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
Saturday, September 06, 2003 He Took It Out
Elaine on Seinfeld and I have yet one more thing in common.
Another night, another Zaphod.
Arthur's birthday was yesterday, so last night there was a fete at a Polynesian themed establishment downtown. During this fete I sat next to the friend of a colleague of Arthur's. Who apparently came along for fun. As the night progressed (and honest, not that much rum was consumed) friend of colleague and I had quite a few laughs.
It was time to go home, some were going on to later night establishments, and some were going home. I was in the taxi queue, when friend of colleague appeared and asked where I lived and if, since he had his car, I would like a ride home. Yes, I know, I have one Zaphod stalking and harassing me, I should have stayed far away. But the thing is, this guy seemed different. And I know Arthur's colleague quite well, and I'm on crutches with The Immobilizer up to my knee, and well, I accepted his ride home.
On the ride home (like 4 miles, just so you know it's not as if this was a major deal) he said how nice it was to meet a nice, sincere, funny woman in this city. Hmmmm, I thought, I think he likes me! Re-assess, re-assess. Do I like him? I wasn't thinking about him in those terms...hmmmmm So all I gave him was a coy little laugh. (Aw shucks meets Kathleen Turner)
He pulled up to my building, double parked, and we talked for a few minutes. I was not going to ask him up, and I didn't get the impression he expected or even wanted to be asked up. It truly was just good night, nice to meet you kind of talk. As I turned to unfasten my seat belt I realized somewhere on the trip home, HE TOOK IT OUT.
Unlike Elaine's encounter, there was no doubt this guy had purposely taken it out. AND, unless I am really mistaken, he wasn't expecting me to perform any sort of acts on it, with it, to it or for it. He was just sitting there holding it.
I swear this is true.
So I just pretended to not notice.
Unfastened the seatbelt.
Got out of the car as fast as I could under my current circumstances.
Retrieved my crutches from the back seat.
Said good night.
And left without looking back.
I've been on the dating scene for enough years and with enough men to have encountered my share of letches, losers and louses. The sight of it on a first date is nothing new to me. But typically it appears at least after a kiss or hand holding - some physical contact, some indication that one or both parties are interested in it coming out.
But this guy seemed completely ambivalent about me doing anything with it (thankfully) As if this is what he always does, just drives around holding it as guys are wont to do when sitting in their living rooms watching the game.
I can't even qualify this guy as a Zaphod, yet, because it's just too weird and too unresolved.
I saw ...28 Days Later last night. This is significant for a few reasons. It was the first, well, anything, I've done for two solid hours since The Incident. I knew the movie wouldn't be showing much longer, figured it would be a nearly empty theater, and decided I would leave if my ankle bothered me.
Suffice to say I had a near private screening. I was able to spread out across an entire row to my heart's and ankle's content.
This was the movie Frankie and Benjy and I were planning to see when I fell victim to The Incident. Finally 57 days later, I've seen the movie.
...what if
Danny Boyle and Andrew MacDonald continue to make the same movie over and over again, just substituting different elements. A la John Irving.
Am I reaching here, or is ...28 Days Later just a retelling of Trainspotting? Have the boys tapped their creative well dry?
Heroin = virus.
Addicts = infected zombies.
Abandoned council high rise with shopping trollies and a group of miscreants brought together to form a substitute family = abandoned high rise with shopping trollies and a group of miscreants brought together to form a substitute family
Baby killed by neglect from too young addicted kids = young boy killed by too young infection fearing kid.
Freaky drug induced fear/dead baby dream sequence = freaky drug induced fear/apocalyptic dream sequence.
Hot young thing on drugs turns out to be young school girl living with her parents = young school girl turns out to be hot young thing on drugs without parents.
Misguided youth wasting life, some die, some fail, some succeed in spite of themselves = misguided soldiers wasting life, all die, all fail, none succeed.
One young lad learns life lessons and grows up, tells the story = one young lad learns life lessons and grows up, tells the story.
...or does he
I know, I know, all directors and producers have recurring themes, points they are compelled to make over and over, I know. I understand. But really, am I the only one who feels slightly ripped off by this movie - that it's just a gorier retelling of Trainspotting with some The Beach thrown in?
