Add to that their inventive new menu full of fresh cuisine, and the best salad bar in the world, hands-down--you've got a winner on your hands.

Why am I doing restaurant reviews, you may wonder. 

Here's the deal:  I just received an email from RT's corporate HQ, offering a free appetizer if I change my customer profile to reflect that I love football.

I don't love football.  I don't even know anything about football.   I'm too old, and don't have the patience to learn about any sport that doesn't have equine athletes.  I just don't care.

It's become a bit of a joke among my friends that unless it has four legs and a mane--or rides someone who has four legs and a mane--I don't know anything about it.  If it ain't a horse or a jockey--its athleticism is in question.  For all I know, A-Rod is the name of a newly-named yearling...

Until I cruise the Internet, and realize what a lousy job our sport does of marketing itself.  This, friends, is precisely why we need a Commission and a Commissioner (LeRoy Jolley's name has been tossed out there by more than one sage, seasoned horseman in the past year.)

Look at the Internet, and the spectacular job done by the professional sports leagues that feature human athletes.  Football has its tendrils everywhere.  Basketball, hockey, baseball, soccer (the other futbol)--all are in bed with national restaurant chains.

For grins, I went to the Ruby Tuesday 'site, and said that I'd amend my profile.  I decided against it, absolutely, when the question,

"Do you enjoy sports?" came up. 

Well, if I checked No, the survey was over.

If I checked Yes--because God knows I DO love horse racing--perhaps I could express that to the big cheeses at Ruby Tuesday.

But Nooooooooooooooooooooooo.  I clicked on Yes, just to see what came up.  Here's the list of options:

NFL (Fantasy Football)
College Football
NBA Basketball
College Basketball
Major League Baseball
Tennis
Hockey
Soccer
Golf
Nascar

No box was offered to tell them about Other. 

No rectangular box in which to write, "Horse Racing," or "Thoroughbred horse racing."

It is assumed by Ruby Tuesday's powers that be that the ONLY sports worth watching--which their customers will watch if plastered on the TVs in the bar--involve mostly human men.  (N.B.  Tennis and Golf are the sole sports offered above that feature female athletes. But that's another whole gripe.)

So I'm stuck with a dilemma, for which I already know the answer.  

I love Ruby Tuesday. 

But I love my sport more. 

I relish the thought of a gorgeous piece of fish for dinner, with a fresh garden salad.

But I love far more the idea that someone, somewhere in horse racing gets the idea to start to work with every single potential marketing outlet, including restaurants--and DOES something about it.

Clearly, the NFL, NBA, etc., have PR and marketing departments in their league (commission) offices.  It is the jobs of these people to promote the sport however they may:  derigible, sky writing, or coercing non-football fans into saying that we love it in order to score a free app at Ruby Tuesday.

Here's an assignment:  look around the next time you go out--to the mall, or to a chain restaurant.  Notice if the spaces (stores, restaurants) are featuring a sports promo.

If you're in Saratoga, Lexington, Louisville, Arcadia, Chicago, Florence--anywhere that there's a horse race track--and the featured sport ISN'T horse racing--please say something.

It boggles my mind to realize that there's a Ruby Tuesday IN Saratoga--and yet they're hot to sell football, even during racing season.  That's like cheating on your wife with her in the room.

And it's a lousy PR move.  Every chain restaurant in Saratoga in August--and those other, above-named racing cities, during their meets--should be all horses, all the time.

The bottom line is that racing DOES need a Commission and Commissioner.  And until we have that authority to determine our own destiny--and not fall prey to the whims of unscrupulous state politicians--we have got to figure out how to market this sport.

We need a Grand Hoo-Ha of PR, perhaps at the NTRA.  (I'll happily step in, but they'll have to change that title to Diva.)

Let's market horse racing to women, girls, minorities and for God's Sake, to everyone who walks into a chain restaurant in the country.

It fries my gizzard to receive email after email from businesses, offering nifty things IF I say that I'm a pro football fanatic. 

I won't lie, and I'm not betraying my beloved horses for a bowl of spinach dip. 

So good-bye, Ruby Tuesday...I'd love to patronize you, really I would.  But until you recognize that the sport that I love, the object of passion in the hearts of millions around the world, is worth putting on an online survey--and you start featuring horse racing on the TVs in horse racing cities--I've got to bite the bullet and stick with companies that do acknowledge the sport that first took off on Long Island, c. 450 years ago.

If we race fans hold them hostage by not handing over our hard-earned cash to these companies that don't respect racing, they might begin to listen.  If racing can't market itself, at least we fans can step in and refuse to patronize anyone who pushes football above four-footeds.  And just staying away isn't enough:  we have to email them, and let them know why we're not spending in their establishments.

Two demands:   ESPN has to stop the idiotic habit of showing hot dog eating contests in place of the Santa Anita Derby--and chain restaurants like Ruby Tuesday, my (sob) former favorite chain--must show our sport the respect that's deserved by the most beautiful, innocent, kind-hearted and fastest athletes on the planet. 

As long as I'm in a Stones mood...wild horses couldn't drag me into a Ruby Tuesday until they change that survey to include racing, and start showing OTB-TV at the Saratoga store.

Azeri is now 12 years old, and living in Japan, doing duty as a broodmare at Northern Farm.  I don't know if she likes sushi, but I hope that at some point she'll come back to America, perhaps eventually retiring at Old Friends.  (Wouldn't that be a huge coup, for fans to have access to such a spectacular female racehorse at that farm that features great retired Champion males?)

I digress.  Azeri will be inducted into the Hall of Fame on Friday the 13th at 10:30AM, and if you're any kind of race fan at all--especially if you love Rachel Alexandra or Zenyatta--you should be there to give Azeri a standing ovation.

This sport that we love so well is, by its very definition, the sport for genuine speed junkies.  We seek instant gratification:  I could never be a NASCAR fan--I have no time or interest in sitting all day, breathing fumes and counting, "134...135...136."  OMG. 

I'd have to stick hot needles in my own eyes.

If a race isn't over in 2.24 minutes (Secretariat's Belmont time, 1 1/2 mile)--you've lost me...

I have a friend who only came on-board with Barbaro--she may never have heard of Azeri.  I recently met a couple who became fans of racing just two years ago--I'll wager that they have no idea who Azeri is, or was.

This is a huge shame.  Precisely because our sport processes heroes (and heroines) so quickly, there should be a history course required.  Maybe it should be a prerequisite to track admission:  as in the Monty Python movie, every trackgoer is asked one question when paying admission by the clerk.  I'd relish the thought of a red-vested NYRA employee saying to Joe Fan, "Who was the tenth Triple Crown winner?  Horse and Jockey names please..."

Not many of us would be able to get into the track.

So, OK, maybe a history test for admission isn't going to catch on.  But I need to think that great horses like Azeri aren't being inducted into the Hall of Fame and remain relatively unknown to a large number of race fans.  She's only 12--not 112.  Her achievements should still be the topic of conversation, especially in this era when great females like (my beloved) Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta are the subject of much dialogue (even angry discourse, unfortunately).

Whenever a Rachel Alexandra fan and a Zenyatta fan are duking it out, the name, Azeri, should also be up in there.  Before Rachel, before Zenyatta--before Indian Blessing and Rags to Riches--there was Azeri. 

And, for God's Sake--it was only eight years ago that she was voted Horse of the Year.

I'll repeat that:  for 2002, Azeri was voted Horse of the Year and Champion Older Female.   The next two years, 2003 and 2004, she was voted Champion Older Female.

Three Championship years--and yet how many Zenyatta or Rachel fans can honestly say that they were there for this great horse's campaign?

Like Zenyatta, Azeri was a California horse.  No, not a California-bred.  She was foaled in Kentucky, but Laura DeSeroux was her first trainer--she trained and campaigned in California.  She was criticized by many for staying in the safety zone--so she went East in 2002, to race in (and win, resoundingly)  the Breeders' Cup Distaff.  (The race which is now ridiculoously-enough renamed the Ladies' Classic.  As if it's a razor of some kind.)

Like Zenyatta, Azeri raced in California.

Unlike Zenyatta's connections, Azeri's took her outside of California, often. (Zenyatta has raced outside of California, of course, but we've yet to see her race in New York, and it's unlikely we ever will.  She's retiring after the Breeders' Cup.  And if Saratoga's the epicenter of racing and she's not here...we must ask, Why Not?)

Yes, Azeri lost some races when she traveled East--but she also faced big Champions who did their damndest to defeat a Horse of the Year.  She wasn't afraid to take on a strong field. 

(Zenyatta, to this observer, races against many females who are not in her league.  One Breeders' Cup Classic against males is great, but how much does it count if it's on your home field?  Rachel beat males thrice--but really, this males/females thing is part of the whole venom-spitting problem between fans of the two horses.  Facebook, the great tool that reduces 50-year-old women into sniping, 13-year-old girls, encourages this by its very nature.   But gender should be a non-issue, anyway, as saith Jess Jackson.  A great horse is a great horse.  Period.  I may be wrong in my estimation of Zenyatta, and I'll probably get a lot of enraged letters.  Especially from Prof. Holmes.  But after seeing Azeri campaign in the Midwest and the actual EAST--and Rachel, the same--I have to stick with my conclusions, that Z's connections keep her on the tracks that she knows best.)

Zenyatta won the Apple Blossom twice. 
Azeri won it thrice, three years in a row.

Zenyatta won the Clement Hirsch thrice.
Azeri won it twice:  she left California to race in Saratoga instead. 

Good move.

Azeri raced and won.  She raced and lost, also,  because she stepped outside her Comfort Zone.  When she lost, she did it honestly.  And when she won, she made fans go berserk.

I was there on August 1, 2004, when she won the Go for Wand at Saratoga, and in that moment became the highest-earning female, ever.

(Note:  no one raised the purse to a bloated figure that would feed a third-world country for a week, to entice her to come.)

I'd given her her good-luck kiss at 11AM, and was standing at the finish line pole, crying and screaming as she blew past Sightseek.  Her lovely chestnut color had turned to blood-red when she exited the gate.  The gentle horse I'd met that morning was gone, replaced by a demon who would not be denied her win.

Her game face scared the bejeebers out of me.  I didn't even recognize her:  I asked my friends,

"Where's AZERI?!??!"

She won, and 50,000 fans screamed 'til  we were hoarse.  One gentleman held his program aloft, and showed me her winnings-to-date.  He rightfully proclaimed, "See those numbers?  Every dime is EARNED."

Azeri came to Saratoga, and gave East Coast fans a taste of sheer, unadulterated joy.  A gift to Saratoga and everyone who could get here by Michael J. Paulson, the brilliant son of her breeder, the late, great  Allen E. Paulson. 

Her campaign then took her to Lexington, where she took the Spinster. 

Azeri didn't win 18 in a row--but she did win on a variety of surfaces, in many states at many different tracks.  She was a genuine Champion, a diva, an athlete par excellence.

And she was Horse of the Year.  Like the man who pointed out the fact that she earned all her money--it wasn't given to her--she earned that statue of Eclipse.  She earned four of them, total, in fact.

By Friday afternoon, August 13th, Azeri, the daughter of Jade Hunter and Zodiac Miss, will be a Hall of Famer.  But that's the icing on the cake, for the first time she "raised her hand" and showed that she was one of The Greatest, Ever--she started collecting accolades, trophies and hearts.

I wish that we who love Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta would be able to take a step back.  Breathe.  Cite statistics--statistics are truth-tellers--but not spew vitriol.

If we're going to compare Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta to anyone, how about to Azeri, instead of each other?

Congratulations, Azeri.  I hope that your Hall of Fame induction introduces newbies to your great achievements, and reminds long-time fans that, inasmuch as we in racing love the thrill of speed--we must slow down, take a stroll and remember the past.  Keeping an eye on the past and those who laid the foundations will help us gain much-needed perspective on the present. 

Assignment for all Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta fans:  read all you can about Azeri, and be humbled.  Our two favorite females are genuinely great--but they're not the first.  Sometimes it's hard to remember that when you're sniping at people on Facebook.

PHOTO Credits:

Two strong-willed redheads, taken by Kathleen Conmee Breault or Claire Conmee, 2005

Azeri wins the Go for Wand at Saratoga, courtesy of NYRA/Adam Coglianese

Azeri wins the Go for Wand, Comin' Atcha, courtesy of NYRA/Adam Coglianese

Last year at around this time,

I was a volunteer for the event, and wanted to give them a little bit of exposure.

Well, you know, that party last year rocked--everyone involved had a fabulous time.  The ticket price was right, and all the elements came together.  I vowed to become involved again this year.

So I did.  This year I moved up from "general/we're-not-sure-what-to-do-with-her-but-she-seems-harmless" and Greeting the night of the event, to Publicity Co-Chair prior to, and Greeter the night of the event. 

I love this event, and I love these people.  And yes, I mentioned this event and the awesome Equine Advocates' upcoming soiree (July 29th) in a previous blog this week.  But I want to give each organization a little extra space, a few days before their respective galas.  So next week you'll read more about Equine Advocates.  (Warning to those of you who might not know me very well:  if I like a person or an organization, I LOVE them and will do anything for them.   If I don't like or trust them--sleep with one eye open.)  (Grin.)

