A Day at the Races

"Oh, you're a writer, anything I might know?"

I'm in a room with a bunch of people in their mid 30's, all wildly successful. It is 10:30am and I am on my 7th Tecate. I don't really know anyone so I am nervous. I drink a lot when I am nervous.

In a perfect world, I imagine that I'll be one of these people in 7 years. These people aren't assistants, their assistants are my friends. But they didn't get invited because this is a big boy trip. I feel like a pledge being asked by the Seniors to come on boats. It is still unclear how I scored an invite. Why the fuck did I tell this guy I'm a writer? I'm an assistant on a sitcom.

"Ummm, well I blog mostly now. I'm an assistant on a tv show, I'm trying to get staffed on a half hour."

"Ahhh good old television."

Fuck, he writes movies. I can feel his silent judgment tearing through my pathetically weak skin.

I knock over a bottle of champagne and apologize, explaining that I am possibly still a little inebriated from the night before.

"Oh, ya? What did you get into last night?"

"We decided it would be fun to get hammered and go see Independence Day 2."

"And how was that?"

"To be honest, it's quite possibly the worst movie I have ever seen in my life."

"Wow."

"Ya, just a total piece of dog shit."

"I wrote it."

And that's when it happens. I go white with fear. Of course this fucking guy wrote Independence Day 2. Is he going to punch me? I should leave. I was already merely tolerated here, now I have straight up offended someone. I try to walk it back.

"Sorry, I mean...clearly I was drunk. What do I know? Probably going to make a fuck ton of money."

"Dude, I'm just fucking with you."

Relief washes over me in an awesome way. But still, I should know better. Never shit talk anything in Hollywood.

"I mean I DID do an uncredited punch up on it, but that script couldn't be saved. I agree total trash."

***

The bus is here now. I get on and sit next to my roommate in the 4th row. I'm a bit underdressed wearing a black polo and chubbies. All around me are men in full seer sucker suits, women in sundresses and very large hats.

Everyone at the pregame was fairly dismissive of me when we met. I was surrounded by agents from CAA, WME, UTA. VPs from every major studio. Most of the people here I couldn't get a meeting with if I tried, but now that the drinking has commenced the playing field has leveled a bit.

This is my domain. This is what I am good at.

Someone passes me a bottle of champagne, I give a solid 5 second chug before I hand it to the next person. Then I bust out the Four Loko. I bought two of them at a gas station on the way to the pregame. Now people are intrigued. Four Loko, wasn't that banned? Is that illegal?

A bottle of Vodka is now being passed around, the thirtysomethings are starting to get a bit overserved.

The guy running the music in the front asks me if I want to plug in my phone to play a couple songs. Again, I'm a little out of my element here. But then again the woman sitting behind me, who I'm pretty sure is an entertainment lawyer, just regaled me with tales about doing DMT at Joshua Tree last weekend.

If I was 8 years older and made $200,000 a year, what song would I want to listen to on a Saturday trip to Santa Anita?

And then I pressed play on tracks 3-6 on Justin Bieber's Purpose. I am instantly a hero. I could get a meeting with anyone on this bus now.

But enough about my meteoric rise to the top over a pregame and a bus ride...let's get down to racing.

Santa Anita Park is located about an hour east of Los Angeles in the San Gabriel Valley town of Arcadia. Although I often shit on the inland empire and the ethnically ambiguous people that make it their home, I must admit that it is a rather stunning backdrop for a day at the horse track.

I've never been to Churchill Downs or even Arlington Park in Chicago, but I imagine Santa Anita Park is on the fancier end of the horse track spectrum. VIP boxes, a member's only restaurant and a cigar bar are a few of the features I noticed immediately. But as is the case with any gambling institution, there are also a fair share of degenerates blowing their children's college funds.

For better or worse, by the time we arrived at the Race Track, I was too drunk to figure out how to use the automated betting machines. I of course then blew all my remaining cash on drinks before figuring out that there were windows run by actual humans. A man at the window tried to explain to me why I couldn't place bets on a credit card while I was simultaneously berated by an 80 year old woman carrying an oxygen tank.

"PLACE YOUR BET OR MOVE ALONG."

Apparently she just wanted it more than me.

No matter, I'm not really the gambling type anyway. I don't understand a trifecta, superfecta, box or even basic odds. The only gambling I am well versed in is when I used to make blowjob bets with an ex girlfriend. Most wins would go unpaid.

With no skin in the race, I spent the majority of the day wandering around the track, watching the races. To be honest, I don't remember a single winner or even the name of a single competing horse.

But...I did figure out how to sneak into the stables. I also asked a stableboy if I could ride one of the horses.

I have never ridden a horse mind you. The stable boy informed me that I was about 16 inches too tall and 100 pounds too heavy. A boy can dream.

I spent the next part of the afternoon conversing with fellow track visitors young and old, discussing hopes and dreams, plans for the future. That's the coolest part about the horse track, it's a good place to just hang out and shoot the shit. Every 20 minutes or so there is a race and you yell for 30 seconds, the rest of the time is spent drinking and watching life pass you by. But mostly drinking. At one point I taught a group of teachers from Minnesota how to do a stunt man. (Which hurts worse? The snorting of the salt or the lime in the eye? Eh probably the lime)

By the end of the day, I realized that much of my insecurity about being, inadequate, was unfounded. I have spent much of the last five years worrying that I'm falling behind. While my peers were achieving personal and professional success, my life was largely stagnant.

But during the day I talked to a man that sold his first film when he was 35. I talked to someone that had been a talent assistant until 33. I talked to a young woman who threw away a promising medical career because she decided she wanted to be an editor. Success doesn't always come when you want it, or when you're ready for it. Success comes sometimes when you least expect it.

But conversely I looked around at a group of people doing exactly what I do now. Drinking, enjoying a nice day in the sun, celebrating life.

We hop on the bus to come back to Los Angeles. Somewhere along the way, we convince the driver to take us to The Parlor, an Indiana bar in West Hollywood. We storm in and start slamming rounds of shots. Eventually we are kicked out because of a 'private event.'

That or they could tell we had been drinking for 8 hours and were starting to become a liability. We crawl to another bar down the street, the Dark Room. USA is playing Colombia, we choke and lose. No one cares.

My roommate and I decide it's time to head back to Venice. I realize that at some point in the day I've lost my only set of car keys. Even though this is probably going to cost me $400 on Sunday, I don't care, the day has been an epic success. I get back to Venice at 7pm, I'm asleep in bed by 701.

***

I wake with a start.

"What time is it?"

-Midnight.

Holy hell, I was drunker than I thought. I scroll through my texts. I've sent a text to my ex-girlfriend that says "Let's bang." I have written on a frat brother's Facebook picture "You look gay." and I am drenched in sweat and have 37 unread text messages.

Oh ya, and I don't have the ability to drive to work on Monday, pick up my boss's birthday cake OR go to a 24 hour McDonald's right now.

Panic sets in...

The prudent thing to do would be to drink a large glass of water and go back to bed. Tomorrow when I wake up sober, I can figure all of this out.

But instead I hear some rustling next door. The neighbors are at it again, ripping performance enhancers and chugging beers.

Oh, there are like 6 girls over there.

I should have gone to bed, but I walked next door and didn't return for about 6 hours.

Some habits die hard.