we are phoenix

Lindsay and I saw Phoenix live in Central Park Saturday night... WHAT.A.SHOW. I'll be thinking about it for some time... it was the first real Fall evening, and the air was cool and crisp. Perfect weather for a perfect concert.




Not allowing asshats to pass us.

All photos by Lindsay!

A break and a break-in

I've been silent on here because last thursday, someone broke into my apartment and stole my laptop, among other things.

The funny thing is, just a few days earlier, I'd been thinking about getting a new computer. I'd had mine since freshman year of college, and it'd been running really slowly and even crashing from time to time...I wouldn't really have cared if it'd died because I don't really need anything on it. The most valuable things were my design pieces, and since I'm not working in design anymore, I don't really need them.

The other funny thing is, that morning I hid my laptop for the first time. Just under my pillow (so the thief didn't have to search much at all), but still.

What would Proust say?

The book I've been working on at work for the past year is finally finished! You can get your own copy starting October 16.

Below, me, Piper (designer) and Robert Risko (the illustrator whose drawings bring life to the 101 people in said book) celebrating our baby!

Happy 25, LC

We celebrated Lindsay's 25th birthday at The Bowery Electric this weekend, dancing into the wee hours of the morning. They played the best dance music, and had I known I was in for 4+ hours of jumping, spinning, and twirling, I would have worn flats.

Three New Yorks

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last--the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion.

-E.B. White, 1949

Dear Mr. President,

The L Word

I've been watching the L word series all over again, and I just finished season four. The final episode ends with this beautiful song that I'd forgotten about since the first time I watched it almost two years ago. I looked up the lyrics, and to my surprise, it's a Pink song. I'm positive this was never released because of her producers, and it's a shame that most people will probably never hear this song. Check out the video—it's fantastic. Lyrics below. My favorite lines are in bold.

Dear Mr. President by Pink
(feat. Indigo Girls)

Dear Mr. President,
Come take a walk with me.
Let's pretend we're just two people and
You're not better than me.
I'd like to ask you some questions if we can speak honestly.

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street?
Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep?
What do you feel when you look in the mirror?
Are you proud?

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry?
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Can you even look me in the eye
And tell me why?

Dear Mr. President,
Were you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
How can you say
No child is left behind?
We're not dumb and we're not blind.
They're all sitting in your cells
While you pave the road to hell.

What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away?
And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay?
I can only imagine what the first lady has to say
You've come a long way from whiskey and cocaine.

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry?
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Can you even look me in the eye?

Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Minimum wage with a baby on the way
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Building a bed out of a cardboard box
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
You don't know nothing 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
Oh

How do you sleep at night?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Dear Mr. President,
You'd never take a walk with me.
Would you?

Future Rockstar?

Since all my paint, brushes, and canvases are back home in Savannah, I've been trying to find new, creative ways to relieve stress. My latest venture: Guitar! My multi-talented friend, Lindsay Carson, has been giving me lessons. I played piano for many years when I was in middle/high school, so it's not completely foreign to me, but I never realized the hardest part was pushing down the guitar strings. My fingertips are completely raw by the end of the session. (See below.)