Moldy Bestsellers: Today's Books Are (Mostly) All Alike

While many people, including me, thought they would never take to the concept of reading a book from a screen, I have to admit that my e-reader has become one of my most treasured electronic gadgets over the past almost two years.  It was not a purchase I made, but given to me as a Christmas gift by someone who knew I was a lifelong bookworm, and yet had not heard my misgivings about the concept of e-books.  I still read good old-fashioned paper-and-glue books often, but the scales have tipped in favor of e-books by about a 70%-30% margin.  

Source

My two primary reasons for favoring e-books would probably be obvious to any marketer: they are cheaper and they are immediate.  I can find one quickly and buy it instantly at what is usually a reasonable price.  While I love the feel of flipping through pages and always will, I know it’s going to be tough for “traditional books” to keep up in the market against the value and convenience of e-books.

One problem I’ve found in my pleasure reading lately is finding something reasonably new that is geared toward my demographic.  It’s no secret that more females than males read books these days.  Likely it has always been like that.  During my time as an educator, there were piles of research urging us to get boys reading more and better, because they as a gender lagged behind and it put their entire education (and future) at risk.  I put a particular emphasis on getting the boys to see that reading was a cool and useful thing to do, however I was but one fish in the ocean, and female readers still outnumber males these days.  Lately, however, it just seems like the number of titles geared toward women has started to completely overshadow those appealing to men, especially in the realm of fiction.

What types of fiction, exactly, appeals to males and to females?  Well, I suppose we could play into the stereotypes for a moment.  Men like explosions, violence, swearing, hot babes and lots of action.  And women like romance, feelings, love, rock-hard muscle guys, and talking.  

Whether you are a man or a woman, I am sure that neither of those descriptions fits you to a tee.  Yet that seems to be what many publishers are targeting in each gender, if the current bestsellers are any indication.  I have also seen this pattern in output from the independent author realm, of which I consider myself a part.  If you want to be successful, you need to create a product that people will want to read.  So write something that fits a formula that has worked for others, and you are bound for success. If you don’t think this is happening, take a look through the best-seller lists at Amazon or Barnes & Noble and note how many titles nowadays have the pattern “*blank* shades of *blank*”.  Formulas can’t be all bad, can they?

Well, they can be.  I guess it depends on your reasons for writing.  Are you simply making something for consumption by as many members of the public as possible in order to make some cash, or do you have a real story to tell, and numbers are a secondary concern for you?

As for me, I am probably not what one would consider a “typical” male reader.  For me, the ideal novel is told in first-person narrative (though this is negotiable), and has at least some humor and genuine feeling in it.  The characters need to be believable, multi-faceted, interesting, and personally relatable on some levels.  The plot doesn’t need to be full of nuclear weapons, dragons, spaceship chases, or loose women in bikinis, but there should be some sense of tension.  By tension in this case, I mean a pressure of some kind, causing change or growth in the characters, whether they like it or not.  When the story is done, I want the characters to be different in some way from how I found them at the start.  I don’t expect a happy ending every time, but I do like the resolution to be more positive than negative, and for Pete’s sake, make sure you resolve it! Nothing bugs me more than to be left hanging at the end of a novel, the story to be continued in the next book in the series.  I prefer each book to be able to stand on its own.

So many fiction novels geared toward teen and young adult females right now are patterned to some extent after the Twilight series by Stephanie Mayer or The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins, with a strong, competent female protagonist in danger and in a complicated relationship to boot.  

Many of those geared toward teen and young adult males are patterned somewhat after the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling, with a young male protagonist suddenly discovering he is not at all what he thought he was.  

Lots of adult female fiction these days has some variation on romantic relationships, good or bad and a female protagonist who has gone through a hard time trying to pull herself up by her bootstraps.  

And adult male fiction?  What there is of it often entails crime, law enforcement or military elements, with a few struggles against personal demons thrown in for good measure. 

That’s not to say every single book out there fits these trends, but a lot of them do.  Witness, the Amazon Top Ten Bestsellers as of September 24, 2012.  The portions in quotes are taken directly from the Amazon.com descriptions of each book or series, while the comments in parentheses and bold are mine.

1. On Dublin Street by Samantha Young—“Four years ago, Jocelyn Butler left her tragic past behind in the States and started over in Edinburgh.” (A female protagonist who has gone through a hard time trying to pull herself up by her bootstraps.)

2. Gone Girl: A Novel by Gillian Flynn—“ Marriage can be a real killer…Gillian Flynn takes that statement to its darkest place in this unputdownable masterpiece about a marriage gone terribly, terribly wrong.”(A romantic relationship story, in this case a bad one, I would guess.)

3. Fifty Shades Darker: Book Two of the Fifty Shades Trilogy by E L James
4. Fifty Shades Freed: Book Three of the Fifty Shades Trilogy by E L James
5. Fifty Shades of Grey: Book One of the Fifty Shades Trilogy by E L James 

“Erotic, amusing, and deeply moving, the Fifty Shades Trilogy is a tale that will obsess you, possess you, and stay with you forever.”(Another  romantic relationship story, though it’s up to you whether it’s good or bad. Sounds nasty to me.)

6. Thicker Than Water (A Leo Waterman Mystery) by G.M. Ford—“Hard living collects its fair share of casualties, but somehow Leo Waterman avoided becoming one of them.” (A story involving a guy struggling against personal demons.  There’s crime too.)

7. A Wanted Man: A Jack Reacher Novel by Lee Child—“Four people in a car, hoping to make Chicago by morning. One man driving, eyes on the road. Another man next to him, telling stories that don’t add up. A woman in the back, silent and worried. And next to her, a huge man with a broken nose, hitching a ride east to Virginia. An hour behind them, a man lies stabbed to death in an old pumping station.” (Crime. Plain and simple.)

8. No Easy Day: The Firsthand Account of the Mission That Killed Osama Bin Laden by Mark Owen and Kevin Maurer—“For the first time anywhere, the first-person account of the planning and execution of the Bin Laden raid from a Navy Seal who confronted the terrorist mastermind and witnessed his final moment.” (Military, also plain and simple)

9. Mockingjay (The Final Book of The Hunger Games) by Suzanne Collins
10. Catching Fire (The Second Book of the Hunger Games) by Suzanne Collins

“The Capitol is harsh and cruel and keeps the districts in line by forcing them all to send one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen to participate in the annual Hunger Games, a fight to the death on live TV.” (Not a variation on the popular series, but the actual series itself.  The first book in the trilogy is at #14 right now.)

Now I haven’t read any of these books, and I am not saying any of them are good or bad.  None of them really reach out and grab me though.  By my unscientific reckoning, they skew about 70% toward female readers.  They also all fit neatly into popular molds.  Art (which writing is, remember) is about breaking those molds.  Mozart was different.  Dali was different.  Hemingway was different.  Fosse was different.  The Beatles were different.  That’s part of what made them great.  I’d dare say that ten years from now, the only titles on this list that will still be relevant will be the Hunger Games books.  One could argue they do not fit into a popular mold, because they are the mold into which some others are trying to fit.

