We couldn't believe what you're about to read, either. We stumbled (amazingly, while quite sober, too) across this psychadelic gonzo gem on the website KentuckyDerby.info. Behold this journalistic pearl from the one and only Hunter S. Thompson, at the peak of his lurid, hallucinatory powers, and in his debut outting with his deranged pen-and-ink sidekick Ralph Steadman. The two madmen explore the deepest and dankest, and certainly the drunkest, corners and characters in Lousiville during the 1970 Kentucky Derby. Believe us when we tell you that the run-up to the Run for the Roses has never been envisioned like this before or since.
Here's a little taste to tempt your brain buds. Please read no further if insensitive language offends your better nature. Mr. Thompson was nowhere near politically correct. But he was weirdly accurate.

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I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands...big grins and a whoop here and there: "By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good...and I mean it!" In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other--"but just call me Jimbo"--and he was here to get it on. "I'm ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?" I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn't hear of it: "Naw, naw...what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What's wrong with you, boy?" He grinned and winked at the bartender. "Hotdam, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey..."
I shrugged. "Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice." Jimbo nodded his approval.
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"Look." He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. "I know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I've learned--this is no town to be giving people the impression you're some kind of f-----t. Not in public, anyway. S--t, they'll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every damn cent you have."
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I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder. "Say," he said, "you look like you might be in the horse business...am I right?"
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"No," I said. "I'm a photographer."
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"Oh yeah?" He eyed my ragged leather bag with new interest. "Is that what you got there--cameras? Who you work for?"
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"Playboy," I said.
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He laughed. "Well, hotdam! What are you gonna take pictures of--nekkid horses? Haw! I guess you'll be workin' pretty hard when they run the Kentucky Oaks. That's a race just for fillies." He was laughing wildly. "Hell yes! And they'll all be nekkid too!" |
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I shook my head and said nothing; just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. "There's going to be trouble," I said. "My assignment is to take pictures of the riot."
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"What riot?"
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I hesitated, twirling the ice in my drink. "At the track. On Derby Day.” I stared at him again. "Don't you read the newspapers?"
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The grin on his face had collapsed. "What the hell are you talkin' about?" |
To be continued here. (Caution: Mr. Thompson's use of foul language can be terribly offensive, so please use serious discretion. And if you’re not offended, don't blame us if you roll on the floor and laugh your a-- off.)
Largely retired from the track, Filion’s record is 15,180 wins. Given Dave Palone’s remarkable productivity, he should reach that number sometime this summer. Best to keep an eye on what’s happening at The Meadows and get out there to see Dave go.
