An Essay On the Nature of Thinkin' Stuff.

I'm having a mild love-hate relationship with my archaeology course. We haven't gone into much actual archaeology yet, just anthropological theory. Here's the thing, my professor talks too goddamn much. I like him, he's much cooler than I was going to label him as being upon first seeing him. And he does have the same name as a whisky/guitar company. But he talks too much. There are many instances at which my brain starts making ingenious revelations, such as: The difference between archaeology and history is that archaeology is the study of the past through matierial remains whereas history is the study of, basically, stories, written or otherwise. However, cultural anthroplogy is concerned with the study and documentation of living societies, and these fields of anthropology are all interconnected. Here's the pickle: years into the future, if archaeologists discover artifacts from a society, this is archaeology. But, what if they discovered the findings of the cultural anthropologists? Is this archaeology, or is it history? You see what I mean? I can't say any of this because he talks so damn much. And he says things which are not correct. I have a stronger knowledge of biology than he does. He was trying to explain the connection between sickle-cell and malaria, and he kept fucking it up. Since I'm very aware of and can explain in detail the connection between sickle cell and malaria, I was miffed to the extent not seen since ninth grade when my world history teacher proclaimed in his smug "I want to kick you in the teeth" way that the "ides" of the Roman calender fell on "the 15th of every month." Pfft! Also, dude. New Guinea is not the largest island in the world. That's Madagascar. Find a map.

He did pose some cool stuff, though. He used the phrase "ramble on" and related linguistic anthropology to the integrity of analog over digital. This had made me want to write something music related which I might send to bettie, as this is much more distracting than any school-work. She shouldn't hold her breath, though, because when I get inspiration it is fleeting and once gone difficult to be recovered.

For example, on the bus from class my thoughts turned from mosquitos and albums and writing and instead to fatalistic ruminations on my as yet unceasing existence.

And I thought about how rock stars need to stop singing songs about their children while generalizing their themes to make them generally accesible. Screw you, Osbourne.

And now, as I'm typing this, my thoughts have strayed again. As I live alone, I have opted to wear no pants, and I noticed that my legs, though they're looking rather, er, Mediterranean at the moment, are also really hot. Like, in the attractive sense.

I don't even remember what I was talking about anymore.