IS THIS THE TALE OF JOHNNY ROTTEN

What happened was: I was in this really big, ventilated box, chained to a chair, the promise of windows somewhere near but not seen, surrounded by office supplies, and suddenly the whole place morphs into a dragon and I'm plopped down in a vast field, the dragon at one end and me at the other and I'm like, "Shit, now I gotta fight a dragon," which isn't a negative, mind you, it just absorbs a lot of resources, so I send my knights out onto the battlefield ahead of me and some of them get firebombed, which is really annoying because just last week in dragon fighting class we learned how to avoid that exact same tactic but some of these guys--shit--it's like, they've been knighted, right, so they think they know it all, which is why I'm currently sponsoring legislation that would require all knights to go for yearly education certification and there's kinda been a bit of resistance from the knight unions on that but after the dragon battle I just witnessed I think we can all agree that the facts are on my side and so then, some of my knights are still standing but so is the dragon and so obviously I'm going to have to go to battle and my squire insists on putting on my armor, but I hate that shit, it gives me really bad hat hair so I strut out to the middle of the field and I'm like, "Dragon, today is your last day on Planet Kim," and the dragon laughs because it thinks it's big shit now--yesterday it was a location and today it's a dragon but you know what, yesterday I was trapped in a ventilated box and today I'm gonna decapitate a dragon so suck on that dragon breath and this is what I'm about to say when I see that the dragon has its claws out and is advancing rapidly and menacingly and in one hand it has a net and I've seen those nets before, once you're trapped in one it will take you eight years to get out, if you get out at all, and behind me I hear my knights yelling yesterday's dragon fighting lessons and from the Bose speakers in the sky I hear Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir," because I've requested that song to be played during all my battles and my stupid fucking brain freezes and so do my legs and I can't register what my knights are yelling and I can't get my legs to move and my arm goes numb and my sword falls to the ground with a loud CLANG and the dragon advances and it's so close now I can smell its breath and it needs a breath mint desperately and right when the dragon raises its knife-like claw I suddenly remember the gun in my waist band and I pull it out, aim, blow the dragon away and one of my knights yells, "ANACHRONISM!" which makes me happy since we learned about anachronisms in yesterday's film class, which we had after dragon fighting class, so at least one knight is retaining some of the free education he's getting, and perhaps I'm not battling according to the rules of proper engagement but it is a box that's morphed into a dragon, after all, and sometimes survival trumps rules and just at that point the sky turns blue and the sun shines brightly and Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On" blasts out of the Bose speakers in the sky, and all at once, no one is bitching about bringing a gun to a sword fight because they're too busy tanning themselves and finally I can breathe and maybe now it's time to walk away, before the next war starts.

ONCE YOU'RE GONE YOU CAN'T COME BACK

In front of him the tea party spreads out in a promenade of lace and white and silver candlesticks. Tiny cakes dot pretty silver plates. Flowered tea cups hold red punch. The Lions on the wallpaper stand upright on their back legs and keep watch. The Humans love The Lions and The Lions love The Humans. This is a celebration.

The Sleaze is standing in the doorway. He's sucking on what looks like a lollipop. It's actually one of his many daddy issues. His pockets are stuffed with these lollipops. They make it somewhat cumbersome for him to move.

The thing that makes The Humans turn and notice him is the smell. The room has been filled with a pleasant lilac smell, but now the stench of desperation is starting to permeate the air. It smells like broccoli that's been left too long in the fridge. Because The Sleaze has spent his life curling up with his desperation, he thinks it smells clean, like soap, so he's confused when The Humans don't hug him. But he's not surprised. He's spent his life not being hugged.

The Lions on the wallpaper snap their heads and glare at The Sleaze as he shuffles in. They can't stand his smell, or those loud sucking noises, or the sad way his lips curl around those lollipops. But one of The Humans, The Graceful One, looks at the head Lion and gives him a calming smile. The Graceful One believes in giving people second chances. The Lions don't agree, but they admire her for it.

The Sleaze pushes himself to the long table and stares down at a plate of ladyfingers. He wears goggles because he can't see all that well, but they're a really high prescription, so he has trouble distinguishing between people who put up with him and people who'd enjoy nothing more than throwing him down a well. When it comes to The Sleaze, those are the only two kinds of people there are. The Sleaze doesn't realize this. He wishes more than anything that he could be a Human.

But The Humans don't like him because he does things like grab them where they don't want to be grabbed; he whispers sleazy comments into their ears when no one is looking; when The Humans expect him to behave like a human, he says things like, "Don't get skittish on me now." The Sleaze earnestly believes he's suave. He sincerely believes he's charming. He is unaware of his stench.

The Sleaze looks up from the ladyfingers and makes eye contact with The Human on his left. "My dick is bigger than yours," The Sleaze says and he's shocked when The Human laughs at him. Then The Human simply walks away. The Humans turned The Sleaze into a punchline a year ago and since then, they've found him much easier to deal with.

The Sleaze spots the punch bowl across the room and moves towards it, but he trips because it's hard not to when a foot is in your mouth. He stumbles, falls into the table, grabs the edge of the lace tablecloth and pulls it and a tray of charcuterie to the floor with him. The Graceful One walks over and helps him up. He stands in front of her and adjusts his goggles. Once they're settled on his face, he reaches out and grabs her left breast, turns it like a volume dial, and says, "Honk! Honk!" The room goes silent. The Humans are past the point of grace.

The head Lion peels himself off the wallpaper and pads softly over to The Sleaze, who is now laughing at his own joke. The Lion flicks The Sleaze in the forehead and The Sleaze's goggles go flying across the room and into the punch bowl. Red liquid splatters the walls. The room sighs collectively. That used to be really good punch. "We can make more," The Lion says. Then he smashes The Sleaze into the ground, scoops him up, and molds him into a ball, much the way you would a ball of dough. Soon The Sleaze is a perfectly round ball that The Lion holds easily in the flat of his paw. The Lion walks quietly over to the open window and flings the dough ball out into the moat below. He closes the window and turns to the room. "Some simply can't be helped," The Graceful One says. "We need more punch," The Lion replies.

THE FRINGE FESTIVAL IS COMING!!

Dear Alert Power Love Reader,
Hello! For the past few months, I've been lucky enough to be a part of an ensemble that's creating and will be performing a play for the Chicago Fringe Festival. I hope you can come out to see it. You can find out all info on the play itself, as well as how to buy tickets to our play and the festival on our website: http://www.themovingdayplay.com/home.htm.

Here are details:

All shows at The Dream Theatre
556 W. 18th Street
Chicago

Thursday, September 1, 8:30pm
Saturday, September 3, 5:30pm
Monday, September 5, 4:00pm
Friday, September 9, 10:00pm
Saturday, September 10, 7:00pm

It will be epic, mostly because I will be on stage without pages in my hand and without a music stand in front of me, which is a drastic departure from my comfort zone and now my head hurts so I have to go sit down.

This is what happens when you work with amazing humans.

