The Greigh Area…

..seems to be a silly banner for an extremist’s platform.  I’m not really all that much into ethical nuance, and am best described as logistically flexible yet ideologically rigid.  What follows is a matter of opinion and conjecture, couched artistically in third person pretense, and is all plausibly deniable.

Mild-mannered Gene Greigh, polymath, mad genius, and idiot savant, is a failure as a husband (two former arch nemeses to testify), a failure as a scientist, a failure as an engineer, and a failure as an actor.

Before toying with literary failure, he has previously fought and continues to fight evil, injustice, and ennui as the mighty Lethargy Lad, editor and publisher of Piracy Press.  He has come to save the world, and to destroy the F’eral Reserve, as Rector of Matthew 6:6 Ministries, and as the General Cashier of The Confederate Mint.

He is the author of the counter-factual historical novel West of ’89, and is presently working on a hard science fiction piece masquerading as a horror-fantasy;  a political pot-boiler featuring Lady MacBubba and RomneyCare 3.0;  an outer space adventure ranging from the slopes of Mauna Kea to Nix Olympica;  plus a soul-searing, senses-shattering, silver-plated historio-economic treatise starring the Mercury Dime and the Swiss Franc.  Watch for:

Strangler Spruce, Premium Control Team, Higher Aina,
and Strictly Minimum


for a detailed peek at the world of West of ’89 see my display case at

or, in  other words,

<meta name=“description” content=“Being a Homely Naomi description of this web site and what one might expect to find here.”/>

An “About page”

This site features the work of Gene Greigh.

It consists of:
Excerpts from works of fiction (published and in progress).
Commentary on matters personal, cultural, political, and historical.
(Much of it is intended to be humorous. It is all sincere.)

The point of view is empirical and libertarian.

Gene Greigh is an anarchist and an atheist,
with many friends of archist and/or theist persuasions.

Gene Greigh is a writer and an actor and therefore considers the English language to be both his tool kit and his toy box. He does not censor himself, but as an artist, he edits his work and disdains the gratuitous.

Reader caution is advised.

Convoluted Confession

Congratulations to the nationally renowned and Cincinnati’s locally celebrated drug dealer Molly Wellmann, whose outstanding record of serving toxins to junkies (et al) has earned her the recognition of her peers.

One might prudently hope that former Lieutenant Governor Mary Taylor doesn’t get word of this elevated acclaim. In light of her confession (also in Friday’s Enquirer) that “without real border security [I am] at risk of becoming… drug-addled,” and in light of her long-standing record of interfering in the lives and businesses of strangers, there is a very real danger that Ms Wellmann’s newly found fame my redound to her disadvantage. (Two points about paraphrasing — Ms Taylor said “we.” This was rude. She seems to arrogate to herself the authority to speak on my behalf, as if I shared her inability to make grown-up decisions in the face of pharmaceutical temptation. Because she said “we”, which is a pronoun that ALWAYS includes the speaker, “I” is an apt substitution.)

While we might take comfort from the fact that Ms Taylor is safely out of office, we should heed newly installed Enforcer Mike DeWine when he claims that “it is appropriate to hold accountable those who dispense… drugs that can kill.” Should Ms Wellmann and I (and every other clerk at every other Quikk Stopp along the Interstate) expect to be jacked up by Maleficent Mike’s legions of eager DAs for our contributions to emphysema, bronchitis, cirrhosis, and despair?


Seventeen Stars

670127 — Roger Chaffee, Gus Grissom, Edward White.
860128 — Francis Scobee, Michael Smith, Judith Resnick,
Ellison Onizuka, Ronald McNair, Gregory Jarvis, Christa McAuliffe.
030201 — Rick Husband, William McCool, Michael Anderson,
David Brown, Kalpana Chawla, Laurel Clark, Ilan Ramon.

Apollo. Challenger. Columbia.
Sixteen Americans and one Israeli.
Thirteen men and four women.
Pilots, engineers, soldiers, mission specialists, payload specialists, surgeons, teachers, explorers, scientists.
Seventeen lives lost to America’s official space program.
As we fix our gaze beyond the horizon and press the frontier we are oft admonished by a merciless fate and an indifferent nature. We can be struck down at a moment’s notice. We can scurry back to our caves and lick our wounds and pray to kinder gods or we can venture back out again. And again. And again and again and again and claim our birthright.

Exploration is a risky business, and life itself is dangerous. Those who would condemn the proponents of manned space exploration will no doubt continue to drive automobiles, fly in airplanes, and purchase electrical appliances for their homes. There is no safe technology, there is only the acceptance of calculated risks — that can prove to be killers — that have also saved and succored so many millions more.

Robots in space have their place, but only boots on the ground can answer the one vital question pertaining to the frontier:
“Can we hold this ground?”

