Archive for April, 2008

The Dick Summer Connection – April 27, 2008

Saturday, April 26th, 2008

I’ve been sitting here in the big comfortable black leather papa chair in my living room thinking about the great questions…like, what is God all about? And I’ve finally come up with my answer…I don’t have a clue. So I figured maybe I ‘d have better luck if I tackled some of the mediocre questions in life instead. Like, why does the windshield wiper on the driver’s side always wear out before the one on the passenger side…and why do hot dogs always taste better at a ball game…and what are people who are always smiling really thinking? If anything.I got to spend some time outside today, watching Mother Nature doing some fancy dances in her best bikini. It was a pretty day. So how come I got to do that while my friend Randy next door, who is a whole lot closer to God than I am, is sick in bed and hurting? What kind of sense does that make? I don’t know. I have a hard enough time figuring out why you can’t win ‘em all, but you can lose ‘em all. And how come anything you drop in the bathroom always falls into the toilet? And why will people believe anything you tell them if you whisper it to them?

Come to think about it, I have a question for you: how come some people will be offended by what I just said about Mother Nature dancing in a sexy bikini? I honestly have no idea. Anybody who thinks mammas can’t look nice dancing in sexy bikinis hasn’t seen Catherine Zeta Jones, Sophia Loren, and my Lady Wonder Wench. Maybe my problem is that as a proud member of the Louie-Louie Generation, I can’t forget the words of Big Louie, his own bad self, when he said…”If the Lord had approved of nudity, we’d all have been born naked.” I guess my brain has become my Achilles heel.

How come people in a country that makes money that says “In God we trust” feel they need to “accuse” Senator Obama of being a member of the Muslim faith… but at the same time, he’s supposedly under too much influence of a whacko pastor who’s Christian? That makes as much sense to me as accusing Senator Clinton of showing too much cleavage. I don’t think you can ever show too much cleavage. And how about knocking Senator McCain because he has a record of actually working together with democrats to get something done? That’s way too complicated for me.

I’m still trying to figure out why every time I blow my nose, I always want to check the kleenex for the results. And why aren’t the people in very old black and white family pictures ever smiling…and why doesn’t glue get stuck in the bottle…and what’s the difference between a blouse and a shirt…and how come women button some shirts up the back…and while we’re at it…what’s with those bra hooks?


The electric company here isn’t allowed to raise their rates for another two years. So now there’s a new item on the bill that they call a “transition charge”…which will be added to each bill for the next two years. Huh? Why do some women kick one foot up when they kiss? When you change the oil in your car engine, where does the old oil go? What’s the connection between concentrating and sticking your tongue out? Huh? I don’t know, either.

Dick’s Details Quiz – All answers are in the current PodCast at .

1- Although sex is obviously a mutual activity, what excessive masculine trait keeps men from offering to “pay” a woman with sex?

2- What do 59% of men do in bed that women seem to totally ignore?

3- When does a little mystery in a romance go too far?


3 – right – Einstein.

2 – right – Wilbur/Orville Wright.

1 – right – The guy who invented the Hefty Bag.

0 – right - A guy who can’t figure out how to open a Hefty Bag.

So, how come we can’t tickle ourselves? What’s the difference between a street sign that says no outlet and one that says dead end? Why do dogs love to put their heads out the window of your car when you’re moving, but really hate it if you blow into their ears? When you send a letter from one country to another, which country gets paid for delivering it? All good questions, for which I have no answers. If you have any questions to confuse me further…or you just want to complain bitterly…or you want to send money…my E-mail is  

Guess I’ll never figure out what God is all about. I think if I ever really figured out what my Lady Wonder Wench is all about…I wouldn’t believe it anyway, so what’s the use? I don’t know…maybe some questions don’t really have an answer. And maybe some answers… don’t need to be questioned.


Next time…the story of a lady called “KrissyGirl.”





