This is part 2 of our SEVENTH YEAR ANNIVERSARY. It involves the top five downloaded stories this year from the Personal Audio CDs. Also a heavy duty note from Proud Podcast Participant Sgt. Tom...who I think...probably stopped talking to yell at his dog while recording his phone machine message.

I've been sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair, doing these podcasts for six years as of this month. Actually, I haven't been actually just sitting in this chair for six years. I have occasionally gotten up for potty breaks, snacks and several other physically and emotionally functional reasons. But this month is our seventh anniversary of the Good Night podcasts, and the Dick Summer Connection blogs.

Before we pop the cork on our beginning of the 7th year celebration, I want to thank you for giving me a few minutes of your valuable time again this year. Thank you if you've just joined us. And thank you if you've been a part of our "Huddle" from the beginning. Maybe all the way back to the radio days.

It's so comfortable sitting here in by big, manly, black leather poppa chair, after spending the last six hours hanging on to the cup holder in my Lady Wonder Wench's car with my seat belt tightened to the tourniquet setting, as she went careening down the highway, making James Bond skidding hand brake turns, and hurling great Polish curses at the other drivers...one of whom must have lost control of his car as he was zooming down the breakdown lane, because his car swerved back on to the highway right in front of us at about 85 MPH. I estimate that he must have been getting about 20 miles to the fender. It was a long drive back home from a visit with my brother John and his wife Beth down in South Carolina.

It's good to get off my feet...sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. Tired feet are a problem for Louie Louie Generation guys like me. Getting off them is obviously a good first step...ditching shoes is good...soaking them in a shower...good stuff. But I found the best way to fix feet is with my head. I've found that's also a good way to deal with defeat.

Feet and defeat. I take a minute...close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and think about walking in soft sand, bright warm sunlight on my skin, gentle sea breeze...and I'm walking over to a beach blanket where my Lady Wonder Wench is waiting in her bikini, with a bottle of hand warmed lotion to give me a massage that starts at my feet, and keeps on going, and going and going. My feet usually just kind of forget they hurt. And nothing can defeat me.

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 shaking when he handed her some change. She smiled again, and we were off. She did that kind of thing all the time. She created testosterone tsunamis wherever she went. She still does, all these years later.

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."

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 read there. Our relationship is approaching a meltdown. Except that a meltdown sounds like fun. Something like a kind of warm cheese sandwich.

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 "miss."

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 these podcasts by now. But I've actually had some no word conversations with my grass.

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.

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, wrapping another toy airplane to send to the newest member of our family, three year old Cecilia. Cecilia had to bring our daughter Kris along when she came to visit us a few months ago, because the airlines don't let three year olds fly alone.

Cecelia is that kind of three year old. Cecilia lives near a small airport, and Kris has taken her to see the small planes take off and land many times, much to Cecilia's delight. So she was really looking forward to flying in a big plane to see us. And she wasn't disappointed.

I am sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room, admiring my Lady Wonder Wench's curves. No, not those curves. The curves in her handwriting. She's working on her new novel, and she likes to write in handwriting. Cursive they call it.

It is used almost exclusively by highly evolved human females. My lady wrote a beautiful blog about Cursive just the other day. When she finished it, she closed her computer and gave me a smile like I first saw on the face of the girl who sat in front of me in the 4th grade at St. Gregory's grammar school in Brooklyn.

Her name was Kathleen McMullen. She was very smart. Every time Sister Mary Knucklebuster asked a question, Kathleen raised her hand with the correct answer. I couldn't stand her. She had pigtails. I dipped them in the inkwell every time she leaned back.

We're starting our seventh year together. Lucky seven. Some of you have been with us all the way, and some of you just jumped in tonight. Good and thanks to both.

But some people aren't with us. And you know, I think they're really missing something. I hope you'll tell them about the huddle we have here.

It's like a football huddle...lots of us gathered around, to help each other get to the goal...which is making it through the night...every night.

We've been around long enough to know that the night can get pretty dark, and there are bad guys out there on the other team. You can't keep running the same plays, and expect to make any yardage. You've got to come up with some new wrinkles if you want to score.

Six years and counting. Here's part three of our 6th year anniversary celebration.

As with almost everything in my life, very few things come out the way I expect them to. We did the 5 most downloaded podcasts of this year, then the five most downloaded podcasts going all the way back to the beginning...and I told you we'd have the five most downloaded stories from the Personal Audio CDs this time. And we do. Only there are six. And there are seven CDs. That's life.

Happy anniversary to us. This is our sixth anniversary, and this is the second of three special podcasts to celebrate the occasion. This time, we'll check out the top five most downloaded podcasts going all the way back to the beginning.

Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your precious time for those of you who have been with us for years. And for those of you who have just joined our huddle, welcome...and let me explain that these podcasts track the constant struggle for respect, recognition and happiness that we Louie-Louie Generation folks wage...daily and nightly, against the insolent forces of the clueless Pimple People, and the Drab and Dreadful Drones...who have fallen into the clutches of the Dork side.

We're heading into our sixth year together. Thank you. Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time every week again this year. Thank you if you've just joined us, and thank you even more if you've been part of this huddle for a long time.

If you've just joined us, let me explain that this podcast is about the constant struggle of the Louie-Generation lads and ladies against the forces of the Pimple People, and the Dreadful drones. In other words...it's about the fact that real courage isn't always about beating your chest and hollering, "I'm number one." Sometimes it's just about a small voice at the end of the day that says, "I'll try again tomorrow." That's hard.

But Louie-Louie Generation folks have been through plenty. And we've got plenty left. Plenty of juice. Plenty of juice for fun, for sex, for new ideas, and for turning fantasies into facts. Sometimes it's pretty tough. But one more day...we can do. And when we need help, we just remember what Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says: "Therapy is expensive...snapping bubble wrap is cheap. Your choice."

We're having a three week celebration this year. This time, we'll check out the top five downloaded podcasts of the year. Next time it's the top five downloaded podcasts of the entire six years. There's a big difference. And the time after that it'll be the top five most downloaded stories from the Personal Audio CDs.

The Sixth anniversary of the Good night podcast is coming up. Drop me an email...dick at dick summer dot com, and let me know if there's a podcast or two that you might like to hear as part of the celebration.

Did you ever look for something, and have somebody say, "There is is...it's right under your nose." The next time that happens, instead of saying something about having a senior moment, just haul yourself up to your full height, look that person right in the eyes, force your voice down to disc jockey pitch, and say, "You probably don't know, but there is a place right under your nose that's a blind spot. Therefore you can't really see anything directly under your nose. So button your lip."

And that's really true. There's a blind spot right under the middle of your nose. And 99% of the guys listening right now, are checking it out, and 100% of their ladies are watching them in horror.

I am sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, having survived a "Richard" morning. As any honest, Louie-Louie Generation guy will admit, one of the good things about having some years in your rear view mirror is that eventually you learn when to say yes, when to say no, and when to say, Whoopie and when to say, Whoops.

My Lady Wonder Wench saw a very loud, Whoopie coming this morning, and that's why she said, Richard. When she says RICHARD like that...it always gets my attention.

My Lady Wonder Wench is the only person in the world, besides the IRS, the FAA, and the Department of Motor Vehicles that calls me Richard. And that's only when my testosterone has betrayed me, and I do something that can best be described as adolescent, immature, and or smarmy. I guess I hit the jackpot this morning.

Big Louie always says, "Relationships are full of careful choices, painful compromises, and mutual goals. Romances are full of hope, and fear, and sweat...and lots of stuff that makes the forces for good in the community blush." They're not shiny and pure. They get down in the good, hot, human mud, and roll around.

When you become a Louie-Louie Generation lad or lady, it becomes obvious that life will eventually turn you into either one of the 3 Stooges, or one of the 3 Musketeers. And it's mostly your choice.

I'm back in my big, comfortable, manly, leather poppa chair, with a bit of a tan, a substantially thinner wallet, and a head full of vacation snap shots to run past you.

Here's one...Walking along the beach with my Lady Wonder Wench, and all of a sudden, a big pelican came in for a water ski type landing...feet first.

Here's another. In that same beach's parking lot, an old time Chevvy station wagon, with a license plate that expresses a deeply felt urge for many a Louie-Louie Generation lad and lass. It said, "I-Gotta-P".

Things go bump in the night...you get scared when the floor creeks, or some dog starts barking down the street, and your aches and pains, both physical and emotional always hurt the most at night.

I always liked being on the air at night, because I like being a voice that can tell you a story, make you smile a little, help you feel safe at night. It's like guys on a team pick eachother up.

I just finished talking to an old friend. He's scared tonight. And angry. Those two things go together. He's scared and angry because he's buying the message of the Fearful Fringe. He is fully expecting Armageddon, The Collapse of the American Way, and a sky full of Black Helicopters by next Thursday at the latest.

The Fearful Fringe see boogie men everywhere. And the all news channels just love them, because rule number one of the news business is, "If it bleeds, it leads." And the Fearful Fringe bleed in buckets. I call them the Fearful Fringe, because they're scared, and I think they live just around the edges of the America I live in.

You see, I think we have a secret weapon. Let me tell you about it.

The job has been driving me nuts. So have the kids and grandkids. Nothing but bad news on tv. And my feet hurt. It's been that kind of week. I was thinking...I need a change of scene...fast.

It was definitely time to tell Scotty to beam me up. Come on Scotty, zap me. Get me out of here. That's what I was thinking. And all of a sudden...Zap...I saw a quick window of opportunity. And I opened it, and I stuck my left arm out.

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room...I was just having some laughs with my Lady Wonder Wench, and I was thinking this is the best life has ever been for me. Just laughing with my Lady. Pretty basic isn't it.

Among other things, we were discussing the possible mating rituals of Big Bird, and Oscar the grouch. And the ethics involved if you are at the ten items or less fast checkout lane. For example, if you have 6 apples, that's one item if they're in a bag. And 6 bananas without a bag, is also one item, because they're all attached to each other. But suppose you have two grapefruit, and there's no bag big enough for both of them. I maintain that since they're both grapefruit, that's one item.

She claims reasoning like that is due to the fact that I'm from Brooklyn, and therefore I am inclined to cheat. And I remind her that if we get in the back of the slow lines, we could be there so long, we'd be in danger of being enveloped by a glasier. And I tell her cheating is allowed when it's self preservation. Life is good. Mostly, because she's in it. Very basic. I like basics better than fancys.

I am sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I am shrinking. I can't feel it, but I now know for sure that I am shrinking ! Isn't that what the Wicked Witch of the West said in The Wizard of Oz? I am shrinking.

Because my age index is pretty high, but my maturity level hasn't kept up with it, I often wonder if, "I'm shrinking" is what psychologists say when the phone rings while they're working. "I can't talk to you now, I'm shrinking."

Can you imagine listening to a shrink dealing with a manic depressive patient. "Cheer up. Calm down. Cheer up. Calm down." That would wear anybody down. Maybe that's why they call Psychiatrists shrinks. They're all worn down.

Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation, says there are six gears on your love boat. There's neutral...when there's nothing going on. There's pre-fore-play...like when Lady Wonder Wench is taking a shower. There's fore-play, like stuff having to do with feathers.

There's Play, of course. Then there's After play, which is the gear that most people don't think about. And there's reverse... which is a condition that is marked by silence, serious sulking, exaggerated politeness, needing your own space, having an affair, or moving to seperate states.

Those are the six gears on your love boat. If you don't deal with number five the right way, number six will hit you. And your love boat will back up and crash on the rocks.

I spent the afternoon in a Manly way. I was felling trees with my chain saw. Then I tossed huge logs into piles that stacked all the way to the roof. Well...part of the way. Then, when I was sure my Lady Wonder Wench was watching out the window, I stalked all over the property for signs of bears or other predatory wild life, which haven't actually been seen here since the James Madison administration...but my Lady Wonder Wench was watching, so I figured I'd go stalking around with my shotgun ready...just in case. All in an afternoon's work for a Manly Louie-Louie Generation guy.

What we have needed for so long is the opposite of the word..."Hello." A catch all statement that definitively puts an end to a phone conversation without offending anybody, or making you lie... too much. A simple but effective statement to terminate a phone conversation with any one without hurting any feelings. A statement so simple, emphatic and believeable, that even one of the Pimple People would understand. A statement with class, with feeling, with urgency. In short a statement that any Louie-Louie Generation guy or gal can use with confidence, clarity, and even a touch of élan.

Valentine's Day is a great excuse for some extra hugging, and kissing, and general fooling around. I have heard that some people get so carried away they even hug the nearest tree. Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation puts that into perspective. He always says, "It's ok to hug a tree. As long as that's as far as it goes."

And at the other extreme are a couple of guys I know who just ignore Valentine's Day. I guess they've just grown up too much to enjoy themselves anymore. And of course, there are quite a few folks who are taking another heavy hit to the heart this Valentine's Day. And unfortunately, it's true that sometimes...the hottest loves end in the coldest words. That's tough.