The moral of this post is that there are lots of other great reads out there.  Don’t just take what is thrust at you as “must reads”.  Dig around a little.  Run some Internet searches.  Blow the dust off some volumes at the back of your local bookstore (if you are lucky enough to still have one) or the public library.  See what’s out there beyond the bestsellers. 

And writers, don’t be afraid to take the road less travelled these days.  There are always going to be readers out there like me who appreciate it.

The Hits from Coast to Coast: A Tribute to American Top 40

There are many, many things that make the weekend better than weekdays.  One of those, for me at least, is radio countdown shows.  I love them, and always have.  They are fewer and further between on the air these days, but if you know where to look, you can still find them.

Radio, for those of you under age 30, is a device from which music, voices and other sounds being broadcast from a remote location are emitted for entertainment or information purposes.  It’s like an iPod, only you can’t control the programs, and there are commercials.  Sounds crazy, I know.  Ask any of us senior citizens born before the Reagan administration if you want to know more.

Radio has always played a large part in my life.  As soon as I got my first transistor radio (another term you young-uns will have to Google) around age 6, I always had it on when I could.  I actually worked as a professional announcer and board operator for eleven of the most formative years of my life, from age 15 to age 26.  While I only worked part time in radio, I had offers to go full time on numerous occasions once I graduated high school.  I chose instead to go another career path, but radio is always going to be the “road not travelled” in my life.  It made an indelible impact on me. 

My earliest radio memories involve a radio countdown show, American Top 40, with legendary host Casey Kasem.  American Top 40 made its debut in the world just a few months after I did, in the summer of 1970.  As with most things, it started small, but it caught on quickly.  Casey’s engaging personality, the interesting anecdotes and facts about the songs and artists, long-distance dedications, and of course the countdown of the music itself, propelled the show to worldwide popularity within a few years. At one point, it was heard on over 500 stations worldwide.

Casey Kasem (photo from Premiere Radio Networks)

I remember being very young, probably around five years old, and playing outside at my house one Saturday afternoon while my parents were doing some kind of work in the yard with the radio on in the background.  Our local radio station had been a real “Heinz 57” jumble of all sorts of programming for many years, but it had just begun to smooth out into a more consistent format of pop music, interspersed with news, sports and weather.  Young people like my parents were beginning to listen for longer periods of time.  I think American Top 40 was new to the station at that time, maybe even making its local debut, which may have been why my parents were listening to it that day.   For some reason, Casey Kasem’s voice caught my ear.  Most likely, the fact that he was also the voice of Shaggy on my favorite cartoon Scooby Doo Where Are You? played a part in it.  But the music intrigued me too.   I vaguely recall an Eagles song playing, I think it was One of These Nights, and really digging it.  It’s all a jumbled haze of memories, but I’m pretty sure that’s the moment when I got hooked on radio. If the radio wasn’t playing in the house or car after that, I was often urging my parents to turn it on, especially on the weekends for Casey’s show. 

By the time I was eleven, my weekly ritual was to listen to American Top 40 with Casey Kasem every Sunday night from 5:00 to 9:00. I’d disappear into my bedroom, turn on the radio, and just absorb it every week.  Few things before or since then held my short attention span quite like that.  If I had to be somewhere during those hours, I made sure to bring a portable radio to keep up with the countdown.  I didn’t want to miss out on even a few songs.  At school the next day, American Top 40 was always a major topic amongst us kids.

At age 15, I was old enough to work, and I got a part time job at that local radio station.  Starting out, I was to work two shifts on the weekends, one on Saturday afternoons, where I would host my own show, playing pop music and reading the news and weather, and another on Sunday evenings, where I was to engineer the broadcast of American Top 40.  Little did my boss at the time realize that, as far as my Sunday shift was concerned, he was paying me to do what I would be doing on my own at home anyway.  At that time, American Top 40 was supplied to radio stations on four long playing records (another one to Google, kids!).  My job was to put the records on the turntables in the correct order, and to insert local commercials during the breaks.  And to listen.  It was a great situation, and I loved it.

1988 was a time of change for both me and American Top 40.  I was graduating from high school and going on to the University of Maine, and Casey Kasem was leaving the American Top 40 that same summer.  Unable to work out a contract agreement with the company that produced American Top 40, Casey was offered a lucrative deal to do a new but similar countdown show for a competing company. Even though Casey was going to return to the air at the start of 1989, I knew it just wasn’t going to be the same, and it wasn’t.  The new show, Casey’s Top 40, was too similar in some ways to American Top 40 and too different in others (if that makes any sense).  It ran for nearly 10 years, but never really established its own place in the hearts of many listeners.  Casey’s replacement on American Top 40, Shadoe Stevens, was very good, with a deep, resonant voice, but he just wasn’t Casey.  Many others must have felt the same way, because the show struggled after Casey Kasem left.  1988 marked the end of what might be considered the “golden age of radio countdowns”.

I still listened to the weekend countdown shows after that, though not as faithfully.  Radio programmers smelled blood in the water after the hosting turmoil at American Top 40. In addition to Casey and Shadoe, Rick Dees and Dick Clark were also hosting popular countdown programs in the late 80s.  After a while, when I started working full time in education, I drifted away from the weekend countdown shows entirely.   

As for Casey himself, he returned to his original seat at American Top 40 in 1998, and remained there until he retired in 2004. The show never really returned to its original form though, partly because the popular music of the day, which was increasingly rap and hip-hop oriented,  just didn’t mesh as well with Casey’s voice and personality.  He was then in his late 60s and early 70s, and hearing him introduce songs like Move Bitch by Ludacris featuring Mystikal & Infamous 2.0 (it’s a actual song, really!) was rather jarring.  It was time for it to end.  American Top 40 is still on the air, now hosted by the ubiquitous Ryan Seacrest, about whom I will refrain from comment or ridicule (for now).

In recent years, I have come back to radio countdown shows, thanks to the internet and satellite radio.  While the music and personalities on the current version of American Top 40 are not my cup of tea, rebroadcasts of Casey Kasem’s original programs from the 70s are on satellite radio every weekend, and his 80s countdowns are streamed on the internet and broadcast by some local stations.  In addition, several satellite radio stations broadcast countdowns of the hits from this week in a given year from the 1980s or 90s, closely emulating the format that Casey Kasem pioneered.  I can’t get enough of them.

On weekends, when I have time to relax, I like to hop in my car and ride the back roads of this beautiful part of the state, reliving the old days with the countdown shows on satellite radio. Or sometimes I’ll fire up the laptop, take it to the back deck or the living room, kick back, open a cold one, and listen to Casey count down the hits from the old days once again.

