Fanfreakingtastic

This Take Charge Indy. His story is at the end of this post.

So, first things first. There is an undefeated horse in the field named Gemologist. He is trained by Todd Pletcher and ridden by Javier Castellano. As a side note, Javier used to ride Union Rags. He gave up Union Rags to ride Gemologist, and it was Javier who boxed Union Rags in on the rail during the Florida Derby, essentially ruining his former mount’s chance at the win. In other news, Javier is also the guy who was attacked by Calvin Borel after a Breeder’s Cup race.  Thing is, by all accounts Javier is a super nice guy and a clean rider. Mostly, I just wanted to post the video of Calvin going bananas.

Anyway, Javier jumped off Union Rags in order to stick with Gemologist, and the horse is undefeated and won the Wood Memorial. Technically, I should like him. I loved his hard fighting sire, Tiznow, and Gemologist has shown similar grit. And yet, I’m just not a believer. He has bizarre action. His front legs paddle so much he’d be all kinds of useful in a canoe. There are a lot of rumors of unsoundness. He is trained by The Todd, which is always uninspiring. The Todd is the Corporate America of horse racing, and who roots for Corporate America? Pretty much just Corporate America. Another horse worth knowing is Alpha, second in the Wood Memorial. He’s a nice horse, trained by a nice guy, Kiaran McLoughlin. But I just don’t care about either of these horses, despite their prominence. So, in case you’re interested, here’s the Wood Memorial and I’m moving on. (Actually, I just watched the Wood again. It is a good race. The winner was bumped, forced wide, etc. and he still won…I don’t know why I don’t care.)

Big! Grand! Chestnut! Dullahan!

All right! Onto the horses I find more inspiring. Firstly, we have Dullahan. Here’s what he has going for him. A.) Cool name. B.) Cool looking C.) Real big. Those are always fun qualities, right? Especially when they come in a grand looking chestnut with a lot of white. He is trained by Dale Romans…who I like-ish, but sometimes he does things that baffle me. The way he’s handled Shackleford, last year’s Preakness winner, has kind of bummed me out at times. Moreover, First Dude improved enormously after moving from Romans barn to Baffert’s. So, I don’t know about Romans. He’s had all kinds of success, especially at Churchill Downs, but I don’t entirely trust him as a trainer. Anyway. Dullahan is ridden by Kent Desormeaux, the personality-filled jockey who is either really, really good, or really, really terrible, depending on the day. I think Kent’s struggled some since his divorce, too. But when he’s at his best there’s nobody better.

More importantly, though, here are some facts about Dullahan the horse. His dam, Mining My Own, is the same mare who brought you longshot Derby winner Mine That Bird. Dullahan, however, was not sired by the diminutive Birdstone, like his brother, but rather by the very large Even the Score, the only sound son of Unbridled’s Song. Maybe not the “only” sound son…no, wait, actually. Yep, pretty much the only sound horse ever sired by Unbridled’s Song. Mining My Own seems to pass on soundness, so hopefully Dullahan will have escaped the curse of Unbridled’s Song. (Germans would totally have gelded Unbridled’s Song ten years ago.) But moving on – Dullahan has had success over turf and dirt, but he seems to really excel over synthetics. He did finish fourth in the BC Juvenile behind Hansen, Union Rags, and Creative Cause, so he isn’t terrible on dirt. The question is, can he be as effective over the dirt as he is over the other surfaces? We’ll find out. He definitely loves the holy heck out of Keeneland’s synthetic track, where he closed impressively to beat Hansen in the Blue Grass Stakes in his final prep before the Derby.

Went the Day Well, from the same connections as Animal Kingdom

Another Easterner to keep your eye on is Went the Day Well. Brought to by the same team who took Animal Kingdom to the win last year, Went the Day Well is trained by the classy Graham Motion, ridden by classy John Velasquez, and owned by the sometimes classy, sometimes outspoken, often entertaining Barry Irwin of Team Valor. This horse, who really needs a nickname, was named after a British WWII movie. He has followed precisely the same path to the Derby as Animal Kingdom, having prepped with a win in the Spiral Stakes. In most ways I’d say he’s not as impressive as Animal Kingdom, but he is getting good right now, and seems to love Churchill. Motion worked him in blinkers last time out, and it really helped O’ Wenty (I just gave him a nickname) but the thing about an equipment change is that it can only be done without approval after a loss. Because Ol’ Wenty won his last race without blinkers, Motion will need to get approval from the stewards to make the equipment change before the Derby. Here’s Ol’ Wenty winning the Spiral. You can see how hard Johnny V. has to work to keep him straight in the lane. The blinkers will fix that, and help to keep him focused on the task at hand.

