Dick Summer Connection

I’m back here, sitting in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, popping percuset. For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, percuset is a strong medication for pain, but it has some interesting side effects. For example, popping percuset makes you FEEL sophisticated, but if you pop too much percuset,  it takes away your ability to SAY sophisticated. So you’ve got to be careful.

 The operation is over. I have a new knee, a sore throat from screaming with pain, and a cane to show for it. I don’t actually need my cane, but they wouldn’t let me leave the hospital without it. So I took it…and I gave it a name. I call my cane… Candy. As in Candy Cane. Because I figure life is short, so I might as well make fun of it.

 The stay in the hospital was amazing. I was in there with a bunch of old people…all of whom were about my age. This was the first time I was ever in a hospital for more than a day. And it was fascinating to me how easy it is to become a patient…instead of being a Louie-Louie Generation guy like me, who is determined to come out of there prowling like a puma.

 This is something to remember if you or somebody you care about goes into the hospital. One overnight stay in the hospital,  and if you’re not careful… you change. You’re no longer a person…you become a patient…like every other patient in the place. Most patients are passive, selfish, and sad. And there are reasons for that.  A patient is passive, because the hospital staff does everything for you. They even clean up any mess you might make because your body isn’t working very well. A patient gets selfish because he loses touch with the outside world when he’s stuck in the hospital, so the only world he can really feel is just himself. And a patient gets sad because he knows he’s now a patient, and he remembers that once…he was a person.

 That’s a little heavy…but I think it’s important. Because there are a lot of us Louie-Louie Generation folks in hospitals. And a lot of us have people we love who are patients…and it helps when we know why the people we know…are so different…when they become patients.

 And here’s one more heavy hit. If you’re trying to take care of someone you love, who has changed into a patient, try not to take it too personally when that person you love starts to resent you. It happens. And that figures too. After all, a patient is passive, selfish, and sad. And you’re not. And your patient remembers being a person…like you. 

 And while I’m at it, let me give you a few hospital fashion tips for those of us in the Louie-Louie Generation. Nose rings and bifocals don’t go together. Neither do miniskirts and support hose. Ankle bracelets look strange with corn pads, as does a belly button ring with a gall bladder surgery scar. Your walker is going to cause trouble for your in line skates…and for God’s sake, avoid wearing a thong with your depends.

 Dick’s Details Quiz…all answers are in the current podcast.

1-    Why did all dinosaurs walk on their toes ?

2-    Where are virgins not allowed to get married ?

3-    What will probably be the long term result of the fact that more money was spent last year on breast implants and viagra than on Alzheimer’s research.

 Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

 I want to thank David Summer for doing his old man’s podcasts over the last two weeks. And let me remind you of his own website which is www.summersong.net Lots of you sent compliments on his work, and I’m very proud of him. Also I want to thank my Lady Wonder Wench for doing the blogs while I was in the hospital.

 Some of you may remember that my Lady was in the hospital about a year and a half ago. So my stay in the hospital was kind of an opportunity for both of us to be a patient and both of us to be the person taking care of a patient. That’s quite an experience…both ways. My lady’s middle name is Anne. And Ann is the name of the heroine of the personal audio cd story called Love Comes When You Least Expect It. One of the chapters in the story has the hero talking to God, about his lady Anne, who’s in the hospital after a terrible accident.

 This chapter is the result of the fact that I have a terrible problem trying to understand God. I guess I should just be grateful that God probably doesn’t have a problem understanding me. If you like the story, you can just keep this podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just go back to dick summer dot com, and download it from the icon on the home page.

 There’s a lot more to tell you about this hospital experience, but I think I’ll leave it for next time. This has been kind of a tough day for me. I got up this morning and I put a shirt on, and a button fell off. I picked up my briefcase, and the handle fell off. So now… I’m afraid to go to the bathroom.

Okay, so here I am again … and I didn’t expect this, although as Big Louie, H.O.B.S., would say … whadda ya gonna do?

 DB is actually in pretty decent shape, although a week in the hospital and another week in rehab (where everyone was kind enough to put up with him) has made him just a tad … grouchy.  Good word, that.  He is now walking almost like a big cat … albeit a very sad cat … and I figure he will probably live long enough to get back in an airplane, provided I let him … the smile is mostly there and even when the exercises hurt like blazes, he just grunts … what a guy!

 In case no one told you, our oldest son Dave is doing the podcast again … he sounds a good deal like his dad and also has the same sort of ditsy humor.  But he was absolutely correct about plastic mayonnaise jars; how can you keep lightning bugs in a jar that is made of some unknown goop?  Glass is the only way to go …

 And in spite of all our snow … I am driving my car just to get away.  DB is not pleased that he has to let Randy use our snow blower to clear the driveway … not that Randy is complaining … and Bernadette makes the best darned soup anyone ever tasted.   It’s awfully nice to have neighbors like that, even though DB feels he isn’t taking proper care of me. 

