The Post Derby Blog

If you have ever spent time in Manhattan, you have probably experienced the unique mix of emotion that usually comes when it's time to leave because you've run out of money and have obligations back home: melancholy, pensiveness, sadness, longing. It's that feeling of having a euphoric time and not wanting it to end. For me, to my tastes, this is very similar to how I feel about the Kentucky Derby, except the exact opposite.

A friend told me a few years ago never to send an email when you're angry or upset; maybe you will feel differently in a few hours or days. Of course this is excellent advice, and was given in response to an "incident" of mine, so we chalked it up to learning. We can assume that this applies to blogs as well, so I gave it some time. For rational analysis. Or to percolate? Simmer? Stew in a crock pot? That's the way this morning has been. Maybe I'm not a Composter, or maybe I don't want to be known as a composting-enthusiast, but I was taking some inside scraps to the temporary-paper-bag-of-compost-until-we-get-a-large-one. This temporary device was looking pretty shabby, especially after the rain, so I decided to transfer it to a more stable temporary device: a dry paper bag. Don't look at me like that. So I stand on the deck, fulfilling some kind of fated Graecian Tragedy, putting one completely soaked-through paper bag of rotting sludge into another. Any normal, sane, awake, caffeinated person would know that the bottom would fall out. Even my half-asleep, uncaffeinated self knew it might happen and to take extra care. Of course it still happened. I don't know how long I stood there. Staring. Sludge. Feet. It was like Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock's Vertigo, with the spiraling red swirls behind his head, or Uma Therman in Kill Bill, the red background and siren when she encounters her attackers. At some point, I rummaged through the garage, finding an older small plastic can to try and shovel this mess into, when as I pick it up a black widow runs across the handle. It did cross my mind that the police might show up, responding to the screams of what might possibly have been the kidnapping of a 4 year old girl. I don't really know what happened next or how it got cleaned up, as my cerebellum fused. So, it is in this context that I write about the Kentucky Derby.

There are a few good things about the Derby. It is an economic stimulus for the city. It puts Louisville on the map. It's as good an excuse as any to get together with friends and/or family. There's a history involved. If you go, if you like it, if you look forward to it for a full year, then I'm glad it does it for you. Sincerely, I'm glad you enjoy it.

But let's be honest; it's a two minute horse race. They go around a track. That's all.

I think it's the pomp and circumstance, the superficiality, the inflation, the hypocrisy, the waste, and separation of social strata that gets to me. That's actually quite a list. I guess ol' lady justice is tipping heavily to one side at this point. This is a pretty succinct description of what grinds my gears. This is a funny city; I've lived here most of my life. It is strange to me to see the outcome of all of the influences on the city. It kind of all comes down to your view of if Louisville is a Northern City or a Southern City. We have lots of bars. And lots of churches. Both sweet and unsweet tea. Back in the day, Green Street here in our fair city was well known for it's brothels. Changing it's name to Liberty St. can't erase the past. A high Catholic population. A high Baptist population. We hung with the Union in the Civil War (barely). We have our Seelbach Hotel with it's stories of Al Capone and F. Scott Fitzgerald and the Great Gatsby. Most people here also have quite the dialectal drawl. It's quite the mix.

I also think that it's telling that on either side of the twin spires are the hot spots, the exclusive areas. On the west side is the area that includes the Clubhouse Suites, Turf Club, and Millionaires Row. This area is exclusive for people who need to be seen being exclusive. The Turf Club is the white hot end of this, with a grand half-circular staircase and wall of glass to make it easier for the really wealthy to view the absurdly wealthy/famous. On the east side is the Jockey Club Suites, and it is exclusive with the purpose of being exclusive, accessible by one elevator only. This is mainly the successful business/political area.

And then there's the infield. A very safe view from the exclusive areas, encouraged as long as there is a separation via a tunnel, the infield is it's own beast. Most people don't see the poem inscribed on a plaque as you enter the infield:
"Give me your dehydrated, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to drink free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the shirtless, mud covered to me,
I lift my exacta box beside the betting window!"

I also wonder if it's the obsession with celebrity that is setting me off this year. Not even celebrity, I can get that to an extent. It's the celebrities who are known for absolutely no good reason at all. Famous for being famous. Makes my head hurt.
I came home that night and sat down with Hunter S. Thompson's The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved. And I didn't even need to read past the title.