I’ve been seeing this picture all over the Web today, and if you haven’t, you probably need to have somebody call an ambulance, because you’re likely not breathing. The picture is the hook for hundreds of scandalous stories of Miley posing topless, apologies (another), accusations, blame and the like. Miley is, of course, only 15-years old and a rising (hell, she’s already “risen”) star of the family-friendly Disney company. The photo comes from the latest issue of Vanity Fair, and I’ll spare you the other details.

I just have one question. How is this picture - in any way - considered “topless?”

Huh?

There is just no way you can stretch the language enough for this to be topless, for the word MEANS to expose one’s breasts. No breasts that I can see here. Move along.

This manufacturing of conflict is the American way of life for celebrities, and it’s a sad commentary on all of us. We’ve all seen as much from a 15-year old heading to the prom, so please, people, get over it.

It was two years ago this morning.

She will always be my inspiration. Today, I published another essay. She would be proud.

I had the great fortune to meet civil rights pioneer Dr. Benjamin Mays about a year before he passed away. At age 94, he was a guest on The 700 Club in the mid 80s (I was the show’s producer), and I’ve never forgotten a part of that interview. Pat asked him what was wrong “with today’s youth,” and his answer surprised everybody. “Parents,” Dr. Mays said, “are afraid to let their children experience the things that helped shape their own character.” Here was a man who had been through hell talking about shielding children from pain. Character. What an interesting word.

I thought of this today, because Chez Pazienza has posted an insightful journey into essentially the same question. Chez feels that the baby-faced David Archuleta is going to win American Idol this year, because he’s a textbook heartthrob for young teenage girls, a group that represents who’s really “in charge” in the marketing world of the west.

All adults have to do, is take back the world from their kids.

Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about, because it’s become impossible to ignore: A generation of parents who spoil their children rotten — hubristically buying into the notion that their specific spawn is somehow special and deserving of society’s deference — combined with the technology that gives every computer or text savvy kid a voice, whether he or she deserves one or not, has conspired to hijack a good portion of what we see and hear. It’s a Wiki world, one in which a vocal majority can literally rewrite the rules and twist reality to suit its needs, and right now, the ‘tweens are the most vocal — and what they need, apparently, are crappy, overproduced, Disneyfied Stepford Teens to scream for and sing along to.

This is why Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers are all but inescapable right now — and why David Archuleta is next.

I don’t know about American Idol. I, gasp, don’t watch it, but I do relate to what Chez is saying, and it takes me back to the studio at CBN that day in 1983.

And I wonder what will happen when a generation awakens to the reality that they aren’t so bloody special after all. Character is refined in the fire of pain, even that which is felt at the receiving end of the word “no.” I agree with Dr. Mays that we do our children a disservice when we protect them from every form of pain that helped shape our own character. In so doing, we leave them weak and defenseless, and a shame to us and them.

Lately, as I’ve cruised cable before bedtime, I’ve come across a reality show where parents choose who will take their son or daughter on an exotic vacation. The other night, two of the guys vying to date this beautiful young woman actually waxed their eyebrows (ack!). It’s probably just a generational thing, but it was curious that neither could “keep it in their pants” in previous relationships. Eyebrows, yes. Faithfulness, no.

A couple of really special guys.

BTW, Chez has now “published” his journey out of a heroin nightmare, and it’s fascinating reading. You can buy a download at his website, Deus Exmalcontent.

I hate to complain, because I sound so whiny, but…

I’ve had a little run-in with the cops over an overdue speeding ticket, and the phone conversation with the gal at municipal court was revealing. I’m supposed to bring a large amount of cash to their office on Friday to avoid certain, um, unpleasantries, but she tweaked my curiosity when she said, “Of course, you can always go to our website…”

So I’m thinking that I’m going to be able to pay this sucker online, but then she told me that I could click on a link in the upper left-hand corner, print a form, fill it out and FAX it to her. She would then run the credit information and that would be that.

Fax it? How 20th Century.

I’ll give the city of Lewisville credit for getting it half right, but then it got me to thinking about governments and especially utilities. When will they get with the program and realize that there are newer and BETTER ways to communicate with people these days?

To tell the truth, I pay a whole lot more attention to email, tweets and text messages than I do the archaic stuff from the post office (often to my detriment).