 He is …

Our Guest Blogger is Lady Wonder Wench Summer:

Big Louie, his own bad self, is standing in the corner and laughing at me.  ‘S okay, I ignore him anyway …

 Dickie Baby (I will explain that later) is presently attempting to gather himself and his knee into some semblance of “I’m fine; don’t worry about me …” which is, of course, a very big laugh.  Guys just do not deal well with big operations and the attendant pain.  Not that I blame him this time … the thing must hurt like hell … but DB is about the stubbornest guy I’ve ever known and he is not going to let a little (!) knee pain keep him from taking care of me now that he’s home. 

 And that, of course, is the whole story.  He has always taken his job (me) very seriously.  But didja ever watch a handsome older man with a devastating smile try not to wince every time he moves?  Not nice …

 He hates everything about this hospital … and rehab … stay.  He says he doesn’t think he ever “hab-ed” so how come he had to “rehab” … ?  I, of course, just smile … what else can I do?

 Having spent some time in a hospital myself, it’s kind of difficult to explain to the husband of Wonder Wench that this too shall pass.  I know it will, even if he doesn’t quite believe that.  There is never anything “nice” about a hospital.

 I didn’t realize just how scared I was until I had to wait for Dr. M to come tell me the operation was over and a success.  No, not that something would go wrong with the operation … of being in the darned hospital!  I couldn’t stop shaking … and even when our daughter Kris came to hold my hand and have a smiling look at Dad, the insides were on a course to go bump in the night … so between worrying about DB and whether or not I could handle going every day to see him, believe me the nerves were flying every which way but calm.  And I couldn’t let him see that (he did eventually ‘cause he knows me so well) … so I smiled and talked and took Kris around (until the snow put a crimp in that) and did an amazing job of pretending …

 But he’s here now … and it is so wonderful … and I can really sleep tonight instead of worrying … although, Big Louie, if you are so smart come up with a good plan to take that stupid pain away!

 Dickie Baby?  Oh, well, when our niece Julie was little her grandmother showed her a picture of herself (Catherine the great) and my Dick as a baby and told Julie that it was “Dickie as a baby” … and being so little herself, the only thing Julie remembered is Dickie Baby … and she has called him that ever since, even though she’s in her thirties now.  A lovely young lady with a very impish smile …

 I am not afraid of much … hospitals, leaning out over empty spaces (unless I’m in an airplane), water over my head … being alone … I am good company for myself but I have to know that he is somewhere close so I can hold his hand sometimes and see his smile and hear him whisper my name …

I’m sitting here, like a lump, in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room. I wasn’t always a lump. Before my leg attacked me, I moved like a puma.  I thought exercising my leg would make it work just fine again, but I was wrong. It just didn’t happen. Picture running up and down steps like Rocky…ok …now try to picture it without being able to bend your knees.

Besides myself, elephants are the only other mammals that can’t bend their knees. And they look terrible in running shorts.

 I used to move like a big cat. A leopard would be a good example. So would a mountain lion, or a cougar, or a panther. All those cats are called pumas. They all feature a sly smile, a pet-able purr, and more pounce to the ounce. That’s the way I was till this leg attacked me. And I will be again.

 In fact, let’s start a new movement among the Louie-Louie Generation. We’ll call it the “Puma People of America.” It’ll be for Louie-Louie Generation folks who like to move like big cats, like having our backs rubbed, and spend as much time as possible brushing against certain nicely turned legs.

 The Puma People of America. If you want to join, you have to take the Puma People Pledge. You must do at least one “Puma Person Pounce” per week. For example: If you meet a nice lady at a bar, you might help her out of such a dangerous environment by inviting her to the safety of your apartment. And if you are that nice lady, and you are a Puma Person, you will pounce on the invitation…so to speak.

 What do you think? Are you in ?       

 That should be fun. And thinking about having more pounce to the ounce will give me a little more incentive to go get this thing done. Knee replacement sounds ugly, because it is. Why couldn’t they call it something a little more pleasant. Why couldn’t they call it capping your knee for example. It’s a much nicer picture.

 Lots of my friends are trying to cheer me up. They keep telling me, “You’ll wish you had it done ten years ago.” Hey…you… friends…are you wearing your mail order contacts backwards, or have you run out of chocolate and valium again. I DO WISH I HAD IT DONE TEN YEARS AGO. Then I wouldn’t have to have it done this week.

 I went for a pre-operation check up today. Nobody was smiling. The lady at the desk printed out a bunch of labels. I said what’s that for. She said those are patient stickers. I said I thought the nurses with the needles were the patient stickers. She didn’t smile.

