My distant friend Saratoga,
I love you.

I love that in our youthful jealousy we called your students Skidmorons.

I love the record store that used to be at the end of Pearl St. that had pixies singles from europe.

I love the rich assholes that line your streets, but you play no part in it.

You are a dirty upstate NY town, no matter the pearls.

I love you Saratoga for being exotic at only 3 exits down 87.

I loved that before I reached my teen years, I knew how to bet a trifecta and a quinella. 

I love that a good bet at 13 got me the gear I needed to take up snowboarding, that and a summer roofing job.

I love that within your borders you have not one horse racing track, but two - one for horseback riding and one for harness racing.
I love that when I was a kid I was told without question that the harness track was as rigged a race as any could be.

The horses all knew before the gate which was to get the lei, and which the elmers factory.

I love and appreciate that you held my Dad's place of work for many years - Ball Metal.
I loved touring the factory and seeing beer cans move 1,000 a minute down the line and the giant rolls of flattened aluminum.

I love your stinky water and your forgiveness for those that killed and were killed upon your soul lo these many years ago.

Saratoga, I love you still for your dumpy slot machine casino with awful food court and cigarette smoke. Aging like an IPA.

I guess most of all I love that you showed me how to spot a phony, Saratoga, and taught me to read through gucci bullshit.

Thank you Saratoga. I love you.

-C