With a title like that, you would be justified in assuming this post is about any number of things.
For instance, I could be planning to write about the finale of Lost. My wife could rule that one out easily, however, as our viewing of the show over the last several months was interrupted about every five minutes when I would ask things like “Wait, who’s that guy? And we know him from where?”
I had no sense of what was going on. None. That made me feel bad, until this last episode, when the producers finally took all of us aside and offered a sweet release that seemed to say “Details, schmetails.”
So a Lost wrap-up is out. That title could also work to introduce the exciting news that I’m dropping the blog’s subtitle because I’m no longer an unpublished author. Then again, if that were the case, I’d probably go with a post called something like “Can’t Tell Me Nothing” and then just embed the Kanye video and be done with it.
Besides, I was ESPN’s bitch for, like, six months; do you think I’d just bury a lead like that? Once you produce a Barry Bonds-Fear Factor highlight, that critical news eye never goes away.
Perhaps the most logical—and terrifying—conclusion to draw from such a headline is that the blog itself is shutting down. I know, the mere suggestion of that makes you look … giddier than the Brawny guy near a carton of spilled milk.
Well, I’ve got news for you: You’re not getting rid of me and my 14.5 site visits per day (at least half of which are me on a couple of different computers) that easily.
Oh, that’s right—I’m counting. I got Google Analytics. 2010, son.
But actually, mentioning Google Analytics does in a roundabout way bring me to the purpose of this post. You see, two things that have been staples of the Dining Room Office’s long and illustrious history are about to change.
First, as of tonight, I’m setting aside my paranoia and making it so the blog can be searched for through Google and other search engines. You, being a normal person, probably just assumed it was searchable from the beginning and are thinking “Boy, there’s no telling how many hits you’ll get now.”
I’m assuming that was sarcasm. And I don’t appreciate it.
Second, you may have noticed I’m way overdue on D.R.O.P. list inductions; six kind souls have signed up as followers over there on the right since the last ceremony, and they deserve their props, which I’ve just extended to them.
Katherine, Kerin, Josh, Kris, and Jessie I know. However, the identity of the sixth, one Dennis, remains a mystery to me, and his unwavering loyalty got me wondering: If I don’t know someone, how am I supposed to give him or her an adequate shout-out on the D.R.O.P. list page?
(Note: This is when the smoke started billowing from my ears.)
So the change: I’ve amended the bylaws of the D.R.O.P. list; it will be limited to the first 30 people who meet its demanding criteria.
I realize I could just cut it off now, but 26 seems like a weird number at which to stop. Of course, a year from now when I’m still stuck at 26, I may reconsider.
In the meantime, I think honorary D.R.O.P. list member Jerry Seinfeld said it best in that episode when he was finally convinced to run:
I have no trip to Hawaii or woman named Lois to offer you for running it—just the gratitude of a guy with a little too much time on his hands.