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, October 04, 2003 Universe Moment of Silence
Illustrator extraordinaire, Newbery and Caldecott winner, Shrek! creator and all around brilliant mind William Steig has died.
Trillian has no ambitions to be a sports writer. None. If I did I'd be writing about Mark Prior this morning. This is not, and never will be, a real sports blog. I'll leave that to Kilgore and perhaps Mr. Solotarian. (no official Guide rating yet, but a worthy stop in the Universe) Who will certainly have something to say about the whole Randall Simon issue. He being an admitted Tigers Fan. (See Kilgore's Friday post.)
But.
I think I've been plagiarized by Mike Downey, a real, published sports writer, who, today, also wrote about someone other than Mark Prior.
After I broke my ankle and was unable to manage the Friendly Confines (which are not so friendly to the disabled) Bone and Arthur, in an attempt to get me out of my apartment, took me to a game party. One of those affairs at some guy's apartment who has nothing in his living room except a ginormous television, speakers worthy of a Metallica stage, a ratty couch, a cooler for a coffee table and bean bag chairs. And a poster of the Eiffel Tower. (Why do these guys always have a poster of the Eiffel Tower? Is it supposed to class up the joint? Impress chicks? Or does is speak to their metrosexuality?)
It was one of those hot August afternoon affairs where windows and doors are kept open and people in varying degrees of hangover, attire and age drop in, plop down and watch the game. Introductions are informal and limited to "Hey" head nod, responded with "Hey. Beer?"
I was made very comfortable (surprisingly) on two bean bag chairs. This was a chivalrous bow to my gender and handicap.
Yadda yadda yadda. Up steps Randall Simon to bat. Bone, ever the Stephen Hawking of baseball trivia, produced an interesting tidbit he'd apparently been saving for just the right Trillian moment. (He's really good that way, knows exactly when to drop a comment that will launch Trillian to peaks of Tillianity.)
"Randall Simon's up." (Bone now channeled Harry Caray) "He's that new guy. Hey, Trill, he's from Curaçao, by way of Detroit. You're from Detroit, by way of a bunch of other places, you like Curaçao, you drink it, what do you know about the actual island? Is there a Guide entry for it?" (butchering Curaçao in true Harry Caray fashion.)
"Curaçao?! (ignoring the Detroit reference) He's from Curaçao?! How'd he learn to play baseball, and what the heck is he doing here?! (answers her own question) Oh. Playing for the Cubs."
Titters and guffaws.
Wait for it, wait for it...
Trillian's dumb girl but poignant baseball quote of the season that will end up lasting in infinity:
"He's a Curaçao Cub!"
Fits of laughter from the gallery.
Beer even came out of one guy's nose.
And of course Trillian runs with these things because her mind is never more than a few synapses away from a really good marketing idea. (Sadly. I can't help it, I really can't. If I could stop I would.)
"They should have Curaçao Day. They could give away collector bottles of specially labeled Curaçao and sell drinks with Curaçao in them - margaritas, blue martinis...the vendors would all speak Dutch. In fact, the game would be announced in Dutch. The words to Take Me Out to the Ball Game would be translated into Dutch on the screen. A lucky fan could win airline tickets to Curaçao. It's really a perfect tie-in, Curaçao, the drink, is blue and the Cubs' color is blue."
Trillian had to explain to a few of the guys what Curaçao (the drink) is, where the island of Curaçao is, how to pronounce it, how to spell it (yes, properly with a cedilla (the swirly descender on the second c. Yes, it has a name, and it is cedilla. It means the c is pronounced as an s. Learn it. Use it. Unlike Mike Downey in his article. Call me Trillian the Grammarian.)). Trillian could offer no explanation for how Randall Simon learned to play baseball on a small Dutch island known mostly as a vacation home for very wealthy Scandinavians and the blue liquor originally made there. (I think this is why guys at these afternoon game flops allow one token female to attend. She might offer some bit of trivia that will come in handy at the bar later.)
Then something happened in the game (sorry guys, didn't mean to make you miss that) and no one cared about Randall Simon or Curaçao anymore. Except Bone and Arthur, who forever forward referred to Mr. Simon only as the Curaçao Cub.
