It was last Monday that I received an email message from my friend Erin.
Hey Bryon,
We are going to Keeneland in Lexington on Friday, Oct 14 for the horse races. The kids have the day off from school and we are taking my parents. I thought maybe you might like to join us.
Erin
What a great idea, I thought! I am behind in getting off my ass in my plan to do new things and a trip to a horse track is something I have never done outside of The Kentucky Derby (which should be on everyone's list if you have never done it.)
I knew Keeneland was the home of The Bluegrass Stakes, but what I learned was Keeneland was rated the #1 thoroughbred track in the country in 2009 and is a National Historic Landmark. It is definitely one place everyone should visit at some point in their life.
Friday was an absolute beautiful day to be at the track. It was partly sunny and 68 degrees. I even felt like I had a slight sunburn on my face sitting out all day in the sun.
Keeneland is very small when comparing it to Churchill Downs and the folks there really dress up for the track. It was also college day and there were a lot of lovely young ladies at the track wearing their dresses.
I met up with Aaron and Erin at the track. They had two of their daughters with them and I got to see Erin's mom and dad for the first time in 20+ years.
Through a "connection," Aaron acquired some "hot tips" and we had a plan for how we'd approach the races.
The first race showed promise as we both hit the winner and the exacta! Woo-hoo!
Turns out that was the only winners he and I had. :(
Erin, however, bet only one race - she played a 10 cent Superfecta, boxed it and won $36.00! :D
It was all good, I got to hang with friends I don't get to see all that often, plus I got to meet her mom and dad again.
They did not initially remember me. In 1989, I was a renter in their apartment up on Irving Avenue in throwing distance of Kramer's and next to Domino's. It was this same apartment where we hosted Erin's infamous 21st birthday party
I had this roommate - Ivan. I have to call him Ivan because he gets mad when I use his given name of Chris Wettle. I just hoped Mr. and Mrs. Duffy didn't remember that I was one of the boys there because Ivan had this cat named Fred who tore the hell up out of the carpet one night.
When I introduced myself, Mr. Duffy asked if he knew me.
"I went to school with Erin at Dayton," I told him.
"Dad, he rented your apartment. He lived with Ivan. Remember Ivan? He was the one who had that cat."
It went from partly sunny to a shit storm really quickly because Erin knew what button to push to fire him up.
"I tell you what, you buy the nicest carpet you can for the tenant and then somebody brings a cat into the apartment!"
"It was Ivan's cat," I quickly blurted out. Yes, all those years ago I agreed to put up with a cat (even though it was a big mistake because my allergies had gotten really bad all those years ago) and here I was, finding myself 22 years later, throwing my friend under the bus.
"Well, why didn't you kick his ass? Couldn't you have done that?"
"There was never a question of that," I assured him with a smile.
He then started telling me the story of some other tenants from a few years later that broke a window at one of his apartments and I was glad when the story changed, shifting the story away from me.
The day went on without a hitch otherwise and it was just a terrific day to be outside.
I came home and later called Ivan to tell him I threw him under the bus.
"Hey! It's Bryon. What are you doing?"
"Watching propaganda with my daughter." Yes, he really said this. You have to know him to appreciate his dry sense of humor. His daughter had to write a paper on "Supersize Me" for Health.
"I threw you under the bus today."
"Oh?"
I told him the story of meeting up with the Duffy's at Keeneland he he laughed. He assured me it was OK and told me Mr. Duffy had a lot more reasons than just the cat to dislike him.
The next morning I got a text from Erin thanking me for coming out to Keeneland.
I responded, thanking her for the invite and for her letting the cat out of the bag, so to speak.
My phone rang 20 seconds later and Erin was laughing.
"Bryon, you don't understand! The story about the cat is my dad's favorite story! He has told that story 300 times over the last 20 years! He loves telling that story! Oh my God, I am as guilty as you two because I knew there was a cat and I never told him!"
She totally egged him on and purposely fired him up!
