This is Eliza Coolidge. Or Eli R. Knox. Or Ee.lie.zah. Or Leeeeeza. But I can’t keep up with all of her name changes, so I just call her Lyz. It’s easier for me to stick with names that only have one syllable and/or are 3 letters or less. I also like people who have initials as names like AJ or PJ. They make life a whole lot easier.

Click the image to view larger.

Anyway, the first time I heard this girl sing was at one of her high school concerts. What came out was completely unexpected. For someone that’s small, her voice is thunderous. She certainly isn’t your stereotypical pop princess when it comes to her pipes. Not when she can belt Stevie Wonder and Al Green like an old pro.

Click the image to view larger.

She’s also really into, well, pretty much every culture out there which gives her music a unique, folksy influence. She’s even been to Peru and upon entering the house of a local family, commented that they had cute pet guinea pigs. Turns out the little mongrels weren’t so much “pets” as they were “dinner.” The girl is scarred for life.

Click the image to view larger.

She’s also got great style, but since moving to Brooklyn, every time I see her it looks like she’s been rolling around in a thrift shop. She’s become quite the hipster. Then again, when one lives in Williamsburg, goes to school at Parson’s for music, and works at a tea shop in the East Village, what exactly do you expect to be the outcome?

Click the image to view larger.

This is the storefront window of a super cute boutique in Dumbo named Blueberi. Every time I walk by my mouth fills with saliva at the vision of perky cocktail dresses in gorgeous fabrics that are cut in a way that seems they are made for the general masses and not the runway (read: my 5 foot nothing frame as opposed to the walking hangers that grace Bryant Park).

I’ve only ventured into the store once in hopes that the price tags could be categorized as “splurge” numbers and not something that would send me reeling to the outer rings of hell. They fell somewhere in between. Not discouraging, but motivating. I’m hoping one will show up in my closet in time for summer drinks on the rooftop of the Hotel Gansevoort.

On another note, please excuse my reflected facial expression. I haven’t seen the sun in months and it’s a harsh thing when the grey brightens up.

Click the image to view larger.

I feel so urban posting these shots… which I suppose I am. Technically, I have been boroughfied. My lovely neighborhood of “East Williamsburg” (aka Bushwick) is the place where the unofficial language is Extremely Loud Español and people get shot just steps from your front door (there is still caution tape hanging around from last weekend).

The entirely too large grocery store across the street from my building (aka The GhettoMart) has every kind of Hispanic food you can imagine, but lacks things like pita bread. I understand that is considered Middle Eastern food, but if you saw the size of this bread isle, you’d agree they could afford a few square feet dedicated to the flatter, rounder, and darker version of the ever popular Wonderbread.

I also get bonus points for working in the trendy neighborhood of Dumbo where hipsters abound with their tight jeans, clever tees, Macbooks, and single-speed bikes (and where this photo was taken - I haven’t quite gotten around to shooting my neighborhood. Probably because I’m afraid to.)

Click the image to view larger.

This is another shot of Dumbo taken under the Manhattan Bridge. There’s always a million school buses parked on this particular street, but the only children I ever really see are those with their parents or nannies. A little bit confusing. But since I don’t much care for kids, I’m not all that curious to find out where they are. By all means, keep them away

Click the image to view larger.

So. I feel as if I’ve seen this image a million times before. Which I have. Because, lets face it, the New York City skyline is pretty much the most over-photographed thing in the world. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.

Yet it’s still oddly satisfying to take a sweet shot of it. It kind of makes you feel like you can roll with the big bad pros. Or at least those guys that sell these photos in Times Square at 20 bucks a pop.

My reasoning in not totally ruling out these sort of cliche shots is that it’s a way to learn. It’s like painting: learn the rules and ways of the old masters and once you’ve got a handle on it, break down those suckers and create your own. But then again, what do I know? I tend to make up my own rules anyway.

I understand it’s annoying to have wet hands.  Especially when you are about to go sit down at a computer.  Believe me, I am borderline psychotic about any foreign substances (even the good ol’ H2O) coming anywhere near my precious aluminum MBP.

However, I also deem it completely unnecessary to stand waving your hand in front of the automatic censor for 5 minutes to get half the roll out of the paper towel dispenser to make sure EVERY LAST DROP is off of your hands before you even touch the bathroom door.  Not only are you inconveniencing everyone else waiting to dry their hands and waiting for you to finish your paper towel marathon, but you are killing massive amounts of trees.  Yes, YOU are contributing to what is now known as the Climate Crisis (and formerly known as Global Warming).