I pay my bills online, wherever possible, and I’m always struck by how some entities don’t even make that available, to say nothing of actually sending reminders via 21st century applications.

It’s always the monopolies that get away with this stuff, so I say bring on the competition. What we need is are businesses that take all the collecting away from municipalities, thereby reducing the payroll and, one assumes, bringing new communications forms to the table.

Is that asking for too much?

So Newsweek has a story this week titled “The Myth of Objectivity.” A few days ago, the New York Times ran a piece called, “The Rise of the ‘Citizen Paparazzi’.”

I love these kinds of articles, because they all sound vaguely familiar — as in my 2003 essays “The Rise of the Independent Video Journalist” and “Argument Versus Objectivity,” both of which were doubtless poo-pooed by the mainstreamers who published the stories this week.

Who knew?

Late February in Dallas.

Upper 70s. Light winds. Where are my clubs?

My life has gone to the dogs, literally.

In December of 2001, Piffy came into my life. Her history is pretty unique, having come to me via the Rescue911 people through an animal-lover friend in Huntsville, Alabama. Her former owners were on one of the planes that hit the World Trade Center during 9/11. She’s California born & bred, half border collie and half lab. She’s been my friend for many years.

Her name is short for “epiphany,” something I had while dealing with her separation anxiety early on. I came to see that she was completely dependent on my presence, afraid to let go. As she overcame that, I overcame my dependency on people as well. Piffy seems an appropriate name.

And she used to have me all to herself until I moved to Texas. My daughter Brittany moved in with me last summer and brought her dog, Brandi Fate, and my life hasn’t been the same ever since. BF (a.k.a. “Boo-Boo”) is a very tiny miniature dachshund. She’s energetic and full of joy, and she’s caused a few raised eyebrows from Piffy.

The personality of that little dog is truly remarkable, and I can’t begin to tell you how much she means to me.

The two of them cause me to actually stop several times during the day and appreciate the moments that God has given me with them. They’ve become inseparable buddies, despite the differences in size and age. Piffy has become much more clingy, because she’s jealous as hell of all the cuddling that BF gets. I imagine Piffy thinks she, too, can fit in my jacket.

The little one loves to climb on my chest while I’m watching TV in bed at night and force me to kiss her cheek. She leans against my face so hard that I have no choice.

She used to drive me nuts with relentless licking, but now she’s just a kiss whore. It’s as if she just can’t get close enough.

The two of them will chase throughout the house, Piffy in the lead and BF yelping as they speed round and round. Piffy is house-broken, and BF has been litter box trained. When they go outside now, Piffy is teaching the little one how to be a real dog, and it’s absolutely hilarious.

Dogs — like all of creation except mankind — live in the moment, and they live every one as if it was the only thing that matters. The truth is they’re right.

I was awakened at 4:30 this morning to the sound of my cellphone going off. This, I might add, is unusual. I rolled over and answered the thing, only to be greeted my the nice feminine voice of the American Airlines computer telling me my 8 a.m. flight to Shreveport had been canceled. Not to worry. The machine told me they’d confirmed me on the 9 a.m. flight, and if I wanted to accept, I should say “yes.”

The extra hour of sleep would’ve been nice, but when I’m awake, I’m awake, I tossed a bit but eventually got ready for my trip.

At the airport, I got some Starbucks and went to the gate, then proceeded to seat 14A on one of those little jets. I got out some papers to read, put them and my coffee on the tray in front of me, and settled in for the flight. Then came the giant man in seat 13A, who plopped himself down like a giant wrecking ball, bouncing everything on my tray table and spilling coffee all over my pants. He apologized. The nice flight attendant brought towels. My butt was soaked.

I moved to to 14B.

They counted everybody and closed the door, and the captain hit the ignition switch. The cabin began to smell like a furnace that hadn’t been turned on all year, and soon we had a little smoke problem. They isolated it to a faulty air conditioner pack just before we would’ve had to evacuate. We “exited the aircraft” and waited to see what American would do. My butt was still soaked.

They located a new jet and moved us to a new gate. We boarded. However, some of the people had slipped away (perhaps unnerved by the smoke), so there was a manifest problem. And every experienced traveler knows you don’t leave with a manifest problem. They counted us. They counted us again.

