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/.
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.
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.)
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
Thursday, August 28, 2003 Queen of the Arachnids has Left the Building
She’s gone. To the relief of many on my floor. Except me. Today, she is conspicuous by her absence.
And I have found myself actually worried about her. I know. It’s a spider. But I really hate to think she met with an untimely and perhaps violent demise because I couldn’t figure out a way to safely transport her outside.
And the morning primp fest in the ladies restroom has resumed.
Zaphod is really digging himself into a deep hole. There are harassment laws, Zaphod, and you’re this close to breaking several of them. I’ve given you written warning, and consider this a public warning.
Sorry to use this forum for that, but this guy is really pushing the limits. I blocked his email addresses, but got another obscene and vulgar call last night. I know there’s a way to block a phone number, may have to resort to it.
HWNMNBS was right when he said people take kindness for weakness. Absolutely right. I am at times far too nice for my own good. Being polite to some people is an open invitation to impose and abuse far beyond the field of regular play. Zaphod is a prime example of one of these people. He just doesn’t get it and cannot take no for an answer. Because he cannot see beyond his own narcissistic view of the Universe.
People like this need to be sent off to a treacherous island and left to their own devices. Let them hash out some Lord of the Flies situation while the rest of us get on with our lives in polite society.
That’s what really annoys me - not my current personal Zaphod - but that there are so many just like him out there. It’s depressing to me.
And yes, as a matter of fact, I would rather put myself up on a shelf than spend so much as a minute with the likes of you Zaphod.
11:26 AM
Just one more public service we here at Life(?) of Trillian are happy to provide.
For the record, in case you hadn't figured it out yet, Trillian's boss is an idiot. Nincompoop, actually.
Which is why Trillian so desperately wants to work for Richard Branson. Sure, he's off ballooning around the world a lot of the time. Sure, he's got obvious male compensation issues. But given the people I've worked for, and stories I've heard from friends and relations over the years, I've narrowed down the pool of people I could honestly work for and be, well, happy. Or at least satisfied. Or at least not wanting to kill myself rather than go into the office and deal with my boss for 8+ hours a day. And Dick is the guy who comes out on the top of my list.
There are factors beyond The Man himself. But I figure if I'm going to be part of the Virgin team, I may as well spend my days with The Man himself. We have a lot to offer each other. And what with the whole train, um, challenge, he's probably looking for some fresh faces and blood, creative new ideas. And that's where I step in.
So much for my little vacation to Fantasy Island.
There is an enormous spider in our office this morning. We're talking Queen of the Arachnids. Nuclear experiment gone very wrong. Straight out of a Godzilla movie. And she's chosen a rather unfortunate resting spot right over the door of the ladies restroom. So none of the women on my floor will go within 20 feet of the restroom and are traipsing off to the inferior restroom on our floor, or to other floors to spider-free bathrooms.
I myself have stood up for spider rights. The woman who first spotted the spider shrieked out in horror, and since I was closest to the scene I hobbled over (on crutches) to come to her rescue. Had I known it was just a spider causing the alarm I wouldn't have bothered. I have to admit, at first view, Queen of the Arachnids is a bit daunting. But, you know, she can't help it. Maybe she's just big boned. Or retaining water or flies or whatever it is girl spiders retain. I'm not saying I am prospider (or any other bug) in the office, but, I don't believe in killing them. They'd prefer to be outdoors but their life circumstances bring them indoors. I'm of the school that removes the creatures, alive, to a more suitable habitat. This is what I do at home. Not always the most pleasant task, I openly admit, and frequently quite comically carried out, but, as creatures sharing this planet, it's the least I can do. But on crutches and 18 floors up, it's impossible for me to be the one to give her an elevator ride to freedom. It would only end in disaster. I'd have to trap her in something, something that wouldn't asphyxiate her and that I can carry on crutches without squishing.
