Another Definition of Dark Horse

Those of you not still slightly nauseated by the sight of Cuervo might remember that last Saturday had something other than Cinco de Mayo going on. Out here in the Hayward Rathaus, at least, it was also Derby Day- that spring Saturday where I make a nice southern meal, watch three hours of pomp followed by two minutes of racing and pretend I was actually sober back during the Derby Day celebrations of my mis-spent college years. Derby Day was a lot like a Buffett concert: everyone says it's all about one thing, but mostly it's just an excuse for a whole lot of fun. And in the case of the Derby, you get to see some of the prettiest athletes ever.
I love horse racing. I love the horses and the way their muscles undulate when they go all out. I love the fabulous clashing colors of the silks and the weird sort of retro feel to the whole affair. What I don't like is all the tobacco smoke that seems to pervade, or the fact that it's considered a low class pastime and that self-perpetuates. It's sad to see the sport of kings reduced to an old-fashioned form of keno for burnt out drunks. But the triple crown still remains above the detritus, at least. I consider that a good thing.
And so it was that I grumbled my way through class last Saturday, wondering how I was going to get both a derby pie and two racks of ribs cooked before three when class lasted until noon. (Yes, I know I can't call it a derby pie. Really, silly little restaurant, you have a fat lot of nerve. I also use band-aids and Kleenex, regardless of who makes them. So lay off.) To make matters worse, I realized halfway through class I had forgotten to record any pre-event coverage. But I got home to find out Tony had not only taken all possible DVR precautions for me, but had also climbed out on the roof and set the antenna to get broadcast coverage in HD. My husband loves me very much. We reclined on the couch and watched a surprising amount of interviews and whatnot. God save the queen, if only because she made for a lot of fuss and TV cameras that might not have otherwise been there. Because of this, I never did get around to getting the ribs in the oven.
Which turned out to be a good thing.
At 2:55PM, just after the parade to the track, a commercial coincided with the oven buzzer and I pulled my freshly made pie out of the oven. As I took care of that, there was a pop from over by campus. At the same time Tony muted the TV and I got a kick out of how the sudden silence was almost palpable. Then Tony cursed and I realized that it was so quiet because absolutely nothing was running: not the refrigerator, not the oven fan, not even the slight hum of the kitchen fluorescents- and absolutely not the TV. The screen was completely dark. Bad word!
Tony immediately came out to the kitchen to console me. But somehow I found the whole thing funny. I grumped a bit as I watched the clock slip past 3:05 on my heeptop and knew the winner was already being blanketed with roses. But the irony of it was awesome, it was like the old cliche of the power going out right when the TV sleuth is about to reveal whodunnit. It was even better when Lynn called to tell me she had watched her first Derby, based on my enthusiastic endorsement of it, and how fabulous it was. Thanks, Lynn.
All told, the power was out for about three hours while PG&E replaced the transformer. They're really very good about that sort of thing. When I lived in Belmont, I remember watching from my window while a guy on a pole fixed the lines in rain and wind so hard his slicker was flying out horizontally from his shoulders like a flag. So I don't blame them.  Really, I don't blame anyone. After all, everyone knows that anything can happen in horse racing.