"Campus Dining Survey." "Campus Parking Survey." "Public Transportation Survey." "Campus Technology Survey." These were the first four emails in my campus email inbox this morning. While I was looking at them, I got a phone call from the Honda dealership; they wanted me to complete a brief survey about my most recent experience in their service department. My answer: It was two years ago; I don't remember. In another email inbox, I had a survey from a Toyota dealership asking my father about his satisfaction in the Toyota brand. How this ended up in my email is completely beyond me. I've never owned a Toyota and the last time I went to a Toyota dealership was when I was car shopping in 2001.
I gave up on work and headed to Wal-Mart where, upon being handed my receipt, I was invited to complete yet another survey about my shopping experience for a chance to win a $1000 Wal-Mart gift card.
Back at home with groceries put away and the dog walked, I sit back down to my computer and open my campus email again. I have ANOTHER survey request about my satisfaction and usage habits of a textbook the department writes and prints and REQUIRES us to use. My personal email has a survey about parking in my apartment complex, which I find amusing since it's the fourth one this year and nothing has changed. (The complex, 2 years old now, built less than one parking space per apartment when some apartments have four cars to them. Somehow, our answering of surveys is supposed to direct them in how to resolve the problem, which I suggested that next time they don't be so ridiculously stupid. Perhaps it is unproductive responses like that that have caused them to send four surveys in one year about the same problem).
This has been going on for the last three or four years. I have been, and assume most of us have been, bombarded with survey requests from corporations, schools, retailers, and banks. Surveys on campus functions and infrastructure, textbook usage, shopping experiences, transportation habits, customer service, loan processes, marketing, money...dare I go on? No, I don't dare.
At first I felt flattered, naively of course, that they would seek my opinion. I would answer them thoughtfully. But with the glut of surveys that I am bombarded with now, I want to scream! None of my carefully answered surveys has made the lines at Wal-Mart any shorter, the staff more knowledgeable, or the produce more edible. My responses to Food Lion's surveys have in no way encouraged them to move the cluttered displays that transform their aisles into obstacle courses for people in mobility chairs or pushing a cart-- which is pretty much everybody. They haven't made the services at the bank any less expensive (when did I start paying them to use my money instead of them pay me?!) And they haven't encouraged the department for which I work to let me not use a textbook that I think is pretty much useless and an embarrassment to us. I don't ever eat on campus so I can't answer those surveys and aren't even sure why I get them since they aren't relevant, though I'm tempted to fill them in with random answers in order to skew their data. But all the time it has taken me to answer these surveys hasn't been rewarded with better services, more parking spaces, more widespread public transportation, or better books. I haven't gotten a damn thing from them but a lot of lost time I can never get back.
To make matters worse, these surveys, if they do allow you to put in a comment of your own at some point, limit it to a specific number of characters or only let you comment on things that you care nothing about. The questions are poorly formed and closed. These surveys don't seek information, knowledge. They only seek to make you feel important.
Once upon a time, way back in the 90s and before, surveys were used sparingly to collect quantitative data, to gauge quantitative trends. Now it's all qualitative questions they're asking and I'm not sure that surveys can actually work like that. I mean, how do you compile and reduce qualitative information to numbers? Maybe I didn't pay enough attention in statistics class.
On a personal level, surveys cause me a significant amount of anxiety. For example, I answered a mental health survey a few weeks ago and it asked me: "Did you have trouble thinking or concentrating?" Well, I always have trouble thinking or concentrating. It's hard to focus on work when there's drama at home or I have a head cold. What constitutes "trouble"? And if I answer "yes" to that question, does that somehow indict me? Make me a suspect in some sort of mental health crime? A Quality of Life Questionnaire wanted me to answer sixteen questions about my perception of my satisfaction with life quality by rating them on a scale of one (very poor) to five (very good) and I begin to panic because their is no objective definition provided for what is "very bad" or "very good." And sometimes I couldn't decide if it was average or above average...they didn't offer a 3.5 option on the scale. There's no room for indecision, self-reflection, or personal opinion. Your opinion is reduced into categories that are deemed most efficient for processing with no real engagement. It's on par with answering the monthly quiz questions about my sex life in Cosmopolitan magazine.
