This makes me feel like 1997 all over again. Not sure why. There’s a weird TMNT-meets-MySoCalledLife-meets-RogerRabbit thing going on that totally smells like that most ubiquitous of all 1990s perfumes- ‘Sunflowers, by Elizabeth Arden.

Great article from last week, examining the rise in nouveau comfort food restaurants, particularly in New York. As always, Bourdain has an interesting – and likely pretty accurate – take on why we’re seeing deliciousness like bacon candy and foie gras donuts on menus more and more. [nytimes/photo:nytimes]

Pimento Cheese – The IM Conversation

me: would you believe me if i told you i just made my own 5-cheese pimento cheese?
im like an urban-commando martha stewart

april: damn girl

me: ha
i wanted a pimento cheese sandwich!

april: what kinda cheese did you use?
and how the beef do you make that?

me: i used cheddar, habanero cheddar, provolone, parmesan and american cheese
shred/cut up into tiny pieces
mix w/ a small spoon of mayo, a small spoon of sour cream, a squirt of mustard
salt, pepper, mix with a spoon
spread on bread, crackers, melt over chips for nachos…

april: yumola!

me: the longer it sits in the fridge, the better
but i had to have a sammy right away

• Scratching bug bites
• Popping Zits
• Giving goose-bump-inducing cranial messages
• Opening the little flap on my cell phone so I can plug in my charger
• Doing that bitchy, impatient finger-tapping thing favored by Bond villains and evil receptionists with waxed upper lips
• Peeling back that stubborn last layer of skin on an onion

Things that are more difficult since I quit biting my nails:

• The two-fingered scroll thingy on the touchpad on my Mac
• Typing in general
• Self-pleasure of the intimate kind
• Painting my nails (really? REALLY? seems unfair)
• Picking my nose

You know, I should probably just send this to my therapist and save us both an hour this week.

ARTIST: The Good The Bad
TRACK: 026
SIDE DISH: Raw and Spicy Surf Rock for the Boozy Floozy in all of us. Their songs don’t have lyrics because, as they put it, “we couldn’t find [a singer] that would stand behind the drummer. But we don’t need a vocalist anyway. The music speaks for itself. We use the music so we don’t have to say I Love You.” Idealism is so charming when viewed with the hindsight of a hardened cynic.

ARTIST: Mon Khmer
TRACK: Birthplace
SIDE DISH: These boys – nay, men – out of Brooklyn are the aural equivalent of the socially-awkward nerd from high school who grew up to be the sexy architect in the tight, dark jeans at your reunion, unironically sipping a Sazerac and fiddling with his long, curly hair: intriguingly complicated, yet reassuringly honest about this whole situation we call life. Swoon!

ARTIST: The Drums
TRACK: Forever & Ever Amen
SIDE DISH: I always love it when my UK peeps turn me onto a band from Brooklyn I’ve never heard of before. What the What?

ARTIST: Wolf Gang
TRACK: The King & All of His Men
SIDE DISH: This is some synthy shit, even for me, and they’re really just a Euro-trashed derivative of The Killers, but I’ve a feeling I’ll be jamming out to this all summer. Do the tribal beats here make anyone else want to reenact the Anteater Mating Ritual from “Can’t Buy Me Love?”

ARTIST: Midnight Lion
TRACK: I Will Be King
SIDE DISH: Some more synthy fluff that I clearly have a hankerin’ for. I don’t know, I can’t explain it! But enjoy.

The story is actually a very mundane reminder of the always-constant rose-colored light thrown over my interactions in the industry. You see, I have a vagina. I’m what some (myself included) would at various times refer to as a “girl,” a “chick,” a “woman,” and, you know, a “bitch.” I am all of those things every now and then, and lots of other things, too. But from a very early age, I realized there was a certain freedom that came with at least an outward appearance of selective androgyny. In second grade, during attendance on the first day, I proudly informed my teach that I would no longer be known as Kristen – or, sigh, Krissy Jo – but Kris. Short, perfunctory even, and definitely a boy’s name, especially in 1980s Texas. I’m not sure I even told my parents – I don’t think my mother found out until my annual parent/teacher conference.

I was a tomboy growing up. I preferred overalls nine times out of 10, and failed to find a commensurate joy for pink ruffles as I did for my OshKosh B’Gosh. Don’t get me wrong – I played my fair share of dress up, finally gave in to short skirts and makeup as I got older, but I always held on to that independent streak being a tomboy afforded me. I’ve always been “one of the boys,” always friends with guys, save a few really close and absolutely amazing girlfriends. And when I started working in the music industry, I quickly realized my first name afforded me an initial advantage, particularly when communicating over email: people didn’t realize I was a woman.

At one point, I even started signing everything “k.norv” – partly because one of the bands I worked with had another “Kris-with-a-K” and emails were confusing, partly because I recognized the ambiguity it afforded me. To be honest, there was never a huge advantage to this, short of maybe getting me a few more replies than I might have (there’s a knee-jerk “their manager is a girl? who is she sleeping with?” reaction that can make cold-calls a tad infuriating sometimes), but I did enjoy the “bad ass rock chick” vibe it implied. I even started wearing more masculine clothing to match the image: narrow-cut t-shirts, skinny black jeans, black leather jacket, no pink, no cleavage, no ruffles, maybe the occasional flash of leg (I’ve got nice ones, sue me).

And then one day at work (boutique music management company), I got ripped a new one because my tone was inappropriate in an email. I freely admit, it wasn’t a pleasant email, nor should it have been: the co-manager was delinquent in getting signed documents back to us, and we all stood to lose a nice chunk of change. It was an email sent at the direction of my boss – the very one who refused to back me up when the email recipient took offense to my tone.