The Dick Summer Connection – April 20, 2008

Saturday, April 19th, 2008

Guess I never told you why I do the PodCasts that go with this blog every week. And I should. Because I owe a thank you to everyone who reads this blog and listens to the PodCasts.When I was a kid, I had a fantasy. I wanted to be the radio voice in the middle of the night that could make people (especially girls) all over the city feel safe and cared for…and beautiful. I knew that kind of radio voice could make guys feel comfortable, too…because that’s what it did for me.

I grew up in Brooklyn. For a New Yorker, a trip from Brooklyn to Manhattan is called, “a trip to the city.” When I “went to the city” as a kid, I used to look at those sky scrapers in Manhattan, and it seemed to me like they must have erupted like volcanos from the concrete… probably pushed up by the power of the subways as they roared along under the streets.

There are 14 million people in New York…and on a good day all of them are trying to cross the same street at the same time…and they’re all hustling because they’re late for work. You’ve gotta keep moving…24/7… when you live in New York. It’s a constant clang, pound and push…all day and all night. It’s exciting. But it wears on you. And after a while it can be a little frightening.

I used to hide my radio under the pillow late at night. That’s how I listened to William B. Williams on WNEW in New York. Willie always started his show by saying…”Hello, world.” He was welcoming you to his fantasy world, where he would keep you safe and smiling, and comfortable.

His voice made me feel like we were buddies. He’d tell a couple of jokes…and he’d kinda give me a friendly punch in the shoulder… and sometimes throw me a knowing wink when he talked to the girls we both knew were listening. Willie is gone now. And so is that kind of radio. I call it “Fantasy Radio.” I miss it.

I got to be a late night voice on the radio…even got to work with Willie and some of the other giants who lived in that little transistor box. And I think it’s a shame that we now have a couple of generations of kids who have never heard that kind of radio.

I don’t want to sound wrinkled and old beyond recognition…because getting wrinkled was not one of the fantasies I had when I was a kid. But I think if you’re a member of the Louie-Louie Generation…and you remember the Lone Ranger, and black and white tv, and bb guns…you’ll understand what I mean. And if you’ve been listening to the PodCast that goes with this blog for a while, you’ll know that no matter how many birthday cakes you’ve sliced, you’re a member of the Louie-Louie Generation if a lot of your conversations these days includes words like “prostate,” “ouch,” “vitamin E,” “stress,” “diet,” and “what…what did you say?”

Look…wrinkles may be sneaking up on us Louie-Louie Generation people, but contrary to what the pimple people think, our biggest concern is not getting our teeth stuck in each other’s wrinkles…our vital juices have not all turned to prune…and many of us are still looking forward to the disorderly, vigorous, and entirely disreputable remainder of our lives. And those of us who are still in love clearly understand the difference between a relationship and a romance. And the rest of us are well aware that although sex without love is a meaningless experience… as meaningless experiences go…it’s one of your better ones.

Louie-Louie guys are the bed mates of choice for super models, porn stars, and beautiful young 22 year olds because of our worldly charm, our courtly manners, and the fact that some of us have a little money. We’re experienced. We know enough to tie up and blindfold the dog in times of… physical tenderness. Louie-Louie ladies also have their lives under control. They realize that if things don’t go well in a tender moment, it’s best to wait till your partner leaves to put in an emergency call to somebody better. And perhaps most important…Louie-Louie Generation people have learned to trust the words of Big Louie…his own bad self…when he says, “the more seriously you take yourself, the more foolish you look.”

Dick’s Details Quiz – All answers are in the current PodCast at

1- What unusual thing did the Perdue University Marching Band do right on the field after drinking lots of beer?

2- What very physical thing do lots of people do in their showers?

3- What one word in the English language makes me sick?


3 right – I Love New York

2 right – Chicago’s My Home Town

1-right – Moonlight In Miami

0-right – El Paso

An email came pouring in to  from proud PodCast participant Tom the Hugger about last week’s PodCast. He says in part…”When I went to catholic school dances, the nuns and priests used to discourage dancing real close by tapping us on the shoulder and telling us to leave room for the Holy Ghost. This led me to think of the Holy Ghost as some kind of perv for wanting to dance between me and my girl. Of course, even I was smart enough by then not to mention that to Sister Mary Knuckle Buster.” Another note… this time from proud PodCast participant Dick B, who says, “I like your PodCasts because they make me think back to when times were slower…or maybe we just didn’t have as many responsibilities.” Thanks, Dick. The email address is .

