Monthly Archives: September 2013

Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 185: ‘A Romance in Autumn’ Creatives by Rg2 (14) ‘Autumn’s First Pamper-Her-Friday’

image © Mossad

image © mossad


Claremont, Calif.–6:56 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

The crisp draft seeping through my window last night
slyly penetrated my bones,
Autumn has quietly announced its arrival
Have you noticed fall’s earthtones?

What will you do with your hair, my Love,
No matter, fingerplay with it I will,
My hands-on nature deepens in autumn
I can’t promise to contain my zeal

Alas, my secret’s out, I’m a man of all seasons
and this turn is closest to my heart,
Handholding, whether gloved or ungloved matters not
Our autumn romance is an art

You, my private reader and I your sole purveyor
of warm-the-soul intimacy drinks,
The coffee café at the rustic barnhouse
Spoonfeeding you whipped cream as it shrinks

There’s a theatre production tonight, Pomona College
Directed by Mr. Kenshaka Ali,
A New York legend of west-coast acclaim
whose work I want you to see

Then a walk to old towne only minutes away
for PutterCup Bakers’ to-die-for cinnabread,
We’ll tip the hats of the street players on horns
Their creativity should also be fed

Esperanza Spalding’s in town, an impromptu show
A tablebooth is reserved in our names,
Lattes we’ll share as a light rain begins
The hearth is lit and we’re nearest to the flames

As midnight draws near, the best I’ve saved for last
My space gladly welcomes us from the cold,
Rest your head upon my shoulder and close your autumn eyes
for a bedtime story to no one else I’ve ever told.

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.


A woman is most romantic in autumn. -Rg2


© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®




Posted by on September 27, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday


Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 184: ‘A Summer’s Romance’ Collection by Rg2 (55) ‘Summer’s Last Love Letter’

shore dinner

My Summer Love,

I’ve never shared this with anyone, but my heart needs the release. And who more sacred than you with whom I can let go?

I was bullied some years ago. High school. He was 6′ 8″, no less than about 220 lbs.–dry–and the captain and bonafide star of the basketball and football teams.

I scaled maybe 168–wet–a hair above six feet, and, after somehow making the varsity squad, surely by no more than the coach’s sympathy, a semi-professional bench warmer. I had no business on the team. Truthfully I loved books and the art, wonder, adventure and serendipity of words and stories.

Romantic words and expression especially. No one knew–outside my alter ego.

I just so happened to have a geometry class with the captain. I liked angles and degrees, the interplay of my hand and the protractor. And proofs and theorems offered a challenge not quite as hard as the girls on campus.

The captain wasn’t much on geometry. I know what you’re thinking: I was coerced into doing his work, right? Bullied into doing two sets of homework and crafting test answers when my parents and my God knew that wasn’t my character?

Not quite. In English Lit class I’d ghostwrite love letters and poetry to imaginary cheerleaders, and the hottest girl band members of that era, and even to Ms. Roberts, the recent-college-grad teacher whose mastery of the intricacies and power of the English language and, even more, the pen held me spellbound.

She had to sense there lurked something in me for her, harmless though it was. But, I swear, the erections were numerous and unyielding. Thank goodness my desk shielded me sub-torso. Had she called upon me to approach the board to fill in subject and predicate blanks or identify dangling participles, no doubt I would have been the laughingstock of my classmates–or perhaps the envy of a few.

Ms. Roberts never acknowledged my crush. And I was, even then, seasoned in the art of emotional subterfuge–beyond my years. She graded fairly, objectively, always mindful of the fragility of the student’s psyche yet lovingly tough because she understood the world would show no mercy.

I scored high B’s and low to mid A’s consistently. But none of that mattered psychologically to me until one verge-of-summer afternoon when she designated the class period freelance-writing hour–two simple prompts she wrote on the board: “Betrayal; Romance. What does either mean to you?”

Of course I chose the latter. We had the liberty of poetry or prose.

Man, I scored an A+. My first ever in her class. She requested to speak to me after class. Uh oh.

She held me captivated all of about five minutes. She began to read aloud my first paragraph in an almost whispery, lyrical tone (I guess because that’s how the words made her feel) and stopped in what was an eerie moment of feather silence to my lone audience. I then became just a bit nervous because she kept her eyes on the page a few seconds longer as if searching for the verbals.

I stood there; my breaths a bit less labored with each passing second, something having come slowly over me like some transformation of sorts in the presence of this professional woman.

She lifted her eyes, beheld me, and said something that would forever alter the course of my life: “I am so proud of you,” Ms. Roberts spoke. “Good grammar is one thing but emotional heft is something quite another. Your words breathe, invite, move, weave, and emote. If you maintain your discipline and continue to feed your imagination, you will speak to millions.”