I like Shallow Grave. It was a pleasant surprise the first time I saw it and remains thus ten (?) years later. I didn't love A Life Less Ordinary. In fact kind of really hated it. But I blamed it on Ewan McGregor's then BLOSSOMING BIG LEADING MAN STATUS. And the Godawful re-make of Wings of Desire, City of Angels which was out around the same time. Too many lame angel movies. And, it was a big project, ambitious beyond time and means, perhaps. I liked The Beach, could have been a LOT better, but could have been a LOT worse. Will have to rent that one, it's been a few years, need to re-appraise it. The point is, the Boyle/MacDonald team are certainly capable of good things, perhaps even great things. And that's just it. They're the kid in class who do not apply themselves as much as they could.
Is it possible, that after all these years of me telling them to lose Ewan McGregor, now that they have taken my advice it turns out they actually need him?
Yikes.
Don't get me wrong, I like Ewan. Ewan has moved me, in, um, special ways. But I've never liked him in any of his Boyle/MacDonald roles. He always seems mis-cast in them.
I digress.
Since I am probably the Last Person in America to have seen ...28 Days Later I won't bother to recommend the movie. (If you haven't, it's worth seeing, but at early show/matinee price. Even Ewan McGregor would warrant full fare for this movie)
This blog isn't about movie reviews. Sorry. All I really want to know is: Am I perhaps too jaded and pain killed to see anything other than a retelling of Trainspotting in this movie?
And why, if the virus was rage, did they not simply give the infected strong doses of prozac or valium? Might not have cured the disease but at the very least masked the symptoms.
8:26 AM
Thursday, September 04, 2003 I Never Did Get the Hang of Thursdays
So to ground myself and sort out this day, Thursday, I need to remind myself of the few
Things I Know for Sure (This ain't Oprah's list.)
The girl who played Dodi in the final seasons of My Three Sons is Leif Garrett's real life sister.
Remote controls bring out the Neanderthalic boob in every man.
Matt Groenig is the only credible voice of America.
There is some fantastic illustration being produced right now.
When placed in an office environment, people will rise to their level of incompetence.
Dean Martin is one of the most underrated performers.
A good hair day tames even the most wicked shrew.
Smoking is a rude, inconsiderate, disgusting habit.
Perfume in the office is stupid, inconsiderate and rude.
Ditto whistling, humming and singing. (Unless you happen to actually work in the recording industry. But even then...)
The Kellogg factory tour was loads of fun, but was forever closed to visitors because of corporate spies.
Much as I adore and respect Johnny Depp, Gene Wilder will forever be the only real Willie Wonka.
There was a toy/product named Super Stuff which, when it came in contact to a cut on my 7-year-old finger, caused it to swell to triple its normal size.
There are 228 known carcinogens.
If Tom Petty is dead, Simon Cowell had something to do with it.
M's Pop Muzik ranks higher than Cats in the Cradle and Sweet Home Alabama and Born to Run in Favorite Songs of the 70's.
Cats have four rows of whiskers.
Get Fuzzy is one the best drawn and funniest strips in syndication.
Potatoes au gratin, the way your mother makes them, is the best comfort food in the Universe.
10:43 AM
Wednesday, September 03, 2003 Wednesday Real Reality. Putting the Real in Reality TV One Show at a Time.
My boss is an idiot. She's having a very loud, inane, conversation in front of my office. Even with the door closed I can here her inane banter. And since she's distracted me, I'm taking a break from my creative endeavors. Every time she opens her mouth and words come out I think, "I really have nothing in common with this person. She's a moron. A buffoon. Completely incompetent in her job and in life. I want nothing to do with her. I don't like be associated with her. She's embarrassing and bringing me down."
What we need is a team of judges to come into offices and criticize and praise (when, if ever, applicable) the staff. A la American/Pop Idol. The panel could be Richard Branson (of course), Donald Trump and Bill Gates (to weed out the tech support people and problems). We need a woman. Bobbi Brown. I had drinks with her, maybe I could call her and ask her to be on the panel. Too bad Malcolm Forbes is dead. He'd be a good Simon Cowell. The people who don't pass the judge's scores are fired or re-instated to other positions, like the mail room or janitorial services. Actually, that's not fair, the few people I actually like, respect and appreciate in the company work in the mail room. (The judges would also recognize this and would promote them to much higher paid, better positions where they could use all they know about the company (want to know anything, from gossip to salaries to who's being let go next week, ask the mail room people. They know everything.)) I know there's that The Office show - but it's rigged, right? It's not as if out of the clear blue a team of judges shows up and begins critiquing employees and hiring or firing them. Which is exactly what should happen in my office and offices around the world.
