I had lunch with an old friend from work last week. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, and I was surprised when our conversation lacked its normal fervor.
Twenty minutes into lunch the news surfaced: his girlfriend of fourteen months had recently opted to exit stage left. One day everything was coming up roses. The next day she was taking a hack-saw to the vine.
What are you gonna do.
His state of affairs reminded me of the scene in When Harry Met Sally when Harry (Billy Crystal) tells his best friend Jess (Bruno Kirby) how he found out that his wife was leaving him.
Harry: So I go to the door, and there were moving men there. Now I start to get suspicious. I say, "Helen when did you call these movers?", and she doesn't say anything. So I asked the movers, "When did this woman book you for this gig?" And they're just standing there. Three huge guys, one of them wearing a T-shirt that says, "Don't fuck with Mr. Zero." So I said, "Helen, when did you make this arrangement?" She says, "A week ago." I said, "You've known for a week and you didn't tell me?" And she says, "I didn't want to ruin your birthday."
Jess: You're saying Mr. Zero knew you were getting a divorce a week before you did?
Harry: Mr. Zero knew.
When it comes to relationships, we think we know what’s going on. In truth, Mr. Zero might be the one with the insider information.
Still, my take on the hack-saw chronicles is probably different than most. Generally, when it comes to relationships, I’ve got the sexes pegged as an optimistic "give someone a chance" lot. The bad news: sometimes optimism is an intermediate stepping stone to personal deconstruction.
Take my friend for example.
I’m confident (to the tune of 100%) that his old girlfriend likes him. I’m also convinced she enjoyed dating him. Still, for the vast majority of their relationship she was concealing a critical piece of information: she was having trouble equating him with forever. She probably liked that idea in theory, but at the same time knew it wasn’t a likely eventuality.
This happens all the time. Unless mutual love is prancing around the hills, Sound of Music style, there’s normally an unspoken, tendered agreement to avoid the subject of love.
I’ve even utilized this tactic.
A few years back I was dating a beautiful, engaging woman. I thoroughly enjoyed dating her. I just didn’t know if I would ever love her. But she was beautiful and 10,000% more likable than most of the women meandering Chicago’s streets. Also, inexplicably, she seemed to like me (shouldn’t be undervalued). So I kept dating her. I might still be dating her except in this type of scenario one of two things always happens.
Either 1) the person patiently waiting for love in the Alps will arrive at their breaking point and ask for a relationship forecast (exactly what happened with me -- over dinner one night she abruptly asked for a barometric reading) or 2) the person who is hesitant to commit will meet someone else and move on.
Both of these scenarios “es no good” if you’re on the short end.
More bad news: I don’t see any way around this pothole. It’s important to stick your next out there. It’s also important to be whole-hearted in doing so. And yet there’s always the chance that you’ll spend next Christmas, not with your special someone, but alone with Billy Bob Thornton: slugging back whiskey and filling in for Bad Santa.
I’m not about to pretend to have the answers. The magazines in grocery aisle eight would advocate for an overdose of feelings (nothing more than feelings). Unfortunately, in the real world, that’s about as easy as going to McDonald’s and ordering a salad.
Each member of the relationship knows what’s at stake. Man and woman also know that having extra time for single friends, like the beer-guzzling artist formerly known as Otter, is big-time overrated. Some relationships continue past their expiration date solely to avoid that quandary (singleness). Others get stuck in the not-so-magical year of wishful thinking.
Either way, eventually reality will surface. And the cinematic version is occasionally correct: reality bites.
But here’s the silver lining: if you are lucky enough to stumble upon your counterpoint -- an undisputed love and best friend wrapped into one -- the reward has to be immense. Immense in the muy, muy grande (we goin' to Sizzler) sense of the word.
So let’s hope “immense” stumbles onto everyone we know sometime soon, if it hasn’t already. We all deserve a companion for life's ballyhoo and lazy Sundays.
Besides, my couch is Ottered out.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Boo-Boo Breff & The 500
My Memorial Day weekend plans were a little fuzzy at the onset. A guy without a plan doesn’t normally take home any cake. By Sunday night I'd seen a Rampage and been to the Indy 500. A large number of Budweiser Heavies were also consumed.
Another ringing endorsement for last minute road trips.
I decided to mosey to Indianapolis on Saturday afternoon. My good friends Matt and Dan Burns were back in town for their sister’s engagement party. When an extra ticket to the race turned up Sunday morning, my stay turned into a weekend affair.
The engagement party was a great way to kick-off the long weekend. When two energetic, genuine people are getting married, everyone benefits through association. You can’t help but enjoy their positive energy. Such was the case Saturday night.
Plus, upbeat parties can effortlessly segue in virtually any direction as they wind down. Our directive was a pay-per-view event: the latest Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC).
For anyone who hasn’t seen UFC, think of it as WWF meets Roman Gladiator. It’s a no holds barred match which combines boxing, kick-boxing, and body slams (sans gloves or protective gear) between two contestants. A fighter wins when the other is pinned down, on the verge of unconsciousness, or can’t defend himself.
It’s as primal a legal exhibition as you will ever see.
The main bout on Saturday featured UFC’s most emblematic star, Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell versus Quenton “Rampage” Jackson. Liddell’s nickname might conjure memories of naval aviators, but one look at his buzzed mohawk and you'd now the Octagon (the UFC’s fighting ring), not an aircraft carrier, is his rightful home.
The actual fight lasted less than two minutes. Jackson landed a hard right hook, and for the first time in nearly four years, Liddell stumbled to the mat. The MGM Grand came to its feet (notable attendees included Andre Agassi, Steffi Graf, and Mandy Moore) as Rampage pounced on the fallen Liddell, repeatedly landing shots to the head. By the time Liddell snapped to, the fight was over.
It was a short-lived affair. Fortunately, the UFC is only partially about the Octagon. It’s as much spectacle as sport; the personalities make the stage. And in that department there's no equal to Quinton “Rampage” Jackson. He is a category unto himself, emitting anticipation.
Note a few of Jackson’s previous Q & As with the media:
Interviewer: What do you see as the future outcome of this fight?
Jackson: Man I ain't got no crystal ball, I just got two balls, know what I'm sayin?
Interviewer: Where do you see yourself in 2 years?
Jackson: Right now I’m 23, so in 2 years I see myself at 25.
Quinton Jackson: man, myth, and microphone magnet. Better still, Rampage saved his best one-liner for the UFC’s brightest lights, uttering these words after beating Liddell on Saturday: “for all the people that boo me....add another boo to that....that's what your breff smell like: boo-boo.”
Boo-boo breff: redonkulously fantastical.
I have no idea how long it took Jackson to think that one up. It's already paying dividends: our motley crew admiringly recycled the quote a hundred times throughout the weekend. If the UFC is smart, boo-boo bumper stickers will be available online any day.
After dreaming about future Rampage press conferences, I woke up to rainy skies on Sunday. Fortunately, by mid-morning there was hope for racing at the Speedway.
Some racing enthusiasts will argue the Indy 500 has lots its luster since IRL and CART split just over a decade ago. Maybe it has, and I just don’t know any better, but I don’t see it. The 500 isn’t Tony George or the IRL; it’s an American ideal and a tradition that supersedes any one individual or racing team.
In a nation of iconic sporting events, the Indy 500 might be the most representatively American. The 500 draws in every income bracket and demographic. It also attracts veteran race fans & one-and-done visitors who want to see the pageantry. It's not a coincidence they call it the greatest spectacle in racing.
The 500 is part of our national DNA.
Plus, Indianapolis is one of those authentic “what you see is what you get” Midwestern cities. It’s not trying to be a museum town or a nature preserve. It simply oozes Middle America. Billboards adorn local personalities and the Holiday Inn comes with an overseas children's fun park (Caribbean Cove). Indy is rural, urban, and entirely Midwest. It’s also the perfect locale to host a 500-mile tour de speed.
Highlight reels from the 500 always focus on wrecks and bottles of milk, but the 500 has always been about speed. The engineers set out to build durable, safe race cars that can handle every turn and track angle, but above all else, they build cars capable of going as fast as humanly possible. It’s a super-sized American challenge.
Nowadays, it takes the drivers a meager forty-one seconds to cover the two-and-a-half mile oval (approx. 225 mph). As a spectator, your neck hurts by lap 50 if you choose to follow the drivers through the turns. You either focus your line of sight on a specific section of track or start popping Advil.
Our day at the Speedway was cut short. The clouds opened up around lap 100 and dampened the festivities (which by that juncture we’d taken to the infield for sight seeing). A four-hour break in the action ensued. By the time they went racing again, our clan was back at the casa drinking Bud Heavies & lighting the grill.
When all was said and done, Dario Franchitti’s timing got him to victory lane. He guessed right on fuel mileage and a second downpour. His face will now adorn the famous Borg-Warner trophy alongside racing legends like A.J. Foyt, Al Unser, and Rick Mears: all four-time champions.
In truth, I didn’t mind missing the checkered flag. From my vantage point the winner of The 500 is of secondary importance. The focal point is the race itself.
The 500 puts America on display and showcases our over-performing, entrepreneurial engine. Every time the aerodynamic, microscopically chiseled Indy cars reach speeds of 220+ mph, it’s a memorial to the American way.
How appropriate that racing's greatest spectacle is hosted in Speedway, Indiana: a town that wears its pride 365 days a year.
If you’ve never spent a Memorial Day weekend in Speedway, you should circle the ‘08 calendar now. Rent an RV with friends, resurrect collegiate t-shirts with juvenile slogans, stock up on Budweiser, and take your place alongside America.
When the Hulman family greets you and 300,000 of your closest friends with “Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines,” you won’t be disappointed you made the trek.
Another ringing endorsement for last minute road trips.
I decided to mosey to Indianapolis on Saturday afternoon. My good friends Matt and Dan Burns were back in town for their sister’s engagement party. When an extra ticket to the race turned up Sunday morning, my stay turned into a weekend affair.
The engagement party was a great way to kick-off the long weekend. When two energetic, genuine people are getting married, everyone benefits through association. You can’t help but enjoy their positive energy. Such was the case Saturday night.
Plus, upbeat parties can effortlessly segue in virtually any direction as they wind down. Our directive was a pay-per-view event: the latest Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC).
For anyone who hasn’t seen UFC, think of it as WWF meets Roman Gladiator. It’s a no holds barred match which combines boxing, kick-boxing, and body slams (sans gloves or protective gear) between two contestants. A fighter wins when the other is pinned down, on the verge of unconsciousness, or can’t defend himself.
It’s as primal a legal exhibition as you will ever see.
The main bout on Saturday featured UFC’s most emblematic star, Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell versus Quenton “Rampage” Jackson. Liddell’s nickname might conjure memories of naval aviators, but one look at his buzzed mohawk and you'd now the Octagon (the UFC’s fighting ring), not an aircraft carrier, is his rightful home.
The actual fight lasted less than two minutes. Jackson landed a hard right hook, and for the first time in nearly four years, Liddell stumbled to the mat. The MGM Grand came to its feet (notable attendees included Andre Agassi, Steffi Graf, and Mandy Moore) as Rampage pounced on the fallen Liddell, repeatedly landing shots to the head. By the time Liddell snapped to, the fight was over.
It was a short-lived affair. Fortunately, the UFC is only partially about the Octagon. It’s as much spectacle as sport; the personalities make the stage. And in that department there's no equal to Quinton “Rampage” Jackson. He is a category unto himself, emitting anticipation.
Note a few of Jackson’s previous Q & As with the media:
Interviewer: What do you see as the future outcome of this fight?
Jackson: Man I ain't got no crystal ball, I just got two balls, know what I'm sayin?
Interviewer: Where do you see yourself in 2 years?
Jackson: Right now I’m 23, so in 2 years I see myself at 25.
Quinton Jackson: man, myth, and microphone magnet. Better still, Rampage saved his best one-liner for the UFC’s brightest lights, uttering these words after beating Liddell on Saturday: “for all the people that boo me....add another boo to that....that's what your breff smell like: boo-boo.”
Boo-boo breff: redonkulously fantastical.
I have no idea how long it took Jackson to think that one up. It's already paying dividends: our motley crew admiringly recycled the quote a hundred times throughout the weekend. If the UFC is smart, boo-boo bumper stickers will be available online any day.
After dreaming about future Rampage press conferences, I woke up to rainy skies on Sunday. Fortunately, by mid-morning there was hope for racing at the Speedway.
Some racing enthusiasts will argue the Indy 500 has lots its luster since IRL and CART split just over a decade ago. Maybe it has, and I just don’t know any better, but I don’t see it. The 500 isn’t Tony George or the IRL; it’s an American ideal and a tradition that supersedes any one individual or racing team.
In a nation of iconic sporting events, the Indy 500 might be the most representatively American. The 500 draws in every income bracket and demographic. It also attracts veteran race fans & one-and-done visitors who want to see the pageantry. It's not a coincidence they call it the greatest spectacle in racing.
The 500 is part of our national DNA.
Plus, Indianapolis is one of those authentic “what you see is what you get” Midwestern cities. It’s not trying to be a museum town or a nature preserve. It simply oozes Middle America. Billboards adorn local personalities and the Holiday Inn comes with an overseas children's fun park (Caribbean Cove). Indy is rural, urban, and entirely Midwest. It’s also the perfect locale to host a 500-mile tour de speed.
Highlight reels from the 500 always focus on wrecks and bottles of milk, but the 500 has always been about speed. The engineers set out to build durable, safe race cars that can handle every turn and track angle, but above all else, they build cars capable of going as fast as humanly possible. It’s a super-sized American challenge.
Nowadays, it takes the drivers a meager forty-one seconds to cover the two-and-a-half mile oval (approx. 225 mph). As a spectator, your neck hurts by lap 50 if you choose to follow the drivers through the turns. You either focus your line of sight on a specific section of track or start popping Advil.
Our day at the Speedway was cut short. The clouds opened up around lap 100 and dampened the festivities (which by that juncture we’d taken to the infield for sight seeing). A four-hour break in the action ensued. By the time they went racing again, our clan was back at the casa drinking Bud Heavies & lighting the grill.
