dear gentle reader(s)

I have an important question, but first, here's what I've learned in the past two months:

a) Pets are better than babies for many reasons.

b) It is impossible to be inconspicuous while pushing a double stroller.

c) Wal-mart continues to uphold its reign as undisputed monarch of the evil empire.

Now then. To be short, Bad Influence Girl is, while I love her dearly, on extended hiatus for the next, oh, possibly forever. Does this mean I'm irrelevant? Do I have nothing of value to say? Oh wait, that assumes I ever did. If I continue to delude myself into thinking I do have something of value to say, in what venue should I say it?

OK, these are probably just the questions I'm asking myself, but feel free to weigh in.

post to no one in particular

Tonight I got teary watching McCain's heartfelt and most gracious concession speech, and Obama's equally heartfelt and inspiring acceptance speech.

Sure, much of that was because of the hormones still coursing through my body, but mostly, I believe for the first time since I was a little girl that anybody can grow up to be anything they want to be, and that anything is possible, and that if enough people want something truly good to happen, it will.

And I'm very happy that I can tell Corndog and Tater Tot those very things, and not feel like I'm lying, and that maybe, just maybe, they will believe me and will grow up to be community organizers or something equally heinous.

And a tiny little part of me just has to throw in a hearty "Fuck You" to anyone who sincerely believes (this means you, Baby Daddy) that the world is an awful, fucked up place into which no new human lives should be brought because what possible good could come of it? I hope you and your ilk die a lonely, bitter death watching the rest of us make this a better place.

Today's pressing question

If I eat asparagus, then breastfeed, does the babies' pee smell funny?

Also, I'd like to note that in the past week, I've actually had the following questions asked of me in a completely clinical setting.

"Can I see your nipple?"

"Is it OK if I touch your breast?"

The sad part is, I didn't even bat an eye and it took me days to realize how funny that was. And I wasn't even drunk. Although the vicodin might have had something to do with that.

So this is how it's gonna be

Jerry, you asked "what's next?"

Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I think I got a pretty good clue Sunday morning.

I threw open the front door at 9:30 a.m. to greet the day in my cozy robe (thanks, Nora!) and sheepskin slippers from the State Fair, about half my hair back in a ponytail and the other half sticking out at crazy angles.

At that exact moment, Miss Adventure was walking up my front steps, looking like freaking Audrey Hepburn. She had a jacket for me on a hanger in one hand and copper-colored elbow-length gloves in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a stylish 'do, and she was wearing sunglasses, a black coat with a fur-trimmed collar that matched the gloves, a sequined skirt, black tights and the cutest damn pumps I've ever seen.

"Are you on your way to church?" I asked, knowing damn good and well Miss Adventure is as much of a godless heathen as I am.

"God no, I'm on my way home," she replied.

And so begins the Year(s) of Living Vicariously.

and just like that

B.I.G. is a mom.

Corndog and Tater Tot made their worldly debut a few minutes before midnight on Thursday, Oct. 16. They're early, of course--33 weeks instead of the full-term 40 weeks--but weighed in at 5 lbs. 3 oz. and 5 lbs. 4 oz. Big beefy kids. They're in the neonatal intensive care unit and will be for a while, until their lungs mature, but they're all there and they're beautiful.

I'm loopy from all the drugs in my system, plus I just, you know, gave birth to twins, so I'm out. Pics later.

here we go!

OK, I had this great post written about how I miss the days when men would talk to my breasts instead of to my face, because now they just talk to my belly, which I think is worse. But before I could post it, my water done went and broke. So instead, I'm here in the hospital and they're getting ready to give me a spinal and wheel me to the OR. Wish us luck!

Oh, and no worries....Nora's here and taking lots of pictures.

This is why I moved away

My sister came to visit me this weekend, and to provide some much-needed help around the house, specifically, cleaning the massive amounts of fur off the floors, which I haven't been able to reach in weeks.