Now here’s where it gets interesting: I’d been writing the emails for one of my co-workers for a few days while he was on the road. He didn’t have WiFi, and we were essentially trying to keep chain-of-command for certain projects in tact while he was away. Bottom line: “his” tone in those emails was never questioned, many of them dealing with the same issue I was taking a stab at when I sent the apparently offensive email from my own account.

So what did I do? I got really pissed off, actually. And then I decided, to be a bitch, that I would continue to write my emails the way I had been, and throw in a few happy faces, unnecessary exclamation marks and the like. I sat there thinking “I am a snarky bitch!” and mentally high-fiving myself for being more-or-less an immature high schooler. Nyah-Nyah-Boo-Boo. Phhwsthp.

And then of course, it worked. You saw that coming didn’t you? I sadly didn’t. I’m usually quite smart, swears! And a few months later, when a production team I was working with had the same complaint, it worked again. My wording and tone never changed. I literally write my emails, and then go back and add and !! and HA! all over the damn place.

Of course,  by “playing the game,” I’m just allowing it to perpetuate. And this isn’t an “across-the-board” thing in the industry, either, so I’m not claiming wise-spread misogyny. But I’m hoping that my behavior once I get in the door helps convince some that chicks can be taken seriously. Even if they wear pink and have a name like Krissy Jo.

*************************

And now for something completely unrelated:

Ooh Ooh!! I like this band, but just a little bit right now. Might have to see them at Bowery Ballroom in June to really give them a fair shake…

ARTIST: The Happen-Ins
TRACK: “Baby”
SIDE DISH: These Austin kids have swooped in and stolen my heart for Summer 2010 soundtrack-of-choice. So lo-fi they don’t even have a video on YouTube that’s worth linking, these fellow Texans play into the down-home Southern rock hands of most nearly everyone I know who has a soft-spot for sitting at the lake with an icy Shiner in hand. You heard me right – this band even makes me want to drink beer. THE HORROR! Head over to their Myspace page to get your boot-stompin’ fix in. Every track’s a keeper.

ARTIST: Sir Silky
TRACK: “The Squeeze”

SIDE DISH: Another Texas artist, I first encountered Sir Silky ten years ago, back when he was just our friend Cheyenne. Now he’s a glam-star, singing about his mother and prostitutes! Big things on the horizon for this one – can’t wait to get him up to New York!

ARTIST: Laura Ault
TRACK: “Rendezvous”
SIDE DISH: Aaaand, since we’re on the topic of Texas artists I know and love, let’s chat a bit about Laura Ault, shall we? Full disclosure: I manage the lovely lady, so I’ll keep the editorializing to a minimum But with a voice mature beyond her years, and a cheeky sense of humor to match, Laura has yet to  send anyone running, except toward the nearest record store. Come check her out at Crash Mansion, this Saturday, May 1, 2010!

It’s been ages. Months even. And I’ve got a back-log of links, videos and foodie-excursions to share… so why no posts?

Because I’m a big pansy.

I get major apprehension and anxiety before posting on this thing, and I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around “why” for a few weeks now. I initially chalked it up to some confidence issues that have been plaguing me for the last 6 months or so, and I still think that’s part of it. Life threw me one of those big, massive, “Oh, so you think you’ve got it all worked out, do you? Silly, silly girl!” parties that She is wont to do once or twice in everyone’s life, and it made me question everything and everyone around me, including my own inner monologue. I still have issues trusting other people for fear of getting burned, but somehow it’s the inability to trust myself and my own judgment that has really lingered, despite weekly visits with my therapist, aka Mr-Rogers-Meets-Jim-Henson-with-a-side-of-Bob-Ross-Thrown-In.

He actually looks just like one of my high school boyfriends’ fathers. It is vaguely… comforting. Don’t judge.

Regardless, I’m sick of being scared to sell myself – to not just create, but share me, as a ‘thing’ wholly independent from the artists, the friends and the creative projects I advocate. I spend my whole life evangelizing someone else’s ‘product,’ be it an album, a web app or a brand as a whole; when it comes to making a ‘product’ myself, and then going the extra step and sharing it with the world, hoping someone takes a liking… well, what if no one does?

Now comes the twisted part: Instead of staring that fear directly in the face, I circled the issue a bit, sizing things up, and decided the real reason I don’t write on this damn blog is, well… I guess I just don’t see how what I say is of any interest to anyone else.

Seriously – I just spent the last ten minutes simultaneously writing this post and thinking “who the hell is ever going to read all this self-indulgent drivel, and, you know, ENJOY it?” It feels like… masturbating in front of a bunch of strangers. Is this what porn stars go through, when they spread ‘em in front of the camera those first few months?

So here I am, making a case (to myself and anyone else who will listen) these last few weeks that I don’t blog because I find the exhibitionism and egoism inherent in the very act to be grotesque and unattractive. EXCEPT – that’s not really why I don’t blog at all. I don’t blog because I’m scared I will make an ass of myself, and my psyche can’t handle the imaginary rejection I am convinced is imminent.

What a bunch of horseshit. FUCK it.

Here’s to being a little self-indulgent, even a bit – dare I say it – masturbatory for a while. I’ve got an ego to stroke, and there’s no shame in stroking your own every now and then. Amirite?

MMMMusic MMMMorsel of the Day:

ARTIST: Janelle Monae
Web: www.myspace.com/janellemonae

Look no further than Bayou Recipes, a quirky little website that’s happy to fill you in on the best of  N’awlins soul food, including okra stew, redneck rice, and, uh… armadillo in mustard sauce. GULP.

I love you, Internet!

Thanks to the NYPost for bringing this to everyone’s attention…