We humans have an innate need to find things to which we can relate on a level so deep, so...cellular...that we almost suffer, we ache in our very fiber,  from the profound joy of realizing that someone truly gets us. 

Case in point:  My friends at Caballo Press of Ann Arbor are giving a great gift to the world.  "Horsenameographies:  Life Stories in a Race Horse Name" by Horse Lovers Everywhere.  Even as I write this, the book is hot off the press.  The lovely collection brings into our hearts the names of 200+ people--their real names, I would daresay--for these are names that people chose for themselves, or which Fate gave them subsequent to the monikers assigned them upon birth.  The publishers spent the Autumn of 2009 asking the questioin:  "If you were a race horse--who would you be?" 

An extraordinary question, for, indeed--Life, itself, is a race. 

And, as they say:  if you ain't the lead horse--the scenery never changes.

Along these same lines, I would pose the question today:  What's your theme song?  Music is like oxygen to me:  I could not live without it.  Virtually every significant moment of my Life has been accompanied by music that either was playing in the background, or conjured in my brain as events unfolded.  I'm sure it's the same for you:  Bach and Beatles, Miles Davis and Stone Temple Pilots.  emo, Rap, Soul, R&B, Rock, Metal, Baroque, Medieval and Renaissance--someone, somewhere (I'm paraphrasing Debussey here)--reached into Heaven, pulled down music from the celestial realms and it became part of the tapestry of your Life.  Without music in our Lives, we go through motions but lack emotion.   Like a movie without a soundtrack, actions become flat, two-dimensional and grey--only  shades of grey...

I'll start this book review by being brutally honest:  I don't know anything about education.  I mean, I got an education (high school, college).  I had some great Teachers, Professors and Mentors along the way.  The combined Wisdom of these Educators changed my Life in many ways, all for the better.  I learned how to think critically, and to apply those principles of logical thought not only to academic work and intellectual endeavour, but to Life, itself.  (Arguing with someone who doesn't argue critically, is a blast.  The next time you have a fight with a significant other, throw out this sentence:   "That's an ad hominem argument--sorry, you lose!"  This is endlessly entertaining for me.  And wildly aggravating to the worthy adversary.)

I digress.  I am going off the board today, and reviewing a book that has nothing whatsoever to do with horses or their role in my Life as Muse.  But the path I took in Life, which brought me to this place of vocational fulfillment as a communicator in the lovely world of horses, had its solid foundation in the insights of one Richard Michael Holmes, my high school English and Drama Teacher at Watervliet High School in Watervliet, New York.

"Prof," as we called him, has written a book filled with Wisdom that he shares graciously, no holding back.  This is the missive I share with you today, which I hope you will all acquire so that you, too, may learn at the knee of a master...

It seems that everyone on the planet--and many from Mars--are weighing in on the "showdown" in Arkansas in April.  Reigning Horse of the Year, Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta, the West Coast Phenom, are signed up to race against each other (and a few other brave souls) in the Apple Blossom.  A race which in the past was a Handicap, but as a concession to Zenyatta's connections,  has become an Invitational.

The race is on, and, God knows, unless Charles Cella takes my challenge seriously, April 9th will find me plastered to a wide-screen TV.  (I'd rather be at Oaklawn, to pray silently and offer a calming voice to the cacophonous vibe that will only intensify between today and that day.)  I will be praying, first and foremost, for safety and health for all the horses in the race.  And then my heart will explode within my chest as I will Rachel to do what she does best--win with grace and style. 

But I have an alternative scenario, which came to me last night.  This article won't be the long missive to which you've all become accustomed.  But it may be one that truly offers an idea that can help racing in immeasurable ways.  You want good PR for the sport, for a change?  Don't promote a race in which fans are becoming truly ugly.  Jerry Springer has more thinking, rational guests than racing has fans at this moment.  There's a lotta ugly being thrown around by people who claim to love the horses--but to paraphrase I Corinthians 13, Love don't do ugly.

On February 18th, I'll take my words (and hopefully some wit) into the arenae of virtual and voice:  Thursday will mark the debut of "View from a Broad," a racing radio talk show hosted by, well, me.     (www.blogtalkradio.com/thoroughbredwriter ).  I suspect that at least part of every show will feature me mouthing off about something that's stuck in my craw that week.  What good is it to have a radio show if I just "think happy thoughts"?  No one would listen, and even I'd be bored.