She also proved invaluable in helping to teach me some of that patience I'm sure I'll need as a parent. Within minutes of her arrival, she offered the keen observation, as I sat on a stool in the kitchen making myself a snack, that "You look like Leadpipe."

I don't believe I've officially introduced Leadpipe here. He's our father, who in his last years of declining health was forced to give up everything in life that gave him happiness, except food. He had to be buried in one of those jumbo-sized extra-wide caskets, his suit jacket cut up the middle in the back so it would button in front.

Apparently I'm acting more like Leadpipe these days too, because I offered her a heartfelt "Fuck you" in return.

Later over dinner, after she loudly asked me if I'd be able to squeeze into the restaurant booth, she helpfully pointed out that I am not in my 20s anymore and that "You know, your body's not going to bounce back from this."

I politely informed her that she was not, in fact, helping me.

"Well, it's not. You're going to sag all over the place. Maybe you'll make enough money to get some corrective surgery."

I suggested that our mother, who gave birth to me, her fifth child, at age 38, didn't look all that bad.

"No," she countered, "Mom was pretty droopy."

Well, I said, I guess I'll just start having sex with the lights out. Assuming I ever again find someone willing to have sex with me, given my grotesquely deformed body.

She took the hint, changing the subject to how she can't believe I'm not freaking out, because she would be if she still had as much to do as I do before the babies get here. And how actually, she wouldn't be freaking out because she'd have her husband, but if it was just her with no husband, she'd be a mess.

Much better.

Today we went to the dog park. As she watched me struggle to get up from the picnic table to pull the Monster off the back end of an eager-to-please golden retriever, she said, "You know it's not going to get any easier."

Seriously, would a "Only a few more weeks" have killed her?

Back home, I tried to help her out as best I could, taking frequent breaks on the couch to admire the skilled tradesman with the cute turned-up nose and the long curly hair installing new windows in my living room. (Side note--this is an unexpected fringe benefit of working for The Man, that I can afford to have attractive men come work on my house.)

She examined the new double stroller, which Crazy Cat Lady and I successfully assembled with only minimal cursing. Noting its heft, she suggested "You'd better start working on those back muscles."

OK. Should I start my new workout regimen now, when I can't bend or turn at the waist, or perhaps wait until I'm recovering from a C-section while simultaneously trying to feed and take care of two newborns?

Blessedly, she had to leave after less than 24 hours. She called later to tell me she made it home and threatened to come to Indy to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year. I wonder if my therapist has Sunday appointments?

Open letter to residents of Central Indiana

Would you people just get the fuck out of my way? Really, we’d all be much happier. Do you not see the orange “slow-moving vehicle” triangle on the back of my shirt? Did you somehow miss the “Wide Load” banner across my belly?

Well, they’re there, if only implied. It should be fucking obvious that I’m having enough problems getting around without trying to navigate the normal-sized-person hole you left between you and that wall/post/other person/display. And another thing—because my fingers have turned into snack-sized sausages, I will drop whatever I’m carrying on the floor, from whence retrieval will take me approximately 10 minutes, so just stay the fuck out of the hallways at the office, too.

How, you ask, is all this your fault? It just is, dammit. So fuck you.

Oh, and while you’re at it, I am aware I am a (barely) mobile freak show, so spare me the cute knowing smiles and the unsolicited comments. I do not believe you really care how I’m feeling, I know I do not care about your friend/sibling/cousin who’s knocked up or who had twins, and frankly, if I had the energy, I’d just as soon kill you as look at you.

So unless I know you and like you, please just go back to your useless, pathetic excuse for a life and leave me alone. Thanks for your cooperation.

bitch is goin DOWN

So, I left work early Friday for one of my increasingly frequent ultrasound/checkups. I have to take a shuttle bus from my office building to my car, a half-mile away.

I rolled my eyes when I saw the bus was being driven by Lurleen, the shuttle bus driver I'd most like to see meet an untimely and unfortunate death. By itself, her shuttling style is annoying. Not only does she look left, then right, then left again before pulling out, she throws in at least a couple extra glances each way. And then waits if there's a moving vehicle anywhere within a half-mile radius--in a parking lot where the speed limit is 20 mph.

