“You know what the world needs now?” asked Spring. [1]
I paused in what I was working on and turned to her. “Love, true love?”
“Someone to be the Tiger Woods [2] 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.