I'm #1 / Our metaphorical bastard child

OK, I admit it: I'm lame. Probably egotistical too. Because every couple of weeks (fine, hours) I google myself. The first time I did it, I was surprised (and disheartened) to discover that, despite my experience as the only person named James Yeh in South Carolina--hell, I'd never ran into any Yehs in South Carolina other than ones in my immediate family--in the grand scheme of things, I was pretty insignificant. I think I was #15 or so, maybe even lower.

Anyways, because of that it's sort of become a goal of mine to climb to the top of the mysterious Google search engine ladder. Most recently I saw that I occupied three of the top ten spots (#6, #7, #10)--pretty exciting stuff, I know. But this victory was short-lived as its timing coinciding with a very random blog comment I received from another James Yeh--the one who owns the email account "jamesyeh@gmail.com"--a very sought-after address. (Well very sought-after by me, at least.) In this comment my doppleganger wrote, "We have a pretty common name", going further to say, "I went to high school with 2 other James Yeh's. Three of us in a school of 1400."

This, of course, was heartbreaking to me. Despite the Google reports I had previously believed I was the only one--at least the only one who actually used the internet--all those James Yeh's above me were 200 year-old professors of Engineering or Physics or something. I was wrong and it shook me to the very core. The rest of the month was spent formulating a plan on how to become number one. Briefly I considered homocide, killing the other James Yehs, but I am not a killer. I'm barely even a man. A random guy I was talking to in a bar in New York cracked his knuckles and opened and closed his fists and I pleaded, "You're not going to punch me in the face, are you?" This I found funny. Homocide ruled out, I considered suicide--deaths always make people famous. But then I thought about it and realized that you first have to be famous to get more famous. It's one of those "We're looking to hire someone with experience"/"But I need a job to get experience" kind of dilemmas, somewhat archaically referred to as a "Catch-22". Plus, I really hate guns, heights, and the sight of blood, particularly my own. As I said before, I'm a real manly man.

But a new day is dawning.

Go ahead, google me. See what you find.

Yes, that's right, kind readers. I might not be the only one, but I'm the most important. At lesat according to Google. And they're always right.

This calls for a celebration. I should go hunting or logging or something like that, but instead I'm just going to hop online and enter a blog entry.


The previous #1 Google Search result James Yeh

#

In other news I found out Wednesday that the copy I had originally been asked to write for Hip Literary Publisher's Non-fiction Monthly Publication was, upon further editorial review, rejected. The piece had been sort of a bastard child from a one-week relationship with another writer. We had worked on it together at her place one night. In all honesty, she did most of the work; I said "yes, I like this" and "nope, don't think this works" a couple times. Looking back on it, this was probably the apex of our relationship, or at least one of the apexes--another was blatantly disobeying a rude waiter's order that we not switch tables at a local restaurant. (It was cold, windy, and rainy and we were right next to the door.)

What it is is that things, particularly relationships, particularly ones in which I'm involved, skyrocket to...uh, the sky only to crash down moments later. This fling was no exception. We even had a pretty ugly telephone conversation a couple weeks ago, right before I went on my grad school spree. During this conversation she gave me her assessment of my blog: "I just wanted to say, 'Get your own voice!'" Coming from another writer, one whom I actually respect in several ways, it hurt pretty bad. (Of course, she was mistaken. I have my own voice. It is of the not-gay, not-white David Sedaris. Or maybe the young Asian Denis Johnson. I haven't decided which yet.)

Well anyways, turns out we both suck. I was pretty pissed when I first found out. But now, in a strange way, it's sort of vindicating. And funny. I was even compelled to call her and tell her the news. I wonder if she'll think it's as funny as I do. I think she will. I can't help it.

(Dear you-know-who-you-are, if you're reading this (which I wouldn't be surprised if you were), I hope you won't think I'm being a jerk. I don't mean to be. You often misconstrue what I say. But I do it too. Friends?)