It's nine AM, and Phil's been up for a few hours working on the website and sponsorship related stuff. He's awake, of course, because the parking lot that we chose for the evening was unknowingly situated directly opposite a train depot. A very loud train depot. An extremely loud, obnoxious train depot.
Eventually, he loses patience and decides to just start driving toward Louisville, leaving Rafe in the bedroom to sleep as long as he would like. Well, we were just out of the parking lot when Rafe, jostled from his near-coma state, bounced from the bedroom and into the passenger seat. We were on the road, with 250 miles ahead.
Just outside Louisville, we found the perfect stop. Flying J's are always a welcome RV pit stop. This trucker haven has RV sewage dump, RV-friendly in-and-out access, propane refill stations, fresh water for the shower, an excellent country style buffet, and best of all, cheap gas. We almost never pass up an opportunity to use them along the way. [If anyone from Flying J is reading this, you would be a most welcome sponsor for the remainder of the tour. If anyone knows anyone at Flying J or would like to take it upon themselves to call Flying J on our behalf, we will generously hook you up with a kickback and all the USA merchandise you can wear].
After fulfilling all our RVing needs, we spot a Truck Wash across the road. Now, early in our trip, we were told by several RV'ers that truck washes would also wash RV's. It was time to test the theory, as our blue monster hadn't seen a drop of soap for about a month. We wanted her shined up. An hour later, we pulled out of the washer with a spanked clean RV -- and they washed the car to boot! [If anyone from Blue Beacon Truck Wash is reading, we'll pimp for you too. Love the truck washes. Give us a ring.]
Eventually, we arrive in Louisville with no real clear idea where we are going to park. Churchill Downs isn't listed in our map software for some reason, so we take a few clues from fan mail, and head to the University of Louisville stadium. Sure enough, there are a few RV's in the main lot, so we drive over to investigate. There are 40-50 RV's, but all are Airstreams. Our first RV convention! But, as we are not driving a Airstream, we weren't really welcome.
Fortunately, just on the other side of the lot, there was a space and a great bar across the street with a name that seemed to call to us: The Tailgater. Better yet, the owner assured Phil that the band tonight was awesome, Louisville's absolute best, and there would be 1500 people in attendance. We had visions: RV parked outside in clear view of the stage, hot girls at the concert, less than stumbling distance... This seemed like a plan.
So, we turned on the disco ball, fired up the generator, cracked a beer, and decided to stay awhile. After showers and the intro band, we headed into the fray, intentions impure and already buzzing from a couple of warm up drinks in the RV.
The VilleBillies, Louisville's finest and most promising band, actually isn't a band at all. They are five bona fide hicks that "rap" and "sing" to previously recorded hip hop sounding background music. Visualize Snoop Dog meets Jethro Clampett meets the Back Street Boys and you get the picture. [Note to Michelle and Donna (aka Mom's spys) in Atlanta: this band party very easily could be named MulletFest.]
We're halfway into the set, and Rafe is really digging it. Phil finds the music extremely annoying, and is flabbergasted by Rafe's lack of taste and culture. "These guys really have something," Rafe says. And he follows that up with, "they'll be very popular and they'll be the next hit of MTV." Yeah, right, Phil says, and soon thereafter we have a wagering opportunity. Phil asks for $100 right now, and when any of the five members (Tuck, Dylan, 2-B, Demi, Child and BJ) or the VilleBillies crack the Billboard Top 25 for album or single, Phil will pay Rafe back $300. We go back and forth for about ten minutes trying to nail down the fine points, but eventually Rafe denies the bet. Phil will have to settle for an I-told-you-so. Or not, really, because the chances of him remembering the VilleBillies five or so years from now are, well, much longer than 3-1.
The band mercifully quits [can you tell who's doing the writing here, folks?] at around midnight. We are told by several cute girls that things are still going off in town. Wednesday is "the night" in Louisville. So, being the intrepid souls dedicated to bringing our dear readers with the very best material, we head down to Baxter, the street with all the bars on it.