Casey is 80 years old now, and living in quiet retirement.  Apart from an interview on his daughter’s podcast in 2009, he has stayed out of the spotlight.  As a huge fan of radio in general and countdown shows in particular, I will always be grateful for the hours and hours of enjoyment and inspiration Casey’s programs gave me.  They still do for that matter.

He ended every show with the same line, which also seems like a darn nice way to end this post:

“Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars.”

Book Review: The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiran

(You guessed it! I am swamped with "stuff"  this week, so I am tossing out another book review in place of a regular blog post.  I can't say enough good about this novel by fellow Mainer Paul Doiran, so please, read on.)

I usually despise the term "thriller" when applied to novels, but The Poacher's Son* really did thrill me, so in this case it fits. Paul Doiran's debut novel tells the story of Mike Bowditch, a wet-behind-the-ears Maine game warden whose world is turned upside down when his estranged father, a known poacher and generally rough guy, is accused of the murder of two men, one of whom is a sheriff's deputy. Mike's emotions clash, as his role as a son and that as a law enforcement officer are at odds. The story wends its way through the woods of Maine until it reaches an astounding ending that you'll swear you didn't see coming.

As a lifelong Mainer, I can vouch for the absolute authenticity of Doiran's portrayal of the Pine Tree State, its residents, and its rural culture in The Poacher's Son. He casts an unblinking eye on the good, the bad, and the ugly. It's not all lighthouses and lobsters after all. His characters are as real as real can get, and reminded me of people I have actually known in Maine. The plot is smart, fast-moving, and completely believable. The ending blindsided me, and still has me shaking my head in disbelief.

It's not often that I read a book that I can't tear myself away from, but The Poacher's Son was one of those books. I highly recommend it!  I have since read Doiran's sequel, also featuring Mike Bowditch, entitled Trespasser*, which is every bit as good as The Poacher's Son.  The third Mike Bowditch novel, Bad Little Falls*, was released a few weeks ago, and my copy is already waiting for me to stay up late with it, just as I did the first two in the series.

*The links provided will take you to Amazon.com's sites for each of Paul Doiran's novels, though they are widely available through almost any book retailer.

What the 2012 London Olympics Taught Me (Or, Keep Calm and Kerri Walsh)

The 2012 London Olympics are just wrapping up as I write this, and like many people around the world, I’ve been following the events very closely.  The past two weeks have been filled with thrills and excitement that only the Olympics can bring, and I am a little sad to see them end.  However, I have no doubt that the novelty would wear off pretty quickly if they went on much longer.  Looking back on the games, I’ve learned many, many things, but here are the top ones, in no particular order.

• There’s just so much of it.

The Olympics are like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Even if you have the most comprehensive television coverage available, there is no way you are going to get your fill of everything that you’d like.  Even with TiVo, or a doggy bag, depending on which end of the metaphor you are talking about.  If I was able to record all the broadcast events from the Olympics, it would probably take me until New Year’s to watch them all.  I might be done by Thanskgiving if I fast-forward through all the promos for the new Matthew Perry sitcom though.

• Canadian television coverage is actually better than American television coverage.

Living as near to Canada as I do, my cable system carries some Canadian broadcasters, which means I have the unique opportunity to compare their coverage to that of the Americans.  Suffice it to say, Canadian coverage edges out American, primarily due to two things: its willingness to broadcast most events live instead of on tape-delay, and its tendency to shy away from irrelevant fluff reports (Who really cares where the Spice Girls are now?) and put its energy instead into the events and the athletes.  Mind you, I do find it hard to overlook the Canadian pronunciation of the word boat as “boot” during the paddling events.

• Those gymnastics girls could probably definitely beat me up.

Not that I would ever give them a reason to, of course, but there’s a lot of power and athleticism crammed into those small packages.  I wouldn’t stand a chance.  I’d be a smear on the floor and they’d have never broken a sweat.

In the past, I’ve always kind of avoided gymnastics and similar “style points” events, in favor of more black-and-white events like swimming and track & field, where the outcomes are clear to me.  This time, I gave gymnastics, diving and the like more of a fair shot, and was won over.  When they showed film of Gabby Douglas on the uneven bars in slow motion, and I could see the pure strength, speed, and coordination involved in doing such a complicated and difficult activity, my eyes were opened.  Respect earned!

• Nobody stays young forever.

Bob Costas and Tom Brokaw, two youthful-looking guys that I’ve been watching on TV for years, are starting to look their ages.  Costas is 60, and Brokaw is 72.  The frequency with which they were shown this year in video clips from past Olympics may have heightened this perception on my part.  Not that it’s unexpected, and they both look fine, but it does remind you of your own mortality.  At least it does when you are wading into the heart of middle-age like I am.

And props to Brokaw for not getting plastic surgery.  I suppose being mostly retired as he is, there is less pressure to do that kind of thing.  I only wish Costas had done the same.  Whenever I see him nowadays, it’s the “work” he’s had done that I notice first.

• Body hair apparently makes you slow and uncoordinated.

Being one with no shortage of hair on his person, I noticed that no one who was expected to be speedy or graceful had hair anywhere except on their head, and sometimes not even there.  This was the case not only with swimmers, but divers and track athletes too.  Does body hair really create that much drag for a runner? What about that 8 X 10 piece of paper they make you pin on your shirt during a race?  If hair is going to slow you down, then that’s got to come into play too.  And what about divers?  Is hair going to prevent you from doing one of those triple loop-de-loops with a twist thingies?  I suspect vanity comes into play here as well.

As for me, if I had to shave my body hair for an event, it would take me three days, and by the time I finished I would have to start all over again.  And man, oh man, the razor-burn and itchiness would be murder!  I think I’ll just stay hairy and remain in my recliner watching.

• It’s much nicer watching sporting events without corporate sponsor signs plastered on every square inch of the venue.

The only signs were “London 2012” and it was great, because ad signs distract me during sports.  For example, I saw an advertising board for Fifth Third Bank, who financed my auto loan, while watching something not too long ago, and noticed their odd slogan “The Curious Bank”.  I spent the rest of the game wondering what kind of slogan that was for a bank and what the hell they were curious about.  Having already run a check of my credit report to approve my car loan, I would have hoped their curiosity about me had been sated.  Are they wondering if I prefer boxers or briefs?  Coke or Pepsi?  Sammy Hagar or David Lee Roth?  None of your damn business, Fifth Third Bank!

But I digress.

• Mere mortals cannot do a lot of what these athletes do.

