Chill out, all.

So, I was engaged in some "immersion journalism" a few days ago, riding the 28 bus line to get to the notorious N-Judah, which is the focal point of my final story. The time was approximately 4:30 pm, so you can imagine how busy it was: completely packed. Luckily, I was able to grab a seat directly in front as passengers were getting off. 

So, there I was, just chilling, recollecting the day's events in my head, and trying to find the right song on my iPod. As I finally found my jam ("Hooch" by the Melvins, in case you were wondering), I look up and I see two people staring at me. I don't think much of it, and go back to my own zone. Suddenly, I look up again, and now there's five people glaring at me with hatred in their eyes.

"What the heck are they looking at? What did I do?" It's then when I notice a elderly woman standing directly in front of me, and in the same vantage point I notice a sign that reads: "It's the law! These seats must be vacated for elderly and disabled citizens."

Oooooooooooohhhhhhhh, that's what everyone is trippin' on. I guess I was supposed to give up my seat for that aforementioned geezer. Hey, how was I supposed to know? I'm from Fort Bragg, a town of 6,000 people. We don't do public transportation over there. If you need to get to across town, you walk; it takes you literally 20 minutes. Plus, this was maybe my second time ever riding public transportation. It was an honest mistake, people. I care for oldies just as much as you do. For those who still resent me, let's get together and talk about it. Email me at ididn'tknowitwasanhonestmistake@biteme.com.

The Icebreaker

My interviewing skills are a work in progress. The fundamentals are there: formatting the appropriate questions, choosing the right people. But it's the physical portion that needs tinkering; you know, the actual interview. Being bashful by nature, it's hard for me to randomly chitchat with a stranger.

However, more times than not, I'm able to mask the shyness and dig up my inner socialite after the first interview, the icebreaker.

So I've developed a strategy to make this opener clean and comfortable: talking to old ladies. And I mean old, not fifty-something, I-can't-stand-these-hot-flashes-anymore old. I'm talking slow-moving, cat-collecting geezers.

Why? Simple. They're sweet, helpful, and best of all, non threatening. Besides, it's the Sunset; oldies are easier to spot than steroid users in Major League Baseball.

Let's see if it works.

An elderly woman walks down the damp sidewalk, clutching her button-less coat shut with one hand as the other secures her dog's leash. The cloud-filled sky begins sprinkling light raindrops onto the woman's snowy-white hair, while the accelerating wind raises the scruffy fur from her companion's face. Fearful of the looming storm, she lowers her head and picks up the pace.

"Excuse me, ma'am," a young reporter said. "I was wondering if..."

Not bothering to gaze up, the woman quickly shifts her preoccupied eyes at the notebook in his right hand.

"No, sorry," she said. "I don't speak English."

There wasn't a hint of accent in her voice.

Hey, I never said my plan was guaranteed.

The surprisingly sweet sounds of the Sunset.

I'm not going to lie. I wasn't exactly brimming with enthusiasm when I chose the Sunset District as my neighborhood (it was one of few remaining when I enrolled). Though I've spent only a few days exploring the area, I have a slight understanding of what it offers. Largely residential, the Sunset's entertainment qualities apparently fall short to that of Haight Ashbury, or the Tenderloin.   

However, imbedded within the obscure confines of Taraval street lies a melodic gem treasured by a limited audience. 

The Green Earth Cafe hosts "Open Jazz Jam Sessions" every Saturday afternoon. Arranged by the Uptime Jazz Quartet, this three-and-one-half-hour music block was designed to invite jazz admirers from across the bay to perform along side the group.

The band was still setting up when I arrived 10 minutes before the scheduled 3:30 start. Judging from the two others in attendance, I didn't think it was a huge deal. 

Gazing up at the cafe's wall clock, which read 3:32, the saxophonist turned to his band-mates and asked, "well, should we start?" The rest nodded their heads in agreement.

After giving eight snaps of his right hand to prompt the song's tempo, the band leaped into its opening track. Not 15 seconds into it, a frantic trio of latecomers suddenly stormed across Taraval, shoved open the door and quickly grabbed a seat.  Within moments their eager and worried expressions melted to relief and joy. Their feet tapped to the bassist's rhythm. Their heads bobbed to the drummer's downbeats. 

If you've been keeping count, that final group brought the crowd to six. I know it's not exactly AC/DC cramming Oakland's Oracle Arena to maximum capacity. But seeing the range of emotion on their faces and hearing the excitement in their voices during each song's well-deserved applause showed me this was something. "If it's within my power, I don't miss them," one latecomer told me. 

It's safe to say jazz is alive and well in the Sunset (well, it is on the 1700 block of Taraval, at least).