<"Well, I Got My Invite..."
The Reckoner>
There's a reason why unsolicited anything gives good business a bad name. Why do A&R men and editors shudder at the idea of unsolicited submissions? Because 95% of them suck, leaving the halfway decent four percent, and the killer one percent. That's what Sturgeon's Law tells us.
Why do unsolicited phone calls seem so irksome as we're trying to enjoy a favorite book, dish or TV show? Because it's usually a robocall, or a live irritant (the telemarketer) striving to wring some money out of his unwilling victim (you) for some dubious enterprise or other. "Supporting the police" seems like the hottest one at the moment, which hasn't stopped me from banging the phone down on every on one of them.
Why do unsolicited sales pitches knot our stomachs? Because they're the product of a mindset that runs: "If I throw enough at the wall, something will stick, I'll make my weekly or monthly nut, and I won't get sacked." This mindset explains the unfamiliar insurance agent I once encountered during a midsummer party at our complex. He breezily explained that he'd come in hopes of growing his agency, a mere four counties away from ours. "Surely," I said, "you have more than a customer or two in your hometown?" He smiled wanly and changed the subject. The look of the desperate is never a pretty sight.
Now comes the latest unsolicited (read: unwelcome) burst of attention. This time, it's a questionnaire from Acme Funeral Home, as we'll call the offender here. I first heard from them last year (see link below), where I questioned why they were inviting me to a pizza party, to discuss the disposal of my mortal remains. Just make sure your piece didn't come out of the cremation ovens, right?
<"Demo Day!"
The Squawker>
<ii.>
But Acme's learned something, it seems. Last year's two-page questionnaire is now a one-pager, boiled down to the essentials, from basic info on my age and status (Employed/retired? Vet/Non-vet?), to desired arrangements (Burial/cremation? Life insurance/Prepaid plan or not? Will or no will?), how much I'd cough up for a funeral (0-$2,000? $2,000-4,000? $4,000-6,000? $6,000-8,000? $8,000-10,000?), and who'd make the arrangements, if I couldn't (Children or spouse? Family member or Other?).
At first blush, most of these questions are holdovers from last year, though once again, I can't help but detect a hint of surrealism in some (Cemetery: Very important, Somewhat important, Not very important, not important at all), a telegraphed punch or two in others ("Would it give you peace of mind to know that you could do the planning in advance and that your family would not have to make the arrangements themselves?").
To which I might answer, "Not important" on the first, and "Not applicable -- there's not many of us left" on the second." Sadly, I seem to have lost the prepaid envelope that Acme so helpfully provided, leaving my answers to languish unrecorded for posterity. History doesn't always record who led, I'm afraid.
Oh, wait, I almost forgot. As a reward for filling out the whole business, Acme will gladly send me something called a Final Wishes Organizer. I imagine it's a slightly nicer-looking version of the sort you'll see in a Dollar General, Dollar Tree, or Family Dollar. But I don't really need Acme for that, so I'm passing on that, too.
All of this stuff leaves me wondering, "Who's this appealing to, and what's this supposed to accomplish?" Considering the gravity of the enterprise, it's hard to imagine somebody cheerfully filling out this unsolicited piece of paper, and chucking it back out in the mail. More than most businesses, I suspect that word of mouth, or recommendations from friends or relatives, best decides how we shuffle off this mortal coil.
It reminds me of working on survey questions during the pre-Internet era, at the various papers that employed me, when a response rate of five to 30% was the norm. We typically languished near the lower end of that figure, but even if you're in a relatively robust industry, I doubt the rates have changed that much. Or the times, for that matter.
<iii.>
Acme seems to tacitly acknowledge all of these various issues, as this proviso, sprawled across the bottom, in pint-sized type, suggests: "If this letter reaches you at a time of illness or loss, please accept our sincerest apologies." I suspect that this unsolicited mailing reflects a business trying to keep its finger on its customer base in these COVID-wracked times. But I'm not sure what it'll accomplish.
Honestly, can you imagine your friend, neighbor, or significant other, working out funeral arrangements from a postage-paid questionnaire? I can't, and neither would anyone else who gets this, I wager. So I'm sending this unsolicited reading material straight to the bin.
And the next time I hear that line from Pink Floyd ("I've got a grand piano, to prop up my mortal remains"), I'm going to switch the radio dial somewhere else -- and count my lucky stars, such as they are. --The Reckoner
Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before Your Number Comes Up):
Ramen Noodle Nation:
My Corona Diary (Take X):
The Funeral Home Sent Us A Survey...
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