Talk Derby To Me, Baby!

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Here it is, the one time of the year when it’s actually encouraged to spend your Saturday night in Louisville, KY.  Celebrities in prodigious hats will sip mint juleps, inhale Woodford Reserve and talk the thoroughbred talk like they were born, raised and taught the ponies in the Commonwealth.  If you’ve ever wanted to pretend to be a southerner, here’s your chance.  It’s pretty much the only time it can be done without harsh social consequence.

But enough jibber-jabber, let’s get to the real reason everyone’s checking Lexpatriates on Derby Saturday: predictions.  My pick in this year’s run for the roses is Lookin At Lucky, the Kentucky-born progeny of Smart Strike, the half-brother of former Canadian Triple Crown winner Dance Smartly.  If my Bluegrass upbringing taught me anything, it’s that when picking Derby winners, 1) never bet against the distant horse-racing pedigree of former Canadian powerhouses and 2) always go with the favorite, no matter what post they draw; those guys win it pretty much every year.  I mean, they’re the favorites for a reason, you know?  Plus, Lucky’s got the rail.  My seventh-grade track and field experience taught me that spot actually has the shortest distance to run around the track.  Seriously.

Another reason for this post: it gives me an excuse to link to some of the finer works of Hunter S. Thompson, maybe the finest ambassador the city of Louisville’s ever known.

In honor of today’s shit show, we’ll kick it off with a Lexpatriates favorite:

“The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved,”by Hunter S. Thompson (from Scanlan’s Monthly), 1970.

“The Derby, the actual race, was scheduled for late afternoon, and as the magic hour approached I suggested to Steadman that we should probably spend some time in the infield, that boiling sea of people across the track from the clubhouse. He seemed a little nervous about it, but since none of the awful things I’d warned him about had happened so far–no race riots, firestorms or savage drunken attacks–he shrugged and said, “Right, let’s do it.”

To get there we had to pass through many gates, each one a step down in status, then through a tunnel under the track. Emerging from the tunnel was such a culture shock that it took us a while to adjust. “God almighty!” Steadman muttered. “This is a…Jesus!” He plunged ahead with his tiny camera, stepping over bodies, and I followed, trying to take notes.”

“He Was a Crook,” by Hunter S. Thompson (from Rolling Stone), 1994.

“Richard Nixon is gone now, and I am poorer for it. He was the real thing — a political monster straight out of Grendel and a very dangerous enemy. He could shake your hand and stab you in the back at the same time. He lied to his friends and betrayed the trust of his family. Not even Gerald Ford, the unhappy ex-president who pardoned Nixon and kept him out of prison, was immune to the evil fallout. Ford, who believes strongly in Heaven and Hell, has told more than one of his celebrity golf partners that “I know I will go to hell, because I pardoned Richard Nixon.”

“The 450-Square Mile Parking Lot,”by Hunter S. Thompson (from Pageant), 1965. (Parts 1, 2, 3, 4)

“If you count yourself in that legion of restless Americans who’ve been “thinking” for years about moving to California — and especially to the Los Angeles area in Southern California — you’d better get your plans into high gear pretty soon, or forget it.  Because the Golden State is getting crowded.  So many people have gone there seeking the “good life” that every year it gets harder and harder to find.”