But it's not just for Trillian anymore...everyone's jumping on the Curaçao Cub wagon, now. Could Mike Downey possibly have heard me and stolen my moniker?
Or is Trillian not of as originally brilliant wit as a bunch of drunk guys on the North Side on a hot Saturday afternoon think she is? Perhaps they're not the best litmus. Still.
If Wrigley starts selling blue drinks...
I'll buy them.
Knowing I had the idea first. And wishing I'd been the one who profited from the idea. Yet another babbling topic for Trillian when she's old and senile. "Curaçao Day at Wrigley was my idea, you know. My idea. They stole it from me. Never gave me a penny or even a nod of acknowledgment."
But none of this really matters because THE CUBS WON ANOTHER ONE!
I, Trillian, being of as sound mind as is possible for Trillian, do solemnly swear the following is true. And further, I, Trillian, of aforementioned mindedness, am so resolute in the following that I, Trillian, will gladly and happily provide further information for anyone who does not believe or is interested in what I am about to present to the Universe.
I bought shoes at Payless.
Okay?
And I am not ashamed. I am, in fact, proud.
Proud that I thought to try looking there for extra-wide shoes. Proud that I didn't dismiss that thought as only a last resort. Proud that I not only followed up, but went there soon after having the thought. Proud that I wasn't too proud to go to Payless. Proud that I, Trillian, self admitted shoe snob, bought shoes at Payless.
Proud that I found extra-wide and really rather cute sneaker/casual shoes. Proud that my idea of finding the same shoe in wide and regular and be able to afford both pair would work. Proud that my idea paid off in many physical and intrinsically profound ways. Proud that I found a perfectly serviceable pair of shoes on sale at Payless for $7.99. In both wide and regular. The regular is a bit too wide for Trillian's extra narrow feet, but it's a lace up, AND, here's the next and best part: The store manager was fantastically nice and helpful.
Honest. Seriously. She was friendlier and more helpful than some of the "associates" I've encountered at a few rather high-end emporiums and boutiques (are you listening soppy tart at Harvey Nichols (you know who you are), girls of Barneys? Tod's? You better. You could learn more than a few things from Really Nice Manager of Payless.)
I hobbled into Payless. Oriented myself to the "system" of seeking out one's size and searching for desired style among the racks. (all those Saturday afternoons at Nordstrom Rack finally paid off!)
I found the "wide" sneaker section for my size. With the exception of a pair of Puma wannabes with embedded rhinestones, nothing looked like it would accommodate the air cast. (The Puma wannabes had a bit to much attempted bling bling for me...) Then, from around the rack appeared Really Nice Manager of Payless. "Hello, can I help you find something?"
Help? At Payless? Friendly staff? At Payless?
What black hole did I fall through on my way here and how will I get home?
But since she offered, and since I was here...
I meekly proffered my aircasted leg and said, "I'm trying to find something this will fit into..." Really Nice Manager of Payless said, "Sit down, sit down! (pulling over one of those bench/mirror things) What size do you normally wear? You need something rather sturdy....let's see..." She went to the racks, purposefully, intently, even, pulling and returning, searching for just the right shoes for my situation.
"Must be all hopped up high on a recent customer service EST manager seminar," I cynically thought (what would you have thought?)
Really Nice Manager of Payless gathered several pair of shoes, most of which were actually cute, no attempted bling bling, and all of which were on sale (at Payless that's like giving them away. Really. Literally.)
AND, here's the clincher. This is where my cynicism left the building. Without one word, not a hint from me, she came up with the idea of getting the same shoes in wide and regular. Apologetically about the cost. I initially had a good feeling about Really Nice Manager of Payless. This confirmed my instinct. Which is good because there's been some rather serious doubting of intuition lately.
Really Nice Manager of Payless helped me try on all of them, tirelessly, even removed the ink tags before the purchase decision. (I know, but I'm feeling good about this and Really Nice Manager of Payless is so nice I can't make even the most obvious sarcastic remarks about ink tags at Payless. Yet.)
So I've got two pair of the exact (apart from size) shoes. But most importantly, the air cast fits perfectly and painlessly in them. Even better than the stupid slipper thing that supposed to be worn with the air cast. And Really Nice Manager of Payless opened a pair of those cushy insert/Odor Eater things to bulk up the still too wide regular width-ed shoe for me. At no charge. She has narrow feet, too, and completely understands my issues with too-wide shoes.
