A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 2)

"The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
Because here they come"

-Florance and The Machine, Dog Days Are Over




The house was empty when I came to. Awaking from my stupor I had the feeling that I was late for something. Late indeed. I'd over slept and missed my ride to Keeneland. Great. Once again I was on my own. Cursing myself for being such an idiot I got up, went to the bathroom and took a long look in the mirror.

My hair was a mess, sticking up in back. The rest was a bed head mash of half-ass curls. My breath tasted like sour onions. I smelled like an ashtray soaked in beer. And people say drinking isn't glamorous. While brushing my teeth I went over my options. Pregaming solo, hoping to run into someone I knew or plan B. Trying to make nice and crash a total strangers tailgate. Either way I would end up looking pathetic and lonely. Thankfully I heard the back door open and close so someone was still around. I stuck my head underneath the faucet and took a long drink. Brian and his girlfriend Stephanie greeted me in the kitchen.

"Well, well. Good morning fella or should I say good afternoon," he said grinning. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the air mattress this mourning. You look like death."

"Funny. I feel like I'm dying," I said. "Why didn't you leave with the others?"

"Those crazy sons of bitches got up at 8 a.m. We wanted to sleep in. Grab a quickie before we headed out, know what I mean?" he said winking at Steph. She offered a brief, sly smile and looked away. "Better to do it with no one around. Your passed out ass didn't count."

We each took our turn showering and primping. As I've already said, things are different in The South. Everyone and every event is a little bit more formal. At least until people get a few adult beverages down. A true Southern Gentlemen wears dress shirts, ties, even suites to Keeneland. The extra fratty wear Croakies (elastic sunglass straps) and J. Crew dress pants with mini lobsters/Hula Girls/Palm Tress monogrammed all over. Too chachy for my taste. Slacks, good shoes and a nice polo are bear minimum. The three of us were all dressed to the hilt. In our Sunday best for a chance to sin at the race track.

Now I know what most of you are thinking. Who the hell wants to dress up if they don't have to? Normally I'd agree. Anything other then a wedding or job interview I'm probably wearing jeans but there's a nice suite that lives a hermit's life in my closet; he never gets out. Let's face it, almost everyone looks better in formal cloths anyway. Like we're all really adults or something. Passing as upstanding members of civilized society and such. I'm not one to break tradition either, so when in Rome. Besides, no one wants to be the one asshole in the group who is totally under-dressed.

There was only one way to deciding who would drive. Roshambo. One chance, for all the money. Damn! I was the wheelman. We climbed into the truck and huffed an adderall each to kick the hang over blues. When used recreationally it is basically a poor man's cocaine. Similar high (although not nearly as intense) with less of the down. It had us feeling fresh and energized. After a quick stop for supplies we were in the precession of cars waiting to get in.

Much to our displeasure they had closed off our old fraternity tailgate to paying visitors. This caused our group to be scattered all over creation in the free parking. It was past one o'clock so they were already inside the gates anyway. By some amazing stroke of luck a security guard waved us into paid parking without charge. We were a 100 yards from the entrance to the track as opposed to several miles. The three of us weren't asking any questions. I eased the massive ass end of the F150 into a spot and we got down to business.

After polishing off a 12-pack of Bud Lights, a pint of vodka Redbulls and a few bowl packs it was time to head in to the track. Just past the turnstiles was the Paddock where they parade the soon to be racing thoroughbreds for betters to inspect. Stable boys, usually of Hispanic decent, lead the half ton beast around the ring. All muscle, sharp angles and fragile legs. Being so close, watching every fiber tighten with the delicate but deliberate steps, I'm always struck by how powerful these creatures really are. If it had the mind to it could toss the stable boy like a rag doll, jump the fence and bowl its way through the crowd. No one could stop it without the help of a firearm. Thankfully none of the horses I saw felt that itch.

The inside of the grand stand is a people watcher's dream that spans the gamut of economic social classes. On one hand you have the filthy rich. The old money. Horse owners/breeders. High roller handicappers. Movers and shakers in the world of racing. All reaping mass profits in the horse capital of the world (Lexington, KY). It's easy to identify these people. They wear freshly pressed Brooks Brothers suites and bow ties imported from Paris. One of their ensembles is worth more then my entire wardrobe. Walking, talking, Cuban cigar smoking decadents. They enjoy heavy starch on their immaculate white collars.

