Wanted: This job

I know our mythic history, King Arthur’s and Sir Caradoc’s;
I answer hard acrostics, I’ve a pretty taste for paradox,
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;
I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!
Then I can hum a fugue of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you ev’ry detail of Caractacus’s uniform:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

Sadly, it appears no one but Gilbert and Sullivan want modern Major-Generals. Damnation and hellfire! There should be epaulets for all!

LASERS. Archaeologists with LASERS.

Well, okay, additional lasers.

From the NYTimes:

For the Caracol survey, the aircraft flew less than a half-mile above the terrain at the end of the dry season, when foliage is less dense. The Airborne Laser Terrain Mapper, as the specific advanced system is named, issued steady light pulses along 62 north-south flight lines and 60 east-west lines….Not all the laser pulses transmitted from the aircraft made it to the surface. Some were reflected by the tops of trees. But enough reached the ground and were reflected back to the airborne instruments. These signals, measured and triangulated by GPS receivers and processed by computers, produced images of the surface contours. This revealed distinct patterns of building ruins, causeways and other human modifications of the landscape.

Amazing! Magnetometry has been rocking my socks off this whole year:

But, you know, rainforest + plane + AIRBOURNE LASER (terrain mapper).

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.

Dear Volcano: Let me out of here.

Alternatively, we could just load these suckers onto ships and build a glorious, heaving wall of biscuits and sausage gravy- it could loam over the mouth of the volcano, and cause even the magma to subside in shame!

Or, you know. Damn the biscuits and full speed ahead.

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!

Springtime for Judy in….Wherever

Apparently the daffodils are blooming (perhaps they confused the ash with Spring showers and thought it was May?) across ol’ Blighty and as a special treat, the weather is blossoming to a stately heatwave:

Thousands of Britons enjoyed one of the hottest days of the year so far on Sunday as temperatures reached 66F (19C).
The south will experience a ten-day heatwave with temperatures reaching 41F-43F (5-6C) warmer than normal for mid-April.

Heatwave?

This might explain why my epidermis, spoiled by a childhood in the jungle environment of D.C. (recent temperatures broke the will of digital thermometers and made 100 degrees flash on bank screens across the city), is so devoid of Vitamin D that I’ve been instructed to basically chug it every day, and lounge about in a bed of daffodils. Or, well, bask, at least.

In other news France beat off a retreat of English forces, well, okay, an attempt to rescue Britons on the coast by a historian, who brought a fleet of inflatable dinghies across the Channel and collected a band of intrepid tourists via Twitter. Sadly, France did not believe in their noble, slightly bouncy mission, and the yellow dinghamarine fleet was grounded- even after a massive, viral mainstream media pounced on the story of Movement! Somewhere! In! Europe!

In slightly better news, they’re saying their fancy jumbo jets are making the rounds of the sky just fine over there at KLM, Lufthansa and British Airways- to give their brass credit, Willie Walsh and other executives went up in the test flights. So there’s a chance humanity may escape the baleful eyelashes of Mordor this time. I think you’re a great volcano, Eyjafjallajokull, and I’mma let you finish, but Pompeii had one of the most goddamn pronounceable disastrous eruptions of all time…

I dreamt it was 2003

A long time ago, I was sixteen and living abroad and ate too much chocolate, and used too many exclamation marks.

A long time ago, I decided it was wise and sagacious to chronicle this. There was an earlier incarnation of this, a woeful site indeed; one of the relics of the internet. Being an archaeologette, I unearthed it- but no silver stake had I, nor holy water.

I’m sure all of the above will come as a massive blow to the image of the cosmopolitan, suave exact same lady I am, er, now.

You guys. November 19th, 2003.

“Saturday: It did not matter that it was raining. It did not matter that I was getting a cold. Do you know why?
Because I, Judy Barr, bought shoes.
And they are Hot. They are also somehow versatile, in that I can now imitate everyone from Charlie’s Angels to Legally Blonde to …well, there are LOTS of opportunities for these little darlings.
With three inch heels.
Bite me.”

And thus, the first little black stilettos traipsed into my life; a formative experience that would shape the entirety of my mortal coil. Because that was a good choice! I’m glad in seven years I haven’t, you know, grown up. Because that’d be such a shame.

Back to the future

Or perhaps better, back to the motherland. Yes, that’s right. Briefly, the stars will align, and I will alight back on the turf of the nation’s capital, where panda bears (used to) roam freely, and you can get a martini lunch at, basically, any hour of the day. Oh freedom. You taste so sweetly.

And then, in a shocking maneuver, I will be back again at the end of July, because the Naval Museum has graciously extended an offer of an internship at their fair establishment. This is all BRAND NEW and SOMEWHAT SHOCKING but rather reassuring, because I have to tell you, the job market for people who can wax eloquent on the Roman Economy is pretty much centered in DPhils in Old Blighty, and I don’t think my canopic organs (heart as an honorary member, liver) can take this kind of beating for another couple of years. So, you know. Less jetlag, although my internal clock might realign to Tahiti, just for kicks.

Also, peanut butter and banana is a reason to believe that the favorable gods smile upon America, for they have given to us wonderful, wonderful things.

Obnubilate: to cloud over, obscure, darken. Ex. England.

Interestingly, the sender chose to avoid the entire debate over the insertion of the Oxford comma entirely by usurping its rightful position with “+” signs. Clever, anonymous sender. Also, I’d buy you a pint.

I can’t really say very much as Oxford has been sheathed and coated in clouds for days now, in which hail has fallen, with its friend, steady, unremitting rain. Somehow this has caused a case of acute hibernation, in that I have been awake for a paltry handful of hours the entire weekend. Yesterday I saw blue, briefly, in the sky, and that was enough to climb all over my desk, fall halfway out the window, and snap pictures. Yesterday was also another bout of bitter drinks (not at all in emotions, but because the base elements are “gin” and “tonic” and neither lends to thoughts of umbrellas or cherries) with men who wear garters and court dress and that is a thing I will miss, come the end of this terms, and most especially at the end of the next.

It is, after all, the start of 7th week. 7th week! Out of 8! Out of the ten (eleven, I suppose) I have left. What a ridiculous year. So far, to check: life? Well, I haven’t picked up a Zombie habit, so let’s go with yes. Soul? Still dubious. Happiness? What a curious thing to think of. Because I haven’t lived in the library; I haven’t forgotten the color of sun. In fact, I think I could stand to read substantially more. But still. On the whole- things are okay.

Alchemy

French toast. In chocolate form. Lime, salt, crunchy chips: in chocolate form. Salt. Chocolate. There is no reason for this product to not be on my tongue, except that my mouth is located in ye oldie England, and this newfangled, palette-slaking thing appears to be for purchase on Amazon.americawhereyoucanalsobuycheappeanutbutterhahahaha.

It’s the secret, black card entrance to their website, right there.

And yes, if you’re thinking, is this archaeological chocolate, is this cultural? Those are bad questions, as you are on my blog, and this thing involves salt and appropriate percentages of cocoa mass, and really? This will, one day, be a sign that the human race turned to hedonism and gluttony and o Bacchus, was it good.