Normally I would post a standard-length post on Friday, but this week is a bit chaotic (again). First off, I am in the field, fighting my way through poison oak as this post drops. Secondly, I have been preparing a talk for the Fresno County Archaeological Society (meeting at CSU Fresno on Monday, come by to hear the talk if you'd like), which has been eating up much of my time. Third, as you can probably guess from Wednesday's post, family stuff has been eating up alot of my time (family gatherings have been taking me out of town, and Kaylia's doctor appointments require me to juggle my work schedule around a bit). So, I've not had much time to write.
However, as I am writing this, I do have a little something to talk about: my fieldwork today.
I spent the day moving through dense manzanita. For those who are unfamiliar with this foul plant, it's a small shrub-like tree that grows in dense patches. The branches grow low to the ground and interlock with the branches of the neighboring trees, resulting in a dense, nearly impassable mess. The branches can sometimes be broken, but more often you have to either just push through it, getting thwacked, cut, and jabbed by branches as you go, or you get down on your hands and knees and crawl through the small 2 foot area where the branches are not quite as thick. It's miserable.
Today, my crew and I spent the entire day fighting our way through this crap. My clothes are destroyed, my equipment is a bit damaged, and I am covered in cuts and bruises, as are my crew. It was bad enough that a crew that can normally cover 10 to twelve linear miles a day spent most of the day fighting its way through a half mile of linear. When we finished, we found ourselves facing oak woodland covered in a sea of poison oak, and we were, honestly, relieved by this site.
It was terrible.
So why were we doing it? Well, there may very well have been sites in the area, but a combination of the dense manzanita and the duff (layer of dead leaves and small plants covering the surface) prevented us from being able to actually see the ground most of the time, and the dense manzanita also would have prevented any exploration with a shovel (there would, quite literally, have been no room to move the shovel or screen). So, there was no good technical reason for doing it.
The reason was regulatory. In order to get and keep the permits that they need for construction, our client has to be able to demonstrate that they made a good-faith effort to identify archaeological sites that might be impacted by construction. To this end, we, as the cultural resources contractor, have to actually make the good-faith effort, which often means that we go into places where there is little visibility and little reason to anticipate that our efforts will be rewarded in order to ensure that our client gets what they need.
Add to that the fact that, at this location, we have to deal with a particular office of a particular government agency where little things such as "there's no reasonable way to expect us to see anything" are not taken as an excuse for not looking, and you have the conditions under which I, an usually sane and reasonable man, will not only push myself through manzanita, but will push others through it as well.
Ahh, the glorious and exciting life of the archaeologist.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Interview Available
So, a while back I was interviewed by Steve Jarjoura of the podcast Postcards from the Dungeon. The podcast is about role playing games, and specifically about the introduction of various storytelling concepts and methods into role playing games.
I was interviewed to talk about archaeology, and to discuss how anthropological principles can be applied to designing societies in fantasy world. The interview is available here.
I was interviewed to talk about archaeology, and to discuss how anthropological principles can be applied to designing societies in fantasy world. The interview is available here.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
More Useless Advice Regarding Pregnancy and Childbirth
I was prepared for some of this, and I know that Kaylia is getting it worse than I am, but I am growing increasingly tired of the sheer volume of pregnancy and baby-related mystical nonsense and dubious and dangerous pseudo-science being pushed our way. It began as a bit of a trickle, but the waters are rising, and I suspect it will be a full-on deluge before all is said and done.
As I say, it started small, but early, when Kaylia wrote on Facebook that she had eaten a few Chicken McNuggets early in the pregnancy for the wacky reason that they were about the only thing that her body wasn't making her vomit up. This received a huge amount of criticism, accusing Kaylia of "poisoning your baby!" as the people commenting on it demonstrated a complete and utter lack of comprehension of reality by confusing their culturally-conditioned notions of what is "gross" with more objective standards regarding what is actually dangerous.
Since then, we have received routine advice from well-meaning but ill-informed people about the value of such quackery as homeopathy and power-balance bracelets in dealing with pregnancy related problems. As the people offering the advice usually have the best of intentions (and in the case of homeopathy, have typically been misled by the way that that particular quackery is marketed, and aren't aware that it is literally just water or sugar pills), we sometimes argue the point and sometimes just let it go, but have so far not followed any of it.
As we have moved farther along in the pregnancy, we have been further drawn in to the absurdity that I call the Breast Milk Wars. Now, to start, I should state the following: I am well aware that the data supports breast feeding as an excellent way to ensure that the child is well-nourished and healthy, and may also provide psychological benefits for both the mother and child. Moreover, I am not bothered by women breast-feeding in public. So, people who find breast feeding repugnant, frankly, do seem to be pushing away a healthy practice, and people who get bent out of shape about children being fed in public places strike me as remarkably silly, often bordering on misogynistic.
However, breast milk is not magical. While it may be the healthier choice, it is not an alchemical elixir that will solve all ills, and I have become more than slightly tired of smug, arrogant (and, it should be noted, generally privileged white people) attempting to stretch the actual data beyond all recognition in order to vilify or otherwise look down upon mothers who are unable or unwilling to engage in breast feeding. Moreover, not every mother is capable of breast feeding as often as they would want, or their child would need. In addition, we live in a world in which physical reality trumps all, and if the mother is away when the child needs to be fed, someone other than the mother is going to have to do it. Some of the logistical problems can be dealt with via a breast pump, but if the mother is unable to produce enough milk, even the pump isn't going to help. Nonetheless, I have seen and heard more than a few rants lately in which the speaker (who while typically female is, interestingly from a social standpoint, also often male) rants about the evils of forumla, breats pumps, and any other thing that doesn't involve the child directly drinking from the mother, and about how anyone who would use such materials or devices is clearly either deluded or evil. These rants are usually followed with "but I would never think to judge the decision of a woman who does differently than I."
In fact, for almost every one of these types of things that we have encountered, at least one person delivering a rant, pitch, or insane ramble is followed by them stating that they are not judging parents who do not act as they did. Sorry, folks, but when you have just made your judgmental nature clear, you don't get out of it by claiming that you are not being judgmental anymore than a KKK member gets out of being racist by announcing that they aren't racist.
And the list goes on. Recently, we were informed that choosing to have our child in a hospital (you know, those institutions with trained medical staff, each of whom has years or decades of experience in dealing with the myriad of potential complications involved in childbirth, on hand to deal with emergencies - AKA the institutions that mad the phrase "died in childbirth" something of an anachronism) is "sad." No, it's not sad to want to have our child in a place and with people who can make sure that both our child and Kaylia are well taken care of. The notion that we have committed some grievous wrong or are otherwise doing something bad in choosing to make a wise and prudent choice for the health of Kaylia and our child is what is sad. No, actually, it's not sad, it's disturbing.
Oh, and, of course, there's the lunacy of people who think that vaccines are some big corporate conspiracy. Vaccines. You know, the things that made measles, polio, and rubella largely things of the past - though they are coming back due to the foolishness of the fore-mentioned privileged people who have never had to actually see the effects that these diseases have on children and communities. Let me tell you this: I have seen, first-hand, the long-term effects of some of these illnesses, and those who are choosing to avoid vaccines because they belief in the insane propaganda pushed by ideologues and fools are irresponsible and should be deeply ashamed of themselves. But, of course, they won't be, instead they'll continue to put their communities and their own children at risk in the name of their bizarre and paranoid ideologies.
And all of that is the stuff that gets aimed primarily at Kaylia. Let's talk briefly about the bizarreness that is aimed at fathers.
It came as little surprise to me that the majority of popular books on pregnancy and childbirth subscribe to the antiquated "dad, the idiot" model. While the information in these books for fathers is useful, it is typically written in the most astoundingly condescending manner possible, and often verges into the realm of the mind-numbingly obvious. For example, I have been informed that my partner may not be interested in sex when in the throes of morning sickness (if a man doesn't recognize this fact, then he has some issues that pre-date the pregnancy and likely render him unfit as a human, much less a father), that my partner may need emotional support while going through the pregnancy (what? She might need emotional support while going through massive physical changes and alterations due to hormonal changes? If you didn't already know this, how did you convince a woman let you get close enough to get her pregnant?). Likewise, while these books do provide useful information on infant care for both mothers and fathers, they again adopt the attitude that childcare should be left to the (female) adults, and that the children (anyone with a Y chromosome, regardless of age) should just run along to their workplace to play and not worry their pretty little heads with the responsibilities of a caregiver.
Interestingly, one of the few books I have so far seen that accepts a significant role might be played by the father after fertilization is the "Husband Coached Childbirth" (AKA the Bradley Method) approach which, as far as I can tell, is not specifically religious in nature, but has earned a degree of popularity amongst the various religious-right sorts that I have met. While it does have some really good ideas about how to reduce medical interventions during labor and delivery, it was written largely as a response to now-discarded practices from the 1940s and 1950s, and as such, its creators' anti-intervention stance should be more critically examined than it seems to be. The culture of the Bradley Method is also so thoroughly steeped in pseudo-science and anti-medical rhetoric that, while it may have some useful ideas for the role of fathers, I have to admit that I have had to hold my nose when thumbing through the book.
So, the more "traditional" books seem to regard the father as an expendable amateur. Surely the progressives will recognize the importance of both parents and encourage the father as a nurturer both to his partner and to their child, right?
Well, sort of, some of the time. When it doesn't interfere with mystical thinking.
