Power Love

Your definitive resource. That's all, just your definitive resource.

28 March 2007

The Sears Tower, doing a stunning impersonation of Kafka's The Castle.

26 March 2007


I thought it was real, but when I came to I realized it wasn't, I was in my room, my room that I have right now, in my apartment, in present time, but right before I had that realization, I was in the neighborhood I grew up in--in the suburbs of Chicago, in a subdivision, one of those subdivisions where every fourth house is the same except maybe the garage is on the other side and when you go over to your friend's house you look to the right expecting to see the stairs but they're not there, it's the den, and the stairs are on your left and you feel confused and weirded out, like you've fallen down the rabbit hole, but you don't have the world view to equate the feeling with drugs just yet so you don't say anything about it, but you do want to go home where the stairs on on the right and where it doesn't smell like band-aids.

So then I'm out on the street and all the neighbors are out, too, and they're milling about and talking and there's a lot of whispering and ostentatiously loud gasps and I'm afraid they're going to find out what I stole. I don't really know what it is I stole, but I stole something, and I stole it from a friend, though I don't know which one and I don't think it's the one who lives in the house with the stairs on the left that smells like band-aids, but it's someone close to me, who I should be ashamed of stealing from, which sucks, because now the whole neighborhood is out and very, very close to finding out that I'm a stealer.

So I hide it in a bird. I don't actually see myself doing this, but I know it's in the bird's stomach and I'm slightly relieved, but to be sure no one finds out, I put the bird out on the lawn and the panther with the sunglasses eats it. The neighbors are walking around the neighborhood and so is the panther and the neighbors are kinda like, "Yeah, I heard there's a panther walking around." "Oh, yeah. I saw it over there in the court, it's black. It's wearing sunglasses." "Oh? Really? Hey--what's on tv tonight?" And I think maybe it was "Dallas" or maybe reruns of "MASH."

So I go over to the court and sure enough, there's the panther. He looks quite comfortable strutting around, like he's looking for property to buy and feeling pretty good about the neighborhood, but probably wants to know how the school system is. As I watch him, I can start to see a slight bit of haughtiness to his strut, and it occurs to me that he's probably wondering which of the neighbors might lower his property value if he did indeed buy a house here.

Then I see him full on and you know what? That fucker is wearing my sunglasses! MY SUNGLASSES! I can't believe it. Those are prescription, you know. Shouldn't he be having those weird lightheaded swirling feelings that you get when you try on someone else's glasses? But he's not. He seems very coordinated and surefooted. He looks like he could run forever at 60mph, tackle an antelope, eat it, floss, and strut back home to his two-storey, aluminum-sided home and ask his wife what's for dinner.

The panther eyes me and I eye him. I'm standing under the basketball net that the Gutshalls put up so that the neighborhood kids could play basketball in the street (this is where I made my first hook shot and it was where I first realized that yes, I was going to be the greatest NBA player ever) and the panther shrugs his shoulders and walks away from me, into someone's backyard, with the bird in his stomach with the thing that I stole in the bird's stomach, wearing my sunglasses and when I wake up now, in present time, in my apartment, I wonder how I'm gonna get through my ride this morning without sunglasses because it's 70 degrees and sunny and bike rides sans sunglasses kinda suck, even if it is the first day of what feels like summer and then I realize I feel guilty, very guilty, for stealing.

So, um, did I borrow something from someone that I didn't return? I mean, really, what does this mean?

24 March 2007

Dear Chicago,
I love you. Will you marry me?
I'm not gonna ask again.
Yours truly,

22 March 2007

Read this.

Now, this.

Now, read this.

What do you think?

: is a female knight

20 March 2007


Alert Power Love reader J. Adams Oaks sent in this for the pleasure and edification of all of us. It's 8 minutes. Luxuriate in it. Like a bubble bath. But not really.

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18 March 2007

" . . . your dentist informs you that you are always, always, always unconsciously grinding your teeth."


16 March 2007

An Open Letter to Me 45 Years from Now from Me Right Now

Byron wrote himself a letter and sent it to his 70-something year-old self, but the post office mismanaged the delivery and I received it instead. It's here.

I felt bad for my Me 45 Years from Now, because I would be sad, sitting there some random Sunday night at 2nd Story, listening to people tell stories, and realizing that I never wrote me a letter to tell me what I should remember. So I decided to get on that:

Dear Me 45 Years from Now,
Great shoes. Are those Italian?

I wanted to remind you of a few things because you'll probably forget.

First, yes, you should go on that road trip. Have your eyeballs surgically enhanced so you don't go crashing into light poles and then drive across America. Bring music. It's okay to bring all that grunge you have. You listened to it without admitting it in 2007, you might as well listen to it and admit it in 2052. Also, make sure you scream the "why? why? why? can't it be miiiiiiiiine?" part from Pearl Jam's "Black." It'll hurt your tender throat, but that's a really great lyric and you're not gonna be singin once you're dead, so enjoy it now.

Pay for the surgically enhanced eyeballs by selling pints of blood. They'll need your blood. It's vintage. Every stylish person worth their weight in thrift store finds will want it.

