Horse race re-run: Foolin' 'round in the ol' breed barn

Another day of Triple Crown pageantry, another opportunity for me to re-run an old horse racing post. This one ran exactly four years ago today.

Looks like a beautiful day here in Western Pennsylvania. That means yard work 'til post time. Have a great day!

I admit this is going to sound sexist, but when I learned what was planned for Rachel Alexander’s future, my first thought was, “That slut!”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s the way of the world. Already, the girl really gets around. She got around Pimlico on Saturday in 1:55:08. She’s the first filly to win the second leg of the Triple Crown in 85 years and only the fifth in the 134-year history of the Preakness Stakes.

Those are the kinds of numbers that get pulses racing. Jess Jackson is the filly’s owner. One report described him as the Kendall-Jackson “wine magnate,” a term they left undefined. I like to think it's a typo that means whenever he strolls down the aisles of a liquor store bottles of Cabernet and Merlot fly off the shelves and bond to the 79-year-old entrepreneur.

Despite his advanced age, he spends a great deal of time thinking of horse sex and this in no way means he’s deviant. The fourth most famous race in the sport is tastelessly called The Breeder’s Cup.

How the refined men and women who dabble in what is renown as The Sport of Kings aren’t lumped in with common pimps must be just another exception of privilege.

That’s what struck me when I read that Jackson is eyeing a breeding jackpot with the filly. He also owns the stallion Curlin, winner of the 2007 Preakness, and insiders say it’s a sure thing he’s going to usher the pair off to the breeding barn.

As a romantic who’s always eager for new techniques to please the missus, I decided to research what goes on behind the big doors of the breeding barn.

You can check it out at this highly entertaining segment from Mike Rowe’s Dirty Jobs show on the Discovery Channel.

There are no roses. No sonnets. No sweet nothings. It’s all very clinical. The stud comes in, does his business and, I guess, leaves behind an insincere note with a made-up phone number for the spent mare.

Then there was this disturbing passage that could have easily applied to me and any unfortunate date from back when I was about 24. Try this: whenever the paragraph mentions the “stallion” or its male pronoun, just substitute “Chris” and read on:

“Make sure the stallion mounts the mare in a controlled and reasonable fashion. Too many overenthusiastic or fresh, young stallions will be so anxious to start copulating that they will try to mount from the side and/or thrust with no rhyme or reason. This can frustrate both the stallion and the mare, and neither option is particularly desirable. A frustrated mare can start lashing out at the stallion, and a frustrated stallion will only perform worse as he allows his frustration to cloud his mind.”

Boy, does that take me back. It might have risked ruining the mood, but I’ll bet my dates would have been thrilled I’d have brought along a squad of white smocked veterinarians to show me what goes where.

Not all the research was so grim and sterile and, yes, I realize that’s a poor word choice when dealing with story about horse fertility. I found there’s a sporty-looking human supermodel named Rachel Alexander and she’s often topless.

I’m going to start trying this research thing more often!

I’m unable to reconcile why I feel the equine Rachel Alexander is such a cheap slut for her role in the breeding process when I always feel I should congratulate the male counterparts with cigars and bourbon toasts.

I guess it’s just the primal differences between men and women, stallions and fillies. I’ve been a bystander to enough Lifetime movies to know that women who wind up like Rachel Alexander always come to a moment when they realize what they’ve become. It destroys their self-esteem.

They say they feel used.

And I know what most men will do if we ever find ourselves in the stud role and in a moment of clarity realize we’ve been used for the most base reasons.

We’ll say, "Thanks!"

"Cheers!" to sudsy beer drinking innovation

(725 words)

I lied in yesterday’s post. I said my friends and I were going to Altoona. In fact, Altoona, was not our ultimate destination.

Instead, we went to the future!

And we discovered it has a great big hole in the bottom of it.

I’m one of those guys who is frustrated by mankind’s lack of innovation. We are awash in problems that seem indubitably solvable.

Climate change. Highway gridlock. Runaway health care costs. Air travel that is at once chaotic, inconvenient and uncomfortable, and inefficient 19th century internal combustion engine technologies powering 21st century vehicles.

But yesterday we stumbled into a bastion of innovation at the last place I’d ever expected it: the beer stand at the Double A minor league ballpark for the Altoona Curve.

