The goal for Schuyler's Box-o-Speech is well on its way to being reached. Please contribute if you haven't already. And for those of you who already have, you have my thanks (as well as Rob 'n family too, I'm sure).

See? Now you've done your kick-ass deed before the weekend's even started.

Part III of the Moon Weasel saga "Hot Dog Day Afternoon" has been posted, making it two updates on Space Monkeys! in one week. Wow, things are finally returning back to normal around there.

Part IV will be posted on Monday, comic Gods willing, and that'll be that. Thanks for your patience.

Between yesterday and today, I got to come home earlier than usual, get a full-night's sleep and take today off from work (unless the Pope dies. Damn you, urinary tract infection!!!).

So, I'm in much better spirits and my brain is not as gooey as it's been. I think that's a good thing.

Ted Koppel's house, last week:

Ted Koppel: So, little friend, I thought you should be the first to know. After 25 years, I'm going to leave Nightline.

Ted Koppel's Hamster: Cool. But why are you telling me this? I'm a fucking hamster.

It happens at least two or three times every year where there's a compressed period of time -- maybe two weeks to a month -- where everything is happening at once and my brain can't process anymore.

I used to get really freaked out by these periods. It's the times when I forget dates of things that are coming up, when I can't think clearly while I'm recapping and end up just doing straight summation minus the jokes that make them more entertaining, or I simply can't sleep at night. My brain gets hot and unfocused. I wake up late at night hungry and thinking there's something I'm supposed to be doing that's due the next day. I never figure out what the assignment is supposed to be.

At work, I get very overwhelmed and stop deleting e-mails because I'm afraid I'll delete something vital that I'll need later. As a result, the inbox grows exponentially. Right now, there are 1,500 messages. I keep trying to get rid of old stuff, but the number always climbs back to 1,500 by the end of the workday.

I'd be more flustered at home if I actually had a chance to be at home. I get up about 7:30, drive straight to work, go to meetings and work, grab a bite on the way to rehearsal and come back home about 10:30 or 11, with enough time to shower and snack, maybe catch 10 minutes of The Daily Show, play with the cats, kiss the wife goodnight and go to sleep.

The last few weekends, I've had to keep getting up at 7:30, the Magic Half Hour, to go to training sessions in San Antonio or drive to Austin for LCP video shoots. This is going to continue for about another month, so I don't see things slowing down, or any real breaks in the action for my body to catch up. I don't go to the gym anymore. Whenever I eat an unhealthy meal (Whataburger, for instance), I try to balance it out by grabbing some tofu and salad from Whole Foods in the evenings.

Our one-year anniversary is coming up. We've been talking about doing a housewarming/anniversary party, but I'm not even sure when we could do that. I don't see a window where that's possible, when right now there's no time/space for laundry, for dishes, for grocery shopping, for training the kittens to do use the garage litter, for getting rid the weeds that have overrun the new grass, for mowing said grass, for dentist or doctor appointments, for dealing with the new roof we have to buy for the old house, for cleaning the garage out, for getting shelves built in the upstairs office, for putting up curtains, for playing with the PSP that's sitting in a drawer at home, for reviewing God of War for PS2 or that new Jay-Z DVD that I'm supposed to write about.

The good thing about these spaces, though, is that my brain is such a mess it shuts everything out that's not directly in front of me: memorizing lines, preparing for a trip to Arkansas, buying wedding gifts, not thinking about my 30th birthday next week, working every day, suffering Tuesdays, paying bills — that all those other things to do don't seem to penetrate into the consciousness.

Space Monkeys! returns today with a new comic, which feels like the first one in a loooong while. We had to interrupt the Moon Weasel storyline just to get something fresh out there, but all will be completed soon enough. Enjoy the late Easter strip.

Johnny Cochran, dead at 67.

PJ: If the tumor doesn't quit, you must split

Omar: If you miss the burial date, you must cremate.

If you think of any funnier ones, send them my way.

Li'l Floaty Omie Head is worried about breaking the PSP he's got on loan. Is the cursed thing too pretty for gamers?

If you're going to say you're aspiring to be the CNN of Latin America, you should qualify that by saying you want to be the CNN of 10 years ago, not the bloated, sweaty and obsolete piece of crap that it is today.

The Sony PSP has been making the rounds around the office, and like the winner of some sort of non-stone-throwing lottery, I somehow got to take it home for the weekend along with five games (no "Spider-Man 2" movie, though; Matt, who handed it off had left it at home).

It's a cool device, a very nicely designed piece of hardware that probably has no real antecedent save the iPod. Because it's trying to do a million things besides just playing music (which it can do, as well as play movies, play videos you download to it, display digital photos, do WiFi Internet gaming, wipe your bum for you after you go, etc...), it doesn't have that sleek minimalist design, but the unobtrustive buttons don't feel intimidating and the thing is certainly beautiful to hold in the hands. (Although playing it for more than a few minutes at a time, especially in a thumb-challenging game like Lumines did give me a hand cramp.)

Matt Thompson, whom I've had the pleasure of working with on this new videogame channel on 360 (he works on it and writes as well; I just write for it) did a short video review over at 360 that you should check out. If nothing else, it shows what a cool guy Matt is, apart from the coolness of that which he's reviewing itself.