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Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Listening: The Donnas, Spend the Night. These girls know how to rock.
I was chatting with Cara the other night on Instant Messenger, and somehow the conversation came around to those "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books. I did a quick search on Amazon out of curiosity, and to my shock I found over three hundred related products in their database.
Some of these are spin-off products - videos, calendars, etc. - but a large number of them are simply different versons of the book aimed at very particular subsets of people. I find this to be a little disturbing. I can understand people wanting something they can idenfity with, but have we become so lazy that we require products to be filed into easily identifiable categories to which we can subscribe?
The good people at Health Communications, Inc. seem to think so, because they publish a hell of a lot of them. Here is a partial list of the different types of souls that they have identified for which there is Chicken Soup. (I have hyperlinked the more unusual ones to prove that I am not making them up.) The list is as follows:
Children, kids (not to be confused with children), pre-teens, teenagers, parents, grandparents, grandmothers, old people, singles, couples, romantics, nurses, prisoners, teachers, cat & dog lovers, survivors, women, men, volunteers, Americans, fisherman, college students, people with jobs, brides, Christians, "unsinkables", heroes, writers, sports fans, baseball fans, NASCAR fans, golfers, Canadians, African Americans, veterans, Jews, dental patients, travelers, gardeners, country folk, people who speak Spanish, people who speak French, sisters, pet lovers (not to be confused with cat & dog lovers), horse lovers (not to be confused with pet lovers), Christian families (not to be confused with Christians), Christian teenagers (not to be confused with teenagers or teenagers in Christian families), Christian women (not to be confused with women, Christians, or women in Christian families), fathers (not to be confused with men or parents), mothers (not to be confused with women or parents), mothers & daughters (not to be confused with women or mothers), and expectant mothers (not to be confused with women, parents, mothers, or mothers & daughters). All other souls presumably do not require Chicken Soup or can have their Soup needs satisfied by one of the existing categories.
Then, of course, there are the various book lengths, or "serving sizes", if you want to perpetuate the whole soup metaphor, which the publishers clearly do. You can read (eat?) your Chicken Soup in regular-sized portions (i.e., a full-length book), or you can choose from a menu of smaller sizes: "cups", "little spoonfuls", "tastes", and "sips", of which there are two varieties, "stirring sips" and "spirited sips". Some of the more popular souls also get more than one full-length volume. In most cases these are called "portions", "bowls", "helpings", "servings", or "courses", depending on the book.
I think this is brilliant. You buy a bunch of stories for next to nothing, compile them into books targeted at specific but overlapping audiences (to insure multiple purchases), and sell them for $13.00 each. Jack Canfield should write a book about his business model and call it "Chicken Soup for the Capitalist Soul". That one I might actually buy.
I was chatting with Cara the other night on Instant Messenger, and somehow the conversation came around to those "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books. I did a quick search on Amazon out of curiosity, and to my shock I found over three hundred related products in their database.
Some of these are spin-off products - videos, calendars, etc. - but a large number of them are simply different versons of the book aimed at very particular subsets of people. I find this to be a little disturbing. I can understand people wanting something they can idenfity with, but have we become so lazy that we require products to be filed into easily identifiable categories to which we can subscribe?
The good people at Health Communications, Inc. seem to think so, because they publish a hell of a lot of them. Here is a partial list of the different types of souls that they have identified for which there is Chicken Soup. (I have hyperlinked the more unusual ones to prove that I am not making them up.) The list is as follows:
Children, kids (not to be confused with children), pre-teens, teenagers, parents, grandparents, grandmothers, old people, singles, couples, romantics, nurses, prisoners, teachers, cat & dog lovers, survivors, women, men, volunteers, Americans, fisherman, college students, people with jobs, brides, Christians, "unsinkables", heroes, writers, sports fans, baseball fans, NASCAR fans, golfers, Canadians, African Americans, veterans, Jews, dental patients, travelers, gardeners, country folk, people who speak Spanish, people who speak French, sisters, pet lovers (not to be confused with cat & dog lovers), horse lovers (not to be confused with pet lovers), Christian families (not to be confused with Christians), Christian teenagers (not to be confused with teenagers or teenagers in Christian families), Christian women (not to be confused with women, Christians, or women in Christian families), fathers (not to be confused with men or parents), mothers (not to be confused with women or parents), mothers & daughters (not to be confused with women or mothers), and expectant mothers (not to be confused with women, parents, mothers, or mothers & daughters). All other souls presumably do not require Chicken Soup or can have their Soup needs satisfied by one of the existing categories.