As mentioned previously, yesterday was Thirsty Thursday, where The Curve sell 16-ounce Yuengling lagers for $2 each. First pitch was at the unusual starting time of 10:30 a.m.

It promised to be a splendid day and we were alive with anticipation as we walked into the concourse on our way to our seats.

But first stop: brunch beers.

“We’ll take three, please,” said my buddy to the pretty college-age beer tender.

We were too busy taking in the scenery of the ball park to notice something was amiss. The stand had no beer taps.

The beer tap is a standard feature of every single bar and draught beer vending place in which I’ve ever set foot -- and I’ve been drinking beer since the fourth grade.

Here’s how it works. You put the glass or mug under the spigot and give the tap a tug, and I’m explaining this in case anyone reading today has never had a beer and is feeling crushed by a lifetime of sobriety.

That’s all it takes and then, hooray, beer!

I saw it first.

The girl took three plastic cups and slammed them down on silver mushroom-like pegs submerged just below the otherwise flat metallic surface.

Beer began gushing up from the bottom of the glass.

I was dumbfounded. It took a second for my buddies to notice. When they did, I thought they were going to vault over the stand and do something heroic to rescue the beer that was certainly in danger of spilling everywhere.

It did not. After about four seconds, the beer filled clear to the top, the girl removed the glass and handed them over. All three were perfect pours.

You could have knocked us over with a feather, well, if that feather was the size of a telephone pole being wielded by a Hercules intent on knocking over three beer-bellied middle aged men.

What just happened?

“It’s a new system called The Bottoms Up,” she said. “Each glass has a hole in it covered by a magnetized little souvenir disc. When I put the glass on it, the disc pops up while the beer goes in. Then it fills up automatically and the disc re-attaches to the magnet ring when I lift the glass.”

We took them in later for Happy Hour Show ‘n’ Tell when we got back to The Pond, our home bar in Latrobe.

It was the first time we’d ever had Happy Hour Show ‘n’ Tell and it was so much fun I’m hoping we can do it every Thursday. It’s just a fun way to share and learn about things certain to accelerate our inebriation.

Dave had heard about them. Turns out, the beer system we’ve been enjoying for more than 100 years is incredibly inefficient. You see it all the time.

Beer dispensation may be poorly regulated resulting in excessive foam that requires the bartender to waste a lot of beer to get the perfect pour. Or maybe it’s so slow that the bartender has to stand there while it dribbles out and his or her thirsty customers get agitated.

I checked out the Bottoms Up website that boasts it’s the most efficient beer-pouring system ever. It set the Guinness World Record by having one bartender pour 62 pints in one minute.

The stat makes venerable beer bongs look slow pokey.

And now today I’m changing my mind about the pace of innovation. The Bottoms Up Beer delivery system means all is right in the world.

With enough beer, who’ll give a crap about all the rest of the other problems?

Related . . .

The Great American Beer Fridge

A convivial man stricken with “beer sickness”

Steve Jobs: American iCon

Priorities: Work or cheap beer baseball?

(834 words)

I’m becoming convinced God won’t let me succeed because my story would be a terrible example to the youth of America.

And in a pop culture landscape dominated by people like Kim Khardashian, the Duggars and Lindsey Lohan that’s saying something.

But each of those examples has something compelling: looks, charisma, traumatic circumstances or hyper-active reproductive organs.

Me, I have this blog emblazoned with the logo: “No Paychecks. No Prospects,” like it’s some kind of cockeyed virtue.

You’d think by now I’d try and do something to change that circumstance.

And I might, but every time I consider doing just that I weigh the pros and cons and think, well, gee, that doesn’t sound very fun.

So I’m not going to change, even as change is about all I ever have in my savings account.

Even on weeks when I have work to do, cosmic interventions arise. That’s what happened yesterday when my buddy called with earth-shaking news:

It’s Thirsty Thursday in Altoona!

Thirsty Thursday is a Yuengling Beer promotion at the ballpark that’s home to the minor league Altoona Curve ball club.

Yes, Paul texted me just yesterday and reminded me we’d talked about going. I suppose it’s a sign of maturity that my first instinct was to decline.

But it was Paul, it was just an hour away and . . .

It was Thirsty Thursday in Altoona!

