The Influencers are dead. Or not.

As we continue to sort through the results from Rubicon's recent research on Internet usage (link), we're finding interesting insights on how the web is developing. One insight is around the concept of Influencers.

When we first looked at the results of the survey, we thought they confirmed the Influencer idea. But after some more digging, our thinking has evolved. There are basically two schools of thought online about the influencing process. Some people say a small group of Influencers drive most consumer decisions. Others argue that the Influencer idea is a fantasy, and that ideas spread through society from random starting points, without a hierarchy.

The evidence from our research shows that both groups are wrong in important ways, especially when the web is taken into consideration. That has big implications for how companies market online, so we wrote about it. If you're interested in learning more, you can read the analysis on Rubicon's website here.

A DAY ON THE ROAD

I begin my day investigating this tiny snap together house situated in a stand of tamerisk trees. No mortgage or foreclosure problem here. The builder/owner seemed cozy and contented with his domicile.
The mighty Imperial Dunes--they stir strange yearnings in me. A gargantuan sand box where a hundred thousand come to play,
Exquisite form and feature--reminded me of Ester Williams.
Holtville hot springs---perfect temperature, flowing freely, cleaned regularly--and free to the public.
That barely visible vehicle on the right in the distance is smoothing this roadside to be able to detect alien footprints.
There were more than a hundred of these marvelous sculptures scattered across the desert near Borrego Springs, Ca.
Desert loving, off road sub culture--bigger than you ever imagined.
Ahhhh----I'm Home---down there with my family---The wandering WINs

EVERYTHING INTERESTS ME

A day on the road

I once asked a hobo when he was happiest. He said: “When I’m sitting in a boxcar headed out of town.” I can identify, because moving day for me is more exciting than arriving. Many of my companions feel differently.

Anyway, here’s a more or less typical travel day, as I moved from Yuma, Az to Borrego Springs, Ca. to spend Thanksgiving with my travel club, the WINs (Wandering Individuals Network—wwwrvsingles.org)

My first stop is at the extraordinary rest stop dead in the middle of the gigantic Imperial sand dunes.(six miles wide, 70 miles long) It is much beloved for its good water supply–fresh and free to all. Off road dunes people fill up here for their weekend adventure. Surprisingly it is located within the median of Interstate 8.

This six mile dunes crossing required incredible feats of engineering. For years the only way to cross it was by a difficult plank road. Even more difficult was the All American Canal which also crosses the dunes here. The easy route for the canal would be a few miles south but that would dip into Mexico and give others some control over the precious water. America paid the price, dug through the dunes and now 90% of the Colorado River is diverted 40 miles west to the green fields of Imperial Valley, where 10% of the nation’s vegetables are grown.

My next stop is at Holtville hot springs, a fine tub of hot flowing water; hot enough to do you good; mellow you out. Boondockers cluster here for the winter, building rituals around daily soaks. Canadians seem to be over represented. On this day a lovely Hispanic lady with curves more graceful than a racehorse posed for my camera.

In El Centro Wal Mart I supplied myself for an extended desert stay. North on Hwy 86 I pass through a Border Patrol checkpoint. (Always located at strategic choke points) The officer always wants to hear you speak. You can imagine why.

West on Hwy 78 I stop to investigate a huge cloud of dust. The Border Patrol is dragging a smoothing apparatus down the roadside. They do this so that footprints of illegals crossing in the night will show.

I stop at Ocotillo Wells to appreciate the vast subculture of off road recreation.

I stop again to photograph the art works scattered across the desert near Borrego Springs. A rich guy (Avery) bought up the desert and commissioned the sculptures.

Settling in among my friends in the Anza Borrego desert. It’s been a good day and unlike tourist, who just see the sights, I see what I see.

HIGHWAY INTO SOLITUDE

These are good friends who have scattered themselves to enjoy solitude.
The stealth trailer "claims" its hundred acres of solitude.
My friend Pete, a very clever engineer. His is the most fine tuned rig in boondocking history. Worthy of a separate blog. He sits, soaking in the sun. I kept this respectful distance.
General George Patton commanded war games here 68 years ago in preparation for invading north africa. The evidence is everywhere.
120 miles west of Phoenix and 5 miles north on hwy 95 is
La Paz valley (valley of peace)–well named because here is where mobile people come to get away from it all. Photos suggest how we scatter into solitude–to pull ourselves together–when we are weary of groupiness. I claim my spot and settle in—I’m deliciously alone in the desert. I tune in my electronics–locate the tv satellite, turn on my cell phone, place my verizon air card in the window. (4 bar reception–good!) My satellite radio is always ready. Yes, I’m here for solitude and yet I’m connected to the whole world. I can theoretically interact with anyone in the world, but I don’t want to interact PERSONALLY with anyone for a while. Most, I presume can identify with the paradox.