So here's the CAPTAIN gala push:  if you're not planning to attend--WHY NOT?  What is there NOT to love about this event? 

Do you not have the cash to attend, either the VIP reception and the Mane Event, or just the Mane Event?  I understand this--if you can;'t afford it, you can't.  

While you and I are sleeping, someone who works or volunteers for CAPTAIN is on the job, counseling, loving, helping, feeding, nurturing a youth who's from Saratoga County--or who happens to wander in.

So this is why you should support CAPTAIN, and attend this event.  Because long after we whoop it up at the Racing Museum on July 21st--your money will be helping youths through the myriad CAPTAIN programs.  In December, on a cold, snowy night--you can think back to this night and all the fun you had--and you can know that your cash is helping someone at that very snowy, cold minute.

The other reasons to attend An Unbridled Affair are obvious:  ummmm...'cause it's fun?  'Cause it's two nights before Opening Day at Saratoga Race Course, and I can think of no better way to kick off the racing season than with some of racing's finest?

At the VIP Reception, you'll get to schmooze with D. Wayne Lukas, Gary  and Jennifer Contessa, Linda Rice--to name a few racing luminaries.  Sweet.

And Boston-based artist, Brian T. Fox, will unveil his (absolutely gorgeous, powerful, brilliant) painting of Rachel Alexandra, Calvin Borel Up--and he's donated a print of the same painting to the auction that night.  How many other Saratoga galas feature the unveiling of a painting of the Horse of the Year, an artwork which will be snatched up soon, by someone and put into their home?  An artwork by a man of such artistic talent and vision that his works are in galleries in Hollywood, Anaheim, Boston, the Olympics? 

And for the mere cost of admission, you can meet the painfully handsome--and yet so real, and sweet--Brian, and be there when this painting--which will go down in history as one of the greatest equine works of art--is unveiled to the public.  I do believe that the CAPTAIN event is the only gala in Saratoga this year at which an artwork will be unveiled.  Certainly a painting of Queen Rachel.

Following the unveiling, at the Mane Event, you'll get to meet some wonderful other folks in racing--like, Paul H. and Barbie Rothfuss and Robin Fiester, of All Play Stable.  Like, my dearest friend in the world, 42 years and running, Karen--affectionately known as "Cakes" since we were children.  How is it that she's a racing folk?, you ask:

Well, she's a racing fanatic, like you and me.  And we are racing folk.  And she holds the distinction of being the best baker--as in, Pastry Chef degree from the Culinary Institute of America--whose chocolate chip cookies one day five years ago won the hearts of our delicious Men of the Starting Gate.  Cakes is the unofficial-official Baker to the Gate Guys.

:)

Now, five years later, when she shows up in the backstretch, that those hard-working Cowboys of Horse Racing know that they'll get some yummy, beautiful treat, like...lemon bars...black-chocolate cake...raspberry tarts.  (Kevin from Heaven recently made a request for something with Kahlua and raspberries.  Karen's working on it.)

She'll be the subject of a newspaper article this summer, you'll see her face on a page of Saratoga Today...at the An Unbridled Affair, you can meet her in advance and pick her brain for great summertime pastries.  She has a million recipes in her head, and she always shares generously.

NYRA will have a contingent at the event--it blesses my heart to think that, just TWO days before the new and improved, longer meet begins--NYRA employees are coming to the CAPTAIN An Unbridled Affair.  Coming as individuals and as representatives of NYRA--either way, I would think that these people are entirely TOO BUSY to be out partying two nights before the Saratoga meet begins.  There's paperwork to do, and pallets to unload and offices to set up--and yet, because NYRA believes in youth--the youth of today are our only hope--these good folks are coming across the street, all dolled up, to show that they're fans of this great cause. 

So there you have it.  Racing luminaries and administrators; media folks bakers extraordinaire and race fans like me will be on-hand on Wednesday, July 21st to celebrate CAPTAIN Youth and Family Services.

We'll meet Brian T. Fox, one of the greatest painters of athletes--equine and human--alive today.  We'll dine on Hattie's phenomenal catering all night long.  We'll dance to the soulful bliss of the yummy Garland Nelson and Soul Session.   We'll laugh when D. Wayne Lukas puts the pressure on a peer to Buy Big in the live auction.  We'll find delightful gifts in the silent auction.  We'll ooh and aah about our how lovely everyone looks, and our little racing hearts will smile broadly, all night long, as we experience these lovely things in the setting of the most sacred space, the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame.

Throw yourself headlon into An Unbridled Affair.  Here are the details:  I can lead a horse to water, but I can't make you drink.

If you're media--writers and photographers--come and cover the event for your society page.  You never know who's going to show up.

If you're a potential guest:  don't be shy, contact CAPTAIN and make your reservation!  There's no problem with going solo:  I'm going solo.  Karen's going solo.  Martha, Gene and many others--traveling alone, knowing that they'll find old friends and make new ones at the party.

Here's the stuff.  Call or email ASAP, we don't want you to miss out.

Thanks, and of course--may the Horse always be with you.

Marion

WHO:  You.  Me.  Whomever wants to come.
WHAT:  CAPTAIN Youth and Family Services An Unbridled Affair
WHEN:  Wednesday evening, July 21st, 2010. 
6-10 (VIP Reception and Mane Event);
7PM Brian T. Fox, unveiling Rachel Alexandra, Calvin Borel Up
7-10PM Mane Event Only.
WHERE:  National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame, Saratoga Springs, New York USA
WHY: 
To have fun. 
To raise money for a very worthy cause. 
Because I have extraordinarily good taste in Fun Stuff, and know that you'll have a blast.
HOW:
*  Contact me.
*  Contact CAPTAIN:  www.captainyfs.org
*  Contact Andy Gilpin or Rebecca Varno @ CAPTAIN:
   (518) 371-1185
*  Contact Andy via the Facebook group for the event.

[CREDITS:
*  An Unbridled Affair logo, CAPTAIN
*  D. Wayne Lukas photo, courtesy of NYRA/Adam Coglianese
*  NYRA logo courtesy of NYRA
*  Rachel Alexandra, Calvin Borel Up painting courtesy of Brian T. Fox
*  Brian T. Fox with Derek Jeter photo, courtesy of Brian Fox Studios.]

"It" is the Saratoga meet, graciously brought to life once again by the New York Racing Association, known around these-here-parts as simply, NYRA.  Thoroughbreds--graceful, luscious ballet dancers with a swing in their steps--have been at the Oklahoma since April 15th, doing Plies and Arabesques, their sensual walk inspiring hopes of fortune and the intoxicating, heady experience of standing in the historic winner's circle.

What's making you giddy at the thought of July 23rd?  What does Opening Day--and every day--of the Saratoga meet mean to you?

To some of us, it's the opportunity to picnic in the back, and teach our children about Thoroughbreds, and teach a four-year-old to handicap.   The only racetrack in the country--in the world?--at which the horses actually walk through the yard, itself, past thousands of fans on their way to the Paddock and, perhaps, history books.  That thought, alone, is all kinds of Beautiful.

To others, it's the opportunity to see their horses race for the first time, ever--and at Saratoga, for God's sake!  Still others experience it as a way to make some extra cash:  renting out houses and apartments; parking cars; working concession stands at the world's greatest and most thrilling, 40-day Annual Convention...

However you work in this sport, you must show up at Saratoga, if only for a brief appearance.  You pack 1,000 business cards and your most charming smile and set about The Business of Horses.

There is no experience on God's green Earth as dear to my heart as that of standing in the backstretch at 7AM, cup of wicked-strong coffee from the Lemonade Stand in-hand, and watching workouts as the mist rises.  The people on the frontside, breakfasting on the Porch, think they've got a great view--and they do.  But, ah, to be in the back and see racing's elite standing at the rail, carefully and quietly observing their horses...and that pounding of hooves as they go by in the mist.  Nothin' like it.

This year I'm looking forward to several things.  I hope it's possible to catch up on sleep in advance, because this is my only chance to get a full eight hours until the day after Labor Day. 

I am blessed to be professionally  involved with two particularly wonderful groups of people, with whom I'll spend gobs of time between now and the beginning of September.  And my support is fully behind  two particular non-profits, both of which deserve your full support.  I'm going to wax on here about the two companies and the two non-profits, and at the end of this very long missive, I want to hear from you.  That's what the Comment space is for--please use that space to tell me--to tell us, the readers--about your Saratoga groove.  Do you work in the sport?  If so, what do you do?  Brag about your jobs, your bosses, your role in the industry!  Please think of the Comment section as your space for Free Advertising--really.  Tell us about your product, your horses, your business and why we need to know more about it, and you.  The Comment section is all yours--no word limit--brag on yourself.  Thanks!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't know where to start telling you about it.  Let's see: 

*  on July 21st,  I'll be a very busy chicklet.  From 11-1PM at the Residence Inn by Marriott, All Play Stable--for which I work as Communications Manager--will host our first-ever Media Luncheon.  A Media Cookout, actually--the Residence Inn's talented staff has planned a fabulous cookout menu for us.  All Play Stable hails from Eagles Mere, Pennsylvania and Ocala, and Saratoga.  Managing Partner, Paul H. Rothfuss, and his insightful horsewomen partners, Robin Fiester and Saratoga's own Sara Dunham will be there to tell all you media people why All Play Stable is a great organization.  I wouldn't have anything to do with the company if I didn't implicitly believe in Paul's innate honesty, brilliant horsemanship and absolute love for horses.  You all know that I can be a TAD opinionated--lol!--and if I thought he was worthy of my wrath, you know that I'd get out the Big Sword.  But indeed I love these good people, our beautiful horses and the game plans that they've blueprinted for the yearlings and two-year-olds in training.  The Media Luncheon will give the media the opportunity to glean information about the principles and the company, and give it to you, our reading public.  If you're considering joining a racing partnership in 2010--All Play Stable has a place reserved for you.  All that, the enviable owner's badge AND more fun than should be allowed--all in one racing group.  July 21, 11AM - 1PM.  If you're in the media and want to attend the Cookout,  please contact me at ThoroughbredWriter@yahoo.com.  If you're not a media person but want more information about All Play Stable, please contact me or Paul H. Rothfuss:  paul@allplaystable.com. 

*  Later that evening of the 21st--YIKES, just 11 days hence!--I'll be volunteering at the CAPTAIN event at the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame.  I volunteered last year, and had a great time--and I was just a volunteer!  The CAPTAIN An Unbridled Affair is a must-do:  CAPTAIN is a dedicated youth and family services agency in Saratoga County, that has changed and blessed thousands of young lives over the years.  The event on July 21st--for which you can still get tickets--promises to be a night of extraordinary fun.  A great time and the opportunity to give to an organization that gives back to the community, 365 days a year.

Hall of Fame Trainer, D. Wayne Lukas, will again act as Auctioneer for the live auction, ably assisted by the remarkable Kate Veitch.  New York's Leading Trainer for five years straight, Gary Contessa and his amazing wife, Jennifer, are serving as Honorary Chairs, along with Saratoga's leading trainer for 2009, Linda Rice.

Soul Session will again provide the music--the yummy Garland Nelson leads the band.  Garland, alone, is worth the cost of admission.  But wait, there's more!  Hattie's, the world-renowned, Saratoga-based-since 1938 restaurant, is providing the catering.  Hattie's rocks, and the mere thought of grazing on Hattie's food all night long is, itself, reason to attend.   Racing luminaries will meet and greet with those who wish to pony up a few extra bucks from 6-7PM. 

At 7PM, Boston's extraordinary artist, Brian T. Fox, will unveil his gorgeous painting of Rachel Alexandra, Calvin Borel up.  Brian is the artist of choice for the Olympic Commission, NHL and many racing insiders.  I own a Brian print and artist's proof--they are among my most-treasured possessions.  Those of you who were at Siro's for their annual Kentucky Derby Day party this year, or last Travers Day, will recall seeing the impossibly handsome and sweet Brian outside, working on Rachel.

If you buy a ticket to the CAPTAIN An Unbridled Affair, you can be there for the official unveiling of this painting which is sure to become a treasure in someone's home in the very near future.

For more information on the CAPTAIN An Unbridled Affair, please go to www.captainyfs.org .  The right-hand side will lead you to An Unbridled Affair, and contact information to call or Paypal for tickets to the party on July 21st.   Run, don't walk--this party is selling out, fast.

July 23rd, of course, is Opening Day:  the first time that Sam the Bugler plays, "Call to the Post," I'll no doubt cry as I usually do, as I thank God that I am part of this beautiful, ancient sport full of rituals and such profound elegance.  I'll see the men of the starting gate, who feel like brothers to me.  I'll get my first cup of killer coffee from that Lemonade Stand, and greet Maria and the other great souls who work so hard there all summer long.

