Kentucky Derby morning lines

The degenerates at Thoroughbred Bloggers Alliance are at it again with a craic morning line tool comparing the produce of a variety of line makers. Cheggit.

A Tote Board Brad tradition: Happy Saint Paddy's Day

The Hanging

I was recently reminded of the first winner of the Thoroughbred Times fiction contest. The inaugural winning story in 1993 entitled The Hanging in the Foaling Barn centers around a kooky night watchman at a breeding farm, the farm's owner, and their interaction one fateful night. It's a good read.

Sadly, an incident that went totally unreported as far as I can tell--something far more tragic than life imitating art--occurred on the Golden Gate Fields backstretch last month. A pretty good guy hung himself in Barn 83. I only knew him as Ricky, but I knew him better than most folks back there, even though that ain't sayin' much.

I was smoking a cheap cigar in Barn 82 and trading barbs with a typically cantankerous trainer when a coupla grooms ran up the shedrow. Guy hung himself, they said. He hung himself from a pipe so his body blocked the door to a tack room. I saw the trainer that found him acoupla minutes after he found him. I'd never seen a person look quite like this. I asked him if it was true. He said nothing. His face was lye on wax.

I don't know too many details. Maybe there was woman trouble. Some folks say drugs. Rumors run rampant on the backstretch, though, and shouldn't sully someone's name. What I do know is that Ricky was a cool motherfucker. He'd lived a hard life and worked his ass off. He had a positive attitude. The worst you could say about him was that he was broke most of the time and bummed too many smokes. On the backstretch, that qualifies for sainthood. He was probably illiterate, was a touch cross eyed, and had a kind word to say every time you encountered him. He was a damn good exercise rider, could muck the living shit out of a stall, and could unload a haytruck quicker than you can say five-minute-bang-with-a-two-dollar-whore, and he'd be equally as joyous to involve himself in any such endeavor.

I doubt anyone wrote an obituary about him, and I'm not claiming to be his best friend. I only knew him a bit, but he seemed to epitomize everything that's right about the backstretch. It's a place that if you work your ass off, you can just barely scrape out an existence that most folk find pitiful, but if you love the game, might just be fabulous. The fella probably had some demons--and most of us back there do--but in my book he's a champion. The cat had a good soul. I pray it's at peace now.

Weights assigned in Grand National

Now that weights have been handed out, who do ya like in the four and one half mile Grand National?

Nashua at Keeneland - 1956

Don't think for one minute you goddam phonies are gonna get off scot-free now

In Memoriam

Take most people, they're crazy about cars. They worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they're always talking about how many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already they start thinking about trading it in for one that's even newer. I don't even like old cars. I mean they don't even interest me. I'd rather have a goddam horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake.

Non racing related reminder

This is not Red China. One need not be brave to take a stand.

Homework assignment: find a pic of Presque Isle Downs' Grandstand

Google image search should have one. Nada. Er...Bing does a have a better image search algorithm, so perhaps there. No such luck. Hrrmmmm...maybe flickr. Nope.

Why can't I find a pic of their grandstand? Because they don't have one. Ah, the future of racing.

Non racing related maintenance post - cold war edition

While delivering his Secret Speech, or more properly The Personality Cult and its Consequences, in 1956 for his campaign of de-Stalinization, Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev was reportedly asked by an unseen audience member why, as an advisor to the dictator, he had never stopped Stalin from committing his atrocities. Khrushchev immediately lashed out, "Who said that?" The room grew quiet. Khrushchev repeated his query to more silence, waited a beat, and then said, "Well, now you understand why."

Some dumb impostor cunt (oooooh, i used the C word! go tell the blogger police!) called me a sexist

I'm no bitch. It's guys like you who never get the better women like me. You sexist fool.

--Anonymous


easy, sugar breeches. but srsly, who called you a bitch? LET ME AT'EM, LET ME AT'EM!


le sigh. escuche, anon...i'm brazenly feminist. i bet i've read a lot more mary daly than you, god rest her soul.


liberty in the tradition of benthem and mill must be a hallmark of any philosophy to which i'll subscribe. part and parcel to the ideal is that one owns their body. those that discount the fickle whims of societal pressures in favor of principle for that in which they believe should be heralded. such folk are the cornerstone of free peoples.


I had never heard of bethenny frankel before this PETA advert, but based on a single data point she's very possibly such a cornerstone. given your presentation of yourself, anon, you're not worthy to schlep her fucking wardrobe to the green room.


furthermore, i ain't calling anyone a bitch, other than perhaps the fools that read this space and take it so seriously as to be offended. and i certainly ain't so labeling anyone brave enough to bare all to further their cause to better the world as they see it, but i have serious reservations that you are such a person.


bethenny deserves kudos. she's a strong woman, secure in her sense of self such that she's not likely to concern herself with such bombastic internet drivel. you could learn a thing or two from her. sadly, those with the air of an uptight publicist are prolly bankrupt of these very traits. she's also prolly smart enough to know there's no such thing as bad press.


while i'm loathe to redact text--a despotic regime's attempt at polemics--i'm going to make an edit here such that there can be no confusion.


lastly, anon: in the immortal words of one of the world's greatest trainers to ever tack up a horse, bobby frankel, go fuck yourself.

Want to see Bobby Frankel's daughter naked?

Yeah yeah, I know: you heard about her PETA endorsement way back when. Whatevs. It's a click garnering headline and a good way for me to plug the top notch blogger over at EquiSpace. Go to his blog for the pic. I don't traffic in such salacious posts because I'm classy. That's right, I'm fucking classy, bitches ya filthy lecherous bastards surfing for skin pics.