Grow out your hair. Do not pin it back. Always, always make sure it's wind blown.

When you thank a young teenage boy for bagging your groceries, lean in and whisper in his ear, "I want to fuck your brains out." And when he stares at you in shock, look old and pat him on the arm and say, "Did you say something, honey?"

Tell your remaining friends you love them.

Paint your nails black. Act punk.

Ask the sales ladies at expensive clothes stores if you can see their age-appropriate clothes. Set fire to them when they do. The clothes, not the sales ladies.

Laugh out loud, even when walking down the street alone.

Eat hamburgers. With fries.

Do not ever, no matter what, throw out your precious Guns N Roses "Get in the Ring Motherfucker" Tour 1990-1991 t-shirt. Wear it to parties.

If you can't remember all those great memories you have, don't worry about it. You had a great time.

Me in 2007

15 March 2007

So Megan tags me for this survey thingy, like, about ten years ago, no, maybe even forty years ago, maybe even before the interwebnets were invented, and I've been sitting around, dragging my feet, not responding. I think there is a backwards statute of limitations on nonresponses in interwebnet land wherein you are penalized webly if you don't do something within a certain amount of time.

So I was in the shower where I get all my great ideas because in the shower I am surrounded by various body washes--lavendar, fresh aloe, eucalyptus--and many of those scrunchy thingys that are like soft sponges which allegedly clean and exfoliate and right now I have a white one and a green one and next to my pink wash cloth it looks very fresh and crisp and not too hyper Kate Spade East Coast blue blood prepitudinal, which is a demographic that makes me feel the same way I do when I get snow stuck in my boot and I know it'll melt before I get to shake it loose, and I like the colors of my scrunchy thingys, they relax me, and then it came to me.

I don't want to answer the survey questionnaire thingy because all that personal information is already all over Power Love, but you have to dig for it, which is the way I like it. And more importantly, I don't want to talk about my best friends in high school. One in particular. But I will tell you all about him on this night. So, buy your tickets now!

There are a few recurring questions in the survey questionnaire thingy and I would like to address those thusly:
1. I have three tattoos. They each have a story behind them. I'm not going to tell these stories because they're for me.
2. I have two piercings, one in each ear. The key words you need to know for the piercings are: middle school, sterilized safety pin, potato, stolen whiskey.

14 March 2007

Shiow is rock star awesome. She's doing this. GIVE HER MONEY!

Her Highness of Cannondale gave money. Her Highness believes in humans riding bikes and likes to give money to humans who can use it.


13 March 2007

This woman frequently sits on the Jackson Street bridge and says, "Can you spare some change?" Except when she says it, it sounds like, "Kenyasparsumshange?"

Today when I walked by, she pointed at me and said, "Stupid white bitch motherfucker." I knew she meant me because no one else was around. And she was pointing at me. My initial reaction was to kick her in the head.

But life's already done that.

12 March 2007


Guess what's coming?? SUMMER!!! To celebrate, Team Power Love embarked on its first outdoor Midwestern ride. The sun was shining! The wind was a gentle breath! The air was warm like a sweet kiss.

OK, not really. It was a wee bit chilly and somewhat windy, as will happen when riding through flat, open prairie lands. HOWEVER, that did nothing to dampen the feeling of absolute FREAKERY that is ours now that SPRING IS HERE and riding of the bicycles can BEGIN IN EARNEST!

Neil says, "Yo. Summer! Bring it!" Neil is very street.

Look! A tunnel. The best thing to do while riding through a tunnel is to sing a Genesis song. The acoustics are great and your riding companions will be so inspired by your voice carrying through the tunnel that they will instantly go faster. It'll be like a sprint and you will be very happy when you finally catch up to them because you will know that you are responsible for your friends getting in a really, really good workout. That's what friendship is all about.

After the ride, Team Power love conveniently forgot the camera because using up a bunch of energy and not eating much after makes your brain short circuit. But, we went to see Super Andy at his CD release party where he sang jazz songs and played jazz songs with his super excellent band and all the while, I know, he was thinking, "Jazz--it's okay, but I'd rather be playing 'Freebird.'" And seriously, who wouldn't?

Then to 2nd Story, where storytellers told stories and wine drinkers drank wine. No pics of this either. But alert Power Love readers already know that it was a great night. Check out the new
2nd Story website. So cool. So hot. So relevant.

Sun's up. Go grab the day, humans.

06 March 2007

Wolf Like Me

I am a rock star. Yes I am. I decided this today, at work, in my cubicle, the gray cubicle, the one that faces a row of gray tubs that hold mail. People at work walk by the mail tubs and toss in envelopes or packages and later the mailroom guys come around and take the mail to the mailroom where it's stamped and sent. Sometimes the people who toss the mail in the tubs have to walk farther to the tubs than to the mailroom itself, but this doesn't seem to be odd to anyone. When envelopes or packages are tossed into the tubs, the tubs knock together. They make a "thwap" sound. They are plastic. The tubs seem to like each other.

