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.

Thursday, October 31, 2002


Several years ago I was invited to a Halloween party being hosted by my friend Greg; his wife and kids were still in Israel visiting family so he didn't have any problems with hosting the party.

Not like we're a bunch of obnoxious party revelers to begin with.

The party starts, plenty of people show up, we have fun.

Several hours later there's about six of us still left, all male and with the exception of Greg, single. Greg gets into a mood and decides we should all watch some porn.

Now, this isn't your standard silicon-inflated video porn of today—no! This is the vintage stuff from the 70s when porn was filmed and there was still a pretentiousness of plot because, you know, it was art and stuff.

So there we were at Greg's house, about six of us, still in costumes from the Halloween party when Greg's Dad walks into the house to find us, all guys, watching vintage porn from the 70s (bwomp-chicka-bwomp-bwomp). He stares at us, a deer caught in deadlights; we turn and stare at him, caught like deers in a headlight. “Excuse me,” he mumbles, then turns and quickly leaves the house.

“Dude,” says Kurt, “That was your father!

“Dude,” says Greg, laughing hard, “this is my house!”

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