Monday, January 12, 2009

A Racing Lexicon for 2009

I thought I'd start out the new year relatively innocuously, and provide a list of words, phrases and concepts that permeate racing—and some that should. Perhaps introduce some new words into the language. If you like a word or phrase, use it often and loudly, and tell me of your experiences with it. Thanks…

N.B. Props to my biz partner, friend and comrade in the trenches, Celeste P. Caruso and to the awesome Justine Blair Carroll for their contributions to this piece.

Arabophobia: The unnatural, unrealistic, ignorant, fear-mongering and reactionary response to the very existence and extraordinary contributions of those from the Middle East, most notably, those in Thoroughbred racing who hail from from Dubai. Arabophobia can be fatal, as closed minds atrophy and eventually shut down, altogether. And, BTW, for those of you who speak fluent Hillbilly: the root word is pronounced, "AIR-ib," not "AAAAA-rab."

Big Brown: A beautiful, sweet, personable, amazing Thoroughbred. Whom we suspect wouldn't have been quite-so-big, sans doping. See "Steroid Void."

Breeders' Cup "Ladies' Day'": A charming 19th Century social event created by Breeders' Cup officials, designed to ignore women's real roles in racing and concentrate instead on the things girls really, really like: make-up and fashion tips; gyno inservices and lessons in proper behavior.

Broodmare: A female Thoroughbred who may have a bright future as a racehorse, but—because she's packin' a uterus—is relegated to the breeding shed too early in her career. Often confused with a Xerox machine. See diagrams of horses at http://www.NTRA.com , and of copiers at http://www.Xerox.com in order to differentiate. Then please pass this information along to owners and trainers.

Calikillication: What happens when 100 horses starve to death on a Thoroughbred breeding farm, 100 miles from the Breeders' Cup—and no one notices.

Comm-oddity: A trainer, owner, groom, handicapper, fan, bettor, administrator or anyone who plays any other role in racing, who mistakenly believes that horses are nothing more than a business investment. Said persons have no right making a living in equine industries, and should relinquish their positions (tout de suite) to those of us who realize that horses are sentient, loving, intelligent beings.

Dope: Unnecessary drugs administered to a horse. Also, the person (veterinarian, trainer) responsible for said administration. See "Venomymous" and "Steroid Void."

Equicide: The murder of horses. Period. Money is exchanged, horses scream, French people dine. Illegal in the United States, and yet—the practice continues, thanks to those dreamy killers in Mexico and Canada.

FanTelligence: The intellectual acumen necessary to be a genuine fan of horseracing. Knowledge of pedigree, politics, laws, doping, personnel, race and workout times and conformation. Most racing officials assume that FanTelligence does not exist; therefore, FanTelligence is neither considered nor respected among those who thrash about wildly in their efforts to market the sport.

Furlong: One-eighth of a mile, 660 feet, 220 yards. A word with which women are familiar, but which is often used to quiz us, to see if we're smart.

Handicrapping: The act of bull-throwing in order to create the illusion of knowledge in the science of handicapping. Usually involves speaking loudly and waving hands around in order to confirm one's importance as an "expert." One who handicraps, of course, is a Handicrapper.

Hotwire: What NYRA's parking attendants will do to your car, if it's parked improperly in Saratoga. No doubt frowned-upon at Keeneland or Santa Anita, but a socially acceptable practice in New York. We trust our attendants—we're all family here.

Infield Fan: Oxymoron. One cannot be drunk and vomiting; sexually predatory; mud-wrestling—and watch the Kentucky Derby with a single digit of IQ intact to actually care about the drama unfolding on the track. A myth perpetuated by Smarketers and beer distributors.

InNoDifference: The trait of closing one's eyes to the obvious, of standing aside while atrocities are committed. Unless the Thoroughbred industry speaks out as One Voice against the sin of equine slaughter, we come across as being indifferent. Ergo, we are No-Different from the AQHA. And every bit as complicit of the crime.

