Apologies to Robert E. Howard

This illustrates why I probably shouldn’t keep writing at night after I start to get punchy:

“Know, O prince, that between the years when the undergrads drank Zima and nasty box-wine, and in the years of the rise of the collars on fratboys’ pastel polo shirts, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining graduate programs lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars — Ithaca College, Cortland, Cornell with her gold-tongued lies of instruction in any study, Binghamton with her WalMart-haunted depths. But the proudest graduate program was Syracuse, reigning supreme in the dreaming fields of information science. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, laptop in hand, a thief, a slayer, a library paraprofessional, with gigantic melancholies, gigantic mirth, and ever-more-gigantic student loan balances, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet.”

It’s a good thing my semester’s almost over. And thanks, Judd, for getting me riffing on Conan. :)