I've been lucky. The last time that happened to me was with a blonde. Blue eyes. We were in Kindergarten. Her name was Joanie. And she didn't even open my Valentine's Day card. Kind of made me feel like just another sock in the laundromat of life. That was a long time ago, and I've pretty much forgotten all about it. Mostly.

It is leap year, but I am not leaping from my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair, because I have found that I don't bounce nearly as well as I used to. That's such an athletic word...leap. It suggests a finely muscled athlete... perhaps in a leotard...soaring into the air. I don't mind doing the soaring, but I don't like being sore, so it's the crashing back to the ground that sometimes bothers me.

Suppose you were God, and you wanted to make a really nasty, cold month...which if you were God, you'd have a perfect right to do. Maybe you wanted people to know, and appreciate, that just as you could make a stinking hot month like August, you could make a crappy cold month too if you felt like it. In your mercy, you'd make it shorter than the other months, but it would be really nasty cold.

So you made the month, and gave it the name February... because, FeBRUary has that nice kind of cold BRRR sound in there. Now suppose your clueless people keep leaving out the BRRR. They keep calling it Febyouary. If you were God, wouldn't you kind of tighten down the cold screws a little, hoping people would get the point?

Valentine's Day is coming. That's a big deal around here. In some places it's not. I guess like a lot of things, it depends on the context. The context here is that my Lady Wonder Wench seriously disrupts the estrogen level for most of this zip code. When she walks around in her two piece...which is what I call her bedroom slippers...I often lose control of my eyebrows, my ears, my fingers, and many of my other parts, and I am...for a short period of time...once again...Lifeguard Man. So I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, scratching my head...which feels good by the way...trying to think of a new and better way to put how I feel about my Lady Wonder Wench into a Valentine's Day context.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, watching my Lady Wonder Wench giggle...at the fact that I may never again be able to get up from my big, comfortable black leather poppa chair...because I've had my first real work out at the gym since we moved here...which was a long time ago. Actually all I did was swim in their 25 meter long pool. I did 800 meters. And I now have a real appreciation for the difference between a yard and a meter. A meter is approximately 6 miles longer than a yard.

I need to put this in context for you. I was, in my "yout"...which is the Brooklyn word meaning young person...the chief lifeguard at Coney Island's Section 4. I was...at that time...I was...I believe the term is...ripped. There were days when I had paperwork to do in the lifeguard shack, but I felt that it was my duty to go for a stroll along the beach because I looked so good. That was then. This is now. I realized yesterday that I have spent a little too much time in my poppa chair...because when I went to stand up and tighten my belt...for an agonizing few seconds...I couldn't find it. And when I did tighten it, I felt like I was all of a sudden two inches taller.

In our constant struggle to save the world, stop the sky from falling, and keep Victoria’s Secret from falling into the wrong hands...the ones with cold fingertips, the Big Louie Department of Defense and Fooling Around has decided that we have run out of options. It’s time to target the tear mongers. We are about to launch our ultimate un-doomsday weapon...our "Whistle Missile."

What do you say about a year in which the Ancient Mayans tell us the world will end, and the groan and moan politicians and talk show hosts tell us the sky is falling, and the New York Mets don't have a starting pitching staff? Here's what Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation says: "Cheer up." And here's why he says that.

The Pimple People don't like hot. They're too kool, and they spell cool with a K instead of a "c". Maybe they avoid using a c, because they don't want to see...as in see where you are and what you're doing, see people...one at a time...see the magic all around you...and the magic inside you. Don't get lost. Keep finding yourself.

That's my New Year's resolution. And I'm telling you about it now at the beginning of this new year as a warning. Because I am going to keep reminding you all year long, that if you want...you really can keep dreaming...and believing in your dreams...and you can keep turning them into your own magic, even if...sometimes ...the rabbit in the hat bites your hand...and people laugh at you, and tell you how not kool is is to be a dreamer.

We'll be wishing this "Very Merry Christmas To You" podcast until Christmas. And we'll be posting lots of the letters you've sent about what this time of year means to you on the blog, at www.dicksummer.com.

The last story in this "A Very Merry Christmas To You" podcast is one I told you last year. And more than a few of you asked if I'd tell it again. So here it is... again. Like Christmas. And...yes...it really did happen... exactly this way. Merry Christmas.

I'm sitting here in my big, black, comfortable pappa chair in the living room, listening to some Christmas music. There's Christmas music all over the radio again this year.

The Eagle's "Please come home for Christmas" is the fifth most played Christmas song on the radio again this year. Number four is Andy Williams "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year." "Feliz Navidad" by Jose Feliciano comes in at number three. Nat Cole's "Christmas Song" is number two. And THE most played Christmas song this year is Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" from somewhere around 70 years ago.

All those artists had lots of hits in their careers. But the most popular Christmas song of all time was a one hit wonder.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room...and pretty soon I'm going to have to move it, because we always put our Christmas tree right between my chair, and the big stereo speakers our son Eric the inventor built for us a few years ago.

We don't put up our tree till Christmas Eve, and it may be a bit early to be thinking about it right now, but that seems to be all the stores ARE thinking about. Some of them have had Christmas decorations up since just after Labor Day.

Some people resent the fact that the Christmas shopping season seems to start a week earlier every year. I really don't mind. I like Christmas. People say, "Why can't we have Christmas all year long." Well the way it's being started earlier and earlier every year, by somewhere around 2020, it WILL be with us all year long.

I was sitting in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room just now, thinking about Thanksgiving. Among other things, Thanksgiving is an anniversary for me. It was on Thanksgiving night a lot of years ago, that I started the Men Are Saints campaign on WNBC radio. I called it the M.A.S. appeal. Men are saints. The idea came from remembering a Thanksgiving watching what happened when my Lady Wonder Wench, and our daughter Kris, our Daughter in Law Brenda, and our Sister in law Beth were scurrying around preparing dinner, while the guys were...otherwise occupied. And I had an actual thought. It was then when I realized that men are seldom given credit for our sensitivity, our intelligence and our selfless behavior.

Holy Batman ! I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, rubbing my feet, and drinking coffee, trying to get over the uncomfortable suspicion that either the Grinch stole our mailboxes so we couldn't send Christmas Cards, or some bright light at the Post office Department decided that they could save lots of money delivering mail if they didn't collect it any more. It looks like our mailboxes have now gone the way of outdoor phone booths, rooftop TV antennas, hula hoops, lava lamps, and mini skirts.

I'm sitting here in by big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and as you can probably tell, I like it here at home. That's why my Lady Wonder Wench and I don't take many traveling vacations. We like being home. Willie Nelson likes being on the road. Willie's current road trip included a theater not too far away from here last night, so we grabbed a couple of seats because we both like his music. The theater was packed. Lots of the people had long beautiful hair, very fancy hats, and stylish boots. And there were quite a few women there too.

I like the dark. Diversions dissolve in the dark. Diversions like your aching back, your visiting mother in law, and even your job. If you're not afraid of the dark, and you let it dissolve the diversions in your life, you begin to see some faces looking at you. And sometimes one of those faces is...yours. It can be spooky. Especially the look in your eyes. But seeing your own face looking back at you in the dark...can really be an eye opener to some of the things you didn't know about yourself.

I was sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room last night, watching a stink bug crawling up on the wall toward the ceiling. I knew that if I mentioned this to my Lady Wonder Wench, who was sitting in her usual spot on the couch...right under the bug...she would run right out of her socks into the kitchen, and she'd trip and hurt herself. I didn't want that to happen. On the other hand, I was a bit concerned that if I didn't tell her about it, the bug might fall down from the ceiling, and land in her lap. In which case she would skip the running part, pull a Star Trek move...and just kind of beam herself into some parallel universe, leaving only her t shirt, skirt, socks, and hair, behind on the couch, as sad reminders of the wonderful, sexy, happy life we had when she lived here in this universe with me.

I just got an email that knocked me right out of my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. It said, quote, "Richard, why are you wearing your mother's bra?" My head went zap...and flashed me the most bizarre picture I have ever seen. Perhaps flashed isn't the proper word here. The email went on to say that I must modernize my bra, with a seamless microfiber pullover model that features a ribbed band that eliminates rolls, wires and adjusting straps. And for God's sake...I shouldn't wear an old fashioned bra that hooks in the back or front. When my eyes stopped rotating long enough for me to regain conscious thought, I couldn't help wondering where the hell does this thing does hook.

I'm sitting in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, mourning the loss of my hevele. I know it's missing, because my friend Susan, who runs the post office down the block just asked me about it. Susan and I have been friends since I awarded her my first Gruntled Post Office Employee Of The Month award. It was a bar of Hershey Dark Chocolate.

She is usually very up-beat and pleasant. But today she looked at me and said, "Why do you look so disheveled?" Disheveled ? Now, I don't take a bow every time I pass a mirror, but on the other hand, I don't think I look like my hobby is stepping on rakes either. And I am in reasonably good health...my doctor recently assured me that regardless of my age, I am still not showing many of the early signs of mummification. And I reminded Susan of what Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, "It's wasteful to throw a whole face away, just because it's banged up a bit."

It's comfortable sitting here in my big, black, leather pappa chair in my living room...which is good...because I had a head snapping experience today. A total stranger, suddenly stuck his face into my bathroom mirror this morning. It was quick. All of a sudden, he was staring me down, just a fist's distance away from my face. It was like I was playing peek-a-boo with some sinister, Mr. Fist In The Face...and a little voice in my head said he had something important to tell me.

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.

Strange week. Two natural disasters and a natural wonder all in the same week. I was sitting in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair the other day, and I felt the earth move. Really. An earthquake. I've felt the earth move before, but never when my Lady Wonder Wench was in some other room. My Lady Wonder Wench frequently creates testosterone tsunamis which cause hormonal power surges in guys all over our zip code. It is very difficult for me to describe what Lady Wonder Wench looks like without using my hands.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, listening to the soft, Summer, night sounds. In fact, I just recorded them. They're so...calm. So I put them in this podcast for you to do a soft Summer sound chill out.

"Time Marches On" But the parade stumbled this morning. It stumbled. And that shook me up. This gets a little strange, but bear with me, because it may happen to you some morning if you're a member of the Louie-Louie Generation like me.

When I opened the curtain and looked out at our back yard like I do every morning, the sun was hitting the trees from a strange angle. It wasn't the winter angle by any means. It didn't even look like fall. But this morning, it wasn't middle of the summer soft like it has been since early July. It was like something out of the "Twilight Zone."

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 with a simple yes right now.

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-Louie Generation guy. Louie-Louie Generation guys have manners.

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 listening Lady Wonder Wench.)

Dick B said, "I remember just sitting on the stoop with my friends, watching the world go by, till the ice cream truck came. We called the guy Jolly because he was always so grumpy. How do we slow things down like they were then." Hey Dick, I guess we don't.

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 trying to get the coffee out from between the computer keys, I must have hit the delete button, and the report I was going to finish disappeared from the screen, replaced by a notice that said I was trying to perform an illegal operation, and therefore the program would close down to protect the computer, and I should see the network administrator.

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 self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation, the fact is that the typical evening of excitement for Pimple People guys is watching the third re-run of the scores on ESPN, while eating the last few kernels of popcorn from the bag they just brought home from the movies.

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.

A terrorist cold bug has seized me! So I am fleeing to Florida with my Lady Wonder Wench, to boil it out of my bod. This is not the first terrorist creature that has crept into our lives. Another beast challenged my monster defying abilities a while ago. In case you have forgotton...here is the legend... re-told.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room, trying to figure out how to do a better job of explaining last week's Do You Do You podcast. I don't think I made it clear enough. And it's important to me that I make it clear enough that you really understand. Because I am a big fan of spousal spice. I guess you could call me a spousal Spice Guy. Spousal as in my Lady Wonder Wench. And Spice as in hot.

Some things are so clear, they don't need an explanation. There were orange traffic cones on Rt. 52 today, with a totally un-necessary sign that said, "Construction next 2 miles." Right off hand, the only other explanation for orange traffic cones on the road I could come up with would be, "Psychedelic witches embedded in macadam next two miles."

There are some signs...that should be just as clear...all around us...But it looks like we're not seeing them. And that's what makes me think you might want to remember to Do You. I call them signs of the swift shrinkage of spousal spice.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room. I know where I am, I know who I am, and I know why I'm here. I'm not confused. And it's obvious that lots of people are. That's because they don't follow Big Louie's best advice of all time: "Do you."

"Do you", means think for yourself, and never let anybody else eat your hunch. "Do you". Just two words. But they clear up all kinds of confusion, and sometimes they even lower your blood pressure to within human tolerances.

I am sitting here in utter confusion. Actually, I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room...but I can't figure this out. I call this podcast Goodnight, because I thought some folks might like a few comfortable stories and a little fun just before they go to sleep.

