Good Night

We're dreamers, you and I...all of us...Americans. That's how we got to the moon. We had the dream, and we made it happen. We dreamed about buildings that would scrape the sky, so we built a sky scraper national park and called it New York. All mankind has always dreamed of flying...and it was a couple of our guys by the name of Wright who made it happen. That song that Francis Scott Key wrote was about a dream that came true. But Francis Scott Key, the lawyer, was used to staying one step ahead of the competition, and he knew it wasn't a completely done deal. He knew that like any dream, it would take effort, and guts and a little luck to keep it alive. And he wasn't sure that would happen...which is why he ended his song with a question. A question that has...up until now...had a simple answer. And that answer has always been yes...until now. The question is, "Oh say does that star spangled banner still wave...o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?" I'm not sure we can answer that question w

I just re-recorded the outgoing message on our phone machine. Louie-Louie Generation guys like to think of ourselves as funny phone fellows. Our prostate challenged partners sometimes call us other names. They simply do not understand why we love weird outgoing phone machine messages. Most Louie-Louie ladies are perfectly content to use the pre recorded message that came with the machine...or they just say "You've reached the Smith residence. Please leave your name and phone number and we'll get back to you as soon as we can." We, on the other hand, savor the opportunity. We have somebody by the ear, and they can't get away until we hit our punch line. Our outgoing phone message is our version of Jay Leno's monologue.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room...which is good. Because I got an email a little while ago, with some news that would have knocked me down if I weren't already sitting. When I finished reading it, I called my Lady Wonder Wench, and told her about it. She said something that sounded like, "Oh my God...wow"...while holding her cell phone at arms length as she got to the word "Wow". I only think that's what she said, because the last word came out on a note that was so high, and loud, that I couldn't really hear it, but Golden Retrievers for three blocks around fled in terror, and windows and eyeglasses cracked all over the zip code. It was great news, but it really screwed up my day, because I completely forgot about everything else...including the fact that I was supposed to be interviewed on a radio program about my books and CDs...and I just forgot about it...which was not only un-professional, it was simply inconsiderate and impolite. And I'm a Louie-Loui

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room. My Lady Wonder Wench and I just returned from a walk up Helen Hill. We do that every time we come home from a flight in our little airplane. Helen Hill isn't big. Only a handful of people even know it has a name. It's a mostly un-remarkable bump in the landscape, named after a woman who led an un-remarkable life. All Helen did, all her life, was teach her kids to care about each other, go to church, work hard, and be proud of being American.

I was standing in front of a class room packed with my peers, calmly confessing to worshiping false Gods, disrespecting my parents, and murder. Suddenly, the word, "RICHARD" rang out loud and clear in the un-mistakable voice of my first communion teacher, Sister Mary Knucklebuster. Sister Knucklebuster was a female version of General George Patton. And she was presiding over a class rehearsal for first confession. It was my turn to stand in front of the room, and recite the famous formula..."Bless me father for I have sinned." I was 7 years old, and sister knew that in order to come up for material to confess, I was going down The Moses Top Ten No-No List. That means after confessing to murder, which was number five, I was about to confess to adultery, and coveting my neighbor's wife.

This podcast has been going on for a few years now. And lots of you proud podcast participants have been kind enough to send me stories about how you spent your summers. Betsy really nailed it about the Loser's bedtime story. She said, "It reminded me of something my dad said just before he died. He used to take us on summer trips every year. One year he said he couldn't afford a motel any more, and we'd have to camp out if we wanted to go. That was the best summer trip we ever took." Carole said, We lived near Yankee Stadium in a 4 story walk up that got the afternoon sun. So to cool off we'd sit out on the fire escape and listen to the roar from the Stadium. And when Carol heard about my lifeguard adventure with Matilda, she said, "I did my share of the cross - chest carry as a Water Safety instructor, and I'm with you. It's very easy to have a 2 piece bathing suit malfunction in surf when performing a rescue. It's not like you were administering un-necessary mouth to mouth on her!" (I hope you're liste

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room, kicking off my slippers, because I don't have enough fingers to scratch all my giglebites. Let me explain. Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation, has a new Louie-Louie Language word to describe an email that puts a smile on your face. He calls it a Giggle-bite. Because it's a gigabite with a laugh. I told you that I had a little bumpy time with last week's podcast, and courtesy of your own bad selves, I now have giggle bites all over me. And thank you for sending those gigglebites. Every time I scratch them they feel...very good. Thank you.