NOT SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION; WE FIRED OUR MARKETING DEPARTMENT

In one way or another, I'm telling a whole bunch of stories this summer. Hope you can make it out for all or some of these events, Alert Power Love Reader. Don't have all dates for all events. Updates will follow. Thank you for your support.

Fillet of Solo Festival--Performing an original show with Scott Whitehair
Where: Heartland Studio Theatre, 7016 N. Glenwood Avenue, Chicago
When: Saturday, 7/23, 8:30pm
Friday, 7/29, 8:30pm
Saturday, 7/30, 7pm
Thursday, 8/4, 8:30pm
Tickets: $10
More information here.

We Live Here--10-minute piece in this full-length play produced by Theatre Seven
When: Opens 8/4
More information here.

This Much Is True--straight-up storytelling
When: Tuesday, 8/9
Where: Hopleaf, 5148 N. Clark
Free
More information here.

Chicago Fringe Festival--I'm honored to be one-fifth of ToddsBurn Productions
When: Festival dates 9/1-9/11
Where: Pilsen
More information here.

IT'S ALL THE SAME ONLY THE NAMES'LL CHANGE

Enough about your issues. There's crime fighting to be done. As you may know, Alert Power Love Reader, our former goobernor is on trial for being a Colossal Dickhead. This is a watershed moment in American judiciariness because if His Hairness is convicted, it will set a precedent and henceforth all Dickheads will be eligible for prosecution and most importantly, it will expand opportunities for those of us in the crimer fighting field, which is why I'm currently building another wing on my estate so look for an invitation to the party to celebrate that!

However, I'm not gonna waste my time waiting around for some "judicial process" to make its way through "the courts" (patience: Not My Thing), I'm gonna start prosecuting Dickheads now. Technically, my job description doesn't include the prosecution of crimers, I'm actually just the super hero who catches them, but I have an expansive skill set and we're in the midst of budget cuts, so I've taken on some extra responsibilities.

At The Office of Super Heroes--which looks much like the Bat Cave, not incidentally, and I don't mean the Bat Cave from the movies of Batman, I mean the Bat Cave from the TV series, complete with that rockin computer that had lots of lights but which seemed to have only one function, to spit out very small pieces of paper, one at a time--we have The List of Dickheads thumb tacked to the cork board in the kitchen.

I'm not gonna lie, we've kinda been treading water ever since that bin Laden thing--I mean, Navy SEALS, who knew those guys were out and about? And don't think that whole thing didn't throw our marketing department for a loop, we've been trying to expand into the global market for years, but we keep getting sidetracked by McDonald's French fries and now do you see what happens when you don't consume a diet of green leafy vegetables, boys and girls? Right! You miss out on global expansion and Dickhead kills. Trust me, this will be much discussed at the Annual Conference of Super Heroes (November, Vegas, I'm giving the keynote address: How to Stop Picking Your Cuticles in Three Easy Steps).

Number One on The List of Dickheads is: The Assumption Pumpkins. Dose guys. I think you're quite familiar with the Assumption Pumpkins--they're the punks who think they always know why you're doing what you're doing, even though you never tell them and they never ask. Also, they are actual pumpkins, which is why, taped next to The List of Dickheads on the cork board in the kitchen of The Office of Super Heroes, there is a recipe for pumpkin pie. I ask you--can the Navy SEALS take down a Dickhead and then make a nice pie out of him/her/it? Well, probably. But they have to deal with that whole "code of conduct" thing and, like, Congress, so good luck at the next pie contest, boys!

I have a personal problem with the Assumption Pumpkins, mostly because I'm not one to state my motivations clearly, except for that whole skywriting phase I went through in high school, so I frequently find out the Assumption Pumpkins have spread salacious rumors about me and this makes me mad because I can spread my own salacious rumors about me, thank you very much.

While drinking my coffee in the kitchen of The Office of Super Heroes, I write my name next to the Assumption Pumpkins, thereby alerting my colleagues that this was my mission. I'm not the world's best baker of pies, however, so I'm gonna have to cross that bridge when I get to it.

I decide to invade the Assumption Pumpkins's hideout on a Monday evening, after watching a rerun of "Gossip Girl," which is one of my all-time favorite shows because there are cool clothes, all of which seem to fit awkwardly on the characters, as though they're lined with whipped cream that the actors are contractually obligated not to disturb, and also I have a wild fascination with Chuck Bass, which I simply cannot fathom because if I knew Chuck Bass in Real Life, I'd have to eat him for breakfast. I don't mean that to be a sexual innuendo, I mean I would literally crush him and sprinkle him over my eggs. Entitled white American men get on my last nerve. But apparently not when they're fictional characters on the Upper East Side.

Enough about me. What do you think about me? So after "Gossip Girl," I head over to the Assumption Pumpkins's hideout, which is located in the back room of The Grafton. I'm a big fan of the Irish and beer so The Grafton isn't a hard place to be. Plus, they have food there, which I'm also a big fan of.

There's a fire going when I look down through the grate of the ventilation duct, which is conveniently located in the middle of the ceiling of the back room. I'm happy I'm not directly over the fireplace because catching on fire is one way to blow a top secret ops mission and let's face it, The Office of Super Heroes cannot handle any missteps here. We have a budget, you know. And skyrocketing expenses. You can't buy these tights just anywhere, m'kay?

The unfortunate thing is, I forgot my glasses, so everything is kinda blurry and also, you know that cool telescope thing that Matt Damon uses in "The Bourne Ultimatum" when he's in one building and looking across the city into Landy's office--it kinda looks like the thing jewelers use to see chips in diamonds--I'm talking about the telescope thingy here, not Landy's office--and this thing is so precise Matt Damon can actually read the words on a folder that's being placed into a briefcase? Well, I don't have that.

All I have is my own proficiency at squinting, but squinting kinda makes me tense, which makes my shoulders cramp up, which gives me a charley horse, which I have to stretch out immediately and also makes me grunt because charley horses hurt, and this sudden movement causes me to fall through the ventilation grate on to the floor below and my grunt causes the secret meeting of the Assumption Pumpkins to suddenly turn and look at me and this is why I'm really thankful the ventilation grate is not placed directly over the fireplace.

I'm briefly stunned, but I'm also a super hero, so I jump to my feet, ready to defend America's honor. The Assumption Pumpkins continue to eat their artichoke dip and sip their imported Belgian beers.

"No Guinness?" I say, pulling my machete from its sheath at my side. Incidentally, my machete is not in its sheath at my side because I left it on the table at home, right next to my glasses.

"The Irish have drunk all the Guinness," one of the Assumption Pumpkins says. I know this to be a blatant lie because Guinness flows from never ending streams, which are located throughout the world. I suspect this lying Assumption Pumpkin is the leader. This is because he is wearing a headdress with the word "leader" embroidered in gold string across the front.

I glance around the room. The rest of the Assumption Pumpkins are looking at me--looking me up and down--no doubt impressed with my orange tights and flaming orange cape, no doubt jealous of my gleaming tiara. Thought bubbles pop up around their pumpkin heads. Most of them have forgotten to turn off their ovens. One is dreading the test results he was supposed to get yesterday but which have been delayed because the clinic lost power. Nice job, ComEd.