As I said, the mail tubs are gray. So is the carpet around my cubicle. The file cabinets in my cubicle are also gray. Sometimes I wear my bright pink fuzzy scarf during the day, to offset the gray. It doesn't work. The bright pink fuzz simply accentuates the gray. Sometimes this makes my left eye twitch. Other times, I bite my nails. Not today, though.

Today I put my headphones on, cruised on over to TV on the Radio's MySpace page and blasted "Wolf Like Me" into my brain. If you go to their page right now, you'll see the stats for Plays Today for that song. That's me! 4,258!

Somewhere around play #2,356, it occurred to me that I was daydreaming about a warehouse-like room packed with people, with a stage at one end. I'm seeing it from behind my own back, so the lights are bright in my eyes, but I can see my tattoo on my shoulder, so I know that I'm singing with my band on the stage and beyond me, the audience is moving as though they're in one of those bouncy air-floor things that lucky kids always have at their birthday parties--the ones you climb into without shoes on, the ones someone always throws up in. I am so wailing on my guitar, which fits me perfectly. I can't really play the guitar in real life, but I'm willing to learn because according to my daydream, I can rock the fuck outta this song.
My band is really my friends who are amazing musicians and also very good cooks. On this night, my friends made a great dinner with lots of protein and now, we are rocking out so hard it sounds like thunder and it looks like we are infused with oodles of energy. We are jumping around the stage. We are always moving. Great gobs of loud guitar and bass and drums and vocals are pounding out of our speakers. We are occassionally doing coordinated headbanging, but it's not cheesy like Winger or those She's-My-Cherry-Pie dudes. It's cool, like We-Are-Really-Into-This-AND-We-Are-Amazing-Musicians-AND-YES!-Kim-CAN-Play-The-Guitar. And you know I'm serious because only serious descriptions have that many hyphens.

The best part of this daydream is that the audience is doing EXACTLY WHAT WE THE BAND ARE DOING! They are so rockin out with us. They are doing the coordinated uncheesy headbanging. Now they're doing the jumping around stuff. Now the hair swinging. Now the fist pumping. We are one whole big room ROCKING THE FUCK OUT and I grab the mic and sing something about gut that fish and, later, blowing your mongrel mind and we are all one big beautiful force moving together and getting it, you know, REALLY GETTING EACH OTHER and it is so great I don't care that I'm gonna lose my voice after this show and I don't care that my fingers are bleeding because I forgot to use a pick. I mean, look at all these great people all wrapped up in one big messy human blob, rockin it together . . .

And as far as I look, in every direction, I see no gray anywhere.

01 March 2007



Humans--here's the deal:

1. I made t-shirts

2. I will trade you a t-shirt for something that you make

As with everything, there are rules. Here are the rules:
1. The t-shirts are all hand painted. They are all designed by me. Pick out one you like.

2. Send me an e-mail, hit me up on myspace (blatantattack--link on the left sidebar), or leave a comment (but don't leave your contact info in the comments because then creepy people might see it and Power Love is 100% anti-creep).

3. When you let me know which t-shirt you want, you should also let me know what you want to trade for the t-shirt. So, for example, say you're Megan, and you just happened to find that story about the sculptor dude who ends up sculpting a woman into a statue, you could print that out with a cover sheet and sign the first page and trade that; or, say you're Byron, you could make a postcard or something from cool ass Five Fold Ink and trade that; or, say you're Danielle, you could make a copy of that picture of Du on the roof that I could tape up over my writing desk so I could not cry when he moves to NY; or, say you're Jeff, you could write a flash fiction piece and/or put KIMTINIS on the Bistro's menu; or, say you're Shiow, you could make a mixed CD and trade that.

These are just suggestions. You could make whatever you want. Anything at all. The only thing you need to remember is that it should be something you made, nothing bought. HOMEMADE MEALS ARE TRADE-ABLE ITEMS. So, yes, I will come to your home and sit around for hours and talk and eat and talk and that works for a trade. Or, you could come to my house and we could sit around and talk and eat and talk, but I'm gonna order out if we do that.

4. In order to make the actual trade, WE MUST MEET HUMAN TO HUMAN. The reason for this is, I want to see your beautiful face. So, no UPSing, no FedExing, no US Mailing. We could meet somewhere for coffee, or we could go for a walk, or we could have lunch or dinner. Whatever. The point is, we meet in human form and I get to give you a big hug after we make the trade. You don't have to hug back, I have enough hugs for both of us.

5. Here are the t-shirts. They are 50% polyester, 50% cotton. The shirts have been washed twice: once before painting, once after. If there are any problems with the shirts in the future--they fall apart, the lettering peels off, the sleeves rip--let me know and I will give you a new one. The sizes are medium and I think they are a big medium. If you find the size doesn't work for you, let me know. I'm currently searching for more realistic sizes. I think these shirts were made for people who go grocery shopping and hide fruit in them, kinda like the "Been Caught Stealin'" video, which, by the way, is a song I've had in my head for the last four days.




Front. Plain back.

Front. Click on it--you'll see it better.

Back. Click.

Front. Plain back.