Derby 132: Part I
The delay in this post can be explained by my sudden call to represent the side of justice in the "Big Sky" country of Montana. It was absolutely beautiful, but I digress.
Derby 132 was a unique beast--the first Derby without Bo Plummer. His presence was missed, especially his brand of level-headedness that always seems to win the day with our rambunctious group. Whether it be taking one for the team as the sober driver, or making the beer run when the last cup is flipped and rest of the group is too canned to find the grocery store, Bo was ever reliable as the rock upon which Derby weekends usually were built.
But he was watching from the sidelines in Seattle for this one. So Tony, Joey and Kate were called off the bench to start in his place as "Responsible Leaders" this weekend. And believe you me, it took all three of us to pull this off.
Friday night started great for most of the group out at Tony's farmhouse. Everyone arrived on time except (ironically) the two people who had to travel the least distance. Joey and Kate were delayed by a jacknifed semi-truck hauling pond scum, of all things, and thus got a very late jump getting out of Nashville.
By the time we arrived in L'ville, the group was well on their way to self-saucing themselves out of safe-driver status, mostly through the introduction of a bottle of Jack Daniels brought by Kevin, I came to understand later. Tony had grand plans for heading to 4th Street Live, the urban social experiement launched by the city a few years back, which strived to answer the question: "What happens when you encase 1500 people and 6 bars inside of a geodesic dome over a 4 square-block radius?" The answer: chaos. Especially on Derby weekend. A call from a friend notified Tony that due to the overwhelming surge of sweaty humanity, 4th Street was a no-go. Undeterred, we struck out for Bardstown Road on the other end of L'ville.
Because we were the late-comers (and because we weren't nine sheets to the wind), Kate and I sucked it up and designated ourselves as the DD's that evening. Most of the spill-off from 4th Street had already arrived at Bardstown Road by the time we parked. Ended up at some Irish bar, which by definition was absolutely not and Irish pub, owing mostly to the presence of a dance floor and the fact that they served pizza, not fish and chips. Not to mention that they sold Bud Light and Miller Light in strange metal containers that Kate astutely observed resembled Vidal Sassoon hairspray canisters. Mortal sin.
To our disappointment, the night was only mildly amusing. It would have been more so, except the group spent alot of time protecting Kevin from the rest of the crowd (or was it the otherway around?). By the time Kate and I got to the farmhouse, Kevin had already consumed and unfortunate combination of 2/3 a bottle of Jack and copious amounts of pain-killers, which were meant to treat his thrown-out back. This whiskey/percacet cocktail rendered Kevin somewhat reckless and uncontrollable. The "Heads-Up" technique Kevin employed to much amusement at St. Patrick's Day in Atlanta made an encore appearance in the Irish Bar. Only this time it was amplified and indiscriminate. I think Kevin actually "heads-upped" a female bartender who was carrying nine full beer mugs.
She didn't threaten to kick his a$$, but the rest of the frat-boy population who were receipients of the chest-thump from Mr. Shannon appeared ready to throw down. So after only about an hour and a half, Kate and I announced we were taking the first load of partygoers back to the farmhouse. We ended the night playing 3-handed A$$hole with Tony's brother, Andy, whilst chowing down on a bevy of salted snacks. This would be the first Derby that I didn't wake-up for in a complete haze.
Next time: Derby Day and pictures (w/commentary)
Derby 132 was a unique beast--the first Derby without Bo Plummer. His presence was missed, especially his brand of level-headedness that always seems to win the day with our rambunctious group. Whether it be taking one for the team as the sober driver, or making the beer run when the last cup is flipped and rest of the group is too canned to find the grocery store, Bo was ever reliable as the rock upon which Derby weekends usually were built.
But he was watching from the sidelines in Seattle for this one. So Tony, Joey and Kate were called off the bench to start in his place as "Responsible Leaders" this weekend. And believe you me, it took all three of us to pull this off.
Friday night started great for most of the group out at Tony's farmhouse. Everyone arrived on time except (ironically) the two people who had to travel the least distance. Joey and Kate were delayed by a jacknifed semi-truck hauling pond scum, of all things, and thus got a very late jump getting out of Nashville.
By the time we arrived in L'ville, the group was well on their way to self-saucing themselves out of safe-driver status, mostly through the introduction of a bottle of Jack Daniels brought by Kevin, I came to understand later. Tony had grand plans for heading to 4th Street Live, the urban social experiement launched by the city a few years back, which strived to answer the question: "What happens when you encase 1500 people and 6 bars inside of a geodesic dome over a 4 square-block radius?" The answer: chaos. Especially on Derby weekend. A call from a friend notified Tony that due to the overwhelming surge of sweaty humanity, 4th Street was a no-go. Undeterred, we struck out for Bardstown Road on the other end of L'ville.
Because we were the late-comers (and because we weren't nine sheets to the wind), Kate and I sucked it up and designated ourselves as the DD's that evening. Most of the spill-off from 4th Street had already arrived at Bardstown Road by the time we parked. Ended up at some Irish bar, which by definition was absolutely not and Irish pub, owing mostly to the presence of a dance floor and the fact that they served pizza, not fish and chips. Not to mention that they sold Bud Light and Miller Light in strange metal containers that Kate astutely observed resembled Vidal Sassoon hairspray canisters. Mortal sin.
To our disappointment, the night was only mildly amusing. It would have been more so, except the group spent alot of time protecting Kevin from the rest of the crowd (or was it the otherway around?). By the time Kate and I got to the farmhouse, Kevin had already consumed and unfortunate combination of 2/3 a bottle of Jack and copious amounts of pain-killers, which were meant to treat his thrown-out back. This whiskey/percacet cocktail rendered Kevin somewhat reckless and uncontrollable. The "Heads-Up" technique Kevin employed to much amusement at St. Patrick's Day in Atlanta made an encore appearance in the Irish Bar. Only this time it was amplified and indiscriminate. I think Kevin actually "heads-upped" a female bartender who was carrying nine full beer mugs.
She didn't threaten to kick his a$$, but the rest of the frat-boy population who were receipients of the chest-thump from Mr. Shannon appeared ready to throw down. So after only about an hour and a half, Kate and I announced we were taking the first load of partygoers back to the farmhouse. We ended the night playing 3-handed A$$hole with Tony's brother, Andy, whilst chowing down on a bevy of salted snacks. This would be the first Derby that I didn't wake-up for in a complete haze.
Next time: Derby Day and pictures (w/commentary)
tale spun by Cherith Cutestory at 8:25 AM
1 Comments:
Please tell me you weren't really drinking Tennessee piss water in The Ville on DERBY weekend. Couldn't anybody find you a nice bottle of Maker's, or Knob Creek, or Woodford, or even Beam, for God's sake?
Oh yeah, and it's "The Ville", your gayness, not "L'Ville".
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