A friend and I drove to the Preakness Stakes near Baltimore on Saturday. I had been looking forward to a pleasant day at the races, watching as ponies swished their tails and ladies in white elbow gloves sipped mint juleps. Tiny jockeys sitting with their feet high in the stirrups would gaze into the bleachers to salute us, and we would wave our kerchiefs daintily and remark sideways, “I do believe this could be the year for Flyin’ First Class!” And screaming – there would be lots of screaming, and jumping up and down as the horses thundered past, colored mantles flying in the sun.
As we neared the racing complex, we stopped short of vehicular manslaughter when a group of college students stumbled onto the highway in front of our car, wheeling an open cooler of Natty Ice. As we screeched to a halt, one obviously intoxicated girl stopped in the middle of the lane and peered at us through the windshield with a look that I would only describe as “piercing,” had she been able to focus her eyes for even a moment on any one spot. Or perhaps “glacial,” if not for the wide swaths of under-boob sweat seeping visibly through her Juicy Couture tube top. It was then that I began to feel uneasy.
We cautiously drove on, past aggressive ten-year olds standing on private lawns and brandishing hand-painted signs that advertised “Parking – TODAY ONLY $45.” Men wielding rickety shopping carts like a shirtless army of Sherpas offered to haul our beer/lawn chairs/friends-who’d-already-passed-out the quarter mile up the hill to the gates. As we hiked back to the grounds, I marveled at the emergence of this sweaty cottage industry around the margins of such a once-aristocratic sport. The sound of a Sparks cracking open snapped me out of my ruminations. My companion took a swig of the malty orange beverage and thrust the can into my hand. We drank with resolution.
We entered the race grounds in time to witness several cops escorting out an angry and sunburned spectator. Someone’s girlfriend weakly held back a similarly red-faced male who shouted after him, “That’s right, b*@%$! I know what time it is!” We found ourselves standing before what looked like a refugee camp. The war over, thousands of crushed beer cans and chicken bones only remained, scattered like casualties. We came upon our other friends as night ships to the lighthouse – beacons shining across a dark sea. With legs folded under eyeletted dresses and wide-brimmed hats shielding their fair faces, they obliviously munched away at brie and baguette as if picnicking at the Tuilleries. I dropped to the felt blanket in relief and tried not to think about the vomit-dappled grass below.
The afternoon passed. The horses ran by every twenty minutes or so with people getting up to sway and cheer vehemently for nothing in particular. By the time the main race rolled around, a fight had broken out nearby, ending with the loser back-boarded and carried away, apathetic security looking on. At one point, we ventured to the other end of the field to a shanty town of porta-potties, posing for photos on the way with the most ridiculous among the crowd. I sleepily flicked through the evidence on my friend’s digicam as he drove back to DC. My favorite is a shot of me flanked by two “brahs” in matching yellow tees that read “Bangin’ chicks at Preakness ’07.” I’d never been so happy to be home.
what, indeed
About a month ago I went to see Ratatat play at the 930 Club. A friend dragged me to their show last fall at the Black Cat before I knew anything about the band. I spent most of the night scowling at the bar, covering my ears, and trying to avoid being knocked in the head by a frenetic middle-aged man (who I later learned was the guitarist’s uncle). It was only toward the end of the show that I found myself loosening my earmuffs to really listen. It reminded me of the scene at the beginning of A Clockwork Orange when Alex has just wailed on someone, and he goes home and lays down to listen to “Ludwig Von” and falls deep into a psychopathic euphoria. Minus the wailing. Or maybe a different kind of wailing coming from the mix of guitar, bass, and sometimes a synthesizer/drum machine/piece of equipment whose mechanics I don’t pretend to understand. There’s no singing, but every so often they throw in a loop with the sound of a wildcat screeching or a Biggie sample. And the whole time, the two tragically indie band members are bending over their guitars in parallel, spread legged and knock-kneed, with stringy hair mostly obscuring their faces like skinnier versions of Wayne and Garth. I left that night intrigued (and slightly deaf).