Next day, curious how alone I am, I scan the horizon with my binoculars and surprise, I can see 4 of my friends rigs scattered widely , each separated by a quarter mile or so.

Probably they’re here as I am to LET NOTHINGNESS HAVE ITS WAY WITH ME. I welcome it like I often welcome the darkness letting it slowly envelope me like water wraps around a sinking ship. Oh how sweet! Perhaps it’s a form of cocooning–like enclosed insects we are self contained and hopefully we too are quietly transforming. Time, quiet and solitude “knits up our raveled sleeve of care.”

I don’t demean the social hubub I have left–it’s been good for me. But like a trip to the marketplace, I come “home to myself” to sort and savor my gains. Four days later I’m out of my cozy cocoon, refreshed and ready to go venturing..

This wonderful place is no secret. I show you the red highway from Quartzsite, Az to Bouse; 30 square miles of free clean desert. Come find your place, your peace–and heal.

ARIZONA'S OUTLAW FORTRESS

A REAL-LIFE HOLE-IN-THE-WALLHere is a photo of the original. History buffs will know that is located in Johnson county, Wyoming, in the Big Horn mountains--its most famous residents, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Not so well known is the fact that several outlaw gangs sheltered there simultaneously in relative harmony, with codes of conduct understood and enforced. Truly "honor among thieves." One outlaw gang comprised 75 armed and mounted men--a veritable army. Also not well known is the fact that the fortress was never penetrated by the law despite several attempts by determined posses. All were turned back, often with casualties. Amazingly, the outlaws held on to their sanctuary for 50 years. It faded from history by 1910.
Spread out below me is a real life band of "outlaws" taking refuge in Arizona's version of the infamous criminal fortress. Our "crime" is trespassing on state land. I daresay that only I actually bought a permit and am legal. The others know all about the forgiveness/permission paradox and are not worried. We are camped on the outer lip of the canyon because cell reception is good here AND because the inner canyon has gotten a bit scary. Unsavory and dangerous characters are said to live "in there."
And of course I want to go "in there." This nice lady pointed the way and described the dangers.
This hole-in-the-wall, like that in Wyoming, is a narrow one road in or out canyon.
Barely inside a hundred yards, I encountered this unlikely occupant, an attractive lady camping with her dog. She's on a cross country adventure to the coast. I approached, chatted, and told her my mission, and she----surprise----wanted to go with me. Together we journeyed.
At an abandoned campsite we found this clock. Stolen, abandoned loot?
Notice the semi hidden camper in mid picture.

This hole-in-the-wall is full of surprises.
This "outlaw" is obviously a minimalist camper. He waved--friendly like.
But later as we were leaving, things turned sour for him. He was required to squat under guard while another officer searched his vehicle. Unlike Wyoming, the law has penetrated here.
Denizens of outlaw canyon. There's a good story here but I don't have time to tell it.
Ah, but mostly the campers here are respectable, adventurous, warm-hearted folks. These were curious to tour my stealthy trailer. They listened to one of my poems and gave me a friendly bon voyage.

Marcy, it turns out is a very interesting lady, a practitioner of the arcane art of quantum touch. (www.chibodywork.net) She tried in vain to explain. In return for computer time and wine she brought me up to speed on couch surfing (a hospitality exchange network) and she enriched my writing with two memorable phrases: “frightened people who throw their fears on me” and “thinking from their television set.”

I think I will not reveal the location of this desperado canyon. My friend Glen chastises me often for betraying boondocker secrets. I will just say that it is accessible from Az hwy 95 between Needles and Parker.

