I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

And this is the slowdown. In the late 90s, before cell phones, my friend Melissa couldn't reach me on my last known number, a landline.

I had moved. We'd lost touch. So, lacking a massive telephone directory for Philadelphia,

she did what humans did back then.

She dialed 4-1 and spoke to a directory assistant, a stranger who magically recited a number where

supposedly I could be reached.

When Melissa called, an elderly woman answered and said,

she was sorry to disappoint.

Although A major Jackson lived at the residence, her husband, she was most likely seeking a different major Jackson.

Melissa asked if we were related.

No, she said, but we might as well be.

I've taken so many calls for him.

He sounds like a nice young man.

Melissa said, yes, he's the best.

To which the elder Mrs. Jackson replied,

yes, but probably not better than my major Jackson.

It's become common now to check out digital footprint,

to seek evidence of ourselves in cyberspace, a place where we might also

encounter our namesake's.

Today's poem delves into the psychological roots of this self-searching.

Gugling ourselves by Philip Schultz.

You think yourself wise, proud Zarathustra.

...