Sunday morning’s still not going well. I’m just trying to get in an honest morning of some under-the-table moonlighting and the @##$%@ cubedwellers’ electronic tether reels me in for some after-hours hand holding. Grrr. Hopefully this means the cursed beeping thing has had its wicked fun for the day and will let me get through yoga tonight without having to claim I didn’t hear it.

Comment spam seems gone for now thanks to the SecureImage plugin, the bit of code that makes you type in some random characters in an effort to prove you aren’t a bot. Fresh from rejoicing, I find some hotlinker tapping into the photos over at the gallery. Grrr.

Doing the legal moonlighting at night has just become impossible with the heat and humidity, so here I am. Just finished a plate of banana pancakes and a client declaration. Waiting for client comments by e-mail, but not really expecting anything for hours, since it is Saturday and my client has a life. Coffee and some background music by Jack Johnson are easing the transition back to weekend mode.

Today’s post is being brought to you by the letter H (for both Hot and Humid), and the numbers Four and Ten (for the good news value).

Quote of the Day: “How do I know you won’t shoot me?” Maybe you should have thought of that before you tried to put a bomb in a subway, ya loser.

A little training is all I’d need. Thumb boy would have to take me to the pool with him, and maybe even share a lane, but I could totally do this. I don’t even need no stinkin’ Speedo.

DUBLIN (Reuters) – The Irish Republican Army is expected to issue a statement on its future by the end of this week, after a series of steps believed to set the scene for the Northern Irish guerrillas to give up their arms.

Why, nearly three years into the War on Terror (TM), which is absolutely not based on race or religion, is this still an issue?

Spent a big chunk of that evening doing that thing all law students dream of doing when they become lawyers: billing. Unfortunately it wasn’t that actual generation of billable hours, but the slightly more mundane but critical task of proofing, printing and stuffing those wonderful documents into envelopes so that Mr. Postman can set them on desks where they’ll be ignored until a do a couple of follow-up phone calls.

On a more fun note, I did make it over to the gym for a while, and between tonight’s workout and last night’s yoga feel sore in a good way.

Winding up the Monday with a post (hi y’all) while iTunes finishes downloading Jason Mraz’ Mr. A-Z.

Pongo would say hi too, but now that we’ve been downstairs for last call he’s busy creating the nightly fortress of solitude in the laundry pile. He’s perfect in so many ways, but I love how he can make me feel guilty about actually picking up, and god forbid, washing, my dirty laundry. He hasn’t pulled anything comparable to this with my laundry yet, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he did someday.

Curious to see what Microsoft’s decision to name the successor to XP after our pretentious little artist colony will do to our traffic.

Its unbearably hot, I’m busy with work, and I’ve been feeling on the edge of getting sick ever since I was trapped in the waiting room at BorgHealth with all those sick people on Tuesday. But today is Friday, and that makes me happy.

Scotty dead at 85.

While he might have just been an actor, I’d still rather hear him complaining about the impossible requests from the bridge then read another press release from NASA about why they still can’t launch a shuttle. Fiction rules and James Doohan did it well.