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 13, 2003 What's a vegetarian, beer hating, Three Stooge disdaining girl to do?
I submit these truths to be self evident. Apparently evident to men, as well.
That particular group of traits came to light among and under fire with a group of my friends who all agreed are to blame for the miscreant men and Zaphods I attract.
They feel unless I start eating animals, chugging beer (or at least Jell-o shots), and learn to chortle and guffaw at Larry, Moe and Curly, I can expect a lifetime of attracting the worst the male of the species has to offer.
Oh, I've tried to change. I've tried lots of beer (HATE IT), and I HAVE watched more Three Stooges than I will ever admit and see no humor in it whatsoever. And eat an animal? Sorry. Moral and physical objections absolutely prohibit me. Again, I will, in strict and formal social situations, to politely choke down whatever animal was served. And I think I have managed to maintain polite composure as befit the situations. And I suffer for it for days after on every occasion. (If you're not veg you may not realize that once the animal enzymes are out of your system, re-introducing them into your body creates the equivalent of an H-Bomb being set off in your stomach and intestines. For days. Plus the sleepless nights reconciling your guilt for having ingested something with a mother for the sake of decorum and choosing to not embarrass your parents/friends/hosts/date. But I digress.)
Do any of the aforementioned really make me so obtuse that it's evident by my appearance? Thus attracting Stalker Zaphods and men who take it out? Am I really asking for it?
I maintain a firm and resounding NO! A man would have to get to know me quite well for more than two of these things to become obvious. Drinks at a party or a walk home from a gallery would never bring them to the fore.
And even if they did, let's just say I reek of vegetarian-no beer-Stooge hater. That should, in fact, attract a higher caliber of man, right? The Zaphods and men who take it out should, by definition, be attracted first and only to Jell-O shot swilling gettin' freaky in the hot tub kind of girls. Right?
To wit: HWNMNBS doesn't like beer or the Three Stooges, and only eats salmon once or twice a month. He was attracted to me right away.
I know, where is he now. I know. I know! Okay! I know.
So here's an open invitation to the Universe.
If you are, or know, a man under the age of, hmmm, let's say 45, who doesn't care if a woman is a) vegetarian, b) doesn't drink beer and prefers that you don't, either, c) sees no humor in the Three Stooges, (or the Marx Brothers or Abbott and Costello) AND you are not a) prone to taking it out for no apparent reason, b) have never stalked a woman or made unsolicited obscene calls to woman you've just met, c) cannot list narcissism as your first and best quality, and d) are employed and breathing, let me know.
I realize I am really asking for it here, but in view of the recent enlightenments my friends have bestowed upon me, a little sacrifice in the form of online research is necessary.
Keep in mind I am not soliciting dates, just evidence to back my above mentioned hypothesis. And to prove my friends wrong, dammit.
Also, I should probably mention a few other traits of apparent concern: My loathing and contempt for organized sports (more later) and my militant hatred of smokers.
Friday, September 12, 2003 Everybody was wearing rhinestones, all those sparkle clothes and cowboy boots. I decided to wear a black shirt and pants and see if I could get by with it. I did and I've worn black clothes ever since.
Amen brother.
There are lots of words that could be said, but I think it's best left to the man himself, the very song I played about 30 times last night (don't get me started on my foreshadowing of doom, it scares me).
I Still Miss Someone
At my door the leaves are falling
A cold wild wind has come
Sweethearts walk by together
And I still miss someone
I go out on a party
And look for a little fun
But I find a darkened corner
because I still miss someone
Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes
I see them every where
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there
I wonder if she's sorry
For leavin' what we'd begun
There's someone for me somewhere
And I still miss someone
Thursday, September 11, 2003 I Never Did Get the Hang of Thursdays...
and this one is particularly weird.
The state of the karaoke going away party, the stupidity of my boss, Richard Branson hiring me, my stupid broken ankle, things disappearing from my office, the marital state of Bryan Ferry, the stroke of luck and timing and now culminating marketing genius that is Simon Cowell (and his bad acting, bad haircut (but nice hands)), the many, many, ever increasing amount of Zaphods in my life, the rude riders of Route 666, whether or not ...28 Days Later is just a re-telling of Trainspotting, the soppy tart cashier at Walgreens...
...are all insignificant (of course), utterly un-noteworthy and just not worth the effort of typing this morning.
