I'm not your Target Consumer, Pal

The email subject line said "Sensible Shoes for Women and two-day free shipping".

Why am I getting this? Targeted marketing...

Recently I purchased Merrells for VLH and Elder Son on the internet. For the uninitiated A word about the Merrell company and their shoes from Wikipedia

"Merrell was founded by Clark Matis, Randy Merrell, and John Schweitzer in 1981. The company has designed and produced performance outdoor footwear throughout much of its history... The company started out by creating hiking boots that fit like cowboy boots with a wide toe box and narrow heel to accommodate the North American foot shape Also, almost all Merrells have Vibram and an unpopable air cushion in the heel."

Comfy yet stylish and a big hit with VLH. Elder son has a habit of unfailingly wearing "Chucks". For the uninformed these are Chuck Taylor All-Stars, or Converse All-Stars, also referred to as "Chucks" or Cons are canvas and rubber shoes produced by Converse. Elder son will don these regardless of weather or miles to go or how wet or stinky they might become. As he has inherited VLH's wide, flat, Flintstone feet- that's gotta hurt- so Elder son too received Merrells. Little Guy is just this side of too little for Merrells but as he too has flat little North American feet- we found Merrell-esque Sperrys for Little who rewarded us by running rather than walking in them. As Little is built for comfort, not speed this was most surprising in a good way.

But all these good deeds could no go unpunished. The other day I received three disturbing bits of flotsam from the universe- an email regarding a sale on "Sensible Shoes for Women" and a catalog of "Comfortable Walking Shoes" and a letter inviting me to join the AARP.

I could barely move- and it wasn't even my shoes'fault. Whether it was the walking shoe purchases or the fact that databases throughout the world have been alerted that in 90 days' time I will leave my fourth decade behind me- I had been profiled. Old and in need of shoes that close with velcro and a month's supply of catheters. Its a wonder they did not just send me a gun with a trigger labelled PULL HERE. I lingered for a moment in my chair- laptop with offending email open next to the pile of nefarious junk mail listening to myself breathe. Was that a wheeze? Arrhythmia?

Hold the phone. At that very moment I sat up straight, planted my feet and stood up. "Who the HELL are they TALKING TO?"

The fact is that I have heard "you are as old as you feel" and "Fifty is the new Twelve" or what have you- but in reality- when you tell someone you are fifty- or fourty nine- the inevitable response is- if you are lucky "I didn't think you were THAT Old." Which they mean as a compliment- which it is- when you are SAYING it instead of hearing it. The fact is I'm OK with being fifty- its the assumptions that accompany it that I take offense to.

Interestingly enough I absolutely understand where this comes from on a direct mail and internet basis- you see - I work in marketing. Unless you live "Off the grid" completely- sans birth certificate or phone- we know about you. LOTS. Age, ethnicity, address phone and email are all here for the plucking. Wedding Date-yup. Children- we know their ages. Even whether you have a dog or a cat- and if that beloved pet dies- don't be surprised if you get a sympathy card from Little Friskies backed up by an offer to adopt a stray from the North Shore Animal Shelter and an postcard advertising savings on carpet cleaning. The gentleman I work for says "life is all marketing" the truth is these days we market not to people but to lives.

OK so I'm in marketing and karma has just delivered a truckload of Depends- what to do? Same thing they did in the 60's man- fight the system. If I am to be analyzed by my purchases I'm buying dominatrix boots and coyote pheromone deer repellant. If I am asked on a website to give my year of birth I will say 1892 to one and 2002 to the other- let them figure out if I am senile or precocious. I'll buy birth control pills and register on fertility websites and volunteer to be an egg donor. In stores when asked for my zip code I will have memorized the postal codes for rain forests and frozen tundra. I'll have more personality changes than Madonna and more wardrobe choices than Lady Gaga.

But that will only make me giggle with glee- it won't fix the problem. Assumptions are made daily- by marketers who don't have any idea who I am or who I plan do be when and if I grow up. Perhaps its a bit optimistic for me to imagine that anything as broad and impersonal as the brush used by the world of marketing to paint a 50- something woman from Union City NJ would come up with something more like the portrait of Dorian Gray and less like Whistler's Mother. And I know its expensive to market, after all its my job but I think that marketing should take a slightly broader view. But that will probably not be the case for awhile. I have read and about algorithms that spit out 8000 personality points and create accurate portraits of who a target customer is. But- I am more than the sum of my points- and a warning to marketers- I fully intend to remain a moving target- catch me if you can.