I was a nobody on campus. A sometimes-casual, oftentimes-intense observer on the team (when my mind would wonder about the world I would inhabit beyond that gymnasium). A closeted nerd not wanting the girls to know.

But a woman said to me I had something. Gosh, imagine. Little did she know I had written to her, she had been my prompt. My subject, she. That one cheerleader who didn’t care that I never got into the game . . . because she saw me excelling in an altogether other game. She rooted me on when I needed it most.

God, the power of a compliment. A well-earned, sincerely given compliment. It has no equal as a motivator, especially for an impressionable youth. A kid needs a believer in him, an advocate for her–a seer of that light, however dim or hidden or not yet given a chance to shine.

And perhaps that’s what the captain came to see as well. That same letter had somehow fallen from my binder near the end of geometry class and the captain snatched it up from the aisle floor before I could reach it and didn’t offer it back.

“I need my letter back,” I said half-heartedly. He wouldn’t budge. I reached out to quickly snatch it back only to be rebuffed and pushed back into my desk. He laughed arrogantly and dared me to reflex a second attempt.

It would have been a punk move to get the teacher involved. Prompted by the lunch bell, I began to sullenly gather my things and became resigned to having lost a valuable possession. Besides, I had to deal with him in after-school practices. He had a way of making practices more miserable than their very nature.

As I made my way out of the classroom, the beast baller called out with his face buried in the paper. Dude could actually read, I thought to myself.

“Who wrote this?” his voice boomed.

“My name’s on it.”

“Scrub, I see your name. But who wrote it?”

He approached me, his stature seeming to tower over my diminutive, scrawny shadow of a body.

“I did.”

A dead silence stood between us. I kept my eyes on the letter, now peeking from his massive right hand, so as not to have to look him in the eye. I heard what sounded like a chagrin and then a brief chuckle of disbelief. I kept my eyes on the letter–he gathered my seriousness.

Stung was I when the near seven-footer said to me, “You got skills, little man. I’m trying to get Lisa to go to the prom with me but she’s giving me a hard time . . . saying I think I’m entitled to her ’cause I’m the shotcaller on campus. Write something for me, like this,” he said, motioning to return the letter. “Make it sound like this but from me. If she says yes, I’ll take care of you, scrub.”

Now I was the one in disbelief. The king campus jock was offering to “take care of me” if I had the chops to come through for him. This wasn’t actually a fair bargain of the Harvard Business School type. For sure, it wasn’t even a mutually agreed-upon deal between two willing negotiators. He had set the terms; wasn’t like I could say no, eh?

But it wasn’t a Faustian Bargain either. A Bully Bargain, yes, but not totally distasteful. I mean, he was asking, er, telling me to do something that was essentially part of my element. I thought, on my way home after school, if I could win over Ms. Roberts, a talent assessor and critic of the highest order, Lisa’s heart couldn’t be too formidable, could it?

But what about the captain’s voice? My words represent my voice, my heart, my travails and contradictions, fears and inklings of self-doubt. Would she surmise the words are those of an interloper, not her outsize-ego, girls-at-his-feet, funk-the-dunk, crown-and-touchdown Mr. Undisputable?

It was there that I realized writing’s agency as a service, not an easy one. Where creativity, unteachable, would separate storytellers from writers. Something was happening, a world had opened up, opened its doors, and I was taking my place in it.

Credit the captain, I look back on it: Though he wasn’t a writer, he understood its power and recognized its agency. I no longer associated “dumb” and “jock” to him . . . or to any other for that matter. Something was happening to me. And to the captain for that matter.

And so I wrote, refusing more than one take; no balls of paper littering my trash can. I typed it so that he could engage his own handscript. I slipped the envelope in the front jacket of a class geometry workbook and passed it to my “client” the next day in class, expecting him to immediately order a do-over. He never got around to reading it during class, the Friday test took up the entire period.

At the bell, he nodded to acknowledge me on his way out without as much as a word. I’m sure he noticed the sweat across my brow.

Days lapsed between the submittal and the prom scheduled two weeks hence–no word from the team captain.

But something magical happened. The Monday after prom weekend, there, at the beginning of geometry class, a program awaited me on my desk. I picked it up as the teacher was preparing the class agenda, opened it and, involuntarily, became transfixed by the photo inside. The captain, tall, freshly cut, white tux-tailed and towering over Lisa, every bit princess-like herself, as she stands securely in his arms. I don’t think I’d ever seen her wear a smile so freely on campus. I might’ve even been a little jealous.

I turned my gaze across the room to locate the big guy; he sat snugly in the desk, actually looking almost trapped by the desk, copying the board notes, then took a moment to acknowledge me with his signature “what’s up, scrub” nod. No smile. But no frown either. I nodded back with a newfound self-assuredness, as if I had just been graduated a notch up from scrub obscurity. As the teacher returned Friday’s test results, I marveled at the A- I scored. Wow, a scrub’s life ain’t half bad.

