Power Love

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

30 November 2007


1. Being on the Charlie Rose Show was fun
2. I don't understand why people keep telling me I have an overactive imagination
3. Jeff writes the awesomest comments when he's whacked out on painkillers
4. Also when he's not
5. Wool socks smell funny if you wear them more than 2 days in a row
6. Same with cotton socks
7. I just inducted myself into the Blogger Hall of Fame
8. The ceremony was excellent
9. The party after was excellenter
10. At least, the parts I can remember

29 November 2007


Hockey is awesome. This is because there are a lot of dudes rolling around on ice and occasionally, they nail each other with an elbow or a right hook and then there's a fight, and then someone ends up with some missing teeth or a black eye and it is so guy it defies explanation.

You have to love a sport where you are obligated to leave your guts out on the playing field. By which I mean, if you have to take an elbow to the face in order to make a goal, and you do it, that is awesome. For a point of reference, you should know that I think sprinting on my bicycle for a line that is arbitrarily drawn somewhere on the road is good idea, especially when I've already ridden so hard I feel like I'm gonna throw up and I know for sure I will once I stop but before I stop I'm gonna haul ass for the arbitrary line and possibly throw up on myself while I'm doing it and this is what I consider normal, so an elbow to the face seems about right in my world.

In addition, at hockey games, did I mention, there are dudes. Not just dudes, but dude dudes, which is awesome if you're a woman and you like dudes. I imagine that me going to a dude-oriented sporting event is probably like the equivalent of a dude taking a secret stroll through the Victoria's Secret catalog--sometimes, it's just really good to appreciate the shape of the other gender. Sometimes, the sheer movement of someone who moves so significantly different than you is an act of beauty that makes you want to cry.

The other thing about hockey games is, you may find yourself consuming a few Budweisers, as Budweiser is the patron saint of the United Center, and after a few of these you may have to use the bathroom, where you will suddenly get an urge to text your pal because apparently after a few beers you're suddenly very productive and you must multitask, so let's just say you pull your phone out of your back pocket but before you can punch in the first letter of your text the phone slips from your hand and dives into the toilet. You may at first be thankful that your phone dove into the toilet before you used the toilet, but then you will realize that your phone is completely submerged in water and you will remember that cell phones are the items that are least likely to swim their way to safety.

You may or may not spend the next two periods of the dude fest hocky game trying to get your phone to work, though you know, in the pit of your stomach where all truth lies, that you have just witnessed the death of your phone. Too bad, too, since you just got it a month ago and it was free, you lucky sonofabitch, and what fun it will be to pay full price for another phone. That's great. BUT, the dudes are skating and sticking and elbowing and scoring, so perhaps all is not lost.

The team with "Chicago" on their jerseys will win, which is good, because now the drowned phone was worth it, well, not really, but this is what you will tell yourself on the 50 Damen, the bus route most likely to challenge the snail for the Slowest Moving Organism In The World Award.

So, to recap, nice move on the festivities for the night.

28 November 2007

Recently, when I was on The Charlie Rose show, Charlie Rose asked me, "Where do you get your ideas?" "Well, Charlie," I replied after sipping from my water glass (Evian), "I get my ideas from the idea farm." Charlie Rose crossed his fingers and nodded, happy that I was letting him in on this writerly secret. For once, he did not take his usual 25 minutes to ask a question that had more ums, ahs, and pedantic pauses than actual words, so I took the opportunity to tell him what I will tell you now:

The idea farm is a lovely place. Ideas roam freely, soaking in the sun during the day, and cuddled in warm fuzzy blankets at night. Ideas are social creatures, so they hang out with other ideas a lot. They are furry. However, if you rub them enough, they lose their fur and gleam with a shiny polish. Polished ideas are the best because they are sharp and succinct. They also make great soup.

As every serious writer knows, furry ideas aren't very helpful. They may be cute, but because they tend to be goopy and disastrously covered in dangling modifiers and ill-advised prepositions, they rarely achieve their function--which is, of course, to be clear. A furry idea is really just a fancy name for "mud puddle." This may be fine if you're an indie band that only knows three chords, but for those of us changing the world, we need clarity.

There's an unfortunate moral conundrum here, though, because--is it right to raise and cultivate ideas, only to defuzz them? If an idea is naturally fuzzy, who are we to polish it? If we have good intentions--such as changing the world with our well-polished ideas that will surely make the world better because we know what's best for the world--does that justify our actions?