I'm not a big memorial person - why remember and mark the anniversary of a horrible event or day? Seems unfair and unkind to the person/people you are meant to be honoring.
For public record: When my final day on this planet dawns, do not remember me for my passing. It will be insignificant to who I was. If anyone feels compelled to remember, honor or memorialize me in any way, it damn well better be on my birthday or the best day of my life, the day I met HWNMNBS. I certainly don't want my family or friends all weepy on the anniversary of my death. If they remember me, I want it to be fondly remembering how happy I was (at times) or laughing over some stupid thing that happened to me.
I've always felt strongly about this.
Of course everyone in America is somber today, right now. Especially since this day has dawned nearly exactly as it did two years ago. Absolutely beautiful early fall day. Unless you are a soulless, heartless, memory disabled Neanderthal, you cannot prevent thoughts of this morning two years ago. Even if it's in passing, I personally do not know anyone who will forget. And I do not know anyone who doesn't care anymore. And I do not know anyone who doesn't swell with anguish for the families and friends of the innocent victims.
I know there are people out there who do forget, or don't care. And that's a horrible embarrassment. Not for America but for humanity.
But stark posters and radio and television announcements proclaiming Never Forget! are not going to jolt these apathetic, uncompassionate morons into kind, caring concerned citizens of the world.
So this whole Never Forget campaign is really, really offensive to me.
I don't and won't forget. Ever. How dare anyone imply that I would? In fact, I don't and won't forget every day, not just, or especially, on September 11.
I am not surprised everything is paling in significance for me. What with all this Never Forget! stuff crammed down my psyche.
I'd like to see the Never Forget! campaign kick into high gear on the birthdays of each of the victims. But, but, but...that could equate to every day of the year, you say? That's the point.
8:30 AM
Wednesday, September 10, 2003 Wednesday Real Reality. Putting the Real in Reality TV One Show at a Time.
This week, it's
Cop Idol!
or
Making the Badge.
I can't decide which I like better.
It can run on CBS opposite COPS on Fox. Hey. I just realized how much that sounds like a Dr. Seuss primer. COPS on Fox. Great. Now I'm going to be reciting Hop on Pop all day.
Again, I happen to have a convenient model we can use for the pilot. Ripped from the headlines, born of a city under siege, the making and breaking of law enforcement careers.
A panel of judges, whom I have yet to assemble, but must include Angie Dickinson in the Paula Abdul role. (wait...is Angie Dickinson dead? In case she's not we'll use her because she's perfect. Never actually a cop, girly but not above dressing up as a hooker, and, she was married to Burt Bacharach. Need I say more?)
The judges stand around and watch a crime(s) being committed (you know, like Chicago cops) and then critique the local authorities on their response time and handling of the crime.
It will go something like this:
10:45 PM: Judges appear on a street corner in a very hip and trendy yet crime laden urban neighborhood.
10:50 PM: Female shrieks of terror ring through the night.
10:51 PM: A male yells "Suck my dick you fucking cunt!"
10:51 PM: Thuds that can only be the sound of a person being slammed into a car (sad to say I know that distinct sound).
10:52 PM: More female shrieks of terror accompanied by another female yelling "Leave her alone! Leave her alone!"
10:52 PM: Male yells over both females "shut the fuck up both of you shut the fuck up." More thuds. Then the sound of a car window being shattered.
10:52 PM: Neighbor and concerned citizen (with a broken leg) does not hesitate to call 9-1-1 and report the attack taking place directly below her apartment.
10:53 PM: Two different males begin yelling "She's got your fucking bat, watch out, she's got your bat!"
10:54 PM: Altogether now: Melee everyone! Melee! Is it a gang bang or domestic dispute? A robbery or a rape? The judges know because they're standing by watching from a safe distance across the street. But all the rest of us see are increasingly bloodied bodies in various states of abuse. A cacophony of screams, swearing, car metal being dented and glass breaking emanating from the melee.
10:59 PM: One of the males yells, "C'mon, we gotta go, the cops are coming!" Ironic because, in fact, the cops are 25 feet away and have been during the entire altercation. The three males take off running across the street to the park. DIRECTLY PAST THE JUDGES.
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:05 PM: The two females continue to take out their aggression on the car with a baseball bat and their bodies. At one point both females are on the hood of the car parked directly behind the car being beaten, jumping from the hood of the innocent car springboard fashion onto the victim car, thus enhancing the velocity of their attack on the car and also damaging the innocent victim car.
