A few years ago I wrote about nostalgia, and in particular, my fond memories of going to Santa Anita in the late 1970s to bet on the ponies with my family on Christmas day. As far as I was concerned, this was living large, second to none, except for waking up and seeing a bunch of gifts under the Xmas tree. Shower me with riches, bitches! Yeah, I had me an attitude back in the day. I had dreams of being a macho man even though I was a super featherweight. But nah, I wasn't a fighter. I remember getting shoved to the ground while playing basketball in junior high. My head hit the asphalt so hard I was literally paralyzed for what felt like forever. But I kept pushing my skinny attitude on others which abruptly stopped after getting punched in the face by my kinda-but-not-really friend in high school. I'm glad he did that. I had it coming. So yeah, I dropped the tough guy act that sunny day in Los Angeles. But somehow I was still angry inside, always on the defensive. I had a short fuse because I was bullied from an early age. Kids made fun of my nose, which made me hate being around people. My dad felt so helpless the only thing he could think of was to get me one of them new fangled noses. Fix me up, change the way I looked. This all helped in the short term but over the years I suffered the consequences. But this is life; a lot of things have changed since then.

Now I live in the Woodberry neighborhood of Baltimore which is an hour's walk to Pimlico, famous for being the second leg of the Triple Crown—The Preakness. Horses have big noses too. Maybe that's why I love them so much. My nose is a mess these days; it's all kinds of misshapen and full of spider veins, the likely result of premature surgery, booze, genetics and way too much sun damage from my surfing days. I often wonder what I would look like if my appearance was never altered. I imagine I would have a nose similar to Adrian Brody or Owen Wilson, who are both beautiful. But I am beautiful too because I've come to realize that my soul is what matters most.

Why the long face? Sure, it's the butt of a corny ha-ha, but horses have the long face for a reason; it helps them graze the grassy fields while keeping alert for predators. I can relate. I still feel anxiety when I am around people, but this cautiousness has shaped my pictorial aesthetic—which rarely features another human being (or horse).

In order to walk to Pimlico from Woodberry I had to cut through the neighborhood of Park Heights, which I recently documented here. When I explore a new area of Baltimore I typically take dozens upon dozens of photos. But Park Heights was different. I spent more time contemplating and less time composing. Park Heights was—once upon a time—a thriving community. But today, the neighborhood is largely impoverished and deteriorating, which are not my favorite conditions to photograph. So instead of taking pictures, I walked cautiously and thought about my relationship to horse racing, which like the community of Park Heights, has significantly changed throughout the years.

The last time I went to a racetrack was in 2011 when I took the A train to Aqueduct. But I didn't go there to bet on the ponies; I schlepped to Queens to make a short ambient video. A few years before Aqueduct, I visited Belmont Park. And before my decades of living in Manhattan, I frequented several tracks in California: Santa Anita, Los Alamitos, Fairplex and Del Mar. My handicapping consisted of buying a Racing Form and channeling Charles Bukowski. Sometimes I would hang around the paddock just to stare a horse in the eye before placing my favorite bet: $2 exacta box, three horses, $12 wager. But like most gamblers, I pretty much lost money on a consistent basis, which is one of the reasons I stopped going. If someone were to invite me to the Preakness, which is coming up on May 20th, I would respectfully decline the invitation, but I would delight in the memories of—back in the day. But the real reason I would stay home is my love for animals. I don't eat the cow and I think horse racing is just another form of abuse. Horses love to run; I'm cool with that. And many are treated with grace and dignity. But I also know that some horses are exploited and oppressed, which reminds me of the neighborhood of Park Heights—downtrodden just beyond the grandstand.

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