When all was said and done, Dario Franchitti’s timing got him to victory lane. He guessed right on fuel mileage and a second downpour. His face will now adorn the famous Borg-Warner trophy alongside racing legends like A.J. Foyt, Al Unser, and Rick Mears: all four-time champions.
In truth, I didn’t mind missing the checkered flag. From my vantage point the winner of The 500 is of secondary importance. The focal point is the race itself.
The 500 puts America on display and showcases our over-performing, entrepreneurial engine. Every time the aerodynamic, microscopically chiseled Indy cars reach speeds of 220+ mph, it’s a memorial to the American way.
How appropriate that racing's greatest spectacle is hosted in Speedway, Indiana: a town that wears its pride 365 days a year.
If you’ve never spent a Memorial Day weekend in Speedway, you should circle the ‘08 calendar now. Rent an RV with friends, resurrect collegiate t-shirts with juvenile slogans, stock up on Budweiser, and take your place alongside America.
When the Hulman family greets you and 300,000 of your closest friends with “Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines,” you won’t be disappointed you made the trek.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
In Vino Veritas.....
Occasionally, logic is on the short end of life’s stick. It’s neither a good nor a bad reality. Intermittently, logic merely gets trumped by that crazy, go-lucky chieftain we call “luck.”
Luck intervenes without rhyme or reason, often times when you least expect it. A favorite CD resurfaces after years in hiding. A sale on airfare coincides with a needed respite from work. A prospective boss thinks your rubbish is slightly less appalling than the last applicant.
This last reference describes the circumstances by which I became a waiter at Scholar’s Inn Wine Restaurant in Bloomington, Indiana during my final year of college. I arrived for the interview knowing one nugget of something about wine: that Shiraz was the same grape as Syrah. I was a one-trick pony and my thirty seconds were gonna be up in a hurry. Yet somehow, before the owner got to asking about my palate (which at the time I would have mistook for a dish in the kitchen), I buzzed-in with my Shiraz factoid and garnered a nodding smile. Thirty minutes later I held a corkscrew and a training schedule.
Inexplicably, I was in.
A decade and a globetrotting collection of wine later, my gratitude to Scholar’s Inn (and luck) is endless. The 80-bottle wine rack in my kitchen is evidentiary proof of my affinity for all things vine-related. Thankfully, my palate has managed to trickle northward over the years as well.
Wine has become the sister I never had. Ever-present. Disappointing at times. Never out of favor. And hers is an epic tale of monks and monarchs, plagues and peasants.
Homer's Odyssey and Iliad both contain detailed descriptions of wine, and the Greeks were thought to be avid consumers by 1600 B.C. Near the birth of Christ the Romans supposedly ordered far away territories to pull up their vines, so serious were they about protecting their own wine industry.
In latter day times, the French would have to be considered the most deeply rooted purveyors. Many French winemakers insist their terroir (a word synonymous with climate, soil, and topography) is superior and sets their wines apart. I view that as only partially true, if true at all. On the other hand, numerous Frenchmen have influenced the advancement of wine and are largely responsible for its quality and place in society today.
In my opinion the most important figure in wine’s mercurial history is the monk at the Abbey of Hautvillers, Dom Perignon. Contrary to popular belief, Perignon did not invent champagne. Rather, champagne invented itself.
In colder winemaking regions, like Champagne, the fermentation process stops during the winter before the grape’s sugar can entirely convert into alcohol and carbonic gas. It resumes the process in the spring, resulting in more alcohol and carbonic gas (the latter comes to the surface as bubbles). In Perignon’s day winemaker’s would have given anything to make the bubbles stop: infinitely unpredictable and costly. Bottles would often explode in the springtime from over-fermentation.
Dom Perignon did propel winemaking forward in other, permanent ways. Perignon decided he would only use superior grapes in his wine, knowing it meant less production. Perignon was also religious about pruning the vines in the spring, and he only harvested grapes in the cool of the morning. Thanks to Perignon, the Abbey was also one of the first vineyards to adopt corks as opposed to wooden pegs, which were noticeably inferior.
Finally, the Monk at Hautvillers exhibited a master craftsmanship when it came to blending: taking grapes from different vineyards (and vintages) and blending them together to make the best wine possible. His keen understanding of the importance of blending is perhaps his greatest gift to every winemaker who followed.
At the time of Dom Perignon’s death there were no recordings of champagne in the Abbey. It wasn’t until the 1920s that the house of Moet et Chandon named their prestige cuvee after the renowned monk, forever linking Dom Perignon to champagne. Moet did so with hopes of marketing their prestige champagne to Hollywood and the nouveau riche overseas.
Suffice is to say they succeeded.
Beyond Dom Perignon, several French rulers played a vital part in wine's biography. The Sun King, Louis XIV, was fastidious and incessant about his love for champagne. Under the Sun King’s reign, champagne, for the first time, began to compete with the legendary houses of Burgundy. An ageless rivalry ensued.
Napoleon Bonaparte was a childhood friend of Jean-Remy Moet, the grandson of Claude Moet (the first winemaker who solely made champagne). Moet’s business grew during Napoleon’s reign, largely due to patronage from the Emperor. Napoleon frequently stopped by to see Jean-Remy after military battles, seeking champagne. The Emperor offered the following rationale, “In victory you deserve it, in defeat you need it.”
Wine has experienced its share of defeat as well. Phylloxera, a parasitic insect which attacks and kills the roots of vines, was prevalent in France during the late 1800s. By 1884, 2.5 million acres of France's vineyards had been destroyed and another 1.5 million were in the grip of the parasite.
Through a series of grafting experiments, phylloxera was finally bested in France around 1900, but it occasionally resurfaces even today. In Oregon, thirty and forty year-old vines are now being destroyed by the insect. Vines will have to uprooted and replanted, grafted to a resistant rootstock.
Two world wars have also threatened wine’s ascent. The First World War, which took the lives of 25% of French infantrymen between the ages of 18 – 25, brought casualties to wineries as well. German bombings destroyed much of the towns of Epernay and Reims, and with it their vineyards. Some never recovered. The deep caves of Champagne were converted from wine cellars to schools and sleeping quarters. The winemakers could only pray as the bombing overhead destroyed their beloved soil.
Thankfully, winemakers have fought on through war and parasitic threats, trumping every assault. If anything, the vine and its planter, grow more resilient with age.
For me, wine is about discovery. Every so often I will taste a wine and instantly now its being and its joy. An unrivaled sensation. Fortunately, technology has improved not only quality, but also consistency; the end-product now varies less from year to year. There are still great vintages and uninspiring vintages. More commonly, a vineyard will produce a similar result from one year to the next. Once you’ve been consumed by a vine, there’s often good reason to return to its roots.
From Malbec to Pinot Noir, Sauvignon Blanc to Chardonnay, I now have a grape for most occasions. For summer evenings on the patio and winter nights reading in bed, I’ve found wines that resonate with my seasons and my moods. Better still, I know that next year I will have an affinity for new grapes, which will bring new associations.
The wine industry expands with zeal and vigor with every passing hour. Exciting vineyards offering affordable wines are sprouting up in every corner of the globe. Wines from New Zealand, South Africa, Argentina, New York, and China (yes, China) will be in your grocery store before long, if they’re not already. Wine enthusiasts everywhere are the benefactors.
With a world of options to choose from, I must be an old soul. I'm still devoted to those pesky bubbles. Nine times out of ten I’m drinking something else, but the bottles which sparkle are my grand dame. I side with the Oscar Wilde who said, “Only the unimaginative can find reason not to drink champagne.”
Touché.
As the Memorial Day weekend nears and the summer Bar-B-Q season begins, I wanted to share some of my favorite wines. I hope you will enjoy these and send me your favorites in return, whether they lead to truth, or merely another glass.
All of these will be under $20 and are intended as summer fare. Most are available at Sam’s Wine in Chicago. Hopefully other retailers around the country are stocking these vineyards as well.
Aurelo Cabestrero 1 + 1 = 3, Brut (my favorite cava)
Domaine Ste. Michelle, Brut (just put a bottle in my fridge)
Gloria Ferrer, Brut (flavorful and light, I never grow weary)
Vietti Cascinetta, Moscato d’Asti (perfect for any starry night)
Campbells (Rutherglen), Muscat (intense, amazing dessert wine)
Edna Valley, Chardonnay (a steal for $12, available everywhere)
Trevor Jones (Virgin), Chardonnay (a crisp, delicious wine)
Stone Paddock, Sauvignon Blanc (a new SB sensation)
Tohu, Sauvignon Blanc (the best $15 of your summer)
Elk Cove, Pinot Gris (tougher to find, worth the trouble)
Jaffurs, Viognier (A lesser known grape which rewards)
Boony Doon (Pacific Rim), Riesling (a sweet option, cool bottle)
Paul Hobbs (El Felino), Malbec (a red for meats from the grill)
Seghesio, Zinfandel (same as above, a spicier red)
Argyle, Pinot Noir (an Oregon staple, light enough for summer)
Editor's Note: much of the historical information cited in this entry comes from Don & Petie Kladstrup's wonderful book, Champagne: How the World's Most Glamorous Wine Triumphed Over War and Hard Times.
Luck intervenes without rhyme or reason, often times when you least expect it. A favorite CD resurfaces after years in hiding. A sale on airfare coincides with a needed respite from work. A prospective boss thinks your rubbish is slightly less appalling than the last applicant.
This last reference describes the circumstances by which I became a waiter at Scholar’s Inn Wine Restaurant in Bloomington, Indiana during my final year of college. I arrived for the interview knowing one nugget of something about wine: that Shiraz was the same grape as Syrah. I was a one-trick pony and my thirty seconds were gonna be up in a hurry. Yet somehow, before the owner got to asking about my palate (which at the time I would have mistook for a dish in the kitchen), I buzzed-in with my Shiraz factoid and garnered a nodding smile. Thirty minutes later I held a corkscrew and a training schedule.
Inexplicably, I was in.
A decade and a globetrotting collection of wine later, my gratitude to Scholar’s Inn (and luck) is endless. The 80-bottle wine rack in my kitchen is evidentiary proof of my affinity for all things vine-related. Thankfully, my palate has managed to trickle northward over the years as well.
Wine has become the sister I never had. Ever-present. Disappointing at times. Never out of favor. And hers is an epic tale of monks and monarchs, plagues and peasants.
Homer's Odyssey and Iliad both contain detailed descriptions of wine, and the Greeks were thought to be avid consumers by 1600 B.C. Near the birth of Christ the Romans supposedly ordered far away territories to pull up their vines, so serious were they about protecting their own wine industry.
In latter day times, the French would have to be considered the most deeply rooted purveyors. Many French winemakers insist their terroir (a word synonymous with climate, soil, and topography) is superior and sets their wines apart. I view that as only partially true, if true at all. On the other hand, numerous Frenchmen have influenced the advancement of wine and are largely responsible for its quality and place in society today.
In my opinion the most important figure in wine’s mercurial history is the monk at the Abbey of Hautvillers, Dom Perignon. Contrary to popular belief, Perignon did not invent champagne. Rather, champagne invented itself.
In colder winemaking regions, like Champagne, the fermentation process stops during the winter before the grape’s sugar can entirely convert into alcohol and carbonic gas. It resumes the process in the spring, resulting in more alcohol and carbonic gas (the latter comes to the surface as bubbles). In Perignon’s day winemaker’s would have given anything to make the bubbles stop: infinitely unpredictable and costly. Bottles would often explode in the springtime from over-fermentation.
Dom Perignon did propel winemaking forward in other, permanent ways. Perignon decided he would only use superior grapes in his wine, knowing it meant less production. Perignon was also religious about pruning the vines in the spring, and he only harvested grapes in the cool of the morning. Thanks to Perignon, the Abbey was also one of the first vineyards to adopt corks as opposed to wooden pegs, which were noticeably inferior.
Finally, the Monk at Hautvillers exhibited a master craftsmanship when it came to blending: taking grapes from different vineyards (and vintages) and blending them together to make the best wine possible. His keen understanding of the importance of blending is perhaps his greatest gift to every winemaker who followed.
At the time of Dom Perignon’s death there were no recordings of champagne in the Abbey. It wasn’t until the 1920s that the house of Moet et Chandon named their prestige cuvee after the renowned monk, forever linking Dom Perignon to champagne. Moet did so with hopes of marketing their prestige champagne to Hollywood and the nouveau riche overseas.
Suffice is to say they succeeded.
Beyond Dom Perignon, several French rulers played a vital part in wine's biography. The Sun King, Louis XIV, was fastidious and incessant about his love for champagne. Under the Sun King’s reign, champagne, for the first time, began to compete with the legendary houses of Burgundy. An ageless rivalry ensued.
Napoleon Bonaparte was a childhood friend of Jean-Remy Moet, the grandson of Claude Moet (the first winemaker who solely made champagne). Moet’s business grew during Napoleon’s reign, largely due to patronage from the Emperor. Napoleon frequently stopped by to see Jean-Remy after military battles, seeking champagne. The Emperor offered the following rationale, “In victory you deserve it, in defeat you need it.”
Wine has experienced its share of defeat as well. Phylloxera, a parasitic insect which attacks and kills the roots of vines, was prevalent in France during the late 1800s. By 1884, 2.5 million acres of France's vineyards had been destroyed and another 1.5 million were in the grip of the parasite.
Through a series of grafting experiments, phylloxera was finally bested in France around 1900, but it occasionally resurfaces even today. In Oregon, thirty and forty year-old vines are now being destroyed by the insect. Vines will have to uprooted and replanted, grafted to a resistant rootstock.
Two world wars have also threatened wine’s ascent. The First World War, which took the lives of 25% of French infantrymen between the ages of 18 – 25, brought casualties to wineries as well. German bombings destroyed much of the towns of Epernay and Reims, and with it their vineyards. Some never recovered. The deep caves of Champagne were converted from wine cellars to schools and sleeping quarters. The winemakers could only pray as the bombing overhead destroyed their beloved soil.
Thankfully, winemakers have fought on through war and parasitic threats, trumping every assault. If anything, the vine and its planter, grow more resilient with age.
For me, wine is about discovery. Every so often I will taste a wine and instantly now its being and its joy. An unrivaled sensation. Fortunately, technology has improved not only quality, but also consistency; the end-product now varies less from year to year. There are still great vintages and uninspiring vintages. More commonly, a vineyard will produce a similar result from one year to the next. Once you’ve been consumed by a vine, there’s often good reason to return to its roots.
