A Letter to the AFL-CIO.

This morning, I heard a story on NPR about how a new advertising campaign is being tested in Pittsburgh to highlight how people are working together through the AFL-CIO to create a neighborhood that creates a nation. This ad was simple and tactful: highlighting how each of us is a piece that fits into the puzzle that is the United States. A real tear-jerker...if you're into that sort of thing.

My father retired from the mill (what mill doesn't matter, it could be any mill. Couldn't it?) last year, and Mom continues to work on the non-union end of the same company where Dad retired. Dad's got a decent pension plan, but is permanently disabled from his work there. They believe in the power of unions to make a better life for workers. They believe in the power of an organization to create a union that provides a living wage and safe working conditions to its employees. They marched in the Labor Day parade under their local number x. They're some real goddamned Patriots. 

My husband came home from a contract job (his second) in Iraq this September where he serviced vehicles and machinery for the military for seven days a week, twelve hours a day. It was hot and merciless and he came home only once in a year. We were grateful though, because this was the only job that he could find that came to providing a living wage for our family, while still allowing us to pay our insane student loan bills and put any money away for a rainy day (you know, like now). He's home now. He's jobless. Without job. On unemployment like the 8.3% of the nation that is actually reported for the 8.3% statistic. Even with my mother's recommendation at the mill, he can't even get an interview for any job there. Don't worry, though, the rampant nepotism that fills the union jobs ensures that the sons, cousins, and dog walkers of the men already in the union will have jobs for years to come. How is this enriching America in the way that your advertising campaign cries? I suppose that getting your bratty kid a job is the way America works now. So really, good job guys!

My own brush with union work is just as enriching. I tested and was accepted into a local here in Pittsburgh, where I began an apprenticeship program whilst studying to become a journeyman. This local hired tons and tons of first-year apprentices and paid them nothing (I made more working at that devil Starbucks. You know, the one that won't unionize.), while their four-year apprentices were laid-off. Seasoned journeymen had to deal with greenhorns mucking up the jobsite and not even having the basic skills to really aid the site and the work, while fourth-year apprentices with experience and poise collected unemployment checks. Union execs sat in their offices with cherry desks and autographed baseballs in glass cases, whilst men and women shuffled to find ways to live on sixty percent of their income. When I handed my tools back to this man, I could see that the calluses on his hands had softened a long time ago and his head was harder than ever.

I can understand that your cause is a noble one, but not for our family. My parents and I differ greatly on what the union has done for our family and we are but one of the crowd that you wish to reach with this advertising. Good Luck with that. While there are plenty of men and women that you have “helped,” keep in mind that your campaign will not touch my jobless husband. Blame it on the economy if you want, but your campaign has clearly pointed out that we’re all in this together. Where will your culpability lie?

Civically Angelic

I'm sure that anyone that isn't housed under a rock has already heard about the scandal that has engulfed Penn State. Apparently, a former coach has been arrested and charged with sexually assaulting eight children over the last fifteen years, while heading a football program for school-aged students. Along with these charges, two other Penn State administrators are being charged with covering up the abuse and not reporting this coach's actions to the authorities, and then lying about knowing about it before he was arrested.  The entire story and the charges can be found here and the actions, the cover up and the charges for must be completely horrifying to all of the families of the victims and the accused.

I am not going to go into specifics about how heinous these crimes are, because we all know they are. Parents entrust their children to someone that claims to be helping them, only to find that he's a lecherous criminal. Even though I'm not a parent, I can understand the torment that that must be for them. My point of dissension is with the author of the article that informed me of this scandal: Dan Wetzel.

Wetzel's article, "Paterno statement in abuse case raises more questions," all but places the severity of these charges solely on Paterno as a celebrity, rather than the Coach Gerald Arthur "Jerry" Sandusky or the administrators involved in the cover-up. In both the Attorney General's and Wetzel's articles, they recount how a graduate student had found Sandusky in a sexual act with a boy that looked to be only ten years old. That student then presented what he had seen to Paterno, and Paterno then forwarded this information on to Athletic Director Tim Curley, one of the men charged along with Sandusky. Wetzel, and I'm sure many others, are singling-out Paterno, saying that he should've promptly called the police and followed-up the Athletic Department's actions against Sandusky. Wetzel implies that just by the size of Paterno's fame, that he should be compelled to see justice to the end and do more than just release a statement to the media about the magnitude of these crimes.