 They put me on a treadmill, and said “run.” I did. And the doctor started a stopwatch. I said what’s the record for this thing. He said 27 minutes. I said ok, and I must admit my leg made me hop more than run, but I was game. I have always been highly competitive.

 It started when I was a sperm, and I successfully won a swimming race against a zillion other sperm swimmers…that’s why I’m here today. I played a lot of competitive sports when I was a kid. Kids in Brooklyn made up competitive games. When people put their Christmas trees out on the street in January, we would set fire to them, and you’d have to burn all the needles off using only one match. Which meant you had to start at the bottom, then pick the tree up by the trunk and hold it up straight to get the needles at the top. It was a competition to see who could get all the needles and who couldn’t.

 Even when I eat my breakfast cereal, I have to compete with myself. The last spoonful in the dish has to have at least one cereal flake and a little milk. That takes timing.

 So there I was in the hospital. I was happily huffing and hopping…and at 12 minutes he stopped the treadmill. I said “Why did you do that…I was doing fine. I was going for  a new record…28 minutes.” He said “You did fine…for a guy your age.”

FOR A GUY MY AGE!

 If he had been standing a little closer, I’d have grabbed his stethoscope and blown revile right in his ear. It’s hard to come up with a funny line when your fists are clenched that tight, so I just said, “Wait till I become a Puma Person again.” He didn’t smile either.

 Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in thc current podcast.

1- Why will I be snoring big time when my operation is done?

2- What’s my problem with romantic monkees ?

3- What keep an octopus from becoming a cheerleader ?

 Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind. 

 The Puma People of America. More pounce to the ounce. I like that. There’s a certain amount of grace to that thought. And it’s a little sexy. You could set it to music and call it “The Tiger Tango.” Get some body like Catherine Zeta Jones to dance it like she did in that Zoro movie. There’s a story about a dancer who was moving like a puma in the Night Connections personal audio cd. It’s called, The Tiny Dancer. Just like George Harrison said…there was something in the way she moved…I think her ex was kicking himself when he saw her. Good. Sometimes a boot in the behind can be a step forward. The story of a Tiny Dancer is from the Night Connections personal audio cd. If you like it, you can just keep this podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just go back to www.dicksummer.com  and download it from the Night Connections icon on the opening page.

 I guess inside every Louie-Louie Generation person, there’s a kid wondering what happened. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says: “When some pimple person gives you a hard time, don’t get even…get odd.” That’s good advice. Good advice is good.

 Baseball players are always giving advice. The current  big leaguers are always doing commercials saying, “Don’t do drugs.” Ex-Big-Leaguers do commercials saying…”here…drink this beer.” And Louie-Louie Generation ball players do commercials saying, “Hey, take this pill and go have sex.”

 Now if you don’t think those of us who are members of the Louie Louie Generation know what we’re talking about…let me ask you…if you’re a Puma Person, which of those three pieces of advice sounds like the most fun to you.

 My son David will be doing next week’s podcast. He’s our podcast master…and besides being a senior computer programmer, he’s also a professional musician. Dave has his own website and podcast. It’s at David@Summersong.net I have no idea what he’s going to do for the Good Night podcast, but I’m willing to bet you’re going to like it.

 And my Lady Wonder Wench will be writing next week’s blog. She’s a published novelist, and she’s been my wife and girlfriend for a long time. I don’t know what she’s going to write about. But when I asked her to write the blog because I’m going to be in the hospital, she gave me a very strange smile. So I think that will be good too.

 Wish me luck. I’m off to Puma Person Hood.

Once upon a time, a pretty, talented young lady by the name of Connie Francis sang a tune called, “Stupid Cupid.” If you’re a member of the Louie-Louie Generation, you remember it well. In honor of Valentine’s Day, I took a very un-scientific poll of a bunch of Louie-Louie Generation friends of mine, and the results shocked me. More than 90% of them…both sexes…just kinda blew Valentine’s day off.  One guy even said, “That Cupid stuff is just stupid.”

No. It’s not.

 I like Valentines’ day. As a member of the Louie-Louie Generation I’ve had enough of Cupid’s arrows stuck in my backside to re-supply the Indians at Custer’s last stand. And some of those arrows really hurt. But as Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, “Kiss the boo-boo, learn a lesson…and move on. Or better yet, get someone to kiss the boo-boo for you.”

 The first arrow Cupid shot at me had the name “Jeanie Campbell” on it. She was 6, and I was 7.” It hurt a little…and I didn’t even understand why. But it taught me I could take a little hurting… even the kind I didn’t understand. It sure wasn’t stupid. It was an important lesson. Through the years, some of that little guy’s arrows with other names on them went pretty deep. Lots of boo-boos needed to be kissed. Fortunately, my Lady Wonder Wench is the number one boo-boo kisser in the world. Well, my world anyway.

