Sold out
A few months ago, I decided to subscribe to a few magazines. I like to read in the loo, you see, and magazines deliver the goods in just the perfect size chunks for enjoyment whilst ensconced upon the throne. But all this talk about identity theft and peddling got me curious. If I subscribe to something, who's to say where my information is going?
So I've embarked upon an experiment. I subscribed to four magazines: Time, Newsweek, Vanity Fair, and Entertainment Weekly. I subscribed to each magazine using a different middle initial - one that corresponds to the title of the magazine. So to Time (Warner) I'm Jason T. Bentley. To Vanity Fair (Conde Nast), I'm Jason V. Bentley and so forth.
When my name is sold, it's sold with the middle initial intact. So when I get an offer or solicitation in the mail, I know both the seller and the buyer.
And now so will you, cuz the paper trail has begun. And a lesson in identity and demographics begins.
So far:
I am saving all this mail, and after one year will resend the snail-spam, collected in a box, back to respective magazines from whence my name was gleaned. Who would want to opt-out of good fun like this?
So I've embarked upon an experiment. I subscribed to four magazines: Time, Newsweek, Vanity Fair, and Entertainment Weekly. I subscribed to each magazine using a different middle initial - one that corresponds to the title of the magazine. So to Time (Warner) I'm Jason T. Bentley. To Vanity Fair (Conde Nast), I'm Jason V. Bentley and so forth.
And now so will you, cuz the paper trail has begun. And a lesson in identity and demographics begins.
So far:
- Newsweek has sold my name to Reader's Digest magazine.
- Newsweek has sold my name to Chase Insurance Direct.
- Vanity Fair has sold my name to the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, and they now want this VF reader to become a member and sponsor the new de Young Museum. I love how in the picture above, my address label is stuck upside-down on the VF cover below the word "CONFIDENTIAL." Let it ne'er be said that irony doesn't spill out from Graydon Carter's desk in buckets.
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