We gotta have art

The reward for being willing to work for nothing (also known as service or volunteering) is the opportunity to do more work for nothing. Few are called to this level of self-flagellation. Most people volunteer once a year dishing up spuds at a soup kitchen. Maybe they sell wrapping paper for their daughter's scout troop. These smart givers have figured out how to maintain their sense of selves when giving by engaging in some carefully controlled giving. They manage the time, place, duration, and level of emotional involvement. They live to serve another day.

Me, when I jump off the cliff into the great pit of service, I don't hold back. I go all in. Whenever I see that finger of service pointing my way, I almost always say yes. Even when I don't want to show up, I do. Because that is what I have learned is required of me to survive in my own skin. I am no longer a quitter. Well, hardly ever. When I first got vertigo, I quit on a service commitment. I was capsized by the rocking water in my head, not much good for anything for a while.

The vertigo still bubbles up from time to time, but it no longer swamps me. Now, I show up for my service commitments. I show up for meetings, I show up for phone calls, I show up for my mother.

Now I'm showing up for a new volunteer commitment. I'm in the process of being inducted (onboarded, waterboarded, whatever they call it) into a service organization. A request went around by email for someone to co-chair the workshop committee. Prodded by the finger of service, I raised my hand. Most of the work for 2020 has been done, it appears, by the massively overachieving and micromanaging “acting” workshop chair. Probably they just need an ignorant snoid to show up, check names off the list, and make sure nobody inadvertently unplugs the projector when run they their chair over the extension cord. That snoid could be me.

The hardest part of the snoid job is getting to the location in downtown Portland. Parking is exorbitant and scarce. Public transit is slow and expensive. Volunteering means clients pay nothing for service; however, volunteering shouldn't require the volunteer to fork out great sums of time and money. Just saying. Not up to me.

Speaking of trying to help others, at the invitation of one of the artists who took my art and business class at the community college, yesterday I visited an artists' workshop in Northeast Portland. Well, it was really an old concrete brick garage with a massive wood stove flaming against the back wall, uncomfortably close to shelves of tarps and other possibly flammable materials. I tried not to notice.

Three artists from my class had kept in touch. Apparently, taking my class had inspired them to support each others' marketing efforts. I felt a little frisson of pride, completely unearned.

Just inside the big open garage door, I chatted with two artisans I had not met before. The first was a young woman who sat behind a display of hand-pinched clay pots adorned with grotesque cartoonish faces (not unlike some of my grotesque cartoonish faces). I admired them and asked what people typically used them for.

“Rubberbands,” she said. “Paper clips. My Mom has them all over her house.” Yay, moms. We gotta love moms.

“Where are you selling them?” I asked.

“Well, nowhere, yet.”

The second artist new to me was a long-haired scruffy man named Tim who sat at a power machine sewing leather tags on pieces of pillow ticking for a custom order of bags. I admired his hand-dyed, one-of-a-kind backpacks stacked on a big table behind him. Ever the marketing critic, I gave Tim my signature eye-roll when he was unable to produce a business card: In lieu of a card, he gave me one of the tags he sews into his packs. Today I visited his website: clean design, perhaps a little too clean. Lots of nice photos but no verbiage to romance me into paying $114 for a clay-colored book bag.

Next, I stopped to chat with Cherise, an artist who I vaguely remembered from my class earlier this year. She stood next to a colorful display of hand-made cards encased in clear plastic wrappers, arranged in a little twirly rack on a table. Next to the rack were a few small paintings set on easels. I liked her images.

“How are your marketing efforts going?” I asked.

“If you had a class to help people post their art on their website, I would totally take it,” she said, looking embarrassed. Hmmm, I thought. An unfilled need. Could I fill it?

Today, I looked up her website, a drag-and-drop Go-Daddy affair that looked good to me. She had a page of digital art that people could buy, download, and print. I don't know what she was complaining about. Looked like she had it handled. Maybe she was having tech-swamp brain, like I often do. It's the inability of my brain to recall technical skills I previously learned, even the day before. She may have forgotten she knew what she knew. Or maybe she enlisted a niece to create the shopping page. I need more information.

Next to Cherise, was a card table showing a sparse collection of handmade embroidered patches and ... well, bigger patches, or maybe they were wall hangings? Heidi, the artist who invited me to the show, huddled under a laprobe behind the table. Heidi is an embroidery artist, I guess you could say. She takes tiny pieces of denim, embellishes them with microscopic cross stitches, attaches a minuscule fabric tag with her name on it, and safety pins a dinky price tag to the corner: $85. Yipes. She also had a dish of about twenty denim embroidered buttons for $35 each. I mean, buttons that you pin on your lapel, not buttons that go through buttonholes.

My eyesight is pretty bad, especially for closeup work, so I had to lift up my glasses to appreciate the fine detail. Even up close, though, I don't think I fully grasped the appeal. Now, if she had turned one of those miniature denim masterpieces into a huge wall tapestry or a rug . . . well, I guess I like my art over-sized. And functional. The way I like my brain. But I digress.

The third artist from my class was Marge. Marge works with wood. She does custom decks and fences in her outdoor life. Indoors, she builds wooden boxes on legs or wheels to hold things of various sizes, including stringed instruments.

“Is this where the magic happens?” I asked, patting the beat-up workbench shoved against the wall under a window and thinking, wow, this is really primitive. The lack of space and paucity of tools possibly explained why her work could best be described as rustic. I was reminded of the day many years ago when I showed my attempt to sew a leather outfit (turquoise lamb suede) to a professional seamstress who used to sew couture for Galiano. I'll never forget the look of withering pity she bestowed upon me as I wrapped up my amateurish effort and slunk out the door. I took a vow not to do that to anyone. I admired Marge's photos and patted her boxes.

I don't know if any of the artists sold anything but they didn't get any money from me. I'm in downsize mode. Cognitive dissonance kicks in when I imagine the hordes of artists around the world cranking out art that few people will see or buy. How is all this production helping the planet? But we can't tell artists not to create. That would be saying, dancers, stop dancing; singers, stop singing. Fish gotta swim. Artists gotta create. And we need art, even if we are running out of places to put it.

Bah humbug. No wait, I didn't mean it, really...

I generally don't post in forums or in the comments sections of articles or blogs, although I get a lurid thrill out of lurking on the periphery, reading other peoples' snarky comments and wondering how they have the guts to write their nasty trollish responses to other commenters they've never even met but apparently hate on principle. It's entertaining, shocking, occasionally disgusting, and somewhat addictive. Today I must report that I stopped being a lurker. And thus, today I had my first interaction with a troll.

