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Where the Hell Did Everyone Go?

Since unveiling the new site design here a few days ago, I’ve noticed quite a dip in site traffic. In the past week or so, the average day has netted a little south of half what I’d normally expect.

Of course, I thought I knew the culprit immediately. It had to be the ‘author pic’ I added to the header, right? Like my wife — and parents, and coworkers, and friends, and the dog, if she could talk — say:

‘We can listen to your nonsense, or we can look at you — but for crissakes, not at the same time!‘

“…how the hell am I supposed to compete with kitchen utensil porn? That’s crazy talk.”

So naturally, the photo seemed to be the problem. But then I realized — if people were coming here, and getting fed up with the drivelovisual overload, their hits would still register on the counter. They’d be quick hits, to be sure — frantically-barrelling out-the-door, panicked and disgusted hits — but they’d be hits, nonetheless. And I’m not seeing those hits.

That’s when I realized that I’ve landed myself in a sort of Google grace period. When I moved, I updated my software, too. In the process — for reasons I’m sure made some grain of sense two weeks ago — the name of just about every single page changed. All the entries, all the archives — all renamed in the revamperization.

A jaunt through the error logs confirmed my theory. There are a fair number of people out there, searching for things like ‘ridiculous pointless drivel’ and ‘craptastic’ and ‘douchebaggery’ — not to mention an awful lot of porn — and being pointed to entries in my archive. Entries that no longer exist, as far as the out-of-synch search engines can tell. Thus, the quirky webheads, the unstable queriers, and the clammy legions of pornseekers slap up against my ‘404: Not Found’ page, which doesn’t register a blip on the old Visit-O-Meter. Mystery solved, Watson.

It’s interesting, really — to me, anyway. Flipping through the site logs now, I see the ‘quality’ hits concentrated together into a dense, sticky mass of webby goodness. These are folks referred here from other weblogs, or directory listings, or even syndicated entries pointing back here to the ‘mother ship of bullshit’. Those visits are ‘targeted’, in that the people on the other end are usually in the market for the general sort of blather I dish out here. It might not be a perfect match all the time, but those people tend to have a look around, and explore the joint — even with that ugly mug of mine staring back at them. That’s impressive.

The hits from search engines are far less specific. They’re more noise than signal, or the chaff surrounding the wheat. All pasty, and no nipple, if you will.

Still, eyeballs are eyeballs — and maybe occasionally one of those hits leads someone here who decides they’re less interested in ‘Olsen twin nip slips’ or ‘Rachael Ray spatula porn’ than they’d be in a few paragraphs of goofball story.

(No, it doesn’t seem likely, does it? But how the hell am I supposed to compete with kitchen utensil porn? That’s crazy talk.

And ‘heart healthy’, to boot. I’ve got no chance.)

Anyway, I suppose the ‘bots will get the new site structure info back to their metal masters soon, and those search engine hits will be back in full force. Meanwhile, the relative calm is sort of nice. It’s like leaving a big booming party to play cards with a few close friends on the porch. It’s a little breather, before you get back inside and debauch the night away.

(Except I never get invited to any parties with Olsen twins or spatula shenanigans. Or debauchery. Or porches, for that matter.

Come to think of it, we never play cards, either. Nobody ever said it was a perfect analogy, dammit.)

So if you’re here before things get all Googled up again — welcome! Thanks for stopping by, and I’m glad to have you. Hopefully, you’ll find whatever type of nonsense you came here looking for.

And if not… well, I’ve got a drawer full of spatulas down in the kitchen. I’m sure we can think of some way to make your visit worthwhile. I’m just here to help.

A Doocing Averted?

At my current job, we have a couple of partnerships and affiliations. Since we’re essentially an academic group, ‘partnerships’ and ‘affiliations’ typically mean ‘please give us money’ and ‘we’ll whip you up some data’. Such is the way of the essentially academic group. Fine.

Recently, however, I’ve become a lot more open with my identity on this site and elsewhere. I enjoy writing — and not as some anonymous smartassed jerk, but as me. In other words, a very specific smartassed jerk. And so, I’ve made the conscious decision to associate my name — my real, full name — with what I write, along with my picture. While this is fantastic for the purposes of making myself a recognizable, identifiable wordslinger, it’s also potentially terribly helpful for also becoming a recognizable, identifiable sass-spewing and possibly mentally unstable employee.

This poses a dilemma. One that’s very easy to agonize over, now that Google and the like have made the decision to dislose rather… permanent.

“Anybody know of a place hiring rugby-wearing sassy douchebags, just in case? Anyone?”

On the one hand, I have little to worry about. Many of the folks in my office know about my standup career/hobby, and quite a few of them have seen me perform. So the ‘mentally unstable sass-spewer’ bridge was crossed long ago. And they seem to have come to terms with it, thankfully. Maybe they’re just afraid to fire me, for fear of becoming the next punchline. Or maybe my office has some sort of affirmative action quota for ‘striped rugby-wearing douchebags’.

(That’s the gubment’s language — not mine!)

Whatever the case, they seem to be dealing with my humorous aspirations — and you can take ‘humorous’ in that sentence any way you like. It’s okay; I’ve got thick skin.

That leaves, however, the fine and upstanding companies with which we’ve partnered. Who knows how they’d react to my particular flavor of assbaggery, online or on stage or on video in three web-friendly formats? Or for that matter, how they’d react to the very term ‘assbaggery’, or the notion that it comes in assorted flavors? These are questions that I don’t relish having answered any time soon.

So imagine my anxiety — nay, my panic and welling hysteria — when I noticed a hit in my logs yesterday from one of those very partnered-up companies! It’s a big place, to be sure, corporate and sprawiling, but there was a chance — just a chance — that it was a direct contact of ours, who’d stumbled onto this site accidentally. Maybe even someone I’d met at one of the business meetings! Eep!

I pondered the possibility for a while, after I found the hit. Maybe someone had Googled my name — looking for awards I’d won, or publications in which I’d had a hand. Something, perhaps, to cement my position as a capable member of my team and an experienced, reliable resource in my field. Instead, by the second paragraph of the first active post that day, they’d have read, ‘Life is like milking your cat.‘

Oh dear lord, what have I done?

With trembling fingers, I clicked the link to see the details of the visit — how much did they see? How damning the evidence? And how exactly did they ferret me out, anyway? Fearing the absolute, pink slip-worthy worst, I checked the info. Just one hit. They’d come via Yahoo Search. And the search string?:

hairy Armenian women

(I’m #59 on the list right now. Mother would be so proud!)

So now I feel just a little bit better. I could still be rooted out at any minute, I suppose — but if this particular guy is someone I know, he’ll probably keep his lips zipped over this little discovery. Because if he raises the red flag on me, someone will naturally ask him, ‘Well, okay… but what the hell were you looking for, to find that kind of nonsense?‘ And that’s a big ball of wax I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want melted.

Unless it’s all an astronomical coincidence, and he’s married to a hirsute — but fetching, no doubt! — Armenian lass and looking up suitable birthday presents, or traditional garments, or electrolysis centers, or something. In which case, I’m seriously screwed.

Anybody know of a place hiring rugby-wearing sassy douchebags, just in case? Anyone? Hello?

Rats.