Sunday morning still life

Commercial radio has not been a fixture of my life since I moved to New Orleans in 1990. Once I was introduced to the wonders of WWOZ, WWL, WTUL and *cough*filesharing*cough*, I never again saturated myself with post-modern payola. Music is not sold to me, but instead shared through the passion of others. God forbid I have to endure what the labels are force-feeding to the masses.

After Katrina, the airwaves of Southeastern Louisiana underwent a massive shift. For a couple of months, a good 75% of the stations were part of a collective, all the same broadcast out of Baton Rouge, shared DJ's hosting a continuous stream of talk radio, with thousands of folks phoning in to share their lives and experiences in their post-hurricane world. It was addictive. Highly. But it was cathartic, as it outed the anger, depression and frustration of being separated from this great old city.

But all good addictions eventually crash. The mind-sapping music returned, rap, top-40, country and (badly-mislabeled) dance stations returning to their old formats. Crap, essentially.

One, however, caught my attention. More specifically, it came onto my radar courtesy my neighbor Harvey, a fellow lounge aficionado (and also a huge Art Deco fan, but that's another tale). The frequency, 106.1, once harbored a decently alternative station back in the day. Today, however, it is...Martini 106.1. "Great Scot," I thought. "Surely, there couldn't be a lounge-a-delic station in my midsts." Oh, but yes, Virginia, there is a Frank Sinatra.

So I've been fixed on this spin of music lately, stuff just right down my alley. Norah Jones, Dean Martin, Ol' Blue Eyes.

Yesterday, though, I'm listening while forced to do domestic chores. I'll spend five hours in front of a gas grille preparing meals, but folding just one load of towels requires a maximum of willpower. Regardless, there I was, and in the middle of endless variations of Route 66 (I've counted ten so far) and Hit the Road, Jack (didn't know that was a lounge standard), was a song played I'd never heard before. No idea who it was, nor the name (the station has yet to learn naming playlists), but the lyrics caught me off guard. The ballad was from a man to his significant other, he apologized for having to do what he had done, how his life was so good, but he still had to step outside of it anyway and become someone else. He said she knew why he had to do it, and he was sorry he ever left, but he was begging to come back for another chance. It was a bittersweet tune, really the fiber of some country-western yarn, but somehow wasn't out of place. Certainly, it was perfect for melancholic-memory me.

As the floodwaters washed so much from this city, and the lives within, my life was rechristened as well. I sat there, piles of white terry-cloth towel surrounding me, appreciating what I have, knowing what it took to bring that realization to light. The melancholy of my life was replaced by the melancholy of Katrina a long time ago. A Katrina month is the equivalent of twelve regular months, as we all know.

I once wrote here that I lived what some might call an idyllic existence, not without its fraught, but balanced and harmonic in its own way. I said I just wasn't happy and wanted to know why. I never added that I didn't know how good I had it. Simply because I was clueless.

These notions rattled about in my head until the last washcloth was tucked away to it's proper place. Have I mentioned how much I hate doing laundry?

In the evening, I grilled a massive feast for my neighbors and had them all over for dinner. The kids ran the gauntlet from room to room, eventually settling in for a Superman cartoon DVD (with some oddly familiar scenes that ended up in Sky Captain). My friends gathered, quaffing Abita and Pinot Noir and Merlot, dining on my marinated chicken and pork, venison sausage, and balsamic eggplant (of which I will not torture you with the delicious detail). The night was crisp and clear. The neighborhood was quiet and peaceful. Little talk of Katrina. Virtually no discussion of mold, or insurance, or destroyed schools, or devastated libraries and playgrounds, only future tense and the possibilities that lay before us. Our group was reunited, almost as if our respective tragedies never happened.

As I looked at them, focusing on each happy face, hearing the laughs, feeling the warmth of friendship, finally resting my gaze on Tracey, her eyes lit up with a happy glaze of red wine and white moonlight, the lyrics of that song came back to me. I was no longer standing outside of my life wondering how to step back in. I was already there.