Oh, yes...July 23rd is the debut day for my magazine--I say, "my," because I do believe that I left a huge chunk of my soul on every page--Equicurean.  The fact is that Equicurean is OUR magazine--the gifted and generous-of-spirit people who work for Saratoga Publishing.  Saratoga Publishing produces Saratoga Today newspaper and myriad other magazines throughout the course of the year.  I really do believe that Equicurean will be a work of art, because Tiffany Garland, our Art Director, and Sam Bolles, our Graphics Deity, are genii.   This is definitely not a throwaway publication--we aim that you, our readers, will take it home and place it on your coffeetables, to share with your friends.  

I am so blessed, I get to work with such talented professionals...the Saratoga Publishing team is headed by the wonderfully creative and business-savvy Chad Beatty.  He, Robin Mitchell and the whole gang have worked with every fiber of being to create a magazine that does justice to both Fasig-Tipton and women's polo.  I've never seen a publication like Equicurean before--I won't ruin the surprises--I'll just say that we've worked like mad to make this the most physically beautiful and appealing horse magazine you've experienced in a long time.  Equicurean debuts on Opening Day, and will be distributed in Saratoga's finest establishments, including Fasig-Tipton and Saratoga Saddlery--but also in Del Mar, California, at the West Coast Saddlery store and at Carol Bader's Del Mar Hat Company.  Copies of the magazine have been requested in London, Switzerland,  Kentucky (for the Blue Grass Farms Charities' Racino Roundup in October) and in Dubai. 

This magazine was a joy to create--we hope that you end up loving it as much as we do.  I'm pacin' the stall...I feel like I'm about to foal.   My enthusiasm for this product is purely because of my tremendous respect and love for my co-workers at Saratoga Publishing.  They're  the best in the world:  I'd put them up against anyone, anywhere, including New York City.  Ugly Betty's Mode crew has nothin' on the remarkably talented people with whom I work. 

And you know who's from Dubai:  my Racing Hero. 

That brings me to the fourth experience about which I'm all a-twitter, the Equine Advocates' annual Dinner and Auction, which this year will honour His Highness Sheikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum and Bo Derek on July 29th.   Equine Advocates is the second non-profit to which I referred at the beginning of this piece:  they do such dedicated work, 24/7, for equines that have been forgotten, neglected or just plain dumped by others. 

Susan Wagner; her sister, Karen, Michele Ferritto and the others who both staff and volunteer at Equine Advocates work from a place of deep love and respect.  When first I stepped foot onto the farm, I wept.  These beautiful animals--whom others had thrown out, or taken to New Holland to meet those fun-loving killbuyers and certain doom--these amazing creatures have all been given the opportunity to live out their lives normally, naturally and surrounded by loving hands and hearts.  If you have ten cents to give to an equine program today, please send it to Equine Advocates. 

The party to honour His Highness and Bo Derek is sold out at this point, but you can call and get your name on the waiting list.  Even if you can't attend, please consider donating to Equine Advocates.  Every minute of every day, they're in the trenches representing the rest of us who love horses but who don't have the facilities to take them in and care for them.  Please check out their website, and give if you can.  Oh, and please view the YouTube video of Bobby II, the former New York City carriage horse whom they just rescued this past week:  www.equineadvocates.org .

So that's how my summer is beginning, with a bang.  I gave my little report, and then I realized that that only covers from July 21 through the 29th!  Holy Mackerel.  As other events and head-up things arise, I will dutifully report them here.

In the meantime, I'd love to hear about what It means to you--how will YOU celebrate the Saratoga meet?  If you're a fan, please tell us about your Saratoga plans.  Perhaps you have a ritual, a family tradition that goes back generations. 

If you work in the industry--please use that Comment space below to talk about yourself, your job, your business--this is fascinatin' stuff.  I'm not the only one who has fun working in horse racing--please share your bliss (and your frustrations!), and promote yourself.  Free advertising in the Comment space.  

OH, and a little note:  if you see any NYRA people walking around this year--please walk up to them and thank them for putting on the Greatest Show on Earth.  Thanks!

 Peace and joy to you all--remember, Run Fast, Turn Left.  And never, ever, ever give up.

PHOTO CREDITS:
*  NYRA logo, D. Wayne Lukas and Sam the Bugler courtesy of NYRA/Adam Coglianese.
*  All Play Stable shadowbox logo, courtesy of Paul H. Rothfuss.
*  CAPTAIN An Unbridled Affair logo, courtesy of CAPTAIN Youth and Family Services.
*  Rachel Alexandra painting, courtesy of Brian T. Fox.
*  Equicurean logo, courtesy of Saratoga Publishing.
*  Photo of Susan Wagner and Banner, courtesy of Equine Advocates.

I'll keep this relatively short and sweet.  This is a blatant request, that you horselovers of the world join me in helping a little horse in Florida.  His name is Jack.

In a nutshell:  Jack's Mommy, Dottie, was a long-time therapy horse.  She worked with special-needs children.  She healed a great many souls, soothed frayed nerves and blessed everyone she met.

Dottie couldn't do her job any more, so she was bred.  The breeding didn't take--so they thought--and then, ta-DA!  One day Dottie's humans came to see her in her stall, and there stood Little Jack.

Jack looked just dandy, until you got to his face.  He has a condition called Wry Mouth.  Horses with this condition usually die because they can't nurse.  It looks, well, "unacceptable" in a world where perfection is expected.  Humans are judged pretty harshly if they're less-than-perfect:  animals are treated even worse.

(NOTE:  is it difficult to look at this photo of Jack?  It's even harder to BE him, trapped in a body that features a mouth that won't cooperate and let him eat and drink.  If you think it's hard to see him--imaging BEING him.  And I can't even hear that line that he should have been euthanized at birth:  how many

humans would be left on the Earth if every one of us who was a little ugly at birth was taken out and shot?  Would you have made the cut, BabyFace?)

There are humans who feel that way--thank God, not Jack's humans.  They know that physical appearance has nothing to do with real value.  To God, all horses are beautiful--so we ought to treat them thus.

Jack's humans are trying very hard to gather the cash to get an operation for Jack, surgery that will fix his mouth so that he can suckle and eat on his own.  He'll live--if only he can eat and drink.

That's not too much to ask of the world, is it?  To be able to eat and drink, and to gain the strength to live?  As it is, male foals are at a disadvantage--all male babies of every species are weaker than females when they're born.  So Jack, sweet, loving, beautiful-to-God Little Jack--is at a double disadvantage.

All he wants is to live and grow up, and become a therapy horse, also.  Can you just imagine how special-needs children and adults will feel when they see this beautiful horse, who looks not-quite-beautiful--but who's happy, alive and kicking? 

Yes, that's right:  the population that Dottie (Jack's Mom, as you recall) and Jack will serve are those very people who came into this world with a seeming disadvantage--but who are absolutely extraordinary at loving, and of receiving love.

And in Little Jack, they can see a baby horse become a grown-up horse who didn't have it all going for him at first--and who does not look "perfect"--whatever THAT is--but who is happy, and joyous and loving.  And that, my friends, is what makes us truly rich.

Please join me in sending money to Jack's humans at Project Stable Foundation.  Here's their contact information:

Project Stable
5790 SW 130th Avenue
Southwest Ranches, Florida   33330

http://www.projectstable.org/

And on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=91084336871&v=info&ref=ts

We can join a million Facebook groups and it amounts to a hill of beans unless we take action based on the inspiration we receive from those groups.  (Hint:   No one actually cares if you think that Mondays are a Drag, or that you just flossed your teeth.)  I believe that the purpose of those groups is to spur people on to actually do something, whether that's to buy a product, join a movement or save a horse's life.   In this case, I hope to inspire you to check out Little Jack's story, and send some cash, Dash, to pay for his surgery and rehabilitation.

As he grows up, he'll bless so many human lives, and equine lives, too.  Isn't it worth five bucks to sleep tonight?

I think so--and so does the mighty Horse of the Year, Rachel Alexandra.  Like a queen who judiciously and kindly surveys her queendom and becomes personally involved--the mighty warrior horse--who is, herself, the epitome of Perfection--looks upon poor, dear Little Jack and has asked us to have mercy on his little life.

Please join Queen Rachel and me:  let's work together to save this dear little man.  The rewards will be far better than the tax deduction you get next year.  Whether you send American dollars, pesos, lira, Euros, Pounds Sterling or Dirhams--let's work on healing this one little horse.  We can do this, and then move on...one horse at a time...and along the way, we can heal human spirits, and maybe even help bring about peace.  One horse, one human at a time...peace and healing are possible, but it's up to us to do The Right Thing.

[Photo Credits:  Jack, courtesy of Project Stable Foundation. 

Rachel Alexandra, courtesy of NYRA, the New York Racing Association.  Thank you!]

With no wizened racetracker adult to rein me in and help me find my vocation in the sport, I thought of racing as something I loved passionately--obsessively--but something that I did on Saturdays and Sundays, after a full week of work and summer school.

My confusion about the fact that racing could have provided a career was complicated by the fact that I was distracted by pretty rock star faces whose big buses drove down Union Avenue on their way to SPAC.  I was pretty easily fascinated by those who had mastered Three Chords and the Truth:    "Oooh!  Look at that!  (Think, "kitten with ADD.")

This is why, at 54, I'm running full-throttle through every door of opportunity that God opens for me.  I am blessed beyond belief to work at jobs in which I get to do what I love (write, edit) about the objects of my passion (horses).  How many people get to say that they work seven days a week, and are absolutely enchanted by the objects of their concentration? 
 
Vocationally Blessed

Sometimes the details obscure the mission, and that's when I have to get back to that which I call, The Core.  The raw, organic reason why I do what I do.  Allow me to illustrate.

A couple of days ago, I was going from duty-to-duty, the proverbial chicken sans noggin.  Meetings, articles to write, ideas to hammer out, contracts to pass on to bosses.   As I drove out of my Nth meeting in three days, I realized--as if I'd not seen it a million times before--that I was on George Street in Saratoga, and passing the Oklahoma.

There sat the historic, beautiful training track on the north side of the Saratoga Race Course--and I was driving past it!  The races don't start for a while yet, but horses have been coming in since April 15th.  In my flurry of activities and working at several jobs simultaneously--in-between getting bloods drawn and some other tests at my doctor's office, and being dog-tired from the vampirism I've suffered at the hand of my kindly medical professionals--it's been a rough month.  I had lost sight of the reason why I do the jobs I do, and why I love them all.   I wear many hats, and all of them involve four-legged equine critters, in one way or another.

The phone meetings, arranging media luncheons, writing and editing articles--all about horse endeavours, but none involving actually touching a horse--are my joy.  But the reason why these activities are my joy is that I am obsessed with horses.

So as I drove down George Street, past the Oklahoma--I took stock.  I turned left, went up Union a few feet and into the Oklahoma guard post.  I chatted with the guard and went straight to the barn of Gary Contessa, a great trainer who's given me permission to spend Quality Time with his horses.

I pulled up to Gary's barn, and his familiar green-and-white sign that reads, "Contessa Racing."  Parked the vehicle, and scanned the curious faces peeking out of their stalls.

The first bay on the left seemed to be a friendly filly.  Perhaps a two-year-old.  I strode over purposefully, offered my fist for her to sniff.

She sniffed, and approved.  I kissed her nose, stroked both sides of her head and wrapped my arms around her beautiful muscular neck.  She nickered.  I nickered.  Four minutes of Equine Therapy, and I was good.

This is why I call horses, Valium on the Hoof.  I need spend only two or three minutes in the presence of a horse--the animal who graces this planet with its physical presence, even though it's an utterly spiritual creature.  For some reason, horses like humans and choose to hang out on this material plane with us--even though they're far superior in my humble estimation.

We-none of us--must ever forget why we do what we do.  We horse lovers must remember that in under five minutes, the worries of the day--doctors' tests, work pressure, fears of vocational failure--melt like snow on a warm March morning when we are in the presence of a horse.

I tend to think that horsepeople are far more tuned-in than those who don't get it.  We realize that these ethereal animals want to have relationships with we mere mortals--and we gratefully jump in, face and heart first, to share the experience.

We are blessed, and we need to take time to smell the roses.  Rather, to bury our faces into the neck of a willing equine, and smell the hair, the musculature, the scent of sweet timothy.  We can be working furiously to publish equine magazines, promote our racing stable, write the next "Black Beauty" or write a race for a track.  But unless we spend a few moments, often, with the reason why we're here--two things will happen.

a)  We'll forget why we do what we do, and become lost in our Life's Mission; and
b)  We'll lose sight of the fact that horses need us just as much as we need them.  Without humans who love them, horses would be slaughtered, eaten, abused and neglected.  And there are many humans for whom horses are only good for one of those four things.  So we who love them and defend them via a variety of causes need to get rejuvenated so that we can Keep on Keepin' on. 

And that rejuvenation comes not out of a bottle, a walk on the beach or even a good night's sleep.  The best, most sure-fire way to recharge the battery of a horseperson is for that person to spend time with The Horse, and allow it to heal the tired, overworked, underpaid, writer's blocked soul.

