Merry Christmas!

...and Happy Life Day!

After you've had enough to drink, I encourage all of you to load up BitTorrent and download your own copy of the Star Wars Holiday Special. Because, really, you haven't lived until you've seen that monument to horror. Just remember, drink then watch. Otherwise, you might remember parts of it later, and I don't want that on my conscience.

Sweet, Sweet Freedom!

I finished comps last Tuesday. I'd like to say that the intervening time between that accomplishment and this post was spent in drunken debauchery but, well, this is me we're talking about. There was some alcohol consumption, but unless you count spending way too much time reading Fark or watching Adult Swim as debauchery, there wasn't so much of that.
For a profession that supposedly involves fighting Nazis, encounters with supernatural/metaphysical beings, hot chicks, and snakes, I lead a surprisingly tame existence.

So, now I just have to wait for word on how I did. I'm not feeling especially confident at the moment. Actually, I'm not clear how anyone comes out of comps and still has an enormous ego. Susan assures me that one regains it with the dissertation, so I guess I'll be all pretentious again in a few years. Seriously, I spent most of last week with a thousand yard stare wondering why my brain felt like it was wrapped in honey-soaked cotton. Actually, that' s mostly how I felt while I was taking the exams too. This does not bode well. Maybe oral exams would have been better. At least then I could have attempted to joke my way out of my predicament. Or been intimidating enough to avoid answering things. It's hard to be intimidating with a laptop unless you're threatening someone with it.
I'd like to add that trying to do translation while also trying to make sense of how Heidegger, Husserl, Gadamer, Bourdieu, Habermas, Weber, Ricoeur and a bunch of other dead or nearly dead white guys relate to archaeology is not something I recommend.
Also, hieratic sucks. It just sucks. I can't read my own damn cursive handwriting, how the hell am I supposed to read cursive handwriting belonging to some dude who's been dead for a few thousand years? And who couldn't be bothered to sharpen his damn reed pen? "Duh, I see a p, w, an m, and what appears to be a comma...screw this shit and hand me my trowel!"

Sigh. Someone remind me why the hell I thought grad school was a good idea again?
At least I should actually be able to do some honest-to-goodness fieldwork again soon. Mmmm, dirt and vaccinations! Whee! Reach in that backpack and hand me my trowel, it's the one that says Badass not-hieratic-reading motherfucker on it.
I'd add a bad joke about "You know what they call a QuarterPounder with Cheese in ancient Egypt?" here, but that would involve me actually figuring out the equivalent measurement and I'm not looking at my grammar books again for a few weeks until the emotional pain of having bombed a perfectly reasonable, downright kindly test leaves me.

So, now I get to prep for the upcoming field season and relax a bit for a few weeks. At least until after I get my shots for the trip. Then I may be making offerings to the porcelain deity for a few days. Just so long as I don't come home with a mystery illness that makes me the most popular patient at the hospital again. "No, you goddamn vampires, you can't take blood from both my arms at the same time for 3 days in a row again. I'll beat you with this laptop and then stab you with my trowel!"

Happy Thanksgiving

So, here's something from fond childhood memories that still makes me laugh:




"As God as my witness..."

Happy Turkey Day everyone!

Green

Yeah, so, the pink is gone as I no longer have to wear a virtual pink ribbon for Breast Cancer Awareness month.

Instead I can go about my usual publicizing of this issue:

Walking up to people, punching them in the breast(s) and suggesting they get screened.

I use a similar method for publicizing testicular cancer.

That's probably why no one will hire me as their offical spokesperson.

Hmmmm...

I've discovered a strange tendency in myself when sleep deprived. I have the irrational desire to write something like a journal or log entry to the effect of: "Three days without sight of land. The crew is growing restless and desirous of mutiny." Or something. Does this mean I was a hapless ships captain in past life?

Fun and games with sleep deprivation

I just read the headline: "Foley to name alleged abuser" as

"Foley to be named alligator abuser."


I'll stop giggling uncontrollably in a few minutes, please move along.


On an unrelated topic, I hate Lynn Meskell's work on social theory. I'd say I hate her, but I've never met her, nor do I want to.

Yet another way we're all going to die

Many many moons ago I did a "translation" of a State of the Union address. I felt the need to do the same with the text of the press release from North Korea regarding their recent nuclear tests.

"The field of scientific research in the DPRK successfully conducted an underground nuclear test under secure conditions on October 9, 2006, at a stirring time when all the people of the country are making a great leap forward in the building of a great, prosperous, powerful socialist nation.

If by "great, prosperous, powerful" you mean "starving, disease-ridden, oppressed" I can go with that.

"It has been confirmed that there was no such danger as radioactive emission in the course of the nuclear test as it was carried out under scientific consideration and careful calculation.

We were very careful to use our patented "Little Dictator" geiger counter and everything. Really. And there was some math and stuff.

"The nuclear test was conducted with indigenous wisdom and technology 100 percent.

Quit saying China helped us. I didn't tell people when you copied off little Susie on the 5th grade spelling test, did I?

It marks a historic event as it greatly encouraged and pleased the KPA and people that have wished to have powerful self-reliant defense capability.

A few people keep moaning about "food" and "freedom" and crap, but they displayed just how encouraged they were when we pointed our SKS rifles at them.

"It will contribute to defending the peace and stability on the Korean Peninsula and in the area around it."

All your base are belong to us. That is all. Suckers.

When the hell did this happen?

