choices.

So here we are again at what we can now call the 'feminization of farriery.'  Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?  There is no doubt it is happening, regardless of the inability to capture the numbers.  Will it change the profession.  Certainly.  Will it diminish the profession's stature economically?  Not likely.  It may actually improve the picture, for women have an uncanny ability to look beyond the bare-bones economics many men choose to practice.  But in the end, we may never know the answer anyway.  For as long as the profession (by popular accord it would seem), remains in the shadows of the mainstream --  no argument, analysis or projection is practical or possible.  And just maybe it will be the women professionals who finally lead horseshoeing out of the deep, dark recesses of our past.  Or not.