Confusion not only reigns, it pours. Because I just looked at the computer counter for this Goodnight podcast, and what time do you think most people listen to this podcast? Right. 8 AM. How did you figure that out? Maybe you're one of the people who does that. Is it because from the perspective of midnight, 8AM is very late... and you just like to stay up very, very late?

You've got to work with what you've got. So when you hear my Lady Wonder Wench's new TV commercial, remember that's only her, "What-is-the-matter-with-you" voice when she's saying, "Is there anybody there ?" That one voice does not describe what type of woman she is. She is not a type. She is a person.

She has lots of other voices. Her "mommy" voice, her "Honey do" voice, her "Dealing with the telemarketer" voice. And of course her "I'm your girlfriend voice." BUT...unfortunately for you, although I am not the jealous husband, killer, stomp on you type...because I am also a person...not a type...but sorry folks...you're going to have to work with what you've got. And you are not going to hear her "I am your girlfriend" voice. Because, that's what I've got to work with.

Big Louie, his own bad self, The Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation, always says, "You're never too old to make out as long as you have any moving parts left." The Pimple People don't understand that. They would pop their piercings if they had any idea how nicely Louie-Louie Generation Lads and Ladies can still move our remaining movable parts. They also don't understand aural sex. Words.Warm, wonderful, words.

So what do you think. Should I go boldly bald like an eagle, or just get another $20 haircut? If I went shiny top, I could draw a little smiley face on the back of my head, and every time I tipped my hat, people would laugh behind my back. And think of the expanded zone for backrubs. Let me know what you think.

Winter is God's way of saying, "Up yours." The sun didn't come out all day today. Can't blame it. It was way too cold. I walked outside to get the mail a little while ago, with my cup in my hand, and by the time I got back inside, I was enjoying a chunk of coffee.

You could freeze an egg on the sidewalk. That might be why hens were seen laying eggs from a standing position today. People with high fevers were renting themselves out as car seat warmers. Instead of saying "Have a nice day," courteous supermarket checkouts were saying, "I hope you go to hell." Flashers were just describing themselves. Priests all over the arch diocese couldn't get their cars started, because darn and drat weren't powerful enough encouragement words.

A little while ago, while I was putting a log on the fire, I noticed a little tiny frozen brown spot. The fire hit it just now and it went pop...and for just a moment, it stank something awful. It was probably a little tiny frozen squirrel fart. I'm sorry...flatulence. Can't be too careful...the forces for good in the community will tie a knot in my microphone cord, and I'll never be heard from again.

Toys are more important than you think. They help protect us from the big, bad, boredom bully. A toy is a just for having fun. Having fun is good. And people who have fun, are usually fun to be around. They are never boring, because they never get bored. That's important.

Boredom is a big bully. It beats people up more than YOU can possibly imagine... because the kind of people who listen to this podcast...may have lots of problems...but boredom...probably isn't one of them.

Now there is a clear distinction between a tool and a toy. A tool is something you need. A toy is something you want, so you pretend it's a tool to give you an excuse to get it. A toy is not something you're going to just show off...like a 20 pound gold plated cufflink. That kind of thing is not a toy. I'd call it more of an ego expander.

When Lady Wonder Wench says, "I'm sorry," she means "You're going to be sorry." That's bad enough. When she says, "How much do you love me," I know that means she did something that I'm not going to like. I remember when she said, "This kitchen floor is hard to clean," I realized she meant she wanted a new house. I had a woman once say to me, "Can't we just be friends?" And I knew she meant there was no way she was going to let any part of my body touch any part of her body again. All those things, I could understand, and deal with in my own Louie-Louie Gentlemanly way. But you guys know...when you ask a woman, "What's wrong," and she says..."Nothing"...something is really wrong.

My life has always had an odd shape...like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. It sometimes takes sudden zig-zag turns when I least expect it. I like it that way. I'm never bored. And every time my life zigs, I can depend that my Lady Wonder Wench will be "The One" to help me make it through the next zag. I'm not a religious guy. But sometimes, when I think about that, I have to take a quick deep breath, and when I exhale, something comes out that sounds a lot like a very quiet..."Thank You."

This podcast has kind of an odd shape too. It's mostly for fun, and to enjoy a conversation with some good people...you few, you mighty, you proud, podcast, participants. It's like I am the mouth, and you are the ear. But sometimes that gets turned around. Sometimes, like tonight, it's you who bring up some industrial strength questions. Like...what happens when you think you've found, "The One," and she or he...walks out of your life. Can you ever get over that? And maybe most important, will you ever be able to trust enough...to take a chance...that someone else might really be..."The One."

Like most Louie-Louie Generation guys, I am somewhat maturity challenged. And like most Louie-Louie Ladies, my Lady Wonder Wench doesn't understand how a grown man can fall on his side on the floor, and kick his legs with milk spurting out of his nose when he hears a wonderful joke. That's when she gives me the Louie-Louie Lady Cower-Power look. This podcast is about developing a Louie-Louie Lad Look, that will even the score.

Happy 2011

A new page. A new calendar. Another time to tackle, "Firsts." How many "Firsts" do you remember ? Your first job? Your first kiss? There are a bunch of firsts that I remember in this podcast. And there's one very special gift to start your new year. If you've been listening to the Good Night podcasts for a while, you'll realize how special that gift is. Happy New Year.

'Twas The Flight Before Christmas

...and all through our house...my Lady Wonder Wench and I are getting ready to meet the Christmas Spirit. Not Santa Claus. The Christmas Spirit. We do this every year. We bundle up, go down to the little airport where we keep our small plane, strap in, start the engine, and climb up into the cold, black, just before Christmas midnight. And so far...every year...well...give the podcast a listen. And...Merry Christmas.

One of the Summer Family's favorite Christmas treasures is in this podcast. It gets un-packed each year, along with the long legged little Santa that looks like Lady Wonder Wench's father used to look that has hung on our tree for decades. It's as important a part of our Christmas memories as the delicate, hand made, glass Christmas ball that first hung on my Grandfather's tree in Germany a couple of generations ago...and the tree top star I cut from cardboard and covered with tinfoil on the first Christmas Lady Wonder Wench and I had together. We couldn't afford to buy one in the store that year.

It's a gift our son David gave to our family, and with his permission I'm passing it along to you. David is a senior computer programmer. He gets this podcast to you each week. But he's also a very gifted, professional musician. He got that talent from his Grandfather. His present is one you will want to keep...so you can open it again next year, and for many years to come. Merry Christmas.

It's time for Jingle Bells, Louie-Louie style. Louie-Louie Generation lads and ladies have been around long enough to have more than a few good Christmas/Hannakah/Solstice/Kwanza stories to tell. So let's tell them to each other. You can send yours to Dick@dicksummer.com, or just go to the blog at the www.dicksummer.com website and add it to the comments on the current blog. Looking for the laughs, the tears, the presents, the surprises...the memories...that make this time of the year...and this time of our lives...so special.

I've just noticed that civilization as we know it is tottering at a tipping point. Teetering...even. And it's my fault. The ancient Mayan 2012 end of the world prophesy is nothing compared to the impact on our weakened society of what I must call, the dreaded "D Word!" I must be careful just saying that out loud, because "Forces For Good In The Community" are always lurking... constantly alert to this incredible opportunity that the use of this new, and dreaded "D Word" gives them to be shocked, dismayed, and offended.

We have, in the long history of mankind, faced similar threats to our way of life when we have discovered...hidden...craftily in our midst...the "B Word," the "N Word," The "H Word," and the "F Word." Words for which, if you say them, those Forces For Good In The Community will righteously punish you by getting you fired from your broadcasting job, banishing you to live in Odessa, Texas, and/or sticking your wet tongue in a hot socket. (Actually sticking your wet tongue in a hot socket might not be such a bad punishment, because the resulting hairdo might win you a place on American Idol.)

If you and I take a moment out from complaining about everything, we'll come up with lots of big things to be thankful for...like the freedom to complain...even about the government...out loud...for example. But how about little thankful things? Like the ice cream sandwich with the little flakes of dark chocolate I had yesterday, or walking on the beach with somebody special...on Christmas day...or sharing a bag of hot popcorn with that same somebody, sitting next to you waiting for a movie to begin...or just tossing a Frizzzzzz- beeeee.

But we're talkin turkey today. Turkeys are dumb. They walk right over to you and say, "gobble, gobble." Not smart. That may be where we got the idea. Thanksgiving is also the anniversary of the "Men Are Saints" appeal. It's all here in this podcast.

Now, I realize that what I am about to say will put me high up on your list of surly, soulless, scoundrels. But I don't want a dog in my life right now. I also realize that it is statements like that which cause a great many, mostly unnecessarily fatal fights between men and women. And I understand that one of the, things my Lady Wonder Wench is thinking now is, "If I throw a stick will he run after it...and just keep running ?"

My buddy Al and his wife have a dog they named Ike. They treat Ike like their child. My feeling is that I have had enough children. And besides, I fear that the mixing of human and dog DNA could well result in the creation of an animal, which, instead of barking, would look up at you and say, "Let my people go." I can't help it. Right now, I want to be the only animal in Lady Wonder Wench's life.

I know how to deal with this. A Gold fish.

"Don't look back, they might be gaining on you." That's a quote from baseball's magnificent "Satchel" Paige. But I can't help looking back...in horror...at this past election's political television advertising. What kind of people do these pathetic politicians think we are?

No matter what your political views might be, if you believed half of what the politician's commercials said about their opponents, you would want to pack your bags and sneak out of the country under cover of darkness to someplace safe, if those other guys won.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I must confess until I started recording this, I was sucking my thumb. I guess that's a little like hanging on to the blue blankie. The key pad on my new Ipod is not kind to Louie-Louie Generation guys with thick thumbs. In fact Ipods are not kind to Louie-Louie Generation guys period. And it's not just because you could call me "Old Clumsy Thumbs."

Ipods are also kind of a brain drain. Remember when companies gave you an instruction book when you bought something that was more complicated to use than just plug it in the wall, and turn the knob? The Ipod comes with a little tiny three page foldover instead. It says go to our website on the internet, and download the simple instructions. The simple instructions are 342 pages long. That's not simple instructions.

I like looking at my Lady Wonder Wench. Because when she looks back, I don't see the reflection of some Ol Clumsy Thumbs guy with a major brain drain. I see her Louie-Louie lover. Me. And that Lady Wonder Wench smile, always seems like it's saying... "hey hunk...why don't you come here and let me limber up your limbics."

It's coming clean time. I think every life should have some kind of real meaning. Including mine. Some people make a big mark on life. I'll be content with making just a small smudge.

One of the fascinating stories that came out about the rescue of those miners in Chile, is that some of them had mistresses. (Oh my.) The media didn't talk about them much, because talking about mistresses could cause trouble. Mistresses are a little like Stepmothers. They don't get much respect. Which is bizarre, because they sometimes become Stepmothers. I think many mistresses are misunderstood, and very much under-respected. The Pious guys roll their eyes to heaven when I say that. "Pious" is an old Brooklyn word meaning "full of pie." This podcast will explain my theory. (Every life should be examined one person at a time.) If you take what it says into your life, it will mean I've made my little smudge.

I've got to warn you about a group of people who are as close to useless as a BB gun during a rhino charge. And that's the Dreadful Drones. They are virtual people. They're not kids...they've done the time that could qualify them for Louie-Louie-hood, but they've totally missed the ‘tude. The Attitude. So they missed their opportunity. They never latched on to Louie-Louie hood. Big Louie claims that the only reasonable explanation for them is that during evolution, their ancestors were in the control group.

A Dreadful Drone Dude, walks a couple of steps ahead of his Dreadful Drone Dude-ett...and he forgets that a dude should hold his dude-tte's hand, open the door for her, and talk to her every once in a while. He still chooses his breakfast cereal by what kind of toy is in the box. His idea of excitement is when the tv networks start their new fall season shows. His biggest ambition is becoming a tax accountant who has a loophole named after him.

A Dreadful Drone Dude-tte thinks, "don't ask, don't tell" is a concept that applies to flatulating in a crowded elevator. Her professional ambitions are limited to becoming the secretary who has the desk nearest the copy machine. She's amazed to find that Polident isn't a beaten up parrot. If the Dreadful Drones were truly alive they'd be very sick people.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair, after a really tough day. Just popped the shoes. Don't know if I should put these socks in the laundry, or set fire to them. The way they smell may set off the fire alarm without any help from a match. I'm really looking forward to taking a nice, hot, shower in a few minutes. Tough day. But a good day. I got stuff done. Getting things done feels good. It makes you feel like you're in control. There's not a lot of that in control feeling around these days.

