A Few Other Observations from Our Day at the Races
I love the guy who wears jodphurs and plays the trumpet before each race. What I especially love is that he'll play a few bars of something very groovy, like "Summertime" before the clarion call that announces the race. It's classy.
And speaking of classy: we didn't look like we were going to Ascot or anything but both The Neighbor and I were pulled together. There were two women in front of us that also looked very nice. One actually looked as if she could have been an extra in the Ascot scene from "My Fair Lady", in a trim black and white pinstripe dress. But that is the exception. And I must say that I find myself increasing bothered by the Walmart mentality of most Americans in the details of their lives. You know why they call us the ugly Americans? Because, besides our foreign policy, we don't know how to dress. And seriously, if you weigh 50 pounds more than you should, tight jeans and a t shirt are simply not a good look for you. Likewise stretch shorts.
If we go next year I am seriously going to wear a sundress and little kitten heels or something like that because I am so ashamed of our national slovenliness. We're at the track, for crying out loud! The sport (as Charlie reminds me) of kings. Granted, America doesn't have a king but that is no excuse. I'm not saying everyone should turn up in bespoke perfection but sheesh, people, a little pride wouldn't kill you.
Here's something that I find delightful at the races. It is, even for badly dressed Americans, a pretty genteel experience. You have some hard-core folks sitting or standing around the off-track screens who make a smidge of noise. And, of course, I have no idea what takes place in the posh boxes where the grandees swill and swish. But for the rest of us, it's all very calm and orderly. One sits and studies the racing form. One may have a drink or a bite to eat (sure, it's a hot dog but, meh, it's a bite). One chats pleasantly with those nearby. One strolls around, one may go down near the fence to watch the race or stay in one's seat. But, except for the ocassional squall of a baby or bored I'm-too-small-to-be-here-take-me-to-the-pony-rides small child, the noise level is negligible. But then. It cracks me up. Everyone is so hushed and then the race begins and people grow even more quiet. Then the horses round the last turn into the final stretch and the cheering begins, building slowly until it is at riot levels as the horses cross the line. And then there is a smattering of applause and the disgusted shaking of heads and everyone goes back to studying the racing form and talking quietly. I really like that.
Editorial Note:
I had a bunch of pictures in this post and then I got an error message (unrelated to Blogger, if you can believe it) and of course, I hadn't saved a draft so I lost the post AND now I can't upload pictures. Maybe later. Maybe not.
And speaking of classy: we didn't look like we were going to Ascot or anything but both The Neighbor and I were pulled together. There were two women in front of us that also looked very nice. One actually looked as if she could have been an extra in the Ascot scene from "My Fair Lady", in a trim black and white pinstripe dress. But that is the exception. And I must say that I find myself increasing bothered by the Walmart mentality of most Americans in the details of their lives. You know why they call us the ugly Americans? Because, besides our foreign policy, we don't know how to dress. And seriously, if you weigh 50 pounds more than you should, tight jeans and a t shirt are simply not a good look for you. Likewise stretch shorts.
If we go next year I am seriously going to wear a sundress and little kitten heels or something like that because I am so ashamed of our national slovenliness. We're at the track, for crying out loud! The sport (as Charlie reminds me) of kings. Granted, America doesn't have a king but that is no excuse. I'm not saying everyone should turn up in bespoke perfection but sheesh, people, a little pride wouldn't kill you.
Here's something that I find delightful at the races. It is, even for badly dressed Americans, a pretty genteel experience. You have some hard-core folks sitting or standing around the off-track screens who make a smidge of noise. And, of course, I have no idea what takes place in the posh boxes where the grandees swill and swish. But for the rest of us, it's all very calm and orderly. One sits and studies the racing form. One may have a drink or a bite to eat (sure, it's a hot dog but, meh, it's a bite). One chats pleasantly with those nearby. One strolls around, one may go down near the fence to watch the race or stay in one's seat. But, except for the ocassional squall of a baby or bored I'm-too-small-to-be-here-take-me-to-the-pony-rides small child, the noise level is negligible. But then. It cracks me up. Everyone is so hushed and then the race begins and people grow even more quiet. Then the horses round the last turn into the final stretch and the cheering begins, building slowly until it is at riot levels as the horses cross the line. And then there is a smattering of applause and the disgusted shaking of heads and everyone goes back to studying the racing form and talking quietly. I really like that.
Editorial Note:
I had a bunch of pictures in this post and then I got an error message (unrelated to Blogger, if you can believe it) and of course, I hadn't saved a draft so I lost the post AND now I can't upload pictures. Maybe later. Maybe not.
cobbled together by Moi at 7:13 AM
2 Comments:
I am so with you on the national slovilyness. I mean I hate to be judgemental but a little effort please...
Slovinlyness. I do hate spelling errors but I can't say I am sure that's even a word.
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