My grocery store invited me to post a comment in their online forum, describing my shopping behavior on Black Friday. No doubt their many research snoids will comb through the massive database of comments to find the behavior patterns and keywords that will direct next year's holiday marketing campaigns. Hey, I'm a market researcher; I know how this stuff works. More or less. I always fill out the store's online surveys, but this is the first time I was invited to comment in a forum. Out of a desire to be helpful and interest in the research method, I registered my user name and entered the forum, where I posted a short comment:

I dislike the holiday season. I avoid shopping if at all possible. I don't buy gifts. If I could sleep through the entire season, I would. I don't participate in the obligation or the rituals. The religious connotations are uninteresting and the commercial aspects of the season make me despair. (Where do all the dead ornaments and foil wrapping paper go? Does anybody care?)

Now, I admit, true to my chronic malcontented nature, I was using the forum to express a contrary view, more out of a desire to poke the frog than anything else. After all, I have this blog through which to express my whining, so I don't feel a strong urge to post my frothy resentments in other online venues. It was an experiment, you know? Research?

Frogs, when poked, jump. Not long after I posted my admittedly dark, somewhat snarky comment, I received an email in my inbox, notifying me that someone had commented on my post. I clicked on through and read:

Get a life......and move back to Communist Russia.

Huh. Clearly another troubled soul. I thought about the wide range of actions I could take in response to the comment. I could retort, I have a life, thank you very much, and what's wrong with Communist Russia, anyway!? (Is there any part of Russia that is not Communist, I wonder?) I could claim that my birthright as an American gives me the right to say stupid things, just like it does them. I could try to explain more fully my feelings about the commercialized holiday grind. I could apologize for pissing them off. I could give them some empathy and address their fears. I could ignore them. Which is probably the wisest response, considering what I've seen of vitriolic exchanges on other forums. Within six volleys, I bet we'd be fighting over Obamacare. Keep in mind all this would be taking place in the online forum of a grocery store, in response to the question, How do you shop during the holidays?

After I stopped laughing, I thought for a moment and responded as follows:

Thanks for sharing. Sounds like I struck a nerve. Sorry. Next time I won't be so open about sharing my feelings. My intention was not to create strife. I'm glad you felt safe enough to share your feelings, though. All the best to you.

It sounded pretty good at face value. But I am a liar. First, I didn't actually care if I created strife, clearly, or I wouldn't have posted such a overtly provocative comment in the first place. Poking the frog, stirring the pot, call it what you will. I can't help myself. The contrary view draws me like ants to dirty dishes. 

And second, reading the message between the lines isn't hard for anyone who has spent time in counseling for relationships: the words you stupid dick were invisible, perhaps, but clearly implied. I learned my passive aggressiveness at the foot of the master. Or mistress, I guess. 

I was curious what type of person would tell someone who was struggling during a stressful season to get a life and move back to Communist Russia. I can't tell from the user name if the person is male or female, old or young. I wonder, who responds to a cry for help—unskillful as it was—by smacking them down with an admonition to go away? Like, far away. 

Someone who is hurting themselves, no doubt. Someone who has probably maxed out her credit lines in a vain attempt to buy the perfect gifts for her many grandchildren before the looming deadline crushes her beneath the wheel of failure. Someone who is terrified that if she doesn't uphold the all-important religious traditions of the season, she will surely be condemned to the bitter hell reserved for failed evangelists. Someone who secretly wishes she could keep the festive decorations but toss the obligations and enjoy a long nap before tax time. That kind of sorry-ass soul, probably.

When I got home from a meeting tonight, I found another note in my inbox. I clicked through and read:

What a gracious response to such a ridiculous comment. Good for you, Carol!

Ha. Don't you just love it? Chickaboom!

The chronic malcontent is itching for a niche to scratch

I wish I were smarter. If I were smarter, I would no doubt be able to gather up all the loose ends of this entrepreneurial fiasco and bundle them into a cohesive strategy that will fill my bank account. If I were smarter, the path to success (which I define as money, lots and lots of money) would be as clear and bright as the Yellow Brick Road. People would stumble over themselves to help me trot like a frisky colt along my merry way. Or maybe I'd be more like a golden-haired maiden, strewing rose petals behind me. Whatever. It would all happen easily and effortlessly, followed by the miracle of happy and secure retirement.

Last night I went to the monthly meeting of a local SEO Meetup group. (I believe SEO stands for search engine optimization.) I've attended three months in a row, thinking I would meet a specific person (I'll call her Caroline), who was recommended to me by an SBDC counselor (I'll call her Saundra). Three times Caroline has indicated via RSVP that she would be attending the Meetup. Three times she's been absent. This week, I noticed that Saundra had RSVPed her intention to attend. Great, I thought! Saundra is the person who recommended I connect with Caroline. Wouldn't it be great if they were both there? Score! Well, no, not SCORE, I mean, SBDC!

Even as I walked out into the 90° heat to my car, I thought, what am I doing? Odds are neither one of these women will be there. Will I be okay with that? Am I still willing to burn gas to drive 45 minutes in heavy traffic to bumf--k Lake Oswego, sit and chat about a topic I know nothing about, and pay money to eat crappy Chinese food? Apparently so, because off I went.

There was a pretty good turnout this month, about 20 people all together, oddly mostly older men. Sure enough, neither Caroline nor Saundra were there. I was one of four women. Three of us were somewhat long in the tooth and broad in the beam. But there was a golden-haired maiden (I'll call her Tiffany. Or Heather. No, maybe Chelsea. Yeah, let's call her Chelsea.) Chelsea was a young goddess, with full lips, long sunkissed hair, and a Barbie-esque figure, that is to say, prominently jutting along all the right frontal planes.

We started with a round of introductions (in which I introduced myself as a market researcher with no knowledge of SEO, and the emcee—let's call him Daniel—said, “Oh, if you are a market researcher, you probably know a lot about SEO,” a comment I found perplexing, since I was telling the truth, I know virtually nothing about SEO. I have a hard time even remembering what SEO stands for. I keep confusing it with REO, as in REO Speedwagon, which I believe was a 1970s rock band. Maybe he was trying to be funny? People laughed. In my usual out-of-body fashion, I am always the last to get the joke. I still haven't got the joke.)

After the introductions, Chelsea and Daniel fielded questions from the group on various aspects of SEO. I had no questions, but I listened and took notes like a good student. When the show was over, I paid my bill and drove away into the setting sun.

The memorable moment, the takeaway, as they say, was when the older woman sitting next to me turned to me and said, “Who do you do market research for?”

“Marketers and small business owners,” I replied, my usual tentative answer.

“No, my dear. That is much too broad,” she said in a peremptory tone. “Small business owners is too big. You need to narrow it down.” Later I realized she was lying in wait for a teaching moment. Did I look so lost and unsure of myself? Still, I've been trying on niches in my mind, the way some people try on hairstyles and sandals, so what she said hit home.