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:01 PM: Neighbor and concerned citizen (with a broken leg) does not hesitate to call 9-1-1 AGAIN and report the attack taking place directly below her apartment, that three of the perps have left the scene, that two women have been beaten and are now trashing once car and incidentally damaging another. the 9-1-1 operator says a unit has been dispatched.
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:05 PM: The three males return. And begin beating the girls. Slamming their faces into the wrecked car, getting them to the pavement and kicking them.
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:15 PM: A sudden stillness and quiet ensues. The sound of girls whimpering and crying can be heard.
11:17 PM: The lead male begins yelling again. "How the fuck am I supposed to get to work? This is my fucking car, bitch! MY CAR!"
11:18 PM: More yelling, shrieking and beating ensues.
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:22 PM: Two of the males run off through the park, again past the judges.
11:25 PM: The lead male and female hold a hushed conversation.
11:27 PM: The lead male again yells his original request of "suck my dick you fucking cunt, suck me!" (Neighbor and concerned citizen ponders that this guy really needs to increase his vocabulary of demands, that he's lacking originality, and wonders of the judges will comment on this in their analysis.)
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:30 PM: Main girl is once again shrieking, the secondary girl is doing that sob-choke-sob thing, and the lead male is still yelling.
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:36 PM: The two males who fled return.
11:38 PM: One of the secondary males and the secondary female begin a loud debate regarding the lead male and female.
11:40 PM: When words fail to persuade either side, a fight between the two breaks out. Secondary guy pins secondary girl to what is left of the trunk of the car. He is both restraining her and (hopefully) mock raping her. She is yelling "get off me bastard, get off me!"
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:40 PM: Neighbor and concerned citizen (with a broken leg) does not hesitate to call 9-1-1 AGAIN and report the attack taking place directly below her apartment, that three of the perps have returned to the scene, and that one of the women is being beaten and possibly raped. The 9-1-1 operator says a unit has been dispatched and, incidentally, there is an undercover unit assigned to the park and should be on patrol.
But no police on foot or in squad car appears.
11:42 PM: The lead guy tells his henchman to leave the woman alone. Strangely enough (to the neighbor and concerned citizen) he releases the girl.
11:43 PM: AGAIN the three males leave the scene.
11:45 PM: The two girls sit on the sidewalk holding each other sobbing.
11:58 PM: The lead male can be heard yelling from the park, "Offi Sir! Po Leese! Offi Sir! Stop! Offi Sir"
11:59 PM: Squad car rolls up the street to the scene, all three male perps jogging beside it.
12:00 PM: HUGE yelling and accusation session among the five perps.
12:03 PM: One of the cops has the bright idea to separate the boys and the girls.
12:04 PM: The two girls are in the back seat of the squad car.
12:05 PM: The lead guy is handcuffed, yelling that he "ain't goin back to jail, ain't doin more time, not for this ho."
12:09 PM: Another squad car appears. This, apparently, is the squad dispatched from 9-1-1. The first squad car was incidental or dispatched from somewhere other than 9-1-1. One of the cops in squad 2 is heard saying, "There's patrol on duty in the park, where the fuck are they?"
12:15 PM: It is apparently decided that squad one will take the girls to the station, squad two will take two of the males. The third male, who since the cops arrived has taken on the role of negotiator, is left to drive the beaten car away, if possible. Unbelievably, the car starts and is driven off into the night.
The two squad cars leave with their sets of perps.
Now it's time for the judges to review and critique.
Judge One: Squad One, you appeared from out of nowhere and, dudes, you da men! Squad Two, dawgs, over an hour response time? No man, that's no good. I know those donuts and coffee are good, man, I know sometimes it's hard to tear yourself away, but this is line of duty, dawgs, sometimes you have to sacrifice a donut for duty.
Judge Two (Angie Dickinson): Squad One, you deserve medals of honor. You did your best in a difficult situation and rose to the challenge. Squad Two, you tried, and you did help in the end, you just need to work on your response time. Keep working, keep practicing, I can see you as Inspector or Superintendent.