Find an agreeable horse and owner--always ask permission before touching a horse who's not yours--but walk out of your office, and straight into the loving emotional embrace of a horse.  Feel your soul revive--and carry on your good works.  Whether your job is to work to end slaughter and abuse; to grow the sport of racing or to handicap a race--step away from the desk and the computer, and wrap your head instead in the authentic emotional embrace of a horse.  Your spirit, mind, creativity and even health will benefit--and you'll gain what you need to continue...until the next time you need a fix.

Happy Horse Hugging, Everyone.  Good night.

- Marion

[Photo credits: 

Painting of Slash by Brian T. Fox.

Photos of Spider and Twylight Cocktails, courtesy of All Play Stable, Paul H. Rothfuss.]

'Cause it's important.

Just one pretty picture in this blog piece.  Horse of the Year, Rachel Alexandra.  Empress Rachel, at Saratoga last year.  The best horse in the best racing environment in the world.  Like Queen Elizabeth II being in residence at Windsor Palace, it's only appropriate.

This brief piece is going to sound like politics, and that is, indeed, the topic du jour.

It's about the politics of the equine industry.

*  RIGHT.

I digress. 

*  NYRA needs $17 million to keep going, and to assure that the Belmont meet ends on a good note, and that the Saratoga meet kicks off healthily.

*  This $17 million is not, contrary to mainstream media's reports, a "bailout."  It is a loan against the money that NYRA will make--almost instantaneously--as soon as the VLTs are built and up and running.  My guess is that NYRA will be in the position to pay back $17 million, oh, within two weeks of Aqueduct's VLT operation's Grand Opening.

*  So NYRA's not standing with its hand out, looking for a handout.

*  (NYRA is asking for money that would already have been in the coffers, had the VLTs been in-place for eight years.  (They were approved nine years ago.  Staggering.)  And as soon as the almighty State allows NYRA to do its VLT thing--the cash will be paid off.  With plenty to spare. 

*  So what it comes down to is the fact that New York State has long been in the position to make $1 million a DAY by the presence of VLTs at Aqueduct.  (Imagine $365 million a year in the bank for the last eight years.  Imagine no budget problems, no talk of furloughs, no layoffs.  New York's own fiscal problems could have been largely addressed if someone had had the insight to allow Aqueduct to become a racino, almost a decade ago.)

*  But because of some ridiculous gripe that Paterson inherited from Governor Steamroller (whoops, "Spitzer")--those VLTs have not been in place, bringing in the money that we need to make this sport soar.  And to keep horsemen in New York, and out of Monmouth.

*  So we have the New York State Legislature--a group of people who can't decide what to have for lunch, never mind take five minutes to vote for something that matters to hundreds of thousands of people.

*  And because those people won't sit still long enough to take that vote to lend NYRA $17 million--we who work in horse racing and who own businesses in Saratoga, Elmont and Jamaica stand to lose a great deal.

*  Like, our jobs and businesses.

*  Silly politicians, they don't realize that every person whose life will take a hit can and will vote them out. 

*  So why am I writing an open letter to US Congresswoman Nita Lowey, who respresents the 18th District of New York?  Nita's not one of the slackers in Albany who aren't responding to our need.  She's a national Congresswoman.

Nita, I'm writing to you for two reasons:

1)  Your district--Westchester County--has many Thoroughbred farms and others who make their livings because of horse racing.

Ergo--according to the theories of logical argumentation, this problem--while it may seem to be "just" a State problem--is, in reality, your problem, Nita.  If your constituents lose their farms, literally--this will not bode well for you, or for Westchester County.

2)  Nita, you and I are both Alumnae of Mount Holyoke College.

I'm calling on you to respond to the Old Girls' Network, and take my virtual call.

I tried to contact you via email, but discovered that, unless I live in your district--I can't fill out the form.

If this is the standard for all Congresspeople, it's a bad idea.

Many people who don't live in District 18 are affected by the decisions that you make, Nita.  Like, the thousands of people who don't happen to live in Scarsdale or Rye--but who do work hard in the horse racing industry of New York.

So you're one of the Big Guns, Nita:  you're a US Congresswoman.  And I've always been proud of you, a Mount Holyoke Woman who's rockin' the Capital.  We'e on the same side, politically.  I'm a huge fan.

You're a Big Gun, and the State Legislators in Albany are running around like beheaded chickens. 

While they're busy chasing their tails and deciding on whether to dine at Yono's for lunch--horse racing is facing a very real threat.  June 9th is the day that NYRA may have to shutter the figurative doors.  The day that many people may lose their jobs.  The Thruway from the Island and Saratoga is burning up with Sallee vans, taking horses out of The Empire State, as they're sent to Monmouth on the Jersey Shore.

This mass exodus does affect your constituents, Nita.  So, I'm asking you, Mount Holyoke Woman to Mount Holyoke Woman--please contact Joe Dalton, President of the Saratoga County Chamber of Commerce. 

Joe knows the score:  he's a brilliant businessman who helped build Saratoga into the city it is today.  And he knows that, if the Saratoga meet doesn't happen--more than the horses will leave New York State.

Joe is a valuable resource, Nita:  I heartily urge you to contact him, ASAP, and make the journey to Saratoga.  Tour the beautiful city.  See the race course, which is supposed to open in a mere 62 days.  And listen intently as Joe tells you how the fate of a city can rattle the destiny of a state.  And how the fate of the State can take down Washington.

This problem doesn't belong just to Thoroughbred horse racing folks.  It's not just about Saratoga.  Or Elmont.  Or Jamaica.

Nita, this is a very big problem for Westchester County.  And that means that it's your problem, too.

If you have to step in and give the New York State Legislators a spanking--a good, hard talking-to--so be it.

But whatever you do, Nita, please talk to Joe Dalton.  Joe can help you connect the dots that show how Saratoga, Westchester and Washington are all part of one big picture.

If racing people and Saratogians lose their jobs--the dominoes will start to fall.  Come on, Nita:  Mary Lyon (Founder of Mount Holyoke College, in 1837, for those of you who aren't an Alumna)--told us to

"Go where no one else will go, and do what no one else will do."

C'mon, Nita. 

Go.  Do. 

Save our sport--and in so doing, save thousands of jobs in New York State.  You can't do the voting--but you can thump the voters in the Legislature over the head with a dose of good, old-fashioned Reality.

Thanks, Nita.  Contact me, anytime, 'cause I can't get through to you.

-- Marion E. Altieri
Mount Holyoke College Alumna
FP 1988

LINK:  Saratoga County Chamber of Commerce:
www.Saratoga.org

Joe Dalton:
JDalton@saratoga.org
(518) 584-3255

[Photo credit:  Rachel Alexandra, by Cathleen Duffy.]

Tra-lee, tra-la,

The Derby--like all horse racing--also has tremendous potential to humble the mighty--not just the horses.  Not just the jockeys, owners, trainers. 

Those "mighty" to whom I refer are...the bettors. 

There are various styles of betting:  there are those who put $2 on a horse, with no knowledge of either the horse or how to handicap.  These, I report with bile in my mouth, are the people most likely to take home a huge trifecta.  Beginners' Luck.

There are those who handicap, and are darned good.  They may bet $2 or $200, but they keep it in perspective.  They're smart, savvy and know horses and the training styles incorporated to create the equine athletes' careers.

And then there are the inveterate gamblers--those for whom this is not a sport, not a game, not an opportunity to have fun and actually enjoy one's self. 

These people are gamblers:  it's not that they're horse racing obsessives who happen to bet a ton of money on a horse.  These are people who would bet on what time their own Grandfather dies.  They bet on NASCAR, football, horses and golf.  They may trek to Atlantic City of Vegas, to visit the tables.  These are not the people pumping quarters into a VLT at the local Racino:  a quarter isn't risk-enough.  The adrenalin rush comes from putting an enormous amount of money on the line and taking a spin.  This is why Roulette, Craps and Blackjack all work for the inveterate:  no restrictions to mere quarters.  You can put down the mortgage for your house at a Roulette table, and that's just fine.

The thing that these big bettors forget, the thing that I find laughable--the thing that every handicapper worth her or his salt knows is that--and read this slowly, and deliberately, now:

A. Horse. Is. Not. A. Roulette. Table.  

A horse is a living, breathing, sentient being.  A horse has feelings, emotions and thoughts about whether or not s/he wants to work today. 

These are not large cardboard boxes covered with hair. 

These are beings who can feel love, anger, sadness, grief and joy.  They are capable of giving affection, and showing when they are frustrated.

Horses try to communicate with humans all the time, every day--many humans are just too stupid or too busy to bother to slow down and LISTEN.  It is easy to tell if a horse doesn't want to race on a particular day:  all one need do is read her/his body language, and honour that decision.  Better to scratch a horse who doesn't want to race than to lose a horse because he ran, aggravated or sore.

I'm thinking about a particular race that I witnessed a couple of years ago.  I consider myself to be very blessed to witness the situation, because I learned a great deal about horse psychology.  This race featured six horses.  The horse in the 5-hole acted out, ended up sitting down.  His jockey slid off, and the horse was scratched.  They removed his tack, and walked him back to the barn.

But the thing that tickled me wasn't this horse getting a rest, it was the horse in the 6-hole.  Karen and I made notes that Number Six was carefully observing everything that had transpired in the 5-hole.  Number Six was big, beautiful and gray--and sharp as a tack.  He watched the drama. He noticed everything--when Number Five was neighing, he was probably telling Number Six why he was upset.   It wasn't that much of a drama, just a horse who didn't want to race that day. He was upset, but no insane. He figured out how to convince the humans around him that he might lose his mind--maybe even kill the jockey!--if he wasn't scratched.  Pretty smart.

Number Six saw this.  Number Six had a constitution of steel.  He stood, stock-still, in his last position in the gate while Number Five gently "lost it."  Number Six stood still, but he kept turning his head just enough so that he could see Number Five, and the result of Number Five's activities.  (Reminder:  Thoroughbreds' eyes are squarely on the sides of their heads.  They have monocular vision--they see two different views simultaneously.  They can see 358 degrees, with one degree--their blind side--each in the front and back.  A Thoroughbred doesn't have to turn its head to see what's happening on the left side--but Number Six appeared to enjoy the play in stall #5.

As soon as Number Five was out of the gate; de-tacked and began walking off the track--Number Six looked around, side-to-side, and then--he sat down.  That's it, he sat down in his stall, forcing his jockey off.  He knew that he had a very small window during which he could scratch himself--with Number Five out of the race, the gate starters and other horses were eager to hit it.  Number Six watched every second of that episode, and at precisely the right moment (when the other horse was clearly out of the race)--Number Six SAT DOWN.  That's it. End of story.  "Scratch me, I'm goin' home."

We humans laughed:  we'd seen the wheels turning in that gray horse's head.  We knew that he was carefully thinking about what was happening, and how he, too, could go home, get a nice bath and be fed--all without working!

(God forbid that the news of this brilliant tactic spread among the shedrow:  the barns will turn into spas filled with fat, lazy horses who smoke cigarettes and drink Saratoga Water from blue bottles while getting a mani-pedi and watching "Days.")

So, yes, horses think.  Anyone who doesn't believe this, please step away from the horse.

If you think that God made a 1,200-pound animal and DIDN'T give it a brain to control that enormous body and energetic potential--I implore you to think again.  A half-ton animal with no brain and no reasoning power would be the most dangerous animal on Earth.  All animals have a brain of some sort, or at least a central nervous system.  The larger the animal, the more the need for reasoning.  (Think elephants, and the fact that they cry when a member of their herd dies, and they hold a "wake" the deceased.) 

Now think about a horse--Thoroughbreds are not the largest breed, certainly.  Without a brain--and the gentlest of spirits--Percherons could kill every person in their paths. 

Horses need brains. 

Horses have brains.

The ones who lack reasoning skills when adrenalin mixes with, oh, say, alcohol and ego--are humans.  The inveterates who lose their wad of cash and go berserk.  You've seen it, and if you haven't--I am envious.  It's sad, really.  I'm thinking about the bettors who go to simulcasting on beautiful, sunny days:   there are actual horses, racing on an actual racetrack, right across the street, but like the stereotypical computer geek, inveterates are holed up under fluorescent lighting in a large room with no windows and not a real horse within sight.   

Bettors of this stripe have no interest in horses, only in what betting on the horses may do for them. And that is profoundly sad. 

They'll never know the soft nicker of a horse as that being approaches for a kiss.  They'll never learn how to read a horse, and how to admonish a "biter."  If the inveterate doesn't win, he's out and on to his next game of chance.

But before he leaves in a huff, the inveterate swears, screams, throws down his losing ticket.  He'd jumped up from his chair, words that begin with the letter, F, and the prefix, "Mother." spewing from his enraged mouth.  He blamed the jockey.  He blamed the horse.  He blamed the other horse, who cut off the horse of choice.  They're all "stupid," "idiots"--everyone who participated in the race is a moron.  (He's usually one of those who, even though he may not be an "old man," thinks old and throws out axioms about "glue factories," thinking that he's being funny in his bitterness.  He's not funny, or attractive or smart.  He's just sad.)

