Saturday, October 29, 2005

BC Update XII

Well. Seven has struck again in the Classic. The owner of Saint Liam, the winner, thanked "Father Scully" at Notre Dame for saying a Mass for the win. That would be Fr. Timothy Scully, former VP of the University, so he clearly carries more weight than your average off-the-rack mortal priest. Man, it's not even a football Saturday, and The Womb is all, "Remember me? Remember me? Remember me? Remember me?" Yeah, you and your lack of sleep, too, so really... not much has changed. Also, in the newsbreak, the network announced that--after five games-- Charlie Weis has been signed to a ten-year contract to coach the Irish. I'm glad we're not being impulsive about this.

This was NBC's last year of broadcasting the Breeders' Cup. Fare thee well, peacock. You've really, really sucked.

BC Update XI

Donna Brothers, NBC's analyst-on-horseback, paints a very professional picture with that big freaking antenna poking up out of the top of her helmet. It's like Marvin Martian has taken up a position in the post parade. And the commentator was like, "And here's Sir Shackleton, named for the Irish explorer who in 1914 set sail on an Antarctic expedition..." because he knows all these things right off the top of his head.

BC Update X

Seriously. He's wearing lipstick.

BC Update IX

The winner of the Turf? The two million dollar Turf? A French jockey. In the post-race interview he's all, "I say hello to my future wife and my bay-bee, le croissant parfum beret oui-oui." Shove it, Pierre.

Screw it. I'm taking a nap.

BC Update VIII


When they camera pulls away to show the entire field as it enters the homestretch, and then has to move down to keep the leaders in the frame, and you and your horse are nowhere to be seen? Things aren't going too well.

I warned you about those silks, Gar.

BC Update VII

Gary! I love your silks for the Distaff! Pink polka dots on a white background never fail to bring the dignity! That's faaaaabulous!

He looks like he contracted the bird flu from the waist up. Even the horse is like, "Nobody take my picture with this thing on my back."

BC Update VI

Given the absolutely rampant alcoholism in this sport, is it... really the best idea to name a foal "Healthy Addiction?" And then plop a jockey on her back who was just jailed for using?

BC Update V

Shut up, Bob Costas.

BC Update IV

NBC did a big ginormous promo for supermegaunbeatablehorse Lost in the Fog before the Sprint, which of course meant that he lost by approximately 90,000 lengths.

Jock Garrett Gomez claimed foul at the end of the race, which was denied at precisely the best moment: In the middle of an interview. He stomped off mid-question. Mad jockeys, awesome! Nothing better.

Stewart Elliott provided the race's official sublime athletic moment by falling off... all by traffic to be seen...after the race was over. Yeah, it's real easy to trip over that finish line.

BC Update III

Why does the trophy look exactly like the statue for the Eclipse Award? Did somebody just not pick up their trophy for Most Hideous Silks after the Horse Oscars in January? I mean, I know the industry is on tough times, but holy crap, you guys, no need to recycle the hardware. Grab a silver platter out of Marylou Whitney's china cabinet. I doubt she'll miss it.

BC Update II

The winner's circle ceremony for the Fillies and Mare Turf just consisted of the following conversation:

"Bobby, present this to Bobby. This is the big one!"

The less said about this, the better. Just... trust me.

BC Update I

The winning colt in the Juvenile looks like his mane exploded. His name is "Stevie Wonderboy," and I'm trying to decide whether or not I am offended at the fact that he has a horse 'fro.

The winner's circle presentation featured two women in headscarves and fezes, and just as I rose up to check my meds, the owner lumbered into the frame: Merv. Who spoke Spanish-- although he does not, technically, speak Spanish-- for the first eighteen seconds of the congratulatory interview.

All makes sense now.

Breeders' Cup Report

Yesterday I set out, as all losers do, to rollerblade. My new roller rink is a parking lot, which that morning contained a certain... smell.

Horses! There were horses nearby! Nobody appreciates a good pile of manure on top of a good pile of hay like I do. I ran to the fence and cooed at a little Shetland, who was all, "Whatever." Because I am not so stupid as to stick my fingers through a small area in the general direction of a bored and pissy pony's mouth, I petted his flank with as much of my hand as I could. The Shetland, sensing the gentle touch of a fervent and lonely horselover, turned his head, fixed his big brown eyes on me, and was all, "Whatever."

