Professional Hazards.
As I continue to slog through Doctor Who episodes, laughing maniacally all the way, I came upon another reminder that I belong to the absolute most dangerous profession in the galaxy (I just watched the Doctor vs. Satan two-parter, in which Toby the archaeologist has it very bad indeed). Your typical sci-fi archaeologist has only a marginally higher survival rate than a low-level gun-toting security flunky; and the rate is only higher so that the archaeologist can die in a more spectacular way. If it's possible to catch possession from pot sherds, my future may be very bleak indeed (though I was heartened to see that satan is apparently confined by a set of amphoras -- yes, indeed, the universe does rotate around ceramic technology). *And*, right before I watched this episode, I spent the evening studying glyphs from a dead language. . . .
Oh. And satan apparently killed my iron, which cooled off and started leaking in the middle of the episode, almost at the end of the heap of laundry.
And now off to bed. I don't think I'll review my Maya flashcards first. My dreams are going to be weird enough as it is ;)
Oh. And satan apparently killed my iron, which cooled off and started leaking in the middle of the episode, almost at the end of the heap of laundry.
And now off to bed. I don't think I'll review my Maya flashcards first. My dreams are going to be weird enough as it is ;)