Archive for January, 2009

The Dick Summer Connection – 2-1-09

Saturday, January 31st, 2009

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. 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 a little put off when people call me Richard. Sister Mary Attilla the Hun used to call me Richard in grammar school. And when my Lady Wonder Wench is angry with me she calls me Richard. And telemarketers usually ask for Richard because that’s the name on the phone bill. So I tend to think of Richard as some guy I don’t really want to know.  


Mr. Summer is way out of line for me. I am as you know, a maturity challenged individual. I’ve always taken to heart the words of Big Louie…His Own Bad Self…the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie- Louie generation. Louie says, “The more seriously you take yourself, the funnier you look.”  So I think of myself as Dick…and that’s how I usually sign my name. The word “Dick” is short, to the point, and it gets attention.


I was “Dickie” when I was a kid, because my father’s name was also Dick. Mom and Dad still called me “Dickie” when I became a grand father. My brothers and a couple of my cousins still call me “Dickie” sometimes…and to be honest I get a kick out of that. I liked being a kid. When I had kids of my own, I liked to kid with my kids. I like kid things…like pulling the paper off crayons because they smell nice like that…pushing a straw through a very thick chocolate milkshake…building a snow fort…the way we built them in the Holy City of Brooklyn was when the snow plow came down the block, it pushed big piles of snow over to the curb, so we just dug down in the middle of the snow pile…I always loved the smell of flowers drifting through a screen in an August thunderstorm…and sliding back and forth in a bath tub to mix the too hot water with the cooler water in the back…tinker toys…and erector sets…popcorn at a circus…stick ball, kick the can… I had a great kid hood.


And I really loved the sixties. For no particular reason, I made up a little ditty about them. It went like this:


It was the Beatles and the Stones,

JFK, Bobby and Teddy.

It was mini skirts, and ice cream cones,

Louie-Louie and going steady.


And just in time…we went…zoom…to the moon.


I think mini skirts were one of the best things that happened in the sixties. They were short, to the point, and they got your attention. Like the name Dick.  But the nicest skirt I ever saw in the 60s, was a pleated wool plaid skirt that my Lady Wonder Wench wore when I first met her. Maybe it wasn’t actually the skirt that got my attention. And I liked it even more when she wore spaghetti straps too. That…was an unbelievable sight. And as I have become more and more determined to have a disorderly, vigorous, and disreputable old age, I have become convinced that it’s important to believe in, and enjoy, the unbelievable.


The Forces For Good In The Community huff and puff, and call that kind of thinking sexist. I hereby give those folks the words of Big Louie…his own bad self…who always says…”If the lord hadn’t meant for us to be sexist, how come he gave us sex ?”


I guess that’s the Dickie in me…the kid… coming out. Richard the grown up knows that real love is made of mortgage payments as well as moonlight, and sweat as well as smiles and songs, and rough times as well as romance. That’s all true. But Dickie keeps telling me…yeah…but it’s the unbelievable part of love that really makes it real.   


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


1-    What’s the difference between Japanese 60 year olds and American 60 year olds ?

2-    What impact does the Soprano’s plan for 2009 have on the concrete industry ?

3-    How do we know that Arabic people lead quiet, boring, sheltered lives.

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


Another great note from Pastor Mike this week. Which reminds me…my Email address is in case you’d like to drop in a comment or two. Pastor Mike says, “It’s funny how kids think us Louie-Louie Generation folks aren’t into sex. Many teens who come across their parents in a compromising position are stunned.”


He’s right…as usual. I think boys have a harder time with that (excuse the obvious pun) Girls are better at coming to grips with Louie-Louie lust. Because girls are in many ways more practical than we are.


Practicality can be good and bad. Practicality got us to the moon. But it was the believing in a dream that most people said was unbelievable is what got the practicality going. “Dickie” is inclined to say practical, schmactacal. Practical very often sucks. There’s a story in the Good Night Podcast this week about a guy who was so practical that there was no time for the “Unbelievable” in his life. It’s called the Prince of Fantasy. Sometimes it’s very smart to believe the unbelievable.  Some magic, you have to see to believe. Other magic you have to believe before you can see it.


