It’s the end of another grueling week
Are you ready for your Pamper-Her-Friday fix?
What, you’ve never been pampered by a man who cares?
I’m on my way pronto, woman, on Route 66
Can we enter into a restrictive covenant:
If you’ll give solely to me your entire weekend,
Transport you will I from your present environs
To Santorini, where the azure skies ascend
We’ll escape the social madness engulfing the States
Let’s escape into the safety of one another,
Evening cuisine and nightbevs await you and me
I intend to get close but promise not to smother
Your free-wheeling nature, the winds are yours
The mountainscapes have both our names engraved,
I wanna touch your hand across our private table
Tell me the silk road to your heart is yet unpaved
Men have tried to make inroads, to no avail
I can’t say I’m shoulders above the rest,
I simply want to write my way to your mind’s door
How is it, woman, that you’ve become my only quest?
Your shoulders haven’t felt therapeutic fingers
The likes of which attached to my nuanced hands,
Babygirl, it’s not touch, but the quality of touch
Of you tonight I make absolutely no demands
Except you entrust your anatomy to this scribe
To relinquish your limbs from your sole possession,
You’ve held onto your vulnerability like a fear
What this feels between us is no intercession
We share something mystical, even extraterrestrial
Earthly beings among us couldn’t begin to understand,
Every third beat of your heart synchs to my own
Are you capable of deeply loving a distinctive man?
More than a weekend? I shan’t ask beyond
To do so is a selfishness I couldn’t justify,
From Friday to Sunday I crave each second of you
And come midnight, then, don’t expect a goodbye
From this romantic; who’s pampering you tonight?
I’m the only man capable of sweeping you away,
I only ask that you honor our sacred covenant
Let me pamper you on this Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .
Pamper the woman . . . before summer ends. -Rg2
A man of instinct am I, for better or worse
Might you be a woman sensitive to climate change?
There’s something earthly precious in your eyes
On the other side of social media, you, but in range
Of Pamper-Her-Friday’s affectionate tentacles
What is it that you’re in want of this summer’s night?
You so exquisitely plan events for your clientele
But in the middle of darkness, who holds your light?
Lola, I feel something like social justice in you
A compassionate world citizen with special insight,
The preservation of nature and purity of human heart
Guide your intents…they can ease a man’s plight
Do you ever think of me, Lola, on a random Friday?
Ever have I been the content of your curious wonder?
So much of you operates on naked creativity
I believe we can match vulnerabilities over yonder
To simply elevate the human spirit and better life
I truly sense we have that in common, no?
I’ve never been to West Africa or graduated Howard
Though I remember walking the artery of Chicago
You might have been there those many years ago
But you wouldn’t have known me from an Adam,
Somewhat of a lost soul was I but conscious still
Pamper-Her-Friday was a concept I couldn’t fathom
There’s something in you that lives in me, woman
You’re much deeper than the materialism of Rome,
Phuck the BMW and the penthouse though nice both
A sanctuary we all seek, truth told, a spiritual home
We’re all hurting, Lola, the poorest of us are hurting
The Neo-Nazis are hurting, the alt-rights and alt-wrongs,
If decaying from within is our collective destiny
I wanna serenade your sweet soul with a few songs:
Amazing Grace . . . how sweet is the sound . . . save us
Heavenly Father, are we worthy of your resurrection?
It’s true we’ve done so much harm to one another
But to Lola, Father, I want to offer my affection
Summer’s approaching its end, the days grow shorter
I swear, Lola, I need to see you before it goes away,
Whether mid-desert, a river’s bank, or a shore’s edge
I simply want you to experience a Pamper-Her-Friday
I’m yours tonight.
Pamper the woman . . . before summer ends. -Rg2
Shortly before Herbert Brooks died, he’d read a love letter I had authored just shy of graduating high school. I was all of 17. Upon finishing his read, he paused. Turning his gaze to me after that moment of tense silence, my grandfather said, “You’ve got what it takes to become the greatest romance writer this country’s ever produced.”
I didn’t believe him, Deniece.
I ran away—mentally.
Someone who cares about you may sometimes embellish the possibilities, you know? They’ll sometimes set the bar so inconceivably high for a loved one that it could be interpreted as a farce. I mean, why would the sage say something so outlandish to a 17-year-old who had no clue what he wanted for his own life?
My grandfather never got to see Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2 come to be. In my aloneness, nights no end of writing and creating in the candlelit dark, I sometimes shed tears. For my forefather. He cared about me. The old man loved me. Something within him ran within me, as I look back into his eyes in that pivotal moment.