Then, of course, there are the various book lengths, or "serving sizes", if you want to perpetuate the whole soup metaphor, which the publishers clearly do. You can read (eat?) your Chicken Soup in regular-sized portions (i.e., a full-length book), or you can choose from a menu of smaller sizes: "cups", "little spoonfuls", "tastes", and "sips", of which there are two varieties, "stirring sips" and "spirited sips". Some of the more popular souls also get more than one full-length volume. In most cases these are called "portions", "bowls", "helpings", "servings", or "courses", depending on the book.
I think this is brilliant. You buy a bunch of stories for next to nothing, compile them into books targeted at specific but overlapping audiences (to insure multiple purchases), and sell them for $13.00 each. Jack Canfield should write a book about his business model and call it "Chicken Soup for the Capitalist Soul". That one I might actually buy.
Sunday, January 26, 2003
I got a letter the other day from AT&T Wireless. A message printed on the envelope promised me that my "mLife is about to get a whole lot better!" Excited by the thought of this unepxected advancement in a life I didn't even know I had, I tore open the letter.
What I encountered could only be described as "disappointment". As it turns out, my mLife is exactly the same as my regular life, and AT&T's plan for improving it was simply to extend cellular phone service to the wife and children that I don't have. Why do they send me this stuff? Don't they know I'm not even married? They got me all excited about my mLife for nothing. I moved on to the next piece of mail.
It was from an organization called American Coed Pageants. I opened the envelope and scanned the enclosed brochure expectantly, in a rush to find out what they could do for me. "Your daughter has been recommended to our program," it gushed. "She could be Your State's Next Queen! This is a very special opportunity for your daughter and for you...a chance to enjoy the glamour, fun, and excitement many girls only dream of!"
My overwhelming emotion at the thought of my daughter being elected My State's Next Queen was tempered by the recollection that I have no daughter. Either the competition in this pageant is so anemic that non-existent girls have a shot at winning, or I had been incorrectly identified as a parent for the second time in as many minutes.
I felt deflated as I realized that my dream of going to Orlando for the national pageant had been dashed, and this made me angry. How dare these people get my hopes up and then shatter them like an old cell phone or a cheap tiara? I'm sick of playing the fool for these lousy marketers and their stupid computers. Can't they do some simple research to find out if I even qualify for their offers before they start wasting my time and filling up my mailbox? I went to bed seething, and I tossed and turned for hours before I slept.
Sometime during the night I began to dream. I was deep below the surface of the Earth in a large room hewn from solid rock. The chamber was filled with a giant computer, forty feet long and two stories high. It was all black with two banks of orange lights on either side that burned out of the dimness like a pair of pointillist eyes. I watched as a becloaked acolyte pushed a cart across the stone floor in front of the dread machine, the wheel on the cart squeaking gently as the man walked. On the cart were stacks and stacks of computer punch cards, which I knew to be my personal file. The attendant stopped walking, threw back the hood of his robe, and began to ritualistically feed the cards into the machine one by one. When the cart was empty the man threw a giant switch, and the computer rumbled and quaked as its program began to run. Plumes of steam escaped from hidden vents, and the entire cave began to shake violently. Suddenly, a chime pierced the stale air - ding! - and the computer fell silent. After a moment, a tendril of computer punch tape emerged from a slot and snaked to the ground like a long paper tongue. The attendant tore the tape off and began to read:
SUBJECT: SCOTT DIERDORF; AGE: 29.909589; MARITAL STATUS: PATHETICALLY SINGLE; CHILDREN: NONE; LIFE GOAL COMPLETION RATE: 26.832614%; RECOMMMENDATION FOR SUBJECT HAPPINESS: BEGIN FAMILY MARKETING PROGRAM IMMEDIATELY.
The acolyte bowed and returned the way he had come, the echo of his cart's squeaky wheel filling the emptiness.
I awoke with a start. Cold sweat soaked my pajamas. Was this whole thing my fault? Have I been neglecting the family obligations I have to myself and mankind? Are the people at the DMA sending me these letters to give me the subtle hint that my life is quietly ticking away, and to tell me that I'd better get started soon if I want to have a family before it's too late?