If you like The Prince of Fantasy, you can just keep the podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Bedtime Stories icon on the opening page of

There’s just no question that a Louie-Louie Generation gentleman like me needs to keep the little kid inside under control. In my  case, it would probably be best to disguise my little Dickie in a wig, fake nose and sunglasses, and try to get him into the Federal Problem Kid Relocation program. He’s forever going around the tables at the diner and turning those Heinz catsup bottles upside down because he thinks that’s one of the great ideas of the new century. Have you seen those bottles? They have a big round pouring spout so you can store them upside down, so you don’t have to pound the bottom to get the last bit out. Brilliant.  Not as brilliant as mini skirts. But brilliant.


Leave little Dickie alone, and he’s be inclined to buy a can of whipped cream and squirt it into his mouth till it came out his nose. He’s always trying to see how far he can spit. This is not how a Louie-Louie Generation grandfather is supposed to act.


When I have to…I can put on a pair of cufflinks, and go to a business lunch to answer a client’s objection to my latest commercial, while I adroitly make a perfect spaghetti ball by twirling it on my fork with a spoon behind it. I can even answer when the license guy calls me Richard. But I can’t fake it like that for too long…because I know what’s going to happen. My little Dickie is  just going to pop up and laugh out loud.  

The Dick Summer Connection – January 25, 2009

Saturday, January 24th, 2009

Regardless of what my Lady Wonder Wench may have told you I frequently think of things that have nothing to do with sex. Frequently. And to prove it to you, I took some notes this week about some of the other things I like. I even gave this list a name. Over the objections of many of the “Forces For Good In The Community” who feel that the title itself is suggestive…I’m calling it Dickie’s – Quickies.

Look, my name is Dick, because my fathers name was Dick. And I’m convinced that my parents never even heard of sex. Well…certainly my mother never did. Nobody’s mom in my neighborhood ever had anything to do with sex. Anyway, “Dickie’s Quickies” are just little quick things that I like which have nothing to do with sex. 

But first, let’s be clear about how I feel about sex. I feel great about it. When somebody asked Woody Allen if he thought sex was dirty, he said, “Only when it’s done right.” I agree. Let’s also be clear about putting reasonable restraint on sexual urges…or “oiges” as we used to call them in the Holy City of Brooklyn. As he so often does, Big Louie…His Own Bad Self…the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation put things into a perfect perspective when he said, “Never have sex before the first date.”

Many scientists with big research grants now claim…with a straight face … that the most important reason men want to have sex with beautiful women is so that we can pass our genes down to the next generation. THAT’S REALLY STUPID. I think either none of those scientists have ever had sex with a beautiful woman…or they have…and it was necessary for them to come up with a really quick explanation to their wives of why they were spending so many nights working late at the office with an intern by the name of Deserie.

That’s not even material for a good pick up line. Just imagine what would happen at your neighborhood singles bar if you went over to a beautiful woman and said “Hello my dear…I’d like to pass my genes down to the next generation with you.” I think most guys who’ve had sex with a beautiful woman very shortly afterward pray to God or whomever is running things that they did NOT pass their Genes or anything else down to the next generation. Even guys who are religious to the point of Human Sacrifice will understand my point on this. And I think many beautiful women would agree.

Speaking of thinking about cold, hard, scientific facts instead of thinking about sex, there’s a new poll out that claims most romantic relationships now come about through dating sites on the internet. It used to be that the office was the number one home of hormones. That always made sense to me, because at the office everybody wears nice clothes, and discusses important things like the yearly sales forecast, whether or not the Mets will ever be in the World Series again, and what’s with the bosses new secretary. That’s so different from the home environment where people tend to wear underwear with jelly stains on them, fart a lot, and get into big arguments about who put the ice tray back in the freezer with no water in it.

