By Mark Patterson
Visit any old-school barbershop and on handy display you’ll see an 1890’s looking fellow decked out in formal bow tie, form-fitting waistcoat, white riding trousers, and a (very tall) top hat. By all appearances the consummate man about town, “Clubman” clearly has places to go. If only he could escape the label of that cheap, toxically potent “lilac water” he was created to represent.
But if poised, swaggering Club Man did actually live and breathe, he almost surely would belong to far more associations than existed back when his get-up was all the rage and the mere notion of “membership” smacked of status and decadent privilege. Whether he wanted to or not. Forget Cuban cigars, deep leather chairs, and captains of industry arranging tee times over Poached Salmon (with Dill Sauce). Think Amazon, Giant Eagle, Costco, and Best Buy.
It’s about commerce, baby- or in other words, how much legal tender and personal information a greedy (to quote Colonel Jessup from A Few Good Men: “Is there another kind?”) business can extract from you on a blind date with their check-out counter. Present any cashier with any product in any store, and the pickup line on behalf of the over-amorous business they are pimping is always the same : “Do you have a phone number with us?” I mean, is there any place on the PLANET, besides a hardware or sporting goods store, at which normally aloof, eye-catching gals so readily surrender the digits to dudes they would not say hello to on the street?
And for what? So that intrusive merchandisers can spam email accounts? And stalk buying habits like the jilted lover from a 48-Hours episode? Similar to a needy paramour, stores and businesses push constantly for commitment these days. Quick disclaimer: Bonafide bargains and stream-lined checkouts offered by monster companies CAN make monogamy tempting to a consumer. But does a small joint that sells shoelaces (no names, but it rhymes with Jubilee) really need my name , address, and serial number? And why can’t I simply buy a bottle of boutique tire cleaner at an auto parts store without telling the cashier where I work? Their ancillary agenda probably is to profile every human that makes a purchase, right?
These cloying places of business have GOT to be selling, or at least trading, my information. And some charge consumers to shop. That strikes me as a thinly veiled scheme to extort customer loyalty, and it continues to spread well beyond-and below-online behemoths. I can almost hear those creepy girls from The Shining, the blood-splattered twins in party dresses entreating: “Come and shop with us foreeeeever.” What’s next? Either I sign up at Bruno’s Pizza or no medium with sausage and extra cheese for me? And if Wendy’s nags me one more time to shell out upfront for a “boo book” of (tiny) Frosties, I’m going to tell Dave Thomas where he can stick them. Plastic dome-lids and all. (except he’s been dead now for what, like 40 years?) It’s not that I lack empathy for the parentless kids those confections support. But doesn’t the notion of paying now for consumables you won’t want or pick up until later sort of subvert the idea of “fast food”? (OK, full disclosure: I don’t want some image- minded corporation sponging credit when I do make a charitable gesture. Let them buy their OWN goodwill.) And what about my valuable time? As if the monotonous recitation of phone numbers doesn’t inconvenience us enough in clogged check-out lines, is there anything more infuriating than seeing a non-member in front of you get arm-twisted into joining on the spot? Salesclerks must get a bonus for every sucker they sign up.
Take this challenge: Let’s vow as a community to stick for just one month, or, say, until Halloween, to quick, anonymous transactions vacant of names, addresses, and phone numbers. Buckle up, because I can assure you from considerable experience as a non-compliant consumer that these encounters WILL get a bit chippy. Stores EXPECT you to passively cough up pieces of identity like it’s their God given right to make the simple exchange of currency and product more intimate than most customers might prefer.
And should you join me in practicing impersonal buys, let me know how it works out. I’ll be the guy getting waterboarded for his phone number.
Sent from Outlook