I discussed these issues at length with Charlie Rose and in the midst of one of his thoughtful stares at the side of my head, I interrupted him to say, "Usually, I just make soup out of them."
"You make soup out of your ideas?" he said.
"Yes. Usually vegetable soup, though lately I've been having difficulty digesting broccoli, so mostly I use corn, potatoes, occassionally carrots, and well-polished ideas."
Charlie Rose was impressed with this. He's producing a cooking show for the Oxygen Network next year and he's always looking for new ideas. This one, frankly, seemed to grab him by the balls.

Then our segment came to a close, I think because some dude from the atomic energy commission was coming in. (Between you and me, what's that guy doing to change the world?) And so I gracefully said my goodbyes, but only after I left my recipe for my world famous idea soup:

1 c. polished idea (organic is best)
1 tbsp. salt
1 tbsp. vinegar
5 c. sass
3/4 c. daydream
Mix together in a crystal bowl with the tip of your right pinky finger. Boil until bubbling. Eat only with friends.

27 November 2007

Why didn't the bicycle cross the road?
Because it was two tired!


Perhaps blogging every day is driving me crazy?
Perhaps it's not a drive, it's a short putt.


HA!! HA!!

26 November 2007


Lookee here.

25 November 2007


Today I hit my head on the tv. It's Claus's fault. This is because he was making pancakes, which is an apparently easy task to do, so he did it outside in what looked like a wind storm with sunshine. He was also set up in the middle of a field, next to a fjord, where there is an inexplicable supply of electricity and electrical outlets.

Claus made thin pancakes, which he insisted on calling pancakes, but which I think the French call crepes and which I think Amurcans call pancakes. He made a syrupy sauce that was red and juicy and possibly came from strawberries, which are in great supply, apparently in addition to electricity, in this field by the fjord. The sauce is called Melissa. I do not know why Claus insisted on calling the sauce Melissa. After the pancakes were lightly toasted in the skillet and laid to rest on a pretty plate, possibly from Ikea, Claus then filled the pancake with vanilla parfait, which is not to be scooped, it's to be sliced. It's parfait, for those of you barbarians out there, and therefore is not allowed to be scooped. Scooping is for ice cream, not parfait. Please make a note of that.

Then Claus stuffed the pancake with straweberries, folded it in half, still called it a pancake, and sprinkled Melissa over it. Then he held the plate out and said, "Here. Have some." And so I leaned over to grab the plate and that's when I knocked my head on the tv. Now I have a bruise on my forehead and I'm pancakeless.

24 November 2007

These cars are waiting in line. I think for an amusement park ride. A car amusement park ride. Which I think is like a car wash, but without a bunch of humans sitting inside of them.

23 November 2007


There is a mountain. I want to climb it on my bike. It's 26 miles long. It's a 5% grade. It will probably take me about 4 hours to climb it. It'll be slow. It'll be painful. Somewhere around mile 11, I'll probably wonder what the hell I'm doing. Somewhere around mile 17, I'll probably cry.

I have a blood disorder that scares me and makes me wonder if it's gonna get the best of me. If I climb to the top of a mountain on my bike, I will tell my blood disorder to go fuck itself.

Training starts next week. Climbing starts the last week of February.


22 November 2007


21 November 2007

Bike culture’s blowin’ up, y’all.


20 November 2007


"Convoluted to the verge of incomprehensibility."

19 November 2007


After awakening at 5:30 this a.m., I smelled something odd in my palatial estate and so went to investigate. As it turned out, my palatial estate had been overrun with zombies. This is unfortunate as, apparently, zombies have an indestructible will as well as an overwhelming appetite for human meat. As I am a human, I immediately sensed the danger.

I grabbed my light saber, which I bought at the dollar store, and do you believe it? IT DID NOT WORK. It always works when, after 6 0r 10 vodka and tonics, I use it to cut slices of salami off the salami roll I am inevitably serving at my after-the-bars-but-before-brunch parties. My light saber makes that humming sound and everything. My light saber is purple. I think that's the universal color for leadership.

So, there I was, trapped in my palatial estate with no light saber, but, thankfully, salami. And vodka. You cannot possibly fight zombies without salami and vodka. I'm not afraid to tell you--I engaged in an epic battle. Rip-out-guts battle. It was bloody. It was loud. There was a lot of war crying and screams of, "GLORY!" and then epic running. By the zombies, of course, not me.

