A worthless exercise

I can’t remember which of the online petitions I “signed” to get the attention of both of California’s senators, Diane Feinstein and Barbara Boxer, but I got a response tonight from both of them. The petition provided a space for the sender to type a personal message to the senators, which I did. Both senators’ replies to my inquiry about the pending health care reform legislation were pure boilerplate. Senator Feinstein sent a “rich text” response, while Senator Boxer’s was “plain text.” Is one trying to be more regal while the other is more down-to-earth? I have never gotten an email response to any letter to a millionaire US senator, so I don’t know what to think.

Several decades ago I sent typewritten letters to both of California’s senators regarding pending legislation establishing the John Muir Wilderness, and got typewritten responses. Senator Hayakawa’s response was crafted on an IBM Executive typewriter, with proportional spacing. Very elegant, since he was a semanticist he put his best words forward in a very respectable form. Senator Cranston, however, was being a minimalist; his response was pounded out on a manual typewriter, probably by a haggard old wench who hated her job and deliberately hit some of the keys so softly they barely registered—perhaps she was undernourished. Both responses, sadly, were boilerplate.

I guess as mere citizens of this country we don’t deserve a measured, thoughtful response to our concerns. I can understand that when a million letters arrive, it’s difficult to sort them out for individual responses, but with today’s technology perhaps the robots that respond could be programmed to recognize patterns and select from a menu of individual pieces of boilerplate. Toss in a few unique rivets or weld seams to make each response different; maybe even use different primer and top coat. Or ship the letters off to China where child laborers can actually read them and come back with their odd expressions of English.

An analogy is in order. Say you’re the ultimate chief in charge of feeding flies. You sit in your elegant office, advisors flow in and out suggesting what you should use as fly food. Some say nourishing meals, certified organic fly food. Others suggest sewage. You make your decision: Sewage. As part of your job, you are required to open your window occasionally to hear what the flies think. They swarm into your office, buzzing around and ruining your day. You take a long shower. You step into your Gulfstream and jet off to home and your super-wealthy spouse and adoring supporters. Somehow it’s all worth it. Life at the top can be very nice. As for the flies? Feh!