You get out on the road and people are driving at speeds ranging from sonic boom to car wash...and all you want to do is get to work. You've got to be cunning to survive. Of course, Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation has been around long enough to give us advice on surviving in today's traffic. For example, Louie says, "Never pass a driver who's on a cell phone. Wait till he creams the truck ahead of him, then pass briskly on whichever side has less debris."

Team work is important to guys. Team work. We help each other. We often even put aside our differences to help each other win the most important challenge we all face...which is convincing Louie-Louie Ladies that we lust lovingly, care completely, and protect passionately. Especially that first part. We cooperate with each other when we can. Of course, sometimes we can't. It's trickey. There are limits to team work. Mostly those limits have to do with ladies. We've learned that from history.

We've learned for example about two famous pre-Louie-Louie Generation guys...one from Sparta and the other from Troy. They got into this huge fight over a pre-Louie-Louie Lady named Helen. Helen must have been hot. It's said she had a face that launched a thousand ships...so you can imagine what the rest of her must have looked like. So these two guys and their buddies really went at it...whacking away at each-other. But it seems that nothing could stop the powerful Spartan navy. And pretty soon, what seemed like millions of little Spartan seamen burst through the Trojan defenses...and well...you've lived... you know the kind of trouble that can develop from that.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room...just took off my shoes...ohhh that feels so good. It's like sneezing three times in a row, or long fingernails scratching your back, a long...warm shower...releasing a belch that starts right behind your navel, or let's be honest...there are few feelings as fine as the release of your personal fragrance of a combustible nature.

From the time I get up in the morning, I look forward to the instant that my shoes come off at night. The smart guys in the white lab coats claim that depression, and irritability tend to be among the causes of flat feet. Seems to me that the frequent flapping of flat feet might be one of the causes of depression and irritability. And boy are my feet flat. And big. Very uncomfortable when I put them into my mouth...which...given what I have done for a living all my life...is frequently.

I really do have big feet. For a guy my size. I used to be 5-11. Probably closer to 5-10 now. Louie-Louie Generation Guys do get worn down...in part from the pressures of taking good care of our Louie-Louie ladies. And we do take care of them. Ask my Lady Wonder Wench. She now sometimes says "Size isn't every thing." And I like the way she purrs when she says it.

Sealth stuff sneaks in under your radar. That's why it's called stealth stuff. Stealth stuff sprouts on smooth flat surfaces...like tables...the tops of dressers...and kitchen counters. Yesterday, when I got back from the store with my nifty new all frequency desk lamp that will give me healthy virtual sunlight during the darker months, my new wi-fi transmitter that will let me use my lap top anywhere within a five mile radius, and my new ten terrabite external hard drive made in China and assembled in Tailand...my stealth stuff signal finally went off...alerting me to the startling scope of the danger I face from the rapidly accelerating level of stealth stuff that has...evidently...for years been stalking me. Sneaking up on me. But it may be too late.

I work at my day job in my home office. But that deadly stealth stuff has now completely covered my desk...so where am I going to put the brand new stuff I just bought? The nifty all frequency desk lamp that will give me healthy virtual sunlight during the darker months, the new wi-fi transmitter that lets me use my laptop halfway to the next town, and the ten terrabite external hard drive made in China and assembled in Tailand. I found myself standing there yesterday, looking at where I last remembered seeing my desk...with the stuff I just bought in my hands...then... I heard the phone, and it took me ten rings to find it...covered...no, buried... under huge heaps of sinister, stealthy stuff.

As I sit here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair, her words swirl around in my head, and tug at the sides of my mouth...and I'm trying hard not to smile. Smugly. Nobody likes a smug smile...except maybe the smug smiler. Now...I'm pretty sure my Lady Wonder Wench is watching. The woman was a sales lady, and she said, "My what a nice body." And she was talking about me. And my Lady Wonder Wench was standing right there. And Lady Wonder Wench is sitting on the couch right across the room from me right now, and from the expression on her face I know she knows what I'm thinking. And she's thinking, "The woman didn't mean it, she's a sales person." And I'm thinking "Yes she did. But I know from experience I better not smile. Because I know Lady Wonder Wench will roll her eyes, sigh, and put her hand on her hip again.

I mentioned the other day that I was going to wear my gold lame loin cloth and purple ostrich feather for my dinner date last Friday with Lady Wonder Wench. I saw it start her thinking process...which went something like this: "He really hasn't bought any clothes since the Clinton administration. I'm going to clear out his closet."

The thing most women including my Lady Wonder Wench don't really understand is that it takes time for a guy to break in his clothing so it's comfortable. Even Louie-Louie Generation ladies don't seem to understand that. A guy's jacket is just getting broken in after a decade or so. As long as I can still zip up a pair of Jeans, they're good to go. A guy wears a shirt for three or four days...as long as it passes the under the arms sniff test, what's wrong with wearing it one more day?

Who ever did the original design for human beings gave us tears for a reason. They're safety valves. Most women understand that and they're smart enough, and brave enough, to cry when the pressure inside is threatening to pop something important in their hearts. Most guys are neither smart enough nor brave enough to cry because most guys are afraid the other guys will laugh at them. That's a big reason that more men than women have heart attacks. When you're hurting inside, you're supposed to cry. If you don't you're working against your own chemicals.

Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation says, "There are things you shouldn't fake. Don't fake driving a stick shift car, don't fake flying an airplane, don't fake doing electrical work, don't fake delivering a baby, and when you feel like crying...don't fake a smile."

Where the heck did it go? The lazy, crazy, hazy days of Summer...and the under the boardwalk nights, watching the fireworks...and making some of our own...and the most beautiful girls in the world in their summer dresses...and walking in the sand. There's still some time left, but as Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says: "Life is like a giant roll of toilet paper. The closer it gets to the end the faster it goes." Time to grab a share of the Summer love you've got coming to you...it's going by pretty fast.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, with what I think will be a nice surprise freebie for you. I just finished production on the brand new Night Connections 3 album. And for this week only, I'll send you a free download. All you have to do is send an email to dick@dicksummer.com, and say...sure send me Night Connections 3...for free. That's it. No strings. No obligations. No kidding. These are some stories that I really wanted to record.

Most of the Night Connections stories were started in my head by things that phone callers told me when I was on the air in the middle of the night. They had nothing to lose by telling me what they were doing, and maybe they had something to gain getting things off their chests. They were laughing, and crying, and loving, and leaving...betraying each other and earning each other's trust. You can almost smell the middle of the night sweat and perfume in these stories...and the beer...and the fear.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, recovering from the shock of the results of a certain look on our daughter Kristin's face. Her expression is well known in the family. Her left eyebrow goes up, she smiles a quick little tight smile, and her nose twitches. She's done that ever since she was an infant. It's a signal that she's going to make something happen.

Kris is a biker chick, a lacy lady, a blue jeans babe, a proud mother of three great kids, and a talented artist. She's the kind of daughter who makes a guy hope he really is something like she thinks he is. And she's my Lady Wonder Wench's best friend.

I like reading my emails while I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. It's comfortable. I like comfortable. But like anybody else, except with your oh so very koolest guys. That's kool with a k. I sometimes get frazzled and furious. I have at times started fist fights. And I have been known to leak suspiciously around the eyes at sad movies, or moving music. Very un-kool. And I don't care if you know it.

So...an email just came in from proud podcast participant Betsy Kemp. Betsy says, "This is no good. We need to keep our quarterback nice and mellow." Betsy, I am usually a mellow fellow. I like being that kind of cool. But I don't spell it with a K. See... I also like being hot. Getting hot has gotten me into a lot of trouble in my life. It's left me with scars from fights, and scars from love affairs, and it's gotten me fired from radio stations, and damn near got me killed a couple of times trying to do some things...some crazy things...that simply couldn't be done...not by me at least. But you know what? It's worth it. It's definitely worth it. Heat is neat.

You've heard that "Time flies when you're having fun?" Well time also flies when you drop your clock. I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather Pappa chair, with time on my hands. Sort of. Actually...I have pieces of my living room clock...which I dropped...in my hands. It looks like the clock is dead...it's just a bunch of little pieces on the floor. I was trying to set it to pick up the signal from some Godforsaken transmitter in the mountains of Colorado...which the government uses to keep clocks like this accurate. I don't know much about Colorado, except that the time coordination transmitter is there, and expensive people go to Aspen to mate.

My Lady Wonder Wench and I went to Colorado once so she could buy a horse. I was never clear as to why when we live in Pennsylvania, she had to go to Colorado to buy a horse. Have you any idea how many Pennsylvania horses must have looked up at our plane and felt rejected. Guy horses must have a very high rejection rate when you think about it...because they're almost always gelded...which eliminates them from most of your sexier filly's top ten horsing around lists.

As a Louie-Louie Generation guy, I don't like the sound of the word gelded. Vasectomy is a much more manly term.

It is so...comfortable, sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. I guess part of it is that as a Louie-Louie Generation guy, I'm past the age where I always have to prove that I'm just as good as I never was. Louie-Louie Generation guys are comfortable. We know that "He who dies with the most toys wins." But on the other hand, we also know that he doesn't get to play with them, because he's dead. The Pimple People haven't figured that out yet. They're not comfortable. They're always scrambling trying to catch up with us. Big Louie, his own bad self, has a statement for the Pimple People. He says, "Pimple People of the world, you shall indeed inherit the earth...after we're done with it."

I'm always amazed at how un-comfortable Pimple People guys are. This is no kidding. You can't make this up. There is a National Coalition for Men. Their stated goal is to "Help emotionally adrift men." They deal with big deal problems like should a man open a door for a woman? Should he talk about his feelings? And most amazing of all is their top topic: What is the role of the male in this increasingly complex society? Louie-Louie Generation guys have a very simple answer to all those Pimple People Problems. Big Louie, his own bad self says, "Just don't hurt anybody, and do what's comfortable for yourself." That ought to do it.

Tonight, I'm the masked man...sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. The mask probably isn't important. You probably wouldn't recognize me anyway without my blue leotard and red cape, with the big L for Louie on the back. If you're new to this podcast, this is about life for the Louie-Louie Generation...lads and ladies for whom that song has been a big part of the background of our lives.

It's not just about age. It's actually mostly about 'tude. Attitude. We've got it. We don't age. We ferment instead. I'm hiding my face from Face Book. And not only am I not a Face Book friend, I am a twitter quitter, and painful as it may sound, I've lopped off my link at linkedin.

I'm not anti-social. I just think some people take the word "friend" kinda lightly. Or maybe I take it too seriously. But I really love my friends. I don't have very many of them, and you know who you are. You have my email address and my phone number. You can get in touch with me any time you feel like it. You know I look forward to hearing from you. And you don't even have to call before you drop in.

But just because I met someone in the supermarket check out doesn't mean that person is my friend, regardless of how the Face Book folks see it. We all have to perform the "How are you,""Have a nice day.""Let's get together sometime soon" supermarket check out act sometimes. It's ok. But I don't want to perform all the time.

I'm looking at a dangerous new 32 inch wide flat screen hole in my living room and in fact in my life and yours. You can disappear down that hole... and boldly go... nowhere. And lots of people do. As you may have figured out, I had to replace an almost perfectly good twenty some odd year old TV set before its time. I wanted to wait till I could afford a new 3d TV, so I could watch Catherine Zeta Jones movies the way they were intended to be seen. Through slightly steamed up glasses. But my trusty old Zenith was driving me nuts with the closed captioning which it decided to turn on all by itself, and I couldn't turn it off... without the original changer, which has long since joined the original rabbit ears in Howdy Doody Heaven. And I didn't want to hear what most of the tv people were saying the first time around, without having to read it fifteen seconds later, in a voice recognition printout that has switched the language to the Klingon setting.

A long time ago, when the kids were little, I always wished there were an early morning kids show called, "Let's Go Back To Bed And Sleep A Little Longer." It would be a puppet show like Howdy Doody. The Howdy puppet would say things like, "My it's early." Then he'd yawn and say "I'm still tired. Let's all lie down and be very quiet till about 8 Am." I think it would have been a smash hit with daddies. And that's where the commercial money is. But only until daddies hit 49 years old.

The most popular story downloads of the past four years.

The Tiny Lady Comes In Second.

I would have forgotten our 4th Anniversary, except for Proud Podcast Participant Betsy Kemp.

I'm licensed to carry a pun. And I had to use it this time.

The show is called, "Tune In And Laugh At American Guys... Ha Ha."

What lights your limbic system? Here's ten of my top limbic system lighters.

March to a different accordian with me. Send "well" to hell.

I love being invisible. It let's me get into your head.

Sweat is good for the mind and body. Especially when some bodies are involved.

He was a comic book character with a huge heart. Wolfman Jack. "Wolfie" and I had a couple of things in common.

If the names Hendrix, Morrison, or Clapton mean anything to you, you should know about the man who said "no."

Would you care to drop over to my place, so I could show you my collection of fingerprints on the carpet...my dear?

