Dick Summer Connection

I just re-recorded the outgoing message on our phone machine. Louie-Louie Generation guys like to think of ourselves as funny phone fellows. Our prostate challenged partners sometimes call us other names. They simply do not understand why we love weird outgoing phone machine messages. Most Louie-Louie ladies are perfectly content to use the pre recorded message that came with the machine…or they just say “You’ve reached the Smith residence. Please leave your name and phone number and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.” We, on the other hand, savor the opportunity. We have somebody by the ear, and they can’t get away until we hit our punch line. This is our version of Jay Leno’s monologue.

 The short ones are the best. The one I just recorded says, “Hi. This is Dick. Please leave a message as soon as possible, and I’ll get back to you at the sound of the beep.” That replaced one that was too confusing I guess. It said… “Bridge. Kirk here. Beep me up Scotty.” You’ve got to be careful of doing something too confusing. I had one that said, Hi. Dick’s answering machine is broken. This is his refrigerator. Please speak very slowly, and I’ll stick your message to my door with one of those little magnets.” That got too many hang ups. The one before that was, Hi, this is Dick. I’m sorry I can’t answer the phone right now. Leave a message, and then wait by your phone until I call you back.” I called myself a couple of times to hear that one, because it started all kinds of strange pictures in my head.

 Almost everybody has an answering machine these days. And be honest… don’t you take advantage of that. Don’t you sometimes call a guy you’re really not anxious to talk to at the moment, and hope you get his answering machine? That’s soul satisfying. You’ve upheld your part of the staying in touch bargain without having to go through the agony of a lot of blah, blah, blah. Guys don’t like a lot of blah, blah, blah. And after all…it’s not your fault the guy wasn’t there. The best time to do that is when you know he probably wont be around. Like when he’s usually at work. But don’t do that between midnight and dawn…local time. The only time anybody’s phone should ring in the middle of the night, is when it’s a wrong number.

 Have you noticed that when somebody does call while you’re asleep, you never admit you’ve been sleeping. You catch yourself saying things like, “No…you didn’t disturb me. Three AM…really?…I didn’t notice. I was just kneeling in silent prayer, reading the bible.” But the worst time for the phone to ring is while you and your significant other are…relating with eachother …significantly…and just as the earth is about to move, the phone rings. And it’s usually a recorded message trying to get you to vote for some idiot you never heard of, a spectacular, once in a lifetime vinyl siding offer, or your chance to win an all expenses paid cruise to Antarctica.

 I’ve never understood why some guys really do stop moving the earth to answer a phone call. Any phone call. That has to be like going from highway speed right into reverse. I mean doesn’t that sprain something semi vital? And  your relationship is in really big trouble if you’re in the middle of relating with your significant other, and all of a sudden you find yourself seriously considering making an outgoing call.

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

1- Why to some of our presidents seem to be mooning Canada ?

2- What’ confusing about your schnoz ?

3- Why do some people wear mittens and socks to bed ?

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

 There’s a story about a call left on an answering machine in the personal audio CD called Love Comes When You Least Expect It. It’s in the current podcast. This call…isn’t funny.

It’s about a couple who really cared about each other. So they worked hard on their relationship. They worked so hard on their relationship that after a while, their relationship was just all work. Then one day, when she least expected it, he met someone at work…and a new romance…exploded…and blew all that hard work away.

 If you like, “The Answering Machine,”, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Love Comes When You Least Expect It icon on the home page.

 I like being the funny phone fella. “Hello, this is you know who. We are you know where. Leave your you know what you know when.” “Next on your Classical Request radio, we’ll hear the music of Johan Sebastian Beep.” “Twinkle Twinkle little star, bet you’re wondering where we are? Well put your mouth up to the phone and leave a message for when we get home.”

 Betcha if Jay Leno recorded some of these, you’d laugh…a little… maybe.

All right, so I don’t like green veggies … the dog really liked what I dumped behind the radiator …

 And I almost drove off the road when my Louie-Louie Lad told me about his notoriety.  Trust me, I listened to him … he was notorious.  But good.

 So now I have to be nice to him so he’ll take me to the Rock and Roll Hall and I can see his exhibit.