A New Proposed Holiday: Everyone says "I Love You" Day

Nenu ninnu premistunnanu means "I love you" in Telugu- a dialect spoken by the Andhra or Telugus in the North of India. It must sound lovely when spoken but in the reading all I can picture is thumbs stuck in ears, fingers waggling while these words are spoken. Certainly a genuine I love you, spoken for the first time carries with it the element of risk- so starting out looking foolish when uttering those words on their maiden voyage to the loved one's ears eliminates that oh-so perilous mid-point when the reception, and the hope of reciprocation are still in question. You start out looking so silly that every thing that occurs after that, if not the desired response, will at least be slightly more dignified.

In choosing to say I love you in another language you also eliminate the monotony of the "I love you/I love you, too" conversation. Imagine saying "I love you" to the slightly longer-standing object of affection when after a few weeks the novelty of the aforementioned exchange begins to lack that certain spontaneity- you have a full range of new and novel responses- you can reply T'estim molt and then expand the conversation to explain the origin of that phrase and if truly inspired, weave a tale of a sultry Catalonian romance long ago when you learned that phrase BUT never truly understood it until you met the current recipient of your affections - on second thought the idea of a midnight tryst on some Andorran mountainside with a guy named Bixintxo (which means "Conquerer" in Basque as everyone knows...) might NOT have the intended effect of generating a feeling of "my one and only". Maybe respond with I mog di narrisch gern as the thought of Bavarian nights may conjure thoughts of schnitzel, beer steins and Liederhosen but would result in more images of heartburn than hearts and flowers in the mind (and chest cavity)of the recipient.

As I researched this I thought about the idea that there are a million ways actually to express love- the fact that I was able to find so many ways to express a positive esteem- it would be harder to find this many translations for "How much is this?" or "Where is your restroom" or especially "I am going to go to war with your country because we don't agree with the way you run it" or " We are going to send troops into your poverty-stricken country because with all this unhappiness there must be a weapon of mass destruction in here somewhere" My guess is that would take a couple of hours of research at least- and I am doubtful there would be a direct translation in Tagalog or Urdu. Hopefully on some remote Fijian Island the concept of mass destruction on an imaginable scale would be a lack of coconuts in the market for the day- sad but there would be coconuts the next day- or two days hence. Bad but, they'd get through. Perhaps coping by sitting under one of those lazy unproductive coconut trees whispering Mahal kita to some special cutie in a sarong. If that's "sa-wrong" I don't wanna be right. (OK I will wait for the groaning to cease)

I was looking at events that occurred on Valentine's Day-

Penicillin, a popular treatment for venereal diseases such as syphilis, was introduced to the world on February 14, 1929. Let the love-fest begin.

The Computing Tabulating Recording Corporation (CTR) of Binghamton, New York, changed its name to International Business Machines (IBM)on February 14, 1924.

1924 was a busy Valentine's Day year, also in 1924, U.S. President Calvin Coolidge delivered the first presidential political speech over the radio prompting millions of kids to first utter the question "Isn't there anything ELSE on?"

And there was, 16 years later: in 1940, MBS, The Broadcasting System, presented the premiere broadcast of the radio play, "The Adventures of Superman."

I got the idea that there could be a new meaning to February 14- I know this is crazy as we cannot get the world to agree on a currency much less have one, international holiday but ...wouldn't it be cool if February 14th became Everyone says I Love You Day (ESILY). No exceptions- as a matter of fact- instead of handing out medals for valor and bravery in battle we gave medals to people who on ESILY found someone NO ONE would say I love you to and despite revulsion or public condemnation said I Love you to the school lunch lady- or Osama Bin Laden. Imagine that between 12:00 pm and 12:15 pm everyone said this to the person it would be most difficult for them to say it to- soldier to soldier, Huutu to Tutsi, estranged father to son. And imagine what would happen at 12:16 that same day. Just imagine. The moment after those words are spoken the space between those two individuals would change. You cannot help but see the person- the vulnerable precious living being that bravely uttered those words in your presence. Eyes would be opened- and hearts. When you see one person that way you too are changed and suddenly you see not one individual but two- the person to whom you spoke, and yourself, accepted as a perfect human for that moment in their eyes. And you'd want to keep that feeling- to try as best you could, to keep that feeling- to be that person. And it would not be possible at 12:16 that day to say something hurtful in anger, to raise a hand in violence, to close a heart in anger once it had been opened by love.

So here's a list- a lack of information shouldn't stop you and certainly not a lack of the appropriate phrase in Denmark or the Sioux Nation. Forget the chocolates and the overpriced long-stems- Let's just say "I love you" and see what happens.





