Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
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or Search by State

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Contact The Media
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Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
Tuesday, December 23, 2003  
Ghosts of Christmas Past

Mod Hair Ken

When I was a wee tot, I wanted a new, cool Ken for my Barbies. My Barbies and affiliated girlfriends were all very Malibu, very Mod, and very au currant.

But my few hand-me-down Kens were square. Four cornered. And don't get me started on Brad.

To put it bluntly, no self respecting Barbie would be seen with my Kens.

However, I was ahead of most of the other girls because I actually had Kens and a Brad.

So we made do. Our cool Barbies dated nerds with plastic molded hair.

I was younger than most of the girls in my class and in my various neighborhoods around the Universe. Which put me at an instant disadvantage with the in crowds of the lunch rooms and playgrounds.

But.

I possessed Kens and a Brad. Along with one of the best Barbie collections this side of the Mattel manufacturing facility.

So I had an in. It didn't get me far, but it opened a few doors.

Then it happened. Christmas. Which was always a doll-fest for me. Ooo-oooh that smell. That smell of newly injected plastic. I had asked Santa for a new Francie, which I knew was a risky proposition. There had been a Francine Incident earlier in the year, which left my fairly new Francie a paraplegic. My parents are of the school that dictates that you take care of your toys because they will not be replaced. Especially if it's broken under suspicious circumstances. I know what happened to Francie, but that case is in a sealed document. Protection of the innocent and all that. The sordid details will only be revealed when all parties are deceased.

But mustering all my courage, thinking news of the Francine Incident might not have reached the North Pole, I asked Santa for a new Francie.

I dared not ask for a Ken, too. And since none of the other girls had even one Ken, I figured I could coast until my birthday with my existing Kens and dorky Brad. Besides, asking for a male doll was, well, I mean, I just wasn't that sort of girl. Kens are to be given without solicitation. A nod from mother/aunt to the girl's prepubescent blossoming womanhood.

I held my breath from October to December 24th. I regretted my error in Santa judgment immediately. How could I have been so stupid to ask for a replacement toy? What was I thinking? I worried that Santa might get wind of the Francine Incident. (After all, he knows if you've been bad or good...) That he would be mad at me for asking for a replacement toy. That to teach me a lesson he might not even leave me anything. So I was extra good.

Christmas morning arrived. Long story short, not only did I get a new Francie, but, shock! Amazement! What to my wondering eyes should appear?!

GASP!

DON'T FAINT, GET A GRIP GIRL, GET A GRIP!!!

A BARBIE AIRPLANE!!! (scream at the top of your lungs)

And sitting in the plane, in First Class, of course, was:

MOD HAIR KEN!!!! With his Sun Luvin' companion, MALIBU P.J.!!! WITH TAN LINES!!!! OMG!!!!!!!

And they were being served by a REAL, CAN ONLY BUY ON THE PLANE FROM THE GOODS TROLLEY AIR FRANCE STEWARDESS DOLL!!!! IN A REAL OFFICIAL UNIFORM!!!!

To the uninitiated, Francie is Barbie's cousin. Sometimes really square, sometimes really mod. She hasn't been seen or heard from since about 1978. I suspect she's a Keds wearing soccer mom in Wilmette. P.J. was the very fast (slutty) friend of Barbie. She's come and gone over the years, my guess is in and out of re-hab. Last I heard she was living in Sedona selling crystals and aligning chakras.

But. Mod Hair Ken.

MOD HAIR KEN. MOD SWUTTING HAIR KEN!

Oh, I knew of him. I'd heard stories from some of the older girls. Girls named Tina. Linda. Julie. Cathy. Reneé. Janet. Cheryl. Karen. Patty. Cool girls with cool names. They'd talk in hushed, reverent tones about this Ken. They knew of girls who had actually seen Mod Hair Ken. Julie even had a cousin, Beth, who had played with Mod Hair Ken. Gasp, no, really? What was he like? Does he look as good as in the ads?

But never in my wildest dreams would I dare request such a being to grace my bedroom. Never could I ask for the likes of Mod Hair Ken to grace the family room after school and on Saturdays. To mingle with Barbie and Skipper and Francie and Midge.

No. Old fashioned Midge who was old and square when she arrived with my sister's discarded Kens and Brad would never tolerate Mod Hair Ken. She already didn't approve of all the Malibu gang. The sorority mother of the Barbie Dream Townhouse (with elevator), she'd oust Mod Hair Ken from the Townhouse faster than the neighbor's dog who loved to abduct fashion dolls.