I can swing a bat at a pitched baseball, kick a soccer ball, or even run a football down a field, although I could not promise you that I could do any of them well.  But a lot of these Olympic events are things that would just be physically impossible for me.  I refer again to Gabby Douglas’ performance on the uneven bars.  Check it out on YouTube.  There is no way on earth I could even start to do that.  I bet you couldn’t either.  And how about those athletes that run up and then jump over a bar that it two meters in the air?  Not a chance I could even come close.  Pole vaulting?  Someone would be shish-kabobbed if I tried that, and it would probably be me.  10,000 meters of running with an all-out sprint at the end?  I get winded if I take more than two flights of stairs. Again, I have nothing but the highest respect for these athletes and all the work they put in to do what they do.

• The Olympic mascots,  Wenlock and Mandeville, look like animated metric wrenches.

Someone mentioned it to me at the start of the games, and by golly, they were absolutely right.  I just couldn’t unsee it after that.  Here's a link to a page on the London 2012 site that shows them, if you somehow missed them.

• Beach volleyball is better than regular, gym-floor-type volleyball.

Beach volleyball looks fun, like something you’d do on vacation or at a picnic.  It’s just two people on each side, and lots of soft sand in which to land if you take a dive.  The only things missing are seagulls and beer.  Regular volleyball, on the other hand, looks exactly like what we used to have to do under duress during gym class in high school, while wearing itchy blue and yellow gym uniforms.  I often thought the gym teachers scheduled this activity every year to give the tallest and strongest kids a chance to legitimately pound on those who were smaller and weaker, thus getting the bloodlust out of their systems in a relatively controlled environment.  While far from being an athlete, I was lucky enough to have some size and strength in high school, so I was better off than many, but there are plenty of classmates of mine who still bear scars from volleyball.

• There is no adequate explanation as to why that little stream of water flows into the pool during diving competitions.

Have you ever noticed that?  I’ve wondered about it for years.  I put it out on Twitter a couple of times and no one seemed to know for sure.  Why do they have that stream of water?  There must be a reason.  It’s not there during swimming competitions, I don’t think.  All I know is that if I had to hang out that pool for very long with that constant dribbling, I’d be inspired to run to the restroom every five minutes.

And while I’m at it, what’s with the showers and hot tubs the divers bolt toward immediately after they dive?  Are they some kind of weird fish-human hybrids that can’t be allowed to get dry?

• The British are pretty cool.

I’ve always thought this, but the London games have only strengthened this opinion.  Their history, their people and their culture fascinate me to no end, and I’d love to visit England some day.  I mean, this is the country of Stonehenge, Winston Churchill, the Beatles, Westminster Abbey, Shakespeare, Big Ben and Mr. Bean.  What’s not to love?  The food is a little sketchy, mind you (Exhibit A: Toad-in-the-Hole), but I could always pack some PB & Js if I made a trip. 

London did an outstanding job staging these Olympics if you ask me, and they should be proud.

Ye Olde Braaaaains!

Book review time again!  I just finished a horror e-novel by Ken Davis, a relative newcomer to the writing scene, that thoroughly impressed me.  It was so good that I felt compelled to share it here, as well as leaving my customary reviews on Goodreads and Amazon.  All authors, but especially indies or those just out of the gate, benefit enormously from posted reviews of their work.  Please remember to say at least a few words on some of the major review sites after finishing someone's book.


It seems that I either love or hate horror novels these days.  Buckets of blood and gore getting splashed around do not entertain or scare me.  That's just gross.  And don't even get me started on sparkly vampires.  However, when I am drawn into an interesting setting with characters to whom I can relate facing dire peril, then well-written horror can grab me like few other things.  This novel did just that.

Where the Dead Talk by Ken Davis is a gripping tale of the undead which takes place in a rural part of the Massachusetts colony on the very eve of the American Revolution.

As a mix of horror and historical fiction, well-researched and skillfully written with an intriguing plot, this novel would have likely earned five stars from me anyway. However, the character of Major William Pomeroy, "one of the finest officers of the King's Own Regiment" (in his own words), pushed Where the Dead Talk over the top for me. Sarcastic and smarmy, arrogant, at times cowardly and at other times brave, Major Pomeroy is ultimately endearing to both the reader and other characters in the story. He absolutely steals every scene in which he appears.

While Pomeroy is the best in my opinion, he is only one of several intriguing characters in Where the Dead Talk who kept me reading chapter after chapter long past my bedtime. There is the black tavernkeep who struggles against racism and vicious rumors, the desperately unhappy preacher's wife looking for a way out, the young deaf boy from a family thought to be cursed who feels he is not much good for anything, and the very reluctant Indian shaman who holds the key to stopping the horror that has descended upon the countryside surrounding the tiny colonial village of West Bradhill, Massachusetts.

I don't consider myself a real horror aficionado, and my Kindle is littered with horror titles I have started and soon abandoned. However, when the story is driven by compelling characters you really do not want to have munched up by the undead, it's not hard to love a book like this. Where the Dead Talk is definitely worth your attention. I am keeping my fingers crossed that Davis will consider another novel with some of these characters, especially Major Pomeroy.


By the way, you can follow Ken Davis on Twitter at @kencdavis, and you can also follow a zombie on Twitter at @zombie.  Just so you know.

Talking Top Trending Twitter Topics Today!

A few months back, I wrote about my thoughts on Twitter, as you may recall.  I still feel like the most clueless guy on there, but I am up to more than 300 followers at this point, so I must be doing something right.  Never mind that half of them are motivational speakers, for some inexplicable reason.  Do my posts and tweets sound like I need an emotional revving up?  Maybe I ought to get an electric Prozac diffuser or something.

One of the most entertaining aspects of Twitter is “Trending Topics”.  It’s a continually updated listing of the ten most popular phrases and hashtags on Twitter. Hashtags are key words preceded by a pound, (like #squidmuffins).  They help you see, and be seen by, others using that same hashtag, even if they don’t follow you.  If I want to connect with other Twitterers while a Red Sox game is being broadcast, for example, I’ll search #redsox to find out who is tweeting on that topic, and will include that hashtag on my own Red Sox-related tweets so it too can be seen.  It’s a good way to find like-minded people to follow, as well as to gain new followers.  Even if they are in this case Red Sox fans, a group only marginally more rational and articulate than a basket of rabid lemurs.

Without further ado, I am going to list and comment on the trending topics on Twitter in the United States, as of early evening, March 11, 2012.

·         #SXSW (Promoted): Like it says, this is promoted.  That means that no one really cares about it, but the people behind it paid Twitter biggish bucks to stick it at the top of the list.  I hate these trending topics, and would not search or comment with them if someone was hanging me upside down over a vat of live electric eels.

·         Kobe to Bynum: Like I mentioned, it is popular to tweet to fellow fans of a sport while watching a game.  Evidently, in the current game between the Boston Celtics and Los Angeles Lakers, Kobe Bryant is making a lot of passes to Andrew Bynum.  So much so that tweets about it have caused this phrase to trend.  As a Celtics fan, I feel that this #sucks #a #lot.

