Archive for February, 2017

Quoted in the Grove:

A graceful taunt is worth a thousand insults.
~Louis Nizer

One can’t judge Wagner’s opera Lohengrin after a first hearing, and I certainly don’t intend to hear it a second time.
~Gioacchino Rossini

Let me show you how it’s done … Loser!
~Babe Ruth


Posted from the Grove:


Short, capsule articles in the English paper, The Guardian, delve into matters of interest to writers in their series, study finds. Three appear below, followed by a quiz on whether … well, find out for yourself

The Guardian: Articles on Literature and Reading
Fictional characters make ‘experiential crossings’ into real life, study finds

Literary fiction readers understand others’ emotions better, study finds

Book up for a longer life: readers die later, study finds

Does being well-read make you a better mind reader? A quiz


In gentler times, President Reagan and a Juggler
Comedy without malice, most excellent fun (9:03)




Prewritten for Thurs (03/02) @6pm PT/9 ET is: ladder, epic


@Writers Platform

Glass Table:
~xxxcometxxx: untitled

for my great granddaughter who is in my care,
my darling angel with big blue eyes.
she’s very clever and very wise.
she’s very good and very kind,
a better granddaughter i never could find
she’s in my mind has a place in my heart,
we fit together like a horse and cart.
i love her to cuddle to talk to and hold,
she’s more precious to me than silver or gold.
she’s on my mind from morning to night,
she’s my glowing candle both warm and bright.


Prewritten: a pic


~Piffin: “Inchcailloch”

In fern’d wood
Of moss’d, ancient tree
Until the life I’d understood
Was toss’d far from me
I stood alone
Nae faerie thane
Nae dryad in my glen
Yet, in a pool of morning rain,
Your countenance,
And then…


~Greymane: Beneath Giants

He stood above the river winding silent deep and brown
through The Forest of Forever and a Day
A bold and valiant hero he was sworn to find the crown
no matter his encounters on the way

He stood beneath the canopies of mighty ancient oaks
With leaves ten thousand feet above his head
Humbled by the reverence that such majesty invokes
but wary of the dangers just ahead

The oracle had told him “there’s a castle in the trees,
made of moss that now forever eats the stone.”
Seven years he took the journey over land and overseas
and here he finds his destiny alone

Beneath the roots of giants buried deeply underground
but not so far a hero cannot find
are treasures cold and silent waiting patient to be found
that the ancient heroes might have left behind

At last his golden treasures glistened gilded at his side
But moaning through the caverns came revenge
The spirits took their treasure and they smote him ’til he died
content the crumbled kingdom was avenged

Along the winding waters of a river deep and brown
in a lost and crumbled kingdom long asleep
A soldier found a fortune waiting silent underground
but he never left the mossy crumbled keep


~BarTalk: Blood River Bend



~Piffin: “Charlie Parker”

It was a longshot
It was a Jersey night
It was the itchy trigger in my pocket
Zippo light
Another cigarette
Another back street
Another chance to be the lioness
And not the meat
They came from uptown
They came from who cares?
They came from scholarships
And white suburban high chairs
They wanted cocaine
The Bird was blowing hot
They never knew how dumb they were
Until I took the shot


~Greymane: ku

A man awakens
Longshot bird dies silently
A man sleeps once more


~BarTalk: Chance

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Quoted in the Grove:
Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. Delay may give clearer light as to what is best to be done.
~Aaron Burr

Many ideas are good for a limited time – not forever.
~Robert Townsend

Yesterday’s home runs don’t win today’s games
~Babe Ruth


Posted from the Grove:

Following are examples of word calisthenics available only in a language as rich and convoluted as English. Some are laugh out-loud funny. Top of the page says there are 10 examples, but there are 7 pages of 10. These are good. Enjoy.

10+ Hilarious Reasons Why The English Language Is The Worst


Requests from the Platform:

~The Monkees: What Am I Doing Hangin’ Round

~The Veronicas: On Your Side


Normally the following list of 36 questions would be offered as a Valentine’s Day posting, but these questions were developed to establish a more open, fully-realized and durable love … in short, a work in progress. Consider, then, that these questions are a beginning, that they are foundation stones for building the enduring, hard-wearing relationship you’ll want to celebrate next February. There’s plenty of time…

The 36 Questions That Lead to Love


Prewritten for Thurs (01/26) @6pm PT/9 ET is: a pic


@Writers Platform:

Prewritten: Valentine nude, a pic
https://www.flickr.com/photos/[email protected]/32432946620