Finally, we have Take Charge Indy. Yet another graduate of the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile, Take Charge Indy hasn’t done a whole lot of winning, but he has won when it counted most – in the Florida Derby over Union Rags. He also finished a good second in an important two-year-old race. What makes Indy special isn’t so much his race record as it is his personality and history. He is the son of the wonderful racemare Take Charge Lady, who raced 22 times, winning half her starts, finishing second seven times, and earning 2.48 million dollars. When Lady foaled Indy, she produced a colt who looked a lot like herself. Good sized, dark, scrappy. She also produced a colt with some pretty significant conformation faults. And so the colt out of one the greatest racemares of all time, and sired by the living legend A.P. Indy, could not find a buyer.

A headshot of Take Charge Indy.

Indy’s owner went to a woman named Tami Bobo who had just entered into the Thoroughbred game after a lifetime with Quarter Horse show horses. She loved Indy, despite his close set forelegs, upright pasterns, and short strided walk. But then, if you’re a Quarter Horse person, you’ve seen plenty of upright pasterns and short strided walks in your life, so it makes sense. Tami bought Indy privately, and took him to her farm in Ocala. She believed he just needed time to grow up, so she turned him out to pasture and let him be a horse. She also took to riding him bareback all over the place with nothing but a halter. She even galloped him on the traick in this way. Indy is a very kind colt, and took to all the attention like a duck to water. Tami taught Indy tricks, teaching him to shake his head “yes” and “no” for carrots. Indy was introduced to trail riding, and went all over hill and dale with Tami.

Tami and her business partner had purchased Indy with the idea of selling him, but Tami found she had a hard time parting with the colt. Eventually, they sold part of Indy to some good friends. They owned him in partnership for awhile, but once Tami got used to the idea, she sold the rest of her stake in Indy to Chuck Sandford, the horse’s current owner. It was very important to Tami that Indy’s new owner understood who and what he was, so before Chuck bought him, she set up a meeting between the two, showing Chuck all of Indy’s many tricks, showing Chuck how kind and sweet he was. For Tami, this deal couldn’t be just business, it had to be personal, too. Chuck Sandford understood that he wasn’t just buying a racehorse, he was buying the son of a legend, and he was buying an animal with a ton of heart and personality. Tami remains an active part of Indy’s life, visiting him frequently.

But even before Chuck came on board, this rag tag team needed to find a trainer. They looked to Pat Byrne, who signed up immediately. Once upon a time, Byrne had been known as one of the greatest trainers in the game. He trained Favorite Trick, a one time Horse of the Year. And then something happened. I have no idea what. But something happened, because Byrne lost everything, and completely fell off the map for many years. Indy was his way back in.

In turn, Byrne brought on board the Rodney Dangerfield of jockeys, Calvin Borel. Bo-rail has won three Derbies, and knows Churchill Downs better than any jock alive. But every year he’s struggling just to find a mount for the Derby. This year, he latched onto Indy early and stayed with him, even when he wasn’t showing much in his races. Calvin had faith in the colt, and Indy rewarded that faith in Florida. They are a perfect match – Indy, a racehorse so broke you can trail ride him with nothing but a halter, and Calvin Borel, the jockey who likes to scrape paint (literally) when sneaking by on the rail. In Indy, Calvin found a horse willing to do whatever was asked of him. And it was a classically Borel ride that took the colt to his greatest triumph to date – The Florida Derby.

So! There you have it! Except you don’t, because what does all of this mean? Well, for one thing, it means that we have one the best fields in recent memory. In a refreshing change of pace, the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile wound up producing all kinds of Kentucky Derby starters. Knock on wood, the first five finishers – Hansen, Union Rags, Creative Cause, Dullahan, and Take Charge Indy – will not only be in the gate on Derby day, they will be in the top tier of favorites. This is absolutely unheard of. Knock on wood, knock on wood, knock on wood. Not only that, but other Juvenile competitors – Alpha and Daddy Long Legs (they finished 11th and 12th respectively) will Run for the Roses. Two other horses from the Juvenile, Optimizer and Prospective, may get into the gate as well. Considering that only 13 horses ran in the Juvenile, the fact that 9 of those 13 are still at the top of their class is absolutely extraordinary, especially when you consider another horse, Drill, is now a star sprinter.

And so we have a remarkable field of extremely talented horses. Not only have they shown consistency and class, they’ve been knocking it out of the park when it comes to the times they’re running. But guess what? This exceptional field has an Achilles’ Heel – and his name is Trinniberg. I will have one final post, where I will analyze the Derby, tell you about Trinniberg, and set you up for the First Saturday in May.

So, I have two people in my life I love very much. They are Alrinthea and Brenden. Now, somehow, through the bizarre quirks of fate, they had never met at any of our parties. Which is kind of odd, as they both attend pretty frequently. Finally, on St. Patrick’s Day, they met, and I was flabbergasted that I had to make introductions. “How do you not know each other yet?” I bellowed. It was St. Patrick’s Day, so there was bellowing.

Al and Brenden quickly realized they shared a love of music. They took over the music for the evening, which was fine. They seemed to be having a great time, and they were making great selections. For awhile. And then I noticed the music turn maudlin. I started to make hostess-walk-bys to see what was going on. The music remained maudlin. Then I heard the following words:

“We can have a depressing song-off!”

