Dick Summer Connection

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room…looking at my reflection in the full length mirror across the room. Usually when I’m looking in the mirror it’s just a glance while I’m shaving, or combing my hair. I used to look in the mirror while I was tying my tie…but I very seldom do that any more. Thankfully, suits and ties are mostly in my past now. I look so much better these days dressed casually in my Pierre Cardan gold Lame loin cloth, with the matching Land’s End purple ostrich feather. My Lady Wonder Wench says the glitter on the eye lids is a little…”up-town,” so I only wear that to meetings with clients.

If you stare into a full length mirror long enough it starts working like a crystal ball that’s running backwards. They’ll make you stand up straighter and suck your belly in. And that starts the projector going on a movie of memories.

Most of my memory movies have happy endings. One of them starts out with a shot of Dick the college kid Summer standing in the lobby of the RCA building in New York, greeting visitors to the NBC radio and tv studios. Marble floor. 8 hours. But the college kid can take it with a constant smile. The sound track goes something like this:

“Good afternoon Mr. Steve Allen. Good evening Mr. Chet Huntley.” And of course the occasional, “Sorry sir, you need an NBC pass to use that elevator.” That last comment was about the extent of “Security” at NBC in those days.

Run fast forward a few years, and zoom in on the face in my full length mirror…but young, and excited, and trying to look nonchalant…walking into that same lobby, and the college kid at the velvet rope smiles and says “Good evening Mr. Dick Summer.” Music comes in right about there…chasing the chill that still runs up my spine when I think about it.

Eventually…while I was on the air at WNBC in New York, the college kid at the velvet rope in the lobby was joined by members of the crack NBC Security System at night. They were not exactly Navy Seal type guards. Mostly they were guys from Brooklyn, Queens or Staten Island working for some extra bucks to pay the rent, or send a kid to college. Nice, hard working, New York kind of guys…usually kind of tired after their day jobs…but not the kind of highly trained, motivated killers you would want on ready alert to defend with their lives whoever was upstairs working the overnight hours on radio or tv. It sometimes seemed like their main function was to stop my Lady Wonder Wench, or any other family members or friends from coming up to the second floor radio studio without permission from the guy on the air.

Security was far from air tight however. One morning at around 4:30 AM, I had the feeling someone was watching. I looked up, and sure enough there was a guy standing outside the studio glass where the tours go during the day, and he was watching Vic Lombardo my engineer and me do the show. Actually we were eating lunch during a tape playback of a previous night’s show…which is what usually happened most nights from 4 to 5 AM. But I’m pretty sure we looked like were working. Between 4 and 5 AM, there’s very little difference between how guys look when they’re working and when they’re eating lunch anyway.

I didn’t think that was too strange, because the Tom Snyder show offices were just down the hall, and I figured it was just some staff guy working late. But a few minutes later, he walked slowly into the studio, seriously disrupting my enjoyment of my ham and Swiss on rye, and Vic’s cold coffee and Playboy magazine.

Instantly my finely honed NBC Page training kicked in, and I said, “Sorry sir, but you can’t come in here without an NBC pass.” Vic, not having the benefit of that same sophisticated training, was more New York blunt. I think he said something like, “Yeah… wadda you want?”

The guy’s eyes got wide, and he started to shake, and he said “Please don’t tell the doctors I’m here.” We didn’t inform the doctors, but Vic took him by one arm, and I took him by the other, and we put him back on the elevator, hit “lobby” and went back to the studio and locked the door so we could finish lunch.

Some people however, never had any trouble getting past Security. They were a group of young women I came to call the “Mid-Town-Manhattan-Ladies.” As those of you who are familiar with Manhattan know, the NBC studios are right in the middle of just about everything…right across from Radio City Music Hall, and only a block or so away from the best clubs in town. Some of the young ladies who worked at those clubs, often sought refuge and perhaps some other human solace in other “open all night” venues…like the NBC studios.

As I said, the Security guys weren’t ex Navy Seals. They were tired New York guys who figured that there’s nothing like a middle of the night visit from one of these scantily clad maidens to wake up the guys upstairs on the over night shift. And they were right. (There is a need to be careful of graphic descriptions here due to the Lady Wonder Wench Factor among other considerations.) But suffice it to say that it was not unusual for a lady in a rain coat, a smile, and little else to slip past Security, and find her way up to the studio. I was delighted.

