Bonehead(s)

Ah, yes... the theater of the absurd, the racetrack. Horseplayers—God bless them—are a rare breed. Equal parts hopeful romantic and degenerate dreamer, all wrapped up in yesterday’s Past Performances and today’s bad decision. And you want to talk about silly? Pull up a chair, pour yourself a bourbon, and let’s dive in. Because in the grand bazaar of boneheaded behavior, horseplayers have erected monuments to their own delusions—right next to the pretzel stand and the ATM machine.

Let me be perfectly clear: the silliest things horseplayers do aren’t accidental. No, they’re habitual. Woven into the very DNA of the self-proclaimed "sharpies." They do it with confidence. With pride. With a misplaced sense of mastery. The egos are as bloated as the trifecta pool on Kentucky Derby Day—and yet the knowledge base is thinner than a jockey’s waist size or riding crop.

Let’s start at the beginning. Or rather, where most horseplayers fail to begin—with details. Basic, foundational stuff. When does the Pick 5 start? What time is post? What time zone is post? The answer? “I don’t know, but I like the 6-horse.” It’s laughable. I once knew a man who missed a $15,000 score because he was watching the wrong feed—he was tuned into Belmont when he was supposed to be at Gulfstream. He thought he had an edge. He had a nap.

But here’s the kicker: even if they do make the post on time, they often don’t make sense of the race they’re watching. Let’s talk works. Morning drills. The true Rosetta Stone of racing if, and only if, you know what you’re looking at. Most don’t. They wouldn’t know the difference between a horse galloping out in :12 and one staggering home in :15. But they’ll quote the workout time like it’s scripture: “25 flat, 12 out of 40, not impressive.” Not impressive? That horse breezed six furlongs and was shut down by design, all the while your brain was still trying to find the grandstand.

And don’t get me started on workout grades. C+, two stars, maintenance drill—oh, the horror! The horse jogged. He dared not sprint like Usain Bolt on a Red Bull bender. Because, believe it or not, the goal of a workout isn't to win a gold medal—it's to get fit, stay sound, and live to race another day. But no—if it doesn’t look like the Road Runner, it’s tossed out by the ever vigil, Wily E Coyote, genius. The modern horseplayer expects an Olympian without the fragility of fine china.

Then there are the clockers, those mythical soothsayers whose opinions are treated as gospel truth. Some are honest. Most are human. And some, well... some are playing both sides of the track. Inflating times for horses they don’t want you to bet. Deflating others they do.

And the public? They gobble it up like trout hitting topwater bait. A Sea Bass handicapper, if you will. Mouth open, brain disengaged, destined for the frying pan.

Trips and tips—let’s talk about them. Trips, the great subjective art of watching a race and

seeing what you want to see. “He didn’t switch leads, if he does he wins.” Sure, and if I had wings I’d fly to Del Mar and slap some sense into you. Did you bother to check if that horse ever switches leads? Of course not. But it sounded good on social media with the likes and follows as they are currency swaps.

And tips—ah, those whispered sweet nothings from the ghostly realm of “they.” “They like the 7.” Who’s they? Are we holding a séance now? “They” are the spiritual Sherpas of the racetrack, guiding clueless punters into a pit of pick-six despair.

Saratoga and Del Mar—those summer carnivals of ego and delusion. Everyone's an expert. Everyone's connected. Everyone knows a guy. And yet, come sunset, the same names are at the ATM, trying to reload their way into the late double or swinging by the drive thru at McDonalds $5 dollar menu for substanance.

Look, I’m not here to mock. I’m here to warn. I’ve lived this game. I’ve watched the cycles repeat over 40 years—from the dusty OTBs in Southern California to the smoke-filled race book at the Barbary Coast with the late Mugsy Muniz at the helm, I've been there done that. And the truth is this: it’s not the races that beat you—it’s your own reflection. Your own belief that you're too smart to be stupid. That your mistakes don’t count because they don’t hit the tote board.

Well, they do. Every single fucking time, when the payouts are flashed and you are holding a dead ticket. Dead Handicapper Walking.

Ah… the days of the Barbary Coast, my friend. A time, a place, a pungent cocktail of cigar smoke, cheap whiskey, and the unmistakable scent of desperation wrapped in polyester suits and crumpled past performances. You could walk into any of those dimly lit racebooks, and what you’d find wasn’t so much a gathering of horseplayers as a congregation—a church of the damned, where the altar was a scratched favorite and salvation came in exacta form.

