About 170,000 friends and I were at this year’s Kentucky Derby. Here’s our view from the first turn of the big race:
Let’s just say my horse wasn’t the one that won. Though I did win the previous race, I left the track with less money than I walked in with. My son, on the other hand, made more than he betted. My guidance as a parent leaves much to be desired.
Which brings me to my next point:
It’s been 45 years since Dr. Hunter S. Thompson Esq. penned these immortal words, and although Churchill Downs is far more diverse and affluent than it was in 1970, the mood remains the same. Very tanned and very drunk people, each mellowed by at least a half dozen Mint Juleps, are gathered in a glorious scrum of gambling and elaborate hats. … and not just on the women:
I was with a group from out of town, who went through the wrong entrance of the Downs, finding themselves in the middle of the infield, a general admission haven of bloated besuited frat boys and short-skirted soro sisters whose first order of the day was to get as ingloriously inebriated as humanly possible to the point where you couldn’t tell which member of an embracing duo was holding the other up. A Douchebag Bonnaroo, if you will. Fortunately, the visitors made their way to our box seats, where we enjoyed a higher class of bourbon, broads and betting.
The lines were Soviet-era Moscow long at the hundreds of gambling booths. Even though it was, at times, an hour between races, people committed the most unforgivable of racetrack sins. I suffered from hordes of people delaying the line for the ninth race by scanning their smartphones and making wagers for their unattending friends for the 11th race. The howls from the back of “Make your bet, already!” never phased them. Even worse, I stood behind a sauced middle-aged couple who had been throwing dollars at the gods of gambling all day and knew that some of their betting slips contained winners, but they didn’t remember which ones, so they handed a stack of paper (I’m guessing at least 30 different bets) to the guy in the booth who proceeded to run each one through the scanner to figure out which ones had the payouts. End result, $151 in winnings. Oh, and I didn’t get to bet on that race. But the time I got to the booth, I had to figure out who I would bet on in the subsequent race, only to find that one of my horses, the favorite, was scratched.
Right now, it’s 4 in the morning and I’m ready to crash. So, after all that, would I attend a Derby again?
Hell, yeah! Where else are you going to enjoy a fashion show like this?