The 135th Running Of The Kentucky Derby

Things I Loved:

>> Gambling success, once again. I was nowhere near as successful as last year- but let's be honest, I couldn't hope to recreate that ridiculous stretch of luck ever again. Last year, by mid-day Saturday I had paid for my entire trip, plus a couple extra hundred for my troubles. This year, I only netted around $250 or so total. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be that guy who bitches about winning money at the Derby. I'll take that every single time, if the Derby Gods decide to give it to me.

We sat down in our classy box seats on Friday (thanks George, you're the man) and I immediately hit on a 13-1 longshot in the first race and found myself up around $120. The rest the day, I pretty much just treaded water, until the next to last race, when my $2 longshot won the race at 45-1. On Saturday, I lost almost every race I bet on (and the main event was a huge embarrassing failure, with only one of my many horses even coming close to placing) but again hit a couple of big longshots, and so I only lost $20 on the second day.

HOWEVER, the bet I enjoyed winning the most was the money I took off of both Kos and Teri, when an impromptu argument broke out regarding what building on campus our freshman year English class took place in. We were gonna go home that night and check Teri's old transcripts to settle the bet, until Rita came through with the answer for us via text. I had offered them fairly generous odds of my checking account against $100, but I had to settle for just $10 each (despite their constant stream of shit-talking, apparently they weren't as confident as me.) I hope you two learned your lesson, which is summed up nicely by what Schne said after you told him about the bet: "Dude, don't ever bet Hammen on that kind of shit."

Teri, me, and Kos- most likely early in the day since they're still smiling with me. They were not happy about losing that bet. And who could blame them? I would say the loss of pride hurt a lot more than the 10 bucks...but you'd have to ask them.


>> Our seats at the Oaks (the races that take place Friday.) Last year we were down in the paddock with the other poor people, but this year we had the hook-up and were up in the nice box seats, just one level down from Millionaire's Row. Personally, I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio when he gets invited to the rich people's dinner as a thank-you for saving Kate Winslet's life in Titanic. Kind of a mixture of "This is awesome, I can get used to this" and "Lemme get this straight- I'm NOT supposed to drink this by punching a hole in the bottom of the can and drinking it all at once?!? Bizarre. Hey, is that Nick Lachey?"

Now, unlike Leo, I don't think I can go back to steerage next year with all the other poor, dirty immigrants. We gotta get box seats again. Winning that ticket was the best thing that ever happened to me, Rose.


>> The cargo van that Schne rented for hauling us around all weekend. Anytime you can have upwards of 15 people rolling around the back of a child molester van, passing a bottle of Early Times whiskey and playing a game where before you take a drink, you have to come up with a commercial tagline for Early Times....well then, you gotta do it. Seriously, the Schneweis brothers should start up a prep school where they teach college kids random drinking games. (Incidentally, Heather won the contest unwittingly the next morning, when, on the way to the track, she mumbled to herself "I just wanna be drunk RIGHT NOW" and about 5 of us simultaneously shouted out "Early Times!")

(Side note: this seems like as good a place as any to mention what I love the most about Derby weekend: the people, and the inside jokes. I think the main reason I have so much fun is the people I'm with, and the people I meet (awwww.) By the end of the weekend I'm bullshitting and joking with some of the natives like I've known them for years, and everyone I met at last year's Derby pretty much feels like family by now. And whether it's running jokes like slogans for Early Times whiskey, or our joke from 2008, "more kick for your punch"....it's just awesome. End sappy side note.)


>> My Saturday morning breakfast at Twig & Leaf, the greatest lil' diner I think I've ever eaten at. We ate there last year, and I was looking forward to going back almost as much as going back to Churchill Downs. Seriously, whenever I walk in the door there, the opening piano intro from Baba O'Reilly starts playing in my head, and I have to restrain myself from giving the 65-year-old waitress a heartfelt hug. Friday night, after drinking for 15 hours, and with people passing out all around us, JV, Jessica and I had a drunken executive meeting and determined exactly how early we had to wake up in the morning to get ourselves that perfect breakfast, and still have time to get our other shit done before heading to the track. Remember kids, it's important to build a solid foundation of greasy eggs and biscuits covered in country gravy in your stomach before you resume pouring alcohol down your throat. Even at the expense of extra sleep.


>> The people who live in the houses in the neighborhood of Churchill Downs. Those crazy entrepeneurs, instead of bitching that thousands of people are trekking through their sidewalks and yards after the races are done, take the opportunity to sell $1 hot dogs and $2 beers. Kos and I couldn't dig our wallets out fast enough.

