Tivo makes me nostalgic, but I've moved on...

Dear Tivo,

What happened to us? We were inseparable. It was just you, me, and cable TV. Life was good. Really good. In fact, I couldn't imagine life without you, even when DIRECTV and Comcast starting offering their own DVRs as a standard part of their cable services.

I like to think I was Olive Oyl and you were my Popeye, and the cable companies were Bluto, always trying to force their way in-between us and undermine you with an eye toward my affection. But it didn't happen, and still doesn't, even as your peanut-shaped remote just lies there on my coffee table, lifeless.

Oh, your remote! The buttons felt so right. They responded so well to the touch, not like the others, which took a few muscled depressions before it finally responded, and then responded again and again, the signals finally catching up and me so far adrift from my target. I was afraid to use the other remotes. But never yours.

And the little TV with the antenna and legs. He gave the whole thing personality. I hated the times the machine needed to reboot, but look over there! That little guy is having so much fun sliding and swinging around!

That was my last encounter with you. Something happened. Months ago–I lost count–you overheated and conked out. It was sudden, and I mourned for you.

But I didn't do anything about it. I didn't fix you. I didn't replace you. I just carried on.

Frankly, TV WAS better with you. Unfortunately, it's no longer better enough to warrant the work needed to troubleshoot you and rescue the 70+ episodes of Dora the Explorer I so obsessively recorded for my kids. They're on to Hanna Montana, now.

And me? Well, I guess I'll watch North by Northwest some other time. Same with those other movies I collected over the years but never got around to playing.

Perhaps I'm in recovery. All the hours of TV I watched and wanted to watch and didn't know I needed to watch. You made me voracious for TV, but I could never keep up.

You enabled me. I explored Steve McQueen and wishlisted Anthony Wong. I felt confident that I wasn't missing anything, even if I never watched most of it.

I suppose the missing piece in our broken relationship is TV. I don't watch that much of it anymore. I've moved on to Hulu. It doesn't have everything, but it has enough to keep me satisfied. There's no queue, no pile-up of movies and TV episodes to dig through. I just graze and go.

Today the New York Times said that you posted another quarterly loss. It makes me sad because I loved you. I still love you. But I think for many of us, it's simply time to move on.

-joanie

Kodak wants to delete my photos

Dear Kodak,

Your emails sadden me. I just got another warning that you're going to delete my photos (of my kids, no less) from your online sharing site if I don't spend $19.99. Nothing personal. It's just how your "storage policy" works.

But before I revisit your emails and become thoroughly enraged, let me make the following disclaimer: I use to work at Kodak. I designed their online photo sharing service Ofoto, later renamed "Kodak EasyShare Gallery," and now simply "Kodak Gallery." The offensive "storage policy" had just been implemented when I left the company in  2005. It sounded stupid then, and now that I'm on the receiving end, I can tell you with certainty that it truly is stupid.

Okay, back to my rage...

A number of things struck me with this third email threatening to not only delete my photos but destroy the equity that the Kodak name has earned over the last century. 

One, you're insisting that you mean it, that you're in control. After all, it's your "storage policy." Yet the email is written in a way that suggests I'm in fact the one to blame because I haven't purchased anything within a 12 month period. It's like you're saying "Stop punching yourself." I resent that. It's not up to me, Kodak. It's your shortsighted policy that makes you push that delete button. I'm not punching me. You're punching me. Let's be clear about that.

Two, stop being passive aggressive. If you threaten to delete my photos, then stop writing things like, "We think your photos are important." If you want to be heavy handed, then at least have the backbone to be accountable. It would give you a modicum of integrity.

Three, as a customer, I have lapsed. But unlike other retailers, you have something of worth: my photos. Although you see them as a means for extortion, they are in  fact an invaluable link to me. It's the reason you can email me in such a directed and relevant way. How about using that link in a positive fashion, like telling me about new products and services that might lure me back? How about you "surprise and delight" rather than "delete and burn." 

Four, if you think we still have a relationship because you have my email address, think again. There's no way you're sending me nasty emails wrapped in fake concern and then deleting my photos only to send me marketing spam because I once opted in. You'd better know I'm not only opting out, I'm turning my back on you for good. Why would I want to repeat this noxious encounter? I won't upload any more photos, let alone trust you with anything I care about.