I'll give you a sneak peek, here and now, on Mairzy Doats at Saratoga.com--here's what's got my goat this week.  Trust me,  I will discuss this on the 18th, I'm certain that my goat will still be gotten after another six days roll by.   It may not seem to be such a Big Deal to you on the surface, but the implications are tremendous.  Please read carefully, and consider.

The thing that sends me 'round the bend this morning, that seriously makes me want to stick hot needles into my eyes,  is the fact that Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta are going to go head-to-head on April 9th in the Apple Blossom at Oaklawn. 

I am all knotted up, just thinking about it.  I will continue to be in a state of knots, clutching my Crucifix and Saint Eligius holy card until the race is over and all horses and riders walk off the track, sound.

When I was a little squirt, my Mother nicknamed me both "Mare" (how prophetic) and The Barefoot Contessa.   (I had no idea that she got the phrase from the title of a hotsy-totsy film starring Ava Gardner.)  For some reason, Mom associated my penchant for going naturally-footed with my Italian ancestry on my Father's side.  I think she thought I'd grow up to be Sophia Loren.  When she was feeling fanciful, she'd wave her arm and pronounce grandly that I was La Barefoot Contessa Ahl-TYE-ree, attempting to properly pronounce my foreign surname which (in the 1960's, in upstate New York) sounded to the locals to be tres exotic.

To me, shoes were an unnecessary cultural construct, created solely to be tolerated on Sundays as I sat cross-ankled, wedged between Mom and Gram in our stark, white Presbyterian church. 

The minute church was over, I ripped off the white patent leather Mary Janes and tossed them into my Mother's waiting hand.  She never tried to cut off the call of Nature to my wild-child heart, for which I am grateful.  I rode my cousin's Quarter Horse barefoot, also--a singularly remarkable experience.

My favoritest, most freeing thing to do was to wear a long skirt and run out into our overgrown grassy yard.  Grabbing a bunch of lilacs as they clung desperately to Grandma's huge, treasured lilac bush (they saw me coming, and ducked their fat little heads)--I relished that first big sniff.  Then, my head full of that fragrant opiate, I commenced to twirl 'round and 'round in the tall, soft green beneath my liberated toes.  I'd spin until I dizzied out, and collapse into that grass, under the sacred purple bush.  I can still feel the cool dampness of the unmown grass as it wrapped itself around me like so many tiny green angels' wings.  Staring up at the clear blue skies, my young spirit knew absolute freedom--the kind of bliss for which adults pay millions of dollars a year to self-help gurus and bookstores.  I often go back to that place and that time in a frail attempt to recapture some of that unbridled bliss...

Resort destinations like Saratoga Springs often fall prey to carpetbaggers and snake oil salesmen who come to town when the number are high, and stay only long enough to cash in on visitors' craving for reminders of their time spent in the Spa City.   Hawking cheaply-made t-shirts, shot glasses sporting scandily-clad, winking Hawaiian girls and birds that utilize the pendulum theory to dip into a glass of red water--there is nothing worse than a cheesy souvenir shop.  Just being around one of these smarmy types makes one feel dirty somehow.

Saratoga has seen her share of these joints, hastily rented and open just-long-enough to catch the racing season.  The owners then blow out of town, never to return.   The word, "accountability" is not in their lexicon.  Neither are "neighbors," "friends" or "respected" used to describe these takers.

How many times have you gone on vacation, and of course, wanted to get something that will bring a smile to your face every time you use or see it, because it represents a great time in a fun place?  But then you scope out the stores or kiosks that sell souvenirs, and you cringe because the products are all nasty, subtly (or not-so-subtly) sexual or just really poorly-made.  And you decide that maybe you can just commit to memory all the good times, and call upon your brain anytime you want to think about your vacation.  At least your memory doesn't have "I Went to __ with Stupid" written all over it.  Or rats in the basement.

If you were kinda short and had an odd birthmark--would it stop you from finding your star, and following it all the way to personal victory?

Those problems didn't stop George Stephanopoulos or Mikhail Gorbachev--and it shouldn't stop anyone else, either.  Both these men knew that physical appearances have nothing to do, whatsoever, with the content of their character.  An unfortunate byproduct of western society's obsession with looks has led young people to sad, often tragic, places.  Bulimia.  Diuretic diets.  Plastic surgery at 18.  Cliques, slam books and multi-colored plastic bracelets that make me sad when I think about the implications.