Jolley Balls: The joyous execution of the natural methods of a Hall of Fame Trainer. A Trainer thus predisposed, and having the guts to say NO to unnecessary drugs, is said to possess Jolley Balls.

"Ladies' Classic": It sounds like a razor. Or a new type of bikini wax. But NO, it's the Breeders' Cup DISTAFF, the "big race" on the BC card for fillies and mares. Relegated to "Ladies' Day," the day before the "serious" races—the moniker, "Ladies' Classic" completely diminishes the importance of the race, and of the great female horses who won it in the past (e.g., Azeri). And by-the-way, guys—female horses can't be "ladies." Otherwise, they'd defer to males every time.

Mennonitis: The state of fear instilled in a horse's heart when s/he realizes that s/he has been bought by a "pacifist" Mennonite at New Holland. Many such people have no problem working horses into the ground, or selling them to a killer-buyer for more money.

Merciful Slaughter: An oxymoron. See, "jumbo shrimp."

Natural Horsemanship: Preached by Pat Parelli, and practiced by NYRA Head Starter Roy and his Assistant Starters. The revolutionary concept of cooperating with the horse, rather than intimidating or scaring it into submission. Unique idea, that the horse wants to trust all the humans in his midst, rather than being tail-and-ear-pulled into the gate.

New Holland: Think, "Old Holland," circa 17th Century Europe. Think, "slavery," "screaming," "pain," and "violent death."

Non-Sextarian: The almost religiously fanatical belief—and unofficial policy—that woman have no right to be involved with the Thoroughbred industry.

Old Boys Club: Like the Illuminati or Skull and Bones, the steeped-in-tradition, self-perpetuating system of assuring that women and other minorities stay in their places: pretty frocks in the Clubhouse, and the backstretch, respectively.

"Older Horse": Given that a Thoroughbred is not fully grown until age FIVE, it is not only incorrect but outright idiotic to refer to a six-, seven- or eight-year-old Thoroughbred as being "older." The myth of the "Older Horse" is perpetuated by those who make obscene amounts of money ripping horses off the track after their third-year campaign in order to send these teenagers to the breeding shed.

Real Men: Men who aren't threatened when they detect estrogen in the barn. Gents such as Dennis Brida, Leroy Jolley, Alan Zura and John Pricci, who respect women in racing, and do all they can to further the cause. Hooves up to men like these—we dig 'em.

Richard "Duh"trow: Self-explanatory.

'Roid Rage: The overwhelming emotion expressed by true horselovers when confronted with the fact that many Thoroughbred Champions have been shot-up and are being abused thus.

Sin of Non-Commission: The fact that racing is the only major American sport for which there is no governing body, no universal rules and laws to protect the very horses who provide a hefty living for many people—is nothing short of a condemnable sin.

Smarketers: Madison Avenue morons who also make gobs of money feeding a boatload of nonsense to racing administrators desperate to find ways to bring more people to the track, and to betting. These Smarketers shovel all the crap that works for Disneyland and casinos at officials—and they eat it up. Bouncy-bounces; face-painting for kids; hot dog eating and "how drunk can you get in the infield?" contests—everything but introducing potential fans to an actual, oh, I don't know—HORSE—is packaged and sold to the strung-out folks who run racetracks. And they buy up these stupid ideas, because they've paid crazy amounts of cash to the Smarketer for these ill-advised plans. Instead of asking the Fans. (Novel concept, I know. See, "FanTelligence.")

Sport of Kings: A misnomer for a sport which is dominated by female fans. See, "Old Boys' Club."

Starter/Assistant Starter: The Cowboys of Racing, those hot, strong, quick-witted, level-headed men who love the horses so much that they're willing to crawl into a cubbyhole in an electric gate with them, and save their lives at the risk of their own.

Steroid Void: The act of invalidating the race record of a horse whose entire career has been manipulated by inappropriate use of steroids.

