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.