I was even more booze-waggled than usual when I sat down last night to watch another installment of Battlestar Galactica's final season on the Sci-Fi channel. You see, I was making my way through the 2nd Avenue F train stop around 9:30 to escape filthy Manhattan for my beloved Queens when a familiar, gravelly voice, called, "Spiegelman!" It was none other than my fellow former Page Sixer, Chris Wilson. We hadn't seen each other in at least a year so, naturally, much more drinking ensued. But I did make it home for the midnight showing. And dutifully jotted the following:

• Ew, sweet Asian Cyclon—Don't kiss Quantum Leap!
• The Cyclons are split down the middle. Can I have the half with Xena in it?
• Chief Fatty Q. Workingstiff is having an identity crisis coz he's a secret Cyclon. Waaah!
• Miami Vice is reading to President Lady MacCancer? You gotta get dead, lame lady. You gotta get dead now.
• Blonde tomboy space girl! Blonde tomboy space girl!
• Don't give her guff, doubting pussies! She stands on top of you and talks down to you through a grid. You know coz why? Coz she's the fucking blonde tomboy space girl. That's coz why!
• Bye, bye Council of Hottie Cyclons. ::sniffle::
• Old Eyepatchy to Chief Fatty Q. Workingstiff: "The last thing we need is for your Cyclon hating wife to find out that there's a bunch of skin-jobs on this ship and that one of them is her husband." Then maybe you shouldn't'a said that out loud just now, jobby.
• Wrench to the face! Wrench to the face!
• Don't put the baby in the space chute! Nooooes!
• Uh-oh. Bye-bye nice lady.

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