Return of the Bumblebee
One of the main objectives of writing this column is to get back/stay in touch with old friends who, over time, have a strange tendency to slowly disappear into the bowels of the earth and never be heard from again. It’s slowly working. The other day I heard from Irana (last name omitted for reasons which will become obvious), who used to work for me at the Subterranean Circus in the late sixties. Irana showed up at the store one day with her junkie housemate Jennie, looking for a job. For some reason, I hired her. Unfortunately, I also hired Jennie, who, being a junkie, stole everything that wasn’t nailed down. We got most of it back and ran her off, never hearing from her again, until Sears called from Miami. Jennie had used us as a job reference.
“Well,” I told them, “if you’re looking for a massive drug user who will rob you blind, Jennie is the perfect choice.”
“Oh my goodness!” said the Sears lady. Probably most of her reference calls were a smidgen more favorable.
Jenny called years later when she was in the middle of some 12-step rehab program, apologizing for all her transgressions. “You got me on that one,” she chuckled. That merry maid of mirth.
But we were talking about Irana. One day, while visiting her mother in Brooklyn, Irana called the store to advise that she had been at the First Annual Boutique Show in Manhattan and she had seen some great pot pipes. Now, aside from bongs, which soldiers were bringing home from Viet Nam and pipes made of lamp parts by employee Dick North, there were really no pipes to be had at the time, so we were interested. Unfortunately, these pipes turned out to be so ugly Cinderella’s stepsisters would have run screaming from them.
“They’re funny,” Irana told us. “They’ll sell.” And sure enough, 17 years later they all sold. We kept them in the store that long just to see what kind of people buy such things. We didn’t send Irana to the Boutique Show any more.
Irana turned out to be a good hire though. She had a great personality, a wonderful sense of humor and an abundance of unpredictability. Occasionally, she would telephone: “I’m coming over.” And hang up. This could be at three in the morning. So I’d go out on the porch and wait and soon enough Irana would arrive on her yellow Yamaha, wearing a matching yellow helmet and brown jumpsuit, looking like nothing so much as a large bumblebee.
One night she called and said “I’m in trouble. I need a ride.”
What happened, Irana. “Well, the cops busted my house looking for LSD. When I got home, they were all over the place. Me and Jenny just sorta walked in the front door, looked around, and meandered out the back. Then we split. I need to get out of town.” Nice idea. And she did, for awhile.
Irana had a next-door neighbor named Patty, often her partner-in-crime. One day, Patty started liking me and invited me to dinner at her house. Also at dinner was her psycho biker husband Rick, so it was an interesting evening. Patty was a knockout, though, so everybody (male) was willing to put up with a few idiosyncrasies. Like the time we went into a Taco Bell and she suddenly fell to her knees, grabbed her throat and gasped, “I’m dying!” People came running from everywhere (while I futilely tried to get her to cut it out), employees from behind the counter, diners turning over their tables in a rush to help. Just as suddenly, she stood up and said “I feel better now,” leaving the place in a confused clamor. Just another day with Patty. Naturally, we hired her too. Well, c’mon, she could sell anything.
Lyrics to The Giant Boutique Show (by Bill Killeen)
When our inventory dwindled
And the shelves were lookin’ bare,
We didn’t even bat an eye,
We didn’t turn a hair;
We simply packed our bags up
And headed for the plane
To freaky New York City
And the Hotel McAlpin.
The joint was always jumpin’,
The place was always full;
Ten floors of hippie merchandise
That was uniformly cool;
Orange-striped bell-bottom trousers
And boots with five-inch heels;
Water pipes with sixteen hoses,
Belts made from moray eels.
We smoked lots of marijuana
And inhaled too much blow.
So it really was a wonder
All the stuff that we bought sold.
We were glad we made it out alive,
Though we’d really hate to go.
We’ll be back next year
To procure more gear
From the Giant Boo-teek Show!
All the peddlers had their special deals
When you’d visit at their stands;
Some gave you big show discounts,
Some gave you contraband,
And others beckoned you inside
Their private selling rooms
And opened up their public stash,
The better to consume!
We smoked lots of marijuana
And inhaled too much blow.
So it really was a wonder
All the stuff that we bought sold.
We were glad we made it out alive,
Though we’d really hate to go.
We’ll be back next year
To procure more gear
From the Giant Boo-teek Show!
BULLETIN: Cosmic Song, our filly at Calder Race Course, worked in 36 4/5 last Saturday, fastest of 41 at the distance. (If you took notes last week, you’ll appreciate the time.) She should run around the first of August.
What the hell are claiming races?
One of the things about racing that most horrifies non-racing people is the concept of claiming races, in which a claim may be put in for a horse prior to the start of a race and, for a price, that horse may change hands when the race is over. “What? You could lose your horse!?!” Yes, you could, But you go into it eyes open.
There are several levels in racing. Stakes races, with purses ranging from thirty-five or forty thousand up to the millions of the Breeder’s Cup races or the fortunes given away in Dubai, are the top tier. Then there are allowance races which match horses by conditions (non-winners of a race other than maiden or claiming, for instance), in which horses may not be claimed. The talent in these races is usually a notch above the claiming ranks. Then there are the claimers.
There are many levels of claiming races. At most tracks, the bottom is $5000 and the top is around $50,000. The better tracks (Saratoga, DelMar, Belmont, Keeneland, Gulfstream, etc.,) have claimers up to $100,000 and the funkier tracks may start as low as $2500. Claiming races are mainly intended to keep horses running against horses of like talent. An owner of a superior horse, which could easily win a $10,000 claiming race, is not likely to enter him to pick up an easy purse if he will lose his horse to a claim. To claim a horse, another owner or trainer must deposit the amount of the claim into his racetrack account and enter a written claim in the claim box at the racing office usually more than 15 minutes before the start of the race. When the horses leave the gate, the claimed horse becomes the property of the person making the claim. If more than one person makes a claim, as often happens, there is a “shake” for the horse, comparable to drawing straws.
There are a lot of shenanigans involved in claiming races. A trainer may run a horse well below its apparent value because of an injury or looming health problem, hoping to see the horse claimed. Other trainers are extremely wary when they see a horse entered for well below its perceived value and may be reluctant to make a claim and be stuck with a compromised horse. Then again, the original trainer, knowing this, may try to get away with an easy purse by scaring off the potential claims when there is nothing at all wrong with his horse. Other owners or trainers may just need the money and risk losing a horse to get a purse. There are no limits to the possibilities. Bottom line: nobody forces a man to run his horse in a claiming race. If he does, and loses him, it’s his own decision. Although, there is often screaming and hollering and empty threatening by the “victim.”
College Magazine Joke (from 1966):
An elderly gentleman of convivial habits was hauled before the judge.
“You’re charged with being drunk and disorderly,” snapped his honor. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”
The accused man did. “Man’s inhumanity to man makes thousands mourn,” he began, in a flight of oratory. “I am not so debased as Poe, so profligate as Byron, so ungrateful as Keats, so intemperate as Burns, so demented as Tennyson, so vulgar as Shakespeare….”
“That’ll do!” interrupted the judge. “Seven days! And bailiff—take down those names he mentioned and round them up. I think we’re onto something big.”
That’s all, folks. Thanks to Hal Hollis for the column enhancements.
