June - the Cruelest Month

Summertime is busytime for archaeologists. The weather permits our work to go more-or-less unimpeded, and so we hit the field in droves. Indeed, it is during this time of year that the Department of Fish and Game removes size limit prohibitions on hunting archaeologists, lest we become so numerous that we over-run the ecosystem. It's a common thing to see a processualist tied to the hood of some redneck's pickup, his copy of "Willow Smoke and Dogs Tails" still clutched in his now cold hand. Rarer, but still not unheard of, are the episodes in which a post-processualist will attempt to argue that they are, in fact, not yet dead, as the bullet that the hunter fired is merely a social construct and thus not capable of depriving the archaeologist of life without the archaeologist's consent, and besides, it is only a flesh wound.

Last summer, I was assigned to a project on the Middle Fork of the American River. For various reasons, the project became a creeping source of stress, lurking in the corner of my office and occasionally taking me in its slimy clutches and forcing me to work in a place named (and I am not making this up) Hell Hole. Due to this project, I lost alot of sleep, more than a little weight, and missed several events in the lives of friends and family - including the immediate aftermath of my grandmother's death. It didn't help that my crew alternated between obstinate and incompetent, forcing me (and my coworker Kelly, who was an amazingly good sport about everything) to repeat work (usually without billing our time - leading to 90 hour weeks in which I was paid for 40 hours on more than one occasion).

And the project is back this summer. I have been dreading it, but things are looking up. I have been given the greenlight to divide my crew into two teams, allowing us to cover ground twice as quickly. On top of that, one of the company's owner assigned a field tech to work with me by the name of Francisco, a fellow whose competence is exceeded only by his professionalism, which is in turn exceeded only by his excellent attitude. I have also managed to snag a field tech named Laura, who saved my butt by being extremely competent in her own right a few weeks ago when I needed back-up during the debacle with the fellow who walked off the project. On top of that, I may get two more field technicians who were both students of mine at UC Santa Barbara.

So, I have an all-star team in the field, a better grasp on how to deal with the situations as they arise, and an overall pretty good feeling about the project. While I'd still rather not be heading out of town for a week, especially not to Hell Hole, I have to admit, things are looking up.

Great Place to Work

I recently came across the short piece pasted below while clearing out my email. A company I used to work for hands out these "Great Place to Work" awards every fiscal quarter. Because of some surreal experiences I had when I worked int he tech industry, these sorts of "morale boosting" programs always make me a bit leery. Nonetheless, the other archaeologist and I though it would be funny to nominate me because I was in the process of leaving for another job at the time, so I wrote the following essay for the nomination letter...


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To: The Great Place to Work Committee
From: Cultural Resources
RE: Nomination for the Great Place to Work Award



In order to explain how Matthew Armstrong is making this office a better place to work, it is necessary to describe a bit about Matthew himself. Matthew has earned both a Bachelor's degree and a Masters degree from the University of California, as well as certifications in archaeological technology and business administration from other institutions.

If you needed any, this is proof that standards are slipping throughout California.

Indeed, despite how impressive such laurels appear, Matthew's success demonstrates that even a poorly-trained monkey with a pervasive developmental disorder can now earn credentials that were once reserved for those who had more than simply a brain stem with which to think. In case you need any further evidence of this, we have trained a monkey to earn these same credentials, his name is Bobo and he is a Rhesus monkey. UCSB managed to place him in a management-track position with IBM's accounting division.

In Matthew's favor, however, unlike the monkey, he doesn't have to wear a diaper at work.

However, Matthew has other attributes that should be discussed here. On the subject of Matthew's breath, the kindest thing that can be said is that so long as he is spewing fumes from his mouth and nose, we needn't worry about having to fumigate for insects. As such, his lack of acquaintance with the toothbrush or Listerine is probably saving us money on pest control bills. Likewise, his general odor might be greatly improved had he ever heard of that most marvelous invention known as soap.

Though Matthew's tendency to drool may disgust many of his coworkers, it is likely that it has saved this company from being sued when documents were late due to Matthew's failings – after all, what client can fault a man who is clearly incapable of keeping his jaw shut for not producing a complex document on time.

