Virtual Confetti

Let me start by saying I despise telemarketers.  So when the opportunity arises to exploit their deficiencies and incompetence, I consider it both an art and a hobby to disrupt their industry as much as a single individual is able.

I have friends who smoke.  Being one who frequents Las Vegas, the smoker’s mecca, I’ve grown accustomed to being around smoke on occasion.  I’ve yet to encounter a rude smoker who deliberately wishes to offend me by smoking; smoke is just a byproduct of a nasty habit.  (Their words, not mine.)  When walking down the street, on occasion, I’ll catch a whiff of smoke from a passerby.  Mildly offensive, but tolerable, and certainly not worth the effort to dwell on the incident.  I’m guilty, on occasion, of emitting my own offensive odors.  It’s just something we all tolerate as living in a diverse society.  Now imagine walking down that street, but there’s a person facing you while walking backwards, blowing billowing smoke from a cigar directly in your face, forcing filth into your lungs.  That would be a telemarketer.

So I receive a call at work; the Caller ID denotes a toll-free number, and anyone calling my workplace from a toll-free number is going to be a telemarketer.  Instead of getting the usual monotone droid on the line, the discussion went something like this:

Me: Hello?
Droid: <long pause>
Me: Hello?
Droid: Uhh… hi.  It’s not coming up.
Me: What?
Droid: My computer is supposed to come up but it crashed.
Me: Who are you?
Droid: It won’t even tell me who I called. I’m not sure–
Me: <now panicking> Oh.  Oh no!
Droid: Can you wait for a sec–
Me: Oh no!!  This is bad.  Really bad. What do I do?
Droid: I’m sorry sir.
Me: Oh no! It’s broken?  What do we do? I don’t know what to do!
Droid: I’ll have to call back.
Me: Help!! Help!! Oh no!
<click>

I actually might have been in the mood to buy something that day, too.

People usually laugh at me when I take my car to the dealer for an oil change instead of the ZippyDip drive-thru.  “You’re wasting your money,” they say. “They rip you off.”  It is apparent that these critics do not drive luxury vehicles, and today’s events allow me to demonstrate my position.  I type this from the cafe inside the dealership, sipping my freshly-ground mocha espresso, accessing my blog using their free wi-fi connection.

When I arrived a couple of hours ago, the power to the complex had just failed.  This was due to L.A. losing some power lines as a result of a large fire that cropped up overnight.  I was offered a free loaner vehicle (luxury model), but instead chose to hang out.  I drive about 50 miles to get to this particular dealership, and I didn’t feel like camping out at a mall.  I bode my time by chatting with others sharing my predicament, nibbling on fresh fruit, and lounging in the extra large comfy chair.  After an hour, I became hungry and started asking where I could grab a quick bite.  I was cautioned not to leave, as they had just ordered several pizzas for us.

The power is back on now, and I wait for my car as I would normally do.  The impact to my schedule was minimal, and I no longer need to find somewhere to stop for lunch.  It looks like college football is showing on one of the three HDTVs, so I will conclude this note by asking my critics if they would receive such treatment as they sit in the oil bay waiting for their oil pans to drain.  Gotta run… warm cookies have arrived!

Merry Christmas everyone!  Yes, I realize it’s only October, but I live on that street.  You know, that one cul-de-sac in the city that goes nuts every Christmas with outdoor lighting displays.  We’re the reason your dining room light flickers briefly at 7pm the day after Thanksgiving, as well as being responsible for the extension cord famine during most of December.  We cause the traffic jams that leave your drive-thru chicken cold on the dinner plate.  And eat that dinner by candlelight when the antenna beam atop the TV News van gets caught up in the light strings stretching across the street, blowing the power circuit for the neighborhood.  Ahh, the smell of pine and molten circuitry.

It’s understandable that some may see us as more of a nuisance than a benefit to society.  For those Scrooges, realize we keep electricity affordable for everyone.  The way I see it, the electric company relies on our air conditioners and pool pumps during the summer.  During the winter… nothing.  Our rates would skyrocket if it weren’t for us pulling extra power to light up our inflatable purple dinosaurs.

I was late getting my lights up last year.  This year, my neighbors are requiring me to submit plans and technical drawings by the end of October.  It’s unspoken, but it appears there’s a committee.  They’ve been picking my brain since June, trying to get a hint as to what I’m planning, but the only thing I tell them is, “Why do you always show up at my door holding baseball bats?”  Mums the word.