For the moment she's safe, no one will go near her (except the few bravest among us) to gawk. The manliest man on our floor (not saying much, there are eight men on my floor, four are gay, three are utter wusses and the other is hardly stud material) has surveyed the situation and, like me, feels it's wrong to kill another living being. Particularly this creature who, once you get past her spideryness, is really very amazing and pretty darned cool. I'm sitting here hoping she makes her own great escape, goes back to wherever she came from and keeps herself hidden away safe from any would be bug killers.
The good thing about this is that the morning makeup-hair-perfume-clothing rituals in our ladies restroom have been cancelled this morning. Honestly, from 8 AM - 10:30 AM that place is like the model prep area of a Versace fashion show. I understand once in a while circumstances beyond control dictate that you assemble yourself at work. Or re-assemble yourself as is typically my case. But the notion that hair drying, curling and styling, complete, and I mean COMPLETE makeup application and perfume spritzing and clothing application, can and should be carried out daily after arriving at work is a concept I cannot condone. Frankly, I really do not want to go into the restroom to use it for it's conceived function, only to run smack into a row of colleagues standing in front of the mirrors, in various states of dress (or undress), the air thick with powders and perfumes and hairsprays, hair dryers further blasting the stuff around.
I know some of this is to be expected on a floor of 45 women and eight men. I realize on any given day one of us is going to have a bad hair day or cosmetic issues or a dry cleaning crisis. But there are a cast of regulars in there every morning and I just have to wonder: Do their jobs allow them this kind of free time every morning? And if so, is it because I'm the chump actually working during this time and thus providing them with free time to primp to their heart's content?
But today, Queen of the Arachnids has spared me this. I can pee in peace, no risk of sighting a colleague in her underwear, stockings draped over the stalls, and air that doesn't actually bring on an asthma attack. And for that I am indebted to the spider.
Tuesday, August 26, 2003 I Need That (Secret Agent) Man!!!
Time is running out people! I need (the alleged) Secret Agent Man doll/action figure. NOW! Don't make me go all Veruca Salt on you. Help me find that doll, dammit.
Unless we lived in some weird alternate toy universe (very possible) and my brother had the only one in existence (not probable), someone out there, somewhere, knows something about that doll and they're not talking.
12:55 PM
Monday, August 25, 2003 IHAVENTHADSEXINTHISCENTURY.COM
The front runner in the polls for domain name that should be active but is not:
ihaventhadsexinthiscentury.com
Thank you to all who have written to congratulate me on identifying the perfect dating website domain. I know. I think it's pretty good, too. Which is why I can't believe someone hasn't jumped on it. (No pun intended as I typed that, but now that I have, the pun stands.)
As some of you have suggested, I guess I could buy the domain...
But frankly it's been my little idea to pitch to the big network people, probably FOX. A reality dating show. I know, an idea way past it's sell by date. But hey, if Simon Cowell can do it, surely I can. Speaking of past its sell by date. I've heard Cupid is tanking. Quickly and badly. Had he consulted me I would have, for a fair price, let him in on my little reality dating show idea. Forget skanky girls from Metro Detroit (I can say that because I am a former skanky girl from Metro Detroit - takes one to spot one.) cutting up men with weakly scripted put downs and moronic antics of would be money/fame grubbers...er, I mean suitors. I openly confess I've not actually seen the show. Trillian herself does not watch dating shows. Particularly those featuring Skanks of Metro Detroit. Which many of them do. I digress. I've not seen the show. Sexy hands notwithstanding, I cannot force myself to watch the show. Even in my invalid state I have some standards. Therefore I am in no position to pass comment. But I will anyway.
Simon and Crew overshot the pretty young successful (?) woman looking for love angle. You're not giving us anything we can't see daily on Elimidate. Formulas only work in algebra and John Irving novels! Surely someone told Simon that?! Or should have...see? I need to be the "bounce the idea off" person. Someone should pay me for my insight and intuition. Richard, oh Richard Branson, yooo hooo are you reading this? Better snatch me up quick before Simon Cowell gets hold of my brain.
