DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

This is the 4th installment of the story begun in Ender’s Game. The characters are by now familiar, and this book ties up all of the plot lines opened in Xenocide. The ending satisfies. If you’ve already read the first three books of the series, you need to read this one to find out how it all ends.

Patronize these links, man:

• Amazon (paperback)

I received a somber, informationally dense pamphlet in the mail from Chevron. It’s titled “Chevron Cardmember Privacy Statement.” When I read this, I felt a bit like I might if my doctor called to say “I need to discuss your recent chest X-ray.” This pamphlet is bad, bad news: it details the ways in which, as a matter of standard business practice, Chevron assaults my personal privacy.

I am surprised that they’ve bothered to detail the ways in which they’re abusing their customers’ rights — it’s generally safe to assume that any company that knows your name or address is making money by selling your information as many times per day as possible, but it is unusual in my experience that any company would ever admit to this.

But this is precisely what Chevron has done.

Here is the information Chevron collects about its customers: name, address, address history, social security number, employment/student status, spouse name, spouse SSN, kids’ names, telephone numbers, email address, credit history, credit rating, Chevron account balance, payment history, gasoline usage patterns.

What of this information does Chevron sell? Here’s a quote from the pamphlet: We may disclose all of the information that we collect.

Who does Chevron sell this information to? In a nutshell, anyone at all.

So apparently it’s not enough that they make money from you when you buy their gasoline — they also sell and resell your personal information. They know whether you are single or married, and whether you have any kids… they know how long you’ve worked at your current job, or whether you’re a student… they know your social security number, which is one of the two pieces of information needed for someone to steal your identity… they know whether you own or rent your home, and when you move they track your relative income by examining your neighborhood’s ZIP code… they know whether or not you commute to work… they know when you’re home… they know how frequently you travel, how long you’re gone, and whether you drive or fly on these trips. To me this is dangerous information for any corporation to have, especially any corporation that admits to selling it with total disregard for your personal safety.

Note that the Chevron credit card application does not contain an opt-out opportunity, much less an opt-in. In plain language this means that you have to ask them to stop selling your data; by default, they will not respect your privacy. You can’t opt out until after they’ve approved your application, which means they’ve already sold all the data on your application, long before your card arrives in the mail.

Here’s the best way to stop this abuse: call 1-800-CHE-VRON and cancel your account. You can use your ATM or regular credit card to buy gas at about 99% of the gas stations in the country anyway.

If you’ve temporarily lost your mind and really do want to continue doing business with this company, you can and should still opt-out of their solicitation lists: call 1-800-CHE-VRON and ask to be removed immediately.

Update: when I called, I was routed to an announcement that repeats this mantra: “We do not sell your information.” I’m not sure how to take this, because the pamphlet clearly states Chevron’s intentions. Perhaps what they mean is that they are not currently, at the moment, selling my data, but they reserve the right to sell it in the future without notice. Or perhaps they’re hiding behind the word “selling” — maybe they don’t sell my data, per se, but only trade it for, I don’t know, large sums of money disguised as a consulting payment. This duplicity offends me. Feh.

The night I first saw Stomp, I felt that my world had subtly shifted. How had I survived all those years without experiencing something so powerful? I sat on the edge of my chair for the entire performance.

Today I discovered something that I think could have a Stomp-esque effect on my world: the Blue Man Group.

My brother turned me on to the Blue Man Group. I believe he saw them in a series of Pentium ads, which I’d never seen because I don’t watch television. But the BMG has been around for about 10 years, so I was shocked to have never heard of them.

The Blue Man Group is a sort of music/theater group. The music is percussive, incorporating weird homemade PVC instruments.

The most exciting news for me is that they’ve recorded a CD. My copy is on its way. Buy yours today — see links below.

Their website is worth visiting, but if you’re in a hurry, here are some highlights: music clips from audio (see the links on the right side of the page); funny print ads from a Chicago show; an interview from Amazon.com.

Update: the good folks at memepool point out that Blue Man Group uses Macs — so why are they shilling for Intel? Damn good question. It’s the myth of Pentium.

Patronize these links, man:

• Amazon (CD)
• Amazon (DVD)
• Blue Man Store (CD+VHS)

This story is hilarious and explores one of the risks of growing a company too quickly. The text below was written by Bruce Schneier in his monthly e-newsletter Crypto-Gram. If your interests include computer security, privacy, or cryptography, you should read Schneier’s stuff — see the Crypto-Gram archives.

from Bruce Schneier’s Crypto-Gram, 12/15/00

Social engineering at its finest: The Nov. 27 issue of The New Yorker has a story written by someone who quit his job to write, but discovered he never got anything done at home. So he strolled into the offices of an Internet startup and pretended to work there for 17 days. He chose a desk, got on the phone list, drank free soda and got free massages. He made fake business phone calls and brought his friends in for fake meetings. After 6 PM you’re supposed to swipe a badge to get in, but luckily a security guard held the door for him. He only left when they downsized almost everyone else on his floor — and not because they caught on; he went around saying goodbye to everyone in the office and everyone wished him well.

What did you see, she asked.

Nothing. Just colors, I answered.

Oh? Which colors?

Lots of green, I replied, and some purple.

She smiled.