Did she just say that?

Due to my complete lack of brainpower as a result of being in the process of moving, my poor little cerebrum can barely put together a sentence, let alone a coherent, thoughtful piece of writing that would have otherwise been the content of this blog post. And because this is my last night in my old apartment, everything I own with the capacity to entertain and keep myself busy is quietly nestled away in its respective box. Thus: my urge to write a blog entry.

Combine these two current conditions of mine (feather-brainedness and the need for something to do) and, voila! You get the extreme pleasure of perusing a list of some of my all-time favorite idioms and sayings. Most of these come from none other than Jim (the man, the myth, the legend) Kevorkian, and his nuptial counterpart, give it up for my mom: Nancer Pancer Kevorkian. Though they dominate the majority of the featured entries on this list, a few prized others have come from individuals who will appropriately receive credit.

*DISCLAIMER: This list is not for those holier-than-thou nor the unappreciative prude. If you fall into these aforementioned categories, abort this post immediately or prepare to be offended.

- "...as useless as tits on a nun."

- "What do you want, egg in your beer?!" (said to someone who should be pleased, but isn't)

- "Vanish like a fart in the wind."

- "Colder than a witch's titty in a brass bra."

- "Even a blind squirrel will find a nut once in a while." -Andrew Shroads

- "It's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock."

- "...sweating like a whore in church."

- "That was a phi beta kappa maneuver." (when you do something stupid)

- "You can't soar with the eagles in the morning if you're out hooting with the owls all night." -Erica Shaya

- "Nice shot, Oswald."

- "Shit or get off the pot!"

- "'Ah, I see' said the blind man." -Mike Chacon

- "Do you want a medal or a chest to pin it on?" (for someone who thinks they deserve more credit than they do)

- "... faster than Grant took Richmond."

- "____iest   ______  in America." -Tasha Richardson

- "Busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest."

- "I gotta piss like a racehorse."

- "... dumber than pond scum."

- "You smell like a urinal in a Portuguese cat-house." -Jimmy Kevorkian

- "... slower than molasses in January."

- "... doesn't know his ass from a buttercup."

- "Happier than a two-peckered goat on a sheep ranch."

- "Too many chiefs, not enough indians." (to describe a situation wherein too many people are trying to take charge)

- "...doesn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of." (to denote someone who is broke)


There ya have it, folks, a condensed list of my favorites from my private collection. I had to leave out the extremely politically incorrect ones, so if you would like to hear them, let me know I would be happy to share in a more private forum.

Well, in hopes that tomorrow I can move into my new place faster than Grant took Richmond, it's time for me to vanish like a fart in the wind and hit the hay. Happy trails!

Greatest love songs by decade

In complete contradiction to my normal blog style, this post will consist of a listed compilation of what I think are the best love songs of each decade from the 1940s through 2010. I strongly invite disagreement, but under one condition: you must tell me what YOU think the better choice is.

1940s: "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" by Ella Fitzgerald

1950s: "You Belong to Me" by Dean Martin

1960s: "When a Man Loves a Woman" by Percy Sledge

1970s: "How Deep is Your Love" by The Bee Gees

1980s: "Open Arms" by Journey

1990s: "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" by Aerosmith

2000s: "You Are the Best Thing" by Ray LaMontagne

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away

Theoretical physicist and cosmologist Stephen Hawking once said, "The large-scale homogeneity of the universe makes it very difficult to believe that the structure of the universe is determined by anything so peripheral as some complicated molecular structure on a minor planet orbiting a very average star in the outer suburbs of a fairly typical galaxy." Aka, we on Earth.

To put this quote into perspective, I found a spectacular video on Youtube that is one continuous zoom-out from NYC to the edges of the known universe (key word: known). Please watch entire video for full effect. The universe is a lot more expansive than we as a general species can wrap our minds around, and our egotistic inclination to believe that we are the center of the universe doesn't help. Sure, we may be just "complicated molecular structure[s] on a minor planet orbiting a very average star," but what if we happen to be the only life form in the awe-strikingly enormous universe? Would our narcissistic self-importance be justified?

With billions of other galaxies like our very own Milky Way, the argument that there are other forms of life on other Goldilocks planets (termed "Goldilocks" because they are not too hot, not too cold to support life) doesn't seem too farfetched. In fact, scientists just discovered one of these planets a mere 20 light years away from us (pretty darn close, relatively speaking). The odds truly are one in several billion that we are the only planet in the universe inhabited by some form of life. 

