Dick Summer Connection

It’s leap year, but I am not leaping from my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair, because I have found that I don’t bounce nearly as well as I used to. That’s such an athletic word…leap. It suggests a finely muscled athlete… perhaps in a leotard…soaring into the air. I don’t mind doing the soaring, but I don’t like being sore, so it’s the crashing back to the ground that sometimes bothers me.

Some guys go leaping out of an airplane hanging on to a parachute, which is essentially a pair of chubby lady’s pantyhose. Basketball players leap a lot. So do baseball outfielders. And ballet dancers. The extra day in leap year…February 29^th is called leap day. It’s put there to keep the calendar balanced. If we didn’t do that we’d eventually be celebrating Christmas with Fourth of July barbecues.

Leap day sounds so…energetic. Very New York City. We like to do our own thing in New York. We even have our own language. The word dare, for example, means not here. Decay is the letter that comes after de j. The stuff that comes out of the sink is woada. When you talk about hhhea, you mean your girlfriend. And urine is the opposite of you’re out. My lady Wonder Wench says guys from New York have a particular kind of walk. She says it’s a swinging your arms kind of strut. I never noticed it till she mentioned it…and I saw reflection of myself in a shop window while I was crossing a street the other day. She’s right. There’s also a slight side to side roll involved.

I would think that in Dallas, they might celebrate Mosey Day. John Wayne used to mosey. “Guess I’ll just mosey right on over to the corral and leap on my horse.” Sexy ladies could call it “Slinky Day.” Babies could celebrate crawl day.

Traditionally, Leap day is an interesting day for women. It is a day they get to throw their curves around…smile sweetly, and propose to their boyfriends, instead of waiting for it to happen the other way around. A lot of Pimple People guys make the mistake of thinking that the curvier the woman is the less intelligent she is. But Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation knows better. He always says, “The curvier a woman is, the less intelligent the guy becomes.”

Actually, I think you could make a case for the idea that women have it pretty good every day. They can have sex whenever they want it. They don’t have to mow the lawn or shovel the sidewalk. The smell of sweat is sexy on them. They get lots of gifts because we screw up so often. They can dance. They even look good in shorts. What’s not to like. Hmmm. I’m going to hear about that one.

Dick’s Details Quiz. Answers are in the current podcast.

1- Why am I glad milk has lactose?

2- Why does the Library of Congress have the world’s biggest comic book collection ?

3- How can the parents of babies who don’t use pacifiers get more rest?

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

I’m not one of those motivation guys who think you should be grimly determined to be happy at all costs. I don’t believe in drowning your sorrows in reddy whip. And I’m well aware that manure occoureth. Sometimes in heaps. In large, stinky and very personal heaps. But it’s leap year. And Big Louie, his own bad self, has a leap year suggestion. He says “If you take a big enough leap, you might get over your heap.”

I’m taking Big Louie’s suggestion personally. I’ve been putting off work on a new Personal Audio Cd for too long. I’m not sure if it’s because I can be pretty lazy sometimes, or if it’s because it’s kind of scary writing stuff you really believe in. It’s a little like spying on yourself. You get scared, and the little guy who lives inside you…shuts up. Any way…I’m taking the leap. Here’s the first story from the new project. It’s about a guy who…instead of taking a leap…well…listen to the story it’s called, “I’ll Call You.” And it’s in the current podcast.

I was that guy…for a long time. Then my lady Wonder Wench came along. And before I knew it, I was in mid air…right in the middle of the biggest leap in my life. I didn’t really even think about it until mid leap. All of a sudden, hope started interfering with the very logical progression of what had become a smug and orderly life. It’s a long story. And I’ve decided to take the leap…and tell it…because telling it feels like the right thing to do, and it might help some other Louie-Louie generation guys and girls who are thinking about of taking a leap in life. It’ll take a while. All the Personal Audios took a while…because they took a lot of living. If you’re curious about them, take a trip to dick summer dot com, and take a look at the home page.

