September 9th, 2008

My Dear Pur-o-lator,

I’ve been hunting for a nice way to say this but all my niceness-brainwaves were consumed in the deep vacuum of your silent void of a hold system. I long ago stopped shipping things with you, what with the losing them in transit and the not delivering, and although I appreciate the concern, the bills you send me a few times a year when someone puts the wrong account number on a bill of lading that I’ve never seen are not particularly welcome in my life.

We don’t really have much to do with each other, do we Purl? Until, that is, you leave me a delivery slip stuck to my front door unhelpfully telling me that you tried to leave me something while I was somewhere else. The chain of experience that cascaded forth from that sticky moment is still painfully unfolding, and as I languished in the outer ring of your infernal phone system for the second time I thought what all bloggers think: I’m going blog this damn you! And here we are.

For future reference, here’s a textbook case of how not to deliver a package:

1. The thing you stick to the door is useless. The driver’s handwriting required two of us to decipher, and he or she checked the “envelope” line instead of the “package” line when the object turns out to be a “package” instead of an “envelope”. It includes the address of my ‘local’ depot where I can go and pick up the package, which is only local by a stretch of the imagination, and informs me that I have five very short days to pack up the caravan and make the expedition, but fails to point out that I can just call you and you’ll make another attempt. Of course, I won’t find out that out until step six of this sordid tale, so at this point me and the sticky thing are about on par.
2. The thing you claim is a package tracking system is only minorly useful. After I had my crack team of code breakers decipher the tracking code your driver lovingly scrawled across the sticky thing, your website helpfully informed me that it had been shipped from TORONTO, through a bunch of handling points, and delivered to TORONTO. Before I fire up the hot air balloon and pack a picnic lunch to jet on over to the place to pickup the thing, I’d kinda like to know what the thing is. I mean, maybe it’s something I don’t want? Maybe it’s a ticking bomb or a pile of anthraxy goodness? In either of those cases, I’d rather you returned it to the sender like you promised to do five days hence.
3. The people who answer your phone line are in the wrong department. So, head in hands, I called you. I really dislike calling you, Ms. Olator, but you had left me now choice and so I dialled 1-888-SHIP-123 and someone answered almost right away and I fell clean off my chair I was in such shock. Except, of course, she wasn’t in the right department to help me track my package. Why is the first person who answers your phone number — the phone number printed right on the blasted sticky thing — not the person who can tell me who sent my package? She transferred me into a hold cue that hung up on me five minutes later.
4. Yes, yes, I know, wrong department, could you transfer me? Swell. You have no hold music. Or, rather, you have hold music that plays for a short time after the regular announcement that my call, despite all outward appearances, is important to you. And then a deep and very profound silence in which I can almost (but not quite) hear the seconds of my life ticking away. Have we been disconnected, sweet Purl? Do you even know I’m still here, trying to find out who sent me the thing? Twenty minutes later, lost among the “higher than expected call volume”, I hung up to go eat dinner. Purolator 2, Jay 0.
5. Your call volume is still higher than expected? Really? Given that I called the first time at about 7:30pm and the next time at about 4:30 pm, either you’re really popular or your estimates are waaaay off. Anyhoot, yes I know you’re in the wrong department. Could you? Why thank you. Dum, dee dum, deep eternal sunshine of the spotless void. Oh! Hello. Two screens later, your deeply Quebecois operator was able to tell me that thing is, in fact, highly desirable! The thing is the Bulova watch I won in the Sick Kids Lottery (Warning: your ears will bleed bloody mercy until you find the little mute button. I warned you.). I would like the thing please!
6. You dirty rotten liar. Turns out, I don’t have to trek out to hell and high water to pick up my watch. Turns out, despite the dire warnings of imminent return on the sticky piece of crap, you’ll happily make another delivery attempt. And you’ll helpfully re-route to my office. But only if I think to ask you for these things rather than, say, offering them to me. Which is actually the opposite of helpful.

Apparently, “O”, you’re sending me my watch tomorrow. Only time (and this blog) will tell! In the meantime, I’ll keep my fingers crossed that I don’t have to speak to you again until you erroneously send me another bill for services I don’t want.

Until then!

