Good Night

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room, enjoying lights and heat, and fighting with my computer again, because our power is back on. Like lots of folks around here, we lost power during hurricane Sandy. We're lucky. Our juice is back on and we're cooking with it again. You don't pay much attention to your juice till it stops running, and you can't cook, and you're getting cold. I was trying to unscramble some stuff on the computer when a screen came up that said press any key. I did. And the screen went dark. I was about to press every key...with a sledgehammer when I realized the power had shut down. We don't know how to deal with that. It's a reality dis-connection.

It's Fall which means it's fedora time. You can't wear a fedora in the Summer. They're too hot. In every sense of the word. There is a flair about wearing a fedora. It slips a hint of Indiana Jones into the way you walk. It be-speaks a bit of Bogart. Tom Landry of the Dallas Cowboys and their cheerleaders comes to mind. Michael Jackson tilted his fedora with that one gloved hand, and moon walked in his. A fedora turns a nice, ordinary Louie Louie Generation guy into a smooth, suave, sophisticated one man gland.

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black-leather poppa chair in my living room feeling pretty good about the fact that I haven't let a window of opportunity slam down on my fingers. I caught this one in time. The new book is done. The rules of the publishing agreement kicks in on November 4th. That gives me until then to give a little something back to you for being part of this huddle. If you'd like a free download copy of Staying Happy, Healthy and Hot...the story of the Louie Louie Generation, just drop me a note at dick at dick summer dot com. I can't send the finished book, but I can send the final draft, but only until November 4th...and I'd really like to give you back some of what you've given me for a long time.

I am sitting here on my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and Angela is sitting right here on my lap. In a few minutes, if all goes well, she will be scratching my back. I have never met anyone who could scratch my back like Angela. Not even my Lady Wonder Wench.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I'm going to have to stay here for a little while. This has been a long, tough day. The only thing that's holding me together right now is static electricity. I am looking forward to finding the energy to go take a shower. A shower is the third of Big Louie's six super satisfactions. Number one is sex, number two is steak, number 3 is a shower, number four is scratching an itch, number 5 is a flashing a smile and number six is grabbing a snooze. The six big s's for satisfaction. Sex, steak, shower, scratch, smile, snooze.

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room enjoying an injury that I have suffered at the hands of my Lady Wonder Wench. Actually the injury was caused by the fist of my Lady Wonder Wench. Her left fist. I have come to call this frequently inflicted injury, the "Louie Lad Shoulder Slam." I have noticed that it's an injury that many of my fellow Louie Louie generation guys seem to enjoy frequently. It can happen any time a Louie Louie lady's fist is near her Louie Lad's shoulder, and he's making wise cracks. But it seems to happen most frequently when he's driving their car.

I am sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather papa chair in my living room, trying to calm down after talking with an individual who's birth I suspect, may have been caused by a secret government project gone hideously askew. He is the editor of the new book I'm trying to finish, and he is what you might call a natural source of methane. He is now objecting to the title of my book...which is Staying Happy Healthy and Hot. I like that title, because it expresses the Louie Louie Generation's outlook on life. Staying happy helps to keep you healthy, and when you're healthy, your hormones hum heroically. My attitude is that it's my book, so I'll decide on what the title should be. He tells me I have an attitude problem. I told him I don't have an attitude problem. If he has a problem with my attitude, it is not my problem. He claims he even understands internet publishing. I point out to him that the Internet claims that hot naked women want to befriend me, and therefore I distrust everything I

Most what I'm going to tell you this time we talked about last year, because it's happening again. I hate this, but it's time to tuck another summer away. Sunrise, sunset. To everything there is a season. And this is the season when Summer falls asleep. The long, laughing, lazy, crazy, hazy days at the beach, the nights full of soft lovers voices under the boardwalk...Saturdays in the park, itsy, bitsy, teeny, yellow polka dot bikinis, roller coasters, Italian ice cups, baseball, the sound of crickets, and lawn sprinklers...you can feel them all slipping away...into fall.

The little counter at the bottom of my computer screen says 1,529 emails have just poured into my lap top, as I'm sitting here on my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room. Four of them seem to be from people I know, although one that says it's from our son Eric claims that if I click on the attachment, I will win an all expense paid cruise to the Antarctic, with six famous porn stars to attend my every need. That's not the kind of email Eric usually sends. A whole stack of these emails are from some very nice guy in Narobi who wants to send me the money a fourth cousin twice removed left me as his only blood relative. And although I don't have a facebook page it has somehow attracted the attention of a bevy of Russian beauties who are desperate to have their way with me. And there are educational emails from all kinds of people. Big Louie, his own bad self always says, "Never read the educational emails or your life will disappear down a black hole."

I was sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather pappa chair in my living room listening to our little 3 year old Cecelia sing, when the news about Neil Armstrong's death came in. The song she was singing was a three year old's happy, but very careful version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, How I Wonder What You Are." It was the absolutely perfect song for the occasion. Cecelia is only 3, but she sometimes amazes us with the things she wonders about. Most of the time she's a bundle of bounces and non-stop noise. But I've seen her sit very quietly on our daughter Kris' lap on a Summer evening, and look up at the stars...and wonder...really wonder...what they are.

I just got back from the drug store with a stash of vitamins and magic herbs that will improve my memory, help me sleep, and make My Lady Wonder Wench putty in my arms. And you know those plastic wrappings they put around bottle tops to keep the bad guys from dropping their stuff in there while nobody's looking? I grabbed a knife from the drawer, and started cutting around the edge so I could open the lid, and My Lady Wonder Wench said, "Don't cut yourself." She doesn't trust me with sharp objects. What have I done to deserve that ? (For those of you who have been listening to this podcast for a while, never mind with your wise guy answers.)