“Uh, how about the visual art and design industries?” I offered.

“Okay!” She turned back to the woman across the table, her teaching moment complete, leaving me to ponder the significance of what just happened. I don't believe the universe delivers signs, but when the same message keeps cropping up in various places, it probably behooves one to take a closer look.

So, I've got an itch to find a niche. A methodology niche is not going to cut it, I've been told. Apparently I need an industry niche. Banking? Finance? Healthcare? Freaking SEO? Whatever industry I choose to focus should have two essential qualities, namely that the potential clients in the industry want me and can afford me. Other than that little detail, any old niche will do. Clearly, I don't know where I fit, as usual. If I were smarter, I would know this stuff.

We are all at the epicenter

In the past few weeks I've heard or seen a reference to what you should do if you have six hours to chop down a tree (spend four hours sharpening and two hours chopping, according to Abe Lincoln). Apart from a brain hiccup where I mixed up Abe Lincoln with George Washington (“I cannot tell a lie”—although I now understand that quote is attributed incorrectly? What the hell, people!), does anyone besides me feel just the slightest bit queasy at the idea of chopping down a tree?

I mean, we're losing trees at an alarming rate all over the planet (80,000 acres of rain forest daily is a lot of trees to be losing), and we all know that losing trees is a bad thing, so why would you even talk metaphorically about chopping down a tree? I predict that in five years using the idea of sharpening an axe to chop a tree to metaphorically refer to honing your performance through preparation will be so politically incorrect that people will shun you with hisses if you dare mention even the thought of tree demise. Tree destruction=not cool. Maybe axes will be outlawed. Maybe you'll have to have a background check to purchase an axe. Maybe there will be a National Axe Association, to help us retain the right to bear axes. Axes don't kill trees, people kill trees.

Speaking of which, just a few miles from here, here being the east suburbs of Portland, Oregon, a kid shot another kid in yet another high school shooting. Nobody wants to think about it (ho hum, another one down, tsk, tsk). It's interesting, however, to watch the amount of news coverage. It occurs to me that the media attention flows outward in concentric circles from the epicenter of the carnage. The closer you are to the incident, the more media coverage spews out over the airwaves. Since I'm within the ten mile radius, I was treated to extensive news coverage. (I watch the 11 o'clock news on the local ABC or NBC affiliates; I won't watch CBS news since they let Meteorologist Bruce Sussman go).

The reporters and interviewees said essentially what they always say when preventable tragedies happen, yada yada, hearts go out, prayers stay in, etcetera, nothing new there. Here on local TV, there were long, soulfully lingering shots of grieving high school students holding flickering candles (it's windy in Troutdale, out there at the doorway to the Columbia River Gorge), whereas on national TV you might see just a couple seconds' worth of flickering candles. I got to see how people ingeniously created little lanterns by shoving a candle through the bottom of a Dixie cup. Clever! And there seemed to be more in-depth explanation in the days that followed, compared to what I've seen for shootings in other places. This go-round included some curious introspection by the reporters (Should we divulge the identity of the shooter or not? Are we glorifying the act, or are we simply reporting the news? Ah, hell, everyone else is showing his picture, so rather than be left behind, we'd better show it, too.) I've had my fill, as no doubt you all have. Enough already. In 20 years, we won't remember. Unlike O.J.'s trial, which is getting a lot of airplay this week, too. If there was any rain forest left, I'd run away to it.

Last night I went to the local AMA-PDX MAX awards at OMSI. Those are a lot of acronyms for what turned out to be a relatively fun event, even for me, the chronically malcontented introvert. I wore my jeans, which aren't quite as skinny as I'd like, but actually can be buttoned, and over that I wore a long shirt so I didn't have to worry about the muffin top. They made me a name tag for my $45. Plus tickets for two free drinks! I asked for an iced tea; the server had to rummage through the kitchen to come up with a bottle of ice tea, guess they weren't prepared for any teetotalers. Along the walls, multiple tables laden with appetizers (salmon, asparagus, cheese in bizarre formations, and pizza!) I had two little pieces of pizza (cheese and wheat... heaven!) and found a spot at a long tall table.

Almost immediately a young blonde kid wearing, I kid you not, a purple velvet blazer brought a plate of salmon and asparagus to the table opposite me. British accent, a little dorky, my kind of guy. Come to find out he volunteered his marketing and design skills to create all the promotional items that were associated with the event. I told him my strategy of insinuating myself into an organization through volunteer work; he's already doing it! We exchanged cards. I feel heartened to know I'm on the right track. All I need is a purple velvet jacket.

OMSI stands for Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, in case you were wondering. AMA is the American Marketing Association, and I have no idea what MAX stands for. It was an awards ceremony, emceed by a fascinating creature named Poison Waters, who wore a slight beard, a tiara, and a gold lame evening gown. Most of the attendees were much younger than I, but there were a few grizzled oldsters (men, not women) rocking buzzcuts, plaid shirts, and long shorts.

I topped the evening off with strawberry shortcake, the effects of which I'm still feeling today, but all I can say is... you only live once, so yum. Won't be doing that again anytime soon, but mmm mmm.

Tonight I helped my mother update her Facebook profile with a picture and a cover photo. (Look out Internet!). She repaid me with home grown lettuce. Next week my sister the world traveler comes to town. Soon it will be summer. Nothing is different, but the air smells like hope.

What's with this twiddling thing?

Hey, all you chronic malcontents, here's a question for you:  Is there some new meaning of the word twiddles? Like, is it a new euphemism for doing the nasty? (Or having fun, depending on your point of view, I guess.) The reason I ask is that I can't understand why one of my posts is getting so many page views. One post is getting five times as many hits as any other post. Maybe it's the word frets? I don't get it.

Well, just thought I'd ask. Although, because this is an anonymous blog, five times as many hits adds up to a whole lot of not much. Don't worry, I won't be selling out to advertisers any time soon. Just keep on drifting by, and I'll keep on ranting about my strangely malcontented life.

It's late. I've been working on revising my website today, learning WordPress as I go. I am proud of myself, I wrote a few lines of code to fetch an image. Wow, look at me go, I'm like coding now! Oh, wait, isn't that jargon for oh, oh, my heart just stopped? Well, I'm so tired right now, I could be dead and not know it.

I've been receiving the Oregonian newspaper for free for a few months. I think it's a promotional effort to motivate people to become subscribers. The newspaper has reinvented itself into a magazine-style format, complete with minuscule fonts and color photos of car wrecks and unpopular politicians. It looks to me like the paper is gasping its last breath and will probably expire shortly. I'd feel worse about it, but today in the advertising inserts were two slick perfume ads. You know what I mean, those flyers where you lift up a corner and peel back a strip to release the scent? Well, if your nose is anything like mine (large, constantly clogged, bristling with nose hair), you would smell that scent (and I use the word scent very loosely) the moment you carried the paper into the house.

