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Thursday, March 2, 2000

Cold gradually subsiding (knock wood). But I'll probably still be too sick to give blood tomorrow; could one of you go somewhere and give an extra pint for me? Thanks!

Last night I dreamt (groans of horror or sighs of resignation from the readers) that I was hanging out with some peers on a college campus or art colony or something, and we sat down to listen to this singer who was sitting on a carpeted platform playing an acoustic guitar.

He was playing and singing quietly, impossibly quietly, so quietly that only if I closed my eyes and tried not to breathe could I hear the music, or think maybe I could hear the music. It was good music.

Sitting next to him, a young woman was translating his song into sign language. Now and then she would reach over and touch his mouth, or his hand plucking the guitar strings, as if to remind him to sing louder. Or not to sing louder?

Between songs she would sit in his lap, facing away from him and smiling at the audience, and with his fingers he would lightly touch her face, her shoulders, her arms, admiring her.

If you enjoy being mystified by the jargon in film credits ("gaffer", "key grip"), then don't read Movie Credits 101 on Salon: it explains it all, and it's not nearly as mysterious as it looks. (from dailydoozer)

Want to pop some bubbles? Don't mind if they're virtual? Have Flash installed? Try Perpetual Bubblewrap! (from Slumberland)

The Federal War on Citizens continue