Here’s a sneak peek at the Jan. 16 issue of Marketing.
The internet has been gathering information on us for years. So why can’t it figure us out?
“The use of online behavioural advertising has exploded and we’re concerned that Canadians’ privacy rights aren’t always being respected.” – Privacy Commissioner Jennifer Stoddart, who launched new privacy guidelines in a speech at the recent Marketing and the Law conference in Toronto.
We’ve been doing this since before Alta-fricking-Vista. How do you not know me yet? I live on 1st Avenue and 1st Street in Acme, Alberta. You’ve asked me, like, a thousand times in the last 15 years! I’m a Capricorn. I was born January 1, 1901. My favourite movie is The Goonies. My zip code is 90210. I’ve answered everything you’ve asked. I am an open book to you—while you are closed to me.
I know you think I’m cagey about my income. When I applied for an American Express credit card, it was over $250,000—but I had to go under $20,000 to qualify for that neighbourhood grant. I know you think I’m a little brusque with my feedback. But how many times do I need to tell you: Adk;afdjk aoeuinvk asiopufvzkaipeo adjk agiopvakda;ifu adkslfjopau afkljopuikajf.
Honestly, I don’t mind that you’ve been haphazardly following me. You convinced the pushy Mexicans to leave me alone about the orgasm pills. The heroic Nigerians offering me money have disappeared. You didn’t have to do that.
I know all the Kardashian content you send me is scarce and costly to produce. In return, I’ve never tickled your virtual tip jar. And I know you know I mute the splash ads. I was warming, though. I did sign up for your daily Vancouver deal. I bought two years’ worth of contact lenses. I dumped Fido the moment you told me about Wind. I did trust you.
And then you had to get a hundred of your creepiest friends involved. You call it profiling. Privacy Commissioner Jennifer Stoddart (Mom!) calls it stalking. She’s been watching you watching me in this not very Bill Withers way, and is basically wrapping tinfoil around the whole awkward thing we’ve had going. Meaningful consent. For your own good. So that we’ll trust you again. (Her words.) Evidently, there’s a reason you haven’t been an open book yourself. (You’re using “beacons” to capture the words I’m typing on someone else’s web page right now?)
Did you ever consider that you’d be better off not knowing about the flame war I had with BieberBot69 about Bill C-10? My Geolibertarianism is nuanced, okay?
I like weed. But instead of, you know, sending a petition to Rob Nicholson and finding me a reliable hook-up when I show up at Pitchfork, now I see ads for Justin Bieber’s Under The Mistletoe.
There are some things you’re not getting about me. Like when Phaneufistan offered me Chad LaRose for James van Riemsdyk in my Yahoo Fantasy Hockey pool this morning, you sent me directions to 701 First Avenue Sunnyvale, CA. And 25% off a duvet? Like, what the fuck? Chad LaRose. If you really knew me, you’d know that I wanted you to leave an open jar of live scorpions on Phaneufistan’s couch tonight.
Which is to say nothing about the more sensitive things you’ve discovered. On lonely nights, I drink tequila and go to a place called xHamster. I don’t want you to know what I do there. I want to forget about what I do there myself. Dropping subtle hints that you know—you may not be an open book like I am, but I do know this is not who you are.
Whoever concocted the whole “you don’t have toddlers, why should you get diaper ads” rationale has become so obsessed with stalking me that they’ve forgotten about the thrill of actually getting me off. I don’t want you to make overtures to where I went last week, the embarrassing things I do in private, or even who I am right now, typing this sentence. You’re the one who has always shown me who I can be and where I will journey—tomorrow.
For the last six months, all I’ve seen are Wind and Clearly Contacts ads. The daily Vancouver deal I signed up for has become plural and obsessed with infrared saunas. Maybe if I saw a diaper ad, I’d put away these silly things and get on with my life.
Chris Koentges is an award-winning writer based in Vancouver. His work has appeared in The Walrus, Maisonneuve and Reader’s Digest.
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