All is on track in the nomination of Chet Culver to take a seat on the board of the Federal Agricultural Mortgage Corporation, says a guy who usually knows such things. But that track is not an express one.

Culver was appointed to the Farmer Mac board by President Obama on Bastille Day of this year. But the Senate Agriculture Committee hasn’t even scheduled hearings on the nomination — let alone set a date for a confirmation vote.

“To Farmer Mac’s knowledge no hearing...has been scheduled to consider Governor Culver’s nomination,” a spokesman for the quasi public farm-lending organization told Skinny last week. He added: “Farmer Mac has no control over the substance or timing of the confirmation process in the U.S. Senate.”

The former governor apparently has paid off his campaign debts from his loss last year to Terry Branstad — about $68,000, including a $50,000 loan from Bill Knapp — that might have stalled the nomination early on. At least, the Culver campaign hasn’t filed any disclosure reports since Jan. 19, indicating the books are closed.

Now, it might just be a matter of scheduling for the committee, which is chaired by Michigan Senator Debbie Stabenow and whose members include both Tom Harkin and Chuck Grassley. But the delay is costing Culver some pretty nice money.

Farmer Mac is a cousin of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, the lending organizations that periodically are in hot water, and sometimes deep water. Its purpose is to help farmers and rural businesses get long-term credit. It’s a tightly knit place — five farm-credit organizations hold 97 percent of a class of stock that elects five of the 15 directors, and three other financial institutions hold 45 percent of the class that elects another five. The President of the United States names the remaining five. The public can buy stock, too, but that stock has no voting rights.

Farmer Mac has billions of dollars of loans outstanding, and its chief executive had total compensation of just over $3 million last year. So it’s a big deal. The board meets half a dozen or so times a year, and most of the 15 directors take home around $90,000 annually in fees and stock awards. The part-time chairman, former Iowa legislator Lowell Junkins, earned $108,694 last year. He owns about 25,000 shares of the nonvoting stock, which was valued as of Friday at about $400,000. ...

“Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a book a couple of years ago titled ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ that chronicled her personal journey from a tough period in her life to a better place,” Jason Glass, the head of the Iowa Department of Education, said in a speech the other day. “My wife has both read the book and seen the movie. I’ve been resistant to both, for obvious reasons!”

Why? He doesn’t eat? He doesn’t pray? He doesn’t love? He doesn’t want to talk to his wife about it? At any rate, it was kind of an awkward way to get into his keynote remarks at the annual conference of the Iowa Association of School Boards, but not as odd as his next lines:

“I believe Brad Pitt is a lead character in the movie, who incidentally bears a striking resemblance to Governor Branstad. Words of wisdom — take every available opportunity to butter up the boss.”

Further words of wisdom: Brad Pitt isn’t in the movie.

It helps to be accurate, even when you’re making a joke about the boss, and especially when you’re in charge of a department that presumably values facts and accuracy. For obvious reasons. Brad Pitt was the producer, not the star, of the movie, a Skinny reader points out. Perhaps Glass is confusing Pitt — or maybe the governor — with Javier Bardem or Billy Crudup or James Franco.

Anyway, if you want to know what the Governor really looks like you can order a Branstad birthday T-shirt or coffee mug from the Governor Branstad Committee. A T-shirt is $20, a mug $15. The mug says Branstad/Reynolds 2011. “Thank goodness it doesn’t say Branstad/Reynolds 2014,” emails a guy who wonders if Skinny has ordered yet.

Not yet.

For obvious reasons. ...

Following Game Six of the World Series this year, some folks were in an email debate about what was the greatest baseball game ever when one old guy killed the discussion.

“I was listening when Cookie Lavagetto, a Brooklyn pinch-hitter, came to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, two out, two on, the Yankee pitcher one out away from the first no-hitter in Series history,” he wrote. “Cookie doubled off the Ebbets Field wall, scoring two runners and tying the 1947 Series. I was listening in 1946 when Slaughter rounded third while Pesky held the ball, and the Cardinals beat the Red Sox by a run in Game Seven. I was watching via TV in 1960 when What’s-His-Name of Pittsburgh homered in the bottom of the ninth to beat the Yankees in Game Seven. (1960 is too recent for my memory.)

“Meaning I’m an authority. As such, I must advise you — the greatest game took place not in a World Series but in Brookings, S.D., in the summer of ’67. I was umping behind the plate — my service club provided umpires for Pony League (junior-high age) games. By the sixth inning there had been several disputed balls-and-strikes calls, and I was desperate to maintain my reputation. In Pony League, plate umps hold little ball-strike counters they click to help them keep track. The batter had run the count up a ways when the pitcher turned and threw out an inattentive baserunner. Third out, I thought, so I zeroed the counter. Wrong — it was the second out, the batter was still at the plate. Meaning a crucial pitch was coming, and I had no idea what the count was.

“There have been no more suspenseful (make that terrifying) moments in baseball’s long history.

“So here came the pitch — and the batter lined it to left. The count didn’t matter. Say what you may — it was a greater hit than Cookie’s double, or What’s-His-Name’s homer, or Bobby Thompson’s, for that matter. If I knew the kid’s name, I’d petition to have him inducted in the Hall of Fame.”

For obvious reasons. CV