Power Love

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

29 May 2009


24 May 2009


I have found the path to Enlightenment! It is here! With these two! DJ Dancing Feet. DJ Pryortastic.


22 May 2009

I had no idea, but, apparently, there are products in the world that protect the user from being feminine. This is good information to know.

20 May 2009

Vote For Me.

Recently, I raised the bar for geekitude. You may think you are all fancy schmancy geekitundinal, but I respectfully say to you: Game on. I present the following evidence:

It was a warm but blustery Monday morning. As is typical for Chicago weather, it gives a little and it takes a little. This day it was warm and sunny, but the wind was blowing at a snappy 200 mph. Because I am brilliant, I wore a dress. Not just any dress, however, an ankle-length orange dress the color of a dreamsicle, with an ankle-length, camel-colored button-up sweater, with my all-time favorite belt, the one that looks like a cowboy’s gun belt, but without the holsters. Again, may I remind you, I am brilliant, and so I knew that a severely long dress would be unlikely to do a quick flip, as is usual for most dresses and skirts in Chicago’s cocky blustery days, and I would therefore be safe from any unintended flashes.

As I walked to work, pissed off at Monday specifically and mad at the week in general, I ignored the warmth and the sun and focused on the important things at hand—how, if I were Queen of the Universe, I would ban Mondays forever and make them National Shoe Day wherein we would all prance around town in cool ass shoes and probably, like, be generally cool or something, and then drink beer. You would be allowed to drink wine on National Shoe Day, but only if you were wearing Christian Louboutin shoes. This rule would apply to men as well as women.

As I was considering the route for the parade in my honor on National Shoe Day, I was shaken out of my plans by an insistent car horn. I crossed Franklin and I could hear the car turning behind me and then some kind of yelling and I thought, “I really fucking hate Monday mornings, but I really fucking hate rush hour drivers more.” I returned to my reverie, secure and happy in my own condescension.

When I approached Wacker, another car honked at me. This one was white, four-door, and had a lady hanging out the passenger side window, yelling at me. I knew she was yelling at me for two reasons: one, she was pointing at me; and two, I was the only person on the sidewalk.

Well, this got to me. I mean, really, people. The yelling! It is UNNECESSARY! We do not need to add noise pollution to the already egregiously long list of environmental face-slaps we have inflicted upon our world and GOD! Will you all please JUST SHUT UP, I am trying to lose myself in my own little world, which just so happens to be WAY BETTER THAN THE REAL WORLD! GAH!

A-hem. Then I walked by the 300 S. Riverside building, which is essentially a very large mirror, and I realized that somewhere during my commute, the back of my dress got caught on the Velcro of my bag, and was no longer acting as a long dress, or even as a dress at all, but more like a shirt, tucked into nothing because I was not wearing pants, and…huh.

To recap, I am winning the geek wars. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Should I make a motion to elect Morris as Queen of the Geek Brigade?” The answer is—yes. Yes, you should. Of course, someone will have to second the motion. Thank you for your support.

18 May 2009

What Not To Do On The El.

Here's a tip: Refrain from inciting madness while on public transportation.

Here's the scene: I am sitting in a window seat on the Brown Line on Wednesday after work. I am staring out the window, repeating my story over and over because it should be memorized and I don't want to fuck it up and THE SHOW IS FRIDAY. There are "beats" and gestural maneuvers that go with this story and my director suggested I practice the memorizing with the "beats" so it all works together and my director is brilliant so I do what she says, which means I'm sitting in the window seat of the Brown Line stabbing my finger in the air and making faces because in my story there is a fight. (I lose the fight.) (BUT I WIN THE WAR.)

Then the train stops. Then there is this loud clack, clack, clacking. Unbeknownst to me, somewhere between Quincy and Clark/Lake, a woman sat down next to me. When the clacking starts, she says, "Do you hear that?" I have to pull my brain out of the story-in-my-head world and into the real world, which is much like waking up with a really bad hangover, and I listen. "Yes," I say to the woman. "It sounds like a really huge person clacking their tongue."

While I consider the incongruous use of "person" and "their," I take a look at her. She has short brown hair and panicked-looking brown eyes. There are deep creases on either side of her mouth and they look more like a result of worry than excessive smiling. She's cracking her knuckles. In retrospect, I do wish I had taken the time to consider these details.