Eveyone is to blame in this scenario...except, of course, for the guy who put down $500 on a sport that involves sentient beings and risk. 

For some reason, the inveterate is without blame for the loss.  This, I have never been able to figure out.  Everyone on the track--right down to the landscaper who didn't cut the grass to a  1/16"-inch specification that the bettor would like--is to blame.  Ego, adrenalin and beer have never produced a business decision based on Wisdom.  But the inveterate can't blame himself, so everyone around him catches the flak when close inspection of one's soul is the logical next step.  (A rule of thumb:  if you keep losing large sums of cash, and endangering your relationships along with your health--on a sport that involves betting on living beings who may not agree with you [but who have far more control over the situation than you)]--you might want to back off.  Stop and think about what you're doing, and how many lives can be negatively affected by your behaviour.)

If not your behaviour in toto, but at least today.  What is served by jumping up and down and screaming obscenities at a horse who can't hear you?  (And who wouldn't care, even if he COULD hear you.) 

I ask you, horseperson to horseperson, to keep some perspective this Kentucky Derby Day.  Everything in moderation is a good idea.  Real horsepeople aren't usually the ones who bet the farm, because we know that this IS a game of chance.  That it IS just a game.  A game that we love, a game that thrills us to the core--but, if at the end of the day you find yourself broke because you gambled away your paycheck--then this beloved game has become something hideous, and bad.

Have a wonderful Kentucky Derby Day!  Have a Mint Julep, if you are so inclined.  Don a chapeau like the late, great Dixie Carter and feel like a million bucks.  Have fun with your friends, whether you're at Churchill Downs or an OTB down the street.  Eat something delicious, and definitely put a couple of bucks on Seabiscuit. 

But please don't let the betting--and the frantic calculations about how much you "could" win--cloud your thinking.  Kentucky Derby Day is a day to celebrate our sport, and the horses and humans who make it happen.  It is a day to remind ourselves that we who work in horse racing are most-blessed.  It is a day that can kick off the rest of the racing year with joy, anticipation and determination to make this the best, most secure sport in America--and the world.

Today can be a day of great joy and camaraderie.  Or it can dissolve into a blur of disappointment, anger and self-loathing.  The choice is up to you--to me--to we, the horse lovers, owners, trainers, handicappers, writers, grooms, hotwalkers, and yes, the bettors. 

If you can't afford to flush it before you walk up to that window--don't take it with you.  Ask yourself before approaching the teller, if losing this money will make you a horrible person and an embarrassment to your friends and family.

If the answer is yes, then back away from the window. 

If the answer is no--then have a blast!  Enjoy that rush of the last two seconds, as the horses come screaming down the track.  Will you lose?  Will you win?  If your horse doesn't come in first, but you're cool with losing the money--then you've already won, a much more important race than the Kentucky Derby or any other race. 

If you know yourself, you've won the Race of Life.

Run fast, turn left! 

[Photo credits:
 Churchill Downs, courtesy of Churchill Downs
Charitable Man, courtesy of Cathleen Duffy
Aqueduct Gate with Greys/Roans, courtesy of NYRA and Adam Coglianese
Twylight Cocktails, courtesy of All Play Stable
The Late, Brillaint Dixie Carter, courtesy of DixieCarter.com

Thank you all!]

It was  one of those nights

Writers need to write like riders need to ride.

I may have been caffeinecrazy:  I knew what I wanted to say but couldn't settle down enough to get it on the proverbial page before me.  I was just plain exhausted:  the words were in my head, but refused to translate through my digits.

Last night I had so much to write that I didn't know where to start.  There are things before me which should be read and edited for others.  There are blogs to write; marketing peripherals to hammer out and editorial content concepts that I want to get down on paper before they fly like a vapor out of my brain and into the air.

So I simply went to sleep, knowing that the words would present themselves to me after Morpheus had cast his spell over me.  I write best in my head, in my lucid-dreaming space.

I wrote a bit last night after I found sleep, but even better--I got organized in that netherland.  I awoke at 6:11AM with the full list, and ready to rock on it.  Even my Palm, without which I cannot move, isn't as organized as my brain on sleep's deep drug.

I awoke knowing that I wanted to write something about the Kentucky Derby--it is upon us, two days hence, you know.  I didn't want to write the statistics, predictions or other yawners.  I knew there was a tale to tell, and, sure enough, it presented itself to me during the night.

Here it is.  Today's offering is Part One, a two-part series which will conclude tomorrow.  One topic:  females in my Life and their Kentucky Derby experiences--and how those experiences touched my being, and have brought me to today.  I would not be a racing essayist without any one of these females, and the influence, encouragement or inspiration.  Sans further ado,  I present, "Every Day is 'Women's Day' in Racing":

I finally came to the conclusion that my Mother was so in love with horse racing and the golden apple of the Triple Crown that this song which ushered in Triple Crown season just tore her to shreds.  She passed on that love for the sport to me, that passionate, I-can't-explain-it-you-get-it-if-you-get-it obsession with The Sport of Kings.  A title which made no sense to me, whatsoever, for everyone in my Life who loved the sport and participated was a woman, Queens, all.  To me--because of my Mother, first--it is and will always be The Sport of Queens.

*  Penny Chenery.  Speaking of Queens.   And speaking of the Kentucky Derby.  One cannot Talk Derby to Me without the name, Penny Chenery being mentioned in hushed tones.  For those of you who aren't Thoroughbred racing fans; who were born after 1973 or were foaled on Mars--Penny (Helen B.) Chenery owned not one but TWO Kentucky Derby winners:  Riva Ridge, who literally saved the farm with his victory in 1972, and--the following year--the inimitable Secretariat.   Penny is Le Grande Dame of Racing, even though she's as unassuming and kind--albeit, feisty, brilliant, opinionated and strong as they come.  My association with Penny, I am blessed to report, goes far beyond that of a fan who loved Riva and Sexytariat. 
You see,  I went through my Life working and freelancing as a writer until seven years ago.  In 2003, I met Penny Chenery on the phone through a strange set of circumstances that involved the Church of her childhood, young adulthood and of her heart--which it happens, I attended in the early 2000s.  I won't bore you with the details unless you email me and ask about them, 'cause it IS a heck of a story.  But the short version is that Penny called me in response to an email I'd sent in early July, 2003.  I nearly fell down when I picked up the phone.  A 45-minute conversation ensued--that began with the fact that she went to Smith and I to Mount Holyoke.  (You'll get this if you're an Alumna of either school, or live in the Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts.)   At her invitation, we met in her box at Saratoga on Opening Day in 2003, and discussed my vocation as not just a writer, but as a racing writer.  I gave her a coffee mug with an image of the Church etched on the front, and my portfolio.  She promised to read the portfolio--I thought, "Sure."  She called me the next morning at 7:30, and said that she'd read it, loved it--and things happened from there.  She was the first person to encourage me to pursue my goal of becoming The Oprah of Horse Racing. She got me.  She liked my writing, and thought that there was a place in Thoroughbred racing where I'd fit in--or, if I didn't fit in, I'd kick down a door and force my way in.  A woman of great personal power and patron of women in racing, Penny Chenery is my Mentor--for which I will always be grateful.  I cannot watch replays of any of Secretariat's Triple Crown races without thanking him; Riva Ridge and the great woman who not only saw potential in those two horses, but in every female who craves a career in this sport, and me in particular.  I love Penny Chenery, and always will.

*  Claire Conmee.  If I've told you this story before, please forgive.  If not, read on, MacBeth.  In 2005, I was on the phone with my friend, Kathleen Conmee Breault.  Kathie lamented that her Mother, Claire, had never-yet been to the Kentucky Derby.  And Claire wasn't old-old, just old.  Getting on in years.  Had had myriad health problems, and risen above.  And getting to the Kentucky Derby was one of Claire's big Life Dreams, which, it seemed, would never happen.  This was in February.  I hung up with Kathie, and looked at the Churchill Downs 'site.  Saw that the Derby for 2005 was already sold out.  (Go figure.  Rock stars; 15-minutes-of-fame tartlets and nepotism + Big Bucks got all the tickets, it seemed.)  I dropped an email to Churchill Downs, and asked if there might be just three seats, ANYwhere, for the 2005 Kentucky Derby.  Just three.  One had to be wheelchair accessible, for Claire would need that.  We didn't care if the seats were on the roof at the extreme top, in the back--all that mattered was that Claire would be at the Kentucky Derby, and able to see something.

You see, Claire Conmee was no ordinary older lady.  Claire was a lifelong racing fan--and an encyclopaedia of racing information and deep knowledge.  No one currently alive, or dead, knows more than Claire knew.  She'd fallen in love with racing in 1948 when Citation won the Triple Crown.  She had a crush on Eddie Arcaro.  She could 'cite dates, times, statistics like no one I knew.  And she highly resented Secretariat for coming along--25 years later!--to unseat Citation.  The first time we had this conversation, she referred to "G--damned Secretariat!"  (Kathie and I laughed, which didn't go over well, either.)  

So here we had the one person on the entire planet who should have been treated like Racing Royalty, who couldn't even get a ticket as tempus fugited--time flew.  We didn't know how many years Claire, with her myriad health situations, had left.  So I dropped a line.

Twenty minutes later--I kid you not--a kind-voiced woman called from the ticket office at Churchill Downs.  She identified herself as Jan.  She said that she'd received my email, and that they had three tickets for us, wheelchair-accessible.  The tickets were $145--cheap by Derby standards.  I sent the check, she sent the tickets.  I looked online to see where we'd be sitting, and by the looks of things, we were in the front row of a section in the Clubhouse.   Sweet.  (When I envision the front row in the Clubhouse, of course I think of the layout of the Saratoga Clubhouse.)

WE three set out for Kentucky--for a grand roadtrip--a few days prior to the Derby.  Packing Kathie's yummy egg-salad sandwiches (featuring butter on the bread, even better!), we Big Gulped our way for a one-day powerdrive to Kentucky.  We arrived, and a few days later, were ready for The Kentucky Derby.

I could spend paragraphs to describe the trip--all the funny and cool things that happened on the way down to Kentucky, and the first few days we were in residence.  And I will tell you that, when we drove up to the sacred gate of Calumet--which was, at that time, shuttered--we got a photo of Claire standing outside the red gate, holding onto the painted cast-iron, demanding to the Universe that she be let in to her rightful place.  (Calumet was the home of her treasured Citation and of our shared passion, Alydar--and Claire coulnd't get into the gate.)  Claire never got through the gate at Calumet, but it makes for a great memory.  Especially today, as I write this, two days from the 2010 Kentucky Derby.

I could regale you with more tales of our trip, but I want to get to the heart of this tale.
The day before the Derby, Jan from Churchill Downs called and told us to meet an escort at 7:30AM at Gate 17.  Rockin'.  We rode to Churchill Downs in our hotel's van--which was taking several other people to the track early on Derby Day.  We walked about three steps to Gatge 17, and were greeted by the sweetest gentleman in the world.  He was wearing a red jacket, and looked very official.  He had a wheelchair for Claire--Jan had told us not to bother to bring one, they'd have "something."  They sure did:  a lovely wheelchair, with a handsome older gentleman to wheel our Alpha Mare right to her seat.

As we went through the Clubhouse, we passed the section where we assumed we'd be sitting.  We wheeled out onto the apron--which at Saratoga is a lot of space and nice benches.  Not so at Churchill Downs:  at the Downs, the apron is filled with boxes and box seats.  As we walked--and wheeled--closer and closer to the rail, I asked our Valet, "Where are we going?"

"To your seats!  You're in the front row of Section 117, at the rail.  Near the finish line!"

Kathie, Claire and I nearly croaked collectively.  We were shocked out of out minds, that for a mere $145, the Ticket Office at Churchill Downs had given us the Best Seats in the House.  We were at the rail, just before the famed Churchill Downs' finish line.  Our seats were so close--and Claire's wheelchair was put in where our hosts had already removed a chair to accommodate her--that our knees touched the fence of the rail.  We rested our programs on the rail during the course of the day.  We could reach out and touch the horses during The Walkaround, on their way into the Paddock.

Why anyone thinks that Millionaires' Row is a Big Deal, I don't know.  Why would anyone want to be six stories high, and to the south--nowhere near the horses who make it happen--just so they can brag that they'd spent hundreds of dollars to stand next to Snoop Dogg?  I don't get it:  our seats were the best in the house.  For a moment in time, we were Racing Royalty.  Claire had finally been given the respect she'd been due since 1948--that of a fan who loves the horses so deeply, and knew them so intimately, that she could identify Alydar by the hairs on his withers.  A fan at this level is far more than a casual observer or horse racing:  she was very much a part of the sport, itself--for without fans like Claire, there is no horse racing.

Claire was, in a very real sense, Home.  (Ironically enough, none of the three of us cried during "My Old Kentucky Home," because when you're in the front row and 160,000 people are screaming the song behind you--you can't hear the brass of the band.  We only knew that the ritual had ended because the lyrics blanked off the tote board.)