I’ll never forget the first time one showed up. Very pretty. Slim. Long dark hair. Soft gravelly voice. Probably 22. She walked over to where I was sitting, smiled, and reached down to give me a kiss on the cheek as she told me how wonderful my show is. In the process, one of her several charms became stunningly obvious as it slipped out from under her only half buttoned rain coat. Now here’s where it gets weird. Hormones came blasting into my brain at exactly the same time as a picture of  my Lady Wonder Wench popped up. I don’t need to describe the hormones, but the picture of Lady Wonder Wench deserves a description. She wasn’t angry…just hurt…like I’d never seen her hurt. It was just an instant picture, but absolutely cancelled out the hormones, and they immediately stopped sending signals to the hands to which they were attached. 

It was a sharp slap on the side of the head. And from then on, incredibly… I started treating the Mid-Town-Manhattan-Ladies more politely than passionately. Now I like ladies. Especially lustful half clad ladies in the middle of the night. And it wasn’t a matter of “being faithful” or being afraid of getting caught…or afraid of sinning, or any of that stuff. It was just a simple, straightforward shot to the gut that I have never forgotten. I don’t ever want to see Lady Wonder Wench hurt like that. Not ever. Never thought it would happen to me.

It’s like one of those old black and white movies with people like Lauren Becall, and Ingrid Bergman, and Cary Grant I guess. It’s a story that’s been told over and over again…the story of the ladies who come and go in the lives of guys who work in the night.

There’s a story about one of those ladies in the current podcast. It’s from the Night Connections 2 personal audio cd. It’s called, “The Piano Man.” When a buddy of mine heard “The Piano Man”, he said…girls don’t wear nylons anymore. Well. This girl did. And then she didn’t. And slipping them off generated enough electricity to light that piano player’s fuse pretty good.  If you like the “Piano Man story, you can just keep the podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just go back to www.dicksummer.com  and download it from the Night Connections 2 icon on the opening page.  

But on the outside chance that one of those “Midtown-Manhattan-Ladies might be reading this…no I am not gay. Yes you are absolutely stunning. And I was fascinated and delighted to see you…almost all of you for that matter…And no, I’ll never forget you. But it was just the wrong time and the wrong place in my life for anything more than simply…remembering you. Because ever since I met her, my life has just been all full of my Lady Wonder Wench…and the guy looking back at me in the mirror has a very contented smile on his face.   

You need to see this response to the blog from my buddy Jack:

I never got to finish with my first chance. 38 years weren’t nearly enough time to do all that I had wanted. But the biggest thing that I am thankful for is that we really left nothing unsaid. Our birthday and Christmas banter would sound like a Hallmark card.

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room, telling myself to relax and remember the advice Big Louie, his own bad self always gives to members of the Louie-Louie generation in a situation like what happened today. He always says…” There’s no use beating a dead horse over spilt milk.” Actually…putting a positive spin on it, you could say I used my head today. Unfortunately it was the mouth part of my head instead of what’s left of the part that used to be called my brain. 

It happened in the car with my Lady Wonder Wench. Lots of nice things have happened to me in cars with my Lady Wonder Wench over the years. This wasn’t one of them. I try hard to be a good guy, but today for some reason, I made the mistake of being myself instead. I guess there’s a fine line between trying to be a saint and becoming a maniac.

We were driving into a MacDonalds for a Big Mac, which as you know is an advanced cholesterol delivery system based on a complex formula that’s years ahead of anything the Iranian bomber scientists will be able to devise for years. But I was hungry, and I was in a hurry. And it was the end of the day. And I was tired. You understand. All the usual excuses.

Now, to fully understand what happened, you’ll have to remember that my Lady Wonder Wench was in a serious accident last year, which understandably left her a little nervous, especially when I’m driving. Which I was.