These handy censor dispensers are made to distribute the exact amount of paper towel that it should take to dry your hands.  If you have extremely large and/or clammy hands, then by all means, take two.  But please, before Al Gore finds you and gives you paper cuts in the age old eye for an eye fashion, just knock it off.

Click the image to view larger.

We’ve finally had (almost) an entire week of sun and (semi) warmth. Today it’s 72 degrees outside, and though I may be sitting in an office, I still feel like I’m finally thawing out from the cold. Now if only I could get rid of this winter coat that I’ve accumulated from sitting in dark bars for the last few months…

But to do so, I need some summertime beats to get me moving. Fortunately I have my cousin to keep me clued into p.i.m.p. tunes and I’ve successfully added a decent amount of thug tracks onto my iTunes. If you need me at any point in the next few months, I can probably be found at some club shaking my tail feather on a wobbly table until around 4am. (The table makes me feel taller and the wobbliness is kind of like yoga — a test of strength, balance, and focus. It’s a win-win situation.)

Summer time in the city is the BEST time in the city for those who are hard enough to handle the ungodly humidity and perpetual rain. Hamptons Shmamptons. The party people stay here.

I’m sorry, but there is no reason to keep your sunglasses on when you enter a building for longer than, oh let’s say, 30 seconds.*  I understand you may need to get situated, get your keys out, shift your coffee to the other hand, but after that, sunglasses should be moved up onto the crown of the head. Kind of like a headband.

Obviously if you’ve just had laser surgery or, for that matter, any other eye-related medical thing, this need not apply to you. But I know the trendy girl in big Chanel sunglasses sitting on the 6 train and the guy that hides his eyes every day riding the elevator all the way up to the 6th floor did not just come from the optometrist.

There are, of course, exceptions to the rule such as, but not necessarily limited to, being hungover, being high, or some other drug induced state where the world is better off not seeing your face and spaced out eyes. But you can usually tell if this is the case by said person’s other actions and body language (i.e. slumped shoulders, slow movements, fits of laughter, lips pursed to contain nausea induced vomiting, etc.).

What I have to say to all of you indoor sunglass wearers is that you, my friend, are not a rockstar. It makes you look pretentious and silly. Take them off. It’s NOT that bright in here.

*This also applies to the any subway line/station that goes underground. Once it’s over the bridge or out of Harlem, take ‘em off!

This afternoon, my most awesome boss, Scott (would include a link here if there was a blog to link to, AHEM), sent me out with his Nikon D80 to play around with.

First of all, to get the super geeky stuff out of the way, I have a bit of camera envy now. The body is lighter than the D70, and the bigger LCD screen on the back is a nice improvement. There are a few functionality changes that would take a bit of getting used to, but those 2 refinements alone are enough for me to consider upgrading my camera body. Also, the RAW files take up way less space (10 MB as opposed to 30) and the D80 uses SanDisk cards now (I’m still stuck using the old CompactFlash cards which cost about twice as much).

Anyway, Dumbo is such a cool place to photograph destruction. The buildings all have about 10 layers of brick and mortar showing. The streets are half pavement, half cobblestone and old trolley tracks. There is an obscene amount of graffiti, old worn painted signs on buildings, and half peeled posters. Pretty cool.

But what’s the first thing I post? A set of pipes that look like boobs complete with piercings connecting chains to a belly ring. Isn’t that what you see here? No? Maybe it’s just because I’m reading a book about a stripper. Don’t mind me.

Amy : I need some food in my life

Amy : I’ll be back shortly

Christina : k

…

Amy : I’m baaaack

Christina : how was the grub?

Amy : I got sushi

Amy : about to devour it

Christina : mmmm sushi

Amy : I haven’t eaten it in so long

Amy : I’m trying to be super healthy again

Amy : I’ve gained weight recently and I’m not pleased

Christina : Amy… you’re a button, shut up

Amy : my thighs disagree

Christina : ok, if you have big thighs, then I have tree trunks

Amy : oh please

Amy : you have lightning legs

Christina : haha, what does that mean?

Amy : they’re like hot flashes of lightning