She also waits an inordinate amount of time for people who maybe, just maybe, might be almost ready to exit each building in search of her shuttling services, as if she's god's gift to shuttle busing and there won't be another one coming in a few minutes.

One day I got on the bus and she was playing "The Old Rugged Cross," complete with a spoken-word missive about Jesus' love and being saved. I did not think this was behavior The Man, in his uber-political-correctness, would condone. I should have turned her in while I had the chance, but I was hoping some devout Muslim would take up that cause for me. No such luck.

Not long after, I was the last remaining passenger and she held me captive on the bus, refusing to open the door until I answered questions about when I'm due and what I'm having.

But the last straw was Friday, when, as I struggled to haul my ass up the bus steps with my laptop in tow, she started laughing--cackling, actually--at my ridiculous plight. Listen, bitch, I'm toting 38 extra pounds in the area where my waist used to be, my feet have turned into plump sausages, and I've completely lost any center of gravity I used to have. Am I supposed to be pleased that I'm amusing you??

It's clear to me I must infiltrate the shuttle bus yard and stick peanut butter in her tape player. At a minimum.

As for the aliens living inside me, Corndog is weighing in at approximately 4 pounds, and Tater Tot has caught up and surpassed him, tipping the scales at a hefty 4 pounds, 4 ounces. And they still, in theory, have 8 weeks left to cook. They are big healthy babies, finely representing the hardy German peasant stock from which they come. As for me, I'm going to have to hire someone to push me around in a wheelbarrow before long.

The Bat Man Cometh

Sunday, the Bat Man (background) showed up in the Silverado Bat Mobile. I was a little concerned about his superpowers, since he has a hunchback and a little bit of a limp. Heck of a Gal said he looked more like an organic farmer. Fortunately, he had his trusty sidekick, Bat Boy, with him.

I even got a glimpse of their secret weapons.



Before I left for one last trip to the State Fair, the Bat Man warned me that despite his best efforts, I might have one last visit from a bat or two that refused to be evicted. Sure enough, there was one flying around the bathroom last night. This morning, I found it hanging out in my closet. I think it's still in the house somewhere. I hope it crawled into a hole and died.

Nonetheless, today I found myself worrying about the bats. I mean, they've been living here for at least the 7 years that I've been here. What happened this morning as dawn broke and they headed back to the roost for a well-deserved day of sleep after a long night of bug-eating, only to find the locks changed? Where did they sleep today? Where will they go? Will they find a new home in the neighborhood? How far will they have to travel to find a new belfry? Will some of them perish in the transition? The babies are barely out of the nest!

It's dark outside, and I don't hear the familiar squeaking. I hope they're OK.

Pregnancy Fun Fact #63

“Pregnancy can make skin tags and moles change and/or grow. Skin tags are small tags of skin that may appear for the first time or may grow larger during pregnancy. Moles may appear for the first time during pregnancy, or existing moles may grow larger and darken during pregnancy.” --Your Pregnancy Week by Week

And suddenly, there was discomfort and chafing where none had been before. That's all I'm sayin'.

So I went to a dermatologist earlier this week to have what felt like a few bits of sandpaper removed. The dermatologist seemed to be slightly uncomfortable with the prospect of removing moles from a part of the body that, I'm guessing, dermatologists rarely have the need to examine, much less perform excisions on. Apparently his solution was to share the discomfort.

There I was, in the office chair, barely covered and in a most indelicate position, when the dermatologist started probing more than my skin. It was the most unpleasant experience I’ve had with a man between my legs since I was married.

“So…..twins. Were you taking fertility treatments?”

WTF? First of all, it’s not like there’s 6 of them. Second of all, isn’t that kind of like accusatorily asking a cancer victim if they smoked? "No."

“Didn’t your chart say you’re divorced? Are they the ex-husband’s?”