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

1-      What kind of intimate DVD might come out of the White House soon, and why?

2-      Who called Lyndon Johnson “Baby” and how come ?

3-      What was Thomas Jefferson’s proudest comment about being caught in bed ?

Speaking about not thinking about sex, there’s a story in the new Night Connections 2 Personal Audio CD about a piano player, and a lady who was thinking about nothing else.  It’s in the current podcast at If you like it, you can just keep the podcast, or you can download a fresh copy right here on the web page. Just click on the Night Connections 2 icon. Any comments you’d like to make about the album…good or bad… would be very much appreciated. My E-mail is

Oh yeah…proving that I like things that have nothing to do with sex, here’s a list of this week’s Dickie’s Quickies:

Walking on wide, polished pine floor boards that don’t squeak. It was in an old restaurant. Watching a guy spin pizza dough over his head. What a juggler. An old Chuck Berry album turned up to stun. “Sweet Little 16.” A bunch of Jonquils on the kitchen table…spring in January. A pretty lady wearing sheer sleeves and a perfume called Paris… in candlelight. The days started getting longer this week. A very fluffy towel, still warm from the clothes drier after a shower. A friendly diner, where the owner comes over and sits down to tell you about his kids. Hitting the itchy spot on my back with the Summer Maneuver…that’s when you put both your thumbs on your spine, and you run your fingers up over your hips. Tear stains on a pilot. God, I’m glad that night is over. An ice cream sandwich with small chocolate chips around the insides. Eating breakfast in my bathrobe. Watching a full moon rise over the snowy pine tree out in my front yard. Lara’s Theme from Dr. Zhavago playing on a music box. Watching a woman who really knows her way around the kitchen. Family stories by a fireplace. A jacket that fits just right. It’s a brown leather nifty that goes with my Indiana Jones fedora. Milk and oreos…and looking at your teeth in the mirror after. Applesauce with cinnamon and real whipped cream.  A size 44 triple D coffee mug full of fresh dark brew. The sound Mike Piazza’s bat makes hitting a home run on the MLB cable channel. Remembering the rumble of a low pedal note on the big old pipe organ my dad used to play in church. A new president…smiling and confident. The flat wooden spoons that come with an ice cream cup. Making a perfect ball of ice cream with one of those scoopers with a handle on the side. A dog leaning comfortably against your leg. And a pair of shining blue eyes…the color the June sky tries to imitate watching me and laughing.

She just showed up…My Lady Wonder Wench…and she’s wearing something very comfortable. Time to start thinking about my favorite topic again.


Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

A friend of mine sent me this. It’s too special to ignore. See: “Speed Bumps” from last week’s podcast and blog. I’m a lucky guy. Maybe you are too…but you’ve been too upset to think about it.

For more than three decades, Eugene Allen worked in the White House, a black man unknown to the headlines. During some of those years, harsh segregation laws lay upon the land.

He trekked home every night to his wife, Helene, who kept him out of her kitchen.
At the White House, he worked closer to the dirty dishes than to the Oval Office. Helene didn’t care; she just beamed with pride.

President Truman called him Gene. President Ford liked to talk golf with him. He saw eight presidential administrations come and go, often working six days a week.

“I never missed a day of work,” Allen said.

He was there while racial history was made: Brown vs. Board of Education, the Little Rock school crisis, the 1963 March on Washington , the cities burning, the civil rights bills, the assassinations.

When he started at the White House in 1952, he couldn’t even use the public restrooms when he ventured back to his native Virginia . “We had never had anything,” Allen, 89, recalled of black America at the time. “I was always hoping things would get better.”

In its long history, the White House — note the name — has had a complex and vexing relationship with black Americans.

“The history is not so uneven at the lower level, in the kitchen,” said Ted Sorensen, who served as counselor to President Kennedy. “In the kitchen, the folks have always been black. Even the folks at the door — black.”