And then the surveys try not to be intrusive. "It will only take you ten minutes," they claim. But ten minutes or no, I still am not getting anything out of this at all. I have to pay for their time and services, but they don't have to pay for mine? And then if I delete their message, they send me a follow up email or automated phone message (American Express being notorious for this): "You still haven't answered our survey. Please complete the survey at your earliest convenience." I begin to feel badgered and guilty, judged inadequate by an email or phone survey.
To make matters worse, in the era of survey overload, people will answer surveys all day long for the mere hint of something free but will not answer the US Census, regarded by several of my neighbors with great suspicion. When they see a representative coming to their door, they hide in their apartment. But they'll answer surveys for Wal-Mart all day long. I don't get it.
I've decided I won't answer any more surveys. I'm done with them forever. I've even taken to filling out "other" on all necessary government, employment, and educational forms that ask about race, ethnicity, gender, marital status, and the like if I deem it's an option. If it's not, since they don't recognize sex other than male or female, I simply refuse to answer and leave it blank. It shouldn't be relevant anyway. I'm pretty sure this won't do any good, but it makes me feel a little better about it.
Showing posts with label Cultural Studies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cultural Studies. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The New Frankenstein
A couple weekends ago, Statler drags me out to The Cheesecake Factory at Southpoint Mall in Durham (not literally, of course, I'm being dramatic). In the hour and fifteen minutes we waited for a table, I got the opportunity to inspect the place pretty closely.
I've only been to one location of The Cheesecake Factory before and that was in Georgetown, Washington, D.C.. We went only for cheesecake, which I do not remember as being very good or very bad so that must mean it was the usual chain restaurant fare that is just tasty and timely enough for the customer to think they're happy, pay, and leave without actually being a memorable experience. I don't remember the location as standing out to me in any distinct way, granted this was ten years ago before I really thought about anything outside my own inner angst, but it blended in with all the other historic storefronts of houses and mom and pop stores that had morphed into Gaps and Banana Republics while somehow still floating under the guise of historic preservation.
Anyway, back to The Cheesecake Factory in Durham, which at first struck me as a horrific but grew on me as a garish, mockable delight. First, let me explain that Southpoint mall at Durham is apparently one of those malls designed to look like a city street, because for whatever reason suburbanites are seen as wanting a city shopping experience without having to leave the suburbs and actually visit a city (maybe city street shopping is more "authentic" or maybe it's the idea of being outdoors while not actually having to be in nature?). But the whole effect of these neighborhood malls is somewhat farcical in that they purport to be separate buildings, unique, individual, authentic, special, and unto themselves, but, as a consumer, I just end up feeling patronized. I guess I'm not supposed to notice the shoddy construction that is present in all buildings, the moldings that overlap much too far onto the adjacent buildings, the bricks that are all aligned or sometimes too perfectly staggared, a plastic lamp post painted to look like iron but really only looking like poorly painted plastic the closer you get to it, and the fact that this is in no way a city street. Ah, the simulacrum.
The Cheesecake Factory was made up red brick with a cafe style outcropping carefully surrounded by a metal (supposedly ironwork) rail common in American cafes where people want the experience of sitting outside and eating on the "street" without actually being part of that street (such careful distinctions must be made). The building had art deco windows and doors but the doors were surrounded by roman "columns" and the columns, in turn, were surrounded by Aegean tile. Inside, it was an absolute clusterfuck. There were large Egyptian columns with supposedly Egyptian faces painted on them that were carefully balanced to be not so exotic that I feel transported to somewhere else but odd enough that I couldn't help but notice them. There were Sistine Chapel style murals painted into the ceiling over plastic wicker chairs and floral print chintz booths that should only be found in diners or large, inexpensive chain hotel bars (personal opinion, of course). And to top off that dimly lit, charmingly uncomfortable ambiance was the nondescript music playing so loudly that Statler and I had to shout across the table at each other to be heard; and when the waitress told us the specials, I didn't have the heart to tell her that I hadn't heard a word she'd said.