These words were said with great cheer and happiness, and yet I did not take it with a similar feeling. I said:

“NOT AT MY PARTY YOU’RE NOT.”

Brenden and Al laughed, and cut the maudlin music. A few days later, Brenden officially put The Depressing Song-Off on Facebook, with Al and Brenden trading vicious blows of suicide-inducing music. At some point, the masses cried out for the contest to be turned into a tumblr, and Al even more officially created this: From Pain Springs Beauty.

Yes, it’s a tumblr dedicated to determining the most depressing song ever created.

It is a surprisingly gleeful enterprise.

But then, it was created by these two people:

Is that a long enough blog post title for you? I hope so.

Word on the street is that Bodemeister is kind of an idiot.

So, the West Coast! Bob Baffert has a loaded hand this year, but in my opinion only one of his many Derby prospects is worth discussing, and that’s Bodemeister. DEAR LORD, you say, THAT’S A HORRIBLE NAME! Yes, yes it is. This poor colt is named after Baffert’s youngest son Bode, who in turn is named after the Olympic downhill skier. Bodemeister is also owned by my least favorite owner in the business, Ahmed Zayat. (If you want to read an earlier rant about Zayat, go here.) As an additional karma impediment, you have Mike Smith agreeing to ride a longshot in the Derby (my favorite longshot, in fact) and then reneging in order to ride Bodemeister. Also, Giacomo aside, it’s always been my feeling that Mike Smith and the Derby just don’t get along very well. Kind of like Pat Day, who did eventually get a win on Lil E. Tee. Which just goes to show, horribly named horses DO win the Derby sometimes. So, why talk about Bodemeister at all? Because he did this in the Arkansas Derby.  He didn’t just beat that field, he destroyed it. And while it can be argued he wasn’t facing the cream of the crop, he carved out steep fractions and then closed well. You also have the following paradox – rarely do horses win by open lengths in the final prep then win the Derby. However, for a front running sort like Bodemeister, that trend actually reverses. Winning Colors and War Emblem, for two examples, were front runners who won their final prep by open lengths. So, is it a good thing or a bad thing that Bodemeister won so impressively? A case can be made either way. Interestingly, Bodemeister, who is bred for the distance, has been loving the Churchill surface in his work outs leading up to the Derby. Some horses hate Churchill, so this is an important consideration.

You can’t talk about the West Coast without talking about Creative Cause. The stalwart gray has danced every dance, finishing third in the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile to Hansen and Union Rags. The thing about the Creative Cause is that unlike his tenacious sire, Giant’s Causeway, he doesn’t seem to like a dogfight. When the chips are down, Creative Cause seems to say, “Ehh…I think you want it more…” Out of eight starts, he’s won four, finished second twice, and third twice. And he’s never far behind even when he loses. But this is a horse worth mentioning, as he’s very talented, has a tremendous foundation in him, and figures to be right there at the finish. I’m just expecting him to get second or third.

Doesn't I'll Have Another have a beautiful eye? So intelligent!

Now, onto my favorite West Coast horse - I’ll Have Another. This beautiful chestnut presents an intriguing picture. Firstly, no horse in the Kentucky Derby is better bred for distance than this guy. His bloodlines are a who’s who of classy stamina. If he doesn’t win the Derby (and stays sound) the Belmont is right up his alley. Secondly, this horse strikes me as super intelligent. Just the way he carries himself, his expression while racing – I get the feeling that this horse knows his job very, very well, which is surprising, as he is so lightly raced. But in the Robert Lewis stakes, where he was 43-1, he won by daylight and did so with his ears pricking. In the Santa Anita Derby, he had to run down the tough Creative Cause, and did so with his ears flat back, his expression pure grit and determination. He’s a big, pretty, grand looking chestnut, and he is loved to death by his jockey, the complete unknown Mario Guiterrez. Mario came to the tough Southern California racing circuit having ridden some in Vancouver, Canada, which means less than nothing to the sharks in Cali. Mario was barely getting by, just galloping horses, when owner Paul J. Reddam saw him. He said to his trainer, Doug O’Neill, that he liked the looks of Mario, and if they ever got in trouble maybe they could use him. Well, Mario got a chance to gallop I’ll Have Another, and he was blown away. His enthusiasm for the horse helped convince O’Neill to take a chance in the Robert Lewis Stakes, and when they couldn’t get top jock Rafael Bejarano to ride, Mario got the mount. Happily, Mario retained the mount in the Santa Anita Derby, and piloted him perfectly to the win. Mario’s joy after the race, and his love for this horse, was something to see. Also filled with joy were the hundreds of friends the owner brought to Santa Anita. This horse isn’t named “I’ll Have Another” for no good reason. Reddam brought six buses of friends to the track. Remarkably, I’ll Have Another the horse handled the drunken winner’s circle craziness like a champ. He’s a smart horse, as I said before.