~Greymane: Amber Perfection Lightly Chained

She stole the sun from everyone and wore it on her skin
The golden flows of amber gold cascading from within
The morning glow her body holds grows wicked when she’s warm
Her chains restraining helpless hanging limp against her form


~BarTalk: Chemistry


Impromptu: breast, pirate

~Piffin: “Flotsam”

In stars, adrift with life vest
And moonshine in a jar
Although, this arrow in my breast
Will not let me swim far
I’m helpless in this river
Having neither fin nor Huck
Drawn by your eyes
And the quiver
Of that Cupid fuck


~Greymane: Breasteses

Bosomy roomy flouncy and round
From sunken to way too damn large
A titty’s a titty from what I have found
But most have a steep cover charge
Whenever I realized bewbs was around
I’d shuffle out quiet and quick
But bewbs has a way of remembring my name
When they’re feeling a lil bit sick
Of boobs an’ Balombas of various weights
My lecheries all can agree
I’d line em all up and I’d trade em all in
For an ass with a full guarantee


~Greenie: The Guest

he pirated her breast
wanted to take the test
see which tasted best
before moving to the rest
sated himself to behest
foregoing it all lest
he’s no longer a welcome guest


~BarTalk: Dastardly Bastard

~ . ~

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Quoted in the Grove:
How to hit home runs: I swing as hard as I can, and I try to swing right through the ball… The harder you grip the bat, the more you can swing it through the ball, and the farther the ball will go. I swing big, with everything I’ve got. I hit big or I miss big. I like to live as big as I can
~Babe Ruth

Never let the fear of striking out get in your way.
~Babe Ruth

Every strike brings me closer to the next home run
~Babe Ruth


Posted from the Grove:
Prewritten for Thurs (02.16) @6pm PT/9 ET is: Valentine Nude


Untranslatable Emotions You Never Knew You Had:
Feelings in Other Languages


Over The Hedge: Love, it’s complicated


Request From The Platform: A four song story cycle by the band:

Feel Good Inc

El Manana


On Melancholy Hill


@Writers Platform:

Prewritten: a song
~Patty Griffin: Stolen Car

~Greymane: Distance

It was her eyes that I saw first
They made me tremble with surprise
The way she walked in that long sweater
and the smile in her eyes
She was beauty unrehearsed
She became my new obsession, a destination unforeseen
and all the chaos you imagine that implies
Spending days believing it was us against the rest
making promises romantic and obscene
She captured every moment, and I gave her all my best
with torrid nights of exploration in between
We dreamed a life together where the struggles keep you warm
where all the hidden cold confessions live
The years had formed a cozy rusty shelter from the storm
where time reveals scars we can’t forgive
I loved her deep and endless ’til the day she broke my heart
and then I think I loved her even more
I wish that I had chosen the path that kept her in my arms
A place the distance and the darkness both ignore


~BarTalk: not-a-ku


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Quoted in the Grove:
Most women do not want to be liberated from their essential natures as women.
~Dan Quayle

It is easier to live through someone else than to become complete yourself.
~Betty Friedan

When she stopped conforming to the conventional picture of femininity she finally began to enjoy being a woman.
~Betty Friedan

There is always a certain peace in being what one is, in being that completely.
~Ugo Betti


Posted from the Grove:

Requests from Writers Platform:
~Neko Case: I Wish I Was the Moon   (3:41)

~David Bowie: I Can’t Give Everything Away   (4:26)
Last song from Mr Bowie’s last album, Dark Star

Hand Thing – Surreal (1:49)


Two Animal Videos:
Iguana Chased by Snakes
Talk about mind-blowin’ chase scene, this one will have you squirmin’. Pure drama. Ain’t telling if the varmint escapes. 2 minutes, 11 seconds of your time to find out.

Cats in Costume: Comic relief (2:32)



~Piffin: “Velvet Elvis”

Dad always gave the worst gifts.

The worst.

The beauty part, though? It was by design; a little game he liked to play with family and friends.

“Happy Birthday!” he would shout, with all the exuberance of a man possessed with the joy of giving.

Anxious, even, as he watched the recipients shred the meticulously applied wrapping paper to confetti.

Once the item had been exposed, the frozen smiles said it all.

Dad’s own smile was all teeth.

“Nice, right?” he’d prod. “Right?”

The only person courageous enough to shrug social convention was my dad’s older brother, Terrance.

Each year, he would open his gift and ask, “What is this crap, now?”

Dad would just laugh.

That laugh.