I spent the entire day watching Claire as she watched the races.  My eyes and heart were trained on her during every moment of each Derby ritual.  Kathie and I cried buckets, as we observed Claire taking in this experience, this once-in-a-Lifetime experience.  There'll be other Kentucky Derbies for me, possibly for Kathie.  This was Claire's one shot, and we are eternally grateful to God for opening the doors that led to that day in a box so close to the track, itself, that, as Claire observed--we could smell the horses' breath.  That, for a real race fan, is the Kentucky Derby.  Millionaires' Row isn't for fans of the sport, for lovers of horses.  The Row is for those who want to be seen.  Those who want it known that they spent an obscene amount of money to be removed from the action.  If you want to be photographed for "Us" magazine--secure your seat, now, for Millionaires' Row in 2011.  If you want to see the Kentucky Derby--give me a call, let's Do It Right, and experience it from the perspective of people who love horses and jockeys more than the flash of paparazzi lightbulbs.

So I spent the day watching Claire, and would give my eyeteeth for the opportunity to do it again this year.  I don't care if we saw the Derby from a 13" black-and-white TV in a Washington County tap room.  The idea would be to spend just one more Kentucky Derby Day with the woman who, more than any horseplayer I've ever known, embraced every nuance of the animals and the sport.  Just one more Derby Day with Claire.  But that won't happen, except in the sense that the dead are always with us, observing and, hopefully, aiding.

Claire died last year, not from any of the illnesses that had assaulted her to no avail for many years prior.  It wasn't supposed to happen, but it did.  A friend in the industry acquired a beautiful black-and-white photo of Alydar, whom Claire loved so dearly--as did I and all her children.  I made prints and gave one to each of her kids.  We buried one of the pictures in the box--we buried Alydar with Claire.  We are certain that they met almost immediately:  the massive, golden gates of Heaven opened wide for that get-together, ironically, where the red gate on Versailles Road would not.

We all still ache--her four children; beautiful grandchildren and friends who loved her well.  I will never again mark the Kentucky Derby without thinking about Giacomo's Derby win in 2005, and Claire's smiling face that day.  Or the numbers, 9-1-4.  I may tell that story to you at another time.

So on Saturday I will raise a Mint Julep to Claire Conmee, and thank her for giving me the greatest Kentucky Derby experience of my Life.  I've had only two Derbies so far, but--unless one day I own a horse who's in the Derby, and I receive the red roses, myself--nothing will ever match the joy that Claire shared with Kathie and me that hot Kentucky day five years ago.   Thank you, Claire--you are one of my Kentucky Derby Women, for, indeed, you epitomize everything good for which this sport stands. 

Still.

END PART ONE
FRIDAY, 30 April:  PART TWO.

[Photo Credits:

Full Moon, courtesy of NASA.
Secretariat, courtesy of Secretariat.com]

If you believe that you can't do something, or that you're "just" something--then you are right.  You can't do anything that your heart believes is impossible.  And if you believe in your heart that you're "just"  ("Just a woman," "Just a small-time trainer")--then that is precisely what you are, the smallest of your species.

But if you can look yourself in the mirror and state that you can do something that may seem to be impossible or even ridiculous to your detractors--you have power.  And you may not achieve that huge thing--but the result will be a lot closer to the goal than if you started out thinking that you shouldn't even try.

There's no shame in not making the goal:  there is shame in not even trying...

But you might come in second.  Or you may win a major Derby prep.  And there's no shame in either of those accomplishments--in fact, your resume is fattened by coming in second in the Kentucky Derby, or winning a Derby prep.  But your resume remains a flatliner as long as you don't believe, and don't try.

Language is Destiny, and Language has Power.  You can soar among the clouds with eagles, simply by altering the language you use to describe yourself and your life goals.  Or you can remain down here on Earth, pecking like a chicken in the dust, because your negative thoughts manifested themselves in the language you utilized, and, in true circular motion--that language of lowness fed the negativity in your soul.

The same applies to your horse.  You may own a Thoroughbred or Arabian, who's in training to race.  You might have a lovely Quarter Horse whom you ride for fun, your best friend.  Or a Morgan, Paint, Fresian--whichever breed of horse makes your spirit take flight.

If you own a horse, or about to own a horse--you are blessed.  Many of us exist out here who want to own a horse, or horses, but for whatever reason, the timing/finances/geography isn't right just yet. 

Your horse may come with a name, and you choose to give her/him a name that suits better, or which expresses your feelings about your new relationship.  Or you may have a yearling who needs a name for registration purposes, for which you may dig into pedigree as a reference.

Whatever you do, I beseech you--for the love of all that's Good and Holy--whatever you do, please, please, please do not give your horse a goofy name.

If you love horses--if you truly love horses--then you know that they are sentient beings.  They know their names.  They know when it's dinnertime.  They come when they're called.  (Usually.)  And you know that humans are also sentient beings.  If you wouldn't give your kid (human, not goat) a stupid name--why would you saddle your beloved horse with a name that clearly indicates that you're making fun of him?

Caballo Press of Ann Arbor recently released, "Horsenameographies:  Life Stories in a Race Horse Name."  The publishers knew that everyone has a story to tell, and that names speak volumes.  So they posed the question, "If you were a race horse--what would your name be?"

Humans had the opportunity to choose our race horse names.  A very cool gift to give a human soul, the opportunity to rename one's self.   Horses don't get the same privilege, so we who own the horse have the moral obligation to give our horses names that not only befit them--but that will help propel them over the finish line with power, dignity and grace.

A bit of linguistics here:  soft consonants generally don't pack as much power as hard consonants.  Vowels, of course, are soft.  A soft consonant will work if the name in total implies majesty and strength.  Think of names like "Man O'War," "Ruffian," "Alydar," "Affirmed."   Soft consonants and vowels, but implied authority.

Names that begin with hard consonants have a psychological advantage, in that it's already assumed that the name is connected to prowess:  "Secretariat."  "Seattle Slew."  "Citation."  "Thunder Gulch."

I used to be part-owner of a horse.  A beautiful granddaughter of Seattle Slew.  Her original racing name was, well, ugly.  I hated her name.  She was beautiful, dark--the spit-and-image of her storied Grandfather.  I detested the name so much that I won't tell you what the partners allowed members to name her.

But I saw one of her other part-owners last summer at Saratoga--who also disliked her name--and she told me that the person who bought her actually legally changed her name with the Jockey Club.  And that he had given her the most ridiculous race horse name in the world.  Our beloved Seattle Slew Granddaughter is now known as I B A Babydoll.  When JoAnn told me she looked nauseated.  When I heard it--and then looked her up online--I nearly lost my lunch.

The thought that our majestic, beautiful, slew-footed baby who grew like a weed and had so much potential--is now practically a circus horse, given a name that condemns her forever.  She'll never, ever win the Breeders' Cup Distaff.  (I refuse to call it the "Ladies' Classic," because--the language thing, again--that name sounds like a razor.  Or a bikini wax.  And, uh, it's impossible for a horse to be a "lady"--so who's racing there?  Human women wearing squared-off fingernails and Jimmy Choos?  Or big, strong, strapping, rippling-with-muscles female Thoroughbreds?  "Ladies' Classic" makes no sense, whatsoever--and, in fact, is in that category of Goofy Names for Stuff.  Language.  Is.  Destiny.)

I digressed.  I B A Babydoll is doomed, because she has a silly name.  Even goofier than her original moniker.  If she ever had any chance of being a Champion, it's shot, because humans think they're being cute or funny, when in reality they're being horribly disrespectful of these horses whom they claim to love so much.

I knew a woman 30 years ago who named her baby, "Pencil."  I never found out what happened to that baby, but I won't be surprised when I see on the news that he's become a serial killer.  What will the anchors on NBC call him?  "The Graphite Killer" perhaps?  Names, like language, state for the world which traits our parents--or owners--hope we will bring into the Paddock of Life.  A human entering the race named, "Pencil" was doomed from the start to a life of mockery.  His parents thought that "Pencil" was funny, perhaps, or maybe his Father was an accountant.  But it was just plain wrong to name a small, innocent child to a Life of condemnation that surely began in the sandbox.   And it may be that no one else has ever taken that child--now an adult in therapy, I'm sure--seriously. 

By the same token, a horse named "I'm a Joke," "Idiot's Delight" or "Frank's Mistake" may not go out and buy a machete, and proceed to hack up the backstretch in a fit of formerly-repressed rage.  It's that "no thumbs" thing again.  But a horse who's the object of ridicule by his own owner--the one person on the planet who's supposed to believe that all things are possible--knows that it is not treasured.  Not valued highly.  A whim.  Not a member of the team--always just the mascot.

You can give your horse a name that bespeaks beauty, strength, prowess, grace--any number of positive adjectives and attributes can be identified by the name you give your horse.   Your horse needs not be a racer, he may be just your best friend, hanging' in the backyard.

But if he is your best friend--the first thing you can do to honour that relationship with the being who will always love you, always accept you right where you are--is give that horse a name that shows her, right out of the gate, that you sit back in awe.  You are fully aware that this creature, this otherworldly, superior being who has stepped out of Heaven long enough to cover your Life with grace--this is a being worthy not only of your love, but of a name that tells the world that s/he deserves--no, demands--respect and honour.

Carry on, Troops.  Respect yourself.  Respect your path.  Love and respect your horse--and allow the language you use to describe your own Life, and the horse you love so dearly, to show the world--that a universe of potential resides within that body, for the body is that which carries the dynamic Spirit of the Horse.

And besides--if I hear that you've named your horse, "I'm with Stupid," I'll beat you senseless, myself.  I'm short, but I pack a wallop.  Hell hath no fury like a chestnut Alpha Mare.

So goes an ancient Arabic proverb.  Truer words have ne'er been spoken.

No pretty pictures in this article, although I'm tempted to post at least one, that of the two yearling colts on Robbie Davis' Saratoga farm.  They zeroed in, and threatened to inhale my cell phone camera last year.  Their big, twitching noses descended on my little phone  like a wet suit.  It's a cute picture, funny, even.  But humor isn't what I'm going for here, so this article will be all black-and-white.  Virtual ink on untouchable paper.

This musing is about spirit, and emotion.  I ask that you join me on this journey, and allow your imagination to engage the camera in your mind--remember that, the camera in your mind?  The one that takes words and translates them into images, colors and visuals that may mean something to you, alone?   Please read, inhale, ingest--allow words that may appeal to you to wash over you, and seep into your pores.  Let them find their way to that part of your brain that conjures pictures--especially when you really need to escape from the mundane.  There's nothing mundane about soulful experiences, and yet soul is found every day, in the very mundane--if we go silent and allow ourselves to become quiet enough to experience it.

The fact that a horse is domesticated, living a lush life on a nice farm that features friendly human faces providing food and water--does not negate the innate instinct to sniff.  Social security cannot replace eons of wariness.   All new beings entering a horse's sphere must be felt out--and, since horses lack thumbs and need their front legs for, oh, standing--they must depend on their sense of smell to give them the heads-up if a bad animal, person or experience appears on their scene.

The first time you met a horse, no doubt you were instructed to make a fist and offer it to the horse at her nose.  She sniffed, gently running her soft nostrils over the parts of your hand, perhaps your wrist.  Sniff in, snuffle out.  Sniff in, snuffle out.  Your new friend's velvety proboscis ran gingerly over the bones and skin of your digits and hand, as her eyes surveyed your facial reaction to her diligent investigation.  She may have tried to bring her upper lip into the event:  if you smelled nice, you might be a treat.  In the final analysis, your new friend decided that you were OK. 

The next step probably involved her expecting some proffered gift, your offering to her otherworldly superiority.  You passed muster with the sniffing ritual, and now you can score a home run if you have carrots, peppermints or Skittles to hand over to Her Highness.

That Introductory Sniff usually lasts just a few minutes. 

Like going through the metal detector at the airport:  you're in, you're good, you're out.

I've been security-checked by thousands of horses over the last 50 years, and yet it wasn't until four years ago that I got the whole burrito:  full-on spirit massage by a gang.  A horse gang.  A throng of angels, cleverly disguised as fat, furry, curious filly weanlings.   In that one moment in time--which lasted somewhere between two seconds and 100 years--my Life was changed for good, and for the better.

I wish I could reach into my soul and pull out words that can describe the experience adequately, but those words don't exist.  I can tap dance around it, I can come up with some killer adjectives, but nothing in my severely-lacking English language (what is it, only 60,000 words?) can help me to give you the experience through my writing.

Oh, that's right.  I can't write it for you, because you must experience it for yourself.  You can't truly know the experience until it's yours.  I can't create it, and hand it to you.  You can't wish it into being.  A spirit massage by a gang of horses just happens, spontaneously.  They are the ones who decide it will happen, and they run the show.

My first spirit massage was conducted by a Thoroughbred gang on a friend's farm in 2006.  Early Spring, April.  Sunny, perfect blue skies.  A little warm, a slight breeze.   Walking around the farm, reveling in the lovely weather, I wandered over to the paddock which I'd been told was the town square for five weanling fillies.  These girls were granddaughters of my beloved Seattle Slew, so I hoped to have the opportunity to pet at least one of the great racer's progeny.  Just one pat on the back of a grandchild of the undefeated Triple Crown winner, who, for whatever reason, is my all-time favorite Thoroughbred. 

