Butter Side Down

So, Oh Best Beloved, did you happen to watch “Fox News Sunday” today? We did, and after watching I sent the following email to Chris Wallace.

Dear Chris,

My husband and I were rather perplexed when Governor Kaine stated on your August 24th broadcast that, “Joe [Biden] comes from a state, Delaware, that borders Virginia. The eastern shore part of Virginia and Delaware are not only bordering but very, very similar.”

Really?

I’m not a geography major, but isn’t there a rather large chunk of real estate known as “Maryland” that lies between the two?

My husband created the attached map from US Government boundary data and, yup, that BIG white space in between Delaware and Virginia contains a little piece of property called “Maryland” and a reasonably sized chunk of water.

I’m more concerned about a Governor losing track of a whole state than Senator McCain not having an exact count of the housing units he owns as investments…

Best regards,

JAS

As an independent, I am equally annoyed by errors of this type made by either party. But when a governor who was one of the final candidates for the Democratic Party’s VP nomination loses track of an entire STATE in order to make some sort of political point, it makes me… well… queasy.

*sigh*

My buddy Kris tagged me this morning with a meme. So, since I’m SUCH a team player, here goes:

The rules:

1. Post the rules of the game at the beginning.

Check.

2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.

Um, with questions that all ask “what are your…” or “what are you…,” just who else precisely would the questions be for? Perhaps there might be some confusion if I owned a pair of goldfish I’ve named “You” and “Your,” but otherwise, isn’t this rule covering something a trifle… well… obvious?

3. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read the player’s blog.

I can see a slight process problem, as Kris (who tagged me) has already tagged everyone I would tag. We’ll just skip this rule.

4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

Check. I’ll go do that in just a moment.

On to the questions!

What were you doing five years ago?

You have GOT to be kidding - five years ago? Like I keep track of what I ate for breakfast today, much less what I was doing 1825 days ago? I think not. Humph. Next question.

What are five things on your to-do list for today?

Hm. Another tricky question. Maybe create a “to-do” list? Nah. Why do that, when I can use my trusty ‘projects and tasks’ spreadsheet? It even lets me enter weighted priorities to figure out what needs getting done first and tells me if it’s even possible to finish something in the available time. Note: having a spouse who is a spreadsheet programming wizard can have unexpected benefits, including nifty spreadsheets that explode when you say you have one minute available but need 10,000 hours for your backlog of household- related critical priority tasks. Undermining software can be so entertaining!

What are five snacks you enjoy?

Shortbread cookies - my own recipe. Cheesecake - my own recipe. Parfaits - my own recipe. (Are we seeing a pattern here?) Fresh sliced strawberries and bananas smothered in Sibbey’s vanilla ice cream. Anything made with tart cherries and lots of sugar. I do not enjoy celery, skimmed milk, raw broccoli or any other tasteless substitute for real food. So there.

What are five things you would do if you were a billionaire?

Probably what I’m dong right now, except with money.

What are five of your bad habits?

Bad hobbits? Are there bad hobbits? I thought they were all nice, like Frodo and Sam and besides, I don’t own any hobbits - wouldn’t that be slavery? What? Oh. Bad habits. Now I’m even more confused. I don’t wear a habit! Only nuns and sisters wear habits! I wear ordinary street clothing… Have the rules changed? Am I supposed to be wearing a habit? And why would I want a “bad” habit? What’s that? Oh. Can you repeat the question?

What are five places where you have lived?

In my imagination. Nice place, most of the time. Oops. Sorry. You meant physical locations. Lemme see… suburb of Detroit… Big 10 University city. Big 10 University suburb. Different Big 10 University city. Yet another Big 10 University suburb. Small village in Wisconsin.

What are five jobs you’ve had?

Paying or unpaid? Volunteer? Mandatory? First job I had was dusting and mopping my room. The pay was lousy (not suprising, as it was unpaid forced labor - parents can be so darn mean). Hated it. Still do. That’s why if you come into my house and complain about dust bunnies you’ll be given a choice between dusting and mopping yourself, or taking the top sheet from a pad of post-it notes, writing an appropriate dust-bunny-type name on the top sheet (e.g. “Fang”), and tagging the nearest critter. After all, if it’s a pet, then it belongs, right? Of course right. Perfectly logical.

Then there was my second job, which entailed ironing my Dad’s handkerchiefs so they were precisely square and perfect and fit all military specs. Then there was –

Oh, quit grimacing! I’ll stop now!

Memes. Humph.

Yesterday I pointed out that that several NFL players would have to die each year during games for professional football to be as deadly as Thoroughbred horse racing is for the horses that race.

I underestimated.

Michael asked our local experts - the Green Bay Packers - if they could give us the actual data we needed to turn my estimate into a more accurate comparison. Since they are nicest team in the USA, (as well as the best - Go Pack!) they dug out the exact data that we needed.

Have I mentioned how nice the Packers are?

So - how deadly is professional football compared to Thoroughbred horse racing?

If the National Football League had the same fatality rate for their players during the regular season as racehorses have during races, more than 50 NFL football players would die each year from injuries sustained during games.

More than fifty deaths?

Football would get banned.

The individual Michael spoke to at the Packers office, btw, said that the only game-related player fatality in the NFL that he could personally remember occurred back in 2001, and it didn’t actually occur during a game: a Vikings team member died of heat stroke during a practice.

It’s time for the Thoroughbred racing industry to clean up its act. Provide cash incentives for longevity and soundness. Require synthetic surfaced tracks - which have already cut the fatality rate in half where they’ve been installed. And stop rewarding the genetics of greed.