We eventually find a bar with a line outside, bribe our way to the front, and we're in. The beers keep coming, and soon we're chatting up two prospects. "Where ya'll from?" they ask. LA, Rafe says. "Dats cool, man, like California is cool," the semi- goodlooking one says, as she lights up a foul smelling cigarette. We moved to greener pastures, which must have been more than a little unsettling for her, as she called out, "Where ya'll going?" Phil yelled back, "Straight to Hell." For some reason, we found it amusing.
We were going into the upstairs part of the bar. Another live band, Blowfly, this one headed by a pretty boy that really could have been a Back Street Boy. The music was decent, but the vibe was pretty much nonexistent. We decided the girls would become better looking if we drank more. Sure enough, after switching to vodka and tonics, every girl in the bar suddenly had their rating raised at least one star.
Not quite yet ready to throw in the towel, we decide to "do a lap." We're rewarded with a little flirtation, some small talk, and eventually run smack into the best thing that happened all night, the Galaxian game. Rafe, about three drinks more sober than Phil, proposes a friendly $10 wager, otherwise known as a sucker-bet. Phil, the self-proclaimed Master-of-All-Things-Video, accepts and is promptly crushed without clearing even the first screen.
We complete the loop, order another round, and head back to Galaxian for the rematch. This time, Phil prevails. All Square. Fairly inebriated, we stumble out the front door and search for a taxi.
"Hey, you, why do you have a poker hand on your shirt?" a very tall, quite striking random girl asks Phil as a taxi pulls up. We pass on the taxi. After a brief explanation, she invited us to another bar requesting some poker lessons. As fate would have it, Phil never goes anywhere without a deck of cards, and soon enough we're playing poker for sugar packets with this girl and a 40 year old guy that is quite annoyed at his turn of events. Seems like he thought they were on the way home when she spotted a "poker celebrity" and everything changed. We ruined him, and he wasn't happy about it.
We crushed her in poker, and actually made her buy the next round. She wasn't nearly as drunk as we were, and we were set on changing that. Especially when she started rubbing Phil's leg underneath the table. Love the Poker Groupies.
Rafe, eventually tired and drunk, takes a taxi back to the RV at 3am. The girl, 23, professional volleyball player in Germany, and a huge poker fan, wanted to go to the casino. In Indiana. Without his wingman, Phil lost focus and agreed. The thirty minute drive out to the casino wasn't so bad, really, as she was quite interesting and clearly things were going well. It's not often that you get an opportunity to really score points by talking to a girl about poker and volleyball, right?
It seems like an impossibly long walk from the parking area to the poker room. At least a mile. By the time Phil and 23 (let's call her Jordan) get to the room, there is an hour left before close. There are two games going, a 10-20 Hold'em game and a Pot-Limit shorthanded game. Phil selected the 10-20 game and bought a rack of chips, $500.
Almost immediately, Jordan starts spouting off about how all the other players are in trouble now, that they are dealing with a famous player, etc. A few of the players did recognize Phil, but none of them seemed too scared or impressed. Rightfull so. "Look, Jordan, I'm here to play sound poker. I will not, under any circumstances, try to impress you by playing shitty cards. I'm going to be a rock here, so take notes." The other players, all who look like they had been at the table for at least twelve hours each did not look pleased.
As Phil's chips arrived, he quickly found out why they didn't want a rock at the table. Live 20, live 30, live 40, and a quick raise to 50 was the action on almost every single hand. These were absolutely the biggest gamblers and worst holdem players around. Phil played super-tight for the first round, and then picked up AK. The action was capped 5 ways before it got to him, so he called. And flopped a K, and won a very nice pot. Jordan was impressed.
But, the card gods frowned on Phil for the next 45 minutes, and he eventually ended up cashing out up only $180. Not bad for an hour, really.