An Appaloosa came over to see what all the fuss was about, and I beckoned her closer. "Hi, pony girl! Hello there!" She came to a halt, and turned a beautiful neck towards me, annnnnnd... pointedly gazed in the opposite direction.

Well, screw you too. I can get that every day of the week from my students, and they at least don't pee in the out-of-doors. That I know of. But today I got me the Breeders' Cup. I have NBC on right now; Notre Dame has a bye, which is just as well, because I'm starting to suspect this team is calibrated, week to week, solely to suck away my will to live.

Watch with me! Don't ask for handicapping advice! I don't know what I'm doing either!

Horsie lexicon here

two dollars down at:

Friday, October 28, 2005

The Desert

Today's "Way To Not Suck!" Award goes to Ryan the Rocket Scientist, whom longtime readers may remember as the spokesman for The Eagle in January's tragic Avian Rack-Groping Incident.

Ryan is totally going to design a user-friendly X-Wing someday, and it is going to have laser cannons and hyperdrive and an MP3 player and you know what it isn't going to do? It's not going to leak.

Ryan fixed the Bellemobile. I mean, she can still have babies, if she ever meets the right four-door sedan, but Ryan took her dollar-store sunroof apart and sealed all the gaskets and put it all back together and rode off into the sunset, accepting only the forty-eight cent motor as payment. And so when Wilma came roaring around I didn't diaper her, because, I mean, a Corolla can only get so moldy.

And... she stayed dry. I even made a few sharp turns around the parking lot, waiting for the water to sploosh out of some horrible unexpected place, such as the inoperable CD player. But no. It was an Arizona mesa, there inside the Millenium Bellemobile.

I do believe Ryan can show RoDger a thing or two about not being a raging ball of suck. RoDger, on his desk, proudly displayed a diploma from--this is the absolute truth--the University of Toyota, which is apparently where the graduates of Hamburger U go for their PhD work. Boy, I need to start publishing more and pushing for upper-level classes so that someday, if I'm very very lucky, I might get a chance of professoring at the University of Toyota.

But Ryan hasn't even graduated from an actual college yet, and here he is being competent. So! Way to not suck, Ryan.

breeders' cup tomorrow! getcha some! at:

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Hurrication, Part Deux

Wilma was the perfect hurricane, in the sense that it resulted in a day off work and near-zero inconvenience for me personally. Good job, Wilma! She my homey.

It was a strange storm in the sense that once it was done, it was... done. The sky was blue, the sun came out, birds were chirping, small animals nuzzled up against Snow White. I skipped out to the dumpster with the trash about five hours after landfall.

Good thing it didn't last any longer than it did, because my typical hurricane emergecy procedure of baking was right out due to the fact that I haven't worked out in a week and feel like a big giant ox in Maybelline eyeshadow. So I made hamburger casserole instead, the mixing-bowl for which isn't nearly as much fun to lick.

This was my first real live weather emergency as a professor, and I demonstrated great academic leadership by yelling at everybody via email that they had better have everything done for class on Tuesday, because now there was no excuse since they'd had a day off, you hear me? Whereas I put the day to excellent use by alphabetizing my unicorn sticker collection.

The University of Airplanes waited until morning to cancel class, which meant that I had a two-hour period of hovering over the TV, reliving a childhood of waiting for the call for a snow day for Oak Hills School District-- were we off, or weren't we? From time to time I ventured out to the porch, and nearly got my ponytail blown off; the ROTC kids were out in this for PT. Then I'd say, "Ohellno," and run back inside. So, bascially the whole thing was a wargame. If the terrorists want to send us a tropical storm, too bad, suckas, cuz our cadets are all over marching around in one.

The word came about an hour before class was to start, after I was already dressed, lunch packed, poncho unfurled. I called my retired-teacher mother in a fit and she laughed very hard at me: "You try shoveling your car out from under a few inches of wet snow and then hearing that class is cancelled." But-- but the hurricane made my hair damp!

seriously! at:

Monday, October 24, 2005


Wilma is kvetching and moaning outside my window right now, but I've got me a glass of white wine and a box of croutons and all is well. Thanks to all who asked. More later.

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