Speaking of Simon Cowell, good grief, I saw a promo of him on television, what in the name of bad hair days has he done to himself? Really atrocious haircut - of the SuperCutz kind. I mean, it's a just plain awful haircut. I'm not talking just a bad style for him, I'm talking I hope you didn't pay for that haircut, what happened, little accident with the weed whacker out back? haircut. And, it makes him look like the really weary, wrinkled old man that he apparently is. Can you say, "Use some of that enormous amount of money you allegedly earn to hire an image consultant, publicist and stylist and get a decent haircut"? Nice hands, though. Gotta give him that.
That's the difference, literal and metaphorical, between Simon Cowell and Richard Branson. A decent haircut. And why I, like so many others, want to work with Mr. Branson. Sure Dick always just looks a little shaggy, a little unkempt, but not bad. He's had a decent haircut, but can't be bothered to style or brush it. Never Tawdry. Or weed whacked. Foolish, sometimes, yes. But not bad. And I can attest, you don't have to spend a lot of money to get a decent haircut, but you've got to know when you've had a bad one and seek out the advice and talent of a skilled stylist for repairs and future trims.
Off point. Sorry.
Game on.
So this week's real reality show is:
Office Idol. Day of Reckoning. Making the World a Better Place, One Office at a Time.
We'll use my office as a model.
8:45 AM: The judges appear. Don is really feisty this morning, seems to be in a bad mood. Must be the Chicago deal isn't going as planned. Dick, who is looking well rested but slightly unkempt, as if perhaps he's arrived via speedboat across Lake Michigan, jovially asks, "When are you going to break ground on that tower, anyway Don?" Don's only acknowledgement is a scowl. Bill can't believe the coffee makers are: a) not computer timed, b) not dispensing Starbucks, and c) not dispensing anything at 9 AM. "Who's job is it to make the first pots of coffee?" No response. Bill is angry and calls tech support. He is put in the continuous loop of voice prompts. Dick offers Bill a Virgin Cola. Tight can close-up. Bobbi appears, fresh faced, naturally, and accepts the Virgin Cola (another tight shot of the can) from Dick.
9:15 AM: The judges prepare for their first appraisal. The employee is not to be found. Fire him for being tardy! Next! Another empty office, another dismissal. Pink slips are dispensed from a Post-It brand pad and stuck on cubes and office doors. Don is not happy about the obvious attendance issue in this office. All that can be heard are Don's tirades echoing down empty corridors and Bill's growing frustration with the tech support phone prompts.
9:20 AM: Bobbi ducks into the ladies room and finds 75% of the staff primping and dressing. Bobbi quickly appraises the situation and begins dispensing make up application advice for more professional looks. Tight shots of various Bobbi Brown products. Bobbi throws looks of reproach at some of the employees who are beyond even her advice.
9:30 AM: The male judges are gathered around the ladies room door. Dick finally knocks and enters the ladies room. Bobbi calls out to him for assistance, through sneezes and coughs Dick is guided to her and retrieves her from the powder and perfumed fog. They emerge with hosiery askew over their shoulders, badly applied makeup and hair in rollers.
9:45 AM: Don goes into the ladies room and fires all but one of the women primping. He will retain one, the youngest and prettiest, for his personal staff. He promises to guide and mentor her. Bill continues to hold for customer support.
9:50 AM: Don, Dick and Bobbi encounter a presumed employee wearing a spandex thong, mesh muscle shirt and roller blades. The employee appears to be approximately 55 years old, balding and male. Don refuses to acknowledge the employee. Dick, however, engages him in conversation where it is revealed the scantly spandex clad roller blader is the ethics and professionalism advisor for the department. Dick is impressed with his devil may care approach to office decorum, Bobbi dispenses skin care advice for his overly sun damaged skin. Don wearily asks a few pointed questions, to which the ethics advisor responds with many words that do not answer any of the questions. Dick is bored with the plaything, Bobbi has done all she can do, and so they fire him. Bill is still on hold, now eyes glazed over and humming along to the muzak.
10:00 AM: The only other employees to be found are two mailroom guys making their rounds. One of them suggests to the panel of judges go down the hall, there's a woman in marketing who is generally in her office.
The judges proceed through the empty corridors, past the cube farm, where Don fires one woman for babbling gossip on the phone while filing her nails, another for one too many Dilbert cartoons and a Hang In There Baby, Friday's Coming poster festooning her cube walls and Dick fires the remaining present employee for a radio blaring boy bands. Bobbi tries to spare one employee from being fired, pleading, "I admire her for trying, I think she's done a super job with her makeup, and she deserves a chance." Dick is slightly swayed, offers her a Virgin Cola. When the employee declines, Dick and Don fire her, sticking a pink slip Post-It brand note on her forehead.