So when they came back to DC a month or so ago, I decided to try them out again, but this time I couldn’t wrangle any of my friends to come with. Upon walking in I’m immediately aware that I’m one of the oldest persons there. I station myself propped against the bar to the right of the stage, and do my best “I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to see a band alone what motherfucker” lean and vaguely scan the crowd. There’s one of those suburban, quintessentially teenage couples in front of me. The girlfriend’s greasy blonde hair hangs over a spaghetti strap tee that stops a good nine inches above her waistline, leaving a clear view of back fat that squidges over the sides of too-tight, low rider jeans. Her BF stands behind her in a baggy spitfire hoodie and cargo shorts, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other punching the air with devils horns raised. There is no music playing.
The fear hits me – I may need to resign myself to the ugly reality that I like a teenybopper band. “How did you get here?” I want to scream at the pimply-faced tween next to me, “cause I know you didn’t drive!” Before I have a chance to find out, the band comes on stage and the crowd goes suitably wild.
My stronghold at the bar is almost instantly breached. The dude in front of me to the right, who’s roughly seven feet tall and a buck o’five, stretches out his bony arms, weeping with scabs, past either side of my face and shrieks “ERICA!” What can only be “Erica” hurtles through the crowd to our corner, and they jump madly up and down, throwing ‘bows left and right. This continues for about a week, until I’m holding back by a hair my blind seething desire to quickly and silently snap their necks between my gnarled-with-rage fingers. It’s too loud to say, “Excuse me, but you and your tweaker friend are trampling my ballet flats. Can you please step off?” So, after a few of my not-so-subtle “I’m right here” nudges go unacknowledged, I place my hand on her shoulder to steady myself and slide out from behind her. The death stare I get is only matched by the slew of curses that follows. “Well, just loooook at theeeese bitches! Standing with their haaands in their pockets, nooooot dancing! Who the f@#$k do theeeeeey think they aaaaare!” Just then the guitars blare into the first song, and I turn toward the stage, leaving her smeary maw noiselessly opening and closing like a fish.
Somehow I keep my cool and enjoy the show. But then, I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to a see a band alone what motherfucker.
So when they came back to DC a month or so ago, I decided to try them out again, but this time I couldn’t wrangle any of my friends to come with. Upon walking in I’m immediately aware that I’m one of the oldest persons there. I station myself propped against the bar to the right of the stage, and do my best “I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to see a band alone what motherfucker” lean and vaguely scan the crowd. There’s one of those suburban, quintessentially teenage couples in front of me. The girlfriend’s greasy blonde hair hangs over a spaghetti strap tee that stops a good nine inches above her waistline, leaving a clear view of back fat that squidges over the sides of too-tight, low rider jeans. Her BF stands behind her in a baggy spitfire hoodie and cargo shorts, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other punching the air with devils horns raised. There is no music playing.
The fear hits me – I may need to resign myself to the ugly reality that I like a teenybopper band. “How did you get here?” I want to scream at the pimply-faced tween next to me, “cause I know you didn’t drive!” Before I have a chance to find out, the band comes on stage and the crowd goes suitably wild.
My stronghold at the bar is almost instantly breached. The dude in front of me to the right, who’s roughly seven feet tall and a buck o’five, stretches out his bony arms, weeping with scabs, past either side of my face and shrieks “ERICA!” What can only be “Erica” hurtles through the crowd to our corner, and they jump madly up and down, throwing ‘bows left and right. This continues for about a week, until I’m holding back by a hair my blind seething desire to quickly and silently snap their necks between my gnarled-with-rage fingers. It’s too loud to say, “Excuse me, but you and your tweaker friend are trampling my ballet flats. Can you please step off?” So, after a few of my not-so-subtle “I’m right here” nudges go unacknowledged, I place my hand on her shoulder to steady myself and slide out from behind her. The death stare I get is only matched by the slew of curses that follows. “Well, just loooook at theeeese bitches! Standing with their haaands in their pockets, nooooot dancing! Who the f@#$k do theeeeeey think they aaaaare!” Just then the guitars blare into the first song, and I turn toward the stage, leaving her smeary maw noiselessly opening and closing like a fish.
Somehow I keep my cool and enjoy the show. But then, I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to a see a band alone what motherfucker.
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