From Malbec to Pinot Noir, Sauvignon Blanc to Chardonnay, I now have a grape for most occasions. For summer evenings on the patio and winter nights reading in bed, I’ve found wines that resonate with my seasons and my moods. Better still, I know that next year I will have an affinity for new grapes, which will bring new associations.
The wine industry expands with zeal and vigor with every passing hour. Exciting vineyards offering affordable wines are sprouting up in every corner of the globe. Wines from New Zealand, South Africa, Argentina, New York, and China (yes, China) will be in your grocery store before long, if they’re not already. Wine enthusiasts everywhere are the benefactors.
With a world of options to choose from, I must be an old soul. I'm still devoted to those pesky bubbles. Nine times out of ten I’m drinking something else, but the bottles which sparkle are my grand dame. I side with the Oscar Wilde who said, “Only the unimaginative can find reason not to drink champagne.”
Touché.
As the Memorial Day weekend nears and the summer Bar-B-Q season begins, I wanted to share some of my favorite wines. I hope you will enjoy these and send me your favorites in return, whether they lead to truth, or merely another glass.
All of these will be under $20 and are intended as summer fare. Most are available at Sam’s Wine in Chicago. Hopefully other retailers around the country are stocking these vineyards as well.
Aurelo Cabestrero 1 + 1 = 3, Brut (my favorite cava)
Domaine Ste. Michelle, Brut (just put a bottle in my fridge)
Gloria Ferrer, Brut (flavorful and light, I never grow weary)
Vietti Cascinetta, Moscato d’Asti (perfect for any starry night)
Campbells (Rutherglen), Muscat (intense, amazing dessert wine)
Edna Valley, Chardonnay (a steal for $12, available everywhere)
Trevor Jones (Virgin), Chardonnay (a crisp, delicious wine)
Stone Paddock, Sauvignon Blanc (a new SB sensation)
Tohu, Sauvignon Blanc (the best $15 of your summer)
Elk Cove, Pinot Gris (tougher to find, worth the trouble)
Jaffurs, Viognier (A lesser known grape which rewards)
Boony Doon (Pacific Rim), Riesling (a sweet option, cool bottle)
Paul Hobbs (El Felino), Malbec (a red for meats from the grill)
Seghesio, Zinfandel (same as above, a spicier red)
Argyle, Pinot Noir (an Oregon staple, light enough for summer)
Editor's Note: much of the historical information cited in this entry comes from Don & Petie Kladstrup's wonderful book, Champagne: How the World's Most Glamorous Wine Triumphed Over War and Hard Times.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
$13 Haircuts.....
Nobody wants to be considered a tight wad. It’s up there with “dweeb” on the list of “avoid at all costs” designations.
For the most part I’m neither frugal nor freewheeling. I shell out a few extra bucks for some purchases (wine), while seeking everyday low prices for others (groceries, household necessities, air travel). I rarely get held down in one price range.
Still, I will admit to being a “ceiling” shopper at times. There are some expenses -– shoes, rounds of golf, stone birdbaths -- which come with an upper threshold in my mind. For example, I wouldn’t want to pay more than $20 for a haircut.
I think that’s a fair price for a trim. I’m not looking for an hour-long expose. No need for excess product either. Get me in. Get me out. Charge me $20 or under. Everyone goes home in a limousine.
The $20 trim had a 100% success rate for my first 29+ years on the planet. I even had an agreeable option in Chicago thanks to Atanas’ skills and his $13 price tag. There was no reason to think life would ever be any different.
Then, last Thursday, the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.
A business colleague once told me that all companies are essentially competing on three variables: quality, price, and service. He said that well-performing companies deliver on two of the three (ex: a company offers a quality product and a high level of service; it therefore charges more because it doesn’t need to compete on price). A correlated reality is that most companies willingly ignore at least one variable.
Last week it became painfully clear to me how important that missing variable can be.
I arrived for my appointment with Atanas last Thursday promptly at 4:00 pm. Promptness is not typically part of my regime. I consort more regularly with promptness’ older brother, uber tardy. In other words, that day was an anomaly. It was also the wrong day for a regime change.
My haircut began at 5:34 pm: ninety-four minutes after I arrived.
I hate waiting. I hate it to the nth power. Readers who know me are currently sporting a shit-eating grin. Readers who don’t should accept the following as sworn testimony: I could have separated dangerous isotopes with my bare hands last Thursday. If the Iranians had been strolling around Lincoln Park looking for enriched uranium, they could have stopped by the Cuttery and picked up enough to flatten Jupiter. I was fisioning off appreciable amounts of U-235 by the nanosecond.
But here’s where the rubber meets the $13 road.
No one in the Cuttery -- not the person answering the phones, not Atanas, not a manager, not the Vidal Sassoon delivery man – ever mentioned why I was waiting or when my haircut would begin. As I revisit this reality now, a week later, I’m going to simultaneously put on my protective, radioactive suit for everyone’s benefit. I can feel my thermal neutrons starting to get a little antsy.
Seventy-five minutes into my wait I began to arm my warheads. About the same time time I'm pretty sure the salon manager called her supervisor and asked for permission to take the Cuttery to DEFCON 1, while concurrently advising all store workers to avoid me. Any manager (insert your favorite mammal with a pulse) could have sensed that all communiqué which didn’t immediately place me in Atanas’ chair might have resulted in the loss of life. I’m absolutely certain my molten stare was that intense.
Finally, around 5:30 pm, two eastern European girls emerged from behind the iron curtain alongside Atanas. The two girls were laughing and mumbling in an indecipherable tongue. Said another way: unacceptable behavior. There was a firm cessation of in-store pleasure at 5:15 pm (coinciding with the arming of warheads).
In that instant, I needed a Rosetta Stone which could transcribe thoughts in passing. The girls could have looked at me, looked at the Stone for a translation, and then bolted from the salon in a petrified state after reading: “You are dying from radioactive exposure. I am the culprit. Ha, ha, ha. ”
In truth, it wasn’t their fault. Then again, when Han Solo was put in carbonite to test the freezing chamber for Luke Skywalker, it wasn’t his fault either. Sometimes a bystander has to take the fall, even if it means a one-way ticket to see Jabba the Hut.
Luckily for the girls, I turned my wrath towards Atanas instead.
Atanas sensed my approaching cyclone. He wisely began by apologizing. A good start, but then he fumbled in an enormous and irrecoverable way. He tried to justify the circumstances by saying, “What could I do? The two girls come in together and both want blow-dry.”
What could he do?!?!? I sat there for ninety-four minutes with an appointment and now I’m being greeted by a flummoxed shrug of the shoulders and a putrid, deterministic rationale. What could he do?!?!?!
At this point I put in a call to the Iranians to unload some uranium (the Ayatollah is #4 in my Fab Five); I had enough stockpiled for two planetary erasures. I then offered a few suggestions to Atanas -- suggestions that could have made my previous ninety-four minutes less nuclear. It was a triple forte performance with little room for misinterpretation (imagine me as a conductor with a caveman club serving as my baton, demanding more bravado from the orchestra during the finale to Carmina Burana).
I’m pretty sure he got the picture.
After my rant I took a deep breath and then summoned all the Zen powers in the universe. I knew there was a chance that my “normal” haircut could end up looking like a mohawk if I went too far with my diatribe. Not loving that prospect, I decided to change direction and meander towards a nicer shade of me.
In hindsight, after my movie-length wait, I should have gotten my money’s worth and asked for a crew cut. That would have been a funny end to a miserable story. Instead, I requested my normal shavings with instructions to leave a little extra in back with hopes of negating comparisons to Beaver Cleaver.
Needless to say, my tip was on the low side.
In actuality, my astounding wait was a collective breakdown. The girl working the desk making three kernels an hour didn’t care how long I waited. The manager was probably coming from another shift, at another $13 salon, and therefore not focused on the “customers” upfront. Atanas never got the memo in his native Bulgaria, notifying him that Americanos like waiting about as much as we like alone time in a meat locker.
Everyone played a part (or more accurately, sat on their ass), but there’s another reality at play which needs to be underscored.
I forfeited my right to service before I walked in the door. I forfeited that right by agreeing to a $13 haircut. I was hoping to make up for the concession in other departments (namely, quality and price). This time around, I lost out.
As it happened, I was handed ninety-four minutes to ponder this macro issue, while living through it on the most micro of levels. I pondered every portion of the experience that could have been handled better. Every tactic I should use to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Every cent of the $13 which cemented my demise.
These are the thoughts that bind as you wait. Thoughts that spiral endlessly out of control. Thoughts that become enriched and more radioactive.
With every passing minute.
For the most part I’m neither frugal nor freewheeling. I shell out a few extra bucks for some purchases (wine), while seeking everyday low prices for others (groceries, household necessities, air travel). I rarely get held down in one price range.
Still, I will admit to being a “ceiling” shopper at times. There are some expenses -– shoes, rounds of golf, stone birdbaths -- which come with an upper threshold in my mind. For example, I wouldn’t want to pay more than $20 for a haircut.
I think that’s a fair price for a trim. I’m not looking for an hour-long expose. No need for excess product either. Get me in. Get me out. Charge me $20 or under. Everyone goes home in a limousine.
The $20 trim had a 100% success rate for my first 29+ years on the planet. I even had an agreeable option in Chicago thanks to Atanas’ skills and his $13 price tag. There was no reason to think life would ever be any different.
Then, last Thursday, the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.
A business colleague once told me that all companies are essentially competing on three variables: quality, price, and service. He said that well-performing companies deliver on two of the three (ex: a company offers a quality product and a high level of service; it therefore charges more because it doesn’t need to compete on price). A correlated reality is that most companies willingly ignore at least one variable.
Last week it became painfully clear to me how important that missing variable can be.
I arrived for my appointment with Atanas last Thursday promptly at 4:00 pm. Promptness is not typically part of my regime. I consort more regularly with promptness’ older brother, uber tardy. In other words, that day was an anomaly. It was also the wrong day for a regime change.
My haircut began at 5:34 pm: ninety-four minutes after I arrived.
I hate waiting. I hate it to the nth power. Readers who know me are currently sporting a shit-eating grin. Readers who don’t should accept the following as sworn testimony: I could have separated dangerous isotopes with my bare hands last Thursday. If the Iranians had been strolling around Lincoln Park looking for enriched uranium, they could have stopped by the Cuttery and picked up enough to flatten Jupiter. I was fisioning off appreciable amounts of U-235 by the nanosecond.
But here’s where the rubber meets the $13 road.
No one in the Cuttery -- not the person answering the phones, not Atanas, not a manager, not the Vidal Sassoon delivery man – ever mentioned why I was waiting or when my haircut would begin. As I revisit this reality now, a week later, I’m going to simultaneously put on my protective, radioactive suit for everyone’s benefit. I can feel my thermal neutrons starting to get a little antsy.
Seventy-five minutes into my wait I began to arm my warheads. About the same time time I'm pretty sure the salon manager called her supervisor and asked for permission to take the Cuttery to DEFCON 1, while concurrently advising all store workers to avoid me. Any manager (insert your favorite mammal with a pulse) could have sensed that all communiqué which didn’t immediately place me in Atanas’ chair might have resulted in the loss of life. I’m absolutely certain my molten stare was that intense.
Finally, around 5:30 pm, two eastern European girls emerged from behind the iron curtain alongside Atanas. The two girls were laughing and mumbling in an indecipherable tongue. Said another way: unacceptable behavior. There was a firm cessation of in-store pleasure at 5:15 pm (coinciding with the arming of warheads).
In that instant, I needed a Rosetta Stone which could transcribe thoughts in passing. The girls could have looked at me, looked at the Stone for a translation, and then bolted from the salon in a petrified state after reading: “You are dying from radioactive exposure. I am the culprit. Ha, ha, ha. ”
In truth, it wasn’t their fault. Then again, when Han Solo was put in carbonite to test the freezing chamber for Luke Skywalker, it wasn’t his fault either. Sometimes a bystander has to take the fall, even if it means a one-way ticket to see Jabba the Hut.
Luckily for the girls, I turned my wrath towards Atanas instead.
Atanas sensed my approaching cyclone. He wisely began by apologizing. A good start, but then he fumbled in an enormous and irrecoverable way. He tried to justify the circumstances by saying, “What could I do? The two girls come in together and both want blow-dry.”
What could he do?!?!? I sat there for ninety-four minutes with an appointment and now I’m being greeted by a flummoxed shrug of the shoulders and a putrid, deterministic rationale. What could he do?!?!?!
At this point I put in a call to the Iranians to unload some uranium (the Ayatollah is #4 in my Fab Five); I had enough stockpiled for two planetary erasures. I then offered a few suggestions to Atanas -- suggestions that could have made my previous ninety-four minutes less nuclear. It was a triple forte performance with little room for misinterpretation (imagine me as a conductor with a caveman club serving as my baton, demanding more bravado from the orchestra during the finale to Carmina Burana).
I’m pretty sure he got the picture.
After my rant I took a deep breath and then summoned all the Zen powers in the universe. I knew there was a chance that my “normal” haircut could end up looking like a mohawk if I went too far with my diatribe. Not loving that prospect, I decided to change direction and meander towards a nicer shade of me.
In hindsight, after my movie-length wait, I should have gotten my money’s worth and asked for a crew cut. That would have been a funny end to a miserable story. Instead, I requested my normal shavings with instructions to leave a little extra in back with hopes of negating comparisons to Beaver Cleaver.
Needless to say, my tip was on the low side.
In actuality, my astounding wait was a collective breakdown. The girl working the desk making three kernels an hour didn’t care how long I waited. The manager was probably coming from another shift, at another $13 salon, and therefore not focused on the “customers” upfront. Atanas never got the memo in his native Bulgaria, notifying him that Americanos like waiting about as much as we like alone time in a meat locker.
Everyone played a part (or more accurately, sat on their ass), but there’s another reality at play which needs to be underscored.
I forfeited my right to service before I walked in the door. I forfeited that right by agreeing to a $13 haircut. I was hoping to make up for the concession in other departments (namely, quality and price). This time around, I lost out.
