One hour and counting till the three-day weekend, which I doubt will be filled with backyard barbecuing and am very sure will be filled with slack, slack, slack. Whiling away the last stretch of the week proper listening to Liz Fraser singing about . . . um, whatever it is that she infuses with such sweetly melodic ambiguity. And, from time to time, actually doing work.

Not a bad week, all things considered, in the rosy glow of hindsight and it being good and over. Bloody tired, though. I need a Guinness. Though at this point I'd settle for . . . well, just about anything dark and bitter and made from grain. A loaf of pumpernickel comes to mind.

Obviously, I've been doing Responsible Things for too long and my brain has turned to crab paste.

No FARSCAPE tonight, nor on subsequent Fridays for some time to come, from what the ads say. AAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!! This is not good. I require reruns. Dammit, Sci-Fi Channel, you're really starting to piss me off now. Since when did the 'Scapers become not cool enough to provide a weekly fix to? Ach. Feh.

I shall just have to console myself with an extra helping of cartoons. So there.

Wheee! Twenty minutes and I walk away from all this paper. Huzzah! Quality Control that, motherfucker.

Staying late at work, second night in a row. Gaah. One of those weeks, as it turned out.

Looking back over my last few posts, it was distressing to see how much I talk about work lately and not fun things. Not so much fun on the internal landscape these several days. Not much writing getting done either, which I suspect is far from coincidence.

I need a vacation.

Meanwhile, I sit here next to Disturbing Land and clock up the OT, watching all the pretty little invoices scroll down the screen to Release Heaven. Jesus God, there are lots of them.

Scan scan scan scan scan scan scan.

Outside is chilly and rainish and early Autumn-like. I so wish I had an overcoat today. I could truly be Byronic and melancholy for the walk home that way. Right now I'm just another sad fat slacker with a bad ponytail; with the Coat, I could unleash my special Goth powers. But no such foresight this morning.

Oooh, there went the last batch. Back on my head, then.

* * *

There we go. Almost done now. Not so bad after all.

Aaaah. Tomorrow's Friday. Boy, am I glad, too.

Three days of relaxation! Whatever shall I do with myself? Not get up early, Heaven knows.

Tired now. Going home.

Woohoo! Just got my brand-new business cards, with my actual current title on 'em. And this time they say "Dan" and not that damn name only God and my mom call me. If they said "Document Imaging Specialist - Super Genius" they'd actually be perfect.

Still got my phone number wrong, though. Which is just as well - the day something like that doesn't get bolluxed up in some creative way is the day they come in and find me keeled over into my Lean Pockets. And, hey, less dumbass phone calls for me.

Odd what you get excited about in this line of work. (And Spyder, let this be an object lesson to you - you were right. Stay the hell away from cubicles. Even if it means learning to draw women with boobs that look like dollar-store rubber balls so you can work for Image Comics; for gods' sake, you don't wanna end up like me.)

And no, gentle readers, today isn't near as bad as I anticipated, for all that I didn't manage to get started with my real actual official job till about the halfway mark. Not the Mondayest Monday I've ever endured, certainly.

Back to't, then.

A truly lovely weekend celebrating Stacy's birthday (today she turned, ah, twenty-nine and a bit). Some very dodgy steaks notwithstanding, we had a wonderfully quiet and romantic evening at home, with lemon cake and what in a Victorian novel would be a number of asterisks. Ahem.

Last night was what might be thought of as the celebration proper, going out to the Brickskeller with Matt and Caren and the Marthas ("Oh my god - there are no straight people at this table") and having what I don't doubt was way too much fun for way too long. Their Buffalo Burger is every bit as good as I remember (BUFFAALLLOOOOO!), and good with Guinness, as though anything isn't. (I do have to wonder what it says about me that I go into a place where I can get any beer in the world and order a Guinness. Hmmm.) The high point of the evening, though, was when Matt discreetly pointed out to me that our waitress had a barbell in her right nipple - so, of course, next time she comes back I'm looking to confirm this, and I hear her ask me if I want a refill on my Coke just in time to realize I've been totally busted staring at her tits. Wonder if she goes through that a lot, or if I just came off as being a pervert of an especially high caliber.

Would that Jeff had been there. Well, on the other hand - perhaps not.

So now I'm winding down the weekend, having just watched MISSION HILL and savoring that "Dan, this was very nearly your life" feeling that comes with each episode, indulging myself in a pipe and what might be thought of as a poor man's White Russian (no vodka, so not so much "virgin" as "only gives blowjobs"). Wondering what all my far-flung friends are up to tonight, hoping they're all safe in their beds. Oidche mhear, my darlings. Murphy watch over you all.

Me, I'm headed for the couch, to spend my last waking half-hour or so tonight in rapt contemplation of AQUA TEEN HUNGER FORCE and the bottom of a glass. Oh, I hope tomorrow will be more fun than I think it will. 'Cause I have a bad feeling it's gonna be one of those NO EXIT kinda Mondays. Gaaahh.

Well, whatever. They all have to end sometime.

The Littlest Gallucci, Nicholas Pheilshifter, made his grand entrance at 7:18 this morning in Rochester, NY, weighing in at 7 lbs 15 oz, in blatant violation of the Law of Wednesday Births governing the male progeny of our line.

And there was much rejoicing.