The survey of the interior was finished off by our being handed menus that were spiral bound, glossy paged notebooks. The appetizer list alone was two pages long! The menu covered everything from Thai lettuce wraps, to quesadillas, to pasta in wine sauce. There was so much on it and so many different kinds of items on it, it was impossible to determine what might be their specialty. Well, of course their specialty is cheesecake, but why stop there! The place is the best evidence I've yet seen that supports my suspicion of an American cultural and culinary identity crisis.
My food was good. Not great. There was, in typical American fashion, about three meals worth of food on a single plate. Everything was so odd and also so nondescript at the same time; it was carefully crafted to be forgettable and overpriced-- a carefully contrived balance of getting top dollar for a meal and an experience that was "okay." I do think, though, that it was all worth it. The Cheesecake Factory had managed to capture a sort of abominable, frightening charm...somewhat like Frankenstein. I mean, I sort of rooted for Frankenstein, ya know? It wasn't his fault, really. More Victor Frankenstein, the creator, that was truly the monster.
So who creates places like The Cheesecake Factory? And more importantly, why do we go? Well, the first question goes back to the mall itself and beyond-- it's the same ubiquitous "they" that we use to refer to the masterminds behind government, business, marketing and other conspiracies.
The problem is that "they" is apt. It's not one person or one group: it's architects, interior designers, chefs, culinary experts, document designers, scientists studying why people make the choices they do, market researchers, advertisers, menu designers. On their own, they create the space. Together, through the long chain, the space takes on a life of its own. It becomes not the object of design being labeled and molded. Instead, it blurs the space between subject and object, the space begins to label those that create it, those that detest it, those that find solace in it, and those that have never been. Instead of telling it what sort of place it should be, the space begins to tell us what sort of consumers we should be, what foods we should like, what music creates dinner ambiance, where to walk, what food is popular, what design schemes are popular, how to sit, when to leave.
But it's an inanimate object you say? Yes and no. In the postmodern breakdown of signs is it really possible to believe still that the object has no power, only the subject? We create the space. Us. The consumers. Yet it defines us as much as we define it. I speak places like The Cheesecake Factory while it speaks me. I am now someone who eats at The Cheesecake Factory. This defines me as a middle-class professional with some spare money to blow (at least on that day), who likes options, who never eats alone so the menu choices have to be broad in order for us to all agree to go to one place and find something we want while usually suffering from a decision-making phobia at the same time, where the music is loud enough that we don't have to have a meaningful conversation with one another if we don't want to, and the seating uncomfortable enough that we don't feel obligated to linger in each others' company. We are the Dr. Frankensteins and the Frankenstein monster and the villagers running in terror.
While the sign over the door reads "The Cheesecake Factory," there is an underlying subtext that says "Welcome to the paradox of hypermodernity."
I've only been to one location of The Cheesecake Factory before and that was in Georgetown, Washington, D.C.. We went only for cheesecake, which I do not remember as being very good or very bad so that must mean it was the usual chain restaurant fare that is just tasty and timely enough for the customer to think they're happy, pay, and leave without actually being a memorable experience. I don't remember the location as standing out to me in any distinct way, granted this was ten years ago before I really thought about anything outside my own inner angst, but it blended in with all the other historic storefronts of houses and mom and pop stores that had morphed into Gaps and Banana Republics while somehow still floating under the guise of historic preservation.
Anyway, back to The Cheesecake Factory in Durham, which at first struck me as a horrific but grew on me as a garish, mockable delight. First, let me explain that Southpoint mall at Durham is apparently one of those malls designed to look like a city street, because for whatever reason suburbanites are seen as wanting a city shopping experience without having to leave the suburbs and actually visit a city (maybe city street shopping is more "authentic" or maybe it's the idea of being outdoors while not actually having to be in nature?). But the whole effect of these neighborhood malls is somewhat farcical in that they purport to be separate buildings, unique, individual, authentic, special, and unto themselves, but, as a consumer, I just end up feeling patronized. I guess I'm not supposed to notice the shoddy construction that is present in all buildings, the moldings that overlap much too far onto the adjacent buildings, the bricks that are all aligned or sometimes too perfectly staggared, a plastic lamp post painted to look like iron but really only looking like poorly painted plastic the closer you get to it, and the fact that this is in no way a city street. Ah, the simulacrum.
