Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

  • Mood:
If Red Bull gives you wings, I had wings and a strap-on rocket tied to my ass. Mouth moving very fast, saying things which had perhaps their own version of bullshit continuity yet springing forth from that old improv well of trust and performing, eliciting laughter and mayhem amongst the few who I got to play with this evening, including a tiny moment of sheer panic when the woman with whom I was providing a much-needed shoulder massage to (and flirting with) mentioned something about her dad, and I suddenly realized jeebus-i-didn't-know-how-old-she-was-and-did-i-just-commit-a-crime...

Turns out all is fine, she was eighteen. And no laws were broken. And I really didn't get inappropriate at all, just playful. A lot of verbal sparring. And I did manage to get zinged a time or two; this girl was no slouch.

At an entirely different time (and with an entirely different woman who was indeed over eighteen), I also took a major stumble when I found out that the woman I was talking to was actually an author of published erotica. Caught me off-guard, and threw me off enough that I had no witty comeback, just a blustered silence.
On stage, It's death, destroyer of the ego; when it's with an attractive woman, it's The Soulcrusher.

It's also incredibly focusing: it's the neurolinguistic equivalent of the antelope sensing the lion for the first time, that full-range alert, all systems ready to fight or run rush of adrenaline that when not supervised can lead to being mistaken for some other feeling like attraction.

But then, I am a cynic. The reality is that I did feel attraction towards her in that moment, as I had been bested-- in my element-- and it is that rush of excitement that you get when someone challenges you in a way you weren't expecting. And dammit, I will not be ashamed of being attracted to being bested by an already attractive woman: instead I shall proclaim it loudly and thus that I do rather enjoy it; cook me breakfast in the morning and it might be love.

Incidentally: the newest generation of geeks have their own geekoculture, and it's a brightly-colored Japanese-Western crossover that moves at hyperspeed and vibrates on a plane that I just can't see. I never did discover the draw that Pikachu had, and i never hadda get 'em all, and I feel insulated, drowned in neon like a too-slow shark in a William Gibson novel, a guy in a rubber dinosaur suit looking sadly over a tiny destroyed city, knowing that he's been replaced in perpituity by CGI creatures and animators hyped up on Mountain Dew and sleepless nights with half-visions of Drew Barrymore lying naked under a sheet on their bed back home and that three-year-old copy or People where you could actually make out the outline of her nipples in that one shot hidden under the socks in the sock drawer.

Wait, where was I?

Ah, yeah, I was talking about nonlinear neurolinguistic programming.

Only the cool kids have the toys.
Tags: writer's block
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 2 comments