Like Google's megalithic spider ceaselessly navigating the Internet, by now Ira Glass's staff in search of new ideas for "This American Life" may have listened to the Salt Institute's carefully edited, recently uploaded monologues. They are chock full of gritty everyday chunks of Americana. I have nothing but good words to say about them.

Imagine a 60-minute "This American Life" program devoted to insomnia. One of its segments would be this cutaway featuring Mike White, a "54 year old male Caucasian with insomnia." It's bothered Mike (whose surname is quintessentially Caucasian) all his life: if somebody asked him, "What's the one thing you want out of life?" he'd say, "a good night's sleep."

Who could ask for anything more? Those of us who, at the end of a long day, slip into slumber like a silk slipper have no idea about guys like Mike White, who, since he was 16 years old, have lain awake counting sheep till the cows come home. Forgive my corny metaphors: way before The Era of Ambien and Lunesta, Mike recalls using booze and barbiturates to help him catch z's. He fills us in on the details of his wakeful, numb but not joyless day: his job, decked out in a red bow tie, an ex-projectionist now working at a movie theater concession booth. Appropriately, the muffled sounds of a TV may be heard in the background as Mike, at home, speaks intelligently and even humorously about yucky buttered popcorn and insomnia. You would think that his articulateness, his understanding of his affliction, would cure it.

At one point toward the end of this piece, Mike utters, "Angel! Yes, little girl." One of his pet cats has jumped onto his lap. For Mike what's ultimately important is -- and he says this after a long bout of coughing -- going down to the pier, sitting there and watching the sun come up: "the meaning of life [summed up] in a drunken insomniac's living room."