Crafting a new friendship?

Awaiting a phone call from SG on where to meet for dinner, I'm stoic. I haven't seen her in a long time, and ten years on, I feel queasy with the idea of chatting with her. Some tough issues may be on tap, and I'm not sure how it's going to turn out.

In college, we spent most time together studying in the library, though we did social things. During those years, she started seeing a guy she met at a party I hosted. A happy couple, but what happened next was surprise, shock. A few months after splitting from college, I got wedding invites from both families. I couldn't attend their wedding, nor could I really keep in touch with much more to focus on.

She called last week, saying she's in South Bay for a medical conference. I asked her how she was, she's fine, and now, divorced. I don't know why I feel the pressure, but these folks met at a bash I threw, and now we might have to talk about her divorce, and her ex-husband, who I also know. It's tough taking two sides, and it's a fine line to tread.

It's a line I rather not tread, but the topic will definitely come up. How long will we chat about Saag Paneer, Rasmalai or Indian beer?

Harold and Kumar go to Amsterdam... then?

A while ago, I mentioned Harold and Kumar going to Amsterdam for their next adventure. That's just the start...they're go waaay beyond Amsterdam.

Assuming they are terrorists, Harold and Kumar are sent from Amsterdam to Guantanamo Bay, from where they escape to Texas. They ultimately end up in the White House where George W. sets them free.

It sounds like the ultimate stoner flick, if it lives up to its promising premise. Get George W. high on pot, and then watch him chat in Georgian.

The departed

Out of nowhere, a few weeks ago, Mehfil restaurant bore a sign saying "We had to shut down because of a fire. We will be back." There was no warning, it just shut overnight. As a main source of lunch, I was disappointed (How many times can a human eat a sandwich or baguette?)

The sign, written by pen, was so casual that I assumed it would be back overnight. Three weeks have passed, it is still shut, and I'm worrying it will never come back. It's the only lunch place I cherish South of Market. Time to investigate just what went wrong.

I called, but nobody answered the phone. Lunch vendors are known to be gossipy, so I checked with a lady two blocks down as she made a tomato melt over foccacia bread.

"There was a fire in their kitchen," she said. "I think some kind of oil pan caught fire."

That seemed not too bad -- consider flambe -- so why was it was taking so long to reopen?

"The authorities have to inspect everything again," she said. Authorities investigate how it happened, whether the place is a threat to consumers and building residents, if it meets health standards, if it's a future fire hazard and what not. She couldn't stop rattling.

"It may be a little while before they reopen," she said, with a slighted look of pity as she looked downward to the sandwich, cutting it in half. "The restaurant business is difficult in many ways."

"But as long as it's shut, I'll get more business," she said, with a cheeky smile.

Jamming it up

What's a bad jam? Musicians with drumsticks and trumpets in hand attacking me for single-handedly destroying a good jam. Ok, I'm not that bad a bass/pedal steel guitarist, but I'm not that good either. In a jam, make sure other instruments blanket my inconsistent guitar riffs -- xylophones, bongos, jamba drums, whatever it takes.

Compare that to my mercurial younger bro-- street performer, multitalented, lost soul, overall good guy. Last he was talking banjo -- not the "banjo pizza" at his closest pizzeria. He knows tablas, keyboards, piano, mandolins and I'm guessing, banjos. He'll eat a guitar for dinner. He really may. His choices are crazy-- he's taking 6 courses this semester, because he "wants to get [university] over with." Dude, take it easy. 

I've been digesting loads of music lately, gearing up to attend the Spring Jazz session in SF. It's gonna be awesome. Prep-work's like a concert: listen to tunes, shout out the lyrics, really pump up and go frickin' crazy when the real deal starts. Jazz isn't the same -- it needs a little bit of patience -- a bit frustrating at times. But I want the rare treat of witnessing some thick, thick bass during the fest. obody gives bass primary focus, that was commonplace in old times. 

At 16, the sounds from elder bro's Spyro Gyra and "Happy Birthday, Charlie Brown" tapes/CDs hit the ear. Soon came Herbie Hancock and Stevie Wonder. Hooked on to jazz. Now elder bro's going rastaman all the way. It's quite a change for him, from jazz to now, Pras.

Then I heard Kenny G. I actually liked his stuff , but when people trashed him, I started badmouthing him too. "He looks like Michael Bolton," I'd say. That's when I really started hating him. "Real" jazz artists accuse Kenny G of trivializing jazz by jumping to the pop genre. Whatever that means. Jazz does have a niche, but let a musician do what they want.

Jazz artists are also sour on university bands, it's easy to see why. Hearing college trumpeteers is like hearing 500 Kenny G's playing at a football game. You need a Herb Alpert to appreciate the trumpet, he brings a whole new level of appreciation to the instrument. 

Though pop, he's a great trumpet player, and a musical supergenius. He holds some crazy music records -- the only one to have 5 albums on the billboard charts at the same time, the only to win Grammys for an instrumental and vocal performance. Nobody can match his versatility. He's not the best trumpet artist, but his stuff is cool on the ear.