Amharic: Afekrishalehou
Arabic : Ana Behibak (to a male) Ana Behibek (to a female)
Bavarian : I mog di narrisch gern
Bengali : Ami tomake bhalobashi
Cantonese : Ngo oi ney
Catalan : T'estim (mallorcan) or T'estime (valencian) or T'estimo (catalonian)
finally: T'estim molt (I love you a lot)
Chinese : Wo ie ni (Mandarin)
Croatian : Volim te (most common), or Ja te volim (less common)
Czech : miluji te
Danish : Jeg elsker dig
Dutch : Ik hou van jou
Persian(Farsi): Tora dust midaram
Flemish : Ik zie oe geerne
Finnish : Mina" rakastan sinua
French : Je t'aime
Gaelic : Ta gra agam ort
German : Ich liebe Dich
Greek : S' ayapo
Gujarati: Tane Prem Karoo Choo
Hebrew : aNEE oHEIVET oTKHA (female to male) aNEE oHEIV otAKH (male to female)
Ani ohev at (man to woman) Ani ohevet atah (woman to man)
Hindi: Mein Tumse Pyar Karta Hoon (man to woman)
Mein Tumse Pyar Karti Hoon (woman to man)
Hopi : Nu' umi unangwa'ta
Hungarian : Szeretlek te'ged
Icelandic : ?g elska ßig
Indonesian : Saya cinta padamu or Saya Cinta Kamu or Aku tjinta padamu
or Saja kasih saudari
Italian : Ti amo
Irish : taim i' ngra leat
Japanese : Kimi o ai shiteru Sukiyo
Kannada: Naanu ninnanu preethisuthene or Naanu ninnanu mohisuthene
Korean : Tangsinul sarang ha yo
Latin : Te amo or Vos amo
Mohawk : Konoronhkwa
Navajo : Ayor anosh'ni
Ndebele : Niyakutanda
Norwegian : Jeg elsker deg (Bokmaal)
Pakistani : Mujhe tumse muhabbat hai
Pilipino : Mahal Kita or Iniibig Kita
Polish : Ja Cie Kocham or Kocham Cie (Pronounced Yacha kocham)
Portuguese : Eu te amo
Punjabi : Main tainu pyar karna (male to female)
Mai taunu pyar kardi aan (female to male)
Russian : Ya lyublyu tebya or Ya vas lyublyu
Scot Gaelic : Tha gra\dh agam ort
Sioux : Techihhila
Spanish : Te amo
Swahili : Nakupenda
Swedish : Jag a"lskar dig
Tagalog : Mahal kita
Taiwanese : Gwa ai lee
Tamil: Naan Unnai Kadhalikiren
Telugu: Ninnu premistunnanu
Neenu ninnu pra'mistu'nnanu
Nenu ninnu premistunnanu
Thai : Phom Rak Khun or Ch'an Rak Khun
Turkish : Seni seviyorum!
Urdu : Mujhe tumse muhabbat hai
Vietnamese : Anh ye^u em (man to woman) or Em ye^u anh (woman to man)
Welsh : 'Rwy'n dy garu di. or Yr wyf i yn dy garu di (chwi)
Yiddish : Ikh hob dikh lib
Zuni : Tom ho' ichema

Hearing Voices or How we killed J.D. Salinger

I love to read- as a child I devoured books well outside my age range defying cranky school librarians who would refuse me "The Secret Garden" at 7 years of age or "Gone with The Wind" in the third grade. I loved the different worlds books provided. I also read very quickly- for most light reading about 100 pages per hour- for the heavier classics- maybe 70 pages an hour and about 10 pages in 15 minutes for technical reading- I have very little patience for books that teach or rather instruct- I would much rather destroy a DVD player than read the manual and after destroying the DVD player would just sit down and read a book, feeling no lack. My lovely cardigan wearing sole-mate has photos of himself wearing glasses and a bathrobe staring intently into a novel at 14- "That was a Saturday night in my house back then" he says- having watched him tear through the John Carter of Mars series I bought him for his birthday I could see the child in the man- rapt and off fighting for the honor of the bright red princess of Mars.

