Surveys: just say yes

"Actually, I'm thinking of buying a new car in the next couple weeks," I lied.

The listless voice on the other end of the phone continued reading from her equally tired script. "And do you now work, or have you ever worked, for (a) an automobile manufacturer or related industry, (b) a market research firm or (c) in any related marketing capacity?" she droned.

"No," I lied again. I'm getting good at keeping a straight face.

The last answer was the charm; a few more questions and I'd passed the initial sniff test. She decided I fit the right profile and started right in with the barrage of questions. The whole process took about fifteen minutes -- longer by half than she promised, of course, most of which was the introductory nonsense. But when we hung up I gave a smug, self-satisfied chortle.

I mean, I haven't owned a car since I traded in my gas-guzzling SUV for a human-powered two-wheeler back in 1998. I have absolutely no intention of buying one, either. I live in Vancouver, where our transit system actually works and cars are pretty much superfluous. But it amuses me to think that I've exerted undue influence on the court of public opinion. My faux expression of desire to buy an all-electric vehicle (not one of those namby-pamby hybrids!) represents anywhere between 5,000 and 10,000 other middle-aged, white, university-educated males. Somewhere deep in the bowels of a Detroit war room, a Ford executive is going succumbing to apoplexy.

I mention this episode because tonight we were in the midst of preparing dinner (naturally) when the phone rang and I was asked if I, or someone else in the household, would like to participate in a focus group. Despite these untimely interruptions I tend to get excited rather than angry. For one thing, focus groups are always an easy $75, $100 or $150 (depending on how much of my time they require), plus snacks or maybe a meal. Half-decent hotel food, anyway. Air conditioning. Bottled water. A chance to meet new people, find out what's on their mind, maybe to network. (If I were single I'd also say it's a novel way to meet other singles, but I'm not so I won't.) Fine reasons though these may be, they're not why I participate in market research. I do it purely for the culture jamming aspects. Everyone needs a hobby.

Alas, a scheduling conflict didn't permit me to attend this particular event but I passed the phone over to D., explaining why it is her duty to take the market researchers' cash -- especially where matters of public policy are concerned. Shrugging, she played along and got on the list. If the other participants in this focus group are similarly minded, we shall soon see city council passing a bylaw making stupidity punishable by flogging. And not a moment too soon, either.

Lately, though, I've noticed that the market researchers tend to ask a pantload of questions first -- thus deriving all sorts of free, no-strings-attached market research -- before getting around to asking the qualifying questions. Inevitably, we rarely seem to meet their criteria these days. The bollocking fucktards are onto us.

My raison d'etre (or, it's hard to be poignant at 7:22 am)

Oh, the humanity: another bloody blog. Oh, the bureaucracy! That's my title and I'm stickin' to it.

One of the cats woke me up at 5:13 this morning. And I couldn't get back to sleep. I had a proverbial bee in my bonnet. I was already hot and irritable enough all night, what with this global top-browning related heat wave and way too much coffee the night before. So I know I shouldn't be doing something like this, at least not at this ungodly hour and nowhere near properly caffeinated. Already I'm thinking I'm probably going to regret the unfortunate choice of entry title, for instance.

Even more likely, I'll regret the blog title. Maybe even the whole damn blog idea. Oh well. Good thing they're free, eh?* While we're at it, hooray for ephemera too.

But it happened. While plunging headlong into Moore's chasm, caught squarely (as usual) between the early adopters and the early majority, I finally -- if somewhat reluctantly -- decided to pry the white picket fenceposts out of my butt, mix a few metaphors, and join the blogosphere. I say reluctantly because most days I imagine the world already too full of people like me who are too full of themselves.

Be that as it may, I've suffered one too many "mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore" moments lately and I reckoned a blog was the perfect outlet for my pent-up frustration -- because, hey, in the blogosphere no one can hear you scream but you can still cling to the delusion that it makes some sort of difference and that someone else gives a rat's buttocks in the first place. (Besides, an imminent transatlantic move makes blogging the most convenient, efficient way to keeping in touch with friends, colleagues and family. Hi, mom.)

Despite -- or perhaps because of -- the fact that I've misspent most of my adult life making other people famous, I find the notion of going quasi-public with a blog strangely disturbing. Then again, I can more or less choose my preferred level of anonymity, a luxury that many of my former clients never had. But like some of them this blog may also eventually disappear in a massive wave of public indifference, dragged under by the sheer weight of its own self-importance. But I digress. (Frequently.) You have been warned.

More on the future move and my sordid past in future posts. Back to the reason I feel justified in contributing to the blogosmog:

I was partially inspired by the fellow who had the good sense to tape his conversation with the AOL (ahem) "customer service" rep and then post it on the web, warts 'n' all. I admire his inventiveness and, more importantly, I celebrate his result. Revenge, apparently, is a dish best served cold... and is not just for breakfast anymore. But for various political & professional reasons -- I'm a longtime PR/marketing weasel currently in recovery mode, mostly teaching the world's third oldest profession to impressionable young adults -- I dared not post anything on my "real" site and/or blog that might one day bounce back to bite me in the nether regions. Ergo this blog, my very own private room for rant, which trainspotters will note was the title of my very first blog before I even knew the word existed. That was 'way back at the turn of the century, circa 1999.

In other words, Oh, the Bureacracy! is a mostly harmless way to vent spleen. And vent we shall. Wayward insurance brokers, telecommunications service providers and elected public servants, take heed.

(*Gripe #1 is the fact that it always takes 437 tries to find a username that: A. I can remember, and B. isn't already in use, and C. doesn't make me want to gouge my own eyes out with a rusty spoon. I guess that's the price I pay for being completely oblivious to anything remotely fashionable. )

Speaking of chronically short attention spans, I'm too easily distracted to focus on any one subject for long so this probably won't wind up being yet another endless series of tilts against the usual windmills. At least I hope not. (I once foolishly thought that I would grow more patient with age, but I'm not. Apparently I'm getting far less tolerant of crap as the minutes tick by.) Perhaps I'm just becoming the curmudgeon I've always aspired to be.

Or maybe I just need more coffee.

Back soon -- right now I've got a score to settle with a certain federal telecommunications commission that shall remain nameless.