Why punch a clock when you can hurt its feelings instead?

Four-day weekend? The stars have aligned. I had one last weekend; I’m in the middle of another right now.

I get to drink beer, glorious beer. Specifically, the brand that SXSW (or Austin) made famous. Drinking during the workweek? Basically, not worth it. I get home late, I sip, I sleep, I snore (and then others who don’t drink and enjoy their sleeping don’t get to sleep).

In between, there’s the awake time spent not-sleeping. Cracking jokes, watching the occasional bit of worthwhile television, plinking around in GarageBand (and coming up with an oontz-oontz “Under the Milky Way Tonight” that I’ll be deleting forthwith), padding around after each other.

The Super Bowl? Didn’t watch it. Two teams I didn’t care about. Don’t even really care about the ads.

“Million Dollar Baby”? Strangely reminiscent of “The Shawshank Redemption,” and not just ’cause of the Morgan Freeman voiceover. Also, why is a brother’s last name Irish and I don’t know any Gaelic? Ignorance is no excuse.

After being thisclose to done with Malcolm Gladwell’s “blink” (that Amadou Diallo chapter is hitting a little too close to home; I just get up after a few pages and get distracted and want to be doing something else) and finishing Hari Kunzru’s “Transmission,” I think I went to the store and found a half-dozen paperbacks I want to read this spring.

Next month marks five and a half years of marriage and six years since I’ve seen my mother.