The youngers are another story. VLH (he of the cardigan) has two sons who share time between us and their mom- who lives around the corner. Little Guy is 10 going on 11 and has an intellect that craves information the same way his entire being craves chocolate. The same way that a small Hershey's kiss can paint his face cheek to cheek as he consumes it, Little Guy devours books of facts with a similar soul smearing gusto- Mayans and Egyptians and Michael Jackson share space with every president, most presidential wives and a large number of presidential pets. Do you know which President kept a raccoon as a pet? I do. Little Guy is absolutely filled to the brim with information and it will spill out and land on anyone in close proximity- whether Little Guy and the party in question have been properly introduced or not. The only requirement for connection is whether Little Guy can reach up and grab their elbow and let the sharing begin - because in his voracious consumption he is a zealot- a convert to the church of information he proselytises at every opportunity and cannot comprehend that you are not as interested in the things that absolutely fascinate him. At 10 and a half he loves Gene Kelly and hates Richard Nixon ("Why?" you may ask him and he will reply "remember a little thing called Watergate?" of course this is the beginning of a conversation not the end.) He corrects tour guides at National Historical Sites. When travelling even a short distance he requires at least 3 books and until lately- a little orange bear named Rupert- though Rupert seems to prefer the couch at home more often these days and that makes me sad a little. So Little Guy also is a reader- but only of factual books- his father once offered to read "The Princess Bride" to him as a bedtime story- Little Guy looked at his dad and said "No offense Dad, what else ya got?" waving a hand in front of him to diminish the sting of his rejection of a book he knew his dad loves.

Then there is Elder Son. Elder is just a week or so shy of 16. Bright. Talented. And he makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. It seems very perilous to talk about Elder Guy here- at 15 I have had the pleasure of watching him start to carve his own path- choosing friends from those he grew up with and those he attends prep school with, railing against societal requirements and school uniforms and I watched, sitting in amazement as he pulled the school handbook from his enormous backpack to see whether green hair was in violation of the dress code. I explained that even though COLOR wasn't specifically mentioned that GREEN hair was actually the definition of "Extreme Hair Styles" prohibited in the handbook. I'd hate to embarrass him in any way- in adolescence mortification is a nearly fatal disease.

Elder and I have a standing Wednesday night rendezvous- he has a class in the city near my office and we head home together each Wednesday. I tell my office mates with not a little pride that this is our "date" and am inordinately pleased he chooses to spend this 90 minutes a week hanging with me. I also give him a snack when he shows up but I am pretty sure that's not why he comes.

A couple of weeks ago Elder and I were riding home on the bus and discussing his grades- while he had near perfect grades in Latin and Spanish, his English marks were only at about the 3/4 level. "Why?" The answer- the books were chosen for the entire class and reviewed in the same format over and over. Elder was bored. Trust a High School English class to suck the joy out of Mark Twain and Zora Neale Hurston (TY Mimi) and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Elder loves music and video, draws and writes, has access to video games and the internet- and unlike VLH, Little Guy and me, books don't naturally draw him- and there is so much else that does. But then there's that English grade.

I stood up on my soapbox right there on the #123 bus driving along the Marginal- "Books like that," I said- "have a voice- you can hear the characters in the books talking to you- can feel the location grow up around you- the smells and the sounds!" I was on a roll. I saw the light of attention fade-out in Elder's eyes- "Fahrenheit 451 was good" he said. I said "Well is there a literary voice you can remember hearing as you read the book?" "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." he said. "I gotta get it back from Dad and finish it". Part of me was proud that he had chosen such a unique literary voice. The other part worried about a Kerouakian need on his part at some point to try hitting the road to Vegas one day well stocked with a vial of the essence of the pineal gland of the iguana and a bottle of Patron. "We have to read "Catcher in the Rye" this Spring." he said interrupting my little revery of the thought of peeling Elder off a ballroom ceiling while he ranted about bats and reptile-headed political journalists. "Catcher in the Rye!" I gasped, more than a little relieved. "Fantastic book" Perfect timing for a man struggling to identify life's boundaries in order to vault over them sporting green hair.

I am a big Salinger fan. In the 8th grade someone compared an essay I had written to Salinger and I was complimented, if not completely unaware who this was. Within a couple of weeks I had read not only "Catcher in the Rye" but "Franny and Zooey", For a long time any of my friends understood my burning curiosity to know where the ducks from Central Park go in winter. Anyone who did not wasn't a friend for long. Not a personality conflict so much as a difference in nature. I prefer to spend my time with people who ask "Why?" and "Why not?"

We spoke until our stop on the bus- about Salinger, teen rebellion and why a writing talent hid after just a few books and never came out to play again.

The next day Salinger was dead at 91.

I texted Elder. "We killed JD Salinger" He texted back " He was old wasn't he". Old will get you every time.