Things I Did Not Love:

>> Eating in sit-down restaurants after drinking all day/my pride/drinking out of a straw. As soon as I heard where we were going after The Oaks races on Friday, I knew it would be my undoing. When I'm in drink-all-day mode, the last thing I want to do is try and maintain my composure in a restaurant while waiting on a server to bring my food. Just give me a stack of dollar hot dogs and a bottle of Early Times, and I'll wait out in the cargo van, bro.

So I order a margarita at this particular Mexican joint, and the server fails to tell me that "large" = 200 ounces (I'm no mathmetician, so that's a rough estimate.) So I've got this drink as big as my head in front of me that I'm barely making a dent in...which leads to the table making jokes at my expense...which leads to me chugging the entire glass in one drink to show them what's up...which leads to Kos and I throwing two straws in Scott's virtually untouched margarita and chugging that one to show them what's up, again.....which leads to me puking in JV's backyard roughly 30 minutes later. Fortunately, it was a career-best puke-and-rally, and I was throwing in a chew and taking pulls from the whiskey bottle within minutes. But still, if only I would've just gone to the McDonald's down the street, and if only my pride hadn't got in the way, and if only I was responsible enough (at age 26) to drink out of a straw without chugging the whole drink.....things might have turned out better for me.

>> Our camp ruined our ticket to free booze. Late afternoon Saturday, we had an arrangement worked out with some shitfaced old guy that as long as we let him pass out amongst our lawn chairs, we would get free beer from his buddies' backpack (interestingly, they were able to smuggle in a couple cases by bribing security with $20. Something to think about for next year?) Alas, some members of our camp couldn't resist the temptation to throw ice cubes at him while he slept, and we lost our sugar daddy. Teri did get this picture though, before he stormed off:

>> My laziness/cockiness. Last year, every person in our crew was successful in sneaking booze past the security guards into the infield. In addition, we were able to get a ton of bottles of whiskey past the guards by tucking them into our dress socks the day of The Oaks races this year. As a result, I got lazy walking into the Derby with my Early Times tucked into my crotchal region. I didn't even use duct tape, and I didn't switch lines when I had the chance, even after I realized the security guard in my line was giving a much more thorough pat-down, as opposed to the 17-year-olds last year who wanted no part of feeling your junk. So Officer Nutsack Grabber discovers my bottle of Early Times within 1.2 seconds, digs it out himself (awwwwk-ward!) and holds it in the air, much to the delight of the many bystanders nearby, who all enjoy a good hearty laugh. All I could do was shrug sheephisly and smile to the crowd as if to say "Hey, it's the Kentucky Derby, whaddya want from me?"

In retrospect, I wish I would've had the wherewithal to keep a straight face and announce to the crowd "That bottle of whiskey is practically dripping with smegma.....Early Times!" But alas.

Also, Amy and Jessica got busted with alcohol on their persons (Jessica's female security guard went digging in her shirt to find the ziploc baggies of vodka) so as a group we had 3 people get taken down, after a 100% success rate last year. Don't worry, we'll be back with a vengeance next year.

Actually, it would've all been worth it if the security guard would've turned to the crowd, hoisted my whiskey into the air like Simba, and the "Circle of Life" song at the beginning of The Lion King burst out of nowhere.


"Aaaaaaahhhh!!!! Tseebainyyyaaaaaaa!!!! Mamaeetchibaba.... Ooooohhwenyaaaa......Ohhhmmmmmmmmm"



>> The scene in the infield after the main event is finished, but you stay to gamble on the last race or two. I'm not even sure I should say I dislike it, because it's kind of cool in the sense that it feels like an apocalyptic wasteland. But it's depressing, kinda like being in the aftermath of a natural disaster or the Rapture or something. A large amount of people have suddenly disappeared, and those who are left are in rough shape. People are staggering around, either desperately searching for booze, their camp, or just a friendly face. People are lying on the ground passed out, hopefully with someone there watching over them, but sometimes alone, and possibly bleeding. People are being led into the underground drunk tank by police officers, probably to be tortured until they accept the mark of the beast. There is garbage strewn everywhere. There are lawn chairs and blankets and half-torn apart canopies lying in ruin. It's just eerie. This is when you know you're a degenerate gambler. There's no more alcohol for sale; over half of our group has gone back to the van where cold beer awaits; there's no main event to look forward to anymore. We are there for one reason and one reason only: to win some fucking money on this next race (which of course we don't.)


So in conclusion: big ups to Schne, Teri, and JV for being wonderful hosts; George for hooking up the box seats; Rita for settling our epic bet without resorting to 8 year old transcripts; Kos, Schne, Teri, JV, Kyle, Laurel, Scott, Becky, George, Toe, Jessica, Amy, and Heather for being awesome; and the server at the Mexican restaurant for not cutting me off when it was blatantly obvious that I should be.