Thanks to the media, from film to television to comic books, our fascination with the possibility of the existence of extra-terrestrial life has greatly distorted what these life forms could actually be, and we are therefore too quick to dismiss it. Aliens in the media have been so egregiously exaggerated, lacking any semblance of legitimacy, that whenever we get to wondering if there are extra-terrestrial beings, these ridiculous manifestations are the first images that pop into our heads. No wonder we think it's a ridiculous notion. Here are a few examples: 

ALF: Hails from Melmac (located six parsecs past the Hydra-Centaurus Supercluster), crash-lands in white, middle class family's garage and immediately knows how to speak english. Favorite foods: everything. But especially house cats. 

ET: Gets ditched by his UFO while trying to collect plants. Has magic powers to heal and make bicycles fly. Favorite foods: beer and Reese's Pieces.

The aliens in Mars Attacks!: Two arms, two legs, and huge brains. Have really cool laser guns that can fry anything in a single zap. The only thing that will kill them (via brain explosion) are the shrill, twangy stylings of old country singer Slim Whitman. Favorite foods: Nitrogen gum, which they chew in order to stay alive when their space helmets are removed.

I think you get the point. How can we believe in the prospect of extra-terrestrial life when all we have to base our imaginings from are representations such as these?

The other side of the argument is that we are indeed the sole heirs of life in the entire universe. Much of the time, this belief's founding can be traced to the beginnings of Judaism (and subsequently, Christianity). God made us and only us in His image to worship and depend on Him at all times, for everything. Could you imagine arriving in Heaven (or Hell) and seeing a whole host of different life forms from other planets there? That would be a trip- I don't remember reading anything like that in the Bible. However, leaving religion out of it, many esteemed scientists propose that there is good reason to believe that we are alone. A few years ago I became especially curious and read a book called Case for a Creator by Lee Strobel. He writes, "My road to atheism was paved by science... but, ironically, so was my later journey to God." If you're interested in this subject, I highly recommend it. Strobel's work is riddled with interesting interviews of brilliant professors all over the world and their thoughts on the creation of the universe. 

During one of the interviews, some scientist told Strobel to think about life on Earth like this: Imagine millions of variables (i.e. nitrogen level) divided into one-inch increments spanning from one edge of the universe to the other (that's a lot of inches). Each one of those millions of variables had to be set perfectly on their respective one-inch precision scale in order for Earth to become inhabitable and eventually support human life. Those odds are so big our brains do not have the capacity to imagine what that means exactly, so chances seem almost non-existent that it happened more than once (unless we are the product of some intelligent design).

I'm sure some of you were hoping I'd delve into UFO sightings, Area 51, government conspiracies etc. during this post, so I'm sorry to have disappointed you. If there are other life forms out there, I wholeheartedly do not believe they have come to our planet. Have you ever noticed how most UFO sightings and alien abduction claims emerge from rural America, where both boredom and rye whiskey flourish? Just sayin'...

I hope this post comes to mind the next time you find yourself staring into the night sky or watching an episode of Mork and Mindy. 

Live long and prosper.

Let's all go to the lobby...

One of the best games to play with someone you're trying to get to know well in the fastest way possible is a little game I like to call, "You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?" (borrowed from Peter Griffin's short-lived news segment on Family Guy). It is extremely instrumental for new roommates and early stages of dating. The point of the game is to take turns ranting (Me, rant? Shocking.) about your personal pet peeves. Better to find out this way, right?

I am currently in the middle of a long, seemingly ever-lasting game of Y.K.W.R.G.M.G. with Mr. Grant Daiss. Incidentally, we recently went to the movies to see Bad Teacher (Cameron Diaz... meh) on opening weekend and found ourselves in a packed theater, absolutely inundated with actions and people whom, you guessed it, GROUND MY GEARS.