We took off and landed in Shreveport only to discover that “our gate” wasn’t available, so we waited 10 minutes for the gooney bird to depart, leaving the gate to us.

I got to my client a little late, and I’m now writing this from my hotel. The scent of caramel macchiato is emanating from my underwear.

I should’ve just said no.

Okay. When was it decided that “not so much” would be the default phrase to describe any lesser opinion of anything? It seems like I first heard this about a year ago, and now it’s every friggin’ where. To be annoyingly precise, the phrase has to appear at the end of a sentence, or more commonly, at the end of an interrogative.

Do you like apples? Not so much.
I played the guitar every day once, but now? Not so much.
Cowboys, yes. Patriots, not so much.
What do you think of Mildred? Not so much.
Those carrots taste great, but the beans, not so much.
I like First Class but coach? Not so much.
That drink is great cold, but warm? Not so much.
I loved that book until the ending, then, not so much.
Yes or no; did you like the soup? Not so much.
She’s a great writer, but her opinions? Not so much.
I used to enjoy a big meal, but now? Not so much.
Waffles? Yes. Pancakes? Not so much.
Did you like dinner? Not so much.

I hear this everywhere now, and very often among sports announcers and analysts. For all I know, it’s a part of the playbook for those who wish to be considered cool. Nobody gave me one, however, which suggests something very unpleasant — that I’m not among the cool.

Most things, I can take or leave, but this?

Not so much.

I’ve just returned from a few days on the road, that romantic dread of business travelers. You can learn a lot about life while jet-hopping and car-renting here and there. For professional observers, this can be as funny or ironic as it is enlightening, and surely Murphy was traveling when he wrote his “law.”

I always try to book the exit row aisle seat on the DEF side of the plane. This is because the middle seat is often open, so the aisle seat is the next best thing to First Class. On my trip home last night, I was in the B seat on the AB side of the exit row, and the guy in the A seat had shoulders as wide as a football field. I mean, the man probably played tackle on the football team in college.

I’m no little fellow myself, so I spent the entire 3 hour ride tilted to starboard. I had no choice, and of course, I started making up new rules for air travel that would prevent this kind of thing from happening. I mean, it’s one thing to have the side of a large woman’s butt pressing beneath the arm rail and intruding into my own butt space, but this was worse. I could not sit up straight in the seat. He then opened his computer, plugged in earphones, made selections from iTunes, and began writing reports. This worsened the situation, because now his right elbow overwhelmed the arm rail and further pushed me to the right.

“Guys like this ought to have to buy TWO tickets,” I thought. Yeah, right.

Earlier, I met a couple returning home to Dallas from a week in Scotland. They were lamenting the state of the dollar, which caused everything to be at least twice the price it is in the states. “We were bleeding money,” the man said. “Hemorrhaging would be a better term,” she replied. That got me thinking about how a weak dollar must benefit businesses that sell overseas. Who does a weak dollar benefit? Big American business interests.

See what happens to me at the airport?

I rented a car this trip. I usually take cabs, but this time I had to drive between cities, so the car was the only option. 2008 Chevy Blazer. Nice car, but I didn’t like the way it handled on the highway.

I don’t rent cars usually, because it’s just another thing that requires my attention, and when you’ve spent hour upon hour with clients (which I dearly love, BTW), sometimes the old brain just needs to relax.

I’ve got two words for driving in strange places these days: Google Maps. I mapped out each leg of the trip and printed the instructions and little images provided by Google (about ten different legs), and each was perfect. I used to look forward to the latest “Atlas,” but that has become as archaic as, well, certain forms of traditional media.

Finally, there’s landing at the DFW airport after a long trip. The flight was late, which meant I’d get home late. Everybody was going to be late, and of course, the pilot knew this, so we got the customary “We’ll get you there just as fast as we safely can.” On approach, he said, “We’ll be on the ground shortly and estimate being at the gate at 9:10.” It was 9 o’clock. We landed a few minutes later and got to the gate at 9:25.

Only in Dallas will air traffic control take a jet that’s an hour late and put them on the runway that’s farthest from their assigned gate. As anybody who uses our airport knows, It can be a very long ride from the runway to the gate.

