Note: I had my camera thieved down in Chile, so you'll have to excuse the incongruent, and frankly, inferior images from Derby '03. These images and words won't do the Derby justice, but then again, unless you're sharing a fifth of Old Granddad and sunscreen with the good Dr. Hunter S. Thompson while watching cops in riot gear break up a fight involving six girls in the Infield, nothing really will.
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Infield: What Bourbon Street is to Mardi Gras, the Infield is to Derby. Churchill Downs and its moneymen have seen fit to raise the cost (or as they put it MBA-speak "price point". Random, but I had a former boss who would never utter the word "cost" or "price", not even in private meetings. It was always "price point", as if that made it cost less or fooled the "consumer". Douchebag.) to $40, but that hasn't stopped approximately 70,000 of your closest friends and relatives - and believe me, a few too many of the Infield denizens are related - from filing in every year. It even has a Mad Max Beyond the Thunderdome feel to it (minus the awful Tina Turner theme song). While the moneyed crowd with their blazers and elaborate hats hobnob on the other side of the track, they file the unwashed throngs of people under the track and into the infield. For most people, the memory of that rush as they walk beneath the track, hi-fiving people you've never met before in a tunnel is the last thing they will remember.
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Third Turn: I don't know the history behind it, but for years the teen/college/under-30 set have occupied the Third Turn. If you want to catch the 42-year old lady wearing a "Talk Derby to Me" tank top -- who couldn't "be prouder to be a grandmother, thank you very much" (!) -- you'll need to find another turn. The Third Turn is all about teens passed out by race 4, the collegians catching up with old high school classmates before passing out by race 7, and the post-college crowd drawing on both groups by the Derby.
It's always try and guess the time of the Utter Depravity Point of Inflection. It's that priceless 25 minutes when the crowd goes from a bit too giddy -- this can be seen in shirtless guys giving simultaneous "whoooo-hooos" and hugs to other shirtless guys -- to just downright lewd - this can be seen by the first "Show Yer Tits" chant. When the "Show Yer Tits" chant breaks out and is duly obliged, then you might as well throw a sawbuck on the lewdity and nudity exacta. It's a lock. Always entertaining too, is the guy who throws out the "Show Your Tits" a few races too early. It's always sad to see that guy get laughed at, even sadder to call him your brother.
Everybody has their favorite "Third Turn Moment.” Is my favorite moment when the cops in riot gear stormed the nearby fort made entirely of coolers (Apparently a group of frat-guys had used Fort Igloo to stage Operation Fruit Toss hucking citrus in every direction)? Nah. It had to be the time I saw a long lost buddy from grade school being wheeled around the Infield in the back of grocery cart. He was stone-cold knocked out with all four appendages hanging out the sides of the cart -- ass ensconced against the bottom of the metal frame. How somebody "smuggles" a Kroger Kart (although this was pre-9/11) into the Infield is a good question. An even better question is what my old buddy was doing with a sick sunburn (read: passed out five races ago) and two massive gold chains around his neck. How do people get so lit in the Infield...
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Seeing that bottles of beer are hard to conceal, everybody goes with the hard stuff. The go-to method is to put ice in the cooler, pour two handles of Popov and voila – “melted ice!“ Another oldie is to spike all manner of fruit with liquor. Nothing better than seeing a 17-year old, legs akimbo, shirt stained in vomit, passed out on his side with an orange quarter still lodged in his gums. So while the 'No Alcohol' rule, like so many well-intentioned ordinances, sounds good in theory, in practice it results in Kappas Gone Wild by 4:00 pm...and for the record, they've been going wild in the Infield long before digital video cameras came around.
Mint Julep: You really can't smuggle a Mint Julep in, but you can bring some 'gas for that fire', as they say. Churchill Downs makes thousands of the signature drink on Derby Day, but they aren't afraid to short-arm the bourbon bottle. That's why it's imperative to bring your own Action Flask to grease the gears. And for the love of god, nothing screams 'rookie!!!' like the guy/gal who keeps each souvenir glass that the Mint Julep comes in, so just drop it. While the glass is nice and lists every previous Derby winner (and lets bettors know not to stand behind you in line as you ask "How much would I make on the white horse if he comes in second?"), it also marks you for a first-timer. And you know what happens to first-times don't you? They don't get Dixie Carter's autograph. That's what.
