October 26, 2000
Mr. Joseph Planta, Media Consultant - THE COMMENTARY
By Joseph Planta
VANCOUVER -- Well, there you have it: Joseph Planta, Media Consultant. Yes, I christen thy self Media Consultant, because I’ve been doing a bit of that the last few months. Sure, I do some of that here, albeit no one reads it. Sure, I’ve made suggestions to my friend Rafe Mair regarding his own program, but that’s not really him consulting with me. Merely, me telling him what I think.
A lowly chap at Tupper got me started into the paid world of marketing research last June. I consider it consulting, better yet media consulting. For two hours last June, I was sitting in a boardroom in some Downtown Vancouver filing cabinet. There were a group of people my age that sat around and talked about websites and portals. Surely not about HTML code or something like that - we just gave the marketing research firm some opinions about what we liked about websites, so that their big budget client (In this case, the Ministry of Education,) could model their product after our demographics tastes. Sure, it sounds rather mundane, but at 20 bucks an hour - answering survey questions - we didn’t all that mind.
Last July, I dragged Rudy Montejo to some hotel ballroom at Metrotown where we and about 100 other folks sat around and watched two lackluster sitcoms. They were terribly unfunny and this time we weren’t paid. We had the chance however to win prizes, but alas luck was not our lady that night.
Last Thursday, after a quick dinner at home, I hopped on a bus to Downtown Vancouver. It was cold, wet, windy and rainy. Did I say it was Vancouver? I disembarked at the Main SkyTrain station. I boarded a west bound train to Granville, where I braved that damned escalator, which frankly scares me. I made it up and got above the ground to Granville Street. It was dark already, say 7:15. My appointment was 7:30 and I didn’t know where I could find Hornby Street. I was told the office was near Davie, thus knew it would be some 4 or 5 blocks from the corner of Granville and Georgia. They have a new London Drugs, there by the way. It’ll be the 3rd tenant of that corner since Birks vacated, some 4 years ago.
I jaywalked to the old Eaton’s side, which will now be Sears, and walked. I walked down Granville about 4 blocks, until I noticed it wasn’t so hot in that neck of the woods. In sheer desperation, I looked for a cab. I managed to hail a Black Top, at which point I dragged my soaking self and umbrella into the back seat. I told the driver the address of that elusive destination and he got me there before I was supposed to and, magically on the right side of the road. I hate certain drivers who take you to the other side of the address, thus you have to risk your life crossing yourself. I digress.
I found the building and I made it in on time. I was met by a receptionist who asked me for ID, as she didn’t know that I was the Joseph Planta. She IDed me and led me into the green room where I found two pitchers of water, an array of soft drinks and cookies. There were cups and she invited me to help myself. Telling her I had just had supper, I graciously declined.
I waited for about 5 minutes, admiring a painting that was on the wall, which looked awfully familiar. My perusing was interrupted as my interviewer, some marketing flack, came in and we shook hands and she introduced herself. She led me into this boardroom type setting. A large, round table was in the centre and sofas were around the edge of the room. There were easels and whiteboards in a corner and one side of the room had a double-sided mirror, where I was told, behind it sat 10-15 people who were the clients of the so said survey. They were the people who wanted to know what I thought, but chose to sit on the other side of the faceless glass. Perhaps they figured out the truth does hurt. I figure it was bracing for the worse.
Now I’ll come clean and admit the survey was done by a local firm for a private cable company. The company is CPAC, which stands for the Cable Public Affairs Channel. They’re the channel, 69 in Vancouver, that carry the House of Commons and other current affairs stuff to the homes of Canadians. Coast to coast and in both official languages.
Being a regular viewer of CPAC, they contacted me and asked me if I could help them out with their interviews. I said to myself, “Self, why not?” About a month ago, I got a call from the lady booking these things and was told where and when the interview would go down.
So there I was. Led into this room, that wasn’t really a room. There were cameras strategically placed to get my shot and microphones directly above us on some crane-type contraption. I was told of the people behind the mirror and refusing to look silly by waving at them, I barely looked their way at all.
I was told to be honest and that anything I did say wouldn’t be the slightest insulting or hurtful, as they were expecting it.
I gave them my thoughts. I told them what I liked and what I didn’t like of the channel. I was frank and concise with my comments, as I read from the prepared report I had composed a couple of days before, in anticipation of the grilling. The lady was somewhat impressed by the notes I scribbled on my sheets of paper. She sat there listening, taking notes, as she often sipped the mineral water that was next to her, in a wine glass.
It was over in a half an hour. She left the room for a moment promising to return after consulting with the faceless people behind the screen. She returned with another sheet that some person scrawled out in the other room. Rebuttals and notes about my performance. Questions of mine answered.
The interviewer then led me out of the room and back into the reception area. She expressed her thanks, by saying it was very helpful of me to spend a half an hour (a wet Thursday,) to help them gather the opinion of an 18 year old person like me.
The receptionist asked me to sign a form and passed me my honorarium. A mere $60 dollars for an equally mere 30 minutes in a big brother room. I gathered my umbrella and the receptionist wished me a good evening. I stood there. She wondered why I was still there. “Could I have my coat please?” She was surprised, as she probably forgot I gave it to her at my entrance.
$60 bucks for a pittance of work. Nice work if you can get it, if you ask me. They did. I said yes.
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