Mod Hair Ken was out there. Mod Hair Ken was for older girls. Mod Hair Ken was expensive. Mod Hair Ken was a guy doll. Guy dolls could only be had if they were passed down from an older sister or cousin and terribly out of date (which is how I acquired mine). Or, as mentioned, given by a mother or aunt when it is deemed a young girl is "ready" for a new Ken.

But there he was. Under our Christmas tree. Looking smart in his brown and white plaid sport coat, white snap-on dickie and tan polyester slacks with attached belt. And real, synthetic hair. Luscious synthetic locks shining and waving in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. None of this injected molded and painted stuff.

No. This was Barbie worthy hair. His hair accessories were arranged on the pull down tray in front of him. Adhesive mutton chops, two different mustaches, and a beard/mustache combo, a brown ascot to wear instead of the dickie (for when Ken went to Monte Carlo) and a brush and comb. A Ken who arrived with a brush and comb!

His white Pepsodent teeth smiling at Malibu P.J. (with tan lines!) by his side.

After the Francine Incident I thought I'd be lucky to get a Skipper and few coloring books, maybe a puppy and kitten puzzle.

But all this?! A Barbie Airplane, with a real stewardess doll, a Malibu P.J. (with tan lines) AND A MOD HAIR KEN?! Was it all a dream?

I couldn't believe it. After the screams of delight subsided, I sat staring at the affair. I was afraid to touch any of it for fear it wasn't real or that I'd break it.

Then reality hit.

Maybe it wasn't for me. Maybe Santa had made a mistake. Maybe it was left at the wrong house. Yes, that's it, Julie up the street would get a set up like this. She had that cousin, Beth. Between them they had everything. Chrissy AND Velvet dolls. Mrs. Beasley dolls. A Barbie dunebuggy. Jewelry boxes with ballerinas that twirled around and played music when you opened them. Batons with glittery water in them. Those cool glass balls on strings you clicked together. Purses. Everything.

Yes, that's it. A big mistake, the North Pole people would show up any minute to rectify the situation and it would all be gone.

I cried.

All day.

Wouldn't go anywhere near any of it. I didn't want to get attached to it only to have it all taken away from me.

Even if there wasn't a mistake, even if it really was all for me, even if Santa had for some reason chosen to so generously gift me with all of this, my parents would never allow Mod Hair Ken to stay. P.J., scantily clad, with those tan lines and funky sunglasses, would probably not be welcome in our home, either.

I cried.

That night, my (much older) brother coerced the truth out of me, got to the bottom of the whole crying game. In more ways than one, now that I think about it.

He took Mod Hair Ken out of the airplane, proffered him to my parents and said, mocking me, "Trillian thinks Santa made a mistake and that none of this is for her. And she thinks you wouldn't let her keep Mod Hair Ken, anyway."

My parents were, understandably, confused. I can see that now. But at the time I thought they were shocked by this revelation my brother had presented. I thought the shock on their faces was the dawn of realization. That any minute now the call would be placed to Santa's hotline. In that split second it all flashed before me. The call would go like this: "Santa? Yes, this is Mrs. McMillian. Seems you left a lot of toys for our daughter Trillian. Yes. Trillian. Right. Two l's. Yes, I know about Francie. That's why I'm calling. I think there's been a mistake. There's a Barbie plane, a P.J. with tan lines, no less, an Air France Stewardess doll. Yes, that's right, Air France. From the airplane. And this Mod Hair Ken fellow...."

"Is that Santa on the line?" my father would interject, "Let me talk to him. Santa? Mr. McMillian here. Just what are you getting up to with this Mod Hair Ken? Trillian doesn't deserve one as mod and expensive as him. Besides, she's already got Kens and some Brad chap, and Santa, I don't think I have to tell you, they're, ah, they're boy dolls. Trillian's not really old enough. Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes. We didn't realize until our son brought it to our attention. I see. Yes. You'll have someone pick it up tonight. Box it up? Sure. We'll just leave it there on the hearth. I'll have my wife call Julie's mother and explain what happened. Yes. Merry Christmas to you, too!"

I don't think I've ever hated my brother more than I did at that moment.

Once my parents knew about the mistake, they'd be in touch with the North Pole. It was all over.

The jig was up.

