Newish

"Mediocre people do exceptional things all the time."

-- OK Go, "What To Do"

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In one week: the car broke down, worse than expected, and has to be sacked for a new one; headshots fell through; the paycheck from the theatre was almost a week late and we're all supposed to smile about it. Bad things come in fucking threes.

But the headshots will be done today, for a fee. The paycheck came through, too. So all that's left is a somewhat harried and clueless search for a new car, or rather, a new used car, one that has at least six months left in it. Get me to Chicago, strange automobile, that's all I ask.

Craigslist had a few nice entries for used vehicles up for cheaps, but many of them need engines.

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Yesterday all three crises hit me like the perfect storm. More accurately, they were three brushfires that converged on my little log cabin of life, and what's a guy to do when he's stuck in the misty mountains with fire all around? You breathe in that smoke, of course, let it burn your lungs and taint your blood, and you fire back with song.

Stupider, weaker and unluckier people have made it through worse things than this. And some of them are on TV now, or work in really cool factories, making blankets and watches for some really important people, or you know, smoking pot or something. And if all else fails, there's always Obama's casual, convenient unemployment aid--fuel for the pity fire that burns always within.

Solution? "Let power go before control becomes a crust around your soul," as Michael Card put it. And look to the dog for inspiration.

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This morning, just before I called the photo studio, Ajax made his way into my room, tongue hanging out like floppy red candy. There is so much junk on my floor that his way was uncertain as he picked and poked his steps that took him nearer to my bed. His tail was a lunatic pendulum. Uncertain of his footing, he merely tensed at the foot of the bed, staring at that corner landing zone, measuring the leap in his tiny dog mind. He looked back at me. "Go on," I said. He wiggled his haunches and sprung--and didn't make it: a clawing, clutching, clumsy failure. He tried again, this time landing claws into the fitted sheet, pricking three little holes in a semi-circle to mark his attempt. "Come on!" I said, this time thumping a pillow. Without thinking, he shot upward and landed on his feet on the bed, and his face pulsed with success. The tongue came back out, sweet victory on the pallet, and the tail became electro-shock.

Aim, jump, land on your feet. The fires bring with them amazing drafts; spread a chute and ride the air.