Despite a quasi-career in the world of "alternative" music, I have always loved the genre of 50's and 60's cocktail jazz. There is something tittillating to me about those uptempo and occasionaly steamy tunes that exude a level of sexiness in direct correlation to the number martinis or tom collins' imbibed through the evening.

When I'm in a "lounge" situation in Philly or Atlantic City, inevitably the crooner on deck is Frank Sinatra, mixed on occassion with some Dino for campy variety. It is not often that the foxy females of that era get their equal time on the restaurant or bar sound system.

Imagine my surprise and thrill of showing up to make a Communion-to-the-homebound housecall on Thursday, only to open the door and hear what sounded like a bachelor party in the basement. I didn't see him dancing, but the octogenarian I was visiting was jamming out to arguably one of the most hip songstresses of the 60's, Ms. Della Reese.

Apparently he was so engrossed in the moment that he didn't hear me come in. I asked, "Were you playing a record?" He noted that yes, awhile back he was at a record sale and saw the hard-to-find album and snatched it up for his collection immediately.

I was stunned. And impressed. And mad at myself for not considering that despite an aging body and declining health, a person could be a youthful hep-cat underneath the wrinkles and bald head.

After we spent time time praying and chatting, I left his home and offered my heartfelt valediction, "Rock on!"