Oh, no he didn’t. I started incredulously at the ceiling. “Um, no.”

“Oh! Whose are they?”

“It’s probably best not to go there.”

“How are you going to take care of two babies all by yourself?”

“Welfare and the charity of strangers.”

I wish that last one would have been my actual response. It wasn’t. Then again, it’s difficult to think of a snappy comeback when someone's holding a scalpel mere inches from your private parts.

How many more weeks till the aliens release my body?

overheard, state fair edition

*** updated 8/14

Holy carp (as in the fish at the DNR building). The switch has flipped--I have completely lost interest in any food that is not fried and any drink that is not heavily sweetened. And lumberjacking is my new favorite sport. God bless Indiana, and its wonderful State Fair.

Props to Nora for helping to flesh this out. Submissions welcomed.

(On the tractor shuttle, getting ready to cross the new covered bridge) "Omigod, we're going through the barn! We're going to get stuck in the barn! We've got to get off now!"
"Just don't look, Beth!"


"Where's the Midway?" (young woman to ticket taker entering gate directly in front of the Ferris wheel)

"He's an eater, Grace, he's an eater! That boy can eat!"

Mother at hand-washing station: "Wash only your hands, J.D. It's not warm enough to get your hair wet."
J.D.: "Can I get my face wet?"

"Earl, don't put that baby down--it ain't wearin' no shoes!"

miscellany

Well, I still haven't figured out how to blog properly on a Mac, and I haven't loaded on the program that will let me get pics off my camera to post. I've also lost access to a scanner, so I can't show the ultrasound pics that prove the two feti in my uterus are a boy and a girl (Corndog and Tater Tot). Needless to say, that news makes me very happy, largely because it greatly reduces the changes I will mix them up.

Anyhoo, in lieu of a good story I'll just throw out some mental snapshots into B.I.G.'s summer of '08.

*Poison ivy covering approximately 30 percent of my body, and not being able to take the prednisone that will stop the itching....MY GOD THE ITCHING!!!!!

*Joining Big Head Dog as he stands in the bathtub, which seems as good a place as any to hide from bats.

*Attending classes with names like "Bow Wow and Baby" and "Marvelous Multiples." And enjoying showing up with my sister and Nora in tow at the swanky hospital in the cushy suburbs and sitting among the assorted "cop/schoolteacher, lawyer/event planner, hospital technician/nurse" husband/wife couples.

*Going to the Jackson County (Ind.) fair, where the swine barn has lots of signs that say "Enjoy Pork Often!", a Belgian horse tried to eat my hat, and I saw the scariest religious-inspired "art" I've ever seen.

*Getting Asshole Joe liquored up on my front porch.

*Stressing out about all the things necessary to make sure the authorities don't get called about my mothering skills and wondering if it's really so bad for babies to sleep in dresser drawers.

*Playing with Big Head Dog in the creek on a hot summer day.

*A bathtub sitting on my front porch.

*Telling the ex about the twins, and then having him call a week later to say he had a gas range for me. It reminded me of a Derby party at the farm when I was 18, where a guy bragged that he'd bought all his ex-wives a washer and dryer.

*Bingeing on Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries for days on end. Ahh, the sweet sting of the roof-of-the-mouth lacerations...

*Watching various parts of my body below the waist disappear from view. I hope they'll still be there in a few months and functioning as I remember them.

*In related news, wondering for the 1,000th time what the hell is wrong with women who say they love being pregnant.

*Teaching my sister how to catch and remove bats from the house.

*Listening to the ultrasound technician, after several minutes of trying to scan a shy Corndog, exclaim with glee, "There's his junk!"

*Mouth-watering anticipation for the State Fair, which this year will feature a giant walk-through colon named Coco.

There, aren't you glad you asked?

bumper crop

Yep, here I am, holed up in my room with the dogs for the fourth night in a row. I've admitted defeat. The fucking bats can have the house till they're done with it, I'll just stay here from dusk till dawn every night, emerging only to pee (which I have to freaking do every 30 minutes or so), fishing net in hand, creeping hunched over in case a bat flies around the corner at me.

