mandag, oktober 02, 2006

The Check Box for Ignorance

I'd planned on posting some photos from Japan today; but Target has neutered me once again.

Dear Target Photolab,

I'm trying to maintain some hope that a business can operate competently in Saint Paul's Midway. It's an area that needs considerable economic help. I provide what I can. But, Target: you are making it tough on me.

I gave up long ago believing that the people of the Midway wouldn't walk in front of cars or that drivers wouldn't just stop on University Avenue to shout a conversation to someone on the sidewalk. I've gotten used to all that and have learned how to ignore the lines in the road and basic traffic rules. I weave like it's a car commercial from Victoria to Vandalia. But that's just getting through the Midway.

Staying in the Midway and supporting its businesses, well, that's a pipe dream. Because you suck.

(Note: I have plenty of favorable things to say about the restaurants in Frogtown. I love those joints. I'm cool with Victoria to Dale. East side! But going west through the Midway is hell.)

Target: I just want my photos developed properly. You succeeded in developing my APS film in mid-June. Since then, you've ceased to understand APS film, and I've given you numerous opportunities (including four more rolls in the last 48 hours). You've ceased to develop the photos in the sizes they are set to be developed in. APS allows three sizes; and those sizes are tagged to the film frames. You know this. Kodak, who sells the crap, knows this. But is this your way of telling me that you (and Kodak, no less) have reduced services?

You have.

And why why WHY is there still a check box for a photo CD on your film submission envelopes when you refuse to provide that CD!? I'm really going to punch one of you if you say, again, "Oh, did you want a CD? We can make that." You can, I know, but you don't. Ever.

The box is checked! It's always checked! And it's not just checked, it's totally filled in. I was sure there was no way you could miss it this time. But you did. On all FOUR rolls.

So that's that. I'm out. Midway, may you burn, and may you be replaced by a giant whack-a-mole conveyor belt system that shuttles supportive idiots like me along and cracks us in the skull every 25 feet with massive, inflated mallets.
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