Five, your policy is not a "storage policy"; it's a retention policy. As a company, you may see storage as a looming problem, but guess what? As Google, Amazon, and others have shown, storage costs are dropping. Marketing and acquisition costs are not. There is no reason that your internal storage concerns need to be translated into a customer-facing storage policy. By doing so, you not only set yourself up to be a bad guy, but you frame your value around storage. Suddenly, I don't think about the quality of your products (which is where you excel), but that I can get 2.4gb of storage much, much cheaper elsewhere, so delete away! For a company like Kodak, a "storage policy" is a losing proposition.

By the way, Flickr has the same problem, if not worse. With no products of its own, Flickr really only has storage to sell. Do they call it storage? Nope. It's a pro account, and you feel like you're getting more. I happily give them $24.95/year without a second thought. 

It seems to me that you have bad leadership. It's one thing to associate yourself with deleting photos. That's bad. But the fact is, given your market, you're deleting a lot of photos of kids. That's worse. The way GM Victor Cho talks about it is just plain flippant. ("I recently received some strong responses from Gallery customers after we asked them to make a small purchase in order to continue enjoying photo storage benefits...I want to assure you that I take our customers’ feedback very seriously...[BUT] At the Gallery, we believe in choice—including your right to unlimited access to your photos—and fairness: the benefits of photo storage enjoyed by all come at a cost that should be shared by all...")

Wow. I guess in your mind I'm a parasite. I thought I just wasn't buying photo mugs because I didn't want or need one. Turns out you don't think I believe in "fairness." Nice way to insult me.

Well, Kodak, like you, I believe in choice. So please go right ahead and delete my photos. Even this one that you use to promote your service, featuring my daughter Luxi in a hat that I crocheted myself. This is a great memory with lovely associations that will live on despite your policy.

-joanie

American Express Loves Me. American Express Loves Me Not.

Dear American Express,

Which is it? Do you want me or not?

It seems like every other day you send me pre-approved credit card applications. It's so striking because other than your non-stop solicitations that go straight from my mailbox to the shredder, the stream is dry. Credit just doesn't flow like it use to.

Maybe this is why you sent me an email yesterday stating that you reduced the credit line of the one card of yours I already have. I heard about credit card companies doing this, and even if it is becoming commonplace, I nevertheless took offense. My credit is SPOTLESS, and since I haven't used your card in years, I don't think you should treat me like a credit risk.

So I canceled my card. I was rather impressed with how easy it was to do. It's all handled through the robo-system, no need to talk to an actual human being.

(Personally, I almost always think it's best to handle any kind of cancellation in person. At the very least, you should want to know why people are leaving. That's business intelligence. It's customer insight that can help you manage and improve retention. If I was a high-value customer, then you'd want a person there to convince me to stay. Perhaps there is no such thing as a high-value customer in the credit card business anymore...)

So farewell, at least until Monday, when you'll send more offers–and ultimately more direct mail money and recycling–my way.

-joanie

REI made me into an advocate

Dear REI,

Wow. I'm impressed. I'm going to convince every one of my friends who are even remotely outdoorsy to become members.

Last week I received your annual report of sorts. It was great: one part dividend (yay!), one part community-building (yes, I feel like I'm part of you!), and one part catalog (for planning that next purchase!). I felt elation, belonging, and even thrill. I immediately took the thing to my husband and said something like, "I can't believe what we get for being members!"

There's a lot to learn in your recent gesture about what I call affective customer experiences:

One. Notice the present tense in my reaction. "Get," not "got." My elation is due in part to the included dividend and 20% off coupon, but also to the fact that REI membership seems to keep giving. I know there will be more goodness down the line, and it keeps me expectantly excited.

Two. The good feeling is combined with an annual report that is rather transparent about your profit and outlook. The report is fascinating to me but also inclusive of me. In my spending and receiving, I feel like I'm a part of a different kind of capitalism altogether. It seems human and makes me feel good about how I'm spending my money. (This is a very different feeling than the one I got from AT&T, which declared me part of its family but has yet to give me a reason to believe.)

Three. I'm not sure you're giving me anything that other companies don't already give in one way or another. In the end, you're simply handing out a few discounts and rebates. What works is how you consistently position those rewards to make me feel excited, special, and engaged in something different and valuable.

Here's how your rewards have worked for me so far:

1) Last fall, I paid a one-time fee of $20 to be a lifetime member. I'm not sure if it was a special, but when I did it, I immediately got to take 20% off an item. I happened to be in REI to buy a couple Therm-a-Rest LuxuryCamp Sleeping Pads (oh yeah!), so I saved about $28 on one. In my case, the discount paid for the membership. I felt great.

