Last night was a beastly night for sleeping, in more ways than one. Not only was the weather intensely humid, not only did hairy, hot Ruckus the Cat insist on curling up next to my head, not only did the bedroom fan sound like a small but powerful mid-twentieth-century aeroplane, but I had two highly annoying items stuck in my head: first, the lyrics to Peter, Paul, and Mary's "I Dig Rock-and-Roll Music," which has to be one of the worst songs ever written, possibly even rivaling the Eagles' "Hotel California" in my pantheon of loathing; and, second, Edward Shevardnadze's name, which my brain kept spelling out to itself: "S-H-E-V-A-R-D? . . . is D right? . . . D-N-A . . . " Ugh.
Thank goodness it's all over now (except for the humidity) and I am awake and boiling water for coffee and not thinking about how to spell anything. If I've left any typos in this post, be assured that I don't care.