That's what we used to tell each other. Remember?

I'd like to make the Fearful Fringe feel safe.

Our bodies are space ships, walking around on this strange blue planet. Some bodies walk a little nicer than others.

Ron Lundy died a few days ago. He was a big time New York disc jockey, and a friend.

Please don't hold a grudge at a guy who's made a smudge.

It's good to be back in my big, comfortable, black leather Pappa chair, popping percuset.

Guest host David Summer talks about Dick's recovery and another of those little misses.

Guest host David Summer talks about needful things and the little misses.

The Puma People of America is for Louie-Louie Generation folks who move like big cats, like having our backs rubbed, and spend as much time as possible brushing against certain nicely turned legs.

Bogart and Bergman got it right in Casablanca. Remember them when Cupid Calls on Valentine's Day.

What a time we've had. So far.

My dad was my hero. Maybe that's why I never got to know him better. I wish I had known him just as a guy.

It takes guts to play the Peek-a-boo-Game. It can tear you open. But maybe it's worth it to find out what you're supposed to be if/when you grow up.

A bug sitting on the wall, or on the floor is ok with Lady Wonder Wench. But when one lands on her needlepoint, it's time for me to put on my Indiana Jones hat...tilted 45 degrees to the left.

When you say 2010, it even has a happier sound than "twenty oh nine." It's like the difference in how you look when somebody is taking your picture and you say "Cheese"... instead of being a wise guy and saying "Limburger."

When my Lady and I took off for our traditional Christmas flight, most people thought we were looking for Santa. We weren't. And I'm glad to tell you that we did find what we were looking for...one more time.

Dave is my favorite Christmas musician. He keeps a tradition alive that goes back a long time. I have two other favorite musicians. But Dave is the go to guy at Christmas.

The only reason anybody pays attention to the Herald Angels, it that they're always saying, "Hark." You want' attention...do what the Herald Angels do.

If you tell me one of your Christmas stories, I'll tell you one of mine. You first.

DISCLAIMER: This does not mean that women are NOT saints. Nor does it mean that ALL men ARE saints. I would be thankful if you would remember that. After all, that's what Thanksgiving is all about.

Randy had a smile on his face that was so wide, his ears were drooping, he was wearing a sweaty sweat shirt & jeans, and he was carrying two very substantial gift pieces of trout. It's a good life.

Tossing out stuff that has been sitting in my closets. Tossed everything...even some memories. But not all of them.

Small changes make big differences. Here's a small change on the way too often told story of the evils of the pleasures of the flesh.

Just hit a big pothole. Hope I didn't break my Goodie-Grabber. I need one more Do-Over...right now.

There's a booger in Texas. And Burrbank is where they keep the cold, hard, cash. But Saturday nights you want to spend in Mississippi...because there's a place there called...YAZOO ! These are the musings of a slightly fermented maturity challenged mind.

There's one comforting thought when millions of us have our arms full of flu goo...there's a voodoo doll out there somewhere having a really bad day.

Those were the days. You'd put a barrel of warm milk out for your pet saber tooth tiger, and call, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty." Then you had to jump back pretty fast, because those guys didn't much care who they saber toothed. This time, we look back at some of the "Days"...and we're bringing some of the nights back.

You shouldn't go to bed with somebody you shouldn't go to bed with. But if you do go to bed with somebody you shouldn't go to bed with...skip the boxer shorts please.

There's hope when the dreams of the immediate future are kinder than the history of the recent past.

You can only hold your belly in for so many years. This is the story of the "R" word.

Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation has issued his first "Dirty Dog Alert." Why is "Dirty Harry" smiling when justice needs to be done ?

A long look in a full length mirror, and seeing reflections of the Midnight Ladies of Midtown Manhattan.

A couple of emails, and a really dumb thing I did this week made me think pretty hard about this one.

The guy on the cover of the magazine is young. He looks like he forgot to shave for a couple of days before the photo shoot. More than likely, he holds several scoring records, many of which are not in recognized sports. He likely has women he doesn't even know running around his house in high spiked heels, doing floor exercises while wearing sweat pants from Victoria's Secret, and arguing with each other over who gets to give him a back rub with her carefully manicured nine inch fingernails when he gets home. But I'm better off, because of the fingerprints on the carpet.

This is the story of a memorable dining experience. Some people know the high hopes that come during the first few hours of a diet. Other people just drown their sorrow with Redi Whip. The best place to figure out who belongs to which group is a table near the salad bar at a diner. We can watch an endless array of human dramas play out there behind the beets...if we don't let the lettuce get us.

Some days you're the bird, and some days you're the statue. I've been Lawn Tractor Man, Life Guard, Pilot, Late Night Radio DJ, Hunky Husband, Dad, and lots of names I won't mention. But now...I'm Glasses Guy. This is new for me. It's going to take some getting used to. I started thinking, why couldn't this work around the other way. Instead of starting to have trouble seeing, why couldn't I start being hard to see...like becoming invisible. Try thinking about those possibilities without getting a smile on your face that lasts for at least three weeks.

I don't mind people looking at me and saying, "He's getting older." But I don't ever want people to look at me and say, "He's getting old." The difference is Attitude. Louie-Louie Generation Guys and Dolls are riding our exercise bikes, while our kids are driving cars. No question...things are changing. But unless you're sitting in your rocking chair, but can't make it go, or you get winded playing chess, you don't have to get old. But it takes more than just wishing. It takes attitude. And by the way, be careful what you wish for. You might get it. Like I did. Listen.

What's a Louie - Louie Generation guy supposed to do when he needs a back scratch, but Catherine Zeta Jones is off doing a movie? Who's going to go and get him something cold from the fridge when an overwhelming thirst for something cold strikes but Angelina Jolie is having a night out with the girls? Here are some of the answers to burning questions like that. You will experience the solo pleasures of the Retro Rub. Writhe with pleasure with a thorough Scalping. And sop up the very good vibrations of Sniffing and Sneezing. Dig right in.

There is only one explanation for why I bought my Lady Wonder Wench a brand new, hideously expensive car today. And that explanation can in no way be considered reasonable. But I'd do it again.

The title is a very bad pun. But the story is a very happy one. It's about shirts, and the people who wear them. Especially one person who wore a shirt that seemed magic to me.

Actually, this is our third anniversary plus a month. I promised to tell you about the top five podcast downloads of the year at each of our anniversaries, so I guess it's better late than never. One important observation for you guys from Big Louie, his own bad self... the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation this week: "Sex is better than cutting the lawn, no matter what your wife tells you."

Elbow Grease can make you the King Of The Road. Just roll down your car window, and stick your left elbow out there into the sunshine. You'll have an instant, "Beam me up Scotty" moment. The dark clouds will disappear. You will be 18 again. You will spend all of your spare time doing shower duets with the companion of your choice. Think I'm kidding... try it.

We need all the help we can get. The economy is in trouble, we've got wars breaking out like pimples, and our satellites are getting taken out by space junk, so we ought to be listening for some new ideas.. even nutty ones. But we're just yelling at each other. Time to take a tip from my Lady Wonder Wench. Whisper.

Google lurks somewhere down deep inside your computer. And it knows everything. It's like the wise guy who sits on the mountain top and tells you the true meaning of life...or that little voice inside that when you screw up keeps saying..."I Told You So." So, I'm giving my "little voice inside" a name. It's kinda like Google. So I'm calling it Giggle. You have a Giggle too. And I'll bet you find your Giggle in here...just waiting to say, "I Told You So."

There are some high profile guys like John Travolta, Harrison Ford and Tom Cruise who fly their own planes. But most pilots...big plane pilots and little plane pilots, are like me...just guys who like to fly. Here's why we like to fly.

Life is like a giant roll of toilet paper. The closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes. Get a little summer love while you still can.

People who are not guys understand this stuff better than people who are guys. So in trying to figure out stuff like why kissing is more important than grabbing, I made a list of the different players in the Love game. That's why it's called Summer's Love Lineup. To figure out where you're batting in the order, listen here.

My Mom knew the two secrets to living a successful life: 1 - Wash your hands. 2 - Stand up straight. Being a mom was her career. But she was also a pretty young woman. What was life like for that pretty young woman... I still wonder.

The evil TV spirits are out to get us. Witches draw a line around themselves to keep the evil spirits away. I'm trying it !

I like lady sounds...long fingernails clicking while they're giving you a back scratch, snatches of songs that make the dishwashing easier, high heels clicking on hardwood floors, and best of all...a certain Lady's laugh.

Life is good. There's a new little girl in our family. Her name is Cecilia. And she is absolutely beautiful. She has her Grandmother's half smile. Live is very, very good.

When you walk into a dentist's waiting room, knowing that in a few minutes he's going to insert a three foot long needle into your mouth, one of the last things you want to see is a dead goldfish floating at the top of his fish tank. But that's not quite as bad as walking into a waiting room full of sick, bleeding, and semi-dead people at a doctor's office, and finding a BIBLE ! Even worse is coming home and hitting the blinking light on your voice mail, and hearing something like the Personal Audio in this week's Good-Night Podcast.

You could get used to taking vacations. Some people like to go on cruises. Others like to climb mountains. A few go white water rafting. I went to Florida...and almost became an orange. It was wonderful. Got me thinking about my fifth grade summer vacation. Guys had completely different fifth grade vacations from girls. Trust me.

When you see a "light at the end of the tunnel" and all you can think to yourself is, "Oh God, I hope that's the bathroom"...it's time for a VACATION. Watch out lobsters...starting tomorrow, my Lady Wonder Wench and I are COMING TO GET YOU.

I think as far as women are concerned, guys are mostly like big dogs who can talk. They have a point. We like to curl up in bed with them, we like to lick them, and we tend to be very messy. But I think that deep down, women have a hunch they could get along quite nicely without us. Somebody once said, "A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle." Well... maybe so. But on the other hand... what would women do without us when a big ugly bug lands on your kitchen table ? Huh ?

It is easy to become an expert at resting. However, that does not do wonders for certain physical attributes... especially your buns. And women are big believers in beautiful buns. This is the stirring story of how one Louie-Louie Generation Guy came to grips... so to speak... with his decreasing impact on beautiful women due to his decaying buns. If this has not yet happened to you... it will.

I love you are only three words that get more attention than Once Upon A Time. Those three words make you want to curl up in front of a fireplace, light a few candles, put on some nice music...maybe a little wine...and close your eyes so you can enjoy what comes next. We have three stories for you this time. A story about a love that's dying...another about an old, hot, Louie-Louie Generation love... and a story that ties them together.

The calendar says Spring is coming. But Spring doesn't depend on a calendar. Spring comes when you take the chance on letting yourself feel like spring. There's good stuff and bad stuff about Spring. Especially about this Spring. We know...maybe way too much about the bad stuff. So let's take a look at some of the good stuff.

Auto Cannibalism is a condition that happens mostly to Louie-Louie Generation guys. Auto Cannibalism is when you bite your own tongue. When Auto Cannibalism strikes, your fingers get stiff, and then spasm back till they hit your knuckles.. you grind very naughty words out between your clenched teeth, and your eyes bulge out like they did when you realized you left your wallet with your credit cards, your pay check, and all your Ids back at the supermarket counter. My Lady Wonder Wench has an explanation for why we do it. I'll buy her explanation if you'll buy mine.

He was seen kissing my Lady Wonder Wench. She didn't resist when he unbuttoned her blouse. So why did I invite him to dinner at an expensive restaurant?

Once upon a time, there was a Pre-Louie-Louie Generation guy who was injured in a fight in the Navy. Maybe some guy took a swing at him because he had a funny name. The injury left him with a slight lisp. He had big ears too...and a big heart. Not exactly the makings of a career as a movie star. But that's what he was. The biggest...for a long time. He played tough guys with big ears...and big hearts. In other words, he played himself. His name was Humphrey Bogart. Some younger Louie-Louie Generation folks may not remember him. The rest of us will never forget him. Especially on Valentine's Day. Especially for the role he played in an old black and white film called, "Casablanca." He got it right in "Casablanca." He looked at Ingrid Bergman, who was possibly the most beautiful woman in the world at the time...and he said, "Here's looking at YOU kid." Bergman could fill the screen with just her eyes. And when he said that...she did. This is the story of a Valentine's Day dinner with my Lady Wonder Wench that I think Bogie and Bergman would have understood. Maybe you will too.

You have at least one secret name. Me too. Here's the story of my secret name. What's your story ?

Wrong! I do so think about some things besides sex. Here are some examples from this week.

Carly Simon was singing "These are the good old days" on my car's cd player, when I hit a speed bump. Check the headlines. "These are the good old days ?" Flash back to 1972 when the song was a hit. Watergate, Vietnam, The Munich Olympics. Some "good old days." But maybe she was right then...and now...if we pay attention to the Speed Bumps.