2) At the end of the year, I got a 20% coupon. I had been contemplating buying a Yakima SkyBox Pro 18 Roof Box, and the 20% discount was the tipping point. I saved a bundle and felt great.

3) This month, you gave me a dividend, which was roughly 10% of my purchases (excluding the discounted items). You also gave me a 20% coupon. I'm excited to use them!

The difference between REI and the average company is that you consistently–even regularly–deliver what Zappos has called a WOW experience. Delivering this experience over time is what Brandon Schauer calls The Long Wow. "Wow" seems like the right word to me.

I'm not an active person so to me you're like Obama. I'm still learning what to expect, but if you run your company like you run your campaigns, then you will make me more than a lifetime member. I will truly be a lifetime advocate.

-joanie

Payless ShoeSource makes me feel like a (phone) number

Dear Payless ShoeSource,

I didn't expect you to call me last week. We just don't have that kind of relationship. So imagine my surprise when I checked my voicemail and there you were, eagerly confusing, annoying, and alienating me with your announcement of a "bogo" sale.

First, let me be honest with you. I'm a little embarrassed to be writing you this open letter. I don't exactly get pride in announcing to everyone on the Internet that I shop for shoes at your store. In fact, I feel compelled to explain straightaway that I don't buy shoes for myself there. I only buy shoes for my kids because they outgrow them in days, if not hours. And in fact, I go to your store only after I've exhausted my other options.

I hope you don't take that the wrong way. I'm not trying to put you down. After all, I'm a customer. I just want you to know that I'm not a loyal customer. I know there are Payless diehards out there, but I would hazard a guess that many more of your customers (me included) are actually cheap chic freaks. It's a subtle distinction, but one that recognizes that there's nothing sacred in our relationship. In other words, you don't have anything I can't get from Target, among other companies that promise I'll "pay less."

Customer relationships can be tenuous and fragile, like Humpty Dumpty. Perhaps you know that. Maybe that's why you called me like a desperate boyfriend. But robocalling me and using industry acronyms I don't recognize are hardly the ways to nurture a relationship and transform casual customers into loyal advocates, or at least repeat customers.

Instead, here's what robocalling me did for me: it made me see you less like Target (which I *heart*) and more like those dirty telemarketers and pollsters that I loathe. Your associative set just got a lot uglier.

At a time when human touches are vital ways companies can differentiate themselves in a competitive market during an economic recession, you became a lot less human and a lot more desperate in my eyes, which isn't a good look.

These days I'm watching my dollars. I'm thinking twice before I spend them, and these thoughtless encounters are making me think twice about you. I doubt I'm alone. For every robocall you make, you risk sacrificing tomorrow's customers for a buck today. The gains, if any, are short-lived and hardly inline with the zeitgeist of the moment.

-joanie

Ten Ren reminds me what it's like to be in love

Dear Ten Ren,

I love you. I mean, I love your product. I mean I love your chrysanthemum tea.

Truth is, I'm like Fergie, and you got me clumsy in love with you. And I don't even like Fergie. So why am I feeling this way? Simple. You gave me a free gift.

Let me pause for a moment and say that a free gift may seem so Marketing 101. However, these "tough economic times" have made us a little less thoughtful, a little less generous. During a downturn, when companies may be reluctant to give away anything for free, the gesture seems to mean even more, especially to consumers who are cutting back on purchases. Certainly an online purchase of tea bags seems like a possible candidate for belt-tightening austerity measures at home. At least it did to my husband, who gave me a hard time for buying 10 boxes of tea from you.

But I did it, and in return you, Ten Ren, reached out to me with a free box of green tea and a handwritten "thank you" on the invoice. The gesture reminded me that now, more than ever, is the time to market, advertise, and work those customer relationships–to bring a human touch when interactions, even face-to-face ones, seem to be going the way of legwarmers.

Oh, legwarmers are back in style? There you go!

Okay, I'm being silly again, but I'm clumsy in love! Sure, I like your product. That special blend of chrysanthemum flowers and black tea seems to make it sweet unlike every other chrysanthemum tea I've tried. And I tell everyone that, even though I don't seem to be single-handedly starting a chrysanthemum tea revolution in the U.S. the way it has taken hold in Taiwan.

But love exceeds products. Products are always replaceable, even the ones that seem unique and/or dominate their catgory. That's what made me say goodbye to eBay and never look back. So why is that? Because if there aren't competitors, there are always substitutes.

