Imagine, if you will, that you had a roommate in college. And let's pretend that you did not necessarily get along with that randomly-assigned roommate. And suppose, in that fantasy world, that the animosity ran so strong that the roommate moved out after three months, and you didn't have a happier day your entire freshman year. It could have happened.

And let's say, just to throw it out there, that that roommate loved Kenny G. So the three months you spent in the same room with that person (and, in theory, you tried to limit the time spent together as much as possible), were spent with the rhythmic sounds of the sax and flute, rhythmic sounds you thought were reserved for office elevators.

So when you find out that Kenny G is Jewish, you blame your roommate. You blame him for turning you off from Mr. Kenneth Gorelick, from making you hate an acclaimed musician, who, without that roommate's influence, could have taken a place in your own personal hall of fame of Jewish American music legends.

Or not. Because face it, it is elevator music.

If you could imagine that.