I whip out my metaphor gun and make a sweeping motion around the room. The thought bubbles all pop and disappear. The leader squints at me out of the corner of his eye. "You haven't come for dinner, then?"

"You're quick, Pumpkin," I say. Sometimes, when I'm in super hero mode, I talk like Clint Eastwood. It's a gift. "And not all Irish drink." I know this because some Irish are no longer alive and I've been to the afterlife and--spoiler alert!--there are no bars in the afterlife. You can smoke cloud feces, though, which provides the same high as a bottle of Jameson. Anyway, I don't know why I'm on the Irish thing. Defending my ancestors is not today's mission.

"Not all pumpkins make good pies," the leader of the Assumption Pumpkins says. Clearly, I'm making an I'm-gonna-make-a-pie-outta-you face, which is not the best approach to this secret ops mission. I shake my metaphor gun.

For the record, I love my metaphor gun. You should get one, Alert Power Love Reader. They're on sale at Target this week. Metaphor guns look like water guns, but instead of squirting water, they squirt magic cinnamon dust, which has multiple effects depending on which setting you choose: you can rearrange facial features; you can recalibrate brain waves; you can apply allergies; you can soften hearts. It's a multifaceted weapon that I invented and patented ten years ago and only use occasionally because the quality of a human can be seen in how she wields her power.

"All reports suggest you have been assumptioning cruel things about the staff of The Office of Super Heroes," I say to the leader, flicking the safety off my metaphor gun. "I'm here to put an end to that."

The leader of the Assumption Pumpkins looks around the room. The rest of the Assumption Pumpkins are staring at me. Little known fact: I used to hang out with the Assumption Pumpkins. Get a little tequila in them, and they're fun as hell. In addition, I have sat around campfires with quite a few of these pumpkins and shared some truly intimate memories. We don't talk anymore.

"Well," the leader says, "hard to know what to think when no communiques are transmitted."
"So you make shit up? That's lame," I say.
"You make shit up."
"Yes, but I have an MFA in fiction writing, so I'm morally obligated to make shit up. It was a condition of my loans."

I don't tell the leader I've already paid off my loans because I am remarkably financially savvy.

"Well, we had to fill the vacuum with something," the leader says. I hear the thought bubbles of the rest of the Assumption Pumpkins pop open with the same sound those bits of irrelevant information used to pop on the screen during music videos on VH-1's Pop-Up Video show. Do they still have videos these days? I metaphor gunned my TV about 10 years ago and now it's the world's biggest ball of twine. A real tourist attraction, by the way, please see the aforementioned remarkably financially savvy comment.

"You're manipulators," I tell the leader of the Assumption Pumpkins.
"You give us too much credit," he says.

Probably. I flip my metaphor gun to heart softener and start shooting. I blanket the room with magic cinnamon dust. The Assumption Pumpkins look not too surprised. I suspect they assumed the worst anyway. I wait for the dust to settle, then look around the room. On a table next to me, there is a plate of chips and partially attacked artichoke dip. "You gonna eat that?" I ask the Assumption Pumpkin nearest to it. "It's just that we kinda missed you," he says. "You stopped coming to campfires."

"You stopped listening," I say. I plunge a chip in the artichoke dip and toss it in the air. I catch it in my mouth expertly because in addition to being a super hero, I am also a top-tier member of the Morris Brother Barnum Bungling Circus and this move is kinda like what I'm known for on the circus circuit.

"Sometimes super heroes and pumpkins just move on," the leader says. "Sometimes it's just that. No malice intended."

This is a good point, although it means I have to release my long-held grudge, which I have been cultivating with great care for quite some time. Releasing this grudge is a double-edged sword: it will make me 10 pounds lighter, which is good because I have that recurring role on that soap opera; but it's also not good because it will leave me with a lot of time on my hands. I have closets full of Jameson, so time is sometimes not my friend.

I place my metaphor gun against my right temple and pull the trigger. A quick insuck of breath later, I tell the Assumption Pumpkins that I'm buying dinner. We gather around the fireplace with our drinks and our headdresses and our weapons and our thought bubbles and we swap stories about inside-out socks and documentary film making.

I decide not to make pies out of the Assumption Pumpkins.

I'M A SACK OF BROKEN EGGS I ALWAYS HAVE AN UNMADE BED

I'm trudging across the parking lot like a zombie, not because I am a zombie, not today anyway, but because my pyramid of bricks is shackled to my ankle. I have an impressive pyramid of bricks. You do too, Alert Power Love Reader. Your pyramid is comprised of many bricks: a brick for indecision, another for self-doubt, another for regret, for shame, for fear, for that time in 4th grade when you called Sally Googapalooza fat so you could be cool in front of the cool kids, but Sally heard you and never spoke to you again and it didn't help that the cool kids never liked you anyway because they thought you were fat, and you were, and still are, and that's about 30 bricks right there. You have one Sally Googapalooza experience in each stage of your life, so at this point, you're hauling around a hell of a lot of bricks and it'd be nice if you could count that as strength training, maybe get some muscle tone out of the deal, but that's not how the pyramid of bricks works.

I have been told by a very serious source that I will grow old alone, and this is my weightiest brick, which balances precariously on the top of my pyramid, which kinda makes it an odd looking pyramid, I guess, kinda like a pyramid wearing a sun bonnet, or a geometry puzzle, or like something you'd see on Sesame Street in the shape episode, which concerned parents would tune into expecting enlightened conversation about body image, which of course they wouldn't get, they'd get a bunch of triangles and rectangles and then they'd have to figure out how to handle the body image conversation with their kids themselves and to avoid that, they'd write scathing letters to Obama about his disastrous choices in teleprompters, "You're a reader, not a leader," they'd proclaim, until some well-meaning Democrat would bash them in the head with a mallet.

For the record, we here at Power Love HQ do not advocate violence as a means to conflict resolution, despite the fact that we have several mallets on staff.

Anyhoodle--you have issues. Me too. I prefer to shackle mine to my ankle and drag them around in public because I usually don't have pockets and I rarely carry a purse. It's hard enough just to get pants on in the morning, let alone remember to carry receptacles with me and this may or may not have something to do with my issues, but nonetheless, here I am, dragging my pyramid of bricks across the parking lot, minivanned families stopping to stare at me as I do, me grunting every five paces, wishing I would just take the time to exercise more often, dammit--this is brick #42, you'll find it third row center--so I smile and wave, but the minivanners don't acknowledge me, which may or may not have something to do with the fact that I'm not wearing pants.

Into the forest I go. The trees don't have pyramids of bricks, because trees have neither issues nor ankles, so while they're basically empathetic to my situation, they can't fully understand it. "Humans," I hear a maple say to an elm and in that instant, I realize I don't actually know the difference between a maple and an elm. I don't even know what poison ivy looks like. Saw the movie, though, it sucked.