Seems like Richard would like in on this. Maybe my rock star day meant something. Maybe it's my destiny day. Maybe this is the idea that will endear me to Richard and pave my way to Chief Richard Branson Underling. Otherwise, Simon Cowell (and the rest of you network bigwigs) write me. I've got the goods. The idea that will sell. The new twist. The show that will finally put the real into reality tv. The show that will capture that elusive but highly sought demograph: 32 - 45 year olds. I promise. This show will deliver.
Meanwhile, if any of you out there have a clue how to launch an internet dating site, please let me know. I know it requires a relational database, and a mega server. Both of which I am currently lacking. I mean, I know how to set up, use and maintain a relational database but how the heck do I post one which will allow users around the globe to login and access? I'm thinking it can't be that difficult. Little help here?
I will do my darndest to get ihaventhadsexinthiscentury.com up and running.
And please, sympathetic as I am, do not write to ask me for: a) Sex, b) advice on having sex in this century, or c) where to find someone else who hasn't had sex in this century.
2:05 PM
A Study in Contrasts.
Trillian left her Galaxy! Yes! Immobilizer and all, Trillian actually left her apartment for the weekend! And, all in all, it wasn't so awful. No stairs to traverse, pretty much just sprawled out in the back seat of Arthur and Boneman's rental car, not unlike being home in bed. The road beckoned, as did the only opportunity in even the vaguest corner of our Universe to see Shag art live in person. It was completely worth the trip. The fine folks at the Ox-Op gallery in Minneapolis put on a fine show. If you're ever near that corner of the Universe, make a point to stop in. Grumpy's has some good eats, too. Fear not the stuffed, fried olives. Forget everything you ever knew about stuffed, battered and fried food. These things are yummmmmmmy.
We traveled through Wisconsin, where Arthur stopped at every cheese emporium we passed. Our favorite was The Mousehouse. The fine folks there are helpful and friendly, glad to have our business, respectful and gosh darn it, just really nice folks.
And you know what? Overall, people are nicer North of the Illinois border. They really are! Without exception, everywhere I went people offered to help the poor woman on crutches. Everyone was full of sympathy, empathy and concern. Even the Uber Cool Gallery Crowd and the bar guys at Grumpy's. The woman at the Mousehouse all but sobbed when I told her what happened. (She asked, I don't volunteer the information unless prodded. By the way.) And don't get me wrong, I don't expect or even want the sympathy, but people should offer it. I would. Decent, normal human beings would. It's what you're supposed to do. And now I've learned these people do exist. They just don't live in Chicago or ride the Route 666 bus. (which was its utter nightmarish self this morning) The thing is, by the end of last evening, I was getting beyond embarrassed over all the attention and sympathy my plight brought me over the weekend. I know, I sound like I don't know what I want, that I'm confused. I'm not. Truly. I'm just saying, people should offer the help, the compassion and the sympathy, and when they don't, it's conspicuous by its absence. I personally don't necessarily want the attention, but I don't want people to be rude and inconsiderate. Which, until this past weekend, has been de rigueur.
So after two days in Sparkling Clean and Lily White Little Norway, the return to my neck of the stars was a bit abrupt.
I was hoping to return to a call or email from HWNMNBS, but alas, not to be. (However there were a few unknowns on my caller id...maybe? Just maybe he called and didn't leave a message??? Oh grow up Trillian). But no, speaking of growing up, I had the delight of an obscene message.
It was a bit freaky because I know it was Zaphod. Trying to mask his voice, no less. As in 11 year old prank freaky. He started out with a whispery, semi reminiscent of Blair Witch Project scary voice over, "oooh baby I want your body so badly, I'm so hot for you" thing, then started yelling, yes yelling, top of his voice yelling, "fuck you up your ass you fucking bitch." Then he started the quivery whispering again, then went into the yelling thing. Repeated this yet AGAIN then hung up.
Now, I'm clearly no expert in relationships, but, I know a few fundamentals. If you're interested in someone, particularly if your interests are of a sexual nature, leaving obscene, threatening, violent messages in which, among other things, you call your intended a bitch, is probably not the best route to her heart or pants.
