Horse Problems

                I'm too fucking emotional to deal with horses on the proper level. Whenever I went to the track, the parimutual clerks would start winking at and nudging each other up,  " Oh look, this'll be good. Here he comes, trying it again. I bet he had another  Leprechaun dream last night, hee hee hee.My window is closed Sullivan, fuck off."
                      After I lost enough money, which I always did, I started trying to figure out an easy way to get it back, just like they want. Bet more on longer shots, "Oh Christ, give me the rent money. Hurry up ,this is the one I was telling you about, we can't miss "Little Monkey Shit" will make it all come back and plus more even, I got the feeling'...."                        
                        Whenever I used to lose money gambling on horse racing, which I always have, I would feel bad. None of my  admittedly degenerated gambling friends ever showed pain when it happened to them. They felt the track was their job , a bad day at the office was all losing five grand was. I would wail and moan over going down fifty bucks. I still haven't been to a classy track. Only dumpy ones where men display their displeasure by pissing on the walls of the restrooms and howling  in the halls and shooting guns around. Exciting, yes, Cool, no. Absolutely classless down in the bowels where we "played," anyway.                                       
                       The closest I ever got to one, a classy horse track, the very classy Del Mar, was a dive bar in Venice Beach, full of drugs and artists and teenage girls on the lookout for old drunken goat motherfuckers looking to lose their money another way. I think I was close to Del Mar anyways, we were going down there but kept deciding to stick around the dive for five more minutes to completely absorb the ambience and forward thinking conversation we found in there and enjoyed so much.
         Buck fifty shots of  Old Motherfucker along with  fifty cent drafties kept us busy,with something to grab and chew on most of the time. We didn't forget the essence of our purpose either and  bet on which girl and trick would go next, we rolled dice for drinks, for baloney sandwich lunch and almost some Hollywood  hooker action. We had a great time, even though the Hollywood contingent never showed.
     While the conversation about it certainly stayed lively, the turf at Del Mar eluded us. We went to "Magic Mountain"  on the way home though and puked our way around in there until it closed. We knew we'd had a good day in LA, about as good a one as we could in those days. No track though, we forgot to go and forgot we forgot until we came to the next day in our room at "The Buck Owens Bar, Grill and Whorehouse"somewhere around Bakersfield. We couldn't go back because of the secret creepo rays beaming out from Disneyland. We just couldn't go through all that again, so soon.
            On the last horse situation in my life, so far, I took excellent care of a friends horse while she was in jail. Going in, she said he was an old and very nice horse. Shasta was his name. Come to think of it, it was Xmas time.. Another check mark in the Xmas minus column. Three weeks of shoveling horseshit, washing out his house and feeding it horse hay (which I had to lug around) and apples and carrots and oats and he demonstrated his love and appreciation for all the positives I delivered to him by standing on my foot and knawing on my head with his horse teeth.
            I finally got away and went down to the jail and told my pal to get someone else to take care of the fucking ingrate motherfucker. She promised me many earthly delights if I continued until she got out and I was sucked right back into the vortex of equine abuse while waiting hopefully. It never bit me again, the horse, but she did. It was worth it.
               I gotta get down to Del Mar someday. I want to see what I missed.