 One of the guys I talked to said, “I’m too old for that kind of thing.” Big Louie went nose to nose with that guy. Louie told him, “You’re never too old as long as you have enough moving parts.”

 I like Valentine’s Day. You get to tell somebody, “I love you.” And maybe you’ll get to hear it back. Lots of times it gets sexy. It comes at the beginning of baseball’s Spring Training season. “My Funny Valentine” is a great tune. And it’s not very expensive. What’s not to like ?

There’s a history to Valentine’s Day. It seems there was a priest by the name of Valentinus, who lost his head courtesy of Claudius the Cruel on February 14^th in the year 269 AD. Supposedly, Father V. healed his jailer’s blind daughter, fell in love with her, and left a note for her in his cell the night before his execution. The note said, “I love you. From your Valentine.”

 Most holy people get a little uncomfortable about romance. Especially the kind where there are fingers and flesh involved. One Christian web site has come up with an idea to keep our minds off our fingers and flesh, by selling “Valentine’s Day cards from God.” It seems to me that us simple Louie-Louie Generation guys could call God excessively stiff competition. No pun intended.

 And the Pickle Puss People have come up with a competing day for people who don’t want any part of romance. They call it “Singles Awareness Day.” The initials of Singles Awareness Day, I think appropriately are SAD. I think SAD is…sad. Men and women belong together. There are some exceptions of course  and God bless them too. Let’s just say lovers belong together.

 But it’s romance that keeps lovers together, not a relationship. There’s a difference between a relationship and a romance. Business have relationships. Lovers have romances. A relationship develops. A romance explodes. A relationship makes progress. A romance makes sweat. Mutual sweating is a great help in keeping the people who are doing the mutually sweating stuck together.

 Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in the current podcast.

 1-    Dirty hands can give you a cold. What can give you a warm?

2-    How much does the “Average American” eat in a year ?

3-    What naughty thing do ¾ of American women do with their bras ?

 Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

 Once upon a time there was a pre-Louie-Louie Generation guy who was injured in a fist fight in the navy. Maybe the nasty 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 and a big heart. Not exactly the makings of a career as a movie star. But that’s what he became. The biggest movie star of his time. His name was Humphrey Bogart.

 Some younger Louie-Louie Generation folks may not remember him. But the rest of us will never forget him. Especially on Valentine’s day. He made a lot of movies. But mostly…we remember an old black and white film called, “Casablanca.” One of the things that made the film, was that it featured a tune that I hope will never go away. “You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is still a sigh. The fundamental things apply, as time goes by. Bogart and his co-star Ingrid Bergman really got it right in Casablanca.

 In one scene, he looked at Bergman, who was possibly the most beautiful woman in the world at the time…he looked right at her…for a long time…and he smiled that crooked smile…and he said, “Here’s looking at you kid.” And they cut to a tight shot of Bergman’s face, as she filled the screen with her eyes.

 There’s the story of a Valentine’s Day dinner with my Lady Wonder Wench that I think Bogie and Bergman would have understood in this week’s podcast. Maybe you’ll understand it too. I hope you’ll at least give it a listen…especially if you’re feeling a little like Cupid is a real mean guy. And just in case you could use a little Valentine’s Day back rub, there’s one waiting for you in the podcast too.

 Cupid isn’t stupid. And as every Louie-Louie Generation member has experienced a few times, the little guy’s arrows can be weapons of mass destruction. But I think if you like the idea of doing some serious mutual sweating…and sticking together…you may have to take a chance and change your tune. “Stupid Cupid” isn’t going to do it for you. You might try that tune the Association did. They called it “Cherish.” You don’t hear that word very much any more. It’s a good word. And slightly sweaty.

 Or, if you’re a really big fan of the mutual sweats…turn up the steam and get into that tune the Troggs did…”Wild Thing…You Make My Heart Sing.”  Or better yet, Peggy Lee’s “Fever.”

 Unfortunately, according to my “Stupid Cupid” poll, an awful lot of people, even some in “good relationships” have “Lost That Lovin Feeling.” It’s a big loss. A terrible quiet. An awful power failure.

 Do you suppose some of it is due to a lack of guts ? Are so many people just afraid to stand up and tell Cupid to take his best shot?

 I know that sometimes…when there’s only one “Wild Thing” left in the wreckage of a romance…that hurts. Bad. But even if you’ve “Lost That Loving Feeling” you haven’t lost everything. Remember that gorgeous song from the musical Cats:

 “Memories, all alone in the moonlight, I can dream of the old days, Life was beautiful then.