Here’s how he explained it to me a few weeks ago: “It’s a cheap beer bonanza. They sell 12-ounce Yuenglings for something like a buck. And, get this, the first pitch is at 10:30 a.m. Do you know what that means?”

I did.

For one day at least, I’d be missing “The Price is Right!”

To me, that feels like a real sacrifice, which gets back to my point about being a bad example.

When he told me the first pitch was at 10:30 a.m., my first thought wasn’t, man, I really should stay home at work. No, my first thought was, well, going to the game means I’d miss ‘The Price is Right.’ Is that a sacrifice I’m prepared to make?”

I convinced myself it was.

Why?

It’s Thirsty Thursday in Altoona!

This, for me, is a bucket list item itching to be checked off.

Attending a day baseball game and enjoying a few beers in the sun is one of life’s most sublime pleasures. It’s visual and conversational feast for convivial people. But professional baseball is ruining a big part of it by charging $8 for a can of domestic beer that probably cost about 80-cents to produce.

Not surprisingly, the team that does this most to me is named the Pirates.

We’re Lutheran, but I’m pretty sure I consider myself non-denominational when it comes to worship. But denominations are very important to me when it comes to drinking beer at ball games. My denominations are $5, $10 and $20.

I’ll never be a $50.

Me and my buddies all used to be devout $20s. That meant any time the vendor came by any one of us could produce a $20, purchase four beers for $4 each and still have healthy leftover to tip the vendor. It was perfect.

Then came the price creep.

I first noticed it, where else, in New York City, home of the over-priced everything.

I was with my buddy Kyle. He took me to a game at old Yankee Stadium. To show my appreciation, I told him I’d buy the beers.

So I ordered two beers and passed a $20 down the aisle. We were in the middle of the aisle so the transaction involved passing the money and the beer over about 10 other savvy Yankee fans.

When my crumpled $20 reached the vendor, he said, “Hey, pal . . .”

I interrupted him.

“Oh, you keep the rest,” figuring he’d get a $5. I wanted the Yankee fans to be impressed by my big tip.

“Uh, sir . . .”

“No, no, my good man. I understand the importance of tips to your livelihood. Please. It’s my pleasure.”

I went to sit down, sure the exchange was becoming tedious to the surrounding fans.

Whether it was or not, I’ll never know. But I recollect verbal evidence it had to the vendor who said, “Hey, asshole! You owe me another $2.50.”

It was a near perfect humiliation. I gave the guy $2.75. He could keep the quarter.

It was $22.50 for two ballpark beers! Outrageous.

Of course, the beer at PNC Park in Pittsburgh is now $8.25, an amount I refuse to pay, choosing to spend the game sulking in my sobriety.

So today promises to be a bit of stumble down memory lane. It’s me, Paul, our friend Dave, and maybe another guy. There’s a chance we might be $5s.

Either way, it promises to be a great day. That’s just the way guys like us roll.

Maybe I can be a roll model after all.

Related . . .

Buc bosses asinine over “seat integrity”

Taking pregnant women to the ol’ ballgame

Go Bucs! Jumping on the bandwagon over jumping on the bandwagon

The joyful need to read

(664 words)

Reading is maybe the one passion that’ll ensure you’ll never need friends while assuring you’ll always have as many friends as you wish.

That’s one of the arguments I’ve holstered for the next time I engage our 12-year-old over the need for her to turn off the TV and pick up either a book or a nook.

Our schools do a fine job of teaching our children to read.

That means the rest of us need to do a better job of teaching them to love to read.

Ignore your menial chores, leave the your nutritious morning milk untouched and turn your room into a Selena Gomez-themed slum -- all is forgiven if I spy you sitting there immersed in a book.

It is, to me, the ultimate get out of jail free card. And I’m not just referring to household obligations.

Nothing liberates a restless soul like reading a book.

The belief puts me in the exquisite company of Lord Babington Macaulay (1800-1859) who said, “I’d rather be a poor man confined to an attic with plenty of books than a king who didn’t love to read.”

More and more I see myself becoming like the Burgess Meredith character from the old “Twilight Zone.” Either one.

He plays reading zealots in two of the show’s most memorable episodes. In one he finds a cheerful silver lining to a nuclear holocaust when he realizes his life is now one uninterrupted reading splurge -- right up until he stumbles on the steps of the library and breaks his glasses.