Matthew's tendency to be resolved in his views and his ability to take action based on such resolve would be a great attribute if it wasn't for the fact that he is so wildly misinformed about the world in general that his actions are often incomprehensible, ridiculous, and just plain stupid. Who amongst us can forget the time that he took it upon himself to demonstrate that a tribe of 12" tall neandertals once lived in he Santa Barbara Airport, or the time that he laced an EIR section with comments such as "if appropriate mitigation measures are not taken, then resources will be irreparably damaged – those same resources that the reptilian overlords who really rule the Santa Barbara County Office of Planning and Development want to siphon off – so you'd better be paying attention to this document!"

Given this, it might be fair to ask why I am nominating Matthew for the "Great Place to Work Award." The reason is simple: he is leaving. While his leaving may not necessarily make this office a great place to work, it will make it significantly better

I (almost) Was a Mail-Order Husband

The first and, to this day, only time that I have received a marriage proposal, was during the summer of 1997, when I was 21. The problem is that I didn't receive the proposal from the woman who wanted me to marry her. In fact, to this day, I've never met her.

I put myself through college, so in addition to working during the academic year, I also worked multiple jobs during the summer, and one of these jobs was at the office of my mother, a family law attorney.

Incidentally, if you want to lose all faith in humanity, I highly recommend working in a family law office. There is little that allows you to see the true character of an individual better than seeing how they treat those who they claim to love or formerly claim to have loved. People make false accusations of child molestation, attempt to drag out the various issues – and therefore drag out the divorce – merely to have some control over (and cause misery for) their former spouse, and do all manner of other less than kind things. In short, outside of a war crimes trial, you are unlikely to see as many people behaving as inhumanly as in a family law office.

But back to the point of this essay…

This office had a paralegal who was from Fiji, as was her husband. One day, I was sitting at my desk when the paralegal, who I will refer to as Linda for no reason other than that Linda was the first name to come to me when looking for an alias for this woman, approached me and said "hey, how would you like a trip to Fiji?"

I looked up at here and asked "why do you want to send me to Fiji?"

Linda looked at me with an attempted, and failing, expression of innocence on her face. "I just thought that you might like to see Fiji."

"Now, Linda," if that was indeed her real name, which it wasn't, because I just made it up as a cover for her real name, "I know you aren't going to send me to Fiji just to send me to Fiji. So, what is the story?"

"Well, Jehosephat," the name I have assigned her husband for the purposes of this essay, "has a sister that wants to come to the U.S., and it will be easier to get a green card if she is married to a citizen."

"I think the INS would frown on this proposition. Besides, I'm not going to marry someone that I have never met!"

"Oh, don't be a wimp. We'll send you out to meet her one time before you agree to marry her."

"I doubt that I am going to feel inclined to marry someone that I have only met once."

She gave me a frustrated look. "Oh, come on, do you really think that you can choose a better mate on your own? I've seen the women you are attracted to!"

"Hey, what is that supposed to mean?"

"Do the words 'scary cult' mean anything to you? "

"Hey, that was a bad choice on my part. But, hey, how could I have known what was coming?"

"The fact that she was insistent on you kneeling before an altar to Dagon should have been a clue. Not to mention the sack-cloth robe that she insisted on wearing every time you two went out."

She ticked off a finger, and headed for another "Or how about the one who broke up with you because you wouldn't tell her what classes she was required to take?"

"Well, she had some problems…"

"And she wanted you to pick out her outfits for her. Every day. Including when you were out of town. And she wanted you to create a daily schedule for her ot follow in case nobody was around to give her instructions." Linda pointed a finger from her non-ticked hand at me.

"Okay, a lot of problems, but how should I have seen that coming?"

"Maybe the fact that when you first asked her out she asked you what color would best match your clothes should have been a clue."

"Okay," I said, my frustration rising. "I made two bad choices. That hardly constitutes a pattern."

"It does when you have only dated two women. You're no Lothario, you know. Now, we can settle the whole matter and make your life easier by marrying you off to my sister in law." With her hands on her hips, Linda looked like she meant business.

"Hey, I am not marrying your sister-in-law, and that is final! I don't see how marrying her will do anyone any good, especially me!"

And that was the last I heard of it. However, for some time later, whenever I related this story to a male friend thinking that he would get a good laugh out of it, he instead got a thoughtful look on his face and asked "Do you think they're still looking for someone?"