Good Night

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room. My Lady Wonder Wench and I 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.

I was standing in front of a class room packed with my peers, calmly 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 was a female version of General George Patton. And she was presiding over a class 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." I was 7 years old, and sister knew 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 was number five, I was about to confess to adultery, and coveting my neighbor's wife.

This podcast has been going on for a few years now. And lots of you proud podcast participants have been kind enough to send me stories about how you spent your summers.

Betsy really nailed it about the Loser's bedtime story. She said, "It reminded me of something my dad said just before he died. He used to take us on summer trips every year. One year he said he couldn't afford a motel any more, and we'd have to camp out if we wanted to go. That was the best summer trip we ever took."

Carole said, We lived near Yankee Stadium in a 4 story walk up that got the afternoon sun. So to cool off we'd sit out on the fire escape and listen to the roar from the Stadium. And when Carol heard about my lifeguard adventure with Matilda, she said, "I did my share of the cross - chest carry as a Water Safety instructor, and I'm with you. It's very easy to have a 2 piece bathing suit malfunction in surf when performing a rescue. It's not like you were administering un-necessary mouth to mouth on her!" (I hope you're listening Lady Wonder Wench.)

Dick B said, "I remember just sitting on the stoop with my friends, watching the world go by, till the ice cream truck came. We called the guy Jolly because he was always so grumpy. How do we slow things down like they were then." Hey Dick, I guess we don't.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room, kicking off my slippers, because I don't have enough fingers to scratch all my giglebites. Let me explain. Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation, has a new Louie-Louie Language word to describe an email that puts a smile on your face. He calls it a Giggle-bite. Because it's a gigabite with a laugh. I told you that I had a little bumpy time with last week's podcast, and courtesy of your own bad selves, I now have giggle bites all over me. And thank you for sending those gigglebites. Every time I scratch them they feel...very good. Thank you.

Time for me to brush off some dust. This podcast is for grown ups...Louie-Louie folks...of all ages. Big Louie, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, "The word grown up describes a person who has been known to groan from being knocked down, but always gets up, brushes off the dust, and gets on with life." That's a grown up. I know a lot of you from emails, or phone calls, or even visits. And you're all grown ups. So I guess you can stand hearing an offensive podcast without having it scar you too deeply. I have no idea why it's offensive. I don't want to offend you on this podcast any more than I'd want to offend you in person. But I obviously screwed up somewhere.

I was diligently drinking my morning cup of coffee today, seriously considering the possibility of starting to work to finish the report I'd been working on for a couple of days, because it's due tomorrow morning, when the phone rang. I put the half full coffee cup down next to the computer, kicked my chair back, tripped on the rug, and as I grabbed the desk to keep from falling down, I knocked the coffee into the computer key board.

The call was from a telemarketer. And it was recorded. I hit the call back button on the phone to ream the company out, and a phone company recording said the number was out of service. I walked over to the kitchen to grab a paper towel to sop up the coffee, forgetting that I had used the last of the roll last night. Fortunately, I was wearing an old shirt, so I looked around to be sure my Lady Wonder Wench wasn't watching, and I reverted to my bachelor days.

Without thinking, I pulled the shirt up out of my trousers, and started wiping up the coffee. But in the process of trying to get the coffee out from between the computer keys, I must have hit the delete button, and the report I was going to finish disappeared from the screen, replaced by a notice that said I was trying to perform an illegal operation, and therefore the program would close down to protect the computer, and I should see the network administrator.

I must taste bad. Especially to mosquitos. They simply don't bother me. My Lady Wonder Wench is in the bathroom applying itch ointment to a mountain of mosquito bites to surprisingly personal places. She obviously tastes good. Which figures when you look at her. But that makes her a human salad bar for mosquitoes.

There is a difference between tasting bad, and bad taste. Tasting bad makes you mosquito proof, keeps you from sucking your thumb when it's time to write a check for your income tax, and keeps elderly aunt kisses at a minimum when you are a child. Bad taste is wearing a nose ring with bi-focals, spiked hair and a bald spot, and short shorts with varicose veins.

Big Louie, his own bad self, The Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, "Don't sweat that stuff. Just wear what ever you can still button that doesn't itch, and can still pass the sniff test." You like to wear a thong with your depends... go for it.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, channeling my inner child. There he is...about six years old...sitting in the warm Coney Island sand, making a sand castle...trying to get a channel made just right so when the edges of the waves came in, some water would flow up into the pool he dug, behind the castle walls where the imaginary alligators lived. He's a happy kid, about to have his first real fist fight...when another kid...a few years older...came walking along and purposely kicked down a castle wall.

It wasn't much of a fight. My inner child just got so mad, he jumped up, and smacked the other kid in the face...which neither kid really expected...and the other kid ran away. It was just a quick, automatic reaction that got my inner child the results he wanted that day...but occasionally got him in a lot of trouble as the years went on.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room, getting ready to give you something everybody likes. A list. Everybody likes lists. Even David Letterman. The only people who don't like a list are standing on the deck of a ship that just hit an iceberg. This is the second part of our fifth anniversary celebration. Last week we ran up the five most downloaded podcasts of the past five years. This time, it's the top five most downloaded cuts from the Personal Audio cds.

I REMEMBERED IT THIS TIME ! It's our fifth Good Night Anniversary special. I checked the podcast counter for the top five most downloaded podcasts of the past five years. And here's how they came out. Plus...a FREEBIE !