When Karen and I were teenagers, we were even more nightowlish than we are now (Rudi and Michael may find that hard to believe). I existed on hours of sleep that could be counted on one hand, while Karen snatched her hours of rest whenever she could find them.

At one point, however, she decided to resynchronize her internal clock and, after doing some research, worked to create new zeitgebers for herself.

What, you ask, are zeitgebers?

Naturally, zeitgebers (German for “time givers”) are the regular occurrences that set a daily rhythm to your day (such as sunlight or temperature). Artificially, they can be anything that regulates your internal clock — from meals to regular activities, such as going for a run or leaving for work or school. They’re the things that cause you to wake up five minutes before your alarm is due to go off every morning. And they generally instruct your body to expect certain things at certain times — creating your body’s version of a Pavlovian response.

My problem is that I currently lack zeitgebers. I eat dinner at random hours — midnight on Sunday, seven on Monday, ten last night, nine tonight. I go to work at different times. I eat lunch whenever I think of it. And it’s starting to create problems with going to sleep, as I’m typing this at half past two in the morning, the only soul awake in the Burrow…

So when I return from Connecticut next week, I will aspire to create some structure in my life to convince my body that 3 a.m. is not an adequate bedtime. I’m not looking to become too regulated (my personality doesn’t really suit that sort of existence or vice versa), but just regular enough that I can hit the hay closer to midnight than sunrise — at least most of the time.

So wish me luck. Or, better yet, drop me a line with your preferred zeitgebers. I’ll let you know whether any of them work for me.

George Orwell’s classic Animal Farm turns 60 today.

I picked Animal Farm up off my parents’ book shelves in the living room when I was 10 or so. I don’t remember ever being told I couldn’t read things off their shelves, but I believe this marked the first occasion where I availed myself of the option. (It wasn’t until after my freshman year English class at Conn when three of us shared a copy of a tale of Giants in the Earth that I discovered my mother’s college copy on the shelf. Come to think of it, maybe I should read it now, since I’m pretty sure I didn’t have time to finish it before I wrote the paper.)

I’m sure I wasn’t expecting an allegory when I started and I’m sure I missed much of the undercurrent of the book (not being up on facism or socialist ideals in the fourth grade), but I do know that I understood a certain amount of the intended message. And I remember having a conversation with Dad about it while we were doing dishes one night (although I don’t recall what we talked about — 1984, perhaps, given that it would have been around that time?).

So, if you haven’t read it, do. From what I remember, it features pigs — of all sorts.

And if you have read it, feel free to do what I’m going to do at some point — see if you can track down the 1999 live-action made-for-tv movie voiced by Patrick Stewart, Kelsey Grammar, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, and Ian Holm (of LOTR fame), among others.

Interestingly enough, sitting in a hosptial waiting room, while waiting for someone who is not too seriously injured and when there are no bloody patients being wheeled through, is very productive for knitting. Do you think Georgetown University Hospital would mind if I came back next week and brought my knitting then, too?

David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash have not lost their voices nor their ability to kick it up a notch even after 35 years.

I got the chance to see them perform Saturday night at Wolf Trap and was pleasantly surprised to still hear the pitch-perfect harmonies I have come to associate with their music. It would not have surprised me if years of smoking or drinking or living hard had forced them to revamp some of their songs, but that just wasn’t the case.

Because I had been more aware of their folky side, I was impressed by their ability to rock out and jam on the guitar sections of their songs.

Their concert was an ideal mix of the two. And they nicely combined familiar material with more recent solo and duet efforts to make for a show that. while rooted in the past, showed they weren’t interested in relying just on their repertoire.

They opened strong with “Woodstock” and “Marrakesh Express.” They then moved on to some of their quieter songs as well as some I wasn’t familiar with. I liked some of the new songs they played, particularly “Lay Me Down” and “Feed the People.” “Don’t Dig Here,” on the other hand, went on too long. I kept being surprised it was the same song.

Other old favorites they played:

“Wasted on the Way”
“Just a Song Before I Go”
“Helplessly Hoping”
“Guinnevere”
“Cathedral”

In particular, the end of the second half of the show rocked, with “Southern Cross” and “Love the One You’re With.” They ended the show with “For What It’s Worth” and “Teach Your Children.”

I’m pleased they played “Daylight Again,” since their a capella harmonies at the end are sublime — probably the best I’ve ever heard.

David Crosby, in particular, still retains his dulcet tones and I find I could listen to him sing just about anything. Ballads, up-tempo tunes, commercials — I’d tune in and sing along on any of those if David were fronting them.

Graham Nash seemed to be the emcee for the night. He’s very comfortable talking with an audience, and, as we all know, it’s the between-song chats that really differentiate a live performance from a cd. Or, at least, that’s what someone who grew up on folk music believes.

Stephen Stills looked like he was trying to stay out of the limelight, except when it came time for the guitars to do the talking. And then he jumped right into the mix.

Filling in for the guitar of Neil Young was Crosby’s fellow CPR bandmate, Jeff Pevar, who fit in with the band well.

As an aside, I’d like to urge people who buy lawn tickets to concerts and then proceed to talk through them to consider purchasing a greatest hits cd, popping it into the car or boom box stereo, and plunking themselves down in Rock Creek Park, where they can chat to their hearts’ content. I go to concerts to listen to the musicians, not to my neighbors. I can sit in Dupont Circle for free if I want to people watch.

I’d also like Wolf Trap to consider upgrading the speaker system for the folks sitting in the peripheral sections of the property. You just can’t hear the banter and you miss key things like song titles or whose album songs are on. Yes, you can still hear the music, but the quality is compromised. If you’d agree to upgrade those things, I’d be happy to consider a donation.

But those things aside, I had a great time at the CSN show. Sure, they could have played “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” or “Our House,” but I was okay that they didn’t. And, yes, they could have come back out for another encore. But it was kind of refreshing that they only returned once, leaving the audience wanting more.

If you’re thinking about catching them later this summer, do. Well worth the money. And you’ll come away with a renewed appreciation for how much rocking these guys still have left in them.

Rudi’s mom is recovering nicely from her heart attack, so he’s coming home today.

I can’t wait to see him. It’s been a little lonely here without him.

I am not meant to be a cyclist.

I do not like bugs in my eyes or my teeth.

I do not like riding down hills without having my brakes on.

I do not like riding up hills. Period.

I do not like sharing space with joggers wearing headphones who remain oblivious to my horn tooting and “On your left” shouting.

But it is a feeling of accomplishment to have exceeded 20 mph for the first time while actually pedaling (down a hill, but in control) and to have gone out more than 10 miles and to have kept up a speed of 11.3ish mph. (I could have given you a more accurate figure if I’d remembered to look at my speedometer before I carried the bike down the stairs to the Burrow. The speedometer likes to believe we are going 75.9 mph when we do that so always tacks on a mile or so to my rides after the fact.)

So I suppose that while I wasn’t meant to be a cyclist, I really enjoy doing it just a little on the side.

(But, shhhh! don’t tell Rudi. He’ll want to take me on more hills!)