I remember the time I knew what happiness was, Let the memories live again.”

 Memories count too.

So thanks anyway, Jeannie Campbell. Wherever you are.

I am sitting here in my big, black comfortable leather poppa chair in my living room, fondling my left knee…which Doctor Dracula, M.D.  is shortly going to replace with something he thinks will feel better. Humans have always thought we could improve on the body that the Designer-In-Chief gave us. That’s where we got artists like Picasso. A lot of people would pay a lot of money for his famous painting of a woman with the body parts in unusual places. I prefer the original design, as expressed by people like my Lady Wonder Wench…thank you very much.

 I remember the worried look on the pretty face of a young woman by the name of Maureen with whom I was…as they used to say…going steady…when she asked me a question that was supposed to be a one question intelligence test. Since she was convinced we were eventually going to get married, she was concerned about my level of intelligence, because I guess I wasn’t showing much of it at the time…since I was at that point in my life, a pimple person.

 The question was, “If you could put an eye anywhere else on your body, where would put it.” For many reasons which would have made her blush if I told her about them, I figured the best place would be on my fingertip. It turns out that I had what she called the right answer The reasons she gave, of course were somewhat different from mine…so Maureen was relieved. I hope she is still relieved…wherever she is. If you’re reading this Maureen…your body parts were all in the right places…and I certainly appreciated that.

 The question does bring up some interesting points however. For example, why did the Designer-In-Chief decide to put something as drippy as a nose right over our mouths ? I’d rather have it there than in some other places I can think of…not under our armpits. But over the mouth seems…un-necessarily disgusting.

 Because I live where the winters get cold, I’ve often thought it would be good to have our ears under our arm pits…but of course that would mean we’d have to stick our hands up in the air every time someone was talking to us…which would make it even more difficult for us to look into the eyes of a lady in a low cut dress if our eyes were up there on the fingertip and hers were down where they belong. I mean…come on…think about the angles involved. And I won’t even begin to get into some of the shortcomings that I feel took place in certain gynecological and Viagral designs.

 Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in the current podcast.

1-    What’s with ladies leather underwear ?

2-    What’s the best vehicle for dealing with a hungry whale ?

3-    If you meet a guy by the name of “Stumpy” in Florida, what’s his likely profession ?

 Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

 I was critical of a painter by the name of Picasso a few minutes ago. I don’t want you to think I have anything against artists. And I really don’t want to hear from the American Artists for Violent Action Against Wise Ass Bloggers committee. I like artists. In fact, there’s a story about an artist in the Night Connections 2 personal audio cd. It’s caller Painting, Pottery and Passion.

It’s about silence…it’s sometimes called icy silence. But this silence…in this story…was as hot as hot gets. Do you ever wonder why we do things like that…on purpose…play with fire ? The guys in the white lab coats say we sometimes really want to get burned. And they may be right.

 Painting, Pottery and Passion is from the Night Connections 2 personal audio cd. If you like it, you can just keep the current podcast, or if you want a fresh copy, just go back to the home page of this website, and download it from the Night Connections 2 icon.

 I guess it’s appropriate that I’m going to have a knee operation, because I’m a Louie-Louie Generation guy…and like most Louie-Louie generation guys, I can no longer call myself hip. I guess you could say Guys my age are much more like knees. Think about it. We’ve had to learn how to bend…even when we don’t like it. We’ve had to learn how to forgive, because there have been so many times when we’ve had to be forgiven. And too much jogging has definitely bounced our brains around a little too much.

 Most of us are optimists though. We still hope things are going to get better, because we’ve often seen them even worse than they are now.

 What a wonderful time we’ve had.

 So far.

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable black leather poppa chair in the living room looking at a picture of my dad…sitting in his big comfortable poppa chair in his living room…a long time ago. He was the only hero I ever had. And that’s too bad, because you don’t really get to know the PEOPLE who are your heros. You know what they did. But you don’t really know all the reasons why they did what they did. We know that the first order George Washington gave his men when they crossed the Delaware river on Christmas Eve in 1776 was, ”Burn the boats.” Military Historians say that was so his men had no choice but to beat the Hessians at Trenton. But I wonder if he was also thinking, “Burning the damn boats will give these poor, freezing starving guys a few minutes of warmth before they go to lay down their lives for this thing we believe in.”

 We learn about Washington the hero…the gutsy, commanding guy, who used his head and won our war. But I always wondered about Washington the man, the friend, the guy…watching his troops…a bunch of other guys, some of them his friends, on that frozen, awful night as they were getting ready to die to keep freedom warm and alive in their hearts…and ours.