I trudge on. "Trudge on" spoken quickly sounds to me like "truncheon," which sounds to me like a medieval torture device or a really bad heavy metal band, so you can imagine my mood at this point. I imagine that there is another me operating in a parallel universe and the other me is making all the right decisions and getting all her hopes fulfilled and I kinda hate her because she's probably not getting mosquito bites on her ass right now, but also, there's something inherently negative about hating yourself, even your other self in a parallel universe, so I instead turn my hate towards someone who deserves it, like the minivanners. This makes me feel much better because as you know, Alert Power Love Reader, judging others is the first step on the path to enlightenment.

Finally I make it to The Waterfall, who, like the trees, has neither issues nor ankles and so can empathize with my situation but can't actually understand it. Band name: The Lucky Fuckers.

I crawl inside The Waterfall. I have to yank the shackle around my ankle in order to pull my pyramid of bricks away from the crashing water. It's okay for the mist to hit the pyramid of bricks, but shit, man, don't get that thing soaked because you will live to regret it, trust me on this one, Alert Power Love Reader, you simply don't have the disposition to handle a soaked pyramid of bricks. I do, of course, I'm far more perfect than you know, but we're all about the PSA here at Power Love HQ, so: you're welcome.

The Waterfall falls. It sounds like it's humming. I close my eyes. "Act of grace," I whisper to myself. "Act of grace. Act of grace. Act of grace." After a while, my mantra starts to sound like "sack of mace," and that appeals to me, probably because I've been inundated with violent images that today's society deems socially acceptable, so I train my precision vision on the canyon outside The Waterfall. I've come here today to get rid of the bricks, but I've tried this before and even when I've walked out of the forest, unshackled and light, I end up jumping in my car, rolling down the highway, turning up the music, feeling happy and hydrated and then I look in the rear view mirror and there on my back seat, what do I see? My pyramid of bricks, luxuriating like a spoiled cat.

Today I'm heartbroken and determined, less trying to unload, more trying to survive, and I can't help but think if I don't get rid of my pyramid of bricks soon, I'm gonna get sucked under by the undertow, which is quite a feat in the landlocked Midwest, so maybe I'd make headlines, but only until some other fucker gets sucked under by a magic dragon and then, even in the after-the-undertow life, I'd still be a nonentity.

"You should write a book and call it Self-Indulgent Bullshit," The Waterfall says.
"I like you better when you sing 'Amazing Grace'," I tell it.
"Hey, I don't come over to your place and play DJ, do I?"

True. I haven't invited The Waterfall to my place since that disastrous dinner party with Kid Rock. In my defense, I really didn't think break dancing and juggling were mutually exclusive. They don't give you a rule book, you know. Plus, up until that point, I was considered proficient with flaming swords.

"I was hoping I could leave my pyramid of bricks here," I tell The Waterfall. "Maybe you could erode them a bit? Perhaps to the point where I could at least keep them in my pocket?"
"You're not wearing pants."
"Neither are you."
"When was the last time you looked at your pyramid of bricks?" The Waterfall asks.

I have to think about this for a bit. I have many times glared out of the corner of my eye at my pyramid. Occasionally I zen out and can see it in my peripheral vision. But in terms of straight-on, direct eye contact, I'd have to say that's not an activity I'm particularly fond of.

"Last Tuesday," I say.
"Bullshit: Brick #13, row 2, second from left," The Waterfall says.

In addition to my mind-numbingly awesome proficiency with flaming swords, I am also a world class bullshitter, particularly when it comes to me talking to me, which is how I spend most of my time. "I don't want to look at it," I mumble, embarrassed. "I'm afraid it's gonna fall on my head."
"Maybe it won't."
"But maybe it will."
"But maybe it won't."
Band name: Stubborn Motherfuckers.
I say, "But if it does, no one's around to help me out from under it."
"What am I, invisible over here? I'm around." The Waterfall snaps.

It's true--The Waterfall is literally around me. It's splashing in front of me, pools of it are collecting at my feet, rivulets of it are slinking down the wall behind me. "Are you suggesting I use my laser precision vision to erode my pyramid of bricks myself?" I ask.
"Yes."

Just between you and me, Alert Power Love Reader, sometimes I exaggerate slightly, so I'm not altogether confident I possess the laser precision vision I brag about. Even so, I don't have a better solution. I glance quickly at my pyramid of bricks, then turn away. Good news--the world does not swallow me whole. I turn slowly and really look at it.

It's less red than I thought, more purple. And kinda wonky in its balance, like someone tossed each brick on a pile without caring where it landed. The individual bricks are held together by what looks like grape jelly. It does indeed appear to be wearing a sun bonnet.

The Waterfall falls. The trees hum. I want my pyramid of bricks to disappear, but they don't. Instead, they seem to lose mass from the inside, until there is still a definable pyramid, but one that is more like a triangle of balloons in brick shapes. I tug my shackle. It feels like an ankle bracelet. I take a few steps. My pyramid of bricks still follows me, but I don't have to trudge now. I do a quick kick-ball-change maneuver. Still there, but I'm nonetheless moving easily. I roll out a series of Rockette chorus line kicks. Perfect. My pyramid of balloon bricks settles in comfortably by my side.

"I'll take requests now," The Waterfall says.
I stretch out in The Waterfall's puddles and close my eyes. "Thank you," I say to The Waterfall.

The Waterfall clears its throat and begins to hum "Amazing Grace." After a while the trees join in, and everything else is quiet.

AND GRACE WILL BRING ME HOME

Dave Myers is 85-years old. Dave Myers was married for 59 years and 10 months. He has six kids, 12 grandkids. He walks four miles everyday because if he sits at home alone he gets down. Dave Myers was a paratrooper in the war, a supervisor at the factory. His niece lives in Sedona, Arizona, where there's real hiking--in the mountains--not like here, in the Midwest, even though here in the Midwest, if you hike, you still gotta be prepared--proper shoes, water--because it's still Nature and you gotta respect Nature. Dave Myers isn't wearing proper footwear when he tells me this. He grew up around here--central Illinois--so this is just a walk in the park for him.

Dave Myers's wife died last year. "Every morning," Dave Myers says, "God and I and my wife have a talk. Then I go for my walk." The Lord's been good to me, Dave Myers says. One of his kids lives in Mobile, Alabama, wants him to come visit. Another kid lives in Alaska, drives a bus. The Alaska kid is the one who keeps the family together--calls everyone while he's in between stops on his route, disseminates the family news among the family. The Lord's been good to me, Dave Myers says.

"The Lord likes you, too," Dave Myers says to me. I tell him I'm not so sure. Some days, like today, I tell Dave Myers, I'm really not so sure. "You just talked to an old man for half an hour," Dave Myers tells me. "You have a kind heart. The Lord is good to people with a kind heart." I have my doubts--about the Lord, about my heart. Dave Myers sees it on my face.

Dave Myers rides 30 miles on his bike every now and again. Sometimes he doesn't bring water. "Not good to push yourself like that," Dave Myers tells me. "Did it last week. Ended up by the boats on the river. Man invited me on his boat. Gave me water. Sat down and had a chat with him while I drank it. Sometimes people help you out when you don't expect it. Like I said, the Lord's been good to me."

