Voices
me to regain the pride I had lost:
the joy of knowing I was unique?
There was. I’d track down the other Peter Mandels and see whether
we could hammer out some sort
of compromise—say, dismantling
their Web pages or, if they preferred, beginning the process of
changing their name.
Sleuthing out the phone numbers of a half-dozen or so Peter Mandels was easy; getting
my calls returned wasn’t. After
weeks of dialing, I finally got an
actual Peter Mandel on the line,
one who owns a California radonmitigation company. “Hello,” I
began, clearing my throat. “I am
concerned about the dilution of
the Peter Mandel name.” There
was a sound that was either a
cough or a snort.
Hadn’t he Googled himself?
Wasn’t he aware of all the other Peter Mandels?
“I’m aware,” he said.
Didn’t we make him jealous?
Angry?
Another snort-cough. “The
way I come up on Google or you
come up on Google is fine,” he explained. “My clients come to me,
since I handle some very hazardous materials.”
I next reached a New Jersey
PETER
MANDEL
HUFFINGTON
08.26.12
gynecologist. An occasional autoGoogler, Dr. Mandel knew perfectly well that he was sharing
search engine space with us and
was fine with it. “How would you
feel,” I asked, “if you disappeared
from Google results? Maybe took a
break from that?”
There was a moment of silence.
“I would not be happy about it,”
Was there a way, I
wondered, for me to regain
the pride I had lost: the joy
of knowing I was unique?”
he replied.
This was the point where I
should have offered Dr. Mandel a
payment. Or made a tearful plea.
But I realized I couldn’t do it and
actually didn’t need to.
I mean, sure, there was the radon
Peter Mandel, the gynecologist, the
German guy—but I’m the only writer of children’s books in the bunch.
And what do you think those pretenders know about sneezing leopards? Jackhammer-cracks in city
sidewalks? Burger-loving dogs?
You can Google it, but I’d bet
nothing. Maybe, just possibly, I am special, after all.