But who’s keeping track of time?

It seems that David Weinberger and I share the same sense of humor about spam, namely that it’s such a part of online life — and you can’t completely stop it — so the best thing you can do is be entertained by it. And since most of it is written by Borat wannabees, it does produce a certain, albeit unintended, comedic punch.

Take, for example, the subject lines of spam that I grabbed in just the last 12 hours:

Your insatiable chick will be full of pleasure! (What insatiable chick?)
Don’t kick yourself, read up on these guys (Kicking myself is a skill I’ve not acquired)
Yes, I can help you (No, you can’t)
The problems with health are in the past (The problems?)
Protect your manliness! (Insurance scam, eh?)
Jessica Alba goes bra-less (And you’re gonna show it to me for free!)
Would you like to chat? (No)
Did you get it? (Don’t want it)
A chance to become healthy for cheap (The problems with health are in the past)
Do you want mega big penis? (What would I do with it?)
This will make any lady all yours! (I’ve been hearing that since the 6th grade)
Don’t be the “little guy” in the club (Actually, 5′11″ is pretty average)
Research has revealed that your penis has the ability to grow beyond its current size when fully erect. (And this is a bulletin?)
$4000 cash in 30 days? Screw that! I did it in 2 weeks! (Screw that? Screw you!)
Olny this 5 days special price on pharma for you dear customer (Borat, stop writing me)

One of the beauties of moving into a house is you’re fair game for telemarketers of every stripe. In the last two weeks, I’ve had calls from insurance companies, security systems, plumbers, maintenance people and lawn care services. I can understand these types of people searching government databases of new home owners, but the most insidious calls have come from magazine “sweepstakes” telemarketers.

I got a call from a nice woman representing “Family Readers” who offered me free, 60-month subscriptions to three magazines such as Gentleman’s Quarterly, if I would buy a subscription for another magazine. Plus, I was automatically entered in a sweepstakes for trips, cars and other luxury items. Yippee! I decided to play along, so I selected TV Guide as the purchase subscription,

The subscription fee was $3.31 a week, a little high for TV Guide, but I accepted the deal. After all, I’d be getting all those free magazines, right?

She then handed me over to a supervisor to “verify the transaction.” This gal went through everything. She also asked for friends that I would recommend for such a deal. I said, “No, thank you.” She then asked about family members. I said, “No, thank you.” When we got through everything on her list, she then got to the fine print.

I would pay this $3.31 a week over the first 20 months of the deal. That’s $43.03 a month, or $860.60 over 20 months. Then she actually said to me, “And here’s the fun part. After that, you continue receiving your magazines ABSOLUTELY FREE!” The fun part? Yeah, right.

I scolded her, and she hung up.

I immediately went to the “Do Not Call” website and registered my new number.

Now if I could just find a good electrician…

My dear old friend Pete Wilson, a television legend in San Francisco, has passed away, and I am sad. He was only 62, and died of a massive heart attack during surgery for a hip replacement.

Pete and I were best friends during the 70s, when we both worked the morning shift at WTMJ-TV. I can honestly say I’ve never been closer to a man in my life than I was with Pete back then. We were inseparable, and since we were on the same schedule, our private lives were intertwined as well. Some weeks, we’d leave after the noon show and play golf Monday through Friday.

Pete was a terrific and passionate golfer. Big and strong, he could hit the ball a friggin’ mile and we were always competitive. I remember one round when I had him by a shot going to the last hole. He kept trying to psych me out, but I hit a great drive. We walked and laughed, and Pete seemed resigned to the fact that I was going to beat him. My ball was up the left side of the fairway, about 20 yards in front of a big bunker and 120 yards from the pin. He walked with me and then headed to his ball 20 to my right. As he left, he said, “Don’t hit it in the bunker,” which I then proceeded to do. I bogied the hole. He made birdie and beat me by a stroke. Damn.

I also remember a Christmas morning when we were both working. Cognizant of the reality that nobody was watching the 6am news on Christmas day, Pete brought his famous holiday egg nog. It was mighty tasty at 4am, but it also went straight to the brain on an empty stomach. I’ll never know how he got through the newscast.