Before Gene Allen landed his White House job, he worked as a waiter at a resort in Hot Springs , Va. , and then at a country club in Washington .

He and wife Helene, 86, were sitting in the living room of their Washington home. Her voice was musical, in a Lena Horne kind of way. She called him “Honey.” They met at a birthday party in 1942. He was too shy to ask for her number, so she tracked his down. They married a year later.

In 1952, a lady told him of a job opening in the White House. “I wasn’t even looking for a job,” he said. “I was happy where I was working, but she told me to go on over there and meet with a guy by the name of Alonzo Fields.”

Fields was a maitre d’, and he immediately liked Allen.

Allen was offered a job as a “pantry man.” He washed dishes, stocked cabinets and shined silverware. He started at $2,400 a year.

There was, in time, a promotion to butler. “Shook the hand of all the presidents I ever worked for,” he said.

“I was there, honey,” Helene said. “In the back maybe. But I shook their hands too.” She was referring to White House holiday parties, Easter egg hunts.

They have one son, Charles, who works as an investigator with the State Department..

“President Ford’s birthday and my birthday were on the same day,” he said. “He’d have a birthday party at the White House. Everybody would be there. And Mrs. Ford would say, ‘It’s Gene’s birthday too!’ ”

And so they’d sing a little ditty to the butler. And the butler, who wore a tuxedo to work every day, would blush.

“Jack Kennedy was very nice,” he went on. “And so was Mrs. Kennedy.”

He was in the White House kitchen the day Kennedy was slain. He got an invitation to the funeral. But he volunteered for other duty: “Somebody had to be at the White House to serve everyone after they came from the funeral.”

The whole family of President Carter made Helene chuckle: “They were country. And I’m talking Lillian and Rosalynn both.” It came out as the highest compliment.

First Lady Nancy Reagan came looking for him in the kitchen one day. She wanted to remind him about the upcoming state dinner for German Chancellor Helmut Kohl. She told him he would not be working that night.

“She said, ‘You and Helene are coming to the state dinner as guests of President Reagan and myself.’ I’m telling you! I believe I’m the only butler to get invited to a state dinner.”

Husbands and wives don’t sit together at these events, and Helene was nervous about trying to make small talk with world leaders. “And my son said, ‘Momma, just talk about your high school. They won’t know the difference.’

“The senators were all talking about the colleges and universities that they went to,” she said. “I was doing as much talking as they were.

“Had champagne that night,” she said, looking over at her husband.

He just grinned: He was the man who stacked the champagne at the White House.

Colin L. Powell would become the highest ranking black of any White House to that point when he was named Reagan’s national security advisor in 1987. Condoleezza Rice would have that position under President George W. Bush.

Gene Allen was promoted to maitre d’ in 1980. He left the White House in 1986, after 34 years. President Reagan wrote him a sweet note. Nancy Reagan hugged him tight.

Interviewed at their home last week, Gene and Helene speculated about what it would mean if a black man were elected president.

“Just imagine,” she said.

“It’d be really something,” he said.

“We’re pretty much past the going-out stage,” she said. “But you never know. If he gets in there, it’d sure be nice to go over there again.”

They talked about praying to help Barack Obama get to the White House. They’d go vote together. She’d lean on her cane with one hand, and him with the other, while walking down to the precinct. And she’d get supper going afterward. They went over their election day plans more than once.

“Imagine,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said.

On Monday, Helene had a doctor’s appointment. Gene woke and nudged her once, then again.. He shuffled around to her side of the bed. He nudged Helene again.

He was all alone.

“I woke up and my wife didn’t,” he said later.

Some friends and family members rushed over. He wanted to make coffee. They had to shoo the butler out of the kitchen.

The lady he married 65 years ago will be buried today.

The butler cast his vote for Obama on Tuesday. He so missed telling his Helene about the black man bound for the Oval Office.