Automotive Misbehavior

I admit that the fantastic and preposterous headline on Sunday’s Enquirer (“Cars keep hitting people.”) is a lot more interesting and entertaining than actual (boring) journalism, but still, it strains one’s credulity.

Where are these mythical mechanisms that start themselves, put themselves into gear, and go out on the road and hit people? Are they owned by the same folks whose magic guns load themselves, cock themselves, and “just go off” and “shoot people”? Are there ever any actual people involved in any of this activity?

* * * * * WARNING * * * * *

If you’ve got no time for arrogant smug Grammar Nazis who think they’re better than you because they speak English, you might want to skip this section.  The emotions get the most raw here because the sense of betrayal is so deep.  Language was supposed to be a way of connecting and directing.  Instead, people spout outrageously contradictory nonsense, or, worse yet, use slang. Slang was created to disguise one’s meaning, so outsiders didn’t know you were talking about sodomy or heroin or some other proscribed pastime. 

Language includes.  Slang excludes.  Language reveals.  Slang conceals.

Like Andrew Jackson, I think it reflects poorly on an intellect if one can think of only a single way to spell a word.  Nevertheless, if you’re a brilliant engineer or administrator with gravy on your tie, people will not be focusing on your brilliance.

Insufficient Eyes

I have only two eyes.
If I were to keep (fix, sustain, do not remove) my eyes (note plural usage, meaning both of them) on the prize, there would be no eye left for anything else, including keeping it on the ball.
“Why did you run into that player?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Why didn’t you watch where you were running?”
“You told us to keep our eyes on the ball. I was watching the ball.”
Coach didn’t like that answer. I think this may have been the same psycho-terrorist who insisted that I “Don’t try! Just do it!” But of course he would never explain how ANYTHING is EVER done without trying.
It could be that I missed his larger lesson;
it may have had something to do with running laps.

Adventures in Bad Lyrics, volume eight: Leaving No Trace of Doubt

So, by “bad lyrics”, I mean (in addition to my own work) poorly or sloppily executed, as in (sometimes unnecessarily) forced rhymes (“…she twist and turn that thang…like a puppet on a strang…”) or extending a single syllable over several beats (“Eight Six Seven Five Three Oh Nigh Eee Ayn!”).

Also bad as in wicked, cruel, or evil.

I love The Beatles but I am a little creeped out by Maxwell’s Silver Hammer (“…came down upon his head…”), and even more disturbed by Run for Your Life (“I’d rather see you dead little girl…?” Please Paul, help John with his lyrics.)

Pop lyrics tell us that we are slaves to our impulses ( “The girl can‘t help it!”) and that free lunches are real. “Somebody hit the lights, so we can rock it day and night” leaves out too many steps. What I hear is, “Somebody [else forego consumption, and accumulate the capital reserves, to finance research and development, and build the infrastructure, to generate and distribute power, so some spoiled child can] hit the lights!

They also tell us that women love to be dismissed, diminished, and denigrated. If it’s not true how could a popular song boast such beautiful sentiments as, “Hey, [insignificant object], let me [take care of the technical stuff. Due to my mother issues], I’m [difficult to deal with.]” Or, if you prefer the original Klingon: “Hey little thing let me light your candle. ‘Cause o’ Mama, I’m hard to handle.” …171114

If I DON’T like girls who are faster, or stronger, or smarter, or braver than me, then I MIGHT not like her, I MIGHT not like her.

Nice of her to settle the issue. In fact, it’s just plain decent of her to confess her deficiencies so clearly. Since “might” equals “might not” she’s telling the world that if I satisfy the first condition (not liking girls who are faster, stronger, &c), I still might like her (because “might not” equals “might”), so therefore I am faster, stronger, smarter, and braver than she is.

Okeh… but so what? Actually I‘m a little miffed that she would think so little of my ego as to suspect that I’d have any problem with competent women in the first place, and a little sad that she thinks so little of her own ego that she has to clarion her weaknesses to the world.

Adventures in Bad Lyricsis sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Three United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh //  843 Carson Drive;  Lebanon, Ohio;  45036

Media Madness

(meter stolen from Graham Nash)

In a cloistered room in Congress,
Under wraps so the world can’t see,
The President is hobbled,
In the name of “Democracy!”

Mueller-Trump Madness is thrilling the country!
It’s partisan hack work! It’s Dems on a spree!

Did Putin hack Her e-mails?
Did Assange let the truth get free?
Will schemers share the details,
For suborning perjury?

Manafort Madness is filling my country
With shock and amusement, free of dignity!


We’re havin’ a Democrat party!

Well-intended restaurateurs in Tijuana report that the alleged “refugees and asylees” now clustering at our southern border are unappreciative of the efforts made on their behalf to provide food and accommodations, that they complain constantly, and that they generally just mess things up wherever they go.

It’s like they’re ALREADY registered Democrats!