Many (though, it should be noted, thankfully not all) of the self-described "progressive parents" with whom I associate seem to have developed very clearly defined and inviolable roles for men and women in their minds, and these roles seem to typically play very much into the standard gender stereotypes with which Pat Robertson et al. would be very comfortable: The father goes to work, brings home the money, and has only a limited role in childcare; the mother does all (and I mean all, no exception) feeding, most (if not all) basic care (bathing, changing, comforting, etc.) of the child, and is responsible for early childhood education. Kaylia has been informed that she should not allow me to feed our child (even if I am using stored breast milk), and I have been often informed that, as I lack a uterus, I am incapable of reaching any sort of informed decision regarding childcare.
The difference between the religious right version and the progressive version of this seems to be centered around the idea of whether men or women are more valuable. The religious right holds that the man is the head of the household, and all within it must submit to him. The progressives hold that women are magical (though they will usually use terms such as "natural caregivers and nurturers" rather than "magical", but the use of the term "natural" might as well be substituted with the word "magical" for all of the actual meaning that it has), and fathers are doofuses who shouldn't be entrusted with the well-being of the child. Us men are either dominators or dorks, and either way, we don't have what it takes to be anything other than either the breadwinner or the disciplinarian.
Both sides will, of course, insist that they aren't claiming either gender is superior, they just have different roles. Both sides are, of course, actually claiming that one gender is, in fact superior, and the other worthwhile only within a particular confined role.
Anyway, I have no more to say at the moment. I'm just irritated and annoyed.
On the upside, I will be a daddy soon, and I am looking forward to pissing off all ideologues by taking an active role in every aspect of my child's life.
As I say, it started small, but early, when Kaylia wrote on Facebook that she had eaten a few Chicken McNuggets early in the pregnancy for the wacky reason that they were about the only thing that her body wasn't making her vomit up. This received a huge amount of criticism, accusing Kaylia of "poisoning your baby!" as the people commenting on it demonstrated a complete and utter lack of comprehension of reality by confusing their culturally-conditioned notions of what is "gross" with more objective standards regarding what is actually dangerous.
Since then, we have received routine advice from well-meaning but ill-informed people about the value of such quackery as homeopathy and power-balance bracelets in dealing with pregnancy related problems. As the people offering the advice usually have the best of intentions (and in the case of homeopathy, have typically been misled by the way that that particular quackery is marketed, and aren't aware that it is literally just water or sugar pills), we sometimes argue the point and sometimes just let it go, but have so far not followed any of it.
As we have moved farther along in the pregnancy, we have been further drawn in to the absurdity that I call the Breast Milk Wars. Now, to start, I should state the following: I am well aware that the data supports breast feeding as an excellent way to ensure that the child is well-nourished and healthy, and may also provide psychological benefits for both the mother and child. Moreover, I am not bothered by women breast-feeding in public. So, people who find breast feeding repugnant, frankly, do seem to be pushing away a healthy practice, and people who get bent out of shape about children being fed in public places strike me as remarkably silly, often bordering on misogynistic.
However, breast milk is not magical. While it may be the healthier choice, it is not an alchemical elixir that will solve all ills, and I have become more than slightly tired of smug, arrogant (and, it should be noted, generally privileged white people) attempting to stretch the actual data beyond all recognition in order to vilify or otherwise look down upon mothers who are unable or unwilling to engage in breast feeding. Moreover, not every mother is capable of breast feeding as often as they would want, or their child would need. In addition, we live in a world in which physical reality trumps all, and if the mother is away when the child needs to be fed, someone other than the mother is going to have to do it. Some of the logistical problems can be dealt with via a breast pump, but if the mother is unable to produce enough milk, even the pump isn't going to help. Nonetheless, I have seen and heard more than a few rants lately in which the speaker (who while typically female is, interestingly from a social standpoint, also often male) rants about the evils of forumla, breats pumps, and any other thing that doesn't involve the child directly drinking from the mother, and about how anyone who would use such materials or devices is clearly either deluded or evil. These rants are usually followed with "but I would never think to judge the decision of a woman who does differently than I."
In fact, for almost every one of these types of things that we have encountered, at least one person delivering a rant, pitch, or insane ramble is followed by them stating that they are not judging parents who do not act as they did. Sorry, folks, but when you have just made your judgmental nature clear, you don't get out of it by claiming that you are not being judgmental anymore than a KKK member gets out of being racist by announcing that they aren't racist.
And the list goes on. Recently, we were informed that choosing to have our child in a hospital (you know, those institutions with trained medical staff, each of whom has years or decades of experience in dealing with the myriad of potential complications involved in childbirth, on hand to deal with emergencies - AKA the institutions that mad the phrase "died in childbirth" something of an anachronism) is "sad." No, it's not sad to want to have our child in a place and with people who can make sure that both our child and Kaylia are well taken care of. The notion that we have committed some grievous wrong or are otherwise doing something bad in choosing to make a wise and prudent choice for the health of Kaylia and our child is what is sad. No, actually, it's not sad, it's disturbing.
Oh, and, of course, there's the lunacy of people who think that vaccines are some big corporate conspiracy. Vaccines. You know, the things that made measles, polio, and rubella largely things of the past - though they are coming back due to the foolishness of the fore-mentioned privileged people who have never had to actually see the effects that these diseases have on children and communities. Let me tell you this: I have seen, first-hand, the long-term effects of some of these illnesses, and those who are choosing to avoid vaccines because they belief in the insane propaganda pushed by ideologues and fools are irresponsible and should be deeply ashamed of themselves. But, of course, they won't be, instead they'll continue to put their communities and their own children at risk in the name of their bizarre and paranoid ideologies.
And all of that is the stuff that gets aimed primarily at Kaylia. Let's talk briefly about the bizarreness that is aimed at fathers.
It came as little surprise to me that the majority of popular books on pregnancy and childbirth subscribe to the antiquated "dad, the idiot" model. While the information in these books for fathers is useful, it is typically written in the most astoundingly condescending manner possible, and often verges into the realm of the mind-numbingly obvious. For example, I have been informed that my partner may not be interested in sex when in the throes of morning sickness (if a man doesn't recognize this fact, then he has some issues that pre-date the pregnancy and likely render him unfit as a human, much less a father), that my partner may need emotional support while going through the pregnancy (what? She might need emotional support while going through massive physical changes and alterations due to hormonal changes? If you didn't already know this, how did you convince a woman let you get close enough to get her pregnant?). Likewise, while these books do provide useful information on infant care for both mothers and fathers, they again adopt the attitude that childcare should be left to the (female) adults, and that the children (anyone with a Y chromosome, regardless of age) should just run along to their workplace to play and not worry their pretty little heads with the responsibilities of a caregiver.
Interestingly, one of the few books I have so far seen that accepts a significant role might be played by the father after fertilization is the "Husband Coached Childbirth" (AKA the Bradley Method) approach which, as far as I can tell, is not specifically religious in nature, but has earned a degree of popularity amongst the various religious-right sorts that I have met. While it does have some really good ideas about how to reduce medical interventions during labor and delivery, it was written largely as a response to now-discarded practices from the 1940s and 1950s, and as such, its creators' anti-intervention stance should be more critically examined than it seems to be. The culture of the Bradley Method is also so thoroughly steeped in pseudo-science and anti-medical rhetoric that, while it may have some useful ideas for the role of fathers, I have to admit that I have had to hold my nose when thumbing through the book.
So, the more "traditional" books seem to regard the father as an expendable amateur. Surely the progressives will recognize the importance of both parents and encourage the father as a nurturer both to his partner and to their child, right?
Well, sort of, some of the time. When it doesn't interfere with mystical thinking.
Many (though, it should be noted, thankfully not all) of the self-described "progressive parents" with whom I associate seem to have developed very clearly defined and inviolable roles for men and women in their minds, and these roles seem to typically play very much into the standard gender stereotypes with which Pat Robertson et al. would be very comfortable: The father goes to work, brings home the money, and has only a limited role in childcare; the mother does all (and I mean all, no exception) feeding, most (if not all) basic care (bathing, changing, comforting, etc.) of the child, and is responsible for early childhood education. Kaylia has been informed that she should not allow me to feed our child (even if I am using stored breast milk), and I have been often informed that, as I lack a uterus, I am incapable of reaching any sort of informed decision regarding childcare.
The difference between the religious right version and the progressive version of this seems to be centered around the idea of whether men or women are more valuable. The religious right holds that the man is the head of the household, and all within it must submit to him. The progressives hold that women are magical (though they will usually use terms such as "natural caregivers and nurturers" rather than "magical", but the use of the term "natural" might as well be substituted with the word "magical" for all of the actual meaning that it has), and fathers are doofuses who shouldn't be entrusted with the well-being of the child. Us men are either dominators or dorks, and either way, we don't have what it takes to be anything other than either the breadwinner or the disciplinarian.
Both sides will, of course, insist that they aren't claiming either gender is superior, they just have different roles. Both sides are, of course, actually claiming that one gender is, in fact superior, and the other worthwhile only within a particular confined role.
Anyway, I have no more to say at the moment. I'm just irritated and annoyed.
On the upside, I will be a daddy soon, and I am looking forward to pissing off all ideologues by taking an active role in every aspect of my child's life.
Monday, April 30, 2012
So, These Things Happen...