So, not only did I have a great day seeing friends, but I learned I am part of someone's favorite story to be gruff about. :)
Showing posts with label Lexington. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lexington. Show all posts
Monday, October 17, 2011
Monday, October 26, 2009
He's Guilty, (Send That Boy to Jail)
(From events that occurred on 3/11/1988)
I grew up in Fern Creek, a small town outside - but pretty much considered part of - Louisville. Life in Fern Creek was pretty boring. I worked at the Putt-Putt Golf and Games on Bardstown Road and it was there I met my friend Frank. Frank was 2 years younger than myself (I was 18) and I had more or less hooked him on John Mellencamp's music the previous summer. For some reason I can't recall now, Frank did not go to the Louisville show that previous December. Needless to say that show was a mindblowing experience for me and he swore he'd go to the next show that came around. I seem to recall the tickets went on sale during a snow emergency in Louisville, so friends of mine in Dayton, OH, secured our seats for us.
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me
We met at the Putt-Putt and left for the show in my dad's Honda hatchback. I normally drove a VW bug, but its history was that it was an undependable car and I didn't want to be stranded in the middle of nowhere. We were on the Gene Snyder Freeway for about 3 miles when I was pulled over for "excessive" speeding. The police officer was a jerk about the whole thing. He said he got me doing 79 mph in a 55 mph zone. I told him I was just keeping up with traffic. He said it took me 3 miles to catch up with traffic. Maybe he was right, who knows now? Frank's laughing as the cop walks away (at me, not with me).
This was a very traumatic thing for me. I never had a speeding ticket before (in a VW Bug? Yeah right.) so I was a little shell shocked as we drove the rest of the way to Rupp at 53 mph. The whole way I was trying to think how I was going to tell my dad what happened. I also wondered how it was going to affect my insurance. At least we left early enough that the ticket did not make us late.
We met up with Chris Wettle and Richard Higgins from Dayton (I went to high school in Louisville with them) and saw a freaking incredible show. During the break Richard and some other guy from Dayton moved up to the seats that John's brother vacated as he left for back stage. Unbelievable seats. I was definitely jealous.
We leave after the show and I'm heading down Main Street that meets up with I-64 in Versailles. It's all 55 mph with only 2 lights. Now of course I'm not going to be speeding because I had a ticket just 4 hours earlier.
Trooper hits his party light switch
I'm cruising along at 53 mph when the trooper hits his lights.
"Cop!" shouts Frank.
"But I'm not speeding," I respond as I look at the gauge. "He must be after someone else."
Yeah right. Buford T. Justice pulls us over and I get a sickening feeling in my stomach as he peers in my window with a look on his face that says "You're my puppy now." I saw the movie "Deliverance" - you get the idea.
"Registration and license, please." He holds his hand over his gun; I guess in case I pull a gun out.
"Is there a problem officer?"
"Registration and license, please."
I open the glove box and hand it to him. It was on top of all the of the stuff in there because of my previous ticket.
"I caught you speeding."
"That's not possible officer. There's no way I was speeding."
"Are you boys from around here?"
"No sir, we're from Louisville."
"Do you go to the University?" I assume he meant the University of Kentucky.
"No, I go to Bellarmine College in Louisville. We're from Louisville." Maybe I said that last sentence in the wrong tone - as in "Weren't you listening 2 seconds ago?"
"Step out of the car, boy." The jerk calls me "boy", but with that southern twang that makes it a two syllable word - Bo-ay. Frank is giggling hysterically at this point. Every time he tries
to stop, he starts up even harder.
The cop is looking me right in the eye.
"You been drinkin', bo-ay?"
"No sir. Do you want to smell my breath?"
At Buford's request, I breath into his face. Since I didn't have anything to drink, he got a whiff of nothing.
He holds his finger up. "Follow my finger with your eyes." So I oblige. Then I made mistake number one (or two counting the "We're from Louisville tone"). I spoke when not spoken to. Never ever offer information unless asked for it.
"Officer, in case you didn't notice, I have a slight lazy right eye, so if it didn't follow your finger, that's why."
