It is Friday, my son. Give thanks to the gods, while you sip this whiskey drink you appear to have..., my god, this whiskey glass is empty! Mischief! In my living room! Perhaps I should start over, using a larger glass, this large mug behind me filled with magic markers might do well, now, turn down that news program and break out the ice bucket.

It is Friday, and I'm thinking what in the hell am I doing here at this computer? I've been sitting at computers all day, some at my desk, some in the labs, some sitting on my lap as I sat (sit? sat? shat?) in the bathroom reading the paper. (A wireless modem connecting me to the outer world through the ether. A bottle of Malox connecting me to my stomach. My ass connecting me to my chair. My mind, protecting me from any connection to anything whatsoever.) Do we need to start again, just one more time, before giving up altogether?

It is Friday and I have riffled through my negatives looking for something to run this day in the journal. The black and white photo of the young woman fits right into my "shoot good looking women, straight or gay, and call it art" fetish, the color photograph at the top just underlining my ineptness with color. Or my lack of gumption, it would seem, in making them better. I looked through the paper this morning over breakfast, remembering a couple I'd met at lunch last week, who said there was an AIDS walk coming up this weekend, thousands of people over in San Francisco waiting to be photographed by those with the gumption to find them. Couldn't find them. In the paper. So I looked on the Net and there it was, Sunday morning, in San Francisco. So I went back to the San Francisco Chronicle and checked their Events section under Activities, where they list this crap, and nothing was listed. Wadda, ya know? No AIDS in San Francisco. Probably none in Africa, for all you can find in the Chronicle.

Dribble along, dribble along: this week is over. Tomorrow. Breakfast. A walk by the lake. Better thoughts, perhaps, to include in the journal.