In the long-distant long-back, when I started fiddling with HTML code and started figuring out how to make Flash screens to clutter up servers from here to Mongolia, there were occasions when I'd have to stop & sweat it. I was, after all, putting a helluva lot of information out on the air, so to speak. People could find my dislikes, my distant relatives, my dystopian view of the world & maybe even take advantage of that.
   Sometimes I catch myself doing things that I ain't too sure I would even do, even if I were in, say, Cleveland. But there's a couple people out there with my name. I mean down to the initials & screen names & all that. I've tried to contact 'em just to find out how it is that there are multiple versions of Nils Young on the planet. One I know of for sure & have no reason to distrust, from a simply cognitive perspective, is the owner of an engineering firm in Georgia. I've sent him a couple emails but never have I gotten response one from him.
   Not that I'm worried.
   It's the other people with my name that I worry about. Like every time I renew my ham radio license of in some other way put myself in the "hey, who's that guy?" position.
   But I can't get too het up about it, truth be told. All I can do is go in and prune these pages now & then (as a relative just asked me to do the other day in her case) and hope that the weasels don't catch on. Not that there's anything wrong with weasels, mind you. And I mean no disparaging of the weasel species, either, you see. It's just one of those words . . .