What human worker bee, humming within the drone the machine drone of corporate America, doesn't long for the giddy taste of Friday? In fact, the week is lost dreaming for that day. Monday pulls away from its heavy glue -- slowly, drearily -- while Thursday rushes forth, and daydreams leap ahead, jumping at the chance to play on Friday. In fact, we live in hope of Friday, in loss of Friday, wasting our lives every day but Friday. And on Friday? Generally we look to forget it: beer, wine, whatever. So I guess, ultimately, at birth we're already dead.