Which is exactly what happened. Once I realized my error I quickly isolated the offending ads and shoved them out the back door. The cat watched me with some confusion. I don't usually dispose of paper by throwing it out the door. But we are both interested in maintaining the integrity of our indoor air quality. All this is the long way of saying I'm going to call those numskulls at the Oregonian and tell them I don't want their stinky paper, even if it is delivered free to my front door (only once into the garden, not bad) four mornings every week.

Oh, and in other news, I got paid for all the academic editing jobs I did in May, and I used the money to join the AMA. That's the American Marketing Association, in case you thought being a Ph.D. suddenly allows me to practice medicine. Har har. I am now a fisherman. My strategy is to go where the fish are. Next week I will attend a local marketing event and hobnob with the hoi polloi. Yay. More networking.

I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, stop twiddling! It's probably bad for your health, whatever it is.

The chronic malcontent goes undercover

Yesterday I left the Love Shack at 4:00 p.m., intending to catch a bus to downtown Portland. Of course, as usual, I failed to check the bus schedule, so I missed a bus and had to wait. The weather was gray, but mild, mid-60s. I sat on a wide green bus bench, watching cars go by, admiring my odd little village-like neighborhood, a crossroads throwback to an earlier time. (The neighborhood, I mean, not me.) My umbrella was stowed in my knapsack, for the rain that was on the way. And I carried my old but reliable digital camera, because, in this era of social media, what's the use of going on an adventure if you don't document the experience so you can share it with others? I mean, just experiencing something doesn't count anymore. Experience hasn't truly happened until you've shared it. You probably already knew that. All you social media experts, with your greedy little Facebooks.

I rode the bus downtown, holding my camera to the window, clicking the shutter every few seconds, documenting. Not surprisingly, a great many of them turned out to be blurry. Because that is what happens when you take pictures from a moving bus. Oh well. I experienced a bus ride, and I've got the pictures to prove it.

Just past the Willamette River, the bus slowed for its first stop at Third Avenue. I got off and started walking north along Third toward Burnside, cutting over to Second, and then to First, and then to Naito Parkway. I felt pretty good, striding confidently along in my tight-but-not-quite-so-tight Levis 501 blue jeans, my beat up black suede Merrell clogs, and my well-worn olive green denim shirt (sans collar, cut off last summer when I decided to adopt a Nehru collar look). My destination? The Mercy Corps Northwest building on Naito Parkway (formerly Waterfront Drive), just south of the Burnside Bridge. I was scheduled to attend a small business workshop, one of a series presented by MercyCorpsNW for a nominal fee of $25.

I was early (compulsively early, remember?), so I walked around the blocks just to the south and west, looking at the architecture and the people. The world-famous Saturday Market takes place every weekend in this location. The Skidmore Fountain graces an open brick plaza, which was dotted here and there with shopping carts and sleeping bags. I started to feel hungry. Among the old-fashioned glass-paned doors was a modern swinging door leading to a charmingly dark coffee house called Floyd's, open until 7:00 pm. I rarely eat out, especially not on the spur of the moment, but I knew if I didn't eat something, I'd be starving by the end of the workshop. I ordered a small coffee and something cheap called a breakfast burrito, which came wrapped in red and white gingham paper. When I peeled the paper back from the contents, the paper stuck to the warm and gummy flour tortilla. That didn't stop me from enjoying my snack, even though sometimes I was pretty sure I was eating paper along with the food.

To celebrate my intrepidness, I connected my so-called smart phone to the cafe's wi-fi and proceeded to check my email for the first time ever on my phone. Yes, I know that look on your face. I don't need your pity. Honestly, if you read this blog, you know that I don't currently have a data plan, and besides, I prefer to be left alone. I just wanted to see if I could figure out how to do it. I figured it out. There was nothing interesting in my email that I hadn't seen before I left home, so I shut it off. Objective accomplished. The phone went back to being what it usually is: a very expensive and inconvenient time-keeping device.

I arrived ten minutes early to the workshop. The training room was carved of concrete, with a high-techy ceiling of pipes and struts way overhead and a big projector screen high up on the west wall. Big windows faced east toward the River and north toward the Burnside Bridge, letting in the last of the grimy daylight. The center of the room was occupied by several large white formica tables, all shoved together in an island, around which were placed about 30 chairs. A young woman wearing the shortest and tightest stretchy black mini-skirt I've seen since the 1970s asked me my name and checked me off a list. Was this our trainer? People were already there, staking out all the best seats. I chose one closer to the front than I would have liked and sat down. An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which I imagined myself saying something like, “Isn't it strange to be sitting here without saying anything? Does anyone want to talk? Let's say something.” Everyone (except me) was busy checking their phones, probably reading emails.

“Welcome, everyone,” said the mini-skirted girl at 6:00 p.m., “to the introduction to demographic and industry research tools seminar. I'm Alice. Please introduce yourselves and tell us what your business is.”

Luckily for me, she started to her left, so I had time to ponder how I would introduce myself. Should I say I'm a marketing researcher? Would she feel like I was competing? Would she feel threatened? Would I find out I know nothing and make a total fool of myself?

The second woman in the lineup said, “I used to be a professional market researcher.” She sounded confident and a little patronizing. “Now I'm a wedding planner.” As we went around the table, I drew a picture in my journal, one of my typical goofy characters, wearing a t-shirt saying Who am I Today? Off to the side I wrote, Who cares? 

Many of the attendees had established businesses. A few were in the startup phase. When my turn came, I took a breath and made my decision. I said, “I'm Carol, and I'm in the process of reinventing myself after a job layoff. Today I think I'm a dissertation coach, but that could change tomorrow.”

From that moment, I was undercover, posing as a dissertation coach to scope out MercyCorpsNW's market research tools class. My goal was to see if I could pick up some tips on how to do a class of my own, but better. Alice stood at the lectern and launched her PowerPoint, saying, “I really want this to be an interactive workshop.” She then proceeded to talk nonstop, taking questions only when the slide on the screen proffered Questions? She spent a long time talking about types of research. I could feel my eyes glazing over. I was so thankful I'd had that coffee. Then we learned about Oregon Prospector, SizeUp, and ReferenceUSA, all in the context of a case study she had designed herself to illustrate the use of these reference tools. I continued to draw in my journal, trying to stay alert to the small things that would make my market research class better than hers.