I wonder if women understand that guys sometimes don’t take the “Oh my God I’m in love leap,” because they’ve been through the hurt that comes with the crash that sometimes happens at the end. It hurts. That’s why sometimes we don’t talk a lot. We figure we’re not supposed to show you how much we hurt. There’s a flip side to that. It’s the hurt we do to our women when we back off. The guys in the white lab coats just released a big survey. It said, only 2% of the women in America feel beautiful. If you walk down any street in America, and look at our ladies, you’ll see that’s off by at least 70 or 80%. At least. And I think a lot of the reason it’s so far off…is that guys are afraid to take the leap…and tell you.

I know that sometimes you have to crawl before you can walk. And the journey of a thousand miles begins with one small step. And I know manure occoureth…in big heaps. But it’s leap year. And wouldn’t you like to know if you can actually leap over your heap…and right in the middle of your leap…what a kick to find out how high you can fly.

I hate it when people skip the R in February. The word is FEBRUARY. Not Febyouary. It’s a really cold and nasty month, except for Valentine’s Day. So maybe it’s brain freeze. Or maybe it’s something more serious and sinister. Think about this. Suppose you were God, and you wanted to make a really nasty, cold month…which if you were God, you’d have a perfect right to do. Maybe you wanted people to know, and appreciate, that just as you could make a stinking hot month like August, you could make a crappy cold month too if you felt like it. In your mercy, you’d make it shorter than the other months, but it would be really nasty cold. So you made the month, and gave it the name February… because, FeBRUary has that nice kind of cold BRRR sound in there. Now suppose your clueless people keep leaving out the BRRR. They keep calling it Febyouary. If you were God, wouldn’t you kind of tighten down the cold screws a little, hoping people would get the point ? Of course you would. 

  I was born in February, and I blame the cold weather for my introduction to what has become, “a lifetime of emotional rejection.” Can you imagine how hard it is for a new born infant to nurse through a wool sweater ? Wool is everywhere in February. In July and August, women wear nice cotton blouses and short skirts. In February, women wear wool. They look like walking piles of wool. It’s hard to tell a woman from a small herd of sheep…which may be the cause of a lot of nasty jokes about shepherds. 

 In especially sexy parts of Brooklyn, you can’t get satellite reception because of the electrical interference from all the static electricity sparks from skin rubbing against all those wool sweaters. I am a Louie-Louie Generation guy, born in Brooklyn…in February…so I know about these things. I remember Sister Mary Knucklebuster telling the guys in the fifth grade, that those sparks were little tiny lightning strikes, sent by God to make us keep our fingers to ourselves. I don’t know what she told the girls. But whatever it was, it seemed to be highly effective for all but a very few, very popular young ladies.

 I was born in February, and I think about my third birthday I hit puberty. In my neighborhood, puberty was when guys got horny, and girls got religion. Thanks for that God. I think that’s pretty COLD, GOD. Whoops. Of course it’s cold. It’s February. And it keeps getting colder, because God keeps tightening the cold screws so we get the point. It’s supposed to be just as cold as August is hot. He wants you people to know he can do that if he wants to. Will you people please get with the program. FeBRRRuary…as in BRRRR…damn it’s cold. Not FebYOUary…as in, “let’s see what happens if we mess with God’s plan.”  

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

1-      What can’t you do if you hold your nose ?

2-      Why should we turn off all electo-magnets in 2020 ?

3-      What’s with wearing yellow underwear ?

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

 You know how cold it is in February in Brooklyn? It’s so cold, the hitchhikers just hold up pictures of their thumbs…the eye doctors give away a free ice scraper with every new pair of eyeglasses…you can chip a tooth on your cup of coffee…you can freeze an egg on the sidewalk…a guy says “hello” and you can see the steam from his breath…when he recognizes the fact that the walking pile of wool he’s talking to is a woman…you can see the steam coming out of his ears. February is not cool. It’s cold. It is not kool to be that cold.

