Some days you don’t know how you got there. Like yesterday. At eleven AM, I was muttering about Babylonian Locust gods that possess sincerely-written code, of dark doom-ridden fate in store for me the next few days. I was maybe about one meeting-request away from going Hulk smash all over the cubicle. Twelve hours later, I was gasping for breath and trying to lift my jaw off the floor. I had witnessed a jazz piano/guitar/drum/bass performance that scooped out every bit of tiredness from behind my eyes and re-calibrated my happiness index to a perfect ten. I was also reeling under the cumulative effect of a fulfilling dinner involving corn, ham and pineapples (pineapples?) inside a gigantic baked potato and four beers and a coffee. At a place called the Baked Potato.

Ten hours ago, I was fairly sure I would skip lunch that day. I had a late breakfast, and there seemed to be no point in going out to grab something. Maybe I would have ordered something if any of the others went out. By one o’clock, I had not only finished a large bowl of rice with some extremely spicy Thai chicken green curry, but had space (and enthusiasm) remaining to get some cookies for myself and the two gentlemen I had lunch with. One of whom happened to be my boss and the other a colleague from Germany visiting Los Angeles for a day. And that’s when the idea of going to the Baked Potato came about. As it turned out, D was a Jazz fan, and the ‘tato was a dream-destination for him ever since the eighties, when he heard his favorite band talk about performing there. Believe me, I get dream destinations. I said I would come along with him, despite the doom-and-gloom the rest of the day promised.

Somehow, between lunch and 6 PM, non-existent Babylonian locust gods were banished – as best as non-existent entities could – and happy work-endings were reached. Things fell into place, like Near from Death Note was standing behind my shoulder nudging the right jigsaw pieces. I even fired up some Bonobo to help tide me over the last hour, and surfed gracefully into something akin to feature-completeness. Headed out, with narry a worrisome sigh nor a fretful brow.

And there we were, an Indian and a German sitting among a strange mix of Chinese college kids, Japanese tourists, other suspiciously hipster-looking Jazzheads, who talked about favorite gigs and tried to identify the bands playing over the PR system as they waited for the concert to begin. D and I spoke of work, of doing things other than work, of Scandinavian pop and contemporary jazz, and music software and attending live shows. He ooh-ed and aah-ed over the posters on the wall, the collage of artistes that had played at the venue before and who he had missed. It was a genuine treat to talk to someone so obviously enthused about being at a place, get what I mean? I cradled my beer and wondered about the day, about unexpected beginnings and endings. The waitress brought a tray of steaming baked potatoes and laid them in front of the Japanese couple sitting next to us. “Sugoiiiiiiiii”, the lady exclaimed, fumbling to switch on her little camera. Sugoi indeed, I thought, and chugging the rest of my beer, I ordered another one.

And how was your day?