One of the local counties wants to build some structures near a neighborhood in a mostly agricultural area in the San Joaquin Valley. This was subject to CEQA* review, and so I was sent out to have a look and see what was what.
I drove for about an hour, got to the site, and discovered that it was nestled amongst a group of dilapidated, abandoned homes, and a few rather nice currently occupied houses. I got out of the car, and began walking the lots, looking for evidence of archaeological materials, when I heard someone call out "Hey, what are you up to?"
I looked up, and saw a middle-aged Latino man walking towards me. He stopped about ten feet from me, looked at my shirt (I was wearing a UC Santa Cruz T-Shirt), nodded approvingly, and then walked towards me and we introduced ourselves to each other and shook hands. He owned one of the neighboring houses, and seeing me nosing around, figured that he should find out who I am. This is perfectly normal, and it is rare that I have a bad interaction with someone who comes out to see what I am up to.
I explained that I was doing the environmental review for this particular project, with which he was familiar, and was just looking at the ground. He then began telling me about problems his brother had had with getting building permits with the county, and abruptly changed the conversation over to a discussion (or rather a spewing rant from him) about how the county of Fresno, CalOSHA, the local hospital, and the Sheriff's department are all part of a massive conspiracy to deny him workers comp coverage, and to kill off workers in local canneries. Oh, and he also told of how he went to court, represented himself, but channeled questions from THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY and used these questions to defeat his opponents in court, only to have the corrupt judge decide against him anyway (Note: The is why the Tea Party people are so worked up over "activist judges" - apparently judges can over-turn the decisions of the almighty creator of the universe).
I politely listened for a few minutes, and then told him that I needed to get back to work. He proceeded to follow me around for the next 30 minutes or so, repeating most of his story during that time, while also asking me what I thought of various points, and then cutting me off before I got more than 1.5 syllables into a response. Finally, he stopped ranting, and said: "So, I see that you went to college, so you're smart. What do you think that I should do?"
Two things surprised me: 1) usually, these days, when people find out that I went to college, unless the themselves did as well, they immediately assume that I am shiftless, lazy and arrogant, and that I need them to tell me about "the real world". So, I was a bit surprised to have someone assume that I was more intelligent than them. Mind you, I'm not sure that I am more intelligent than this guy, but I do suspect that I have a firmer grasp on reality and mental health; 2) I told this guy that I was an archaeologist, not a county employee, not a lawyer, not a media figure, so why the hell did he think that I could help him at all?
It was very strange.
So, after trying to dodge the question for a bit, I finally told him to contact the media. I figured that, on the off-chance that there was any truth to his story (I really doubt it, but corruption is not unknown in Fresno County government) then it would expose it, but, more likely, the media people would see him as a crank and blow him off. He responded that he had called the local TV stations but "they wouldn't touch it, they're afraid!"
Yeah...sure buddy.
So, I told him to contact national media (even higher chance of a crank brush-off, but at least he wouldn't be my problem, and I could get back to work). He thought about it, decided that this was a good idea, and asked "So, who do I call?"
I explained, again, that I don't work in the media, and didn't know. But that he could get email addresses and phone numbers and find out pretty easily.
His response - "well, yeah, but you know people who work for like CNN or the New York Times, or something, right?"
I had to explain to him multiple times that no, I do not know any such people, before he'd finally believe.
In the end, I had to get in my car and drive around the block, and then walk back to the project area in order to lose the guy. So it goes...
*California Environmental Quality Act
I drove for about an hour, got to the site, and discovered that it was nestled amongst a group of dilapidated, abandoned homes, and a few rather nice currently occupied houses. I got out of the car, and began walking the lots, looking for evidence of archaeological materials, when I heard someone call out "Hey, what are you up to?"
I looked up, and saw a middle-aged Latino man walking towards me. He stopped about ten feet from me, looked at my shirt (I was wearing a UC Santa Cruz T-Shirt), nodded approvingly, and then walked towards me and we introduced ourselves to each other and shook hands. He owned one of the neighboring houses, and seeing me nosing around, figured that he should find out who I am. This is perfectly normal, and it is rare that I have a bad interaction with someone who comes out to see what I am up to.
I explained that I was doing the environmental review for this particular project, with which he was familiar, and was just looking at the ground. He then began telling me about problems his brother had had with getting building permits with the county, and abruptly changed the conversation over to a discussion (or rather a spewing rant from him) about how the county of Fresno, CalOSHA, the local hospital, and the Sheriff's department are all part of a massive conspiracy to deny him workers comp coverage, and to kill off workers in local canneries. Oh, and he also told of how he went to court, represented himself, but channeled questions from THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY and used these questions to defeat his opponents in court, only to have the corrupt judge decide against him anyway (Note: The is why the Tea Party people are so worked up over "activist judges" - apparently judges can over-turn the decisions of the almighty creator of the universe).
I politely listened for a few minutes, and then told him that I needed to get back to work. He proceeded to follow me around for the next 30 minutes or so, repeating most of his story during that time, while also asking me what I thought of various points, and then cutting me off before I got more than 1.5 syllables into a response. Finally, he stopped ranting, and said: "So, I see that you went to college, so you're smart. What do you think that I should do?"
Two things surprised me: 1) usually, these days, when people find out that I went to college, unless the themselves did as well, they immediately assume that I am shiftless, lazy and arrogant, and that I need them to tell me about "the real world". So, I was a bit surprised to have someone assume that I was more intelligent than them. Mind you, I'm not sure that I am more intelligent than this guy, but I do suspect that I have a firmer grasp on reality and mental health; 2) I told this guy that I was an archaeologist, not a county employee, not a lawyer, not a media figure, so why the hell did he think that I could help him at all?
It was very strange.
So, after trying to dodge the question for a bit, I finally told him to contact the media. I figured that, on the off-chance that there was any truth to his story (I really doubt it, but corruption is not unknown in Fresno County government) then it would expose it, but, more likely, the media people would see him as a crank and blow him off. He responded that he had called the local TV stations but "they wouldn't touch it, they're afraid!"
Yeah...sure buddy.
So, I told him to contact national media (even higher chance of a crank brush-off, but at least he wouldn't be my problem, and I could get back to work). He thought about it, decided that this was a good idea, and asked "So, who do I call?"
I explained, again, that I don't work in the media, and didn't know. But that he could get email addresses and phone numbers and find out pretty easily.
His response - "well, yeah, but you know people who work for like CNN or the New York Times, or something, right?"
I had to explain to him multiple times that no, I do not know any such people, before he'd finally believe.
In the end, I had to get in my car and drive around the block, and then walk back to the project area in order to lose the guy. So it goes...
*California Environmental Quality Act
Friday, April 27, 2012
SAA Memphis Part 3 - Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow
This here is Part 3, you dig? Part 2 is here, and Part 1 is here.
So, that night I got to bed, fell asleep quickly, and, due to exhaustion, managed to sleep solidly the full night despite the immature pilots of Boeing 747s buzzing my hotel all night long*. This also despite the fact that the hotel began to fill up with the rather rowdy attendees of a party for 15-year-clean members of Cocaine Anonymous**.
The next morning, I took the shuttle over to the convention center again, knowing that I would only have a partial day in which to see what I could at the conference, as well as to take a quick look around Memphis in the daylight.
So, I started by going to the poster session at the conference. Posters, for those unaware, are a way for researchers to present their work without getting up and giving a talk. Although some posters could easily be turned into a 15 or 20 minute talk, most are not quite sufficient material for such a talk, and as a result are better served by the static display of the poster. A great advantage of posters is that the person who did the research is free to talk about it in a way that the people giving papers are not. As a result, the poster presenters are often quite busy discussing results and answering questions with the other conference attendees.
Several of the posters were quite good, but two in particular struck me. The first was from a graduate student at the University of Washington who was presenting on her work at Dutch colonies in the Spice Islands. Her work was interesting in its own right, but struck me especially because her findings (roughly - the Dutch were more acculturated by the people that they forced to work on their plantations than the people of the plantations were enculturated by the Dutch, and there was little effort to eliminate or alter the culture of the workers) held some interesting contrasts and parallels to the history of Spanish and later Mexican colonization of California.
The second noteworthy poster was from a young man whose institution I don't remember, but he was presenting on the work he is doing with sling stones. Sling stones are precisely what they sound like - rocks used in a sling (think of the weapon with which David is said to have killed Goliath). Slings were used throughout North America, but are rarely discussed by archaeologists, who generally focus on other projectile weapons - mostly arrows, darts, and spears. What struck me is that one of the sling stones that the presenter had made looked suspiciously like a common bi-conical stone found in Californian sites usually thought to have been a religious item and called a charm stone. Now, I am not saying that all, or even most, of these items were sling stones, but it is worth noting the similarities, and considering whether or not we may be routinely mistaking one artifact type for another.
After a bit, I went out to wander Memphis just a little bit more. I wandered over to Beale Street, where I found myself in the middle of a Corvette enthusiast gathering. It was quite a site to see, but my time was short, and I couldn't dawdle.
I then moved on to get some photographs of the Mississippi River, which is, it must be said, one hell of a river. It was interesting, it must be said, to look across a river and know that I was seeing Arkansas - there are few places in my home state of California where you can know where one state ends and another begins just by looking at a natural boundary.