But as luck would have it, there is only one of me and 1.63 million of them, so I was a bit outmanned. Or, I guess I should say, in the interest of gender equality, I was a bit outmonstered. And then I saw that it was 7am, which is the witching hour, also known as the time-to-go-to-the-Brown-Line time. I escaped over the threshold of my palatial estate, just barely missing a deviant grab by the head honcho zombie, and leaving a swatch of my cape in between his zombie fingers. Or claws. Or whatever, zombie appendages.

They took chase. All the way to the Brown Line. I must say, Lincoln Square is a quiet neighborhood, especially in the morning, but my epic battle with the zombies took this bucolic hood from quiet to fucked up in 6.2 seconds. Upsetting, yes. But do you know what I discovered? Zombies don't like the CTA any more than the rest of us. They came to a dead stop right at the entrance to the station.

Ha! Even in the midst of the telling of an epic battle I am still able to produce a pun! That is classic wordsmithing there, boys and girls. Anyhoo, not only did they not get on the train, they also did not want to head off into the world of cubicle farms with me. I know this because I heard them whispering to each other--"Oh, no. She's dressed like those mean people downtown." "Oh, no. You know what that means!" "Oh, no. She's going to The Land That Shall Remain Nameless!"

In case you're wondering, zombies speak only in explanations.

And so, that is how I defeated the zombies. It's all about cubicle farms and public transportation, people. That is your safety lesson of the day.

18 November 2007

This dumpster's trying to get in on the art action. I think it should've dressed up a bit more if it was gonna do that. But, maybe this is what's hip in the dumpster/street art world.

17 November 2007


16 November 2007

Top 5 Reasons Dr. Hope is great:

1. He is a hematologist who can talk about blood disorders without using words that start, "prothrom----"
2. He listens
3. He makes jokes, none of which involve making fun of my disordered blood
4. He smiles easily
5. He assumes that I have a big, bold future in front of me and is calmly waiting for me to jump into it

15 November 2007

Did you know that good ole Planet Earth is really someone's eye? It's true. We are all living in someone else's eyeball. That someone else is very large. And this picture to the left shows conclusively that that someone else also has pink eye. It's true. This is what pink eye looks like from the inside out.

14 November 2007

If the 66 Chicago bus route was a human, I'd challenge it to a sword fight at dawn and I'd show up with a gun.

13 November 2007


Len looked over the banister. Five flights down he could see the debris, the shiny glass flickering like blinking eyes back at him. Off in the distance he could hear the sirens. And then, from down the hallway . . . .

...Len pulled is long biker hair behind his ears. He did this when he needed to concentrate. He had to figure out how Snickers came back to life?...

...that damned cat-- Snickers-- flaming red and hissing pissed to hell. Smoke spilled out of the pool hall. How had this one small animal wreaked so much havoc? thought Len.

Little did he know what had been done to the cat in its infancy, when his wife Miriam first found its tiny, fuzzy body in the dumpster and brought it home where--in the secrecy of the downstairs bathroom--she turned that poor, innocent creature into the demon now standing before Len.

Len quickly calculated his route downstairs and out of the building. There was only the back door that he had come in through earlier, five flights down. All other exits were boarded up, sunlight streaming through the tight cricks and cracks, nails bent to ensure no quick release. He paced himself down the first six steps backwards, staring into the ravaged kitty's blazing eyes.


12 November 2007


You want to take meet-dude advice from me because I am most excellentest at meeting new dudes. I possess all the required manners necessary for Making An Impression: I can drool, almost on cue; I can stutter; and I can let fly arbitrary bits of spit that inexplicably land RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of other people's faces, even when they're turned away from me. Also, sometimes when I laugh, I make a sound that's quite simliar to that of a horse having a panic attack after the barn's been set on fire.

I'm on the el this afternoon, after having huffed up the stairs with a box and my bag, which this morning was a black tote, but this afternoon was The Terror Of My Armpit, so I kept having to move it and I thought I was slick because I developed this maneuver wherein I moved my bag and then followed up immediately with a surreptitious arm pit scratch and I'm sure I was so covert no one saw that one. I'm patenting that move, by the way.

And then, as I'm arm pitting and maneuvering my box, who should waltz down the platform but beautiful brown-eyed dude. Maybe about 6 feet, brown hair, facial hair shaved close, brown eyes, sharp nose, easy gait. Jeans, bag. Headphones. Of course. Me too, by the way, so obviously this is the perfect set up for communicating with another human.

But it was the eyes that got me because they were warm and smiley and in fact, he smiled at me, to which I smiled back, and I know there was no spinach in my teeth because I DIDN'T HAVE SPINACH AT ALL TODAY, and then as he walked closer I got a good look at those eyes.