There I was—on the podium, mic in hand, lights flickering like a dying neon sign outside a casino on the strip. The question comes, like it always does: "Who do you like in the fifth?" And you answer with grace, precision, maybe even a touch of poetry. You give them context. Pedigree. Trip notes. Conditioning. You serve them filet mignon on a platter with a garnish

And then… hours later, after the fact, waddling out of the shadows like a racetrack troll comes that guy. You know him. We all do. Smug grin. A stale beer in one hand and a crumpled $2 to win ticket in the other—flashing it like it’s a bearer bond from the Vatican treasury.

"I had him," he crows, chest puffed out like a bantam rooster at a cockfight. "I beat ya!"

Beat me? You tossed a dart and hit a number. That’s not strategy—it’s accident. It’s cosmic luck.

But oh, the pride. The bravado. The smell of victory wafting off a man who probably put his last $2 on a horse because he liked the name. “Lucky Socks.” Bravo.

Nostra-fucking-damus.

And then… there’s the other one. The polite one. Dangerous. The kind that sneaks up on you like fog on a San Francisco morning. Approaches with a smile, extends his hand—firm grip, dead eyes.

"I’ve been following you for years. You’re good," he says, with just the right amount of warmth to make you lower your guard.Then he leans in. A whisper."But I’m better."

Well, congratulations. Lucky me. I’m being stalked by the Son of Sam: The Broke Handicapper Edition—a man with delusions of grandeur and the bankroll of a couch cushion. I’m one Derby pick away from being his next confessional victim.

It’s a charming little world we inhabit, isn’t it?A world where self-appointed experts roam free, wisdom is measured in hindsight, and every losing ticket is someone else’s fault. A world where even the worst beat is a badge of honor, and the biggest boasters usually can’t make rent.

But we endure. Why?

Because in between the madness—the guys with the $2 prophecies and the friendly stalkers—there are moments of truth. Of beauty. A horse digging in at the eighth pole. A trip note confirmed. A plan executed with surgical precision.And when that happens, there’s no one flashing their ticket in your face. Just silence. The kind of silence that only comes from knowing—you got it right.

So, to the guy who beat me with his beer money bet, and the gentleman who thinks he’s my shadow: Enjoy the spotlight. It’s fleeting.

So next time you’re ready to bet your currency on a five-furlong work you didn’t understand, or a trip note you fabricated like a bedtime story—stop.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Remember that the game is already hard. Don’t make it harder by being a clown in a clown convention.

Big shoes. Red nose. And no cash left in the wallet.

Just another day at the track.

Ah… but of course. Join us.

Get on board this locomotive of madness, beauty, and bloodlines—a train that, despite its crooked tracks and rusted bolts, is actually going somewhere. Somewhere rich in history, laced with heartbreak, and occasionally… lined with gold.

This isn’t some bullet train to Easy Street, mind you. No, this is the 8:40 out of Delusion, with scheduled stops in Hope, Despair, and Eternal Justification. Hallelujah. But if you know where to look—if you learn to listen to the rhythm of the hooves, the whispers of the tote, the truth hidden in the fractions—this train can take you places.

We’re not offering you a miracle. No.We’re offering something far more dangerous:

Understanding.

Because this isn’t just about horses. It’s about what people do when they think they know something. How they twist logic into knots, convince themselves that the third off the layoff with blinkers off is some divine signal from the gambling gods. How they rail against losses with the same breath they use to swear they saw it coming.

But here, in our little corner of this grand old game, we don’t pretend. We watch. We analyze. We remember.We know the difference between a six-furlong blowout and a maintenance jog. We know when the horse wasn’t switching leads because he’s green—not because he’s destined for greatness next out.We know that most people are playing checkers while we’re quietly drawing up war maps.

So yes—get on board. Bring your past performances, your past mistakes, your myths about workout stars and trip notes seen through beer goggles, but leave your ego at the station. That baggage won’t fit in the overhead compartment.

This train’s bound for something rare—clarity in chaos.And the doors are still open, as we prepare to handicap Saratoga, Ellis, and Del Mar coming up around the corner,

Yes, we will offer products for all of them.

Can I send you an invoice for 50 credits?

All aboard!!!

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