As it happened, I was handed ninety-four minutes to ponder this macro issue, while living through it on the most micro of levels. I pondered every portion of the experience that could have been handled better. Every tactic I should use to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Every cent of the $13 which cemented my demise.
These are the thoughts that bind as you wait. Thoughts that spiral endlessly out of control. Thoughts that become enriched and more radioactive.
With every passing minute.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Show Me, Paint the Fence......
Ever feel like you’re going through life at a remarkably uncertain clip? I'm not talking about indifference or meandering without hope. Rather, a state of genuine doubt: unsure what your existence will add up to; what it is supposed to mean.
If so, maybe our paths have crossed in Uncertaintyville, USA.
I’m a relatively new resident. For the longest time life was fluidly ascending (at least in my mind’s eye). Sure, there were hiccups and noticeable disappointments. But idealism and his younger, less fashionable brother, naivety, still ruled the roost. Then, a few years ago, I started to lose a little altitude. Things weren’t falling into place.
And then things got worse. A lot worse.
A lost a chance with a woman I loved. My career went sideways. And I went the better part of 18 months without much sleep. My aircraft was suddenly in a flat-spin to sea. Only one redeemer could prevent a complete free-fall: the passage of time.
Thankfully, time came through in the clutch. Life kept ticking and life got better. An emergency ejection from the cockpit was averted. Then life went to Buenos Aires and got a lot better; don’t underestimate the value of some alone time in a foreign country (a destination with amicable, attractive residents strongly recommended).
Now my days are spent within a standard deviation or two of the mean. Life is enjoyable, and then it’s mediocre. It hardly ever dips below the Mendoza Line. All things considered, not at all bad.
On the other hand, when it comes to the big questions, I’m currently short on answers. I thought life was meant for one path; it seems it was not. Now I’m running in place, unsure how to reconnect with my sense of purpose. All the while knowing that time’s arrow keeps expanding ad infinitum.
As chance would have it, I was sitting on my arse last week pondering the future when The Karate Kid came on the tube. One scene in particular resonated with me. The scene when Danielson -- exhausted and fed up after painting Mr. Miyagi’s fence, waxing all of his cars, and sanding his entire deck -- is about to quit his “training.” However, before Danielson can quit Miyagi grabs him and says, “Not everything is as seems.”
Miyagi then makes Danielson show him the various motions he has learned (“Show me, paint the fence”) as Miyagi throws punches at him. Danielson effortlessly blocks the punches using his recently ingrained motions. Unbeknownst to Danielson, the days he has spent painting, sanding, and waxing have equipped him with imperative, defensive reflexes for karate.
Go figure. Danielson and Miyagi bring life to the foreground. A great scene with a theme for the ages: in life, everything not always as seems.
I’ve spent almost 30 years painting life’s fence. I’d like to know how the final coat will look. I’d gladly listen to any Okinawan proverbs that might shed light on the matter (Man who catch fly with chopstick accomplish anything…BONZAI!!!!). But deep down I know that I must accept the unknowns and move forward amidst my own uncertainty.
Sometimes you have to construct life anew from a non-linear past, knowing that more curveballs await you. Sometimes you have to allow life to choose its own timing, illuminating your path on its own schedule. Sometimes you just have to keep on painting.
As life moves forward, I will keep searching for my sense of purpose, knowing that I may not recognize its form. Time will javelin forward regardless; I might as well be on the lookout. Besides, I have a hunch. I’m guessing my purpose will look a lot like Richard Power’s definition of “yours” when he says, “what you have loved, what you have fought for, that is yours.”
Yours. Five inclusive letters. The ultimate point of reference. Synonymous with contentment. Synonymous with purpose. Worth every stroke of paint, regardless of how things seem. A silver-dollar word.
If so, maybe our paths have crossed in Uncertaintyville, USA.
I’m a relatively new resident. For the longest time life was fluidly ascending (at least in my mind’s eye). Sure, there were hiccups and noticeable disappointments. But idealism and his younger, less fashionable brother, naivety, still ruled the roost. Then, a few years ago, I started to lose a little altitude. Things weren’t falling into place.
And then things got worse. A lot worse.
A lost a chance with a woman I loved. My career went sideways. And I went the better part of 18 months without much sleep. My aircraft was suddenly in a flat-spin to sea. Only one redeemer could prevent a complete free-fall: the passage of time.
Thankfully, time came through in the clutch. Life kept ticking and life got better. An emergency ejection from the cockpit was averted. Then life went to Buenos Aires and got a lot better; don’t underestimate the value of some alone time in a foreign country (a destination with amicable, attractive residents strongly recommended).
Now my days are spent within a standard deviation or two of the mean. Life is enjoyable, and then it’s mediocre. It hardly ever dips below the Mendoza Line. All things considered, not at all bad.
On the other hand, when it comes to the big questions, I’m currently short on answers. I thought life was meant for one path; it seems it was not. Now I’m running in place, unsure how to reconnect with my sense of purpose. All the while knowing that time’s arrow keeps expanding ad infinitum.
As chance would have it, I was sitting on my arse last week pondering the future when The Karate Kid came on the tube. One scene in particular resonated with me. The scene when Danielson -- exhausted and fed up after painting Mr. Miyagi’s fence, waxing all of his cars, and sanding his entire deck -- is about to quit his “training.” However, before Danielson can quit Miyagi grabs him and says, “Not everything is as seems.”
Miyagi then makes Danielson show him the various motions he has learned (“Show me, paint the fence”) as Miyagi throws punches at him. Danielson effortlessly blocks the punches using his recently ingrained motions. Unbeknownst to Danielson, the days he has spent painting, sanding, and waxing have equipped him with imperative, defensive reflexes for karate.
Go figure. Danielson and Miyagi bring life to the foreground. A great scene with a theme for the ages: in life, everything not always as seems.
I’ve spent almost 30 years painting life’s fence. I’d like to know how the final coat will look. I’d gladly listen to any Okinawan proverbs that might shed light on the matter (Man who catch fly with chopstick accomplish anything…BONZAI!!!!). But deep down I know that I must accept the unknowns and move forward amidst my own uncertainty.
Sometimes you have to construct life anew from a non-linear past, knowing that more curveballs await you. Sometimes you have to allow life to choose its own timing, illuminating your path on its own schedule. Sometimes you just have to keep on painting.
As life moves forward, I will keep searching for my sense of purpose, knowing that I may not recognize its form. Time will javelin forward regardless; I might as well be on the lookout. Besides, I have a hunch. I’m guessing my purpose will look a lot like Richard Power’s definition of “yours” when he says, “what you have loved, what you have fought for, that is yours.”
Yours. Five inclusive letters. The ultimate point of reference. Synonymous with contentment. Synonymous with purpose. Worth every stroke of paint, regardless of how things seem. A silver-dollar word.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
20 Things You Are Not Thinking About Today....
Ever find yourself walking down the street (or singing an 80s ballad in the shower….or doing eight minute abs) and have a thought come at you out of nowhere? Not just any thought: an above average thought. One you’d be inclined to try and remember.
I have these thoughts. Sometimes they’re not “real” thoughts, rather just satisfying reminders of things, people, and/or happenings. Most of the time they escape me before I can say, "Boutros Boutros-Ghali." My thoughts are forever fleeting. Plus, I never manage to write any of them down. Then, two weeks ago, something extraordinary happened.
I started writing some of them down.
And now, I share the randomness of my inner engine with you. These aren’t in any order. For the most part I’ve tried to limit commentary, preferring to let these babies live on their own. Some will be of interest. Some won’t. That’s the beauty of random thoughts: absorb or discard at your leisure.
20) Jeff Maggert’s Final Round of the 2003 Masters
Arguably the strangest round ever played by a golfer in contention for a major. Maggert triple-bogeyed the third hole, when a shot ricocheted off the lip of a bunker and came back to hit him (two-stroke penalty). Maggert then birdied the 5th and 10th holes to get back into contention, only to make a quintuple-bogey 8 at the par-3 12th (one shot in the bunker, two in the water). Incredibly, Maggert regrouped again, making three birdies in the last six holes, to finish with a 75 (good for 5th place).
19) Skid Row’s 1989 album.
Take this CD with you the next time you get some open road. If I Remember You and 18 & Life don’t add 15 mph to the speedometer, I’ll make sure you get a refund.
18) Hector “Macho” Camacho
Three-time boxing champ, Hector "Macho" Camacho, was sent to jail Monday after pleading guilty to a 2004 burglary charge. In an earlier written statement Camacho apologized for the break-in, which caused nearly $13,000 in damage and losses at ZDI Computer Center in Gulfport, MS.
This is the man who beat Roberto Duran twice and also laid out Sugar Ray Leonard. Camacho also lost highly touted (big $$$) fights to Felix Trinidad and Oscar de la Hoya. Everyone should now be asking: “how many millions did Camacho get screwed out of (by his agent), making shoplifting at ZDI a necessary option?”
17) The Lack of Temperature Readings on the Chicago Lakefront.
There are three major television stations in Chicago, two newspapers, and a gazillion other informational sources -- none of which offer a temperature on Chicago’s lakefront. They offer temperatures for O’Hare, DuPage, Aurora, and Joliet -- where the cumulative differential is 0.25 degrees. But on the lakefront where the temperature can vary by 20 degrees, pending the wind, they’ve got nothing. Not even an $8 intern with a thermometer and a cell phone. Nothing.
16) Ataturk (founder of the Republic of Turkey)
I knew virtually nothing about Turkish history before reading Orhan Pamuk’s The Black Book. Somewhere in that novel, probably around the 800th off-hand reference to the guy, I realized that Ataturk was a bad ass.
15) Contact
When was the last time you walked out of a movie theatre and needed to chew things over for awhile? And I mean, really chew things over.
14) The Bash Brothers
Remember those posters of Mark McGuire and Jose Canseco “bashing” their forearms together after a home run? Fast forward fifteen years and Canseco, having taken a nose-dive from childhood idol to pond scum’s illegitimate son, writes a tell-all book admitting his steroid use, referencing McGuire’s usage, and causing the baseball world (and Congress) to begin a long overdue steroid investigation.
Of all people, history may remember Jose Canseco as the one most responsible (even if unintentional) for helping baseball end its steroid era. In the ultimate irony, Canseco may have simultaneously bashed McGuire’s chances for the Hall of Fame.
13) Beets (red or otherwise)
You can’t even fathom how much I hate this vegetable.
12) Opposite George
George: It became very clear to me sitting out there today that every decision I've made in my entire life has been wrong. My life is the complete opposite of everything I want it to be. Every instinct I have, in every aspect of life, be it something to wear, something to eat - it's all been wrong.”
Jerry: If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right.
George: Yes, I will do the opposite. I used to sit here and do nothing, and regret it for the rest of the day, so now I will do the opposite, and I will do something.
11) The Opening Lines of London Fields by Martin Amis.
“This is a true story but I can’t believe it’s really happening. It’s a murder story, too. I can’t believe my luck. And I love story (I think), of all strange things, so late in the century, so late in the goddamned day.”
10) AIDS
Has AIDS received less attention in recent years? If so, could it be a good thing, implying less people are contracting the virus? Nope. I just checked. 37.2 million adults in the world are infected with HIV, plus another 2.3 million children. 65% of those infected live in Africa (actually thought this % would be higher). The number of people infected with HIV has grown by 4000% since Ryan White’s death in 1991 and 25% over the last three years.
9) Imaginary Numbers
Let this one sink in for a second. A number, inherently, has an equivalency. Even zero equals something: zilch. And yet, mathematicians found a set of "numbers" that are abstractions (as in the square root of -1 or my sex life in the mid 90s).
8) Don't Stop Believin'
Approximately two years ago someone sent an anonymous email to bar owners and DJ’s which said, “Note to Everyone: Journey’s Don't Stop Believin' is now the official bar anthem for the nation.” The sender had a large distribution list. I’m not complaining.
7) Rachel Robinson
Rachel recently appeared on ESPN’s Sunday Night baseball in celebration of the 60th anniversary of Jackie’s pioneering season. After listening to her commentary for one inning, it was abundantly clear that she & Jackie made a tenacious, two-headed team. Rachel also referenced a forthcoming motion picture about Jackie and noted that Robert Redford is slated to play Branch Rickey. Muy Interesante.
6) O-Ke-Doke Cheese Popcorn
I don’t have a specific intent here. I’m just craving O-Ke-Doke. For kicks, I’m also offering up this mouth-watering, formulaic contemplation: any sandwich + any soda + any cookie + O-Ke-Doke = a lunchtime supernova.
5) Reruns
Whoever pitched executives on “old TV” had a heck of a day. Perhaps gratitude should be directed towards someone at Nickelodeon (Nick at Night)? I say this as I prepare to watch my second episode of Family Guy (ever). If it’s anything like the first, I’m going to be here awhile.
4) The Oracle
The home arena for the Golden State Warriors, host to an NBA playoff game for the first time in thirteen years on April 28, 2007. It was the largest crowd ever to see a basketball game in California. Golden State fans, generally thought to be the most dedicated in the NBA, watched their 8th seed Warriors beat the 1st seed Mavericks to take a 2 – 1 lead in the best-of-seven series. The Warriors then won game six, at the Oracle, to clinch the series. Golden State player Stephen Jackson swore the crowd noise was so deafening he could feel The Oracle shaking.
3) April 21, 2007
The first day of 2007 my post-run shower didn’t need to be piping hot. Neither hands nor limbs required thawing out; a cool shower felt good. Readers in California who occasionally contemplate moving back to the Midwest should reference this factoid on a post-it note and put it somewhere visible. Highly visible.
2) The Hubble Telescope
Controversy has engulfed Hubble over a final servicing mission needed to replace gyroscopes (required to point the telescope) and the main camera. Advocates point to Hubble’s accomplishments to date which include: observations of distant supernovae which indicate the expansion of the universe may be accelerating, detection of extrasolar planets around sun-like stars, and optical counterparts for gamma-ray bursts: the most luminous events known in the universe since the Big Bang.
On October 31, 2006, NASA gave the green light for a final Hubble servicing mission to be flown by Atlantis, planned for September 2008. This mission will allow the telescope to function until at least 2013, when its successor, the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST), is due to be launched.
I’ve got the mission pegged for time and money well spent.
