We meet again, Mr. Strummer.

NYC

CRAZY WHAT THEY DO

In New York tonight or tomorrow? Wanna hear a New York actor tell one of my stories? I can't imagine why that isn't on your intinerary already. In case you change things up a bit, go see this.

IN A ROOM WITH YOUR TWO TIMER AND YOU'RE SURE YOU'RE NEAR THE END

Trekking across the Van Buren bridge into 40 mph winds, in the midst of a rain storm, while carrying a 10-pound backpack on your back—this is called RESISTANCE TRAINING. It is not called: commuting. Just a little PSA there for you, Alert Power Love Reader. As you know, we are all about the PSAs here at Power Love HQ.

In other news, I have saved the world AGAIN.

As you know, I’m prone to spontaneously throwing rock concerts—it’s a thing, I know, but I like making instant parties with music and peeps and also, I’m the world’s greatest rock star singer, which as you know, is, like, the best cover when you’re actually a super hero covert secret agent op on a mission.

The mission: Total Annihilation. The target: The Break Downer. Can’t stand that guy. No problem, thought I. I will simply belt out my three-hour rock star set that’s heavy with percussion and dancing, and immediately after, I will capture The Break Downer and then I will relax to my cottage in the forest and knit socks.

In retrospect, maybe the antelope horns weren’t the best accessory. Who can say? What is difficult to say is, I didn’t see it coming that The Break Downer would be front row center at my rock concert, because on MY agenda for the evening, I wasn’t supposed to be seeing The Break Downer and subsequently Taking Out The Target until Roman Numeral Number III, and at the time me and my band started our rock star set, we were on Roman Numeral Number II of the agenda for the evening (Rock Out).

So I’m on stage and I’ve got the antelope horns on and I’ve got this great guitar—custom, soft as fine cashmere—and I play like Jimmy Page and I do it in royal purple faux leather pants, and there are 5.5 million people in the audience. In direct opposition to stereotype, I am gracious and professional on stage, it’s my persona, and that is why I don’t fall down and eat it in my five-inch YSL Tribute heels.

But there’s something about the drum solo part in “In the Air Tonight,” that makes me just wanna rip into a guitar solo, which I do, on this night, as we cover “In the Air Tonight” as we’re wont to do, but, as you may know Alert Power Love Reader, there is no guitar solo during the drum solo in “In the Air Tonight,” and that is because it’s a drum solo.

Well, that was an unfortunate misreading of events on my part, but luckily, I have the world’s most supportive band, so the rhythm guitar dude lightly touches the back of my knee with the tip of his toe, but I’m already in the throes of a true headbanging experience, so I teeter on my YSL Tribute heels, the weight of the antelope horns makes me top heavy, and I promptly fall upon The Break Downer in the front row center, just missing, by centimeters, impaling him with my antelope horns. In that moment, there was a question as to whether the band would make it to the encore.

Out of all my mortal enemies, The Break Downer pisses me off the most. He has an outer shell like a robot. He wears horse blinders on his head. His nose is always running. But mostly, he’s always trying to break everyone down. Looking at The Break Downer smushed beneath me and my antelope horns, while peeps dance all around us, while the music blasts and rips and blossoms (the band keeps playing as they always do; I fall off the stage a lot), I get a little annoyed—so I take a deep breath and I rearrange the evening’s agenda.

“I see you were expecting me later, Rock Star,” The Break Downer says to me upon seeing my agenda-induced hesitation.

You see what I mean, Alert Power Love Reader? It never ends with this guy. Nag, nag, nag. And another thing, The Break Downer and all his pals are jerks—they’re really cool when you first meet them, so you talk, then they hoard information and throw it back at you when you’re supposed to be rock star-ing, not super hero-ing.

“I have reassessed the situation and the agenda items have been rearranged,” I tell him.

“Then perhaps we should commence?”

“You’re pretty desirous to get going for someone so close to being impaled by antelope horns.”

“You can’t lift those things and even if you could, you wouldn’t be able to do it while balancing on those heels anyway and why do you always do that? You’re always so nonfunctional. You’re gonna die alone.”

And here we go.

I decide to ditch the horns, keep the heels. I hook one shoe through a belt hoop and twirl the other in my hand. The music suddenly flips into Western Showdown Music. A tumbleweed blows by. That tumbleweed just cannot find a home. I am suddenly chewing tobacco, which I spit out on the dirt under my cowboy boots. My horse whinnies from the post in front of the saloon. He’s desperate to joust. I telepathically remind him that we’re not in that time period right now.

“Break Downer,” I say, “this is gonna go one of two ways. You’re gonna leave. Or I’m gonna make ya.”

The Break Downer stretches one arm out, then fans his fingers in front of himself like he’s draped in golden rings. He’s not actually draped in golden rings.

“Really, dude?” I say. “You know we’re in the Wild West, right?”

The Break Downer flips the flap of his duster and rests his unbejeweled hand on his gun in its holster. “I think it’s gonna be any time period I want,” he says.

“In that case,” I say, “you won’t mind me using my lightsaber?” I pull my lightsaber out of its sheath attached to a belt hoop that does not hold my YSL Tribute heels. Alert Power Love Reader, did you know Darth Vader is Luke’s father? I gotta be honest with you, I never saw that one coming.

Anyway, me and The Break Downer, we duel, and halfway through, my horse whinnies like he’s never whinnied before and before I know what’s happening, The Break Downer is holding up a tiny vial. He’s spinning it between his index finger and his thumb. He’s looking lovingly at it while it catches the sun. Prisms of light scatter across the facade of the general store.

“I doubt you’ve acquired the expertise to make it effective,” I tell The Break Downer.

“You underestimate me, Rock Star.” He talks with a lot of s-sounds, like an anthropomorphic snake. “I acquired the expertise while trekking the highlands of the Kunlun Shan province.”

I doubt there are highlands in the Kunlun Shan province, but I’ve left my encyclopedia backstage at the rock concert because Taking Out The Target was supposed to be Roman Numeral Number III on the evening’s agenda AND NOW DO YOU SEE THE IMPORTANCE OF AGENDAS?

“Irregardless,” I say to The Break Downer, “I am now going to question your virility as a man in an effort to convince you not to open that vial and therefore expose the world to your highly contagious virus that seeps into people’s bones and sucks out their marrow and replaces it with the waste material of clams thereby rendering all humans miserable break downers like yourself.”

“You’ve done your research, Rock Star,” he says, licking the vial.

Of course I’ve done my research—absent encyclopedia notwithstanding, I AM A VERY PREPARED SUPER HERO. Sheesh. Little credit, m’kay?

I look over at my horse. I see that my YSL Tribute heels are tucked safely into the saddle bag. He does that sometimes, my horse. He takes care of things for me. Rock concerts hurt his ears.

As you may know, Alert Power Love Reader, sometimes I like to shoot lightning bolts out of my fingertips. So this is what I do as I turn from my horse and look at The Break Downer. And suddenly, the vial of clam waste disintegrates, leaving no harmful residue behind. Save The World. Check.

More than likely, the rock concert is going off without a hitch, though I’m concerned about the lack of a guitar solo in the drum solo of “Freebird.” It isn’t until we make it to a small town in New Mexico, two days after the duel with The Break Downer, that my horse tells me there is no drum solo in “Freebird.”

Go to Morseland tonight...good stuff at Morseland tonight. 2nd Story.

Confession

One of my stories is on Cell Stories today: www.cellstories.net.

Glory.