Perhaps what most grinds my gears about the movies, or anywhere with stadium-style seating really, is that people can't wrap their heads around the fact that they are in an enclosed space, sharing that space with others. I'm not sure if this is a matter of awareness or consideration, but if I owned a movie theater, I would post little placards reiterating the Golden Rule on the back of every single chair. Here are a few personal-space issues I have with rude moviegoers:

1. The kicking/tapping/brushing/shaking/or-otherwise-touching of the back of my chair. I'm not sure if there is a cognitive disconnect or what, but believe it or not, on the other side of that inanimate piece of furniture is a person with nerve endings that can feel every vibration. Keep your hands, feet, and any other working appendage in your own seat and if you don't mind, sit still please. Even if you're not touching the person's chair in front of you, your moving around like an epileptic can cause those in your immediate vicinity to need Dramamine. Newsflash: those chairs are connected, folks.

2. The free sneezing/coughing/hacking into open air. Especially during the sick season. Please perform your sickness reflexes INTO something, be it a tissue or your sweatshirt. Just because you are in the dark doesn't mean people can't feel your mucus particles landing all over them. I don't know if you can even consider that a pet peeve- that's just a plain old public health issue. The CDC should get involved.

The next set has to do with personal space as well, but these fall in the visual/auditory category:

3. The use of cell phones. If you can't peel yourself away from your beloved phone screen for a measly 2 hours, leave the damn thing at home. Trust me- you're not that important. It positively stuns me that people have the audacity to actually answer phone calls and talk on their phones in a movie theater. I can think of few things more rude in terms of respecting others' enjoyment of something. HANG THE F**K UP. And you "sly" texters- don't think you're getting away with anything. The glowing backlight on your screen is a complete aura-ruiner. A sudden beam of bright light into anyone's peripheral view in a dark movie theater is both distracting and annoying. It's not going to kill you to wait until the movie is over for you to respond "nuthin LOLZ" to your friend's "wat r u doin" text.

4. Movie talkers. Period. Whether you're in my immediate party or just someone who is in ear-shot, we don't need a play-by-play of what's going on. Leave the commentating in your own personal living rooms. Perhaps the reason you don't ever know what's going on and feel the need to ask is because you already talked through (and missed) 1/3 of the dialogue. I'd rather go to the movies alone than with a movie talker.

5. People moving up/down/around the aisles throughout the whole movie. This one's a no-brainer: take care of your business before settling. I just heard a loud grunt of disapproval from all the small-bladdered folk out there and before you stop reading in your huff of protest, relax- I don't mean you. I am among your kind. It's perfectly acceptable to quietly and stealthily, like a ninja, get up for a bathroom break in the middle of a long film- especially if you're simultaneously ingesting a liquid treat. This pet peeve is more aimed at those people (usually kids/teenie boppers) who continuously run up and down the aisles, leave the theater, come back, repeat 12 times. What are you doing, running shuttles? I feel this is the proper point at which to admonish parents who bring kids to movies they are clearly not of the maturity level to handle, just because they didn't want to pay for a babysitter. Leave the kids at home if you're going to my theater to see King's Speech. Or I will stick my leg out and trip them as they run by.

6. Babies. I don't even need to get into that. Here's a good rule of thumb about babies: if they can't comprehend/won't remember the experience even happened by tomorrow, don't bring them. It always amazes me to see people pay $75 and bring babies to places like Disneyland. A) they're not going to remember it and B) they completely incapacitate your ability to have any fun. Forfeit $20 to the geeky, friendless, zit-faced adolescent down the block to babysit. It's worth it.

Next time you patronize a movie theater, keep these gear-grinders in mind, because chances are everyone in that theater shares at least one of them with me. Be kind. Be courteous.

And now for a classic we can all enjoy to get you in that theater-mood.

The frightening future

Tom Brokaw coined the term "The Greatest Generation" to describe those who were brought up in the U.S. during the Great Depression, went on to spend their early 20s fighting in the Second World War, produced the baby boomers (aka our parents) upon their arrival home, and went on to build up America's economy to be the world's most powerful and prolific. Though this generation is quickly fading, many of us (if you are around my age or older) will have spent at least 1/4 of our lives in the presence of those who comprised it. And for that, I am thankful. As my dad so passionately declared at my Grandpa Tom's funeral, "[The Greatest Generation] was truly was the greatest. They took care of their wives, they took care of their kids, and they took care of the Japs!" Though perhaps a bit politically incorrect by today's standards- beautifully put, Pops.