Judge Three: Squad One, That was pathetic. Horrible. Really, really awful. Simply the worst bit of police work I've ever seen. You're fat. You're ugly. You have stupid haircuts. It took you five minutes to figure out separating the boys and girls. Squad Two, well, I mean, what can I say? I don't even know where to begin. How did you even get through basic training in cop school? You couldn't detain my poodle. You're disgraces to the badge. Hire a lawyer and sue your captain. Undercover Team, you're either so good that you can molecularly alter yourselves to invisible, or you're so bad that you were not even patrolling your designated beat. Either way you are completely ineffective and wasted my time. Neighbor and Concerned Citizen, Marry me. You're the only redeeming factor in the entire show this evening. Without people like you this city would decay into a gang ridden, crime infested, third world cartel-like politic driven, morally bankrupt cesspool...Oh wait, that's already happened. Still, good show, bloody cracking bit of dialing, especially with a broken leg. Good witnessing, too. You secured your position far enough away from the window to avoid any stray bullets or glass, close enough to get some crucial details. This is what I'm talking about, doing what they're supposed to do. Well done.
Judge Two: (weird pantomime clapping) Yes, absolutely, you were the one who really shined tonight. You overcame your disability and rose like the star you are. Without you, Neighbor and Concerned Citizen, who knows what might have happened.
Judge Three: Oh shut up Angie, we know what would have happened. It did happen, we saw it. These squads did nothing for an hour. Glorious as the efforts of Neighbor and Concerned Citizen were, they were futile in the face of the useless squads.
So there you have it, this week's putting the real in reality TV.
And yes, obviously (I think) this happened last night. The victim in all of this? The poor person who's car hood was used as a spring board and is now dented in several places.
As neighbor and concerned citizen, I am struggling with what I should have done during the hour it took for cops to show up. Okay, I have a broken leg, which severely limits my mobility. Okay, I was really afraid bullets were going to start flying. Okay, the three guys (and girls) were obviously big strong people full of rage (Hey! Just like in ...28 Days Later!). Okay, it was a glorified domestic dispute. Okay had I yelled anything from my window they would know where I live and come back for revenge. But I feel very inadequate today, that I should have done something more. My instinct said call the police and stay away. And in that situation I felt it was best to follow my instinct. I also thought surely the cops would show up much sooner than they did.
Still. The local authority once again failed (there's a shock) and I should have been more prepared with an appropriate reaction. And in reconstructing and trying to learn something from this, I am at a loss as to what the appropriate reaction would have been (beyond calling 9-1-1 three times).
10:12 AM
Tuesday, September 09, 2003 I Guess There Must Be a God, Part II
Because I am clearly in Hell. And by Hell I do not mean Dallas/Fort Worth. That used to be Hell. By comparison Texas is looking like optimistic purgatory.
Hell, officially, is now located in my office.
Just in case anyone was wondering.
Come on down and have a look.
Laugh at the doomed souls. Be shocked to see how much they look like you. Learn lessons, become enlightened, repent and reform.
Because if you don't, you may find yourself forced to plan a going away party for a colleague you do not even like.
With the imposed theme of karaoke.
Really.
I have been tasked with every aspect of planning the party. Including but not limited to: finding and procuring the gift(s), managing the guest list and invitations, finding and reserving the venue for the party (a karaoke bar/restaurant), oh, and, making sure everyone in the office shows up and, yes, that a "fun" time is had by all. And, oh, won't it be "fun" to make it a surprise?
All for a woman who is quitting. Yes QUITTING because she found a better job in a better company in a better town because she didn't like her job in our company in our town.
And frankly, as far as I'm concerned, good riddance. She never, and I mean never, arrives on time, takes 2 hour lunches, when she does grace us with her presence, she wears asthma attack inducing perfume you can smell 10 minutes before she enters the office (honest - I can always tell when she's been on the elevator, her perfume lingers in there for hours. It's not just me, other people have commented on it), noisily scuffs and flip flops around the office in ill fitting mules and sandals, dons a walkman and sings(?) along to gospel rap, and never answers her phone, but calls family and friends, with whom she spends nearly all of her abbreviated office schedule engaged in phone conversations. Loudly.
What does this woman actually do? I've worked with her for four years and honestly I have no clue. Not one notion of her actual job function. Oh, there's the org chart and the "defined roles" but I've yet to see any of hers actually performed by her. So all in all, a very nice little set up for her. BUT, apparently, she found a nicer set up and is moving onward and upward.