On the other hand you have the broke. The downtrodden. Life time losers. Degenerate gamblers searching the ground or trash for a misplaced winning ticket. Their uniforms are less obvious. Of course some come in crummy cloths, unkempt, looking the part but don't make the mistake of lumping lower level horse people into the same group. They're dirty from working the grounds, training the animals, not by choice. They're usually trying to use their "inside knowledge" to gain a slight edge. Others still pass as the elite. Spending what little they have keeping up apprentices. Fooling people into thinking they're big shots. An untrained eye thinks these schmucks (who are the worst of the whole lot if you ask me) are actually the upper class. However upon closer inspection you can point them out. They're usually the ones bragging about their hot tip or the big bet they just won. Real winners don't share tips. It hurts their odds. They also rarely tell anyone they're up big. Anyone who has a wad of the houses money doesn't want anyone to know they're carrying it.

The rest of us are somewhere in-between. At the track to spend a little money and have fun betting on a sport no one can truly grasp. Every time I'm there I overhear conversations about so and so's horse likes running on the grass. The number three horse likes the rail or only wins on Sundays. All bullshit really. If you asked the creature yourself and it could talk it'd probably just ask for a carrot or more hay, possibly a hot young Philly. They don't give a damn whether you win or lose. The true champions probably know it's a race but the rest are clueless.

I got in line for the best Bloodymary in town while Brian took a moment to inspect the race forum. He was a decent handicapper, growing up in Louisville, home of the Kentucky Derby. After he mumbled some gibberish about "boxing" this and "exactaing" that I made a bet that was a smaller mutation of his. Basically I picked three horses for $12. They could finish in any order so long as they were the top three. Of course one of the fuckers got fourth, just my luck. Back to the bar.

Brain placed another bet and ended the day up $50. The kid almost always walks away with some of Keeneland's money. It helps to be from down the road as apposed to being from out of state. No one talks horses where I'm from. We were just about to call it a day when I casually looked at the line-up for the next race. The number seven horse caught my eye. He was a three year old named Bonnaroo. Just what a closet hippie and Roo veteran needed to see. I asked Stephanie to hold my drink and I placed my $10 bet on the number seven horse to win (at 3-1). The bugle called them to post. One by one they were loaded into the starting gate. The bell rang. The gates opened and they were off! A stampede of hoofs and pure fluid muscle in motion. He lead wire to wire. My adrenalin spiked as they came into the the home stretch. I hooped and hollered with the crowd, urging, willing my pony to the finish. The beautiful bastard made me $30 richer. Damn it felt good to win.

After recouping my previous loss and covering my tab, I was more than satisfied. Any day at the track is a good day but a winner is a winner! Bragging rights account for a lot and I had a sufficient drinking story for the next month. We cashed in our winnings and walked back to the truck still buzzed on a natural high from our respective pay days.

**************************************************

Everyone rendezvous at Hojo's place and made plans for the evening. Some had tickets to the game, some didn't but everyone wanted to head back towards campus. Brian, Steph, Devin and I decided to grab a bite and pints at Pazzos which was just how I remembered it. Great pizza, cold beer and terrible service. We sat for thirty minutes before we even got a drink. Some people we knew were already seated. We decided to join brother James group. He had his entire clan in from Cincinnati. Sisters, brothers, mom, dad and everyone's significant other. Brian came back form the bathroom to find our party of four had swelled to twenty. There was some confusion about where we should sit but in the end we got free pie out of the deal, so we sucked it up.

Bellies full, we were all ready for the second tailgate of the day. Students call it the double-dip; all-day at Keeneland followed by kicking of your night at Commonwealth Stadium. There is no doubt UK is a basketball school but seeing the sea of blue along Alumni Drive one had to wonder if the tide was turning in favor of football. Standard "C-A-T-S" cheers reverberated through out the stadium parking lot. I saw a more daring group beer bonging bourbon. We talked with friends and I ran into some old coworkers. Token "how ya been?" conversations began to make my head spin but thank God we were on a tight schedule. I'd scored Devin's extra ticket and lucky for us his brother is a local big wig so the seats were amazing. Right on the fifty yard-line, about six rows up, behind the home team. We left our friends and headed out to get the tickets.