At first I thought I'd try sleeping on the couch with the lights on (bats are nocturnal--they hate light, right?), the A/C cranked up (they hate cold too, right?) and avoiding the upstairs, which is logically where flying creatures should be. That didn't work. That experiment ended with me on the front porch in my p.j.'s at midnight, front door wide open waiting for a bat to find its escape route, dogs seizing their chance at freedom and running the neighborhood.

Back in the day, I'd just come home after tossing back a few bottles of liquid courage and chase the fuckers down, fishing net in one hand, oven mitt on the other. Notsomuch now. So here we are in the Batfree Cave, waiting for the damn bat babies to get their flying sense about them and successfully find their way from my belfry to the great outdoors. I broke down Monday and called the Bat Man (not to be confused with Batman), who'll be coming out to batproof my house for a mere 2 gazillion dollars. Worth every fucking penny.

Oh, and thanks be to The Man for making this outrageous expenditure financially feasible.

oh yeah, I still got it goin' on

Last week I met Deputy Joe for a few drinks at the friendly neighborhood tavern.

I hadn't talked to him since December, ever since I changed his entry on my phone to "Asshole" to remind me why it is not a good idea to stop by his house when I'm drunk and it's 2 a.m. (Because he has a girlfriend he's never bothered to mention.)

Since being un-deputized in the November election, Asshole Joe has been unemployed. He just started a new job and wanted to get together "to get my input on it."

Translated: "Let's get drunk, talk business and politics, then get naked."

He's my kind of guy, really.

He's also the first MIF* who'd learn my B.I.G. news. This is not, incidentally, a topic covered in popular maternity literature, unfortunately. I was trying to decide at exactly what point I'd tell him, when he beat me to it approximately 3 minutes after we sat down at the bar.

"Why aren't you drinking? Are you OK? Are you sure? Everything's alright medically? Are you pregnant?"

First of all, I love that people are that concerned about my health when they notice I'm not drinking.

Anyway, he took the news well (probably because there was no chance the twins are his). So well, in fact, that we ended up making out by the dumpster. Pretty sure if I'd asked, he'd have stopped by my house on the way home.

Unfortunately, I'm sober these days, and therefore could think of all the reasons why that would have been a really, really bad idea. (it was late, we both had to work, the girlfriend issue, and call me old-fashioned, but does it seem a little weird to anyone else to have sex while knocked up, with someone other than the father? Maybe it's just me.)

He just sent me a text saying we need to hang out again soon. WTF?


*Man I've Fu....um, Found in my bed in the morning

In a family way

I spent the weekend at the farmhouse. Saturday night I went to my sister's high school reunion with her. The school is so small, they decided to wrap the 30-year reunion for three different classes all into one. That means one of my brothers was also there, along with a slew of our cousins, so it was almost like a family reunion.

Highlights:

* A family friend outed me as being pregnant in front of a large group of people while I was holding a Miller Lite Tall Boy (hey, I'd been looking forward to my weekly beer for days).

Larry (loudly, to everyone and no one in particular): "She's carryin' twins!"
Me (choking on beer, looking up to see my high school psychology teacher, now the school principal): "Uh..."
Larry: "It's OK, she's married!"
Me (as quietly as possible while feeling 20 sets of eyes boring a hole through me): "Actually, Larry, I'm not. I've been divorced over two years."
High School Teacher: "Yeah, that'll happen."

* My brother-in-law at various times promised to get the twins, to use while they visit: car seats for the golf cart, tricycles, bicycles, go-karts, and a pony. I never had a pony. What's the weight limit on those things?

* My sister's friends are calling her grandma. She's 10 years older than I am. It's pissing her off. Hee hee hee.