Strumpet Call to the Post: The high-pitched alarm that goes out to summon scores of scantily-clad, stiletto-heeled, pseudo-seductive young Kentucky women to the third floor of Keeneland. Perchance the inspiration for "Ladies' Day" at the BC? NOT. (Usually observed drinking pink beverages with abandon, these fillies ship to Saratoga for August.)

Teaser: A male horse whose job it is to get the mare ready for her date with destiny. Also, the campaign of false hope conducted by Churchill Downs, that "common folk" can get decent tickets to the Kentucky Derby—only to be rejected every year, in favor of rock stars and tartlets with no knowledge of the sport, whose only interest is being seen at The Big Party.

Thoroughbred: A living, breathing, intelligent, sentient being capable of giving and receiving love. The second-fastest animal on Earth, after the cheetah. A powerhouse of beauty, strength, perfect musculature and intellectual ability. Often confused with an old shoe or steak dinner. See, "New Holland."

Thumbs: The only advantage humans have over horses, the sole reason why horses don't rule the world: lack of thumbs.

"Unwanted Horse": A non-existent animal. A phrase used to justify slaughter, often by those for whom artificial insemination is the accepted practice. Every horse, somewhere, could find a home if all horselovers put our heads together.

Venomymous: The act of securing and using cobra venom on a horse, without knowledge or consent of the horse or owner.

Verminator: Job description of a Jack Russell Terrier, often seen in shedrows and in stalls, weeding out da rats.

Women in Racing: An underutilized phrase, almost archaic in use. Refers to the 51% of the population which actually constitutes the majority of the fanbase of Thoroughbred racing—and yet which accounts for only 5% of the professional and executive positions in the sport.


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Sunday, November 02, 2008

The Alpha Mare B.C.: A Big Thank You Kiss to Lil’ Dickie Dutrow

Just when we thought it was safe...racing's Gangsta reminds us that we're not all equal.

As we wind down following the Breeders’ Cup, it all shakes down and the Really Important Stuff is what stays on top. There’s so much I could say about the artificial surface at Santa Anita—and the fact that hosting a Breeders’ Cup there is an exercise in stupidity, and unfairness. (Let’s face it: when The Greatest Horse on Earth comes in fourth—it ain’t the horse’s fault. The playing field at any racetrack boasting polycrap of any kind is not level, no matter what they tell you. Marketing, marketing, marketing—and somebody’s brother makin’ a boatload of cash—are the elements that go into fake dirt, along with the rubber tires and carcinogens.)

I could rant about that for a few paragraphs, but my ferret-like mind has found something even more fabulous about which to opine post-Breeders’ Cup. (The horse racing season is measured B.C., isn’t it?)

BC Day for me was disappointing, painful, surprising, joyful in spots—but mostly, an occasion to give thanks. As the American holiday of Thanksgiving rolls ‘round, and we look within, we find ourselves in a quiet place of gratitude.

Cue the Yanni music:

This year, I find myself most grateful to…trainer, Richard Dutrow.

Thank you, Notorious D, for reminding every woman, girl, filly and mare in Thoroughbred racing that you are a card-carrying member of The Old Boys’ Club, that bastion of misogyny and most of the other –isms that hold back the wheels of progress.

Thank you for reminding us that that unsavory concept is alive and well in our beautiful sport. Dick, we’d fallen asleep at the wheel—we’d almost forgotten that Thoroughbred racing is a sport dominated by White Males, many of whom are equipped with bad history and their feelings of entitlement. Yes, there are many great men out there—brilliant horsemen, and egalitarian thinkers—like Todd Pletcher, Leroy Jolley and John Pricci—who know that the presence of “female parts� south of the border does not create an environment hostile to the training and understanding of a horse.