Thank you.

ONCE THE SHOW GETS STARTED IT'S BOUND TO BE A SIGHT TO SEE

Here's what I do when I'm alone: I pull the silver screen down from my ceiling--I have silver screens throughout my estate, but the one in the great hallway, the one that pulls down from the mosaic ceiling, that's the one I like best. There's no seating--it is a hallway, after all--just a long tunnel of portraits of famous people throughout history, none of whom I know, all of whom have penciled-in mustaches under their noses, which has seriously decreased their market value, but it was a fun party.

At the end of the great hallway is a beautiful window. It's cut glass, like those famously beautiful cut glass bowls you can get in the countryside in Ireland, but my windows are windows, not bowls. The windows open out. They have latches. They rattle when the wind blows, so I keep them open.

On my silver screen: my fantasies. Not the lurid ones. The ones I tell myself in order to round out the life experiences, the narrative I construct to put some sort of cohesive structure on what is otherwise a confusing mess. The fantasies are grounded in reality only so far as there is truth in a single gesture or a simple smile. After that, everything else is constructed: You smiled at me so clearly you're so consumed with passion for me, you'd change your life to accommodate all that furious lust. That unreturned phone call? You were in the Amazon, this close to finding the rare flower that, when mixed with ocean water and lavender, will activate a potion that will simultaneously cure cancer and continuously fill power vacuums in fragile governments with clear-thinking, peaceful humans. Plus, there's no cell reception in the Amazon because AT&T owns the air.

On this particular day, I pull down my silver screen in my great hallway and as I'm about to ring the bell so Horace the Butler can bring me some popcorn not buttered, my fantasies start projecting on the silver screen. And then the screen starts melting. And then the fantasies start rearranging themselves into Reality, which really sucks. And now that smile is just a smile, that unreturned call switches its status to forgotten, the Amazon is the pink section on a two-dimensional map. The smell of fantasy burning into reality is like burning rubber in cotton-ball humidity. Interestingly, the air tastes like copper. Blood tastes like copper. Probably not a coincidence, I think.

I run down the great hallway, picking up speed so I can make the jump, and once I'm at the opened cut glass windows, I launch into the air. I superman through the row of trees just outside the windows. The squirrels look at me like they've see it all before. They have. This is a frequent party trick of mine. Because I'm known for Gatsby-like parties, I'm always looking for The Next Fun Thing, because after champagne and the monkey and the dolphins in the pool, what else entices the fickle to attend?

It's usually after I clear the first row of trees that I fall to my almost-death, and the squirrels are aware of this, so they reach their paws inside the window--their paws extend like Inspector Gadget's limbs--and when they reach the now-abandoned bowl of popcorn, they latch on and pull and voila! There they are in the trees, munching popcorn, watching the movie of my almost-death.

Ha! Ha! Joke's on them! This is not some random, impetuous action I flew into because I have too much time on my hands and too easy access to hallucinogenic drugs. This is A Mission. I am officially Running Away and I am highly motivated.

From behind me, coming out of the now-burning silver screen, I can hear the yelps and gasps and ebbs and flows of all the conversations I've ever had. I hear the crinkle of the screen's edges burning. There's the sound of mocking laughter from the squirrels. I like my fantasies because in reality, I'm kinda a loser.

I stretch out and flying is like swimming, but without the arm strokes and the weird pattern of breathing. And no water, obviously. So maybe not really like swimming. Below me is the rose garden. Now the corn maze. Now the shrub maze with the Robinson Crusoe tree house. I am disastrously rich.

I crash into the peak of one of the many houses on my property. This hurts. I have a scar across the middle of my forehead and sometimes when I crash into the peak of one of the many houses on my estate's property, the scar snaps open and herds of doves fly out of my forehead. As I'm clinging to the roof (New shingles! Took care of that before winter! Conscientious homeowner!), as my fingers are clearly slipping, as I hear the squirrels' mocking laughter, as I'm just about to sigh thankfully that my scar is locked tight today, it suddenly bursts open, and there are the herds of doves, flying out of my head and into the sky.

"A herd of doves? It's not a herd."
I have to look around to locate the voice. This is difficult because I'm dangling off the roof with only four fingers for contact. Good thing I got that Spiderman sticky glue at ToysRUs the other day. That stuff was worth $5.50!

The dove prances from my shoulder to the peak of the roof, where my fingers continue to slip. I've always thought it'd be kinda fun to dangle from a Ferris wheel. If I survive this, I'm totally building a Ferris wheel in the north quadrant of the estate.

"A doodle," I say.
"A doodle of doves? Are you kidding?"
"It's alliterative."
"It's made up."
"So?"
"So that's the problem. Quit making shit up."
"I don't think we need to use profanity." You'll note, Alert Power Love Reader, that as I'm aging I am also maturing. "Fuck that," the dove says. He perches on the peak of the roof and extends a wing. I grab it and he pulls me up next to him. "The laughter will disappear in a few weeks. It's all in your head anyway."

I hear a kaboom! and then watch as a blossom of orange fire bursts out my cut glass windows. My face feels like a giant hairdryer just exploded on it. "I implanted telepathic chips in my pinkies for occasions like this," I tell the dove. "It's my emergency back-up plan. I think what solution I want implemented and the chip sends the orders to the house. Sprinkler system. Flour on an oven fire. Blankets on a burning suit. Air raid siren. Tornado warning." "Let it burn," the dove says. So I do.

YOUR INFECTION PLEASE I HAVEN'T GOT ALL NIGHT

In the morning she'll slip out of bed, get dressed quietly, and walk out the door. She won't lock it behind her. When you wake up, you hope she's gone for coffee. When she's not back two hours later, you know she's gone.

You drive. You remember her mentioning New Mexico and Arizona. You remember she hates the cold, but likes the seasons. You head northwest. It's gloomy. You hope she hasn't left the country. You pass one exit after another. Speedway. McDonald's. Gas--Food--Lodging. Truck stops. Holiday Inn. If she's gone to Europe, you'll have to learn to drive on the Autobahn. Or on the left. You'll have to ask for help. You think she set it up like that, it's just like her. "But you chose to do it," she'd say and you wouldn't be able to argue, because she'd be right. You hate her for that. But right now you are driving across the country for that.

Nebraska is greener than you thought. And hillier. You can't remember what she looks like. You tell yourself that's ridiculous, you've lived with her face next to yours for years. But now you realize you made up a face, you made up a voice. Then you put that face and that voice on a mirage and that mirage fell asleep next to you every night.

You do, however, remember her right index finger. You can see it clearly--long and thin, with a chunky ring around it and usually some ostentatious color on the nail--and you know this for a fact because she was always pointing that finger at you. You know it for a fact.

Except, after a few more exits, you begin to question even that. The Dennys have switched to Cracker Barrels. The frost has turned to dew. The once polluted air is now filled with the smell of livestock. You used to fall asleep with your head on the small of her back. You never asked if that annoyed her.