Time was when staying awake for 36 hours at a stretch was nothing for me. Ha-ha I laughed gleefully while chugging yet another cup of coffee, lighting another cigarette and walzting off to Birminham or Tuscaloosa or wherever the hell we had decided to go while ditching class.

Yeah, not so much anymore, apparently. I've been awake for all of, um...hmmm (bad at math, bad at math) we'll call it 22 hours. Not even a full day! And it's not like I've been doing anything particularly inspiring. I'm working an overnight guard shift. (STOP SNICKERING!) I sit on my ass and turn alarms on and off and make sure people don't try to sleep here or the frat-tards from down the street don't break in.

So, apparently I'm old. The increasing amounts of gray hair was sort of a clue, but I was attributing that to standing too close to the microwave as a kid. Or growing up in Nevada (aka the "Test and/or Dump Scary Ass Shit Here State, Oh, By the Way, We Have Keno!"). Whatever. The fact is, I'm tired as hell (and probably none too coherent) and I still have an hour to go. Judging by the number of people who have walked in and asked if I need coffee and the glimpse I got of myself in a mirror a few hours ago my eyes are threatening to actually withdraw into my head.

Better still it's started to pour rain. I figure the thunder will start about the time I get home to go to sleep. Oreo hates thunder. So, there will be whining and crying and digging . And Oreo will be annoying too.

Seriously, I look like freakin' Skeletor or a Goth or Emo or whatever the hell you call teenaged angst-addicts who draw circles around their eyes with cigarette ash.

And the damn wind keeps blowing the ivy over the windows which looks like something jumping at me out of the corner of my eye, so then I jump and I look psycho. Or, more psycho than usual.
"Why goodmorning Professor X. Yes, I'm doing this job now. Yes, it was a long night. (Jump/Twitch). What, no, I didn't just jump out of my skin."

Ahh, they already think I'm freakin' crazy.

You dropped a what on your huh?

So, Tom came home early today, startling me and Oreo thoroughly. It transpired that this was all due to his having dropped a wall on his foot. So, after a long soaking in the tub, a healthy dose of ibuprofen, and a lot of me going "oh sick dude!" we've gotten far enough along in the recovery process for Tom to decide pictures are in order.
Visit his blog at your own risk.
See, Tom injuries follow a very typical timeline:
1) The injury occurs, usually involving: dropping something; something slipping; some body part brushing against something hot; falling off of something. Occasionally, it's a mixture of two or more of the above.
2) Witnesses rush to his aid, all the while amazed at his prowess at swearing while bleeding, burning, swelling, or all of the above. Seriously. Think drunken sailor. Druken sailor who just got a peg-leg worthy injury. It's quite impressive.
3) Witnesses usually encourage him to seek medical attention. Tom scoffs at their wussiness.
4) If I'm not already there, I get a phone call or he comes home, whichever is more convenient. Usually several hours after the fact. You know, well after I could have done anything useful. If I am there, I usually don't bother adding my voice to the chorus of "dude, go to the hospital" at this point but instead focus on applying pressure to whatever body part is spurting blood and convincing him that he needs to sit still for a few minutes.
5) Depending on his description of the injury (if communicating via phone) or my own personal inspection, *I* encourage him to seek medical attention. Tom scoffs at my wussiness. If he's still able to remain upright and semi-coherent, I usually let him win.
6) I remind Tom that there is no way I can carry his ass any where so, if he needs medical attention, he'd better hurry the hell up and get it, because I don't want to have to drag his unconscious ass down the hallway to the elevator. It'll ruin his clothes. Assuming they weren't ruined in the "incident" or ripped up to make bandages after the "incident" despite the presence of perfectly good, sterile bandages close by.
7) Ice, pain relievers, and antiseptic are provided for the wound. I usually make another attempt at the doctor suggestion. I'm usually rebuffed. The "your ass is heavy and I don't want to pay for an ambulance" argument is repeated. I give up.
8) Time passes.
9) Tom disappears into the bathroom to "doctor" his wound. Usually within 5-10 minutes I am summoned with the words every significant other wants to hear their beloved utter: "Hey Jus, could you bring me my pocket knife?" I've given up trying to prevent the man from performing minor surgery on himself with his pocket knife. I pretty much won my only victories on this front by convincing him to a) stop doing pocket-knife surgery in the living room or kitchen while Oreo is trying to see what's up; and b) sterilize the knife. (Seriously, do you know how freaky it is to look up from reading to see someone with their foot balanced precariously on the edge of a table while they hack at it with a pocket knife?)
10) Some mention is made of "drilling through the nail." I swear - every time. Even when the injury has nothing to do with fingers or toes. The man just has a fondess for drilling through his own nails. I guess it's better than his head. "That would have worked if you hadn't stopped me."
11) To his credit, he usually is fine in a few days. Because he's a manly man. Or too stupid to feel pain. Whatever.

To sum up - he's fine. I'll let y'all know if it gets gangrenous though. Because as soon as he's out of the hospital for that, there's going to be a huge "I freakin' told you so" party and you're all invited. :)

Well hell, it only took almost another year.

Why the hell do I have this thing again? No one checked it even when it was almost live. Anyway, it's pink now for Breast Cancer Awareness month. Having gone through the joy of finding a lump and the ensuing WTF!!!! panic, I have a certain heightened sympathy for those who actually are diagnosed.
So, this is why the page is now pink, despite the fact that I hate the color pink and wish they'd picked purple or green or something else...