* Apparently twins run in my family more than I knew. I thought I just had one cousin with twins. Nope, my great-uncle Willie had a twin sister who died at birth, and my grandfather had twin sisters. Yet something else I can blame my dad for.

* I asked my cousin with twins (now in their mid-20s) for any helpful words of wisdom. Her advice was, "Try not to lose your mind. Heh heh, just kidding." I don't think she was.

overheard, 'hood edition

Snippets of actual conversations I heard from my front porch this weekend, in chronological order:

1. (from the next door neighbor's yard)
Fat Crazy Sister: "You are an AIDS-carrying nicker!"*
George: "I ain't a nicker! I'm an Indian!"

*"nicker" was not the word actually being used

2. (from George, sitting on my front porch swing after inviting himself over)
"My sister was born on this swing."

3. (from two teenage girls fighting in the street, surrounded by a crowd, just before the cops showed up)
"You have my hair!"
"I don't have your hair! I ain't never had your hair!"

Sometimes I think traveling is overrated.

B.I.G.'s Big Adventure

*cough*

Jesus, it's dusty in here. Somebody open the windows and air this place out! It's musty as hell from being shut up for so long.

J. you're absolutely right, people who don't update their blogs shouldn't be allowed to have them.

OK, then, here's an (admittedly blurry) photo to clue the two readers I have left in to what's been going on:



What is that? I'll tell you what it is--it's an ultrasound picture of my uterus. And those two round circles in the middle of the picture? Those are heads. Two heads. Of two fetuses (feti?). In my heretofore unoccupied uterus.

Holy fucking shit.

This, by the way, is what those in the journalism profession would call "backing into the story." It's generally not a good way to tell a story. But I'm all about the shock value, really. Seriously, let me get some joy out of this.

Anyhoo, turns out I brought more souvenirs back from March's trip to Austin than I'd intended to. As Heck of a Gal said, most people just buy a t-shirt.

More details, I'm sure, will follow. Until then, I'll just be sitting around, incubating.

What a tease!

Where the hell have I been? Good question. Wrapping up an old, crappy job, starting a new job at which finding my desk made for a successful second day, getting ready to go to Alabama to be in a wedding this weekend.... More to follow, I promise, including the Big B.I.G. News, heretofore unannounced on this blog, which shall change Life As We Know It.

Have a lovely holiday weekend, may you not have to hock your jewelry for gas money.

First Saturday in May

Yesterday was the Kentucky Derby, and here I was, stuck in Indianapolis. Sure, I had great friends visiting and had a wonderful time, but still, it hurt knowing I was missing the party.

My sister sent me an e-mail Friday morning saying she was leaving work at 1:30 to get started. She was probably 1 of about 5 people working in Louisville that day (Oaks Day) anyway. Friday night I got a joyous message from a friend who was standing outside in the rain watching the B52's and having a great time anyway.

Because no one can prove who I am when I write this, I will say it loud and proud--the Kentucky Derby is the only race in May that matters. That's right, the Indianapolis 500 sucks. This year's Derby wasn't the best--Big Brown's trainer is an ass and the euthanasia of Eight Belles is downright tragic, but the overriding fact remains: Compared to the Derby, the 500 is little more than a souped-up demolition derby. And here are the Top 10 reasons why:

10) The Derby Festival customarily kicks off 2 weeks before the race with a all-day air show and fireworks extravaganza on the riverfront. Beer flows freely and the Chow Wagon opens in all its deep-fried meat-on-sticks glory.

By contrast, the 500 Festival kicks off--on Derby Day, no less--with a freaking 13-mile foot race. What the fuck? How is anybody supposed to celebrate anything while or after running 13 miles? What part of "Festival" do these people not understand?

9) In general, the Derby Festival includes far more events that not only encourage, but really revolve around, sitting in a lawn chair drinking beer. Take the Great Steamboat Race, for instance. Nevermind that the "race" is clearly fixed judging by the near-even win-loss record when one of the boats is about 50 times larger than the other. Have you ever seen steamboats move? "Lightning-fast" is not an adjective one would use to describe steamboat motion. The purpose is really to provide an excuse to sit on the riverbank for a couple of hours and yes, drink some beer.

