Happy birthday, Stacy DLM-F'nK! I trust you lived up the weekend appropriately with Meesta Lovva Man (that would be Dan. Or Shabba Ranks). Hell, keep up the partying all this week, and then you guys can keep going in Fiji. When and if you get back, you'll both have that very mod, cool heroin chic thing going.

And we just saw Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later yesterday -- a must see for fans of zombie athletes everywhere!

Woooow, after a good cigar and a couple of glasses of wine, anything is possible! You know it!

Happy 113th, HPL! We all love ya, dead guy!

Yay! Some may accuse me of doing nothing at all today, but do something I did! I sat around and thought of stories to write, then I started writing them! While this may be seemingly prosaic news to some, to me it's quite cool -- I haven't actually written anything in the way of fiction for years, and finally getting around to exercising my right hemisphere is, well, good. See, I've quite a way to go, but a journey of a thousand miles blah blah blah.

So now I'm writing a rousing tale of artifact variability in southern Arizona Chinese settlements around the turn of the century. Or maybe something else. Damn that left brain!

Mocked up an application for a position in Albuquerque today, which will go in the mail tomorrow, and I'm still waiting to hear about some of the other positions I've already applied for. All I can say about Albuquerque off the top of my head (having spent a summer there) is they have some remarkable barbeque. I mean some F***IN' GREAT barbeque (oh, the memory haunts and torments me. One of those gastronomical moments where you let out little sqeaks of joy as you eat) -- that's an incentive by itself. We are trying to get back a little further east, but... man, I may never find barbeque like this again, and I hate to find myself in the position of gazing longingly at the western horizon from Virginia or something and thinking, "oh, what meat was that! I shall never again taste its like!" But then I'd think, "they ship!"

Ooooo, just found a job posting for a cool position in Alaska. Just got my first "no, thanks" letter back from a potential employer, the first, I'm sure, of many before I find something more than temporary digging around town. One idea has crossed my mind recently: stick all of our accumulated furniture and assorted crap in storage for a while and set off, shovel in hand, across America, wandering from dig to advertised dig as I gain valuable experience and archaeological insight into the cultures of the past. I'll grow grizzled in the withering sun, my skin leathery and callused. I'll start appreciating Lynard Skynard (or however the hell you spell it) and regale my digging fellows with tales of my outdoor exploits -- getting shot at by ornery ranchers on whose land I'm trespassing, and wrestling mule deer. Or whatever.

I think I'll send off a few more resumes for actual jobs, first, but I'll keep it in mind.

Sigh. Just found out my old junior high school geography teacher, Bill Gallagher, died. I wasn't as close to him as a lot of others were, but I do remember him trying to get me to try out for the football team. How different my life may have been: lots of broken bones, lots of jock friends, cheerleader girlfriends. I coulda been somebody! I shoulda listened to ya, Bill! Sad to see you go.

Janine's been away for a few days, visiting friends and family in Boston, and I've realized that I've become so completely unaccustomed to the single life that I'm kind of weirding myself out. I'm definitely sleeping a lot better (HAR HAR!) -- no, I mean that I'm not having to share the bed with another person and a dog and a cat -- just the dog and the cat now -- and rolling-around room is abundant. As I noticed the last time she was gone, my diet reverts to beer and whatever else strays into my line of sight (Ramen, burritos, and last night it was some kind of generic Chex mix sprinkled with nacho dust). That part's getting better, though. I had a salad today, and some more nacho Chex for dinner. I told myself earlier that I'm going to lose some weight, so now that the Chex bag is empty, I'm not buying another one.

WE'RE getting into the monsoon season (ofiicially -- it's supposed to start sometime in June, but the rains haven't come until recently), hauling the temperatures back down into the 90s, although the humidity isn't making that as much of a blessing as it should be. The change has had a strange effect on my moods as well -- two days ago, I was feeling like I wanted to take a hot bath with a razor blade and a toaster, but yesterday and today I've been feeling like a million bucks. So the job hunt continues, and I'm just wrapping up the immense application for the position in Louisiana, and preparing cover letters for other positions around the country. Meanwhile, I'm still in the hunt for a few local positions to keep me occupied and in the archaeological ballpark while I'm looking for jobs out of state. Wish me luck. Back to work.

Below, I offer tomorrow's Toastmasters speech in its entirety. Revel, please.