Jay Goldman

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1000, de La Gauchetière Ouest, Bureau 3700
Montréal (Québec) H3B 4Y7

August 31st, 2008

Dearest Bell Canada,

We used to be friends once, you and I. You provided my home and cell phone services, a little part of every contact with those closest to me. I can’t say I looked forward to your bills, but I paid them with a grudging respect built on years of dependable service and neat facts like having the world’s largest local dialing area, or powering phones over the phone lines so they would work in emergencies and keep us safe. I felt like you cared back then Bell!

But then your customer service fell apart and I ended up yelling at your useless agents every month over my incorrect bill. And you started trying to charge me for little things which used to be free, leaving me feeling gouged and dirty like the harsh morning light after a dark night of drunken frenzy. And so I left you, coldly, brutally, leaping into the arms of the nearest Roger who would have me. Sure, he regularly mistreats me and pulls the same tricks you used to (and a whole bunch you only fantasize about in your wildest dreams), but at least I’d had my say and held my ground.

And so I watched from afar while you got into new markets like satellite TV. I played with your ExpressVu service a little behind your back — kinda like checking out your ex’s Facebook page — but I honestly wasn’t impressed. I hear it got better, but the first generation was like using a menu drawn by a cranky Commodore 64 who’d been hitting the scooby snacks. No thanks! I kept my distance.

And then, oh Bell. And then. The beavers. Frank and Gordon? Seriously? I smugly pretended like we’d never dated and I barely even knew the mess you’d become. But you kept at them and they kept appearing in inane ad after inane ad. I like beavers and all (it might even have been part of my citizenship pledge way back when I was a wee little immigrant to the great nation we share), but honestly. What could be worse than an endless ad campaign involving talking beavers?

Well, I have to say congratulations. I think you might actually have found it. I say this from the tiny little tender region of my heart which might still have some feelings for you: your new ad campaign is a disaster. My completely informal survey of pretty much everyone I know has confirmed that it’s more universally despised than poor ‘old Frank and Gordon, who at least had some fans out there. I bet you thought you were being pretty clever when you launched with a big teaser campaign, just like you did with those gift wrapped Christmas presents. Everywhere I went I saw these big, white ads with the blue shape and at least one “er”:

Bell teaser campaign (CC license by Sweet One: http://flickr.com/photos/sweetone/2734661310/)

What could it be?, I thought. Maybe something to do with the Olympics? Citius, altius, fortius and whatnot. Maybe Royal Bank? They’ve got lots of cash to pay for giant nonsensical teaser campaigns and a penchant for blue on white.

Sadly, no. Somehow, despite hiring shiny new agency Zulu Alpha Kilo who have nothing better to do than dream up brilliant campaigns (like, say, build a real website for themselves), and pairing them with industry heavyweights like Leo Burnett, lg2, and Cossette, you managed to launch an entire campaign built around the sound people make when they’re confused and dumbfounded (which, in the end, is a pretty apt summary of the reaction people have).

Bell Canada's new ad campaign

There’s a part of me that I’m not so proud of. It’s like a vestigial base animal instinct left over from the days of hunting and killing our meals in cold blood. It’s the part that violently retches and tears wings of kitty cat angels whenever someone says “webinar” or “staycation” or other Frankenwords meant to capture the dynamic synergies of our sleek, modern lives. Suffice it to say that there won’t be many flying feline heavenly messengers now that you’re referring to the abstracted blue letterforms in your ads as bellements (which were, unfortunately, the only part of the campaign I liked until I heard that little detail and had to go gag in the corner). Also, Pentagram’s 2006 rebrand of Saks Fifth Avenue called and would like their graphical device back.

Which brings us, I wearily suppose, to your new logo.

Bell's new logo

I would have thought, with all the money you spent on this new campaign, and will now spend changing every building, truck, and letterhead throughout your massive organization, that you might have set aside a budget for a typesetter. I realize it’s probably the stodgy old typographer in me, but the bizarre kerning in your new identity has me grasping for a copy of The Elements of Typographic Style. The tight spacing and suffocated e are completely the opposite of what I would have wanted for a brand that is supposed to make me think of a forward thinking company who can solve all of my current and future communication quandries.

So. I’m going to keep on keeping on with my distance keeping. You and me are done Bell. Today just got better, or so your new ads tell me. Today is a new smoothie says Starbucks, and they beat you to it. I’m going to go have a tasty Banana Chocolate Vivanno while you ponder that one. Perhaps a relevant piece of advice from my friend Mr. Shaver: dig up.

Yours truly,

Jay Goldman

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