I have a hard time believing that just because someone is more famous than someone else, that their civic duties are any grander than any other private citizen. If you actually think about the chain of events that surround this case, you can see that if Paterno did report these findings to the police, he would be reporting hearsay, which is groundless and, if incorrect, can ruin someone's life. Basically, it would go something like this, "I talked to a guy that saw a guy do this." What the hell? That's not evidence. Eventually an investigation was made because of accusations brought to light when Sandusky was coaching at another facility. One conversation, though, should hardly lead to an arrest, and if it does, Lord help the justice system and the boatloads of innocent people rotting behind bars.

Paterno's statement says, "...but he at no time related to me the very specific actions contained in the Grand Jury report. Regardless, it was clear that the witness saw something inappropriate involving Mr. Sandusky. As Coach Sandusky was retired from our coaching staff at that time, I referred the matter to university administrators." So, Paterno has no idea what actual acts occurred and can only surmise that something serious had occurred, according to the recount of another grown-ass man, Mike McQueary. McQueary, who witnessed these acts, had ever right and duty to report them to the police himself, as he was a first-hand witness to a crime. McQueary should be charged along with those administrators, as he was privy to a most disturbing crime and like Curley and Co., failed to do anything about it.

What Paterno did do, as would any other less-famous head coach, is contract his immediate superior and recount what had been said. McQueary was interviewed by Curley and Co. He recounted what he had viewed and these individuals did nothing to bring a sexual deviant to justice. It is here where the failure to report can really be placed, and that is just where the Attorney General is focusing its attention.

In today society, Celebrities like Charlie Sheen are applauded for their disgustingly base behavior, except for, I guess, when they're catapulted to a pedestal of unrealistic civic elitism.

Occupy Cubicle

I'm sure that it goes without mention that Occupy <Insert Disillusioned City Here> has taken up much of the time and energy of the nation, whether it be the protesters themselves or the news outlets that cover these demonstrations, or the political opposition that rages in disgust of people's ability to gather and occupy for the eradication of corporate businesses.

Now that National Public Radio is basically the only way that I receive news updates, I've enjoyed the in-depth and non-biased coverage of this growing nation-wide dilemma. Previously, people were interviewed at the Occupy Grand Rapids demonstration and I got to hear of the plight (and by plight, I mean something that people have had to do for years) of a college graduate that waits tables while he writes a book about the usage of the English language. This young man still works and pays his bills, but does what he can to come down and demonstrate in his off-time. I turned this situation over and over in mind, while trying to formulate an opinion about how I feel about this growing phenomena of people occupying space in order to convey a message that they're tired of corporate greed and 1% of the population controlling almost all of the wealth. They want a new way to run businesses in this country. It's a commendable notion.

At first, I was irritated at the notion of Occupy Wall Street. How could people that have both the time and the money to sit in New York City of days without end...possibly understand the plight of a middle-management cog at the corporate branch of XYZ bank in Sheboygan, Wisconsin? As the Occupy movement branched out, though, I felt hope that there were people like me occupying the streets in search of a better world. Then, a website was established where could send people the things that they were requesting in order to continue to occupy.

Fuck You. No, really.

I guess you can really only lash out against the greed of this country as long as you have shampoo and organic fruit, right?

While listening to NPR, a point was made that most of the people that occupy are, in fact, college students because they are afraid of becoming disillusioned with the job opportunities that the world has to offer, because they're unemployed themselves, or because they're generally still wrapped in the swaddle of the wide-eyed idealism that is academia. Whatever the reason, you've made the decision to occupy...somehow, I don't see how it is my responsibility to provide you with the things that you feel you need to so.

There was a sign that I saw at the local magistrate when I was fighting my speeding ticket, and it is a saying that has forever stuck with me:

I should tattoo this pearl of wisdom right across my lower back and do the tramp-stamping world a favor.

I initially started this post several weeks ago but haven't found the time to finish it, because I have two jobs, a marriage, a home, and a life to tend...the things that seem to suck political activism right out of a person. I'm ashamed of myself in that regard, because I often find myself too tired to care and too disillusioned to not be too tired. Voter apathy strikes again.

