Thinking Our Way into Danger

October 9th, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

Lately it seems that life comes on-the-go. As best summed up by Fight Club, everywhere consumers go, there’s “tiny life: single serving sugar, single serving cream, single pat of butter. The microwave Cordon Bleu hobby kit. Shampoo-conditioner combos, sample packaged mouthwash, tiny bars of soap. Single serving friends.” And while this trend was once attributed primarily to the life of a traveler, today this notion of life on the go has extended to a single serving lifestyle. Beyond just food – mini servings of cereal, 100-calorie packs of Oreos, and even wine – consumers tend to snack their information as well. RSS feeds, text messaging, mobile apps, Twitter, and iPods all represent information, products and services that come in bite-sized packages that are designed to be consumed and disposed of in favor of a flexible lifestyle.

Because of the speed by which we receive information, our processing behaviors have adapted to look for maximum benefits with minimal efforts, quickly scanning data and information. Our minds are constantly stirring, thinking less in one direction and more in a scattered pattern. One question leads someone in a handful of new directions, leading to several new questions to be investigated, and thus the answer to the original question is a cluster of new questions.

This “on the go” lifestyle has unveiled an unfound nomadic lifestyle. While our bodies are still, settled, and nestled, our minds are nomadic. What’s even more interesting is that this newfound nomadic lifestyle is based on possessions, what we own and consume. It’s ironic that the products/services that entitle us to live a nomadic lifestyle are in fact objects of the world of consumerism – we carry virtual baggage.

With these new on-the-go tools, we remain constantly settled, yet develop an artificial sense of intimacy. As nomads are always searching for something – food, water, pastures – today we search for the ability to be alone and connected at the same time; to be distantly touched. We’ve become restless and we live life on the move as though there’s a bigger danger, an omnipresent threat.

Our minds seem to always be racing towards the next distraction so much that the threats we attempt to leave in our tracks are the ideas we’re about to create. It’s like we trip over our own feet in information. And while a stumble seems a minor threat, what we stumble into should be of greater concern: does a digital nomadic lifestyle lead us to stumble into the cushy landings of our ideas, or does it trip us into a pit of venomous thoughts? And if we’re always processing, computing, ticking , do we ever have a chance to really think about what we think? Or do we just (ironically) mindlessly think our way into danger?

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To the Table Top Dancers…

September 16th, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

I’ve been thinking a lot about control in American culture. We can be so contradictory when it comes to privacy and the control over what people communicate about us. In one moment we’re updating our status about the evening’s activities at the local bar, but the second someone posts a picture of us dancing on the bar, we get a bit touchy.

Why do we care about privacy so much? Well, bar dancer might say, “I don’t want my boss or my boyfriend or my mother to think I’m an alcoholic tramp.” Okay… but why not? Didn’t you dance on the bar? Doesn’t that incident make up a bit of “who you are”? And let’s be honest, who hasn’t danced on a table a time or two in their life?

We’re really quite fickle in how we want information about us out there. One minute we want the world to know, the next we want to lock away all our embarrassing moments into a perverted diary only we can reference in recap late at night. I think this has an interesting translation in how people, consumerism and privacy all tend to get tangled within one another.

If we have a culture so willing buy products, why do we want so much control over how those products find us? If products/services are the devices that construct our lives, why are we so afraid to let them know who we are?

As consumers, we expect a lot of transparency out of advertisers: tell us where you’re made, who works for you, why you do everything you do, how much money you make, who your parents are, how you’ve screwed up in the past, etc., etc., etc. If you were to ask the same line of questions to a peer, you’d come off as a bit rude.

Consumers are just as guilty as advertisers in not letting anyone into their “full” identity. We think we’re all about transparency, but really, we’re furiously protective of the many sides of who we are. We only want people to see what we present them to see – and when advertisers insist on penetrating those secret sides, we get upset. Exxon doesn’t want consumers to know that they club baby seals and Johnny doesn’t want Microsoft (or his mother) to know that he watches Internet porn.

The question really becomes: With social media and hyper-connected culture, are we beginning to shed our prudish shells, accepting that we are imperfect, dynamic, multifaceted people? Or, will we continue to “protect” ourselves, keeping life, other people, and advertisers at arm’s length? If we choose to be more open and vulnerable, do we become more altruistic in fear of the retributions of a more naughty lifestyle? Do we bleach out our more questionable or sketchy attributes in favor of acceptance? What happens to our “dark sides” if we only have altruistic intentions?

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Tough Economic Times Call for a System of Mental Punishment…at least for me

August 19th, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

It’s 85 degrees on a Sunday night and I am a heat rock pulsing fire into any and all cloth surrounding me. I cling to the walls because they provide a momentary cooling system. I toss in my twin bed, lasting barely a minute in each position as the flames in the fabric break free from their threads to consume me. I have resisted purchasing a simple $25 box fan because I want to be able to say that I survived this summer with only my window fan. I want to internalize the torture of resisting this purchase because I get gratification in knowing that I’m succeeding, I’m “winning” over something as simple as the heat, the summer, the night, the $25 fan.

