Tickets Please

There is something particularly haunting about an empty racetrack.  A horse racing oval is what I'm talking about here.  You can find them in the off season or sometimes late in the afternoon.  In the morning they are alive with horses working out or people meeting, negotiating, dreaming and hoping.
What makes an empty track such a striking place is that when un-occupied they look dead.  They are shrines for noise...for the electric...they are emotional places reminiscent of a circus or carnival.  In recent years the probability of finding an empty track has increased dramatically.  Many have closed as the impact of technology has intersected with waning interest in the sport.  Historically, efforts to promote the sport have failed miserably and for some reasons, success has only come in shooting oneself in the foot.  When national interest peaks, some unfortunate accident, or unexplainable tragedy occurs to hasten the public's tolerance of all things horse racing.
In my town, Portland Meadows, the local circuit is closing.  The process has taken about 10 years, having been mostly threats for years.  This time it's for real.  The owner, the same guy who owns Golden Gate Fields and Santa Anita is really under the gun because of a spate of recent injuries and deaths to equine athletes.  The smaller tracks, the B side, if you will, the cheap racing is usually the first to go.  Aside from impacting the horse industry in the state, a track closure means job loss as well as a needed source of revenue for struggling state economies.

Yesterday, I drove over to Portland Meadows to cash a ticket I purchased on Kentucky Derby day.  I'd gone there the day before the Derby to see if I could score a Racing Form and left a bet on the final two races of the day.  A modest $18.00 ticket awaited for the last two months in my wallet.  The track had a few stragglers watching an wagering on races from all over the country.  Dozens of TV monitors displayed races emanating from New York, Chicago, Kentucky, Florida, California, and  Oklahoma.

The place was dead.  A friendly middle aged woman cashed my ticket and informed me that it was no longer possible to bet via cash or voucher now.  Now people have accounts and bet with what closely resembles and functions like a debit card.  Figures...that was coming.  But I can't help but think of what's been lost.
"Oh you no longer have to worry about lost or mutilated tickets," the clerk said.  "It's easier and a lot safer," she said. It also sacrifices your privacy, I thought.  Everything we do these days generates data.  That data leads to all manner of unwanted things as well. 
I'm destined to spend the rest of my life longing for things that no longer exist.  Those old betting tickets were works of art: colorful, full of folkloristic symbols, and coded letters.
At Portland Meadows there is still a neon sign of a running horse.  It'll make a nice addition to someone's collection of antiques.  In the daylight it's rather lacker-luster, but at night it comes alive with red-orange movement.  I took a brief shot of the neon horse.  A last look at a fading icon.

Fishing Date

A visiting relative gave me a little present when I was about 6 or 7 years old.  It was a bookmark with the head of an owl drawn on the long leather strip.  The owl was there to impart some wisdom.  "Books like friends should be few and well chosen," was written on the front of the bookmark.
I've kept this little gift for over 60 years now.  It's been a good reminder.  Just as I have tried to choose my friends wisely, so too have I acquired the collection of books I now have.

Now, however, change is on the horizon.
Slowly, I've been passing many of my books on to people I think can benefit from them or to re-sell for credit to buy the books I am currently reading.  When I made a major move from the Bay Area to Oregon 12 years ago, I thinned out my books considerably.  It's now time to move that downsizing to the next level.
As for the friends part of this equation, with my move came the loss of some lifelong friends.  Oh, we still keep in touch, but many are essentially no longer a viable part of my life and vice-versa.
I have tried to find some new friends, with some success, but that quest has its drawbacks as well.
So it was with no surprise that I read of a new study equating finding new friends with dating.  Yes, that's right, the two have many similarities.  That's not too surprising because both involve expectations as well as images we have in our minds about the kind of people worthy of our company.

Still, to fulfill the desire to meet people that make our lives fuller, we must take risks.  Social scientists tell us that those who have rich friendships with others are happy, healthy, and much more well adjusted.  No surprise there, but again, it's risky.
Case in point:  For the past few years I've been looking for a fishing partner.  I live in a fly fishing paradise with numerous lakes and streams a mere two hours away.  I fly fish about 3-4 times a month, when weather permits.  It's really more enjoyable to share the experience.  I have on occasion.  But in recent years, that has become less and less.
Like dating, I've thought of using the internet to find a partner.  Yet, the thought of meeting someone who becomes more of a burden than an ally is frightening.  It's a slippery slope.  What I want is a clone.  Realistic...hardly, but someone who likes to fish lakes with a float tube, is close to my age, and is willing to share driving would be nice.  Someone with some experience would be nice too.  I don't really want to teach someone to fly fish, but if compatible, that isn't entirely out of the question.
Now it seems as if I shouldn't have too difficult a time finding a new friend about my age and ability level.  I see them all the time on lakes.  Yet the conversations I have, albeit brief, never lead to anything, because most of these folks live far away.
I don't mind being a loner, in fact it has its advantages most of the time.  As the old expression goes, "he who walks alone walks faster."  But every once in a while I'll see a car pull up to a boat ramp and two guys  from my generation get out and gear up and launch their tubes.  Joking and smiling and loving their friendship, they depart. I stop and stare and think about what might be possible.

Impermanent

Things disappear.  Your favorite things included.  Ever walk into your favorite grocery store to pick up a box of or a package of or a few of something you often buy only to discover it isn't being made anymore?  Sure, haven't we all.  But it does seem to me that lately this is a more common occurrence.
I've lost my favorite brands of mayonnaise, energy bar, crackers, and frozen yogurt.  And that's only the tip of the iceberg that seems to be melting ever faster.
It's not just food.  I'm finding that brands of clothing, restaurants, and even soap have come up missing.
I know this happens all the time, but something else is going on here, I fear.  In fact, I once wrote to the manufacturer of a popular hair shampoo because, without notice, it disappeared only to be replaced by a different looking and smelling product under the same name.  All in vain, of course.  I did receive a response, but it only reassured me that they knew what they were doing based on some sort of product research and user poll.  I doubt it.
After seeing a news story the other day about the capability of the Chinese government to track and identify their millions with face recognition technology. I'm suddenly thankful not to have lost my privacy...entirely.

If that's what the future holds for all of us, and rest assured it is, I've found another reason to be thankful that I won't be around for the next century.  That is, of course, if the planet survives the sea level and movement of entire populations to higher ground.
This last week we saw the last of another icon from the automobile world: the Volkswagen Bug.  It was announced that the last one has rolled off the assembly line in Mexico.  Even with the modifications made over the years, the ever-popular Bug looked like it just might stand the test of time.  But no.  We must be content to be left with our stories and memories of the car that could run all week on a dollar's worth of gas.  I, of course can add to my recollections of my first car, a black 1959 VW bug, that it didn't even have a gas gauge.  That's right, you had to keep a ruler in the trunk...a trunk that was in the front under the hood because the engine was in the rear.  I distinctly remember measuring the fuel level by inches.  You had to be careful not to drop the ruler in the tank too!  Time to sing another round of "All these impermanent things." Hope we can still find the lyrics.