Tuesday, January 20th, 2009


Comment of the day from the inaugural…Brian Williams on NBC-TV, discussing Mrs. Obama’s outfit: “She looks so good wearing clothes.” (As opposed to….)

The day’s biggest missed opportunity: Not inviting the crowd to sing along on the National Anthem…like at a ball game. Can you imagine the sound of 2 million people singing “The Star Spangled Banner?” It would have been a recording for the ages.

Sunday, January 18th, 2009

Carly Simon was singing “These Are The Good Old Days” on my car’s cd player when I hit a speed bump driving home from the supermarket today. The cd skipped, lots of groceries bounced around in the trunk, and the little jonquil plant I bought for my Lady Wonder Wench left a dirty little comment on the back seat. And…fortunately for me…all the world loves a four letter world.

 I first heard that song while I was doing the morning show at WPLJ  radio in New York. I like Carly…and I got to do special with her for the old Westwood One radio network. That was fun. But I remember thinking when I first heard her sing that song in 1972…”you’ve got to be kidding Carly.” We had the Vietnam war, and Watergate, and 11 Israeli athletes were murdered in the Munich Olympics, and only 55% of Americans bothered to vote…and they elected Richard Nixon. I remember thinking, “THESE are the good old days ? I don’t think so.” But looking back at what we’ve got going on right now, maybe she was right.

And maybe these are too. As Big Louie…his own bad self…the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, “There are makers, there are takers, and there are fakers.” And it sure seems like the takers and the fakers have turned the world into something that looks like a cold virus magnified a hundred million times.

But I was listening to Carly when that speed bump got my attention. So what if the seventies were the good old days then, and  THESE are the good old days now and we just aren’t paying attention? We’re too busy complaining. We do that kind of thing. We spend the first half of our lives complaining about our parents, and the second half of our lives complaining about our kids.  

It’s easy to find stuff to complain about. It’s all over tv, and radio and what’s left of the newspapers. Nasty stuff is always big news. If it bleeds it leads. Negative stuff always gets our attention. The fact of the matter is we love to complain.

Of course…it’s always easier to complain than it is to create. Film critics are a dime a dozen, but there’s only one Stephen Speilberg. When I was a therapist, I always asked people what they wanted in their lives. They always told me what they didn’t want instead. I don’t want to be fat anymore…or I don’t want to have my heart broken any more…or I don’t want to remember my terrible childhood any more. 50 years old, and some guy is complaining about being toilet trained at gun point. Time to hit a speed bump fella. Time to stop sucking your thumb and use it to hitch a ride to someplace better in your life.

I’m a lucky guy. I’ve got my Lady Wonder Wench, a nice home, a good job that I like, a couple of real friends, I even have my own little airplane…and red bulbs in my bedroom…and most of my family is still talking to me. I have red light bulbs in my bed room, because red bulbs are the Big Louie Approved wrinkle erasers. They make you look like yourself, only younger. You put some red light bulbs around in strategic places, and as long as you still have some moveable parts, you’re ok.

Lots of guys aren’t that lucky. Most of my friends in the broadcasting business are out of work. My buddy Al lost about a third of his nest egg in the last few months…and the egg wasn’t that big to begin with…and he has been really looking forward to hatching it in a year or so. But…still… maybe…THESE are the good old days…and we don’t know it…because we’re too busy complaining…to pay attention. Maybe it’s time for a speed bump.

Speed bumps are only a couple of inches high. But they get your attention. They make you slow down and look around…and notice that you’ve been taking corners on two wheels. Maybe we’ve been listening to the guys on tv who are making millions by singing that old song…”we’re in danger there’s no doubt…so run in circles, scream and shout.” I like Carly’s song better.

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

1- What new semi-scientific information confirms the Women’s Movement’s perspective on men?

2- On which day of the week will you probably die ?

3- Don’t try this on the traffic cop. He’s heard it before.

