Brady is clearly channeling his inner Gonzo vibe. He reminds very much of a young, once handsome, Hunter Thompson. The eyebrow raising matching tie and white pants are right out of the Louisville garb for drunken (fallen) county clubbers who couldn't make the nut for dues this spring after a winter spent ripping up dead bets at Keeneland and have been teeing off (and getting hammered) at Lake Lear Public instead of Ivy Oaks. This pic would have been taken around 9am, any later and the pants would be stained by bourbon and burned through at the thigh by overlooked cigar ash. The little guy wants to be next to someone tall because a dude over 6 feet obviously could not be another broken down jockey looking to dish his worn out stories of how he could have ridden Big Red but for the birth of his fifth child, whose name he can't recall after a quick two thirds of a fifth of JD's, the near empty bottle of which he waves wildly in his left hand almost splitting your cheek as he demonstrates the vault mounting of style of Austrian hill people, his legs flying in a regrettably open vee that catches on the wooden chair back he had used to indicate where the saddle might be.