I've got my Indiana Jones fedora, my bathrobe with "The Wiz" embroidered on it...and I know how to say "SHAZAM!" But that's not what kicked my butt into (Pseudo) Super Hero orbit the other night. This is the story of what did it.

There's a New Year's Surprise this time. A big one. Because what we have here is another new year. Another new beginning. I like new beginnings. Especially the small ones...the ones only you and maybe a very few other people share. If you're not careful, they can get drowned out in the every day noise of your life. One of the nice things about the night is that there's some quiet...a little room...a safe place to remember some of those small new beginnings again.

This is about Christmas past with my family, and Christmas present with my Lady Wonder Wench. Life is good. It is very, very good. Merry Christmas.

The one word answer to the question on every guy's lips (both upper and lower) right now is, "Why do the Herald Angels get all the attention, and we don't get any?" It's that one word..."Hark!" Here's how we can work that word into our every day conversations so we can get some attention too.

Gene Chandler, The Singing Nun, and Frank Key all had one big hit. But the biggest One Hit Wonders were Joe Mohr and Franz Gruber. And I'll bet you know their song by heart. You'll also hear my favorite trumpet player this time, with one of the songs of the season. And we'll tell you how to avoid Growing Up.

A man's brain swims in a sea of testosterone, which absorbs some of the shock of getting hit in the head by baseballs, Yanni's music, and excessively high levels of verbal communication. Preservatives stop germs and fungus from maturing. Therefore testosterone is an anti-maturing chemical. That's the only real explanation for the Men are Saints Campaign. Happy Thanksgiving Recovery.

Here's the difference: Nighttime is the playpen of earthly delights...it's full of the sound of delicately perfumed black lace hitting the floor...strange soft noises in the attic...and unlimited access to ALL the Oreos in the box. As far as I'm concerned, it's appropriate that the meaning of the other word that sounds like morning is what you do at a funeral.

I now own an Indiana Jones fedora. My Lady Wonder Wench says it "Looks good when I tilt it rake-ish-ly to the left." Dum da dum da.... dum da dah....You heard the music didn't you. Indiana Jones is the perfect Louie - Louie Generation guy. In the latest "Crystal Skull" movie, when the bad guys close in, he says, "This used to be easier." Then he puts on his hat, grabs his whip, and starts to "do it to it." The Perfect Louie-Louie Generation guy.

We're simple. Women are not. Men aren't from Mars, and women aren't from Venus. We're both from good ol' Mother Earth. Deal with it. Men are competitive. Women are cooperative. Young guys sometimes forget that. Louie-Louie Generation guys know that when the lights are low, and the music is sweet, and the dress code is informal and minimal...when ladies want to hear those "three little words," they don't mean WE'RE NUMBER ONE.

You're in a rut when taking your tie off makes you think you've really broken loose at a party. Of course, some ruts are important. For example when you're flying your small plane, you should always land before you get out. But ruts can really wreck a romance. This time, we'll give you some things to do to keep you from turning yourself into a waste of skin.

"Their passions flared, and their worlds collided...." This is the story of a trip to the hardware store for a can of...DECK PAINT. I was determined to paint my back deck...in honor of my Lady Wonder Wench's blue eyes. "We don't PAINT decks, we STAIN them." the guy at the paint store said...with a voice full of di-stain. Oh Yeah ? It's my deck, and I'm PAINTING it.

Who Knows? Actually, Big Louie, His Own Bad Self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation has a pretty good way to look at what's headed straight at us. You'll find out what he has to say, plus the solution to the Airline crisis, and the story of a young woman who knows when she's had...just enough.

Big dreams make people beat their chests and holler "WE'RE NUMBER ONE ! WE'RE NUMBER ONE !!" Other dreams ...after a tough day... just put a small voice in the back of your head that says, "Ok, try it again tomorrow." All kinds of dreams are good. Even the scary ones. But this is the story of the very best kind of dream.

I'm genuinely trying to find a doctor, and maybe you can help. He's not one of those plastic surgeons who specialize in giving Louie-Louie Generation ladies faces that look like 3 d smiley faces. This guy is an emergency room doctor, and I really need to thank him.

Here's the latest on my Lady Wonder Wench, and her halo. Plus some memories I think you may enjoy.

"Ribbit, Ribbit" may be the greatest opening line ever. Once upon a time, a long time ago, a frog popped a fly breath mint into his mouth, hopped up on a pretty girl's lap, looked at her seductively and just said, "Ribbit, Ribbit"...and she gave him such a kiss...that he turned into a prince. Or at least that's what she told her mother the next morning when she found the guy in her bedroom. There are some other great opening lines this time, and a closer or two.

When Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon, he said, "That's one small step for a man, and one giant leap for mankind."

My Lady Wonder Wench took just one small step in the doorway this morning, and changed a big, dark, musty house into my home again.

"Batching it" sucks. But if you do it right, you can make do with only one fork and one cup. Tv dinners come with their own plastic throw away plate, and you can spread peanut butter and jelly with a fork. My Lady Wonder Wench will be in the hospital for a while. But the point is that she will be coming home eventually. Meantime, the words of Big Louie, his own bad self come to mind: " Things won't be the way you remember them again, although that's what you might hope. Things are just what they are for a while, so be careful you don't slip on the soap." But the silence here since she's gone is hard to take.

My Lady Wonder Wench was in a serious accident, and I was amazed at the e-mails, and cards, and flowers, and even three Teddy Bears that came in...from all over the world. Thank you. You get lots of time to think in a hospital. I was thinking about a vacation that I always meant to take with W. Wench. It should go something like this.

There are a couple of things I never told you about my Lady Wonder Wench. One thing is that her middle name is Annie...and I sometimes call her by her middle name. Another thing is that she was just in a serious accident. And...God's Phone Is Off The Hook.

Most people knew "Al Sleet, the hippy dippy weather man." Some people knew the nasty, dark, dirty old man George Carlin became. I knew him only a little. I'm glad he died. Here's why.

Piano Man Meets Lawn Tractor Man in this epic struggle of two Super Hero Underachievers. There's a Beauty and a Beast in there too. This is one very unusual Good Night Podcast.

This is a special "Getting My Fanny In Gear" "Good Night" podcast. It includes a few minutes of a new album called "Night Connections 2." The working title is "My Buddy Billy's Babe." There's also an important question about "Curiosity" that Jack Sparrow made Elizabeth Swan think about in Pirates of the Caribbean.

Men are descended from apes. Women aren't. Leave a guy alone long enough and he gets ugly, hairy and nasty. Women don't. Where did we get women. For the first time since all those years ago when I first hung my old pair of jeans next to hers on the hook on back of the bedroom door we won't be sleeping together tonight. On purpose. And it's making my teeth ache.

Louie-Louie Generation guys can spot a BS artist, and jump start a car, and start a good fire in a fireplace. But getting some guys to just ... talk...to a woman...is like pulling teeth. But that's Dr. Toothgrinder's job. I had to go see him today...even though Big Louie, his own bad self always says..."If you don't want to sweat going to the dentist, but your teeth are turning yellow...just wear a brown shirt." Why did I go? Lust. Here's the story.

I don't know if the problem was caused by how late the surprise party has been getting...or if it was just the pretty girl in the short shorts and tight tank top that was causing the problem...take your pick. But the solution...at least for now...was in the five words, written with a felt pen on the back edge of a flag...by a buddy who listened to these podcasts...in Iraq.

If you live in an apartment with thin walls, you might have heard somebody shouting "Oh my God yes..." in the middle of the night...and it didn't sound exactly like a prayer. If so, you can be pretty sure somebody has opened the cage and let her little beastie out to play. This is how "Big Louie...his own bad self" says you should deal with your little beastie when times get tough.

Happy Second Anniversary. We've made it through two years together, and here's an offer of a free CD of the five most downloaded "Good Night" podcasts...free. No strings attached. No promotional gimmicks. Just a "Happy Anniversary" gift from me to you.

Louie - Louie Generation Guys are the bedmates of choice for super models, movie stars and smart beautiful women of all kinds because of our charm, poise and grace...and because some of us have a little money. Here are 20 of Big Louie's tips that can make even young guys somewhat more acceptable to lovely ladies.

There are questions like Who is God...and even who are you ? I have no clue. I can't even figure out why the windshield wiper on the driver's side always wears out before the one on the other side. And how come some women raise one foot when they kiss? Even the connection between sticking your tongue out and concentrating escapes me. I've come to the conclusion that maybe some questions don't really need an answer...and some answers don't need questions.

Fantasy is the difference between a woman wearing underwear and a lady wearing lingerie. Fantasies are sexy. "Sister Mary Knuckle Buster" probably won't like this, but in this podcast...you will be exposed (as it were) to one of the innermost fantasies of this Brooklyn kid.

There's no time to waste in New York. That's why most of what New Yorkers have to say can be summed up with one finger. You'll learn to speak New York in this podcast. You'll learn about Brooklyn fertility rites. You'll learn about Wolfman Jack on WNBC and Cousin Brucie (Morrow) on WABC. Life in New York can be a dog eat dog experience. But listening to this podcast will help you avoid wearing hamburger shorts when you visit.

Crayons are an example of little things that mean a lot. They've been around since the 1930s. So you have to figure all of today's big shots must have played with them as kids. President Bush, the Pope, Mucktada whatever his name is...all of them. Can't you see them as little kids...scribbling like mad in their coloring books...then running over to their mommies to show the results ? This time, we take a look at other things that mean a lot...including the one little thing that means...more than anything else in the world.

This is about the day when my Lady Wonder Wench turned into my Baseball Babe. It has to do with being stubborn, her brother Bob, and the Star Spangled Banner. It's also about an encounter with a nun sliding into second base brandishing a rosary with a 20 pound crucifix on it...then feeling guilty...so she went back to first...and the reason why no women will ever play major league baseball. In shore...here's one to offend everybody.

My Lady Wonder Wench is trying to improve my table manners. Frustrating. She says I should be more communicative, but then she asks me a question when I have half a hamburger in my mouth, and she tells me I shouldn't talk with my mouth full. I like the words of Big Louie...his own bad self: "Tis better to burp and bear the shame, than not to burp and bear the pain." But it's when I pick my teeth that I get the ultimate sarcastic comment...the sarcasm equivalent of the raised center finger...one raised eyebrow...and silence. It's awful.

It's a big thing when a woman trusts a man to feel safe and comfortable enough to sleep with him. The sleeping part I mean. Trust is a big thing. I think homeless people must be terrified when they have to go to sleep alone on the street. It can be a nasty world out there. This is about watching my Lady Wonder Wench sleep... comfortably. And about chasing my alarm clock around the room and smashing it against the wall, while I'm snarling something like, "don't tell me what to do buddy" at it.

Wonder Wench has stood by me through all kids to tough stuff. But she turns on me when I'm driving. One or two wheels come up off the ground going around a corner, and she shrieks. Bump up on the sidewalk to avoid a red light, and she hollers, "Watch Out." Scares the hell out of a guy. Find out how my buddy Al handles this kind of situation with his wife, and check out the status of the Summer Stumper in this episode of "Good Night."

Birthdays sneak up on you like a bug sneaks up on a windshield. My kids are now older than I think I am. This episode includes my new grandparent's prayer: "Dear Lord, please keep your arm around my kid's shoulder, and your hand over my mouth." And you get a shot at the new Summer Stumper: What is it without which an airplane cannot fly, but which is of no value to the airplane ?" And most important, a few words from Kris, that make another birthday...ok.

We are way too busy. Here's the solution. Pick one day of the week, and make it your DON'T DO WHAT YOU DON'T WANNA DO DAY (do wah, doo waahh.) On your D.D.W.Y.D.W.D.D. if someone says, "You've got to cut the lawn" just smile and say (do wah, doo waahh.) If somebody says "stick to your diet" on your D.D.W.Y.D.W.D.D. just say, "Eating is good for the farmers." The main reason many of you women are not married to George Clooney is because you didn't pay attention to your D.D.W.Y.D.W.D.D. The explanation is in this week's podcast.

Bogart got it right in "Casablanca." "Here's looking at you kid," he said. He didn't say, "Hey, look at my bankroll," or "Let me prove I don't need Viagra baby." He looked at Ingrid Bergman, who was possibly the most beautiful woman in the world at the time, and he just said..."here's looking at YOU"...and the screen was instantly full of her eyes. This is the story of a Valentine Day dinner with my Lady Wonder Wench, that I think Bogie and Bergman would have understood.

My 6' 8" buddy "Tinkerbelle" and his bride JoAnne did the deed. Fortunately, they avoided the "Number One Wedding Song of the Year"...and opted for part of the "Song of Solomon" instead. If you want to know what that has to do with spitting in the soup, getting kicked out of a gym for pulling a groin muscle that's not your own, and the Church's stand against Christmas, you'll have to listen to this week's podcast.

