I’ve been through some interesting cities and towns here in the Wild Wild West of the Internet, but the strangest has to be a site called Bright Idea, once a bustling little hamlet, and now little more than a ghost town.

A quick summary of my travels: For me, it all started with Epinions. Epinions might be Denver or Billings—-I’m not sure-—but it’s a big town. Like the famous NPR Minnesota town of yore, everything about Epinions is above average. The writing has always been good, the ratings fair, and the comments interesting. I’ve made several e-friends here. And then there was, and is, Writtenbyme, an artsier town than Epinions, inhabited by poets, short story writers, and others who like to write about their experiences, rather than products. Maybe Writtenbyme is Boulder or Missoula—it’s hard to say. I still visit there when I’m feeling creative. And then, for awhile, there was Shop O2, inhabited by the friendliest group of hard-core consumers I’ve ever met. They must have all been from Des Moines. They had names like Fredsmom, Charliesmom, and Tedsmom. They wore white hats. Together, we reviewed coffee, caviar, jeans, and baby toys. We rated each other highly. We made 15 cents per hit. And then the dam broke and the town was washed away without a trace.

And finally, there was Bright Idea, a site ostensibly devoted to the sharing of ideas, with the ultimate goal of collaborating on marketable products. Woah, was that place different! Rattlesnakes on the edge of town. Naked, dirty children running barefoot through the streets. Gun shots in the saloons. One church. Twenty-three bars. Dilapidated shacks for residences. No schools.

Let’s call it Rattlesnake Gulch.

The highest rating for a Bright Idea was five bulbs. The lowest was one bulb. Comments were allowed, but only occasionally used. A powerful posse, called a “rating group” (disguised as a bridge club) gave five bulbs to most of its members’ pieces, no matter how bad, and shot up the campsites of visitors who refused to adorn their drivel with good ratings.

One-liners like “Your (sic) gonna think this is silly but I wish I could desine (sic) a man who wood (sic) do my laundry and cook and listen” received four or five bulbs from members of the bridge club (Category: The Perfect Man).

But then power struggles occurred within the posse. Some members accused others of not reading their writing often enough. Harsh words were exchanged. Threats of revenge ratings were made, and often carried out with impunity, as all ratings were anonymous. One posse member actually conducted a “poll” of other members in an effort to catch and expose slackers who weren’t reading and rating enough.

Several Epinionators came over from Denver—or was it Billings?—to try and clean up the town, writing good pieces, and eventually starting a small school there. Outlaws, in the form of plagiarizers, were caught, tried, and convicted. But their pieces remained, stolen from Epinions, EHow, and other sites.

Most of the Epinions writers, fearing for their reputations, and the safety of their children, packed up and left.

Then, the High Sheriff decided to change the site. He said that only “marketable ideas” would be allowed. And yet, the categories remained the same! Those categories included things like: How to Get Off the Phone; Comments About Teaching; Music; The Perfect Man, and so on. Pieces posted before the “change” started disappearing from the site, removed in the dark of night by the High Sheriff because they were "not marketable."

More angry posts. More writers fleeing in anguish. And during it all, the High Sheriff had started keeping the tax dollars of the citizens of Rattlesnake Gulch, and providing no services. Wagon wheels rutted the roads. The courthouse fell into disrepair. Emails went unanswered. Nobody was paid for their writing.

A notice on the site promised that all would be paid at the end of June. In fact, no-one has been paid (one to three cents per hit, depending on your "level," determined by anonymous nightriders with no set criteria who carve a I, II or III over your door while you sleep) since February or March. A few quality writers still meet in secret at the edge of town, by the creek, swapping ideas and engaging in lively discussion via comments, but their numbers are decreasing.

Rattlesnake Gulch itself is now little more than a ghost town. The bridge club posse exists in name only, its embittered members firing occasional shot gun volleys across the dusty main street. Where once the most prolific writers would generate dozens of pieces per week, now, five pieces land you a spot on the “Who’s Hot” list.

Scorpions hang like dry leaves from the shutters of the empty saloons. The one church has been abandoned.

A few kind travelers pass through, set up shop, become disillusioned, and move on.

The wind whistles through the decaying buildings.

The end is near.


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