Good Night

The Boston bomber gave us a gift. Fear. It was a little like 9-11...the kind of day when you wake up screaming, then you realize you were never asleep. You'll always remember where you were and what you were doing when you heard about terrible things. Like when the first plane went into the World Trade Tower on 9-11. Let me go sit down in my comfortable, big, manly black leather poppa chair...before I fall down. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I've swallowed a sack of cement, and it's beginning to harden. Do you ever wonder what goes on behind the scenes at a radio station when terrible things like that happen? Let me tell you a personal story.

I think I'll be remembering tomorrow for a very long time. Let me grab my seat here in my comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair and I'll tell you about it. Once upon a time, a long time ago...so long ago that as a matter of fact it was during the original reign of the Louie Louie Generation...Louie Louie was still all over the radio...my Lady Wonder Wench gave me a wonderful yesterday to remember. It was one night when we were first dating. She was driving...we went through a toll booth...it was late...she had on shorts and a slightly sexy top...which on her is anything less than an iron shirt...nor ironed...iron. You've heard her voice. And the rest of her looks like she sounds. We came to a toll booth, and she looked up at the toll taker...a young guy with a heavy metal station playing in the booth...she smiled sweetly and said, "My you look so lonely." I thought he was going to drop his eyes, his teeth, and his badge. You could hear his glands crashing into each other. His tattoos were actually

This was one of those days...when you've just got to sit in your big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in your living room, and hang on tight. "Women don't need sex like men do"...that's what my Lady Wonder Wench said today. After decades of being together, she waits till now to tell me this. I'm an experienced, Louie Louie Generation guy. I know I should have kept my mouth shut, but that little guy in the back of my brain who's supposed to keep control of things like my mouth and other things must have been on his lunch break...so I couldn't help myself. I said, "huh?"

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly , black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I've just read what might be the best Louie Louie Generation poem ever written. Proud Podcast Participant John Lancellotti sent it to me. He wrote it a long time ago. It's called, HANGIN OUT. And It goes like this: We did it in the dark street as daytime turned to night. You'd find us hangin' out benearth a corner light. Or maybe down the block, we'd gather in a group to spend the evening laughing, noisy shadows on a stoop. We dared the night to harm us-- with danger always near -- but hangin' with the crowd was a room we closed to fear. For boys it was a passage that led to being men. We learned that life was struggle, the gutter's great Amen... For girls it was a time to test a woman's ways, to learn about the magic that turned their men to slaves. That's how the city brewed us in the kettle of the street, where hangin' out with friends made being kids so sweet.

I am sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I'm semi-seriously considering popping a copy of my new book, Staying Happy, Healthy And Hot into my neighbor Steve's mail box. He really needs to think about the Gratitude-Attitude that the book talks about. Steve starts every day off with a smile, so he can get that over with as soon as possible. He often suspects people are plotting to make him happy. When someone says, "Have a nice day" to him, he usually says, "Sorry, I have other plans." Our state motto is on our license plates. It says, "You've got a friend in Pennsylvania." I wouldn't be surprised to see Steve putting a strip of tape under the slogan that says, "Don't look at me." He definitely needs to grab some Gratitude-Attitude. Steve is an excellent example of the Dreary Drones I've been talking about in my book. They're people who have just let themselves turn into hunks of luke-warm meat. Steve is kind of a stale sausage.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather papa chair in my living room trying to recover from having another birthday. I used to think that even noticing that you've had another birthday after the age of 21 can be depressing. But as Big Louie, the honcho of the Louie Louie Generation says in my book Staying Happy Healthy And Hot, 'Always remember the "Gratitude-Attitude."' There's got to be something good about adding another year of wrinkled splendor. I guess you can say when you get to be this age, you never have to worry about dying young any more.

I am just stretching out and relaxing here on my big, black, comfortable, manly leather poppa chair in my living room, after a long drive home from my buddy Al's house. I didn't actually do the driving. My Lady Wonder Wench did the driving, because we were taking the trip in her car, and because she is convinced that she is a better driver than I am. Which she is not. She tailgates and I hate that...because the idiot ahead of you is not to be trusted. But we take her car on long trips because it is much newer than mine, and in much better shape. It doesn't slow down when you turn on the windshield wipers, it doesn't leave streaks of oil on the side windows, and it doesn't make mysterious noises that only my Lady Wonder Wench can hear.

I now own a very stylish pair of leather gloves, and they are totally confusing me. I don't follow fashions in clothing, or anything else because I like to march to a different accordion player. If my Lady Wonder Wench didn't buy me clothes, like these gloves, I would probably still be wearing the same slacks I wore in college, and more than likely, I'd be using a bungee cord to hold them up. When she isn't watching, I sometimes use a table spoon for a shoe horn. I have however been pretty good about honoring her request that I stop stirring my coffee with my car keys.

I just got knocked on my backside. Fortunately, my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair was right there to take the hit. Just for the heck of it, I took a very un-scientific poll of a bunch of friends of mine about Valentine's Day, and the results shocked me. More than 90% of them...both sexes...just kinda blew Valentine's day off. One of the guys I talked to said, "I'm too old for that kind of thing." Big Louie the Chief Mustard Cutter of our Louie Louie Generation, went nose to nose with that guy. Louie said, "As long as you have some moving parts left, for crying out loud move 'em." One guy even said, "That love stuff is just stupid."

