10/14/91 12:47 PM

Of course, there are some strange types at the racetrack. There's one fellow who's out there almost every day. He never seems to win a race. After each race he screams in dismay about the horse that won. “IT'S A PIECE OF SHIT!” he will scream. And then go on shouting about how the horse never should have won. A good 5 minutes worth. Often the horse will read 5 to 2 and 3 to 1, 7 to 2. Now a horse like that must show something or the odds would be much higher. But to this gentleman it just doesn't make sense. And don't let him lose a photo finish. He really comes on with it then. “FUCK THE GOD IN THE FACE! HE CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!” I have no idea why he isn't barred from the track.

I asked another fellow once, “Listen, how does this guy make it?” I'd seen him talking to him at times.

“He borrows money,” he told me.

“But doesn't he run out of lenders?” “He finds new ones. You know his favorite expression?” “No.” “When does the bank open in the morning?” I guess he just wants to be at the racetrack, somehow, just to be there. It means something to him even if he continues to lose. It's a place to be. A mad dream. But it's boring there. A groggy place. Everybody thinking that they alone know the angle. Dumb lost egos. I'm one of those. Only it's a hobby for me. I think. I hope. But there is something there, if only in a short time frame, very short, a flash, like when my horse is in the run and then it does it. I see it happening. There is a high, a lift. Life becomes almost sensible when the horses do your bidding. But the spaces in between are very flat. People standing about. Most of them losers. They begin to look dry as dust. They are sucked dry. Yet, you know, when I force myself to stay home I begin to feel very listless, sick, useless. It's strange. The nights are always all right, I type at night. But the days have to gotten rid of. I'm sick too in a way. I am not facing reality. But who the hell wants to?

It reminds me of when I stayed in this Philadelhia bar from 5 a.m. until 2 a.m. It seemed the only place I could be. Often I didn't even remember going to my room and coming back. I seemed always on that bar stool. I was evading the realities, I didn't like them.

Maybe for this fellow the racetrack was like the bar was for me?

All right, you tell me something useful. Be a lawyer? A doctor? A congressman? That's crap too. They think it isn't crap but it is. They are locked into a system and they can't get out. And almost everybody is not very good at what hey do. It doesn't matter, they are in the safe cocoon.

It got kind of funny out there one day. I'm speaking of the racetrack again.

The Crazy Screamer was there as usual. But there was another fellow, you could see that there was something wrong with his eyes. They looked angry. He was standing near the Screamer and listening. Then he listened to the Screamer's predictions for the next race. The Screamer was good that way. And evidently Angry Eyes was betting the Screamer's tips.

The day wore on. I was coming out of the men's room and then I saw and heard it. Angry Eyes was yelling at the Screamer, “God-damn you, shut up! I'm going to kill you!” The Screamer turned his back and walked off saying, “Please… Please…” in a very weary and disgusted manner. Angry Eyes followed him: “YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!” Security arrived and intercepted Angry Eyes and led him off. Evidently death at the racetrack was not to be condoned.

Poor Screamer. He was quiet the remainder of the day. But he stayed the full card. Gambling, of course can eat you alive.

I had a girlfriend once who said, “You're really in bad shape, you go to both Alcoholics Anonymous and Gamblers Anonymous at the same time.” But she really didn't mind either of those things unless they interfered with bed exercises. Then she hated them.

I remember a friend of mine who was a total gambler. He told me once, “I don't care if I win or lose, I just want to gamble.” I'm not that way, I've been on Starvation Row too many times. Not having any money at all has the slightest tinge of Romanticism when you are very young.

Anyway, the Screamer was out there again the next day. Same thing: he railed against the results of each race. Think of this. It's a very hard thing to do. I mean, even if you know nothing, you can just take a number, any number, say 3. You can bet 3 for 2 or 3 days and you are bound to finally get a winner. But not this fellow. He is a marvel. He knows all about horses, fractional times, track variants, pace, class, etc. but he still manages only to pick losers. Think of it. Then forget it or it will drive you crazy.

I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, when I was 35. I've been at them for 36 years and I figure they still owe me $5,000. Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more ears I die even.

Now that's a goal worth shooting for, don't you think?

Huh?

10/15/91 12:55 AM

Burned out. A couple night of drinking this week. Got to admit I don't recover as fast as I used to. Best thing about being tired is that you don't come out (in the writing) with any wild and dizzy proclamations. Not that that is bad unless it becomes habitual. The first thing writing should do is save your own ass. If it does this, then it will be automatically juicy, entertaining.

Writer I know is phoning people telling them that he types 5 hours a night. I imagine that we are supposed to marvel at this. Of course, do I have to tell you? What matters is what he is typing. I wonder if he counts his telephone time as part of this 5 hours of typing?

I can type from one to 4 hours but the 4th hour, somehow, tapers away into almost nothing. Knew a guy once who told me, “We fucked all night.” It's not the same fellow who types 5 hours a night. But they've meet each other. Maybe they ought to take turns, switch off. The guy who typed 5 hours get to fuck all night and the guy who fucked all night gets to type 5 hours. Or maybe they can fuck each other while somebody else types. Not me, please. Have the woman do it. If there is one…

Hmmm.. you know, I am feeling somewhat goofy tonight. I keep thinking of Maxim Gorky. Why? I don't know. Somehow it seems as if Gorky never really existed. Some writers you can believe were there. Like Turgenev or D.H. Lawrence. Hemingway appears to me to half-and-half. He was really there but he wasn't. But Gorky? He did write some strong thigs. Before the Revolution. Then after the Revolution his writing began to pale. He didn't have much to bitch about. It's like the anti– war protesters, they need a war in order to thrive. There are some who make good living protesting against war. And when there isn't a was they don't know what to do. Like during the Gulf War there was group of writers, poets, they had planned a huge anti-war protest, they were ready with thei poems and speeches. Suddenly the war was over. And the protest was scheduled for a week later. But they didn't call it off. They went ahead with it anyway. Because they wanted to be on stage. They needed it. It was something like an Indian doing a Rain Dance. I myself am anti-war. I was anti-war long ago when it wasn't even a popular, decent and intellectual thing. But I am suspect of the courage and motivations of many of the professional anti-war protesters. From Gorky to this, what? Let the mind roll, who cares?

Another good day at the track. Don't worry, I'm not winning all the money. I usually bet $10 or $20 to win or when it really looks good to me, I'll go $40.

The racetracks further confuse the people. They have 2 fellows on tv before each race and they talk about who they think will win. They show a net loss on each meet. As do all the public handicapppers, tout sheets and race betting services. Even computers can't figure the nags matter how much info is fed into them. Any time you pay somebody to tell you what to do you are going to be a loser. And this includes your psychiatrist, your psychologist, your broker, your workshop teacher and your etc.