 I always liked girls who wore glasses…like my Lady Wonder Wench…and one February evening…I very carefully said “hhhello…hhhhhoney,” because I figured that would steam up her glasses so she couldn’t see where I was putting my hands. But it didn’t work. When my fingertips hit, she shot up right out of the neck hole on that pile of wool she was wearing. You should have seen the sparks that made…especially when she came back down without the wool.

 Maybe it’s just that I was born in February, but it really grates on my one remaining nerve to hear the word February without the brrrr. What’s a Febyouary? The BRRR is important. How would you like to go see a Boadway play ? If you’re a woman by the name of Mary, how would you like to become the month of May ? If you come to a red light in your car, are you going to step on the bake? Maybe it doesn’t bother you, but when somebody says Febyouary…I want to strangle that person with my cold fingertips.

 Now… you’ve lived. You’ve had a loved one come in to your nice, warm house out of the snow and wind and ice to greet you, while you were wearing only your bathrobe. So you know there is little to equal the shock and pain of cold fingertips. On the other hand…you’ve probably heard the line about, “cold fingers, warm heart.” How’s that for a segue so I can put a cut from the Night Connections 3 personal audio cd called…”Bad Hands” in the current podcast.

 I don’t know if the woman in that story really had the courage to do it that night…say goodbye, I mean. I hope she did. She will eventually. And the longer she puts it off, the longer she’s going to hurt…the longer the lonely will turn her cold…and brittle. And when she does tell him, he’ll probably not understand what hit him. He’s really a nice enough guy. Good job. Even kind of good looking I suppose. He just has no idea that she needs to feel somebody’s warm hands around her heart.

 “Bad Hands” is from the Night Connections 3 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 3 icon on the home page.

 You and I…us…we…are a very small huddle of humans. There aren’t very many of us. But we can make a difference. We can stop bringing down the wrath of God, by ignoring the BRRRR He put in February. If He wants us to know he can make a month just as nasty as August, but in the other direction…don’t fight it. Don’t get Him even more ticked off, or we’ll land up dodging polar bears in mid-town traffic. Admit it. It’s cold. Repeat after me. FebBRRRRuary. And tell your friends to do the same. Please. It’ll make a big difference. It might even make February cool again…instead of so damn cold. And it could…possibly… even help ease some of the pain of rejection that I have felt, ever since mom wore that thick, wool sweater, while I was trying to nurse, all those years ago.

This was just sent to me by a Proud Podcast Participant in Indianapolis. It must not go un-noticed:

You’re a 19 year old kid.

You’re critically wounded and dying in
The jungle somewhere in the Central Highlands of Viet Nam ..

It’s November 11, 1967.
LZ (landing zone) X-ray.

Your unit is outnumbered 8-1 and the enemy fire is so intense from 100 yards away, that your CO (commanding officer) has ordered the MedEvac helicopters to stop coming in.

You’re lying there, listening to the enemy machine guns and you know you’re not getting out.

Your family is half way around the world, 12,000 miles away, and you’ll never see them again.

As the world starts to fade in and out, you know this is the day.
Then – over the machine gun noise – you faintly hear that sound of a helicopter.
You look up to see a Huey coming in. But.. It doesn’t seem real because no MedEvac markings are on it.

Captain Ed Freeman is coming in for you.

He’s not MedEvac so it’s not his job, but he heard the radio call and decided he’s flying his Huey down into the machine gun fire anyway.

Even after the MedEvacs were ordered not to come.He’s coming anyway.

And he drops it in and sits there in the machine gun fire, as they load 3 of you at a time on board.

Then he flies you up and out through the gunfire to the doctors and nurses and safety.

And, he kept coming back!! 13 more times!!
Until all the wounded were out. No one knew until the mission was over that the Captain had been hit 4 times in the legs and left arm.
He took 29 of you and your buddies out that day. Some would not have made it without the Captain and his Huey.

Medal of Honor Recipient, Captain Ed Freeman, United States Air Force, died last Wednesday at the age of 70, in Boise , Idaho

My Brother Geoff was there.

