Good night, bad luck.

Sept 7th:

I lost my wallet. My debit cards. My driver's license. MY DOMINICK'S CARD! And so it begins.

I need 8 hands and 100 pockets. I need an external hard drive for my brain. I need someone who follows me around and picks up the things I leave laying around. Amanda called the bank and pretended to be me, canceled everything. Nils is over-nighting me my passport and expired driver's license. On Wednesday everything will be back to normal again.

I picture everyone hitting me with a trapeze as I sleep.

We taught workshops today. I love teaching in new places because the students really seem excited and respectful. They look at me with expectation, like I'm going to unveil the secrets that will make them aerial stars. They still hold me high in their minds because I haven't farted or burped in front of them. I haven't let loose a rampage of creative swear words. My pants haven't fallen off while demonstrating a trick. They still think I have my shit together.

And I look at them as an entirely new group of people who will soon hit me in the face.

Surprisingly, I didn't get hit in the face until much later in the night. I managed to duck the flailing limbs with cat-like agility. It helped that I had some really fantastic, strong students. Nice work, Colorado. I taught them handstand on the bar and would stand back and admire each one as they hit the position, hands pressing the bar back and up, one leg wrapped around both ropes, the other extended backwards. Some would bend their back leg to their head and I'd fill with a bizarre combination of pride and rage, like a painter who makes a self portrait that looks more beautiful in oil than they could ever look in person. Why can't I touch my damn foot to my damn head?

We teched the show, then drove back to Boulder. As soon as I put the van in park and shut down the engine I heard that familiar, dreadful hiss. I wish it had been a huge poisonous snake waiting just below the car to take a chunk out of my ankle. Instead, we were getting another flat tire. Our second in less than 24 hours.

Helena put her thumb over the hole. We told her to stay their all night, and she would have, but then we realized that if we were to drive the van, she'd have to move. It was going to go flat, and we just had to accept that. We excused Helena from her post and everyone sashayed carefree from the van. There was beer to drink and a honky tonk band to listen to.

At the brewery, I attempted to lift Amanda in a “dirty dancing” over my head, but instead of jumping, she just sort of thew herself chest first into me. Elena started laughing and throwing her arms around in such as way as to ensure that hitting me in the face was inevitable. Then I lifted her. Then Laura hit me in the face. The pain sensors in my face have retreated so far back into my skull that I hardly even notice any more.

We walked back to the house as we'd walked away from it: as a huge gang down the middle of the street, screaming and singing and waking up the neighbors. We passed the free stove and the free vacuum cleaner and imagined the circus acts we could create with each. As we passed our van, the problem we'd abandoned in favor of drunkenness, we realized that the tire had magically stopped deflating. There it sat, ¾ full of air, as if it was compromising with us. “Okay, I'll stop deflating, if you buy a spare tomorrow.” Deal van, it's a deal.

See, sometimes getting drunk really can solve everything.