Those of The Greatest Generation are now 80+ years old. We refer to them as "the elderly." We recoil in fear at their inability to see and hear, their varicose veins, their armpit-high pants, their lack of hair where it ought to be and the proliferation where it oughtn't. We don't simply fear it because it is inherently strange to our youthful values, but mainly because we know that someday the same fate will befall us.

I am here today to tell you that it won't. We will look/act nothing like our grandparents and their acquaintances. No, my friends, our future elderly selves will at best minimally reflect The Greatest Generation we have seen age before us.

Our generation will be much worse. In our old age, we will be the ugliest, crudest, unhealthiest (and in turn most expensive), most unpleasant elderly generation the world has ever seen.

Let's begin with external appearances. In 60 years, most born around the millennium will take one of two completely opposite paths. Those who end up making good money in their careers and save a lot of it will go the plastic surgery route, and will end up looking as bad as or worse than the likes of Joan Rivers. These alien-like wax figures will line the beaches of The Hamptons and the streets of Beverly Hills, with collagen-infused fish lips and neck skin sagging halfway down their backs from facelift after facelift. Those who can't afford to niptuck themselves into oblivion will go the au natural route and, given the current appearances of my peers, I'm not sure which is more frightening. I recently patronized Six Flags- Magic Mountain (an amusement park) and was absolutely astounded by the amount of tattoo-age I witnessed. Almost every single person there was sporting a visible tattoo, but what really struck me was the raw percentage of skin covered in ink. Nearly half the people I saw had some sort of sleeve, and probably 7% had tattoos going all the way up their necks. Including females. Though I do not have any tattoos, I am by no means a denouncer of them- but WHAT THE HELL IS THAT GOING TO LOOK LIKE IN 50 YEARS? Have you ever seen a tattoo on an old person? It's not a common sight, but if you have, you know they have the appearance of prune-like, dark green cancer growths. If you think getting that Marvin the Martian tattoo on your tricep forever is a good idea, think again. And while we're on the subject of the epidermis, I think it's worth mentioning that our obsession with tanning (and even worse, fake tanning) will have us all looking like Texas Longhorn burnt-orange leather sacks if the melanomas don't do us in first. Add to that to the copious amount of chemicals we slather onto our heads (aka "hair care products") and acidic concoctions that allow us to merely "apply and just wipe the hair away!" and you've got yourself one torn up group of people over years of exposure. Let's face it- my generation is on the fast track to looking like the product of some subhuman, Twilight Zone science experiment.

Another aspect of outward appearance (and inward health) many fail to take into consideration is weight gain over time. As most of us know, the CDC has declared 1/3 of American adults today are obese. You may be thinking, so what? A lot of old people are overweight as well. While this is true, it is easy to forget that most members of The Greatest Generation were quite thin until they reached old age and their metabolisms puttered out. I know a lot of us experienced that moment as young children when we saw an old photograph of our grandparents and asked, heartbreakingly to them, "Who is that?" But WE are starting out fat- and neither science nor precedent can predict the effect that is going to have on both the individual and society. The only thing we can be sure of is that my generation will have more health problems (diabetes, heart disease, kidney failure, high cholesterol, etc etc etc) thanks to a preventable condition. If you're pissed off about having to foot the baby boomers' Medicare bill, just think of the burden we're going to place on our children. The only potential brightside is that since we will be so fat and unhealthy, maybe we won't live long enough to leach off America's taxpayers for too long.

No matter, it's what's on the inside that counts, right? Well, if that's true, we're doubly screwed. Today's elderly population has a reputation of being nice, kindly, and for the most part mild-tempered. Though they may be boring to those who don't appreciate history, nostalgia, or just the plain good ol' days, at least they are pleasant to be around. Why? Because they were brought up with manners, respect, and social graces that we seem to have since lost. Girls: How often do you hear sweet little old ladies drop the F-bomb? And how often do you hear your friends drop it, along with a plethora of other profanities? Fellas: You're a little different. Grandpa may have had quite the swearing vocabulary, which we'll blame on the military during WWII. But how often did you hear them cuss in the presence of the fairer sex? And how often do YOU cuss in front of, or even at, girls? There's a huge discrepancy here. Not only will our mannerisms be completely detestable, but so will our overall dispositions. We are the "me generation," we are selfish and  think we are entitled to everything. Our grandkids can forget about grandma and grandpa spoiling them like we used to be spoiled. We sure as hell aren't going to go out of our way to make some little snot-nosed punk happy, even if he/she is our descendant. The Greatest Generation and even the baby boomers (though to a lesser extent) have a real consideration for the welfare of others. We do not. It's all about us.