 Dad was a teacher. Most heros are. The things he taught were simple…and profound. He said things like “It takes real strength to be gentle.”  He said, “There’s a time for pulling yourself together, and there’s a time for letting yourself go.” He said, “Be a man.” There wasn’t any confusion about what he meant by that. As a teacher, dad knew that show was always more important than tell.  So showed me how to be a man. He always told the truth, even when he screwed up. So I never saw him get embarrassed…even when sometimes I saw him cry. He said “Big boys never cry, but big men sometimes do.” He loved to tell long, involved jokes to make me laugh. He liked laughing. Especially when the joke was on him. He was deeply religious. He said, “The rules should be very strict, but the application of them should be very loving.” He was very smart. He was a whiz at math…and music. Ooh he loved his music.

 My room was right next to the living room where he had his piano. And most nights when I was a kid, he’d tell me a story, give me a kiss on the head, and go play his piano…and sing…in that quiet, gentle powerful baritone voice.

 Dad wasn’t a big guy. I’m taller than he was. But he kept himself strong. He was always doing pushups. He was a college wrestler and a state champion quarter mile track star. He was a peaceful guy, except if anybody gave my mom a hard time. I remember that he came home once, and a delivery guy was yelling at my mom. The delivery guy was a very big, husky guy. Dad didn’t say anything. He just picked the guy up, and tossed him over the stoop. That was dad’s way of teaching me that job number one for any guy, is taking care of your woman. 

 He was a hard worker. He taught music and ran a couple of church choirs. But he always found time to play catch with me, and teach me how to run a little faster, and throw a pretty good punch. He also taught me how to play the saxaphone…a little. I didn’t have his talent. But my brother John did. And and I passed it down to my sons Dave, Eric and Mark. And he also always took time to stop at the florist shop up the block and bring my mom a rose or two. Usually, he couldn’t afford a dozen.

 Dad had five sons. But he never had a daughter…until my Lady Wonder Wench came into my life. I had my Lady, and he had his daughter. The night he died, she leaned over and kissed his forehead. He opened his eyes and he said…”That was very nice.” I think those were his last words.

 Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in the current podcast.

1-    If you hear a lot of heavy breathing in the middle of the night, what kind of beast is probably contacting you ?

2-    How much “meaningful conversation” does the average American parent have with the average kid ?

3-    Where did we get the idea for a “hot chick?”

 Dick’s details. They take your mind off your mind.

 I was telling you about my dad…and how he always wanted a daughter. Mom always wanted a daughter too. And My Lady Wonder Wench filled that need just as well as she did for dad. There’s a story in the Night Connections 2 album about a mother and daughter relationship. But it’s called, Daddy’s Girl. It’s in the current podcast. I know a guy who has a daughter. And he knows it. But he doesn’t have the guts to face up to being her father. He will never know that he’s missed one of the best parts of being a man. If you like this story called, Daddy’s Girl you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just go back the home page and download if from the Night Connections icon.

 A little while ago, I said I’m almost sorry my dad was my hero… because I only saw what he did, and I never even tried to find out why he did it. I think that’s a guy thing. And it’s too bad. I don’t think I ever really knew dad very well as just…a guy. A guy with a wife and five kids…and a mortgage…and aches and pains…and hopes and fears. I never had the slightest idea about his hopes and fears. I think my Lady Wonder Wench got to know him better than I ever did. She knew him well enough to be the daughter he always wanted.

 Maybe that’s why guys always hope to have a daughter. We’d kind of like to have someone who’s smart enough and caring enough to find out not just what we do, but why we do it.

 I’m looking at his picture on the wall right now…and let me tell you…I’m taller than he was, but he was a very big guy. And he left some very big shoes to fill.

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I still have a smile on my face from playing a game of peek a boo with a baby a while ago. It’s probably the oldest game known to mankind. Well…one of the oldest. It’s built into our genes. When a baby is born, the doctor slaps it’s butt to get it to cry so it will breathe, then if I were the doctor, I’d make it stop crying by pulling the mask down from my eyes and I’d say peek !

 Peek a boo, I see you. The littlest kids understand when you hide your eyes and then say Peek. And they like it even better when you cover their eyes then take your hand away and say Peek ! Wow ! You made the whole world disappear, and then you brought it back when you said Peek. You have become a God-like individual to the kid. The Lord of Laughs. Not a bad idea. Sounds like as you get a little older, it would put a twinkle in your wrinkle.

 Peek a boo. I see you. That’s one of the key lines in the Avatar movie. Not the peek a boo part…just the “I see you” part. In case you’re one of the fifteen people on the planet who hasn’t seen the movie, I won’t spoil it for you by telling you too much about it. But for me…really…the whole thing revolves around the idea that most people don’t play peek-a-boo-I-see-you any more. Almost nobody really sees you. Or me. Or anybody. Not even your husband or your wife, or your kids…nobody. Most people don’t even see themselves. That doesn’t mean they don’t see the face that’s reflected in the mirror. It means they don’t see the person who’s making the face…the person inside the face. The you in the mirror.

