Well, only stuff that's a fraction of a millimeter square and only for one ten thousand millionth of a second—but that's a start.

<I>The Canadian Medical Association Journal</I> publishes "Acquired growth hormone deficiency and hypogonadotropic hypogonadism in a subject with repeated head trauma, or Tintin goes to the neurologist." Mmm hmmm.

The Seventies. That ancient lost era, that musical wasteland, the decade everyone (who doesn't know music) likes to rag on, continues to supply Madison Avenue with new and exciting fodder.

Walking to the train this morning I saw a woman who was a dead ringer for Sara Carter, wife of A.P. Carter, whose leaving to marry A.P.'s cousin Coy torpedoed the famous Carter Family.

The fax machine is singing its song. Beep bloop beep bloop bleep beep beep. And bloop. It goes on and on. Kristina feeds the machine and the machine eats, requests for verification on pricing and availability of amps and speakers, tonearms and cartridges, accessories and racks and so much more. "Recommended Components" is singing its song. Swoosh and whir.

An exhibit organized around the schtick of making the paintings about the atmospheric conditions portrayed within them. Works anyway.

I've been checking out the Creative Commons&ndash;licensed MP3s at <I>Musikethos</I>. If you dig classical music, you'll find a lot to admire there.