Your city's a sucker/ my city's a creep
Saratoga Springs, New York: it’s not that great. Some people come here in the summertime for a weekend repreive. If you’ve ever read Flannery O’Connor, or know that dude from the Kelsey Grammer show, maybe you’ve heard of it. There’s a decent liberal arts college here and an OK record store. The bagel shoppe is actually pretty decent, too. But most people come for the horse racing. Mostly, I just like to check out the insane fashions and the Bourgeoisie (which often seem to go hand in hand).
The ticket window is a scene of pandemonium at post-time. One time my dad took me here as a child and I got lost at the ticket window, which may or may not have something to do with my present day ambivalence regarding this place. Today it seemed an environment in a perpetual state of agitation, as people were trying to stay clear of bursts of rain. Mainly, I was trying to avoid the scent of testosterone and listen to the new DJ Kicks album on headphones. It’s pretty good, I should let you know.
Today was also hat-day. This clever hat was advertising pantomiming art as representing animal life. It was, basically, some appropriation of a Bud Light 12-pack made to look like a horse's head. It was pretty nice. I think it took 1st place.
These guys are what my aunt would explain as exercise riders. Their main job is to escort the actual race horses to the starting gate, making them some variety of the chump horse. It all seems a little redunant to me. She's the horse trainer, though, so I don't know.
I didn't win this race. In fact, I didn't win any race at all. My main source of business on the day was consuming Italian Ice and agitating Kari Ann, who chided my betting-style, which has nothing to do with consulting the confusing statistics they give you in the racing form and more to do with picking cool-sounding names. That may have something to do with my startling inability to win.
Aside from getting in your car and driving from the middle class neighborhood of Loudonville and ending up in Arbor Hill a scant two minutes later, the Saratoga race track is probably the most overt demonstration of class dichotomy available to you in Upstate New York. The box seats are preceded only by the bleacher rows, where they imaginably serve you food followed by a hot towel. These people, I think, were in the wrong section. Or rather, their aircraft had crashed, like in Brave New World, and they were checking in on the savage life below.
Senator and rumored presidential candidate Hillary Clinton showed by, sans Bill, and was escorted by some pretty heavy duty-looking people not featured here. She seemed graceful enough, I guess, snapping a picture with some nicely coutured people. Sadly, I was unable to get a picture with her. My afro-charged hair and tattered shirt may have been the deal breaker.
Afterward we went out for Mexican and I a huge burrito that fell apart in my hand. I was down on the race I didn't bother to bet, which ended up winning. That race featured a 1 and 1a horse, meaning that if either of those comes in you win. Which just goes to show, sometimes you've got to go with the statistics.