Finally, though, I headed back to the shuttle's stop, and got back to the hotel. I found myself Sitting in the shuttle with the wonderfully named Professor Paine. If only my friend Myrtle shock (aka Dr. Shock, on account of her Ph.D.) were there to meet him. Once at the hotel, I collected my belongings, and boarded another shuttle for the airport. However, as I boarded the shuttle back to the airport, I was happy to see that one of the Cocaine Anonymous folks was a dead ringer for Liam Neeson, were Liam Neeson a bearded, long-haired redneck.
Anyway, I got the the airport, and realized that I had not yet purchased a gift for Kaylia, so I got promptly on that, settling on a box of Moon Pies (I have always found them nasty, but Kaylia likes marshmallow more than I do). While doing this, I encountered a man who kept inadvertently knocking things off of shelves with his backpack. He and I got to talking, and it turned out that he was a film distributor from San Francisco who had been traveling the country to attend meetings with possible outlets for a film on the history of Timbuktu that had fallen into his company's hands. He had been in Memphis meeting with people in no way related to archaeology, when he heard that the SAA was there. However, he had no knowledge of how to reach anyone...and then he ran into an SAA member who also had no idea how to reach anyone at the SAA, so there's irony for you.
One pulled prok sandwich later, I had to move to get onto my plane. I was delighted to discover that there were only two people in my row - myself, and a fellow who looked for all of the world like John McCain. As the plane was loading, the honorable senator from Arizona pulled out a large, hardcover sex advice book, and began reading intently, which he continued doing until we touched down in Atlanta (our layover stop). Unlike the flight out, this one was uneventful, and I was able to finish reading my own book (Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley - I highly recommend it).
After we landed, and as we disembarked, it became clear that the former Republican nominee for president had to literally run to catch his connecting flight (perhaps to Wasilla Alaska?). And so he closed up his sex book and took off running as soon as we were off the plane (it was quite a sight to see, I assure you). I strolled at a leisurely towards my plane.
On my way to the plane, I was passed by a family of three - a mother and her two children (a boy of about ten years, and a girl in her early teens). The mother, a very attractive woman with an accent that I have to admit I found quite pleasant, said, rather loudly "well, all of this walking around is making my skirt ride up just ever so much!" Prompting the teenage daughter to say "Ma! What have I told you about too much information!" The son just giggled, whether because he thought it was funny, or out of embarrassment, I could not tell.
You know, it's a shame that sexy John McCain had to take off...I could have introduced the mother to him.
As I kept towards my plane's gate, I also saw a rather corpulent middle-aged white woman being pushed in a wheelchair by a young African American man. The young man had a bored look on his face, as the woman lectured on about how it is necessary to know your place in order to fit in and be happy. While the conversation may very well have had nothing to do with race, I must admit that the scene as I saw it seemed to conform to stereotypes. This, in turn, led me to wonder how often visitors to California see scenes that are not quite what they at first appear, and yet seem to conform to existing stereotypes.
Upon reaching my gate, I realized that I had an hour to kill before boarding. I was not yet hungry, but I realized that I had a four-to-five hour flight ahead of me, and therefore should probably eat. I made my way towards a nearby airport sandwich shop, and found myself at a table next to one filled by a group of female undergrad archaeology students, whose conversation was mostly gossip about who was dating who in their department, peppered with talk of good come-on lines for archaeologists. My favorite line: 'I have a recreated Navajo bow for projectile experimentation,would you like to come shoot it?'"
I am ashamed to admit that it took me about an hour before I realized the true potential for "bow job" jokes.
Finally, I got on my plane, and was on my way to San Francisco. Unlike my previous flights, I had little to report on this one. I was the only person in my row until the last hour or so of the flight, when a Peruvian archaeologist came over in order to work without being harassed by the person in the seat next to her. I finally arrived in San Francisco around 11:30, and got easily to my car, and then off to a friend's place for the night, heading back to Fresno in the morning.
And there ended what is likely my last SAA trip for quite a long time.
*It's like they're just 13-year-olds with jet engines.
**No, I'm not making this up.
So, that night I got to bed, fell asleep quickly, and, due to exhaustion, managed to sleep solidly the full night despite the immature pilots of Boeing 747s buzzing my hotel all night long*. This also despite the fact that the hotel began to fill up with the rather rowdy attendees of a party for 15-year-clean members of Cocaine Anonymous**.
The next morning, I took the shuttle over to the convention center again, knowing that I would only have a partial day in which to see what I could at the conference, as well as to take a quick look around Memphis in the daylight.
So, I started by going to the poster session at the conference. Posters, for those unaware, are a way for researchers to present their work without getting up and giving a talk. Although some posters could easily be turned into a 15 or 20 minute talk, most are not quite sufficient material for such a talk, and as a result are better served by the static display of the poster. A great advantage of posters is that the person who did the research is free to talk about it in a way that the people giving papers are not. As a result, the poster presenters are often quite busy discussing results and answering questions with the other conference attendees.
Several of the posters were quite good, but two in particular struck me. The first was from a graduate student at the University of Washington who was presenting on her work at Dutch colonies in the Spice Islands. Her work was interesting in its own right, but struck me especially because her findings (roughly - the Dutch were more acculturated by the people that they forced to work on their plantations than the people of the plantations were enculturated by the Dutch, and there was little effort to eliminate or alter the culture of the workers) held some interesting contrasts and parallels to the history of Spanish and later Mexican colonization of California.
The second noteworthy poster was from a young man whose institution I don't remember, but he was presenting on the work he is doing with sling stones. Sling stones are precisely what they sound like - rocks used in a sling (think of the weapon with which David is said to have killed Goliath). Slings were used throughout North America, but are rarely discussed by archaeologists, who generally focus on other projectile weapons - mostly arrows, darts, and spears. What struck me is that one of the sling stones that the presenter had made looked suspiciously like a common bi-conical stone found in Californian sites usually thought to have been a religious item and called a charm stone. Now, I am not saying that all, or even most, of these items were sling stones, but it is worth noting the similarities, and considering whether or not we may be routinely mistaking one artifact type for another.
After a bit, I went out to wander Memphis just a little bit more. I wandered over to Beale Street, where I found myself in the middle of a Corvette enthusiast gathering. It was quite a site to see, but my time was short, and I couldn't dawdle.
I then moved on to get some photographs of the Mississippi River, which is, it must be said, one hell of a river. It was interesting, it must be said, to look across a river and know that I was seeing Arkansas - there are few places in my home state of California where you can know where one state ends and another begins just by looking at a natural boundary.
Finally, though, I headed back to the shuttle's stop, and got back to the hotel. I found myself Sitting in the shuttle with the wonderfully named Professor Paine. If only my friend Myrtle shock (aka Dr. Shock, on account of her Ph.D.) were there to meet him. Once at the hotel, I collected my belongings, and boarded another shuttle for the airport. However, as I boarded the shuttle back to the airport, I was happy to see that one of the Cocaine Anonymous folks was a dead ringer for Liam Neeson, were Liam Neeson a bearded, long-haired redneck.
Anyway, I got the the airport, and realized that I had not yet purchased a gift for Kaylia, so I got promptly on that, settling on a box of Moon Pies (I have always found them nasty, but Kaylia likes marshmallow more than I do). While doing this, I encountered a man who kept inadvertently knocking things off of shelves with his backpack. He and I got to talking, and it turned out that he was a film distributor from San Francisco who had been traveling the country to attend meetings with possible outlets for a film on the history of Timbuktu that had fallen into his company's hands. He had been in Memphis meeting with people in no way related to archaeology, when he heard that the SAA was there. However, he had no knowledge of how to reach anyone...and then he ran into an SAA member who also had no idea how to reach anyone at the SAA, so there's irony for you.
One pulled prok sandwich later, I had to move to get onto my plane. I was delighted to discover that there were only two people in my row - myself, and a fellow who looked for all of the world like John McCain. As the plane was loading, the honorable senator from Arizona pulled out a large, hardcover sex advice book, and began reading intently, which he continued doing until we touched down in Atlanta (our layover stop). Unlike the flight out, this one was uneventful, and I was able to finish reading my own book (Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley - I highly recommend it).
After we landed, and as we disembarked, it became clear that the former Republican nominee for president had to literally run to catch his connecting flight (perhaps to Wasilla Alaska?). And so he closed up his sex book and took off running as soon as we were off the plane (it was quite a sight to see, I assure you). I strolled at a leisurely towards my plane.
On my way to the plane, I was passed by a family of three - a mother and her two children (a boy of about ten years, and a girl in her early teens). The mother, a very attractive woman with an accent that I have to admit I found quite pleasant, said, rather loudly "well, all of this walking around is making my skirt ride up just ever so much!" Prompting the teenage daughter to say "Ma! What have I told you about too much information!" The son just giggled, whether because he thought it was funny, or out of embarrassment, I could not tell.
You know, it's a shame that sexy John McCain had to take off...I could have introduced the mother to him.
As I kept towards my plane's gate, I also saw a rather corpulent middle-aged white woman being pushed in a wheelchair by a young African American man. The young man had a bored look on his face, as the woman lectured on about how it is necessary to know your place in order to fit in and be happy. While the conversation may very well have had nothing to do with race, I must admit that the scene as I saw it seemed to conform to stereotypes. This, in turn, led me to wonder how often visitors to California see scenes that are not quite what they at first appear, and yet seem to conform to existing stereotypes.