When you consider the shifting terrain that can make a successful product suddenly seem fly-by-night–a warning to you, Google. Look what happened to Yahoo!–you have to control what you can, which are product quality and those touchy-feely customer relationships. After all, in these tough economic times, what better way to utilize your limited resources than a gesture that can get you not only repeat business but word of mouth as well?

-joanie

Wellness Letter has the opposite effect on me

Dear Wellness Letter,

I not only use to like you, I felt that by subscribing to your university-run newsletter I was supporting a worthy venture. Your straightforward nutritional and fitness information seemed so grounded and even honest--hardly like the swindler you now seem to me.

As the holidays kicked into gear, you sent me a hard-bound Wellness Calendar, the kind of letter-size datebook that sits on your desk. First, who still uses those? Seriously.

Second, I understand it's the end of the year, but sending objects and requiring someone to return it if they don't want it, especially as we head into Thanksgiving and Christmas, seems like a real burden. It was for me. It ended up getting lost in a pile of things to do.

Third, asking someone to opt out of something that costs money seems like a swindle to me and goes against what I thought you stood for. Now I see you as cutting through false marketing claims about supplements on one hand, then doing your own sleight of hand on the other. It's more than a contradiction; it compromises your reputation.

I can't separate the newsletter from the calendar. I don't think: I like the newsletter even though I hate the calendar. Honestly, I can't even look at the world "Wellness" without feeling stressed out and angry at you.

So here's my wellness plan for the new year: stop subscribing to your newsletter. That way I won't end up with a wasteful product that will never get used this time next year, let alone the snarky past due invoice that says:

Good intentions are terrific. But they're not going to keep you healthy. And they're not going to pay the bill. Both take follow-through. You demonstrated your good intentions when you made your original commitment to keep The Wellness Engagement Calendar. Now won't you please demonstrate your ability to follow through -- by paying the modest invoice enclosed? You'll feel a whole lot better.

For some reason, you think talking down to me is going to make me feel better. Instead, it's the final straw. I was dry kindling, and you just threw a match at me.

So here's some follow-through: when I say I will stop subscribing to your newsletter, I mean stop cold turkey. Right now. Even though my subscription ends in August, I want you to stop sending me your newsletter. I don't want anything more to do with you. You now have some of the worst brand associations to me, and it's emotional--even personal.

Like with my bad experience with eBay, it strikes me how easily a product/brand/service can lose goodwill. It takes repetition and good encounters to build a brand over time, but it doesn't take much to destroy it. Strangely, I find some of the worst actors in the marketing and customer care roles, and I'm not sure if it's because they are going by industry convention rather than common sense.

Invoices are touchpoints. They are forms of communication. Yet just like the invoice I got from Real Simple, they seem to be written without the brand experience in mind.

-joanie


UPDATE: I just called and canceled my subscription. The phone rep was all business, which was good for the task at hand, but I found it striking that she didn't even bother to ask me why I was canceling my service.

AT&T thinks I want to be a part of its family

Dear AT&T,

I am not a part of your family. Please don't say I am.

Even if at the end of a conversation your customer service representative thanks me for being a part of it, I am still not a part of your family. We're not even friends. We just don't have that kind of relationship because you're just not that kind of company, and calling me your family isn't going to convince me that you care about me or that I should care about you. 

If you want to show you care, how about delivering unparalleled network coverage, unmatched customer service, and great pricing? Or how about doing even one of these well? Instead, I think of your service as a necessary evil like paying taxes or clipping my toenails.

So don't call me your family, and the sooner, the better. It makes me hate you more for being both presumptuous and out-of-touch. The remark completely belies the fact that I call you only when I have problems. 

Unlike family, I didn't call to say "I love you" or "I miss you" or even "I need advice."  I called because you were charging me for a blackberry media plan when I didn't even have a blackberry, and when I had it removed, you took my text messaging away. To make matters worse, I didn't even know, which means I was sending text messages into the ether without so much as a failure notice. My friends got made at me for blowing them off, and that's when I called you. 

I suppose there's some guy in Marketing or Customer Relations who decided that thanking me for being a part of your family would impart a sense of warmth. Let me tell you that instead it gives the impression that you think being a part of your family is a good thing. Have you considered that maybe people aren't interested in being a part of someone else's family, let alone a corporate entity? You're not even real, and "family" is just a metaphor to you. 