Brown like hot chocolate. And yet, clear. Like I could see a million miles into them and then I knew who this dude was--he's the dude who is funny and smart and gets along with all my friends and often tells me about how he loves my razor-sharp wit and my sparkling intelligence and is wowed by my ability to handle so many projects at once while only having a few, undangerous nervous breakdowns and certainly, he will tell me, not only can you race in 42 bike races next season, I see no reason why you can't win each and every one of them and no, surely you are not overextending yourself by racing while writing and working, that would never happen, are those new shoes? Your choice in clothing is both classy and inspirational and you are quite obviously a multifaceted woman and I would never stereotype you into tiny little holes that thwart your creativity or suffocate your soul.

Well, clearly this was A Dude To Meet, so I executed another one of my patented Dude Attraction Moves--The Stand Really Close And Stare Move. This is a move that should be executed only by those thoroughly trained in the practice of geekery. You simply cannot pull this off if you haven't spent years in high school awkwardly trying to assess where those weird smells are coming from and wondering if they are coming from an orifice on your own body.

Luckily, I was listening to my patented Cool Playlist, which really consists of Purple Rain and some New Order songs, so I considered The Sexy Approach, which would've been me saying, "Doesn't 'The Beautiful Ones' kinda sorta make you wanna have gooey sex for five days in a row?" But just as I was about to say that to brown-eyed dude, my patented Cool Playlist switched from Prince to New Order, "Ceremony" if you must know, which reminded me that I spent most of high school and a good portion of my 20s angst-ridden and self-righteously angry because NO ONE UNDERSTOOD ME AND NO ONE EVER WOULD, and then I thought about how all my music is from two decades ago and that is kinda a problem, maybe, and then the train came, and brown-eyed dude got on, and I think he made a point to look back at me and then walk to the back of the car, and then switch to the car behind, by using the dangerous and Bond-like Cross Between The Cars Maneuver, which was both a testament to daredevil-ness and a me-inspired creep factor, which I take full credit for.

He was probably gay anyway.

11 November 2007


10 November 2007


This site makes me cry . . . because it's possible . . . it says so here.

09 November 2007

Why you shouldn't poke your eyes outta your head just because you're bored.

Alternatives to poking your eyes outta your head just because you're bored:

1. Chew gum. Crack it.
2. Find some string and do that cat's cradle, lace-through-the-fingers thing you used to do all the time in 6th grade, which may make you wonder, now, as an adult, why you spent so much time doing that but absolutely no time learning how to sew, which would come in handy now, when you seem to have an inexplicable, fiery passion for clothes you can't afford that don't even fit you anway but you know, for a fact, that if you could sew, you would have the World's Coolest Wardrobe Ever and also probably you'd be rich and really healthy and rich
3. Text all your friends without using consonants
4. Fly to a tropical island, get a lay of the land, carve a really sharp knife out of the husk of a native fruit, stage a coup
5. Make sure you are wearing khakis and a light-colored shirt while you stage the coup
6. It will make you look cooler on TV if you do
7. You might want to have your own camera crew with you while you do this--CNN doesn't pick up just any old coup, you know
8. Learn parkour
9. Be parkour
10. At this point, you're probably delving too deeply into the storyline of the last Bond movie, which is gonna get you a big, fat lawsuit from Hollywood, which will cripple you financially, though probably also make you a tabloid star and, if you play your cards right, a YouTube and MySpace star, but still, that shit's not gonna pay your bills, so maybe you should just file your nails.

08 November 2007

One of these is the last straw.

07 November 2007


Len looked over the bannister. Five flights down he could see the debris, the shiny glass flickering like blinking eyes back at him. Off in the distance he could hear the sirens. And then, from down the hallway . . . .

...came that damned cat-- Snickers-- flaming red and hissing pissed to hell. Smoke spilled out of the pool hall. How had this one small animal wreak so much havoc? thought Len.


06 November 2007


Well, so, we here at Team Power Love signed up for NaBloPoMo, that thing wherein we write a post a day and then win 8 million dollars just in time for the holidays. This is great because we have so much to talk about and probably one month of posting won't cover all of it, but it'll cover some of it, and who doesn't want to hear someone wax prolific in the collective? We certainly do!

