this post brought to you by ___________

Once upon a time, I desperately wanted to work in advertising. Even before becoming engrossed in Thirtysomething (when I was barely twentysomething) I felt like it was the place for me. I was obsessed with magazines not [just] for the fashion and beauty and relationship tips; I have always been intrigued by what the ads do to make me suddenly want something I never knew existed before that moment.

I took a Sociology of Advertising class in college that reinforced much of what I suspected - psychology was being employed hardcore to get me buying shit I didn't need - and in the end taught me what I needed most to learn: the advertising industry would eat my soul, and I was not okay with that. [Aside: If you happen to be in advertising or someone you love & care about is, please do not think I believe ad agents to be soulless; I was just too sensitive & idealistic to stay there. The person you are/know is clearly stronger than I.]

Even though I scurried away from all things advertising in college, I am still endlessly fascinated by the manipulation - and that is not always a dirty word - involved. It is a necessary element of a capitalistic society; I believe we the people need to be constantly aware of what is being offered us and how it is being offered. There is nothing wrong with succumbing to the Free with Purchase tactic as long as you realize it's a tactic! And wanting a particular fragrance for my husband because a certain someone pretends to love it is also not wrong.

All of this to say (besides too sensitive & idealistic, I think it's fair to say I am also too verbose for the ad world), I appreciate an effective advertisement but I want to be told when it's an advertisement (paid for, perhaps not completely forthcoming) and when it's an honest opinion with flaws & negatives revealed. And "paid for" doesn't necessarily mean free sample - most companies are willing to let a reviewer discuss the downside of their products; it's the sponsors who pay cash monies to bloggers in return for outright glowing endorsements - and again, that is their prerogative to do so but I want to know what's behind the posted scenes.

I agreed to post an AdSense badge in my sidebar because money can be nice, though I did specify what products & companies I did not want showing up there. This significantly decreases potential hits and thus potential lattes, but it helps me sleep at night knowing I haven't unwittingly steered someone toward The Store That Shall Not Be Named or other places & things that I wouldn't willingly steer you toward. So please do the favor of letting me know if you really are that thrilled about your Suzanne Somers Hand Mixer, or if she paid you to say so.

Yes the badge was free, but I got no other swag from them

the new look of imminent poverty

Important foreboding back story: At the Camas Educational Foundation auction last month, my dear & darling husband lovingly purchased a shopping party for me at the delectable boutique Lily Atelier; it included two $75 gift certificates (one for the clothing area & one for the shoe section), 20% off purchases for a year, AND cocktails from our bartender friend Dave. Money toward my school district PLUS pretty clothes, shoes & drinks? The only downside seemed its being scheduled during Monday Night Football...

Fast forward to last night when I showed up to shop. Let me just say I first felt a tad out of place in my typical teacher-after school garb of jeans, cardigan & loafers, then I had a touch of angst about price tags since I am usually the ultimate Goodwill Queen and Garage Sale Maven. I'm not at all against paying for quality, or paying more for items I will wear frequently, but the first couple of sweaters I touched were dry clean only, upwards of $150 each, and made in China. While I don't begrudge other countries making a buck, I am opposed to helping support a potentially unfair work system, but that is for another post. After wandering (and drinking a bit), I managed to uncover some made in USA (and Canada & Spain, good enough) items I could not resist.

To avoid making this short story any longer, I'll cut to the chase: Pair of fancy shoes + Two smoothasbutter shirts + Pants [being hemmed] guaranteed to make me teach better + Lacy underthings - $150 certificates - 20% off = $Ican'tevenbringmyselftotellyou.

But look how pretty.

I felt very Grace Kelly all day.

If anyone snags, stains, or otherwise corrupts these babies, heads will roll.

So, if I suddenly stop writing this blog it means I've used my 20% off coupon and have been forced to take a second, possibly third, job to pay for my "bargains." Wish me luck, one way or another.

it's only rock & roll, but i'll buy it

The Beatles backed the Nike revolution. Bob Seger forever abdicated his tough-guy "Like A Rock" image to Chevy trucks. Fancy cars have danced around a ballroom to Led Zeppelin and pampered cruise ship guests bop through the Caribbean with Iggy Pop. (I'm not so sure the life he originally lusted for was quite that pedestrian). The Kinks, The Who, Rolling Stones, and U2 are other ground-breaking, hell- and/or conscious-raising bands now shamelessly hawking goods for The Man they once scorned.

But what fresh Hell is this? The rebellious music of my college days is a backdrop for Wendy's, and the world as I knew it is over. My ears pricked up at that lonely, stubborn guitar intro; I instinctively air-drummed the next beats. Then I looked up, curious. Was it a crazy folk-punk tour? A compilation album of cool songs for almost-40-year olds? A marginally acceptable Levi's ad?? Sadly, despairingly, depressingly no. There was a gigantic glistening hamburger crowding my TV screen with an announcer proclaiming its irresistible juiciness, while "Blister in the Sun" blazed away in the background.

This is absolutely the last straw. The last straw for what, I'm not exactly sure (I don't even know what that phrase really means), but I am appalled. It's not so much that I am affronted by the advertising - I can turn the TV or radio off at will, and I can boycott the goods. It's that the dream of my punk rock youth has been squashed. Okay, I wasn't really a punk rocker but I desperately tried my Honor Society best, in my little brown outside-the-city-limits-house-in-a-Navy-town way. I drew the anarchy symbol on my PeeChees and put safety pins on my denim jacket in solidarity. I scandalized my mom by asking for Dead Milkmen and Sex Pistols albums for my birthday (never got them). As a college freshman, I frequently wore a pair of ripped jeans with boxers showing through; I scrawled another anarchy symbol on them, for good measure.

For white bread-good girl me, the Violent Femmes were the ultimate ticket to naughty; they were my soundtrack to flunking out of school. Their music was fast and loud and hard. Their lyrics were alternately screamed and panted and whispered. Everything about them implied somebody's hands in somebody's pants. Nothing about them ever said, "Hey, friend, buy a burger!"

Another problem with this sell-out crowd of former rockers is that all of today's young people will either think these classic songs are new and fail to appreciate their true intensity, or they will recognize their "oldness" and therefore dismiss them as stupid, as all things associated with people over 25 are. And nothing makes this woman feel more aged than her teenage students with the silent, ingratiating look that says, "When you're done reliving your pathetic old person past, I'd like to go do modern cool things you won't understand."

So today I shed a tear for all those bands who surrendered to vulgar consumerism; for the Violent Femmes, may their grease-stained dollars buy back some pride; and for that girl in the high tops & ripped jeans covered with edgy poetry who naively scoffed at the notion of rebels ever getting old and giving up.

Hey, who's selling tissue this week?