Sunday, January 2, 2011

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.

5 comments:

  1. Nice writing. I bring you the gift of the semblance of Presbyterian virtue. There is no joy in it. Gambling may be the one vice I have never succumbed to.

    There is still time, of course, to remedy the situation. It bothers me from time to time that I have been a pussy in this regard, but what the fuck; I've always known I don't possess the winning gene. I like horses though. To feed sugarlumps to, or admire in the dead of night as they steam and shiver.

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  2. That horse, Shasta, is the third one that bit me. I think all that "love that exists naturally" between Irishmen and horses is hooey. Poop in the Pipes. They hate me, or maybe it's the American in me. They sure can be assholes

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  3. You know what? It's the bridle and bit, the saddle and spurs that breed the hate. I understand completely, I got all that insight walking around out in the fog looking for lost hounds this morning. They were running from a peacock calling them to their end.I rode one horse, one time, I felt like it was the wrong thing to do and never rode an animal again. Boy, peacocks can sure shatter the stillness.

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  4. I get that bit. Even before the burden of sinew and bone heaves into the saddle, the beast looks broken into submission. I would not make for a halfway decent cowboy, I don't believe. Not a natural, as they say.

    It's the line of the saddle too. It doesn't sit right, no matter how beautifully crafted and tooled. It has no raw grace. It is an ugly seat strapped on up there; something designed to accomodate a contorted monkey

    Picasso's ink drawings for Don Qixote illustrate this point perfecctly. Those, and his matadors and bulls. I don't have much time for many of his more famous paintings, but give him the economy of a dipped brush and he could get it all down in just a few strokes.

    Early mornings are the perfect time for insight. Piercing out of the fog of too much sleep or not enough.

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  5. Tim, you slowed down a little on your posting. I had to check and make sure I wasn't missing anything. I'm glad you and Ib are friends. He's a great guy. Daddyhood has sweetened him too. You are both fine writers.

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