Part of Dad’s gift-giving magic was that, ludicrous though the gifts may have been, they all demanded to be displayed.

A life-sized bust of Frank Sinatra. A hand-stitched comforter depicting the Battle of Little Bighorn. An autographed copy of Madonna’s coffee table book, “Sex”.

We would go visiting relatives for Easter, well after dad had Christmas-gifted them. He would take a few moments, inspect his surroundings, check the obvious places.

Finally, he would say, “Where is the … I don’t see?”

Our hosts would fall over themselves, explaining why the treasure was not in its proper place.

Mentally scrambling, the reasons they gave were always more or less the same, though precious nonetheless.

“We are having it cleaned.”

“The damn cat knocked it over. Bad Finster!”

“Yes, I lent that to…”

Everyone had a lie. Everyone was afraid they would offend him otherwise. Everyone, save my Aunt Patricia.

Being my mother’s sister, she was no dope, and had figured out Dad’s little game from the start. When he would ask her where the latest object d’art was stationed, she wouldn’t even look up from preparing the tea and cookies.

“Oh, that,” she would say. “Yeah, I regifted that. Honey or sugar?”

He remained undeterred.

One Christmas, he gave her a two-foot long statue of a killer whale, hand-crafted in onyx and alabaster.

Ostentatious as the likeness was, it had clearly cost my dad quite a bit of money. There was no way my aunt could possibly snub such an expensive gift.

Aunt Patricia, however, stuck to her guns. There were no whale sightings in her home after that day.

Despite that, my dad never let up.

To her credit, my aunt never weakened.

The contest went on for decades.

A month or so after my dad passed away, I got a phone call from my aunt, inviting me over for lunch. Monte Cristo sandwiches and carrot cake.

Presumably, she wanted to see how I was holding up; grief and whatnot.

At least there would be carrot cake.

When I arrived at her house, she ushered me directly into the kitchen. She seemed excited.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said, her thin hand on my arm.

Before I could think to ask, I could see what it was.

Laid out before me on the table was every single gift my dad had ever given her.

They stared at me and glistened at me and glowed at me. If I had wound a few up, they would have danced for me.

I was speechless.

“There you have it,” said my aunt. “Your legacy.”

“I thought you gave all of this stuff away.”

“No.” She laughed. “But I’d be damned if I was going to let your father display this crap in my house.”

She tapped her hand on the table. The Hank Aaron bobblehead nodded in agreement.

“This is amazing.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I thought you might like to have these things.”

I looked at the black velvet Elvis painting.

“Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Patricia?”

“Really,” she said. “Take it all.”

Her insistence informed me that, now that my dad was gone, the gifts were going in the trash if they didn’t leave with me.

Of all the gifts, the one that struck me as oddly out of place was a bottle of scotch.

My dad’s favorite brand.

The bottle I just opened.

It’s raining out tonight. The wind is blowing it sideways.

I’m sitting in my living room, this bottle of scotch, Bob Seger low on the stereo, lights dimmed.

I’m sitting at the window, drinking, watching the storm wash the night away.

I’m drinking with John Wayne and Hank Aaron. Elvis Presley and a red lava lamp. A killer whale.

And my dad.

~ For Dad. I miss you. ~


Prewritten for Thurs (01/26) @6pm PT/9 ET is: a song
~Patty Griffin: Stolen Car


@Writers Platform:

Prewritten: trap door, boa, crap shoot, burlesque

~Piffin: “Feathered”

Swinging my boa
Like a watch on a chain
Shaking my bounty
For to sustain
This feeling in the theater
This feeling in the air
As my fingers on my body
Put a man in each chair
All cattlemen and hooligans
Love burlesque
This feathered life of mine
A crapshoot at best
All it takes is one catcall
One rancher out the door
And this trapdoor’s sure to open
In the middle of the floor


~Greymane: Stiletto Strut

The son of Dr. Acula wore boas ’round his neck
He owns a crimson cabareting burlesque discotheque
A torrid transylvestite with a trapdoor glory hole
He struts the stage stiletto like a queen on shore patrol
In leather things beneath his wings of sequined bloody lace
He casts a spell on clientele who stray into his place
They say that if he works the pole or God forbid he strips
He leeches like a lamia that lingers on your lips
To be so cursed with such a thirst is deadly others warned
He burst in flames when daylight came one fateful Fryday morn


~BarTalk: Tonight, Onstage and not-a-ku


Impromptu: No impromptu this week, but a  two song video of Lindsay Buckingham and Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac on David Letterman   (7:58)

~ . ~

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