And, get this: Really Nice Manager of Payless asked me how I broke my ankle. I told her. Turns out she too, was mugged, at the very same subway station, during rush hour, WHEN SHE WAS NINE MONTHS PREGNANT. She didn't get shoved down the stairs, thankfully, but the guy tried to steal her bag, she screamed and lashed out, a platform full of commuters AND NO ONE HELPED HER.
This Universe. This place we live. It's disturbing me more every day. Who mugs a pregnant woman? And worse, who sees a pregnant woman (or anyone) getting mugged AND DOES NOTHING?
Whatever black hole took me there, I am really pleased I wound up at Payless. Sisters united in narrow feet and mugging.
And these $7.99 shoes I got are really very cute. Much more than I was hoping for, at Payless or anywhere else. Two pair of shoes, cushy inserts for $16 + Mayor Daley's Privilege of Living Here Tax. AND, what's more, they're currently having a "Buy two get one free sale" so Really Nice Manager of Payless helped me find some super stretchy socks (in a three pack) that will fit over the air cast. Got 'em free.
So this is two nights in a row I have gone home feeling good about the Universe. If the Cubs win tonight, well, I'm not sure Trillian will be able to handle three consecutive good karma tuck ins.
I was worried I would awake to find it had all been a dream. That the whole last three months were a coma induced dream. That I would find I'd suffered more than a slight concussion when I fell. That I have been in a coma since The Incident. That Really Nice Manager of Payless and Duane and the Amtrak People and the Cab Driver Who Said May Your God Be Blessing You The Rest of Your Days were in fact nurses, doctors and hospital staff taking care of me.
I would wake, a la Dorothy, "and you were there, and you, and you, too! And Furry Creature!" They'd all smile and one by one leave, happy knowing their charge was conscious...then I'd pet Furry Creature, he'd nuzzle me, then I'd look down and see my $7.99 Payless shoes. "But if it was a dream, how'd...."
Okay, so they're no Ruby Slippers. But the lesson's the same.
8:17 AM
Thursday, October 02, 2003
New Outpost in the Universe: (Lots of blogging around these days...something in the air? As yet undocumented sign the End is near? Coincidence? Nothing at all?)
Watch What Happens Guide Says: Good, safe stop for women traveling alone. Active nightlife, natives are musically gifted and artistically inclined. Animal/cat friendly. Dental care available. 11:27 AM
And There is Much Rejoicing
Yesterday Trillian bid adieu to crutches.
And The Immobilizer.
And the Route 666 bus.
And all the lovely friends she made on the buses.
I am emancipated. I am liberated. I am woman. Hear me roar.
Hear me scream in pain.
The new air cast hurts. And feels weird. Like I'm stepping into a hole. In ill fitting ice skates.
My new best friend Duane the Orthotic God got me sorted into not one but two new pieces of gear for my ankle.
While not exactly the same thrill of shoe shopping, I did come close to that rush when Duane appeared with an entire range of potential orthotic devices for me to try. I tried on at least 9 different models/sizes and settled on two. Duane understands this. Duane knows a woman who's been in a cast and on crutches for 13 weeks is in serious shoe withdrawal. Duane plays to this. Duane also knows his orthotic stuff. And his shoes. He knows a Choo from a Clarks and everything in between. I like Duane. Duane understands my rehabilitation goal of comfortably wearing those sexy little numbers with the four inch heels I'm coveting. (Well. As comfortably as anyone can actually wear sexy little numbers with four inch heels.)
Today I channeled my inner bad ass and am attempting the smaller of the two new casts. The one Duane said most people work into over a course of weeks. The one that will allow me to begin physical therapy. The one that will require me to procure the most enormous pair of sneakers I will ever own to accommodate it.
The one that after wearing for two hours is causing me a lot of pain.
Deflate! Deflate! Deflate!
