Hullo. What are you doing this Saturday? Oh? Huh. Interesting. Well, if you find that watching reruns of "The Ghost Whisperer" is not the thrill-seeking adventure you thought it would be, why not stop by Webster's Wine Bar? There is wine there. And there will be stories told. And my story has Madonna music in it. When you mix that with wine, there is no end to the fun. Do come, won't you? Find more info at www.storiesandwine.com.
Your definitive resource. That's all, just your definitive resource.
22 April 2009
18 April 2009
Sorry I've been out of touch for a while. Frankly, I thought you had lost interest. We were so good last summer, you and me. Remember how you used to wake me up in the morning with sunshine and coffee and riches beyond my wildest dreams? OK, right, yeah, I know, but I'm good at exaggerating. Anyway, my point is, lack of gross riches aside, we were good together, you and me. OK, I KNOW YOU NEVER MADE ME COFFEE IN THE MORNING. Sheesh, I'm trying to make a point here, already, will you just go with it? You're always so literal. Chill it out for a sec, will ya? ANYWAY, my point is, we had a cool rhythm together. And then winter hit.
I know most people blame winter for a lot of things. I mean, if this were a fairy tale, winter would be the ugly stepsister who cuts off her toes so she can fit into the glass slipper, but instead of bleeding red, she bleeds green, because she's really an alien and when she's discovered as such, she eats everyone, including the Pollyanna Cinderella and especially that dumb prince. (I mean, YOU DANCED WITH CINDERELLA AT THE DANCE. How do you NOT know who she is a few days later? YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO LOOK AT YOUR DANCE PARTNER IN THE FACE, ASS. GET YOUR HEAD. OUT. OF. THE. CLEAVAGE.)
Where was I? Right--YOU, Chicago, are much maligned when it comes to winter, and that is a sad state of affairs right there, dear. But this morning, I can smell summer coming. If this were a bike race, summer would be the attack three laps out that sticks and comes to a surprising and glorious coda at the mountaintop finish. But it's not a bike race, is it, Chicago? It's a season, the same one that always comes this time of year. But this year it took forever and may last about a minute, so I say to you, while it's here, I will love you with all my heart. In return, I only ask that you make sure the sun comes up over the lake every morning so that when it hits the skyline, we can all lose our breath for a few brief seconds. If the skyline was a chorus, it would be one of those well-oiled machine choruses, the kind you find in Eastern Europe, the sound of which breaks your heart and makes you wonder how you will ever live beyond the moment of hearing it, it is that beautiful.
12 April 2009
Easter Wisdom from the man hanging around the door of Starbucks:
"Remember, rabbits? They don't. Lay. Eggs."
On the upside, and after much research, I have figured out how to post to Power Love through the fancy pants Google phone, affectionally named The Goog. However, I can't seem to locate my camera, which means you, Alert Power Love Reader, are left without world-class, award-winning photos that you have come to expect from Power Love, the bastion of visual art.
On a topical note, today is Easter. I have seen this phrase repeatedly: Christ is Risen. While I'm sure this is a fascinating concept, do we really have to forego grammar rules to express it? WHY??
01 April 2009
SHOW YOU WHAT ALL THE HOWLIN'S FOR
In third grade, I brought my report card home. I was proud—good grades all around. There was, however, one very carefully and deliberately drawn check mark—traced over multiple times with a black pen so that it stood out against the rest of the information like a black dot on a ladybug—next to the phrase “Talks Excessively to Others.”
My teacher never addressed it directly. He wasn’t much for talking, that guy. He’d do this thing where he’d be reading out to the class from some textbook—his back to the chalkboard, him sitting in his teacher chair, the rest of us sitting cross-legged on the floor facing him, some of us sitting in a line so we could braid each others’ hair—and if someone talked, he’d pull his chalk out of his front pocket (the stick of chalk was held in a silver shaft, with a click-button on the side so he could push the tip out), stand up, walk over to the end of the chalkboard, and under a pre-written heading that said, “ASC,” he’d write the offending talker’s name and a slash mark after it. “ASC” meant After School Club. One slash mark equaled five minutes. The takeaway lesson here, to my eight-year old mind, was: Learn how to communicate without getting caught. This is why I learned how to sign the alphabet.
Anyway, I proudly displayed my report card to my Mom. (For the record, I kicked math’s ass, and math has never let me forget it since; Language Arts: pie; Social Studies: rock; Gym: Oh, yeah. In third grade, I was a true Renaissance woman.) I had never had my name put under the horrifying “ASC” column on the chalkboard; I had never had to stay after school for five, ten, or fifteen minutes, which was good, because all those trees out in the woods weren’t gonna climb themselves and I didn’t have time to waste. In all, I figured I was pretty much stylin’, as much as a scrawny eight-year old with a blatant disregard for hygiene can be.
Unfortunately, that’s not the way Mr. Third Grade Teacher saw it. Apparently, “Talks Excessively to Others,” is a negative. I mean, you could’ve fooled me. Everyone I talked to talked back to me, so what was the problem? Well, there’s a thing called “disruption” and evidently, you don’t want to be on the giving or receiving end of “disruption.” My mom chose to handle this by suggesting ways to channel what was obviously a great strength of mine. Instead of talking out your ideas, or signing them, during class, why not write them down? I thought that was a brilliant idea.
My teacher made me promise to get my report card signed, which I did, but only after a lengthy tirade wherein I decried the hypocrisy of the patriarchal establishment while my Mom listened, patiently, pen poised in mid-air, until I ran out of breath and when I did, she said, “Honey, you should write that down.”
Now I’m a writer. And not only do I get to write stories, I get to tell them. And when I tell them, there are no report cards, no check marks, no mandatory signature-gettings. Instead, there is wine and music and a live mic. And for the most part, I am not considered a disruption. Suck it, third grade.
Here’s where and when I’m telling stories this month. I am extremely lucky and humbled.
Literally Sexy 2
April 3, April 10
Tix and info (use the code "FRESH" for $5 off!)
2nd Story 2009 Festival
April 19, April 25, May 1
Tix and info
Theater 7’s Diversey Harbor, curtain teaser (we tell a story first, then the play goes on, FUN!!!)
April 16, April 30
Tix and info