Saturday’s ugly death at the Kentucky Derby of the Thoroughbred filly Eight Belles didn’t surprise me.

Every horse that ran in the Derby last Saturday descends from Native Dancer, a gray Thoroughbred stallion who racked up an impressive set of wins in his day (he died in 1967). His offspring were also fast. As ’speed’ isn’t necessarily a trait that is passed along from a stallion to his offspring, this made Native Dance an incredibly popular breeding stallion, so much so that seventy-five percent of all American-bred Thoroughbreds currently racing are descended from Native Dancer.

Unfortunately, Native Dancer didn’t just pass along speed. He passed along leg problems, and this isn’t a secret in the TB racing industry. Even a place as far removed from a breeding farm as one can imagine - the Wall Street Journal - ran an article about it last week, saying that Native Dancer’s line “has a tragic flaw. Thanks in part to heavily muscled legs and a violent, herky-jerky running style, Native Dancer and his descendants have had trouble with their feet.”

The article went on to say,

“How one stallion gained so much influence over the sport is a story about market forces, genetics and in some cases greed. His bloodline’s greatest asset is that it consistently produces precocious, speedy thoroughbreds that dominate the Derby and other Triple Crown events — giving owners a safer return on their investments. But that success has led breeders to mate Native Dancer’s progeny so often that the thoroughbred gene pool has shrunk.”

Big mistake.

As someone who owned, trained and rode horses for over 30 years, I’ve seen my share of what greed for the fastest racer, the most athletic jumper, the highest scoring dressage mount, the best eventer, and even the ‘most desired color’ can do. For the Thoroughbred racing industry, short-sighted gains have sown the seeds for disaster.

How often does a Thoroughbred racehorse die?

When a horse races, it’s called a ’start.’ If twenty horses run in a race, as they did in the Kentucky Derby, it counts as twenty starts. For the last two years - the only years that have reliable data for the Thoroughbred racing industry, in terms of numbers of horses’ deaths on the track - two Thoroughbreds die from injuries they sustain during a race on a ‘natural surface’ track like that at Churchill Downs for every 1000 starts. That statistic doesn’t include, by the way, the horses that die from inuries sustained during training - it only includes the deaths of horses that actually make it to the starting gate.

Two dead horses per thousand starts. That statistic makes my head want to explode.

To put this in perspective: it’s the equivalent of several NFL players dying during regular season games every single season.

Horse racing inherently has risks. But I don’t personally feel that deaths like those of Eight Belles are from the ‘risks of racing.’ From where I’m sitting, those deaths seem like the end result of an industry that has turned the Thoroughbred racehorse into a disposable living commodity bred to win as much cash as quickly as possible before breaking down.

Where’s the sport in that?

So, Oh Best Beloved, how goes your New Year?

Ours has been… well, odd, so far at least. Which is why there has been a dearth of posting.

On January 2nd a booklet arrived at our abode from the U.S. Census Bureau, which turned out to be the 2007 USDA annual Census of Agriculture. A cover letter instructed us that we should fill it out immediately and provide, under severest penalties of federal law (with punishment presumably delivered by three large club-carrying underpaid and crabby demographers), a complete enumeration of all our pigs, cows, horses, mules, sheep, goats, chickens, turkeys, ducks, llamas, emu and all other assortied beasties. We then were to list every crop we had grown (or tried to grow) in the last year, down to the last mustard seed.

Um… We don’t own a farm.

Nowhere in this nice thick official document did a place exist to politely say, “We do not and never have owned one whit of agricultural land, nor do we own, produce or harbor any livestock. You’ve made a mistake.”

I’ve dutifully sent the form back, properly (and politely) pointing out the error in the nice large white space the Census Bureau provided for comments and address corrections. We’ll see how this evolves. I am not optimistic that the error which classified our little residential lot and dwelling as a farm will be easily remedied, given the bureaucracy that spawned the error in the first place.

*sigh*

That was on the 2nd.

Next we had storms. Major storms. Snow storms, you say? Nope. We had thunderstorms - a rather startling event for early January in northeast Wisconsin.

I was not the least bit thrilled by the deluge of hail that accompanied two hours of lightning and torrential rain. Yes, that is hail on the driveway - not snow - which pounded down on our cars, to my utter dismay. Fortunately, nothing was damaged.

Two F3 tornadoes formed from this system, well south of us. This is only the second time since the 1840s that tornadoes have occurred in Wisconsin in January, making this a very rare event indeed. My heart goes out to the many families who lost their homes in a little town called Wheatland.

Since then we’ve had a plethora of equally odd instances, most related to annoying time-consuming errors made by service providers (which have left me wondering how companies stay in business nowadays).

A rather determined invasion of my living space by a smallish white-tan spider has, however, given me a daily chuckle. She pops up at the most unexpected moments and shouts “Boo!” (if you’ve ever been startled by a spider you know what I’m talking about). She’s also caused me to screech with surprise several times when I have accidentally picked her up, thinking she was a little ball of white fuzz. For those of you who haven’t ever experienced a troublesome and fearless spider playing games, here’s a cleaning hint: fuzzballs should not feel rubbery or wiggle when you pick them up.

Here she is, laying claim to my yogurt container - at breakfast, mind you, when I am at my bleariest and most easily startled by eight-legged intruders.

I expect I’ll find her next doing the backstroke in my glass wine.

I’ll keep you posted.