So, what are the downsides, here? Well, for one thing there’s a reason he’s so lightly raced, and that reason probably has to do with soundness. He recently experienced tight back muscles after a work out, and underwent shockwave therapy to ease the tension. Additionally, he’s doing all of his prep in California. 18 of the last 20 Derby winners have prepped at Churchill Downs. Finally, O’Neill, the trainer, is not known for his success outside California. He trained the famous Lava Man, and had notoriously struggled to duplicate that horse’s success outside his home turf. (Interestingly, the now retired Lava Man acts as I’ll Have Another’s pony, and leads I’ll Have Another to the gate on racedays. Apparently, the two horses get along very well.) Obviously, I have a lot of love for this horse, but he’s definitely up against it for a few reasons on Derby day. Here is his Santa Anita Derby win. Please watch Mario’s reaction afterward!

Daddy Nose Best is a fierce competitor.

Rounding out my highlighted West Coasters is the tragically named Daddy Nose Best. Who comes up with these names? Seriously? Who took this big, beautiful, bay horse and gave him this name? Anyway. Remember the longshot Mike Smith abandoned in order to ride Bodemeister? This is the horse. Now, for the record, Daddy Nose Best has been ridden by Julian Leparoux, who will stick with Union Rags for the Derby. Mike Smith had never even been on the horse when he punked out. Luckily, Garret Gomez snatched up the ride, which I think is for the best. Garret, imo, is a better rider than Mike, and Garret has made a lot of noise about how he wouldn’t trade horses with anybody. I can see why. Daddy Nose Best, unlike Creative Cause, is willing and able to win in a dogfight. By the way, Garret is leaving nothing to chance, and is getting to know the colt by riding him in his preparatory work at Churchill Downs. The Derby will be their first race together, but he’ll know the horse by then.

Daddy Nose Best is out of a mare named Follow Your Bliss. My parents used to say that to us a lot growing up, and so the mare’s name has special meaning to me. Moreover, she lives in Camden, South Carolina. Her sire, Thunder Gulch, won both the Derby and the Belmont, so there’s a lot of distance blood in her. Daddy Nose Best was purchased for only $35,000, and considering he’s already banked over half a million, it’s looking like a pretty good deal. He won both the El Camino Real Derby in Northern California and the Sunland Derby in New Mexico, both wins coming after intense dogfights. Now, these are not exactly racing meccas, and this is why he will be a longshot on Derby day.

I also really liked this pic of my favorite longshot.

Daddy Nose Best is trained by Steve Assmussen, who I just don’t get. I think he mishandled the ever living holy heck out of Rachel Alexandra, and I don’t understand why people think he’s so great. He certainly floundered around a lot with this horse, starting him sprinting, then trying him on dirt, turf and synthetics. On the plus side, the horse is sound as a dollar and tough as nails.  He’s had more races than anybody else in the field, and he’s finally found his groove going long on dirt.  Steve has said Daddy Nose Best is a smart horse who likes to take in his surroundings and is very consistent. “He never has bad days,” according to Steve. He’s definitely been training well at Churchill. To get a sense of Daddy Nose Best’s commitment to the win, check out his El Camino Real Derby win.

This year’s edition of the Run for the Roses is both a tale of two horses and an endless array of potential victors. Here, in part one, we shall discuss the Hansen and Union Rags, tent pole horses the both of them.

Hansen as a two-year-old, just before the BC Juvenile. He's even whiter now.

1.) We will start with Hansen. Last year’s two-year-old Eclipse Award winning champion, Hansen did a most unusual thing - he moved on from two to three, proving himself to be a fast, classy, and consistent colt. It is exceedingly rare these days for the two year champion to make anything of himself as a three year old, but Hansen has done so, through raw heart and determination if nothing else. He has finished second twice and won the Gotham in fine style, actually laying off the pace before making a move. This is the only time Hansen has successfully relaxed in a race, for his modus operandi is to go to the front and go as fast as he can for as long as he can, hoping to hit the wire first. The horse is all heart, and he gets little respect from the experts. The feeling is, Hansen won’t last the mile and a quarter, and with other speed horses in the race, he won’t get an easy lead, either.

The lack of respect for Hansen goes deeper than that, though. His two-year-old season started out at Turfway Park, running against less than awesome competition. When he beat the favorite, Union Rags, in the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile, people were quick to say it was because of the poor trip Union Rags had. There is also the fact that Hansen, though almost white and therefore quite flashy, isn’t a big or handsome colt. And last of all, there is the fact that Hansen is owned by a world class moron named Dr. Hansen. Dr. Hansen insists on having a cadre of Hooter-esque women, dressed in the stable’s colors, lead the horse out to the paddock. Moreover, he has repeatedly tried to dye the horse’s white tail blue. In short, the man is completely devoid of good sense and decency, and is always looking to make a spectacle of his colt. Hansen the horse is an animal with a lot of dignity. He tries his heart out every time. I take a lot of umbrage at the way his owner treats him as a self-promotional tool.

In conclusion, Hansen undefeated as a two-year-old, stakes placed and stakes winning this year, will enter the Derby as the Rodney Dangerfield of the field. He is small, short-necked, too intent on the lead, might have distance limitations, and is owned by an idiot. But I have nothing but respect for this determined competitor.  

