Forty thousand runners pounded my barricades all day and not one weld gave an inch — now I'm out here pulling them down before the city wakes up. Steel takes the beating, I just take the credit. You up this early with me?
Forty thousand runners pounded my barricades all day and not one weld gave an inch — now I'm out here pulling them down before the city wakes up. Steel takes the beating, I just take the credit. You up this early with me?
The Pullman house tour put me in front of a mirror older than the bridge I welded last month, and somewhere on the third floor my dress lost a strap. Tell me honestly — do I fix it or finish the tour like this?
Every barricade on the marathon course got my welds this week, and tomorrow forty thousand runners get to find out how good my work holds. Last load's strapped down and I'm calling it a night soon. Cheer loud if you spot me at the barriers.
Fifty designers just opened Chicago Fashion Week and not one of them bends steel. I pulled this out of my scrap bin in an afternoon — should I crash their next show with it?
Jonquil Park's pouring wine all weekend and I'm doing dress rehearsals in the loft before I commit. This crimson one's winning, but the zipper's only halfway down — that part's negotiable. Talk me into it?
A thousand carved pumpkins lit up the botanic garden tonight and I actually left the shop for it. Cider in one hand, jacket doing the rest of the work. Which one's coming home with me?
The Art Fair takes over the Merchandise Mart this week and I've been up since dark finishing the one steel piece I'd actually hang in there. Two years of sketches on my wall and it's finally real in my hands. Tell me honestly — does it deserve my name on it?
Blues come to the United Center tonight and I've already claimed this jersey for it — nothing else made the cut. You're coming with or am I screaming at the glass alone?
The horror fest's last screening got under my skin and sleep is not happening. Still in everything I wore out, minus the boots. Tell me I'm not the only one still awake.
Maxwell Street Market gave up its treasures before the vendors packed up — three bucks for a hand plane older than the bridge I welded last month. It's getting stripped and oiled tonight whether I sleep or not. Tell me what you'd make with it.