There is no context for “yeah, yeah, yeah” if you are a Louie-Louie Lass.  Every Louie-Louie Lad ever created needs no “context” for the swing of his eyebrows or the leer in his eyes … or, yes, in his voice.  We Lasses have become used to (if not inured to) the deafening echoes resulting from Lads whose “Yeahs”  reverberate around rooms and halls and offices.

 Con … as in “if you believe what he tells you, you are totally confused.”

 Text … as in “if you think the texture of your skin is any different than any of the other girls he has been trying to con, you have totally misread the text on his cell phone.”

 Now the women our Lads are trying so hard to confuse have heard all those “yeahs” before … and we are convinced they are part of the grand design of Lads to blind Lasses to the truth.

 We will take Valentine’s Day and all that it means because, in the context of life, we do love our Louie-Louie Lads … in spite of Big Louie and all those “yeahs” …

Valentine’s Day is coming. That’s a big deal around here. In some places it’s not. I guess like a lot of things, it depends on the context. The context here is that my Lady Wonder Wench seriously disrupts the estrogen level for most of this zip code. When she walks around in her two piece…which is what I call her bedroom slippers…I often lose control of my eyebrows, my ears, my fingers, and many of my other parts, and I am…for a short period of time…once again…Lifeguard Man. So I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, scratching my head…which feels good by the way…trying to think of a new and better way to put how I feel about my Lady Wonder Wench into a Valentine’s Day context.

 Lots of the things we say every day have different meanings depending on the context. For example, if you say, “It’s time for bed” to your 2 year old, what he hears is, “Now it’s time for me to lie down in the dark for hours…and be careful I don’t move, or I’ll wake the monster who lives under the bed. And there’s no use screaming, because Mommy won’t hear me, since she’s locking the door now and going far away, and I’ll probably ever see her again.” If you meet a Catherine Zeta Jones look alike at a singles bar, and you say, “It’s time for bed,” that produces an entirely different meaning. Context. 

 If you call your husband, and tell him that you’re at the doctor’s office, and you just put your baby to sleep…that’s one context. If you call your husband and tell him that you’re at the vet’s office and you put your baby to sleep…that’s an entirely different context.

 So what exactly is context. Let’s take the word apart. A Con is a cheat. A text is words. So a context is the kind of speech most political candidates give when Diane Sawyer is asking a question. Which means…depending on the candidate…we have to leave open the possibility of an ounce of brilliant truth in the bucket of bull. When you say I love you, that can mean a lot of different things…depending on the context. That’s why Valentine’s Day is heavily dependent on the context.

 Lady Wonder Wench came into my life at about the same time as the Beatles came into everybody’s lives. So it has been a while. Did you know the Beatles were known in Europe for a while as the “Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs?” As in, She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah seems like just some nonsense sounds. But maybe not. John Lennon had more than his arms up his sleeves with lots of his lyrics.

 Think about the possible context. Suppose you’re an ordinary guy, and a buddy tells you that he’s just found out that a Catherine Zeta Jones look alike is interested in you. You’re not going to believe it. So you say, “yeah.” As in “yeah sure.” He tells you, “Seriously…she really goes for you.” It begins to sink in. So you say…”yeahhh ???” Then he tells you, “She says she REALLY goes for you.” Wouldn’t you say…”YEEAAHHHH.”  Context.

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

1-      What made it ok for some guys to tie up a couple and watch them have sex?

2-      What are five million lobsters?

3-      What may change the name of Facebook ?

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

 You’ve got to know the context, if you want to understand what’s being said. For example is irony the opposite of wrinkly ? If rock is dead, did paper kill it ? Is sportsman ship just for losers ? If the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, what about big, furry spiders ? If it says on your box of animal crackers, do not eat if the seal is broken, and the seal is broken…what do you do ?

 I guess the point is, that words can be tricky. Con-Text…tricky words. It’s sometimes hard to be sure the words you’re hearing are describing real feelings. There’s a very short story about that in the lovin touch personal audio cd, and in the current podcast. It’s called…words.

 She talks to me…my Lady Wonder Wench. A lot. But the context is…I love the sound. She sometimes says she talks too much. But…context…I love where the sound comes from.

