I don't know the author's name, but no matter; this is funny, and whoever wrote it has the Derby nailed dead to rights without actually being in the area to witness the atrocity first-hand. Think I'm exaggerating? Try drinking a mint julep ... or, for that matter, chugging mass-market swill at the "chow wagon," then come back by ... and we'll chat.
I know Bluegill disagrees, and that's okay. I'm hoping he posts his eloquent response, as he did last year when I first referred to this article in a MySpace blog.
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Okay, so it's early May. Baseball season is in full swing. The NBA playoffs are just beginning their grueling and exciting spectacle. NFL mini-camps are under way and first-rounders are negotiating contracts or falling off of motorcycles. And who is SportsCenter interviewing for ten minutes a day?
A horse pimp.
Yeah, you might call him a "breeder" or a "rancher." Hell, you can call him "Steve" for all I care. The fact is, his job is to monitor horse fucking, making sure the right studs mount the right fillies, and if he becomes the best that he can be... he will be the leading expert on horse cock in the Southwestern United States.
And why are guys like this dominating the coverage of every channel I allow my TV to broadcast?
The Kentucky Derby, also known to me as "that. . . fucking. . . horse race," is why. I hate the Kentucky Derby more than I hate nightclubs, suicide bombers and every citizen of Miami combined.
I despise the Derby for the same reason I despise 21st Century R&B and 2001: A Space Odyssey. They thrive by circulating so much hype around nearly non-existent substance until the hype becomes the substance. Of course what I call "hype," Derby fans call "tradition."
It's this "tradition" that lands on front pages across the country, that eats up countless minutes of TV and radio time, that makes me throw things violently around my living room every time I hear Steve The Horse Cock Man talk about his advanced breeding techniques.
Let's not forget that all this tradition comes from the Deep South. Yup, from the countryside that brought you cotton plantations, the Confederacy, country music, and grits comes little men riding big horses in a circle for less than two minutes. Sell hot dogs in the stands and whiskey at the bar and you can garner enough fat alcoholics with no real lot in life to become obsessed with it. Instant tradition.
But no, I am wrong there, at least in a sense, because that insinuates that this "sport" is somehow for the layman, the Joe Schmoes who watch Monday Night Football at a bar with their office buddies and have to split a plate of nachos because they've spent all their money on utility bills and mortgage payments.
While the Derby does attract that business, the race is not held for these people, the ones who generally swelter in the lower deck stands or standing-room-only areas. It is held for the rich Good Ol' Boys, the ones born into money and made stock and mutual fund transactions before they saw the first breast they didn't drink from. It is a game for brokers, traders, owners and presidents. Important People with Important Things on their Important Minds that must be soothed with imported liquor.
And why not? After all, the Derby isn't about the ability of the horses or the jockeys or the leadership of the trainers. It's about gambling, which is really a bedfellow of investing, putting your money in the right places to get a profitable return. The experts on the Derby don't talk strategy and execution in the days before the big race. Instead they talk about celebrity picks, oddsmakers tactics and the who-owns-what schmoozing that leads everyone to believe that George Steinbrenner's horse is the favorite. That's not sports analysis, that's brandy-and-cigar conversation used to break the ice before a corporate merger discussion.
The Derby pulls all these heavyweight bosses to the track through another facet of self-promotion: pageantry. Blow the trumpets, drop confetti from the sky and make a big hoopla about an event by inviting celebrity guests, A-listers if possible. Promote the shit out of that shit until a major broadcast network sets up cameras and gives it a prime daytime slot. Then they have to promote the shit out of your shit, too. With a big-time network behind you, you could get all those bigwig corporate shits to bet lots of shit while getting shitty on martinis in the VIP Lounge even if you were hosting a shit-tossing competition.
Hell, if it all works out, you could go crazy with it. Invite the trumpets, blow the big-time network and drop the celebrity guests from the sky. Hell, even I would watch it then.
But when it all comes down to it, the Kentucky Derby is a bloated topic of evening conversation for the greedheads around the world, and I want it, its pageantry and Steve off my fucking television set.
Original link: "The Kentucky Derby Really Is Decadent and Depraved."
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4 comments:
You and the author are ignorant and angry about it.
Of course, I fall into the same "pot".
The MySpace archive interface is almost as satisfying as watching 7'4" multimillionaires shoot free throws. The last time I witnessed ball prowess like that, I was a nine-year-old forward on a Lions Club team, prepping for an elementary school career. Either one's enough to turn to bourbon and gambling, or acting.
Anyway, here it is:
A construction worker named Eddie with whom I was once semi-acquainted used to lose his job during the Derby festival annually. He was a damn fine worker who simply refused to do anything but drink and gamble for two weeks every year. He'd inevitably get fired and -poof- instant daytime bartender until the company he usually worked for got busy enough to have him back.
After the first couple of years, his boss wised up and offered to let him take his vacation during those two weeks. Eddie refused that, too, on the grounds that it wasn't a vacation. It was a way of life. Vacations are when you take a break from your way of life.
He got fired again. And became a temporary bartender again. And then got rehired again. By the time I met him, the path was well marked.
Some people go to church for ritual. I and a lot of others went to Eddie. Horse sex is one thing, but Eddie's communion with Derby was both romantic and religious at once. Two weeks of Derby, two weeks of stories and then we'd all go back to work. Somebody should buy him one of those bubble cars to ride around in.
I hate all the matching jacket Homeland YUM Security bullshit, but I still love the Derby. I'm tempted to wander over to the Wing Ding this year just to see if I can still levitate home.
When did "decadent and depraved" become such a bad thing?
To me the first week of May has always been catharsis of sorts, not for me mind you, those of you who know me, know my depravity is not bound by the Julian Calendar, but a catharsis for people in high places. I see it as a catharsis for those too fearful to let there freak flag fly any other time of the year. Everyone gets a free pass during derby week. Its our one week to become the seedy French Quarter. Its a week when the sounds of powder being fervently inhaled in the stall next to you at P.T.'s are more likely to come from a doctor, judge or closeted mayor than your average, run of the mill coke/stripper enthusiast. In my short thirty years years in this town I have had the privilege or misfortune to attend a myriad of parties that have consisted of a class of people I wouldn't be caught dead with any other time of the year. People who are boring the other 358 days of the year that they aren't ripped to the tits on drug and booze and whore fueled rampages. Everyone needs to blow off some steam and if Derby week keeps a few judges and surgeons from beating the piss out of their trophy wives, so be it. These are people I have to pretend not to know when running into them at the Kentucky Center. Its a blast really.
So its okay if you hate the Derby. Its true that the race has little to do with the festival itself, but its a week to let your hair down. Enjoy it. Its impossible to get arrested during derby week. I'm serious. I have tired to no avail and I know how to get arrested.
And though I totally agree the Mint Julep is a vile concoction only palatable by those of us born and bread in this area, we must keep the tradition alive if nothing else for the reaction on out-of-towners faces when we force them to have one.
I see a pattern developing. You don't like left handed oval races.
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