"What do you think it is?" She asks. "They haven't made an announcement." I listen for an announcement. She's right. There's no announcement. "Aliens," I say. "When they get hungry, they cluck their tongues while they decide which human they're gonna eat. I bet this train looks like a buffet to them."

This is the part where I went wrong. The woman let out a piercing scream. Not an oh-my scream. Not an oh-shit scream. A full-on, horror flick, scream-like-your-life-depends-on-it scream. And then she stopped and stared at me. Her breath smelled like Altoids. Everyone in the train car stared at us.

I said, "I'm sorry. I was kidding. I think it's rush hour and we're just backed up." The woman squinted at me. "You're not funny," she said. The train hiccupped, then jerked forward. We rolled into the Mart. People got off the train. People got on. The woman shifted and looked ahead. "You're not funny," she said again, this time under her breath.

We rode like that all the way north. She got off at Montrose. Do you think I should've gone with zombies instead of aliens?

15 May 2009

Things I Am Going To Do When I Have Time

Time=Next Tuesday at 10am.

1. Learn how to make the best mole sauce ever. (Mo-lay sauce, not mole sauce)(I can't find the accent mark on my keyboard.)
2. Band name: Mole Sauce. (Mole, like burrowing insectivore, not mo-lay).
3. Call Mr. Obama and tell him I prefer the Sox, too.
4. Learn how to surf.
5. Rob a bank and pay off my medical bills.
6. Ha! Just kidding! We all know the banks have no money.
7. Rob Blue Cross/Blue Shield and pay off my medical bills.
8. Write, produce, and perform my one-woman play, "I Know Why Bananas Turn Brown."
9. Become fabulous.
10. Win the Tour de France.

13 May 2009


Today I meet with The City to discuss budget items. I'm going to suggest that instead of dumping eight jabillion dollars into the Olympics, that we instead divert those monies to my masterfully curated project, the Tourist Education and Awareness Initiative (TEAI). This is a plan wherein every tourist arriving in Chicago learns the basics of city maneuvering, particularly when those tourists arrive via Greyhound, Amtrak, or Metra--three stations that all happen to be in a three-block radius from my work.

The learning experience at TEAI seminars will be one of utter joy and enlightenment. Tourists will learn the art of exiting from a revolving door without stopping immediately on the other side; the skills necessary to move to the side of the sidewalk before taking a picture of the Sears Tower (which is named something else now, I don't know what, I'm still using Chicago Stadium, Comiskey, and Marshall Field's)(I fear change); and most importantly, TEAI participants will learn the fine craft of the street numbering system, which, according to the teenager sitting next to me on the Brown Line this morning, is "totally easy, it's all like, set up in this anal little grid."

Yes. Anal little grid. It is such anal-osity that makes this city flow. Unfortunately, tourists are like the extra-thick toilet paper that clogs up the plumbing. The Tourist Education and Awareness Initiative intends to flush out the stoppages of summers past so we can all live happy, free-flowing lives. Thank you for your support.

11 May 2009


I have figured out how I’m going to use all those uniquely refined combat and tactical skills I picked up when I was going to be a CIA spy but was subsequently dumped because of rampant blood clotitis and my inability to refrain from telling the Republicans to suck it: I am going to coordinate and strategerize a vending machine war. You may now refer to me as General Morris, although if this is a shocking development, know you have a grace period in which you can continue to use “Your Majesty,” but after 30 days, it’s “General,” or you will be sent to the stockpile.

Because I am what’s known as A Thinker, I spend many hours at work staring off into the distance thinking Very Big Thoughts. Sometimes, when I’m unable to properly calculate the ratio of passive verbs to active verbs in the English language, I walk into the copy room and stare at the vending machine.

It’s a standard issue vending machine, though I suspect it has socialist tendencies. One of the best things about the socialist vending machine is that it has Juicy Fruit. Juicy Fruit is The Thinker’s Gum, as you know, and when chewed while drinking an ice cold Coca-Cola Classic from the can, the sugar high is unparalleled. The best part about the Juicy Fruit from the socialist vending machine is that when it’s pushed out of its Juicy Fruit slot, it’s done so with a push arm mechanism, so that the gum is pushed an inch upwards from its slot, then pushed outward with a bar, after which it lands in the pocket. If the socialist vending machine were a kangaroo, its pocket would be the roo’s pouch. This is all to say, while somewhat unceremonious, it is a highly effective process.

