Good Night

I am sitting here on my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and Angela is sitting right here on my lap. In a few minutes, if all goes well, she will be scratching my back. I have never met anyone who could scratch my back like Angela. Not even my Lady Wonder Wench.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I'm going to have to stay here for a little while. This has been a long, tough day. The only thing that's holding me together right now is static electricity. I am looking forward to finding the energy to go take a shower.

A shower is the third of Big Louie's six super satisfactions. Number one is sex, number two is steak, number 3 is a shower, number four is scratching an itch, number 5 is a flashing a smile and number six is grabbing a snooze. The six big s's for satisfaction. Sex, steak, shower, scratch, smile, snooze.

I'm sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room enjoying an injury that I have suffered at the hands of my Lady Wonder Wench. Actually the injury was caused by the fist of my Lady Wonder Wench. Her left fist.

I have come to call this frequently inflicted injury, the "Louie Lad Shoulder Slam." I have noticed that it's an injury that many of my fellow Louie Louie generation guys seem to enjoy frequently. It can happen any time a Louie Louie lady's fist is near her Louie Lad's shoulder, and he's making wise cracks. But it seems to happen most frequently when he's driving their car.

I am sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather papa chair in my living room, trying to calm down after talking with an individual who's birth I suspect, may have been caused by a secret government project gone hideously askew. He is the editor of the new book I'm trying to finish, and he is what you might call a natural source of methane. He is now objecting to the title of my book...which is Staying Happy Healthy and Hot.

I like that title, because it expresses the Louie Louie Generation's outlook on life. Staying happy helps to keep you healthy, and when you're healthy, your hormones hum heroically. My attitude is that it's my book, so I'll decide on what the title should be. He tells me I have an attitude problem. I told him I don't have an attitude problem. If he has a problem with my attitude, it is not my problem. He claims he even understands internet publishing. I point out to him that the Internet claims that hot naked women want to befriend me, and therefore I distrust everything I read there. Our relationship is approaching a meltdown. Except that a meltdown sounds like fun. Something like a kind of warm cheese sandwich.

Most what I'm going to tell you this time we talked about last year, because it's happening again. I hate this, but it's time to tuck another summer away. Sunrise, sunset. To everything there is a season. And this is the season when Summer falls asleep. The long, laughing, lazy, crazy, hazy days at the beach, the nights full of soft lovers voices under the boardwalk...Saturdays in the park, itsy, bitsy, teeny, yellow polka dot bikinis, roller coasters, Italian ice cups, baseball, the sound of crickets, and lawn sprinklers...you can feel them all slipping away...into fall.

The little counter at the bottom of my computer screen says 1,529 emails have just poured into my lap top, as I'm sitting here on my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room. Four of them seem to be from people I know, although one that says it's from our son Eric claims that if I click on the attachment, I will win an all expense paid cruise to the Antarctic, with six famous porn stars to attend my every need. That's not the kind of email Eric usually sends.

A whole stack of these emails are from some very nice guy in Narobi who wants to send me the money a fourth cousin twice removed left me as his only blood relative. And although I don't have a facebook page it has somehow attracted the attention of a bevy of Russian beauties who are desperate to have their way with me. And there are educational emails from all kinds of people. Big Louie, his own bad self always says, "Never read the educational emails or your life will disappear down a black hole."

I was sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather pappa chair in my living room listening to our little 3 year old Cecelia sing, when the news about Neil Armstrong's death came in. The song she was singing was a three year old's happy, but very careful version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, How I Wonder What You Are." It was the absolutely perfect song for the occasion.

Cecelia is only 3, but she sometimes amazes us with the things she wonders about. Most of the time she's a bundle of bounces and non-stop noise. But I've seen her sit very quietly on our daughter Kris' lap on a Summer evening, and look up at the stars...and wonder...really wonder...what they are.

I just got back from the drug store with a stash of vitamins and magic herbs that will improve my memory, help me sleep, and make My Lady Wonder Wench putty in my arms. And you know those plastic wrappings they put around bottle tops to keep the bad guys from dropping their stuff in there while nobody's looking? I grabbed a knife from the drawer, and started cutting around the edge so I could open the lid, and My Lady Wonder Wench said, "Don't cut yourself." She doesn't trust me with sharp objects. What have I done to deserve that ? (For those of you who have been listening to this podcast for a while, never mind with your wise guy answers.)

"Frank" and I have shared around 30 years worth of hamburgers and cold ones, bad jokes, and Auld Lang Synes. He was there to help me when my Lady Wonder Wench had that accident that almost cost her life. He's the kind of guy you want around for laughs, and also for when the sky is crashing down around your ears. But there's something we can't talk about any more, because every time we get into it, he gets angry, really angry. We can't talk about America any more.

I may have been sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room a little too long. That lying, miserable bathroom scale just said I am one perilous pound short of Dick's Disaster. Dick's Disaster occurs at 190 pounds.

I was 175 pounds at the end of my college career, which consisted of weight lifting, swimming, and vigorous Viagral adventures. Don't laugh. I hear some snickers coming from the more fully evolved but prostate challenged among you. Especially those with nicely decorated fourth fingers on your left hands.

Don't laugh. Viagral adventures are great for a guy's health. In fact a new study done at Duke University, claims that having 200 Viagral adventures a year will add an average of six years to a guys life. I sometimes wonder how you get to sign up for studies like that.