She had been giving me little helpful driving hints all day today. Things like “why did you turn here instead of at the next light,” “Look how fast you’re going.” And, “Are you sure you know where we are?”  I have explained to Lady Wonder Wench that a stop sign is really a reminder to look both ways before you cross an intersection. And if you have done that, and are pretty sure that the nearest car to the left has just crossed the state line, and the nearest car to the right is still coming off the assembly line, it’s ok to just slow down. You don’t have to waste the brakes, which you certainly will do…especially since you’ve noticed that you may have just broken the township speed record during your careful drive down the block.

I got two emails this week that put that dumb thing I did into an interesting perspective. One was from Proud Podcast Participant Jeff B. It says in part, “I have a challenge for you. I know you’re about my age, and may be experiencing similar age related issues. While I smile when I hear about unbuttoning someone’s blouse and caressing their cheeks, after thirty years of marriage things change. Sex is now secondary to a good bowel movement. Erections are dependent upon the effects of medicine. Last night I came home to find my wife on the couch with the cat sleeping on her. If I dared kiss her, I would get, “you woke me up, get out of my face. How about talking about thoughts like I have when I fall asleep…like wondering where the past 30 years went, and how I’m thankful every day with my love, knowing that friends my age have passed away, or lost their partners. Giving thanks for having such a supportive and loving friend every day to have coffee with.”

The other email…I simply can’t read to you because it chokes me up too much. It’s from a buddy by the name of Jack, who I’ve known for about 30 years…We worked at a radio station back then… when he married the girl he was nuts in love with for those 30 years. The email basically said…she passed away last night.

I like to kid you about the Louie-Louie Generation. Big Louie, his own bad self always says, “Monkeys gibber, lions roar, and people preach. Don’t do that.” So I won’t.

 But here are some questions that Jeff’s note suggests. When’s the last time you actually tried un-buttoning her blouse ? Have you been caressing her cheek lately ?Are you taking care of your viagral parts…exercise, good diet…enough rest…medicine if you need it? All that stuff.  Have you got the guts to stop words like “you woke me up, get out of my face” by giving her a big, long, nasty kiss like you did 30 years ago ? When you have your cup of coffee together, do you hold her hand so she can’t slug you, and look down her blouse while you un-button it ? And then do you have a good laugh together…in bed ?

My buddy Jack can’t ever do that again.

As far as you Louie-Louie Generation ladies are concerned, you may want to give a listen to the current podcast for a story in the Night Connections personal audio cd. It’s called the Slip Away Wife. It’s about how quickly our lives slip away.

If you like it, you can just keep the podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just go back to the home page and download it from the icon on the first page.

There’s no question that Louie-Louie Generation guys like me aren’t hip any more. We are more like knee caps…because we’ve done so many things for which we should be down on our knees begging for forgiveness. But we still hope we’ll eventually get smarter, and things will get better, because we’ve seen worse.

I almost lost my Lady Wonder Wench in an accident just about this time last year. And I keep telling you how beautiful she is, and how lucky I am to have her in my life. But Jeff’s note put me on notice to be very honest with you. I get tired, and cranky, and short tempered like anybody else. Her road to recovery is going well, but it has been very long, and it still has a few blocks to go.

One of the problems that came from the accident is that she gets scared pretty easily. I’ve told her that any time that happens, come and grab my hand, and you’ll feel safe. It works most of the time. It didn’t today…because I only used the mouth part of my head instead of the brain.

She thought I missed an on coming car a little too close, and she yelled…and instead of taking her hand, I said something…less loving than the kind of thing a guy should say to his girlfriend. And I think it cut kind of deep.

It wasn’t a terrible thing I said. But as soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. And I did. And after a while she was holding my hand again. So I got lucky this time. Some guys don’t get a second chance anymore.

Like my buddy Jack.

There are hand prints on the carpet right in front of my big comfortable black leather pappa chair again tonight. My Lady Wonder Wench and I both like to walk around barefoot, so we have a nice soft, blue carpet in our living room. And that’s where I do my push ups…which I haven’t been doing for a while…but I did today …because my issue of Men’s Health magzine arrived…and that’s like my pushup conscience.

The cover of the magazine features one of those young guys who forgot to shave for a couple of days before the photo shoot. He looks like he probably eats alphabet soup and spits out dirty words. More than likely he holds several scoring records, and not all of them are in sports. For some reason, young…pre Louie-Louie Generation  women seem to like that. He probably has women he doesn’t even know running around his house, doing floor exercises in their high spike heels, while wearing sweat pants from Victoria’s Secret…and arguing with each other over who gets to give him a back rub with her carefully manicured nine inch fingernails when he gets home.

