The little church where the frisky dog prays. *photo courtesy of Lutheran Church of the Foothills)

Every morning, White Fang and I stroll past the little Lutheran church up the hill. As we pass, we say a little prayer for you. And you and you and you ….

Lot of good it’s done, right?

Who knows? Perhaps these prayers shield you from worse calamities than you’re already facing. Perhaps they do you no good at all.

Still, we stroll and hope – the wobbly dad and his frisky praying dog.

I’m a simple man, obviously. I still drink from garden hoses, still kiss under porch lights. I marvel over vapor trails. My stomach barks after I eat spicy Thai.

I never know which button to push (apps, elevators, people). I blush too easily, especially for such a manly man.

I push ahead mostly to see what happens next, what fiasco awaits us all, and how the bureaucrats will bobble it.

Most times, I have more faith in the neighbor I don’t know than I do in the candidate I voted for.

I default to my usual state: horrified yet hopeful.

Look, I still believe in all the mainstream myths of our day. That kindness counts. That God has a plan. That most people are honest and good.

By the way, I was haunted the other day to realize that I dress almost exactly like the actor Steve Carell. In fact, if he were a brand, a sub-species, a phylogeny, I would be him.

Also, like Carell, I’ve grown “comfortable with being uncomfortable,” in the words of TV critic Robert Lloyd, who wrote recently about the affable actor.

That’s not a bad outlook. Bookmark that. Mention it to your bartender or your shrink.

Comfortable with being uncomfortable …

Discuss that concept over a nightcap with someone you adore. Bittner, for instance. Or, that rascal, Mark J. Miller. Jeff or Pete or Charley.

We’re a band of brothers, my buddies, a fleet of cheerful suburban dads, all subsets of Carell, whom I’ve always hoped is as gentle a soul as he seems on screen.

So authentic in “Little Miss Sunshine.” So awkward in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin.” Such a devoted dad in “Crazy, Stupid, Love.”

Another writer once deftly described Carell as resembling a bemused forest creature.

Yet, over the years, Carell has become, like Tom Hanks and Jimmy Stewart, an American “Everyman.” That’s not a bad accomplishment. In fact, I’d take that over an Oscar any day.

Bravo, Mr. Carell. Take a bow but keep moving along. Because we might soon change our restless and fickle minds.

Speaking of change, I surprised myself last week by being almost completely relaxed over an impending jury summons.

In the past couple of decades, I’ve done maybe eight stints of jury duty, and there was always a gut-twist the night before: the parking, the cattle call, the schlepping from court to court to court.

As you know, court personnel sometimes round you up and send you to trials in Hollywood or East L.A. Fine places, of course, gritty garden spots. But who wants to schlepp there after already schlepping downtown?

This time, I had no anxiety at all. Kinda threw me.

Attention, class: Getting older is not so bad. Eventually, you become comfortable with being uncomfortable, to the point of being at peace with all your misfit quirks.

Meanwhile, here’s the thing about L.A. jury pools: There’s always one woman with a bag so big that you could fit a sheepdog. She could tumble headfirst into her bag at any moment, and rescue teams would never find her.

Till then, she can’t find anything in this gigantic canvas bag: her jury summons, her mortadella sandwich, the bridal dress she’s sewing for her niece, “who’s prematurely pregnant but really loves this Draymond guy .…”

Also, there’s always one L.A. juror with bitchin’ hair – obviously an actor. The rest of the jury pool looks like me or Steve Carell.

Is that a crisis or a cry for help? Neither? Both? Let me get back to you.

Finally, here’s something to chew on: One of L.A.’s top trial lawyers tells me that winning a case relies primarily on three things: jury selection, opening arguments and the facts of the case. Jury selection, he believes, accounts for 80% of winning.

Me, I wish the facts were 80% of it.

Takeaway: There is the way we wish the world worked, and the way it actually functions. They seldom share a sandwich.

That bother you? Me too. Come on, let’s pray.

Jury duty no longer freaks me out. (photo by Chris Erskine)

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