(In fact, I can quote Leroy, ver batim: I first met the Hall of Famer in 2006 at the Oklahoma in Saratoga. As we discussed the fact that racing’s administrators have no idea how to correctly market the sport, Leroy pronounced, “They don’t know how to market this sport! Do you know who they’re supposed to market it to? Let me ask you—who loves a horse more than a 13-year-old girl??�)

Right on, O Wise One. Women, not men, are born with built-in horse genes. I could be a big Female Chauvinist Sow, and write an entire treatise on the fact that every girl wants a horse from the time she can speak. This is not so with little boys. I could say that women, not men, are predisposed to know and intuitively understand horses. This, for males, it’s a learned affection. I could go on and on about the naturalness of the human female/equine relationship—a naturalness which is absent in all but the most rare males.

I could say all that stuff, but I won’t.

‘Cause then I’d be guilty of androgyny: hatred of men.

And I don’t hate men, I don’t even think that they’re inferior to women. I like men. I love several men.

I won’t write all that chauvinistic stuff because then I’d be the female version of Richard Dutrow. Sexism is ugly. Reverse sexism—while understandable—is still unattractive.

I am so, so grateful to Richard Dutrow—and all you women who are similarly grateful, please write him a letter—for reminding us that we have a long struggle ahead of us. (The very fact that the Breeders’ Cup TV coverage included a piece on the women trainers in the BC—indicates that we’re still thought of as an anomaly. There should be no need to take special notice, to do a video piece, on women who are Thoroughbred trainers.)

Truly, Notorious R.D., I am eternally grateful. Like so many other women in this sport, I was toodling along, thinking that the coast was clear. That all men think like Pletcher and Pricci.

That the fact that I’m packin’ ovaries has no bearing on my status in the sport.

You, my dear, underappreciated Richard Dutrow, brought it all back to me: the niggling little stones in my shoe as I inch along my personal shedrow, carving out my career in Thoroughbred racing.

Ah, yes… the three turf writers (all men) who sadly informed me that I probably won’t make it in this sport because I write like a girl. My racing partner who—after an entire spring and summer mucking a stall together, and knowing that I’ve been involved with horses since 1962—“quizzed� me, saying, “Quick! What’s a furlong?�

Dick—and I say that with a ton of love in my heart—Dick, your inane pronouncement that you’d never acknowledge a woman trainer—God bless ya, you drove it all home for us. A steel spike, quietly sheathed in a blue velvet bag. Straight through the forehead, nailing all women in this sport squarely in the brain. (Yes, Dick, we DO have brains—and they’re not tucked into our uteri!) You brought it home, you didn’t bluster and get all-loud on us. You pronounced, on international television, that that which women in racing do, or know—specifically, women trainers—has “no interest� for you at all. In a style quite unlike all your egotistical ravings about the beautiful and mishandled Big Brown—you quietly, like a mouse carrying arsenic into a cat’s lair—stated that women in racing are invalid.

God bless ya, Richard. We are so grateful for your kind reminder that the coast is NOT clear. That the future of females in racing is NOT secure. We were lulled into a false sense of security—and then you crooked your finger, whispered into our collective ear—and the Truth came roaring into our faces.

Thank you for the wake-up call, Snoop Ricky-Rick. You are a Gangsta of Thoroughbred Racing, the voice of the 19th Century, desperately clinging to your little world. You sounded the alarm for all we women in racing—and the men who dig it that we’re here. We are now more determined than ever—as are our male supporters, friends and colleagues.

And for this favor, Richard Dutrow, it is my distinct honor to present you with the 2008 Golden Uterus Award. (Weeping, joyful gratitude, from all of us, really)—a Big Thank You Kiss, plus your Golden Uterus trophy—from me and The Girls. (Digs her toe into the dirt, casts her eyes downward, smiles shyly.)

Fade to Black.






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Thursday, October 02, 2008

California Screamin’:  Ignorance + Denial = Death

I have had it. Officially done with stupidity, ignorance and complacency. There was a time when I tried to put my faith where my mouth was—occasionally—and attempted to show a little tenderness to people who didn’t deserve it.

No More Ms. Nice Guy: I’m angry as Hell, I’m packin’ heat—and I’m naming names. I’m up at an ungodly hour of the morning, writing this rant because I just saw something that sent me over the edge.