 I used to go to work entirely cockeyed from lack of sleep when he was on all night and  leave work at a dead run in order to hear him play “Lara’s Theme” for me when he was on afternoons.  They didn’t understand me at work …

 Of course Big Louie is proud of his “spokes-mouth.” But then Louie-Louie Generation lads and lasses are terribly good at what we do … and my Louie-Louie Lad does “good” REALLY good …

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room…which is good. Because I got an email a little while ago, with some news that would have knocked me down if I weren’t already sitting. When I finished reading it, I called my Lady Wonder Wench, and told her about it. She said something that sounded like, “Oh my God…wow.” I think she was holding her cell phone at arms length as she got to the word “Wow”. I only think that’s what she said, because the last word came out on a note that was so high, and loud, that I couldn’t really hear it, but Golden Retrievers for three blocks around fled in terror, and windows and eyeglasses cracked all over the zip code. It was great news, but it really screwed up my day, because I completely forgot about everything else…including the fact that I was supposed to be interviewed on a radio program about my books and CDs…and I just forgot about it…which was not only un-professional, it was simply inconsiderate and impolite. And I’m a Louie-Louie Generation guy. Louie-Louie Generation guys have manners.

I don’t take manners to extremes…I don’t knock on an oyster before I open its shell. And I can’t stand political correctness…where you don’t tell a guy he’s lost, you suggest that he is in the process of discovering alternate destinations…don’t call a guy a jerk. Say he’s suffering from a cranial-rectal inversion. Don’t say a guy is a cradle robber…say he prefers generationally diverse relationships. And nobody has a dirty mind, although some people have been known to have introspective pornographic moments.

I was going to say that political correctness is childish. But it’s not. It’s stupid. There is a big difference. Children are not stupid. In fact, they’re quick learners. For example, when you’re a kid you learn that no matter how hard you try, you can’t baptize a cat. If your brother hits you, you shouldn’t hit back, because mom always catches the second one. You find out that no matter how good your dog is, you can’t trust him to guard your hamburger. My Lady Wonder Wench learned that you can’t hide an asparagus stalk in your glass of milk. Kids learn. Although there were some things I never did figure out. For example, when Sister Mary Knucklebuster ran a fire drill, it was always…”Line up in silence. No talking. Short kids in front.” I guess she figured that tall people burn slower. “No talking” was also a prime consideration in the duck and cover drills…where we practiced protecting ourselves from thermonuclear destruction by hiding under our desks. We all knew that Sister would give us that look…if we talked during a hydrogen bomb explosion.

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

1- Where did we get the word, “Oxymoron”?

2- What’s the weirdest “delicacy” I’ve ever heard of ?

3- What is the leading cause of statistics ?

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

What a surprise that Email was. I was a disc jockey for a long time…so I was used to rejection…”More music less talk.” How to you think the guy hired to say that feels about it ? Disc jockies are brown shoes in a tuxedo world. And of course, disc jockies aren’t the only people who don’t quite fit in. I had a friend by the name of Bill who had that kind of problem. There’s a story about Billy and his lady in the Night Connections 2 personal audio cd. It’s called the Quiet Man’s Woman.

Billy was a funny guy. He called me on the WNBC radio private hot line one night, and he started describing a really ugly, bloody murder scene that he was investigating. I said…”Billy, why are you telling me all this while I’m on the air.” He said, “They had the radio on when the shooting was going on. Guess who they were listening to.” The bad guys got my friend, New York City Police Detective Lt. Billy McGroaraty. It was years ago now. But I still miss him. “The Quiet Man’s Lady,” 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 download it from the Night Connections 2 icon on the home page.

I guess I should tell you about the email that knocked me down. I feel kind of funny about it. But If I don’t tell you, you’ll probably hear about it any way. Because the folks who sent the note say they plan on doing quite a bit of publicity. But before I quote the note to you, I want to thank Nancy and Bonnie of the Books and Beyond radio program for forgiving me for forgetting everything else that I was supposed to do…including their interview…when I read that note. They’re radio folks. So they forgave me, and said we’ll do it next week. I appreciate it.

The note says…in part, “Hey Dick, the museum has just unveiled a complete re-design that tells the story of rock and roll in a more linear fashion. We have updated all museum technology to state-of-the-art, including the interactive kiosks. You, and your impact on rock music are featured in the new exhibit.” Signed, Margaret Thresher, Director of Communications, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum, Cleveland, Ohio.

