Delving into the deep

It’s worth noting, maybe, that Jetlag has had 1300 odd visits in the past year and a half or so. I assume many of these were confused denizens of the internet, since they came via such search terms as “Yandy,” “deadly sins,” “naughty poems,” and my personal favo(u)rites, “sexy archaeologist” and “cute archaeologist”. Thanks, Google! Sorry also to anonymous visitors “inside al khazneh, “princess walks into a bar,” and “volcano bop,” who maybe did not find what they were looking for. Actually, it’s kind of poetic:

french fries happiness aston

the steelers conspiracy theory scholand

girl her trowel and the big bad world

lion tamer.

Okay, I do know that M is responsible for much of it, in the hopes that I removed the Terrible Picture of Gelatin from the front page; sorry about the month of radioactive goo, y’all. More to come. Perhaps there will be lions! Sexy! Princesses in bars!

FYI

I think you’ve all heard, at some point, some variation on the theme that the ocean is stupid, space/time as continuum is a poor construct, and also that I miss M terribly and ridiculously so, therefore, the month of June should probably stop being around.

I would like to apologize for most of that. I would also like to point out that never, ever ever, have I desired the services of a product like this:

“Do you play for both teams? Do you have a hard time picking your ideal man? Do you constantly change your mind all the time? Do you rotate boyfriends every three weeks?

If yes, then the IDEAL MAN PICTURE INSERT MANLLOW is for YOU.

…

This manllow is the perfect gift for people in long distance relationships, have significant others in the military or who they just don’t see all that much. It’s ALSO perfect for those who do have a man around and just want something more comfortable to cuddle with when they’re sleeping.”

The perfect gift begins with a “P” and ends with “ony”. Or possibly, “t” and “icket to America”. The perfect gift does not, in fact, include the stuff of nightmares.

Just FYI! You should probably not purchase this for anyone you like. (Unless they actually do rotate boyfriends every three weeks, like some sort of pre-industrial crop that needs to lie fallow, and rest; apparently, these Tilt-A-Wheel Beaux also do not mind sleeping with Disemfaced Mummy Dude! Amazing! I cannot speak for these people. I do not need to know if these kinds of pillow threesome shenanigans actually exist.)

Update on the “American” “cheeseburger” “flavour” “crisps”

Yes, all of those scare quotes were warranted.

Roommate from the North reports that:

“I tried these in the kitchen; they were seriously gross. They tasted like a fast-food burger patty that fell on the floor.”

I am actually quite sorry if any tastebuds were harmed in the crisp experiment. Note: the crisps themselves had not actually fallen on the floor, I can at least vouch for that much! Note, II: I might owe my flat a decent packet of crisps, in something reasonable, like “salt flavour.”

O Atalanta

Fairies. A gaggle of Playboy bunnies. BUZZ LIGHTYEAR. Army men in full kit, with packs. Halloween? Or a British charity run 10k? Sadly, as I was concentrating on “staying alive” and “breathing” there are no photos but I’ll say this, it’s a hell of a lot more entertaining to chase down the Mario brothers than another Tall Dude in Baggy Basketball Shorts or everyone’s favorite, Smelly Guy…

Result: survival in 49:58. Oh, 42:36. I hardly knew ye. One day, I will train again on a more proactive basis than sprinting across red lights. Really!

Yes. The 10k came with a medal AND a sweet disaster relief blanket. Toasty and useful for warding off guvmint mind waves— apologies to the city of Bristol for wandering around like that for hours; you can see how the camouflage effect of glitter/bunny ears/Cowardly Lion is actually a wiser sartorial choice than spandex alone.

Sartorial index aside, the thousands of runners had the length of Bristol all to our greedy legs- 4km out along the river, tracing the mudflats of the low waters, next to stark and sheer cliffs- an old quarry? Low rows of brick houses, with rough brick pavements. Dogs. If you stop running, as I always do, when the air tastes like blood, they cheered on. Kids with a lemonade pitcher next to the course. Back in castle park there were the ruins of a church with tree branches instead of stained glass. Afterwards, plates of sausages and mash in giant yorkshire puddings, the size of picture frames, in a tavern four hundred-odd years old. Most of it survived the bombing.

And now I’m going to down more than the recommended dosage of Tylenol. Repeatedly.

Archaeologist job postings, take one

The NFI is looking for an experienced forensic archaeologist. The main duties are:
- The search for, and excavation of, clandestinely buried human remains or objects; the recovery of fragmented (burned) human remains, and the exhumation of human remains routinely buried in regular cemeteries.
- Participation in scientific research, in particular the development of (new) forensically-applicable field methods concerning the taphonomy associated with partially and/or completely skeletonized human remains.

This also requires fun things like “willingness to learn the Dutch language” and “Bayesian statistics” but really, forensic archaeologists, I salute you about a million and four times. Wanted: a braver soul than me.

New year, same as the old year

If by next May Day I am still looking at corn driers and pondering whether germinated spelt seeds are a crucial economic signifier for surplus production in the rural Romano-British world, I want you to exercise your Second Amendment rights judiciously.

Just saying.

Ukraine joins the Party Animals rave

Opposition lawmakers hurled eggs and smoke bombs inside Ukraine‘s parliament on Tuesday today as the chamber approved a deal allowing the Russian navy to extend its stay in a Ukrainian port until 2042…the chamber of the parliament filled with smoke bombs and the speaker, Volodymyr Litvyn, took shelter under his umbrella as eggs rained down on him.

WHAT.

Thank goodness our Congress is civil and polite and totally not packing water pistols and Nerf toys!

PS: Dear lobbyists for water pistol makers and the Nerf corporation: get on that.

Everything but a yellow submarine

Two planes, two taxis, one ferry, one coach, one car, and three trains: take that, Stupidly Named Volcano! Look what…weird contortions of a transportation system humanity can put together when absolutely forced to with access to a credit card! Hah!

…damn it, Volcano. Stop pointing out the frailty of existence. Though you’ll be pleased to note that if Icelandic mated with Welsh, all human tongues would shrivel and die in horror:

Little bird, little bird

One can tell when one’s eyes are too flush with citations and thoughts about ‘economic integration’ when one wanders over to that bastion of useless, misspelled rambles who have mistaken brevity for the soul of wit. Yes. Twitter. In part, this is because there is only so much obsessive volcano stalking one can do before running into #ashtag in which lost souls wandering the world seek intrepid adventurers for road shares to London from…Los Angeles.

(?! How…?!?)

True stalkers have seized upon http://twitter.com/Eyjafjalla , @theashcloud and the sassy @Katla

It seems that everything you touch @Eyjafjalla turns to dust. Shame you’re not Midas, it would sort out Iceland’s money woes. #ashtag

Burn, baby, burn.

(Don’t worry, everyone’s favorite Big_Ben_Clock does not appear to be choking on all the hot air and ash in London, or from the volcanic effects; BONG BONG BONG remains the chime of the hour.)

Anyway between this and headlines involving “DisERUPTION in Europe!” [no, really? Really?] I am going mad. Very, very mad.

Clash of the Regulations

The invisible Kraken of the skies is still lurking, so, yes, dear readers, I’m still ensconced under domestic covers, and not fending for the last packet of pretzels on a Continental tincan flight.

Logical:

Wait until Friday, act like a normal person.

Dubious:

Wait until the 23rd, hop a cruise ship or merchant steamer; collect trunk upon disembarking.

The gods must be crazy:

Casablanca, subway, train, Tangier, cab, boat, Europe, train, train, bus. Camels? Parasols? Play it again, Sam?

Updates to follow!