But I digress. Back to the point. It’s fantasies that keep Louie-Louie people from becoming cynics. Cynics don’t believe in fantasies. They’re always looking for a sure thing. There’s always at least a touch of “maybe” in every fantasy. And cynics don’t like anything but sure things. Cynics are chicken. And chickens aren’t sexy. Fantasies are sexy…wearing lingerie instead of underwear…the pretty girl turning the frog into a prince and living happily ever after…the guy on the white horse swooping down to rescue the fair maiden from a fate worse than death. I like fantasies like that.

So that’s why I do the PodCasts. I love the power of the fantasies that a voice on the radio can create late at night. But Fantasy Radio is gone…and I don’t think it will ever be back. So when you tell me that the PodCasts make you feel comfortable…and safe…and beautiful… and connected…thank you…from that long ago Brooklyn kid…with the fantasy that never went away.

The Dick Summer Connection – April 13, 2008

Saturday, April 12th, 2008

I took a trip to the Big Apple today. That sounds like the kind of thing a guy who can’t stop talking about how well his tomatoes are growing might say. But actually, I grew up in the Catholic section of Brooklyn. No sex- ed classes in our high school…but there were fertility dances …the school called them record hops. The nuns never attended the dances, but their influence was never far from the girls in my neighborhood. If a girl from my neighborhood excused herself to slip into something more comfortable, she came back wearing a wedding gown. I spent most of my radio career in my home town. I called it “Skyscraper National Park.”We moved to Pennsylvania when I was asked to leave New York by the forces for profit in the broadcasting business.I go back to New York pretty often for my day job. And even though that’s where I was born and raised, I sometimes feel a little out of place now… when I got off the train at Penn station…and rode the big long escalator up to street level in front of Madison Square Garden…it really hit me today. I crossed the street with a whole crowd of people, and I could see everybody’s reflection in a big glass store window… but I couldn’t find myself in the crowd. That was a weird feeling… for just a moment I thought I’d lost myself. I mean, if you look in the mirror and you’re not there…that’s a problem.

I probably could have found myself if I had a little more time. But there’s not much time in New York. That’s what makes lots of people think New Yorkers are rude. Actually, New Yorkers are just in a hurry. Gotta hustle when there are 14 million people behind you trying to get across the same street. There’s no time to waste when you’re in New York. That’s the reason that most of what New Yorkers have to say can be summed up with one finger.

There’s actually a New York language. If someone says he’ll meet you “at his crib,” he means at his apartment, not his bed. A “Home Boy” is your best friend. A “freak” is your girlfriend. A “throw down” is a fight. And your clothes are called your “gear.”

I got to work with some pretty special guys in New York…guys like Wolfman Jack. Actually…there never was and never will be anybody like Wolfie. And, yes…that’s what he liked the other guys at WNBC to call him…Wolfie. Bob Smith was his real name. He was a Brooklyn boy too…so we had that in common. Wolfie was a comic book character with a huge heart. The screaming and “wolfin” while the mic was open was his act. But he was just Bob Smith from Brooklyn when the music was playing. He’d just kinda sing along, and ruffle through his liner cards during the songs.

I used to bring my Lady Wonder Wench with me to the station pretty often. And she remembers him very fondly. She says “he was very comfortable.” I’d say the same thing. He was a very comfortable guy.

That’s not to say that he didn’t know how to howl when the moon was full. As a matter of fact, the phase of the moon didn’t have much to do with it when the music got to Wolfie. Black music, especially. Race music was what they called it before the great Alan Freed made it mainstream. Wolfie was a black man in white skin…a white man who could definitely jump. And nothing was safe from getting knocked over in the studio when Wolfie was up and jumping.

