Monday. T forgot to set his alarm so we are groggy and disoriented. He is making his sandwich. I am making the coffee. Chuck is making googly eyes. I stagger around the kitchen, snuffling, my ears plugged--a combination of my cold and last night's excellent show. Though I rested up well beforehand and had a great time, I could have done with about three more hours of sleep this morning. But Monday will not be stayed.

Now the coffee is doing its work: the grogginess is starting to fade, and I am becoming more resigned to the idea of daylight. I've got a busy week ahead--editing, travel, teaching--and this horrid clingy cold must disappear sometime, don't you think?

**

Okay, I'm back, after a flurry of kitchen cleaning. T has headed out to work, Chuck is crunching up some chow, and I am beginning to feel less zombie-like and want to tell you about Swamp Dogg, a little old man in his mid-eighties, about 5 feet tall and dressed in a bright orange suit and a bright orange hat and a bright orange shirt and bright orange suspenders, and he was dancing and singing and wailing and testifying, and if I have to be groggy today, it was 100 percent worth it to see him at work.