This was obviously ridiculous. Surely there is no such thing as a global conspiracy of marketers, and if there were they certainly wouldn't be conspiring to insure my happiness. Besides, I can do what I want with my life. I don't have to adhere to anyone else's schedule, least of all that of a primitive, subterranean computer.
I padded out to the kitchen for a drink of water to wash away the residue of my nightmare. As I stood gulping on the linoluem, I got a glimpse of the calendar. It was January 25. My thirtieth birthday is in thirty-three days.
I returned to bed, but the ghostly sounds of a squeaking cart kept me awake until morning.
What I encountered could only be described as "disappointment". As it turns out, my mLife is exactly the same as my regular life, and AT&T's plan for improving it was simply to extend cellular phone service to the wife and children that I don't have. Why do they send me this stuff? Don't they know I'm not even married? They got me all excited about my mLife for nothing. I moved on to the next piece of mail.
It was from an organization called American Coed Pageants. I opened the envelope and scanned the enclosed brochure expectantly, in a rush to find out what they could do for me. "Your daughter has been recommended to our program," it gushed. "She could be Your State's Next Queen! This is a very special opportunity for your daughter and for you...a chance to enjoy the glamour, fun, and excitement many girls only dream of!"
My overwhelming emotion at the thought of my daughter being elected My State's Next Queen was tempered by the recollection that I have no daughter. Either the competition in this pageant is so anemic that non-existent girls have a shot at winning, or I had been incorrectly identified as a parent for the second time in as many minutes.
I felt deflated as I realized that my dream of going to Orlando for the national pageant had been dashed, and this made me angry. How dare these people get my hopes up and then shatter them like an old cell phone or a cheap tiara? I'm sick of playing the fool for these lousy marketers and their stupid computers. Can't they do some simple research to find out if I even qualify for their offers before they start wasting my time and filling up my mailbox? I went to bed seething, and I tossed and turned for hours before I slept.
Sometime during the night I began to dream. I was deep below the surface of the Earth in a large room hewn from solid rock. The chamber was filled with a giant computer, forty feet long and two stories high. It was all black with two banks of orange lights on either side that burned out of the dimness like a pair of pointillist eyes. I watched as a becloaked acolyte pushed a cart across the stone floor in front of the dread machine, the wheel on the cart squeaking gently as the man walked. On the cart were stacks and stacks of computer punch cards, which I knew to be my personal file. The attendant stopped walking, threw back the hood of his robe, and began to ritualistically feed the cards into the machine one by one. When the cart was empty the man threw a giant switch, and the computer rumbled and quaked as its program began to run. Plumes of steam escaped from hidden vents, and the entire cave began to shake violently. Suddenly, a chime pierced the stale air - ding! - and the computer fell silent. After a moment, a tendril of computer punch tape emerged from a slot and snaked to the ground like a long paper tongue. The attendant tore the tape off and began to read:
SUBJECT: SCOTT DIERDORF; AGE: 29.909589; MARITAL STATUS: PATHETICALLY SINGLE; CHILDREN: NONE; LIFE GOAL COMPLETION RATE: 26.832614%; RECOMMMENDATION FOR SUBJECT HAPPINESS: BEGIN FAMILY MARKETING PROGRAM IMMEDIATELY.
The acolyte bowed and returned the way he had come, the echo of his cart's squeaky wheel filling the emptiness.
I awoke with a start. Cold sweat soaked my pajamas. Was this whole thing my fault? Have I been neglecting the family obligations I have to myself and mankind? Are the people at the DMA sending me these letters to give me the subtle hint that my life is quietly ticking away, and to tell me that I'd better get started soon if I want to have a family before it's too late?
This was obviously ridiculous. Surely there is no such thing as a global conspiracy of marketers, and if there were they certainly wouldn't be conspiring to insure my happiness. Besides, I can do what I want with my life. I don't have to adhere to anyone else's schedule, least of all that of a primitive, subterranean computer.
I padded out to the kitchen for a drink of water to wash away the residue of my nightmare. As I stood gulping on the linoluem, I got a glimpse of the calendar. It was January 25. My thirtieth birthday is in thirty-three days.
I returned to bed, but the ghostly sounds of a squeaking cart kept me awake until morning.