You're not going to convince people that you're a deserving company until you turn the tables and start doing things that will make people want you to be in their family. 

-joanie

Wag Hotel takes care of me (and my dog, of course)

Dear Wag Hotel,

It's hard for parents of two small kids to be spontaneous and even harder when they also have a young puppy that just got all her shots but has yet to be boarded or housebroken. However, you made it possible. Thank you.

I have to admit that you weren't my first choice. I had wanted to try Fog City Dog when the time was right. My friend recommended it to me, and it's closer than the place I boarded my last dog (rest his soul), Pet Camp. 

But it was already Friday at 4pm when we realized we had a problem. Earlier that day, my husband made last-minute reservations for a romantic getaway at the Ritz Carlton in Half Moon Bay. I arranged for my mom to watch the kids. And our little puppy? Well...we hadn't worked that part out.

So I called Fog City Dog. They said that they wouldn't take a dog without having first submitted to a temperament test. Nothing could be worked out today. I said I was desperate and wanted to know if she had any advice for me. Silence. No "um" or "uh," just silence. Did she hang up on me? I didn't know, but I would have appreciated something like, "I'm sorry. I don't." Anything.

I hung up and called Pet Camp. The phone system gave me every option, the very last being the opportunity to talk to a real human. However, the phone just rang and rang before going to voice mail.

Finally, I thought of you. I remembered driving by your hotel a few months ago and then looking you up on Yelp. The reviews were mediocre, but the fact that you positioned yourself as a hotel gave me the strong impression that you might cater to my wishes. Perhaps you would go the extra mile to help me out.

And you did, not by bending over backward. You didn't need to; your policy simply accommodated busy people like me, who don't usually have it together. So by 5pm, you had my dog, my credit card number, and my gratitude.

You made me realize that high-end pet hotels are not about dogs; it's about the owners or humans or whatever you want to call people like me–the kind of folks that pay for doggie day care, among other services, because we want it all and are willing to trade price for the privilege to keep all our balls in the air for another day. 

Thus, the real customer experience here is not around luxury accommodations for my dog, although that's an important part of your brand story. Instead, it's about luxury accommodations for my crazy, unplanned life, which needs more getaways, not less. 

So thanks again.

-joanie

Dave from Allstate makes be feel like I'm in good hands

Dear Dave,

I haven't spoken to you in awhile, which I like. You don't try to sell me things all the time. 

That doesn't mean we don't talk. There were plenty of occasions, like that time another driver backed into me and left the scene. She didn't realize that she hit me, and it caused some initial concern as my claim became disputed. In the end, everything worked out just fine.

There were the conversations about coverage levels and the difference between term and permanent life insurance. You told me what to consider (rather than which to choose), and I felt like I could ask you almost anything. You're like an avuncular genie in a bottle who appears only when I need you.

A few weeks ago, my State Farm agent, who handles my home insurance, began actively trying to get my auto insurance business. I called her about a home alarm discount, and she took it as an opportunity to expand our relationship. That's to be expected. 

She ran some numbers. Her auto insurance policy is more expensive–and includes a curious and rather significant "monthly service charge"–but she says that I'll save overall when you include a discount for having both home and auto insurance. That put me on the fence and got me thinking, but it wasn't enough to win me over.

So I haven't gotten back to her, which is hard because she's pretty aggressive. I've been busy, too, and maybe a small part of me had been avoiding her since I'm risk-adverse and changing insurance is a risky thing in my book. 

I imagine insurance is largely a fickle business and loyalty is hard to come by. No matter what you do, some people will simply follow the money. My guess is that you assume people are on the fence all the time. That means you must be on your game every day. 

For me, however, the money's not enough. Neither is liking you. Ultimately, I'm interested in trust. When I find myself in an accident, am I going to have peace of mind? Am I going to know everything will be okay?

In your case, I have been in accidents and I did have peace of mind. We have a history that makes me confident. In my mind, the question before me is this: Am I willing to trade that trust to save a couple dollars over the course of a year?

The answer is no.

Yesterday I received my new 6 month policy from you, as well as an insurance bill. This morning, I received my first email from you. (It was kind of like the time my dad sent me an email but without the all-caps.) You said that you valued my business. From any other service provider, those would have been empty words. I actually believe them coming from you.

I suspect that people like me make up the small but stable core of your business. I've been with you about fifteen years, and that's got to be an indication that I'll likely be around another fifteen more.

This isn't a question of customer loyalty but rather personal values, which only become clear over time. 

-joanie