Time for me to brush off some dust. This podcast is for grown ups...Louie-Louie folks...of all ages. Big Louie, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, "The word grown up describes a person who has been known to groan from being knocked down, but always gets up, brushes off the dust, and gets on with life." That's a grown up. I know a lot of you from emails, or phone calls, or even visits. And you're all grown ups. So I guess you can stand hearing an offensive podcast without having it scar you too deeply. I have no idea why it's offensive. I don't want to offend you on this podcast any more than I'd want to offend you in person. But I obviously screwed up somewhere.

I was diligently drinking my morning cup of coffee today, seriously considering the possibility of starting to work to finish the report I'd been working on for a couple of days, because it's due tomorrow morning, when the phone rang. I put the half full coffee cup down next to the computer, kicked my chair back, tripped on the rug, and as I grabbed the desk to keep from falling down, I knocked the coffee into the computer key board. The call was from a telemarketer. And it was recorded. I hit the call back button on the phone to ream the company out, and a phone company recording said the number was out of service. I walked over to the kitchen to grab a paper towel to sop up the coffee, forgetting that I had used the last of the roll last night. Fortunately, I was wearing an old shirt, so I looked around to be sure my Lady Wonder Wench wasn't watching, and I reverted to my bachelor days. Without thinking, I pulled the shirt up out of my trousers, and started wiping up the coffee. But in the process of tr

I must taste bad. Especially to mosquitos. They simply don't bother me. My Lady Wonder Wench is in the bathroom applying itch ointment to a mountain of mosquito bites to surprisingly personal places. She obviously tastes good. Which figures when you look at her. But that makes her a human salad bar for mosquitoes. There is a difference between tasting bad, and bad taste. Tasting bad makes you mosquito proof, keeps you from sucking your thumb when it's time to write a check for your income tax, and keeps elderly aunt kisses at a minimum when you are a child. Bad taste is wearing a nose ring with bi-focals, spiked hair and a bald spot, and short shorts with varicose veins. Big Louie, his own bad self, The Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, "Don't sweat that stuff. Just wear what ever you can still button that doesn't itch, and can still pass the sniff test." You like to wear a thong with your depends... go for it.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, channeling my inner child. There he is...about six years old...sitting in the warm Coney Island sand, making a sand castle...trying to get a channel made just right so when the edges of the waves came in, some water would flow up into the pool he dug, behind the castle walls where the imaginary alligators lived. He's a happy kid, about to have his first real fist fight...when another kid...a few years older...came walking along and purposely kicked down a castle wall. It wasn't much of a fight. My inner child just got so mad, he jumped up, and smacked the other kid in the face...which neither kid really expected...and the other kid ran away. It was just a quick, automatic reaction that got my inner child the results he wanted that day...but occasionally got him in a lot of trouble as the years went on.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room, getting ready to give you something everybody likes. A list. Everybody likes lists. Even David Letterman. The only people who don't like a list are standing on the deck of a ship that just hit an iceberg. This is the second part of our fifth anniversary celebration. Last week we ran up the five most downloaded podcasts of the past five years. This time, it's the top five most downloaded cuts from the Personal Audio cds.

I REMEMBERED IT THIS TIME ! It's our fifth Good Night Anniversary special. I checked the podcast counter for the top five most downloaded podcasts of the past five years. And here's how they came out. Plus...a FREEBIE !

