It's like standing at the stage door in the rain for hours and hours waiting for the Cure to leave and then having Robert Smith push past you without a word. Or Jack White, which would be infinitely more heartbreaking as well as more current. (Have you seen the promos for the new White Stripes record Get Behind Me Satan? Utterly smokin'. Available June 7. Jury still out on whether Jack's mustache is doing anything for me or not.)
I've been a Googlemane since the earliest days. I love the search logic, the unobtrusive-yet-sometimes-useful text ads, the cute quirky holiday-themed headers. I love gmail, the Google toolbar, image search, Google news and automated "translation." (Original English: "Put down the lightsaber and leave your brother alone, o Fishy one." After "translation" to German and then back again: "Set down for the bright Saber and leave yourselves you your brother alone, O of fish-like.")
Yet it is an unrequited love, the saddest sort of all. For no matter how diligently I submit the Picayune-Democrat for spidercrawling, no matter how persistently I google "picayune-democrat," even when I resort to "link:redmolly.typepad.com/picayunedemocrat," I come up with nothin'. Big box of nothin'. Whole freakin' load of nothin'.
Why, Google, why do you spurn me? Why must I lament unheard, why must I send my hopeful clicks into the etheric wilderness with no hope of reply?