Any REAL Louie-Louie Generation Guy or Girl will know where Puff the Magic Dragon lived...although you may have forgotten. We do forget things don't we? My Lady Wonder Wench went to a Peter, Paul and Mary Concert...and it was something I don't think we'll ever forget.

What do Paul Newman, George Bush Senior, and Dick Summer have in common? Too many things to list actually...but here's one: WE LOVE GOING VROOM-VROOM. Certain Non-Guys may not fully appreciate what a double dose of VROOM does for testosterone soaked wretches. All they need to know about that, plus what Neil Armstrong said when he got back in the Lander to LEAVE the moon...is right here.

I have a soft living room carpet, because I like to walk around in bare feet...which leaves footprints. I do my daily pushups on the carpet, which leaves handprints. My Lady Wonder Wench always smooths them away when we have company. She says "People think we're kinky enough." This is the story of how those hand prints made a 25 year old body with the mind of a four year old.

My Lady Wonder Wench says, "The difference between men and boys is the size of their toys." Here's the story of SPEEDY...my latest toy. She's my brand new car... glinting gun metal grey in my driveway. She doesn't pull high "G"s leaving long trails of smoking tires and fiery exhaust...but she does go from zero to sixty in the same day...and legend has it she gets forty miles per gallon on the highway...which means she may get to replace my little blue blankie when it's check book time.

Chuckles are good....even when life is giving you a bad case of sweaty eyes. They give you a little space...a little time...a little hope...as long as you just avoid the temptation to look in the bathroom mirror in the middle of the night. When life sucks, this podcast will explain how you can dial up your 'tude, and smack it back with a big, bad, "Louie."

This is a modest but sincere Christmas present for those of you who like the Personal Audio CDs. CD Baby has a counter on the number of times various tracks are downloaded, so we know which tracks you like best. This podcast features the top five stories, plus a little background on each one. Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year.

We hear way too much of the Herald Angels at this time of year. What have they got that we don't have ? It's the word HARK ! That word gets your attention. If you want to get some attention, whenever anybody asks you a question, start your answer with the word HARK ! In this podcast, you will learn other ways of getting attention...and girls...at this holy time of year.

Anything that's been making people feel good for more than 2000 years is worth checking out. But it's old and fragile, so you can break it before you get to the check out counter if you're not crafty and careful. My Lady Wonder Wench and I are proud members of the Louie-Louie Generation...so we've seen a few Christmases...lots of them together...some of them apart. Looking For Christmas is what we do now...together. It makes us feel good...even after all this time.

In the beginning, she was my secretary, and I was the boss. Somehow, that chain of command seems to have changed somewhat over the years. Some of you are SHOCKED! SHOCKED I TELL YOU!! That I would call my Lady, "Wonder Wench." She makes a personal appearance this time, to tell you how she feels about that. And this is the story of how it started one Christmas...a long, long time ago.

"Holly Jolly Christmas" is wonderful. So's Winter Wonderland. Jingle Bells rocks the cash registers every year. But the biggest Christmas hit of all time is a song composed by two guys nobody ever heard from...before...or after. Lots of people thought it was composed by Beethoven, or Brahms...it's so beautiful. It sings the spirt of the season with grace, and beauty, and peace. How would you like to have the only song you ever wrote, become one of the most cherished songs ever written. That's the story of Silent Night.

A guy's brain swims in a sea of testosterone, which absorbs some of the shock of getting hit in the head by baseballs, Yanni's music, and high levels of excess verbal communication. Preservatives stop germs and fungus from maturing. Therefore testosterone is an anti maturing chemical. That's the only real explanation for the MEN ARE SAINTS campaign. Happy Thanksgiving.

I knew that if I hoped to ever have my Lady Wonder Wench climb down from on top of her dresser, I was going to have to face the beast. I was going to have to go mano a mouse-o. It was an epic struggle, but I eventually won. Sort of. He was about 3 ounces and three inches. I'm about 180 and 5 feet 10. In the end, he had guts. In the end, I had poison. He was jumping ten times his body size. I was falling on my fanny. I prevailed. But he did good.

Some tv commercials snarl at you...others cream...some croon, "Trust Me." I've done my share of them...like the commercials for the original panty hose that came in the plastic egg... and the "Cross Your Heart" bras...those were interesting recording sessions. We have commercials for "erectile dysfunction" now...but how come we don't have any for condoms ? I thought we were supposed to be "fair and ballanced." Then there's that George Clooney stuff...it's all here.

A waitress told me a wonderful thing yesterday. She said "You look borderline like Sean Connerly." Actually, I look more like borderline Harrison Ford...I think. But her comment started a fantasy about My Lady Wonder Wench, Rose, Bill...and me, a small airplane and a ski lodge. An incendiary combination you say ? You're right.

Louie-Louie Generation guys and girls could have a huge, national "Middle Of The Night Wandering Around" convention. It just kinda sneaks up on you an inch at a time. You guys will recognize the first symptoms when you find you're reading the directions before you put together the "Easy to assemble out door grill." Girls need to be careful when you notice that you've bought stationary with your name already printed on it. Here's the rest of the story.

Just because I now have grey hair, my chest has slipped a little, and when I fly my plane I have to stop and think which is the lever that puts the wheels down, and which is the one that stops the engine... that's no reason for the recently hatched embryo with a backwards baseball cap and a tasteful assortment of pimples and nose rings to call me an "Old Man." Here's what I did about it.

We went to see the wizard...the wonderful wizard of Oz. He's alive and weird in Las Vegas. The secret story of two Vegas "Girls" this time, plus the old groaner about the "Chip Monks." Also...an explanation of why you should be careful about inviting a hypnotist into your bedroom.

Guys like very few things as much as giving each other a hard time. Especially guys who happen to be brothers. I'm not sure all guys give each other quite as hard a time as the hassles my brothers and I give each other when we get together. Here's what happened when my Brooklyn brother and I got together last weekend.

Wind, rain, high heels on marble floors, surf, leaves, a jet plane, computer keys, a telephone call in the middle of the night, your voice, your heart...they all make sounds. My dad made his living with music. He always said that the sounds make the notes, but the living makes the music. This is about living, and loving, and music.

We now have scientific evidence that drooling over a beautiful busty babe for 10 minutes every day is as good as a 30 minute aerobic workout for lowering blood pressure, cutting the risk of a heart attack in half, and improving the quality of life by zillions. The information in this podcast can actually add five wonderful years to a guy's life. Some heard hearted wives/girlfriends will not want their partners to know about this. Surely you will not be among their numbers !

Hurricanes, tornadoes, blizzards, heatwaves and ice storms get all the press. But it&s the soft, late summer rains, that make the holy water and mixed drinks of our lives. They calm us down better than any purple pill. They wash the air, and dissolve our inhibitions. Many a "relaxing moment" has been turned into a "right moment" in a soft late summer rain. This one happened right on my back deck.

We go to a restaurant called Manny-Hattan's...lots of New York pictures on the walls...the Brooklyn Bridge...Babe Ruth in his Yankee uniform...a famous picture of Marilyn Monroe at the Grand Central subway station. I have a picture of W.Wench taken in the Times Square subway station. I showed it to Steve, who owns the place...and he said let me put it on the wall...right next to Marilyn. I said GREAT ! W.Wench said...well...listen to the podcast...but I'll give you a clue...ask any woman you know how she'd like to have her picture on a wall right next to Marilyn Monroe.

I get lost a lot, and in order to get me home in time for supper, my Lady Wonder Wench bought me a shiny new calculating young woman who knows her way around. Louie- Louie Generation women need to learn how to deal with half ripe, shiny new, calculating 22 year olds. Big Louie, his own bad self...has some suggestions.

Never confuse a klunker with a junker. That goes for both cars and people. I drive a klunker...because I like it. It's like a mutt. You can park it anywhere, and not worry about getting it scratched...or stolen. If you come to a four way stop sign at the same time as a new Corvette, the guy in the klunker always goes first...we have less to lose. "Big Louie" always says, "There's a big difference between a klunker and a junker. A klunker is always worth...something"...that goes for cars...and people.

If you've ever had a physical exam, you know that rubber gloves are the worst kind of gloves. Rubber glove moments are usually nasty and quick. It's like you wake up screaming and you realize you haven't fallen asleep yet. You'll find out on this podcast what Big Louie says you should do about all rubber glove moments.

If there's really a heaven, are you sure you want to go? Maybe there's a better alternative. Better find out, before you find yourself all alone... in an empty doctor's waiting room...with a FATAL magazine...trying to figure out if you are a spirit with a body, or a body with a spirit.

"Maybe" the princess really did kiss a frog, and he turned into a prince...and that's why the Queen found a guy in her daughter's bedroom one morning. "Maybe" Cinderella and the other prince did live happily ever after. On the other hand, "maybe" it was the same guy, and he was really an out of work actor just "playing the part of a prince." "Maybe" is a slippery, squirrely word. Check out this podcast and find out why it's so important to all us "Louie-Louie Generation" people. You'll also find out why maybe George Washington wasn't really our first president, and why maybe you should call a sandwich a shrewsbury.

The word aerobic comes from the ancient Brooklyn word for "pain." Sometimes a "Whoops" gets in the way of a workout, partially due to that fact. Please listen before you fall into the trap of doing sit ups, or other harmful activities that could lead you to problems like "The Di Nero Syndrome."

When women watch a musician like Yanni toss his long hair while he's playing, they say, "oh isn't he wonderful." Then they turn to their boyfriends/husbands and say, "you need a haircut." So...eventually we go and get a haircut. They think that's easy. Actually, it's a ritual so dangerous it borders on human sacrifice.

Solitary sensual pleasures are an important part of Louie-Louie Generation lives. Here is your guide to Solo Scratching, Retro Rubbing, Scalping, Showering, and Sneezing. They are not only pleasurable, they are endorsed by Big Louie...his own big bad self.

A Toy Boy is not just a dyslexic Boy Toy. A Toy Boy is a "Louie-Louie Generation" guy who uses toys for the benefit of mankind...and the pursuit of woman kind. When a Toy Boy is asked when he's going to grow up, he holds up an object in the shape of a cross...made from tinker toys.

Some days, you just need a pat on the fanny from your girlfriend...like when your other girlfriend gets hurt...badly. This was one of those days. Boys with toys will understand.

What a stupid title for a song these days. Or maybe not. Is the glass half full, or is it half empty...or does that make any difference at all. This is a story about waking up with a picture of Hillary Clinton on my forehead...and going to bed with a little different way of looking at "A Wonderful World."

I found that I am suffering from "Precocious Ab Deflation." That's a highly technical term. It comes from the ancient Latin word "Pre" which means before...as in "pre-marital sex." "Cocious" is from the ancient Brooklyn word "cocious," which means "wise person"...as in "every winning team has a staff of wise cocious." So "Precocious" means what happens to you before you have a chance to get wise to what's happening. But I'm ok, because just in time...the Lone Ranger came to the rescue.

I passed my FAA Flight Physical the other day, courtesy of the fact that my Mother was a pincher. Try using the same technique I used next time you're going through some kind of crisis that makes the little voice in your head start crying for your mommy. It really does work.

Everybody needs a trophy...a prize for a lifetime of hard work. "Trophy" is from the ancient Brooklyn word "Tro", meaning to hurl an object... as in "I tro a baseball pretty hard." Fee is the Bar Association word meaning money. "Trophy" therefore means something at which I throw money. My trophy is my little airplane. And the boogie man is trying to take it from me. Some memories, some hopes, and one big fear this time.

She was packed into her blue short shorts like two scoops of cherry vanilla ice cream. Her stretchy halter top was stretched as far as it would stretch. She had just moved in a few months ago, severely disrupting the balance of estrogen and testosterone in the neighborhood...and she loved it. That&s what I wanted going on in my head on my bike ride. Instead, I got "My Boy Bill." The little voice in my head got the last laugh on me again.

Who were our REAL forefathers ? Why is California such a mess ? How did Bob and Kathy stay together ? Who bought all those Sony Naked Cams ? Get the alleged answers, plus the story of an out of breath woman and a sweaty guy in this week&s Good Night Podcast.

Toe nail clipping isn&t easy for a Louie-Louie generation guy. Each toe is a three breath affair. The Thumb toes are good for five. Toenail clipping has become so hard priests will start assigning it for penance. "You did what?? How often?? Well say three rosaries and clip your toe nails...that will teach you." But Louie-Louie generation people take heart. We may shrink, but we never shrivel.

Watch out when a sweet southern lady with big gentle eyes serves you some grits and syrup and gives you one of those classy smiles. Y&all can do you in. That&s what happened to Don Imus. It happens to me a lot. AND IT CAN AND WILL HAPPEN TO YOU.

Sometimes your head works behind your back. There&s some guy up there telling you what you should or shouldn&t do, and giving you a hard time when you screw up...AND YOU DON&T EVEN KNOW WHO THIS GUY IS. But you can put his smarts to work for you, with the Quiet Decisions technique in this week&s podcast. If he keeps giving you a hard time, tell him to back off, because you&re all you&ve got.