They have all kinds of really weird exercises in that magazine which I never do. Things like a split stance cable chop, the Romnanian dead lift, and the ever popular band-resisted jack knife. I just huff and puff with some pushups on my carpet, and ride my bike around the neighborhood. It’s not much, but I’ve been doing that for years, and so far it has kept my body from attacking me. And more importantly, I haven’t had any complaints about my physical abilities from my Lady Wonder Wench.

But lately, I’ve been finding excuses to put off the huffing and puffing. And as a consequence, every time I stand up now, my body has been making sounds a little like the ones a coffee maker…makes…when it’s making coffee. And I don’t want to get to the point where my bucket gets too big for the bucket seats in my car. So…the handprints are back in the carpet again today.  

Sounds like I’m jealous of Mr. Perfect Pecs on the magazine cover doesn’t it. Well there’s no doubt that I’d trade the body I presently live in for for the one I had when I was 21. My body was strong like bull. But looking back on it, my thought process was a little like a bull’s too. I like my head better now, even if the stuff under it tends to slip and slide around more than it should.

Did you ever think how the things we had and the things we did…shaped who we are today? They’re different from what Mr. Pecks and his girls have now. We had ice pops with 2 sticks so  you could break them apart and give one to your friend. It’s an easy way to learn that sharing some of your stuff is worth it because it feels good. Catching lightning bugs in a jar taught us how quickly a life that burns so bright in the evening can change the next morning.

Christmas morning was proof that you never know when something wonderful that you didn’t expect is going to happen to you…poof…just like that. Climbing high up in trees let us look at things the way birds do. So it really does make sense that other people can look at exactly the same thing you’re looking at, and see something entirely different. Laughing so hard your stomach hurt is something we don’t do nearly enough these days. Keeping your eyes open just a little during your first kiss to see if she was keeping her eyes open a little too was sometimes a fast lesson in how good it is to laugh with somebody you love. And you’re not supposed to use eny meeny miney mo to make decisions either. And being picked last for a team was one way to learn that disappointments won’t kill you.

I don’t know if the guy on the cover of the magazine learned these things or not. I hope so. But I have my doubts. And I wonder if he’s had the time, or if he’s cared enough to learn that when his girl says nothing’s wrong, something is wrong. But when she says something, “isn’t funny”, he better not laugh. I don’t know. That takes time.

And I don’t know if the ladies in the Victoria’s Secret sweat pants care about learning how guys are. How we always have to make believe we know what we’re doing all the time…and we don’t need any help. We don’t need any directions, except maybe from the gps, which is ok, because that’s a machine not a person. We have to believe we can fix everything. Maybe not right away…but eventually. And we must never go to a therapist or a doctor unless it can be clinically proven that we have been dead for at least a month. “No sense going to the hospital honey, it doesn’t seem like I’m in a coma.”

Louie-Louie generation men and women have been around long enough…and most of us care enough…to put these things we’ve learned into the way we treat each other. Usually. Not always. Because we know Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie generation is right when he says, “Everything never always goes right.”

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

1- Why do some people say James Bond is for the birds ?

2- What do politicians do much more than the average American?

3- What did Neanerthal women say their men used for thinking ?

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

Way too many people think that if a Louie-Louie Generation guy winks at a woman, he may not be able to get his eye open again. The fact is that if a Louie-Louie Generation guy puts the handprints on the carpet, rides his bike, and otherwise takes care of himself, he sometimes has problems of a very different kind. There’s a story about that in the Night Connections personal audio cd. It’s called…a Helpless Lover.    

I sometimes wonder if women understand the terrible power of a single tear. Not some crying fit. Just one…single…tear. I think the best women do.  If you like the story you can just keep this podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy just go to the home page and download it from the Night Connections icon.

Some things just take time. Maybe the magazine guy will take the time…maybe he won’t. I hope he does. It takes time for a guy to meet one unforgettable woman…once. And then never see her again…except every time he closes his eyes. It takes time for a guy to get in the kind of trouble that could cost his life…and prove to himself he can handle it. It takes time to collect the kind of memories that can make it ok that some of his dreams will probably never come true.