"You been doin' any drugs, bo-ay?"
I hear Frank giggling louder through the open driver's window.
"No sir."
"Are you willin' to take a blood test?"
Now at this point, I'm not thinking too clearly. I've already received one ticket, saw an incredible show, and am fearful of a second ticket. I thought he was talking about administering the test himself and I knew the blood would need to be drawn by a needle. I'm not scared of needles, as long as a trained physician is doing the handiwork.
I simply answered him, "Is it going to hurt?"
Frank has lost it. I admit I failed to see anything funny about the situation at the time. Looking back on it, Frank thinks it was my deadpan responses to his questions that made him lose it.
"Get in my front seat, bo-ay."
I'm in it deep now, is all I could think.
I get in the front seat.
"I clocked you doing 71 mph in a 55 mph zone," Buford tells me as he's filling out the rest of the ticket.
"That's impossible." For Chrissakes I had a ticket four hours early, so I know I wasn't speeding! I didn't say this to him though. I do put my foot in my mouth.
"How do I know this was really me you clocked and not the previous person you pulled over?"
After I said it, I realized it was a mistake. He gave me a sharp look and I thought for a minute he was going to hit me upside the head. The sad thing was I was serious and not really thinking straight. I’m glad he didn’t knock my teeth out or beat me senseless.
"I ran a diagnostic on it before I clocked you so I know it's correct," he growls (I swear he growled this!)
"How much will it cost me?" I ask.
He pulls some sheet out and shows me the fee chart. It was something like $72.50 US that I could just mail in to the Scott County Treasurer.
"I don't think you've been drinkin'," he says to me, "but I think you've been doin' drugs."
OH SHIT! Flashes through my mind.
"But you're OK to drive," he finishes.
I'm speechless. No one to this day can explain this logic to me.
"But your buddy ... he's really messed up."
It wasn't until a few days later that what Buford was referring to was Frank's uncontrollable giggles at my predicament. He thought Frank was flying high on something.
I looked Buford straight in the eye and said, "He's not messed up. His nose just looks that was from a car accident." Frank was in a bad wreck the previous summer when someone hit his mom.
In retrospect, I can see why Buford maybe thought I was on drugs.
On the way home, the alternator went out and we made home on battery power as the headlights slowly dimmed to almost non-existence as I finally pulled into the driveway.
The Judge was Mean John Brown
The next day I call Chris's mom, a paralegal who works for the prosecuting attorney in Louisville. Chris's mom is the funniest person I know. Years ago I called her Mrs. Wettle and she commented that she did not marry her father. I replied, "This being Kentucky, you must've been able to outrun him." So from that day on in high school I always addressed her as Chris's Mom.
"Hi Chris's mom, this Bryon."
"Hello Chris's friend."
I told her the story about the first ticket.
"When is the court date?"
I tell her.
"Is that a Tuesday?"
"Yes."
"OK, I know who will be prosecuting you and he wants me for my body, so I'll talk to him," she says with a laugh.
"I like you a lot Chris's mom, but I don't want you to go that far to get me out of my ticket."
"Bryon Jordan! That's NOT what I meant!"
"I know. Um, I also had this other problem coming home."
I told her about the second ticket, still adamant about not speeding. I told her I thought the cop was a jerk, etc. She told me to go fight the ticket and try and plead defective equipment. Tell them I took it in, had the speedometer checked, the mechanic fixed it, and show some receipt for service.
She thought perhaps Buford was hoping to cage a DUI and that was the reason for the harassment because she could not explain how I could've been doing drugs, but was OK to drive. I’m going to have to ask a physician sometime if this is possible, but I think I know the answer.
The first ticket was knocked down to 14 mph over the limit for which I received traffic school (15 mph was the max allowed for attending traffic school). It was $15 + court fees. It came out to $63 + no record of the ticket for the blood sucking insurance company.
