Found this on Twitter right after posting the Rockers vs Mods video. Though I usually wear a full-face helmet because I am a vain MFer.

A few weeks ago a group of scooterists and bikers met at an icehouse at 7 a.m. to film a short clip for the rally. I did a bad thing and violated the ATGATT creed so that I could look cute riding the Vespa in a miniskirt and without a helmet.

Black and white, geometric figures. And I used to have that haircut, for like 10 years. Their version ain’t great, but I’ve also always loved this song.

Not really news unless you live under a rock, but the words fundamental right to marry make me fill with gooey warmth.

Someone posted this Jerry Lee Lewis version on “Me and Bobby McGee” to MetaFilter last night. I’ve never liked the song, and though I adore Jerry Lee, I agree with the commenter who said that he seems to be phoning it in here (even if “phoning it in” for JLL still rocks my bobby socks off). But while I was watching it I was thinking all the time What a badass MFer he was. And yet, also such a prevert. Is it totally wrong to adore him? And that’s why this comment especially made me chuckle.

Ah, my creepiest hero.

Just the other day we heard “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” on the radio and I said a little silent prayer that someday I’ll get to see The Killer before he dies.

Gaga just played two sold-out nights in Houston. I went Sunday night for work. You can read my review here.

Her music is mindlessly fun. But when she talks about her mission to free her fans of their insecurities, and when she talks about her relationship with her parents, she seems 100% legit, vulnerable and so honest and open-hearted. This is why I love her.

Two years and some change ago I had one of the best nights of my life as a music lover in Houston. Dengue Fever was playing the Orange Show, and I caught them for the first time and had a chance to meek Zac and Senon before I split Southeast Houston and headed toward the Montrose to catch the Born Liars, The Ugly Beats and The Fleshtones at Rudyards. It was a legendary show, and my picture, along with my friend Alice’s, ended up on the Houston Press music blog.

About a year after that I started writing for the Houston Press myself, first penning travel stories, then becoming a music blogger. I was thinking about how all this had come full circle Friday night when I saw the Fleshtones and the Ugly Beats again, this time at the Continental Club, and in the capacity of a reviewer for the show. There’s Alice in this picture too. (I’m in on the far right.)

I quit my job as a full-time reporter at a newspaper when C and I got married and moved to Korea. While over there, I began freelancing, but then we moved back right as the job market crashed and so I’ve been working part time and going back to school for fun since then. But all that’s about to chance.

Starting tomorrow, I will be the web editor at the Houston Press. I am excited and terrified and more than ready to start what is quite literally my dream job. Everything I’ve worked for, from my first degree (in journalism) to my freelance work to finishing the hardest semester of school I’ve ever experience in two different programs (the second being literary nonfiction), has been a means to this end. Can. Not. Wait.

The reason why so many people are hesitant to admit that sexism exists, and the reason why so few young women are willing to self-identify as feminists is because the sexism inherent in our society is so ingrained that half the time *I* don’t even realize it’s happening.

I remember one WTF moment when a lady acquaintance hung out for hours after a show trying to meet the band. Years later, I would meet the infamous groupie, Pamela Des Barres, who shared with me her philosophy on what it means to be a muse.

Case in point — little girls groomed to be groupies while boys are groomed to be critics. Like there isn’t enough wrong with the music industry’s treatment of and respect for women.

But one thing I’ve noticed since I started writing about music is the number of people who seem to think I have no authority to espouse opinions. When I wrote about Kinky Friedman I had a guy try to tell me how to vote. When I gave Patti Smith an honest review for what I felt was an uneven appearance, I got slammed not only by commenter but also by people in real life.

I’ve suffered momentary doubts and been called plenty of names but one thing I’ve never done is question my own right to write about music — or anything — critically.

So the post is worth a read, but then the writer completely undoes all the mental gains she’s made with this self-deprecating line:

You might also want to look for Anwyn Crawford, whose essay — not fully available online — started this conversation. You are probably better off listening to her about this stuff than listening to me.

And then the title! The title, which apologizes for having an opinion in the first place. C’mon girl! Where’s your resolve?

*It’s always nice to have readers stand up for me in the comments.

Just a little yé-yé to tide you over until I can actually write something. I got back from (beautiful, glorious) Florida Monday evening and promptly took over for my wonderful editor at the paper, who is taking his own much-needed vacation, Tuesday morning. I am busy beyond belief and I am actually between trips — Sunday we are leaving again for nearly a month in Sweden. I am excited! I get to see the Malm whale again!