But sometimes…after he had been naughty…things were kinda quiet while the records were playing. I mentioned liner cards, and those of you in the radio business probably thought that was a mistake. But it wasn’t. Liner cards usually have station slogans written on them that the program director wants the guy on the air to read at certain times during the hour. Boring stuff like, “More music, less talk.” Wolfie’s liner cards were different. He used them to remember what he called his “statements to my honeys.” They were sometimes jokes… sometimes quick snippets of Jonathan Livingston Seagull-type philosophy…and sometimes just barely disguised pick up lines. Sometimes the words didn’t really make much sense at all…except when Wolfie was saying them.

WNBC hired Wolfie to compete with Cousin Brucie on WABC. The WNBC promotion department took a series of ads in the paper featuring tombstones with “Brucie’s” name on them…and captions that said something to the effect that “Wolfie is here and Brucie’s time has come.” That never happened. And ironically, when Wolfie left WNBC, “Cousin Brucie” came over to our side.

Wolfie was as New York as the Brooklyn Bridge. He made his radio reputation on the west coast. But if you ever wonder where he kept his heart, look at the call letters on the microphone in almost all his pictures. They read WNBC. The world is a little quieter and a lot sadder since Wolfie went away.

Dick’s Details Quiz – all answers are in the current PodCast at 

1- What has Catherine Zeta Jones got to do with Kansas City?

2- What did ants have to do with the Beatles?

3- Why did most people hold their noses at the debut of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony?


3- Right – Born in New York.

2- Right – Born to be wild.

1- Right – Born loser.

0- Right – Hatched.

YO: Many thanks to Dr. George Pollard for the huge interview with me he published at . The article has lots of pictures and lots of memories…including Marge the Station Stripper, Al Heacock, the Father of Classic Rock, and Bruce Bradley, the most talented DJ I ever knew.

Funny thing about a long article like that…looking back at your life. Reading it was a little like not being able to find myself in that reflection of the crowd of people crossing the street in New York today. It was like I got lost in my own life. And there’s a lesson there: I’ve been a little too busy. I’ve got to take a little more time to find myself…in my own life.

According to the counter about 70,000 people read this blog every month. And I have no idea why. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a sentence or two…just let me know what you get from reading this blog. For all I know you might have been one of the people in that crowd crossing the street today. If you were, I wonder…did you see yourself in the reflection in that window?

Or have you been in too much of a hurry to find yourself too?

Please just drop me a note at   I’m really interested



The Dick Summer Connection – April 6-2008

Saturday, April 5th, 2008

Once upon a time, there was a song called, “Little Things Mean A Lot.” It goes something like this: “Blow me a kiss from across the room…touch my hair when you pass my chair…always and ever…now and forever…little things mean a lot.” It’s one of those old songs that sometimes gets stuck in your head for no reason you can think of…then later you realize you had something on your mind that had to do with the title of the song.

I really love…”little things.” Maybe it’s because I’ve come to understand there’s not much I can do about the “big things” in life. I’ve always believed that we can admire perfection, but we can only really love imperfections…a goofy smile…a kindergarten kid’s drawing of a tree…Joe Cocker’s “You Are So Beautiful To Me”…when his voice broke at the end…and they left it in instead of doing it over.

I love that the painting over the couch isn’t really exactly straight. Something must have just fallen off a tree in the yard… it made a small happy sound when it hit the back deck. I can actually get a little whiff of the crayons I liberated from Applebee’s last night…a red, a blue…and a green…They’re sitting on the lamp stand right next to me right now. I like the feel and smell of crayons. They give them to kids at Applebee’s to keep them quiet, so daddy can ply mommy with some adult beverages in peace.

Crayons have a kid smell about them…like chalk has…and sliced apples…and peanut butter. I liked being a kid. And I’ve always liked apples, peanut butter…the crunchy kind…strawberry jam, and oatmeal with raisins. That’s why I eat them every day…because I’m a grown up… so I can eat like a kid if I want to.