I cry as I write this.
Few people know about Pamper-Her-Friday, Deniece. A handful maybe. I have a few social connects. My number of followers on Twitter is laughable. Facebook gives me a little play . . . and I’m grateful. A palmful of LinkedIn corporate types have acknowledged my presence but probably think I’m half-crazy. Instagram? Well, I’d be lucky if more than 10 people have noticed my creativity.
Still, I write. Still, I create.
I still hear my grandfather’s voice, Deniece. I swear I do. I don’t want to let him down.
About 80% of new businesses fail. Eight out of 10 new business ventures eventually go under. Wow, that’s a rather depressing thought, you know?
I’ve failed so many times in my life. I’ve been fired from three corporate jobs . . . they said my work was “too flowery” or “someone in management just doesn’t like you.” Even though I was making sizable revenue for each employer. The sadnesses were many, Deniece. Tears sometimes glossed my eyes, in silence.
Through it all, my grandfather’s voice remained. In and out. Come and gone. And come again in the very pit of my stubborn ear.
I checked the analytics on my site yesterday. You know, the precise information on who’s reading my work, in which country, how they found me, and various other metrics. Can you believe it that people in Canada, Norway, China, Australia, India, Pakistan, South American countries and more are actually reading? Something’s happening, slowly, quietly, but surely.
I’m not running away anymore from Mr. Brooks’ proclamation. Maybe it’s not so outlandish after all, eh? Perhaps the old sage saw what I wasn’t capable of seeing as a teen, you know? Or simply chose not to see.
I take nothing for granted. Not a morsel of blessing do I take for granted.
That picnic we shared at the park in Clairmont? I’ve never taken that moment for granted. Summer picnics are rare anymore. They’re probably corny to some.
Not to me.
Sharing ice cream in the midst of a random summer’s sunset? I swear, that does it for me. The small serendipities, the little pleasantries that are actually magnified simply by being together—because together is where we want to be.
Listening to Mali sing “Still” on our cheap Android phones, I swear, does it for me. Because when it’s all said and done, it’s those moments in this volatile life that take your breath away that make togetherness so utterly special. Feel?
My grandfather was spot on, Deniece. He was right all along. He knew I was gonna run away from his vision for me. The sage knew.
And he knew I would come back, eventually. I could escape only so far until the spirit within makes a stand and says to the mind, “Dammit, man, you know what you should be doing, why you’re on this earth. Now get to it!”
Pamper-Her-Friday was inevitable. I’m gonna see it through.
My grandfather loved me. God, I miss him.
I believe you love me, too. Somewhere in the chambers of your heart is a space reserved for Rg2.
God, I miss you, Deniece.
I miss pampering you in those small, simple yet powerful ways.
I miss our summer’s romance.
Forever in you,
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her soul. -Rg2
My intuition it may well have been
Or perhaps something of a quirky sixth sense:
When Hillary lost, women would up their game
The competitive fire grows ever more intense
Name the arena: Politics, Business or Sport
The loser is less and less the female sex,
Who’s more motivated than you, Oprah?
I’m digging the cerebral muscles you flex
To handpick the strategic Mindy Grossman
Whose Home Shopping Network legend is beast,
If I got in thick the shares of Weight Watchers
The two of you would reward an investors’ feast
Oprah, you were genius to get in at 6
Upon my due diligence, I trailed you at 19,
You weren’t just tabling funds but your name
Your brand more priceless than all paper green
The critics are numerous, the doubters many
But powerful is the woman who refuses to lose,
I see you in the commercials, the rise of OWN
Your countless hours reading while others snooze
Markets have taken notice both here and abroad
Could skills transfer from a ratings-busting talk show?
Might a mocha woman really set a new paradigm?
That boss who denied your pay raise should know
This capitalism labyrinth you deftly navigate
Filled with sharks lurking in the treacherous seas,
You’ve proved what it takes to outwit the hunter
The Titaness who brings predators to their knees
Who cares if the ol’ boys club remains intact
New fortunes are waiting to be built each day,
Even if Gayle was among the few to believe
I commend you for blazing and lighting a way
You’ve been pivotal to Weight Watchers’ reboot
I’m calling it a business school-worthy comeback,
And I anticipate with vigor your next chess move
Won’t hesitate to pull some chips from the stack
Oh, I read that Tyler’s leaving OWN for Viacom
Likely he’ll have to sign a non-compete clause,
No worries, if it’s fresh creative content you’ll seek
I’ve just the concept to elicit viewer “oohs and ahhs”:
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