The Kentucky Derby… Wait, what happened?

Its been three weeks since the Derby ran, and I’m finally out of my mint julep haze.  Now, my simple syrup and bourbon coma lifted, I’m here to report.  There’s at least two distinct versions of the Kentucky Derby.

Let me break it down for you.  Here’s what you thought you saw if you watched the Derby on May 1 from the comfort of your lounge chair.  And here’s what you couldn’t have seen, maybe shouldn’t have, but its the stuff that makes the Derby less of a sporting contest and more of carnival, nightmare, redistribution of wealth fiasco drowned in sticky alcohol.

Theres the clothes:

It’s insane.  The folks in the breeder’s boxes and the upper tiers of Churchill Downs look fabulous.  Dry and out of the rain that poured down all day.  The women wear dresses they’ve spent all last year shopping for, and their tits are pushed up higher than Hendrix and tanned to a nice fake bronze.  Old women and young alike threaten to bust out, or just fall out, of their ensembles.  Its officially the first day seersuckers are acceptable says the high society rulebook, all the men are spick and span and starched.

But down on the lower levels, the grandstands, and good god the infield, the attire takes a brick to the face.  You start to see cutoff jeans and bandanas and beer goggles.  I ran into some girls coming from the infield; they were brown from head to toe in mud and shit, having been fighting in the sludge.  The infield is literally a state fair midway in the middle of the Derby.  You can’t even see the race but you don’t care, because there are slip n’ slides, daquiri stands and turkey legs for sale, and an organized mud wrestling circuit.  No lie.  You have to be visibly drunk or stoned out there, or the beasts will turn on you.  It’s montrous good fun.  WRASTLING

There’s the people:

The Actors:  Starfuckers rejoice.  All the big dogs are out for this one.  Kid Rock and Tom Brady were near me in my section.  Camera crews stumbled around from time to time looking to get the footage.  Far less interesting than…

The Characters:  When you’re huddled beneath the grandstands standing in a puddle of Budweiser Select and tobacco spit, you’re liable to run into some wild men.  The whole place was like a barbarian campsite, people huddled around trashcans guzzling alcohol.  Smoking cheap cigars and pouring over soaking wet programs to see the odds on the next  race.  One guy stood like a sentinel at the entrance to the infield tunnel that burrows beneath the track, yelling at every girl to “Show yer tits.”  And, like a warm sun breaking through a bleak cloud, this girl whipped out her big boobs, shook them around, and simultaneously yelled at everybody “not to tell Johnny.”

This guy kept pacing back and forth. I followed for the right shot.

It all boils down to Atmosphere:

The Derby aristocracy brings catered box lunches into Churchill Downs, bets on every race to add some excitement to the proceedings, and generally acts respectable.  Of course some jackass might spill a beer on someone or throw his curled up program down in disgust from a loss, but these are small incidents.  The rich losers still walk away with their credit and their pants and their car.  At the end of the day there’s a smile and warm memories.

But the common man has it tougher, if only because of the atmosphere he roots in.  Ugly faces jump out of the crowds at you; these are the certified losers, the ones who came directly from the pawn shop to the track with 257 dollars and now they’re broke with only a bit of Bud Light backwash to keep them company.  They scream and cuss and spit not because they are competitive and hate to lose, but because they just lost their loafers and gold watch in a muddled three way betting game behind the infield porta potties.  This is the real Derby.  A perversion of luck and blind chance.  So put on your blinders and dive headfirst into the muck; maybe you’ll come up with a gold tooth that that butch chick dislodged from that biker in the fistfight that just happened near the grilled corn-on-the-cob stand.

When the worst has come and gone and crushed your hopes, give in and pass out.  Recharge for the next Derby.  You may wake up without your phone and shirt and vintage tie, but hold on to those julep dreams.  Maybe I’ll see you next year.