Do You Want To Be The Most Popular Kid in Class?

If you ever feel bad because when you open your email there’s never anything there, then I have two things to say to you.

#1) You probably haven’t been doing the email thing for very long, because if you have an email account for any length of time you’re going to get on some mailing list or another (maybe even mine!) , and there will always be somebody’s newsletter or sweepstakes announcement or 50%-off coupon for something you’ll never buy waiting for you.

#2) You have probably never registered a domain name.

Since registering last week I have become the most popular kid in class, or more accurately, on the internet. Not that anybody visits the website. (Alright, I’m lying. According to my close personal friends at Google Analytics, ten people have seen the site, some more than once, although I suspect that’s probably me, as I didn’t bother to filter myself out of the stats, fearing I might be the ONLY visitor).


Uncle Zeke says you can have it for a song.

But the real story here isn’t the website itself, it’s the domain registration. I don’t know if everyone’s experience is the same as mine, but I’m pretty sure my registrar sold me like a your uncles old brown Hudson. Because in the last few day’s I’ve heard from every website developer on the Indian Subcontinent, (and I’m not being racist here, they’ve literally all been from India), as well as every schlump with Photoshop who fancies himself a “professional logo developer.” One guy even tried to get me to hire him to “register on search engines before the deadline expires.” Only one problem with that enticing offer, aspiring entrepreneur: I know how search engines work.


Did you think I was kidding?

I once said, long ago, during a particularly philosophical moment, that the internet is a pretty accurate microcosm of the world at large. There are a lot of good people and there a lot of talking rectums. Back when I said this the population of web-users was far smaller than it is today, now that everyone has a smartphone, a laptop, a desktop and three tablets, usually all running at the same time, but it’s just as true today. Sometimes I feel the ratio of nice to not-nice may be tipping a little more towards the latter, but that might just be my impression.


We’re Watching You!

But one thing is certain. Just as in the real world, there are plenty of vultures who circle overhead, waiting to swoop down on you, especially if they think you’re vulnerable. “This domain was just registered. This person knows nothing. I can sell them the Brooklyn Bridge!”  Or, more accurately in my case, the Old Godavari Bridge, I suppose. (I already own the New Godivari Bridge, thank you very much.)



And the logo creators are even worse.  I’ve heard from dozens of them. And while I recognize that a nifty logo is a good thing to have, I have Photoshop too. And I have every intention of developing a super-dandy logo all by myself. I’m going to take my time, think things through, and wait until I’m completely satisfied. In the meantime, though, I have developed this placeholder version, specifically targeted to the web-developer/logo creating/search-engine-registering-before-the-deadline-expires vultures who have been attempting to pick my bones clean:


I mean it in the nicest possible way

So, if you’re lonely, and you don’t care if the email that floods your inbox is actually from someone who wants to communicate with you, register a domain name. It’s a great way to meet vultures.


I’ve replied to every single email saying simply, “Not interested. Thank you.” I’ve also filed them away, so that if I hear from them a second time my reply can be a little less polite.

Second Sidebar:

Authors, especially old ones like me, are wonderful people, till you tick us off. Then we use all that hard earned wordcraft to tell you precisely what we think of you.

Final Sidebar, I Promise:

None of this is directed to you, my true and faithful readers. You’re on the “Internet Nice List,” and I should know. I’m Internet Santa, writing from the Internet North Pole.

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