"Just don't embarrass me," Devin's brother said after giving us the goods. We were feeling quite drunk after some pulls on a Makers bottle and apparently it showed. "Some of my bosses will be sitting right next to you guys."

Pot always seems to level out my drunk. A quick one hitter and all was right in the world. Unless of course I'm too far gone. Then I enjoy cold sweats, the spins and ultimately my face in the toilet bowl. I try not to think about it. Without incident we filed through security and stumbled to our seats. They were almost too good. We were so close it was difficult to see over the freakishly tall players. It was the closest I had ever been to a game during the heat of battle. We'll battle might be generous to Kentucky. Georgia was doing all the fighting. They handed us a 28-10 beat down by half time. So much for home coming. Too disgusted to stay we left before the third quarter. They'd make it respectable by the end but barely. Basketballs supremacy would reign in Lexington for the foreseeable future.

Before kickoff we had all agreed to meet at the only bar everyone HAS to go to when in from out of town; World Famous Two Keys Tavern. If my time spent blacking out in college could be quantified in one place this would be it. If I could tabulate how much money I'd spent there chasing the dream I'd probably cry. Other then some renovations, the atmosphere was exactly the same. A clusterfuck of coeds begging for booze, taking up every square inch of space inside and out. The girls were all blond bouffant beauties, younger then I remembered or I was just older. More of the latter I'm sure.

Devin and I packed ourselves in where we could and pounded shots. I went out for a smoke and that was the last time I saw him. Some shitty cover band was blaring so loud inside I couldn't hear people talking right next to me outside. I was bumping into someone every three seconds, spilling my whiskey and coke in the process. Staying there was pure madness. A total waste of time. I saw a group of my people making their way out so I followed suit.

There were about ten of us heading downtown. The Captain (See Bonnaroo 2010 posts), other frat bros and a group of girls. They were Kapas who used to live next door to our fraternity house. We hadn't seen each other in years and chatted as we walked. Before I knew what had happened The Captain and Bill had bailed. Both were in far worse shape than myself. Cap was unable to speak coherent sentences and he had a seven hour drive back to North Carolina in the morning. Calling it a night early was probably the best thing for him.

Sticking with the survivors, I entered The Penguin, a dueling piano bar that had just recently opened. We reveled, danced and drank. All smiles and good times. An hour in, I was approaching the point of no return so I took a step back for some fresh air. One of the girls, Erin, joined me. I had always had a slight crush on her and had the mind to kindle a flame that was never lite way back when. We shared a cigarette and summarized the last four years of our lives. She was working on her PHD at Northern Texas (Mean Green!) hoping to become an English professor. I gave her my song and dance, zoning out in spite of myself. Lost at sea in her green eyes. I imagined the feel of her feminine shaped mouth against mine, intrigued by her lips which were always in a slight joker smile. I went for it.

"Ummmm what are you doing?" she said when I leaned in. "Jacob I can't make out with you. There's this guy back home. He's watching my dog. I just feel bad. Otherwise I would."

It was awkward for a moment but we went back in and had a shot to forget the mistake that almost was. I took mine down slowly, letting it burn in the back of my throat hoping it would wash away my embarrassment. I felt like an ass.

"Sorry that was weird," she said. I told her not to worry, creeps like me can't help ourselves. She laughed and we danced to another number just as the the lights of last call sparked to life.

Leaving, we were all a total wreck. I gave Erin a leg up onto one of the random horse sculptures in front of Rupp Arena. I took some pictures with her camera. Her posing on the plastic beast, me the photographer, both of us laughing hysterically the whole time. The last of us took off in a cab with the police swarming just behind us. The next day we found out there had been a stabbing not a block from where we'd been standing. Close call.