Today's adventure is: Collective Storytelling! YES! This game is kinda like choose your own adventure stories, except it's happening on a blog and you write the next section of the story by leaving it in the comments section and then we go from there and it'll be great fun and don't act like you're not out there reading this and pretending like you're not going to leave comments because I know at least three of you can read and those are three actual human beings, not voices in my head.

Here is the start of the story:

Len looked over the bannister. Five flights down he could see the debris, the shiny glass flickering like blinking eyes back at him. Off in the distance he could hear the sirens. And then, from down the hallway . . . .

OK! Now it's your turn. Leave one or two sentences on where this story should go next. Build off of this sentence here, or off whatever is left in the comments. Then we'll write a story together. We'll build it like a house. Or a community center, since I'm hoping more than just me will be writing.

Oh--check out Jargon Magazine. I wrote a story. Blatant self-promotion rules.

05 November 2007


On an anthropological excursion, Jeff and I found out the following things:

Have you found yourself asking, "I wonder what Puff the Magic Dragon is doing now?" He's the spokescreature for this cinnamon buns place that is not Cinnabon.

If you find yourself near an indoor merry-go-round, your best bet is to play "Where's Waldo?"

Except, if your name isn't Waldo and you don't have a striped hat, this game doesn't make sense.

This is the special part of the shopping mall's floor. That's why it's marked off.

Suburbanites are highly advanced and thusly, wear highly advanced hatwear.

03 November 2007


Plastic pretzels. None of the calories, none of the taste.

In an attempt to be a well-rounded writer, Jeff has taped up one hand to teach himself how to be ambidextrousiotious. Every serious writer is ambidextrousiotious.

02 November 2007



We hear you, readers! We know you love the how-to. Who doesn't want to be told by a blog what to do/how to do it? We don't know anyone who doesn't! So, after much research, we are here to tell you how to Halloween properly. You'll want to take notes and keep these notes in a cool, dry place because eventually you'll want to write a confusing short story using these notes. Ha! No you won't. That story's already been written. And besides, I think I'm confusing it with "Hills Like White Elephants."

Okay, this is really no time for destroying literary culture. This is a time for costumes and musics.

I. First. First thing you need to do for proper Halloweening is to get yourself a costume. You should start thinking about next year's costume RIGHT NOW. I highly recommend not waiting until the Saturday before Official Halloween and then giving up. This will cause great stress waves to propel through the world, much like a hurricane, but without the water.

Also, do not forget that someday, you are going to be in a very famous band. You'll need to be able to find a costume that will fit well with the album cover for your band. If you'll look to the left, you'll see the album cover for the soon-to-be-famous rock/country/rap/techno/opera band, Shhh! I'm Thinking!

II. Second. Whatever you can wear in mostly black will work best. Let's say this year, you were The Bad Guy. This is good because: 1) It was not your idea so you didn't waste the precious brain cells you were planning on killing with alcohol on thinking; and 2) It involves wearing all black and basically the same clothes you wear everyday and thereby is in solidarity with Ministry in Ministry's early days when they were a dance band or whatever that was.

III. Third. Go to a practice show. I suggest a show with a bunch of local bands covering other bands, specifically Pearl Jam and Culture Club and the Misfits. Once the bands get around to MC5, make sure you are sufficiently drunk, or else you will realize how very old you really are. And your ears will hurt.

IV. Fourth. On the actual day of Halloweening, make sure you surround yourself with some of your favorite people. In case anyone's wondering, I went to The Bad Guy Convention in Vegas last week, and we're no longer wearing all black. It's so last century. No, when you rob your trains or your wagon convoys, you should be wearing muted colors. And, you should accessorize.

V. Fifth. Go see Art Brut and The Hold Steady. Prepare for the most funnest time. It will be such a great time, you will need a grammatically incorrect superlative to describe it.

VI. Be aware that whoever decided to pair up Art Brut and The Hold Steady on Halloweening night is a motherfucking genius and should be added to the pool of motherfucking geniuses that includes: whoever designed Levi's so that dude's asses look like works of art; the brilliant human who first decided to fry Snickers in a pastry shell; the inventor of flannel pajamas; my bike; the Grand Canyon.

VI. Ninethly, look at all these people! These people are loving it! And that is good. Do not read any music critic's blogs or reviews regarding this night. Look only at all these arms, raised and ecstatic.

VII. Have enough wherewithal to remember the After Picture. Note the tie. There is no room for tight ties after a night of sweaty, mind-blowing-rock-your-brains-out guitar rock.

No, there is not.

VIII. Spend the next day texting your pal about how that really did just happen.

And you were there.