But it was at the basketball awards banquet where it all culminated beyond my most creative dreams. My teammates had been ribbing and pre-congratulating me on being likely awarded the “Most Reliable Benchwarmer” trophy. I had to laugh with them. But fate had slightly different plans.

I actually scored the “Academic” trophy for classroom performance, the tallest of all the trophies presented on the evening. My mother’s eyes seemed to glaze over with a hint of emotion, my father’s shoulders appeared to expand with pride. Never having given them reason to come to the games, I compensated for their loyalty–my head lifted just a little higher.

As we exchanged handshakes and congratulations to adjourn the event, the captain came over to us, introduced himself, and did something that will forever rank with Ms. Roberts’ impact on me: He handed me his MVP trophy.

“You deserve this one, too, scrub.”

My parents looked at one another simpatico and then rested their eyes on me, lost for words.

“Nah, man, I can’t take . . .”

He cut me off: “Yes, you can. You saved my season. It’s yours. Take care of it.” The plaque even had my name engraved.

Wow. A magical night. A nerd could be MVP.


Which is what this summer has been for me with you by my side, in my arms, before my sunrises and after my sunsets. My when-the-mornings-come and my enchantments-by-moonlight.

Remember the box of summer treasures I gave you at the beginning of the season? I requested that you not open the envelope it contained until the end of summer.

By all means, open it, Love. The time has come.

The letter? Yes, I wrote it those many years ago, anticipating I’d meet that special someone who’d see what Ms. Roberts saw in the kid with the creative imagination.

Yes, you. I saw it all along, held on to the possibility. Magical, just as I imagined.

And the leaves?

I knew that’d get a smile out of you.

It’s autumn, Love.

Romance lives. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®


Posted by on September 20, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday


Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 183: ‘A Summer’s Romance’ Collection by Rg2 (54): ‘You are My Creative Content’

GHB-Romantic Dinner


“You are My Creative Content”

I heard Magic tell Arsenio he needs content
creators for his network, Aspire,
Romance, Reality, Drama . . . Clean Comedy
to elevate the viewer a little higher

I thought about you, I thought about us
and the content of our summer’s romance,
unfolding on screens, tablets, and mobiles
An Emmy nomination by chance

I’m writing the proposal, I need your input
Love, come, I need you to lean in,
What about a voice-over competition
Your golden studio voice–a sure win

A car-culture show: “Women and their Wheels”
documenting Detroit’s Renaissance,
Interviews of lady designers and engineers
Muscle cars to lux-deluxe–all that she wants

What about a “Perform for College” documentary?
Profiling higher ed-aspiring high schoolers,
Viewers can crowdfund the next generation
text in scholarship donations like smart poolers

A “So You Wanna be an Entrepreneur?” segment
Sharing successes, failures, and never-quits,
From the mom-and-pop to the ivory tower
Both the business misses and the sweet hits

Gotta have law drama and medical trauma
and people love their cops and robbers,
House-hunting tricks and the celebrity-show fix
Family strife–from the strugglers to the snobbers

But finding romance in this digital age
may well be the sweetspot of the network,
Navigating the turbulent waters of love
Exploring the joy and the hurt

What’s that? A Pamper-Her-Friday primetime series?
Now wouldn’t that be ideal,
Pure genius, woman, I knew it from the start
Only with you can I close this deal

Equal partner, I want you to co-sign
We’ll give this document our blessing,
Hand-delivered to Mr. Johnson
We’ll leave no room for guessing

Now, enough about business
How about a glass of soothing champagne,
It’s Pamper-Her-Friday in real time, Love,
and I intend to make this plain:

Tonight I’m your faithful servant
but with authority to improvise,
and I assure you our creative content
will unfold untelevised . . .

. . . to the break of dawn.




Don’t simply aspire. Pamper the woman. -Rg2



© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®


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Posted by on September 13, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday


Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 182: His Romance Manifesto by Rg2 (5): (Rated Rg2: For Gentlemen Only)

Wade-ielle, the Union

Wade-ielle, the Union


A Guide for the Romantic Man:

1) Place your most sincere hand over your heart and–alone first–take the Romantic’s Oath: Do no harm. Yes, you’ve taken the oath before but we as men get weak at times, a bit callous, a little careless in our devotion, in our display of love to the woman. It’s human nature to lull at some point; she’s just as guilty. Then take the Oath in her presence while looking deeply into her eyes. Mean it. She’ll feel it.

