Good Night

I love telling stories. I even did a spoken word CD called, Bedtime Stories. Available at Amazon and CD Baby. Shameless plug. I read stories to my Lady Wonder Wench every night when we go to bed. Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton were so powerful because they were great story tellers. Sister Mary Knucklebuster kept the boys in order in the third grade partly by promising if we behaved, she'd read a story to us just before 3 o'clock. And if we didn't...thwack. A good example of the use of the carrot and the stick. In her case it was a yard stick. Everybody loves a good story. My friend Kevin is a savage golfer. A savage golfer is three times as crazy as your standard golfing nut.

So I tell Kevin Golf stories. For example, Tom, Dick and Harry were savage golfers. They played every Saturday morning through rain, snow, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. One Saturday, Tom teed up and hit a shot straight down the fairway. Dick did the same. Harry teed up, and just as he was swinging at the ball, he had a heart attack and fell down dead. That night, they went to tell Harry's wife the bad news. When she calmed down a little she asked, "If it happened this morning, why didn't you tell me till now?" So Dick explained how long it took to tee up, hit the ball, drag Harry, tee up, hit the ball and drag Harry for 18 holes.

I have just returned to my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room after a dog-gone interesting trip to the post office. You always hear about "dis-gruntled postal employees" doing something weird or even nasty. Like shooting a president. But the lady who runs the local post office...we'll call her Mary Pat Susan because I don't want her to get in trouble for this in case the NSA or the lords of the postal service are listening and they don't like what she's doing. I figure that if there are dis-gruntled postal workers, there must be gruntled postal workers. And Mary Pat Susan must be the queen of the gruntled postal workers.

I do believe in a lot of things. I believe we're all different, just like everybody else. I believe the purpose of my life is to be happy, and to spread happiness as best I can. That may not be the purpose of anybody else's life, but it's the purpose of mine. I believe the measure of any man is how he cares for and protects the people he loves...especially his woman...if he is lucky enough to have a woman who will be his.

I believe in making people feel comfortable enough to laugh with me, and secure enough to sometimes cry with me if they need to cry. I believe that if you cry long enough, loud enough, and deeply enough, you'll eventually start to laugh. I believe in being as honest as I can be, with other people and with myself. But I also believe you've got to leave a little room for "maybe" in deciding if somebody is telling you the truth.

There is a difference between a mistake and a lie. Remember "Of course the world is flat...just look." "The sun orbits the earth...we all know that." "Sickness is caused by the wrath of God. What could bugs so little you can't even see them have to do with it?" Honesty = The Truth + Maybe is the way I put it in my book, Staying Happy Healthy And Hot.

I am not John Lennon. I cannot any longer say, Give Peace A Chance. I've had it with the guy on the commercial giving me the 800 number, and telling me to "Call Now." Who does he think he is telling me to call now. If he hadn't said that I might have called. But not now. Then he goes on to say, "But wait...if I call "Right Now"without even taking the time to change my underwear or check my email for sexy Russian brides, he'll throw in an extra bonus...the state of Nevada...or some such nonsense."

My Lady Wonder Wench has more lists than David Letterman. I have always envied David Letterman's job. He just walks out on to the set, and people applaud. What a great job. Wouldn't you like to go to work tomorrow and you walk in and say "hi" and people applaud? They're basically saying..."Hey look...he showed up." I like just sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room, watching my Lady Wonder Wench make her lists. She has lists for everything. Grocery lists, the list of days I'm supposed to do stuff like change the water filter, run the generator, go to the gym...all kinds of lists. By the way, I now call my toilet Jim instead of John. That way it sounds good when I say, "I went to the Gym the first thing this morning."

Everybody likes lists. In my new book, Staying Happy, Healthy, And Hot (available at Amazon). On page 150, Big Louie has a genuine list of the Top 10 Happiness Helpers for you if you're feeling kind of down and droopy today.

I just got a slap on the side of the head reminder that I have been young for a very long time. I have a jacket that says Brooklyn across the front. I like the jacket partly because I've had it for a very long time. My Lady Wonder Wench doesn't like the jacket, partly because I've had it for a very long time...also it has a couple of holes that I like to tell people are bullet holes, and a rip under the left arm that I like to claim is from a knife fight. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but she puts up with it because she understands that I like wearing clothes that are thoroughly broken in. Clothes that have character. Clothes that help you make up stories.

CXY is a brand new, and very important understanding about life. It's a soft "C" by the way. Soft "C"-"X" "Y". I'll tell you what I mean.

I try hard to understand life. I was sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair watching TV, and a totally confusing commercial popped up. I am easily confused by some commercials, although I do commercials for a living. One commercial that confuses me is the one that's supposed to help some guy by the name of Ed. That's his name. ED. He has a girl friend by the name of Alice. In this commercial, Ed goes to see Alice, hoping for an evening of romance, but Ed has some kind of problem, and so Ed and Alice spend the rest of the evening in separate bath tubs. As I will explain, his problem has to do with his soft "C" "X" & "Y".

I have been fined once too often and I'm going to sit here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room and complain to you about it. My Lady Wonder Wench came back from the supermarket today, looking totally exhausted and upset. I said, "Are you ok?" And she said, "I'm fine." No. She wasn't fine. I have seen her when she is fine, and she doesn't look like that when she's fine. She looks so very fine when she is fine.

What is it with that "fine line." It's like we've taken the words, "Hi, how are you? I'm fine" and turned it into one word. "HihowareyouI'mfine." The person asking you how you are doesn't really want to know 90% of the time, and you're not fine 89% of the time. Why don't we say what we really mean? Hi, what's your problem. I feel like throwing up.

Now and then I start thinking about then...while I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly black leather poppa chair. Things are not as easy as they were then...when I was wearing my Coney Island lifeguard body. It was a wonderful time. I was at the height of my young manly hunk hood. I considered it to be my civic duty to walk the entire beach at least three times a day, so the girls could admire my magnificent bod, rock hard abs, bulging biceps, tight bun stuffed into my tiny speedo, as I was flexing and perspiring in the sun. When I noticed a girl was watching, I smiled confidently, and wiggled my ears at her. That made her smile. A smile is a wonderful thing. In those days it sometimes led to under the boardwalk demonstrations of mouth to mouth resuscitation. That was then. This is now.

"Alice" is the name I've given to the lady's voice in my car GPS. She quite often has conversations with my Lady Wonder Wench when I'm driving. Their conversations frequently have to do with my driving techniques, which I will admit are sometimes...unorthodox.