One of Glorious Editor’s cute quirks is his annual call for members of the Commentariat to regurgitate their most mondo bizzaro stories of how they got home from the track on Derby Day.

Hey, since, I got the key to the gate, I’ll weigh in. And, triple post it at all my venues. And, in addition, throw in other tales of the first weekend in May, some of which might actually be of moderate interest. Some with more info than you probably ought to be told.

But let’s start with 2025, since I got a huge dose of Derby Derby just last evening.

Derby Wednesday Dinner at Jeff Ruby’s.

Our corner table was multi-geographical. Guy in from LA, gal in from NYC. The usuals from New Orleans. Crescent Hill, Clifton and a Downtown denizen all in attendance.

The place was jammed. And jammin’. Electric. Like everybody had a power cord comin’ outta their hip, plugged into a socket under the table. Vibes of Good Times.

Fellas with rolls of pocket cabbage. Ladies on their arms in four inch stilleto fuck me pumps. Dudes who looked like they wandered in off the street staring.

And, giving it a hint o’ sports relevance, other than Derby of course, our special guest. Sitting at the next table, a pal of my horse playing buddies, a Derby regular, and former NBA champ, former NBA Coach of Year, Avery Johnson.

Who, when he saw my pals who are regulars at the track, came over and worked our table.

Nice guy.

Sitting at his table was one of those don’t-we-know-that-guy from somewhere guys? Isn’t he a Somebody?

We never figured it out. There were a couple of others like that in the throng.

Food was OK, nothing special.

But it filled my minimum yearly requirement of Derby Derby.

Other than watching the race, and the Oaks, I’ll be sitting the rest of the festivities out.

Unlike the Daze of Yesteryore.

 * * * * *

Of course, we start the memory trail with a moment from back in the day. Early 70s. When everything was skewed a bit, if not enhanced with some neon tracers to add color and disorientation.

One year, a pal had a pocket full of powder. Though the statute of limitations has long since run, he shall remain anonymous nonetheless. Because he was packing some serious substance.

Off to the track we went, with several of those one hit schnozzle things that fit easily in one’s pocket. And could be engaged for use more surreptitiously than the old lines on the fist thing.*

*Too much info for ya? Since I’ve been clean since ’82, I’m comfortable sharing. Though I did argue with myself, is this story simply not to be recited?

Anyhow, as is the case in such situations, spreading it about becomes part of the deal. Even in a throng like Churchill on Run for the Roses day. See a pal in the Paddock. Some comely jeune filles in the Mint Julep cue. Gotta share.

And the next thing you know, we’ve made it back to my place in the Triangle after the race. Along with 20 or so other folks, maybe 2 or 3 of which one or the other of us actually knew.

The details of how we got there or how the evening unfolded are long forgotten.

More than enough said about that evening anyhow.

But, yeah, Derby Derby.

 * * * * *

My old college pal Marc, the fellow who introduced me to JazzFest, is as obsessed with Derby as I am with JF. He owns some horses. Loves to bet the ponies. Has been to town here for Derby every years since late 60s.

Met his bride here when staying with me one year in the 70s. At Eddie Donaldson’s no less.

We’ve had some times.

Anyway, one year long ago he hit it big on the race.

$25 Large.

I forget why — maybe because I had stopped imbibing, and he was inclined given the moment to tipple a few — but he handed me his winnings to safekeep. He knew I wouldn’t peel off a few bills.

So there we were in celebratory mode among the revelers at Captain’s Quarters.

And I’m walking about, working the crowd, with pockets full of Benjamins.

Very strange feeling.

Derby. Derby.

 * * * * *

Then there’s the Derby Eve — again early 70s– I found myself after midnight grabbing a burger at Masterson’s there by U of L.

Sitting at the counter, taking in all the odd gangs assembled.

There were a dozen or so twentysomethings — fraternity/ sorority types, obviously dazed and confused — trying to get oriented. A couple came up to me, and were asking directions or some such.

Turned out, as sometimes it happens, they were from Ohio State, all pals of one of my best friend’s fiancé. And were in town to visit with them and go to the track.

I mentioned they seemed a smidge buzzed. Such that the reason they arrived in town so late was, they had somehow driven all the way from Columbus to Nashville, before they realized they’d missed Louisville and headed back.

True.

Anyhow, they hadn’t been able to get in touch with their hosts. And were fried.

“Can we stay at your place tonight?”

Checking out the sorority sisters, I agreed.

I mean, you know.

My place at the time was a $60/ month 500 sq. foot attic apartment in the Triangle. One bathroom. Sparsely furnished. Pillows in the stereo/ smoking den.

So after I finally got to use my own bathroom, I walk out to find two of the coeds already nestled into my bed. Which was full size, not even a queen.

I’d love to dazzle you with intimations of some memorable inappropriate moments from then on. But there are no stories to be told. I think, if memory serves, I was so uncomfortable but so “hospitable” I ended up sleeping on the floor because it was more “comfortable.”

I’m smiling bemusedly at the remembrance.

I had a Derby breakfast to go to with a date — remember those? — so I shooed away that herd way to their intended destination way earlier than they would have liked.

A Derby Derby interlude I haven’t thought about for years.

 * * * * *

From the 7th grade through high school, I worked at the track on Derby Day.

Selling flimsy little folding stools in the infield.

Two bucks. Three with a back.

My take 10%. That’s right 20 cents, or 30.

So, one and done, if a customer brought back one that broke, we just gave ’em a new one.

I’d make a hundred bucks easy that day.

Plus I could walk anywhere in the Downs with my Harry Stevens Caterer button.

Watched Chateaugay romp to the wire from the roof.

 * * * * *

The last time I was actually at the Downs on Derby Day was late 90s or so.

I was writing for LEO at the time, and my purpose was to cover the whole scene, Culture Maven style. Millionaires Row. Guys peeing on their white bucks in the bathroom. Whatever. Cover story.

I had a pass that got me everywhere in the Club House.

Except the Turf Club.

To which I managed access anyway from the outside staircase.

Saw lots of friends. And some famous folks.

Finally a couple of friendly but insistent security fellows engage me, advise I didn’t have access to that part of the Downs, and they were going to walk me out.

Along the way, others I knew kept engaging me. I’d smile, advise I’d love to stop and chat, but I’m getting the heave ho. It was an amusing situation that had us all laughing. Including my escorts.

When they got me to the hallway, they sweetly advised, “We hope you understand, just doing our job.”

No problem.

But I took it as a sign.

Though it was several hours until the Derby, I’d had enough.

Quarter century later, I haven’t felt the need to return.

— c d kaplan