I walked up the hill to the girls' domain, determined to touch at least a small patch of Slew's DNA.  This would be a special day, to experience a Slew grandbaby, perhaps see his fiery eyes in one of the young ones.

I had an agenda, but "...the best-laid plans of mice..." and women paled by comparison to the intentions of these five spirit animals.

I thought I'd have a challenge on my hands, that of luring a horse over to the fence for a pat.

Quite the contrary:  like five guileless faeries--think, the Nox in "Stargate SG-1"--they loped, long-legged but sirenesque, to the paddock fence.  Their eyes were trained on me, mesmerizing: I could not turn away from that which was destined to occur.  Silently, moving like mist across the bright green grass, they held me at the fence with ten deep orbs: the Eyes of Heaven tied me in place while they made their way, slowly, deliberately, to the spot,  where I stood. 

I was physically outside their realm, we were separated by a fence--but borders are meant to be breached, and physical divisions mean nothing in the realm of the Numinous. 

As the queens reached their side of the fence, it occurred to me that I was participating in a living enactment of an Alma-Tadema painting:  I was a mortal, observing the approach of several Greek or Roman goddesses.  I was helpless to their wiles.  They were all light and ethereal, questioning and knowing.  The silence surrounding their approach was so loud that I gasped, and that gasp was the only sound audible to anyone but we six.

Once at the fence, the divas-cum investigators set straight to work:  while one chubby weanling dove straightaway into my neck, another burrowed into my hair.  The third was content to run her silken nostrils all up and down my right arm, caressing my palms with her deep knickers of approval.  Number Four had shoved her head through the slats in the fence and up my shirt from the bottom.  She was determinately sniffing my abdomen:  side-to-side, middle, top and bottom.  I wondered if, in horse culture, the abdomen represents any particular virtue.  That moment was sublimely delicious.  The fifth Epona was in charge of legs:  she left no part of my two appendages untouched.  Young as she was, she may have wondered why, if we seemed to be of one spirit, did I not stand on all fours?

Whatever her train of thought, she was almost aggressive in her quest to determine what constituted Me.  Horses are so far superior to humans in their ability to intuit, and to communicate.  Each of the Six Blind Men and the Elephant in Jain lore touched a different part of an elephant, and declared that the elephant looked like thus-and-such.  Their imaginations were limited by that which they could physically feel--ah, the never-ending Empiricism vs. Rationalism argument.  But horses, ah, horses:  unlike those six blind men, each of these equines were experts in a certain human body part, and the mind-body connection. 

They knew, deeply, the role that part played in the tapestry of the spirit that entwined our beings. 

Horses.  Ah, horses.  They are neither confined nor slaves to the realm of the merely physical.  They may use their sense of smell to re-enact ancient prey survival rituals--but the scent wafts up through to their brains, and settles in that unknown realm known as The Mind.  And The Mind--that is the berth in which the soul resides.

My bemaned angels wordlessly exchanged information, coming to a complete picture of the geography of my soul.  Those fillies knew me better than I knew myself:  their approval was my entrée into a place I'd never-before entered, a land where I would seek residence for the remainder of my very mortal, so limited days.

In essence:  horses use their noses to inform their souls about our souls. 

I don't know how they do it, I know only for certain that they do.

And I...how did I respond to this equicelestial rite of initiation?  I stood stock-still.  Eyes closed, sensing every tender caress.  I was the first human to experience a horse:  I knew in those golden moments every nuance, each nuzzle, of the first equine-homo sapiens encounter.  I was blessed beyond measure.  To say that I was merely "calm" would be an understatement of monumental proportions.  I had never felt so alive, and yet...so transcended.

I would love to report that, following this moment of pure bliss, my Life has been a bowl of cherries, or sweet feed.  It hasn't. 

But I've come to realize that, when I least expect it--the angels will descend on me again.  Inspecting, intuiting, introducing, knowing.  Sharing their Wisdom, reading my needs.

One such moment happened 800 miles from the first, two years later--but because neither time nor space is relevant to heaven's messengers, it was familiar and warm.  Like coming Home after a long voyage, I knew the terrain, and anticipated the welcome of that porch light.

I was in Lexington, Kentucky.  I often drove up Van Meter Road, to breakfast at the Keeneland Kitchen.  Van Meter is the backdoor to Keeneland, a lovely drive off of Versailles Road.  It separates Keeneland's property from that of Calumet Farm.  Narrow, with gullies on either side, Van Meter is a quiet longcut that promises opportunities to see mares grazing at Fares Farm or other of the great Bluegrass Thoroughbred establishments.  At Rice Road you take a left, and zip down to the best breakfast in Kentucky.  Great food and hard-working racetrackers; Hall of Fame trainers and locals who know the secret about that famed kitchen.

That March morning I drove recklessly down the middle of Van Meter Road--if you know the via, you know that your side of the road is the middle--I spied four luscious, zaftig weanlings on the right (East) side.  A chance to kiss a horse, perchance to assuage my beaten-up emotions.

I swear that God filled in a gully; made it flat and covered it with grass--for right next to the young horses was a spot, perfect for parking.  A bona fide Bluegrass miracle.

I parked.  I disembarked.  I walked one foot to the fence, and--on cue--four beautiful heavenly messengers introduced themselves to me in the same sniffing, full-court-press spiritual massage that I had experienced two years previously. 

This time I was prepared:  I knew what was about to happen.  I closed my eyes, and drank in the experience with none of the surprise of the first encounter.  I was ready, and--like one about to be baptized after sincere repentance for a Life of waste and debauchery--I dove in with abandon.  I participated:  I relayed my thoughts and love through my very cells, my mind and my soul to these beings who were new in their particular-ness (as would write Plato)--but as familiar as my own laughter.

Again, I was blessed, and was assured that, indeed, mercies come along when we least expect them--but when we need them the most.

(Note:  These weanlings wore halters bearing the names of their dams:  as I read monikers like "Miss Grindstone" and "Arabic Song," I realized that this was a place at which my spiritual pursuits met the very-earthly kingdom of human-made greatness.  These were Calumet babies.  These horses were born to a greatness that manifests itself in tangible accomplishments.  But those empirical achievements are absolutely fueled by the spirit which cannot be measured [but surely is implied] by pedigree.  Greatness can be inherited, but it is not necessarily the result of sinew and bone, conformation and cut.  True greatness comes from within, regardless of pedigree, and the names on these little ones indicated that they were the heirs of guts and glory of the truest dimension.)

In a very human, very earth-bound moment, as I realized that this was Calumet and these were children born of royalty, I slid my bare right foot under the lowest rung of the fence, to caress that grass of that mythological city.  And I said aloud, "This is for you, Claire."* 

I was empowered so to do by the strength, the encouragement, of my new friends.  They invited me into their Home, and I brazenly went forth.

I've never been called "shy," but I would not have put my uninvited foot on Calumet's sacred land, had I not been encouraged by the residents, themselves.  Sans my new-found guts, I would have driven by, admired, and wished.  In very tangible terms, Calumet is the royal palace, and I was an interloper.  But when the invitation is extended by the royal residents, themselves--one is emboldened to step forth into the throne room.

If you've not-yet been encountered by a spirit gang, a herd of horses who decides to initiate you into their tribe--you will soon.  All you need do is open your heart to the possibility, and go through your days with the expectation that some time, somewhere--the angelic throng will come to you when their whim or assignment dictates that Today is Your Day.

When you do receive your equine anointing, breathe deeply.  Take in every moment, make it your own.  Trust your own instincts to follow their lead, and trust them to lead you to a place of unspeakable joy.  On the other side of the ritual is a new understanding of the equine species--their specialness, and the reasons why those who love them fiercely refuse to back down on issues like slaughter, roundups and abuse. 

Beyond that, oh, it's nothing spectacular:  just the realization that you are more connected to God's Nature than you may have entertained in the past--and that empirical evidence, in The Big Picture, is only the first step.  If you stop at what the five senses can take in, you've only gotten a fraction of the picture. 

Open yourself up to sensing all the way:  give a horse her head, and she'll always take you Home.

*  Claire Conmee is my friend who fell in love with racing when she went headlong for Citation, in 1948.  She and I shared our love of Calumet's great Alydar:  our bond with each other was deepened by our common love for the beautiful Thoroughbred.

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...

You were young.  You were old.  You were in transition.  You were figuring out if you were a tower of strength and a Force of Nature--or a more passive soul, content to accept things as they come along.  As your soul crawled out of the primordial mud and formed, it posed questions about who you would be and what would matter to you.  What would become important enough that you would be willing to go into battle to defend it?  Would anything or anyone be that important, or does the thought of fighting off the Visigoths make you run into the cloakroom of your youth? 

Do you wear pastels or bright colors? 

Black or white? 

Is your Life photographed in sepia tones, or vibrant jewels?

However you realized you felt most comfortable in your own skin--and there is no "right"  or "wrong" way to be--there was no doubt a definitive moment when you heard a song or a tune that drilled itself into your spirit, like a sword in that mythical stone, and took up residence there.

In that moment, you felt vibrantly, definitely alive.

In that moment that the piece of music surgically implanted in your very being--everything became much-more clear.  "Ah, yes!" said your heart, "that's who I am."

Your actions, your ideals, your philosophies--all would be informed at least to a degree--by that music because it confirmed that which you already knew about yourself.  That gift of God, transmitted via an insightful human messenger--gave you strength; confirmed your resolve and steeled your soul so that you may jump in, head-first, and fully participate in this Life that you own.

Even "bad" people--those deemed to be sociopaths--have been inspired by music, but we mustn't blame the music, itself or the composer.   Some ditty, somewhere, has been the excuse, that it tripped the trigger of many acts of evil.    Neither music nor musician can be blamed for this twisted accusation: music of its own accord has no ethical or moral value.  It is the receiver, the spiritual instrument, who takes the tune and either creates a Life of giving and attempts at virtue--or who chooses instead to go out in a blaze of misdirected "glory," the soundtrack warped as the notes are misinterpreted by crazy chemicals swirling in a soup of cranial confusion.

Don't blame the music for the bad actions of humans. 

But by all means, do sit down and think about your own Theme Song.  What is your theme song?  Everyone has one, whether or not you realize it.  Somewhere out there, there exists a piece of music to which your soul relates so directly and intensely that you feel in your most private moments that it must have been penned just for you.  I urge you to think about this question, about how you relate to that music, and why. 

My theme song is "Avenging Annie" by Andy Pratt.  If you're not familiar with the song, I heartily urge you to go to iTunes and listen and then buy it, ASAP.  (Note:  While I respect Roger Daltrey, his version of the song does not hold a candle to the original.  Roger's voice doesn't have the range to meet the demands of the piece, or the emotional content required to deliver the song as soaring, sweeping literature.  Stick with Andy's original version, or his live recording.  Go to iTunes, or to one of his links, below.)

Why "Avenging Annie"? 

Well, it's like this.  I was a sullen 16-year-old.  It's a wonder my Mother didn't defenestrate me without notice.  I'd been reared by two strong, smart women:  Mom and Gram.  But, uh, let's say that I'd not-yet realized that I was first in line to inherit their spirit of resilience, fortitude and insight.  I spent a large chunk of my 16th year lying face-up across my bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering with great resentment "why nobody understands me."

Then, one day in 1973, just before my 17th birthday, I woke up, literally.  The funk lifted and I could see clearly through eyes that previously had been shrouded   I went to school, did all the things of the day before--but I was different.  I made many Life decisions during this time of burgeoning self-actualization--most of which are still part of my belief system to this day.  I turned 17 shortly thereafter, and knew that I had a much better grasp on Life--most important, I had a serious idea of who I was becoming, and why I was on the planet.

Pretty cool.

Shortly after my 17th birthday, I was listening to the radio, and I heard this song.  A symphony, really, that began with hoofbeats, two popgun shots and a soaring piano introduction.  A wild west ode?  A rock opera?  "Avenging Annie" came blasting into my consciousness, and took me by storm as a tornado overtakes the flats of Oklahoma, tossing controlled chaos in its wake.

The lyrics aren't the main reason why "Avenging Annie" took me by the soul and claimed me as her own.  I mean, the story line--a woman narrator tells us about her devotional love to a man who was cruel to her.  Their relationship started out all hearts and flowers, and turned to something sordid, violent and illegal.  This was not my story, at all.  Even at 17, I was savvy enough to smell a skunk when he came trundling out of the woods. 

What first captured my attention and my imagination was the piano intro, then the fact that the song was sung by a man who had the single-most remarkable vocal range I'd ever heard.  The chorus is sung in falsetto, but there's a moment when Andy--the singer--goes to the profoundly low register, basso profundo.  (Hence the "profundo.")  This tweaked my curiosity, but that alone wasn't enough to make this song the one that would come to heart so often during the course of my Life.