·         #SelectionSunday: Another sports trend.  I am speculating that this has something to do with the March Madness college basketball tournament, an athletic event I just cannot get interested in.  (Others include golf, tennis, and competitive dwarf-eating.)  I’ve tried to before, but the number of competitive college basketball teams overwhelms me.  It’s hard to get excited for East Overshoe Tech when you’ve never heard of them, don’t know any of the players or coaches, or even know where the school is. The whole event is just too big to get my head around.  Maybe I’m just bitter because my alma mater hasn’t had a winning season this millennium.  This is something I could use one of those motivational speakers to help me with, I think.

·         #twitter_movies: This is one of those fun “microfad” trends.  In this case, people rename popular movies so they relate in some way to Twitter.  You’ll see such things as "I Know What You Tweeted last Summer", and “A Tweetcar Named Desire”.  They can be fun, though when you read down through a list like this, if becomes abundantly clear that not everyone is born with the humor gene. Or the grammar gene.

·         Greg Gumbel: I’m going to go out on a limb here and surmise that Greg Gumbel is hosting the March Madness Tournament selection program.  Who would have guessed 20 years ago that Greg would be the most popular and visible Gumbel on TV today, and Bryant would be managing a car wash outside of Dayton?

·         Bracket Time: Another March Madness trend.  Are you seeing why this is the one sporting event that gets on my nerves?  I just don’t get it, and yet it is everywhere, making me feel like everyone but me understands and enjoys it!  (Maybe statements like this are why all those motivational speakers follow me.)

·         #GoForth: I have no clue what this trend is about.  Could be a reference to the biblical book of Genesis, but more likely it is a tagline from an advertisement for potato chips or a new car, western culture being what it is these days.

·         Steve Alford: Had to Google this one.  Mr. Alford is the coach of the University of New Mexico men’s basketball team.  The Lobos (that’s the team name) are probably going to the March Madness Tournament, if the other popular trends tonight are any indication.  You think the teams that the Lobos play refer to them as the Bozos behind their backs?  I bet they do.

        Kurt Busch: Kurt Busch is a mediocre-at-best NASCAR driver who is a master at self-promotion by using the method of having the mentality of an angry 13-year-old boy who hasn’t taken his Ritalin. He’s a creep, but he gets attention, hence this trending topic.

·         One Direction Giveaway: This is not a sponsored trend, but it is an example of marketers hijacking Twitter for their own purposes.  I guess I am okay with that, given how often I pimp this blog and my other projects on Twitter myself.  One Direction, and I had to Google this one too, are a British-Irish boy band who finished third on the seventh season of The X Factor in Britain.  Given that I have a strict policy of not listening to any musical acts whose combined age does not total that of my favorite pair of sneakers, I have obviously never heard of them.

Twitter is a lot of fun, and I have met some really great people on it.  If you haven’t tried it, go ahead.  Follow me at @countofbluecars, and I’ll be sure to mention you to all the motivational speakers following me.

Book Review: Asylum Lake by R.A. Evans

BOOK BLURB: The State’s second largest Psychopathic Hospital opened in 1917 on 600 wooded acres overlooking a small lake near Bedlam Falls, Michigan. Through its doors came the weak and the weary, the disabled and the discarded, the frail and the forgotten. But an open door is an invitation, and some visitors, once invited, are loath to leave. The hospital abruptly closed in 1958 under a cloud of mystery. It has remained empty and silent, save for the memories trapped both within its walls and far below the surface of the nearby lake that bears its name. At the bottom of Asylum Lake, the unremembered are growing restless. 

Brady Tanner is trying to outrun memories of his own. After the sudden death of his wife, Brady retreats to the small town where he spent the summers of his youth. But he soon learns small towns can be stained by memories…and secrets, too. As Brady is drawn into unearthing these secrets, as he discovers a new love in an old friend, he is also drawn into the mystery of Asylum Lake and the evil that lies submerged beneath its sparkling surface. What is the source of this evil – and what does it want with Brady Tanner?




I run hot and cold with so-called "horror novels", but for some reason was attracted to Asylum Lake by R.A. Evans. In essence, it is the story of a young journalist who returns to his hometown after tragedy befalls him, and becomes involved in supernatural happenings related to his late father and grandfather, a mysterious bracelet, and the abandoned insane asylum across the lake from his childhood home.

While there is no shortage of the requisite blood found in most horror fiction, R.A. Evans is clearly a smart writer, and builds a multi-layered story in Asylum Lake with characters in whom the reader genuinely becomes invested. Brady is a likable and believable protagonist, and the other characters are equally well-drawn. Evans makes great use of setting and effectively incorporates several horror motifs, especially "love interest/child/pet in danger". His pace is quick, but not frenetic.

I can always tell a terrific read by its ability to keep me up past my bedtime.  Asylum Lake did this for several nights. I highly recommend the book, and am looking forward to more from R.A. Evans.


This book was published in the summer of 2010, and the author is currently working on the follow-up.  His blog can be found here: http://www.raevanswrites.wordpress.com.com

FIVE STARS!

Adrian and the Cannibal's Internet Connection: A Humorous Short Story

After eyeing the Cabela's sale flyers for weeks, the Prodigy PRC200A reel / Fish Eagle XML casting rod combo Adrian McAllister had been drooling over had shown up at last, and at over 20% off.  He hopped into his pickup at dawn that Saturday and fought the early-season tourist traffic for the two hour round-trip downstate and back to the outdoor megamart. By lunchtime he was 45 minutes from civilization at his favorite fishing spot, all by himself, trying it out.  It was nearly the biggest mistake of his life.

Adrian’s line drifted lazily in the placid waters of remote Number 5 Pond.  After the early trip to Scarborough and back, as well as the rough ATV ride through miles of woods, Adrian was feeling pretty lazy himself.  It was a warm June day, not a cloud in the sky, and aside from the ubiquitous blackflies and mosquitoes, a perfect one for fishing.  Adrian’s wife was hosting a Pampered Chef party at their house that afternoon, and she was frankly quite relieved that he was not going to be underfoot.  Adrian was equally relieved that he was not going to be present for the cackling hen-fest.  Now he had the whole day to try out his new rod and reel, drink beer, and maybe even catch a nap.  It was shaping up to be a great day to get away from it all.

The new rod and reel was proving a wise investment, as Adrian caught several good-sized bass within the first two hours.  And that was using mere earthworms as bait too.  He celebrated his fourth catch of the afternoon by opening his fourth beer of the afternoon.  Just as he tipped back his head to take his first swig from the fresh can, a crushing thud landed on the top of his skull.  There was an instant of sharp pain, a flash of white light, and then it all went dark.  Adrian McAllister had been knocked out cold and was being dragged away.

