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Now that the general election has come and gone, I can resume answering
the phone, much to the relief of my 22-year-old daughter, who like many
of her generation, becomes unnerved when anything is allowed to ring
more than twice. Facing chastisement, I have begged her to understand
that my nerves have been shattered by robo-calls.
I am desperately hoping that we have reached the low-water mark in
remote-control stumping. Robo-calls have now conditioned me to seize up
at any jingling sound. Instead of salivating like Pavlov's pooches, my
psyche withdraws into a fetal position and whimpers, "Go away!" The negative reinforcement has even caused me to shun human political contact. Once
during primary season, the doorbell rang and I fled for fear of having
to listen to a real campaigner who sounded like a robo-caller. So there
I was, cowering in my kitchen like the fool who didn't stock up on
Halloween candy, dreading to even peek through the curtains to see if
perhaps it wasn't a political hack, but instead a cop with my car and a
tow truck. And even though I did stock up for Halloween, last
Saturday night was still hell. Doorbell rings, I jump. Phone rings, I
jump higher. A kid in a Jerry Jennings mask would have sent me around
the bend. Jerry, in fact, called on Monday. Well, the Jerry-Bot.
Now, I've been glad-handed by hizzoner in person and found him to be
affable enough, but the Jerry-Bot recording was so automatonic, it gave
a new meaning to "political machine." Why do our pols think this
kind of harassment works? Perhaps they have polls -- from companies
that also do robo-calls -- that prove its effectiveness. But after
pressing our flesh and kissing our babies, must they destroy our
dinners like telemarketers? Perhaps it's not a matter of public
outreach, but public health. The last thing politicians want is
physical contact with an electorate that might harbor H1N1, although if
any breed of human would be immune from swine flu, it would probably be
our clamorous ruling class. My frustration has gotten so
extreme that I will now talk to pollsters only for the delight of lying
to them. There is nothing like the sense of payback I get from reading
the results of a poll I have skewed. It's perversely empowering to
chuck a handful of sand into the well-oiled political machinery. But
there's more we can do besides lying to pollsters. Next election
season, if you get a robo-call from candidate A, vote for candidate B.
If the B campaign also ruins your dinner, take the next step: Write in
Mickey Mouse, or Donald Duck, or Goofy. In the world of Pavlovian
politics, electing Mickey, Donald or Goofy might be the only way to
condition robo-calling politicians and make them realize they've shot
off their clay feet by invading our homes. There is however, a
potential downside. If we happen to elect an actual cartoon
character as our next mayor, we may suffer this: "Hi, I work for the
Walt Disney Company, and I would like to tell you why I'm voting
for….." Seem far-fetched? Well, consider that Zenia Mucha is
Disney's head of corporate communications. Remember her, Albany? Before
heading to the magic kingdom, she was the feisty head flak for George
Pataki. Mark Dalton is a writer, theater director and longtime Albany resident.
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