This arrived in my mailbox today:

“Dear Jeremy:

We have been notified by Visa that your debit card information has been compromised and could be the subject of potential fraud. The information was stolen from a merchant with whom you do business. …”

Major bummer. I stay on the careful side when it comes to using plastic. I fastidiously shred every scrap of paper with my name or important numbers (i.e. Social Security, credit or debit card number, address). Still, as the letter points out, the consumer isn’t the only variable in the equation.

I keep detailed financial records. The letter doesn’t name the retailer or restaurant I patronized that “compromised,” or allowed to be compromised, my debit card number. But, I think it’s reasonable to assume that it happened within the last month. That covers parts of December and January, during which I wrapped up gift shopping and made two trips to the Detroit area. That leaves a tangible list of suspects.

Did a bundle of financial records fall between the cracks at my favorite Target? Was it Evo’s, the little organic fast food joint around the corner? Could an employee at the cafeteria at work have fingers sticky for receipts? Was it an opportunistic bartender at Limey’s, the neighborhood pub? Could it have been the gas station where I last filled my tank? Was it Toast, the Ferndale, Mich., restaurant with the wonderful breakfast? Miss K and I ate there on the day before the letter from my credit union is dated. I noticed that the full debit card number appeared on their receipts, but didn’t pitch a fit about it or cross it off with an inkpen like I usually do.

Any of them could be a weak link, unconsciously pleading for the leverage of a budding fraudster. None of them asked for my ID, either, despite the giant red “CHECK ID” scrawled on the back of the card with a Sharpie. Even though those words are inked on all of my cards, I’m asked perhaps only every fourth or fifth time I make a face-to-face transaction.

Regardless, I’m anxious for the new card the bank will send me. And I’ll imprint that one with the same directive and hold my breath just a little more whenever I use it.

Testing … testing … is this thing still on?

It’s been a while. Career track, life tract, shiny objects: I’m easily distracted. But I still enjoy a good rant and stumbled across one on a return flight from Detroit. I plunked down $1 for a New York Times to occupy me. It was the Tuesday, Jan. 16, edition. On C5, there was a rhetorical column on advertising from Stuart Elliot. It featured 20 questions to ask about advertising, the media and popular culture. One caught my eye:

“Who will be the first marketer to buy advertising space being sold by the Transportation Security Administration inside the plastic bins used by passengers at X-ray machines at airport checkpoints …?”

What?! I tried to picture the scenario under which this policy grabbed approval. TSA decision makers sit around a conference table. The question on their minds: “How can we boost revenue so we have more money to keep Americans safe?” Advertising beckons as a natural solution.

Turn to my mind, and what’s the question? It’s the corollary: Why does our TSA resort to seeking private funds? Is it not, despite our lawmakers’ assurances and reassurances, getting adequate funds? If that’s the case, then we need to discuss fully funding the vanguard between us and air disasters.

But I don’t think the solution lies in the government being in the business of selling ad space. Advertising already stretches our attention spans like elastic straps. The relentless pushes and pulls come more than daily – from the TV, the Web, the mailbox (electronic and otherwise). Should we also starve the TSA, like the USPS, so that service from the government must by sponsored by ads for credit cards or the latest wonder drug?