#582 Grid-icebox

The point of some advertising eludes me.
I’m holding in my hand a magnet. It’s intended to be on my refrigerator. I, in fact, just took it off my refrigerator.
When I acquired it from the mail, I put it on my refrigerator unconsciously, because it was obviously a refrigerator magnet. A real estate agent, a real estate agent who I have never met, sent it to me.
Why did he send me a refrigerator magnet?
Did he want me to be stuck on him when I next had a real estate need?
Did he want me to think that, like a refrigerator, he was cool, and therefore I should use him to help me buy or sell my next home?
The magnet part of the magnet is his business card. As he is a real estate guy, it of course has a picture of his smiling visage. He represents a company that I have never used.
The bottom part of the stick-up is a Seahawks football schedule. It is the chief reason I stuck the dang thing to my refrigerator—until this morning, when I asked myself if I really cared what the Seahawk schedule was.
Not to cut the knees out from under my perceived masculinity or anything, but I don’t.
Seahawk schmeahawk.
So there you have it. I don’t know the guy, I’ve never used his company, and I’ve never purchased anything remotely football-esque that would predispose my name to being on such a mailing list.
So why would this guy go to the extraordinary expense of sending me this refrigo-knickknack? I mean, name recognition is an important thing, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to make my next real estate decision because I have a refrigerator magnet with some stranger’s face on it.
Usually I reserve my valuable refrigerator door display space for family pictures.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe he thinks that by having his picture mixed in with all of mine I’ll think he’s one of the family.
And I’ll pick him to list my house because I subconsciously think I remember us all chillin’ together.
America ya gotta love it