For me, silly internal financial skirmishes such as these have been occurring a lot lately. When products/services beg for my extra $30 every week, I truly analyze all aspects of their necessity. I really question their value. But, more importantly, I have developed a process of self deprivation by which I fervently resist the purchase of anything and in turn grant myself a sort of euphoric release from what once grasped me as necessity. For me, it has become a competition with myself, a personal testament to how much I can endure.

In internalizing my sufferings they instead bring me happiness and satisfaction. It’s not a pride thing, either. I don’t pat myself on the back and think, “Good girl, you stuck to your budget.” It’s more than that. I’m not only proud of myself, I transform the aspect of “missing essentials” to satisfy the need that these possessions/services or privileges once granted.

It makes me feel like I’m doing something good, like I’m learning, like I’m powerful. Not unlike a Spartan, I feel pleasure from self deprivation. In this economic climate I’ve begun to carry an entirely new mindset – one that embraces instances such as these. I feel resilient, and when I go out and purchase that $25 fan tomorrow, I will feel as though I’ve failed, and I will mentally punish myself for giving into the temptations of luxury and enjoyment.

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A Consumer’s Endless Need for Adventure

August 12th, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

I was on the subway last weekend and I discovered an interesting phenomena: Sports Utility Strollers. Wheels the size of pizza pies, sippy cup holders, pouches within pouches, and extra seat belt strappings to ensure that little tykes don’t fall out while off-roading through the streets of Manhattan. Clearly that is what this father-child pairing had been doing. The bowl-cut child had a massive band-aid across his forehead and exhaustion in his face. Even more interesting to watch was the father’s insistence that his son keep his hands in his lap rather than the subway seats. “We’re wild, son, but let’s not get crazy.”

On continuing my Upper West Side adventure, I came across another interesting stroller model. It was a double-decker sort of structure where walking- and talking-abled children can hitch a ride underneath the “new” baby child. It reminded me a lot of being little on grocery shopping trips and yearning to ride in the under carriage of the cart. I longed to be there, below, among the 24-pack cans of soda and dog food.

This particular stroller, clearly not an SUV stroller, got its wheel caught in some street debris, causing the vehicle to abruptly halt for repair. In a nostalgic mood, it reminded me of riding my bike and getting my shoe laces caught in the gears. You’d be going along fine and then all of the sudden you’d stop, and in a momentary flash of terror, your bike would collapse on top of you. You’d lay there, stranded, bike pinning you to ground. Heaven forbid you were a kid growing up in a rural area. You’d be lost four miles from home wearing one shoe, its partner hanging defenseless from the trenches of your bike’s snarling teeth.

It’s amazing how sometimes our possessions betray each other like that. Especially in new technology. My e-reader and my books don’t get along. My case of CDs glare at my iPhone. Lifestyles change, devices change, and our old “things” are left crippled, out to fend for themselves.

People claim to be much different from objects, from “things”. We say, “We’re human. We can empathize, feel emotions, communicate, think, blah blah blah.” But, really, we treat objects/things just like we treat each other. We replace old employees with new employees that can do better things. We walk over those who once added value and look back at the relationship and think comically, those were the days. Those were the days of tape players, of encyclopedias, of home telephones. Those were my college days, my media days, my AA days, whatever.

People are always interested in discovery, in shifting perspectives. Whether it be by SUV stroller or riding underneath the shopping cart, people are always finding new ways to experience the world. And with this we have a tendency to be fickle, to grow tired of the way things are. And whether or not one is an advocate of change per say, we have great difficulty in adapting our possessions, these object-functions of our life to fit our endless need for adventure.

 

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An Object of Pandora’s Affections

August 4th, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

I’ve received a series of rather interesting emails from one Tim Westergren of Pandora in the past few weeks. The first informed me that I would only be allowed to listen to 40 hours of music each month, the second to inform me that I was dangerously close to that limit, and then a third (most likely prompted by my abrupt flight from Pandora to LastFM) begging forgiveness for setting these limits and requesting that I return. So, because the email was written very nicely, even personally, I gave Pandora another shot.

Honestly though, my navigation back to the site has raised quite a few questions in terms of how they cause me suffering while I listen. I start listening to a station, get in a trance and then all of the sudden they start playing stuff I really dislike.

I indicate said preference.

Pandora retaliates by playing more stuff I don’t like. Fed up with the “don’t like” button, and in my true Millennial lack of patience and search for instant gratification style, I click next until I get a quick slap on the wrist, claiming that I no longer have the authority to seek new songs in this station.

In defiance, I begin leapfrogging to other stations. But alas, my “no more next” transgression has extended to include stations I haven’t been completely annoyed by yet. I grow exhausted and, in a way, claustrophobic as I gasp for air in a room of selection that keeps getting smaller and smaller.