As a side note, Hansen is ridden by world class jockey Ramon Dominguez. However, Ramon is coming off an injury, and this concerns me. Hansen will be 100% coming into the race, but will Ramon? He rode in the Wood Memorial, and his performance on second placed Alpha left a lot to be desired. Luckily, the injury was minor, a separated collarbone, and likely Ramon will be ready to give it his best shot on the first Saturday in May.

Union Rags is a big, handsome boy.

2.) Secondly, we have Union Rags. Union Rags is everything that Hansen is not. He is an enormous, gorgeous horse, with bold bay coloring and striking white markings. He looks like a Derby winner, he is trained by Michael Matz, who brought Barbaro to the Derby in 2006, and he is owned by normal people. They’re so normal I don’t even know who they are. He is ridden by the Frenchman Julien Leparoux - sometimes well, sometimes poorly.

As a two-year-old, Union Rags won the Champagne and the Saratoga Special in New York, stamping himself as the establishment favorite. In the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile, he came up just short, losing to Hansen. As a three-year-old, he devastated the Fountain of Youth field. He then entered the Florida Derby, everybody’s favorite to win. Unfortunately, Julien ran into some serious “race riding.” Which is to say, other jocks conspired to keep him pinned down at the rail with the favorite. Then, on the turn for home, Julien did that awkward dance thing. Should I go inside? Outside? Inside? Outside? Union Rags is a big horse, and none too handy. After Julien finally committed, it took the bay colt too long to get rolling, and he wound up third. Was it a bad third? No. Does it mean he won’t win the Derby? No. But it does reveal some weaknesses. Although one could say the Florida Derby was a good learning experience. Just ask Michael Matz, who said, “The good part is I hope that Julien learned about the horse a little bit more…The good thing about it is Julien will put himself in a better position where he won’t let that happen again…I’m sure Julien is harder on himself than everyone else is and that he should have got him running a little bit more at the beginning.” Heh heh heh. For a guy as diplomatic and nice as Matz, that level of criticism is like a string of curse words.

Additionally, it could be argued that it is Union Rags who might be a little short on stamina for the mile and a quarter. His pedigree doesn’t say he can’t do it, but it doesn’t scream that he can, either. In conclusion, in Union Rags you have a similar situation as in Hansen – a talented, consistent colt, but one with some question marks.

If you have a few spare minutes, catch yourself up to date on their signature races:

Union Rags’ Fountain of Youth

Hansen’s Kentucky Cup Juvenile

The Breeder’s Cup Juvenile - This is the race that decided the two-year-old championship. The third place horse, Creative Cause, will be discussed in Part II, and the fourth place horse, Dullahan, will be discussed in Part III.

So, we had a party for my friend Tamara. Tamara is a microbiologist by day, actress by night, and Friday was opening night for her new play. Our house is about a block from the theater, so we decided to host cockails before and after the show in Tamara’s honor.

We wound up with more people showing up after the play than before, but even so, ten of us toasted T at our house then sallyed forth for the theater. As we sallyed we had nary a worry or concern in our little heads, all was joy and light and happiness. The play was a delightful farce that featured an awful lot of opening and closing doors, along with mistaken identities and shenanigans. It was entertaining and fun and joy and light and happiness. Tamara was brilliant in the performance, as were my shoes, who played an important supporting role on T’s feet.

The cast did an imaginative and hilarious curtain call, and then all the actors lined up and bowed. That’s when a low, slow motion voice in the back of my mind said, “Ohhh nooo…we didn’t get Tamara flowers. You’re supposed to get actresses flowers…” I turned first to my friend Anna, a for real opera singer. Anna knows about post performance flowers. I said to Anna, “We didn’t get T flowers!” “Ohhh noooo….” said Anna. I proceeded to ask every single one of our ten friends if they had brought flowers, even though we all had sallyed forth together, and I knew full well no one had flowers. Last of all I asked Anderson, T’s special fella. “Did you think of flowers?” I asked him. “I’ve been thinking about flowers for the last four hours,” Anderson replied.

We had failed. All of us.

Except some of us had a will to succeed. And when I say some of us, I mean Brenden, who found out from Dinger that the Bi-Lo was open until 11. We agreed Anderson should stay behind to be there when Tamara emerged, but I volunteered to go on the hunt for a bouquet. Brenden threw his scarf over his shoulder and said, “Yes! Stay here!” as he ran off down the street, his scarf streaming in the wind.

Only, I didn’t hear the “Yes!” part. I only heard the “Stay Here!” And as “here” was the after-the-play reception, replete with wine, finger sandwiches and all manner of dips and other food delights, I thought to myself, Don’t mind if I do… and wandered away, thinking about a grand fellow Brenden was.

A few minutes later, Alrinthea walked up to me, and when I saw the expression on her face, several things suddenly became clear. I asked her, “When Brenden said ‘Stay Here!’ he meant stay in that little spot on the sidewalk, didn’t he? And he ran and got his car and I wasn’t there because I was here drinking a glass of wine and eating finger sandwiches?”