I wanted to look around to see if anyone else was nodding off. I leaned down occasionally to wake up my phone to check the time. At 8:00 p.m., the ostensible ending time, Alice was still going strong. Finally at 8:30 her voice dragged to a halt. “It's getting late, people,” she said, looking somewhat dazed. I packed up my stuff and hightailed it out into the rain, intent on catching a bus home. The bus stop was blocks away. I walked fast, waving my umbrella as a defensive weapon rather than a rain deterrent, just in case any of skateboarding, weed-smoking homeless kids tried to accost me. Of course, everyone ignored me. I'm invisible.

The bus took forever to arrive, standing room only. As I moved back with the crowd, a teenager with long braided blonde hair seated near the back door looked at me and said something I had never had anyone say to me on a bus before: “Would you like to sit?” She stood up, wrapped her arm around a pole, and read her Kindle. I sat, feeling old and confused. To my left was a perky young woman holding a paper-wrapped bouquet of pink-edged white roses. As the bus cleared out, the woman with the roses held out the bouquet to the teenager. “I work at a flower shop,” she said. “Would you like to have these roses?”

Now the seat to my right was open, so the teenager sat down and carried on a conversation with the flower shop lady, back and forth, as I sat bemusedly between them. They talked about flowers and the flower shop. Suddenly the flower shop woman looked at me and asked, “What is your favorite flower?”

Taken aback, I told the truth. “Yellow roses.” She beamed at me. People were getting off the bus at Cesar Chavez Boulevard (formerly known as 39th). She joined the line at the back door, waving back at the teenager. And at me, I suppose. The teenager got off soon thereafter. By now the bus was less than half full. I had another 20 blocks to go before I could slink into the Love Shack and try to make sense of my adventure. What did I learn? People who ride the bus at night are fascinating and wonderful. And I don't like market research as much as I like marketing research, if you know what I mean.

Dusting off my parental translation machine

As I putter from task to task, hoping at least one of my marketing strategies will bring a client to my email inbox, I hear the almost constant voice of my mother in my head. Not in a good way.

I used to hear the voice of both my parents. The parents used to tag team, good cop (literally, my father was in law enforcement) and bad cop. My father would keep me tied to him with handouts of money, while my mother would do her best to shove me out of the nest with admonitions along the lines of, “Get a job!” Since 2004 the paternal parental unit is enjoying the great Superbowl game in the sky, so all I have left is my mother to carry on the tradition of reminding me how epic is my failure at life.

I see my mother once every couple weeks and talk to her frequently on the phone. Not a whole lot has changed over the years. The last time I visited, while I stood by my car, one foot in, wondering if I would escape intact, she asked, “How's it going?”

I knew what she was asking. She wanted to know if I was earning any money yet. My mind began to scurry like a rat in a maze, looking for the response that would produce the least amount of psychic trauma. For me and for her.

“I'm working on it,” I said tersely.

“Anything happening?” This was not a casual question. It may sound casual to you, but I assure you, it was loaded with layers. You know what I mean. It's the confluence of tone and words that launch you automatically into flight or fight. Should I leap into my car and drive away? Or should I punch her lights out? That makes me laugh. She looks like you could breathe hard and knock her down, but in her younger years she was known as Mighty Mouse, so I don't assume anything. I think I could take her, but...

With one foot in my car, I looked at her and thought to myself, This is where my old parental translation machine would really come in handy.

What is a parental translation machine, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It won't come as a surprise, once I tell you what it is. I'm sure you have one of your own. The parental translation machine is the mental meat grinder we use to translate what our parents say into what they really mean. Really mean.

Here's a classic example from my late teenhood. My father used to criticize my appearance. I resented that, understandably, and I felt especially hurt because I was enamored with the world of fashion. I used my appearance to express my personality. Which means most of the time I looked like a nut. A fashionable nut. I sewed my own clothes: hot pants, bell bottoms, peplummed jackets with ties in the back that would inevitably fall into the toilet... I thought I was pretty darn cool. My father was not impressed.

“Why don't you wear some nice Ship n Shore slack outfits?” he said. From his point of view it made perfect sense: mix and match separates, perfect for home or office or in my case, college. What's not to love?

Because I had not yet developed my parental translation device, I interpreted his comment as, “You look like an idiot! No one is going to take you seriously when you dress like a fool. Plus you are making me look like a fool! How do you think I feel, standing next to my daughter, who is wearing red corduroy hot pants?”

Of course, because I interpreted his comment as a criticism, my response was to fly off the handle, say something mean, and sulk in my bedroom among my unfinished sewing projects.

But if I had had the parental translation device, I would have realized something very important. I would have realized what my father was really trying to tell me. He was trying to say, “Daughter, I love you. And because I love you, I want you to be safe and secure in this world. I want to protect you from public shame and ridicule. I want to stand next to you and feel proud of what a talented and creative young woman you have become. I say these things because I love you and I want the best for you.”

If I had only had that device sooner.

So now that I am older, wiser, and I have the parental translation device, I know that when my mother asks a loaded question about my capacity to earn, she is really expressing her love and concern for me. She is saying she wants me to be safe. She wants to die knowing that I will be okay, that I won't be struggling to survive.

How did I respond? I usually get mad and stuff it down, and get away from her as fast as I can. This time I said, “Mom, I appreciate that you are worried about me. I am grateful for your love and care. Would you be willing to keep your fear to yourself, if you can, as I am carrying enough fear for the both of us. I can tell you I am doing all that I can, that this process takes time, and I have plenty of money in the bank. I will not starve.”

“I just don't want to see you use up all your savings,” she whined. “You know, when your brother got laid off from his job, when he went back to school, he didn't call us!” Duh, Mom. I'm not surprised, considering what happens when we interact with you. I put her new comment into my parental translation machine, and the message that came out was, “You are so independent. I know you will be okay. But I need to be needed sometimes, remember. I love you for your amazing strength and perseverance.”

Oh, man. I just started bawling. To imagine my mother saying those words was more than I could bear. It won't happen in my lifetime, but I know that is what she would say if she could.

Today I received an official email from my university, stating that my graduation had been processed and I will be receiving my Ph.D. diploma in a few weeks. My transcripts are now updated. I'm officially an alum. It could be I'm weeping over that a little bit, too.

Marketing people talk really fast

Yesterday I got up before the sun and drove out I-84 to a marketing conference at Edgefield, a former county poorhouse, now a retro-chic hotel operated by a Northwest outfit called McMenamins. I was too tired to appreciate fully the hand-painted murals on the interior walls and doors of the venerable old building as I asked a worker, “Where is the ballroom?” I was directed to the second floor window-lined auditorium, which was configured with narrow tables, all facing forward, classroom style. Ah... familiar.

A long table was laid out along the side of the room, loaded with bagels and various breakfast spreads. I ignored it and stumbled to a chair near the back that wasn't right next to another person and parked my bag. I sank onto a barely padded seat, taking note of the massive mural on the wall of the ballroom... horses, was it? Locomotives?

