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' anada "More of Me" 13 feb '
' 289 by Infernal 2001 '
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Bored? Go to google.com and look your name up. I don't know how
many other people do this, but it never fails to amuse me, and get me
thinking. It never even occurred to me that there'd be other people with my
relatively uncommon name in the world, but thanks to the wonders of Internet
search engines, I've found several. I haven't done anything awkward and
ridiculous like contact these other members of my very exclusive club (or am
I a member of theirs? I guess it depends on who you ask), but I catch
myself thinking about them more than I probably should.
There's a guy with my name who serves as town manager of a
predominantly-gay New England community. He's quoted in mundane articles
about his city's sewer system, city council tempests-in-a-teapot, and in
anti-gay groups' propaganda about "havens" for "aberrant behavior." It puts
my own worries in perspective ñ nowhere have I read that this guy is
actually gay, yet he's seen by "the enemy" as a point man and spokesman for
a town that clearly doesn't mind the presence of homosexuals. Hell, this
guy could be the target for some crackpot's assassination attempt, all
because he says something at a town meeting to piss some right-wing nutcase
off. Then again, he probably can go see local bands without worrying that
some disgruntled recipient of a bad demo review is gonna poison his beer or
break a chair over his head.
There's another "me" who is a tourism manager, one on Wall Street,
and one who "lives on Roper Street" somewhere in the UK--not all of them are
as well documented online as me, or my town manager buddy. One guy works
for "McMahon Associates" and that's all I can find out about him ñ as if his
whole life is defined by going and punching that clock for Old Man McMahon,
the prick. It's interesting to see the two-dimensional, distorted, funhouse
picture that the ënet paints of some of its less-documented citizens.
And my own past comes back to goose me once in a while ñ a long-
forgotten band interview resurfaces on a fan site, credited to me and a
magazine that no longer publishes. A friend I haven't spoken to in three
years has a link to my then-new web site, or a defunct email address listed
for me. And hey ñ a mention on my high school's alumni page! I guess if
the hordes of folks at home want to know how country mouse did in the city,
the answer is an email click away. Not that any of them have asked.
The one that intrigues me the most, though, has been resurfacing
periodically since I got online in 1997, and it's up on someone's web site
on the day of this writing. Before I mention this, I feel I should point
out that a Yahoo! White Pages search turned up no less than 91 other people
in These United States with my name, to say nothing of the above mentioned
pals-o-mine. So I don't know which of my namesakes ended up on the "men are
jerks list" that's circulated hither and yon for ages now. I'm pretty sure
it's not me ñ I've searched my memory, and none of my myriad old flames hate
me enough (to my knowledge!) to add me to a list headed like this:
"THIS IS FOR ALL THE GIRLS OUT THERE WHO HAVE BEEN USED, ABUSED, FUCKED
AROUND WITH, PLAYED NOW, PLEASE ADD THE NAME OF ANY ASSHOLE WHO HAS HURT
YOU ALONG WITH EITHER A CITY OR SCHOOL. REMEMBER GIRLS, YOU DON'T NEED
THEM!"
"My" name appears down somewhere south of #100, with the entry: "You
will only be a side dish to his many main courses." This, of course, would
inspire immediate peals of laughter in anyone who's ever known me, as I have
the greatest difficulty juggling ONE relationship. Philandering isn't in my
nature ñ I'm not smart enough to keep track of too many names or statistics,
and I'd end up in the soup before I started, so I don't bother. To top it
off, I'm so pathetically grateful when any woman spares me enough thought to
go out with me, that I'm hardly the two-timing type ñ I'm more likely to
piss off a girlfriend with my drooly affirmations of love than I am by
consorting with the leggy flirt at the end of the bar.
But somewhere, in this gigantic, wired world of ours, is a guy with
my name, breakin' hearts and dating tarts left and right--often enough to
get immortalized in this Heels' Hall of Fame, this Roll Call of the Rat,
this Domesday Book of the Dog Master. In an odd, guilty way, I envy his
callous, carefree lifestyle, his smooth-talking ways and the dangerous charm
that allows him to line up all these "main courses." I wonder if he's my
evil twin, or my doppelganger, out there doing all the bad stuff I'm too
chickenshit to try. Or is he out there at four in the morning, spent from
his Casanova act, squinting at my online footprints and wishing he was a
mild-mannered music scribe and metal geek from the sticks?
Either way, if anyone starts giving that asshole credit for my record
reviews, there's gonna be trouble.
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` anada289 by Infernal (c) 2001 anada e'zine `
