Derby Day, No Ticket No Hat

Think back. Remember when you werea kid and your parents had a party and they put you to bed in a dark room with yellow light shining through the cracks of the closed door and you could hear the laughter and the party noise but you weren't invited so you felt sorry for yourself until you fell asleep? That's what it's like to be in Louisville on Derby Day with no ticket to the Downs and no hat.

My Dad lives in Louisville. His birthday is May 4th and the Kentucky Derby is the first Saturday in May, so every year we have a family reunion when the horsies run for the roses. My beautiful nieces and their husbands attend the Derby. I babysit for their kids.

Every May I swear that, next year, I will not be among the pregnant women, AA members on their way to meetings, fundamentalist Christians and others who cannot drink and therefore have no interest in attending the Derby. I also swear I will not be among the ragtag few who, if not actually at the Derby, don't at least have a kick-ass party to attend.

There are three ways to do the Derby, not counting those who qualify to enter Millionaires' Row. College kids and everyday drunks pop for $40 to enter the Infield. If it rains they take turns sliding in the mud, Woodstock style. If it doesn't they suffer second-degree sunburns. Either way, they get drunk on their asses and lose their money.

Then there's the Grandstand, where the price of admission is $60. This buys a hard, unreserved seat in the blistering sun, pelting rain or whatever other elements Derby Day conjures. Grandstand views vary from worthless to nonexistent, but Mint Julep vendors circulate every 15 seconds, enabling those seated in this section to get just as drunk-ass and broke as revelers in the Infield.

There is a sub-set of Derby goers. They dress up like the box-seat elite, complete with gloves and hats, and walk around the cobblestone courtyard as if they're on their way to place bets, find the Ladies Room, or anesthetize the balls of their feet after the third consecutive hour of walking in stilettos.

But to really do the Derby right, to glimpse B-team celebrities and rub elbows with other drunks who sob off their mascara to the smarmy strains of My Old Kentucky Home, one must beg, borrow, steal or actually pay thousands for a box seat ticket. Then one must buy a $500 hat. And pay for over-priced air fare in and out of Louisville during Derby week. And break off one's heels, rip one's bra-straps, sail the high-priced hat into the stands, and stumble into a perfect stranger's limo when the day is over because who the hell can find their car after drinking 19 Mint Juleps?

Next year, to hell with the babysitting, I swear to God I'm going to the Derby.