Sunday, January 27, 2002

Clay, you got your head screwed on straight mate.

Did I mention that broadcast advertising (spamming) doesn't work on the web? Yeah, we did that thang, I'm pretty sure.

I have a rampaging doubt that the Internet population can in any way be considered a mass market yet. Say what you like about the intelligence of the average American, - no, no, I won't have them maligned any further - I for one believe that the smartest and most prosperous people on this planet are hooked into the net.

Some of the sanest people are elsewhere, but I digress . . . . .

Half the world has yet to make a phone call. Maybe a third or more of them don't have electricity. I ain't blaming anyone for any of this; just trying to put things in perspective, see? Even in the US of A, where more millions of households own more TV's than any dumbfuck Kiwi can possibly imagine while standing in the dole queue (where you can have some pretty amazing epiphanies, let me tell you!) - well, even there, how many of those households are on the net?

The nature of the net marketplace *is* different. You better fuckin believe it, shitkickers. The spirit of monkey was - irrepressible. Just thought I'd throw that in there to screw this thing all to hell before I accidentally come to some meaningful point.

Oh yeah: I don't buy bleach. I have never, to my knowledge, bought bleach. I have no idea who or what Clorox is, nor do I care and nor, I suspect, will I ever. I don't know what's in a bleach, I don't want to know, and I don't know who makes it and nor do I care. I don't want to be told about it, and certainly not in some saccharine coated smarmy look how fucking erudite and enthusiastic I am haven't I got a big one tone by some bouffant hairdo without two brain cells to rub together as if I give a fuck.

The absolutely *last* thing I would ever want to do with my more expensive than you could possibly believe Internet connection would be to look for, look at, or be spammed with, anything to do with fucking bleach!

I would rather suck sand.

I'm also just nuts enough to think maybe a lot of other people out there aren't that different from me. I know that's shamefully 19th century of me, but hey - nobody's perfect, huh?

I recall once reading a piece by a guy who talked about the Wrigleys Man. The Wrigleys Man would visit his store and he'd say (to the Wrigleys Man) "How many cases you got for me today?" None of this can I help you with the presentation shit. None of this how many cases do you want rubbish. None of this we've got some exciting new flavours mucky mucking. This is what you get, take it or fuck off. The Wrigleys Man was The Man. Wrigleys owned the market and every damned soul that sold was beholden to them.

But slowly the world changed. Slowly, retailers acquired knowledge about what sold and where and when. Slowly, point of sale systems delivered to them intimate knowledge of what was selling, where it sold best, and how much they could sell how fast. Slowly, information systems evolved to give even deeper insight into the behaviour of different products within their stores.

The Wrigleys Man ain't The Man no more. At least one retailer, according to this perhaps apocryphal account, remembers the depredations he suffered at the hands of a supplier who thought tomorrow never comes. The Wrigleys man, apparently, now earns his living like any other salesman; he tries, as much as he is able, to please his customers to some degree not sufficiently marginally inferior to his competition so that changing suppliers would be worth the hassle.

Transfers of power can and do happen. They typically happen with most catastrophic effect to people who think they can't happen. Think British Empire, think fall of Singapore, think - hell, just think! Even if all you say is absolutely 100% genuine take it to the bank true and correct in every respect, and Locke is no more than a living parody of Sesame Streets' Animal, i.e. hairy, smelly, and mildly entertainingly loud for the first five minutes, I'd still look into it.

Sure, all Gods chilluns gots ta take care a bizzz-niss. I gotta make dough. I have the enviable task of living with a beautiful woman and a 7 year old girl neither of whom understand that you need to spend less moola than you earn. When I as a one man business talk with my customers about their business, I tell them I understand the need for a margin of value. I understand that businesses whose employees don't deliver more value than they consume don't stay in business for long. (Only the government and CEO's can do that indefinitely, apparently). I give them my commitment that they *will* get more value in return for paying me my fees than it costs them to do so. That is how they make a profit.

But if you want a piece of the dough that I make, let me tell you, it ain't coming your way in return for no flyers in my letterbox. You ain't getting it in return for the 47 emails in my Hotmail Inbox today touting Viagra, Girls With Girls!, Make Money Fast, Online Casino (Free $20 Stake Money), Human Growth Hormone, Big Jugs!, Lose Weight Fast, Hi - I'm Suzy, spam, spam, Spam, SPAM, SPAM, SPAM. Nor for the 20 or so that invade my "private" email address each day.

No Sir. Over. My. Dead. Body.

You ain't getting it for "Imagine this liquid is Colgate Toothpaste, and your teeth are this chalk. See, it *does* get in!" on the TV.

No. Not now, not ever.

You ain't getting it for Radio ads: "As Seen on TV!"

No way, No how.

Speak to me like I'm a fucking intelligent autonomous human being or fuck right off! I *will* have your respect and your consideration or there will be NO SALE!

Now, you may well conclude that I'm the lone voice of whatever, lunacy or reason, take your pick. But like I say, I'm at least fucked up enough to think I ain't so different from anyone else out there.

That is why (that is why),
That is why, (that is why),
You are my sugar-diddy.
- Otis Day and The Nights, in the movie Animal House.

P.S. "Marek J" ? You got anymore of those emails, you send em to me. I need to fucking swear more.

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