1) Wayne Arnold (older brother on The Wonder Years)
One of the most symbolically irritating big brothers television has ever known. He also sported one of TV’s best mullets. When Kevin was given an assignment to write his own obituary; Wayne offered these prophetic words in describing his little brother: “Born a butthead, lived a butthead's life, died a butthead.”
Wayne Arnold, what a guy.
I have these thoughts. Sometimes they’re not “real” thoughts, rather just satisfying reminders of things, people, and/or happenings. Most of the time they escape me before I can say, "Boutros Boutros-Ghali." My thoughts are forever fleeting. Plus, I never manage to write any of them down. Then, two weeks ago, something extraordinary happened.
I started writing some of them down.
And now, I share the randomness of my inner engine with you. These aren’t in any order. For the most part I’ve tried to limit commentary, preferring to let these babies live on their own. Some will be of interest. Some won’t. That’s the beauty of random thoughts: absorb or discard at your leisure.
20) Jeff Maggert’s Final Round of the 2003 Masters
Arguably the strangest round ever played by a golfer in contention for a major. Maggert triple-bogeyed the third hole, when a shot ricocheted off the lip of a bunker and came back to hit him (two-stroke penalty). Maggert then birdied the 5th and 10th holes to get back into contention, only to make a quintuple-bogey 8 at the par-3 12th (one shot in the bunker, two in the water). Incredibly, Maggert regrouped again, making three birdies in the last six holes, to finish with a 75 (good for 5th place).
19) Skid Row’s 1989 album.
Take this CD with you the next time you get some open road. If I Remember You and 18 & Life don’t add 15 mph to the speedometer, I’ll make sure you get a refund.
18) Hector “Macho” Camacho
Three-time boxing champ, Hector "Macho" Camacho, was sent to jail Monday after pleading guilty to a 2004 burglary charge. In an earlier written statement Camacho apologized for the break-in, which caused nearly $13,000 in damage and losses at ZDI Computer Center in Gulfport, MS.
This is the man who beat Roberto Duran twice and also laid out Sugar Ray Leonard. Camacho also lost highly touted (big $$$) fights to Felix Trinidad and Oscar de la Hoya. Everyone should now be asking: “how many millions did Camacho get screwed out of (by his agent), making shoplifting at ZDI a necessary option?”
17) The Lack of Temperature Readings on the Chicago Lakefront.
There are three major television stations in Chicago, two newspapers, and a gazillion other informational sources -- none of which offer a temperature on Chicago’s lakefront. They offer temperatures for O’Hare, DuPage, Aurora, and Joliet -- where the cumulative differential is 0.25 degrees. But on the lakefront where the temperature can vary by 20 degrees, pending the wind, they’ve got nothing. Not even an $8 intern with a thermometer and a cell phone. Nothing.
16) Ataturk (founder of the Republic of Turkey)
I knew virtually nothing about Turkish history before reading Orhan Pamuk’s The Black Book. Somewhere in that novel, probably around the 800th off-hand reference to the guy, I realized that Ataturk was a bad ass.
15) Contact
When was the last time you walked out of a movie theatre and needed to chew things over for awhile? And I mean, really chew things over.
14) The Bash Brothers
Remember those posters of Mark McGuire and Jose Canseco “bashing” their forearms together after a home run? Fast forward fifteen years and Canseco, having taken a nose-dive from childhood idol to pond scum’s illegitimate son, writes a tell-all book admitting his steroid use, referencing McGuire’s usage, and causing the baseball world (and Congress) to begin a long overdue steroid investigation.
Of all people, history may remember Jose Canseco as the one most responsible (even if unintentional) for helping baseball end its steroid era. In the ultimate irony, Canseco may have simultaneously bashed McGuire’s chances for the Hall of Fame.
13) Beets (red or otherwise)
You can’t even fathom how much I hate this vegetable.
12) Opposite George
George: It became very clear to me sitting out there today that every decision I've made in my entire life has been wrong. My life is the complete opposite of everything I want it to be. Every instinct I have, in every aspect of life, be it something to wear, something to eat - it's all been wrong.”
Jerry: If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right.
George: Yes, I will do the opposite. I used to sit here and do nothing, and regret it for the rest of the day, so now I will do the opposite, and I will do something.
11) The Opening Lines of London Fields by Martin Amis.
“This is a true story but I can’t believe it’s really happening. It’s a murder story, too. I can’t believe my luck. And I love story (I think), of all strange things, so late in the century, so late in the goddamned day.”
10) AIDS
Has AIDS received less attention in recent years? If so, could it be a good thing, implying less people are contracting the virus? Nope. I just checked. 37.2 million adults in the world are infected with HIV, plus another 2.3 million children. 65% of those infected live in Africa (actually thought this % would be higher). The number of people infected with HIV has grown by 4000% since Ryan White’s death in 1991 and 25% over the last three years.
9) Imaginary Numbers
Let this one sink in for a second. A number, inherently, has an equivalency. Even zero equals something: zilch. And yet, mathematicians found a set of "numbers" that are abstractions (as in the square root of -1 or my sex life in the mid 90s).
8) Don't Stop Believin'
Approximately two years ago someone sent an anonymous email to bar owners and DJ’s which said, “Note to Everyone: Journey’s Don't Stop Believin' is now the official bar anthem for the nation.” The sender had a large distribution list. I’m not complaining.
7) Rachel Robinson
Rachel recently appeared on ESPN’s Sunday Night baseball in celebration of the 60th anniversary of Jackie’s pioneering season. After listening to her commentary for one inning, it was abundantly clear that she & Jackie made a tenacious, two-headed team. Rachel also referenced a forthcoming motion picture about Jackie and noted that Robert Redford is slated to play Branch Rickey. Muy Interesante.
6) O-Ke-Doke Cheese Popcorn
I don’t have a specific intent here. I’m just craving O-Ke-Doke. For kicks, I’m also offering up this mouth-watering, formulaic contemplation: any sandwich + any soda + any cookie + O-Ke-Doke = a lunchtime supernova.
5) Reruns
Whoever pitched executives on “old TV” had a heck of a day. Perhaps gratitude should be directed towards someone at Nickelodeon (Nick at Night)? I say this as I prepare to watch my second episode of Family Guy (ever). If it’s anything like the first, I’m going to be here awhile.
4) The Oracle
The home arena for the Golden State Warriors, host to an NBA playoff game for the first time in thirteen years on April 28, 2007. It was the largest crowd ever to see a basketball game in California. Golden State fans, generally thought to be the most dedicated in the NBA, watched their 8th seed Warriors beat the 1st seed Mavericks to take a 2 – 1 lead in the best-of-seven series. The Warriors then won game six, at the Oracle, to clinch the series. Golden State player Stephen Jackson swore the crowd noise was so deafening he could feel The Oracle shaking.
3) April 21, 2007
The first day of 2007 my post-run shower didn’t need to be piping hot. Neither hands nor limbs required thawing out; a cool shower felt good. Readers in California who occasionally contemplate moving back to the Midwest should reference this factoid on a post-it note and put it somewhere visible. Highly visible.
2) The Hubble Telescope
Controversy has engulfed Hubble over a final servicing mission needed to replace gyroscopes (required to point the telescope) and the main camera. Advocates point to Hubble’s accomplishments to date which include: observations of distant supernovae which indicate the expansion of the universe may be accelerating, detection of extrasolar planets around sun-like stars, and optical counterparts for gamma-ray bursts: the most luminous events known in the universe since the Big Bang.
On October 31, 2006, NASA gave the green light for a final Hubble servicing mission to be flown by Atlantis, planned for September 2008. This mission will allow the telescope to function until at least 2013, when its successor, the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST), is due to be launched.
I’ve got the mission pegged for time and money well spent.
1) Wayne Arnold (older brother on The Wonder Years)
One of the most symbolically irritating big brothers television has ever known. He also sported one of TV’s best mullets. When Kevin was given an assignment to write his own obituary; Wayne offered these prophetic words in describing his little brother: “Born a butthead, lived a butthead's life, died a butthead.”
Wayne Arnold, what a guy.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Sense and Sensibility....
After days of analysis and hypotheses, the sensible solution turned out to be the correct one on Saturday. Street Sense, the post-time favorite who also won the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile at Churchill Downs, blew past Hard Spun in the final furlong to win the 133rd Run for the Roses. Ockham would have been pleased.
Street Sense became the first horse to win the BC Juvenile and the Derby, breaking a 23-year skid. Street Sense’s path to victory was uncannily similar in the two races: saving ground along the rail only to explode through a narrow opening at just the right time. Calvin Borel’s ride was patient and perfectly timed; he deserves every ounce of credit bestowed upon him.
Now the Triple Crown whispers will begin. If Street Sense can win the shorter Preakness in twelve days time, the whispers will turn to roars. The son of Street Cry figures to love every inch of the grueling mile and a half Belmont, the third and final leg. Only eleven thoroughbreds have won all three, and it has been 29 years since Affirmed outdueled Alydar in the Belmont to last claim the crown. In five weeks we'll know if Street Sense belongs alongside the eleven before him.
One thing is clear: this colt isn’t afraid of the stage. On two separate occasions he has elevated his game when the lights have shone brightest. Perhaps he senses the magnitude of the moment; perhaps he also senses what’s next.
I have a tendency to reevaluate betting tactics after a big race. This year’s Derby didn’t yield any winnebagos, but the time spent studying the form was worthwhile. The $1 trifecta paid out $220. If Dominican or Circular Quay could have gotten up for third, the payout would have increased exponentially.
I also should have backed up my trifecta with a little more money on Street Sense -- such a logical candidate to hit the board. The potential for a higher return with Dominican got the better of me. It’s a balancing act: evaluating the odds against the way you think the race will unfold, and the potential for a return. This time around the best horse won and paid a decent buck to his backers. Perhaps a lesson? Leading to more sensible wagers next around?
I can’t say that’s entirely likely. I enjoy my time on the RV lot.
My time inside the Downs on Derby Day was, as always, top notch. My dad is now a Churchill Downs shareholder, a distinction which offered us free admission to the track (translation: more money to bet). Sharing Derby day with the man who first brought me trackside was an immense treat.
About 75% of the time my dad and I prefer the same horses. At the window we even opt for similar types of bets. Yet another check mark for the gene pool. I’d like to see a tally of the things we learn through osmosis during youth. I think it's safe to say the total would be rather large.
I bumped into Alan Houston, Michael Strahan, Eddie George, and Regina King (had to IMDB her) at the Downs. Each was impeccably dressed. Strahan was shorter than I expected. Eddie George could have been Usher’s big brother.
It was overcast most of Derby day, and the forecast called for afternoon rain. But an hour before the Derby the sun broke through. When the horses came onto the track and the band struck up My Old Kentucky Home, I knew the meteorologists had been bested by the grandeur of the day.
The infield was muddy; the crowd rowdy as ever. Sombreros were particularly en vogue. I watched the race from turn one, my regular locale. From there you can see the horses come by the stands for the first time and watch the rest on the Jumbotron. The pre-race atmosphere is exhilarating and tense; everyone knows it will only last two minutes.
As the horses enter the starting gate, there’s a communal understanding that something unique is about to be shared. The sensation is renewed every year, whether it’s your first Derby or your fifteenth. It never goes away.
After the race there are screams of jubilation and busted tickets floating through the air. Others just shrug and grab another beer. Regardless of the winner, the party goes on.
I managed to nab four mint julep glasses (“managed” being synonymous with bought/drank). I’ll accidentally break one or two in the next six months. Hopefully at least one will live on. The glasses are becoming a prized possession; more so as my collection grows.
I only made it to Mollie Malone’s once this year, an unacceptable underachievement. I’m expecting viewers of these pages to redeem an outstanding voucher for next May. We get older, but the fun on Bardstown Road stays the same age.
More than anything I hate it when Derby week comes to a close. 51 weeks until I get to do it again. Way too long, especially when contemplating another Chicago winter in between here and there.
For now there are five more weeks of Triple Crown action. Next stop: the OTB on North Avenue for the Preakness. I’m still in need of a winnebago, so I’ll be looking for some lesser known horses to fill out my trifectas. Sensibility has never been my forte.
I’ll be cheering for Street Sense, every step of the way. Hoping he can break another streak. Hoping he will be the twelfth. Hoping the history books await.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m inclined to believe it will happen. The force is strong with this one.
I can sense it.
Street Sense became the first horse to win the BC Juvenile and the Derby, breaking a 23-year skid. Street Sense’s path to victory was uncannily similar in the two races: saving ground along the rail only to explode through a narrow opening at just the right time. Calvin Borel’s ride was patient and perfectly timed; he deserves every ounce of credit bestowed upon him.
Now the Triple Crown whispers will begin. If Street Sense can win the shorter Preakness in twelve days time, the whispers will turn to roars. The son of Street Cry figures to love every inch of the grueling mile and a half Belmont, the third and final leg. Only eleven thoroughbreds have won all three, and it has been 29 years since Affirmed outdueled Alydar in the Belmont to last claim the crown. In five weeks we'll know if Street Sense belongs alongside the eleven before him.
One thing is clear: this colt isn’t afraid of the stage. On two separate occasions he has elevated his game when the lights have shone brightest. Perhaps he senses the magnitude of the moment; perhaps he also senses what’s next.
I have a tendency to reevaluate betting tactics after a big race. This year’s Derby didn’t yield any winnebagos, but the time spent studying the form was worthwhile. The $1 trifecta paid out $220. If Dominican or Circular Quay could have gotten up for third, the payout would have increased exponentially.
I also should have backed up my trifecta with a little more money on Street Sense -- such a logical candidate to hit the board. The potential for a higher return with Dominican got the better of me. It’s a balancing act: evaluating the odds against the way you think the race will unfold, and the potential for a return. This time around the best horse won and paid a decent buck to his backers. Perhaps a lesson? Leading to more sensible wagers next around?
I can’t say that’s entirely likely. I enjoy my time on the RV lot.
My time inside the Downs on Derby Day was, as always, top notch. My dad is now a Churchill Downs shareholder, a distinction which offered us free admission to the track (translation: more money to bet). Sharing Derby day with the man who first brought me trackside was an immense treat.