Oh My God, WOW.

She grew up a badly educated Polack in Massachusetts but she taught me to love good classical music … although her favorite music was the Beatles Rubber Soul album.

 She never learned to drive or use a computer and couldn’t understand how I could fly with Dick when she watched him crash on a computer flight simulator.  But she kept a promise and flew that bright June morning and really enjoyed it.

 She was ecstatic when her first grandchild was born and spent money she didn’t have to get Lisa the most gorgeous Christmas dress she could find, although I doubt my sister-in-law appreciated all the lace and pleats on that red velvet thing. And she never said “What?” when she saw what I was wearing.  And as a Louie-Louie Lass in the sixties, you know the kind of yuckie stuff available to me.

 She was short-tempered and a typical “old lady” grump, but she never told me I had made a mistake by falling in love (lust) with my Louie-Louie-Lad.   

I expect she makes some rather pointed comments from her hill about the take-offs and landings at our airport … but she can see the world from there …

 Thank you, Helen. I still love you.

My Lady Wonder Wench and I have just returned from a walk up Helen Hill. We do that every time we come home from a flight in our little airplane.

 Helen Hill isn’t big. Only a handful of people even know it has a name. It’s a mostly un-remarkable bump in the landscape, named after a woman who led an un-remarkable life. All Helen did, all her life, was teach her kids to care about each other, go to church, work hard, and be proud of being American.

 Let me tell you Helen’s story. Once upon a time, quite a while ago now,

Helen lived in Boston. She struggled to bring up three sons and a daughter, while her husband served in the U.S. Army. Times were tough for Helen. Boston winters are cruel, especially when you’re living in a cold water flat, where the only heat comes from a wood fire stove in the kitchen.

 My Lady Wonder Wench is Helen’s daughter. Ms. Wench remembers that dinners were usually soup and crackers and maybe an egg. And some nights, Helen told her kids they were, “Making so much noise,” that she had to leave the room while they ate…and she didn’t.

 Helen’s husband, Walter loved the ocean. When he came home from the service, he spent as much time as he could out fishing. Lots of times, he took the little girl who grew up to become my Lady with him. He was a brilliant guy, who took part in the liberation of Hitler’s Dachau concentration camp. He was a sensitive tough guy, but the terrible things he saw there scarred his emotions terribly for the the rest of his life. But Walter liked riding with me in my little Piper airplane. When he died, as he requested, I scattered his ashes over the Atlantic Ocean just off Long Island.

 Helen lived a few years longer. She was afraid of flying. But one early June morning, she took a deep breath, and asked me to take her up for a few minutes. It was a CAVU day. That’s pilot talk, and it means, Clear And Visibility Unlimited. Blue skies…bright sunshine…the air was still. Helen climbed up on the little step, then up on the wing…buckled the seat belt, and tightened it to the stun position. Then she closed her eyes, and started saying the rosary. We took one turn around the pattern at the Hanscom, Massachusetts airport, and the little airplane made the gentlest landing of her entire career. Helen got out, walked over to my Lady, and said, “It was lovely. Why are you sometimes afraid.” It was a totally un-remarkable flight. The kind of flight every new flier enjoys best.

 My Lady Wonder Wench is also my “Propchick.” She’s been on more than a few flights in “Bump your head on the ceiling of the cockpit” turbulent weather with me. She also made it through a white knuckle flight over Long Island Sound one memorable night when some of our instruments failed while we were still in the clouds. So she just smiled and said, “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Mom.”

 Helen died a few years ago. But she enjoyed that one, un-remarkable flight so much that she asked that her ashes be scattered on a hill, overlooking an airport. So we scattered her ashes right over the beacon at our little home airport, New Garden Flying Field, just outside Philadelphia. And when we come home from a flight, Ms. Wench always says, “Hi Mom. We’re home. I still love you.”

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

1- What do kidnappers and Uncle Sam seem to have in common ?

2- What did 40% of atheists say about owning a bible ?

3- What do people who work nights seem to have in common with people who work days ?