The ride back was a lot more difficult. By this time, it was well past 6am. Jordan started talking about "having to move" out of her apartment in the morning. It was morning, for Christ's sake. He drifted in and out of light sleep during the drive back to find himself in front of the RV and Jordan driving away before he could even ask for a phone number. If something seems too good to be true, it usually is. At least the $180 win paid for the night on the town and made the imminent hangover more palatable.
We awoke around noon, and a two, a stadium security guard asked us to move, so we search around and found the RV park about a mile away at the Louisville Fairgrounds (thanks Frank B. for the tip!) We regrouped, moved, and eventually ended up set in our new home by 3pm.
Phil headed off for the Federal Express office to retrieve mail from home (Thanks Mom!) and a package from our newest sponsor, ShowMeTickets.com. These guys really have it going on. Better yet, they are absolutely dedicated to helping our charity, the Cancer Research and Prevention Foundation. For every order that comes from you guys more than $150, they will donate $25 to CRPF. Make a big ticket purchase of $500, and they'll donate $50! They have also very generously donated some awesome tickets to major events for us to auction off and use as prizes. We're very fortunate to have them join us for the rest of the tour.
After FedEx, we decided to celebrate with an afternoon of volleyball. Baxter Jack's, the local volleyball heaven, was a few miles away but we were ready to kick some Kentucky Fried butt. Unfortunately, the bar was closed due to the Derby parade. We settled for some pepper at the university sand court.
After 30 minutes of drills, we pulled out one of favorite games, one-on-one full court "Vollis." Serve underhanded, score a point if you win the point, underhanded bumping the only shot allowed (get it, volleyball + tennis = "vollis"). Rafe won a tight match, and thus dinner, 21-18. Exhausted, we head back to the RV for a warm up beer and shower.
We park the car and are heading to BAR Louisville, a known hot spot, when Phil senses a good vibe at an Irish Pub called Molly Malones. We decide to check it out. We're inside the nice bar, ordering our first beer, when Phil gets a look from a really short, cute blonde girl across the bar. She's whispering to her friends. She looks, looks again, and we're sure it's "celebrity poker player sighting," an event that has become quite frequent when we are out, ever since the airing of the World Poker Tour show that Phil was on.
Sure enough, a minute later, she comes over, "Is your name Phil?" she asks. Phil answers affirmatively. She looks shocked, spreads her arms, and Phil gets a sick, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Clearly this girl thinks that Phil should remember her. Um, not going to happen, sweetheart. He shakes his head...
A little disappointed, she says, "It's Lisa! From Africa! Lisa!." Phil and Lisa had met in Africa and traveled together for a few days almost 5 years ago. She had changed, but in almost all the good ways [lost weight, much cuter].
After he gathered himself, Phil and Lisa traded stories, caught up, called their mutual travel partner from Africa, Trent "Dr. Love" McKie from Canada and shared a few beers. There were looming older gentlemen around that seemed to be "with" Lisa, but whatever. We had a good time catching up, tried to induce her to come out with us bar hopping, but eventually left when she declined.
Soon thereafter, we're lined up like cattle in front of BAR Louisville. This place is a party mecca with three clubs all connected, all with a different vibe. Their $15 cover seemed a bit excessive, as did the 30 minute line. We formed a plan and made our way around the back.
"Hey, Mike from BAR Chicago and Randy from BAR Atlanta are good friends and sent us your way," we told the bouncer. Lucky for us, he had partied with Randy before and soon enough we're in the door, past the line, and feeling $30 richer than we could have been. Well done, Rafe, with the name dropping and plan. And "Thanks" to Randy for being such a rock star party animal. If you're reading this and you're from Atlanta, go to BAR Atlanta. Go tonight.
Of the three connected bars, we first hit BAR Louisville. This is clearly the most raucous of the three venues, with about 30 babes dancing on the bar. But, we weren't nearly lubed enough for the action, so we chose a slightly more conservative venue, the Have a Nice Day Café, and had a few brews.
For some reason, though, we just couldn't quite get into the flow. So, eventually, we cut out and decided to save it for a big weekend. We were back "early" by 3am, sound asleep.