You remember the second you fell in love with her. She handed you a beer. First. There were other people around, but she handed the beer to you. And that's what you were looking for--someone to pick you out of the crowd, someone to give you the prize first. It didn't really matter who the prize came from. It doesn't matter even now. You wonder when she realized this.

You remember the fights. Screaming in the car. Slamming the bedroom door. Smashing the wine glass against the wall. You remember how your eyeballs burned you were so mad. You remember retaliating, then looking around you--at the empty passenger's seat, the empty bedroom, the empty kitchen. It's not possible you were fighting with yourself, that would make you crazy. Crazy people don't recognize their crazy.

You head north, to Montana. You're following the scent of her perfume. It invades the air. At a gas station in an empty field, you ask the old man at the counter if he smells it. He says all he can smell is cow shit. You keep driving.

You stop at a bar in Missoula. You think it should be peopled with locals, but everyone looks like a tourist. You remember how she'd laugh, loud and inappropriately, at parties. You remember that sharp tone she'd use to put people off. You remember standing in the living room, in front of the framed mirror, explaining the negative aspects of her abruptness, how she needed to watch that, how she embarrassed herself in front of others, they really didn't know what to make of her, she made them uncomfortable. You remember looking in the framed mirror, watching yourself talk to yourself.

At night, you wrap the pillow case around your neck like a scarf. It smells like her. You won't take off your paisley collared shirt because that smells like her too. You ache for something of hers to hold on to, but you can't remember what was hers.

In a small town just over the border into Washington, you're walking out of a diner and you see her. She's walking across the street, in a crowd, but you know without a doubt it's her. You can smell it.

You run. The crowd disperses. You can't see faces or index fingers or anything except the blind need that has crawled out of you and is pulling you forward. You grab her by the hand. You pull her into you. You wrap your arms around her and breathe her in and hold her while you hold your breath, until her smell is absorbed into your bone marrow. You lean back, to smile, and she disappears, like mist.

You drive.

PALM TREES FLAT BROKE DISEASE

The snow is melting. You're welcome. It was a difficult negotiation and lucky I won that Pulitzer for investigative reporting, because that's how I simultaneously negotiated our way out of Snow Hell, and then also took perfectly accurate notes with my waterproof pen so that we can live in a free and open society of transparency and love.

It was last week, when we were in yet another Chicago Weather Time Warp. You don't remember because now it's 40 degrees and that's doable, so you've blocked out The Other Time because it's bad and you don't have the coping skills for that and also, you're a colossal pothead.

But there was a time when snowdrifts were as tall as the Tower and, basically, winter came into our home and made itself comfortable. Just because it happens every year doesn't make it right. So I'm sitting on my throne, protecting My Parking Spot. Armed gunmen are stationed in the turrets of the towers atop the snowdrifts to my left and right. I have my fly swatter at my side. I'm wearing spurs. My duster hangs on a hook frozen to The Left Drift. I don't know where my car went, but this is my spot now.

My spurs rustle so I pull out my kaleidoscope and peek beyond the boundary of My Parking Spot. The kaleidoscope shrugs its shoulders, but I'm like, dude--you gotta look AROUND (slow on the uptake, this guy--something about acid, the toxicity of the early 70s, and crazy Uncle George), so the kaleidoscope looks around and then I see it too: from a distance, it looks like a tumbleweed rolling toward us. Except everything in this time warp is bright white, hence my diamond sunglasses, so really, it's more like a snowball rolling towards us, but I may change it back to a tumbleweed because I'm wearing spurs.

The kaleidoscope slowly moves back the closer the snowball gets. I pull out my fly swatter. I hear the clicks of the armed gunmen around me. If that snowball gets too close, he will be showered with flags of every color--silk flags, thank you very much, imported from my fabric factory in Italy. I suspect the smart ass in Sector 8 has loaded his armed gun with spitballs, but that's not a battle I'm willing to fight right now.

The snowball is inside garrison lines. A quick flick of my fly swatter and the entire compound is at the ready. I remove myself from my throne and swagger out to meet him. My spurs are playing "Kashmir" because I can't get that song outta my head, it's almost like it's following me, which was something I once wished for, but now, in actuality, it's really rather tedious and it hurts my brain.

This is all Captain Hook's fault, I TOLD him not to use that for his entry song (Led Zeppelin is OFF LIMITS for entry songs, m'kay--WE ALL AGREED TO THIS), but does that guy listen? Deal with your Peter Pan issues, dude.

Snow flicks me in the forehead, "Pay attention, space lady."
"I'm a cowboy fashionista today, ass."
For the record, it's very disconcerting to be flicked out of a daydream by a weather mass.
"Where's your hat?" Snow asks.
I'm about to say, "Up your ass," but that would make two ass-es in a row, which is bad form. To be honest, Snow is another battle I'm not willing to fight. I'm feeling particularly fightless lately and really, I just wanna watch travel shows on PBS and be around people who are nice to me.

I look around My Parking Spot. My hat is off behind my throne. It's getting warmer so I don't really need it, and sometimes my hat and I need a little space from each other. No, we're not breaking up. This is actually a healthy move for us. Our therapist said so.

"Over there," I say, pointing to my hat. It's a fedora with a silk and chiffon train that hits at my ankles. Sometimes it gets tangled in battle.

Snow senses my defeat. "Sit?"
"Please."
My assistant runs to The Neighbor's Parking Spot and removes a dining room chair. It's shorter than my throne because I don't allow weather masses to sit higher than me in My Parking Spot. I regain my composure.

"How may we help you today?" I say.
"By next week, this is all gonna melt," Snow tells me furtively.
"Uh-huh. Oh. Hmmmm."
"I suggest inflatable furniture."
"Do you?"
"Ikea. Cheap. Easy to set up. Directions in pictures, no pesky words."

Band name: Pesky Words. See us at various literary fests around the city. We also do performance art gigs. We just stand still for the 45-minute set and say nothing. We'll need a private space to prepare beforehand. We are artists.

"Dibs get called off when Snow disappears," I tell Snow.
"That's funny. I never disappear. During July, I lurk in the sewers."
"Gross."
"Not as gross as the humans who fill 'em up."
"There's humans in the sewers?"
"Have you recently had a lobotomy?"
I don't tell him about the calamity in Cancun. That's between me and Cancun's intelligence agents.

"Anyway," Snow says, "the market's in inflatable furniture. Jump in now while you can afford it, you'll be sitting on easy street in no time."
I don't like his metaphor. As you and I both know, Alert Power Love Reader, if I sat on easy street, I'd probably get run over.

"You've come to My Parking Spot to offer me a flimsy business deal?"
"They're not gonna keep dibs at bay forever. We've already headed down the slope. When the torrential rains come, we'll need--NEED--to protect our parking spots. When it floods, where's my spot? Oh, right here where I marked it WITH MY INFLATABLE END TABLE. When the sun slashes us like a sword and we all instantaneously erupt into sunburned tomato heads, where will we park? You guessed it--"
"OK. Thanks. I get it. Your idea is stupid and you're a hustler."
"That's untrue. I'm an artful salesweathermass."
"I never understand the pictures in those Ikea directions. It's like stick figures holding stick drawings and I always feel like I'm putting together a table when I should be putting together a book shelf."
"That's because you've smoked your depth perception out your ears. Listen to me: Get in now while it's good."