About an hour later, Adrian groaned and slowly opened his eyes.  It was difficult to focus, and he was unsure of where he was.  He felt wet, and at first thought he had blacked out and fallen into the pond.  The top of his head was throbbing in pain, but when he went to rub it, he discovered his hands were tied to his sides.  His feet were bound too.  He soon realized that he was secured hand and foot and sitting in a large cauldron half-filled with water.  Though it was hard to see clearly yet, he swore he could see a middle-aged black man in some kind of wild, colorful costume just beyond the edge of the cauldron, hunched over something and swearing vociferously.  The frequent flick of a cigarette lighter could be heard.

“Umm…excuse me?” Adrian said.  Mild-mannered by nature, he was polite even in these circumstances.

“What is it?” the irritated man snapped in English with a thick accent that Adrian couldn’t place.

“Well, I was wondering what was going on, actually.”

“I am getting ready to cook you!  You cannot see that?” the man said, as though this kind of thing was an everyday occurrence in 21^st century Maine.  The flick of the lighter continued, more rapidly and with increased intensity.  “At least I am hoping to cook you, provided I can ever get this damned fire started!”

“Wait…what?!  Stop for a second!” This was not at all what Adrian was expecting to hear.  “Cook me?! Why? And who are you?”

The man stood up to his full height and gave Adrian an impatient look.  He was tall and rail thin, probably around 50 years old, with a lined face and salt-and-pepper whiskers on his pointed chin.  His rough skin was the deep color of mahogany, with the complexion of someone who had spent many days exposed to the elements.  And his clothing was something straight out of a community theater production of South Pacific.  Bright feathers, shark teeth on a string around his neck, elaborate headpiece, golden baubles…the whole deal.  The only thing that seemed out of place was the pair of rectangular-framed reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“On my home island, I am called ‘Larmustamitua’, but here in this land of pine trees and mosquitoes, they call me ‘Larry’,” the man told him.

 “Okay, um, ‘Larry’, my name is Adrian McAllister,” he said. “Why are you going to cook me?”

With a sigh, Larry tossed the useless cigarette lighter to the ground.  He picked up two sticks from the ground and started rubbing them together as rapidly as he could.

“I do not suppose you were ever a member of the Boy Scouts, were you Adrian McAllister?”

“No, sorry.”

Larry hunched down to the ground again and continued to rub the sticks together in hopes of obtaining fire.  He spoke as he rubbed.

“My wife Thalia and I are from a remote island in the South Pacific known as Kimbango,” he began.  “This kind of thing is somewhat common there.”  He rested his head in his right hand and gave another sigh. “At least it was years ago.”

“’This kind of thing’?  You mean eating people?  You mean cannibalism?” Adrian asked with no small amount of growing concern.

“One might call it that,” Larry the cannibal replied in that heavy accent.  “Thalia always thought it was a barbaric practice and had nothing to do with it.  She went to boarding school in England as a young girl, and came back to the island full of all kinds of fancy ideas for our island, like vaccines, getting wired for electricity, and not eating human flesh.  Her father was our chief, and she had his ear.  He made changes in a great number of things, thanks to my Thalia.  ‘Progressive thinking’ she calls it.  ‘Moving into the modern world’.  Humph!” He tossed his head in disgust.  “She and I had a quiet life on Kimbango.  It was nice.  She was working in the local school and doing some freelance writing while I was a fisherman and working part-time at Orange Julius.”

“Orange Julius?” Adrian asked incredulously.

“Yes, Orange Julius!  It is the only fast-food franchise we have on Kimbango, and our people highly esteem their delicious fruit smoothies as nectar of the gods. There is a problem with that?”  The irritated cannibal started rubbing the sticks together more furiously.

“No, no…not at all! Just seemed unusual is all.  But please go on.”  Adrian decided that if he could keep this guy talking, he might have time to come up with an escape plan.

“Then in the late-1990s, change came to our lives.  Some of my Thalia’s writing caught the attention of a big publisher here in America, and she received a contract for seven books.  She tried telecommuting over the Internet for a year or two, but it was not working out.  The plane trips halfway around the Earth almost every month were very tiresome.  It was terribly difficult on both of us, so about ten years ago we moved here.  I was not in favor of the move away from our home, but I was a tremendously bad fisherman and the Orange Julius had recently ‘downsized’ me, as they put it.  Since my Thalia was the one putting pandanus on the table, it was her career we followed.”

Adrian shook his head, wondering if he was hearing correctly, or maybe that bump on his head had done more damage than originally thought.  “So let me see if I understand.  You are a practicing cannibal from the South Pacific, living in the woods of Maine, and you are planning to make me your dinner?”  His voice was rising several octaves as the reality of it all began to sink in.

“That sums it up nicely.  Yes.  Though I am not at all practicing.  I am quite good at it, though I have not done it in years.”  He pushed his glasses up his nose.

“But what about your wife?  Didn’t you just say she was against it?”

“I will simply tell Thalia that it is chicken she is eating.  That is what you will taste like anyway.”

“Look, you really don’t want to cook me!” Adrian started to babble. “I’m sure that I’d be pretty stringy anyway.  And I’m just getting over a cold.  You might get sick.  You know, we really ought to talk more abou-…” His frantic pleading was interrupted by the tinny sounds of the 1989 pop hit She Drives Me Crazy emanating from somewhere in the cannibal’s pelvic region.

“Pardon me, I need to take this.  I am expecting a call,” Larry said, holding up a finger.  He turned his back to Adrian and pulled a silver cell phone from a pocket in his feathery garb, speaking into it heatedly.  The conversation was intense but brief, only about a minute.  Larry the cannibal then snapped the phone shut.  “Accursed corporate bastard sons of a one-winged buzzard,”   he muttered.    The tall Kimbangoan then turned back to Adrian and the sticks he had been rubbing together in hopes of making fire.  “Now, you were saying?”

During the phone call, Adrian’s plan had become clearer.  If he could manage to occupy Larry long enough, Thalia would arrive home and stop this madness.  Yes, she was a writer, but despite that she sounded like a reasonable woman who did not eat human beings.  Surely she would let him go free.  Adrian commenced stalling.

“Is, uh, everything okay, Larry?  You sounded kind of upset on the phone just now.”

“Oh that?  Our Internet has been down for three days.  I am not very knowledgeable about computers at all, nor is my Thalia, and those jackals at Passable Point Communications cannot send someone here to check it out for another three weeks!  Can you believe that?  How am I going to keep up with my episodes of The Bachelor?  There is no cable, and antenna reception out here is terrible!  It was better in Kimbango!” 

Just then, the cannibal at last got a spark from the sticks he had been rubbing together, and ignited some tufts of dried grass.  He chuckled in a satisfied way as he set them among the kindling at the base of the cauldron.  Wisps of gray smoke began to rise.  Adrian’s already heightened sense of urgency kicked up several more notches as he soon began to feel growing warmth from the cauldron bottom.