Upon reaching my gate, I realized that I had an hour to kill before boarding. I was not yet hungry, but I realized that I had a four-to-five hour flight ahead of me, and therefore should probably eat. I made my way towards a nearby airport sandwich shop, and found myself at a table next to one filled by a group of female undergrad archaeology students, whose conversation was mostly gossip about who was dating who in their department, peppered with talk of good come-on lines for archaeologists. My favorite line: 'I have a recreated Navajo bow for projectile experimentation,would you like to come shoot it?'"
I am ashamed to admit that it took me about an hour before I realized the true potential for "bow job" jokes.
Finally, I got on my plane, and was on my way to San Francisco. Unlike my previous flights, I had little to report on this one. I was the only person in my row until the last hour or so of the flight, when a Peruvian archaeologist came over in order to work without being harassed by the person in the seat next to her. I finally arrived in San Francisco around 11:30, and got easily to my car, and then off to a friend's place for the night, heading back to Fresno in the morning.
And there ended what is likely my last SAA trip for quite a long time.
*It's like they're just 13-year-olds with jet engines.
**No, I'm not making this up.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
SAA Memphis Part 2 - It's Gettin' Real at the Convention Center
See Part 1 for the "story up to now..."
Okay, so there I was in Memphis, walking out of the hotel, trying to find the shuttle, only to be informed that the shuttle already left, a little bit early, already full. Three other archaeologists were already standing there - an older woman, a young professor, and an Albanian graduate student* (sounds like the setup to a joke, I know). So, the four of us decide to get a taxi. This worked out well enough, but the cab ride was considerably pricier than any of us expected (topping $30). Luckily, the professor had an expense account and so he covered it for all of us, which we all very much appreciated.
I got checked in to the conference, and high-tailed it over to my session just before it began. On the way, I ran into an old friend, Dave Robinson (the fellow for whom I have been doing faunal analysis), and we had a bit of a chat on the way in, and in between papers. Dave is quite brilliant, and I have always enjoyed talking shop with him.
Anyway, my session began, and, as the other speakers are presenting, I suddenly realize that there are a number of things that need to be changed about my paper. So, out comes my red pen (yes, I do typically carry one), and I begin re-writing sections on the print-out that I have. I am becoming increasingly nervous as I go, and realizing that the Powerpoint presentation that I had created and sent to the symposium organizer bears only a vague similarity to the paper as it now exists. Earlier than I had been scheduled, the organizer announces that one of the papers had been cancelled, and as such I am now up.
I am horribly nervous, panicked, and not wanting to go up. I look around the room, and it has a number of brilliant archaeologists, almost every colleague who I hold in high esteem: Lynne Gamble, Terry Joslin, Dave Robinson, Jennifer Perry, Amy Gusick, Bill Hildebrandt (who also runs one of my company's main competitors), John Johnson, and my mentor, Michael Glassow.
Shit.
Well, there was nothing else for it. I began talking. As I was in the middle of modifying the damn paper when I was called up, I had to fudge a few sections, explaining the concepts and data without having a good script from which to work. I was able to ease things along by cracking a few jokes about the microscopically small font size on some of my Powerpoint slides, and I was able to make the Powerpoint presentation work with what I had. I was very unhappy with the paper when I gave it, but I managed to at least get through the presentation without hyperventillating. As always when I do these talks, I sat down believing that I had blown my credibility with everyone in the room. I was feeling pretty terrible.
I was the last speaker, so I fully expected to slink out unnoticed. But then one of the more senior archaeologists accosted me. He came towards me, and instead of the upbraiding that I was expecting, he enthused "that was great! Some of what you were talking about is stuff that always bothered me, and I am glad to see that someone else also saw it...and the approach you took was pretty cool! Here, take my card, I want you to email a copy of that paper to me!"
I was a bit confused, but played along.
John Johnson then spoke with me, and described the research that he would like to do on the subject, while complimenting what I had said. Now, John is probably the absolute nicest guy in Anthropology (he is at least in the running along with Michael Jochim), so I half-way suspect that he was just being polite, but still, he seemed enthusiastic.
Dave also was enthusiastic, which helped.
And then I ran into someone who was now with Harvard's Peabody Museum, but who, 30 years ago, had worked in the same region where I did my Masters thesis research. He told me that he had come to the session because he had read the paper I had published recently, and really wanted to hear what I had to say about this other topic. So, that was pretty damn cool. Anyway, he and I spoke about our mutual research interests for a little while. And then I realized that my boss, who knew the fellow from Harvard, had been in the room during the presentation. However, she was enthusiastic and seemed to feel that I had done quite well.
So, all in all, I am going to call this a win.
I then headed out, and ran into a friend from graduate school who I had also worked with at my first full-time CRM job. He and I headed out to lunch, and spent some time talking business, research, and about the academic job market. It was nice, but we were both eager, after lunch, to get back to the conference. He went to attend a paper, and I went to attend another session, but was stopped on the way by another old friend who now worked for the Forest Service. Being as how part of how my company justifies sending us out to these conferences is business networking, and I really just wanted to talk with my friend, I allowed myself to get distracted, and we both made sure to mingle business talk with our catching-up. We parted company, and I headed up to the book room, where I ran into more old friends, and a couple of former coworkers.
I then headed out to the lobby, and had my only bad interaction with another archaeologist at this conference. I should explain that it is not uncommon for academic archaeologists to look down on CRM. This is less common than it used to be, as an increasing number of academic archaeologists have become involved in CRM work, but it is still not rare. This particular fellow told me that he was on the faculty of a university-not-to-be-named, and then looked at my name badge (our name badges bore the names of our employers), sniffed, and said, "oh, well...I see that you're still doing CRM" with a tone that seemed to say "you phony archaeologists are so adorable, but you'll never be in the same league as us grown-ups." He made a few minor disparaging comments, and I pushed back a bit by asking him questions about how long he'd been unemployed before finally getting his current position, asking about the vicious politics of tenure, asking about the family that I was well aware he both wanted and didn't have because of the way his career had been going, and then brought up my retirement plan. Yeah, it was petty, I was being an ass, but I have long since grown tired of this attitude.
After that, I headed over towards another talk, only to be waylaid by a former boss who is also tied into a couple of my company's current projects. I always liked this guy, and I had a good business reason for sitting and talking with him for a bit (in fact, it arguably would have been irresponsible for me to not sit and talk with him), so I did so. We talked shop a little bit (I was very cautious to avoid saying anything or inquiring about anything above my pay grade, and to not say anything that would have been considered in any way inappropriate by my current boss, so as not to create any trouble for my boss). We also talked a bit about why I left. When I left, I had told him that it was for family reasons, and because I was constantly being required to work untenably long hours and be away from home far too often, which was true to an extent. However, a big part of the reason is that a person had been put in charge of a huge project, about whom the best that I can say is that I would not weep had I discovered that the CIA kidnapped him and used him for experiments involving weaponized ebola.
My former boss then told me that I wasn't alone. Apparently a number of people jumped ship when this guy was there. Finally, though, the guy did enough damage, and my former boss had enough. He put one of the former subordinates in the place of the now ex-project manager, and she has been running the project quite successfully, and from what I have heard, the employees under her have developed alot of respect for her and are quite happy with her as their new supervisor.
It was oddly satisfying to hear that.
By the time we finished up, the day's papers were over. Normally, I would have gone to find some people to have dinner with. But I was only going to be in Memphis for this night, so I decided to grab my camera and go wandering about.
Of course, it started raining. I bought an umbrella, and proceeded to wander Memphis, seeing what I could see. Yeah, it was cold, yeah, I was wet, yeah, I couldn't use my camera without pulling it out of the case and getting it soaked. But I didn't care. I was out, exploring a new city in a new region, and I was having fun.
I realized around 9:00 that I hadn't yet had dinner, and most of the non-pricey places had closed up, so I ended up going to a fast food chicken place that I had not previously heard of, got some chicken, fried okra (I don't care what anyone else says, I enjoy fried okra, and have ever since my grandmother introduce me to it when I was a kid), and a biscuit, and had my dinner while I waited for the shuttle back to my hotel.
As I sat at the shuttle stop waiting, I fell into conversation with a very grizzled fellow who, as it turned out, was the State Historic Preservation Officer for Guam (despite being a territory and not a state, Guam's guy is still called a STATE Historic Preservation Officer...go figure). He and I talked shop for a while, and while it wasn't the most enjoyable conversation I have ever had (he was a remarkably frustrated man, though it sounded as if he had cause to be), it was interesting.
Finally, the shuttle arrived, we got to the hotel, I trundled up to my room, got the malfunctioning door handle to work after a couple of tries, and then went to bed. I was so astoundingly exhausted that I slept solidly despite the 747s passing overhead causing the building to shake.
*I suddenly felt very awkward, as if this guy would somehow know that whenever I need to pull up some random nationality for a fictional character or an absurdist joke involving cab drivers (as overly-specific as it may sound, I crack these jokes quite often), I always choose "Albanian." Well, regardless, I ran into him a few more times, and found that I enjoyed his company, so there you go.
Okay, so there I was in Memphis, walking out of the hotel, trying to find the shuttle, only to be informed that the shuttle already left, a little bit early, already full. Three other archaeologists were already standing there - an older woman, a young professor, and an Albanian graduate student* (sounds like the setup to a joke, I know). So, the four of us decide to get a taxi. This worked out well enough, but the cab ride was considerably pricier than any of us expected (topping $30). Luckily, the professor had an expense account and so he covered it for all of us, which we all very much appreciated.