Speed bumps…pay attention. If you don’t…stuff will sneak up on you like a windshield sneaks up on a bug. And pretty soon you’ll lose the things you can’t afford to lose. There’s a story about that in the Bedtime Stories Personal Audio cd. I wrote it a long time ago…when I thought I’d screwed up so badly that I lost my Lady Wonder Wench. It’s called I Miss You. If you like it, you can just keep this podcast…or if you want a fresh copy, you can go back to , and download it from the Bedtime Stories icon on the opening page.

Lots of stuff that’s going on right now can make you feel like you’re the Pillsbury Dough Boy meeting a vehicle operated by Joe’s Asphalt and Concrete Paving company. It can make you want to run. But as Big Louie says…remember the speed bumps. Little things that can make you pay attention. A very soft carpet under your toes. A sweet pine fire. Sunlight on your shoulders. A pair of really sharp sunglasses. A bubble gum bubble the size of your fist. A good back scratch. An absolutely still, star studded, clear, winter night. The sounds a baby makes tying to say mommy. The words once upon a time in an old familiar voice. Pitchers and catchers reporting for Spring Training. Having dinner with someone lovely in a restaurant built in a tiny old house with slanted floors and a real fireplace. Sunday morning church bells in a villiage church. Soft skin in red velvet.

We can’t change what is. But we can change what we think about what is. Speed bumps. Big Louie says “it helps to stop and smell the jonquils.” I’m sitting here watching them open in the little pot on our kitchen table.

Carly’s right. Again.



Friday, January 16th, 2009

“Dickie’s Quickies” 1-16-09

Capt. Sully’s biggest triumph in the “Miracle on the Hudson” was putting that big swept wing plane down so gently he didn’t even spill his coffee. But a close second triumph was not trying to turn back to the airport. He didn’t have enough altitude to make a reasonable turn, and an unreasonably hard turn would have resulted in a stall and a spin…and a very different outcome for everybody on the plane, and on the ground under him. “Big Louie” his own bad self is pround of another “Louie – Louie Generation” guy what had it when it counts. Several comments from pilot friends by e-mail. The best is this one:

With luck, maybe I’ll get to make a perfect emergency water-landing in a river this year, rescue my planeload of people, and spend the balance of my life and career doling out my “cash and prizes” to adoring young females in short, black, clingy dresses.  (Chesley B. “Sully”  Sullenberger’s career is about to take a huge upward turn.  And, if you will remember, “Sully” was the nickname of Jonathan Livingston Seagull’s star student in Richard Bach’s most famous book.)
Most pilots have heaps of healthy hormones.

Stay warm. Somehow. dick(ie)

The Dick Summer Connection – 1-11-09

Saturday, January 10th, 2009


Dick Summer, the “Pseudo Super Hero” here…I’ve got my Indiana Jones hat on my head, my bathrobe with “He’s The Wiz” embroidered on it…sitting here in my big comfortable black leather pappa chair in the living room…you’d think I’d be ready to say the magic word SHAZAM ! That’s a powerful, magic word…but my Lady Wonder Wench hit me with one at least twice as powerful the other night.

In case you forgot, Shazam is the word that turns an ordinary kid named Billy Batson into Captain Marvel. It gives him the wisedom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the stamina of Atlas, the power of Zeus, the Courage of Achilles and the speed of Mercury. Put the first letters of those guy’s names and you get…SHAZAM !  

And Pseudo Super Hero powers are exactly what a Louie-Louie Generation guy needs these days when your feet are hurting, and you’re way behind a work deadline…so of course that’s the time when your computer goes down…you can’t afford to waste time, so you go out to do a little work on your car…so your hands get full of grease…which makes your nose start itching… and makes you have to pee…which is when the new neighbor with the long legs and tank top and short shorts drops by to say hello…and the phone starts ringing…so you trip over the sliding door track…grab the phone which slips out of your greasy hand… and it’s a telemarketer. It’s not easy being a Louie-Louie Generation guy.

