the nomness

It’s been a while since I’ve done an “oh shit, it’s the day after and I’m still rocking a decent buzz” post, so here goes. I find I’m most creative when I am not particularly focused on any one thing. And this was really a 4 day bender, so let me throw that out there as well.

I met my first online type person Thursday.  Was a fabulous time. Many, many, many bevvies of the boozy variety were had, and I wasn’t hacked up in little pieces.  All in all a success, in spite of the psycho Norman Bates-type who followed us from Sweetwater to Diamond, and then, in his drunken mumble-speak, asked if I would like to “go hang out.”  Like then and there.  He wanted the Effbit, and it was uncomfortable and awkward.  I may have laughed.  In his face.  Yes yes yes, I am kinda bitchy.  We know this.  Anyway, the experience was overall a pleasant one and is definitely opening the door for other meet ups – Jordan, of KSWI fame, I’m looking at you.  I’m staring down my eurasian nose at you.  Seriously.  We can make this happen.  I mean hell, I posted that dog-sports player thing last week.  That’s gotta count for something.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, I took a blog break.  And I’m sober.  Huh.  Look at that.

I like me a literate man. Also, mildly obsessive and a little emo. What.

Fear not, loyal reader(s), it is Monday. I will go and have sushi and possibly some japanese beer.  Or sake.  Or both.  Followed by a sangria.  The possibilities are endless.  As is, I’m discovering, my interest in younger men.

I'm really ok with this smirk. I'm also discovering, after last night's charming bartender, that I have a soft spot for a lilting southern accent. I am ok with this too.

Very often we have an image of ourselves that isn’t necessarily projected to the outside world. Not all of us, mind, but some of us. Take for example my friend’s friend, let’s call her Emma. Emma gives the impression of being of the All American Fantasy Doll. She’s blonde. She’s blue-eyed. She’s a lovely figure. She has beautiful teeth (these may not be a god-given gift, but we’ll go with it). She smiles at the right times. She’s able to keep it in her pants when it comes to silliness or flightiness. What you don’t know, about Emma, is that she has a DARK DARK DARK sense of humour. I have found myself liking her more and more of late – apparently this side of her doesn’t come out unless she’s comfortable with you.

Which brings me to my point. We, the thinking women of the media-heavy generation, for the most part, have a Dark Nom. These don’t necessarily HAVE to be sinister.  Some people include my dear Alan as their Dark Nom (when your nom is along the lines of Matthew McConaughey I can see this point, I guess – but not really.  Matthew McConaughey makes my ovaries die slowly and painfully, so, then there’s that).  I’m going to venture to include another “darker” character, very often idolized by those denizens of dark places: the goths.  Enter, Neil Gaiman.

He writes. He writes darker fantasy. Lord knows I have darker fantasies.

I’m going to be careful about what I say about Neil.  He has a hyper-public relationship with one Amanda Palmer.  I admire her goodself in her own right – I challenge you not to love “Who Killed Amanda Palmer.”  It’s a brilliant album, and I’m sure the book is quite phenomenal as well.  I have not been able to bring myself to read it, however.  My voyeurism does have its limits.  You see, Neil wrote each story to a collection of photographs of a “dead” Amanda Palmer.  The collaboration is too much after the tweets.  And the blogs.  And the You Tube videos I watch – while my voyeurism has limits, it is still, after all, voyeurism.  So, Neil, I fancy the pants and the pen off of you, but I am going to have to throw this one on the back burner.

And then, of course, there is that vampire thing.  The wave that’s hit the hormones of hundreds of thousands, dare I say millions???, of ladyfolk around the world.  There always was the sensuality of the classic vampire.  It has lain latent until recently, when pop media has picked it up and ran with it.

Dark dark dark.  Am I complaining?

No.  No, I don’t believe I am.