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

 My Lady Wonder Wench and her mom Helen had an interesting relationship. Women’s relationships are always more interesting than men’s. We’re easy. They’re not. I think that’s because in some ways, they have to be tougher and certainly smarter than we do. I think when God created Adam, He took a look at what He’s done, and figured He better create women, because it was pretty clear that we were going to need a lot of help. That “help” should be a two way street. We ought to help women in return. But very often, they are kind of left to do the best they can by themselves. There’s a story about that in the current podcast. It’s from the Night Connections 2 personal audio cd. It’s called, “Daddy’s Girl.”

 The day she was born, our daughter Kris opened her eyes, looked at me, squinted a little, gave a little half smile…and went back to sleep. From that day on, I always tried to be the kind of guy she thinks I am. I don’t always make it. But I always try.

 Daddy’s Girl 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 and download it from the Night Connections 2 icon on the home page.

 Daddy’s Girl isn’t about Helen and my Lady Wonder Wench. I wrote it about a waitress by the name of Dolores. My Lady and I had the honor of knowing her for a while. We last saw her very early on a Christmas morning, looking very tired, and trying not to look sad. It was a long time ago. And we often wonder…and hope…that she’s ok.

 So now you know the true story of Helen Hill…an un-remarkable bump in the landscape, at a tiny, un-remakable airport, informally named for a woman who led a life that most people would call un-remarkable. . All Helen really did with her life was, teach her kids to care about each other, go to church, work hard, and be proud of being American. Of course the reason that we can call her life “un-remarkable,” is that it’s pretty much like so many other ordinary American lives, that make America what it is…such a remarkable place to call home.

His name was Yoder, because he was mostly green … and a little blue … and he was about 10 inches of … well, I suppose you could call him nasty.  But he would sit on my shoulder and whisper incomprehensible secrets in my ear and call me “You” because he loved me.  And hated my Louie-Louie Lad out of jealousy.  He was awfully good for my ego … never got the hang of calling my Lad Dickie, which was what he was known as in Brooklyn, to differentiate him from his dad, Dick Senior.

 Now I never had a Sister Mary Knucklebuster… I went to public schools … but one year Dickie  and I went to a reunion of St. Gregory’s school and it was wonderful.  Every nun there, no matter how old … and some of them were ancient … REMEMBERED every single kid who was ever in their class, either by the way they walked (Joey Toto) or the way they smiled (mine) or the way their face hadn’t changed except to get older.  And believe me, some of them really looked old … the kids, I mean.

 Those ladies in black were so much fun that day that I will always remember them.  Several delighted in taking me aside to tell tales on “Richard” … now if they had known how much Big Louie took him over, they just might have shortened his life span a lot of years earlier.  But the amazing thing was … they knew every kid … knew all about them … and were about as proud of them all as any parent could be.

 I wish I had had some of those ladies in black in my life.  They were ladies indeed.

Having nothing better to fondle at the moment, I am sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair, fondling some memories. For example: I remember standing in front of a class room packed with my peers, confessing to worshiping false Gods, disrespecting my parents, and murder. Suddenly, the word, “RICHARD” rang out loud and clear in the un-mistakable voice of my first communion teacher, Sister Mary Knucklebuster. Sister Knucklebuster represented the Roman Catholic Church in much the same way that General George Patton represented the United States Army. She was tall, and stern, and tough. And she was presiding over my class’s rehearsal for first confession. It was my turn to stand in front of the room, and recite the famous formula…”Bless me father for I have sinned.”

 Please get the picture. I was 7 years old, and Sister suddenly realized that in order to come up for material to confess, I was going down The Moses Top Ten No-No List. That means after confessing to murder, which is #5, I was about to confess to adultery, and coveting my neighbor’s wife.

 But just in the nick of time, her voice exploded from somewhere deep down in that Darth Vader veil. “RICHARD,” she said, “That will do. Just say your sin was disobeying your parents.” So that’s what I said in the rehearsal…and in all subsequent confessions…right up through high school. My reasoning being that whatever crime the devil might have made me commit with Jeanie, or Matilda, or Maureen, my parents would have said I shouldn’t do that. So I really was disobeying my parents when I went surfing on my newly discovered testosterone tsunamis into forbidden hormonal happiness.