A hang over is all we'd have to worry about. I lay on the couch and recapped my failed make-out attempt. The timing was off but better to go down swinging then always wonder. Even striking out, it had been an amazing return to the Bluegrass. I even managed a meal at all my favorite haunts. Breakfast at Ramsey's the following morning brought me full circle. The perfect pre-drive meal (minus fried chicken livers) before the long journey home.


-J.R.

A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 1)

"There's nothing more to it ...
And nothing's going on ...
This night has lived too long."
-The Walkmen, Lost in Boston




Breaks from the mundane are the only things keeping me sane. There's nothing better then kicking the tired old routine to the curb in exchange for a change of location. The night before a road trip I often stay up late unable to sleep in anticipation. I'm usually an early packer. I like having everything ready so when the time comes I can just take off. Anything that will ensure my mini-vacation runs smoothly. God knows I'd earned it. Six day work weeks are enough to crush anyone's soul.

Thankfully the time had finally come. I was ready for my triumphant return to Lexington Kentucky. The city and I had parted on bad terms. Striking abruptly, as they always do, a fire cost me an apartment and almost everything I owned. It felt like I'd been robbed and then I was forced to watch the bastards destroy their plunder. Thank goodness no one was injured but I still got fucked. Moving back in with mom and dad is not ideal for a college grad. My parents probably weren't too crazy about the idea either.

Obviously I was bitter at first, asking all the pathetically narcissistic questions like "why me?!" I did the blaming yourself and bathing in self loathing routine. However, the trauma hasn't tainted my memories of The University of Kentucky, or the fair residents of LexVegas. Even so it has been two years since I crossed into the Bluegrass State, other then one day trip to Rupp Arena with my dad. I couldn't wait to spend an entire weekend in the place I called home for five years.


**************************************************


It was a wonderful day to travel on October 22nd, 2010 in the year of our lord. Clear skies and sun shine. I had never been more excited to hit the road. UK's homecoming celebration and Keeneland awaited. The latter is a thoroughbred race track 70 plus years old. It is also the world's most prestigious thoroughbred auction, only open to the public two months out of the year for a fall meet (October) and a spring meet (April). This years fall meet was winding down and I wanted to get it in while I still could. Twenty of my fraternity brothers felt the same way. We were all coming into Lexington from various corners of the U.S. seeking strong drink, fast ponies and general mischief. Most of us hadn't seen each other since college. Hilarity and fun times would abound.

I'd been up late the night before but thankfully my things were already in order. After a noon breakfast I was on the road and a bowl pack deep before merging onto I-71 S. Marijuana is crucial if your going to spend any serious amount of time stuck in an automobile. Maybe an hour into the drive I start to zone out. Staying focused on controlling the vehicle of course but eventually the music takes over. Everything else shuts off except the part of my mind responsible for motor functions. Just tunes and the hum of tire against pavement. The flat southern Ohio country side's endless acres. Some plowed, some overgrown. Occasionally a silo or farm house to keep me company.

Traffic was already rush hour thick when I arrived at half past three. You can never be in a hurry to get anywhere in Lexington anytime of the day. This resulted from a combination of lackadaisical motorists and a city that has been poorly planned since its' inception. Perpetually late is the status quo. Anywhere in The South, pace of life is dialed back about five notches. Their speech is drawn out, meals take hours, and they all drive like the elderly. Of course people in Chicago say the same thing about people in Ohio and we're all stuck in neutral according to New York Minute standards. All relative. None the less I was remembering what I did NOT miss about Kentucky.

After making a left on green, ignoring the mysterious red turn arrow (still not sure what that's all about about), I was forced to stop at every light. Enough was enough. I was ready for a drink. Deep inside my gut a growing hunger was also making it's presence felt. There was only one thing on my mind. Pep cheese from Charlie Brown's. I'd been frothing at the mouth, dreaming of the golden brown, deep fried pepper jack goodness since my last visit. CB's is a must for anyone who's into greasy food and ice cold beer. I waited tables there in college and it will always have a special place in my heart as do the regulars and my former co-workers. After parking the truck on Euclid Avenue, I skipped through the familiar wood and stained glass door.