This thing is really cool. It's got little inflatable air mattresses, with separate air chambers for different areas of my ankle/foot/leg. And an air tube and pump for inflating. And a quick release valve if I need to deflate to relieve pressure and pain. Duane gave me an inflating demonstration that was pretty much the air steward oxygen mask/life jacket pantomime. I think Duane may in fact be a former air steward. Because I told him through giggles of excitement (over my new orthotics) that he looked like an air steward. His only response was a wink. As in, "I'm watching over you Trillian - air steward, orthotic specialist, fashion advisor - I'm watching over you. You'll see me again someday. You won't remember any of this because I will remove the memory of this afternoon. But sleep well, fear not, Duane is here." That little wink that said so much should have creeped me out but instead filled me with a sense of calm. I think Duane might actually be an angel.
The other boot/cast thing is nothing shy of a torture device.
Which I'm sure will please all the crippled chick fetishists out there.
I already know I don't like it. I already refuse to wear it. I already have thrown it aside, unused and pristine in it's box. Sitting in the hall where I dropped it upon my return home last night.
The smaller, sleeker, sportier air cast is the one for me. It may hurt. It may require enormous sneakers. And weird socks. But no crutches. (I have caught myself arms outstretched like tightrope walker tether poles already numerous occasions since last night.)
But I am a bad ass. I will survive. I will conquer the broken ankle and swollen ligaments. I will break rehabilitation speed records.
As God as my witness I will never ride a bus again.
The only Things I Know for Sure this week are:
Being off crutches is amazingly liberating.
But also scary.
Doctors, nurses, specialists are all wonderful, but orthotics specialists are the frontline combat force in rehabilitation.
Carrying an actual purse instead of a backpack is also surprisingly liberating.
The train is like a first class cabin after riding the bus.
There were four transit bus fatalities reported in the United States in 2001.
As God as my witness I will never ride the bus again.
9:36 AM
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
I didn't get the television rights to Elton's garage sale. Score another one for the Universe. Elton, you're going to regret not letting me work my magic for you. I can't help but feel a bit melancholy over what could have been. Oh sure, there's still time for a mockumentary, and I'm sure SNL will do something with it. Still. I could have been a contender with this one.
We shall never speak of this again.
(moment of silence)
It's Wednesday, and here at Life of Trillian that means...
Wednesday Real Reality
The Setting: An of the moment art gallery in any major metropolitan area.
The Cast: Artists, artist wannabes, art buyers, critics and hangers on.
The Judges: People you've never heard of who are able to convince the public into thinking they know what good art is or is not. You know, kind of like pop music "talent" scouts (notice I did not reference Simon Cowell) only with more of an edge, better clothes, better haircuts and a vocabulary pretentious enough to back their claims to credentials.
The show could open with pre-gallery opening views of all involved. This segment will endear or distance certain participants to the home viewing audience. Humility and hissy fits will abound.
The artists, some nervous and jittery, utilities mere hours away from being cut off, knowing the difference between maintaining their Montmarte existence and moving back home to Winetka (Willowbrook, Wheaton, wherever) with their parents hangs on the success of this show. Other artists, more successful, older or those with National Endowment for the Arts money under their belts, will be having pre-show parties, being feted by the "art community" at swank restaurants, cool bars or houses straight out of Architectural Digest. Swooning from potential patron to potential patrol like Chinese New Year parade dragons. Or brooding poignantly in a corner.
Then there are those who are forced to go.
The gallery managers. Who make no money, but love art, and work this stupid job for next-to-no money for the exposure to the scene. (See also Debs-Gone-Bad)
The art buyers who have to make the circuit to find fresh, new looks for ads, magazines, websites....you name it. The art buyers are probably second only to the artists themselves when it comes to being jaded by this business.
The socialites who know nothing about art and could not care less but pretend to adore and understand all of it because it's what good socialites do. And their money might score them a few month affair with a young broody artist.
Debs-Gone-Bad, the young girls who come from loads of money and are trying their hand at being democratic idealists - going through the motions of vocally eschewing their parents' capitalistic and fascist values for the shock! and provocation of it all. They're "doing it differently, viewing the world from a different perspective," dating artists. And doing it all in the latest from Anna Sui and carrying their Emily Dickinson in a Prada bag. And going home to their pied-a-terre's courtesy of a trust fund. Which they will turn over to charity just as soon, as, well, swear, they're going to turn it over to charity. Someday.