I still, though, spend a considerable amount of time listening to National Public Radio and really trying to gain insight into what both sides of this Occupy <Blank> must be feeling and try to relate to the overall message of creating an economical system that could benefit everyone. Most recently, a group of protesters in Oakland have caused a shut-down of the port there, and have defaced some property. If people that are tired of the poverty that seems to be engulfing the middle class, why would they shut-down a business that employs hundreds of people? Whether you disagree with their business model or not, those people still have to work. They still have families to take care of and they still have lives to lead. Why do you feel as thought you can make decisions for them about when they're going to work? Why deface property in the middle of the night like some kind of passive-aggressive dickless wonder?

I'm all for a violent upheaval, but if you're going to do it, you need to really level it and build it up again, ala Fight Club. This petty spray-painting bullshit is better left to trust-fund kids with art degrees and a smug sense of self-worth.

When I occupy my cubicle and I'm listening to the 24-Hour News Stream, I daydream when I should be working. My heart is often places with the very core of the very first people that occupied Wall Street: those that want to demonstrate that they're tired of the system that is in place and they want money to mean living a good life and not necessarily power. My anger also finds its way there, too. It rests on the shoulders of those short-sighted individuals that smash a window now because they think they're making a difference. In the long run, that is what history will remember, if it remembers Occupy Wall Street at all.

...black plastic...

My neighbor died this week.

I'm not really sure when, but our downstairs neighbor said that they took him away on a stretcher and he already looked dead.

We hadn't heard a thing, but saw family that we'd never seen before...taking bag after bag out of his apartment to their vans. The rest were lined in a row beside the building. Big, black plastic bags with blue ties.

They told me that the garbage bags would go tomorrow, when the dumpster arrived to cart everything out.

The frost had defeated Operation: Grandma Garden, and my neighbor's tomatoes were still tied up and green. While I was cutting and bagging stem after stem of frozen and dead coleus, impatiens and zinnia, my hands were freezing and growing redder.

A woman came out and locked eyes with me. I said that I didn't know what happened, but that I could help.

"My Dad passed away."

"Well, I can clean out all of the plants if you want."

"That would be awesome."

I'd never seen her before. Never at Christmas, Thanksgiving, or Easter. Never on Birthdays, Sunday dinners or Father's Day. Just today.

My downstairs neighbor said that alcohol was what was going to kill him. Her daughter said loneliness.

Probably both.

It's only speculation.

I'll Show You Lovin' Like You Never Knew

The numerous months that I have neglected one of my favorite pastimes, ranting on this blog about the numerous unchangeable and unfair truths of modern society, are both shameful and inexcusable to the fast-paced world of the internets and its, “information superhighway...” whatever the hell that means.

I’ve become the thing that I fear and hate most in the world: the kind of person that lets their work interfere with the things that they sincerely care about. Being a cube drone hasn’t been nearly as soul-sucking as it has been with positions in the past (that, I feel, is the direct result of the fact that I do not have to talk to anyone all day, unless I want to), but I find that while my soul is intact, my time is not. This complete lack of communication with a piece of the internet that I raised from a small page of raucous babble to a sincere and unrelenting look through my eyes onto the modern world makes me feel like a mother that has turned the cubs out of the den way too soon.

All of the apologies and the ridiculously large delusions of grandeur I have about a fucking blogger blog aside, I’m really going to try to make an effort to translate the hatred of modernity and the little time I have to spend with my now-returned husband in our seemingly normal and routine life into some kind of readable and amusing missive…more than just once a month.

This sudden need to write again has been dredged up by a few things. First, the ability for my mind to wander whilst I'm sitting in the cube. I've hatched the most insane fantasies of brocade outfits, saucy henchmen in wintry tales: tales that would enrapture freaks and norms, alike. Those tales will probably never make it to paper, though, because there is something that must be discussed, at great length, before any of my perverse tomes come to life. That, my good readers (well, who still reads Frou Frou Shit? I haven't been around forever, and I wouldn't blame you if you all unsubscribed and threw rocks at me), is Butt Rock.

Dustin and I were driving home from being out and about last night (where I got an awesome pair of kitten-heeled boots that have quenched my years-long desire for a pair of boots that fit), when we started to discuss this elusive beast. It is not secret that rock genres are completely and ridiculously micro-managed. I mean, check this out. What you will not find, though, is a listing or an explanation for this genre that we all know, but we're not sure that we know who's in it or what it means or how long it's been around or how long it will be a part of our lives.