The closest the Indy folks can come up with is the tortoise race at the Zoo. Not only does the big tortoise always win, but you have to pay zoo admission to watch it. And they don't serve beer.

8) Efficiency. According to a recent article in IBJ, the 500 Festival comes in just behind the Derby Festival in terms of size as measured by staff and budget. My question is, what in the sam hell are you people here in Indy doing with all that manpower and money if you're not coming up with events that people actually want to go to?

7) The Derby Festival parade doesn't charge people to sit in the bleacher seats, unlike the 500 Festival. Charging anyone to see a freaking parade--ever--is just wrong, wrong, wrong. And the Derby parade is on Thursday, meaning that if you work in downtown Louisville, it's not only recommended, but almost mandatory, to leave work early. Even if you don't watch the parade, you have no hope of getting out of downtown before nightfall otherwise.

6) The Spring Meet at Churchill Downs. In the weeks leading up to the Derby, it is customary to host "meetings" and entertain clients at the track. Sure, people do that in Indy, too, but in Louisville, they have real races going on, not just practice. And you can bet! AND, you don't have to freaking wear earplugs or risk permanent hearing loss.

5) For the entire week leading up to the Derby, the kind folks at the Festival there open up several Chow Wagons around town for those who want some company while they sit around and drink beer. Chow Wagons are nothing more than a fenced-off area of a parking lot, furnished with picnic tables and a fine assortment of fair food and American swill beer. Classic rock and country cover bands play at night. It's a scheme that keeps all the rednecks contained in a few small areas, which really benefits everyone.

4) The Kentucky Derby inspires people. To wit, the following excerpt from a column by Red Smith, the legendary sportswriter:

This is the week when dear little old ladies in Shawano, Wis., get to know about sports figures named Spectacular Bid and Flying Paster. Spectacular Bid and Flying Paster are thoroughbred race horses, and there are vast and sinless areas in this country where they and their like are regarded as instruments of Satan 51 weeks a year. Then comes the week of the Kentucky Derby, and sinless newspapers that wouldn’t mention a horse any other time unless he kicked the mayor to death are suddenly full of information about steeds that will run and the people they will run for at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday of May. In cities all over the land stenographers invest their silver in office pools, in cities and towns and on farms the sinless old ladies study the entries and on Saturday almost everyone tunes in on television.

I defy anyone to present anything as well-written about the Indianapolis 500. Go ahead, I dare you!

3) Race day. First of all, while races are run all day at Churchill Downs, the Run for the Roses is held at a hangover-friendly late-afternoon hour. More than once, personally, I've had to have someone wake me up so I wouldn't miss it. It's televised, and it lasts just over two minutes--the perfect length of time for an attention-deficit drunk. When the race comes on, everyone at the party gathers around a television, screams, yells and shouts, then quickly goes back to their lawn chair and resumes drinking.

The Indy 500, on the other hand, requires one to drag one's ass to the track at an ungodly early morning hour if one hopes to catch a glimpse of it live, since the penny-pinching bastards refuse to televise it. And then there's the earplugs factor again. And it lasts, what, like 10 hours or something? Honestly, who can give a crap about anything for that long?

2) Betting on the Derby is not only legal, it's its raison d'etre.

1) Aesthetics. The Kentucky Derby is an explosion of tradition, color and beauty. Jockeys attired in artistic silks sit atop gleaming thoroughbreds that prance through a sea of tulips, all hoping to wear the blanket of roses in the winner's circle. The stands are filled with smiling people dressed in the finest haberdashery--dresses, hats, colorful silk ties--sipping a cool refreshing bourbon drink.

The Indy 500: Oy vey. An explosion of sunburnt flab, misshapen tattoos, underwear as outwear, and crushed Bud Light cans. Maybe it's just me, but I know which crowd I'd rather spend a day with.