DESERT UTOPIA

CALNEVARI, NEVADA
Camped "in the seam"
Flew in for breakfast
Plane on main street
Every house has one
“BIRDS” OF A FEATHER

There it is below: Calnevari, a town of 278 literally winged souls. I was puzzled as you would be to see a town this far out in the desert with no obvious raison detre. (reason for being) It’s 9 miles south of Searchlight Nevada, (a one casino, speed trap of a town the world would never mention, were it not the home of Senator Harry Reid, senate majority leader.) I was headed toward Laughlin, NV.

Tired and curious when I reached Calnevari, I called it a day, settling into a SEAM–one of my favorite tricks for free camping: parking exactly midway between two enterprises so that each, if they notice you at all, considers that you have business with the other. I’ve celebrated this strategy in verse:
BOONDOCKING IN THE CITY

Let us travel more boldly,
Range into urban locales;
Dare to camp in the city
Outside campground corrals.

Enjoy its treasures and splendors
And when comes time for dreams,
slip away from no-no land
into the city seams.

Seams are iffy zones
Where oversight is rare.
Sleep a full eight hours,
Then move away from there.

Doing the boondocker shuffle.
Moving twice a day,
Living free and easy
In Phoenix or San Jose.

I settled midway between the airport and the restaurant. No one troubled me. I walked into the casino/bar/restaurant–one of those places filled with regulars, so bored that everyone turns to look at whoever enters, desperately hoping for a stranger like me to create some excitement. As always, there was a pretty waitress that caught my eye generating a momentary fantasy of “taking her away from this one horse town.” (I flashed on my first sexual experience which happened just this way–with a twist. A strange, beautiful woman walked into my father’s bar and took me away to a motel in Monroe, La–God bless that woman!)

I slept soundly but was awakened early by small airplanes taking off and landing. I was surprised to see planes hitched like horses outside the restaurant and others actually driving on the one main street of town. The truth of things soon became apparent. I flagged down a deputy who was pleased to tell me some history. In the 50's, Nancy and Slim Kidwell started this airplane based community, inviting like minded enthusiast to “come fly with me.” The town name is a PORTMANTEAU of California, Nevada and Arizona. I walked the town verifying that every house had a hanger.

GOOD NEWS FROM THE WASTELANDS

Do you see what caught my eye?
A silent army of alchemist transforming sunlight to electricity
MR CLEAN---ENERGY

Driving south on Hwy 95 from Las Vegas, I saw something huge, and compelling, far out in the wastelands; something silver and black in color. (I had to know! I had to go! –but the sign said No!–-I went anyway!) I’ve learned that if “they” are really serious, “they” will barricade the road or post a guard. And it is true that it s easier to get forgiveness than permission.

I just had a memory flash–One of my earliest memories is watching my father dismantle a barricade in the headlights of our panel truck. We were bootlegging whiskey into Oklahoma (at that time a dry state) and our drop spot was down that road. I guess I come by this outlawry honestly.

Anyway, down into the mysterious valley I went till I came to the glittery acres of glass and aluminum. Wow! Do I love this. Acres and acres of solar panels quietly, cleanly, making power for the masses. I took a photo but I needed facts. A truck drove by inside the fence and I yelled. He came and gave them gladly: They are generating electricity by concentrating sunlight on a pipe filled with oil which heats to 400 degrees and travels to a heat exchanger where it turns water into steam that runs a turbine.

This project cost 263 million, covers 40 acres, generates 64 megawatts, powering 48,000 homes. ( coincidentally, the population of nearby Boulder, Nv is 50,000) The engineer was just getting warmed up. His face glowed as he spoke of future expansion, now underway, trebling its size–AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE–(He’s really enthused now, almost dancing) “WE’VE FOUND A WAY TO MAKE IT PRODUCE 24 HOURS A DAY. “Easy now” I said! “Even great engineers can”t make the sun shine 24 hours” I thought he would jump the fence in his rush to tell me the secret: “You see, we are now building a HUGE heat storage tank that will keep making steam all night.” “AND” he said, “WE’RE GOING TO PUT WINDMILLS OUT THERE.” He almost broke into poetry as he raised both hands prophet-like and said: “WE WILL MAKE THIS VALLEY CRACKLE WITH ELECTRICITY.”

His gospel converted me! I went away singing the praises of solar power—and then I remembered that I’VE BEEN SOLAR POWERED FOR 17 YEARS.