About 75% of the time my dad and I prefer the same horses. At the window we even opt for similar types of bets. Yet another check mark for the gene pool. I’d like to see a tally of the things we learn through osmosis during youth. I think it's safe to say the total would be rather large.
I bumped into Alan Houston, Michael Strahan, Eddie George, and Regina King (had to IMDB her) at the Downs. Each was impeccably dressed. Strahan was shorter than I expected. Eddie George could have been Usher’s big brother.
It was overcast most of Derby day, and the forecast called for afternoon rain. But an hour before the Derby the sun broke through. When the horses came onto the track and the band struck up My Old Kentucky Home, I knew the meteorologists had been bested by the grandeur of the day.
The infield was muddy; the crowd rowdy as ever. Sombreros were particularly en vogue. I watched the race from turn one, my regular locale. From there you can see the horses come by the stands for the first time and watch the rest on the Jumbotron. The pre-race atmosphere is exhilarating and tense; everyone knows it will only last two minutes.
As the horses enter the starting gate, there’s a communal understanding that something unique is about to be shared. The sensation is renewed every year, whether it’s your first Derby or your fifteenth. It never goes away.
After the race there are screams of jubilation and busted tickets floating through the air. Others just shrug and grab another beer. Regardless of the winner, the party goes on.
I managed to nab four mint julep glasses (“managed” being synonymous with bought/drank). I’ll accidentally break one or two in the next six months. Hopefully at least one will live on. The glasses are becoming a prized possession; more so as my collection grows.
I only made it to Mollie Malone’s once this year, an unacceptable underachievement. I’m expecting viewers of these pages to redeem an outstanding voucher for next May. We get older, but the fun on Bardstown Road stays the same age.
More than anything I hate it when Derby week comes to a close. 51 weeks until I get to do it again. Way too long, especially when contemplating another Chicago winter in between here and there.
For now there are five more weeks of Triple Crown action. Next stop: the OTB on North Avenue for the Preakness. I’m still in need of a winnebago, so I’ll be looking for some lesser known horses to fill out my trifectas. Sensibility has never been my forte.
I’ll be cheering for Street Sense, every step of the way. Hoping he can break another streak. Hoping he will be the twelfth. Hoping the history books await.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m inclined to believe it will happen. The force is strong with this one.
I can sense it.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
$100 in Pebbles......
Betting the Derby is like standing on the continental divide: you’d better be prepared to jump whenever the ground shifts. Said another way, predictability has no place. You’ve got to change tactics from year-to-year and be willing to rearrange your preferences right up until post-time (pending track conditions).
This year’s Derby requires even more adeptness. Foremost, it’s the deepest field I’ve ever seen. Making matters more difficult, there’s no clear-cut candidate for the lead, also making it tough to predict how quick the early fractions will be. Finally, several usable entrants will be far back early and need luck to navigate through the twenty-horse field (potentially on a sloppy track, when making up ground gets even more difficult).
In summary: we're equipped with a slingshot and Goliath awaits.
But if you’re thinking about turning back now, don’t. Kid Rock and the out-of-towners will favorably influence the odds. And because it's such a large field, and screwy things always happen, every winning exacta or trifecta wager will pay-out somewhere in between “large” and “let’s buy a Winnebago.”
It's well worth taking aim with a rubber band and a few pebbles.
Below you'll find my run-down for the entire field. After that, I've listed $100 of wagers. I’m guessing the track condition will be good and not sloppy. By putting this in writing, I’m more/less guaranteed to make all of these bets (regardless of how the weather unfolds; I might bet more if it pours). I don’t think I could live with myself if I posted this for the masses, had it nailed, and then didn’t buy the ticket. That would be a Wrigley Field bruise (hurt for a millennium). So there, now you’ve done your part.
1) Sedgefield
I like it when trainers opt for unconventional methods (remember Forty Niner’s 7 furlong prep leading to a 2nd-place finish at Churchill?). This colt tried the turf four weeks ago, only two weeks after the Lane’s End, and now he’s back on the dirt for the Derby. That’s highly unconventional. Unfortunately, I can’t fan the fire – think he’s in way over his head. Not a red cent (NRC).
2) Curlin
Reminds me of Bernardini in every respect. Can run from the front or rate, has a ton of talent, and puts horses away with an eerie and awesome ease. The knocks: only three lifetime races, and he hasn’t faced much competition. It has been 90 years since a horse with only three lifetime races won the Derby -- quite a precedent to buck. The other bummer: he will be a main attraction at the window. Still, if a horse has the perfect running style for the Derby and looks like a megastar in the making, would you throw him out? Me neither. Major player.
3) Zanjero
A winning $2 trifecta in the Derby often returns over $10,000. Knowing our collection bucket has to anticipate some unknowns, why not include Zanjero? He has a win over the Churchill track (big plus). Hasn’t missed the board since his first race (another plus). He was incredibly game in the Bluegrass, beaten by just a head. Enough races under his belt to be seasoned, but not so many that we can’t hope for more upside. Asmussen will have him primed; might get him at 35-1. He’ll need some luck, but winnebago-sized payouts normally do. Good enough for inclusion in some of my wheels.
4) Storm in May
Impressive six furlong race in January. Wait a minute, that’s his sell point? I surrender. NRC.
5) Imawildandcrazyguy
Would be killer to hear this guy’s name late in the race. NBC should have Steve Martin on standby just in case (And Down the Stretch They Come, it’s Imawildandcrazyguy!!!!). Unfortunately, for that to happen the other 19 saddles are gonna need some lead. NRC.
6) Cowtown Cat
The most intriguing horse in the race. Was running 6 & 1/2 furlong races two months. Not sure he wants to go a mile and quarter, but there are a lot of positives. Won the Gotham. Moved forward in the Illinois Derby and picked up the 19 year-old Panamanian sensation, Fernando Jara (Invasor’s regular jockey). Pletcher trains. Bullet workout on the 21st . Should be in great position near the front. If nobody wants the lead, he could (and probably should) try to wire ‘em. An Illinois Derby champ on the front at a price (probably 20-1): anyone else having flashbacks to War Emblem?
A warning before you cash-in your 401K for a horse named Cowtown: I jumped onboard Sweetnorthernsaint last year, another that tried the Illinois to Kentucky route. He is still running.
Not dissuaded. Start the whispers now, “here kitty, kitty.”
7) Street Sense
Talk about a handful. Won the BC Juvenile at Churchill last fall by a record margin. That race was even more impressive in person (Arazi-like). One of my favorite trainers in Nafzger; trumped only by the fact that Borel will ride (the guy is scary good at Churchill). The horse obviously loves the track, and he’s been pointing for this race since he crossed the BC wire. Throw in a sizzling workout over the track last week & add it all up: Sense is guaranteed to be the talk of the Downs.
Ironically, the hype may also his biggest negative: he won’t offer much value (my guess is 7-2). That’s a short price for a colt that will be back in the pack early. Not to mention, he got a mythical trip along the rail in the Juvenile. The same will not happen today. And this time he has to pass even more entrants; an average trip through traffic and he might be running for 2nd or 3rd.
Can’t fault anyone who backs him with all their lunch money. A major player in my wheels. His early positioning and implied odds have me shying away from the whole kit and caboodle.
8) Hard Spun
I liked Spun a lot more on Sunday. Monday he ran a 5f workout in a freakish 57 3/5 seconds. Too quick for my liking five days before the toughest race of his career. Perhaps the rookie trainer/jockey combo of Larry Jones and Mario Pino didn’t get the memo: the Derby is on Saturday (not Monday). Beyond the questions marks surrounding the newbies, there’s another concern: most of the horses Spun has faced appear to be genetic descendents of turtles.
The good news: if you can get comfortable with the aforementioned, there’s a lot to like. He has won 5-of-6 races going away. His best Beyer is comparable to Curlin. He’s more seasoned than Curlin. He’ll be around 15-1 (Curlin will be 3-1). And he’s been hanging around Churchill for a month.
Tough to love the whole package, but the pluses are undeniable. Have the piñatas on standby in Delaware just in case. A factor.
9) Liquidity
Was bet down to 3-1 in the Santa Anita Derby and came home 4th. Seems like an unlikely candidate to be in this race, as the added distance doesn’t figure to help. O’Neil wouldn’t bring him just to check out the Spires; maybe the owners like juleps. Or they know something we don't. Backers will find plenty to liquidate if he can hit the board. But I just can’t find enough to like. NRC.
10) Teufelsberg
After being allowed to set the slowest fractions in the history of thoroughbred racing, he still couldn’t hold them off in the Bluegrass. Throw in another twelve horses and faster fractions, his prospects get exponentially wurser (correct spelling). NRC.
11) Bwana’s Bull
Bwana’s gonna wanna chug eight red bulls before this race. That would liven up the paddock. Assuming he doesn’t flugtag and grow wings, NRC.
12) Nobiz Like Showbiz
You either loved his Wood Memorial because he had trouble rating and still went onto win, or you turned a whiter shade of pale contemplating Nobiz’s prospects with twenty horses around him in the Derby. I’m in the latter camp. Plus, I think he’s likely to get more action at the window than he deserves. Can’t bet everybody. NRC.
13) Sam P.
Surprised he’s only 20-1 in the morning line, would have thought higher. The “P” might stand for penultimate: looking for him to finish around 19th. And with those unkind words, he’s now guaranteed to beat half my horses. Either way, NRC.
14) Scat Daddy
This guy is not afraid of a brawl. Love the way he fought them off in the Florida Derby. At Churchill you’ve got to overcome obstacles, and he sure seems capable in that regard. Taking the same route to KY as Barbaro a year ago. On the downside, he’s been all out in three straight races and with remarkably similar Beyers; makes you wonder about his upside. Just not sure his best day will be good enough. My heart wants to include him; my head thinks nay. Scat won’t offer a ton of window value. Inclined to play in some of my exotics but not more.
15 Tiago
This year’s class of Californians is about as lousy a lot as I can remember. This is their champion (having won the Santa Anita Derby). Some things to like. An all-world trainer/jockey combo with Sheriffs and Smith – same duo that teamed up for a Derby victory with Giacomo. He’s improving and has the right running style; another move forward and he could be in the mix. If his odds go up near post-time, or if he’s lightly bet in the show pool, inclined to play a few dollars as a hedge. Generally prefer others.
16) Circular Quay
Was the pre-race talk of the town for the BC Juvenile at Churchill. 2nd that day behind Street Sense’s freakish performance. Needed the Risen Star as a first race back in ‘07. Impressive winner in the Louisiana Derby. Some will question his eight week layoff; I’m not one of them. Will need a good trip through traffic, but luck is always part of the deal. Talented enough to uncork a monster. Should be alongside Street Sense every step of the way. Probably at three times the price. Loving every penny of it.
17) Stormello
Has legitimate early speed. Unfortunately, the rest of the front running crowd starts inside of him; will require a bunch of petrol for him to get clear. Normally brings his A game; just not convinced that will be good enough. NRC.
18) Any Given Saturday
Four weeks ago he was one of the Derby favorites. After an uninspiring Wood Memorial, he’s a much tougher read. Backers will point to his epic duel with Street Sense eight weeks ago and an impressive race at Churchill last fall. Also, he’s never been beaten by more than three lengths, and he’s a candidate to improve. On the down side, not sure he wants the added distance. Closing thought on a mixed bag: I will need more than 12-1 to consider him a value; planning to include in my wheels.
19 Dominican
Was gelded this spring and has been all business since. Won the Rushaway easily, despite traffic problems, then went to Lexington and played spoiler in the Bluegrass. The opening fractions were obese that day, but he passed Street Sense, Teufelsburg, Great Hunter, and Zanjero to nab the win. A feat that should not be taken lightly.
Skeptics will question his Polytrack successes and wonder about his upside off back-to-back bests. To counter: might have the best late kick in the race, and he carries a very capable jockey (who knows Churchill) in a very tricky race.
It’s a lot to ask from the #19 post, but I can’t find a better value play. Call Lone Starr and tell him we’re coming for his winnebago. THE PICK.
20) Great Hunter
This year’s “pi” entrant: impossible to solve. 3rd in the BC Juvenile last fall. Kicked off ‘07 with a G2 win at Santa Anita. Was 2-1 and the co-favorite alongside Street Sense in the Bluegrass, but he got cut off in the lane and ended up 5th. Didn’t appear bound for victory that day, but he has a legitimate excuse.
The twenty hole ain’t a plus; Hunter will need some luck not to get caught wide. If he can find a spot, figures to be a notch closer to the pace than Street Sense and Quay, a notch behind Curlin and Hard Spun. Could be ideal?
Another from O’Neil’s camp, bonus points in my book. Shouldn’t be overlooked, but my preferences are getting a little lopsided on the outside. Thinking nay and will cross my fingers. Very tough call.
The window specifics:
Dominican and Circular Quay represent the best value in my opinion. Cowtown and Hard Spun are the wild cards. Inclined to single Cowtown for a little side action. If I had to bet on one horse to be in the money, regardless of the odds, it would be Street Sense (hence the extra exacta wheel).
$1 Trifecta wheel: 2, 7, 16, 19 with 6, 8, 12, 14, with 2, 7, 16 & 19 ($48)
$1 Exacta wheel 2, 6, 7, 8, 12, 14, 15 with 16 & 19 ($14)
$1 Exacta wheel 2, 6, 8, 12, 14, 15, 16, 19, 20 with 7 ($9)
$4 win & $8 show on 19 ($12)
$3 win & $6 show on 16 ($9)
$3 across the board on 6 ($9)
This year’s Derby requires even more adeptness. Foremost, it’s the deepest field I’ve ever seen. Making matters more difficult, there’s no clear-cut candidate for the lead, also making it tough to predict how quick the early fractions will be. Finally, several usable entrants will be far back early and need luck to navigate through the twenty-horse field (potentially on a sloppy track, when making up ground gets even more difficult).
In summary: we're equipped with a slingshot and Goliath awaits.
But if you’re thinking about turning back now, don’t. Kid Rock and the out-of-towners will favorably influence the odds. And because it's such a large field, and screwy things always happen, every winning exacta or trifecta wager will pay-out somewhere in between “large” and “let’s buy a Winnebago.”
It's well worth taking aim with a rubber band and a few pebbles.