Urban Dictionary has so many different definitions that are quite astounding, but do not completely capture the majesty of Butt Rock. This one is probably my favorite, even if incomplete:

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	Butt rock
	A genre of rock music that has had different meanings over time, but which generally describes bands who meet the following criteria: 1. The music is driven primarily by power chords, and focuses less on complexity and musical talent and more on radio-friendliness and the emotional impact it has on listeners. As such, butt rock has never been a hit with critics, but it has always enjoyed mainstream popularity. 2. The songs fit into one of two molds -- hard-rocking tracks designed to get the crowd pumped and "rocking out," or slower power ballads that are meant to attract female fans. Both types of songs are best played in an arena, which is why they are popular at pro wrestling events. 3. The subject matter of the lyrics tends to be about kicking ass, getting laid, auto racing, hedonism, and other "manly" subjects. Rebellion is also a common theme, with authority figures like cops, teachers, and parents all being portrayed as not understanding their needs. The exception is the aforementioned power ballads, which are often about loss, love, drug abuse, and other, "heavier" subjects. The lyrics in both types of songs are often misogynistic, with women portrayed as either sex objects, harpies, or home-wreckers. 4. The fanbase tends to be frat boys and working-class men between the ages of 16 and 40. In the '80s, butt rock was used to describe the mainstream hair metal bands that were popular on MTV, such as Twisted Sister, Motley Crue, Whitesnake, Scorpions, and Poison. This type of music was popular from the early-mid '80s through the first years of the '90s, when it was driven out by grunge. In the late '90s, butt rock made a comeback in the form of post-grunge. Bands like Creed, Nickelback, Hinder, Staind, Puddle of Mudd, Daughtry, and others came to dominate the modern rock radio charts. These bands had similar music to the above-mentioned hair bands, but wrapped it in a radio-friendly grunge flavoring. This type of rock music has persisted in popularity into the present day. The name "butt rock" has a few possible origins. First, in the 1980s, the musicians in many hair metal bands often dressed in a "glam" style, wearing tight pants that would accentuate their butts. (This may also be the origin of the term "cock rock," which has the same connotations, as the tight pants would also accentuate the musicians' crotches.) A less flattering origin for the name is that the lead singers of these bands sounded like they were singing out of their asses. Finally, the term can generally mean that the music sounds like ass. Dude, turn off that butt rock. We're not at the gym.

 

 In order to completely capture what Butt Rock means to America (actually, to go off on a tangent for a minute, Butt Rock...actually IS America. It's loud, tasteless and no one with a lick of style and class really likes it. It's pointless and cruel. It's a purple 1981 Camaro with t-tops. Actually, probably the biggest fans of Butt Rock still drive Camaros with t-tops), we must look at the one song that captures every emotion and every caress:

Foreigner's, "Hot Blooded," is one of those songs that most people like, although they're not sure why they like it, because if someone released that song today, everyone would be totally irritated with how it talked about women (I guess, though, it's nothing compared to artists like Wiz Khalifa) and what a crappy guitar riff it has. As I've discussed in a previous entry about the evolution of a song (you can find that entry here), and I'm certain that this song has not lost its kitsch value, or its ability to make people instantly burst into a rockin' routine that could rival any of the assholes on that goddamned show Glee.

Foreigner has managed to capture the womanizing, while Nazareth's, "Hair of The Dog," captures the cowbell and, by definition, Butt Rock's listener's need to tell everyone in earshot how fucking badass they are:

Butt Rock's Urban Dictionary definition, although poignant, misses the entire essence: Irony. Butt Rock is defined by the fact that it rocks out so hard that it really doesn't fucking rock at all. Think about it. While we can probably all agree that we enjoy a bit o' Foreigner, .38 Special and Whitesnake, we can't help but realize that they don't really Rock in the way that actual Rock n Roll rocks. They rock out with a powerful irony that is only really lost on the people that have never actually listened to any other music (this is probably why Van Halen is still so goddamned popular in Pittsburgh and people treat them like they just came out last week).

If Butt Rock were a sensation, it would be what spandex feels like against your genitals: foreign, sweat-inducing and shiny. I blame the crunchy guitar that seems to litter ever song that graces the Butt Rock Hall o' Fame.

I'm sure your next question is, "What other songs would fall into this diverse and almost-forgotten genre?" That is a fantastic question! While there are some bands that have managed to have their entire repertoire fall into this category (the aforementioned Foreigner), there are some half-decent artists that have recorded a few songs that have passed the point of no return:

1. "Feel Like Makin' Love," by Bad Company. Paul Rodgers is one of my favorite vocalists (no, really. He's awesome and receives very little credit for it.), but this song is just a little too....well, Butt Rock. I blame the guitar riff breakdown in front of the chorus.