My Lady Wonder Wench wrote a comment on the blog at Dick Summer dot com about the fact that I forgot our wedding anniversary again this year. She said, "My Louie-Louie Lad remembers me all the time...with jelly beans, and daffodils, and holding hands, and laughing at silly jokes, and bedtime stories. Don't get me wrong, I love getting jewelry and candy and flowers and fancy dinners and marvelous blouses from very fancy shops. But I love my Louie-Louie Lad more." That's the kind of thing that will make a Louie-Louie Generation guy like me stand up very straight, and look her right in the eyes, and kiss her face until my fillings melt. She slips sexy notes into my shirt pockets. She plays with me, and laughs. She makes me feel powerful, because she lets me make her feel beautiful. I am some kind of lucky guy.

My Lady Wonder Wench is wonderful. She deserves a good husband. Fortunately for me, I grabbed her before she found one. I forgot our wedding anniversary. How the heck could I do that? She's never more than an inch away from whatever I'm thinking about. We've been together for decades...singing in the rain, and crying through some tough nights. I FORGOT OUR WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. I think one reason Louie-Louie generation lads and ladies don't have babies, is that the Lord is afraid we'd forget where we put them.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair, seriously considering telling you my favorite joke. My Lady Wonder Wench calls it, "The Deadly Moose Hunter Joke." And she says she hates it, but she likes it when I ask her to do the punch line. Maybe that's because she knows when she does that, it's over. I like my moose hunter story so much that I tell it when I notice somebody is feeling a little... frazzled. A little fizzle sneaks into every life. Usually it's little stuff. Somebody sends you a get well card, and you get a paper cut from opening it. You wake up in the morning, and you realize it's Monday. You rent a porn movie and fall asleep watching it. That's a fizzle. I figure one way to fix a fizzle is with a giggle. And my moose hunter joke is usually good for a giggle. So...here goes.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. I like being comfortable. Louie-Louie Generation guys have earned the right to be comfortable. That's why I have just changed from my formal attire...my black silk and leather cape with the sterling silver clasps, my gold lame loin cloth and matching purple ostrich feather, to these jeans, which have, as the commercial says, "A scosh more room." They go nicely with my "Save The Dinosaurs" tee shirt with the hole under the left armpit, and my stylish, purple orthopedic sweat socks. It's not stylish, but it's me. It's comfortable. Women like to snuggle with capable, comfortable guys. And Louie-Louie Generation guys are very capable of giving singularly superior snuggles. We will smuggle a snuggle into our lives at every opportunity.

Although I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair, I think it's stand up time. An Email just came in from one of my favorite Proud Podcast Participants. I'll just call her, "Lady B." It says, in part, "I have to walk kind of slouched over, because if I stand up straight, people accuse me of trying to 'work my thing." Proud Podcast Participant, "Lady B" is a beautiful, well built, Louie-Louie Generation lady. And she's walking slouched over because she's letting some simple Pimple People make her uncomfortable. Big Louie, his own bad self, immediately sent her a return Email that said..."You have the right to stand up straight. Do You."

You are about to experience a whack attack. Listen, you know people who are having a hard time...people who are obviously uncomfortable. They always say, "I'm all out of whack." So let me tell you that tonight, I am very definitely IN Whack. What's left of my Louie-Louie Generation body has just about conquered a beastly bug, and I am feeling remarkably lifelike. I'm sitting here in my big, black, comfortable leather pappa chair in my living room, which really helps make me comfortable in my fanny and in my feelings. When things get out of whack for me, sitting in it always helps me get back into whack...where I belong. Most people are out of whack way too often. They're not comfortable in their fannies and their feelings. Even some of my fellow Louie-Louie Generation guys who should know better get their shorts all knotted up. They get jealous of the young guys. They think the young guys all live lives involving large hot tubs full of naked Victoria's Secret models. Ha. According to Big Louie, his own bad se

I am the youngest person in Port St. Lucie! This place is Heaven's Waiting Room. Downtown looks like a Haloween parade. We are watching the N.Y. Mets flail about furiously trying to play baseball. "Wait till next year" is already, the fantasy heard around the stadium. We'll be back in time for the April 3 podcast. Meantime, here's another fantasy you might like to share.