My good friend S. has been sending reports from Houston. She traveled there with her boss (another journalist) via nearly empty plane yesterday, from where she could see the line of stagnant vehicles pointing away from the city.

In her hotel, she was advised to simply close the curtains to avoid being hit with flying glass, and she watched as the hotel employees cleared the courtyard of trash cans and wrought iron benches. She and her boss haven't been able to do much, as the gas shortage has made them essentially immobile, so they're just waiting, rather aimlessly, she says. It makes me think of the dumb (but real) anxiety you feel when somebody's blowing up a balloon, and you're waiting for it to pop.

She's in her room right now, and just received a letter under the door, telling her to bring pillows and blankets to the hotel ballroom when the evacuation alarm rings between 3 and 4 a.m. Included in that message was a reminder not to bring weapons.(!) Oh, Texas.

My friend Eric is dog-sitting half a block from my apartment. When he first told me the news, I thought he was staying in the fancy condos that I can gaze (glare?) upon from my living room window, but it turns out he's staying in the fancy condos on the opposite side of the street. We discovered my error while on the phone with each other: "I'm leaning out my window." "I'm standing on the porch." "But I don't see you." "I don't see you either."

He's supposed to be settled into his new apartment in Bushwick by now (he just moved here from Chicago, which is fantastic), but his broker rented out his place right underneath him, granting it to a friend for a 'personal favor.' It's only for a month, and then Eric gets his place back, but it's still pretty ridiculous, and also kind of funny. This month is exactly the first month Eric is a legitimate lawyer, and during that time he's crashing on couches and walking Craigslist dogs.

I haven't seen him yet, but ever since I've known about his presence in the neighborhood, I've been looking at the place in a new light. For example, on my walk home today, I took notice of the gauntlet of trash that forever hugs the fence beneath the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, and a filthy newsprint page even blew right into my legs as I walked. I'm sure Eric is impressed! Somehow I've developed such an affection for this place that I guess I ignore the ugly parts.

I find New York incredibly hard to leave, and equally hard to come back to. Leaving means carving a hole into my schedule, organizing a trip of some sort, and inevitably missing out on the most exciting weekend of the year*. Coming back means an abrupt end to 8+ hours of sleep, a return to days in which every second is accounted for, and catching up with everyone and everything that went on without me.

Today is especially difficult, because I just returned from the most laid-back state in the country (North Carolina!) and tomorrow, not only am I anticipating a particularly busy day at work, but I'm following that with three hours of class, a two-hour photo assignment, and the arrival of two house guests (whom I'm excited about seeing, but whose presence prevents me from putting off things like unpacking suitcases and paying bills).

Also, I should mention that a cockroach just FELL FROM THE SKY and landed on my lap, right before crawling over to an undisclosed location in the vicinity of my closet and camera bag. Welcome home!

*When I was little, I remember going to church and being told that Jesus was going to return to Earth, but that no one could possibly predict when that would happen, and anyone who did would be wrong. Since I didn't want the world to end (even though I realize the rapture is theoretically supposed to be a good thing), I decided to simply predict that Jesus would come back on each new day, in an effort to prevent that from happening. Similarly, these days I'm suspicious that I have the power to create awesome weekends in New York, just by planning to be away from it.

I was paired with someone named Smith. For our first homework assignment, we were each asked to create a storyboard for a scene in a film, one that we would shoot the following week during class. The scene didn't have to have a beginning or end, nor any conflict, even; it was designed simply to acquaint us with making decisions, such as what types of shots work best in what scenarios.

Smith was to be the actor in my scene, and I would be the actor in his. Because of my reluctance to humiliate a stranger, I decided to abandon the idea that involved Smith wearing a hockey mask, and I went with something more conventional (boring).

For his scene, I was required to drink a cup of coffee containing a fake severed human finger. Upon discovering the digit, which was buoyant and had a brightly painted red fingernail, I threw the coffee to the ground and took off running down the street. We made some art! Just like that.

Sandra and I were having dinner in Curly's when she gestured to the couple sitting a few tables away. "That's odd," she said, referring to the miniature bottle sitting in the space between them. It was the size of nail polish and was filled with milk.

We were watching, a few minutes later, as the man pull a live squirrel out of a small canvas bag he'd been wearing across his shoulder since he'd arrived. As soon as he parted the zipper, a nervous brown face popped out, the creature dutifully grabbed the rubber teat with its tiny front paws, and it sucked as liquid dribbled down its face.

The other patrons took notice, and began asking the obvious questions, even questions with obvious answers. "Is that a squirrel? Explain!" I kept quiet and mooched off the inquisition, passively enjoying the conversation from a few feet away.

He mentioned that, in New York City, squirrels have the same rights as rats and roaches, and that no vet is legally allowed to help an injured squirrel. He personally nurses them back to health, he said, but that he doesn't re-release them. "They make really good pets," he told a skeptical audience. He then pointed to the vacant spot on the squirrel's hind quarters. "This one's three-legged. See?"

He told us that the tripod squirrel was destined for France, as someone in Paris had apparently heard about its plight, and wanted it so badly that she was willing to pay airfare. The man's friend, a bookish woman with a bold print jacket, spoke up. "It would ride in someone's coat pocket. You know, on the plane," she explained. She then reached in the man's bag, grabbed a second squirrel, and began rubbing noses with it.

A waitress asked to hold the injured one, and it shook inside of her fingers, which reached all the way around the squirrel's sleek body. The woman advised the waitress to be sure to wash her hands afterward, and the man dismissed her. "It's clean," he assured the waitress.

When their food arrived, the man zipped the squirrels away again, and the restaurant chatter died down.

Hi. I did something I've been meaning to do for a long time, which is build a photography portfolio website, one that's (supposed to be) slightly more professional and a lot more concise than what you see here. Please visit! And feel free to tell me what you think, as long as you don't use the word "pre-school" in reference to the font. And feel free to pass this URL on, too: lisawhitemanlens.com, just in case.

During the opening band, about 30 minutes before Richard began to play, I noticed a man sitting across the room from me. It was a remarkably narrow room; if we both stretched an arm out toward each other, we probably could've touched fingers.

He had a long gray ponytail and thick glasses that made his eyes appear to be unnaturally large, as if they belonged to a nocturnal animal of some sort. Almost right away I could tell he was crazy, since the first thing he did was look in my direction, gum his lips in an exaggerated fashion, draw an index finger across his throat, and then play dead.

He was excitable. He went on to sing loud made-up lyrics, ask the man on stage whether he could borrow his guitar "for just five minutes!!" and repeatedly whispered in my ear, hand cupped around his mouth, giving me urgent-sounding messages, which oscillated between harsh criticism and lavish praise. I tried not to encourage him, because he was so disruptive and unpredictable, but secretly I kind of liked him.