We set the alarm for 9am, which was a very good call. We had scheduled a very important business meeting for the morning. After a frantic 30 minutes of clean up, we were ready when the prospective sponsor arrived. We had a great meeting, and with any luck, USA will have a sponsor in the near future.
At 1pm, we decided to head down to Churchill Downs for the Kentucky Oaks. The Oaks is a race held the day before the Kentucky Derby. It's the Derby for locals, and there were almost a hundred thousand people down for the event. It has become such a Louisville tradition that all the local schools are closed on Oaks day. This, we're sure, is why Kentucky is known nationwide for their excellent school system.
We arrived and soaked up the scene. The Downs, streams of ticket brokers all hustling, the big hats in all shapes and sizes, the white jump suits, and tuxedos. We purchase a couple of scalped tickets for a few dollars over face value and head right in.
Within the first 20 feet, we're greeted by a salesman for the quintessential alcoholic drink, the Mint Julep. Crushed ice, Early Times bourbon, and a large sprig of mint. They were selling them as fast as they could pour. After purchase of the official race program, we're out to our grandstand seats just minutes before the famous trumpets, "da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da," (can't you hear the different notes?) that announce 10 minutes before post. We scramble to the window, a couple of hundred bucks burning a hole in our pocket.
We've eschewed any formal training, and decide to bet on the horses that have the best road trip names. With greed overruling caution, we stroll right up and make a huge triple-trifecta-exacta-superfecta-box bet. Or, we might have just bet on #6 to win. All we know is that the window operator took our money and gave us a little slip of paper. His snicker didn't leave us feeling overly confident.
And they're off! Everyone is jumping up and down. Four! Four! One! Three! They're all calling out different numbers, screaming, waving the racing form, and finally, groaning, swearing, ripping up tickets, and ordering a consolation Mint Julep. Though we didn't win, we kept our ticket for the scrap book.
We suppose it's worth noting for anyone who hasn't been to the Derby, that both the Kentucky Derby and the Kentucky Oaks are (merely) one race in a complete day of 12 separate races. In all the TV and other media coverage though, they always make it seem like the single race is the only thing going on that day. Granted, nobody is really in town for anything but the marquee race, but still people go for the full day and bet just as big (or so it appears) for the preliminary races. Even more interesting to us is the fact that after the Derby (and the Oaks) there are actually two more races that day! It's as if after the Rose Bowl, the junior varsity teams played a game. Very odd.
A few more races came and went, and the rest of our bankroll did as well. Seemed like everyone around us was hitting winners, but then again, they weren't trying for the homerun and betting on longshots, either. By the eighth race, we figured out that they were stretching the time between races, so that while the first few races were only a half hour apart, by the time the tenth race (the Oaks) was supposed to occur, there was over an hour between races. Not interested enough in the Oaks to stay for another two and a half hours, we decided to save our horse-race watching energy for the real deal, the Kentucky Derby.
We got back to the RV by shuttle, just in time to meet Rafe's friend, Laura, who he's convinced to drive the 300 miles from Chicago to see the Derby. This is after she'd already driven 10 hours in one day this week to take care of speeding tickets in Wisconsin. Apparently Rafe can be pretty convincing when he wants to.
In the parking lot of the Fairgrounds / RV park, there were quite a few parties going on. The best was a band of Chicagoans on bachelor party weekend. Phil "whacked up" a few Margaritas for them with the Daquiri Whacker, brought them all Snapple energy drinks, and hung out watching their stirring game of "bean bag horseshoes" -- two pieces of wood with holes cut out, 1 point for on the board, 2 points for in the hole.
Eventually, we were ready to rage and we headed out on the town in an extremely overcrowded minivan shuttle. We chose Molley Malones again for a quick dinner and beer. Service sucked, but the cuties everywhere kept Phil entertained while Rafe and Laura caught up on travel stories (they'd met traveling in Chile, while Phil was hard at work getting sponsors for USA).