Time loses all meaning inside Charlie Browns. Like a black hole, it sucks you in. Day fades into night, night into morning before you even realize how many drinks you've had. My shifts usually started just after sunrise. I'd get off work, have a few and the sun would be down. Once I didn't see daylight for a full month. Stuck in "the cave", cut off from the rest of humanity. Cell phone reception was terrible. It was also far enough away from campus that no one from outside the CBs circle ever bothered you. You were in your own world. The normal rules of society need not apply. A safe haven from whatever ails you. Patrons are always friendly and probably a few drinks ahead but ready and whiling to help you play catch up.

The lights are always low, nearly off completely. Every table has a small kerosene candle, muted by a red glass shade. The walls are lined with ancient books selves filled to capacity. Some volumes predate both World Wars. Others are crisp and new. Anyone is allowed to borrow, so long as they bring a replacement. In winter fire places are lite to shake the shivers. No booths, just scattered two-top tables and chairs. The signature hand-me-down couches for lounging. Beyond informal. You eat off plastic plates and use trunks as coffee tables. It feels like your best friends apartment. Cozy. The most prominent feature is a massive enclosed bar taking up a third of the floor space. An archaic jukebox plays old 45s for free. The Doors, Roger Miller, Doobie Brothers, Motown. The only new additions in the last twenty years are a couple flat screen TVs. The smell of frying meat and bourbon hangs in the air. A Lexington staple steeped in lore and nostalgia. A place where no one ever forgets a face.

"Jacob! I'll be damned. How th' hell are ya," I heard Steve's familiar voice say. He was a regular during my tour of duty. Obviously not much has changed. "Long time no see! Let me buy you a drink." I ordered a Rolling Rock and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dingy lighting.

We chatted for a bit. I enjoyed my pep cheese and gobbled down a prime rib sandwich, in-between dips of pipping hot au jus. After eating I made the rounds, saying hello to Hesler, Dani, Billy, Scottie, Beth and rest of the crew. It was like we'd never missed a beat. I felt right at home. Everyone was in good spirits and business was steady, as it always had been. A few dirty jokes and many beers later, a cab dropped off my little brother (frat speak) Devin. He was just in from Orlando and eager to get the night going. After doing our best to get him caught up, we closed our tabs and headed out.

Walking to the truck we noticed a new bar had opened across the street. Dubbed the Beer Trappe it had hundreds of imported bottled beer presented in the build your own six-pack tradition. The kicker was the addition of a fulling function bar where you could sample some of the beers before purchase. Devin had recently been to England and had a hard-on for Fuller's London Pride, so we had a few pints each and shopped around. An hour and many samples later I was drunk and carrying two arm loads of beers I couldn't pronounce. It was already almost 9 p.m. Incessant text messages informed us everyone was starting to trickle into town. After bagging the to-go beers we made hast to meet up with the others.

The rally point was our fraternity brother Hojo's town home just out side the city. There were seven of us crashing. We took turns freshening up and changing in the bathroom. Once situated a group of four left for down town, while the rest decided to take it easy. Weary from longer travels, saving themselves for a long day of tail gating at Keeneland Saturday. Not wanting to squander any of my vacation time, I hopped in with the bar rats. We stopped by Bill's apartment for more Sigma Pi Alum love.

A shot or two more buzzed, our posse of twelve descended on Bluegrass Tavern. Exponential growth had sprouted up all over down town. Tavern, a hole in the wall when I was a student, was apparently the place to be now. Sandwiched between two new bars it was a mass of humanity. All three spots shared a covered pavillion, also brand new. We flirted with some underage coeds and managed to run into lots of people we knew in from out of town. I became fast friends with the outdoor bartender, leaving him $5 tips every visit. He'd make my order and then poor two extra shots of Bullet Bourbon on the house. Cheers! Well you can imagine the state I was in after about three or four trips to see my new buddy. Six hours of day drinking to boot. I was in a bad way to say the least. A solid hour of my time there is erased from memory all together.