So, as we live our lives fashioning our futures to be wholly ugly elderly folk, I guess we can find solace in one thing: if mankind continues to develop on this same path, our kids and grandkids will be exponentially more ugly and crude (inside and out) than we are, so perhaps by twisted comparison, we will seem as great to them as The Greatest Generation was to us.

Your dash

Yesterday I was watching the news and saw that B-list celebrity and Playboy playmate Yvette Vickers was found dead in her home in LA. Nothing struck me as notable about this story. Another celebrity death, again someone I had never heard of... so I prepared to change the channel to Seinfeld. But just as I was about to push the button I heard the reporter say, "Vickers was believed to have been dead for close to a year when her neighbor discovered her."

A year.

This poor soul was dead for ~365 days until someone finally noticed she no longer existed. My subsequent progression of emotions were: stunned, empathetic, introspective, paranoid, resolved.

I initially thought, "How can someone live a life wherein they have so little human interaction no one would miss their presence FOR A WHOLE YEAR?" A day, understandable. A week? Maybe. Two weeks? You're pushing it. A month? No way. Once my mind had resolved the straight logistics, my heart got involved. This Ms. Vickers led a solitary life, devoid of family, friends, even amicable neighbors- the kind who might leave fudge on your porch around the holidays or yell "Hi!" as they get in their car and see you trimming your begonias. Humans are inherently social beings (even the bat-shit craziest of us), and for this woman to be able to go a year without being missed speaks volumes about the intense reclusiveness she must have experienced. I felt in my heart a pang of grief for not only her, but for the what I'm sure are many solitary souls nudged aside by themselves or society. Sure, we all feel a little like Lucy Ricardo in the "Friends of the Friendless" episode once in a while, but (I hope) none of us can come close to relating to this extreme.

Then the focus turned to me. How long would I have to be dead before anyone noticed I was gone? I hope I have lived my life in such a way that I have enough human connection/interaction that people would not only notice I was gone (and rather promptly, at that), but they would also care. An excerpt from Linda Ellis's "The Dash" reads:

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.


Of what has my dash been thus far comprised? Sure, I'm still relatively young, but I'm also a realist in knowing I could die at anytime. Maybe we should all be in constant evaluation and re-evaluation of what that dash would represent to those who knew us. Many would measure that dash based on accomplishments and milestones, but it's about more than that. What have you meant to the lives of others? If you know me, you know how much value I place on relationships. It is my personal credo that life is wholly, completely, unequivocally, 100% about the relationships you build and keep- be they with God, your family, your friends, your belongings, or yourself.  I can only hope I've meant something (however big or little) to the lives of everyone I've had the pleasure to have known. Of course during this introspection a bit of paranoia crept in, as I tried to piece together the entirety of the relationships of my past, but that didn't last long. One of the many things I'll credit to my soccer career in terms of life lessons is the stark realization that while the past cannot be changed, the future is entirely up to you.


And that's what led me to my final emotion: resolution. Sometimes it takes the pitiable death of an ex-Playmate to serve as a reminder that we control what that dash will represent to those we will leave behind. It's not that I want everyone I've ever known to experience an intense sadness when I die, but it is my great hope that I will leave behind enough of a profound legacy that in my absence, those I knew will be touched. I've lost (to Heaven's gain) people in my life whose deaths certainly had that effect on me, and because of that they will never be forgotten. 


I believe that dash is a worthy one when everyone in the room at your funeral would know the last thing you would want is for them to feel grief, yet simultaneously would internalize the sentiments of W.H. Auden:



(S)he was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.




If you died tomorrow, what would your dash mean?

And away they go

Today marks the 137th running of one of America's most storied sporting events: the Kentucky Derby.

Throngs of track enthusiasts and garishly big-hatted ladies will swarm Churchill Downs today, whiskeys neat in hand for the former, mint juleps for the latter, knowing that they are among the select few privy to witnessing what many dub "The Greatest Two Minutes in Sports." Most of us, however, will be sitting at home or at a bar or at our local track, having to rely on the clearest picture our HDTVs can provide to capture the majesty of the beasts' powerful gallop. The exhilarating victory. The crushing defeat.