The pretzels, however, are trapped in the rows above the Juicy Fruit and reside in slots delineated by metal spirals. As a former majesty and current general, I am obligated to eat large quantities of pretzels, particularly Snyder’s Old-Fashioned Pretzels that come three to a package, but are delicious and therefore worth every penny of the 75 cent price tag.

The problem is, when you pop your 75 cents in, the metal spirals hang on for dear life to the edges of the Snyder’s Pretzels, as though they can’t bear to see their loved ones go. In addition, there are no dividers between the snack foods, so occasionally the pretzels lean to the left, into the Fritos, or to the right, into the Doritos. Now, I’m an open-minded general. You wanna lean into a bag of Fritos, by all means, go for it. Just don’t talk about it in public.

HOWEVER, when the corner of the pretzel bag gets caught behind the corner of the Fritos bag, and then the metal spiral latches on to the bottom of the pretzel bag, and the machine has just eaten three of my quarters, which could also be used for laundry, and all I end up with is a dangling bag of pretzels trapped behind socialist vending machine glass and a suspicious lack of forthcoming returned change THEN THAT IS WAR. You should not fuck with a woman’s pretzels. Write that down.

My attempts at brokering a peace deal amounted to nothing. The vending machine supplier refused to accept my suggestion to take more care in shelving the snack items. Apparently, he has a “schedule” that must be “maintained,” which means there is not “time” to properly shelve. I ask you, WHERE IS THE ART?

Next, my attempts to redesign the socialist vending machine were met with scorn. According to Vending Machine HQ, they are “not accepting new design ideas at this time.” My suggestion to add dividers and push arms were characterized as “economically unfeasible,” to which I say, WHERE IS MY 75 CENTS?

Seventy-five cents is 3/4 of a load of laundry and I can stuff A LOT of clothes into one load of laundry, which means the socialist vending machine is ENTIRELY RESPONSIBLE for that overflowing pile of dirty clothes on my bedroom floor. THIS IS MY SECOND DECLARATION OF WAR.

I am going to create my own line of socialist vending machines and then I’m going to send them to the General Morris Recruitment Camp for Wayward Vending and then I’m going to train them how to lumber across a copy room, and, with one quick flick of a push arm, completely decimate one of those antiquated, metal-spiral-loving machines.

And in this way, I shall rule the world. You should join me now, before you’re trapped in the muck of socialism and tangled snack items.

08 May 2009


Because I came in late today, I'm staying late at work today. This is awesome because there's no where else I'd rather be than sitting in a cubicle. On the upside, I have The Goog. So far, we're getting along well. Occassionally it makes typos, but then I publicly humiliate it, and all ends well. It's a very healthy relationship. Except for the part about my eyeballs falling out of my head from squinting, but I think that was going on before me and The Goog started our torrid romance.

Band name: Dangling Eyeballs. I think this will be the band that scores the zombie musical I'm going to write and then force feed to WildClaw to produce. Perhaps they may know of a better band.

Speaking of other careers I'm pursuing, I'm currently reading See No Evil by Robert Baer. He was a CIA dude. But in CIA parlance,they say "op." CIA op. Anyhoodle, I'm only about 50 pages in, so I haven't gotten to the part where they make a movie of his life and George Clooney plays him, but that part should be coming up soon. I know storytelling so I know that anytime you have a scene where the "agent" is "compromised" by rookie "ops," then it's sure to be followed by something made in Hollywood. So that's how I decided to be a spy.

After a bit of research, however, I notice that "clean bill of health" is a priority for "op"s-ing, which is unfortunate as I believe rampant blood clots fall slightly afoul of that. The other careers I'm pursuing are blood clot killer (much like a vampire, but backwards)(but still wearing the cape uniform)(one is never wrong with a cape); and word maker-upper. These are careers that have bright futures, cool uniforms, and really good health insurance.

I'm typing all this on The Goog. It's making my back tense and I'm still experiencing the aforementioned eyeball freakery. Do my thumbs look fat on this phone? I downloaded Pac Man yesterday. It's doubtful I'll ever be useful again. But I'll fucking rock at Pac Man. Will anyone on Facebook read this note? Does anyone really know what time it is?