- I'm beginning to love the Thursday night bar crawl. It's fantastic that we roll into town, drop off our bags, exchange a few how-do-you-dos, and within 15 minutes we're boozing. Just a great start to the week. Plus, why be 100% on Friday morning? I don't even know what it's like to wake up in Lousiville and not be battling a hanger. Wouldn't have it any other way.
- We met some interesting characters on Oaks day in our classy seats. The box next to us might as well have looked like this:
Cougars, if it's not clear. I can see Fundy or someone's comment being "You were in a box next to a pack of mountain lions? Were they chained up? Is that even legal?"
Which of course led to Slough and Christian tripping over themselves throwing stupid lines at them, and ruining it for the rest of us in under 15 minutes. A few hours later, Slough was only about 18% conscious, with nacho cheese all over his face and suit (his suit was white- we made roughly three million jokes about it throughout the day) and he had already burned bridges with the cougs. There's an economic factor at play here, the law of diminshing returns or something like that.
- The box in front of us was full of Old Money (see category #6 from my previous post) but with some douchebag thrown in as well. Upon introduction, one guy called himself Bobby Fucking Niehouse. The girls decided to start calling him Bobby Fucking Orange Pants, for obvious reasons:
My favorite part might be that I'm clearly getting ready to say "Bobby Fucking Niehouse" as this is being taken. I probably uttered that phrase 30 or 40 times that afternoon....and yet it wasn't even the phrase I said the most that weekend (story to come later.)
This guy hit on everything that moved, which was OK with his wife, because she was busy grabbing my ass every time I turned my back on her. Everyone's name had a 'y' added to it, so it became Jimmy and Benny and Johnny and Stevey, etc. And he bought me at least four beers. As for the other couples in the box, all I'm willing say is....I used to be able to claim that I had never seen a random 55-year-old put his finger in his wife's butt while they made out. I can no longer make that claim.
- Under the "Things that weren't so great" category: I hit a girl in the face. JV was throwing pretzels and people were trying to catch them in their mouths, and when he flung one towards my face and over my shoulder, I reacted by trying to swat it as hard as I could. I missed the pretzel, but I connected with Lindsay's face. HARD. I had no idea she was leaning forward, so I wasn't holding back at all. As visions of black eyes, broken sunglasses, crying girls, and a ruined Derby are flashing through my head (as well as this clip), Lindsay dusted herself off after a few minutes of sniffling and resumed handing out jello shots. But I can no longer say I've never struck a woman before. (Besides strippers of course, everyone knows they don't count as real people.)
- Speaking of Lindsay, she said two things during the day that will end up having a profound effect on my life. (And when I say 'profound', I mean I'll think it's funny for a few weeks and then probably never mention it again.) She had a penchant- and I'm still not sure if it was a joke or not, it kinda seems like it wasn't until we noticed it and made it a joke- for starting a sentence with "On a scale of 1-10" and then not assigning the subject in question a number. For example, while we were waiting on our food in a restaurant, she exclaimed, "On a scale of 1-10, this food is taking FOREVER!" So rather quickly, we turned it into "On a scale of 1-10, I am totally hammered right now" or "On a scale of 1-10, you're an asshole and I hate you." It was delightful.
The second thing was her ability to change topics within a sentence, such as when JV asked her how much money she had just given her, it was "I gave you 5 bucks do you want a carrot?" Since my sense of humor becomes paper-thin when I'm drinking, this put me in giggling hysterics. I announced to Caitlin that I was now ending every sentence with "do you want a carrot?" She bet me I couldn't do it for an hour, and it was game on. Ordering a beer? "I'll have two Bud Lights do you want a carrot?" Walking through a group of people? "Excuse me, sorry do you want a carrot?" Trying to sniff a girl's hair? "Oh my goodness that's intoxicating, is that Pantene Pro-V do you want a carrot?" After 60 minutes of that, what was my prize? Two whole dollars. It's not a gambling problem when you're winning.
- One of my favorite random things about Derby in the infield is when something exciting happens from a different area. A ruckus starts rolling through the crowd, and everyone instantly perks up. What's it going to be? Boobs? Is some girl showing her boobs? A fight? Boobs? Is someone wearing a crazy costume? It's boobs, isn't it.
In this case, it was a guy in a Santa costume, holding a sign that said "Hugs, $1" getting hauled into the drunk tank by the cops, who were getting booed the entire way for their efforts. Apparently Santa had been getting inappropriate with his hugs as the day went on. Shocking development, I know. The "Let Santa Go!" and "Free Santa!" chants were awesome though. Not as cool as a "Donna Martin graduates!" chant, but awesome nonetheless.
- As far as gambling on races goes, it was my biggest struggle of my four years at Churchill Downs. I mostly just treaded water for two days, not winning huge, but cashing enough tickets to stay above water. I was up around $80 bucks going into the main event, and lost it all on that race when none of my horses (Derby Kitten, Stay Thirsty, Shackleford) placed. So I was exactly even for the weekend. And then Derby Karma intervened.
I went up to the betting window to bet on the races after Derby. I've mentioned this before, but it's a surreal experience. 75% of the crowd is gone; there's trash, abandoned camps, and dangerously shitfaced people as far as the eye can see. Most the beer vendors are closed; the natural high of the Derby is over. You're there for one reason and one reason only: to panic bet on the last two races. I'd be hard-pressed to find a time where I feel more like a degenerate gambler.
Standing in line are a couple of guys- one who wants to go home, one who wants his buddy to at least check to see if his tickets are winners. The first guy asks me as I pass by who took 3rd place. When I tell him #13, his face lights up and he announces it's time for us to get in line. The lady behind the counter gives him $350, then tells him he'll have to go to the end window....because he just won 4 grand. (Why this guy was even considering going home when he didn't know how the race finished and the potential for this money existed is another story. Unreal.)
Pandemonium ensues. Since I'm now clearly a part of their group (the Law of Alcohol and Instant Friendships, we've all seen it) we're all jumping around and spraying beers. He gives me a crisp one hundred dollar bill and in addition, pays for my next two bets. Which of course, Derby Karma and all, are both winners. I finshed the weekend up around $230, and I think I'm happier with that story than if I would've hit the Derby winner myself.
Great finish to another great Derby weekend. Big ups to the Derby vets, as well as the first-timers we had this year, they really brought a lot of hustle to the table. On a scale of 1-10, I'll be back next year.