Welcome to the Big Room, Nick. I hope you like it here.

Thought for the day: "At least it's not goddamn Monday anymore."

I'm . . . weary. Not tired as such, or depressed, or stressed out. Just weary. In need of a Guinness and a big fat Te Amo and something frou-frou with chocolate and hazelnut in it. Would love to just go home, put on THUNDER PERFECT MIND, read something cool and diverting. And perhaps I shall, in a few brief hours.

Seems the stars are right for a SANDMAN revisitation, as I've been reading 'em all out of order again for like two weeks now. Saving SEASON OF MISTS for the fall, though. And, oddly enough, it has been inspiring rather than discouraging to my own little comics-writing endeavor. So, thanks, Neil.

Roight. Speaking of things whose time has come, it's off to Headology for me. Here we go, out to brave the heat.

Ai ya! HUGE fucking day of Document Imaging today - those invoice processors were busy little goddamn beavers yesterday. Nonetheless, I have all but conquered it now, and still had time for some stuffa-you-face at the Employee Appreciation Picnic. So now I'm full AND tired. AND sick of looking at invoices.

Scan, scan. Scan, scan.

The good news is that I made some real, genuine headway on the script last night. It's good stuff so far, and more or less working. I hope the trend continues.

So glad it's Friday. Not a long week, as these things go, but I'm ready for the end of it, and some Farscape and slacking. And maybe, while I'm at it, something spicy and Chinese.

In the home stretch now, though.

Last night went pretty well, actually, as far as getting the updates on my website taken care of; there's some fine new stuff in there, though the fiction desperately needs some new blood yet. We'll see how it goes over the next coupla days, as I have this script still hanging over me and whatnot. It's been more of a challenge to think in that way than I initially foresaw.

Bizarre office picnic-thing coming up tomorrow, which is going to end up being a show-up-for-the-food type of deal if the last two years were any indicator. August is a stupid, crappy time to hold an outdoor event - I imagine I won't be the only one walking around in a bit of a wilt, one pink lemonade away from utter heat-death, hoping I don't have to do something brutal and colorful to the Good Humor man for running out of Neopolitan bars. We'll see. As far as Employee Appreciation Days go, some part of me feels the whole thing would be better accomplished with a tall Honey Brown and a Borders gift card, but that's probably just me.

On the other hand, I could get lucky and win some marvelous toy they're giving away. I mean, hell, I scored with the Master Shake Air Freshener - maybe I'm on a roll.

Spent a fun couple of hours at a poetry reading last night, making that my first in about four years - which feels very weird, to have gone so long without saying those words in front of strangers. But my work was met with much praise and good feeling, and that's something. I feel . . . capable again.

And now I need to finish some stuff before next month, so I can keep in the ring. Inspiration's a mixed blessing.

Tonight, I think, my project will be the Updating of the Website, which is so long overdue that I can't remember who gets tied up. But there's a handful of items whose time has come to get thrown out into the great churning Yetzirah of the 'net, I think. And then the project will be the Writing of the Damn Comic Script, or likely the Staring at the Screen For Hours Like a Moron. Erm. It's a tough gig, this being brilliant.

And meanwhile, we're all waiting for my cousin Rifka's baby, due . . . well, anytime now. I've been trying since December to figure out what this will make me, with no real success, as I'm not familiar enough with the Ranks of Cousinage to know how to place this poor kid, or if he's removed, or what. With some sense of presumptuousness, I shall think of myself as an Uncle, and let it go at that until corrected.

Ah, young Nicholas, what an odd bunch of people you'll soon find yourself among, trying to figure out how the hell to get along with us. You have my sympathy, lad.

Wooch. What a se'ennight it's been.

I have indeed survived another year of general peace-love-and-debauchery out on Birdsong Hill, which wrapped as of last Sunday, and was very good. I now have the year to recover, and prepare my repertoire for Swampstock X. Yowza. Three hundred and fifty-odd days to find out if I have what it takes to be part of an acoustic prog duo, if I get off my ass and write the damn songs. Time, that bastard, will tell.

On the other hand, Tuesday marked Today is the First Day of the Rest of My Keeping My Big Mouth Shut From Now On. It seems I'm a piss-poor matchmaker after all. Oh, well - the whole thing spiralled entirely out of its intended shape rather quickly, I'm afraid, from a simple potential hook-up for the weekend to something that involved Emotions and whatnot. Lot of strange intensity. What the fuck was I thinking, anyway?

In happier news, it was very very cool to hook up with Patrick and Bernice after all this time (like, upwards of a decade - Ai ya, do I feel old) and find that I actually did turn into the kind of person that gets to hang around with cool people. Of course, I promptly got home and lost the bit of paper that had all their contact info on it (having placed it very carefully in some safe place that I'm damned if I can recall now) - so, Pat & Bernie, if you're reading this, call me or drop a line. We have much yet to discuss.

I'm working my way through SILVERLOCK these days, simply because it seems like one of those books I ought to have read, and it's pretty good so far. At just under halfway through, it's not quite the world-shattering revelatory give-this-to-all-your-friends experience Niven and Pournelle and so forth speak of in their introductions, but then they had to get by in a world without SANDMAN, which seems to be filling many of the same needs for the current generation.

Haven't done any writing myself for waaaay too long. Hope to remedy that on the weekend.