“They've got us packed in like sardines,” I observed to the guy two chairs to my left. He was an older guy with a smattering of sandy hair laid on his bald head like a doily. He grimaced.

At that moment a 30-something long-haired fellow strode over to the table. “Anyone sitting here? Hi, I'm Sundown.” We shook hands. Sundown introduced himself to the guy on the end. They shook hands. The guy on the end leaned over toward me, holding out his hand. I automatically reached out my hand.

“Paul,” he said, and we shook, hard. I tried not to let my eyes pop out of my head. Ow. I got up to get some coffee. The others headed for the bagel table.

We snuggled back in. Another guy inserted himself in the chair to my right. He stayed for about 30 seconds, and then he was moving on. “I need more room,” he laughed, shaking hands all around. He took the chair with him. Awesome. I spread out, shifting my chair inch by inch to fill up his empty space. Whew. I stopped feeling like a sardine and started listening to the opening remarks.

Marketing people talk really fast. In my bleary-eyed state, keeping up was a challenge. I lagged abut 8.5 seconds behind each speaker, the entire day. Part of my problem was that I was torn between taking notes or watching the PowerPoint slides. Doing both requires bi-focals, which I currently choose not to use. So, reading glasses or distance glasses? I opted for distance so I could read the slides, but then the scribbles in my notebook were a hazy blur. Getting old is hell.

My shining moment came when the moderator asked the audience for some ideas of businesses for which we might have a hard time identifying an emotional component. Someone said “children's lunch subsidies.” I called out, “marketing research.” Members of the audience volunteered three more ideas, which were so bland I can't remember them now. Then we five volunteers were asked to leave our chairs and stand in different areas of the ballroom.

Resigned, I got up from my chair and walked toward the back of the room to take up a position by the untended bar. The other volunteers went to their respective corners.

“Go help these people figure out the emotional component of their dry, unemotional businesses,” shouted the moderator gaily. The audience erupted slowly out of their seats. I waited, half hoping no one would would be interested. One guy came hesitantly over to me.

“Marketing research?” he asked.

“Hi, I'm Carol. What do you do?”

“I'm John. I'm in real estate.”

“How nice.” I waited. When it looked like nothing further was forthcoming, I prodded him by saying, “What emotion do you think might be lurking in marketing research?”

Before he had a chance to say more than a few words, an older white-haired woman came trotting up.

“Fear!” she said confidently. Wow. Was I so obvious? I looked at her, frozen.

“Fear of the consequences of making the wrong decision,” she clarified. She stuffed a piece of bagel in her mouth.

Ah, she didn't mean me and my fear. She meant the fear the prospective client might be feeling, which would prompt them to hire me. To assuage or avoid their fear. Okay, I get it.

Another woman joined us, youngish, dark-haired. “I'm from So-and-So ColorPlace!” she said and proceeded to tell us about how her company has to change its name because a rapper has recently used the name in a nasty song. Wow. Now, that's something to be afraid of, that your company name will be inadvertently destroyed by a rapper. I couldn't compete, so I let her ramble on. Soon it was time to return to our seats, and I fell back into obscurity.

That was pretty much the high heart rate point of the day, except maybe for the moment when the last speaker stopped talking and the beer began flowing. I politely declined the beer ticket the assistant waved at me, still appalled that I had managed to imbibe three of the five deadly food groups at lunch: wheat, dairy, and sugar. (If you add caffeine in there, another whoops.) Beer would have put paid to my self-esteem crisis. At that point I was sure what would serve me best was bath and bed, so I gathered up my gear and headed for home.

Later, the phone rang during my oblivion, but I merely noted that it was not my mother and buried my head back in the pillow. Exit, stage right. I'm not sure why the day was so grueling. There were only 65 people there, not a massive crowd. Everyone was well behaved. Hardly anyone talked to me, so I didn't have to fend off energy vampires. My table mates were pleasant. Other than the fact that I was sleep deprived and I ate a crappy lunch, I have no excuse for feeling obliterated by the day.

Today, the day after, I've had some time to think about it. I think I've figured it out. It's marketing, that is what it is. I've got the marketing disease. It's the Don't sell, persuade! syndrome, in which we desperately seek the magical combination of words and images that will inspire/motivate/persuade a potential client to respond to our call to action: Pick up the phone! Click on this link! Give me your email! Please, please, pretty please! What can I give you, what would it take, to make you like me, to make you want me, to make you hire me? Tell me, tell me, tell me...

Call me Square Peg: The chronic malcontent goes a-networking, again

For the past decade my personal mantra has been Do what interests you. Following the elusive muse hasn't always been easy. Identifying my interests can be challenging, especially when they conflict, for example, making art and paying the rent. Not mutually exclusive, I grant you, except in my case, where the art tends to be particularly unmarketable. Anyway, using Do what interests you is a holdover from my former life as an artist, and I've adapted it for my current life in higher education, business, and research. It still works as a mantra, but now I have another one, one that ups the stakes considerably. My new mantra is Do what frightens you.

As a demonstration of my commitment to doing what frightens me, last night I once again dove into the deep, dark, and murky cesspool I know as networking. There was an event at a restaurant in Northwest Portland, not an easy place to find parking, so I went all in and took the bus. The sun was setting as I got off at 11th and Alder. The air was cold and pre-foggy. I wore old Levis 501s that fit me like a glove, a too-tight, very uncomfortable, can't-sit-down-without-urping kind of glove. The chronic malcontent (me) got fat over the past few years. Too much sit down typing, not enough treadmill typing, what can I say. The unhappy byproduct of writing a dissertation is a muffin-top. That's why I wear pajamas all the time, but that's another story. I was cold in my too-tight jeans, but I gamely hiked the blocks from Alder to Glisan, figuring that the walking could only help, if I could keep from upchucking in the bushes along the way.

I got to the restaurant. Outside the big plank doors stood a man hawking copies of Street Roots, the newspaper the sales of which help get guys off the street. I knew I had a dollar in my dayplanner. Perfect. Except I couldn't find my dayplanner. I had switched bags in my quest to be cool, and I'd forgotten to put the leather folder into my knapsack. I rummaged around for five minutes while the guy hawked his newspaper to people who walked by him as if he weren't there. Finally, I apologized. He looked at me in disgust, and I went into the restaurant, feeling like a total loser.

“Are you here for the networking event?” The perky young woman at the desk eyed me up and down. I said yes, and she pointed to the rear of the room. I crossed between tables, barely taking in the bizarre Polynesian decor, and found a crowd of people packed into the Kontiki Room, listening to the speaker, a local marketing guru, talk about networking. Men and women in business attire sat at tables, stood along the walls, and even sat on the floor. I could see the audience quite well through floor-to-ceiling windows, but not the slides or the speaker himself, as I was at the back of the latecomer pack milling around in the Kontiki Room foyer, far from the action. Too many heads blocked my view.

