Oh, Hunter S. You Really Would Have Loved It

(And I will borrow your style. I'm giving you credit...don't let your heirs sue me for plagiarism.)



Wednesday night. Mint juleps at the track. Socialites and red carpet. Mwah...mwah. You look beautiful. No, you, dahling. Who knew a blackberry mint julep was delicious? Super T gives violent pelvic thrusts from center stage. Women swoon. Men look under the skirts. All look to the sky in hopes that the rain stays away.



Thursday. Headache. Will we make it to the track? Food and strong medication. Joining the unwashed masses. Long hair and shirtless in the paddock. Our hats and flowers earn scathing glances. Jealousy or scorn. Hard to tell. Percy at the bar. The rude out-of-towner scolds Percy for being slow. "Excuse me, sir. Were you on the Sopranos?" No tickets cashed. No matter.



Thursday night. Seventh circle of Hell. Men who don't want us anymore. Men who are far too interested. Thankfully, men who give us drink tickets to soothe the pain. One woman who invites us to her party--"We need women. Single ones."



Friday. Kentucky Oaks. The rain stays away. Pink flowers and everyone showing up as gentry as far as the eye can see. People who can't play the part. MINT ju-LEP! Alan Cutler in the paddock. Not chasing anyone. Go, Baby, Go. Skies threaten. Golf carts beckon.



Derby Eve. Rain pours. Drive up the hill-please don't hit the Bentley. Don't let the limo hit me. People running in all directions. Where is the party? Beside the RV. In the kitchen. Opening wine. Wait. This man. Is wearing. A pink shirt-unbuttoned, a turf club pin, and nothing else. The man in Lily pants is unfazed. Try to stay cool. Tuxedos, hot pants, cowboy hats, Pentecostal church clothes, all in one place. A man with long flowing hair and a great belt "let's get naked and f@%$--decline. "Driving that train. High on cocaine." "Weep no more my lady." Heels off. Stepping on ice and wet shag carpet. Never miss this party again.


Derby Day. The sun shines bright. Not warm, though. Wardrobe adjustment. Mimosas, strawberries, cheese grits, mint juleps. Walk through the meshugas. Men with bull horns. Repent or you will perish. Or buy Mardi Gras beads. Either way. Up the escalator to rarefied air. Saul Smith. Into the box. Hat envy. 20 julep glasses. Box in front. Playboy wooing his Lily-clad date. Does she know? Do we care? No pulled pork nachos?! Lee Ann Rimes-hatless. Calvin Bo-rail!