The minute I saw the glorious display that early Christmas morning, I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it would come to this sooner or later, but I was holding out hope that if we got through all of Christmas day people might forget, time would pass, and I might be able to keep some of it.

Of course if that did happen, I could never expect another thing from Santa again in my life. Toward the end of the day I convinced myself it would be a fair trade off. That I'd never want another thing from Santa anyway, that my life would be complete.

I stood there utterly frozen in the moment of discovery. Trying to discern the looks on my parents' faces. Trying to kill my brother with an evil gaze of death.

Then my brother made it worse.

He "investigated" Mod Hair Ken.

In front of my parents.

"Is this guy 'correct'?!" I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew it wasn't good. I knew he should not be talking about whatever it was in front of my parents.

So all that schoolyard talk was true. He had facial hair and something else. Down there. In his polyester slacks with attached belt.

"And he's wearing a dickie?! You wouldn't let me keep Secret Agent Man, but you let her have a correct doll wearing a dickie?!" For some reason the dickie really got to him. I didn't understand why.

At this my parents burst out in fits of laughter the likes of which I had never witnessed.

Through fits of hysterics, my mother said, "And...he's....got...ha ha...stick on...titter titter...facial...hair!" HA HA HA

My dad was turning purple trying to contain his laughter in front of me.

My brother, past the injustice of it all, was laughing, too.

And then uttered the infamous words, "Is he hairy all over? Does he come with a chest wig?"

At the thought of this my parents were beside themselves. You hear that expression a lot, but my parents were actually beside themselves over this. My dad was bursting in fits..."chest..guffaw guffaw...wig...HA HA HA!"

My mother, trying to regain composure and sensing my distress, said, "Trillian, it's all for you, dear, it's yours. Santa left it all for you. Now fetch Ken's facial hair and bring it here. Let's see how he looks with a beard."

This sent Dad and brother, who were now weak in the knees, holding each other up, all but rolling on the floor into further fits of laughter.

I did as I was told. Very somberly and reverently. This was all very grown-up stuff. And I was just a kid. And somehow, for some reason, I was being invited into this grown-up world of Mod Hair and boy dolls. By my mother. I was never allowed in the grown-up stuff. Until that day.

The Christmas day my mother and I put facial hair on Mod Hair Ken.

Who ended up looking exactly like Matt Clement.

Mod Hair Ken, it turned out, also had a "bump" in his polyester slacks with attached belt. A sort of athletic cup shaped area. Which sent the older girls, Tina. Linda. Julie. Cathy. Reneé. Janet. Cheryl. Karen. Patty. into wide eyed awe when they saw him. Turned out Julie also got a Malibu P.J. (with tan lines) that year, but my real stewardess trumped her Malibu P.J.

For a few blessed weeks, I was cool. Word got out and spread quickly. I was the talk of the school. Kids wanted to sit with me at lunch. Even with my totally uncool red plaid lunch box (which my mother insisted on using during the holiday season). Girls who never visited my house made excuses to stop by after school to see the airplane, the stewardess, and mainly to inspect Mod Hair Ken. They'd timidly ask to brush his hair. Then they'd inquire about the various stick-on amenities. The bravest (sluttiest) among them would lift the brown and white plaid jacket to see the bump.

My moment of popularity was short lived. It all came to grinding halt when Patty's mother found out I brought Mod Hair Ken to play at their house. She made me leave and take "that horrible doll" with me.

Rumors spread. Kids stopped coming by after school. I sat alone at lunch. Even with my Snoopy lunchbox.

My brother would offer cans of shaving cream and razors, a relentless joke that got really old, really quick. I played with Mod Hair Ken alone. We had many adventures around the globe together. That plane took us places we'd only dreamed about. I loved him. I still do.

All these years later I am longing for another man who is out of my reach. More suited to Julie down the street. But I've been very good. Come to think of it, he sort of looks like Mod Hair Ken. Huh. Just thought of that. No. He doesn't wear dickies. Or attached belt slacks. So I'm hoping maybe Santa will make a mistake and leave that man under my parents' tree for me.

Apparently I haven't lost the ability to hope against all odds that maybe Santa will come through for me.

There's a thin line between hope and delusion.

Happy Holidays everyone. I hope everyone gets their Mod Hair Ken or Malibu P.J. with tan lines. Much happiness, new beginnings and happy endings to everyone hurting this season.

7:12 AM

 
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