In the other, a totalitarian regime judges him obsolete for his devotion to books that exalt free thinking. He is sentenced to a televised death and cleverly rigs his apartment so his oppressor must share his explosive fate. The accused calmly spends his last mortal moments reading a good book.

It is, in fact, The Good Book. 

His execution is solo after he graciously frees the tyrant when he hears him plead “For God’s sake!” let him go, a broadcast declaration that leads the populace to determine he, too, is obsolete.

We have spent about an hour each night reading books aloud to our two daughters since they were old enough to pay attention. Those times have been absolute joys to both of us, even as part of us wishes we could put down the Shel Silverstein, the Dr. Seuss and their many worthy peers and escape to watch adult shows about zombies before sleep deprivation turns us into actual zombies.

But Josie’s now at an age where she doesn’t need our bedtime stories.

I find myself feeling an increasing urgency she find her own. She was so blown away by “The Hunger Games” trilogy she thinks nothing else will ever fire her imagination. 

At her urging, I, too, enjoyed the Susan Collins books, but, oh, what a fearful pity it would be if she turns out to be right.

This has nothing to do with how I make my living, I assure you. It instead has everything to do with how I live. No occupation could ever enrich my life the way reading books has.

Opening books has opened invitations to meet and become friendly with many of the most interesting men and women on the planet. I could never have scored so many assignments for character profiles without the book-bestowed knowledge of so many esoteric topics.

Being a reader these days defines you in ways that will always define veterans of common struggles.

We’re feeling outnumbered. We feel we’re under siege by moronic diversions and by a populace that increasingly would rather play “Angry Birds,” than engage a book about an angry white whale.

Let the mad cacophony continue without us.

We’ll be sitting all alone in small still rooms surrounded by thousands of silent voices who still have so much to say.

That’s all I have for today.

Thank you for reading.

And I mean that in the broadest sense.

Here are five books I’ll have with me when they come to declare me obsolete.

“The Grapes of Wrath,” John Steinbeck, 1939 -- When I was teaching creative writing, I’d always read aloud the part where farmers spray kerosene on healthy produce to keep starving people from eating them and driving the price down. I always precede the reading by telling my students I’ll try not to cry. Yet cry, I always do.

“Catch-22,” by Joseph Heller, 1961 -- I have two copies of this book, one for my home and one for my office. As soon as I find another used one for sale, I’ll buy it so I’ll have one for my car when traffic gets bad.

“Life On The Mississippi,” Mark Twain, 1883 -- As much as I love “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn,” my Twain affections will always run deepest toward his extraordinary travelogues.

“Lonesome Dove,” Larry McMurtry, 1985 -- Capt. Augustus McCrae will forever be one of the greatest characters in American literature.

“Moby Dick,” Herman Melville, 1851 -- I try and read it every five years because every time I read it I find something new and remarkable. Sometimes I think it should be all I ever read.

Related . . .

Them, the jury

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Podcasting a blog that really delivers

(701 words)

The most common complaint I hear about this blog has nothing to do with content, length or clumsy construction.

No, it has to do with delivery. 

“Yeah, I signed up for the e-mail notification and it never comes through,” yet another friend said just the other night. “What am I supposed to do if I want to read your stuff?”

You’re safe to presume none of my friends are resourceful members of Seal Team 6.

If they were, they’d know you could simply click directly onto the blog every other day or so and something fresh will appear. I blog about 700 words a day four or five times a week. 

I know some people who check in just about once a month or so and I’m perfectly fine with that, too. Unlike old milk, most of the stuff doesn’t spoil.

Another option: they could follow me on Twitter or friend me on Facebook. It’s on those two venues where I announce and link new posts with the redundant cacophony of a rooster announcing each new dawn.

Of if it really, really bugs you and you really need to know the instant a new post appears, get in touch and we’ll work out a system where I text or call you with a one-ring signal letting you know -- ta! da! -- time for another office goof-off!

Still too much trouble?

How about this: I’ll sit in your car with you and read my blogs aloud.

Well, sort of.

Yes, I’ll soon be announcing a podcast.

Well, it might be a PONDcast.