I saw a long-haired gal with a clipboard standing in a clear area in the foyer outside the Kontiki Room. I asked her, “What time did it start?”

“The presentation started at 4:30. Networking is at 5:30.”

I kicked myself mentally. Apparently I had missed the whole presentation. I'd written 4:30 in my dayplanner, but when I checked online before I left the apartment, I'd seen only the time for networking and thus delayed going out to the bus. I could have been one of those people sitting in the Kontiki Room, taking notes like the good student I am, soaking up networking tips and pretending to myself that I was using my time wisely, making connections, letting myself become known.

Some other latecomers showed up. One girl stood alone. She looked approachable, so I approached.

“Did you come for the networking?” I asked, to break the ice. She smiled.

“I work with him,” she said, nodding toward the speaker, who looked very far away across the Kontiki Room. “I've seen the presentation before.”

Jackpot! Maybe better than meeting the man himself was meeting one of his minions.

I asked her if she had studied marketing in college. “Public relations,” she replied.

“Same thing, persuading people,” I said nonchalantly.

“You never know who you might meet,” she said, implying she might be looking for another job.

“It's a small community,” I hazarded.

Her eyes got big, and she nodded vigorously. “So true!” I felt a pang of envy that she was a part of that small community, and I was on the outside looking in. I moved away, and then jumped back before the crowd could absorb her. “Do you have a card on you?” She pulled out a business card. I handed her one of my own. She melted into the group as I sought a clear spot, away from the group.

Apparently there are other folks who gravitate toward the periphery. I made two more connections, one a guy who has a company that helps salespeople track and manage their leads. We talked about webinars. He asked me what platform I used to deliver my webinars. I had to confess I didn't have anything up and running yet. Another lost opportunity to promote my nebulous research business. We exchanged business cards.

The third connection was with a young man in a plaid suit who had been sitting near the back of the Kontiki Room during the presentation. He was standing in the open near me, so I smiled and asked what he had learned. He proceeded to tell me some tips he had gleaned from the seminar. He was just finishing an MBA at PSU, so we talked about PSU and completing degrees. He seemed interested in my dissertation topic, so I fumbled my way through an explanation, thinking to myself, I really need to write that 30-second elevator speech.

Once that interaction was over, I was exhausted. I was also hungry, thirsty, and my pants were still too tight. The only consolation is that I never had to sit down, or I am sure I would have barfed all over the Kontiki Room. Maybe there is a god. I cast one more look at the crowd, and then I headed across the restaurant toward the door. Outside the air was cold and refreshing. The homeless guy was gone. I put my hands in my pockets and started hiking the 11 blocks to Salmon to catch my bus.

I was nodding off at the back of the bus when a grizzled dark-skinned guy in the seat ahead of me turned around. “Are we heading toward downtown?” he asked me, brow crinkled.

I smiled. “No, downtown is back that way. You need to get off the bus, cross the street, and catch it going the other way.” He leaped up and headed toward the back door. As he exited he said, “You are going to be my wife, right?”

I didn't have time to respond before he was gone, but I said, “Right,” and laughed to myself as the bus continued plodding from stop to stop back up the hill toward home.

The consequence of starting a business: The trolls are after me!

One of the consequences of starting a business is that you can be found. I guess you could say that willingness to be found is a requirement of starting a business, but I think that is another topic. Today, I'm ruminating on the odd marketing practices of people who would like to use me and my business to make money, both legitimately and nefariously.

Some companies troll through the assumed business name registries and pelt the fledgling entrepreneurs with direct mail missives offering services for everything a new business needs. For example, I've received postcards, flyers, letters, and circulars from companies trying to sell me business card printing, internet access, plastic bags and twisty-ties, conference room rental, and credit cards.

So far I haven't purchased any of those things, but I might. You never know. New business owners are sometimes confused about what to do first, which makes them easy marks for predators. Especially the creditor predator variety. I'm fairly immune to credit card offers, but all it would take is one slip and I'd be sliding back into the giant black hole of unsecured debt that took me so long to crawl out of.

I welcome legitimate marketing offers, because they come from hungry entrepreneurs like me. There are some other marketing ploys that set me to head-scratching. Here's an example. I have a website that no one visits, according to the Google Analytics plug-in. I update the blog about once a month with inane posts that have little content value. However, odd comments have begun to appear, one or two a week, along the lines of Really like your blog, love so-and-so from such-and-such URL. Here's an example, misspellings intact:

Hi, Neat post. There іs a problem with your wеb site in internet explorer, might test this? IE still is the market leаder and a large component of othher folks will leave out уour magnificent writng due to this problеm.

That's pretty nice, huh? He/she is kindly letting me know that my website sucks in Internet Explorer, which is really a shame since my writing is magnificent! If my writing really had been magnificent, I might consider taking this post more seriously. And if the writer hadn't posted a URL that tracks back to some IP address in France that includes the words power play stats. Hmmmm.

Here's my favorite: 

I drop a comment whenever I especially enjoy a article on a blog or I haѵe something to add to the conversation. Usually it's triggered by the fire displayed in the post I read. And on this article [post name]. I was moved enοugh to post a comment :-P I actually do have a couple of questions for you if іt's okay. Could іt be only me or does it give the impression like some of thee respoonseѕ appear like writtten by brаin dead individuals? :-P And, іf you are posting at additional places, Ι'd like to follow everything new you have to post. Would you make a list the complete urls οf your soсial pages lіke your twitter feed, Facеbook page or linkedin profile?

Wow, I can relate to the part about comments written by brain dead individuals. If this commenter found “fire” in my post, I suspect he or she did not really read it, although I suppose fiery posts are in the mind of the reader. It's kind of sweet, though, don't you think? But dude, if you really cared about what I post in other places, please note the convenient links to Facebook and LinkedIn in the upper right hand corner. But really, don't bother, have a nice day.

And then there are the comments that mix random content with several URLs, like this:

Just over two years [URL] For writing it is best to use a felt tip pen with a fine point [URL] This learning experience provided me opportunities to provide pharmaceutical care [URL] I work with computers.

My friends in Minnesota are trying to infuse Facebook with poetry, a wonderful and worthy intention; but I wonder, maybe there is a new form of poetry coming into being, a mash up of art and commerce posted by bizarre humanoid robots in anonymous internet sweatshops in exotic locales around the world. My guess is that the writers of these poetic bits of nonsensical marketing probably don't intend to entertain me; probably they would prefer that I click one of those innocuous URL bombs, which will take me someplace I'd rather not go while adhering vermin and viruses to my trail so I inadvertently track back dirt into the Love Shack.