“Well, I know a thing or two about computers,” Adrian replied.  “Why not let me take a look?” 

Larry considered this for a moment.  “Well, it is going to take a while for this water to reach a boil.”  He rubbed some gray whiskers on his chin as he tossed a pinch of salt and a few peeled onions in with Adrian.  “Okay, but then it is back into the pot you go!  You need to simmer for at least a couple of hours, or you will be as tough as the soles of my Talia’s feet.”  His need for a reality television fix had outweighed his desire to eat human flesh for the time being.  Adrian’s hand and feet were untied, and Larry helped him out of the water in the cauldron.

“Thanks,” Adrian said, rubbing his wrists and the knot on his head. He finally got to scratch at some of the numerous blackfly and mosquito bites he had acquired while tied up too.  “Now let’s go take a look.” 

Adrian had no intention of running from the cannibal.  They were miles from the nearest town, in thick and overgrown pine forest.  Larry appeared to be in excellent physical shape.  Adrian knew he’d be tracked down in no time flat if he attempted to make a break for it.

From the entrance to the hut that Larry and Thalia called home, Adrian was surprised to see that it was larger inside that it looked from the exterior, and was nicely appointed with a mix of items from their native Kimbango, as well as more than a few from the L.L. Bean catalogue.    A chubby orange tabby cat stared at them enigmatically from the back of an overstuffed sofa, and a spectacular painting of what had to be a sunset in Kimbango hung on the wall.

“Over here.” Larry gestured toward a desk in the corner, where an open laptop sat.  “And do not drip all over the carpet or my Thalia will kill me!”

Adrian left his soggy socks and shoes at the door, and padded over to the computer.  The problem was evident as soon as he took a look at the router nearby.  One of the connections between the router and phone line out had come undone.  A few tufts of orange fur amongst the wires led Adrian to believe that the cat had knocked it out while nosing around.  He could easily have plugged it back in and instantly restored Larry‘s Internet connection, but that would likely mean quick trip back into the pot.  So, Larry began to putter around instead.

“I think we ought to do what’s called a “defrag”, Larry,” Adrian said, knowing full well that such an operation would take quite a bit of time.

“Do what you must,” Larry replied as he sat down in a comfy-looking leather recliner.  He pulled out a newspaper and began reading.  Adrian was amused at the site of a South Seas cannibal in traditional garb lounging in his Laz-E-Boy with reading glasses on the end of his nose, checking out the baseball box scores.  He turned his attention back to the screen on the laptop, as little colored rectangles flicked on and off, showing the progress of the defrag.

Larry looked over at what Adrian was doing every few minutes, but it was far from interesting to him, and after about 45 minutes, he began to snore.  Adrian took this opportunity to restart the defragmenting program, so as to prolong the lengthy process even longer.  He began to explore the hut while his captor slept, checking out the numerous pieces of Kimbangoan art on the walls and flat surfaces.  He almost wished he could visit there someday, in spite of the island’s man-eating past.

His reverie was broken by the growing whine of an ATV coming closer to the hut.  Larry woke from his nap and sprung to his feet.  “My Thalia!  She is home!”  The cannibal looked more than a little concerned.

A beautiful middle-aged woman with smooth, coffee-colored skin and wearing a flowered-print wrap entered the hut.  To Adrian, Larry now looked less like a fierce South Seas cannibal and more like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

“My Thalia!” Larry said, opening his arms to greet her.  They kissed, and then Thalia asked the inevitable question in an accent as thick as her husband’s.

“And who is this?” she asked, gesturing toward Adrian.

“This? Well this is Adrian, of course.”

“Of course,” the woman said with a puzzled smile. “Hello, Adrian.  That must be your blue ATV I saw just around the corner from here?”

“Yes, it must be.  It’s a pleasure to meet you Thalia.”  Adrian now realized that his means of escape was closer than he thought.

All three of them stood silently with smiles frozen on their faces for nearly 30 seconds, until Thalia finally spoke up.

“So what is Adrian doing here in our home, my husband?”

“You are not going to believe this my love, but I met Adrian fishing on the pond today, and it turns out he is most knowledgeable about computers!” Larry said.  “He is here to restore our lost Internet!” Thalia arched a skeptical eyebrow.

“You just ‘met him’, you say?”

“Yes, my Thalia, and he is close to restoring our much-beloved program The Bachelor to us again, are you not Adrian?”

“As a matter of fact,” Adrian said, “your Internet connection is fixed!”  He a button and their homepage appeared.  Adrian had stopped the defrag and plugged the router back in while the two of them had been speaking.

“Delightful, Adrian!” Thalia exclaimed.  “We are so grateful!  Here, have some pandanus!”  She thrust a basket of the odd-looking tropical fruit at Adrian. “And you simply must stay for dinner!”

“Well, er, thank you so much ma’am.  But I really must be going,” he said, reaching for his shoes and socks and pulling them on. “It will be dark soon.”

“Of course, of course!” Thalia said.  A look that was a mixture of relief and disappointment crossed over Larry’s craggy face.

“Thank you so much, my friend,” Larry said.  And with a wink, he added: “And consider it an open invitation. We’d love to have you for dinner some evening.”

“I just bet you would,” Adrian said through clenched teeth.  “Goodbye now!”  He waved, turned, and made a beeline for the door.  His own ATV and escape were only a few yards away now. 

Once outside, Adrian broke into a full run and did not stop until he reached his ATV, which he started in an instant.  He gave no thought at all to his new rod and reel, now lying abandoned alongside the pond, and within seconds all that could be seen of him was a cloud of dust.

The Kimbangoan couple watched from the doorway to their hut.

“Such a nice man,” Thalia commented.  “In an awful hurry though, isn’t he?”

“Indeed he is,” Larry answered.

“My husband?” Thalia asked coyly.

“Yes, my love?”

“What’s for dinner?”

Larry sighed deeply.  “Pandanus again,” he said without enthusiasm. Then he perked up a little.  “Though I do have four fine bass from the pond to fry if you wish!”

“Wonderful!” Thalia exclaimed.  “And while we are preparing the meal, you can tell me all about why your grandfather’s huge cooking pot is at a boil in the back yard.”

Coming Soon!

This isn't a post, per say.  At least, it isn't a post in the sense of the previous items I've tossed up here.  It's more of a preview.

Later this week, I am going to be posting a short (~3000 word) story here.  It will be the first work of fiction that I've put out to the world in as long as I can remember, and I am pretty excited about it.  The general premise is that an average guy named Adrian McAllister goes on a fishing trip to a remote pond in Maine  and gets captured by a retired South Seas cannibal who has relocated to the area due to his wife's career demands.  Adrian has to rely on his wits to get out of the mess he's found himself in.  Needless to say, it's a light comedy, rated PG.