I felt like the conversation we'd had- like many had with someone younger- maybe just didn't resonate. With so much information coming into his life- the daily life of a teenager- school, girls, guitar, license- one conversation just wasn't that important. I took no offense.

A week later we were sitting at the table- he getting ready to do homework and me tidying, which is an obsession with me these days- I make no excuses for it- or I make many excuses- but that's a topic for another essay. I saw a familiar bookcover peeking through his fingers. "Catcher in the Rye?" I asked. "Yeh"- he said, head down in the book. "I thought you didn't need it til Spring?" I said. You see, Elder is a notorious last-minute school supply guy who is well known for desperately needing a folder, notebook, report cover or clip the night before its school-mandated appearance. I do believe he eats 4x6 index cards in the school lunchroom on a daily basis as that would be the only explanation for the rate at which he consumes them. "I thought I'd get a head start" he said "Sounded like it might be ok"

Might be. (Yippee!)

It ain't over til the Yat Lady Sings

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid63683791001?bclid=63627618001&bctid=65118368001

Their Eyes on Punxsutawney

UPDATE: On Gobbler's Knob February 2nd, 2010, Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of all Prognosticators proclaimed, "If you want to know what's next, you must read my text. As the sky shines bright above me, my shadow I see beside me. So six more weeks of winter it will be."

"Groundhog Day is a lot like a rock concert but the people are better behaved and there's a groundhog involved," Tom Chapin, editor of the Punxsutawney Spirit newspaper.

I read that PETA- People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, have complained about the ritualized misuse of Phil- dragging him from his den every February 2nd to a mad media frenzy (bad enough to be woken months before his natural wake-up time-worse to have the paparazzi hanging around for a quick shot for the papers- maybe they'll protect Lindsay Lohan next) PETA's suggestion was that Phil be replaced with a robotic groundhog. I shudder to think. While I admit and am grateful that the vigilance of groups like PETA have made me aware that foie gras and veal are cruel- they sure can take all the fun out of a pair of new leather stilettos (OK most of the fun). The very idea of an electronic replacement for the Groundhog just leaves the door wide open for ruining so many other holidays- next thing you know they'll get their hands on Valentine's Day and heaven only knows what they'll substitute batteries for in the interest of protecting one species or another. (Oh c'mon, do the math...)

From a Wildlife damage control website:

"Groundhogs, also known as woodchucks, have a great reputation among gardeners. Even the hit movie "The Caddy Shack" illustrated their reputation as being impossible to control. Woodchucks can literally mow a garden." If they can also plant flowers and weed I'm getting one.

From a Groundhog control website:

"...your garden will have no future if you pay no heed to this garden pest's sign language. Your garden will be trapped in a perpetual Groundhog Day of destruction, raided at will by the marauding rodents. " Sign language? I smell a screenplay here, don't you?

PETA might consider that annoying ONE groundhog once a year may be the very BEST way to sell the public on leaving the rest of these destructive little guys alone based on the goodwill generated. I'm sure Phil would volunteer- if someone bothered to explain it to him in groundhogese- after they get him a cup of coffee.

Other Random ramblings on Marmota Monax

The groundhog (Marmota monax) is also known as a woodchuck or whistle-pig- a marketing opportunity missed there- the Gobblers Knobians could have gotten corporations to sponsor the festivities in exchange for Phil whistling their jingle during the event.

During Prohibition Phil threatened to impose 60 weeks of winter if he wasn’t permitted a drink. Way to negotiate rodent!

In 2009 Phil's appearance was shown live (at DAWN) on the Jumbotron in Times Square. Like one more giant rat on 42nd Street would cause a fuss.

You can get a text message about Phil's prediction by texting his forecast for the first time (to sign up, text "groundhog" to 247365) He also has a Facebook Fan page and an online Souvenir Shop...

Since Phil’s first trek to Gobbler’s Knob in 1887, he has seen his shadow 98 times, no shadow 15 times, and no record 10 times. He saw his shadow last year. This year marks Phil's 124th prediction.

There has only been one Punxsutawney Phil. Punxsutawney Phil gets his longevity from drinking “groundhog punch,” a secret recipe. Phil takes one sip every summer at the Groundhog Picnic and it magically gives him seven more years of life. My guess is that the "no record" days and the excessive consumption of "groundhog punch" are somehow connected.


To the Groundhog (from a California pre-school website)


Will you
Won't you
See your shadow?

Will it
Won't it
Really matter?

Do you
Don't you
Grin to see

People
Take you
Seriously?

Please don't take this seriously- just raise a glass of groundhog punch with me and toast to Spring- whenever it gets here.