Eventually, we cut out of there, and lacking a better alternative, head back to BAR. With the line twice as long as before, we figured the only way in was to pull rank. Luckily the list manager that hooked us up before was working and soon we're in, sporting beers, and doing our best to convince Laura that she really wanted to dance on the bar. Fortunately, it didn't take much convincing, and within minutes, she's on the bar, dancing with a dwarf in a Superman costume. Pretty much like any normal Friday night.
After peeing ourselves with laughter, we recover enough to head over to the dwarfless Have A Nice Day Café and some 70's music. Drinks have started to kick in now, and soon we're all on stage doing the boogie, electric slide, and YMCA (Rafe & Phil having bad flashbacks to New Orleans).
About this time, and its now about 2am, Phil is spotted from across the bar. "Oh my God, I just watched you on the poker show," the guy says to Phil. Minutes later, Phil is signing autographs at their request and doing shots of Jaegermeister (yuck).
Phil returns to the dance floor, while Rafe and Laura proposition various southern belles for their hats. After seeing the scene in town, Laura decided she needed one, and given it was the 11th hour, both literally and figuratively, Rafe figured the best way to procure one was to offer cash on the spot. To their credit, nobody would sell, even when hundred dollar bills started appearing. Although one guy holding a hat belonging to his girlfriend almost sold it when she went to the bathroom, chickening out at the very last minute.
Meanwhile Phil is dancing with a girl from Chicago who was desperately trying to protect her drunk friend from going home with some guy she probably shouldn't go home with. This, we've learned, is not a good sign for the protagonist. Still, many shots and fruitless negotiations ensued. And more shots. Brutal.
The rest of the night is mostly a blur, though Rafe recalls one point where a guy in an inflatable Budweiser bottle was chastising him for talking on his cell phone (trying to locate Phil as it turns out) while ignoring this really hot chick he's with (Laura). Apparently he was served with fair warning because after several minutes on the phone, Rafe turned around to see the beer bottle hitting on Laura. Rafe briefly considered trying to locate the dwarf in the Superman costume to see if he could provoke a grudge match between the two would-be suitors, but somehow reason prevailed. Still, we're curious. Who do you think would win, mini-Superman or Bud-man?
At 10am, far too early, there are 10 guys outside the RV: "Bag, bag, bag of wine... Bag, bag, bag of wine..." they scream. "Get up you pussies, you're on the Ultimate Sports Adventure and its Derby Day! Time to get drunk! Bag, bag, bag of wine..."
Once in a great while, Phil decides to break out his cooking skillz and Derby Day, he'd decided, was just such a worthy occasion. French Toast with strawberries and powdered sugar, orange juice, strawberries... just what the doctor ordered.
This being a "major event" on the schedule, we don our "Major Event Flag Shirts" from Divots Sportswear and head out to the Derby via shuttle. It was a hot, sunny, balmy afternoon, somewhere in the low 80's.
Having sat in the grandstands at the Oaks, we believed we were ready for the infield. Now, the infield at the Derby has a reputation. A bad reputation. Or good, if you like girls taking their tops off, enormous numbers of extremely drunk people, and utter complete mayhem. In other words, the infield seemed like the place to be.
Eschewing most of the preliminary races for reportage, we walk the entire infield in search of the best parties. Some examples:
A 50x50 "caution taped" area with 15 South Africans in matching teal and orange velour suits. Somehow, these dudes would convince young girls to enter the area, disrobe, and would then proceed to apply a Derby tattoo to various parts of their anatomy -- with their tongue. Nice.
A group of 8 girls sitting on a blanket wearing their matching homemade hats: the food hat (oreos, pretzels, Bubblicious, etc), the Barbie hat, the Tractor hat. Needless to say, their kids are not going to be pleased when they open the toy cabinet and find all their stuff missing.
A fraternity holding "horse races" wherein topless girls select a "horse" and ride on their back around a predetermined course, losers (and winners, for that matter) doing shots.