For the second ticket I went to the Georgetown Hall of Justice (and skipping my Economics 102 class) and saw the rest of the cast of "Deliverance." The ticket was dismissed when the judge realized that Buford never wrote down how fast I was going on the ticket.
I grew up in Fern Creek, a small town outside - but pretty much considered part of - Louisville. Life in Fern Creek was pretty boring. I worked at the Putt-Putt Golf and Games on Bardstown Road and it was there I met my friend Frank. Frank was 2 years younger than myself (I was 18) and I had more or less hooked him on John Mellencamp's music the previous summer. For some reason I can't recall now, Frank did not go to the Louisville show that previous December. Needless to say that show was a mindblowing experience for me and he swore he'd go to the next show that came around. I seem to recall the tickets went on sale during a snow emergency in Louisville, so friends of mine in Dayton, OH, secured our seats for us.
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me
We met at the Putt-Putt and left for the show in my dad's Honda hatchback. I normally drove a VW bug, but its history was that it was an undependable car and I didn't want to be stranded in the middle of nowhere. We were on the Gene Snyder Freeway for about 3 miles when I was pulled over for "excessive" speeding. The police officer was a jerk about the whole thing. He said he got me doing 79 mph in a 55 mph zone. I told him I was just keeping up with traffic. He said it took me 3 miles to catch up with traffic. Maybe he was right, who knows now? Frank's laughing as the cop walks away (at me, not with me).
This was a very traumatic thing for me. I never had a speeding ticket before (in a VW Bug? Yeah right.) so I was a little shell shocked as we drove the rest of the way to Rupp at 53 mph. The whole way I was trying to think how I was going to tell my dad what happened. I also wondered how it was going to affect my insurance. At least we left early enough that the ticket did not make us late.
We met up with Chris Wettle and Richard Higgins from Dayton (I went to high school in Louisville with them) and saw a freaking incredible show. During the break Richard and some other guy from Dayton moved up to the seats that John's brother vacated as he left for back stage. Unbelievable seats. I was definitely jealous.
We leave after the show and I'm heading down Main Street that meets up with I-64 in Versailles. It's all 55 mph with only 2 lights. Now of course I'm not going to be speeding because I had a ticket just 4 hours earlier.
Trooper hits his party light switch
I'm cruising along at 53 mph when the trooper hits his lights.
"Cop!" shouts Frank.
"But I'm not speeding," I respond as I look at the gauge. "He must be after someone else."
Yeah right. Buford T. Justice pulls us over and I get a sickening feeling in my stomach as he peers in my window with a look on his face that says "You're my puppy now." I saw the movie "Deliverance" - you get the idea.
"Registration and license, please." He holds his hand over his gun; I guess in case I pull a gun out.
"Is there a problem officer?"
"Registration and license, please."
I open the glove box and hand it to him. It was on top of all the of the stuff in there because of my previous ticket.
"I caught you speeding."
"That's not possible officer. There's no way I was speeding."
"Are you boys from around here?"
"No sir, we're from Louisville."
"Do you go to the University?" I assume he meant the University of Kentucky.
"No, I go to Bellarmine College in Louisville. We're from Louisville." Maybe I said that last sentence in the wrong tone - as in "Weren't you listening 2 seconds ago?"
"Step out of the car, boy." The jerk calls me "boy", but with that southern twang that makes it a two syllable word - Bo-ay. Frank is giggling hysterically at this point. Every time he tries
to stop, he starts up even harder.
The cop is looking me right in the eye.
"You been drinkin', bo-ay?"
"No sir. Do you want to smell my breath?"
At Buford's request, I breath into his face. Since I didn't have anything to drink, he got a whiff of nothing.
He holds his finger up. "Follow my finger with your eyes." So I oblige. Then I made mistake number one (or two counting the "We're from Louisville tone"). I spoke when not spoken to. Never ever offer information unless asked for it.
"Officer, in case you didn't notice, I have a slight lazy right eye, so if it didn't follow your finger, that's why."
"You been doin' any drugs, bo-ay?"
I hear Frank giggling louder through the open driver's window.
