Lulu Publishing
Category:
Humor
Publisher: Lulu Press
Type: Non-Fiction
Pages: 333
The author examines the humor and shame found in everyday life. If you have ever worked for a cut-rate family business,bought a used car,or ridden a bus, this book is for you. Hailed by Conservative Weekly Magazine as "A work of pure trash," You Can't Paint Chainlink will lift your spirits as your country regains its pride.
Excerpt
Undeclared War
I’m standing at the counter in Blockbuster with a movie, hoping that my big fine is at Hollywood Video. Trailers for the latest release blare out of speakers while I stand looking at a display filled with oversized boxes of candy. I can never keep the two places separate, so getting a film when the ones from Nextflix are still en route is always a game of roulette. A tall, gangly teenager scrolls through my account and looks over at me.
“That’ll be $4.30,” he says with a smile.
I breathe a sigh of relief and hand him my card.
“I hate to do this,” he continues, “But I have to. Do you want any candy or popcorn with that?”
I wince but keep my cool. I smile back and say, “No thanks ... I loaded up my pockets when you had your back turned.”
Laughing, the kid escorts me to the door with my film. He tells me how much he hates having to ask that question and then lets me know when my film is due. I tell him not to worry – everyone knows it’s a corporate thing, not his doing. I thank him and leave.
It’s onward to Safeway for the daily newspapers. If you avoid the deli, home of the dread cheese-with-that promotion, you can shop in peace. I like Safeway – the people are helpful and the only unsolicited query is a simple “did you find everything today” asked by the checkout person. Benign and respectful.
At the counter, I reach up to slide my credit card through the machine but am suddenly distracted. Along the top of the bright flat-screen showing the details of my purchase I see a neon-green ogre dancing across the monitor. My hand hovers by the slot as I watch. The middle aged woman behind the register looks at me and asks if I need help. The guy behind me in line clears his throat and shuffles in place, anxious to complete his business and get out of the store. I slide my card through the slot but ignore the data on the screen; I’m transfixed by the monster, which stops at the edge of the monitor and start dancing in place.
When did they put this in?
The woman hands me my newspapers. As I scoop coins out of the change machine it occurs to me that I’ve barely talked to the woman behind the register. The monitor pulled me away from interacting with her. This isn’t right. I’m not throwing coins into some unmanned receptacle on the Jersey Turnpike. I turn towards the checkout person and say, “Thanks, have a nice day.”
I cross the street and head into the bank to deposit my wife’s paycheck. The big lobby with its plush leather chairs and mahogany paperwork islands is surprisingly empty. I’m able to scoot right up to the sneeze shield and slip my check through the slot in the glass.
A young woman grabs my ID and starts typing rapidly. She finishes inputting my data and grabs a receipt from the printout machine. As she slides the items back through the glass she smiles and says, “You know, you could get a CD.”
“No thanks,” I reply, “I’ve already got too much music as it is.”
She gives me a puzzled look, her brow creasing. I know what she really means but politely decline the offer, relating that I’ll consider a CD when there’s a bit more in the account.
Leaving the bank I mull over the idea of printing up a tee shirt to wear anytime I go near a large, publicly owned business. In aggressive block letters it’ll shout “Please Don't Upsell Me.” Maybe complement this with a baseball cap with soft pink lettering that says “No thank you, sorry they made you ask. You should quit.”
It seems like a shift has occurred in marketing, slowly and quietly without anyone asking us what we think about it. You used to see ads in a magazine, a TV commercial, a billboard, or junk mail. Your personal, private space was mostly respected and the ads were things you could turn off, throw away, or ignore. So, new methods were needed. Now they come at you when you’re stuck in one place for a while. The newest trend is to ask you directly, preying on the helpful nature of humans, making you feel bad for saying no. They ask you to donate to a good charitable cause, like Easter Seals, while you’re standing in line with an expensive food item. Waiting your turn, you hear the guy in line in front of you decline, but then list off the other causes he donates to. He’s on the defensive but fighting back. All of these tactics cheapen the exchange between two people who really don’t want to interact this way.
I leave the bank and stroll down Hawthorne Avenue. I stop suddenly on the sidewalk when I see two guys outside Powells with clipboards. Petition gatherers, most likely, but who knows. I used to stop and listen to the issues until some guy told me they were planning to build a highway through my back yard. He was not dissuaded in the least when I related that my yard isn’t wide enough for a highway. But I’ve learned to adapt.
This pair has got a good strategy; one person stands near each side of the door, facing foot traffic coming from opposite directions. They’ve got both approaches to the bookstore covered. I wait, watching the scene. Soon the guy on my side snags a victim, a middle aged woman holding a shopping bag in each hand. I jog past the couple and get close to the door. The second velocoraptor swings toward me and starts to speak, but I’m safely inside before he can bite.
The strategies continue to evolve. A while back some guy tried “bum-vertising.” This technique followed the principles of trapped audiences, in this case with the players being a homeless person and the driver stopped at the light. The creator would pay the homeless person a small amount of money to attach an ad to the top of a cardboard sign. The backlash was quick and vicious.