FanBoy Fun

Many of us lately find our congregations on-line.
Or so we hope.

In my pursuit of Legion of Super-Heroes oriented good times I join in on discussion groups composed of similarly minded geeks.
Turns out the discussions are not all geekery.

Someone had posted an illustration called “Dream Boy” featuring an elfinly masculine analog (perhaps) of Legionnaire Dream Girl, or maybe a fellow Naltorian with the same indigenous prognostication power as she. Who knows? Anyway, it was mostly a fine illustration, with maybe a some minor critiques about transparent legs not being a typically Naltorian feature.

Apparently someone had gotten into a bit of a twist over the illo’s vaguely androgynous look, and then someone else got into an even tighter twist over someone calling someone a “deviant” and then calling for the mods or the admins or Mommy or Pop to squelch the heretics for blasphemy, homophobia, apostasy, and transphobia. And I’m only kidding about two of those crimes. So by now I’m wondering, “What happened to the fun and the camaraderie? Aren’t we all deviants on this bus?”

So of course I have to weigh in.
A deviant is that which deviates from the norm.
Norms and their derivatives the deviants are simply mathematical constructs. We expect the norm because it is the most common, and we are sometimes surprised by deviations depending on their rarity.
So what exactly is the problem with “deviant”(a concept that embraces the left-handed in a right-handed population and the lactose intolerant in a lactose digesting population equally)?
There is neither anything exalted about normal nor anything disgraceful about deviation.
I recommend a dose of Trichillin.
(from the makers of Chillax, use only as directed)

And then, just because that was too reasonable, I had to add a little more.
Or remove me for insufficient piling on.

Correspondent JK asserts that I “can’t be that stupid”, without specifying exactly HOW he thinks I’m being stupid. Since I am riddled with doubts I thought it might be prudent to go back and check my math and English. Nah, there’s no need to check my math, or the statistics, as many minorities are abundantly obvious. As for English, Merriam-Webster’s first definition of “deviant” refers to it as an adjective, to describe something that has deviated from the norm — as in deviant results, deviant data, or deviant behavior. The SECOND definition vindicates my usage, as it is a person whose characteristics or behavior deviates from the norm. And still, deviations remain good, bad, OR indifferent, according to circumstances.

Correspondent JM recommends that I depart for the Nether Kingdom, and also possibly to Spoil The Friendly Urchins(?). It’s a little hard to make out through his seething ire. Often it seems that the greatest outrage is that others aren’t outraged enough. I cheerfully reply.
Or simply anger on… as umbrage is so ambrosial… Happy Daze!

Apparently not one to be mollified, JM cuts me deeply with “Quiet down troll,” and goes on to declare (I presume) that I have a “fake profile.” This, somehow, is “very brave” of me. Meanwhile, admins seem to provide JM no succor, just as JM provides no clue as to what aspects of my profile he believes are fraudulent or courageous.

I may have developed too thick a skin after a lifetime of deviation. Sometimes I’m not terribly sensitive to people’s delicate little fuh-fuh-fuh-feeeeelings. Tough. I am a multi-threat deviant myself: anarchist in a statist world, atheist in a mystic world, polyamorist in a monogamist world, and a shameless fan of super-heroic fantasy in a “them funny books is fer kids” world. You don’t think I know from ridicule? The fact is, every one of us who participates on this forum is a deviant.
So what?

Chameleon Boy, Saturn Girl, Phantom Girl, Colossal Boy, Gigi Cusimano, Cosmic Boy, Triplicate Girl (all depicted by Steve Lightle), Shvaugn Erin, and Jan (Element Lad) Arrah (both depicted by Colleen Doran & Al Gordon), are all properties of Detective Comics and Warner Communications.  Their images are reproduced by Piracy Press for purposes of analysis and scholarship.  If anything, their use here constitutes free advertisement for DC‘s properties at the considerable expense of Piracy Press and Greigh Area Associates.

Stories are selected with the greatest of discrimination, but even numbered issues of Daring Love are specifically edited with the prurient interests of atavistic fanboys in mind.  Reader discretion is advised.


Oldie, the Round-Heeled Spice Girl

w/ Robi Jo &al (000301)

Well you know
Ginger, and Baby, and Sporty, and Scary,
Cinnamon, Nutmeg, Posh and Rosemary!
But do you recall,
The most ancient Spice Girl of all!

Hello my name is Old Spice,
And I wear the lamest clothes.
My legs are veined and wrinkly,
And I don’t wear pantyhose.
All of the other Spice Girls
Put out for the football team.
They just will not believe that
I was once their Pops’ wet dream.

When Versace hosts a ball,
We’ll show up to play!
When that party starts to stall
Then we’re on our way!
If you wanna be my lover,
Ya gotta get up with my friends.
But if you think it’s too much bother,
Then you can just kiss our rear ends!