"Frank" and I have shared around 30 years worth of hamburgers and cold ones, bad jokes, and Auld Lang Synes. He was there to help me when my Lady Wonder Wench had that accident that almost cost her life. He's the kind of guy you want around for laughs, and also for when the sky is crashing down around your ears. But there's something we can't talk about any more, because every time we get into it, he gets angry, really angry. We can't talk about America any more.

I may have been sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room a little too long. That lying, miserable bathroom scale just said I am one perilous pound short of Dick's Disaster. Dick's Disaster occurs at 190 pounds. I was 175 pounds at the end of my college career, which consisted of weight lifting, swimming, and vigorous Viagral adventures. Don't laugh. I hear some snickers coming from the more fully evolved but prostate challenged among you. Especially those with nicely decorated fourth fingers on your left hands. Don't laugh. Viagral adventures are great for a guy's health. In fact a new study done at Duke University, claims that having 200 Viagral adventures a year will add an average of six years to a guys life. I sometimes wonder how you get to sign up for studies like that.

I'm sitting here in my big, black, manly poppa chair in my living room, looking over the report page for this podcast. It's interesting that we call this podcast Goodnight. Because it looks like you mostly download it in the overnight hours. I don't know when you actually listen, of course, but I'm hoping you also do that at night. I loved being on the air at night. Even all night. Because nights get lonely, and I liked being the guy who showed up when the lonely was getting a little tough and nasty.

What are friends for, if not to break each other's crystal balls. I took a baseball bat to my buddy Eric's today. Eric's had some tough breaks recently. I mean tough. Not just stuff like it's pouring rain, and your dog won't do anything but sniff around, or after an evening of passion you notice that the empty condom packet in the wastebasket is labeled, "Made in China"...or the milk you just poured on your Cheerios smells funny. Eric's had his head handed to him. Lady stuff. The kind of thing that has you staying awake all night watching ESPN's six hour special called "Legends Of Miniature Golf." He told me he woke up this morning and found his clothes scattered all over the floor...and he was still wearing them. He's really down, and this has been going on for a while. It's called a depression. Most Louie-Louie Generation folks have had a few of them. They can make you feel like an exchange student from the Twilight Zone.

I just came out of the closet, and I found a long lost treasure in there. Let me be very clear what I mean by coming out of my closet. I've been looking at the bulge in the door of my office closet, where I keep my stuff. You know...my stuff. My reel to reel tape recorder, my back issues of Time magazine, my living room lava lamps...you've probably got a closet full of stuff like that too. And I figured that since I can't finish the job I was planning on doing...cutting the grass...I might as well take on the battle of the bulge...the bulge in the door.

Big Louie, his own bad self, always says, "This is a hit and miss life. There's nothing in between." And as almost always, he's right. Brian Williams, on the other hand, keeps reporting on TV, that there are near misses all over the place...in the air and in politics...everywhere. And he's wrong. There are no near misses. Think about it. If I look out the windscreen of my little four seat airplane, and it is completely full of the business end of a 747's right inboard jet engine...I hope we have a complete miss...not a near miss. If we have a near miss, the airline captain and I are going to very quickly become much more intimate than either one of us want to think about. And the same principle applies to women. Because I am a Louie-Louie Generation Gentleman, I still call a very young woman..."Miss." I think miss is an appropriate and descriptive term for a young woman who has probably been hit on by plenty of Pimple People guys...but so far they have all missed. I think that's where we got the term "mis

I'm sitting on that 3 place swing set that was made in China, with parts from Burma that I told you about a while ago. It looks like the one Kevin Costner and Susan Sarandon were sitting on at the end of the movie. It's under a tree by our driveway. I'm just sitting here waiting for my Lady Wonder Wench to get back from spurring on the economy. I always unload the packages from the trunk...and there are always lots of packages to un-load. So I'm just sitting here keeping busy by watching my grass grow...which is a good thing to do on a hot and sticky Summer afternoon. Actually, the grass I'm watching is a just a little clump right next to the garage. I call it my grass, because I'm from Brooklyn. And this is the first grass I ever planted. The rest of the grass came with the house. This grass...I planted myself. I've planted much more important growing things...like kids, and ideas, and even a few hopes. But this is...some kind of a new experience for me. This is weird. But you're probably used to that in

I'm being quiet...sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. I'm being quiet, because I just heard a little click from across the room, where my Lady Wonder Wench is sitting on the couch doing her needlepoint. I'm pretty sure her fingernails made that click. I like the fact that her fingernails are long enough to make a click like that for several reasons. One's obvious. Even to the pimple people. It has to do with the terrible need for a slow, thorough scratching a Louie-Louie Generation guy's back develops over time. I don't know if Pimple People guys have the same problem. But I have a deep, heavy duty, emergency level, need for long, luxurious, ladylike, fingernails slipping up my spine...starting all the way down at the bottom...slowly skittering up between my shoulders... sneaking into the hair on the back of my neck...and s c r a t c h I n g my head...all the way around to my forehead. Oh it feels good... just talking about it.

I am not sitting in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair. Right now, I'm hangin in my hammock...out on my back deck...under the trees. There should be a hammock hangin song. Maybe a rapper. Hangin in my hammock, looking up at the trees, If you have any problems don't tell me 'bout them please. Just a t shirt and jeans, no suit, tie or shoes. Can't help smilin and rockin, and takin a snooze. It's Summertime, Summertime, Sum, Sum, Sumertime... Summertime. Summertime, and the livin is easy. And ol' Summertime's got me. I guess you get the point.