 Richard was my dad’s name. It’s a perfectly respectable name. But I prefer being called Dick for many reasons, not the least of which is that I get a kick out of watching some overly polite, politically correct and uptight people blush. As I mentioned before, “D’ as in Dick, has become the new ‘N’ word,” to some of the more uptight members of the Forces For Good In The Community, because they can’t get over one of the slang meanings of my name. I suspect that some of those people spend  way too much of their spare time sitting in closets, pulling wings off flies, fondling their Jello, and drooling over old National Geographic magazines.  

 When I hear somebody call me “Richard,” I know I’m probably in trouble. I am Richard on my pilot’s license and my driver’s license, but Dick on my credit card. That has caused ID problems at major airports…most recently at Philadelphia International, when the Pimple Person doing the screening wouldn’t believe that Dick is a nickname for Richard. I reminded her that former Vice President Richard Cheney is often called Dick. But in typical Pimple Person fashion, she asked, “Who is Dick Cheney? 

 My Lady Wonder Wench, who like many Louie-Louie Generation women, is more deeply concerned with the limits of good taste than I am calls me, “Richard” when, like most Louie-Louie Generation guys, I occasionally try sneaking under one of those limits of good taste…like when I pick my teeth at the table…or un-avoidably emit some personal sound and fragrance. She had a rather observant parrot who picked up on the idea that anything nasty was a, “Richard.” Therefore he called anything that displeased him a, “Richard.” I caught him one day, sitting in his cage, spitting at our daughter’s kitten and calling her a, “Richard.”

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

 1-      Why is St. Patrick never mentioned at Yankee Stadium ?

2-      Why is there so much screaming in New York City?

3-      What happens when your mind is always in the gutter?

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

 Sister Mary Knucklebuster might have had some rather blunt comments about the people in the the story from the Night Connections 2 personal audio cd that’s in the current podcast. It’s called, Painting, Pottery, and Passion.

 I wonder how the woman in the story kept herself from slipping out into the hall to watch what her husband and her friend were doing. After all, maybe nothing was going on at all. And her marriage…did this night turn up the heat in her marriage, or did all that heat blow it away. And could she stay friends with her friend after a night like that ? Would you ? 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 download it from the Night Connections 2 icon on the home page.

 A Saint Gregory’s alumni magazine came in today’s mail. There was a picture of Sister Mary Knucklebuster on the obituary page. I almost didn’t recognize her. That wasn’t her real name of course…it was just a nasty name a bunch of snotty kids called her behind her back a long time ago. The name under the picture wasn’t her real name either. Nuns real names are taken from them when they join the convent. I wonder…who were you…really…Sister Mary Knucklebuster.

 Whoever you were…thank you…for all the memories…and for making my confessions so simple…and less embarrassing all those teen age years ago. Actually…come to think of it…just thank you. Thank you…whoever you were…for your life.

“You and I are losers …” … NOT … So okay, we haven’t flown to the Bahamas … but Dick and I have flown above fireworks on the Fourth of July in our little airplane, and seen the Statue of Liberty from up close.  Did you know her hair is braided and curled around her head?  I have that “Losers” snap-top ring and the parchment poem … name me one other Wonder Wench who has that? 

 But as for Matilda… in spite of Big Louie’s insistence to the contrary, I have spoken to Dick’s mother, who was my best friend, and she told me that Matilda had every reason to throw that sandwich AT him, not just onto the sand.  He was too busy looking “life guard perfect” to notice when she got there and NO ONE believes that girl’s bathing suit top just happened to slip.  I do wish I had known Matilda …

 In my neighborhood, we went to the submarine races … well, all the popular girls did.  But Boston does have Nantasket, as “he” said, and lots of sun and sand and giggles and hot dogs (from Joe & Nemo’s, not Coney Island’s Nathan’s) and all the music anyone could ask for.  Even Big Louie His Own Bad Self would have approved …

 “Don” asked if Dick is back on the air. I’m sorry if my maundering misled you, Don … no, he’s not on all night keeping me awake (I even went to work without any sleep just so I could hear him all those years ago!) and for our many sins as Louie-Louie Generation believers, there is little or nothing on radio to match what all those guys did on the radio in the 50s. 60s, and 70s.  It is better for our sleep this way, of course …

Life is like a giant roll of toilet paper. The closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes. That’s one of the truest statements ever made by Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie- Louie Generation. Hard to believe, but it’s time for the Lazy, Crazy, Hazy Days of Saturdays In the Park, with the Summer Wind blowing in the hair of the girls in Itsy, Bitsy, Teenie, Weenie, Yellow Polkadot Bikinis, as they’re Walking in the Sand on Summer Days and lounging around watching the fireworks with you from Under the Boardwalk on Soft Summer Nights.

