These sandals were made for Meriwether Lewis
About four years ago I found a pair of brown leather sandals in a trashcan. (This is not where I usually shop.) They were well worn and looking the better for it. At the risk of anthropomorphizing, I would say they exuded fortitude. Years of sweat and dirt had been ground into them so that they felt as the bare earth under my feet. The company logo, if there had ever been one, was long worn away. I rather like to think that Sacagawea may have made them for Meriwether Lewis as he and William Clark scouted the continent.
Over time the sole under the left big toe wore completely away. Such was my devotion, I ignored the sharp rocks and glass under toe. Sharper still were quips from friends about my disheveled footwear, and these I could not ignore.
So I caved and went to American Eagle at the mall (shudder). After several weeks, a trip to D.C., a trip to Nevada, and lots of walking in between, my feet and my new sandals were getting to know each other pretty well. Until a few days ago I thought my feet had new best friends. Then I kicked a soccer ball in the middle of the street in the middle of the night and the strap on the right sandal ripped in half. Seriously guys. A month at most. Andrew Jackson could have worn my old trashcan pair through the Civil War and they would have been in better shape. Or was that Stonewall Jackson in the War of 1812…
Anyway, as a result of my experience with AE’s craftsmanship, I propose the following branding change.
Aren't credit cards supposed to make things easier?
I’ve been considering a new camera for a long time. Today I caved and ordered a Canon Digital Rebel XT. In lieu of the mediocre stock lens I ordered a Sigma 18-125mm, which has much wider use and higher optical quality. For storage I got an 8 GB Compact Flash card, which still blows me away when I think about it.
Credit cards are supposed to make buying (our patriotic duty in America) so easy, but I found myself hampered today at every turn. The camera and lens are definitely entry level, but it was more than I’ve ever scrounged out from between my sofa cushions. Apparently it was enough to set off alarms at Citibank. I was soon receiving phone calls and warning messages saying my account was experiencing “suspicious” activity. I glanced out my window, expecting to see Homeland Security and a SWAT team setting up a perimeter. They remained hidden.
A woman on the phone asked me for my credit card number and a password, which I had forgotten but was able to bluff through. She began listing off the purchases that had just been blocked, asking if they were mine. When I had confirmed them (it felt more like pleading guilty to a list of criminal charges) she pressed a magical button and everything went through.
While I appreciate the measures they’re taking, it could be annoying if I used my credit card for everything. But I guess a phone call is better than being billed for 120 Smashing Pumpkins concert tickets and 14,000 tennis balls. What really surprised me was the relative ease with which I convinced Citibank that I was me. A pimply Kroger checkout kid could have done it. I’ve been the victim of attempted identity theft once before, and I don’t intend to repeat it. Maybe I’ll blog about that sometime.