CRACKING THE VEGAS MYSTERY

"Ed" from Bogalusa, La the only interviewee who gave permission to post

WHY ARE 100,000 PEOPLE SOLITARILY FACING SLOT MACHINES IN NEVADA?

I stealthily ensconced myself at the heart of this glittering metropolis and walked the major casinos. Suddenly I was seized with the question posed above and decided to answer it. I called on my intuition to drink in this hoopla, digest it and spit out an answer. (Try challenging your intuition sometimes–it’s wiser than you think. I think of FAITH as trusting my deepest intuition)

I walked for hours but no answer came. I still didn’t “get it.” I went to bed. Next day I got serious and began to engage the “wheel watchers”. I probed 16 of them, 8 of which were serious players: (lets call them addicts) 4 slot players, 2 dice, and 2 blackjack. I engaged the 8 serious players in depth charming the truth out of them. (Two of them required charm plus dinner) I dug deep into their background, looking for commonalities. And then–and then suddenly BINGO! I got it! I found the commonalities and I think I know why 100'000 hard-core gamblers sit in front of machines pushing buttons or rolling dice etc. The answer surprised me and will be difficult to communicate but I’ll try. It’s not about money. Though real money is a necessary component, it is not sufficient.

Before I give you the answer, I’ll reveal what the 8 addicts had in common. All of them had WILDLY UNEVEN PARENTING during their formative years. Sometimes super duper nurturing and sometimes neglectful and even punitive. The child’s behavior was seemingly irrelevant. They could never quite figure out how to win the parents loving side, so that when a parent approached, a certain feeling awakened in their tiny body–that of ANXIOUS HOPEFULNESS.
(each described this is different words–like “nervous wishing” and “didn’t know what was coming–kissin or kicking) All hurried to tell me that they loved their parents–They emphasized this suspiciously strongly–but I believed them. Do you see where I’m headed here: I believe that these 8 people got HOOKED ON A FEELING, IDENTIFYING EXISTENCE ITSELF,AND WELL BEING, WITH THAT PARTICULAR FEELING, SOMEWHAT LIKE SOME ANIMALS GET IMPRINTED WITH THE FIRST SCENT THEY DETECT. AND I THEORIZE THAT SLOT MACHINES PROVIDE PEOPLE WITH A REASONABLE FACSIMILE OF THEIR FIRST "EMOTIONAL SCENT."

So here’s the answer my intuition provided. Same answer said 8 different ways–what these 100,000 people are doing is:
AFFIRMING THEIR EXISTENCE
PUSHING AWAY NOTHINGNESS
CREATING PULSES OF IDENTITY
GENERATING ARTIFICIAL MEANING
TRIGGERING SPASMS OF AFFIRMATION
FINDING THAT OLD FAMILIAR FEELING
GETTING REPEATED SHOTS OF IFFINESS
SPURRING THE HORSE THEY SIT ASTRIDE

I know it’s true of me and I suspect its true of everyone that we are all hooked on a feeling. And here’s how we get hooked: (according to some Psychiatrist–I forget who) When we WAKE TO CONSCIOUSNESS WE WILL ADOPT THE AMBIENT FEELING AS PROOF OF EXISTENCE LIKE A COLT ADOPTS THE SMELL OF ITS MOTHER AND WE
ALL SPEND A LIFETIME CHASING IT, CONSTRUCTIVELY OR DESTRUCTIVELY.

I think gambling is a destructive chase, a monumental waste of human energy– a grievously misdirected quest for affirmation--worse even than building pyramids. It is a kind of dope that is dealt to deficient meaning makers. In a spiritual sense it is an illegitimate enterprise and all who participate in it diminish themselves. It is truancy from creativity; seeking nourishment from candy. It is sex with blow-up dolls.(Leaving for another blog the question of what real meaning looks like)

But as harshly as I judge the industry, I hypocritically enjoy some of its perks–as I have celebrated in this poem:

How to Beat the Casinos

Says every casino from Yuma to Reno,
Free parking to all who ramble.
Pull out your slide, come on inside,
Lay down some dollars and gamble.

For the freebie you’re getting, the casino is betting
You cannot resist their bait.
A week-willed critter sucked in by the glitter,
Whose pocketbook they will deflate.

But if you choose, it’s a bet they will lose,
Certainly for this wandering chap.
Slick as you please, I eat all their cheese,
And scamper away from the trap.