This video online (Yahoo! News) is about 100 horses being starved to death by their owners in California.

Not “just any� horses—these are Thoroughbreds. OUR Thoroughbreds. Every person who has a stake in Thoroughbred racing—whether you’re the breeder who made the horse; the owner, trainer, jockey, exercise rider, groom--or the bettor who makes money off their sweat—you are responsible for the welfare of our equine athletes. If you make your living from your involvement in the sport—you are responsible for their welfare. You can’t have the perks without the responsibilities: that’s a lesson we teach three-year-olds.

(No, I’m not kidding. There are all kinds of ways we can step up to the plate and take responsibility for the horses—it’s up to you to find your way, I can’t help you there.)

Back to the starving Thoroughbreds in California. Oh, let’s name names: they were/may still be—on Cochema Ranch in Frazier Valley, California. Owned by Cecilia Bor and her family, this Thoroughbred puppy mill is a member of California Thoroughbred Breeders’ Association. Three of their stallions—General Gem, Giant Asset and Cat in the House—are listed in the 2008 CTBA Stallion Directory.

We must note here that Giant Asset’s pedigree is Affirmed, out of Nashua’s Frolic, a daughter of Nashua. This horse was no slouch.

Ah, yes: “was.� Giant’s Asset is dead. In 2006. Apparently of starvation. The other two are probably dead, too—just a wild guess. I tried to find them at Pedigree Query, but nothing beyond their pedigrees there. That awkward silence on the ‘site, when there’s no information about a horse. (“He, uh, ‘slipped through the cracks.’ Yeah, that’s it, he slipped through the cracks..�)

Responsible breeders and owners are happy to provide info to accompany their horses’ pedigrees. Ergo, it’s a good guess that, when a horse’s information is missing—the horse found its way to the killpen, starvation or some other unsavory end.

The story out of California is that a good citizen—and no doubt, horse lover—Patty Wallace—collected a stack of complaints about Cochema Ranch and the horses locked on that farm, starving to death and suffering from myriad unthinkable diseases and rot. Ms. Wallace handed over the stack of complaints to the local Humane Society, which apparently took its time getting investigators out there. So Patty called the Sheriff, who looked at the complaints and descended on the ranch.

That’s the only Good News of this piece: that someone (Patty Wallace) has a heart of compassion, and did something. And that the sheriff’s department got involved, and began removing horses from the clutches of the human vermin who owned them.

Now for the Bad News: not “news,� per se—just my observations. Now is the time to flip the channel or hang with me, pick one. I am livid. My eyes are practically filled with blood, as rage about this incident floods my heart and mind. I cannot fathom anyone—the Bors, the owners of Cochema Ranch—having 100 horses (Thoroughbred or other) and allowing them to starve to death. There is absolutely NO EXCUSE for it. None. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Noyle.

If you have horses and you can’t afford to feed them—if life’s gone down the dumper and you can’t provide food, clean water, medicine and shelter for your horses—give them away. Hand them over to TRF or any of the myriad wonderful charities that will gladly find homes for them.

Stand on the roof of your house and scream, “HELP!� until someone comes to the rescue. But do not—DO NOT—tell me that you love your horses, yet you allowed them to rot like so many corpses in a Wes Craven film.

I don’t want to hear your excuses: “the price of gas is high.� “The price of hay is high.� “Feed is going through the roof.� “We love our horses, but…�

Clearly, the Bor family is nuts, simple-minded or both. No one with a decently-high IQ would allow this to happen, and actually go on record as saying, “We love our horses. They’re our children.� Cecilia Bor said that to a TV reporter. Obviously, Ms. Bor is either a liar or an idiot—there’s no middle ground.

The Mansons were a “family,� too.

Now for the Big Indictments: where is the CHRB and the CTBA in all this? The California Horse Racing Board—while a governing board that oversees the racing aspect of the industry—must surely have its eyes on the breeding operations in the state? And if not—why not?

