I've been busy behind the curtain readying a paper that draws together my critiques of hafting in the Middle Palaeolithic. So, forgive me if I take a minute this Friday evening to reflect on the matter, on my counter-arguments, and my prospects for making it into the literature for the first time in fifteen or so years.
Basketball was never my sport. Then again, I never played a sport, so I guess that goes without saying. Still, I'm ever impressed when someone sinks one of those field goals that flies through the hoop and the only thing it touches is the net. It's like a stealth fighter. It says, 'You can't touch me. I own this hoop. I own you.'
Yeah, it's Friday and I'm feeling ... frisky. So I'll let you in on a little secret. When I popped Böeda et al.'s Umm el Tlal hafted flake inferential balloon the other day on the Subversive Archaeologist it felt like I imagine it must feel like to drain one of those nothin'-but-net field goals at the end of a close game.
You can call me conceited if you want. Hell, you can even say I'm wrong about the pain-in-the-ass flake. But you can't touch me. I know: 'Cause. I'm. Right.