Pete, I love you and I pray that God is holding you now in His everlasting arms. May you rest in peace, my dear friend.

When you do a lot of traveling, you expect to fully experience the roll of the dice that comes with bad weather. Monday night, I was stranded in Charlotte with no fresh clothes, no toiletries, and no way home. The motel was, well, yuck (and I had to pay for it).

Now, I’m en route New York City and stuck in New Orleans, because there are t-storms in the Big Apple. I’m in a little coffee shop with free WiFi, so things could be worse. They tell us 5pm for departure, but we’ll see.

This should be an interesting trip. Underneath a stack of clothes on my bed is my cellphone, so I’m, ah, incommunicado for a few days. This should be fun. My phone, of course, is also my connection with what I view as my “life.” I’m shaking already.

More to follow. Adventure awaits. Oh boy!

UPDATE #1. It’s 4pm now, and the flight is delayed further. What a cluster foxtrot! The plane that’s supposed to take me to LaGuardia is a flight that goes from Toronto to NY to New Orleans. The first leg was cancelled, so they’re allegedly replacing the “crew and equipment” in NY. Assuming that happens, I’ll leave here around 9pm, which will put me in NY around 1am for a 9am Friday conference. Whoo boy.

If the flight is eventually cancelled, it’s a rental car return to DFW.

And so it goes…

UPDATE #2. It’s 10:30pm, and I’m back in Dallas. Flight to New York was cancelled. No way to get there in time for the conference. Shit.

I apologize to regular readers for offering only a few observations this past week. I’ve been down and out with diverticulitis, and I’m still not 100%. I’m getting older, and I need to pay better attention to the signs my body sends me. I let this go too long, and it has knocked the crap out of me.

It’s a particularly nasty malady, but the treatment is worse. I’m taking two antibiotics — one twice a day, the other three times a day. These are very powerful meds and are REALLY hard on the stomach, which is why you’re supposed to take them with food. Of course, that’s the last thing you want to do with diverticulitis, which requires a liquid or bland diet, neither of which will ease the stomach pain. One begets the other, and soon you’re just exhausted from all the nausea, gas, discomfort and diarrhea.

This is why God made vanilla malts.

I’m losing the sense of immortality that’s a favorite side dish of youth. It’s a sweet and tasty delicacy, which is why it’s hard to give up. Comes with the territory, as they say. And so it goes.

We climbed in the car and drove to the Frisco CompUSA store yesterday with $300 gift card in hand. Maybe it was just me, but the red shirted staff was exceptionally friendly and helpful.

Several people waited on us and treated us very special. My family suggested there was a photo of me in the back with instructions to be extra friendly, but who’s to say? The manager did wave goodbye as I walked out the door.

I even bought a 2-year extended warranty ($25). The camera had been reduced in price to $229, so we got it, a 1-gig memory stick and the warranty for $307. Yes, I gave them another $7 and was happy and satisfied to do so.

As you can see from Ashley’s smiling face, we opened the box inside the store and made sure there was a camera inside. She spent the entire drive home taking pictures, so I know it works.

All’s well that ends well. Thank you, everybody.

As of this morning, the story ranks 5th and 8th of the first ten search results on Google for “CompUSA.” The CompUSA Wikipedia page has even been updated with the story.

Jackie Huba at the Church of the Customer Blog has the timeline.

And here’s me on the front page of foxnews.com yesterday:

And all I did was make a blog entry. Amazing.

UPDATE: Foxnews finally got hold of somebody from CompUSA and included it in their story:

“Those guidelines are in place because there’s unscrupulous types of people out there that take advantage,” CompUSA spokeswoman Jessica Nunez told FOXNews.com. “What they’re doing is following company guidelines. They should have contacted him…and researched further.”

The day before writing the letter, Heaton had also sent an e-mail to CompUSA with the subject line “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Nunez said. Due to the unusual subject line of the e-mail, it showed up as SPAM and was initially ignored by the company. She also said Heaton did not use the standard means of contacting the company regarding the problem.

“The proper channels for most consumers is to contact customer care,” she said.

Oh come on. Ms. Nunez works for the James Nunez Group, a Dallas PR firm that CompUSA uses to outsource their press releases and such. That email went to their office, not CompUSA’s, so the notion that it got lost in some spam filter is absurd. I’ve used that subject line many times as a icebreaker to get the attention of somebody, and I’ve never heard of such a thing.