Growing up about 7 minutes away from the Santa Anita Racetrack (see link above... you may recognize it from such films as A Star is Born (1954), The Debtors (1999), and Seabiscuit (2003), to name a few), I've frequented this great American pastime a bit more than most my age, a surprising revelation discovered when I departed the cradle of the San Gabriel Valley. I grew up loving everything about the races; from the spectacle of the red-coated, top-hatted bugle player calling the first race's entrants to the post, to the array of emotion on the faces of bettors, depending on how their picks ran. Then there was the time between races. As I aged, that time evolved from half-hour intervals to make mischief with my cousins to precious 30-minute slots for beer refills and going over the next race's potential bets with friends.

Ah yes, playing the ponies: in my opinion, the most exciting form of gambling. Through the years I've had the opportunity to witness countless "sure-fire" systems different types of track-goers employ to pick winners. The following types of bettors are my favorites:

1. The bet-small-to-win-small-ers: aka the bettors who never lose. Unfortunately, they don't really win anything either. These are the people who will pick the egregious favorite (i.e. 2:9 odds) in every race to show (show= come in first, second or third place). They will bet $1-$2 to win about 20 cents. My Grandma falls into this category. Then again Grandma ALWAYS goes home from the track having made some sort of profit, even if it is 70 cents, which is more than most of the rest of us can say.

2. The I'll-pick-whichever-horse-whose-name-I-like-best-ers: This demographic tends to be dominated by girls, or those who have no idea how to read a racing form. I have many friends who utilize this system (*cough* Alice Binns *cough*) and they lose. Every time. The horses with the cutesy or clever names, for some reason, are usually the 50:1 longshots (perhaps they have a complex from having such ridiculous names as "Fantasy Cream Puff", etc). There are two good things about this bettor-horse relationship: 1. Their money will go straight the winner's pool, increasing your profit and 2. The names make for some hilarious commentary.


3. The ride-on-the-coattails-of-a-first-timer-ers: There is an inexplicable law of the universe holding that people who have never bet on horses before, or even been to a racetrack, who have absolutely no idea what they're doing, always win. It never fails. Some call it beginner's luck. Call it whatever you want, but it almost always happens. Some bettors have gotten wise to this, bringing track fledglings along with them and betting on whichever horses they do. The only problem with this, however, is that it usually only happens for one race, and you never know which race that will be.

4. The whichever-horse-takes-the-biggest-dump-right-before-the-race-ers: Before every post-time, the horses take an exhibition walk around the paddock area, then slowly make their way around the track to the starting gate- an ordeal that usually takes about 15-20 minutes. During this time, everyone present can make any last-minute observations before they run over to the betting window to place their final wagers. These bettors count on the sureness of anatomy: if a horse takes a huge shit right before the race, he will consequently be lighter and more comfortable with newly-vacant intestines, and therefore will run faster. My dad swears by this method.

5. The I-do-my-research-beforehand-ers: These people tend to be inherent nerds. The day before going to the track, and the morning of, they scour blogs, newspaper handicaps, and past results to try and  construct a scientific formula to apply to every horse in every race the next day. This method is both time-consuming and often leads to said nerds reevaluating the "importance" of studying, because if it were that easy, every math geek in the country would be a filthy-rich track junkie.

6. The I-know-a-guy-on-the-inside-who-gives-me-foolproof-picks-ers: These bettors tend to be wiseguys who think they know it all. My brother Jimmy falls into this category. More experienced and having a greater interest in horse racing, these are the people you'll find at the track multiple days a week, every week. The regulars. They get in good with those affiliated with the track who can tip them off, give them insider information: the trainers, sometimes the jockeys. These bettors always seem to have "hot picks" or "sure-fire winners." Though you'll often hear of the huge trifecta they hit a month ago or the pick-six that brought them several-$K last year, remember they are losing money on all the days in between on bets they conveniently tend to leave out of conversation.

Me? You'll have to come to the track with me one day to find out. No matter what type of bettor you are,  the key to playing the ponies is remembering what it is at its core: gambling. There is no fool-proof system. Any horse can win on any given day. Who will it be today? Your answer, I'm sure, will reflect the type of bettor you are.

If you're interested, post-time for today's race is 6:24pm EST. Enjoy!