2. "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," by Pat Benetar. Jesus. This song tries to turn the tables on misogynistic Butt Rock, but manages to set Rock n Roll ladies back...simultaneously. "Before I put another notch in my lipstick case, you better make sure you put me in my place." Oh, fuck off.

3. "Come Again," by The Damn Yankees. What the hell was Ted Nugent thinking when he signed up with these assholes? Uncle Ted clearly needed some cash to get out of another underage lady scandal.

3. "Fly By Night," by Rush. Just kidding. They were never half-decent. Progessive Rock's retarded half-brother has managed to slide into Butt Rock. At least Geddy Lee had the decency to make the theme song to, "Strange Brew," which should be the Canadian National Anthem. heh. Take off, you hosers.

Wait, what the hell was I talking about?

It Won't Be Long Until We'll All Be There With Snow

It never ceases to amaze me how much listening to music can really enrich my life. No matter what I'm feeling, I've always been able to find a song that fits just swimmingly.

Lately, the heat has really gotten to me. I sit in the cube, looking out the window and stewing about how I can see little heat lines in the air. Those little heat lines that steal your breath, make you sweat and make tacky people think that tube tops are appropriate attire for non-beach situations. I hate those heat lines. I hate their little heat line guts. When it all seems to be too much, I hop on YouTube and listen to some Irving Berlin. I can't believe how refreshing this song can be when you're sweltering and grumpy.

"Snow," from White Christmas

When I'm feeling utterly depressed and loving it. When I'm simply revelling in how fucking miserable I am, I can't help but put this one on repeat until either I'm feeling slightly more jaunty, or until I'm tired of hearing it. Even Morrissey can wear out his maudlin welcome. With that being said, when I'm sick of this song...I'm usually on to another Morrissey/Smiths song. Except "Meat is Murder." That song sucks.

The Smiths, "Asleep"

When I'm in the most jovial mood and almost laughing at nothing at all (it's probably some kind mental disorder), there are some many songs that I can't help by smile about. I blame The Simpsons for making this song stick out in my mind, because it's being featured in a particularly hilarious scene made it unforgettable. Pairing this with Herb Alpert's "Spanish Flea," and you'll be sure to find that my head would explode with joy and happiness. I feel like this is the closest thing to knowing what it's like to be Buddy the Elf. "I like smiling. Smiling's my favorite."

Lesley Gore's "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows"

Finally, I was at the thrift store the other day, feeling alright (I guess) and I heard this song and I didn't know WHAT to feel. I was upset and enthused and scary and confused. Someone please help me understand this song. It's one of those songs that makes you feel like some big rock breakdown is going to occur...but never does. Kind of like every song by Phil Collins. F-U Phil Collins.

Al Stewart's "Time Passages."

(He probably should've just stuck to "Year of the Cat," so that Psapp could do an awesome cover.)

YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP. HEARING'S GONE. LONG STORY. GOT THESE THINGS CRANKED UP TO THE MAX.

Diane, 7:30 am, February twenty-fourth. Entering town of Twin Peaks. Five miles south of the Canadian border, twelve miles west of the state line. Never seen so many trees in my life. As W.C. Fields would say, I'd rather be here than Philadelphia. It's fifty-four degrees on a slightly overcast day. Weatherman said rain. If you could get paid that kind of money for being wrong sixty percent of the time it'd beat working. Mileage is 79,345, gauge is on reserve, I'm riding on fumes here, I've got to tank up when I get into town. Remind me to tell you how much that is. Lunch was $6.31 at the Lamplighter Inn. That's on Highway Two near Lewis Fork. That was a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat, a slice of cherry pie and a cup of coffee. Damn good food. Diane, if you ever get up this way, that cherry pie is worth a stop

I hear that you're really good at what you do...Well, that's good. Because normally if a stranger walked into my station talking this kind of crap, he'd be looking for his teeth two blocks up on Queer Street.

Harry, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don’t plan it, don’t wait for it, just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men's store, a catnap in your office chair or two cups of good hot black coffee. Like this.

COOPER, YOU REMIND ME TODAY OF A SMALL MEXICAN CHIHUAHUA.