My senior year of college, I attended the Preakness, the second leg of horseracing’s Triple Crown, in Baltimore. For all the class and pageantry of the grandstands and race at Pimlico, the infield, packed with 50,000 drunken jerkoffs, is more reminiscent of Sodom and Gomorrah.One of my vivid memories of that afternoon includes a muddy footprint on my friend John’s chest, affectionately placed there by a hillbilly skank who wrongfully accused him of tossing a bottle at her head.
Which brings me to my weekend realization: turning a year older is never fun, but three days after my birthday, I saw the above photo and felt warm all over. This guy, dodging flying beer cans as he races across the top of the Portojohns in the Preakness infield, made me appreciate being a grownup, living in a nice city, pursuing a career that I love.
Thank you, rednecks.