I’m really not jealous of the guy on the cover of the magazine… with all those girls he’s never had time to meet running around in his house… wearing their Victoria’s Secret sweat pants as they’re doing their floor exercises wearing high spike heels, and waiting to pounce on him when he gets home from doing all those weird exercises at the gym.

There’s a lady waiting for me too. I call her my Lady Wonder Wench. And her foot exactly fits the footprints on our nice soft blue carpet. It’s like Cinderella’s glass slipper.  We’ve been walking barefoot together on our soft blue carpet for a long, long time. Given a choice, I will take a woman in bare feet over one in high spike heels every day. And every night. That’s why I put those handprints there in our carpet again today.

Sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in the living room, I have a good full feeling after a visit to our favorite diner. It was the scene tonight of one of my most memorable dining experiences.

My brother Pete and his wife Tanya went with my Lady Wonder Wench and me. It is comfortable. The food is good, and the people who work there are all genuinely friendly. And they’re careful. I mean it’s all very well for a waiter to smile at you in a very friendly way, but that’s not helpful if he’s not careful, and his teeth fall in your soup. So careful counts.

The one thing that bothers me is that there is a smoking section. I’ve always thought that allowing a smoking section in a restaurant is like allowing a peeing section in a swimming pool.

Pete and I are both pilots, and we don’t get together nearly as often as we’d like. And his wife Tanya is new to the family, so while Pete and I were talking airplanes, my Lady Wonder Wench brought her up to date on all the weird stuff with the uncles and aunts, cousins and kids. Especially Uncle Herman, who, if he were an Indian, would be caller “Runs with beer.”

Besides being a pilot, Pete is an airplane mechanic. And a very good one. I’ve never been good at that kind of thing. I don’t have the patience to always look around to find the exact wrench you need to pound in the required screw.

But Pete likes to drown his troubles in Redi whip. And I’m on the beginnings of a diet. There is no hopefulness to match the feeling of hope you have on the first few hours on a diet. Pete, on the other hand, seems to have taken a speed eating course. He has always  been a big believer in the saying that seconds count. And he told me he is celebrating National Be Bad To Your Body week by ordering ten of everything. I told him that at this rate, by Thursday of National Be Bad To Your Body week, you will be too heavy for your plane to take off, and you will uproot trees when you climb in your hammock for a nap.

Like all pilots, Pete has to take a physical every other year to continue flying. But he’s just moved, and he doesn’t know any doctors around here, so I told him about my guy. Now… if you have a brother, you’ll understand that we like to give each other a hard time. So I said, “My doctor looks a little strange in his big black cape, magic wand and pagan medalian, and just ignore his pet snake and the black candles because he’s a very careful guy. All  his tattoos are spelled correctly, and he’s very thorough. He was going to give me a prescription for blood pressure, last year, but first he wanted to know if I was allergic to anything…like mashed bat wings, crushed lizard tails, or horn toad warts. I mean hey, what are brothers for?

I like to people watch at the diner, so I always sit near the salad bar. One guy was fiddling with his cell phone and looking kind of hunted. He kept asking for more coffee, and every time the waitress brought it, he said he was waiting for a friend. I guess he was fiddling with his phone in hopes that people wouldn’t think he was just lurking. That’s happened to me. You get to the restaurant a little before the guy you’re supposed to meet for a business lunch. It feels like an eternity before he shows up. The only longer stretches of time I can think of are when you have to keep a smile on your face waiting for a camera shutter to click…or waiting for a tow truck to show up…or looking for a freeway exit when you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction.

His friend finally came in, and they did a hug I call the Full Frontal. You see that with parents, children, and good friends. It’s a real full body contact hug…a genuine squeeze, and a big smile.

The Full Frontal is much different from both the Hip Hop Hug and the Fanny Flair Hug. The Hip Hop Hug is when two guys shake hands with their right hands, and hug with their left hands, then give each other two slaps on the back. The Fanny Flair Hug, is mostly with girls or women. I think it’s to prove that there’s nothing sexual going on. Nothing touches below the shoulders. It is often accompanied by a virtual kiss. It really looks stupid.  