10:02 AM: The judges reach the only office open with the lights on. They see a woman toiling over her Mac, the Detroit Cobras quietly singing from her I Tunes. On the screen they see the most remarkable graphics and campaign any of them have ever witnessed. "Good God woman! You're a genius! Come away with me, I've got my balloon parked outside. You're just the insightful, perceptive, intelligent yet very creative sort of talent I need. Hey, is that a Virgin phone?! (tight shot of the phone) Please be my right-hand person and advisor." cries Dick. "Here, have some Virgin Cola. Any thoughts on the British rail system?"
"You must design and produce my next book!" exclaims Bobbi. "Please, you must bring my marketing plan into this century. I need you. I can tell by the way you expertly and subtly apply Iced Plum Shimmer Stick you are the creative yet professional voice my company needs to remain competitive and successful..."
"Hang on there a minute, you two. She's a young woman, and I get first dibs on all women under the age of 40. Listen, you, what's your name? (looking for the name plaque he sees Tricia McMillian) er, Tricia ("you can call me Trillian") I've got a penthouse with your name on it, anything, I'll pay anything to have you on my staff. I need your kind of expertise." coos Don.
Bill appears, tussled (a la Rick Moranis), phone handset frayed from being torn from the wall, and screams, "A MAC?! A f#@king Mac! The only person who actually does anything in this office uses a Mac?!!!"
"Pack your laptop and cell phone," the judges exclaim in unison, "you're going to the top of the Fortune 100!" Bobbie hugs the employee, wipes away a tear and tells her this is her proudest moment. Dick offers her a celebratory Virgin Cola (tight shot) and Don pinches her butt. The announcer voices over, "Tricia McMillian is this week's protégée! She's off to pursue her career ambitions where she will be challenged to break through the glass ceiling. She'll swim with the sharks, but can she resist lying down with the dogs?"
As they all leave the office, Trillian hangs back for a moment just before turning out the lights, a la Mary Tyler Moore, smiles slightly and exits the office that has been both her prison cell and refuge. The judges are busy outside issuing more pink slips. One to Trillian's boss for being an idiot, one to Trillian's senior manager for not recognizing and rewarding the creative genius and professional attitude Trillian brings to the company every day, and one to the deadline driven editor carrying reams of edits to Trillian.
Bill hires the entire tech support group, excited at the wonderful new recruits he's found in this office. He's certain they're all Microsoft kind of people.
The last shot is the mail room boys moving into the CEO and VP's offices.
Okay, time to leave Fantasy Island.
And yes, ihaventhadsexinthiscentury.com is still very much in consideration. Be patient. These things take time. More time than I realized.
12:09 PM
Tuesday, September 02, 2003 The blonding of Trillian went horribly wrong.
To all those who expressed interest/concern over the recent follicle proceedings: My hair "took" the peroxide much faster and stronger than anticipated, probably due to the lifter which was apparently still quite active...and so, after the initial shock, phone consultations with the fine folks at hair crisis central (there is a hotline for stylists in crisis, just in case any of you ever have a problem...) a lot of beauty shop chemistry, emergency color correction, many hours and a few tears later I emerged with a perfectly palatable shade of brown. After things settle down and if I gather my courage (months, perhaps years from now) we will endeavor a more subtle highlighting procedure.
But at least the red is gone.
I have accepted the harsh reality that I have known all along: I am not a blond. (contrary to what you may have witnessed in the BBC's fine adaptation of HGTHG)
Trillian is once again her raven haired, dark, broody (mysterious? exotic? maybe??) self.
12:43 PM
This Blog Has No Title
Much as I enjoy a day off from work, much as I enjoy a long weekend...the re-entry is Hell.
My mind is an utter void this morning, wish I were home with Furry Creature, but no, instead, here I am like a drone, toiling away on yet another deadline, yet another book, yet another "creative project" for which I can barely muster enthusiasm enough to even acknowledge as a project.
Not even:
Cooler weather;
My very cute new corduroy jacket (slightly retro mod);
My ankle feeling a bit better;
Really yummy sourdough toast with peanut butter;
A very good hair day;
Lots of stupid "news" items giving me loads of ammunition to slam Simon Cowell;
It's already Tuesday;
or The fact that I have more money in my checking account than I thought;
