General Admission

Ah… the racetrack. A cathedral of dreams, delusions, and degeneracy. And like any ancient institution, it is divided into castes—tiers of experience, if you will—each with its own customs, rituals, and hierarchy of madness.

At the top of this gilded pyramid?The Turf Club.

Ah yes, the Turf Club… a sanctum of fabricated elegance, where the wine flows freely and the laughter is measured, rehearsed, and polished like the cufflinks on the wrist of a shipping magnate. The people here speak in hushed tones and half-truths, dropping names like they’re pitching a screenplay. They don’t bet, per se. No. They speculate. Wagering is gauche, darling—unless, of course, it’s on a colt owned by their third cousin’s hedge fund.

In the Turf Club, the air is different—filtered, perfumed, expensive. This is where mademoiselles with trust funds and no trust issues sip spritzers next to retired diplomats with suspicious tans and unspoken pasts. The decor is rich. The company? Questionable. But elegant. Always elegant.

Then we descend.The Clubhouse.

Here, people are who they are. Or at least who they can afford to be. You’ll find the lifers, the wise guys, the retired cops, retired criminals, and men who are both. There’s less pretense, more action. Here, past performances are gospel and every loser has a story—usually about a jockey who “couldn’t ride a merry-go-round.”

There’s Frankie the Fix, Sharon the Shouter, Big Tony and Little Tony (same size, different temperaments). You don’t dress to impress in the Clubhouse. You dress for battle. And everyone has a system.

“I only play second-time blinkers on turf, when the moon is waxing and the trainer’s from Louisiana.”“I bet anything with 'Angel' in the name.”“If the horse poops in the paddock, he’s a lock.”

And then… ah yes… we reach the base. The beating, bleating, beautiful base.General Admission.

Or as I like to call it: The Zoo.

It is chaos incarnate. A swirling stew of humanity, hard luck, hot dogs, and heartbreak. The people here scream at monitors, curse fate, tear tickets with theatrical agony. It’s a cross between the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange and a Thanksgiving dinner with your most dysfunctional relatives.

Shirts are optional. Hygiene is negotiable.There’s a man with binoculars duct-taped to his head. Another eating nachos off his program. Children weeping. Adults weeping louder.And somewhere, always, a guy yelling:

“IT WAS FIXED! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!”

And yet… this place—this dusty, sunburnt circus—is the soul of the track. It’s where the love of the game is raw. Unfiltered. Furious.The Turf Club may have champagne and chandeliers, but General Admission has heart—and a six-dollar exacta box that might just hit.

Ah... How could I forget:

You know, over the years, I've come to accept certain truths about the world—death, taxes, and General Admission degenerates prowling the racetrack like extras from a George Romero film.

A steadfast rule, really: if you wander into GA, be prepared to be assaulted—verbally, spiritually—with the eternal question, “Who do you like today?” It’s not a request. It’s a demand. A challenge. A confession whispered through missing teeth and stale bourbon breath.

I remember one morning— how could I forget, ungodly early, 5 a.m., Santa Anita. I was clocking works under cover of darkness, the way men do when they’re either getting paid or running from something. The track was quiet, still. But from one of those damp, soul-sucking tunnels under the apron—I heard it. A shuffle. Footsteps dragging like sandpaper on concrete. And then, the voice. Gravelly. Hollow. “Bruno… who do you like today?”

Now, I’ve encountered some things in my life. Siberian Huskeys being attacked by a Rotweiler, a Pit Bull, even a pug. A gentleman named Al Cowlings, sans the White Bronco, . Scott Baio chasing after my date, aptly named, Joy every time she ventured away from the dinner table, and, lets, let's not forget dinner with what seemed the Sopranos, but this? This… creature lurching toward me in the moonlight? It was like a lost scene from The Walking Dead. Hair like tumbleweed. A limp that screamed ‘unresolved trauma.’ And I, fool that I am, had left my zombie stick and Bowie knife in the glove compartment. My hair was standing in the back of neck.

“Clocker… who do you like?” with the growl echoing thru the bowels of Santa Anita.

I panicked. Reflexes took over. I gave 'it' the longest shot on the board in the 7th. Joy Scott up. Figured that would be the end of it. Zombies are easy to throw off the scent—just hand them a loser and watch them shamble away into the fog.

But fate... fate is a vindictive mistress.

That horse, despite my cursing—crossed the finish line first. Joy Scott aboard, eyes wild like she'd just robbed a bank. I could feel it—my destiny had changed in that moment. I had contributed to the wagering deliquency of a zombie. A groupie. An undead disciple in search of my next pick.

And for weeks—weeks—he followed me. Always asking. Always waiting. Until we moved the operation to Hollywood Park.. Perhaps he couldn’t cross city lines. Or maybe… just maybe… he found someone else to haunt or got a job with the Walking Dead production.

I did believe I spotted him in Season 3.

Either way, I never picked Joy Scott again.

Some things are just too dangerous.

So yes… there are levels to this world.The elegance. The authenticity. The lunacy, the undead. Each one a note in the racetrack symphony.And all of it, every last glorious tier, keeps the game alive.

Because whether you’re sipping Veuve Clicquot or screaming at a $5 claimer, you’re here for the same reason: To believe.

*** And for the record… every word of this—every grotesque, moonlit shuffle and miraculous, bone-chilling epoch—is true. Not embellished, not borrowed, not conjured in some fever dream. All lived, endured, and somehow survived by Racingwithbruno.