The Boston Diaries

The ongoing saga of a programmer who doesn't live in Boston, nor does he even like Boston, but yet named his weblog/journal “The Boston Diaries.”

Go figure.

Tuesday, October 30, 2001

“He can sprew forth error messages at a furious rate!” has stepped up to the plate to not only inform people of their Errors in a clear precise fashion but to prevent other less scrupulous Internet Entrepreneurs from using the errors to expose Internet users instantaneously to material that is intended for adult audiences. This is not a form of censorship, ErrorMan Inc. holds the highest regard for the Constitutional rights granted every citizen of the United States.

Spring found him, hiding behind and boy, is the world a better place for it (that was sarcasm in case you didn't notice).

Besides the obvious notion that the world is nothing more than the 51st State, ErrorMan looks like a B-stringer for some small press super hero comic book lineup. Not only that, but that blue dot makes him look a big pugish, and the outfit isn't quite skin tight like all good superhero outfits are supposed to be.

I wonder how long it will be before ErrorMan is shilling Hostess Fruit Pies to an unsuspecting teenage population? And will they stop the Dreaded 404Man? Or how about the ever evil General ProtectionFault? Or that nasty of villains, Core Dump? Maybe tossing a few fruit pies would stop PC Load Letter, but since no body really understands her, maybe they won't stop her. Who's to know?

More to the point, who cares?

Missed it by that much …

I'm at the gas station, filling up the car. I'm aiming for $10 and I'm watching the digits count up. $7.00 … $8.00 … $9.00 … one, two, three, four, five, I'm pacing it, six, seven, I can feel it, eight, nine STOP!

$9.99 on the pump.

Darn. I squeeze the handle …

$10.01 on the pump.


More of Lost Florida

Yet more mapesque entries. A few weeks ago Spring and I were driving around. Okay, I was driving, Spring was passengering. She was also looking at a map of Florida I had in the car, concentrating on the section for South Florida (which consists of Miami, Ft. Lauderdale and aaaaaallll the Palm Beaches, to mimic nearly all the radion and television stations down here) and right there, in Pompano Beach, is Storyland.

“Storyland?” I asked. I've lived down here for 22 years now, and I've never heard of the place.

“Storyland,” she said, pointing to the map. “See?” She held the map to where I could see it. At the next red light, I took a look.

“Yup. Storyland.”

So it's been in the back of our minds for some time now. I quickly checked the map in question just now to remember the name (“Toy—something or other?” “Um, … Storyplace?”) and one quick Google search later, and yes, it did exist. Neat!

Collection of Disinfected Mail

When I first saw the link for the World's Largest Collection of Disinfected Mail, I first thought it had something to do with the current Anthrax-laced mail floating around the States, but no:

Fear of the mail is nothing new, as the Pearson Museum's disinfected mail exhibit illustrates. The museum contains the world's largest collection of disinfected mail, accumulated by the late Emmet F. Pearson. Barbara Mason, curator of the museum, filled us in on failed attempts through history to sterilize filthy missives from infectious letter writers. We were more attentive to her leeches, bloodletting display and the mercury-preserved human hand at the time. But given the current public curiosity about separating junk mail from Jihad germs, we returned to our notes.

Emmet F. Pearson Collection of Disinfected Mail

Now, how did I come across this facinating piece of history? Well, the site I linked to in my last entry is a list of Florida's Lost Tourist Attractions. Which lead to Xanadu: Home of the Future and a quick Google search took me to The Last Xanadu at Roadside America where I found the afore mentioned link to disinfecting mail.

Forget Disney, these lost treasures of an America gone by are way cooler. And a reminder that there still is nothing new under the sun. Even disinfecting mail.

He's home, but it's a zillion light years from here …

That's the real truth. It's like the songs have been written already in their entirety before you were even born and they just fall into your lap. I feel guilty having to put my name on the songs sometimes because I write them, compose them, score them and it's all really the work of God.


Does that mean God is Bad? Is Michael Jackson so far out of touch with reality that reality simply doesn't exist for him anymore? Or is it that reality will have nothing to do with the Gloved One?

Normally, I don't even come close to sites like this, but Jacko is soooo out there K-Pax would probably consider him out there.

“Mentally, I'm always in Never-Neverland—Hee-hee!” Yea, right.

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[“I am NOT a number, I am … a Q-CODE!”]

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