This is beyond drunk in a bar calling a woman.
The message was left at 12:30 AM Saturday morning. Called three times, left one long message. If there was any doubt whatsoever as to the identity of the caller the time of the call pretty much gives it away. Also my caller id (which rarely actually id's anyone) indicates a cell phone number from his area of town. What a stupid jerk. I mean, an utter moron.
What a way to flatter a gal. If the kind message he left me is any indication of how he treated his ex, it's plain to see why she's nuts and on serious medication and in electroshock therapy. And just after my faith had been semi-restored in humankind. It was such a disappointment to return home hear those dear words so soon after my little trip North. Yes, those sweet nothings really added to my restored faith in mankind. Thank you for that, Zaphod.
No one has said those sort of things to me since, gosh, seventh grade. What a fine trip down I-don't-have-the-vocabulary-to-express-my feelings-beyond-common-vulgarity lane.
What a gentleman. Really a shame I wasn't home to hear it live. That would have been very comforting. I would have invited him right over for a booty call.
At least I'm sure that's what he was thinking.
I wasn't going to respond to him whatsoever, I know the psychology of this sort of thing, he's looking for a response, any response, and he'll settle for anger if that's all he can get. (Isn't that a very strange aspect of human nature? Why? Very odd. Of course it's the very thing that separates the obsessed stalkers from the broody poets.) But, the thing is, since I wasn't home and he didn't wake me, I wasn't really all that angry, barely annoyed, in fact. Pretty much par for Zaphod's course, I think. I certainly wasn't surprised. I didn't think I'd heard the last of him, and I am sure he'll continue to harass me. So after sleeping on it, I decided to send him an email to serve as a written warning of harassment.
I'm sure he'll deny it, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt it was him. And I will file harassment charges if he so much as calls to "say hello."
And making this all the more poignant is the fact that there were two more attacks in my neighborhood this morning. One at 3 AM and another at 4:30 AM. I heard the 4:30 AM aftermath - it was two blocks from my apartment and quite violent, two ambulances and tons of cop cars came blaring in, sirens full volume. It's all over the news, my hood is crawling with camera crews. The 4:30 AM woman is in really bad shape. They don't know if the same attacker is responsible for both attacks, but they feel certain the 4:30 AM attack was by the same guy who has been loose all summer - gauging by the violence, location and "style" of the attack. The 3AM girl attack was a bit further from my place, five blocks west and three blocks south, close enough to major gang turf for it to fall suspect to gang related. If that turns out to be the case, they won't "count" it in the official tally of rape and attacks. In fact, they won't consider it a rape or attack. Yeah, I know. A woman/girl is beaten and sexually violated, does it really matter if it was a gang initiation or turf issue? She's still attacked and raped, regardless of her involvement with the gangs.
So all in all, a very pleasant return to the city for me. Not!!!(aren't you glad that bit of vernacular has come and gone? I am too, but somehow it seemed appropriate there.)
To my friends and travelers in the UK: Today's square of my calendar says, "Bank Holiday, UK - EXCEPT SCOTLAND" Yes, the "except Scotland" is in bold italic. As if to say, No, Scotland, you have to go to work today, so don't even think about taking today off because someone in the UK has got to work today, and it's Scotland. So get out of bed and get into the office.
Someone just walked by my office and told me I look like a rock star today. Hmmm. This has happened before. Must be the eye makeup. The fact that I am actually wearing some. For the first time in ages. And that I let my hair air dry so it's probably all kinky an spiky and bed-head looking. The new lip gloss might be a factor, too. Wait til I get my next dose of blond highlights (the real thing, Phase Three: The Final Blonding of Trillian) (the lifting, by the way, seems to have stabilized at a light auburn, which, I think, is my natural color. Might have to leave some of this shade in under the blond highlights.)
If I am in fact looking rock star-ish today, I hope this is the day Richard Branson appears to take me away and give me a job.
Still looking for the alleged Secret Agent Man doll, by the way!!! Help!!!
10:32 AM