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, getting ready for an interview about my new book, Staying Happy, Healthy And Hot on my friend Michael Harrison's radio show, A Touch of Grey. He calls his show, The Talk Show For Grown-ups. It's fun doing these interviews. I got to talk with Pia Lindstrom on Sirius/XM radio last week. It was such a lot of fun that my son David...who is also our podcast master...posted it on the website at www.dicksummer.com It's right under the book cover on the home page. Give it a listen when you have a moment.

I am sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room, looking out at the ice, and remembering some of my favorite it's so cold jokes. You know them. It's so cold you could freeze an egg on the sidewalk. It's so cold the streakers are just describing themselves. It' so cold I saw a politician with his hand in his own pocket. I know...it is appropriate that cold rhymes with old, because those jokes are. How about, it's so cold that nobody wants to go out, but some of the guys at the singles bars who felt they're just too good looking to stay home. Or how about it's so cold that girls are going with guys who have the flu because they have high temperatures. It's so cold you have to part your hair with an axe? Actually, I went out to the mailbox this morning, and I forgot I had my coffee cup in my hand...it still had a little coffee in it...and when I got back inside, I found a little chunk of coffee left clicking around in the cup.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room trying to keep my gratitude attitude going. Your gratitude attitude is an important part of my new book, "Staying Happy, Healthy And Hot". I've got to admit that even for the guy who wrote the book, some days, keeping your gratitude attitude going is a little harder than other days. Something went "pop" in my right shoulder a few weeks ago, and I haven't been able to do push ups ever since, and I'm feeling fat. I'm trying to apply the gratitude attitude by telling myself, I'm not really getting fat, I'm just getting easier to spot in a crowd. I went to see doctor Boyd, and he basically said, "You know I can't make you any younger." I said, "That's not the point. The point is I want to get a good deal older."

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather papa chair in my living room, and my legs are hurting, and I'm trying to remember what my Lady Wonder Wench wanted me to do with her car tomorrow, and I'm looking at a blank page where the copy for a new TV commercial that's due tomorrow is supposed to be...and in general, I'm feeling like an oldie-mouldy. Do you ever get that feeling? Like old age is creeking up on you. You feel like your social security number could be one. Like when God said, "Let there be light"...you were the one who flipped the switch. You feel yourself going from why not to why bother. You're tempted to go to a dentist and have him put braces on your dentures to make you feel younger. Is that what's bothering you? Huh? Does it seem like your wild oats have turned to shredded wheat? Don't complain. Remember the Attitude/Gratitude Connection. As Big Louie, his own bad self says: "We have enough youth. How about a fountain of smart?"

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather papa chair in my living room after a very satisfying day. I went to get my driver's license renewed today. They take your picture. It didn't do me justice. It really looks like me. Well at least my teeth aren't wrinkled. I brought along a picture of George Clooney, and I asked the woman in charge to use that on my license. I said, "Who'd notice the difference." She looked at me as if one more word and she was going to put me on the terrorist no fly list. And they make you sign your name. They printed my grown up name on the license... Richard Summer. But I signed it with my real name Dick Summer. I like to be called Dick. In today's politically correct world, the word Dick gets a little attention. I like attention.

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room, looking at a new calendar propped up on the shelf over the fireplace with a brand new number where 2012 used to be. The world is still here, and so are we. We didn't pay much attention to the people who took that Mayan calendar stuff seriously. We sort of pinned a sign on their backs that said, "Gone crazy, be back soon." But hey, what if they were right? Just think, no income tax this April. Arizona would never become beachfront property because of global warming, and we wouldn't have to suffer through another avalanche of stupid political commercials in the next election. But then I started wondering what would we do if we believed the hype, and really figured we had only one more year to live. Would we get holier or hotter? I think I'd cut loose. How about you?

Is it Ho, Ho, Ho, Bah Humbug, Oh Holy Night, or some combinatin of the three, and then some? You decide. And Merry Christmas from Podcast Master David Summer, and his proud poppa Dick Summer, plus our long suffering Ladies, Julie and Lady Wonder Wench.

Heard any angelic voices lately? What have they been saying? Ever wonder what would happen to you if you said things like that?

If you've ever heard 1,000 people singing Silent Night...standing close enough together to keep warm...by a Christmas Eve bonfire in the snow, you will never forget it. If you were there, thank you. It was a long, long time ago. But I will never forget it. Never.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room...and I am a very happy guy. It has been a weird and wonderful week. Visits from our sons Eric and Mark and their ladies Brenda and Donna for Thanksgiving, and some shaky connections from some long ago friend from Facebook, and some working on stuff around the house that proved once again that there are 6 stages to tightening a connection between two pipes. Loose, tight, tighter, very tight, over tight, and loose again. Let's not go there.

This is about...SEX. Wow. Is it easy to get your attention. Three of you instantly signed up for whatever we're going to do, Howard Stern's producer called, and the president of the politically correct forces for good in the community immediately posted a red alert requesting volunteers to stage a protest. Calm down folks. We have some great sex news from the smart guys in the white lab coats at Duke University. They explained things clinically, like they always do, but we'll translate it into Louie Louie language. I don't know why they get so complicated. It's like if they wanted to explain that they were out eating lunch, they'd put up a little sign saying, "We have temporarily vacated these coordinates to engage in caloric nutritional mastication and enzyme secretion."