And the California Thoroughbred Breeders’ Association? To wag my finger at them and say, “Shame on you,� is not enough, clearly. Believe it or not, Cochema Ranch is actually a member of CTBA.

Those three stallions are listed in THIS year’s California Stallion Directory. Including the dead one.

Seems the California Thoroughbred Stallion Directory needs to hire a fact-checker.

The CTBA had under its nose at least one Thoroughbred breeding farm that was killing its horses by starving them to death—and either didn’t know it, or ignored the fact. Does no one from either CHRB or CTBA take a drive and do spot-checks on farms? Or was it so important to add the names of those three emaciated stallions to the roster of state-breds that they took the Bor’s membership fees and ran into that comfy state of denial?

At any rate, someone, somewhere, dropped the ball. 100 horses—including foals, mares in foal and stallions—have been starving to death on Cochema Ranch since at least 2006. These horses have been dropping like flies, too weak even to neigh, too discouraged to nicker. And some stupid, self-absorbed, money-grubbing pig of a human at every step along the way—either ignored or denied the plight of these horses.

Oh, I know that the pro-equicide people will say that Cochema Ranch is a good example of why America “needs� equicide (horse slaughter for money). That “unwanted� horses starve to death, so slaughter is the viable option. And that, as we know, is a load of crap—because, while the pro-slaughter people hold their thumbs and middle fingers together, chanting “Ohm� and “unwanted horses�—they know, as do you, that horses in the shape of those on Cochema Ranch aren’t “fit� enough to make it onto the killerbuyers’ trucks.

Think about that for a minute: these horses were too weak and sick to walk onto a slaughterhouse-bound truck—so even the killerbuyers, the scum-suckers of the Earth—wouldn’t take them.

(So the “unwanted horses� argument is invalid. Don’t send me a comment ranting about “unwanted horses� and why equicide would have been “better� for the Cochema horses. That’s non-sense, and you know it.)

Can you hear it? Can you smell the money in the air: Breeders’ Cup Season is upon us. For the next month, the industry will be fawning over the richest owners and breeders. Kabillion-dollar horses will do battle on the untested artificial surface of Santa Anita. Wealthy women with way-too much money will don Versace and Prada, their men proudly displaying their fillies—and their horses. Conspicuous consumption will mark the party to which the masses are not invited, the soiree for those who can afford the best caviar, champagne and feed.

Rome burns. Nero fiddles. 100 miles away from the Breeders’ Cup at Santa Anita—100 horses are dead or dying. One-hundred miles, 100 Thoroughbreds—children of Affirmed, grands of Seattle Slew—call out to the California Thoroughbred Breeders’ Association and California Horse Racing Board. Their cries are drowned out by the sound of All That Money flapping in the breeze at Santa Anita.

The two governing bodies whose responsibility it was to oversee breeding farms in the state of California have failed miserably. I cannot be convinced that they didn’t know this was going on: the chain of evidence from two years ago indicates that the first reports—when Giant Asset was found starved to death—had to have gone straight from the Ventura County Sheriff’s Office to the CHRB. There is no valid reason why, two years later, Cochema Ranch is still in existence, the Bors locked in a Cal State detention barn.

If every Thoroughbred farm in California offered to take, love, nurture and feed just ONE of these horses—the problem would be solved. But I’m sure it won’t happen, because there’s no money to be made on a sack of bones that was once a racehorse. The only reward to stepping up to the plate and taking responsibility is the knowledge that you did The Right Thing.

Shame on you, CHRB and CTBA, for expending every ounce of energy, money and attention to those two days at the end of October—and for ignoring 100 of your own charges, suffering for over two years.

You Thoroughbred “experts� haven’t stepped up to the plate—I am ashamed to be in the same sport as you. You don’t deserve your fat jobs overseeing the California Thoroughbred industry—and 100 horses don’t deserve to die for YOUR sins.



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