Doctors now claim that the reason men chase pretty young girls is that we have an overwhelming drive to spread our genes to succeeding generations, and mating with a young and pretty woman makes it seem more likely we'll do that efficiently. WRONG "Playing In The Gene Pool" exposes the naked truth in this cover up.

Soon, some terrorist will sneak into your bedroom in the middle of the night guys, and he'll shave a little bald spot right up on top of your head. You won't even notice till the next time you get a hair cut, and the barber puts that mirror around in back of you. That's the start. From then on, you're going to be on the watch for the young guys who are lurking in every corner, ready to pounce on your girl.

Pop is not a funny sound when it comes from your once magnificent leg while riding your bike. "Wear support socks" is a completely silly thing for a doctor to say to a sex symbol like yourself. But it happens. There IS an up side to it. And it&s part of this podprogram.

Men and women are opposite sexes. Not just different sexes... OPPOSITE sexes. That's one reason we have a lot to learn from each other. My Lady Wonder Wench told me the secret of happiness a long time ago, when she said, "Whatever you want". There's a story in here about a young guy who did just what he wanted to do with his buddy's half naked girlfriend. How do you think THAT turned out? Bet you're wrong.

You all know question number one; "If I died would you get married again ?" The ONLY possible answer to that potentially deadly question is revealed in this absolutely essential podprogram. And you will also find a workable answer to the even more deadly but less well known mighty question number two; "Were you a virgin when you got married?." Guys, you miss this podprogram at your own risk.

Bogart had it right in Casablanca. He didn't tell Bergman much about himself. It was all about her. "Here's looking at you kid" was mostly what he said. That's how you start a romance. Not a relationship, a romance. A relationship develops. A romance explodes. And after the explosion, there's nothing like a good back rub.

You know how things "go around"... a flu, a rumor, a hot tip? Well there's a bug going around...a nasty, ugly, very contagious growl. Left untreated, it can turn you into a cynic, or worse yet, it can give you political correctness. Here's what to do about it...and a story about somebody who ignored this warning. He fell victim to "The Prince of Fantasy".

Spiderman gave my buddies girl some great aural sex. (Aural with an A) He wove a web, and she wasn't strong enough to get away.

Serious New Year's Resolution this year is: "Crush Cynicism". Easier said than done these days. It seems that no matter how cynical you get, you can't keep up. So I'm not keeping up at all. My little 8 year old next door neighbor Emily, with her giggles and jelly beans, made me remember that the best way to solve a serious problem is with a silly solution. Try it. It worked for me.

Before there were discos, there were record hops. If you can remember record hops, you are a member of the Louie Louie generation. Louie Louie was the perfect guy dance. No complicated dance steps, and "the word" was that the words were "dirty" although nobody could really understand them. It was before political correctness, so it was ok to be dirty. If you are a member of the Louie Louie generation, you may need a daily minimum adult doseage of hope. Try this one.

This is a good argument for naked government. Research by Yale University Seniors has shown that when people hang around together in the nude, their conversation becomes "serious and philosophical." What a way to make Congress get serious and philosophical...Teddy Kennedy in the nude on the 6:30 PM network news. Just be careful of the concept on the beach on a soft summer night.

This is about Tinkerbell's tragic magic. Tink was in love with Peter Pan, even though society wasn't up for human-fairy marriages. She knew Wendy was going to win in the end. But she LOVED Mr. Pan. So she gave him her magic anyway. She just loved him. Tink was magic, but she needed us to clap for her to show that we believe, or she'd die. You've got to see Pulling-the-rabbit-out-of-the-hat magic to believe it. But you've got to first believe in Tink's kind of magic to see it. Tink's kind of magic is what can keep love going, even when we're a few weeks past the springtime of our lives. This is about clapping hands for Tinkerbelle...and keeping magic alive.

Introducing you to a voice that will never shut up. Now you'll never feel alone...even if you're all by yourself, sitting in a corner pigging out on fists full of Christmas fruitcake, swilling something frosty, and sticking out your lower lip because you're feeling left out of the Major New Years Party-ing.

Ask people if they've got "The Christmas Spirit", and some people say "Bah Humbug". Lots of people say "ho, ho, ho". Most people just say "Happy Holidays". And of course, a few people just say "Huh?" I don't find The Christmas Spirit in religion, presents, stories, poems nor even in music. A lot of people don't believe in it. I do. I've felt it. And I've seen it. Here's where I'll go looking for it again this year.

The biggest One Hit Wonder of all time was written because Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, one creature was stirring, and it was a mouse. David Summer makes a Grandfather, Father and Son connection and there's a story about NEVER Growing Up in this week's "Good Night".

Some people are SHOCKED ! SHOCKED I TELL YOU, that I would call my lady "Wonder Wench". She gets back at me this week. And a This Christmas love story about a love that started one Christmas a long, long time ago.

This time you'll find out why I claim that Men Are Saints. (The MAS Appeal). And learn about the salmonella poisoning you can get from eating turkey, which makes you crazy enough this time each year to rush down to the nearest mall and flatten your credit cards. Plus, we'll tell the story of "Beauty and the Beast".

Just a tiny clump of hair sets off a shriek heard from here to Labrador. A tale of lurking intrigue and falling down laughing at a major US Airport. And the Number One, El Supremo, Top Pick To Click cut from the Personal Audio Cds as reported by CDBABY.com - a story about a guy pretending he wasn't watching as the lady who used to be his wife crosses a downtown street, leaving him with a question that he'll probably never be able to answer.

The real difference between men and women is that we spit and scratch, and they dont. Another difference is that they do things to help us in an emergency, and we just grow a mustache. If you're getting a headache from this, I'll give you a back rub to make you feel better at the end of this PodProgram.

What kind of parties do the guys in the Lands End Catalogue underwear ads have with the girls in the Victoria&s Secret Catalogue when they&re stuffed into my lumpy mailbox together? Fantasies make life "interesting".

There are many parts of his body that a guy simply can't control, in times of great stress. Besides the parts that people with dirty-happy minds will immediately identify, there are also eyebrows and fingertips. This PodProgrm gives the science fiction explanation for that phenomenon, and explains what Humphrey Bogart and Tom Cruise seem to have done about it that us ordinary guys can't seem to master. And there's a story from the Quiet Hands cd that goes right along with the flow.

Taking time off from the Super Intercontinental Plastic Potato Pop Gun wars for lots of calls with your reaction to the questions about "stayin' faithful" from both the "Love Comes When You Least Expect It" story cd, and from your own lives. Why do men stray? What's it like being "The Other Woman?" "Is The Other Woman just, cheap?" And my own reaction to the idea that the pilot is just an ordinary dirty dog. Plus "Dick's Details" to take your mind off your mind, so you can nod off to sleep. Did you know that Moses stuttered? Bet nobody laughed.

Two suburban backyard war lords, Randy and I, face off with Intercontinental Ballistic Plastic Potatos, and the powerful Pop Guns to deliver them. Star Wars de-fence is semi successful, and Bill the Mailman loses his cigar. An honest confession as to why these PodPrograms are about such little things. And watch a beautiful woman's make up melt.

A trip back to bell bottoms, beads, and the late, great,1960s. If you can remember where Puff the Magic Dragon lives (by the sea), you'll remember Peter Paul and Mary and the land of Hona Lee. This is about a concert, and a knock on the side of the head lesson about respecting yourself, and whatever you stand for. It helps if, in the process, somebody gives you a rose.

Growing up can hurt. So can telling the truth. That's why some of us do neither. Mostly we are guys. I cannot tell a lie, the kid next door swiped my Bazooka toy, and I want it back. But she's 5 and I'm not going over there and knocking on her door, and saying "I want my toy back". Life is hard when faced with growing up. There's a story in this PodProgram about what I'm (honestly) trying to do about it. Honest !

"America's Most Requested Wedding Song" is Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You." But here's the opening lyric: "If I should stay, I would only be in your way. So I'll go, but I know, I'll think about you every day. And I will always love you." That's America's most requested wedding song. How did that happen? And what has Jess got to do with it? Plus a bedtime story from the "Night Connections" personal audio CD.

Barry Manilow, Pat Cooper and a cast of thousands of my friends star in this episode of Good Night. Well, hundreds of my friends. Ok, all my friends. I call it Mouth vs. Ear I Miss You. Mouth vs. Ear was a quiz show. Sort of. My friends and I were the Mouth, and we always won because we cheated. The listeners were the Ear, and they always lost because we cheated. Pat Cooper was our in studio guest at NBC Radio's New York FM station, WYNY. Barry Manilow was a regular caller. Pat won and Barry lost...because we cheated. I Miss You is a story from the Lovin Touch Personal Audio CD. When you listen, you'll understand why it's appropriate for this podprogram.

Not sure if it's Deer John or Jane Doe, but I have a haunch you'll enjoy the story. Also, the first known "not tonight dear, I have a headache" in recorded history. Plus a conversation with that little voice inside you that keeps calling you names. And then to sleep.

I thought I must have gone blind, or maybe it was that my eye glass prescription suddenly ran out. It was a shocker. Most of us eventually turn to flab. When that happens to our vision, we need glasses. Then it becomes a matter of balancing our need to see, with our need to look good. But nice things happen when you get the balance right, as the man and woman in the Bedtime Story called "Second Chance" will tell you.

35 is the magic age for guys. Until you reach 35 if some muscle hurts, you just shake it, and it's instantly ok. After 35 if some muscle hurts if you shake it, it might fall off. As a PodProgram listener from China found, the same thing happens with relationships. Don't say we didn't warn you. Sometimes magic is your best defense. So we're giving you some magic fingers from the Quiet Hands.

A fortune cookie ignored, is a fortune cookie on a mission of malice. A deadly three tow truck weekend, because I didn't pay attention to the way the fortune cookie crumbled. And a Bedtime Story about a lady on a horse, a windbag husband, and a pilot who might take off with her.

Waitresses are like Mini Moms. Be nice. They bring you your dinner, and even get you desert. And a Lovin Touch story about a minute's truth, and a forever fantasy.

The only pick up line that worked on the picky-est 21st Century woman, an amazing 18th century pick up procedure, and the story of a pick up line that got a work out woman worked up...I think. And then to sleep.

A first hand play by play account of an actual Non Cosmetic Shonz-ectomy this time. The results of life guarding at Coney Island a lot of years ago...too much boardwalk, too much hot dogs...too much sun. Non cosmetic means kinda ugly. Schnoz as in nose, and ectomy as in cut it open, fool around for a while in there, and sew it back up. There's also an audio helping hand in here, so all and all it's a positive pod.

I'd never say all men are always saints. But there is a certain manly grace that deserves more credit than we get. So we don't do everything the way the grown up sex would like us to do them. But we GET THEM DONE. Usually. Even moving. You can call this a moving story if you like. There's a Bedtime Story in it called "For The Long Run."

Doctors and Dentists are supposed to help us live a good life. But that's hard to keep in mind when they have a dead fish, an ominous Bible, and a funeral parlor fragrance in their waiting rooms. But nothing compares to the jolt you can get when you hit the playback button on your answering machine.

Practical jokes are a gift from the Lord. They loosen you up, and make you can relax. Here are a couple of new ones from my buddies Dave and Al. There's also some excellent advice about women from Cary Grant, and a story about a young guy who seems to understand what Mr. Grant is talking about.

Love is never boring when a summer rain is pouring.

Nothing grows where "Puddy" goes, so the Ladies of the Neighborhood aren't going to miss him. But the Prince grows stronger the more they wish he'd go away.

Nobody expected anything special. After all, nothing happened. But all of a sudden two people started living a new life together.

A good back rub means a very good night. Here's a verbal back rub from some calm and quiet hands. It'll turn your nerves to jelly and your muscles into warm spaghetti.

Some women expect too much from us. We're only guys. Give a guy a snarly, high horse power toy, and make way for the appearance of a super beast called LAWN TRACTOR MAN ! But some women have a right to expect a whole lot more than they get from many of us beasts. So here's a mostly true Bedtime Story about Beauty and the Beast.

Magic Lives. That's why there is Santa Claus, Beethoven's Fifth, The Beatles, The Hubble Space Telescope, and Bedtime Stories. Here's a true story, and a Bedtime Story about finding magic again, even though you're all grown up.

When worries won't let you sleep it's giggles to the rescue. Because you can't giggle and worry at the same time. Plus a story about love at first sight, and a second look at a "Tiny Dancer" from the "Night Connections" Personal Audio CD.

ABC - TV recently called Whitney Houston's biggest hit "I Will Always Love You," "America's Number One Wedding Song." That's because nobody listens any more. Just like lots of the people in your life, and mine. Here's what Whitney's song really means.