Alrinthea nodded and said, “He pulled up in his car like Batman and said, ‘Where’s Carrie?’ And when I said I didn’t know, he said, ‘I can’t wait. Tell her I’ve gone for the flowers.’ Then he raced off into the night.” Making this retelling all the better was Al’s rather glorious Christian Bale-as-Batman impression.

I went over to Anderson, and told him what had just happened. We agreed it was fitting that after watching a farce we then had a farcical misunderstanding of the request to “Stay here!” I suggested to Anderson that perhaps we should start opening and closing some doors.  

All of these things were stolen.

I kept an eye out for Brenden, and just as I started to worry about the amount of time that had elapsed, he appeared, holding his arm behind his back. I worked my way through the crowd and up to the hero of the hour. “Did you get the flowers?” I asked. “Well,” he said, “sort of.” He then revealed a fistful of pink flowers.Their roots had been carefully tucked into a little ball. “Let’s go outside,” I said, and guided Brenden and his flowers out of the reception hall.

“I went to the Bi-Lo,” Brenden said, “And the hours were posted, they’re open until 11, but the one door didn’t open, so I went to the other door, and it didn’t open, and there was a guy walking around in there, and then I see a sign that said, ‘Closing at 10 for renovations.’ It was 10:04! I got there at 10:04!”

*

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

I thanked Brenden profusely for his heroic actions, then hid the pink flowers in one of the large pots out front of the reception hall. On the way home, I retrieved the pink flowers, picked off the rest of their roots, and I started to find some flower friends for them. I passed a huge flowering hedge, and liberated some branches. I passed some pretty pansies, and picked a couple. Finally, nature provided some beautiful honeysuckle to complete the bouquet.

Once home, I fetched a vase and put the stolen bounty in some water. It was a surprisingly pretty bouquet, in my humble estimation.

We then presented T with her flowers, and, more importantly, with a full scale reinactment, each of us playing our respective parts. Tamara laughed so hard she cried, and graciously said it was the most memorable after-the-show bouquet she’d ever received.

Since we last chatted a lot of things happened. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and I finally finished the first draft of my wip (work in progress), which most definitely remains a wip, as I’m only too aware of how underdeveloped the antigonist is, how unearned elements of the climax are, how a few ideas are brought up and abandoned, like unfinished stories in a conversation. Some of these things will be easy fixes, some of them will not. And there are two long, deserty stretches were things get real boring, for a real long time. Not even really boring. They get real boring. That’s how intense the boring is.

Also, this book, or rather, this wip, it’s a strange little misfit creature. It’s got a lot of stuff in there that I think a lot of people are going to find alarmingly odd. It’s all stuff I like, or rather, find fascinating. Freaks and demonic possession and the nature of evil and the nature of good and Irish people and Percherons and books and 19th century poorhouses and lunatics and how one goes about getting better. I even put in one horse show. I wasn’t going to put in the horse show, but then I was like, screw it, it’s my book, I’ll put a horse show in it if I want to put a horse show in it. If it doesn’t work, I can always take it out later. It just seemed self-indulgent, the horse show. Although it does serve two important plot points, so it’s not gratuitous.

And like Liz Lemon, I want to go to there. There being, specifically, the National Horse Show as held in the second incarnation of Madison Square Garden in New York City. The National Horse Show, now in Lexington, Kentucky, remains a big deal today, but then it was even a bigger deal, in the same way all horse events were a bigger deal before the advent of the motor car. And here’s the thing, back in the day, those people liked to decorate with flowers like nobody’s business. We don’t do flowers today like they did then. Probably an issue of an expense, because the effect was so amazing.

I actually can’t find any of the pictures I want to find (typical) that shows the flower mania at its full extent, but here’s some other shots that give an idea of what it was like. Click here to see the first picture full size.

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National Horse Show, 1908

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National Horse Show, 1909. They went with ribbons this year.

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What people wore to the National Horse Show. It was a white tie event.

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What Madison Square Garden looked like in 1890.

So, long story short, I put it all into the book. And by book I mean, work in progress.

This photo expresses the level of class displayed by my mother on a daily basis.

As a heads up – this story probably shouldn’t be read by people who are easily offended or who have a high opinion of me. Also, if you have a high opinion of me, I am sorry to inform you that you have been tricked. I am not the classy dame you think I am.

This story begins with a gentleman familiar to readers of this blog. A gentleman named BOTASTIC. While BOTASTIC will always remain in my heart, and I love him dearly, my earlier depiction of him left out some things. Lots and lots of things, actually. You see, BOTASTIC is not the classy gent you think he is. BOTASTIC is, in fact, a world class chain puller, and a sometimes user of salty language.

Additionally, for this Actual Real True Story, you need to be introduced to the character of my phone. It is an iPhone. It hates me. I hate it. The stupid sensor doesn’t work, so my face is constantly hitting mute, hitting speaker, making conferance calls, writing emails. You name it, the right side of my face does it. Who knew the right side of my face even had fingers. But apparently, it has, like, a million, given how many tasks it accomplishes in a two minute phone call.

