On invitation by Andrew, I've spent two of the past three Sundays at the local race track. If you're picturing NASCAR, you're thinking the wrong kind of horsepower. I'm talking real horses, the creatures whose hooves are used to make gelatin and are infamous for fucking Catherine the Great to death. (All right, both of those are just urban legends, but at least you know what I'm talking about.)As someone whose only exposure to horse racing was the Kentucky Derby, I severely overestimated the class level at the tracks. I anticipated women in sundresses and big floppy hats and equally dapper men, but in actuality, the tracks are fairly trashy. Filled with litter and vice, it's a little skeezy, in spite of the fact that the horses were probably purchased for more than most homes. Mind you, I'm not putting the tracks down, this odd atmosphere actually put me at ease.
On Sundays, it is Kids' Day at the tracks, which meant special deals: one dollar entry, one dollar hotdogs, and one dollar beers. You know how the kids love cheap beer. I did, at any rate, and got four at a time. But I did feel bad for all of the kids I did see present. Some parents can't afford a babysitter since they blow all of their cash at the tracks, evidently. Sure there are horses, but it's not exactly a petting zoo. The kids inevitably get bored and resort to "horseplay" if you will (and please do - the horse puns don't end here); bringing children to the tracks is only slightly more humane than locking them in the car with the windows up.
Horse racing is an odd ritual, because races only occur every half an hour, with each one lasting about a minute altogether. It all happens so quickly that I can't even orient myself and don't realize which horse has won until they put the results on the screen. In the last twenty seconds, everyone else starts screaming as if they understand what is happening - and they probably do - so I join in and yell whatever, too. I'm such a dirty conformist.
I realized that in order to have more investment in the activity, I needed to put some money on the line. You know me, I am partial to low stakes gambling. There were a few issues, however. For starters, I didn't understand the betting system. I found a machine, but didn't understand how to make that work either - it made no (horse) sense.
Finally, I went to a booth with an actual person in it, pled ignorance, and ey helped me put my money on my horse of choice, Schill. (As I explained to myself, I felt like a bit of a shill just for participating.) When the race finally occurred, Schill came in second place and I won $2.40! That's more than two beers. I still didn't really understand what was going on, but I knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The next race I picked Always Auditioning, because as someone avidly seeking new employment, I feel that I, too, am always auditioning. As it turned out, Always Auditioning and I also have bad luck in common, and I lost my bet. Things turned around the next race when I won $4.60 off of Pirate's Charm (can you really bet against a pirate?) third place victory, but then I got cocky and lost all of my earnings in stupid subsequent bets. I wasn't just not picking winners, I was picking last-placers.
My favorite part of the horse races are the horses' names. They're so clever that it makes me want to own a horse just so I can name it. Of course, I'd just want to keep changing its name each time I thought of a new witty phrase, and have no real desire to actually race it, so don't let me follow through on this impulse, please. One of my favorite horse names, Kayakitiyak, belonged to a 50-1 long-shot, on whom I lost some dough. My ultimate favorite, however, is Princess Integrity, because I like a woman with honor. It turned out that this horse is actually a male, but that only makes my fondness for Princess Integrity even stronger.
On our next trip to the tracks, I first bet on Be Realistic (ARG) because I like to consider myself practical. The "(ARG)" part indicates that the horse is from Argentina, but Allison and I liked pronouncing the ARG as part of the name, perhaps an homage to Pirate's Charm that won us money last time. Apparently, we were the ones not being realistic, because the reality was that Be Realistic was a shitty horse and we lost our money. That left us wailing "ARGGGG" in frustration.
Then I switched my betting strategy, looking not for money, but life guidance. Seeing as I'm at a crossroad trying to decide where to live next, I put money on two potential locations "My City by the Bay" and "L.A. Devine." Neither won, so not only did I lose more money, but it looks like I'm going to have to look for signs elsewhere.
Down on my luck, I was prepared to grab a noose and be hung like a horse, but then I changed my betting strategy one last time to one of compromising my values. I chose the ones with the douchiest names, like Brendolyn and Uncle Jeep, at which point I had a few consecutive victories. Sure, I sold out, I'll never be the Princess Integrity I wish I could be, but I would have managed to recoup all of my losses, were it not for the dumb side bets I kept placing with (and losing to) Adam.
I could break down each bet even further, but I don't want to beat a dead horse. If Princess Integrity weren't such a horse on a high horse,
My firmest memories of the races will have nothing to do with gambling, however, but of my friends. Andrew managed to take a nap in the middle of it all, which was a remarkable feat. I wouldn't have taken any odds that that would even be possible. At another moment, we all were so hungry we could eat a horse. Given the situation, though, that would be tacky, so we settled for scavenging for half-consumed pizza, popcorn, soda, and beer that strangers had left behind in their seats. Yeah, that might actually be tackier than eating a horse, but none of us expressed qualms about eating rejected leftovers. While it might not ever elevate us to be royalty of integrity, if you ask me, that's a true sign of good friends.
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