Advertisers continue to adapt, like viruses under siege. Walgreens makes some of its clerks wear buttons promising a free camera if the clerk “fails” to present you with the “special of the day.” It’s uncomfortable for everyone involved except the person in headquarters who devised the strategy. At some point an employee will rebel. I’m waiting for the day that someone on their last shift ever points to a four pound candy bar and says, “Would like to try our delicious special....it’s filled with hair, broken glass, and rat poison.”
These mutations are also going high-tech. Yahoo is planning to “personalize” ads based on the sites you visit online. Buy a pair of Ipod Nikes that also track your miles run, and the ads you see change to subscriptions for Runners World and Itunes. Television advertisers threatened by Tivo and other recording programs plan to use product placement in actual shows. You can just imagine the quality of shows in the future:
Joey enters the room on crutches with a huge Starbucks taped to one of the crutches. As he fumbles with the door the camera zooms in on the logo.
The laugh track kicks in for this hilarity.
Rachel looks over the top of her Ikea catalogue, eyes wide, and bleats, “Joey, what happened?”
Joey staggers forward and falls into a couch, his crutch knocking over David’s forty-ounce beer.
“Dude, my Budweiser!” David bellows, his face distraught.
More side splitting laughter.
Joey gets a sheepish grin and says, “Well, I broke my leg. But its okay, I’ve got insurance. I’m in good hands with Allstate.”
Eventually you’ll just tape down the channel surf button on your remote control. But at least you’ll be able to turn this off.
I exit Powells at a run, blowing past the petition gatherers, both of whom are free and hungrily seeking out strangers. I get in my car, drive east, and eventually roll into the small gas station near home. Waiting for the attendant I recall that for a time they tried to put neon message boards over the pumps, but it didn’t really pan out, despite perfect customer captivity. Fortunately, in our state you can’t pump your own gas, so it never had a chance here. They haven’t yet required the gas pumpers to ask if you’d like a six pack of Coke with your gas, but the big chain stations and the cross marketing gurus at Coke will probably figure this out at some point.
The attendant is a burly fellow who looks like Nick Nolte with a mullet. It’s a cool look. He starts our exchange by grinning and asking, “Paper or plastic?” He chuckles, rightfully pleased with his quip. I’m definitely coming back here next time.
Walking through my door I see a pile of mail sitting on the floor. Glancing through the stack I see unwanted credit card offers, a glossy flier from some guy with a Brawny Man mustache offering to fix my roof, and another letter from Hillary Clinton. Staring at an unsolicited Ikea catalogue with 380 pages, a book really, I long for someone to come up with a container on wheels fitted with a mail slot. After a week of the postman depositing the junk mail, you could wheel the container out to the curb for recycling and just be done with it.
I’m in the other room listening to phone messages when my doorbell rings. Uh-oh. I slink along the living room wall and look through the front window. It’s probably just my next door neighbor, wondering if she can put a yard-debris can in front of my house. But I’m not taking any chances.
Peering through the curtains I see a guy in a blue uniform clutching a clipboard. He looks toward my neighbor’s house and shifts impatiently on my porch. He rings the bell again. I feel like a hunted animal cowering in my burrow, ears alert for the sound of intrusion. As I slink back away from the window I see a second person in a blue uniform walking across the street towards Fred’s house. I should just disrobe, open the door, and belt out the refrain to Huey Lewis’s song Do You Believe In Love? With the tide turned, and my uninvited visitor now the captive audience, I could flutter my eyes and comment on the guy’s big tool belt. But I’m not in the mood.
After a third ring the guy disappears. I walk back to my window to watch the developments at Fred’s house. For the sake of the sales guy, I really hope my neighbor isn’t home. Fred is a reclusive former marine with a violent temper. The only strangers that seem to be welcome in his house are the hookers he occasionally carts home in a huge, powder blue Ford Taurus. The guy is right out of a Tom Waits song; legend has it that Fred once accosted a solicitor without warning, charging out of his house and shoving the person off his porch. I sympathize with his frustration, but not his tactics, which are a bit heavy-handed for the civilized world. I should buy Fred a sign that says, “No Solicitors – I hate mopping up blood.”
The sales guy rings the bell a few times, without results. He steps off the porch and walks up to a window, peering inside the house. I feel like I’m watching a horror film, one where you scream “Don’t go into the attic!!” Fortunately, no bullets shatter the window and the salesman walks away unharmed. If he only knew.
I return to the phone. I’ve got one more message on my machine, so I hit the play button and listen.
This is an important message for...(different voice) Michael Falley. If this in not ...(different voice again) Michael Falley ...please disregard this message. This is not a sales call. Please call us back at (lists a number).
I’ve signed up at the post office for the junk mail blocker, and also done the thing on-line to stop the cold calls. It’s mostly worked, but predators are still getting through. I root around under my desk, grab the phone book, and find the number I want. Replaying the message, I jot down the call back number. I grab my phone, dial the number, and get a machine. The gall of these people. In an excited tone I say:
“Hello, this is...” (I drop into a deep voice) “... Michael Falley.” I am definitely interested in speaking with you. You can reach me during the day at (I list the number for the Better Business Bureau.)
I haven’t heard back yet, so I think these random faceless people have gone away. At least for now, anyway. Score one for the innocents.
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