"Snobbery on a Budget" To be delivered with a wine glass full of Welch's, and with tongue lodged in cheek.

Let’s talk about snobbery. A bad word? No. A good word with a bad rap. Somehow, it’s gotten all wrapped up with those negative connotations of treating people badly, of condescension, of believing oneself to be fundamentally better than others based on education or upbringing or social standing or just maybe divine appointment – you are rabble, I am cultured. Me one, you zero. I win.

And, of course, that’s not what I’m here to talk about. This isn’t that kind of snobbery. The kind of snobbery I’m referring to is a refusal to compromise one’s tastes – an insistence on the fine things in life, no matter how pervasive the low-brow in our society. The inane sit-com, the hard rock concert, the intelligence-insulting commercial, the monster truck rally. A denial of those mediums as acceptable forms of entertainment and social discourse, a steadfast demand for intellectual gratification, for heartfelt, engaging art, for cuisine prepared by talented hands – this is the real snobbery. And it is open and available for all to revel in.

Yes, I speak of a snobbery of the cheap, the destitute student, and the hopelessly underpaid. As with God Himself, Tucson as a city believes in the sanctity of free will and provides the opportunity and resources to make one’s own decisions regarding the cultivation of character and the establishment of an identity. Money is closely identified, but finally incidental to, the pursuit of high culture and a lifestyle awash in the niceties that the Old Pueblo has to offer. Those wealthy citizens that hemorrhage money in exclusive resorts and overpriced restaurants only prove their true shortcomings as wastrels and chumps.

First, the adage that “the clothes make the man” is nonsense. The man chooses the clothes as an accessory, an accentuating veneer. The frugal snob finds fashion at TJ Maxx in the form of $10 Perry Ellis khakis and Ralph Lauren oxfords. Finish with a 99 cent tie from the Salvation Army – cycles in fashion almost ensure a width and pattern commensurate with contemporary styles.

Next, the classic libation of the true snob: wine. I’ve heard that sophisticated palates, when in a rare mood of candor, are unable to distinguish a $20 bottle of wine from a $200 bottle. I’d advise the discerning, economical connoisseur to find a quality $20 merlot (and thus a virtual $200 bottle) in the form of a $2.99 French table wine from Trader Joe’s. Granted, this takes some extensive investigation and much patience when sampling the prodigious variety there – indeed, some Trader Joe selections taste like concoctions using only grape skins and alum. But at $3 a bottle, you can afford to experiment!

Or pay the $5 to participate in the Beverage House’s bi-weekly wine tastings, complete with informally catered offerings from fine restaurants like Johnathan’s Cork. On such occasions, one can sample (and perhaps even make a light meal of) the well-seasoned chicken and prime rib, appreciate and become euphoric on the generous libations, and promptly depart without committing any further funds to the occasion.

Classic cinema lies no farther away than the shelves of the public library, and costs nothing more than the toleration of the librarian’s supercilious air. Also on Thursdays, La Placita Village presents celebrated films on a medium-sized screen, with acceptable sound, and offers popcorn free of charge. Suggested donation is $3, but that is merely a suggestion, and the viewer is free to use his or her own discretion.

Other inexpensive luxuries abound in Tucson. Shop at Anthony’s or Head East Smoke Shop for cheap seconds – tasty cigars that contained insignificant defects which prevented them from bearing the names of their well-known manufacturers, and are marked down to salvage the fine tobacco. Well-acted theater can be enjoyed at Randolph Park for the aforementioned price of “donation.” Ladies, cruise the Macy’s cosmetics counter to schedule a free make-over, but leave your sense of obligation at home. Or ask at Gadabout to act as a guinea pig for their masseurs-in-training, who practice their craft at a fraction of the price that they will soon command once their training is complete. Or if your mind feels starved, bask in the bottomless wisdom of the university professors at one of their free lectures, and converse at your next luncheon about the basket-weaving techniques of the Sedentary-period Hohokam.

The key is to refuse to succumb to the lure of the mediocre in Tucson – no Denny’s, no Riunite, no summer movie blockbuster, no Must-See TV that has you saying, “oh, I won’t be needing this (mimes lifting head off neck and putting it aside).” Enjoy your life as a snob, especially a budget-conscious snob. Keep the green in your wallet, and out of the hands of the overpaid restaurateurs and resort mavens. And remember to keep that nose in the air.