I got checked in to the conference, and high-tailed it over to my session just before it began. On the way, I ran into an old friend, Dave Robinson (the fellow for whom I have been doing faunal analysis), and we had a bit of a chat on the way in, and in between papers. Dave is quite brilliant, and I have always enjoyed talking shop with him.
Anyway, my session began, and, as the other speakers are presenting, I suddenly realize that there are a number of things that need to be changed about my paper. So, out comes my red pen (yes, I do typically carry one), and I begin re-writing sections on the print-out that I have. I am becoming increasingly nervous as I go, and realizing that the Powerpoint presentation that I had created and sent to the symposium organizer bears only a vague similarity to the paper as it now exists. Earlier than I had been scheduled, the organizer announces that one of the papers had been cancelled, and as such I am now up.
I am horribly nervous, panicked, and not wanting to go up. I look around the room, and it has a number of brilliant archaeologists, almost every colleague who I hold in high esteem: Lynne Gamble, Terry Joslin, Dave Robinson, Jennifer Perry, Amy Gusick, Bill Hildebrandt (who also runs one of my company's main competitors), John Johnson, and my mentor, Michael Glassow.
Shit.
Well, there was nothing else for it. I began talking. As I was in the middle of modifying the damn paper when I was called up, I had to fudge a few sections, explaining the concepts and data without having a good script from which to work. I was able to ease things along by cracking a few jokes about the microscopically small font size on some of my Powerpoint slides, and I was able to make the Powerpoint presentation work with what I had. I was very unhappy with the paper when I gave it, but I managed to at least get through the presentation without hyperventillating. As always when I do these talks, I sat down believing that I had blown my credibility with everyone in the room. I was feeling pretty terrible.
I was the last speaker, so I fully expected to slink out unnoticed. But then one of the more senior archaeologists accosted me. He came towards me, and instead of the upbraiding that I was expecting, he enthused "that was great! Some of what you were talking about is stuff that always bothered me, and I am glad to see that someone else also saw it...and the approach you took was pretty cool! Here, take my card, I want you to email a copy of that paper to me!"
I was a bit confused, but played along.
John Johnson then spoke with me, and described the research that he would like to do on the subject, while complimenting what I had said. Now, John is probably the absolute nicest guy in Anthropology (he is at least in the running along with Michael Jochim), so I half-way suspect that he was just being polite, but still, he seemed enthusiastic.
Dave also was enthusiastic, which helped.
And then I ran into someone who was now with Harvard's Peabody Museum, but who, 30 years ago, had worked in the same region where I did my Masters thesis research. He told me that he had come to the session because he had read the paper I had published recently, and really wanted to hear what I had to say about this other topic. So, that was pretty damn cool. Anyway, he and I spoke about our mutual research interests for a little while. And then I realized that my boss, who knew the fellow from Harvard, had been in the room during the presentation. However, she was enthusiastic and seemed to feel that I had done quite well.
So, all in all, I am going to call this a win.
I then headed out, and ran into a friend from graduate school who I had also worked with at my first full-time CRM job. He and I headed out to lunch, and spent some time talking business, research, and about the academic job market. It was nice, but we were both eager, after lunch, to get back to the conference. He went to attend a paper, and I went to attend another session, but was stopped on the way by another old friend who now worked for the Forest Service. Being as how part of how my company justifies sending us out to these conferences is business networking, and I really just wanted to talk with my friend, I allowed myself to get distracted, and we both made sure to mingle business talk with our catching-up. We parted company, and I headed up to the book room, where I ran into more old friends, and a couple of former coworkers.
I then headed out to the lobby, and had my only bad interaction with another archaeologist at this conference. I should explain that it is not uncommon for academic archaeologists to look down on CRM. This is less common than it used to be, as an increasing number of academic archaeologists have become involved in CRM work, but it is still not rare. This particular fellow told me that he was on the faculty of a university-not-to-be-named, and then looked at my name badge (our name badges bore the names of our employers), sniffed, and said, "oh, well...I see that you're still doing CRM" with a tone that seemed to say "you phony archaeologists are so adorable, but you'll never be in the same league as us grown-ups." He made a few minor disparaging comments, and I pushed back a bit by asking him questions about how long he'd been unemployed before finally getting his current position, asking about the vicious politics of tenure, asking about the family that I was well aware he both wanted and didn't have because of the way his career had been going, and then brought up my retirement plan. Yeah, it was petty, I was being an ass, but I have long since grown tired of this attitude.
After that, I headed over towards another talk, only to be waylaid by a former boss who is also tied into a couple of my company's current projects. I always liked this guy, and I had a good business reason for sitting and talking with him for a bit (in fact, it arguably would have been irresponsible for me to not sit and talk with him), so I did so. We talked shop a little bit (I was very cautious to avoid saying anything or inquiring about anything above my pay grade, and to not say anything that would have been considered in any way inappropriate by my current boss, so as not to create any trouble for my boss). We also talked a bit about why I left. When I left, I had told him that it was for family reasons, and because I was constantly being required to work untenably long hours and be away from home far too often, which was true to an extent. However, a big part of the reason is that a person had been put in charge of a huge project, about whom the best that I can say is that I would not weep had I discovered that the CIA kidnapped him and used him for experiments involving weaponized ebola.
My former boss then told me that I wasn't alone. Apparently a number of people jumped ship when this guy was there. Finally, though, the guy did enough damage, and my former boss had enough. He put one of the former subordinates in the place of the now ex-project manager, and she has been running the project quite successfully, and from what I have heard, the employees under her have developed alot of respect for her and are quite happy with her as their new supervisor.
It was oddly satisfying to hear that.
By the time we finished up, the day's papers were over. Normally, I would have gone to find some people to have dinner with. But I was only going to be in Memphis for this night, so I decided to grab my camera and go wandering about.
Of course, it started raining. I bought an umbrella, and proceeded to wander Memphis, seeing what I could see. Yeah, it was cold, yeah, I was wet, yeah, I couldn't use my camera without pulling it out of the case and getting it soaked. But I didn't care. I was out, exploring a new city in a new region, and I was having fun.
I realized around 9:00 that I hadn't yet had dinner, and most of the non-pricey places had closed up, so I ended up going to a fast food chicken place that I had not previously heard of, got some chicken, fried okra (I don't care what anyone else says, I enjoy fried okra, and have ever since my grandmother introduce me to it when I was a kid), and a biscuit, and had my dinner while I waited for the shuttle back to my hotel.
As I sat at the shuttle stop waiting, I fell into conversation with a very grizzled fellow who, as it turned out, was the State Historic Preservation Officer for Guam (despite being a territory and not a state, Guam's guy is still called a STATE Historic Preservation Officer...go figure). He and I talked shop for a while, and while it wasn't the most enjoyable conversation I have ever had (he was a remarkably frustrated man, though it sounded as if he had cause to be), it was interesting.
Finally, the shuttle arrived, we got to the hotel, I trundled up to my room, got the malfunctioning door handle to work after a couple of tries, and then went to bed. I was so astoundingly exhausted that I slept solidly despite the 747s passing overhead causing the building to shake.
*I suddenly felt very awkward, as if this guy would somehow know that whenever I need to pull up some random nationality for a fictional character or an absurdist joke involving cab drivers (as overly-specific as it may sound, I crack these jokes quite often), I always choose "Albanian." Well, regardless, I ran into him a few more times, and found that I enjoyed his company, so there you go.
Monday, April 23, 2012
SAA Memphis, Part 1 - Getting there is Half the Fun?
As I write this, on Saturday night, I am cramped into an awkward position on a Boeing 727 on my way back to the San Francisco Airport. I have attended what is likely to be my last meeting for a while of the Society for American Archaeology. As much as I would love to go again, a combination of changes in my life (impending fatherhood, and supporting my fiance financially) puts me into a position where there are other things that I wish to do with my money, while my career path removes much of the motivation (being a CRM archaeologist rather than an academic archaeologist means that I get significantly more out of my regional conference - the Society for California Archaeology annual meeting - than I do out of the SAA's meetings, and for this reason I have only attended two SAA meetings in the last seven years. I wouldn't have gone this year were it not for two factors: 1) my employer fotted the bill, which they had not compelling reason to do, but my company's owners being basically good people who care about their employees, they were willing to; and 2) I was presenting a paper, and while I could have sent it to be read by someone else, I very much wanted to be the one to do so, and for reasons that will become clear later, I am very glad that I did.
The trip started off poorly. I slept poorly the night before due to some unexpected (and unexpectedly late) company, so things were off to a great start. In order to save my employer money (they were good enough to pay my way, I figured that I should be decent enough to use their money with some discretion), I flew out of San Francisco, rather than Fresno. This meant that I had to drive 3 1/2 hours to San Francisco, which on a weekday during mid-morning and early afternoon would normally have been a long, but easy, drive. South of Modesto, a collision earlier in the day had closed off a lane of traffic, and though the vehicle had been cleared and the occupants taken for medical care, the Highway Patrol still had the lane closed down. So, I was concerned about my ability to get to the airport in time. And then I hit a toll bridge that I wasn't expecting, and therefore didn't have the toll for, meaning that I now owe the state $30 to be payed in a few weeks rather than $5 paid then. Argh.