Kids with low self esteem will do anything in order to be "popular."

The obsessive quest for "beauty" in the post-modern world has given nothing but grief to children whose only real concerns should be whether to have the ice cream or yogurt for dessert.  Children in Kindergarten are pressured to be "pretty," and "strong."  This is a shame, and, many would say, a sin.

We who have reached our 30s, 40s and 50s are blessed to have some Wisdom that came to us through years of bucking the system.  We know that physical appearance is irrelevant, that it's what's inside that counts.  Being cute may win fame for a few minutes, but at the end of the day--a truly satisfying Life is the result of following your dreams; believing in the power of those dreams and never taking the NO of someone else as the final answer.

Allow me to introduce you to my new friend,  Hayseed.  Think of Hayseed as "EveryHorse":  he's a lot like 99% of us.  In a very real sense, Hayseed represents the norm, those of us who are smack-dab in the middle of the road.  We who were not born with cherubs' faces, destined to fight off the glare of paparazzi's flashbulbs.    We haven't gone under the plastic surgeon's scalpel to "fix" what God made.  We can't wear Chanel every day.  We live and die with looks that are deemed to be "average," or even below-average--and we're OK with it.

Psychologists know that people who suffer from bad self image are often jealous of those whose careers, lives or personal traits they envy.  Their jealousy is due to poor self esteem--they don't realize that genuinely healthy self esteem comes from within, ergo, the achievements of others should not affect their feelings about themselves. 

But not everyone is capable of this logical assessment:  it's much easier to express insecurities by putting down someone who is perhaps an easy target because of their apparent superiority, and because the media has refused to defend that person from inappropriate and cruel scrutiny.    Australians have a phrase, "the Tall Poppy Syndrome," for this need.  Anyone in Oz who's made it big; struck it rich or otherwise risen above the crowd--a poppy whose red head is visible above the others in the field--must be struck down, so that mediocrity is once-again the norm.  If no one rises above, all others appear to be equal.

This piece is going to run the gamut of emotions--so if you're not prepared, go away and come back when you're ready.  From death and grief to gratitude for heroes riding in on white horses--this is what's in my head and heart today.  I don't usually write truly heavy things here on Saratoga.com, but this is what's on the docket for today.  You may agree with me.  You may disagree.  Either way, we want to hear from you, so please post a comment below--your opinion is important.  Sans further ado, here we go...

I have lucid dreams--that is, every time I dream, I'm cognizant that I'm asleep, and that this is a dream.  And I usually direct the dream.  Pose questions.  Take actions to change the course of the dream.  I don't just experience it, I'm involved.  It's an interesting way to dream, and apparently only a small percentage of the population dreams lucidly.  Those of us whose dreamlives are lucid are in good company:  Saint Augustine of Hippo and Tibetan monks are listed among those for whom dreams are as tangible as waking life, perhaps moreso.

Books in the Middle Ages were treasures.  Not everyone owned a book, usually only royalty or those wealthy enough to afford a scribe to hand-write a book for them.  These books were beautiful, no two books alike.  It could take up to a year to hand-write a book--scribes and their patrons were nothing if not patient.  Each page featured gorgeous script.  The first word of each chapter featured a stylized, jewel-toned capital letter.  Often a scene from the story was entwined around that first letter--a great, painstaking effort, in order to bring to life a creation which was, itself, a work of art.  The visual appeal of the book was as compelling as the story or poetry contained within the covers.   A treat for the senses, these handmade books delighted both the eye and the hand.  Owning a book was a status symbol as well as a sensual experience.

When Johannes Gutenberg presented the concept of movable type in the 1430s, the Western world of books and publishing took a monumental leap forward in many ways.  (N.B.:  the Koreans and Chinese had created a printing press before Gutenberg, but its popularity didn't spread like wildfire, as did Gutenberg's invention.)   Sure, his first Bible was the Vulgate and it was in Latin, so the audience was restricted to those educated in the language.  But still, this was a huge step for Western society:  with the printing press came a world of possibilities, theretofore not even considered by the world's people.  It was now possible to communicate an idea to many people simultaneously.  Absolutely unfathomable--science fiction became simply, science.