Good Night

'Twas The Flight Before Christmas

...and all through our house...my Lady Wonder Wench and I are getting ready to meet the Christmas Spirit. Not Santa Claus. The Christmas Spirit. We do this every year. We bundle up, go down to the little airport where we keep our small plane, strap in, start the engine, and climb up into the cold, black, just before Christmas midnight. And so far...every year...well...give the podcast a listen. And...Merry Christmas.

One of the Summer Family's favorite Christmas treasures is in this podcast. It gets un-packed each year, along with the long legged little Santa that looks like Lady Wonder Wench's father used to look that has hung on our tree for decades. It's as important a part of our Christmas memories as the delicate, hand made, glass Christmas ball that first hung on my Grandfather's tree in Germany a couple of generations ago...and the tree top star I cut from cardboard and covered with tinfoil on the first Christmas Lady Wonder Wench and I had together. We couldn't afford to buy one in the store that year.

It's a gift our son David gave to our family, and with his permission I'm passing it along to you. David is a senior computer programmer. He gets this podcast to you each week. But he's also a very gifted, professional musician. He got that talent from his Grandfather. His present is one you will want to keep...so you can open it again next year, and for many years to come. Merry Christmas.

It's time for Jingle Bells, Louie-Louie style. Louie-Louie Generation lads and ladies have been around long enough to have more than a few good Christmas/Hannakah/Solstice/Kwanza stories to tell. So let's tell them to each other. You can send yours to [email protected], or just go to the blog at the www.dicksummer.com website and add it to the comments on the current blog. Looking for the laughs, the tears, the presents, the surprises...the memories...that make this time of the year...and this time of our lives...so special.

I've just noticed that civilization as we know it is tottering at a tipping point. Teetering...even. And it's my fault. The ancient Mayan 2012 end of the world prophesy is nothing compared to the impact on our weakened society of what I must call, the dreaded "D Word!" I must be careful just saying that out loud, because "Forces For Good In The Community" are always lurking... constantly alert to this incredible opportunity that the use of this new, and dreaded "D Word" gives them to be shocked, dismayed, and offended.

We have, in the long history of mankind, faced similar threats to our way of life when we have discovered...hidden...craftily in our midst...the "B Word," the "N Word," The "H Word," and the "F Word." Words for which, if you say them, those Forces For Good In The Community will righteously punish you by getting you fired from your broadcasting job, banishing you to live in Odessa, Texas, and/or sticking your wet tongue in a hot socket. (Actually sticking your wet tongue in a hot socket might not be such a bad punishment, because the resulting hairdo might win you a place on American Idol.)

If you and I take a moment out from complaining about everything, we'll come up with lots of big things to be thankful for...like the freedom to complain...even about the government...out loud...for example. But how about little thankful things? Like the ice cream sandwich with the little flakes of dark chocolate I had yesterday, or walking on the beach with somebody special...on Christmas day...or sharing a bag of hot popcorn with that same somebody, sitting next to you waiting for a movie to begin...or just tossing a Frizzzzzz- beeeee.

But we're talkin turkey today. Turkeys are dumb. They walk right over to you and say, "gobble, gobble." Not smart. That may be where we got the idea. Thanksgiving is also the anniversary of the "Men Are Saints" appeal. It's all here in this podcast.

Now, I realize that what I am about to say will put me high up on your list of surly, soulless, scoundrels. But I don't want a dog in my life right now. I also realize that it is statements like that which cause a great many, mostly unnecessarily fatal fights between men and women. And I understand that one of the, things my Lady Wonder Wench is thinking now is, "If I throw a stick will he run after it...and just keep running ?"

My buddy Al and his wife have a dog they named Ike. They treat Ike like their child. My feeling is that I have had enough children. And besides, I fear that the mixing of human and dog DNA could well result in the creation of an animal, which, instead of barking, would look up at you and say, "Let my people go." I can't help it. Right now, I want to be the only animal in Lady Wonder Wench's life.

I know how to deal with this. A Gold fish.

"Don't look back, they might be gaining on you." That's a quote from baseball's magnificent "Satchel" Paige. But I can't help looking back...in horror...at this past election's political television advertising. What kind of people do these pathetic politicians think we are?

No matter what your political views might be, if you believed half of what the politician's commercials said about their opponents, you would want to pack your bags and sneak out of the country under cover of darkness to someplace safe, if those other guys won.

I'm sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, and I must confess until I started recording this, I was sucking my thumb. I guess that's a little like hanging on to the blue blankie. The key pad on my new Ipod is not kind to Louie-Louie Generation guys with thick thumbs. In fact Ipods are not kind to Louie-Louie Generation guys period. And it's not just because you could call me "Old Clumsy Thumbs."

Ipods are also kind of a brain drain. Remember when companies gave you an instruction book when you bought something that was more complicated to use than just plug it in the wall, and turn the knob? The Ipod comes with a little tiny three page foldover instead. It says go to our website on the internet, and download the simple instructions. The simple instructions are 342 pages long. That's not simple instructions.

I like looking at my Lady Wonder Wench. Because when she looks back, I don't see the reflection of some Ol Clumsy Thumbs guy with a major brain drain. I see her Louie-Louie lover. Me. And that Lady Wonder Wench smile, always seems like it's saying... "hey hunk...why don't you come here and let me limber up your limbics."

It's coming clean time. I think every life should have some kind of real meaning. Including mine. Some people make a big mark on life. I'll be content with making just a small smudge.

One of the fascinating stories that came out about the rescue of those miners in Chile, is that some of them had mistresses. (Oh my.) The media didn't talk about them much, because talking about mistresses could cause trouble. Mistresses are a little like Stepmothers. They don't get much respect. Which is bizarre, because they sometimes become Stepmothers. I think many mistresses are misunderstood, and very much under-respected. The Pious guys roll their eyes to heaven when I say that. "Pious" is an old Brooklyn word meaning "full of pie." This podcast will explain my theory. (Every life should be examined one person at a time.) If you take what it says into your life, it will mean I've made my little smudge.

I've got to warn you about a group of people who are as close to useless as a BB gun during a rhino charge. And that's the Dreadful Drones. They are virtual people. They're not kids...they've done the time that could qualify them for Louie-Louie-hood, but they've totally missed the ‘tude. The Attitude. So they missed their opportunity. They never latched on to Louie-Louie hood. Big Louie claims that the only reasonable explanation for them is that during evolution, their ancestors were in the control group.

A Dreadful Drone Dude, walks a couple of steps ahead of his Dreadful Drone Dude-ett...and he forgets that a dude should hold his dude-tte's hand, open the door for her, and talk to her every once in a while. He still chooses his breakfast cereal by what kind of toy is in the box. His idea of excitement is when the tv networks start their new fall season shows. His biggest ambition is becoming a tax accountant who has a loophole named after him.

A Dreadful Drone Dude-tte thinks, "don't ask, don't tell" is a concept that applies to flatulating in a crowded elevator. Her professional ambitions are limited to becoming the secretary who has the desk nearest the copy machine. She's amazed to find that Polident isn't a beaten up parrot. If the Dreadful Drones were truly alive they'd be very sick people.