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Sometimes it's a hit (meaning relevant, famous people) with the likes of Jack Nicholson, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Halle Berry and P. Diddy all stopping by in the last five years or so, but more often it's a murderme-row of passed-over Hollywood Squares. I'll take Delta Burke for the win! For every Nicholson, there is Don Johson, Dixie Carter, that guy from Simon and Simon & Simon (no, not the blonde one - the one who was bald and was some sort of military man in another series) and Angela Lansbury. Basically, it's CBS's prime-time lineup circa '89. But as pathetic as it is to see the media breathlessly asking where Dixie Carter got her hat, it still makes me laugh...and the Maker's helps too.
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If that doesn't yank your chain, there's probably a Gin Blossoms and 311 double-bill at Phoenix Hill Tavern. It might make perfect sense to stop by and mock that show, but as I can painfully attest – by some weird alchemy of goodtime spring vibes, live music, a Coors Party Balls, Tevas and Derby -- what you set out to ridicule, now has you in the front row giving that wavy, pointy finger to the guitarist as he rips off a bad (but at the time, soooooooooo gooooooooood) solo. And if you are from NYC, you are doubly screwed. Going from a roughly gentrified world of $5 microbrews to the relative anarchy of $1 macrobrews can result not only in the wavy, pointy finger at guitar solos, but the dreaded air drum solo in the back of the bar. You know who you are...Grellan.
Pendennis Club: Louisville's answer to Bushwood. It’s a club that for 364 days a year stinks of old money and where drinking before lunch isn't necessarily taboo. But for that 365th day a year, the Pendennis Club throws the best post-Derby bash. You won't see J-Lo, Giselle or Colin Farrell being ushered in, but in keeping with the Millionaire's Row spirit of "hey, we're somewhat hip!" you will get all the Bachelor/Bachelorette/Survivor reality show retreads. Personally, I haven't really been graced by the presence of any celebs at the Pendennis, but a few years ago my brother hung out with post-Jerry McGuire/pre-Kangaroo Jack Jerry O'Connell. Apparently he's a solid dude -- so solid that when my brother ran into Jerry at Breeder's Cup in Chicago the next year and made fun of his suit, Jerry didn't kick his ass. Actually, maybe Jerry isn't that solid a dude.
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This noteworthy achievement was pointed out by another college buddy who managed to put on of the most relevant Derby Benders in recent history. Being an out-of-towner, he predictably shot his load the first night in town, but somewhere along the line he channeled the ghost of college past and partied hard enough in three days to kill two Belushis. By Saturday night at the Pendennis Club, with glassed-over eyes and a lapel marinated in gin, he recounted how he had just been chased out of the club sauna by a drug dealer, then segued into a story about his 2 year-old. Such is Derby.
Win, Place, and Show!: No, not the racing finish order, try the strip club that is about two furlongs and three thongs from Churchill Downs. Much like the music scene, Derby week brings in the finest legs from all parts America. Two stories, that while you might call 'bull$&^@' on, I swear are true: 1) In high school, a guy who sat next to me in AP Chemistry (who am I kidding, Algebra II) went to WPS, paid $20 for a couch dance with Porsche Lynn (go ahead, Google her. You know you want to). Porsche decide to kick it up a few gears and used my buddy's tie to, ahem, “floss her undercarriage” during the dance. Well, slap me and call me the Flying Dutchman if he didn't wear that tie to school the next day. After that story got around school, people were just handing him their lunch money. 2) My old babysitter lives near the track and WPS. Their dog Fred has a bit a reputation around town for going to local bars, barking to be put up on the bar, and licking the empties. I swear. Anyway, one year we went to park our car outside their house and walk to track. As we head to the track, down the road comes Fred, staggering like a dog that lost eleventeen straight games of Anchorman. Then we hear, without the slightest trace of irony or joviality, "Dammit Fred, get your ass in here! You've been at Win, Place and Show haven't you!?!?" Bow wow wow, yippy yo, yippay yay!
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The point to all of this is that in fifth grade, somehow Danny Hennessey (that prick) not only knew that the race was fixed, but knew who was going to win (his uncle was on the Derby Committee or something...sweet gig). So he bet me on the race. I can't remember which boat won the race, but I know I lost $5 -- which in 1985 5th grade money is probably worth about $200. Not unrelated, I kicked Danny's ass months later in a kickball argument gone awry. At the time, I didn't know about the infamous Steamboat Fix, but I'd like to think that was some sort of Derby Karma.
So I hope this primer was as instructional for you, as it was delusional for me. And if you should see Fred in the infield barking "Show Yer Tits", douse yourself in high-octane bourbon and immolate yourself. Your life won't get any better, so you might as well go out on top.