Clearly I’ve become frustrated. And to top it off, as I continue to be cornered into stations, Pandora insists on playing music I don’t want to hear. Instead of consoling me by playing those tracks I once claimed to love, Pandora has made me feel not much unlike a small child in time out being tortured.

And I get it. Pandora is just a machine, it knows not what it does. But damn it, when I get those emails from Tim that sound so friendly and personal, and I think to Pandora, “I do not want to listen to live music at the moment,” I expect Pandora to get it. As I am of the assumption that Pandora “gets me,” to me, Pandora is being spiteful and mean when it insists on playing music I have indicated as not my preference. Which makes me sad, because I like Pandora. I feel badly for them. It is unfortunate that they are being forced to limit the time I can spend with them.

Like an angry teenager, my defiance of being separated from the one I “love” is displaced on the object of my affection rather than the parental units (music contract companies) who have set such restrictive measures. And so maybe like teenage love, perhaps it’s also true that Pandora and I really don’t “get” each other. Pandora wants to offer its goods for a fee and I want to listen to the radio all day for free. The energy with which I have tried to make this relationship work seems futile. And, at the end of the day, I feel used, an experimental object of Pandora’s cost structure plan.  

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Brands Can Find Identities in Digital Safaris

July 31st, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

As digital continues to redefine how we connect, share, and create, there’s been an interesting trend in how many are experiencing online identify crises. Looking more into ways in which people manage online identities, I think this goes beyond just a consumer trend. Brands face the same conflict in understanding how to translate their physical identities, how they express themselves to their consumers, for a digital world. There are only too many examples of brands who’s Twitter feeds sound like a static corporate auto-response with no real personality, life or connection to the consumers they’re attempting to speak to. Like the awkward friend at the party, they desperately try to “engage” in conversation with seemingly relevant content, but end up blurting out words that are either out of context or purely self promotion. When a conversation revolves around a mountain biking experience in California, brands either chime in with, “I like bikes” or “I have a bike, my bike is best.”

I think brands want to be there. They want to be liked, feel happiness and live a long life just like the rest of us. And while for the first time ever, there’s a language available that can translate their personalities, to add depth to their identity, many brands are shying away from truly engaging and understanding what it means to be human, what it means to be a part of a digital community. Digital is a consumer-controlled world and brands need to remember that to join this world, they have to behave as consumers, to behave human.

But brands are quite reluctant to let go. After years of visiting consumers in controlled, zoo-like environments, brands are frightened of the idea of visiting the lion in the safari. And it’s completely understandable that brands don’t want to swing recklessly in the jungle – they don’t want to be eaten alive.

But regardless of how scary becoming Tarzan might be, brands have to use digital as more than an avenue to achieve their own ends, but instead as a path with which to discover what it means to identify with and become a part of the community. Brands have to start taking risks in digital, performing their own experiments to find their place, to understand how to be more like the consumers they try so hard to reach.

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Digital Thread

July 22nd, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

Few can say that they have spent an entire day without some sort of digital communication. Cell phones serve as alarm clocks, mp3 players jam out on the back and forth commute, five open browser tabs at work keep people linked to Facebook, private email, instant messaging services, internet radio and beyond. Digital devices are designed to enhance experiences and relationships, but at the same time they leave fragments. While digitally bringing people closer together, they tend to interrupt the fluidity of relationships. 

 

Before opening a menu, a couple sitting down to dinner has already checked their email, the weather, and verified the catchy tune playing in the restaurant. Mid conversation about a summer vacation to Florida, the table vibrates and both set of eyes turn to see who might have joined them for dinner from afar. It’s like when the doorbell rings right before sitting down to dinner at home.

 

And while in the past, this kind of interruption might have been an unwelcome annoyance (and maybe still is for some), today the conversation would pick right up with, “That was Jill, she and Mike are going to meet up with us after the movie.” And then the conversation will revolve around the movie, or how Mike has that odd habit of eating pizza with a fork. Either way, one device spliced the conversation into a handful of new pieces.

 

In a way, communication devices and the relationships they interrupt work like a patch quilt. Life becomes a montage of clips and moments, weaved together by different data streams – a blanket full of scrap pieces of physical scenes, with “noise” from mobile conversations, online videos, emails, and music acting as thread.

 

The quilt ultimately becomes an unintentional shield from human contact. We find ourselves curled up in our beds covered in technology. Instead of keeping people “in touch,” this technology quilt acts as a layer between what people want to say and their ability to express it.

 

And so perhaps this is the reason that people appear to be more attached to their communicaiton devices than the relationships that they allegedly bring to life. These devices become a part of one’s identity. To go without these gadgets, for some would be like losing a piece of their soul. And like the quilt that grandma made, even with time, there are some things that cannot be thrown away.

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Hello world!

July 22nd, 2009 by Kelsey-Lee LeGassick

Welcome to The Purple List. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!

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