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.

Saturday, November 17, 2001

No. No. A thousand times, no.

“Look,” said Spring,Spam sushi!” She was pointing to some pictures of Spam sushi on the computer screen.

Now, I like Spam. Don't knock it until you actually try it (and thousands of Hawaians can't be wrong). And yes, I like rice (especially the white rice at the local Spanish/Mexican/Cuban restaurant down the street).

But mixed together as sushi?

“Ah, no,” I said.

“But you like Spam.”


“And you like rice, right?”


“So?” She sat there next to me, giving me this don't tell me you won't like this look.

“Not on your life.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because first you'll start me off with cooked Spam and rice,” I said. “And then, you'll slip in raw Spam and get me used to that. And from there I spiral downward, jonsing for the stuff, spending all my money to feed my habit and then where will we be. Out on the street! That's where!”

“So does that mean you're not buying it?”

“Not buying, not eating, not even considering it.”

The Tiger Woods of Jazz

“You know what the world needs now?” asked Spring.

I paused in what I was working on and turned to her. “Love, true love?”

“Someone to be the Tiger Woods of jazz,” she said.

“Um, Spring. I hate to say this, but most jazz musicians are already black,” I said.

“No no no, not that.”

“Oh, then some uncoordinated white guy wearing polyester playing jazz?”

“No silly,” she said, punching me on the shoulder. “Somebody to take stuffy old tight-ass dusty jazz and make it fun for everybody, the way Tiger Woods did for stuffy old tight-ass dusty golf.”

“Ah.” And I was englightened.

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

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