We are Devo

“I don’t bet on horses.”

That’s what I said, and I thought I meant it.

This was Aug. 30, 2008, and I—with CityBeat columnist Edwin Decker in tow—was a somewhat reluctant guest of local public-relations company Bailey Gardiner at the Del Mar Racetrack. Normally, I don’t even respond to this sort of PR pitch. But there were extenuating circumstances.

No. 1, Bailey Gardiner’s Jamie Ortiz is a friend (and wife of a CityBeat staffer), so the least I could do was listen to her spiel. No. 2, she actually pitched a decent story angle, which I won’t get into here because I still might want to pursue it. And No. 3—and most importantly—Devo was playing on the Del Mar infield. Big fan of Devo.

“Mongoloid, he was a mongoloid
Happier than you and me”

So, I agreed to be her guest that day, but I made it clear that there would be no quid pro quo; I would write nothing about the track in CityBeat. I really just wanted to see Devo. No problem, she said. Just come up and have a good time. She’s smart like that.

A bucket of beers was waiting for Ed and me when we arrived, the first of too many buckets to count. She’s smart like that, too.

We took our seats at a table in the grandstand just off the starting line and cracked open a couple of coldies, and focus immediately turned to gambling.

“I don’t bet on horses. I don’t know anything about horseracing, and I don’t bet on things I know nothing about. And besides, I don’t agree with horseracing.”

That’s what I said, and I thought I meant it.

For giggles, though, I placed an imaginary bet: “No. 3 to place,” I said. Wouldn’t you know it, No. 3 went and placed.

I learned something about myself the moment horse No. 3 galloped across the finish line in second place: My righteous indignations are as thin as the slip of paper I was handed after placing my first $6 bet.

I continued selecting ponies to place, and damn if those ponies didn’t place, one right after another. I bet just $6 each time, and of what I think were seven races that I bet on, I won five of them and came within a nose of winning a sixth. It got to the point where my companions were piggybacking on my bets.

I walked away with 90 more dollars than I had when I arrived. I don’t know how she did it, but I can conclude only that Jamie rigged a whole day of races for me. That’s dedication and hard PR work. But I gotta think that’s a violation of some kind of law, right?

Whatever. I won 90 bucks.

But at what cost? Not only had I accepted an expensive gift from a PR company, but I’d also compromised my ethics about horseracing. My god, what had I done?

Here’s the thing, though: Maybe it was meant to be. Devo began playing music in Akron, Ohio, around the satirical theme of de-evolution, the idea that humans are actually regressing over time. Perhaps my purpose that day was to embody Devo’s theory. I mean, for heaven’s sake, I was easy—I caved for buckets of free beer and a few rounds of high-fives, and here I am writing about Del Mar. Maybe I was simply an unwitting agent of a larger truth: We humans aren’t growing; we’re shrinking. Quite possibly, I’m not responsible for my actions. Quite possibly, I am a pawn with a destiny.

“Were pinheads now
We are not whole
Were pinheads all
Jocko homo”

Whatever. I won 90 bucks.