(edited for clarity, but not for content)
There is a theater has showed up in my dreams at least a dozen times, but to my knowledge does not exist in reality. It's rather large, with a slightly sloping floor, generally warm light colors, probably built in the late 60s. Two aisles run the length, extra room at the front and back, and one crossways aisle halfway down. Two doors at the back and one on the left side. Dusty pleated heavy cloth wall covering. Older style padded seats with the bottoms that bounce up when nobody's sitting in them. (In the first dream I can remember that was set there, I was waiting for a speech by Mikhail Gorbachev.)
In the dream, I'm sitting about a third of the way back in the middle back section near the left aisle. The lights are still up, and it's a long time until the next show. There's about 40 people sitting around, and two of them are seated one row back and a couple of seats over. Two young women, who I find are from some (unnamed) former Soviet Bloc country in eastern Europe. One of them reminds me of the younger woman on the space station in the movie 2001, and the other sort of looks like this photo of Risawn with the new haircut.
They strike up a conversation in English, which they speak fairly well but it's obviously not their first language. They ask several touristy questions about the town, state, and country, about other places I've lived, recommendations of other sights to see, etc. Eventually they steer the conversation to ask "What's this blog thing we've been hearing so much about?" As I explain the concept, they seem more and more interested, until they exclaim "We want one! Can you set it up for us? We can give you $1200!"
I agree to set one up, but did not want to take their money just for a few minutes of showing them how to use blogger.com. However, they pull out an odd looking purse, shove a wad of bills into my hands, and hurry out, saying they would meet me later in the lobby. Because other people are starting to look my way, I sit there for a couple of minutes and nonchalantly look around. In the back corner, there just happen to be some computer terminals sitting on tall wooden tables, and after a few minutes I walk over to them. They're about the quality you might find in an underfunded library - dusty 486s with a 13" monitor running Win3.1 - but just enough to log in and set up a blogger account.
After that, plus a little bit of surfing, I go out to meet the women in the lobby. It's sunset, and there's a golden glare from all the shiny surfaces in the room. They walk back in with someone, who they introduce to me as their "friend", exchanging surreptitious glances as they say that word. He launches into a spiel about how he is a native of Ghana, about his credentials in some international agency I've never heard of, and about what his authority is and what my legal responsibilities are, stemming from my acceptance of the terms of the contract, and payment for services... blah, blah, blah, he starts to sound like a MoveOn protestor yelling the text of a Nigerian email scam at me. The only point he makes clearly is that I am to relinquish ownership of any rights I have to the "Hatless in Hattiesburg" name.
I try to object to the few bits that I do understand, but he does not miss a beat. After a couple more minutes I realize that he is not really looking at me, but staring straight ahead, and not moving from where the women (who are no longer anywhere to be seen) placed him. I take two steps to his left - no reaction. Walk behind him - still yelling. Wave my hand in front of his face - no change. So I shrug, chuckle to myself, and walk out.
Just as I put my hand on the door handle, I take a look back. A six year old boy is walking around the lobby and looks up at the man(?) still yelling at nobody. The boy loudly asks his mom "What's that man doing?". His mom hurriedly pulls him back, protectively walks them both away, and whispers "Don't go up to strangers like that."
I leave, and begin to wonder if the $1200 is counterfeit.