Acting as casually as I could, I'd been watching and waiting.
I had him this time.
"Can't find anything to watch?"
He had been scouring all five of our TV channels via TV antennae for the last 20 minutes. One reality show, one fund raiser, two chic shows, and a TV tabloid. I had him this time.
"Naw, there's nothing good on."
"Hmm," as I plopped down into my comfy couch. Everything was ready. He had no where to turn. "Well, if you can't find anything interesting, I'm going to watch my Dulce Sueno Show (2008 DVDs)". The DVD player was already loaded, on, just waiting for the final button to be pushed.
Without a hitch in his remote surfing, without one word, he landed on a chic show and that was that.
"I didn't know you liked Men in Trees!"
Nothing.
"I thought you didn't like this show."
He grunted.
Sigh! "You won this round", I thought, "but the battle is yet over."
"Why don't you drive a car with better gas mileage?", I asked
"I have to have my truck, we live on a dirt road and I need my truck", she said
"So, what about commuting in with your daughter?"
"No, she leaves at a different time."
"Well, you could get the road fixed."
"No, I need my truck."
I have discussions all the time with allot of women where I work about commuting. Now I commute every day to work and have been since 1985 when I first moved to Florida. I've always driven some podunk, gas efficient car I can't stand because I'm cheap with my change. Money is for horses, not cars. Right now I'm puttering around what is affectionately called "the bug" or "that thing with cancer". It's a 1998 Honda Civic, green, with the clear coat peeling off; looks like Godzilla tried to eat it and threw it up. I'm always hearing from my gal friends about the cost of gas, how messy the inside of the vehicle gets, on and on. So, being the cheapskate that I am, I always ask about getting a car that's better on gas and has a (gasp) trunk. Nope, gotta have the truck or SUV. Now I've lived on some pretty ratty dirt roads and my little cars manage just fine thank you! I've hauled sacks of feed, hay, even pulled out a 4-wheel drive 3/4-ton pickup out once. So what's the deal with women and their trucks?
I let that question remained unanswered for years. Frankly I forgot about it and thought it was some sorta red neck thing going on here in the South and these Southern women. Then 9/11 happened and the debate of racial profiling came to the fore. Everyone from cops to the CIA were scrutinized under raised eyebrows. Myself, having been raised through the 60's and 70's, all thoughts of racial anything had been burned out of my brain long time ago. I didn't think such things existed in this country, so I was fascinated to learn how politically incorrect government was. Isn't that a paradox?
I got to thinking about this racial profiling and decided to conduct my own experiment. While I drove to work in my bug, I'd see if I could determine the demographics of the other drivers by what they drove and how they drove. Not very scientific, but I was curious if there was some justification for my government to go against its own principles. I wasn't prepared for my results...
"WATCH OUT! WHITE WOMAN IN SUV!" I yelled at my partner while he drove us to town in my bug. By now, he's used to my eccentric ideas and explicatives, but this one must've have struck him as strange because I got a sidways glance suggesting that I put my straight-jacket back on. So I told him about my experiment and my conclusions. White women driving trucks or SUVs were freakin' nuts; other women, ok, white women, nuts. They were evil; they'd hurt anything smaller than them. Me and my bug of a car were snacks to them. They would play chicken with semitrucks and win. What I couldn't wrap my mind around was why. What happened to these otherwise meek women when they got into a SUV? There was some dark metamorphosis taking place. I saw grandmothers whipping hulking monsters on the road like they were in the Indy 500.
It came to me when I decided I didn't want to drive my pretend truck (the bug) into town to pick up feed. I was tired of splitting my order up, dragging sacks out of my rear seat of the car, and my car sputtering at a high speed of 45 mph because I put too much weight in it. As soon as I started the truck, I could feel all the power! I had it between my hands! No more watching out for the big guy. No more pushing the pedal going from 0 to 50 in 3 minutes. No more meekly letting people pass me or push me around. I was in the truck and I loved it! Protected, powerful, nothing could touch me.
I thought the feminist movement freed women. I was SO wrong! And man knew it. He knew as soon as woman felt the power of the truck it was over.
