cents. Isn’t that remarkable? We tell them, “Take this piece of paper to Bangor, Maine, andfor your efforts, I will give you a quarter and four pennies.”
And they do it. Would
you
do it? No. But they’re wonderful people. Devoted men and women, forming a human chain of hands, taking my little letter across the country.
You can’t scare them. “My friend lives in North Dakota, on a hill, it’s really pretty remote, the door is in the back …” And they go, “Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Is this his name—‘Ed’? Just give us three days, and 29 cents … that’s all we ask.”
Even
they
know that 29 cents is a bargain. And a lot of times they kind of—lose it. That’s why, if you give them real money—10 bucks—they guarantee it. “For 10 bucks, there’s no fooling around. For 29 cents, there
is
some fooling around, we’ll grant you that.”
It’s like greasing a guy in Vegas. “Tell you what, for 10 bucks, I’ll take care of you. I’ll bring this to Ed. For 15 bucks, I’ll bring you back a little piece of paper that tells you Ed got it. For 40 bucks, I’ll bring back
Ed”
W hether it’s stuff in a catalogue or stuff in a store, my problem is I have zero sales resistance. I am a salesman’s dream. All they have to do is tell me one reason why I’d be stupid
not
to buy something, and I buy it. Because I don’t want them to think I’m stupid.
I was in this stereo store, looking at this VCR/CDplayer/laser disc/pants presser combination thing. I wasn’t even thinking of getting it, I was just playing.
Salesman comes over. “You know, that CD player’ll hold up to 20 discs at a time.”
“Yeah?”
He says, “Yes-siree-bob. That’s at least 18 hours of music.”
“Okey-dokey.” And he wraps it up.
You see, he opened my eyes. I hadn’t done the arithmetic. Eighteen hours, sure. Who wouldn’t want
that
?
Then I got it home and realized, “Wait a second! I’m not
up
18 hours. When would I use this? The last four hours will actually be keeping me awake. This is not something I need.”
I’d have to get up at four in the morning just to program this thing. “Honey, wake up. Any thoughts about what you might want to hear tonight at two in the morning? I’ve got Springsteen, I’ve got Mozart, Gerry and the Pacemakers—everything. I have a Vaughn Meader record in there. Help me, I have nothing left.”
You know why I got this thing, truthfully? Because I wanted one more remote control unit in my life. Can never have too many remote controls, I say. I now have twelve of them lined up on the table. I invite friends over and say, “See those? They’re all mine. And I don’t know how to work
any
of them. Not
one
button do I understand, but I know they’re mine.”
I own things that I myself can’t operate. It’s embarrassing. Friends say, “Hey, did you tape that show?” and I’ll have to tell them “I tried, but something happened. I just got fuzz and the sound to a Jimmy Durante movie. And by the way, did you call this month? My answering machine is flashing that somebody called, but it won’t tell me who. Was it you? I’m asking everybody.”
The problem is, they keep coming up with technology nobody asks for. They believe we
want
Freeze Frame Search, and Split Screen, and 14-Day Timers. Clocks that make coffee and cameras that talk. We don’t want that. You know what I want? I just want to lie down. That’s really all I want. If I could lie down for half an hour, I’d be so happy. I’ve been reading instructions since 1987, my head is pounding, I can’t do it.
I want to write a letter:
“Dear Japan, STOP!!! We’re fine. This is plenty of stuff. Why don’t you stop with the VCRs and work on diseases. Go cure a disease—I’m going to figure out my cordless phone.”
I think the reason we have trouble mastering our new toys is that there’s simply no more room in our brains. At a certain point in life, your brain just says, “Thank you, but
And they do it. Would
you
do it? No. But they’re wonderful people. Devoted men and women, forming a human chain of hands, taking my little letter across the country.
You can’t scare them. “My friend lives in North Dakota, on a hill, it’s really pretty remote, the door is in the back …” And they go, “Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Is this his name—‘Ed’? Just give us three days, and 29 cents … that’s all we ask.”
Even
they
know that 29 cents is a bargain. And a lot of times they kind of—lose it. That’s why, if you give them real money—10 bucks—they guarantee it. “For 10 bucks, there’s no fooling around. For 29 cents, there
is
some fooling around, we’ll grant you that.”
It’s like greasing a guy in Vegas. “Tell you what, for 10 bucks, I’ll take care of you. I’ll bring this to Ed. For 15 bucks, I’ll bring you back a little piece of paper that tells you Ed got it. For 40 bucks, I’ll bring back
Ed”
W hether it’s stuff in a catalogue or stuff in a store, my problem is I have zero sales resistance. I am a salesman’s dream. All they have to do is tell me one reason why I’d be stupid
not
to buy something, and I buy it. Because I don’t want them to think I’m stupid.
I was in this stereo store, looking at this VCR/CDplayer/laser disc/pants presser combination thing. I wasn’t even thinking of getting it, I was just playing.
Salesman comes over. “You know, that CD player’ll hold up to 20 discs at a time.”
“Yeah?”
He says, “Yes-siree-bob. That’s at least 18 hours of music.”
“Okey-dokey.” And he wraps it up.
You see, he opened my eyes. I hadn’t done the arithmetic. Eighteen hours, sure. Who wouldn’t want
that
?
Then I got it home and realized, “Wait a second! I’m not
up
18 hours. When would I use this? The last four hours will actually be keeping me awake. This is not something I need.”
I’d have to get up at four in the morning just to program this thing. “Honey, wake up. Any thoughts about what you might want to hear tonight at two in the morning? I’ve got Springsteen, I’ve got Mozart, Gerry and the Pacemakers—everything. I have a Vaughn Meader record in there. Help me, I have nothing left.”
You know why I got this thing, truthfully? Because I wanted one more remote control unit in my life. Can never have too many remote controls, I say. I now have twelve of them lined up on the table. I invite friends over and say, “See those? They’re all mine. And I don’t know how to work
any
of them. Not
one
button do I understand, but I know they’re mine.”
I own things that I myself can’t operate. It’s embarrassing. Friends say, “Hey, did you tape that show?” and I’ll have to tell them “I tried, but something happened. I just got fuzz and the sound to a Jimmy Durante movie. And by the way, did you call this month? My answering machine is flashing that somebody called, but it won’t tell me who. Was it you? I’m asking everybody.”
The problem is, they keep coming up with technology nobody asks for. They believe we
want
Freeze Frame Search, and Split Screen, and 14-Day Timers. Clocks that make coffee and cameras that talk. We don’t want that. You know what I want? I just want to lie down. That’s really all I want. If I could lie down for half an hour, I’d be so happy. I’ve been reading instructions since 1987, my head is pounding, I can’t do it.
I want to write a letter:
“Dear Japan, STOP!!! We’re fine. This is plenty of stuff. Why don’t you stop with the VCRs and work on diseases. Go cure a disease—I’m going to figure out my cordless phone.”
I think the reason we have trouble mastering our new toys is that there’s simply no more room in our brains. At a certain point in life, your brain just says, “Thank you, but
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