"No sir."
"Are you willin' to take a blood test?"
Now at this point, I'm not thinking too clearly. I've already received one ticket, saw an incredible show, and am fearful of a second ticket. I thought he was talking about administering the test himself and I knew the blood would need to be drawn by a needle. I'm not scared of needles, as long as a trained physician is doing the handiwork.
I simply answered him, "Is it going to hurt?"
Frank has lost it. I admit I failed to see anything funny about the situation at the time. Looking back on it, Frank thinks it was my deadpan responses to his questions that made him lose it.
"Get in my front seat, bo-ay."
I'm in it deep now, is all I could think.
I get in the front seat.
"I clocked you doing 71 mph in a 55 mph zone," Buford tells me as he's filling out the rest of the ticket.
"That's impossible." For Chrissakes I had a ticket four hours early, so I know I wasn't speeding! I didn't say this to him though. I do put my foot in my mouth.
"How do I know this was really me you clocked and not the previous person you pulled over?"
After I said it, I realized it was a mistake. He gave me a sharp look and I thought for a minute he was going to hit me upside the head. The sad thing was I was serious and not really thinking straight. I’m glad he didn’t knock my teeth out or beat me senseless.
"I ran a diagnostic on it before I clocked you so I know it's correct," he growls (I swear he growled this!)
"How much will it cost me?" I ask.
He pulls some sheet out and shows me the fee chart. It was something like $72.50 US that I could just mail in to the Scott County Treasurer.
"I don't think you've been drinkin'," he says to me, "but I think you've been doin' drugs."
OH SHIT! Flashes through my mind.
"But you're OK to drive," he finishes.
I'm speechless. No one to this day can explain this logic to me.
"But your buddy ... he's really messed up."
It wasn't until a few days later that what Buford was referring to was Frank's uncontrollable giggles at my predicament. He thought Frank was flying high on something.
I looked Buford straight in the eye and said, "He's not messed up. His nose just looks that was from a car accident." Frank was in a bad wreck the previous summer when someone hit his mom.
In retrospect, I can see why Buford maybe thought I was on drugs.
On the way home, the alternator went out and we made home on battery power as the headlights slowly dimmed to almost non-existence as I finally pulled into the driveway.
The Judge was Mean John Brown
The next day I call Chris's mom, a paralegal who works for the prosecuting attorney in Louisville. Chris's mom is the funniest person I know. Years ago I called her Mrs. Wettle and she commented that she did not marry her father. I replied, "This being Kentucky, you must've been able to outrun him." So from that day on in high school I always addressed her as Chris's Mom.
"Hi Chris's mom, this Bryon."
"Hello Chris's friend."
I told her the story about the first ticket.
"When is the court date?"
I tell her.
"Is that a Tuesday?"
"Yes."
"OK, I know who will be prosecuting you and he wants me for my body, so I'll talk to him," she says with a laugh.
"I like you a lot Chris's mom, but I don't want you to go that far to get me out of my ticket."
"Bryon Jordan! That's NOT what I meant!"
"I know. Um, I also had this other problem coming home."
I told her about the second ticket, still adamant about not speeding. I told her I thought the cop was a jerk, etc. She told me to go fight the ticket and try and plead defective equipment. Tell them I took it in, had the speedometer checked, the mechanic fixed it, and show some receipt for service.
She thought perhaps Buford was hoping to cage a DUI and that was the reason for the harassment because she could not explain how I could've been doing drugs, but was OK to drive. I’m going to have to ask a physician sometime if this is possible, but I think I know the answer.
The first ticket was knocked down to 14 mph over the limit for which I received traffic school (15 mph was the max allowed for attending traffic school). It was $15 + court fees. It came out to $63 + no record of the ticket for the blood sucking insurance company.
For the second ticket I went to the Georgetown Hall of Justice (and skipping my Economics 102 class) and saw the rest of the cast of "Deliverance." The ticket was dismissed when the judge realized that Buford never wrote down how fast I was going on the ticket.
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