I can't sleep. It's way-too-early-o'clock and I'm up and listening to old Lyle Lovett records and feeding the dogs and waiting for the promised sun to burn away the fog that's lying on top of the ring of mountains I can see from my back porch, presumably as clear as Sarah Palin sees Russia from hers. The humidity out there is the kind that fogs up glasses. Last night's promised severe storms and tornadoes never materialized, and I started thinking that NEPA meteorologists swing and miss more than Dave Kingman in his prime. Nice work if you can get it I guess. Whatever. But at least it's quiet, and I can sit and focus on whatever it is that I can wrap my head around these days, which means I sit and try to come to terms with the kaleidoscope whirling in between my ears.