The spouses/partners/boy-girlfriends/dates of the artists, art buyers and socialites who have at best marginal interest in the artists, the show and art in general.
All of these people come together at the gallery after their pre-opening behind the scenes hidden camera moments.
This is the dangerously boring part of the show. Unless a socialite gets drunk and picks a fight with one of the showing artists. Or an artist "accidentally" reveals something deep, personal and criminally alarming about themselves in a painting. Or an art buyer or critic confides, to the entire viewing audience but not the actual artist, that the work is utter crap and nonsense, and why. Or if one of the spouses/partners/boy-girlfriends/dates is bored out of their mind, has way too much cheap champagne and tells the entire gallery exactly what they think of the art, artists, the "art community" and their spouse/partner/boy-girlfriend/date.
The show will really kick into gear when the performance artists du jour begins their piece. The gallery goes dark. What sounds like the soundtrack to Eraserhead slowly crescendos in volume. A single spotlight grows from soft focus to sharp beam, where a black turtle necked, Beatle haircutted, funky sideburns if it's a guy, Chanel Vamp lipstick if it's a girl, black Kohl eyeliner in either case, artiste with a cigarette mumbles or shouts (depending on their age and attempted purpose) alleged poetry that will add meaningful insight to what is about to happen.
Two people roll into the spotlight. And I mean roll, a la one of those gymnastic Tumbling for Two posters from elementary school. In other circumstances it would be construed as either sexual or wrestling or dogs playing in the park. Or two people rolling over each other in a dark gallery. Onto what we now realize is a piece of canvas.
(The Black Turtle Necked, Beatle haircutted, Artiste with a Cigarette is still mumbling or shouting.)
From another side of the gallery appears a thoroughly disgusted looking middle aged man with a shaved head and beard that would make any Billy goat proud. No one knows who he is except some of the more "knowing critics" who murmur with hushed awe. The crowd parts as if he were Moses. They're all kind of scared of him. Except for the prat boyfriend of a Deb-Gone-Bad who is annoyed at the lack of manners Shaved Head Billy Goat Beard Man is showing and says, a bit too loud, "Excuse me. EXCUSE ME. (glaring at Shaved Head Billy Goat Bear Man) Hell-ooooh?"
Shaved Head Billy Goat Beard Man is really pissed off now (bourgeois prats apparently bring out the rage in him - and really, on this point, isn't there a Shaved Head Billy Goat Beard Man in all of us?). He storms to the Tumbling for Two couple and sort of joins in, but not quite. Just enough to throw some paint on the canvas as the Tumbling for Two couple continue to roll around. Getting really messy and painty. Then Shaved Head Billy Goat Beard Man does a Kung Fu yell, "grabs" paint with his hands and lunges at the Tumbling for Two couple. The crowd gasps in shock. Shaved Head Billy Goat Beard Man does some rather violent finger painting on the canvas, stabbing and jabbing the canvas and the Tumbling for Two couple. He then looks up at the crowd, licks his hands (with paint still on them) sucks his fingers, then spits - first on the Tumbling for Two couple, then at the crowd.
Lights go off. Gallery is dark. No one has a clue what to do. So they stand there silently. Jostling can be heard from the canvas area. A few people in the back of the crowd can be heard leaving. Then a low murmuring from a few Socialites as to the genius of the artist. Sheer genius! Then the lights come on full blast, blinding everyone into green spotted vision. Those who are able to get the heck out of there do so, the others are left to spend the evening pretending they understood and loved the performance or that "it's of course not as good as the Milan experience..."
Add one of those "really important new bands" who are trying to sound like The Jesus and Mary Chain or a bad, low budget version of Tangerine Dream, and you've got:
The Gallery Experience.
The show will have limited appeal, though. Will be difficult to find a network to accept it. Bravo will be offended by the exposé factor of the real art world. Fox will run it for four weeks, where it will attain rave ratings and glorious reviews, but then they'll pull it to show American Idol or Temptation Resort Island Hotel. PBS will only show it if Ken Burns can be a judge. ABC won't like it because it could potentially include real art...CBS will claim to have already uncovered the reality of the art world on 60 Minutes (and Morley Safer will hate it.) NBC....hmmmm. Maybe. What with Frasier ending and all...this has snob potential.