I stand. The armed gunmen are waiting for my signal. The ass in Sector 8 is indeed loading his armed armament with spitballs. About 99.999% of my me-ness is telling me to whip out my blow dryer and melt Snow's face off. But I'm angling for the Pulitzer of Peace to sit next to my investigative journaling award because I have this handmade shelf from Bora Bora--Wow was that an operation! Thank god for riot gear and parkour!--and it would add balance and peace to the universe.

I wave off the armed gunmen. From Sector 8 I hear, "Aw fuck that...Shut up, dude, she'll hear you...Well fuck it, what a waste of spitballs." I'll devise a plan for spitball retention and storage this evening. For now though, I say, "Snow, it's been nice having you. I have other matters to attend to now, however. I'll have my team look over your business proposal and reply to you shortly."

Snow stands up. He walks out to The Road. "You never thought you'd spend five bucks on a fancy coffee drink, but now you can't live without it. Opportunity."
I wait because I kinda wanna blow his stubby legs out from under him with a swift roundhouse kick. But I don't, because I have to return my neighbor's dining room chair. "Good day to you, sir," I say and Snow walks away, already looking into drifts down the road, ready for the next sucker.

You see how I did that, Alert Power Love Reader? I didn't have to go to battle. Apparently, humans do this all the time. It's called "Working Things Out." I think we can all agree it's a somewhat disconcerting option--let's face it, some weather masses NEED to be vaporized--but it's worth keeping around as an option.

MY NEW FOUND FAITH AND MY BROKEN HEART

Because we're all about the public service announcement here at Power Love HQ, we feel compelled to tell you that a blizzard just regurgitated on Chicago.

That means I have to defer my Implementing Legislation Days. Day. I dropped it down to one day. I'm really busy. And anyway, my beloved Chicago needs me because who would make the snow angels? You see how I'm all about the priorities, Alert Power Love Reader?

Anyhoodle, there's no crime fighting at 3am in the middle of a thunder snow, surprisingly, so I decided to help the Streets and San guys and build a labyrinthinian maze of snow tunnels throughout the city, or, I guess I should say, in between the city and the sky because really, the city is under 5,739 feet of snow, so we're kinda like in the basement looking up. Well, SOME OF US are looking up. My snow tunnels are quite like the Catacombs of Paris, except without the dead people and above ground and with snow and not in Paris. So really nothing like the Catacombs of Paris, except for the routes, which are all marked in French, which is amazing, because I can't speak French.

I drew a map of the tunnels, and I buried it in a chest with many other treasures, which I locked with a combination lock, also in French, which may create a sticky scenario later, and in case you were wondering, you're certainly not gonna find my buried treasure buried under center field at Wrigley. On my way home from burying the treasure chest, I took a tunnel and got lost and that is embarrassing to say the least.

So then I'm sitting at the head of a three-mile long dining table in the forest and obviously once again on the set of Alice in Wonderland, but not the set they used in the movie, the set they rejected because it was shoddily made and then they had to re-evaluate their requirements and found the right set, but it was elsewhere, so they moved the movie and now here I am at the abandoned table and who's at the other end? The Hollow Human.

I hate The Hollow Human. You know why, Alert Power Love Reader? Because I'm afraid of becoming The Hollow Human. Do you have any idea how easily a super hero can get her insides hole-punched right out her back? Pretty easily. As easily as blowing a dandelion in the wind. Not the yellow ones--the white ones. What are those? Are they dead? Dead dandelions? Did they suddenly succumb to dandruff? Dandelion dandruff? Maybe those aren't dandelions at all. What if they're space ships for microscopic aliens who were sent to Earth to study the mucus membranes of humans? WHAT IF?

The Hollow Human and me? Not what I'd call friends. "Not after that snafu in Sydney," I growl down the three-mile dining table. My voice is reverberating perfectly throughout the forest. I don't have to use my stage whisper, which is good because I didn't do my vocal warm-ups yet.

"Oh. That," she says, waves her fingers like she's tired of waiting for her polish to dry.
"Don't you Oh That to me, missy."
"It was ONE high-powered, military-grade weapon. You are so sensitive."
"You are so lucky I'm a super hero."
"I know. You're good at it. I kinda hate how good you are at it."
"I started a new band."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Wanna know the name?"
"Yeah."
"Back Handed Compliments and the Ass Kissers."

The Hollow Human slams her palms on the table, but they make no noise. I can see the tablecloth through the backs of her hands. I know I'm three miles down the table from her, but I have the vision of a finely honed animal/technological wonder that is known for possessing finely honed vision. The tablecloth has beautiful lacing around its edges.

I set my golden lasso on the table. The table creaks. I snap my fingers and then put the matchbook that appears in my palm under the table leg and voila! No more creaky table. "That is the stuff of super heroes," The Hollow Human says.

I step up on my chair then place a tentative step on the table. Sturdy. Because my matchbook is magic. So I jump up on the table and swagger down to The Hollow Human. There's a lot of cracked porcelain scattered about and I don't want to disturb it because my cracked porcelain may be someone else's charm bracelet but still I can't help but crunch a few pieces because I am wearing diamond encrusted cowboy boots and sometimes theses suckers have a mind of their own. My cape casts a ghoulish shadow behind me.

The Hollow Human looks up at me and I can see the gears in her brain matter start to churn. She has a huge hole where her torso should be. "Those are great boots," she says as I approach.

I do a Gene Kelly side kick because frankly, when the hell am I ever gonna be wearing diamond encrusted cowboy boots on a porcelain-strewn table? I mean, besides next Tuesday at the country club. It occurs to me that I have an uncanny sense for running into rejected sets from Tim Burton movies.

I squat down in front of The Hollow Human. "You don't really like my boots, do you?" I ask her.

She looks around. There are cobwebs dripping from the eucalyptus trees. A murder of crows. A gaggle of geese. A gallon of milk, a stick of butter, a loaf of bread. This place smells alive. The Hollow Human smells disinfected.

For my part, I smell like a bed of roses. And maybe a little bit of sweat that's aged a wee bit--I mean, what?! It's a velvet cape and I had to wear thick socks with the boots and like I should've known the wackadoodle reject forest would be 90 degrees and humid.

The Hollow Human looks through me and says, "You don't have to get all diamond encrusted about it."

I stand up. "Reframing the conversation. Love it." I unzip my chest. I reach into the gooey mass that I keep in a golden pouch right next to my heart. This is the greatest pouch ever invented. I got it during one of my special ops missions in Thailand. What you do is--you set it next to your heart and let it marinate there for 24 hours while you read a Faulkner novel while lying on the couch with the windows open and the summer breeze rolling over your outstretched legs and then the pouch is activated and no matter what's in your heart, thereafter the pouch and its contents maintain the summer breeze.