PONDcast because the spoken word blogs will be produced right here above The Pond, the Latrobe tavern beneath my shabby little office, and because the impetus comes from a friend of mine who happens to be named Pond.

That’s Andy Pond.

He’s a fan and suggested my blog would be perfect for a podcast. He thinks people would enjoy downloading iTunes versions of me reading my blog aloud so they could listen in their cars, while jogging or doing other domestic duties.

I was skeptical until last month when I heard from an Ohio cleaning lady who called after she’d gone to her local library to check out an audio version of my book -- and there’s about five factual elements in that sentence that still strike me as surreal. 

She called out of the blue and said she wanted to buy a copy.

“I loved it! I was cleaning one house and I was listening to your book on my iPod. I was laughing out loud the whole time. It was just so funny!”

It’ll sound odd, but I have to say I was a little turned on. It’s not my voice on the audio book, but something about her statement made me feel like I was alone in there with her in some stranger’s house amusing her while she was dusting and scrubbing toilets.

The only thing better would have been if the Ohio maid told me she was dressed like a French maid.

I told you it would sound odd.

But her and Andy’s comment led me to investigate the logistics of podcasting. Of course, I was immediately overwhelmed. I didn’t feel as bad when the guys at the Apple Store Genius Bar were, too. They had no idea.

The only person who was more confused than me and the geniuses is probably my long-suffering wife. When I told Val I was going to immerse myself in another no-pay endeavor and that this one involved me talking out loud more, the look on her face led me to believe I’d have to tackle her before she began repeatedly slamming the basement door on her skull.

I have about 20 posts recorded and am seeking a local geek who’ll spend an afternoon with me getting the thing ready in time, I hope, for the blog’s fifth anniversary on May 23. 

So if you have any suggestions about how I can get a podcast linked to my blog or know of someone friendly who’d be willing to assist, please get in touch. I’m all ears.

At least until May 23.

Then if all goes well, I’ll become more mouth.

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A blog about bloggin’

A son's Mother's Day lament

(717 words)

The woman sounded alarmed. She called to tell me she thinks Mom, 80, is really slipping.

“She asked me to take her to the dentist the other day,” she said. “I told her to meet me in the lobby. When I got there she smiled and said, ‘Do I know you?’ She wasn’t joking.”

That Mom’s asking people I don’t know to ferry her to the dentist alarms me.

The woman’s one of Mom’s neighbors in the condo where she’s lived the past 12 years. My second cousin’s been living there with her the past two years, but the busy girl has a boyfriend and Mom doesn’t see her much.

I sensed the kind woman wants me to move Mom out of there into someplace where she could get more care.

Mom dreads the thought. She’s comfortable where she is.

Me, I’m like a third string quarterback with a fourth quarter lead. I’m just trying to run out the clock and not make any stupid mistakes to infuriate the fans.

I didn’t tell the woman that financial considerations are in play. We are in no position to add any level of elevated care for her.

I didn’t tell her caring for her has led to a profound estrangement from my absent older brother, someone I used to lean on for advice and support. We haven’t spoken for two years and any thaw seems unlikely. It’s something I should have seen coming, I guess. 

Fifty years is a long time for a conservative to love anything.

I didn’t tell her I know I should feel more ashamed that I think it would solve a lot of problems if Mom just dropped dead of a massive heart attack. 

I didn’t tell her any of those things. Instead, I just thanked her for her call and concern.

“Sure,” she said. “I really love Rachel. I just thought I should tell you about your mother.”

Tell me about my mother?

Let me tell you about my mother.

I always think of her whenever I see Carol Burnett.

It’s too bad they never met. They would have been great friends. They had the same preposterous sense of humor. It enriches the lives of all who know her.

I’ll never forget the day Mom did a sit-up.

One.

I was probably about 15 or 16. It was the summer that she for some reason decided to take up the fitness kick.

She lay down on the floor and asked me to secure her feet. She put her arms behind her head and raised up to her knees.

Then on the reverse as she was trying to strengthen some muscles in her body, other key ones loosened. Her body became a bellows.

There, about a foot from my face, she blasted out the kind of fart that would have earned cheers in a fraternity house.

I don’t know how your mother would react, but here’s how mine did: she howled with laughter. It may not have resulted in the desired weight loss, but right there she laughed her ass off.