The piece is done and mostly edited.  I just want to let it perk another few days before letting it loose.  Stay tuned and pass the word to others.

How Tweet It Is

If you are online at all these days, most likely you are caught up in at least one of the various social media phenomena.  Facebook and Twitter, of course, are the biggest players right now.  I took to Facebook pretty easily a few years ago.  Sure, they are selling every scrap of personal data they can mine about me to the highest corporate bidder, but I have a hell of a virtual farm to show for it.  Plus, it has given me a way to connect with longtime and newer friends instantly, regardless of where they are or what time it is.  I dig that a lot.  As for Twitter, I've warmed up to it more slowly.  It’s a different animal than Facebook in a lot of ways, and I still don’t entirely “get it”.  Of course the same could be said of my understanding of women, politics, and the appeal of Justin Beiber.   Twitter and I are still trying to come to terms with each other, but you know, it’s really growing on me.

I first joined Twitter about two years ago, mainly to see what all the fuss was about.  Very few people I knew personally were using it at the time (and by “very few” I mean “none”), but it was getting a lot of play in the media, so I thought I’d give it a try.  It seemed like a fun enough idea: Set up a free account, and start tossing out your comments and observations to followers in 140 characters or less.  It sounded simple, fast, and non-committal, which could also stand as a description of me.  What’s not to like?

The first thing I had to do was come up with a username.  This is a fairly crucial step in the process.  If you choose one that is direct and simple (“Chris” for example), it was already snapped up long ago by people who are much more hip than you and jumped on the Twitter train early on.  If you choose something more complex (“B3ANF4RM3R$N33DLUV2”, by way of another example), then no one will ever be able to remember it, and you’ll be a lonely Twitter soul.  For mine, I took inspiration from one of my favorite songs of the 1990s, “Counting Blue Cars” by the band Dishwalla.  Playing on the title, I went with “@countofbluecars”.  It was mildly clever and easy to remember, even if you didn’t know the song. (You can see the video at YouTube if you click on this link.)

Putting your profile together in a brief way can be a tricky thing.  With all due respect to Shrek, I am like an onion.  No, I don’t stink or make people cry.  I have layers.  I am a former radio announcer, was a schoolteacher, currently work in a veterinary hospital, and am also a much-less-than professional writer and blogger.  Those are some pretty divergent constituencies, and I only had a few lines in which to describe myself.  So, I told everyone that I was a millionaire bachelor living in a house with platinum shingles.

Actually, I didn’t.  Though I have to admit, I am a little paranoid when it comes to putting too much specific information in an online profile accessible to anyone.  A Nigerian prince once told me in an e-mail that there are lots of scammers out there with clever ways to hijack your life.  Ways that the average person would never imagine.  He also had some helpful hints on male enhancement and offered to send me a free iPad2 if I just paid the shipping and processing fee of $50. 

*ahem* But I digress.

Needless to say, I’d like to avoid getting scammed.  I am not hiding behind some false façade by any stretch, but I am also not putting my shoe size and bank account numbers out there for web surfers to see either.  I’m Chris.  I live in northern Maine.  I’m 40-something.  I’m a former radio guy and teacher, and a current veterinary guy and writer.  That’s all true.  Follow me, communicate with me a little, and I’ll tell you more, except maybe the bank account numbers.

So, with Twitter account activated and set up, I was ready to tweet.  Problem was, I had no followers.  I felt like the first person in town to get a telephone back in the old days.  It must have been so exciting to have, until you realized that no one else you knew had one, so there was no one to call or to call you. 

After a few days, people still weren’t knocking down the door of @countofbluecars, so I decided that maybe I needed to start following others.  Give a little to get a little.  I took to following the suggestions on Twitter’s homepage as to who I should follow.  I followed athletes and actors, writers and musicians, journalists and politicians.   Anyone who was even remotely interesting to me got added to my list.  This opened the door to some extent.  I started accumulating a few followers. 

Very few. 

They were mostly young, orangey ladies with very busty profile pics and lewd suggestions in their profiles, although a couple of legitimate people started following me too.  Evidently, there are those who scope out the lists of followers of others and follow the followers.  I am not sure of the rationale behind it exactly, since they are following me, and not vice-versa.   My working theory is that if they found my account on someone else’s list, then someone else may find their name on mine.  Whatever.

It didn’t take long before some of the people I was following revealed themselves to be about as deep as a paper plate.  Quite a few only used Twitter as a means to hock their wares.  Now I get that aspect of things.  After all, I am looking to get people to read this blog once in a while, and use my Twitter account to publicize it.  But some accounts that I followed at first were nothing but promotional.  Remember Ralphie’s reaction when he got his Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring in the film A Christmas Story?  I felt a lot like that.  I “unfollowed” those lame accounts in pretty short order.

There were other accounts, however, that were kind of cool.  One writer I follow lamented the destruction of his favorite flannel shirt, his “writing shirt”, which was eaten by his Doberman pinscher.  A musician frequently shared his enthusiasm after great jam sessions in the recording studio with other artists. An actor gave a little insight into how he came to do a certain thing in a funny scene.  I really dug those tweets.

For nearly a year, my Twitter account lay in relative dormancy, like a cheesy red reindeer sweater given as a gift by an elderly aunt and kept in a drawer.  Maybe I’d have a use for it someday.  I would check my Twitter account maybe once a week, and tweet even more rarely than that.

Then, on May 1 of this year, reports came out that Osama bin Laden had been killed by U.S.Navy SEALS.  It just so happened that I was checking my Twitter account that evening just as the news broke.  I was home alone and it was late, but I wanted to talk about it.  Due to the universality of the event, there were a lot of reactions from the people I followed, so the floodgates opened.  Those I followed also “retweeted” (another term for forwarding) reactions of people whom they followed.  I became exposed to more interesting people, and followed them.  Not celebrities necessarily, but people who just had something worth saying.  Some of those people followed me back in return.  And the snowball kept rolling.  My followers list did not grow by leaps and bounds by any means, but I saw more clearly how Twitter works.  Just like in real life, circumstances throw us together, and relationships grow from there.  But you have to be involved for those circumstances to occur in the first place.

Now social media is no replacement for real life interaction.  People who limit themselves to social interactions on the Internet only are destined to become like those mole people in old sci-fi films who have lived underground so long that they could barely stand light anymore.  Twitter and the other social media outlets are a supplement to your social life at best.  In the case of the bin Laden killing, I had plenty of discussions with people face-to-face about it, but I also had some through social media.  The conversation was wider, richer, and better-rounded for me as a result of the two avenues of interaction.

If you are reading this and are on Twitter, follow me @countofbluecars.  If you want, I’ll even follow you back.  I believe a dialogue is always more interesting than a monologue.  And just remember, while I would be honored to make an acquaintance with Nigerian royalty, I don’t need a free iPad2, and please keep your male enhancement tips to yourself.