This is excellent because right now, while standing on the rejected dining table, in my diamond-encrusted cowboy boots, in front of The Hollow Human, I kinda wanna kick her teeth in. Instead, I squat back down and sink my fingers further into the goo in the golden pouch (band name: Goo in the Golden Pouch)--it feels like jelly. I hope it's grape jelly. I like grape jelly on toast. Recently, I've developed a taste for orange marmalade.

I pull my finger out and as it hits the air, my golden goo coagulates and I quickly stuff it into the hole in The Hollow Human's torso. I pack it in and squish it around so she's all connected. She takes a deep breath and exhales. She smells like dirt after a rain--by which I mean, stuffed with unapologetic aliveness.

I stand up. "How you like me now?" I say as I model my boots. The Hollow Human says, "I think they're kinda gaudy, but you can pull it off with the cape. But probably only at a party in a forest with a creaky dining table and cobweb-laced eucalyptus trees."

"Thank you," I say because I'm a lover of honesty and sometimes I'm not the quickest knife in the drawer.

Meanwhile, the Middle East explodes.

THE GO GETTER. YEAH, THE GO GETTER.

I was crime fighting at 3am the other day, bored because all the crimers were in the basement of the city building, erasing Rahm's name from the ballots. Oh wait, no. Yes. No. He's on. He's not. Good thing time isn't ticking. Good thing there wasn't enough money in the budget for permanent-ink ballots. We'd be in a real pickle then.

As you know, Alert Power Love Reader, I like action in my crime fighting and I can tell you, without crimers, there's not a lot of action. I suppose fashion policing would be an option, but that's like doing filing for an admin job, when really you want to implement a military strategy for Afghanistan that works harmoniously with international aid agencies.

So I had to figure out something to do. First, I went to all the bus garages and, while the buses were sleeping, corrected all the grammar missteps on the advertising. Who am I to correct grammar missteps? I'm the gal with the red pen and too much time on my hands and, yes, since I know you're wondering Alert Power Love Reader, I was humming "Too Much Time on My Hands" by Styx while I red penned and yes, I was totally rocking it.

I bought a new super hero cape from Target. It has sequins and can change from day wear to evening wear in the snap of two perfectly manicured fingers!

After a while, I realized I was red penning the advertising in CMS style and clearly, the writers of the advertising were writing in MLA style--boy is there egg on MY face--and then I was faced with a conundrum: Do I return to the original text, make my way back through all the now perfectly-edited-for-CMS advertising that I just upgraded, gloriously, from The Swamp of Gunked-Out Errors (band name: Gunked-Out Errors); OR, do I go to DC and develop, pass, and implement legislation that establishes CMS style as the official style of all words? I decided to go to DC.

Before leaving, I went to the bar. Between 3 and 5, they have half-priced cheese fries and on Wednesdays, they have WAFFLE CUT cheese fries, the existence of which, I'm sure we can all agree, proves there is a Higher Power operating in our Universe.

Not surprisingly, when I walked in, who's at the bar but The Fish and The German Shepherd. Without turning around, The German Shepherd says, "Those shoes don't match the cape. The crimers will never take you seriously if your shoes don't match your cape."

"Thanks for the news, Skip Malloy," I say, "but there aren't any crimers out tonight."

I walk over to the empty stool between them and sit down. "Why do you guys always sit with a seat between you?"

"He's a dog. I'm a fish. We need our Space," The Fish says.

I look up at the TV. "You guys," I point. "What are you doing? You need an intervention."

"We do not," The German Shepherd says. "This is therapy. Our therapist told us to find a positive avenue to transport our grief."

"You are watching a snowy VHS tape of the '85 Super Bowl," I say.

The Fish goes, "We know. Don't judge. It's all we have."

In summer, these two are gonna be dying to get up to Door County. Right now, though, they hate all dairy products. I try to catch Stan's eye. Stan is the bartender right now and he's The Official Keeper of the Cheese Fries and his role in the Universe is Instrumental and Profound.

"Listen," I tell my grief-stricken pals. "I'm going to DC. I'm changing the rules so words follow CMS style, including advertising." Stan waves at me then fills up a basket of golden crunchy fries. He walks over to me carrying them like an offering and as he does, angel dust falls from the sky and then--aahhhh!!!!--glorious cheese appears on the fries and the galaxy is restored to order.

"You'll need a lobbying arm," The German Shepherd says.

"I have a good right hook," I tell him. My mouth is watering. The fries are coming.

"That's a whole different level, your right hook isn't gonna help you," The Fish says.

"Are you crying? Why are you crying? They win the '85 Super Bowl, you know," I say to The Fish as I nod at the TV.

"Grief manifests in different ways for different entities," he says.

I look at The German Shepherd. "It does," he says.

The smell of the glory fries slips in my nostrils and I am suddenly paralyzed with pleasure (band name: Paralyzed With Pleasure). Stan smiles, sets the glory fries in front of me, they disappear. I'm wiping a bit of cheese off my chin when The German Shepherd says, "They don't have glory fries in DC."

This shakes me to my core because how does a civilization exist without glory fries? I would say it's a Life Essential, like fire and water.

"Are they aliens?" I ask.
"Some of them," The Fish says.
"Will you please stop crying?"
"Be nice. I didn't push you when you collapsed with grief after finding those salt stains on that pair of Ferragamos."
"True. Sorry."
"Accepted. And the majority of DC-ers are robots, so bring a wrench and a Phillips Head screwdriver."
"What is the fascination with correcting others?" The German Shepherd asks.

I say: "It's not about correcting; it's about playing with a puzzle. It's fascinating." What I don't tell him: At the last annual conference of red penners, they told us it would be more easily accepted by a grammar-averse public to believe we were Correctors and not Fascinators of Puzzles. And so we were issued red pens and characterized as nitpicky by the press.

I don't pass along this information because it sounds conspiracy-theory-esque, and no one believes conspiracy theories because they're true and and who invited Truth to this party anyway?

"Anyway," The German Shepherd interrupts, "you must change shoes before you go and Stan can give you a steamer trunk of glory fries."

"Excellent! Can the steamer trunk match the shoes?" I squeal.

The German Shepherd snaps his fingers, which I'm sure may be hard to picture, Alert Power Love Reader, seeing how the absence of an opposable thumb makes this gesture unlikely, but I can assure you that my journalistic eye for Detail and Truth misses nothing, and there was a snap.

On my feet--excellent shoes; at my side--a steamer trunk. I decide I will also wear lace gloves. My Implementing Legislation Days are about to begin.

I hop off the stool, gather my trunk, and head towards the door. "Baseball starts in a few months, guys," I say to The Fish and The German Shepherd. They look at each other and growl. One of them is a Cubs fan, the other a Sox fan, but they can never remember who is which.

"Write if you get work," The German Shepherd says.
"The stool will be saved for you," The Fish says.
"Gastronomically speaking, that's disgusting," The German Shepherd says.
"WILL YOU GIVE ME A BREAK? I'M GRIEVING. SHIT."

I push my steamer trunk out the door. We should really give The Fish a break. He's sensitive. For the record, it's hard to get on the bus with a steamer trunk of glory fries.

So long, Old Life, and thanks for all the fish.