So I’m ready for the disco, got the cool 70s ‘stache, got the open collared shirt, out over the jacket lapels of course, got the “hip” glasses and the slicked-back hair, but keep getting shut down by the babes. What to do? I know, let’s shoot a bunch of rockets out of our fingers, that’ll dazzle ‘em—”Hey, are those rockets coming out of your fingers or are you just glad to see me?”
@B.Chiclitz: I think part of the problem was his grasp of socially acceptable witty and suggestive banter.
“Ladies, you think my fingers are impressive, you should see what comes out of my…hey, why are you running away?”
“They call me the Rocket Man, and it isn’t because of my fingers. I’ll send you into orbit around the Satellite of Bliss baby. Excuse me. Why are you laughing? No, really. Why are you all laughing?”
“See these fingers? How would you like to be the first woman into orbit on a…well, yes, I know the Soviets…that isn’t what I was trying to…yes I see your massive and enraged boyfriend. I’ll just be leaving then.”
‘Science fiction’s golden age recalled’…if his memory involves rockets flying out of his fingers while a supernova gave him the ability to breathe in orbit around Saturn, I think his recollections are less than reliable.