Words are meaningless. Well, some words. Let me explain: There actually were good old days when a handshake sealed a deal, when people who promised to pay actually came through, when people didn’t need to get into the “did not/did too” entanglement.
Nowadays, too many words tend to be laden with sarcasm. The last time you heard someone say, “excuuuze me,” “sorrry” or “You’re so-oo much help” you probably weren’t seduced by notions of sincerity.
Lately, even “hel-lo,” sometimes followed by a question mark, communicates an I-think-you’re-stupid meaning. It’s a close relative of “duh,” or if you’re a Homer Simpsonite, “doh.”
A vivid throwback to the olden days came when my wife and I were looking for an economical used car, with the idea of passing it on to one of our sons, down the road.
Where did we shop? Car World? Albuquerque? Las Vegas? This time we chose Springer, with its lone dealership, Springer Auto, and precious few used cars on the lot. We couldn’t make it there until Sunday. “I’ll tell you what,” Joe Montoya, then the manager, said, “I’ll leave a couple of cars by the sidewalk, with the keys under the floor mat.”
Long-story-short: We test drove both cars Sunday, liked the second one better, drove it to Las Vegas, and sealed the deal a few days later.
That kind of hassle-free negotiating is a pleasure. But it’s becoming rare. People don’t always mean what they say. If you’re not convinced, check out one of those “free” credit report offerings that appears on people’s e-mails. The report is free, but you need to agree to a membership, at $30 a month, that entitles you to zillions of special offers. And to continue the membership for years — and here’s the great part — you do nothing. The company will automatically and painlessly withdraw $29.95 from your credit card account. What part of “free” do the credit report guys fail to understand?
Anyone who’s ever heard of Ed McMahon identifies him with Publisher’s Clearing House, sender of bulky mailings with dozens of stamps we’d stick on to a card to order magazines? Most of the little stamps compared the newsstand price with the subscription price, with a marginal comment like “20 percent off.” In one case, the publisher’s newsstand and subscription prices were identical, but yet McMahon’s comment was “smart buy.”
The law requires companies to disclose whether your chances of winning the millions improve if you order. Many people feel guilty if they don’t order something. These companies have helped words become meaningless.
Years back, when we received solicitations from Ed McMahon & Co., we noted techniques such companies use to lure customers.
Rather clever was the envelope with a clear window through which we’d read, “Mr. Trujillo has won a million dollars.” Big whoopee! As we’d unwrap the bulky envelope, with trembling hands and great expectations, we’d see that the good-news declaration was merely part of a larger sentence: “If your lucky number is selected we’ll be able to say, “Mr. Trujillo, has won …”
Publisher’s Clearing House and similar companies have grown from an exclusively magazine subscription firm to offering everything from jewelry to special mint coins to lovely caftans to drain cleaners. Some of the offers are two for one. Wisely, they found a way of making the buyer feel important by including meticulous directions on which card to place which stamp.
Oh yes. The mailing explains you can own the stuff “in just three easy payments of $4.99,” but for those who choose that option, there’s a special handling fee amounting to about 50 percent of the sale price.
Another technique is to give each subscriber “10 more chances to win.” But remember, everybody gets 10 more shots at the big prize. It’s like having everyone at a bingo game being issued a dozen cards. How thoughtful.
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Just when I thought it was safe to push away from the menudo buffet, I get a message from my son Stan Adam. A few weeks ago, I provided a sort of review of menudo, and it didn’t receive a five-star rating. Stan read the column and recalled his college days.
This is the tale my son unfolded:
Like every struggling student, my son, at UNM, often found there was too much of the semester left at the end of the money. Some students make off with leftover saltines and ketchup. Some cop an apple or an orange from the dining hall, for later consumption. So I asked Stan what he was subsisting on. I heard him say he had bought a large supply of raw menudos. He used the plural form: One menudo, two menudos.
Gasp! Fully cooked tripe is bad enough, son, so why would you prefer it raw? Let us now articulate:
The survival staple that’s a favorite of the college dorm crowd is Ramen Noodles.” There’s a difference. A huge difference.