''The Kerby is decadent and depraved'' by Matt Rhodes

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''Right in the middle of the whole frenzied affair one of my own relatives had to be institutionalized...''

It's already getting to be that time. The pungent stench of bourbon and horse manure can be detected in the air. Plans must be made, mint juleps must be concocted, the first Saturday in May ain't that far away. This year you have to make it to the Derby.

The Kentucky Derby is a mythical event, mired deep within the inbred confines of southern culture. Sure, it's a race, but the "Run for the Roses" is only two minutes long.

Somehow, the Derby festivities stretch out over a weekend, a long, drunken, stumbling, glorious weekend. Forget what you've seen on TV. Forget the Derby Breakfast and the Pegasus Parade, the debutantes and the southern social elite, the grandstands and the mint juleps. The Derby is straight bourbon. The Derby is not a race, it is a road trip. It is not an event, it is a way of life, a way of life called the infield.

The infielders are the people that make the Kentucky Derby what it is. What, you ask, are infielders? Ah, my friend, a dangerous question that should be asked with the utmost trepidation. I shall outline for you the history of the infield.

The Great Ones, or The First People to Get Extremely Drunk at the Kentucky Derby, watched Aristides win the first Derby on May 17, 1875, through eyes blurred by the ravages of bourbon and the sticky Kentucky sun. And they watched from the infield, the large grass area on the inside of the track.

This area was free to enter, so all the toothless geezers in town gathered up all the bourbon they could muster and had themselves a party while the aristocrats stared down with condescending eyes from the grandstand. The rich were in control.

However, a revolution was brewing. By the early 1900s, the Derby had established itself as the granddaddy of all horse races, where money and a good time was to be had by all. The infield slowly became a hot spot for the young and old to vomit and urinate during the event. The outdoor betting lines were long, the bathrooms scarce and the liquor flowed freely. In Kentucky, that's called a tradition.

Nowadays, more than 200,000 people migrate to Louisville for the fabled event. With only 42,000 reserved seats that are priced to impress, that leaves about 158,000 of us in the infield. I guess not everyone makes it in, but between the Derby Eve festivities (riots have occurred rather frequently) and the Derby Day infield, there are certainly a lot of people who aren't walking too straight.

Moreover, it now costs $20 to see the race from the infield. You actually have to pay to be vomited and urinated upon, but, trust me, it's worth it. The end of the race usually brings about a mass garbage fight in the infield, thousands of half-naked college students tossing mud, orange juice, grain alcohol and who-knows-what at each other in pure jubilation. I've always been amazed at how this stuff never gets on television.

If you want to be an infielder, there are some things you should know. Firstly, you have to have the stuff. Do you drink more than your body can possibly handle on a regular basis? Do you enjoy being pressed against thousands of people for an extended period of time? If everyone else starts smashing the tulips, will you join in? If "yes" is the answer, then you got moxy, kid.

Secondly, get there for Derby Eve. I've never quite made it but I hear it's a Mardi Gras atmosphere in the streets of the City by the Falls. Anytime public intoxication and the destruction of property are encouraged, a good time is bound to be had.

Lastly, watch out for the lawn parking. Hundreds of Garth Brooks fans wearing Metallica shirts will try to get you to park in their yard for twenty bucks. It's basically your only alternative, but things often get broken and/or you get trapped and have to wait for ten drunken revelers to move their cars before you can get out. That takes a while.

In the infield, there is no talk of Willie Shoemaker. Horses are an afterthought. "My Old Kentucky Home" is barely audible amidst the drunken roars and hoots and laughter. It is simply a party, a party that must be attended if you want to live a full life. Birth, Puberty, The Derby, Marriage, Death. That's the way it should be.

See you in Louisville.