Since Ms. Nunez admits that I sent an email the day before I wrote the letter to Mr. Ross, perhaps CompUSA ought to rethink its association with that company. I did, after all, try to get to somebody that represented the best interests of CompUSA.

And regarding the “contact customer care” line — this is the bottomless pit that many people have commented about on this blog and elsewhere in the wake of my empty box.

The point is that CompUSA has serious reputation issues with which it needs to deal before it can win any sort of trust from the tech and geek communities it wishes to serve. Clearly, that was an issue long before they sold me an empty box.

I got a phone call last night from Loretta Anderson of corporate customer service at CompUSA apologizing for the incident involving the empty box and offering restoration. Loretta called back this morning to tell me a $300 gift certificate is in the mail. I’d basically written the whole thing off, so this was a pleasant, albeit unexpected, surprise. Thank you, Loretta.

This incident has given many lessons, and I want to share a few here.

Firstly, somebody at CompUSA picked up on the story as it was flying all over the internet yesterday (and continues today). This is a lesson in the power of community — the very people CompUSA needs to court as customers spread the word and reacted angrily to what most viewed as a rip-off. I did nothing to manipulate “coverage” — I only wanted to share a slice of my life. The community took over from there.

Another lesson is how the web is changing the nature of authority. Businesses have black and white rules, but the public isn’t black and white. This mentality is fostered by a top-down, modernist culture that needs absolute adherence to rules in order to function. But nobody consulted the people on this. In fact, the reason we have judges in a free society is so that rules can be considered on a case-by-case basis. In the retail world, however, the onus is entirely on the consumer to find someone to function as judge, and the trouble generally isn’t worth it. Retailers know this, and so it goes.

I say this, because I’ve been taken aback by the number of people, especially on Digg, who were adamant that I was some sort of con artist trying to steal a camera from CompUSA and get away with it. People, really.

Another group of people sided with the belief that I should’ve opened the friggin’ box at the store. These well-intentioned onlookers weren’t there as I bought 12 items for $3,339.99. Was I supposed to open each? If the answer is yes, then we’ve got a bigger problem than even I thought.

Still another group suggested that I’m an idiot, because the box without the camera would’ve been too light. I should’ve noticed that, they wrote. Well, there was a 3/4 inch thick manual and other peripherals in there, so I defy anyone to hold it and “tell” that there’s no camera inside. Sheesh.

There’s a lesson here for CompUSA and all retailers. The web was alive with this story yesterday, and it moved so fast that there was no way any company could have jumped in to control it. That means companies need to rethink the whole notion of customer service and then mean what they say when spouting fancy slogans touting how they value customers. I’m not anybody special, but every customer should be considered special in the world of buying and selling. I keep waiting for someone in the business world to realize how anti-customer telephone answering systems have become, but I’m not holding my breath.

Buyer beware? Seller beware.

I certainly hope that CompUSA CEO Roman Ross has learned to take a letter from a disappointed customer seriously and that he sets in place systems to treat people like people instead of pests that can be swatted away by underlings.

I want to thank everyone who took the time to pass the story along to somebody else and to those who voted on Digg and other sources.

And thanks, again, to Loretta, although I gotta tell ya, I’ll get the camera, but I won’t be shopping there again.

Frequent readers here know that I believe in the power of shared experiences. This one’s a doozie, and it has left me both angry and embarrassed.

The bottom line is that CompUSA sold me an empty box for $269, one that was supposed to contain a camera. Their spin is it’s my problem, because it technically wasn’t them who sold it to me and that I had a responsibility to check and make sure there was a camera inside the box before I left the store. Never mind that I spent almost $3,500 with them that day. Never mind that I’ve been a long-time customer. Never mind that I’ve bought my last two laptops from them.

What really galls me is their cavalier attitude, both in person and via the mail. I mean, folks, we’re talking about $269! It’s a lot more to me than it is to them.

Here’s the letter I wrote to CompUSA CEO Roman Ross:

May 11, 2007

Roman Ross
President and Chief Executive Officer
CompUSA
14951 N. Dallas Parkway
Dallas, TX 75254

Dear Mr. Ross,

This is to bring to your attention an issue that I’ve been unable to resolve at the store level.

