Earlier today I was aimlessly surfing around in the interweb. Quickly I hit all of my compulsive checks: various comics, several email addresses, facebook, facebook, facebook, job trafficking sites, blogs of acquaintances, myspace, and finally the blogs of people I don’t really know. Finding myself with time still to kill, I settled before the soul-sucking abyss that is Amazon.
Generally, I am no huge fan of Amazon, a surprising occurrence considering my tendency to sink my spending money into books. I don’t know exactly what it is that I don’t like, maybe it just freaks me out that they have a “grocery” section (see previous post for additional rebellions against modern convenience).
However, I’m not too proud to browse the “Your Recommendation” section of Amazon when I am scraping the scummy bottom of my internet entertainment barrel. I was introduced to this phenomenon last December when my Older-Younger sister became obsessed with the function while creating a wish list. She called me up in a great tizzy and informed me that she wasn’t sure how, but Amazon had guessed very astutely that she would want to buy the Mighty Ducks trilogy on DVD. She then proceeded to fill her wish list with items that Amazon had troubled itself to identify quite correctly for her.
I’ve never been too amazed by the items recommended to me, but that certainly doesn’t stop me from looking. It’s rather like calling up Miss Cleo from someone else’s land-line; it’s free and it’s somewhat flattering to hear other people guess at your personality.
[Short delay, is it totally dating myself to reference Miss Cleo? Is that retro? Are her commercials only playing on Nick-at-Night between eps of Full House?]
Unfortunately, I didn’t want any of the books, DVDs, shoes, hardware or linens recommended to me today. Not that I would have purchased them, but it would be nice to know that my previous purchases [read: books] would have suggested something more flattering to the Amazon mastermind than a Nimbus 2000 lamp and three floral table clothes.
Aaaaaand, speaking of linens [stop here if you’ve already heard my spiel about linens; I’ve been dragging it all over the wider Sacramento area for a week] I’ve been having some thoughts. I was recently reading Moll Flanders by DeFoe, which is a novel that focuses in the early part a great deal on capturing rich husbands by pretending to have a totally bitchin dowry. At one point, after having cajoled her husband into accepting her diminished wealth, Moll rewards him for his loyalty by revealing an additional dowry of…linens.
Back in the early modern period having towels was like having a Hummer. As an individual with about 40 towels and at least two pairs of blue sheets, this has always been a very perplexing concept. It sort of makes me want to hoard my linens against the impending downward spiral of the economy. In like, wooden chests with sprigs of some fragrant plant and ladles stuck in between them.
Given the cheapness of my linens/ladles and complete distrust of fragrant plant, this would be completely unnecessary, but I suppose I’m just feeling dramatic today.
Generally, I am no huge fan of Amazon, a surprising occurrence considering my tendency to sink my spending money into books. I don’t know exactly what it is that I don’t like, maybe it just freaks me out that they have a “grocery” section (see previous post for additional rebellions against modern convenience).
However, I’m not too proud to browse the “Your Recommendation” section of Amazon when I am scraping the scummy bottom of my internet entertainment barrel. I was introduced to this phenomenon last December when my Older-Younger sister became obsessed with the function while creating a wish list. She called me up in a great tizzy and informed me that she wasn’t sure how, but Amazon had guessed very astutely that she would want to buy the Mighty Ducks trilogy on DVD. She then proceeded to fill her wish list with items that Amazon had troubled itself to identify quite correctly for her.
I’ve never been too amazed by the items recommended to me, but that certainly doesn’t stop me from looking. It’s rather like calling up Miss Cleo from someone else’s land-line; it’s free and it’s somewhat flattering to hear other people guess at your personality.
[Short delay, is it totally dating myself to reference Miss Cleo? Is that retro? Are her commercials only playing on Nick-at-Night between eps of Full House?]
Unfortunately, I didn’t want any of the books, DVDs, shoes, hardware or linens recommended to me today. Not that I would have purchased them, but it would be nice to know that my previous purchases [read: books] would have suggested something more flattering to the Amazon mastermind than a Nimbus 2000 lamp and three floral table clothes.
Aaaaaand, speaking of linens [stop here if you’ve already heard my spiel about linens; I’ve been dragging it all over the wider Sacramento area for a week] I’ve been having some thoughts. I was recently reading Moll Flanders by DeFoe, which is a novel that focuses in the early part a great deal on capturing rich husbands by pretending to have a totally bitchin dowry. At one point, after having cajoled her husband into accepting her diminished wealth, Moll rewards him for his loyalty by revealing an additional dowry of…linens.
Back in the early modern period having towels was like having a Hummer. As an individual with about 40 towels and at least two pairs of blue sheets, this has always been a very perplexing concept. It sort of makes me want to hoard my linens against the impending downward spiral of the economy. In like, wooden chests with sprigs of some fragrant plant and ladles stuck in between them.
Given the cheapness of my linens/ladles and complete distrust of fragrant plant, this would be completely unnecessary, but I suppose I’m just feeling dramatic today.
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