I’ve always been a big fan of magic words. They help you out…at least in your own mind. They snap you out of it…they make you smile when four out of five voices in your head are telling you it’s time to turn in your cape with the big red S on the back and chuck your blue leotard…just give up and draw a little balloon over your head and write “Superman doesn’t live here anymore” in it.

Hey…who needs Superman when you have an Indiana Jones hat and a Wiz bathrobe? And you better watch out for that magic lightning bolt when I say shazam!

But most Louie-Louie Generation folks don’t usually use magic words. We’re more inclined to remember the words of Big Louie…his own bad self…the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie – Louie Generation…when he said…”Dare to be indifferent.”

And there’s a lot to be said about that kind of approach. It cuts down on headaches, it makes Viagra unnecessary, and it even makes it possible to live in the same zip code with people who are closely related to you, even though they happen to be teenagers.

But you can take “Dare to be indifferent” way too far. My buddy Mike does that. He thinks it’s cool. And I guess he’s right. But sometimes I want to grab him by the ears and shake him…and holler wake up…get a life…Shazam !

Big Louie doesn’t mean you should be indifferent to passion. He just means you shouldn’t drive up next to a guy who just cut you off and administer the finger.

But he also means you should have the guts to be indifferent to people who snicker at you because your eyebrows wiggle, your ears twitch and your fingers flip around when somebody like my Lady Wonder Wench…who has one of those pancake syrup voices… stands very close to you…and listens very carefully to everything you say…and doesn’t take her eyes off you…and then smiles slowly and runs her finger around your ear…. Unfortunately, that’s not something that happens every day…but some nights…if you’re wearing your Indiana Jones hat, and your bathrobe that says The Wiz on it…hey…Shazam.

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

1-   Which big time Super Hero isn’t really a human dressed up in a fancy costume ?
2-   Which of your fingers doesn’t have a name ?
3-   Why should we call the moon “Planet Smith?”

Passion is powerful. Lots of people, all governments, and most religions are afraid of it. It destroys some relationships, and it keeps other relationships going against all kind of odds. What’s hot and what’s not is mostly very subjective. A very short and clingy black dress ? That gets my attention. A guy with firey eyes ?  Lots of women get turned on by him. Warm hands in private places ? Pretty much everybody likes that.

My Lady Wonder Wench says a man with a very masculine attitude is hot…she means bold…but kind and gentle. She says she can tell a lot by the way a guy carries himself. She likes a guy with confidence, and strength and pride…with a very strong but gentle voice and strong eyes. And he has to smile a lot.

That’s not macho. A macho guy is afraid of anything gentle. He’s afraid the other guys will call him a wimp. He doesn’t “Dare to be indifferent.”  I have a feeling that’s one of the problems the guy had in the story from the first Night Connections personal audio cd called The Tiny Dancer. It’s in the current podcast at  I think it began to sink in that day…what he lost…kinda sad.

Oh yeah…I told you what my Lady Wonder Wench thinks is hot. Here are some of the things she told me last night are not hot:

She said the following things are not hot: Bad manners, bad breath, dirty fingernails, insecurity, bluster, bullies and flabby butts. Then she hit me with a couple of magic words that put SHAZAM to shame.  

I had just stepped out of the shower, so I wasn’t wearing my Indiana Jones hat, and I was just putting on my He’s the Wiz bathrobe…when she smiled one of those slow Wonder Wenchy smiles…and she said…”hey…nice butt”.…and I didn’t even need my hat or my bathrobe…in a flash I became Summer, the Psuedo Super Hero. Who needs SHAZAM when Lady Wonder Wench is around.


Sunday, January 4th, 2009

May 2009 be gentle with us. At least gentler than 2008. This is just a quickie…taking the week off. Big plans for the podcast (  ) May turn it into a streaming audio station.

 If you know any of the top notch talk guys who were just fired from the CBS owned stations, please ask them to contact me. ( ) I think we could put together one heck of an internet radio station together.

More later. Thanks for the connection over the past couple of years. Upward and onward.

 Dick Summer