The Cheesecake Factory was made up red brick with a cafe style outcropping carefully surrounded by a metal (supposedly ironwork) rail common in American cafes where people want the experience of sitting outside and eating on the "street" without actually being part of that street (such careful distinctions must be made). The building had art deco windows and doors but the doors were surrounded by roman "columns" and the columns, in turn, were surrounded by Aegean tile. Inside, it was an absolute clusterfuck. There were large Egyptian columns with supposedly Egyptian faces painted on them that were carefully balanced to be not so exotic that I feel transported to somewhere else but odd enough that I couldn't help but notice them. There were Sistine Chapel style murals painted into the ceiling over plastic wicker chairs and floral print chintz booths that should only be found in diners or large, inexpensive chain hotel bars (personal opinion, of course). And to top off that dimly lit, charmingly uncomfortable ambiance was the nondescript music playing so loudly that Statler and I had to shout across the table at each other to be heard; and when the waitress told us the specials, I didn't have the heart to tell her that I hadn't heard a word she'd said.
The survey of the interior was finished off by our being handed menus that were spiral bound, glossy paged notebooks. The appetizer list alone was two pages long! The menu covered everything from Thai lettuce wraps, to quesadillas, to pasta in wine sauce. There was so much on it and so many different kinds of items on it, it was impossible to determine what might be their specialty. Well, of course their specialty is cheesecake, but why stop there! The place is the best evidence I've yet seen that supports my suspicion of an American cultural and culinary identity crisis.
My food was good. Not great. There was, in typical American fashion, about three meals worth of food on a single plate. Everything was so odd and also so nondescript at the same time; it was carefully crafted to be forgettable and overpriced-- a carefully contrived balance of getting top dollar for a meal and an experience that was "okay." I do think, though, that it was all worth it. The Cheesecake Factory had managed to capture a sort of abominable, frightening charm...somewhat like Frankenstein. I mean, I sort of rooted for Frankenstein, ya know? It wasn't his fault, really. More Victor Frankenstein, the creator, that was truly the monster.
So who creates places like The Cheesecake Factory? And more importantly, why do we go? Well, the first question goes back to the mall itself and beyond-- it's the same ubiquitous "they" that we use to refer to the masterminds behind government, business, marketing and other conspiracies.
The problem is that "they" is apt. It's not one person or one group: it's architects, interior designers, chefs, culinary experts, document designers, scientists studying why people make the choices they do, market researchers, advertisers, menu designers. On their own, they create the space. Together, through the long chain, the space takes on a life of its own. It becomes not the object of design being labeled and molded. Instead, it blurs the space between subject and object, the space begins to label those that create it, those that detest it, those that find solace in it, and those that have never been. Instead of telling it what sort of place it should be, the space begins to tell us what sort of consumers we should be, what foods we should like, what music creates dinner ambiance, where to walk, what food is popular, what design schemes are popular, how to sit, when to leave.
But it's an inanimate object you say? Yes and no. In the postmodern breakdown of signs is it really possible to believe still that the object has no power, only the subject? We create the space. Us. The consumers. Yet it defines us as much as we define it. I speak places like The Cheesecake Factory while it speaks me. I am now someone who eats at The Cheesecake Factory. This defines me as a middle-class professional with some spare money to blow (at least on that day), who likes options, who never eats alone so the menu choices have to be broad in order for us to all agree to go to one place and find something we want while usually suffering from a decision-making phobia at the same time, where the music is loud enough that we don't have to have a meaningful conversation with one another if we don't want to, and the seating uncomfortable enough that we don't feel obligated to linger in each others' company. We are the Dr. Frankensteins and the Frankenstein monster and the villagers running in terror.
While the sign over the door reads "The Cheesecake Factory," there is an underlying subtext that says "Welcome to the paradox of hypermodernity."
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