Triumphant horns for good news
There are moments when a man must drop his pants, bare his teeth and thrust his fist into the welcoming bosom of the sky. Today I understood this eternal, capital-T Truth suddenly, viscerally—I dare say I understood it erotically. Yesterday I could not have even conceived 45 percent of the words in this paragraph, let alone muster the sheer power of WILL needed to write them without the aid of amphetamines; yesterday I did not have a job. (If you did not read “WILL” like a certain twentieth-century Austrian-born demagogue, go back and read it again. On second thought, all of you would be bettered, in the spiritual and libidinal senses, by reading it twice.)
What line of work befits a man of letters such as I?
If you guessed pushing baggage carts around at the local international airport, congratulations!, you are Molly. My months-long job search has finally achieved some sort of fruition, though I can’t start for at least a few weeks. I must give them my fingerprints on Wednesday; wait 10 days for them to make sure I never stole a car or a car with a baby inside, which is worse; take a computerized aptitude test once that is complete. So I won’t start working until around the end of May, but it is part-time so I can still look for other jobs that I might be able to begin sooner.
When I think of triumph after extended periods of frustration and wallowing, I think of the brassy parts of RJD2’s “Ghostwriter.”