No Money, Mo’ Problems

This morning, in fly-by form, allow me to dislodge some glop from my craw.  The subject:  consumer economics.

Times are tough, or so the media would have us believe.  We can deduce this toughness from the frantic activity at the uppermost levels of the economy, where paper is getting pushed back and forth and panic is always-already happening.  At the human level, however–you know, that comparatively uninteresting portion of the populace that consumes about 70% of the goods and services that the peddlers of paper depend on–things must be all sortsa rosy.  At least that’s what I would deduce were I to look at realtors, retailers, and other sellers of stuff that cater to that population.

To wit:

1.  Remember when food prices rocketed in response to the steep hike in fuel prices?  Shipping costs increased dramatically, which is bound to happen when a gallon of gas suddenly costs about twice as much as it did in the past.  Of course, now that we’re back down to $2 a gallon or so, those prices remain sticky, right about where they were when shipping costs were at their peak.  I blame the stupid consumers, who just aren’t buying enough stuff to make it worth the vendors’ while to drive back and forth to points of purchase.

2.  One consequence of the recession that most vendors don’t seem to be especially interested in–though they obsess about “consumer confidence”–is consumer education.  To wit:  since we know times are tough yet companies are still able to manufacture “sales” and “clearances,” most people now appreciate that these companies are only taking a slight hit to their profit margins in order to cultivate consumer goodwill (I saw a consumer report on the teevee this week in which various Johns and Janes acknowledged this new appreciation with varying degrees of righteous indignation).  The deals in question–if they are deals they can extend when the economy is awful–are deals they could always afford to make.  Even the most generous of gestures (I’m thinking of Frito-Lay’s “extra 20%” promotion, for example) don’t seem quite so shiny when we know that they would be equally seasonable (and available) in the best of times.

3.  Vendors with heavy online presences like to promote the same deals and sales, but they approach the task with all the circumspection and finesse of a crack dealer with gambling debts.  JC Penney, for example, is categorically committed to “free shipping” as a special limited-time incentive, even though I’ve received those very special offers of in my e-mail 4-5 times a week since September.  (Note to JC Penney:  I do not buy cosmetics nearly as often as you imagine.)  Amazon, with all the delicacy of a lumberjack, has asked me to buy a large-print edition of an Eliza Haywood novel every single day for the past week.  That’s what we call targeted marketing, never mind that I actually purchased the regular print edition of the book in question (on which this recommendation is probably based) more than a year ago.  Alas, even the Evil Dispensary, my favorite small business, is playing the same games.  I get a weekly newsletter from them, and said circular routinely advertises special limited-time, newsletter-exclusive promotions.  Yet somehow, despite my habitual alacrity (and I clicked a link in the most recent newsletter less than a minute after it arrived), I’m always late to the party:  the promotional items sell out in the scant seconds it takes the message to hurtle across the aether.

4.  In a related note, I’m of the opinion that special offers ought to be, you know, special.  Ideally, they should also include an offer of some kind.  I’m a little olde-fashioned, I know, but I’m too set in my ways to change.  That semantic sensibility is perhaps why I won’t be renewing my subscription to Entertainment Weekly, since their urgent notices typically contain “special offers” that dampen my sense of urgency.  The special offer in one notice was an exhortation to buy more stuff:  they gave me the rare, precious chance to subscribe to other magazines from their parent company at sooper-special discount rates (even though better rates can be had on the web).  The special offer in their most recent mailing?  Automatic debit!  I suppose the chance to give them access to my bank account is technically an “offer,” but color me less than enthused.

5.  My favorite bellwether of this enormous gulf between the perspectives of buyers and sellers in the current economy?   Gillette Fusion razor cartridges.  I shave my head every other day, so I go through my fair share, and Fusion razors tend to be kind to my skull.  The new advertising campaign, however, doesn’t really inspire the kind of avid consumerism I think they’re hoping for.   Rather than selling consumers on the merits of the product, the gist of their approach is a simple imperative:  buy more!  I’m not sure that trying to convince customers that your disposables just don’t last very long (“Throw them away!  Buy new ones!”)  is the best way to curry their favor.

6.  Finally, a word on the housing market.  I decided to table my own search for a home until next spring, when I will know the fate of my application for early tenure and promotion.  I know I may miss out on the perfect window of opportunity, but the curve of change tends to be a bit slower here, so I don’t think I need to worry about a radical bounceback all that much.  When I was in the coffee shoppe yesterday, however, I eavesdropped on a conversation between a prospective buyer and realtor not unlike the ones I had myself just a few months ago.  The buyer–who will apparently be joining the CMU faculty in the coming session–spoke of a small set of concerns, all of which centered on the idea of finding a stable home for his young family.  The realtor, in contrast, spoke the phrase “resale value” about ten times in the five minutes it took the barista to steam my milk and bag my scone.

I know full well that realtors work on commission, and one can’t blame the guy for thinking ahead, imagining the next 6% score and doing everything in his power to sow the seeds of reselling in the mind of the buyer.  By the same token, however, those realtors should not be at all surprised when those buyers, well aware of the realtor’s exceedingly limited interest in their needs and hopes, stand up of a sudden and leave the table–as the coffee shoppe buyer did on this particular morning.

Miniature update:  Per item three, I decided to write the Evil Dispensary a letter to determine if something was amiss.  A link to last Friday’s newsletter sale brought me to a blank page, and the prior week’s sale ended well before the posted deadline (the advertisement indicated it would run until April 24th, and though I hit the link on the 24th at 6:00, the item I wanted had reverted to its regular price.  I wrote a very kindly letter, wondering if their sales only ran until the close of the business day (counterintuitive though that would seem to be on the interwebz), kindasorta hoping they would extend me the sale price retroactively.  (It’s worth noting that I’m not being weaselly for the sake of weaseldom; I tend to reward vendors I appreciate by purchasing additional items at regular prices.)

My reply:  “Our sales run until midnight on the date posted.  Sorry you missed it.”

Aren’t we all, my customer servitor, aren’t we all.