There’s a crisp, new ten dollar bill sitting on my kitchen counter. It’s been there for about two months now, and hasn’t found it’s way to my wallet yet. It arrived in the mail accompanying a lengthy survey from some marketing company, wanting to know who I am and what I buy. Generally I’m careful not to give out too much information about myself, so I usually toss these on the “to be shredded” pile and look forward to using it as future fodder for packing Christmas gifts. However, with a new ten dollar bill attached — prominently mounted by paper clip — I felt obligated to give it more consideration. These people were serious.

There are two sides to the notion of sharing personal information. Some feel that they have nothing to hide, so why be protective about what kind of information they give? Just fill out the survey and take the ten dollars as compensation. There are also the black-helicopter “government is out to get us” crowd that won’t even show you the color of their eyes because that information is as deadly as anthrax.

I follow the “value-added incentive” mentality. If I really want something worthwhile, like a free buffet, then I might disclose how many cats I have or how often I visit the shoe store. So when I was presented with this survey that I had absolutely no interest in, I planned on telling them nothing. They included that ten dollar bill for people like me, attempting to pander to my sense of guilt. I didn’t ask for the money; they sent it unsolicited. Should I feel guilty for spending it? Should I mail them the survey?

There are horror stories about how easy it is to steal personal information, despite how businesses swear the information is kept confidential. Recently, eleven hackers were indicted for stealing more than 41 million credit card numbers from various businesses: TJ Maxx, OfficeMax, Barnes & Noble, and others. And those are credit card numbers, not just my shoe size.

Does it matter if someone knows my shoe size? It’s not the little bits of purchase habits that bother me. It’s the collective use of aggregated sales data. If I purchase something on a website that then has my full name and address, a cookie can be planted on my computer to track visits to other websites. The aggregated information about what I buy can then be used against me. For example, if my aggregated purchase trends show that I like to buy expensive shoes, a website might dynamically raise my prices by two percent because it knows I’m more likely to buy those shoes than someone else. The technology exists and is already employed. Haven’t you purchased an item only to see a coupon for a similar item on the same (or different) website? What’s to prevent a five percent discount from turning into a five percent increase?

I think some new logic is in order… it took me about 30 minutes to write this blog. Ten dollars for thirty minutes is twenty dollars an hour. Not my going rate, but I’d say I’ve earned my ten dollars for the night.

I haven’t felt very motivated lately.  And when I say lately, I mean the past year or so.  I start projects but fail to complete them.  Fail… that’s an interesting word. 

I am a writer.  At least I feel like a writer.  I live like a writer, I enjoy writing, and I feel like writing is what I’m supposed to do.  But when I actually sit down and start scribbling… nothing.  I don’t have any major credits to my name, and my longest works are only a couple dozen pages of a screenplay or two.  Some may dismiss this as writer’s block, but I know there’ something deeper preventing me from being successful.  Whatever it is, it isn’t obvious to me.  Perhaps a fear of something?  It’s certainly not a loss of creativity.  I have several thoughts each day that could pan out into a good story.  No, this is something personal that’s preventing me from pursuing this goal.  Something is standing in the way of my happiness and success.

Success.  Am I fearful that I might actually be good at writing?  Might others enjoy my sense of humor or descriptive drama?  Possibly.  Growing up, I don’t remember any strong force convincing me that I would never be successful in life or become a writer.  If anything, most role-model figures in my life were more-or-less apathetic and indifferent. 

Failure.  I could write a masterpiece, pouring in all the talent I can scrounge up.  But what if it’s met with harsh rejection?  Was it really that bad?  Dare I put more effort into writing another one?

Criticism.  I can be my worst critic at times, but how well do I take criticsm from others?  Usually when people criticize me, especially if they’re experts in their fields, I take it to heart.  I want to improve.  But in striving for perfection, it can be easy for someone to knock me off of my pedestal.

The Unknown.  Embarking on a new quest, particularly an artsy one that doesn’t necessarily pay well when you first start, can be intimidating.  I have a full-time day job, along with a lifestyle that demands it.  House, car, travel, cats, and some side endeavors.  Changing careers may mean sacrificing some things. 

So those are a few things that may be at the root of my problem.  Of course merely writing this blog helps pull me out of my rut.  Whatever it is, I need to work past it.