Sometimes I wonder if I have a truck because of the horses or horses because of the truck.
It's always the same after a good show, people talk about it for days afterwards. This week I've been talking to a few horse friends about Spectrum 2008 show this past weekend. The horses, the judging, and placements are all topics of disagreements, debate, and consensus. We just can't get enough of this stuff! It's a marathon of discussion after a marathon weekend of horse flesh.
It wasn't any coincidence either that Terremoto III caught our attention. There is no doubt he can be brilliant as was seen during the Paso Fino Stallions Grand Championship class. But wait a minute! Isn't that the class where all the eligible contenders from previous classes compete for the crowning glory of being called "the" Grand Champion of Spectrum 2008? Isn't this the class where all the colts, geldings, and stallions try to outdo each other, to be the best of the best? Yep, that's the one. "So, explain to me", my friends asked, "how Terremoto III ended up as grand champion? Didn't he have problems in his earlier class; wasn't he excused? How did he get to compete if he didn't even place earlier?"
I could only laugh and sympathetically understand my friends' confusion. Normally I think of a champion horse as one who has been tested repeatedly by his peers and found superior not just once or twice but many times through many ways. Years ago, because of the small numbers, PFHA had "champions" of one. One in the qualifying class, one in the championship class. However, PFHA also had a point system where to continue to the national level meant qualifying many times before a horse was eligible to compete for the Grand National Champion title. A horse also had to demonstrate star qualities by placing either first or second in his respective class before he was eligible to compete in a championship class.
What happened as numbers grew, as competition heated up, some exhibitors decided there was no need to enter the championship classes. Winning the category was enough. Many top contenders would skip the championship class leaving, you guessed it, one or two horses to compete for the crown. This mindset was encouraged when PFHA members decided to also create shows where a horse could easily garner multiple placements just by competing in one class. A good horse, placing well, didn't need the points the championship class offered to qualify for the national championships. One show, one class, and the horse didn't need to compete again until September. Members thought this was just the most fantastic idea since the Model T. Saves the horse, the pocket book, kids aren't taken out of school, life is good.
Almost everyone thought it was a good idea except spectators and I bet, some judges, and maybe a few show managements. Spectators thought it pretty dang boring to sit around watching two or three horses compete, when they knew too well how many horses had competed in the earlier classes and the quality of the animals.
Instead of requiring the top contenders to actually compete before claiming their title, PFHA members decided to "fix" the system by allowing just any horse to compete for the championship. OK, I'll admit not just any horse. The horse does have to show up for the class and stay there for the entire class. He can be excused, he can place below the top two, and still compete for championships.
Here's the language verbatim out of the PFHA rule book, page 80.
VII. Championship Classes
Championship classes for Mares/Fillies, Stallions/Colts and Geldings for each division may be offered.
A. Eligibility
.
To be eligible for entry into a Championship class, a horse must have been properly entered, shown and judged in one of the qualifying classes. To be considered shown and judged, a horse must perform all required gaits both ways of the ring in the original class and must remain in the ring until either excused or placed by the judge.
This weekend those of us attending the Spectrum or at home watching on our computers witnessed something phenomenal. A horse was crowned as the Grand Champion Paso Fino Stallion and he didn't even have to place in his respective class. He has enough points to go to the PFHA Grand National Show in September and only needs to repeat his performance. No need to place, Terremoto only needs to show up and hope he has a good day the same day as the championship classes.
Now, this isn't about Terremoto. I think he has all the makings of something great. It's been a long time since I got excited about a young stallion competing. However, to be fair, we should put meaning back into the title "champion". As the organization representing the USA and its population of paso fino horses to the rest of the world, we need to raise the bar. If someone says "champion" and links it to a paso fino from any other country, it means something. For instance we know the horse has competed not just once on a "good" day but several times that one year and against several tough competitors and under many different circumstances. We know the horse has to have competed not just that one year but for additional years to reign as a champion. He has proved his worthiness. I want Terremoto III to get the respect he deserves when he wins his championships. I want to be able to say the USA produces horses that can compete any where, any time against any body.
I, for one, think it's time to look the PFHA rules again. What do you think?
Recent Comments