Community-Based Marketing-Do’s and Dont’s

First a quick definition – Community-Based Marketing vs. Social Media.

Social Media to me sounds slippery.  Like it’s a fad, phase or worse a “trend”.  And in some ways it is.  It suddenly became the darling of the “Web 2.0″ world and everyone was an expert that had ever written on a blog.  But for those of use in this industry… Read More  http://bit.ly/exBiQ

Comment:

1. What about saturation?…

Short answer, on a social network saturation is annoying even if I am the proponent. A great topic, it is an interesting reflection of our humanness and one to watch. The two-spaces option is a rational model of an organic process. As humans we tend to catalogue things and define their relationship (at the base) along a single partition, before and after, we poke and interact with them. As a “consumer” of social media, I think you have to keep your hand on the tiller, predict and interact, not react. The waters are much less predictable than metrics may be able to tell you. Metrics assumes you have a base for comparison. The protocols of new channels take time to evolve and you don’t want to oppress their potential by forcing them to react to over-stimulation. I guess I define saturation as over exposing your product or service in the market; like say, Kleenex, a brand that is so embedded in the language that any brand of tissue hits its target. You want clients/friends/both to seek you out for your specialty, but you don’t want them to opt out, because you answer their question over and over.

In a profession network, the protocols are well defined along common interests, answer before asked; but in the broadest sense of a social network, protocols are fluid. For example, Facebook’s intent was a professional/personal social network, but the professional side dims more and more with its popularity to the extent where mining professional information is a subversive affront to privacy. A professional network expects its data to be mined for mutual benefit. An interesting case to watch is Twitter users on Caltrain, http://cow.org/c/about. Users post information about specifics as they ride along in real time; users Tweet about which cars are clean, which are quiet, delays, which bathrooms work, even satiric comments from frustration are expressed. So far, Caltrain reads the Tweets, but does not directly participate in the network. Instead, they clean cars, fix bathrooms, etcetera, interacting without reacting. Caltrain can mine specific data about conditions in their service without ever asking directly or accepting responsibility for the question. They can solve real time nuts/bolts maintenance without negative media connotations, and avoid saturating the market with information/reactions about those issues of their brand.

As the two-space model expands and retracts, I guess the trick is to find specific intersections, use them in real time let them go, find the next intersection, and repeat. The market is the potential intersections. Hum, saturation must occur when the networks intersect, define the market as those intersections, and then assume the intersection is the only market.

However, I don’t mean to saturate you on this topic.

2 Go

An artificial river
out of site,
rubber retread bound,
taunts the wind
as bubbles in my skin
precipitate
a sapient bronze

My back leans
on concrete smooth,
cool, and fresh,
(a year yet to cure)
as eyes sample
towers of the past,
like walking sticks in sand
that grow
roots with age.

A northern breeze
fluctuates
around corners,
flats, and nooks.
Waves roll about the ears
as chills, sweat, and
symmetry
cast a placid lull.

A purveyor
of lost mechanical
engineers
pauses, ponders:
a boater shades his brow
and beard,
while 24-eyelet wooden heels
swallow the tribal tartan–
archives
are a silhouette of recall.

I step,
look over my shoulder,
(hunger bares absent fruit)
and on the corner,
a Sabrett wagon retrofit
patches plywood over rust.
a smile and eyes
of market glee
hail the primal yen.

“I’ll have
the shwarma,
2 GO.”

Yo, Ho, Ho..,

          Yo, Ho, Ho, scallywaggers and scurvy dogs pass the bloody grog and a wi’ a wannion on thar swaggy squiffiies. By the powers o’ the lady lasses and wenches o-erly fair, pass the weevily gruelly, and go on account to rail through and through lily-livered, loosey law-givers, and son’s of biscuit eaters fer thar gleamy goldy pieces o’ the booty.

          The June 2009 Pirate Festival in Vallejo, CA was a blast to say the bloody least. Several small cannon, 2, 5, and 10-lbers boom and pop for tips to support the cause. An old country carnival atmosphere, events include swash-101, builwhip-101, axe throw 101, a mouse in the hole game, gambling with wooden die and colored numbers, target practice with a water cannon, fortune tellers, and a tomato toss at some less than savory characters through a hole as they taunt their aggressors.

          Several Privateers and lesser louts duel at telling outrageous, bold stories of the sea, Davy Jones, and world-wide conquest to win a kiss from a maiden fair; several music groups sing and jig, including pirate rock and madrigal (if that’s possible in pirate-ease?). British officers and their toads establish a historical encampment with recreations of the era everyday. Every other hour’s bells they patrol the camps for sedition, drunkenness, and any unsavory behavior.

          Merchants sell pirate attire and all manner of accoutrements: one sells steel stabbing tools and eye pieces, another sells wooden facsimiles; several barter, hats, rags, parasols, leather pouches, armor and restraints, both friendly and other wise. My favorite offers authentic pieces of eight from the Caribbean and many a sparkly bobble for the misses, a lady, or comely winch.

          I stop at the Emerson Family for a tellin’ of my future. Her cards are laid out on one edge of her small table next to a crystal ball. She instructs me to put my right hand on top of an old empty coffee can half full of bones, and to pick three cards. She lays them on the table in front of me and says, “Ye be movin’ from one sit-yeation to another. Ye be a generous spirit, but (the third card), beware-y of unscrupulous naives who parlay on ye nature.” She smiles a partial toothy grin, and takes my left hand. “Dearly, ye needs a bit of encouragement and lightening.” She crosses my right and sets it in on a massive silver ball at the edge of the table. “Close ye beauty brown peepers, breathe slow, and concentrate on me words.”

          Buzz, ZAP!!! A spark and jolt of electricity jumps across my flesh and bones, my eyes and mouth are as wide as saucers. She giggles and points at her tip jar. I cannot resist and smile back. I dig in my wallet for a fiver or ten. She bats her eyes, “Thank ye kind Lord.” I turn to leave and 6-foot pirate with a white face and blood dripping from the sides of his mouth looks in my eyes. He holds a 3-foot cutlass across his belly.

          “Pass,” she says.

          He smiles and steps aside “Fare they well, sir,” he grumbles.

          The gathering is supported through tips and fees of vendors and family. I drop a twenty in the plate and offer a kiss to the hand of the fair lady at the exit. Next year, I will, as most faire goers, attire myself in pirate rags, suit, or Indian feather. I will have to practice the accent and lingua of the brethrens to pass more than just a tourist.

          She smiles, flutters her eyes and raises her bosom, which is already trussed to the nines. “Please dear sir, come ye again.”