And though her departure might be cause for celebration on a personal level, why on earth would I, should I, be the one to coordinate an all office party for her? I don't know her that well, we're certainly not friends, I'm not sad to see her go, and, on a more global level, I do not agree with office going away parties unless the person is retiring from the workforce or has circumstances beyond their control forcing them to leave a job and office they otherwise would not leave.
It's just weird to me that a party and gifts are given to a person who has essentially said, "I couldn't stand working with you, there was nothing compelling me to stay, I found another job and I'm leaving you." Typically for a better job, better money, better office, better company, better benefits...why throw them a party? They've said good-bye and good riddance. Why fete the occasion?
And on the other hand, doesn't a party, with gifts, implicitly imply a happy occasion? The innuendo sent by staff throwing a quitter a party, in my mind, is, "We're so happy you're finally leaving we're throwing a party!" If we were truly sad and bereft the person were leaving, we'd be unhappy and unwilling to mark the occasion in any way, but especially not with a party. And gifts.
And let's just say for some reason a party is deemed to be in order, shouldn't the quitter technically be the one throwing it because they are a) glad they found a way out, b) because they can now afford it more than the crew they're leaving behind and c) because they never have see that miserable office and woesome staff again?
And do I look like I know anything about karaoke? Once, in 1990, in Tokyo, when it was required business decorum, I stepped foot in a karaoke bar. That's it. That's the extent of my knowledge about anything karaoke.
And now I am supposed to
- learn about karaoke machines
- find a "good one"
- buy one
- procure guest appropriate karaoke cd's
And find a venue for the party which
- has karaoke
- during happy hour
- can seat 50 people
- serves food
- is within easy distance from our office
And be sure to
- invite all the staff the quitter works(?) with
- solicit funds for the gift
- solicit funds for the party
- keep it a secret from the quitter
While I am suffering with a broken leg, on crutches, forced to ride buses, and, by the way, really busy with bona fide work projects on deadlines which must be met if we are to actually turn a profit on them.
If anyone can find a reason for me to be the ringleader and coordinator for any aspect of any of this, please let me know. For now, my Hell theory is prevailing.
This would be a really, really good day for the Office Idol crew to show up. Or better, just Richard Branson to appear in my life. I bet he agrees with, or at least understands my lack of enthusiasm for going away parties for quitters. And I am certain he would never, ever make me organize one against my will. And certainly wouldn't torture me with learning more about karaoke machines than anyone over the age of 15 living in the Western Hemisphere should know.
Well that paragraph was a nice visit to Fantasy Island.
Monday, September 08, 2003 Never let them know you have breasts, legs or the ability to type.
My stupid, pithy, ignoramic inspirational-quote-a-day calendar is missing.
Not that I care about the calendar.
But if anything were going to be borrowed, stolen or otherwise removed from my office, the last thing I would expect would be this stupid calendar I got at the office holiday gift swap.
I've only kept it on my desk because it was the polite and office politic correct thing to do.
Disreali and Emerson (Ralph Waldo, that is) are quoted more than anyone else on this thing. I'm not especially fond of either.
But now all that remains is the empty spot where it used to perch. It is conspicuous by its absence.
And it's mine. What if I loved that calendar? What if I lived for the advice and inspiration it doled out day after day? What if I needed its words of enlightenment to guide me through my days?
And why take this idiotic little a-day calendar out of all the other truly more valuable things in my office? If it was a calendar they needed, I personally would have opted for my Nancy Drew wall calendar. (This month featuring the cover and synopsis of my favorite, The Hidden Staircase). Or my French Paper year of art on paper calendar. That's very cool.
I firmly believe it is the same person who, last fall, took one, just one of my brand spanking new, only worn twice, really fabulous Via Spiga boots. Just one. The right. So, unfortunately, I can't even line the cloud with silver now that I can only wear one shoe on my right foot. I haven't forgotten that, the incident is as fresh as if it just happened. I mean, ONE BOOT? WHY TAKE ONE BOOT???? Right. To mess with me and my mind. To piss me off.
Then it was my really swell pink Tate Liverpool pen. Which disappeared from its special resting place in my drawer for three months and the magically reappeared one day.
And now my pithy-saying-a-day calendar.
Maybe it will reappear, too. But so far my boot hasn't shown up. (I've kept its mate all this time, just in case righty returns.)
I'm just going to have to rise to the challenge and live by my own pithy-sayings-a-day.
Never let them know you have breasts, legs or the ability to type.