Below you'll find my run-down for the entire field. After that, I've listed $100 of wagers. I’m guessing the track condition will be good and not sloppy. By putting this in writing, I’m more/less guaranteed to make all of these bets (regardless of how the weather unfolds; I might bet more if it pours). I don’t think I could live with myself if I posted this for the masses, had it nailed, and then didn’t buy the ticket. That would be a Wrigley Field bruise (hurt for a millennium). So there, now you’ve done your part.
1) Sedgefield
I like it when trainers opt for unconventional methods (remember Forty Niner’s 7 furlong prep leading to a 2nd-place finish at Churchill?). This colt tried the turf four weeks ago, only two weeks after the Lane’s End, and now he’s back on the dirt for the Derby. That’s highly unconventional. Unfortunately, I can’t fan the fire – think he’s in way over his head. Not a red cent (NRC).
2) Curlin
Reminds me of Bernardini in every respect. Can run from the front or rate, has a ton of talent, and puts horses away with an eerie and awesome ease. The knocks: only three lifetime races, and he hasn’t faced much competition. It has been 90 years since a horse with only three lifetime races won the Derby -- quite a precedent to buck. The other bummer: he will be a main attraction at the window. Still, if a horse has the perfect running style for the Derby and looks like a megastar in the making, would you throw him out? Me neither. Major player.
3) Zanjero
A winning $2 trifecta in the Derby often returns over $10,000. Knowing our collection bucket has to anticipate some unknowns, why not include Zanjero? He has a win over the Churchill track (big plus). Hasn’t missed the board since his first race (another plus). He was incredibly game in the Bluegrass, beaten by just a head. Enough races under his belt to be seasoned, but not so many that we can’t hope for more upside. Asmussen will have him primed; might get him at 35-1. He’ll need some luck, but winnebago-sized payouts normally do. Good enough for inclusion in some of my wheels.
4) Storm in May
Impressive six furlong race in January. Wait a minute, that’s his sell point? I surrender. NRC.
5) Imawildandcrazyguy
Would be killer to hear this guy’s name late in the race. NBC should have Steve Martin on standby just in case (And Down the Stretch They Come, it’s Imawildandcrazyguy!!!!). Unfortunately, for that to happen the other 19 saddles are gonna need some lead. NRC.
6) Cowtown Cat
The most intriguing horse in the race. Was running 6 & 1/2 furlong races two months. Not sure he wants to go a mile and quarter, but there are a lot of positives. Won the Gotham. Moved forward in the Illinois Derby and picked up the 19 year-old Panamanian sensation, Fernando Jara (Invasor’s regular jockey). Pletcher trains. Bullet workout on the 21st . Should be in great position near the front. If nobody wants the lead, he could (and probably should) try to wire ‘em. An Illinois Derby champ on the front at a price (probably 20-1): anyone else having flashbacks to War Emblem?
A warning before you cash-in your 401K for a horse named Cowtown: I jumped onboard Sweetnorthernsaint last year, another that tried the Illinois to Kentucky route. He is still running.
Not dissuaded. Start the whispers now, “here kitty, kitty.”
7) Street Sense
Talk about a handful. Won the BC Juvenile at Churchill last fall by a record margin. That race was even more impressive in person (Arazi-like). One of my favorite trainers in Nafzger; trumped only by the fact that Borel will ride (the guy is scary good at Churchill). The horse obviously loves the track, and he’s been pointing for this race since he crossed the BC wire. Throw in a sizzling workout over the track last week & add it all up: Sense is guaranteed to be the talk of the Downs.
Ironically, the hype may also his biggest negative: he won’t offer much value (my guess is 7-2). That’s a short price for a colt that will be back in the pack early. Not to mention, he got a mythical trip along the rail in the Juvenile. The same will not happen today. And this time he has to pass even more entrants; an average trip through traffic and he might be running for 2nd or 3rd.
Can’t fault anyone who backs him with all their lunch money. A major player in my wheels. His early positioning and implied odds have me shying away from the whole kit and caboodle.
8) Hard Spun
I liked Spun a lot more on Sunday. Monday he ran a 5f workout in a freakish 57 3/5 seconds. Too quick for my liking five days before the toughest race of his career. Perhaps the rookie trainer/jockey combo of Larry Jones and Mario Pino didn’t get the memo: the Derby is on Saturday (not Monday). Beyond the questions marks surrounding the newbies, there’s another concern: most of the horses Spun has faced appear to be genetic descendents of turtles.
The good news: if you can get comfortable with the aforementioned, there’s a lot to like. He has won 5-of-6 races going away. His best Beyer is comparable to Curlin. He’s more seasoned than Curlin. He’ll be around 15-1 (Curlin will be 3-1). And he’s been hanging around Churchill for a month.
Tough to love the whole package, but the pluses are undeniable. Have the piñatas on standby in Delaware just in case. A factor.
9) Liquidity
Was bet down to 3-1 in the Santa Anita Derby and came home 4th. Seems like an unlikely candidate to be in this race, as the added distance doesn’t figure to help. O’Neil wouldn’t bring him just to check out the Spires; maybe the owners like juleps. Or they know something we don't. Backers will find plenty to liquidate if he can hit the board. But I just can’t find enough to like. NRC.
10) Teufelsberg
After being allowed to set the slowest fractions in the history of thoroughbred racing, he still couldn’t hold them off in the Bluegrass. Throw in another twelve horses and faster fractions, his prospects get exponentially wurser (correct spelling). NRC.
11) Bwana’s Bull
Bwana’s gonna wanna chug eight red bulls before this race. That would liven up the paddock. Assuming he doesn’t flugtag and grow wings, NRC.
12) Nobiz Like Showbiz
You either loved his Wood Memorial because he had trouble rating and still went onto win, or you turned a whiter shade of pale contemplating Nobiz’s prospects with twenty horses around him in the Derby. I’m in the latter camp. Plus, I think he’s likely to get more action at the window than he deserves. Can’t bet everybody. NRC.
13) Sam P.
Surprised he’s only 20-1 in the morning line, would have thought higher. The “P” might stand for penultimate: looking for him to finish around 19th. And with those unkind words, he’s now guaranteed to beat half my horses. Either way, NRC.
14) Scat Daddy
This guy is not afraid of a brawl. Love the way he fought them off in the Florida Derby. At Churchill you’ve got to overcome obstacles, and he sure seems capable in that regard. Taking the same route to KY as Barbaro a year ago. On the downside, he’s been all out in three straight races and with remarkably similar Beyers; makes you wonder about his upside. Just not sure his best day will be good enough. My heart wants to include him; my head thinks nay. Scat won’t offer a ton of window value. Inclined to play in some of my exotics but not more.
15 Tiago
This year’s class of Californians is about as lousy a lot as I can remember. This is their champion (having won the Santa Anita Derby). Some things to like. An all-world trainer/jockey combo with Sheriffs and Smith – same duo that teamed up for a Derby victory with Giacomo. He’s improving and has the right running style; another move forward and he could be in the mix. If his odds go up near post-time, or if he’s lightly bet in the show pool, inclined to play a few dollars as a hedge. Generally prefer others.
16) Circular Quay
Was the pre-race talk of the town for the BC Juvenile at Churchill. 2nd that day behind Street Sense’s freakish performance. Needed the Risen Star as a first race back in ‘07. Impressive winner in the Louisiana Derby. Some will question his eight week layoff; I’m not one of them. Will need a good trip through traffic, but luck is always part of the deal. Talented enough to uncork a monster. Should be alongside Street Sense every step of the way. Probably at three times the price. Loving every penny of it.
17) Stormello
Has legitimate early speed. Unfortunately, the rest of the front running crowd starts inside of him; will require a bunch of petrol for him to get clear. Normally brings his A game; just not convinced that will be good enough. NRC.
18) Any Given Saturday
Four weeks ago he was one of the Derby favorites. After an uninspiring Wood Memorial, he’s a much tougher read. Backers will point to his epic duel with Street Sense eight weeks ago and an impressive race at Churchill last fall. Also, he’s never been beaten by more than three lengths, and he’s a candidate to improve. On the down side, not sure he wants the added distance. Closing thought on a mixed bag: I will need more than 12-1 to consider him a value; planning to include in my wheels.
19 Dominican
Was gelded this spring and has been all business since. Won the Rushaway easily, despite traffic problems, then went to Lexington and played spoiler in the Bluegrass. The opening fractions were obese that day, but he passed Street Sense, Teufelsburg, Great Hunter, and Zanjero to nab the win. A feat that should not be taken lightly.
Skeptics will question his Polytrack successes and wonder about his upside off back-to-back bests. To counter: might have the best late kick in the race, and he carries a very capable jockey (who knows Churchill) in a very tricky race.
It’s a lot to ask from the #19 post, but I can’t find a better value play. Call Lone Starr and tell him we’re coming for his winnebago. THE PICK.
20) Great Hunter
This year’s “pi” entrant: impossible to solve. 3rd in the BC Juvenile last fall. Kicked off ‘07 with a G2 win at Santa Anita. Was 2-1 and the co-favorite alongside Street Sense in the Bluegrass, but he got cut off in the lane and ended up 5th. Didn’t appear bound for victory that day, but he has a legitimate excuse.
The twenty hole ain’t a plus; Hunter will need some luck not to get caught wide. If he can find a spot, figures to be a notch closer to the pace than Street Sense and Quay, a notch behind Curlin and Hard Spun. Could be ideal?
Another from O’Neil’s camp, bonus points in my book. Shouldn’t be overlooked, but my preferences are getting a little lopsided on the outside. Thinking nay and will cross my fingers. Very tough call.
The window specifics:
Dominican and Circular Quay represent the best value in my opinion. Cowtown and Hard Spun are the wild cards. Inclined to single Cowtown for a little side action. If I had to bet on one horse to be in the money, regardless of the odds, it would be Street Sense (hence the extra exacta wheel).
$1 Trifecta wheel: 2, 7, 16, 19 with 6, 8, 12, 14, with 2, 7, 16 & 19 ($48)
$1 Exacta wheel 2, 6, 7, 8, 12, 14, 15 with 16 & 19 ($14)
$1 Exacta wheel 2, 6, 8, 12, 14, 15, 16, 19, 20 with 7 ($9)
$4 win & $8 show on 19 ($12)
$3 win & $6 show on 16 ($9)
$3 across the board on 6 ($9)
Thursday, May 3, 2007
His Mother Was a Mudder, His Father Was a Mudder....
I was hoping to post my Derby picks tonight, but I'm not there yet. Fortunately, there are still 45 hours until post-time (an eternity).
Random nuggets to hold you over:
This is the deepest field I've ever seen. There are unusual race dynamics at play; a lot of the favorites come from way off the pace. I need the next 45 hours to second guess myself even more. The forecast in Louisville is calling for more rain. Everyone needs to be on the lookout for a good mudder.
Bound for the Oaks tomorrow. I'll check out the track conditions and continue to scrutinize the Derby field. I also have to make good on a yearly Oaks contract with my friend, mint julep. Said another way: the chances of posting any Derby picks tomorrow are slim. Expect them Saturday morning.
Here are my notes from the post-position draw:
The Sedgefield clan may not see much TV time on Saturday, but they made a splash at the Draw by sending up two 18 year-old southern belles to choose the #1 post. Very nice, very nice.
Hard Spun’s trainer, Larry Jones showed up in a cowboy hat and then proceeded to scare me shitless. When asked whether Hard Spun’s 5f workout on Monday was too fast, Jones responded with, “I think it was fine. I asked a couple other trainers and they thought it was alright.” OTHER TRAINERS!!!!
ESPN announcer Jeannine Edwards was sneaky hot in person.
Steve Asmussen, trainer for Curlin & Zanjero, earns bonus points and some good karma for going out of his way to sign autographs after the telecast, specifically targeting a young man in a wheelchair.
Kenny Mayne ripped off more one-liners than a Jim Mora press conference.
Finally, to my chagrin, 4 Street Live was a good venue for the proceedings. Located in the heart of downtown, people were able to drift by after work. Five for Fighting was also waiting to take the stage after the ESPN crew dispersed. In short, there was plenty of room for a big crowd and multiple means of entertainment.
Nice call Louisville.
Random nuggets to hold you over:
This is the deepest field I've ever seen. There are unusual race dynamics at play; a lot of the favorites come from way off the pace. I need the next 45 hours to second guess myself even more. The forecast in Louisville is calling for more rain. Everyone needs to be on the lookout for a good mudder.
Bound for the Oaks tomorrow. I'll check out the track conditions and continue to scrutinize the Derby field. I also have to make good on a yearly Oaks contract with my friend, mint julep. Said another way: the chances of posting any Derby picks tomorrow are slim. Expect them Saturday morning.
Here are my notes from the post-position draw:
The Sedgefield clan may not see much TV time on Saturday, but they made a splash at the Draw by sending up two 18 year-old southern belles to choose the #1 post. Very nice, very nice.
Hard Spun’s trainer, Larry Jones showed up in a cowboy hat and then proceeded to scare me shitless. When asked whether Hard Spun’s 5f workout on Monday was too fast, Jones responded with, “I think it was fine. I asked a couple other trainers and they thought it was alright.” OTHER TRAINERS!!!!
ESPN announcer Jeannine Edwards was sneaky hot in person.
Steve Asmussen, trainer for Curlin & Zanjero, earns bonus points and some good karma for going out of his way to sign autographs after the telecast, specifically targeting a young man in a wheelchair.
Kenny Mayne ripped off more one-liners than a Jim Mora press conference.
Finally, to my chagrin, 4 Street Live was a good venue for the proceedings. Located in the heart of downtown, people were able to drift by after work. Five for Fighting was also waiting to take the stage after the ESPN crew dispersed. In short, there was plenty of room for a big crowd and multiple means of entertainment.
Nice call Louisville.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The Run for the Roses (Part II).....
Admittedly, there’s a lot of yin and yang, good cop and bad cop, on these pages. It’s emblematic of the writer. My moods tend to alternate between sentimental and comedic, serious and absurd. This blog follows suit.
If you read Roses Part I and have that pegged for yin, you’re probably wise to anticipate a fish-hook to the mouth (yang). Indeed, notes from Bardstown Road and a gambler’s underbelly are about to commence.