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

1- Who has bigger butts…happy women or unhappy women ?

2- Tell me the South African Farmer’s daughter story.

3-  What happened because a woman West Virginia woman couldn’t hold her licker ?

Dick’s details…they take your mind off your mind.

All kinds of dramas play out in a restaurant. There’s one called “The Dinner Date” in the Night Connections 2 personal audio. If you like it, you can just keep the podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just go back to the home page, and download it from the Night Connections 2 icon.

I told you that I had an unforgettable dining experience at the diner tonight. For the first time I was able to make an absolutely perfect spaghetti ball by twirling it on my fork with a spoon behind it. I was so excited…I showed my Lady Wonder Wench, and Pete and Tanya…and I wanted to show it to the older couple at the next table. They looked like they might have been strange enough to appreciate my enthusiasm over such a triumph.  

The woman was wearing a smile that looked like she bought it from a plastic surgeon who was working from the back of a van in the Wallmart parking lot. She appeared to be wearing orthopedic boots and corrective hot pants. And the guy looked like a mad inventor in a grade b movie. I imagined that he was explaining his new invention…probably a beer glass with a magnified bottom for guys who like to watch sporting events on tv. Anyway, he was sitting there, breathing heavily… practically licking his eyelids, and rubbing his back legs together…he was very obviously trying hard to climb over her defences…I figured he was explaining how rich his new invention would make him. I guess Lady Wonder Wench was right…they probably wouldn’t have been interested in my spaghetti ball.

But when I went to pay the bill, and the hostess said “Did you enjoy your dinner ?”

I said…I had a ball.

I’ve been Lawn Tractor Man, Life Guard, Pilot, Late Night Radio DJ, Hunky Husband, Dad, and lots of names I won’t mention, but now…as of today…I have turned into Glasses Guy. I guess some days you’re the bird, and some day’s you’re the statue. I’m the statue today.

You’ve probably heard about the guy who was walking down the street, and he smacked right into a telephone pole…because the prescription on his glasses expired. Well today something like that happened to me. That’s how come, today I became…GLASSES GUY. Today was my glasses tipping point. The day I actually spent more time looking for them than I did wearing them. There’s no use faking it any more. As of today, I’m going to have wear glasses… all the time. The simple fact of the matter is that I can no longer see print any smaller than an NFL line backer. I can hear some of you saying…aw…the boobie… because you’ve had to wear glasses all your life. But this is new to me…and it’s going to take some getting used to.

For me, this is worse than the day I found my first gray hair. You can just pluck that little sucker out, and forget about it. Of course you’ve got to be careful you don’t want to go nuts with that…because you could cause yourself to go prematurely bald. But from now on, if the cops ever go looking for me, and they do one of those facial composites that you see on tv, it will include small, frameless, oblong glasses. I hate that. So I said to myself, “Self, that’s not me is it ? Let’s do a reality check here.” So we did. And the check bounced.”

Some people look good in glasses. My Lady Wonder Wench is one of those people. Of course she looks good without the glasses too. When I first met her she had pink plastic frames that had little tips at the edges, with tiny rhinestones that set off her pretty blue eyes. Steve Allen, the first Tonight Show host, had a pair of glasses with big black frames. When he wanted to emphasize a point he was making, he’d take his glasses off, and point them at you.

I have a pair of Ray Ban sun glasses that I like to wear when I’m flying my little airplane. I think they make me look like I could fly a 747 in an emergency. (That’s the small plane pilot’s fantasy. The pilots in the airliner’s cockpit both fall unconscious and the panic stricken flight attendant gets on the horn and asks if there is a pilot on board. And you get up, stride purposely to the cockpit…put on your Ray Bans…doesn’t matter if it’s midnight…and you bring the big plane down safely on a runway…and Catherine Zeta Jones who just happens to be aboard rushes up to you and gives you a big, sloppy kiss.) Hey, everybody is entitled to a fantasy.

