The Kentucky Derby: Where Money Flows Like Aged Bourbon

I had just finished adjusting my fascinator to the properly impractical angle and was taking in the scene of the festooned and foolish with satisfaction, eager to join in. The 145th Kentucky Derby had all the makings of the fine affair Hunter S. Thompson so memorably described in 1970 as “decadent and depraved.”

Suddenly, through the blue veil of my cockeyed millinery, an energetic street salesman came into view. I actually heard him before I saw him. He was hocking T-shirts that said, “Donald F*cking Trump,” and “I’m the F*cking President.”

“You won’t find these at Walmart!” the man exclaimed.

And thus the tone of the day was set.

The Kentucky Derby, you see, as my companions and I determined days after our bodies were filtered enough of race-day libations to cease being flammable, is the perfect illustration of capitalism and America being great. Conversely, the absence of a Derby—heaven forbid!—would be the exemplar of socialism and the type of intolerably tedious existence to which Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and friends would have us all subjected.

Consider that our general admission tickets, the most “economically friendly” ones available, were themselves $70 a piece (and more if you bought them at the door). Basic necessities—juleps, champagne, etc.—ranged from $15 to $25. Hot dogs weren’t much cheaper. Gas to drive to the race cost us some clams, as did snacks, parking, wagered bets, a mediocre Tex-Mex dinner in Bowling Green, and so forth.

In sum, it’s not a cheap day. Yet hundreds of thousands of people gleefully shill out what we spent and more to partake in this uber-rich man’s sport. In 2015, 170,513 people came to the Derby, setting a new attendance record. Most of them don’t get a cut of the $3 million purse, divided among the top three race finishers, nor are they involved in the auctioning of prize Derby steeds, one of which recently fetched $4 million. Reuters reported in 2016 that Triple Crown winner American Pharoah “reportedly impregnated close to 100 mares, at a cost for each breeding session of $200,000.” A huge majority of Derby devotees are not among the stakeholders profiting from thoroughbred horse breeding.

Many, many Derby attendees will, however, participate in the glugging of 127,000 mint juleps served over the Kentucky Derby weekend. A lot of them will also contribute to the $225,671,089 bet on Derby day (a new record set in 2018). Heaps of peeps will be responsible for the $400 million economic impact the Derby has on the region. “Statewide,” Reuters reports, “the equine industry has a $4 billion impact, generating over 55,000 jobs.”

Reuters refers to the Derby as a place “where revenue flows like aged Bourbon.” The Courier-Journal published a piece this year reporting that “for Louisville-based firms, such big-ticket hosting at the Kentucky Derby is good for business and great for spreading around rewards to employees. The Kentucky Derby ‘is one of our biggest events,’ and some guests have been coming for 30 years. And they love it, said GE spokeswoman Julie Wood.

“‘The hats, the horses…it’s a great asset for showing off the city,’ she said.”

The Derby trophy alone, with its 18-karat gold horse and rider, rubies, and emeralds, is worth an estimated $200,000. More than 500 red roses adorn the horse that wins the “fastest two minutes in sports,” and any man who’s ever made a last-minute Valentine’s Day purchase at CVS knows red roses are no bargain.

Simply put, the Kentucky Derby is a huge economic boon that benefits (and thrills!) the entire nation. The lives of the “whiskey gentry” filling “Millionaire’s Row” collide with those of the infield—together, all at once, in Kentucky of all places, where the governor still has to take an oath upon his swearing-in that he’s never fought in a duel.

It’s a beautiful thing, this collision of the classes.

The day before descending on the Derby, my friends and I perused the Mellon Collection of Art at the Frist Museum in Nashville, Tennessee. There were pieces by Van Gogh, Monet, and Degas, along with an abundance of British sporting art—apropos as all-get-out for the weekend’s festivities.

The exhibition included depictions of steeplechases, point-to-points, fox hunts, and all manner of adventures that befell the landed British gentry of the 18th and 19th centuries, including John E. Ferneley’s “satirical sketches of the ignominious accidents experienced by a nobleman renowned for his reckless riding.”

A sign at the start of the exhibit informed us that the Mellons were “philanthropists as well as collectors” and gave gifts of art away to several “distinguished institutions” for millions of people to enjoy.

“In building their collection of French art,” the sign said, “the Mellons liked ‘to wander down the byways of art.’ They spoke of ‘looking for something that catches our eye or for minor works that nonetheless recall happy memories or otherwise appeal to our hearts.’”

Sigh. Something that “recalls happy memories or otherwise appeals to our hearts.” How sentimental! How enchanting! How human! How lovely! And how impossible in a world where every person, by mandate, earns a $15 hourly wage—the price of a single Derby cocktail…

This article was originally published by The American Conservative. Read the original piece here.