Coordinating your wardrobe for spring racing season is always a political affair, none more so than with regards to this Saturday’s 140th Preakness Stakes, held in the little, quiet, quaint town of Baltimore.
Yes, that Baltimore.
A ticket to any racing day, anywhere, at any age, is basically a license to behave badly until the point where you become the worst version of yourself, hobbling home in flip-flops as you dart between the hordes of police attempting to chorale the collective drunk masses away from the urine-crusted, messy venue (the horses having since been shipped off several hours earlier.)
But for a city that has spent the past month in a violent, critical state of emergency, having only just reached a tense truce between the black community and the police, celebrating the ponies over bottomless glasses of bubbly seems a little too farcical to go off without a hitch.
The city’s leading rag features, “Preakness 2015”, as the top searched news item on its website, next to the late, “Freddie Gray,” the subject matter of each being so insanely polar opposite that one could be mistaken for assuming the former event was taking place in a town far west of anything Gray-related.
But in fact, less than a month ago, Freddie Gray, a 25-year old black man, was arrested around four miles south of Pimlico, the location of Saturday’s gala, which most of the surrounding residents have long been priced out of attending.
Gray fell into a coma while under police custody and later died, sparking riots and protests which prompted Mayor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake to impose a citywide curfew amid the unrest that followed his death.
While six police officers have since been charged in connection with Gray’s death, the city’s wounds and its weary residents remain on a well-warranted amount of edge (think Johnny Depp at 11PM on day five of a court-enforced alcohol ban).
Ten people were shot in Baltimore on Sunday, continuing a deadly trend since the riots, including three who were shot to death within a span of 39 minutes, as the city prepares for the Preakness on Saturday at Pimlico Race Course.
Sporting events can sometimes play a role in forcing a city to unite as part of the healing process following a fracturing event. But a day at the track, which generally involves eight hours of condoned binge drinking while watching anything but the aforementioned stomping ground, is unlikely to be that solution in this instance.
A giant banner hanging over the entrance to the field declares the event to be ‘the people’s race’, but given the second chapter of the Triple Crown is known for attracting mostly wealthy, white folks, who are able to use the rest rooms of the predominantly black neighborhood of Pimlico for $2 a pop (or munch on a bowl of fried chicken for $5), it’s impossible to not anticipate a proverbial shit show.
While relations between track executives, horsemen and breeders are the most stable and collegial they’ve been in recent history, governed by a 10-year operating agreement inked in 2012, the camaraderie between the city’s citizens and the police force is anything but.
Take this week’s Prince-hosted pop show, which was handled with the PR prowess of George Clooney pulling off marrying lawyer Amal as anything but a thinly-veiled front for his impending run for office.
Being told to ‘wear gray’ to a Prince concert – where, by the way, he showcased his multitasking capabilities by dropping a sizzling new track, aptly named ‘Baltimore’, is a bit like being politely asked to don a red nose to the funeral of a three-month year old victim of SIDS.
Given the uncomfortable public debate about both controversial topics, sometimes the less flair, the better.
With Baltimore’s city-wide curfew only lifted late last month, the crooner took it upon himself to open the conversation with Baltimore’s youth, which would have been fine had any of the intended audience been conceived when he remained somehow relevant.
“We need new ideas, new life. Most of all, we need new peace,” Prince shared with the masses. “And the kind of peace I’m talking about is spelled p-i-e-c-e. Next time I come to Baltimore, I want to stay in a hotel owned by one of you.”
Inviting Prince into the result of a lifelong business venture is about as enjoyable concept as being forced to watch a heavy make-out session between Justin Beiber and a Victoria’s Secret hopeful in the lobby of my hotel, following which Beiber drops his pants and lights my entire livelihood on fire.
The concert, announced last week as a stand-alone event, was said to be keeping with the nature of Prince’s current “Hit ’n’ Run” American tour, the title of which is as ‘peace’ related as a dead dove on the steps of a divorce court.
“Tickets for the Baltimore concert cost $22 to $497, and the audience looked like a typical Prince crowd, largely middle-aged and of all races,” according to one paper’s description of the event. “Many wore something gray, as the concert’s flier requested — presumably to honor Mr. Gray.” Um, duh.
Being told to, ‘become a little more white’, for a Prince concert after almost a month of nation-wide protests is something so blatantly offensive to the cause, it’s like telling a gay 22-year old to dress, ‘a little less camp’, while being dragged by his older, 50-something sugar daddy to a star-studded Kylie concert.
I’m sure someone that’s spent the past two weeks running around hurling Molotov cocktails into the corner store he’s frequented for the past 15 years is going to sit around with his sorority sisters during the afternoon of the ‘big concert’, debating over what to wear to the epic event, following which he asks his mom, “Where can I get something gray for the big dance?” To which said mother responds, “What about American apparel, isn’t that wear those white people shop?”
With security concerns rife in the lead up to the event and as the media circus returns to town, let’s hope the only allusion to violence being in the name of Kentucky Derby runner-up, Firing Line.
Instead, let’s place our bets on the only crime that takes place on the field is of the fashion variety, or involving brawls between the drunken frat hipster-kind who deserves a good, hard slap back to reality. And maybe the folks of Pimlico can take advantage of the surge pricing ignited by the throngs of barefoot, drunk, white college girls on the hunt for a bowl of anything deep-friend to fill their white-wine laden stomachs on the march home.
