Last night, I fired up ye olde MoveOn.org, connected my bluetooth, and did some phone banking right from the comfort of my friend's living room. The MoveOn architecture, which furnishes a constant stream of new numbers and loads up a dynamic script able to record and respond to all eventualities (answering machine, hang-up, etc), is really quite amazing. If you're looking for a way to get involved but don't want to stray from the couch, here's your chance.
But what you gain through avoiding locomotion, you lose in self-esteem. There's little more depressing than phone banking, which consists of nothing save you bothering people who don't want to be bothered, and are all to happy to tell you so. My friendliest conversation -- by far -- was with a Republican woman I neither convinced nor got threatened by. Out of 60 calls, I reached 10 humans (though left a lot of messages). Of those 10 humans, I think four would tell me who they were voting for. A fair swath of the rest told me, semi-politely, to fuck off. Indeed, the annoyance is such that you wonder if you're not turning potential voters off -- which is precisely what the GOP is banking on with their abhorrent robocall suppression scheme. These guys don't deserve a democracy.
But, the pollsters, data divers, and all the rest assure us this helps, so it gets done. By the end of a few hours though, you feel abused. I've never been that unlikable in my life. I'm already pretty polite, but I hereby pledge to be kinder to telemarketers. Unlike them, however, I was using my cell phone, as are most of the MoveOn corps. And so my number must have been showing up on caller IDs. Because some Virginian or another recorded it and spent the rest of the night calling me back at ten or fifteen minute intervals. When I'd answer, he'd mumble at me, stay silent, or otherwise have some fun. And it was, in fact, pretty funny.
Well-played, sir, well-played. Now go vote for Jim Webb on Tuesday.
