Power Love

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18 April 2009

Dear Chicago,

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.