Finally, there is my mom. Please read about her here. My mother is, in all ways, a complete and total classy dame, one who has never used salty language in her entire life. Out of deference, I have always followed her lead whilst in her company. Because while I may not be a classy dame, but I am a.) not an idiot and b.) genuinely respectful.

You may already see where this is going.

So, I am having a verbal slugfest with BOTASTIC. He is pulling my chain with wild abandon, and I am yelling at him. More to the point, I am yelling at him with salty language. My phone beeps, and I look down. It is my mom. I decide not to answer. I am too busy yelling at BOTASTIC.

The right side of my face, though, has different ideas. “I am totally going to answer this,” says the right side of my face, and it does so, without telling me.

This guy is more representative of my own class level.

And so I wind up yelling this: PUNK A** M*********** not at BOTASTIC, but at MY MOTHER. MY CLASSY, CLASSY MOTHER. I YELL THIS. AT HER.

There is silence.

Mom: Whaaat????

Me: (sheer panic) I was talking to Bo! I was talking to Bo!

Mom: My daughter talks like that?????

Me: Bo was pulling my chain! Bo was pulling my chain!

Mom: I don’t care if Bo was pulling your chain, you don’t talk like that!

Me: I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

Mom: Well look, I am only calling you because I felt guilty I hadn’t called you back yet, but I am busy, and apparently, so are you.

Me: I am so sorry!

Mom: Talk to you later.

We hang up. I call BOTASTIC back. I explain to him both what occurred, and also his responsibility for this incident. BOTASTIC, who is a consultant, by the way, then says, “I think this is good. I think this is an opportunity for greater honesty, greater closeness, with your mother. I think this is going to lead to a high point in your relationship. I think you’re going to reach a new plane of understanding.” As previously mentioned, BOTASTIC is a PUNK A** M***********.

That night, my mom invites me to a movie. You better believe I am there with bells on the next day. I get to my parents house, and my dad, who is a lot like Santa Claus, gives me a hug and goes into his typical spiel. This is his spiel, by the way: “I want you to know how proud I am of you, how special you are to us, and how much I love you.” I am deeply, deeply surprised by this reception.

My dad leaves the room, I look at my mom, and she mouths the words, “I didn’t tell him.” And then she smiles a deliciously wicked smile.

Which just goes to show, my mom might be classy dame, but I know where I got my naughty streak from.

Many moons ago, when I started this blog, I thought out in advance a sort of governing code of ethics. I do a lot of ranting, a lot of mocking. There were some ranting stories I wanted to tell, but I felt uncomfortable with them because they were stories about regular joes. Ultimately, I decided I would rant about public figures, Rolling Stone magazine’s various lists, and I’d tell stories where I am the goat, but I would never write a negative story about a regular joe.

And then I met Blake.

Blake who hates water.

You want this? Can't have it.

Blake is a server at an airport restaurant. Ursula (who recently turned 90, by the way) and I went to this restaurant while we were waiting for Evan’s plane to come in. As it turned out, his flight got delayed, which was convenient, as we were at this restaurant for about a month and a half.

We arrived for an early dinner and the restaurant was close to empty. On the menu was a french dip sandwich, and Ursula shocked me by telling me she’d never had a french dip with au jus. So we decide to both order the french dip. Now, it took us awhile to come to this decision, and I start looking around for the waiter who’d seated us. He is oddly absent. (Hint, hint, this will become a theme.)

Eventually, he shows up and informs us they’re out of the french dip. For the best, I say to myself, I should really get the chicken breast and veggies anyway. Blake then informs me they’re out of vegetables. VEGETABLES. So then I order a Philly cheesesteak sandwich, which they can make. Riddle me that, fanfreakingtastic readers. You can make a Philly cheesesteak but you can’t make a french dip and you have no vegetables. So, peppers and onions aren’t vegetables? A french dip is not the exact same thing as a Philly cheesesteak minus said vegetables? Apparently not.

During the conversation wherein Blake informs us we’ve actually time traveled back to late 80’s Soviet Russia, where there is little food and even less logic, Blake starts to give off a real punk kid kind of vibe. I didn’t like him from the first but now I really don’t like him. Before he leaves we ask for glasses of water. He’d successfully delivered cups of coffee when we first arrived, back when we were young and innocent. Ursula has dry mouth really badly, a relic of her past fight with thyroid cancer, and it’s super hard for her to eat without water.

Ursula and I settle in to wait for our food. Several months pass. Ursula turns 91, and it’s sad because no one is there to help celebrate.  Finally, finally, finally, Blake returns with our food. “We really need water,” I say. And then Blake says this, “I’ll get to it when I can.” I then watch him as he cleans off dirty tables, seats people, takes orders, and generally does everything he can do other than get our water.