When you’re a kid, you learn the important difference between a lie and what’s not quite a lie. “The dog ate my homework” is a lie. “I wasn’t feeling good” might not be quite a lie. When I grab the crayons at Applebee’s, I always tell the waiter, “they’re for my little guys”…which is not quite a lie…because I sometimes call my fingers and my eyebrows “my little guys”…and although I am a suave, distinguished charming Louie-Louie Generation gentleman, “my little guys” sometimes get me into trouble that’s… not quite my fault.

After all, is it completely my fault what “my little guys” do while that adult person who lives in the back of my head isn’t watching?

He’s supposed to be in charge. I call him Mr. Pfarfenugen. “Pfarf” for short. My Lady Wonder Wench doesn’t always agree that it’s his fault, not my fault… especially when she says it’s not his finger tips that are cold.

But my little guys cause me problems. I’ve always wanted to say the kind of thing the Big Bopper used to say to girls…helooo baaaby…but I can’t get away with that, because when I’m talking to my Lady Wonder Wench… or any pretty girl, Mr. Pfarfenugen…that adult in the back of my head whose only job in life is keeping my little guys under control for me always runs up front to see what she looks like… and while he’s gone, my eyebrows flip up and down a couple of times…which makes my Lady Wonder Wench giggle…instead of looking at me adoringly like Bergman looked at Bogart in Casablanca. I’m reasonably convinced that’s the biggest difference between guys like Bogart and George Clooney… and me. The adults in the back of their heads keep their little guys under control.

Crayola makes about 3 billion crayons a year so kids all over the world can draw stuff for us to put up on our refrigerators. That’s been going on since the 1930s…so you figure all of today’s big shots must have played with them when they were kids…President Bush, the Pope, the Ayatollah…even that nut case in Iran who’s name I can’t pronounce…all of them did it. Can’t you just see them…as little kids…sticking their tongues out…scribbling like mad… concentrating on their coloring books…then running over to their mommies…happy and excited about drawing a tree that you can kind of recognize?

Maybe we should have a Crayola rocket. When things get tense, we’d launch it with a payload of millions of crayons…the thing would explode high up in the air, and millions of crayon boxes would float down under little parachutes…and everybody would chuck their guns…run out and grab some crayons…stick their tongues out and start scribbling.

Com’on…I know it’s childish…but give Crayola Man a little giggle. Giggles are good…except when caused by out of control eyebrows…or fingers that some beautiful woman says are too cold.

Dick’s Details Quiz – All answers are in the current PodCast at

1- What did Akbar the Great of India do with all the girls he won playing Parcheesi?

2- What do 49% of American women say they don’t like when they’re naked?

3- How did I make some pretty good money with Crayolas?


3 – right – Leonardo daVinci.

2- right – Andy Warhol.

1- right – The Kindergarten kid next door with some Crayolas.

0- right – Any artist who figures he has a better idea of what a woman should look like than the Original Designer.

Any comments or outstanding Crayola drawings you’d like to share should be sent to:

PERSONAL OPINION: I don’t think anybody who is in love can be a really bad person. He or she can do things a person shouldn’t do…but I think if you really love somebody…that feeling is so strong it squeezes stuff like hate and greed and envy and even fear out of your life. And I don’t think the really bad guys understand that.

The thing that got me started thinking about “Little Things Mean A Lot” was a story on the BBC a few days ago. It really grabbed me by the throat. I’m shaky on the details because it went by so fast I didn’t have time to take notes. But it was about some guy in Africa…it might have been Darfur.

It seems a bunch of bad guys attacked a village and killed everyone in it except this one guy who ran off and escaped. But while everybody was running…in the confusion…his wife tripped and fell…and the bad guys killed her. When the guy figured out what happened, he went back to find her. He knew she was dead, but he couldn’t leave her without saying goodbye.

The bad guys were so amazed that they didn’t kill him. They thought he must be some kind of holy man. They couldn’t believe that when he had it made, he had to go back…even though it meant certain death.

They just couldn’t understand that one simple thing…he loved her. He had to hold her in his arms one more time. He needed to cry for her more than he needed to live.

I think maybe the head bad guy spared him because he finally noticed something very small, very powerful, and very holy. I mean…how big is a tear?

“For always and ever, now and forever…little things mean a lot.”