Please do not allow anything in this entry to diminish the earnestness of Monday’s writings. I couldn’t be more serious with regards to my adoration for the Derby’s history, and horse racing’s need for more fans. One more time with enthusiasm: Go Baby, Go.
Having said as much, let’s now proceed with a series of paragraphs akin to an after school special, only the exact opposite.
First off, a little Louisville mapping. Bardstown Road = The Vegas Strip and Mollie Malone’s = Ghostbar (insert your favorite Vegas bar/club). You may hear rumors that the newer 4th Street Live is preferred to Bardstown Road. Sure, you could go with that theory. While you’re at it, keep telling yourself that Sapphire is better than The Spearmint Rhino.
Now that our GPS is targeted for Bardstown Road, with Mollie Malone’s serving as home base, on with the implications.
The bars are open until 6 am Derby weekend. The track on Derby Day opens at 6 am. If you have a pencil within grasp, you can draw a straight line from Mollie Malone’s -> Churchill Downs. An Etch-A-sketch would probably do the trick too, but don’t wear yourself out looking. The important thing to grasp: you never have to go home.
If you don’t see hammering straight through as a merit-worthy act, and you’re coming to Louisville in an RV or sleep-in-auto, Bardstown Road can double as your address for the night. It’s in a good location, about seven miles from the Downs. You won’t be alone.
Staying with the Vegas parallel, Derby weekend definitely has the “what happens at Derby, stays at Derby” thing going for it. Especially relevant if you’re hoping to bump into a collegiate someone you haven’t seen in a decade. The Derby has universal appeal: people want to cross it off their “I did something while roaming the earth” list. In short, you are virtually guaranteed to see someone from yesteryear. What you do with yesteryear in a dark bar at five in the morning, is up to you.
Past happenings on Bardstown Road include: a bathroom bump-in with Eli Manning, a buddy passed out next to his own puke on a proprietor’s lawn, a back alley Kid Rock sighting, unintentional tours of Louisville in illegal cabs (locals in their Oldsmobile’s looking to make an extra buck), another buddy wandering into a Winnebago (in which he knew no one) wearing a 3-foot nerf hat and staying with the inhabitants for the next 20 hours, bachelor party festivities complete with an unplanned rendezvous at a downtown strip club, and all manner of tomfoolery at Mollie Malone’s (including an inexplicable choice in beverages one year: screwdrivers).
The possibilities, and actual happenings, are endless.
The only other point worthy of attention: cabs (legal or otherwise) are difficult to find in Louisville. And when I say difficult, I’m talking whittle your way through Fort Knox tough. Alternative travel options (unicycles, rickshaws, the Millennium Falcon) should be sought out if feasible.
Assuming the “party all night then head to the Downs” option loses out to a few hours of sleep, noon is a good aim (ETA) for Derby day. This leaves enough time to stop in at one of the townie bars adorning plastic banners that say “Welcome Race Fans." The potential for lifelong stories from said locales is “high” to “very high.” If you sense health inspectors have been neglecting your chosen watering hole for the better part of a century, or if you think it’s a normal house out to make an extra buck, all the better.
After a little time with the locals, it’s probably time to move the party inside the Downs. If Derby Day means the infield, you will be entering via Gate 3. Prepare for entry alongside the youngest party-goers on the planet (trust me: younger every year). Plus, they will have beaten you to the first beer (game of flippy cup, keg stand) of the morning. The net/net, be prepared for juvenile tendencies. The other thing to know about Gate 3: this is where the unofficial grand prize game of the Derby takes place -- smuggling alcohol into the Downs.
Downs workers have seen a lot of tricks. Don’t fool yourself; winning this battle is partly about luck. That being said, ingenuity is often rewarded. Barnoculars (binoculars with a screw-off eye lens) are a personal favorite. I also think filling the water cooler with ice, only to dump vodka in at the last minute, has a decent chance of passing inspection. Beyond that, any type of beverage container that still has the twisty seal on will probably make it through. But there really are no guarantees.
Upon entry, there will plenty of madness (and bare skin) in turn three. This is college row. Collegiate status not required, only collegiate behavior. Activities normally reserved for the mosh pit are regularly on the docket. Shirts and shoes strongly discouraged.
Those looking for fun without body surfing can opt for turn two. An older yet entertaining (normally clothed) ensemble. The chances of seeing a horse improves dramatically in turn two.
My crew normally holes up in between the two turns, closer to the stage for the bands and really close to a mouth-watering hamburger stand. After a late night on Bardstown Road, this is our oasis in the infield desert. The burgers are worth twice their $6 price tag and offer a little sustenance before stepping onboard the mint julep train.
Whatever you’ve heard about mint juleps, know this: they taste better at Churchill Downs. The classic souvenir glass, the actual mint leaves, the bourbon to ice coefficient -- it all adds up to an appreciation for bourbon that many would normally swear off. That first sip may be jolting, but not long thereafter you’ll be flagging down the guy yelling, “miiiiint jewel-uppppppps” for numero dos, glad you ventured down this path.
From this point on I would encourage doing whatever the moment calls for. Once you’ve paid general admission to the infield, you also have access to the grandstand side of Churchill Downs via a tunnel in the middle of the track. Some areas are off-limits in the grandstand, but every single attendee has access to a decent percentage of the track including the paddock (where the jockeys mount the horses). It’s worth a trip to the grandstand side just to check out the pretty people, regardless of your own attire. If you’re looking to make a wager or two, the betting lines on the grandstand side also tend to be exponentially shorter.
Not that I’m a bettor.
Well, maybe I am. In truth, “definitely” would probably be the better choice.
It’s not that I have a thing for gambling, or that I love cheering for a particular horse. I HAVE to bet the Derby. If someone offered you $10 whenever a coin flip came up heads, and you only had to pay them $5 when it was tails, would you be willing to become a “gambler.” Sure you would; it's free money.
For me, the Derby is as close as I’ll ever get to free money.
Derby day bettors are about as diverse a lot as you’ll find this side of Tatooine. Not only that, but using the force at the pari-mutuel window is the norm, not the exception. Favorite numbers, a horse’s name, a cute jockey, the number of pet iguanas the bettor has, and all manner of other derivatives: on Derby day there is absolutely no method to the average bettor’s madness.
And to the absolute delight of anyone who’s ever read a racing form, the guy who just bet $400 on the correlation to his iguana, has just influenced the odds. A horse that might normally be 6-1, could be 9-1, offering me an additional 50% on my money (and a hearty thank you to Mr. Iguana).
But here’s the bad news. Instead of being able to flip 1,000 coins and grind out a decent profit, with the Derby I only get one shot. As much as it pains me, neither Kid Rock nor Mr. Iguana will come back for more betting action on Sunday. Now if you’re an a + b = c sorta guy/gal, you’re probably sensing what this adds up to. In order for me to try and maximize this yearly opportunity, I’ve got to bet MORE.
But this is actually a matter for another day (tomorrow). You can sense where I’m headed: a few large bets. For now, it’s time to venture down to 4th Street Live for the post-position draw. Wish they would have hosted it elsewhere, but they didn't. A singular knock on the week: not at all bad.
Man, I love this town.
If you read Roses Part I and have that pegged for yin, you’re probably wise to anticipate a fish-hook to the mouth (yang). Indeed, notes from Bardstown Road and a gambler’s underbelly are about to commence.
Please do not allow anything in this entry to diminish the earnestness of Monday’s writings. I couldn’t be more serious with regards to my adoration for the Derby’s history, and horse racing’s need for more fans. One more time with enthusiasm: Go Baby, Go.
Having said as much, let’s now proceed with a series of paragraphs akin to an after school special, only the exact opposite.
First off, a little Louisville mapping. Bardstown Road = The Vegas Strip and Mollie Malone’s = Ghostbar (insert your favorite Vegas bar/club). You may hear rumors that the newer 4th Street Live is preferred to Bardstown Road. Sure, you could go with that theory. While you’re at it, keep telling yourself that Sapphire is better than The Spearmint Rhino.
Now that our GPS is targeted for Bardstown Road, with Mollie Malone’s serving as home base, on with the implications.
The bars are open until 6 am Derby weekend. The track on Derby Day opens at 6 am. If you have a pencil within grasp, you can draw a straight line from Mollie Malone’s -> Churchill Downs. An Etch-A-sketch would probably do the trick too, but don’t wear yourself out looking. The important thing to grasp: you never have to go home.
If you don’t see hammering straight through as a merit-worthy act, and you’re coming to Louisville in an RV or sleep-in-auto, Bardstown Road can double as your address for the night. It’s in a good location, about seven miles from the Downs. You won’t be alone.
Staying with the Vegas parallel, Derby weekend definitely has the “what happens at Derby, stays at Derby” thing going for it. Especially relevant if you’re hoping to bump into a collegiate someone you haven’t seen in a decade. The Derby has universal appeal: people want to cross it off their “I did something while roaming the earth” list. In short, you are virtually guaranteed to see someone from yesteryear. What you do with yesteryear in a dark bar at five in the morning, is up to you.
Past happenings on Bardstown Road include: a bathroom bump-in with Eli Manning, a buddy passed out next to his own puke on a proprietor’s lawn, a back alley Kid Rock sighting, unintentional tours of Louisville in illegal cabs (locals in their Oldsmobile’s looking to make an extra buck), another buddy wandering into a Winnebago (in which he knew no one) wearing a 3-foot nerf hat and staying with the inhabitants for the next 20 hours, bachelor party festivities complete with an unplanned rendezvous at a downtown strip club, and all manner of tomfoolery at Mollie Malone’s (including an inexplicable choice in beverages one year: screwdrivers).
The possibilities, and actual happenings, are endless.
The only other point worthy of attention: cabs (legal or otherwise) are difficult to find in Louisville. And when I say difficult, I’m talking whittle your way through Fort Knox tough. Alternative travel options (unicycles, rickshaws, the Millennium Falcon) should be sought out if feasible.
Assuming the “party all night then head to the Downs” option loses out to a few hours of sleep, noon is a good aim (ETA) for Derby day. This leaves enough time to stop in at one of the townie bars adorning plastic banners that say “Welcome Race Fans." The potential for lifelong stories from said locales is “high” to “very high.” If you sense health inspectors have been neglecting your chosen watering hole for the better part of a century, or if you think it’s a normal house out to make an extra buck, all the better.
After a little time with the locals, it’s probably time to move the party inside the Downs. If Derby Day means the infield, you will be entering via Gate 3. Prepare for entry alongside the youngest party-goers on the planet (trust me: younger every year). Plus, they will have beaten you to the first beer (game of flippy cup, keg stand) of the morning. The net/net, be prepared for juvenile tendencies. The other thing to know about Gate 3: this is where the unofficial grand prize game of the Derby takes place -- smuggling alcohol into the Downs.
Downs workers have seen a lot of tricks. Don’t fool yourself; winning this battle is partly about luck. That being said, ingenuity is often rewarded. Barnoculars (binoculars with a screw-off eye lens) are a personal favorite. I also think filling the water cooler with ice, only to dump vodka in at the last minute, has a decent chance of passing inspection. Beyond that, any type of beverage container that still has the twisty seal on will probably make it through. But there really are no guarantees.
Upon entry, there will plenty of madness (and bare skin) in turn three. This is college row. Collegiate status not required, only collegiate behavior. Activities normally reserved for the mosh pit are regularly on the docket. Shirts and shoes strongly discouraged.
Those looking for fun without body surfing can opt for turn two. An older yet entertaining (normally clothed) ensemble. The chances of seeing a horse improves dramatically in turn two.
My crew normally holes up in between the two turns, closer to the stage for the bands and really close to a mouth-watering hamburger stand. After a late night on Bardstown Road, this is our oasis in the infield desert. The burgers are worth twice their $6 price tag and offer a little sustenance before stepping onboard the mint julep train.
Whatever you’ve heard about mint juleps, know this: they taste better at Churchill Downs. The classic souvenir glass, the actual mint leaves, the bourbon to ice coefficient -- it all adds up to an appreciation for bourbon that many would normally swear off. That first sip may be jolting, but not long thereafter you’ll be flagging down the guy yelling, “miiiiint jewel-uppppppps” for numero dos, glad you ventured down this path.
From this point on I would encourage doing whatever the moment calls for. Once you’ve paid general admission to the infield, you also have access to the grandstand side of Churchill Downs via a tunnel in the middle of the track. Some areas are off-limits in the grandstand, but every single attendee has access to a decent percentage of the track including the paddock (where the jockeys mount the horses). It’s worth a trip to the grandstand side just to check out the pretty people, regardless of your own attire. If you’re looking to make a wager or two, the betting lines on the grandstand side also tend to be exponentially shorter.
Not that I’m a bettor.
Well, maybe I am. In truth, “definitely” would probably be the better choice.
It’s not that I have a thing for gambling, or that I love cheering for a particular horse. I HAVE to bet the Derby. If someone offered you $10 whenever a coin flip came up heads, and you only had to pay them $5 when it was tails, would you be willing to become a “gambler.” Sure you would; it's free money.
For me, the Derby is as close as I’ll ever get to free money.
Derby day bettors are about as diverse a lot as you’ll find this side of Tatooine. Not only that, but using the force at the pari-mutuel window is the norm, not the exception. Favorite numbers, a horse’s name, a cute jockey, the number of pet iguanas the bettor has, and all manner of other derivatives: on Derby day there is absolutely no method to the average bettor’s madness.
And to the absolute delight of anyone who’s ever read a racing form, the guy who just bet $400 on the correlation to his iguana, has just influenced the odds. A horse that might normally be 6-1, could be 9-1, offering me an additional 50% on my money (and a hearty thank you to Mr. Iguana).
But here’s the bad news. Instead of being able to flip 1,000 coins and grind out a decent profit, with the Derby I only get one shot. As much as it pains me, neither Kid Rock nor Mr. Iguana will come back for more betting action on Sunday. Now if you’re an a + b = c sorta guy/gal, you’re probably sensing what this adds up to. In order for me to try and maximize this yearly opportunity, I’ve got to bet MORE.
But this is actually a matter for another day (tomorrow). You can sense where I’m headed: a few large bets. For now, it’s time to venture down to 4th Street Live for the post-position draw. Wish they would have hosted it elsewhere, but they didn't. A singular knock on the week: not at all bad.
Man, I love this town.
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