The other kind of message I repeatedly receive goes into my email inbox and it always starts with something like Attention Dearest One. Eagerly I read ahead to find out who has the temerity to send me an email with such an amusing greeting. If you follow the AIDA marketing communications model, the salutation is the attention-getter. The next paragraph is designed to stimulate my interest with a back-handed insult and an impassioned plea:

I am Charles David, Director of Operations, Eagles Security and Delivering Company, Austin, Texas. USA. It is explicable for you to grow apprehensive reading from me since there was no previous exchange between us. However, I implore your attention on the subject matter hereto contained.

The rest of the message contains, of course, the desire-provoking promise: Somehow this kind gentleman has been saddled with two trunks full of gold bars. Imagine that! And he is contacting me randomly to get some help disposing of said gold bars. Finally, the call to action: All he wants from me is some contact information. I can simply reply to his email and give him my name, address, phone, age, and occupation. I'm pretty sure this guy could then match up my info with whatever data he stole from Target and clean me out.

I can but shake my head in disbelief. It is inexplicable how anyone receiving such a message could believe that it was (a) from a real person, and (b) benevolent in intent. But you gotta love the naive use of what they must think is formal business English. I guess my response is to sigh and remark to myself that if it didn't work occasionally, they wouldn't keep doing it. They are marketers, after all.

It's cool to be old!

Even though I haven't yet received the thumbs-up on my concept, I'm forging ahead with the dissertation proposal. Some of the proposal material is just recycled concept paper material: the problem and purpose statements and the research questions. A minute ago I was working on the outline for the literature review section. I hit a wall. My brain veered off in another direction, my eyes followed, and on my desk I saw the envelope I received from AARP today.

If you are under 40, you may not know what AARP is. Nor should you. AARP is for old people—like me. At least, that is how it feels. I started receiving letters from AARP about two weeks before I turned 50, and they haven't let up since. They are a relentless marketing machine, cranking out their fake plastic cards with frightening efficiency. I fear, though, that they have no idea how their marketing campaigns are being received.

Hello, AARP! Marketing 101: know your customer. All AARP knows about me is that I'm over 50. They don't care who I am, what I'm like, or how little or how much I enjoy the prospect of growing old. (Does anyone actually enjoy the prospect of growing old? Can you picture a 30-year-old sighing and saying, “Gosh, I can't wait until I turn 50!”? No, I can't either.) If AARP bothered to ask, they would know three things about me. One, I may be 55, but I act like I'm about 12, ergo, I'm not old. Two, I don't care about getting discounts on places like Disney World, because (a) I have no time for vacations, and (b) all my disposable income goes to pay tuition. Three, the idea of receiving a magazine sporting denture-wearing, white-haired, trail-hiking seniors on the cover makes me want to hurl. Dentures are stupid, white hair should be colored or pulled out by the roots, and who has time for hiking when retirement is an impossible dream? Get real, AARP.

“Our records show you haven't yet registered, even though you are fully eligible.... Your admission is guaranteed as long as you're 50 or over.” Oh brother. I know marketing-speak. Let me translate for you. “You are fully eligible” means You are old and “Your admission is guaranteed” means you are getting older by the minute, so better register now before you drop dead and it's too late. Argh, AARP! Rub it in, why don't you. Can't you think of a better way to recruit?

AARP, you gotta make it seem cool to be old. Your product has a perception problem, because you've positioned yourself as a service for old people. Nobody wants to admit they are getting old, certainly not the eternally young baby boomers. If you don't believe me, just check out the clientele shopping at Forever 21. We will be pretending right up to the end. I shed tears when Davy Jones died, for god's sake. I'll always be about 12. OK, so that's 12 in dog years, but you get my drift. I'm not going gracefully into this dark night. My butt may be dragging on the ground when you haul me to the nursinghome, and my voice may be thin and screechy, but I'll still dress like a nut and demand internet and organic vegetables. Because that is who I am, AARP, and growing old is just going to make me more me!

Take a little advice from a perennial student of marketing, AARP. Put some wackjobs, weirdos, and freaks on your magazine covers. Offer discounts to places like the 24 Hour Church of Elvis and Darcelles. Don't scare me by talking about social security—I know it won't be enough for me to live on. Tell me instead about how great it is to finally not care what anyone thinks about me. Tell me that I can finally say what I want, dress how I want, and eat what I want. Tell me it's cool to live alone, to go to college, to make art, to just say no to cosmetic surgery—and cosmetics! I want to be part of “the vanguard of a movement to change the way society looks at and deals with growing old.” You can do it, AARP. If you need some copywriting help, I'm available. I'd even pose for a cover, although I draw the line at showing skin. Just so you know.

I am the anti-christ of marketing

You can define marketing as "a practice employing methods of communication to persuade people to do, think, feel, or believe something." In that sense, you can call marketing a form of brainwashing. That's how I think of it.

I love the essence of marketing, which to me is the fascinating challenge of understanding consumer behavior. I love figuring out why people buy what they buy, love what they love, believe what they believe. I love style, I love self-expression. The best qualities of marketing are about answering the questions, Who are you? What do you believe in? What do you prefer? What makes you uniquely you? That's why I love marketing research. It's all about asking the questions and trying to understand the answers.

Unfortunately, the part of marketing I hate is the persuasion part, because the objective of so much marketing is to sell more stuff to people who already have too much stuff. Have you seen The Story of Stuff? You should.

I sometimes teach introductory marketing classes. The students invariably are interested in marketing only to make money. They get that it is a game of scheming and manipulation. They are used to it, being experienced consumers themselves. They rarely care about the environmental impact of producing and marketing products in an endless cycle. They don't seem to understand the finite nature of earth and its resources. The world seems like one big mall to them.

They assume that whatever brilliant product they devise for their class project will be of riveting interest to the entire population of the planet. And that everyone has the resources to purchase said product. And of course they assume everyone in the world has a computer, Internet access, PayPal, and Facebook. Don't get me started.

I show them Sut Jhally's Advertising and the End of the World. Yes, it's old, and the scary monster from the 1990s was the hole in the ozone layer, but that was just the harbinger of global climate change. The concepts are still relevant, and the commercials are compelling. My local library used to have a copy, which I borrowed and showed to several marketing cohorts. I'm not sure it did much for them, but it scared the crap out of me. That is how I became the anti-christ of marketing.

Marketing is just a set of tools. Marketing is like fire—it can keep you warm or burn your house down. In unscrupulous hands, marketing is part of the machine that will destroy our planet and us along with it. In the right hands, marketing is a tool that can be used to persuade people to rethink their consumption habits in support of our common welfare. How many hands do you think are in the second category?