The barista took my data. All I got was coffee and slow internet
I ask the barista if there’s a password for the internet.
“No,” she says. “You just have to accept the terms of service, and boom, you’re rocking and rolling.”
“Well, I’m about to rock and roll, so you better salute me.”
Judging from her face, the barista doesn’t get the reference. But before I can tell her to Google it, she hits me with the harsh reality of surfing ye olde internet.
“Of course, those terms of service are a doozy.”
“Oh yeah?”
“No joke,” she says. “Like, we’re going to take your first born.”
“Damn, you guys play hardball. But I’m not worried. I’m not having kids, so I come out way ahead in that deal.”
“You, sir, play hardball.”
“So I win, right?”
“Not quite. We’re also taking your data. And don’t give me any guff about how you don’t have any data. Everyone has data these days.”
A chill runs down my spine. The barista is right. I am a data creator—in this economy, everyone is. I’ve paid thousands of dollars for my computer, my phone, my watch, my car, and a Roomba just to collect my data. I pay hundreds of dollars in monthly subscriptions to my internet service provider, two newspapers, three credit card companies, four magazines, Sling, various insurance outfits, Amazon Prime, and Spotify to harvest my data. And just to make sure there’s enough Michael Estrin data to go around, I spend forty-eight hours per day online creating data so that the advertising industrial complex can chase me around the internet with ads for discount razorblades I can’t use, jobs I’m unqualified to perform, and a crockpot I already bought on Amazon. It’s brutal. But I put up with it for one BIG reason: ads for t-shirts that are themselves wearable ads for movie classics like The Big Lebowski, Big Trouble in Little China, and The Big Sleep.
“What are you going to do with my data?” I ask.
“You know… stuff.”
“Can you be more specific? I already unsubscribed from Congress. I blocked the people who keep calling to sell me a mortgage. And my spam folder runneth over. I don’t think my data could be used for any more stuff.”
The barista leans across the counter. In a conspiratorial voice, she whispers, “A lot of people think we sell your data. But the truth is we lease it out to the highest bidder.”
“And who is that, exactly?”
“It’s a dynamic situation,” she says.
My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. For all I know, the bidders for my data include a subscription meal service determined to make the world a better place through bulgogi tacos and a recurring payments business model, a fake meat company on a mission to democratize pea protein, and a mobile gaming outfit that expects me to run a virtual farm in exchange for virtual currency. Or, maybe I’ve just got food on my mind because I’m hungry. In the data collection game, even your thoughts can, and will, be monetized.
“So let me get this straight. I get free internet and you guys make a fortune off my data?”
“That’s right,” she says. “This whole coffee shop is a front.”
“Then why is the coffee five dollars?”
“Because this is a high-end front. A damn good one, too.”
“Correction. It was a damn good front, until you blew it by telling me all the secrets of the coffee business.”
“You’re right,” she says. “You know too much.”
My pulse quickens. My palms perspire. My breathing stops. I’ve said too much.
“Am I in danger?” I ask.
“Only if you order a scone,” she says. “They’re really dry. Like choking hazard dry.”
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Help me reach a big goal for Situation Normal!
Eight months ago, I set a goal of reaching 100 paid subscribers by the end of 2023. I’m currently 80 percent of the way to achieving that goal. Yay! But I want to hit that goal, and I need your help. Paid subscribers mean a few things to me:
Paying subscribers makes it possible for me to carve out time from my freelance writing schedule to write funny stuff every week for nearly 4,000 situation normies.
Paying subscribers prove that there’s a business model for writing humor online that doesn’t require me to bombard you with ads and lease out your data to a discount razor firm or a bulgogi taco subscription service.
As paying subscriptions grow, Situation Normal’s CFO (Christina) says there’s room in the budget for some zany adventures.
Stick around and chat!
You know the drill. I’ve got questions. You’ve got answers.
What’s the deal with scones in U.S. coffee shops? Is it unconstitutional to sell good scones that aren’t choking hazards? Explain.
I own two Lebowski t-shirts (shocking, I know) and one Big Trouble in Little China t-shirt. Should I buy a Big Sleep t-shirt? Follow-up: do you think the Raymond Chandler estate sees a dime on those t-shirt sales?
On the internet, you get a lot of free “content” in exchange for your data. But it isn’t really free, it’s ad-supported. Offline, it’s a different deal. You pay for stuff AND they collect your data. Why is there no such thing as a
freead-supported lunch?Which outfits bid the most for your data? Reveal yourself, if you dare.
Have you ever actually seen your data? It’s pretty gross, right?
Want more Michael Estrin stories? I’ve got two books!
Ride/Share: Micro Stories of Soul, Wit and Wisdom from the Backseat is a collection of my Lyft driver stories🚗🗣
Not Safe for Work is a slacker noir novel based on my experiences covering the adult entertainment industry💋🍑🍆🕵️♂️
*If you bought one of my books, thank you! Please take a moment to leave a review. It helps a lot💪🙏
Wouldn’t bulgogi tacos make the world a better place?
The best scones I ever ate are in the cafeteria at Arcadia Methodist Hospital. They’re Sodexo scones, and I’d give my data for the recipe.
Who is this barista?! Can we be best friends if I promise to eat their leftover dusty scones?!