 A quick game of peek-a-boo-I-see-you tore my life apart. It happened on the first day my Lady Wonder Wench walked into my studio at that station in Boston. She was in charge of scheduling the commercials and she had to makes some changes on the program log. She was wearing a plaid skirt with pleats that swirled when she walked, a sweater that seriously disrupted my chemical, electrical and atomic systems, and a smile that she half hid behind her long soft brown hair. She held out her hand and introduced herself…and she looked at me…and zap…it was like the static electric shock you get when you walk on a carpet in your socks. Her eyes turned the whole room electric blue.

 She was the only woman who…right away…had the courage to let me look right into her eyes…all the way into her eyes… without blinking or turning away. And what I saw….there…was pride, and humor, and beauty, and dignity, and intelligence …Peek-a-boo…I saw her…because she had the guts to let me see her.

 It was like her eyes were naked, and she let me see…her… shining…stunning…alive. Then she gave me a quick laugh, tossed her head, and just for an instant before she hid those eyes behind that quick flash of hair…I saw something I had never seen in anybody’s eyes. It lasted about half a blink.  I remember that it felt like one long fingernail flicking for an instant across a small itchy spot on my scalp. It tore me open.

 A lot of questions came out of that “I See You” instant. I put them in a story called called, Who Are You ? It’s in the Lovin Touch personal audio cd. The the power of peek-a-boo-I-see-you is…it made me feel…happy. Just like that…All of a sudden, I knew what I was supposed to be when I grow up. Happy. Just…happy. Sounds simple doesn’t it. And it really is. But most people make it agonizingly complicated. That quick flash in her eyes…that reflection of me looking at her…and seeing her because she let me see her…nobody ever did that in my life until then. It takes courage to do that…peek-a-boo-let-someone-see-you. What do you think. Are you up for giving it a shot ?

Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in the current podcast.

1-    What can you do with your tongue that will make the rest of the guys in the locker room edge away from you?

2-    Why should you X-Ray a prospective mate ?

3-    What’s the most famous peek-a-boo game ever played?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

 Peek-a-boo-I-see-you is powerful stuff. You’re going to see a lot of people start denouncing that Avatar because lots of them really don’t have the courage to play the see and be seen game. Especially the be-seen part. I think that’s because a lot of people are afraid of the boogie man. I wonder if a lot of those people are afraid that if they peek into the mirror, they might find the biggest boogie man around…looking back at them.

 So it takes guts to play the peek-a-boo-I-see-you game. It can tear you open. But I think you’ll find it’s worth it. Because as that wound heals, you might find your own answer to what you’re supposed to be when you grow up. I hope you’ll get lucky, like I did. I hope you find that you’re supposed to be happy too.

I’m sitting here in my big black, comfortable poppa chair in my living room…and I am still wearing my Indiana Jones hero hat.

I had to jam it on my head a little while ago when  my Lady Wonder Wench made a sound that shattered two of the glasses in our kitchen cabinet. It was her “Oh my God there’s a bug” shriek that erupts every time she sees something that doesn’t look like a neighbor crawling somewhere in our zip code.

 Most of the time, my Lady Wonder Wench has a warm and gentle  Mezzo soprano voice. It was one of the many personal attributes that inclined me, when I first met her, to ask her if she had any love that was going to waste…although I must admit that what I really had on my mind was trying to persuade her to abandon as many of her fundamental principles of decency as I could, as quickly as I could. I remember telling her that “To err is human, but it can feel devine.” But she just gave me one of those soft, warm, Lady Wonder Wenchy laughs. That was the first time I’d heard anything like that. Even after all these years, it always reminds me of butter melting on my pancakes. Which is not really surprising when you consider that it came from somewhere inside Lady Wonder Wench. 

 But there are several things that can change that voice into something of a sonic weapon. The New York Mets in the process of booting another game is one. Also cold finger tips where they don’t belong…many women drivers in suvs talking on their cell phones…and bugs. For some reason, she can deal with bugs when they’re on the floor. But not on the wall, on the table…and certainly not on her needlepoint.

 Unfortunately, over the course of the last few months, our living room has been bugged. And ours isn’t the only one. They’re all over the place, including the needlepoint shop where my Lady Wonder Wench gets threads, cloth, and the latest news. The needlepoint shop is run by a group of ladies, and most of their customers are ladies. And the ladies who work there are always trying to hide the bugs from the ladies who shop there, because there’s probably a lot of non-shatterproof glass around.