I did, too.

It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

She grew up in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Yes, she and Groundhog Phil spring from the same ground. But unlike Phil, she’s never seen a shadow.

She’s one of the most sunny people I’ve ever known. 

A friend of mine told me it was his experience that a person with dementia becomes the opposite of what they were prior to onset. He said his once-darling mother became a mean old bitch before she died.

I don’t see that happening, and it will surely kill me if it does. If anything, she’s become even more childishly cheerful as her mental capacity is decreasing. Next to her, the late Fred Rogers was a cranky sourpuss.

Today’s not the day to write a eulogy for a woman who, if she lives as long as her 97-year-old father did, will endure until, gulp, 2030.

So today I will simply wish you and your loved ones a Happy Mother’s Day and share with you a lesson I learned at the feet of my dear, sweet mother:

Remember to try and always laugh your ass off even during the times when the situation really stinks.

Related . . .

The reason men dislike excessive tattoos

Doc says Mom not crazy (2010)

Mom’s making crazy contagious by a nose (2011)

The $45 million ATM withdrawal

(661 words)

I’m generally a law-and-order guy, but if you’ve developed a computer program that will let us purge ATMs of $45 million and you need a money mule, please get in touch.

No masks, no guns, no threats. Just walk away with big bags full of money.

My kind of crime.

It’s like someone’s finally done to the banks what the banks have for years been doing to us. 

You can read the NYTimes story here. It’s very sophisticated.

The looted dough was laundered by purchasing Rolex watches, expensive cars and other luxury items, so it wasn’t so much a crime as it was an inventive sort of stimulus package.

I’d love to stumble into some spree money.

And I’m not talking about earned money. I am right now owed more than $5,000 by deep-pockets organizations that are appearing content to sit on it in the hopes that one of us will die before the exchange must finally take place.

So I won’t feel any giddy rush when/if I finally get my hands on those checks.

No, instead, I’ll simply shuffle the money around to the accounts where I’m in debt, just another chess move in the pointless stalemate of adult living.

There will be no euphoria. No splurge. I’ll pay Comcast and Comcast will quit caring for another 30 days.

I want binge bucks.

The most I ever found was $80. It was four twenties folded up together sitting near the curb of the grocery store where I shop.

I remember sitting there on a nearby bench for 30 minutes waiting for someone -- anyone -- to come by with an alarmed look on their face. No one did.

I remember telling the girl I was dating at the time I felt conflicted.

I couldn’t very well advertise I’d found $80 and would welcome calls by anyone who’d lost that amount. We talked about going to dinner on it, but both said that wouldn’t feel right.

We piously agreed I should donate the money to a worthy charity.

And I might have done just that if the boys hadn’t invited me to go with them that very evening to a Pittsburgh strip club where those $20s were converted into singles that ended up in the G-strings of dozens of attractive young women who swore they’d use the money to pay for things like veterinary school.

I think they lied.

I’ve been enthusiastically going to vets ever since and I’ve never seen one that looked like she used to strip at The Edison Hotel.

Bailed out bankers will contest the point, but a bank robbery where no one gets hurt always seems like a victimless crime. 

Heck, even John Wayne as U.S. Marshall Rooster Cogburn good-naturedly admits to dabbling in bank robbery in his younger days. When confronted with puritanical condemnation to his aw-shucks confession, the Rooster gets his hackles up and says defensively, “It ain’t like I stole a man’s watch!”

That’s the rationale for why we all loved guys like D.B. Cooper and Butch & Sundance.

Interested in great bank robbery stories? Read this one. It’s about Carl Gugasian, the man the F.B.I. calls “The King of Bank Robbers.”  Now serving a 17-year sentence and due to be released in 2021, Gugasian, 63, is said to have robbed as many as 70 banks of more than $2 million over 30 years. 

I wrote the story in 2005 for the now-defunct Stuff magazine.

Gugasian devoted his every waking moment to robbing banks. Friendless and never married, he fanatically trained and studied to rob each bank, often spending two or three days in the woods to note the bank’s routines.

That’s too much work.

I’d rather just go right up to the ATM and take out a big pile of money.

At this point, I don’t care whose it is either.

It won’t be like I’m stealing a man’s watch.

Related . . .

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