It was the feeling of the chorus, "They call me 'Avenging Annie,' the avenger of womanhood..." that brought light into my dark eyes.  Somehow I felt that I would be called upon many times during my life to be a caregiver-heroine-advocate.   To walk in the footsteps of  "The Avenger from Oklahoma"  was not necessarily a calling to anger, but to stand up for those who are weaker than myself. 

This was a vocation into which I could sink my teeth. 

I don't know if that song directed many of the circumstances of my Life thereafter, or if I'd been given the strong connection to the song to sustain me during those times that would arise.  Chicken or egg, the song has stood me in good stead over the years.  Two years later, I became my Grandmother's caregiver.  Two years after that, I took my first "real" job, to make money to pay for a nurse for Gram.  From the cocoon of our safe home to working in a psychiatric halfway house, where I wrestled butcher knives from the hands of a paranoid schizophrenic and spent three days comforting a woman with clinical depression--Avenging Annie was my patron saint.

Over the years I've been called upon to stand between women and their abusers; tell a Hell's Angel to "...get the Hell out of my way" and channel Jack Nicholson when an impatient doctor pierced the pericardium that surrounds my Mother's heart.  I wouldn't have chosen these circumstances to arise--but I was always grateful that Avenging Annie had, back in 1973, somehow imparted to me the information that I could stand for those who were in need, and not back down.

So I find myself on the afternoon of the debut of "View from a Broad," a racing talk radio show.  I am not the ultimate defender or advocate.  I am just one woman with the desire to make the equine sporting world a more egalitarian place for women and girls, and a safer, more nurturing place for horses and other animals.

My passion to advance other females and to protect horses from the ravages of human cruelty had its roots in those two strong, smart women who loved and reared me in the 1950s, when strong, smart women weren't necessarily appreciated.  The parade of pets and horses who early-on came into my Life to bless and nurture me contributed to the tenderness of heart that blossomed within me.

As I think about  this radio show and my vocation as a writer and advocate, I cannot move forward without a blessing from Saint Annie of Oklahoma--the unwitting mythical woman who grew out of the fertile imagination of Andy Pratt, a man of great creative talents and spiritual depth.   "Avenging Annie" is the theme song of my Life, and of "View from a Broad."

Everyone has a theme song.  Just as horse lovers have their own Horsenameography--their race horse name--I would posit that every person experiences a moment in time when their souls crystallize--and that a piece of music was present to make that moment so clear, so bright and obvious.  The song participated in that moment of self-actualization, and--whether chicken or egg--that music will forever be a golden thread in the tapestry of that human Life.

So I ask again, What's your theme song?  I would love to read your responses to that question, and a bit about how and why the painting of your Life is richer for it.

Thanks for sharing, and many thanks to Andy Pratt--first for giving Avenging Annie, the woman, to the world, and for reaching into the galaxy to retrieve her story.  Your willingness as an artist is a reflection of God's own creativity.  And thank you for allowing me to use your song for my radio show, and for my Life.

And...as the great Harvey Pack said, May the Horse be with you.

LINKS:
"View from a Broad":
www.blogtalkradio.com/ThoroughbredWriterViewFromABroad

Andy Pratt:
*  Facebook:
   http://www.facebook.com/pages/Andy-Pratt-Boston-Music-Legend/188024960425
   ("Avenging Annie" and all of Andy's other gorgeous music can be purchased via his Facebook page.  Click on "My Store" on the top.  Each song is available here for .69 cents--30% savings over iTunes, etc.  You can get entire albums for...well, for...a song!)

*  http://andyprattmusic.tripod.com
*  www.itsaboutmusic.com/andypratt.html


IMAGE CREDITS:

*  Sheet Music:  Mr. Kozichek, Band Director/General Music
Franklin Avenue Middle School, Franklin Lakes, New Jersey
(via Google Images search)
*  Shaker Tree of Life
*  Annie Oakley:  www.AmericanTallTales.net
*  Andy Pratt:  Northern Music and Andy Pratt

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...

Good and bad, screwed-up and head-on-straight--we were the object of Prof's devotion.  Every one of us knew that he cared about us and the idea that we could grow into something mighty fine.  This book, this lovely, brilliant little tome, is packed with insights that could only come from in the trenches.  Anyone can get an advanced degree in Education, but unless you take your own education into the system and help minds to expand and potential to be realized--it's all for naught.

I am grateful to realize that I can see my own Life within the pages of this book:  I was blessed to have a family who supported me during high school, and encouraged every success while stealthily mining the depths on my behalf.  Prof Holmes wants all parents to be like my family:  involved, informed and one step ahead of their kids.  As protectors, guardians and examples, it is the duty of parents to be the Mother and Father Bears who stand in front of their cubs and fight off predators.  The berries on the bush may be sweet, but they can be poisonous, too:  it is the job of bear parents to teach their cubs the difference, and to lead them to healthy grazing.

Prof taught me a huge deal about writing, thinking and having fun in the process.  (Novel concept, that of enjoying one's self while learning to love literature, and even to produce it from the contents of one's soul.)  Prof was handsome, wry, intelligent and intellectually challenging.  He knew how to handle the dolts who sat like lumps of wet ash in class, whose feigned coolness was a not-so-clever cover-up for massive insecurity.  Fake cool is easily detected by a savvy teacher, and Prof was savvy.

Well, we in the Class of 1974 all managed to graduate, some in spite of ourselves, and go on to the business of Life.  Prof, too, graduated in a sense:  moving up the ranks from Educator to Administrator, his career spanned four decades and change.  He saw a lot during that time, he learned a ton, and he observed how the system works--or doesn't.

I don't know anything about education, that is, the methodologies and systems that turn small children who can't-yet read into youth who have learned to love learning--but that's where wise Educators like Prof come in.  "The proof of the pudding is in the tasting," as properly goes the adage--and Prof's book, "For Parents Only:  Straight Talk from Inside the American High School" is proof that Prof is a Pudding Master.  (I absolutely adore alliteration, as Prof may recall.)  His own education, as he morphed from Teacher to Administrator, then his judicious practice of his craft, provided tremendous insights into the system and how it can be used to the greatest advantage for students and their parents. 

Chapters such as "Extra-Curricular Activities:  All Work and No Play" and "Cliques and Conflicts: Sometimes There's Trouble in Paradise" made me think about things that never occurred to me when I was a sullen, Allman Brothers-obsessed Junior in high school.  (Yes, "Whipping Post" was my theme song in 1972.)   But these are precisely the things about which every parent should be prepared to take on in the interest not only of helping their children transition into high school--but to thriving during those potentially-traumatic four years.

No teenager is going to be happy 100% of the time.   From my own memory banks, they won't be happy 50% of the time:  raging hormones and the endocrine interruption of well-firing synapses are a fact of biology.  Teens' brains are not developed, fully, until much later, so we shouldn't expect them to act rationally very often. 

But as happy and safe as a high school student can be--this is a key foundational goal of "For Parents Only:."  The finished product--a student who goes through those four years with success without demolishing their ability to hear the beat of their own drum--well, that success is the result of a great deal of blood, sweat and tears.  Parents, Educators and Administrators all need to work as a team to see each student as an individual with a raft of needs and desires--and goals which can be brought to fulfillment only by a carefully-blueprinted course of action.

If Parents and Educators join forces to assure that the children under their watch are provided with the best options in education, and that those options provide opportunities for growth, fulfillment, dodging negative experiences (and using the negatives which couldn't be avoided as lessons)--a child can turn into a teen who turns into an adult who is strong, healthy, smart and ready to take on Life, whatever befalls.

"For Parents Only:  Straight Talk from Inside the American High School" will entertain while it educates; bless while it blisters and instruct even as it teaches you parents a thing or two about yourselves.

A truly great book is one that, when we finish reading, we are compelled to pick up again and again because we know that there's something to apply to virtually every situation we encounter on a particular path.  If you have children who will head to high school in the next decade--or 100 years--you must get this book, and commit it to memory.  The fact that you have Prof Richard Michael Holmes as your ally is a huge step toward winning not just the smaller battles along the way, but to victory in the war, itself.

Onward, through the fog.

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To read more about "For Parents Only:  Straight Talk from Inside the American High School" by Richard Michael Holmes, contact Prof Holmes via www.richardmholmes.com , on Facebook or at S636874@aol.com. 

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.

Here's the deal:  I do not currently have five million dollars.  I have never (yet!) had five million dollars.  I wouldn't know what five million dollars looks like, unless it resembles my dreams in which five million, one-dollar bills fill a room and I am rolling in it like a puppy in the grass.  Ecstatic, I grab handfuls of the freshly-minted cash and hold it to my nose, to take in that scent of new ink on hot paper.

Were five million dollars dropped on me suddenly, I probably wouldn't run directly to the bank--first I'd lie it in, facing skyward and thanking God that my ship had come in--and she was a boatload of cash named Lotta Bux.

I have no right to tell anyone who does have five million dollars what they should do with it, but that lack of right never stopped me from expressing my opinion in the past.  We who are of strong opinion believe that we are right, even that many of our ideas are divinely-inspired.  (I know:  those who are clinically delusional believe the same.  Thin line between them that has the keys and them that wants them.)

It is with my usual sense of self-correctness that I throw down the gauntlet, and ask Mr. Charles Cella to do something completely off-the-board.  Mr. Cella, I challenge you to speak with Mr. Jackson and Mr. Moss, and create something that will not only contribute to the marketing of horse racing as a concept--it will make you three gentlemen look like saints.  The public relations value of this action will have far-reaching implications, for no one in horse racing has ever done something so grand and magnanimous in the name of two horses.

(For the record:  A lot of nonsense has been touted, that this one single race will bring in throngs of new fans to the sport; raise racing's profile in the sports world and--Glory, Hallelujah!--save the sport.  I, too, hate it that horse racing is listed as "other sports" on websites like ESPN.com.   Our beloved passion finds itself nestled cheek-to-jowl on the 'site with endeavours such as ping pong and Parcheesi(R).  But this one race has no such magical powers as to draw millions of new fans to the sport.  No one is going to fall in love with racing and stay with it for the rest of their lives because of one race--the purse of which will go back to $500,000 in 2011, BTW.   The fact that the Apple Blossom is overshadowing the Dubai World Cup and even the Triple Crown is ridiculous.  This is all hype driven by the media and believed by some people, but it's just not true.)

Mr. Cella:  you want to draw the attention of the racing world--of the sporting world--to Hot Springs?  You want to help market the sport, and bring throngs of people to your racetrack on a regular basis, not just one day?  You want to throw down the gauntlet for those who run football, baseball, basketball, even the Olympics?

Pick up the phone, call Jess Jackson.  Get Jerry Moss on the line.  Tell them that you want to take that $5 million purse and give it to Haiti relief in the names of Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta.

You saw how many people went ga-ga when the name of Afleet Alex was associated with a lemonade stand.  I don't know how much money was raised via those lemonade stands for childhood cancer, but you saw how much good PR surrounded all those involved.  A lot of hard work was done by a ton of people to raise that money.

With two phone calls--your index finger won't even get tired--you can honor both great mares; provide food, water, shelter and medicine to thousands of humans suffering in Haiti and get more good will for yourself, your track, the sport and the connections of Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta than you can fathom.

You want ESPN, MSG and the general media--that which doesn't normally cover racing--to notice you?  Work with the owners of the two great girls, and give that big, honkin' chunk of change to alleviate those suffering in Haiti. 

There's a saying, that we should all aim to "...do well by doing good."  It's a guarantee that, by working with Mr. Jackson and Mr. Moss to give the purse money to Haiti, you will reap benefits for years to come.  Some of the bennies will be immediate--accolades, news stories in media from around the world.  Other benefits will keep pouring in for many years.  Decades even. 

You will be the horseman who worked with two other horsemen and showed the world that Thoroughbred racing is not a sport without a heart. 

You might even challenge the rest of us to match the $5 million, by sending donations via the Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta Fund, which you can create.  (I have 30 years' experience in non-profit:  I will gladly help you, however you need.)

The NFL, NBA, FEI World Games and even the International Olympic Committee can learn from your example.  Just think, Mr. Cella:  if you three gentlemen do this, and challenge race fans to match the funds...and then every other sport in America is challenged to match that figure...how many lives can be saved in Haiti? 

Think about it, Mr. Cella.  Sleep on it.  Mull it over during your morning coffee.  Pray about it, if you're a praying man.

This one action, more than a thousand races between Big Horses, has the potential to do more good for the world's people and our own world of Thoroughbred racing than anything that's been done by horsemen in the history of the sport in America.

*  Sure, you can have a race between Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta on April 9th.  On April 10th, everything goes back to the way it was.

*  Or you can ship both horses to Oaklawn.  Walk them onto the track at the beginning of the raceday on April 9th, and give the throngs of fans a moment of incomprehensible joy.  (That's all their real fans want to see, anyway:  their beloved heroines together on the same racetrack.)  

*  Then you, Mr. Jackson and Mr. Moss announce that the $5 million purse money has been donated to Haiti relief in the names of Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta. 

You can host a horse race.  Or you can make history. 

The choice is yours, Mr. Cella.  God bless you, whatever you decide.

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As always, May the Horse be with you.