 The bugs are roughly the size of an I-pod, but thankfully with a lot less intelligence. They’re so big that if they didn’t look so much like something out of a Si-Fi movie, you might want to keep them for pets. They appear out of no where, but then they just sit there as if they’re expecting a pat on the back for making such a good landing on your wall…or your table…or in this case on your needlepoint. They make a satisfying crunch when you do pat them enthusiastically on the back with a Kleenex, but they take revenge by leaving a smell that will clear your sinuses and those of your neighbors for three blocks around.

 I keep my Indiana Jones hat handy, because I kind of like jamming in on my head, making a manly grunt, and grabbing a Kleenex on my way to assassinate a bug. I like the “You’re my hero” sound in Lady Wonder Wench’s pancake buttery voice when I do the heroic deed.

 You may have noticed that every hero has to have a hat, or a cape, or something that makes him easy to spot for the pretty women who are always milling around in his movies and often in his bed room.  And of course it doesn’t hurt that those hats or capes or whatever can be easily marketed to goose the profits of the movie studio for which the guy is heroic.

 Indiana Jones in my kind of hero. He can’t leap tall buildings with a single bound like Superman, but he’s the kind of guy who might try doing it in two bounds if he thought some pretty girl was watching. He’s not particularly handsome, he’s not particularly tall, he’s just a nice guy who…like me…might usually figure the best way to keep from being annoyed by a dripping faucet is just to turn up the stereo…but then lose his temper and  seriously consider unclogging an overflowing toilet with a twelve-gage shotgun if there was NO pretty girl…like my Lady Wonder Wench…watching, and generally keeping things under control. In other words, he’s my kind of guy.

 Dick’s details quiz. All answers are in the current podcast. 1-    What is it that 100 % of the guys listening to the podcast do that makes their women roll their eyes in opposite directions. 2-    What is the biggest difference between men and women.  3-    What do 85% of American women wear improperly.

 Dick’s Details take your mind off your mind.

 Some women’s voices are sexier than others. Lady Wonder Wench is at the sweatiest end of the scale. Aircraft manufacturers know that most pilots are men, and we tend to pay more attention to women’s voices than we do to men’s voices. I think hormones may be to blame. So the automatic instruments in a cockpit that say things like “That’s a mountain at 12 o’clock and a half mile…you may want to climb dummy.” are all female voices. Some people hear lots of voices that only they can hear. That can be confusing.  And there are some people who take the time to listen to just a single voice in their own heads. And that voice can clear up lots of confusion. There’s a way to do that. It’s in the Quiet Hands personal audio cd. It’s called The Strong, Quiet Voice.

 You’ll be amazed at how smart that Strong Quiet Voice in your own head can be. You’ll find yourself trusting it more and more. If you like The Strong Quiet Voice, you can just keep the podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the icon on the home page.

 I have to admit, I really like jamming my Indiana Jones hat on…I always tilt it about 45 degrees to the left. As soon as I do that, I can hear the music…and feel the bullwhip in my hands…and best of all, there’s the Lady Wonder Wench sound…just like butter melting on my pancakes.

Proud Podcast Participant Al sent this…think of it as early for next Christmas.

As a joke, my brother Jay used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Jay’s kids’ stockings overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.

 One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don’t sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown. If you’ve never been in an X-rated store, don’t go, you’ll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, ‘What does this do?’ ‘You’re kidding me!’ ‘Who would buy that?’ Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane during rush hour.

 Finding what I wanted was difficult. ‘Love Dolls’ come in many different models. I wanted the top of the line and I figured I found it, because according to the side of the box, it could do things I’d only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I settled for ‘Lovable Louise.’ She was at the bottom of the price scale. To call Louise a ‘doll’ took a huge leap of imagination.

 On Christmas Eve and with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee morning hours. Long after Santa had come and gone, I filled the dangling pantyhose with Louise’s pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. I went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.

 The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy, but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more. We all agreed that Louise should remain in her pantyhose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner.

 My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. ‘What the hell is that?’ she asked. My brother quickly explained, ‘It’s a doll.’ ‘Who would play with something like that?’ Granny snapped. I kept my mouth shut. Where are her clothes?’ Granny continued. Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran,’ Jay said, to steer her into the dining room.

 But Granny was relentless. ‘Why doesn’t she have any teeth? Again, I could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, ‘Hang on Granny; hang on!’ My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, ‘Hey, who’s the naked gal by the fireplace?’ I told him she was Jay’s friend. A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. It was then that we realized this might be Grandpa’s last Christmas at home.

 The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the mantel, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants. Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and sat in the car.

 It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember. Later in my brother’s garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise’s collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health.

I can’t wait until next Christmas. Thinking of all my friends, including the strangers I haven’t met yet!!

Coming Sunday…”My Living Room Is Bugged .”