I did, however, manage to arrive only a few minutes behind schedule. However, I quickly discovered that the long term parking lot was completely full. I discovered this not through signage, or anyone standing at the gate to let me know (there were airport parking employees standing at the gate, but they seemed content to allow cars to enter the lot without warning), but when I had traveled all throughout the parking lot and found not a single space available. As I was trying to find my way out of the parking lot - which is in many respects rather maze-like in it's traffic design - I was trailed for a time by an airport buss, which after a bit honked it's horn at me. I stopped, and a middle-aged Asian man with a thick accent left the driver's seat, walked over to me and shouted "The parking lot is full!"
I looked at him, and said the only thing I could think of: "Yes, I had noticed that."
"The parking lot is full!" he shouted at me.
"Yes, we've established this. I am not trying to argue with you."
He looked at me as if I were some sort of half-wit child that he had been burdened with by unkind relatives. "The parking lot is full! You have to leave!"
Now I was getting irritated, and so, getting a bit testy, " said through gritted teeth "Yeah, I know that the damn lot is full, stop shouting that! Where am I supposed to go?"
He glared at me angrily, and shouted "Why didn't you get a flyer from the people at the exit!"
"Because I didn't know that the people from the exit had flyers!"
"Well they do! You have to go get one, now!" He was getting louder and angrier.
Now, I began shouting back "I'll go get a fucking flyer! But maybe you should actually, you know, let people know before YOU start screaming at them!"
He backed towards his van, and shouted "You get the flyer, and go where it tells you to!"
"Yeah, I'm fucking leaving!"
And with that, I headed to the exit, which is right next to the entrance, where the guy standing there who ignored me as I drove in handed me a flyer explaining that I had to go to the alternative lot for parking. I got the the alternative lot, where a very pleasant, calm man explained where the open spaces were. I proceeded to park, get on a shuttle, and get to the terminal.
At the terminal, I quickly discovered that my flight had been delayed. This would not have been a problem, except that to get to my final destination (Memphis, Tennessee), I had to catch a connecting flight in Atlanta, Georgia. The delay meant that I would not catch my connecting flight, and the Airtran, the airline for which I had my tickets, had no further flights from Atlanta to Memphis until the following morning, meaning that (assuming no further delays) I would not only have to pay for a hotel in Atlanta (Airtran made it clear that they weren't going to help), AND I wouldn't arrive in Memphis until 10 AM the next day. The problem is that I was scheduled to speak at 10:45, and it was unlikely in the extreme that I would make it to the conference center on time.
My only option was to buy a ticket on another airline to get where I was headed. But, as described in the first paragraph, I could not afford to buy another airline ticket without taking a financial hit that would hurt me and/or my fiance.
I called one of the owners of my company, explained the situation, and said that I couldn't afford the ticket. To my surprise, his response was "get yourself there, let me worry about the money."
Seriously, I couldn't love my current job any more if it began slipping me ecstasy in the coffee. These are great people to work for.
So, I got online, and quickly discovered that all flights to Memphis, even indirect ones with layovers were sold out. And then, the data on my computer screen shifted, and one was available on US Airways. Someone had cancelled...and the ticket had re-posted.
Things were looking up.
I ran to the US Airways counter - which, it turned out, was about twenty feet from where I was sitting, and I bought the ticket. It was even an emergency exit row, meaning that even my gangly long legs would have sufficient room.
Hell yeah, things were looking very much up.
I got through security (which, incidentally, is getting creepier every time I fly), and got to the gate just a few minutes before boarding began.
On the next plane, the three largest men on the flight were all put together at the exit. On the one hand, this meant we all had plenty of leg room, but it also meant that we were bashing each other with our elbows and shoulders every time that we moved. At first, the biggest of us, a large man from Virginia, made his displeasure at having to share space with other big guys clear. He then put in his headphones and did his best to ignore me and the other guy. The other fellow, who lives in Washington (though his accent marked him as a native New Yorker) and I talked for a bit, and he was quite pleasant. He then used the in-flight Wi-fi to listen to a hockey game on his earphones. I took out my paper and computer, and began making revisions (actually, I substantially re-structured and re-wrote the paper). After I had finished this, the Virginian took out his earphones and asked what I had been working on, so I explained it to him, which led to more questions. We talked on and off for the rest of the flight, but by the end, I had learned a good deal about his business (he is a software engineer who is engaged in work on cloud-based applications), and we had talked about mutual areas of scientific interests. Despite my initial impression, he was a fantastically nice guy, and extremely intelligent and funny.
After we had been in the air for about an hour, we hit a pocket of turbulence. Not too terribly unusual, and I have been through worse, but we were all asked to fasten our seat belts. And then the turbulence got even worse, the worst I have, to date, ever been in. And the flight crew strapped themselves in and announced over the speakers that we were no longer in normal turbulence. This was, in fact, an emergency situation, and we should all remain in our seats and keep calm.
I have never been one to need a barf bag. But on this flight, I was beginning to see the wisdom of them. the emergency situation lasted for about an hour, though the worst of the turbulence was gone in about twenty minutes.
Anyway, we eventually landed, the three of us exit row men shook hands and parted ways, and I had time to have dinner before getting onto my next plane.
Boarding the next flight, I discovered that there were only two people in my row: myself, and a fellow wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and carrying a pamphlet of Bible verses. After we were in the air, the crew came by with the drink cart, and I got my usual Diet Coke. The fellow with the Bible pamphlet, however, got a can of Red Bull and several small bottles of Vodka. The flight attendant wanted to stop him at two, but after he assured her that his girlfriend was going to pick him up, and that therefore he would not be driving drunk, he was able to negotiate his way into a few more bottles. And so, on the flight, I worked on my paper further as the guy in the seat next to me proceeded to get hammered while reading Bible verses. even after the bottles had been taken away, I could smell the vodka coming off of this guy as he read the words of Luke.
I can't make crap like this up.
We finally arrived in Memphis just before midnight local time. By this point, I was tired and worn out from traveling, and stressed over the paper that I was increasingly worried about. I called my hotel to find out if they had a shuttle or if I should hire a taxi. I was assured that a shuttle would be there for me soon, but it took over half an hour (the hotel was a five-minute drive away). I finally arrived at the hotel after midnight, and proceeded to try to check in. The man at the desk, a preternaturally patient and professional Indian gentleman, politely informed me that my card had been denied when I tried ot pay for the room.
What the fuck?
I called my bank (thankfully they have 24 hour customer service), and spent most of the next hour on hold while the rep contacted fraud prevention to find out what was going on. Turned out that my card was suspended when it was discovered that charges had been made in two different states on the same day. This looked like either A) my card number had been stolen, or B) I was flying to different fucking airports like I had told my bank I would be doing to prevent this sort of nonsense. Anyway, with that cleared up, I was able to check in to my hotel room. The man at the desk had given me a key, and I proceeded towards the room that he had told me to head to.
Once I reached my door, I slid the key card in, the green light on the door handle shown, and I turned the handle only to discover that the room had been dead-bolted from inside.
I headed back to the elevator, stepped inside, pressed the button for the lobby, the doors closed and...nothing. I hit "Door Open", and the doors opened, I stepped out, let the doors closed, pressed the button, the doors opened, I stepped inside, hit the button for the lobby again, the doors again closed, and...nothing.
I opened the doors again, and went looking for the stairs. The hotel had a courtyard design, with a huge open central space, and the rooms along the sides. The stars were in a shaft that had been designed to look like a support and not a shaft containing a staircase. On the one hand, this gave the hotel a clear, open feeling. On the other hand, it made the stairs difficult to locate for a sleep-deprived conference goer who was already having a frustrating day. Still, I eventually found them went back to the front desk, and explained what had happened. The man at the desk, clearly embarrassed, assigned me another room. I went up to it, tried the key card, and the door wouldn't open. The door wasn't dead-bolted, it felt different than that, but it wouldn't open. I went back to the desk, and the fellow accompanied me back to the room, where we finally got the door open - turned out that the mechanism was getting worn out, and that if you didn't turn it in just the right way, you wouldn't get the door open. Normally, I would have requested another room, but at this point I was simply grateful to be at a hotel room in Memphis, and I went right in.
As tired as I was, before going to bed, I had to check my email. And it's a good thing that I did, because I had a notice informing me that, because I had not been on the outgoing Airtran flight, my return flight might be cancelled. So, I had to call Expedia, through whom I had booked the flight, and spent the next 90 minutes on the phone with them. I called four times - each of these times I was put on hold while the rep contacted their supervisor. And each of the first three times, as I waited on hold, I was hung up on. The fourth time I had to wait an extra long time to talk to a rep because, apparently, 3 am central time is the popular time to call Expedia's customer (dis)service line. Finally, on the fourth call, I spoke with someone who was able to get the mess straightened out, and made sure that my return flight was confirmed.
So, closing in on 4 am, I went to bed. By this time, however, I was so astoundingly stressed out that I couldn't sleep. So, I just lay there for a few hours, and then got up, showered, shaved, got dressed, went to print up my paper, and then went downstairs to head to the conference.
The trip started off poorly. I slept poorly the night before due to some unexpected (and unexpectedly late) company, so things were off to a great start. In order to save my employer money (they were good enough to pay my way, I figured that I should be decent enough to use their money with some discretion), I flew out of San Francisco, rather than Fresno. This meant that I had to drive 3 1/2 hours to San Francisco, which on a weekday during mid-morning and early afternoon would normally have been a long, but easy, drive. South of Modesto, a collision earlier in the day had closed off a lane of traffic, and though the vehicle had been cleared and the occupants taken for medical care, the Highway Patrol still had the lane closed down. So, I was concerned about my ability to get to the airport in time. And then I hit a toll bridge that I wasn't expecting, and therefore didn't have the toll for, meaning that I now owe the state $30 to be payed in a few weeks rather than $5 paid then. Argh.