 Yeah.

 Yeah, yeah…yeah.

I would, of course, much rather giggle than jiggle … if, by that, my Louie-Louie Lad means there is more of me to bounce around than there used to be.  Now I know he would never say that out loud, but … I can see his gorgeous eyes …

 And just for that, I actually worked out at the Y today!  Sorry, T.Annie, no swimming.  I don’t like the drowning part.  But I took an exercise class (and yes, will again) that has made me feel like there is no part of me that doesn’t hurt.  Oh, Jane, the trainer, was awfully good … and kind … but none of those arm and leg muscles are used to working that hard.  But I was the only Lass in the class (!) and there was no way any of those LLLads was going to do better than me.  Oh my …

 Whatever he may say about his own exercising, I saw the wake he left in the pool.  And I saw a whole bunch of Lasses from the hi-dive watching him, so I guess I’d better get jiggling.

 When I can giggle again, I will tell my Lad the joke Jane told us …

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, watching my Lady Wonder Wench giggle. I like watching her giggle. The reason for her giggle is the fact that I may never again be able to get up from my big, comfortable black leather poppa chair…because I’ve had my first real work out at the gym since we moved here…which was a long time ago. Actually all I did was swim in their 25 meter long pool. I did 8 laps…200 meters. And I now have a real appreciation for the difference between a yard and a meter. A meter is approximately 6 miles longer than a yard.

 I need to put this in context for you. I was, in my “yout”…which is the Brooklyn word meaning young person…the chief lifeguard at Coney Island’s Section 6. I was…at that time…I was…I believe the term is…ripped. There were days when I had paperwork to do in the lifeguard shack, but I felt that it was my duty to go for a stroll along the beach because I looked so good. That was then. This is now. I realized yesterday that I have spent a little too much time in my poppa chair…because when I went to stand up and tighten my belt…for an agonizing few seconds…I couldn’t find it. And when I did tighten it, I felt like I was all of a sudden two inches taller.

 This is a fairly recent development. Actually…it started with having a knee replacement a year or so ago. It was because I figured I was in enough pain from the operation that I didn’t need to add to it by doing my pushups and my bike ride. The pain has receded, but I’ve gotten very used to my new exercise routine, which is every morning when I wake up, I go up, down, up, down, up, down…now the other eyelid. When you are a member of the Louie-Louie Generation as I am, following that kind of an exercise routine for any length of time is what eventually makes you distinctly visible on the pictures from Google earth.

 It gets harder to keep yourself in shape when you’re a Senior Louie-Louie lad. If you go to a doctor, he’ll scare the tendons off you by saying things like, “Call me if when you’re exercising you notice you’re lapsing into a lengthy coma or anything. And be sure you drink lots of water.” Doctors seem to think that humans were invented by water as a means of moving from one place to another.

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

 1-    What part of the human anatomy expands to twelve times it’s relaxed size when directly stimulated. (No, your first guess is wrong.)

2-     In what important department do cats beat dudes ?

3-     What are most wives/girlfriends slipping into their purses as we speak ?

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

 It used to be that if you wanted to show off your muscles, you flexed your biceps. That’s changed. Now a six pack of abs is the price of admission to hunk-hood. That makes no sense to me. 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 am not questioning the importance of abs because I don’t have any. I have abs. Actually…I have an ab. One. I found it while I was in the shower one night. I ran right out 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 awayyyyy.” I always wondered why he flew in that position. I think it was just to impress Lois Lane. I mean how impressed would she be if he just flew in a sitting position like an airline passenger, reading a magazine and eating a bag of really small pretzels.

 And that brings to mind another interesting question. It’s about the stealth bomber. The plane is invisible to enemy radar. That means the enemy guy is looking at his radar and his report must go something like, “I don’t see any airplane, but there are these two guys in a sitting position at 40,000 feet, traveling south east at 600 miles per hour.” I get weird pictures like that in my head when I’m this exhausted. Going to the gym can do strange things to you. There’s a story about that in the Night Connections Personal Audio cd. It’s called The Workout Woman.

