The Hotel California
WELCOME TO THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA OF HORSE RACING
I think the Eagles may have been the Nostradamus of their generation.
Because you go back and listen to “Hotel California” today and you realize those bastards weren't writing a song.
They were writing a fucking owner's manual for modern society.
And especially social media.
“We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.”
Tell me that isn't social media.
"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,
up ahead in distance, we saw a shimmering light."
Nobody dragged us in.
Nobody put a gun to our head.
We downloaded the damn app.
We created the account.
We followed the people.
We turned on the notifications, had to stop for the night.
And then we act surprised when the place drives us completely fucking insane.
We can't help ourselves.
We keep coming back.
We swear we're done.
“I'm getting off social media.”
Three hours later:
What's everybody saying about the seventh at Keeneland?
Welcome back, arse-hole.
We're programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like...
but you can never leave.
'Welcome to the Hotel California.'
That's horse-racing social media.
You walk in looking for a little information and six hours later you're arguing with a guy named @PaceGod69 about whether a jockey should have moved a half-path earlier entering the far turn withou divine intervention.
And this is where the Eagles really nailed it.
“In the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast.”
Oh, they're gathering.
They're ALWAYS gathering.
“They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast.”
That's social media.
Everybody is trying to kill the beast.
Everybody has the answers.
Everybody knows who's right or wrong.
Everybody knows what should have happened.
Everybody knows how to fix racing.
Everybody knows how to ride a horse.
Everybody knows how to train a horse.
Everybody knows how to handicap.
Everybody knows how to run a racetrack.
Everybody knows how to run a fucking country.
And somehow nobody can get their own goddamn life organized.
We can check out anytime we like but we can't never leave.
Such a lovely place.
We have people on there who genuinely believe they possess jockey skills.
They watch a replay and suddenly they're Flavien Prat.
.
Except they couldn't fit into a set of silks unless the silks were made by a fucking tent company.
They'll sit there six hundred pounds removed from the saddle and announce:
“Gaffalione should have stayed inside.”
Oh?
Really?
You sure about that, Secretariat?
Because I saw your profile picture.
You ain't exactly mounting anything in the paddock without a forklift anytime soon.
And they don't criticize one ride.
Oh no.
Every ride.
Every stride.
Every whip.
Every hand movement.
Every fucking twitch of a horse's ear.
Nobody is fucking safe.
Such a lovely place, plenty of rooms at the Hotel California.
Apparently the modern social-media handicapper is also a world-class jockey, trainer, steward, track superintendent and orthopedic surgeon.
It's exhausting.
And then, of course, on Sunday they take a break from horse racing.
Because Sunday is when they're NFL quarterbacks.
Wide receivers.
Defensive coordinators.
General managers.
Referees.
They know why the coach called the play.
They know why the quarterback should have audibled.
They know the cornerback blew the coverage.
They know exactly what Patrick Mahomes should have done, wait, Patrick never does anything wrong and hen gets all the calls but there is always that one guy.
"He's a shell of himself" right before he throws a dart for a touchdown.
Monday morning?
Back to being jockeys.
Tuesday?
Trainers.
Wednesday?
Bloodstock experts.
Thursday?
Handicapping savants.
Friday?
Political scientists.
Saturday?
Every fucking profession simultaneously.
It's exhausting just watching these people.
“Please bring me my wine.”
Well, on Saturday I made a simple observation about Lush Lips.
I saw the maintenance crew near the rail inside the sixteenth.
The horse flipped her ears up, moved away from the rail, idled for a moment and appeared to be waiting on the horse to her outside.
That's it.
An observation.
Nothing more.
I didn't issue a federal indictment.
I didn't subpoena Tyler Gaffalione.
I didn't call for a congressional investigation.
But immediately the peanut gallery comes running in.
And suddenly we're off to the races.
The left-handed whip.
The ride.
The decision.
The timing.
The trip.
The whole fucking Tyler Gaffalione trial, inquisition, and verdict all at once.
And I'm sitting there thinking:
Jesus Christ.
I mentioned a horse.
I didn't summon the the pope and all his cardinals for an exorcism.
And this is where the Eagles nailed another one.
“We are programmed to receive.”
That's us.
We are programmed to receive, consume..
Programmed to react.
Programmed to comment.
Programmed to have an opinion.
We see something and immediately have to say SOMETHING.
Doesn't matter whether we know anything about it or what we going to say.....
We make shit up as we go along.
We have a keyboard.
That's apparently all the credentials you need.
And you can't escape it.
You post something completely innocent and here comes somebody from 1,200 miles away with an opinion so aggressively confident you'd think its the jockey burner account.
You can't just post anymore.
You have to prepare for incoming fire.
You need body armor.
A helmet.
A lawyer.
Maybe a priest.
Because somebody is coming.
And they aren't necessarily bringing information.
They're bringing RPGs
Names a knocking.
Bravado.
Hellfire.
With the false confidence of a man who knows absolutely nothing and the wisdom of a fucking slug.
And then you get:
“Those voices are calling from far away.”
Yep.
They are.
And somehow they wake you up in the middle of the night.
Not because they're saying anything useful.
Because your phone buzzes.
You look.
Somebody you've never met has decided to explain to you why you're wrong about a horse you watched in person.
And you're lying there at 2:13 in the morning thinking:
Why the fuck am I reading this?
Because we're programmed to receive.
That's why.
We can't ever leave.
“There she stood in the doorway. I heard the mission bell.”
And I think:
Yep.
There it is.
Every time I open social media.
I see that doorway.
I hear that bell.
And I think to myself:
This could be heaven...
Or this could be hell.
Usually depends on whether your horse won or lost.
Because if your horse wins, social media is wonderful.
You're a genius.
You're a prophet.
'Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagn on ice'
You're revolutionary.
People are asking you for your first born.
You might as well have been Moses coming down from the mountain carrying the fucking Daily Racing Form for ALL, but....
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave"
Your horse loses?
Oh, now it's hell.
Suddenly the jockey is an idiot.
The trainer is incompetent.
You're incompetent.
The track is crooked.
The pace was wrong.
The rail was dead.
The wind shifted.
The tote board was manipulated.
Mercury was in retrograde and you should have known because apparently every one else did and they are dancing in the courtyard, oh, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.
So, I took my life into my own two hands.
I posted on social media.
I saw a shimmering light.
I thought maybe I could actually have a conversation.
My head grew heavy.
My sight grew dim.
I had to stop for the night.
And you know what?
It gets me every fucking time.
Because tomorrow I'll probably be back.
You'll be back.
We'll all be back.
We'll swear we're done.
We'll delete the app.
We'll walk away.
We'll announce:
''Last thing I remember, I was running for the door
Had to find the passage back to the place I was before
"Relax, " said the night man' somebody posted a horse running a 46-and-change half-mile workout and we'll come crawling back like a crack addict who just heard somebody has a live Pick 5 ticket and a free Shrimp cocktail.
Because that's the Hotel California.
You can check out any time you like.
But you can never leave.
The Eagles, Horse Racing Twitter, Artificla Inteligence (AI) .....
And they figured all that shit out forty-some years ago.
They knew we'd eventually we'd have the steely knives now called smartphones, Racing Twitter and 'that warm smell of colitas rising up through the air.'