Where I grew up in Brooklyn, when there were no more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks, it was stickball, kick the can, The Cyclone Roller Coaster and the Parachute Jump at Coney Island, Italian ice cups, hanging on the stoop with some of the guys singing doo-wop, cheap dates on the Staten Island ferry that was a short cruise from Brooklyn to Staten Island for about a quarter. The Mets and the Yanks and Fourth of July fireworks that stretched for miles along the harbor and parades with Seventy Six Trombones and the absolutely most beautiful girls in the world wearing their summer dresses.

I was a lifeguard on Bay 22 at Coney Island. And I had a quick lesson about women one day. I had a girlfriend who’s name was Matilda. Red hair, blue eyes, smart, and sweet. She used to make me lunch, and bring it down to the beach with her. One day, I went out to bring in a swimmer who was having trouble, and I used a life guard technique called the cross chest carry. In this case, the swimmer happened to be a rather attractive young lady, and in the process of bringing her in, the top of her bathing suit slipped rather drastically. I swear in this particular instance I had no control over the situation. The surf was pretty big at the time, and I had all I could do to swim in against a pretty tough undertow. But as I’m sure Big Louie could have predicted just as I helped the girl out of the water and she was hastily adjusting her bathing suit who shows up? Matilda of course. She took one look, took the sandwiches she had made out of their wrappers, and threw them on the sand, stepped on them and stormed out of my life.

I’ve told my Lady Wonder Wench about this in the interests of full disclosure and because if I didn’t a couple of my buddies probably would have mentioned it anyway and she actually took Matilda’s side. Honest to God was innocent. That time. Every time I claim innocence about anything I get the strangest look from Ms. Wench.

If you’re a member of the Louie-Louie Generation, you probably remember before cars had air conditioning, and people drove around with their elbows stuck out the windows trying to get some air and looking cool. When I was a disk jockey in those days, it was kind of neat to pull up to the guy next to you at a stop light, and listen for what station he had on his am only radio. It was a little like walking down a beach, and hearing your station on the portable radios playing The Jamies Summertime, Summertime, or the Spoonful’s Summer in the City, or Drifter’s Up on the Roof.

A lot of people didn’t understand that one. In New York, and lots of big cities, the rooftops were called tar beach. And folks who couldn’t get away for the day, but could grab an hour, would go up there to get a tan. Lots of times the dress code was optional. Which is why I think a lot of guys learned to fly helicopters.

One of the really great times in my broadcasting career was in Indianapolis. I did a show on WIBC radio from a studio that was built for me on top of a drive in restaurant. We had local bands come in, and we broadcast them from the parking lot and we played Make it or Break It with new records every night. In Boston, I worked at WBZ, and we broadcast almost all day from a trailer we called the Sundeck Studio at Nantasket beach. We had ice cube tossing contests, and hot dog eating contests, and wet bikini scavenger hunts for goofy prizes like crazy feet they were big plastic things that looked a little like swim fins, but they had big ugly toes painted on the tops.

Those were the days when I felt like some kind of Sunshine Superman.

There’s a story about that time of my life in the Personal Audio Cd called Lovin Touch, and in the current podcast. It’s called Losers. I was going to say that we didn’t have very much back then but that’s not true. I’ve got to tell you that Loser’s Shower was some kind of Joy To The World. If you like Losers you can just keep the current podcast, or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Lovin Touch icon on the opening page.

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

1- How do we know that Giraffes are the animal kingdom’s best kissers

2- If a woman giggles when you kiss her, what should you do ?

3- Exactly what is a Mickey Quickie?

Dick’s Details, they take your mind off your mind.

Summer means cookouts and graduations, and even weddings for those of us who are members of the Louie-Louie Generation. We are in the early Autumn of our lives. It’s a good time to be alive. But he really nailed it Big Louie, his own bad self the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation. It’s true. Life really is like a giant roll of toilet paper. And the closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes. Get some summer lovin’ while you can.

Drop me a note if you’d like to add some Special Summer Memories – Dick@DickSummer.com