Ida Maria redux

About a year go, this blog touted I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked by Ida Maria, an up and coming Norwegian rocker. The song was released in the US several months later. Now, New York Newsday has voted one of her songs from the album best single of the year. Predictions of her taking down the best new artist Grammy are running rampant through the tubes of the interwebs. Stay tuned for more of next year's headlines presently.

Belmont president Alfred Vanderbilt looks like Matthew Broderick, no?

can't even tell'm apart. 4srs.

happy new year, fuckers. now, resolve yourself to read more bukowski this year.

Farrier doc block

Fran Jurga over at Hoof Blog recently posted a short vid examining a SoCal horseshoer's journey in the profession. Further, she offers me a perfect segue to recycle more previously created content. Enjoy this brief vid of NorCal shoer Denny plying his trade from 3 years ago.
If you like this orignal content, consider supporting me. www.venmo.com/u/Tav-bad-ideas

The draw

The manner in which horses are entered in a particular race and assigned post positions has gone largely unchanged for generations. Above, horsemen & racing officials huddle around the racing office counter while entry cards, each representing a horse, are pulled from the box (right) and numbered pills are pulled from a shake bottle (held by pill-puller, left). Which ever pill number is pulled for a given entry card will be that horse's post position. Each pill is then placed in the corresponding numbered divot on the makeshift board as seen here on the counter. The purpose of the board is to allow everyone to see which number was pulled instead of the puller announcing it and dumping it into a less circumspect vessel. This reduces the ease, and possibly the likelihood, of chicanery in the assignment of post positions.

While less common now, given dwindling field sizes, occasionally a race over fills. This means not all horses entered will be assigned a post position or a placing on the also eligible list. Assuming all horses have equal preference, those not pulled, and thus not assigned a post position number or placing on the also eligible list, will not have a chance to run in the race. Such horses are said to have been "left in the box."

The same type of bottle and pills are used to determine which party claims a horse when more than one claim is dropped for a particular horse. On TVG or HRTV, when you hear "trainer Hai Bute took Cheap Speed out of the fourth in a three-way shake" that merely means three claims were dropped and Cheap Speed will now be in the care of Mr. Bute.

*pic circa 1950, Cumberland Racetrack

Racetrack card game

Every race day an unorganized card game breaks out in the kitchen by mid morning. Sometimes there are two games. They mostly play Gin, but pert' near always it's gonna be some conception of a meld game. Oh, you wanna know which track? Doesn't matter. They played Gin at Fairmount Park in the 80s. I dropped a couple Lincolns to some eager grooms in a three handed pinochle game at Pimlico better than a decade ago, but only because they were playing for lower stakes than the horsemen at the rummy tables.

Gin was by far the dominate game at every track in Chile and Argentina. I did catch some riders playing hearts at the track in Rio. Euchre was popular with the jocks in northern England and I've seen a hand or two of point-trick games played on at least one backstretch in every hemisphere. Even so, I've never seen so much as one game of bridge. Rio or Saigon or Berkeley, Calif, you have to remember: These are hard men living hard lives. They know the risks, they want action, and have no use for a rubber.

Fav new dev tool

Racing folk don't give a leaking flap barb about this, and if you maintain a site, you probably already use it, but googlelabs browser size is pretty effing useful.

Pic of the day - repost from 2 years ago

A Christmas Eve lawl just for you

Happy merry, and such!



Shamelessly stolen from Fuck Yeah Cyanide and Happiness.

Legendary d-bag, Jerry Hollendorfer, still not in the hall of fame

nonetheless, this jackass should be in the hall

To say Jerry Hollendorfer is a fierce competitor is to employ a euphemism suited for respectable print publications and has no place here. He's an enormous asshole. Of course he's competitive, like most that attain his level of success in any endeavor. Often, in sports or business or what have you, the rules of polite discourse require one to refer to highly successful people that discard accepted behavioral norms as they scratch and claw to the top as "fierce competitors". They're really assholes. Jerry Hollendorfer is no different, he's just perfected being an asshole.

He'd fuck over his own grandmother and sell tickets to it if it lopped another win into his column. While at another track when he had the favorite in a graded stakes race, he has been known to call norcal to rip into anyone he felt was responsible for the maiden 8 he just lost by a nose with, and barring that, he'll have his tantrum for anyone that will listen. Whether the genisis of his motivation is classic small man's syndrome, or that his mother never hugged him, I know not. But make no mistake, he wants to win.

Even though he is completely classless, He's made himself a world class trainer through hard work. He didn't grow up in a racing family and never had a barn turned over to him. He drove a truck to pay the bills when training didn't cover the feed bill. He did it with hard work and an insatiable drive to win. Not to make money or be popular, mind you. No. To win.

Recently this asshole called Portland Meadows--YES PORTLAND FUCKING MEADOWS--while in socal saddling a stakes horse to listen to the call of his $2500 maiden running for peanuts. I believe he finished 3rd and called the jockey's mother a whore.

You know his stats: he's chipping away at 6,000 wins, won the Kentucky Oaks acoupla times, a shitload of graded stakes including two million dollar races last year alone, trained Hysterical Lady, Heatseeker, Chocolate Candy (finished 4th in the Derby this year), and.....whatevs, I wrote about it last year.

The point is, sure, he's a d-bag of biblical proportions (probably even uses some leeching horse betting system), but this motherfucker should still be in the horse racing hall of fame, and the fact that he isn't is just further proof that the turf writers that vote are even more stupid than he is an asshole.