From the Idiotarod (a race with shopping carts, instead of dogsleds). I've posted more photos here.

A few people have asked me how my exhibit is going. I never know how to answer that, really, because I haven't been spying on it, and even if I did, I have a feeling I would simply see a room containing photographs and people eating.

The opening, though: I can answer that. It went well. I was worried, in part because I have host anxiety and a need to make sure everyone is happy, and in part because the owner of the restaurant was so generous with her place. She gave me the main floor to fill, placed several complimentary bottles of wine on one of the tables, and asked that I let her know when I needed something. At that point the event hadn't started and the restaurant was virtually empty, and I felt suddenly compelled to stuff the place with bodies if for no other reason than to not disappoint her. She seemed so hopeful and faithful, in a well-meaning but terrifying way.

Lots of my friends and a few others showed up, and we ate dumplings and talked until my face muscles hurt. I didn't start to relax or have fun until it was nearly over, when I knew that it had turned out okay. I had retroactive fun, which is plenty fine.

When I was originally choosing what photos to hang, I'd considered putting up a series of barbershop photos, but instead decided on street portraits taken in Brooklyn. I'd forgotten about that switch until, during the course of the evening, one of my barbershop subjects unwittingly wandered in.

I've compiled super 8 footage that I shot at various exhibitionist-friendly events around the city, and I made a little movie out of it. (with music from Bread, even.)

The people in this film want you to look at them, so that would be the polite thing to do.

When I got home last night (late. lately it's been very late.), I discovered that the UPS driver had simply set my camera in the middle of the hallway of my building, even though the box had "Nikon" seductively printed on top, and even though I'd redirected the package to another address entirely. It was fine, though, and I don't care. I'm so glad to have my camera back, after having let the Nikon repair department borrow it for a few weeks. It sounds kind of dumb, I know that, but having it back feels similar to the first energetic day after a bout of sickness.

My camera's absence was part of the reason I documented so little of December, and now it seems almost like a lost month to me. Part of it was also because I was so busy that instead of working in a linear fashion, my mind jumped around like an edgy stray cat, running for cover beneath every parked car on the block.

Not that it was bad, really, just overwhelming, and I'm only just starting to find my way back to my regular schedule. In the last few weeks I'd more or less stopped all of the things that make me feel somewhat grounded: writing, taking pictures, exercising, being social, cooking, sleeping, etc. Come to think of it, I'm actually not quite sure how I was able to fill December's 744 hours while doing none of the things that normally take my time.

December was the end of my video production course (and the final project that went with it), former landlord troubles (providing me with a story which has already become a sort of trump card of landlord horror stories), preparations for my photo show, houseguests x2, and of course Christmas and Hanukkah (I made a lot of my presents this year, which may have not been the wisest choice). December was also the transit strike, which meant two days working from home (pretty good), one day of a two-hour round-trip bike commute in 30-degree weather (sweaty, sick-inducing), and six hours spent in a (crawling) car with my coworkers in exchange for five hours spent in the office (silly and painful, despite my coworkers' [appreciated] efforts to make it otherwise).

And, of course, there was moving. It was the longest move of my life, somehow, between the four flights of stairs on this end, my aforementioned former landlord issues, figuring out how to combine my belongings with someone else's (somehow we now have three copies of The Bell Jar and four air conditioners), getting rid of excess things (George Foreman grill!), painting furniture, cleaning, and learning trial-and-error carpentry. Now that I'm mostly settled, though, things are falling back into place, and the move feels like one of the better decisions I've made, up there with moving to New York in the first place. I'm in love with a lot right now, and that feels pretty lucky.

What celebrity do you look like? And what's the proper etiquette for drawing that sort of comparison?

I've been told I have similar features to a long list of baffling people, including Juliette Lewis and Steffi Graf. Most of the time, however, I'm told one of three pop stars: Debbie Gibson, (when I was in high school), Britney Spears (post-college), and Ashlee Simpson (lately).

When I recently asked a computer (a celebrity look-alike Supermachine) who it thinks I resemble, it broke from the pop star theme and suggested someone altogether different: Benjamin Netanyahu. Here's the evidence of the Supermachine making its case.

(If you'd like the Supermachine to analyze you, you can do that here. It isn't restricted by etiquette even slightly.)

At the beginning of December, my nephew Zachary (he's 8) sent me a photocopy of a cartoon man that he'd colored using red, blue, and brown crayons. Inside the envelope was a note, telling me the paper man's name ("Flat Stanley") and giving me instructions on what to do with him:

1. Transport Flat Stanley around New York for a couple weeks.
2. Produce photographic and written evidence of your adventures.
3. Mail him back to his home in North Carolina.

The purpose of this exercise was for Zachary to learn about my city through Flat Stanley's eyes, and then relay that information to his second grade class. It was kind of a daunting assignment, to convey the nature of my large and complicated city to a room of 8-year-olds, using only a one-dimensional, grinning prop. I think I tend to see the city in shorthand, concentrating on New York's details, which probably doesn't translate so well for an audience who's been raised amidst subdivisions and shopping malls. Also, perhaps more importantly, I wanted my nephew to think that his Aunt Lisa is awesome.

Sometimes it was tough to hold Flat Stanley taut against the wind while simultaneously obscuring my hand, and it wasn't always easy to position him believably (as he had no back or sides), but we managed. Accustomed to far more unusual behavior, people barely glanced at me as I held Flat Stanley far from my body with my left hand and photographed him with my right. For the record, I refrained from taking any "Flat Stanley: Uncensored" photos, which means that, at 31, I have finally become an adult.

It's weird how objects with a face seem sentient. My rational mind never seems to be able to overcome that phenomenon.

(pictured above: Flat Stanley [with scarf], hailing a taxi; Flat Stanley, making girls laugh at a party)