First of all, let me explain that I’ve been a loyal customer of CompUSA for 10 years. I bought my last two computers from your stores, along with hundreds of other items. It is because I view myself as a customer that I send you this letter.

On March 22, 2007, I went to the Lewisville store to buy a new computer (I’m writing this letter on it now). I wasn’t aware that the store was closing and was surprised when I saw the signs. I took advantage of the sale to purchase many other items. My total bill was over $3,300.00.

One of those items was a Canon A630 camera. It was purchased as a gift for my step-daughter, whom I would see in May, so I put the box away in my home office. When the day came, I handed it to her, as she beamed with joy. That didn’t last long, because the box contained only the peripherals and not the camera.

So I went back to Lewisville only to be told the store had closed. So I made the trip to Frisco, where I met manager Tommy Jackson. He refused to help me, telling me that, well, I really didn’t purchase the camera from CompUSA, but a liquidation company. I showed him the receipt from CompUSA, told him I bought it in a CompUSA store and that the salesperson was wearing a CompUSA uniform. He was adamant that it was my problem, not his. At this point, my frustration and embarrassment turned to anger, and he told me I would need to communicate with your lawyers.

How on earth can a company such as yours treat a customer in this manner? You sold me an empty box for $269.00, and over that, you tell me that all the money I spent with you over ten years means nothing. And you blame it on a technicality?

Mr. Ross, this reflects terribly on your company, and I ask you to make it right.

Regards,

Terry Heaton
xxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx
Grapevine, TX 76051
xxx-xxx-xxxx

Bear in mind that I thought this request to be completely reasonable and was hoping they would realize what they’d be giving up by playing hardball. I was wrong. Here is the response I got from one of Ross’s underlings. Frankly, I doubt Ross ever saw my letter.

May 30, 2007

Terry Heaton
xxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx
Grapevine, TX 76051

Dear Mr. Heaton:

Thank you for contacting compUSA regarding your purchase at our Lewisville store; we regret any difficulty you encountered or misinformation you may have been given.

The Lewisville CompUSA was one of 126 stores that was liquidated and closed on 5/7/07. The return policy for all merchandise, as printed on your receipt and posted throughout the store, clearly stated ALL SALES FINAL.

Keep in mind, new digital cameras are usually sold in a factory sealed box; if the camera you purchased was a clearance item, you should have inspected its content prior to purchase.

Although we apologize for any inconvenience this situation may have caused, we cannot honor your request for return or exchange.

Thank you,

Kevin Hain
Escalations Supervisor
CompUSA Executive Care

So there you have it. If you shop at CompUSA, you need to check the boxes of everything you buy, because they surely will sell you an empty one.

Yes, perhaps I should have done so, and technically they’re correct. A liquidator sold me the box, and buyer beware.

You, of course, are free to shop at CompUSA. I can tell you that I never will again.

Final note to Mr. Ross: there’s a reason your company is in trouble, and you don’t need to look any further than the mirror to determine the cause.

When I was a news director, nothing caused me more personal difficulty than the departure of a quality staffer. I learned the business reality that the person leaving isn’t as important as the one coming in the door, but that never made the loss any easier to accept. We make investments in people in this business, and there’s a real sense of loss when one moves on in this revolving door world.

And so I feel a great sense of loss this morning in the resignation from WKRN-TV in Nashville of General Manager Mike Sechrist. I’ve known it was coming — and I suppose that makes it a little easier — but Mike and I fought hand-in-hand (and it was often a real battle) to pioneer new innovations at the station, and there’s a natural sense of uncertainty for everybody involved. Wherever I go in the broadcasting world, WKRN-TV is the envy of the business, because it is two years ahead of everybody else. Mike Sechrist is the one who deserves the credit for that.

And the business reality is that he will end up in an important position somewhere, and I have faith that we will again work together. Mike finds the digital world fascinating and a reminder of the fun days of television. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that full time?

It was a fun ride, Mike. Let’s do it again. And never forget that you’re one of the good guys. Clark Kent would envy your strength.

(Read Mike’s blog entry)