 I often wonder about the guy involved in that story. How did he spend his night? I don’t know if he was married…but if so, did he call his wife? If he did, what did he do to get the sound of the Workout Woman’s laugh and the smell of her sweat out of his voice ? Going to the gym can do strange things to your life…and the lives of the people you love.

 “The Workout Woman” is from the Night Connections 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 icon on the home page.

 And so it was, that today…I swam 200 meters. That’s about all I could do. I used to swim two miles three times a week. Maybe if I swim backwards tomorrow I’ll have more energy instead of just getting so pooped. I’ve got to get back into some shape that isn’t round…or I’ll get stuck in my poppa chair.

 But I’m not going on one of those diets that are so strict you can only burp from memory. I also don’t want to start wearing my stomach ankle length, and start tripping over my chin. More important, I hear George Clooney is on the loose again, and I don’t want my Lady Wonder Wench to start reading over our wedding license, looking for loopholes. Actually, I like the way my Lady Wonder Wench giggles.

 She jiggles when she giggles.

So all right, he grew up in a German-Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn and got kissed for whistling. 

I grew up in Boston’s West End (which was Slavic:  Polish, Russian, Ukrainian, Lithuanian – as opposed to the North End, which was and is Italian, or the South End, which was and is Irish) – anyway, if you got caught whistling on my street, somebody’s grandmother or old aunt would smack you upside the head for calling down the devil.  And you didn’t dare go home and tell your mother because she would smack you again for causing someone’s grandmother to have to hit you in the first place.  And it didn’t matter whether you were Catholic or Jewish, you got smacked because all the old ladies just knew whistling was calling the devil to come and have a party. 

And wolf whistle?  Shoot, all us girls thought it was super neat except we were all too young for those damned whistles to be for us.

 Big Louie, I know times have changed.  But … just one little wolf whistle?

In our constant struggle to save the world, stop the sky from falling, and keep Victoria’s Secret from falling into the wrong hands…the ones with cold fingertips, the Big Louie Department of Defense and Fooling Around has decided that we have run out of options. It’s time to target the tear mongers. We are about to launch our ultimate un-doomsday weapon…our “Whistle Missile.”

 The decision to launch was made while I was sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, kicking back after a long day, and I almost dropped off to sleep. Have you ever noticed that in the process of dropping…off to sleep I mean… the little guy who lives behind your eyelids starts a slide show going for you? That just happened to me. And the first picture that came up, was me…age about 6 or 7 years and I was looking up at an old woman who must have been at least 20…and she was smiling down at me and crying at the same time. I remember thinking that was kind of strange. But then I thought, “It’s a woman, and she’s old. Maybe that’s what happens when you pass teen-ager-hood.” It was around 3PM on a bright, Brooklyn, Summer day. I was wearing shorts, my first pair of real sneakers, and a Superman T shirt…and I was so, “little kid happy” that I was whistling while I was walking down the street. And the next thing I knew, that old lady said, “You sound so happy whistling like that…” then she bent down and kissed me on the forehead. And for some reason I couldn’t understand at the time…I really liked that.

 A number of years later, I figured out why I liked that, and I tried whistling around some 20 year old women, and it didn’t seem to have exactly the same effect. But it also didn’t go un-noticed, either. And depending on the tune that I was whistling, it sometimes got a nicely returned smile.

 Now, there are all kinds of whistles. If you’re a member of the Louie-Louie Generation, you remember the days of the famous “Wolf Whistle.” Contrary to popular belief, the “Wolf Whistle” sometimes worked. But you had to “Wolf Whistle” very carefully. 

 The effectiveness of the “Wolf Whistle” depended to a great extent on the kind of smile that came before and after the actual whistle. If it was a nice smile…with kind of a sense of humor about it…it usually got at least a passing smile back.

 But I have never seen the “Wolf Whistle” wedged between two leers, get anything but ignored…except once, on Manhattan’s Park Avenue…one “old” 20 something lady, wearing a tank top, very attractive shorts, and high heels… turned…gave the leer-er a direct hit look, and added a most un-lady like one finger salute.