So I started thinking, why couldn’t this work around the other way. Instead of starting to have trouble seeing, why couldn’t  I start becoming hard to see. Maybe I could even become invisible. Wouldn’t that be fun. You could lurk anywhere and watch pretty ladies getting dressed, or listen to what your friends are saying about you when they’re driving home from your party, or check out what the car sales manager is telling the salesman the lowest price he absolutely is really willing to go on a car you want to buy. 

And then I realized that the invisibility project has already started. And it wasn’t fun at all. My weight lifter son and I were walking down the beach a while ago, and a group of young lovelies in bikinis were walking along toward us. Now, I’m very happy to go home to my Lady Wonder Wench, but sometimes I can’t help myself. Ego problems arise. And this, this was definitely a pull in the belly and stick out the chest moment. So I did. And they didn’t even see me. I was invisible. Me…the former chief lifeguard at Coney Island. All they saw was young Mr. Muscles walking along next to me.

Then I started noticing that I wasn’t getting noticed in supermarkets either…or restaurants…or anyplace…with one exception. There is still one way I get noticed. I was on the radio for a long time, and I’ve done a lot of voice overs for television commercials, so lots of times when I say something, people give me one of those…”do I know you” kind of looks… because the voice is familiar. Then they go back to ignoring me of course. And I hate ignorance. But for that one moment…I still get noticed.

It used to be that when Charles Atlas showed off his muscles he flexed his biceps. Now a six pack of abs seems to  be the price of admission to hunk hood. I mean, how important are abs…really. I mean except for keeping your intestines from falling in your lap, what do you do with them ?

And I want you to know that I’m not questioning the importance of abs because I don’t have any. I have abs. Well…actually…I have an ab. One. I found it while I was in the shower the other night. I ran right out of the shower and into the living room to show My Lady Wonder Wench. And she said…”That’s wonderful …dear.” But she said it in that voice that means as soon as I leave the room, she’s going to call our daughter Kris, and giggle with her about it.

As I recall, Superman didn’t have noticeable abs. And he could fly without an airplane. He just stuck his arms out in front, and said, up, up, and Awaaayyy. I always wonder why he flew in that position. Was it because he had to, or was it just to impress Lois Lane. I mean how impressed would she have been if he had flown in a sitting position like an airline passenger reading a magazine, and eating a bag of really tiny pretzels.

And of course what did he do when he wanted to be Clark Kent… the exact opposite of Superman. A total WIMP. He disguised himself as Clark Kent, the mild mannered reporter…by putting on…his glasses. He became a Glasses Guy. Like me.

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

1- Why should you probably not drive around the world three times in your car ?

2- What’s with snakes and love poems ?

3- Why should you avoid the kind of snow that melts the fastest of all ?

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

My friends always try to put a positive spin on it. My buddy Al, is heavily into conspiracy theories and plots. He says, “Look at it this way, because you are obviously falling apart, in a hostage situation you are likely to be released first.” Thanks Al.  What are buddies for right ? 

But Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation calmed me down a little. He says “Listen, you have trouble with your eyes because they’re losing flexibility. They’re getting rigid.  Just don’t let that happen to your attitudes.” “You don’t have to really worry until you find yourself humming along to the elevator music.”

So…now I’m Glasses Guy. Well…into each life a little rain must fall. Actually…the rain has…on at least one occasion…made me very happy. There’s a story about that in the Lovin Touch personal audio cd, and in the current podcast. It’s called…the rain. It has to do with a gentle rain, on newly cut grass, on a midsummer evening…and the fragrance of long, soft brown hair. That was a very happy occasion. If you like the story, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the home page.

Glasses Guy. It comes with getting older I know… Everybody wants to get younger. But can you imagine the horror story that would happen if all the adults in America suddenly turned into teenagers again? Actually, as I get older, people have started to say, “Hey you look good Dick.” In fact the older I get, the more people are saying that. My handsomeness will probably peak the day before I die.

Glasses Guy. Me. The former one hand bra strap opener champ. The one time king of under the boardwalk. The late night radio voice who would be glad to play misty for the soft lady voice on the request line. I’m not aging gracefully…I know. In fact, I’m just stumbling along. But as long as I can keep those feet going, I’m not going to stop stumbling…because how else am I going to catch My Lady Wonder Wench. She can move pretty fast. I just hope I can still see where I’m going…with these damn glasses…