I did, however, manage to arrive only a few minutes behind schedule. However, I quickly discovered that the long term parking lot was completely full. I discovered this not through signage, or anyone standing at the gate to let me know (there were airport parking employees standing at the gate, but they seemed content to allow cars to enter the lot without warning), but when I had traveled all throughout the parking lot and found not a single space available. As I was trying to find my way out of the parking lot - which is in many respects rather maze-like in it's traffic design - I was trailed for a time by an airport buss, which after a bit honked it's horn at me. I stopped, and a middle-aged Asian man with a thick accent left the driver's seat, walked over to me and shouted "The parking lot is full!"
I looked at him, and said the only thing I could think of: "Yes, I had noticed that."
"The parking lot is full!" he shouted at me.
"Yes, we've established this. I am not trying to argue with you."
He looked at me as if I were some sort of half-wit child that he had been burdened with by unkind relatives. "The parking lot is full! You have to leave!"
Now I was getting irritated, and so, getting a bit testy, " said through gritted teeth "Yeah, I know that the damn lot is full, stop shouting that! Where am I supposed to go?"
He glared at me angrily, and shouted "Why didn't you get a flyer from the people at the exit!"
"Because I didn't know that the people from the exit had flyers!"
"Well they do! You have to go get one, now!" He was getting louder and angrier.
Now, I began shouting back "I'll go get a fucking flyer! But maybe you should actually, you know, let people know before YOU start screaming at them!"
He backed towards his van, and shouted "You get the flyer, and go where it tells you to!"
"Yeah, I'm fucking leaving!"
And with that, I headed to the exit, which is right next to the entrance, where the guy standing there who ignored me as I drove in handed me a flyer explaining that I had to go to the alternative lot for parking. I got the the alternative lot, where a very pleasant, calm man explained where the open spaces were. I proceeded to park, get on a shuttle, and get to the terminal.
At the terminal, I quickly discovered that my flight had been delayed. This would not have been a problem, except that to get to my final destination (Memphis, Tennessee), I had to catch a connecting flight in Atlanta, Georgia. The delay meant that I would not catch my connecting flight, and the Airtran, the airline for which I had my tickets, had no further flights from Atlanta to Memphis until the following morning, meaning that (assuming no further delays) I would not only have to pay for a hotel in Atlanta (Airtran made it clear that they weren't going to help), AND I wouldn't arrive in Memphis until 10 AM the next day. The problem is that I was scheduled to speak at 10:45, and it was unlikely in the extreme that I would make it to the conference center on time.
My only option was to buy a ticket on another airline to get where I was headed. But, as described in the first paragraph, I could not afford to buy another airline ticket without taking a financial hit that would hurt me and/or my fiance.
I called one of the owners of my company, explained the situation, and said that I couldn't afford the ticket. To my surprise, his response was "get yourself there, let me worry about the money."
Seriously, I couldn't love my current job any more if it began slipping me ecstasy in the coffee. These are great people to work for.
So, I got online, and quickly discovered that all flights to Memphis, even indirect ones with layovers were sold out. And then, the data on my computer screen shifted, and one was available on US Airways. Someone had cancelled...and the ticket had re-posted.
Things were looking up.
I ran to the US Airways counter - which, it turned out, was about twenty feet from where I was sitting, and I bought the ticket. It was even an emergency exit row, meaning that even my gangly long legs would have sufficient room.
Hell yeah, things were looking very much up.
I got through security (which, incidentally, is getting creepier every time I fly), and got to the gate just a few minutes before boarding began.
On the next plane, the three largest men on the flight were all put together at the exit. On the one hand, this meant we all had plenty of leg room, but it also meant that we were bashing each other with our elbows and shoulders every time that we moved. At first, the biggest of us, a large man from Virginia, made his displeasure at having to share space with other big guys clear. He then put in his headphones and did his best to ignore me and the other guy. The other fellow, who lives in Washington (though his accent marked him as a native New Yorker) and I talked for a bit, and he was quite pleasant. He then used the in-flight Wi-fi to listen to a hockey game on his earphones. I took out my paper and computer, and began making revisions (actually, I substantially re-structured and re-wrote the paper). After I had finished this, the Virginian took out his earphones and asked what I had been working on, so I explained it to him, which led to more questions. We talked on and off for the rest of the flight, but by the end, I had learned a good deal about his business (he is a software engineer who is engaged in work on cloud-based applications), and we had talked about mutual areas of scientific interests. Despite my initial impression, he was a fantastically nice guy, and extremely intelligent and funny.
After we had been in the air for about an hour, we hit a pocket of turbulence. Not too terribly unusual, and I have been through worse, but we were all asked to fasten our seat belts. And then the turbulence got even worse, the worst I have, to date, ever been in. And the flight crew strapped themselves in and announced over the speakers that we were no longer in normal turbulence. This was, in fact, an emergency situation, and we should all remain in our seats and keep calm.
I have never been one to need a barf bag. But on this flight, I was beginning to see the wisdom of them. the emergency situation lasted for about an hour, though the worst of the turbulence was gone in about twenty minutes.
Anyway, we eventually landed, the three of us exit row men shook hands and parted ways, and I had time to have dinner before getting onto my next plane.
Boarding the next flight, I discovered that there were only two people in my row: myself, and a fellow wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and carrying a pamphlet of Bible verses. After we were in the air, the crew came by with the drink cart, and I got my usual Diet Coke. The fellow with the Bible pamphlet, however, got a can of Red Bull and several small bottles of Vodka. The flight attendant wanted to stop him at two, but after he assured her that his girlfriend was going to pick him up, and that therefore he would not be driving drunk, he was able to negotiate his way into a few more bottles. And so, on the flight, I worked on my paper further as the guy in the seat next to me proceeded to get hammered while reading Bible verses. even after the bottles had been taken away, I could smell the vodka coming off of this guy as he read the words of Luke.
I can't make crap like this up.
We finally arrived in Memphis just before midnight local time. By this point, I was tired and worn out from traveling, and stressed over the paper that I was increasingly worried about. I called my hotel to find out if they had a shuttle or if I should hire a taxi. I was assured that a shuttle would be there for me soon, but it took over half an hour (the hotel was a five-minute drive away). I finally arrived at the hotel after midnight, and proceeded to try to check in. The man at the desk, a preternaturally patient and professional Indian gentleman, politely informed me that my card had been denied when I tried ot pay for the room.
What the fuck?
I called my bank (thankfully they have 24 hour customer service), and spent most of the next hour on hold while the rep contacted fraud prevention to find out what was going on. Turned out that my card was suspended when it was discovered that charges had been made in two different states on the same day. This looked like either A) my card number had been stolen, or B) I was flying to different fucking airports like I had told my bank I would be doing to prevent this sort of nonsense. Anyway, with that cleared up, I was able to check in to my hotel room. The man at the desk had given me a key, and I proceeded towards the room that he had told me to head to.
Once I reached my door, I slid the key card in, the green light on the door handle shown, and I turned the handle only to discover that the room had been dead-bolted from inside.
I headed back to the elevator, stepped inside, pressed the button for the lobby, the doors closed and...nothing. I hit "Door Open", and the doors opened, I stepped out, let the doors closed, pressed the button, the doors opened, I stepped inside, hit the button for the lobby again, the doors again closed, and...nothing.
I opened the doors again, and went looking for the stairs. The hotel had a courtyard design, with a huge open central space, and the rooms along the sides. The stars were in a shaft that had been designed to look like a support and not a shaft containing a staircase. On the one hand, this gave the hotel a clear, open feeling. On the other hand, it made the stairs difficult to locate for a sleep-deprived conference goer who was already having a frustrating day. Still, I eventually found them went back to the front desk, and explained what had happened. The man at the desk, clearly embarrassed, assigned me another room. I went up to it, tried the key card, and the door wouldn't open. The door wasn't dead-bolted, it felt different than that, but it wouldn't open. I went back to the desk, and the fellow accompanied me back to the room, where we finally got the door open - turned out that the mechanism was getting worn out, and that if you didn't turn it in just the right way, you wouldn't get the door open. Normally, I would have requested another room, but at this point I was simply grateful to be at a hotel room in Memphis, and I went right in.
As tired as I was, before going to bed, I had to check my email. And it's a good thing that I did, because I had a notice informing me that, because I had not been on the outgoing Airtran flight, my return flight might be cancelled. So, I had to call Expedia, through whom I had booked the flight, and spent the next 90 minutes on the phone with them. I called four times - each of these times I was put on hold while the rep contacted their supervisor. And each of the first three times, as I waited on hold, I was hung up on. The fourth time I had to wait an extra long time to talk to a rep because, apparently, 3 am central time is the popular time to call Expedia's customer (dis)service line. Finally, on the fourth call, I spoke with someone who was able to get the mess straightened out, and made sure that my return flight was confirmed.
So, closing in on 4 am, I went to bed. By this time, however, I was so astoundingly stressed out that I couldn't sleep. So, I just lay there for a few hours, and then got up, showered, shaved, got dressed, went to print up my paper, and then went downstairs to head to the conference.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)