Two enormous African-American men sit down behind us. They remind me tremendously of Grizz and Dot Com from 30 Rock. They sit in silence, both absorbed by their iPhones. After a certain point, I swivel around in my chair so I can watch for Blake unemcumbered.  It’s been a long time since my last sighting of the elusive Blake, and I don’t want to miss a chance to glimpse this most rare species. When they see me turn around, the two men say, “If you want anything, you best just go get it yourself.” I take it they are regulars.

And there he is! I’ve spotted him! Blake is approaching and I’m ready to reach out and nab him. But another woman gets him first, saying, “We’ve asked for our waters three times now.” Blake raises his hands angrily and says, “It’s going to be awhile.” He leaves, and the woman and I exchange murderous looks. I think about forming a cabal to jump Blake and pummel the water out of him. Because, really, it’s all about the water hate for Blake. He will consent to bring you food, even coffee. But water? The hell are you thinking? Asking for water! IT’S BENEATH HIM. And why do all this people want water, anyway? WATER IS FROM THE DEVIL.

At this point, Ursula has choked down her chicken tenders without water, and I’ve eaten my sandwich. I just want to get the hell out. As he walks past, intent on ignoring us, I shout that I want the bill. We wait for about another six weeks.

He brings us, simultaneously, the bill and two waters.

I hope that it goes without saying that the bill was filled with errors.

Westside Pavillion, site of the Massacre of the Betrayers.

Upon waking this morning, this happened:

Evan: I had a dream last night.

Me: What was it about?

Evan: We were in a zombie apocalypse and we’d managed to escape with a bunch of our friends and acquaintances, plus we’d managed to get some of our cats out. We were holed up at the Westside Pavillion, and a faction within our group betrayed us.

Me: How did they betray us?

Evan: They ate our cats for dinner.

Me: Oh no!

Evan: I took this as a personal affront.

Me: Did you kill them all?

Evan: No, because I realized, even though I had an AK-47, they were all armed with guns, too, and there was no way I could kill all of them quickly enough. So instead, I took you and a couple of people loyal to us and we left.

Me: Who was loyal to us?

Evan: I don’t remember. Anyway, so you and I and the couple of people loyal to us leave the Westside Pavillion, but as we’re leaving the building, I prop open the doors and pull the fire alarm.

Me: Wow.

Evan: {Evil Cackling}

Me: So you killed them all by zombie horde.

Evan: {Evil Cackling}

Me: I would have been okay with that, because of the cats. By the way, you can’t say you don’t love those cats, given you’re willing to kill all your friends because they ate them.

Evan: I didn’t care so much about the cats. It was the personal affront of the betrayal.

Me: I see.

Evan: We did think there was a chance one of the cats might have escaped both becoming dinner and the zombie horde, and we were going to sweep the building later to see if we could find any cat survivors.

Me: That’s nice.

Evan: Darren was the ringleader of the betrayers.

Me: Figures.

It should also be noted that rational people don't do things like this.

I found myself on Behind the Bit today, and discovered this post. I was reminded of the fact that horse people are crazy, and I decided to share with all y’all my three point theory as to why this is.

1.) Horse people weigh, on average, somewhere between 100 and 200 pounds. And yet when they look upon a four-legged, 1,200 lb. beast, they say to themselves, “I should be in charge of this creature. I should get onto its back and steer it about with nothing but my legs and seat and two flopsy bits of leather. This makes perfect sense to me. If this beast becomes aggressive with me, I will not back down, but instead make the beast back up vigorously, whilst yelling, HEY! or NO! or DON’T YOU DARE! The 1,200 lb beast will respond to this by actually backing down. This also will make perfect sense to me, because I know I should be in charge of this creature.”

2.) Horse people prefer the company of horses to the company of people. This can be quite instructive, if we simply examine the nature of the horse. Horses, unlike cats and especially dogs, are mostly silent creatures. They do not meow or purr or bark or growl. Yes, they do communicate vocally, but their stock in trade is the world of silent gestures, of body language.  The pinned ear, the snaking neck, the raised hind hoof, the chewing gesture of a two-year-old. Horse people know this language intuitively. When outsiders say horses aren’t expressive, they can’t believe it. Horses never stop expressing themselves, and horse people never stop listening. Horse people get in trouble not when communicating with their horses, but when they have to open their mouths, speak, and try to communicate with other humans. It tends to not go so well. Horse people are blunt, rude, coarse, frank, assertive, and generally unbearable. It goes beyond a lack of social graces, and really runs into something like Aspergers. Quite possibly all horse people are actually on the autism spectrum, going about undiagnosed and unknowing.

3.) Every single individual horse person knows the way it should be done. Every single individual horse person does it a different way. Barns are collaborative environments. And chaos ensues. This fact actually ties back into points one and two. Horse people believe they should be in charge. They are lone wolves.  They have come up with a wide variety of opinions based on personal experience, and like the natural leaders that they are, they know they are right.

Now, of course there are horse people who are gregarious and easy going. But they are the exceptions that prove the rule, and dare I say that the crazier the horse person is, the more horsey they actually are.