 So… whistles work. In fact, if you whistle between smiles…a whistle is like a missile, carrying a smile warhead. And when you think about it, that’s good, because we’re certainly coming up short on smiles these days. Which figures. Because there are tear mongers all over the place, telling us that the world is coming to an end this year, the sky is about to come crashing down around our ears, and we should cover up Victoria’s Secret because it’s too cold… colder than it’s ever been. Even the mannequins in the fashionable store windows all look like they’re smelling something bad. Smiles are really getting scarce. So if you’ve got a smile to spare, Big Louie says the count down has begun. Sight right down your nose at the nearest tear monger, pucker up, and launch a “Whistle Missle” in the form of a chorus of “Louie-Louie.” Let her rip right from your lip. 

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

1-    What do star fish and Congressmen have in common ?

2-    What is there about a Swift that reminds me of my pilot friends ?

3-    Why should we go soak our heads ?

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

 Sometimes…for no apparent reason…and in fact against every logical reasoning…a “Wolf Whistle” works. There’s a story about that in the Night Connections 2 Personal Audio CD. It’s called, “The Lawyer Lady And The Hunk.”And it’s in the current podcast.

 I saw her…that lawyer lady. She lost one of her high heel shoes hurrying up the steps to his apartment…and she was in such a hurry, she just went back and picked it up…she didn’t even take the time to put it back on. She just tucked in her purse, and ran over to his apartment door with one bare foot. I’ve found that things like that often happen when logic collides with hormones.

 “The Lawyer Lady And The Hunk is from the Night Conncections 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.

 As you probably suspect, there are lots of reasons Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation is launching our intercontintal Whistle Missile at the tear mongers who are trying to spoil our fun this year. And it has to do with the little guy behind my eye lids…and that long ago “old lady” smiling and crying…looking down at the little Brooklyn kid.

 That little guy behind my eye lids is supposed to pull the proper strings to make my life go in the right direction. He’s supposed to keep control of things. But sometimes, like when he sees my Lady Wonder Wench, he forgets what he’s supposed to do… and drops all the strings…and just enjoys the view. That’s why when she wanders in here, looking all beautiful, wearing something she calls, “Something More Comfortable…” my eyebrows start flipping up and down, my ears start to wiggle, and my fingers start drumming a Lambada beat, and I really want to start dancing. That guy is supposed to keep things like that from happening, but most of the time, he just loses it.

 And I guess whoever was in charge of keeping things under control behind that twenty something year old lady’s eyes all those years ago must have quit on her to…she lost control…and a couple of smiles popped out…right in the middle of her tears.

 And after all these years, I still love the picture I keep in my head of her looking down at that little six year old kid…who was whistling and smiling…just because he was so “little kid happy” in that long ago Brooklyn sunshine.

 And…sometimes…when that little guy who’s supposed to steer my life in the proper direction…starts that slide show going in my head as I’m dropping off to sleep, I can still feel that kiss.

I remember that basketball game, big time.  They didn’t just lose to those humongous Boston Patriots … they got clobbered.  But on the bus going home, they cheered up because they were still alive.

 I know people who … understand cheer up very well…one of my brothers in law… who mangled his chin falling off his bike and the embarrassed grin in his voice when he us told about it.  He said cheer up ‘cause he wasn’t badly hurt.  Yep … I sent a cheer up to his wife, Beth, at least he can’t talk much now …

 And there’s our next door neighbor-friend Randy who may have lost his job unless someone buys the company… but he giggled like a kid over the toys he and his wife Bernadette bought my Louie-Louie Lad and said, “Cheer up,” with his sweet smile. He won’t let anything get in his way while taking care of Bernie and his kids Emmie and Joe.

 “Cheer up” isn’t exactly a panacea for all the ills in the world … and boy, do we have some of those … but it makes you stop and think for just that moment and then you can grin at Big Louie and thumb your nose at those who won’t cheer up …