A freaky convergence of events
2006-03-02, 1:22 p.m.
You know when there’s a freaky convergence of events, and they all work together to produce something remarkable, as in “worthy of me remarking upon”? Let’s work backwards on this.
First, go Google “Russian skater wardrobe malfunction”. Go ahead. Do it. OK, fine. I’ve done it for you.
Second, do you see the first result, the one in Number 1 position? Yes? You do?
Third, I’m not supposed to be searchable. I have that “no robots” thing in my header that keeps me from being found by search engines.
But fourth, I did all my own highly-skilled html tinkering last week, and OOPS, managed to not transfer the “no robots” html correctly to my older entries template. So my newest entry here is not searchable, but once it’s one of my older entries, there it is. Lovely.
So fifth, I went in and (1) found the mistake, and (2) repaired it, and (3) I FIXED AN HTML MISTAKE, Y’ALL! (I think) but unfortunately, it takes a couple of days or weeks to get yourself out of the search engines. Something with caching or something which I don’t fully understand. I liken it to airing out the cigarette smell in your leather jacket that you wore to the bar. It’s like that.
I have always been entertained by folks who dedicate a journal entry to running down the weird Google searches that bring people to their journals. At first, I wondered how they did this: how do you find your Google search phrases? But I soon realized that being unsearchable, I would not have these fun things to be able to talk about.
But being a FREAK about making the connection over the ether, I love to go into my stats and find out where people are coming from to get to me. By the way, most of my visitors who come here via a link somewhere else, come from here. Folks looking for Jane’s favorite porn site, I reckon. Thanks, Jane!
Then, the other day, there in my referrer stats, were two Google references. What? How did that get in there? I got to experience three things simultaneously:
1. The fun of having a goofy search phrase attached to my journal.
2. The horror of realizing that I am searchable because I screwed something up.
3. The delight of being the NUMERO UNO result when you Google “Russian skater wardrobe malfunction.”
I feel famous and delightful for the MASSES. I don’t want to be famous – I want to be relatively anonymous and unfindable. I just wanna be loved. Is that so wrong? Oh well, we live and we learn. We live and we learn how to repair our faulty html.
So onto the puppies:
The photo I gave y’all yesterday was NOT one of the actual puppies that we were considering. That was a picture of a very sweet and probably terribly expensive Blue Heeler puppy that I found online. I made an assumption. I heard “Blue Heeler” and that’s what I thought we were talking about.
Later in the day, I got pictures of the real puppies, and friends, things changed really quickly after that.
Cute, but not what I was expecting.
But to answer your questions, here goes:
Jules: they were purported by Don to be Blue Heelers. Their mother is a kind of amalgam of Beagle and Rottweiler, with just enough BH to make her coat look funky. As you can see, it looks like somebody grafted a head onto a mismatched body. I ‘m sure they are sweet dogs, but the pups look like a Beagle/Rottie mix, and no. No thanks.
Chantal: see above message to Jules. But I would, too, totally drink with you. Too bad Canada is so far away from South Texas. ::clink!::
Heather: we wouldn’t have a problem with giving a dog plenty of room to run. George would have had 10 acres upon which to run, as well as neighbors with livestock. Not that I would encourage my dog to run next door and herd the goats and cattle, but if it happened and nobody got hurt, I don’t think anybody would sweat it too much. However, see above message to Jules.
LL: see above. No puppy for us. See ya tonight!
Miz S: If I get Miss L Squared’s consent, I’ll be posting a fuzzy, low-res cell phone picture of our date tomorrow.
Just to wrap it all up in a warm, fuzzy blanket, even though Don is not dating Snatchy, he must still be in touch with/friendly with Snatchy-Dad, because these are her dad’s pups. And so Don got roped into helping find homes for puppies. What a sucky position to be in, eh? Because then you have to deal with assholes like me who ask “What the hell kind of dog is that?”
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Answer: some things are not meant to be known.