All’s Quiet on the Archaeological Western Front

It’s quiet on the news ticker. Too quiet. Besides the endless stories on Neanderthals and feathers, it’s running almost entirely sensible stuff [and the occasional off-topic newsflash about a new restaurant called the Monte Alban].

My Muse is off somewhere with that skank Inspiration! And, like one of the knights in Lerner and Lowe’s musical, Camelot, I’m itching for a dragon of a hypothesis to smite or a damsel-ish archaeological theory to save from certain oblivion in the ivory tower of conventional wisdom.

I’m windmill-less. Worse, I have no Sancho Panza to spar with on matters philosophical.

I’m fighting a losing battle trying to ignore the piles of dishes and laundry, and the dust bunnies. 

It’s the end of the month, and there’s nothing but a frosty bottle of cheap vodka in the freezer and some orange juice in the fridge. And I HATE Screwdrivers! I’m making do with Irish Breakfast tea, fergawdsakes! And water. [How the mighty are fallen…]

Worst of all, I worry when I don’t have anything to write about. I’m worried that you’ll go away and never come back. Faint strains of Jackson Browne singing ‘Stay’ are drifting through my merely conscious consciousness.

BUT, there’s always Hope. For one thing, I can’t believe that all the cockamamy archaeological claims have already been made! More await us just around the corner. I know it. [Clap if you believe in the Poppycock Fairy.]

So, patience, Grasshopper. Enjoy your Sunday. The NFL refs are back–you don’t have to boycott pro football any longer. Or bake a cake, or take a walk. Or do what I’m doing. Put yer feet up and revel in the thought that you don’t have to be back at work for at least another 24. Be well. 

I’ll be back. 


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