Blog by Sumana Harihareswara, Changeset founder
Dreamweaver, Don't Bother Me
Hi, reader. I wrote this in 2003 and it's now more than five years old. So it may be very out of date; the world, and I, have changed a lot since I wrote it! I'm keeping this up for historical archive purposes, but the me of today may 100% disagree with what I said then. I rarely edit posts after publishing them, but if I do, I usually leave a note in italics to mark the edit and the reason. If this post is particularly offensive or breaches someone's privacy, please contact me.
More dreams. A few nights ago I walked along a city block and looked at Danny O'Brien's family's weblog. The format: not a candy bar wrapper, but art installations, mostly the hoods, engines, and wheels of cars embedded in concrete. I thought, "Wow, Ada's only a few weeks old and already her family's blog is most of a city block! How will they get enough blogging space for the rest of her life?"
Last night: Osama bin Laden calls up Visa customer service. He's having trouble using his (stolen) Visa card, number such-and-so. The customer service technicians turn on the video and see that it's frickin' Osama bin Laden! And they try to draw him out and then he says, "I don't care about the money, I just want to track your (Americans') currency." And then the customer service center blows up.
Cut to me, sneaking from one basement to another, somewhere dangerous. For some reason I have to yank my cell phone charger out of an outlet and take it with me, and this eats valuable time. I cautiously move from the secret intelligence-gathering basement to the basement holding the stairs to my hotel. I carry a paperback to look inconspicuous, and a whistle on a cord around my neck. The hotel issues the whistle to all hotel customers, since the locale is so dangerous. I go up the stairs. A woman passes me -- I sense that she stops just behind me and turns around. Panic! She's wearing a whistle -- but what better cover for a killer? I start blowing my whistle as loud as I can. Another woman runs down the stairs. She and my enemy are sisters, and I recognize that they're celebrities! Again, what a fiendish plan to kill me! No one would suspect them!
I woke, heart racing. Where am I? I'm safe, in my hotel room. No, wait, I'm at home, in Berkeley. There is no hotel. It wasn't real.
After I went back to sleep I dreamt that Tom Brokaw died a sudden and fiery death as I watched, like Kevin Smith only I wasn't amused.
Michael tried to spin: "Wow, you get name people to star in your dreams!"