My senses came back briefly a few hours later at McCarthy's, a shoulder to shoulder Iris Pub affair up the street. Much to my dismay I'd lost track of all my friends upon entering. Checking my wad I realized being such a "sweet dude" before, buying everyone drinks and tipping vigorously, had left me a little short. Forty dollars worth of build your own six pack was also detrimental. I was down to $20 ... not even enough for the cab ride across town to where I was staying. No cash and no friends. Too drunk to work a phone properly. I did the only thing I could do and began hitting on anything with a vagina in hopes of finding a couch to sleep on at the very least. After some foggy conversation a pretty blond (premed or something half-way intelligent) bought me a Irish Car Bomb. Fade to black out.

I woke up in a patio chair. It was 5 a.m. A vibration in my pocket. Ten missed calls. I'd deal with it tomorrow. There was a group of us sitting around the fire pit in Hojo's backyard smoking dope. Apparently someone from our group had found me. Thank God. Who knows what kind of swamp donkey I might have shacked up with if left to my own devices.

"He lives!," Brian said with a giggle. "Man, you were wasted! We found you in McCarthy's talking to some chick. You were so excited to see us you stumbled backwards and knocked a few pictures off the wall. The girl started laughing so you grabbed her hat and took off. We had to chase after you to get it back. She was pissed!" The last thing I remembered was the Car Bomb. The rest was news to me but I didn't doubt any of it even for a second. By this point not much was going on and I was tired of being the punch-line . Embarrassed by my actions, I said au diue and went to bed. The night had lived far too long and Saturday promised to start earlier and push on even further.


-J.R.

Just For Fun ...

***Note: This is response to a friend and fellow Blogger's recent post Dwindler's Lists. You can check out the original that spawned my imitation at her blog Junk on the Train.

If you read her post first it will probably make more sense. The girl is hilarious, I highly recommend you follow her. Enjoy and feel free to leave comments or your very own Dwindler's Lists.



Things I'm currently into ...


1.) Corn Beef Hash: a delicious, old school breakfast that's easy to make.

2.) Bands: Metric, The Black Keys, Cee Lo Green, and Oasis. Those guys broke up and nobody said shit about it. They fucking rock.

3.) COD Black Ops: That's Call Of Duty for all the non-video game nerds out there. What can I say, making little kids cry online is hilarious.

4.) Using matches instead of lighters. I'm cheap and no one ever steals matches.

5.) Junior's Taco Truck: $3 for an authentic Mexican meal on wheels.

6.) The Goon: Coolest/funniest comic book ever

7.) Hot Apple Cider and Captain Mo. Warming, delicious, drunk.

8.) The Walking Dead: Basically a never ending zombie movie, best show on T.V.

9.) Hot Sauce on everything.

10.) Sleeping in till noon whenever possible.

11). T.S. Eliot

12.) Instant movie streaming via Netflix .


Stuff that's Lame (i.e. I am NOT into it) ...


1.) PBR: Call it Pabst, call it Blue Ribbon or even Pibbers, it's still just shitty/cheap beer. It's fucking gross and it gives me heart-burn.

2.) Bill Collectors: Seriously, stop leaving voice mails. Like I'll call you back ... ever.

3.) People waxing $60 an eighth: Going rate in my town for good stuff is $50. You live here, you know this. Stop being a greedy asshole. I know you smoke for free.

4.) Liver and Onions: Nastiest "food" ever.

5.) Having to Number 2 at the bar: I usually just leave and hope I make it home in time.

6.) Girls texting at 5 a.m. when I'm asleep and then not responding the next day when I try back. There's only one reason to call somebody that late, we can make it happen, stop being retarded.

7.) Adult Braces: Pathetic. Should have got the boob job or hair plugs. You made it this far with fucked up teeth, why waste your money? You'll be dead soon anyway.

8.) Driving a Mustang in snow (aka The Death Sled)

9.) Shitty, old apartment windows that still let the heat out after being covered in plastic that you wasted fucking money on.

10.) Anything Christmas before Thanksgiving: It's real simple. No trees, music, Santas, wreaths, lights, commercials, ect, ect until after the turkey is all gone. Thanks Capitalism. Way to ruin the one good thing most Christians have going for them.

Hope you enjoyed, it was quite fun. Try it yourself. Ranting is encouraged.


-J.R.