It's late August in the Adirondacks, well past midnight, and I've spent most of the day wandering around the house with no clue what to do with myself. I'm not sure, for example, why I've gone to the refrigerator 17 times in the last four hours. I should have figured out on the third or fourth trip that whether I open the door fast, slow, or with intermittent jerks, there's still nothing in there that interests me. What's really pathetic is that on the last few trips I didn't even bother to open the door; I just paced around in the fridge's general vicinity. It's that horrible late-August thing: The trout fishing stinks, the hunting season hasn't started yet, and I'm at a loss.