Four girls, all cute, all 19-23 or so, that insisted on making out with each other while surrounded by hundreds of their adoring fans.
There were live radio stations broadcasting, and sure enough, there we were doing a live spot from the Derby infield with some local Louisville station. At the end of the interview, the host says, "well, somehow we managed to find the two soberest guys in the infield to interview. Go figure." We took that as a sign to order our first mint julep of the day.
After stumbling around the infield for the next couple of hours trying to find the stories, we were a bit tired. We found a grassy area, and sat down for a little rest. And beer, of course. We were careful not to fall asleep unattended though because we'd heard horror stories of the unsuspecting unconscious infielders waking up sunburned except for the parts of their chest, back or forhead where their "friends" had applied sunscreen. Conveniently, the lotion-protected areas always happened to spell out something choice, like "Asshole" or "Kick Me."
After our one-eye-opened nap, we're off to the betting cages where we're sure we're going to break the bank. "Atswhatimtalkingabout" was our sentimental favorite, so we bet him, plus a few others and some Exactas (that's the one where you bet on two horses to come in first and second and get paid long odds if you are right). But, we really wanted to be able to cash a "winning ticket" for the scrapbook, so we also bet on every horse to win, hoping that a longshot would take it and make us a profit. Unfortunately, Rafe in his false sense of confidence about horse racing lingo said "All horses across the board," which meant not only each horse to Win, but also each horse to Place and Show as well. Stupid, stupid bet. The $96 ticket returned a little over $60. Plus, they confiscated the ticket when they cashed us out. Doh!
The actual Kentucky Derby was a little anticlimactic. We were exhausted after spending all day in the sun walking through drunk masses. We chose a good vantage point (read: one with an electronic jumbotron in viewing distance) and cheered the horses on as they raced past. "Two most exciting two minutes in sports" was over, and Funny Cide determined to be the winner.
We cashed in the "winning ticket," and Phil was spotted again by some poker fans. After several autographs, we decide to walk back to the RV to shake off the lethargy of the afternoon.
Good thing we did walk, because otherwise we would have missed one of the highlights of the whole weekend. Just outside Churchill Downs, there are "prophets" taking their shot at converting the heathen masses, the drinkers, the gamblers, the fornicators. We particularly liked the one guy with a "Jesus Saves" sign and the international "no homos" sign (i.e. the word "Homos" with a red circle and line through the middle). The situation was ripe for an interview, and Phil egged them on with unanswerable questions and religious banter.
Finally, we're back at the fairgrounds. We kick back for the next few hours napping and playing Tiger Woods on the Playstation. Eventually we get dressed for our good friend, Janet's 37th birthday party. Janet Jackson that is. Well, okay, we're not really friends with her, in fact, we haven't ever met her. But, through some "people who know people" we were somehow invited, and supposedly this was going to be the most exclusive party at the Derby. We're excited to mingle with some A-list celebs, so we head down early... just before midnight(!) Before Janet's party, we're supposed to go to a pre-party of sorts, where we meet with our "people who know people." After an hour or so, we all head off to the Jackson party and enter on the "Super VIP." With special wrist bands we're escorted upstairs to the "Super VIP" area, where... absolutely nothing is going on. The dance floor we passed on the way up is hopping though, so we head back down and break out some serious white-boy rhythm in a sea of mostly black partygoers. We're hanging out and having a blast, but many of the celebs who were supposed to show didn't, including the birthday girl herself!! What the hell?! Oh well, at least we were Super VIPs and didn't have to pay (including free drinks). Oh, we should say that Kevin from the Back Street Boys did represent that night, so it wasn't a total loss for the star gazers.
Having skipped dinner for some reason, we were starving and needed something to coat the alcohol. Luckily, at 3am they served a breakfast buffet, right there in the middle of the nightclub. Eggs, Bacon, Hash Browns, and a Vodka Tonic! Classic!
Janet, babe, sorry we missed you. Catch you at Michael's house later this summer. Or maybe at Tito's fling in October.
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