2) Ask her, “What can I do to earn a kiss on the cheek from you?” Corny it may be on the surface, but let’s dig a little deeper. The vanishing kiss is no myth. Couples are kissing far less than our grandparents and great-grandparents. Ask any woman, “When’s the last time you kissed your lover on the cheek?” Watch her ponder the question–reaching for an answer.

In many ways, a kiss on the cheek is far more intimate, more revealing, more telling of her feelings than the more conventional liptouch. If she kisses you on the cheek . . . the woman’s in love. (see Gabrielle)

3) Summer’s fading. Autumn’s in view. Take two envelopes, address them both to her. Insert in one a tablespoon or two of beach sand; in the other a couple of fallen leaves. Each with a scribbled note: The sand, something like, “Why did our summer love have to end . . . ?”; the leaves note should contain, ” . . . because our autumn romance promises even more.”

Mail each a day or two apart, the sand one first of course. Notice her reaction upon concluding the second letter. Her eyes will say it all. (Trust me.)

4) Write a “Romance Résumé” and send it to: Her Name, Inc.

Nothing necessarily elaborate or formal. In fact use your business résumé as a template. Head it: “Professional Romantic Objective”:  To occupy your heart. To edify your spirit. To make home the most wanted place on earth. To love you and love again. And again.

Use action verbs liberally: “I rub your feet at request”; “I listen when you need to vent”; “I change oil, repair flat tires, and top off all vital auto fluids consistently”;  “I sautee boneless, skinless poultry & vegetables, flame-grill a lean, tender juicy steak, and/or blend an awesome fresh fruit smoothie upon request”; “I open the door to allow your entry without hesitation”; “I call when I say I will, arrive when I declare I will, pay the bills on time because I know you’re a stickler” (yes, I still write checks sometimes, because I don’t yet trust online ‘everything’–if the U.S. is ever digitally hacked or the grid is sabotaged, the collectors [and FICO] still expect timely payment); “I rub your forehead (it always worked as a kid) and laugh at your sometimes unfunny jokes–because I care”; and

“I pamper. Just because.”  (You’ll never be unemployed. Trust me.)

5)  Suggest and start a Christmas and/or New Year’s Matching Fund–just you two. Offer to match her contributions with a caveat–you’ll double her deposits on each successive Pamper-Her-Friday leading up to the occasion. Gifts for no one else derives from this fund, only for you two. Then grant the other his/her wish–one open wish, the other a surprise. Look back, reminisce on when the fund first began and all the Pamper-Her-Fridays leading up to the special occasion. Look into her eyes and feel her heart.

A couple that saves together . . . stays together. (Money doesn’t finance love. It finances “memories.” Those are priceless.)

6) It’s football season. Ask her her favorite team. On a romantic Pamper-Her-Friday, plan nothing outside the home for the night. Creatively concoct  mixed drinks named for her team: Naked Steeler; Naked Raider; Naked Raven; Naked Niner . . . .

She will invariably ask, anxiously curious: “Why is it called Naked?” Escort her (pick her up and carry her) to the boudoir, retrieve the drinks, close the door, kill the lights, and say simply, “It’s kick-off time, woman.” And save the best for the 4th quarter. Touch . . . and tackle. Feel?

7) Ask her, “If you could create, invent, or sell something that you love to do and want to share it with the world, what is it?” Listen to her intently. Women are full of ideas. Together, apply for a patent or trademark for her long-held dream. And help her market the product or service. Doesn’t have to be a homerun. There’s love in the endeavor. And it may just be a market winner.

8) Take her to a concert featuring her favorite male singer. You’ve choreographed the after-the-show: Her favorite dim-light intimate lounge for light edibles/drinks and neo-jazz ambiance. Along with your drinks, the server hands her an elegant envelope, scribbled on the front: “From John Legend”–whom you two just saw onstage. Enthralled, she opens and pulls out his just-released CD along with a note featuring a poem you wrote.

The trio frontman comes over, introduces himself and asks if he can borrow the note. He returns to the band and then calls you up as a special guest performer. She’s entranced with it all. The piano starts, the bass ensues and the horn joins in–a soft ballad that accompanies your recital. The room is awed. She much more.

You are the true “Legend” on this night. Mesmerized, she.

9) It just so happens D-Wade and Gabrielle are seated across the room in an intimate corner booth, but within eyeview. The three-time champion nods, they both send smiles and vibes your way . . . along with courtesy drinks for two and, alas, another note. “Champions pamper their women,” it reads. You nod back at Mr. Wade graciously. Your date snuggles firmly under your arm. Heaven is real.

10) On a whim, out of the blue, call her and ask, “Do you care about me, woman?” If she answers yes without hesitation, she’s in love. If she says no, she’s fibbing. The woman’s in love.



Pamper the woman  . . . and forever is her romance. -Rg2


© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

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Posted by on September 6, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday

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