7:16 AM
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Sorry about the un-linked links...this is a very emotional day for me, okay? They're all better now. Go to Beaulieu and have a blast. Tell 'em Trillian sent you.
2:07 PM
Blond Twins and Cars.
Is it sweeps week for educational TV?
Geek girls, how are you doing this morning? Sleep well?
Show three of the new season of the Roadshow. Innocently, seemingly boringly, show three of Cleveland. Just when I was lamenting on how few twin appearances there've been this season, WHAM! BLAM! Not one, not two, but three! special vignettes of the brothers Keno.
And they say PBS doesn't have enough gratuitous sex.
Blond Twins. How much more gratuitous can it get?
The opening sequence with the examination of the high boy was a nice treat. Nice start to the evening. Raised a glass in toast to the butt shot while bending over to pull out the bottom drawer. Looks like Leigh got a new suit. Very nice.
Then the rubbing furniture innuendo.
Oh my.
He said rub.
On PBS.
Is it the wine or is it getting hot in here?
"We like to rub furniture."
Well, come on over to my place, I've got a chest full of drawers you can put your hands on...
Sorry. Couldn't help it.
Didn't expect to see them after that.
The woman with the Roy Rogers poster better march herself back to the garage where she haggled the price of $50 and give the original owner $1,200. Split the value fair and square. It's the right thing to do. Especially since the show is aired on national television and she just bought the thing, there's a very high likelihood the owner who didn't know what they had will see this episode of the Roadshow and feel really awful for letting it go for $50. I know, that's the all part of the game. The "fun" of it. But in this case, the woman admitted she just bought it a few days prior and haggled the asking price down $25, at that.
And, the Kent State agreement? $15,000? Huh? The victims' families barely got that much in compensation. Historical document, I suppose, but $15,000?
Hey! Cars! In Cleveland! Cool! (Guide Aside: If you're ever in Cleveland (don't laugh - it could happen) check out the Crawford Auto and Air Museum, it really is very cool. Trillian can personally vouch for it's worthiness as a stop in the Universe.*)
Did Dan Elias get a perm?
Okay, back to the floor.
So, you've got a Thomas Moran painting hanging around, you think it might be worth "something." Do you not do a little online investigating to find out about the artist? Apparently not. Sure, some people are not into art. Some people don't care about art. Some people don't follow "lesser" known artists. But please. And I don't care what the appraiser said, early as it may be, it's going to clean up to be quite a looker.
Sorry. Had to get that off my chest.
So. Now. Hang onto your high boys, girls. Because it's time for...
Keno-O-Rama!
The twins! Corvettes! Casual wear! Jovial banter! Car talk! Something for everyone!
Oh. My. Leslie has apparently been working out. Oh. My. Pecks. Biceps. Very obvious through his polo shirt and khakis. Nevermind they're pulled up to Robert Palmer/Simon Cowell proportions, he's, oh my, he's BUFF!!!! Leslie Keno is buff! And Leigh's not looking too bad, himself. Oh sure, I've always loved the boys, nice and trim in their well cut suits. Always knowledgeable but never condescending or smug. Easy smiles. Intelligent. And nice. Really nice guys. And. Twins. Blond twins. Who love antiques. And don't appear to be gay.
But Leslie's been working out and he's buff.
I have to take some time to assess and evaluate my feelings about this. Right after I scoop my chin off the floor.
And here they were in their own special segment. About Corvettes. Breathe Trillian, breathe. Pay attention. Listen to what they're saying. This is educational television. You like them for what you can learn from them. Get your mind off those newly charted biceps and concentrate on the Corvettes. Wait. I already know all of this. I already know everything about Corvettes. I don't need to listen to what they're actually saying. I can drift off into whatever reverie I want.
Then a bunch of antiques I didn't care about - except, what about that woman trying to pass off that teapot as a Mayflower relic?! I don't mean to be a condescending snob, but was it not blatantly obvious the thing was a) of a more contemporary style (well, at least more contemporary than 1620) and b) that it's a transfer pattern? And a poorly done one, at that?
THEN, MORE KENO BROTHERS!!!!
Driving! A Corvette! Jovial banter! Really cheesy fun with editing. Leigh's driving! No Leslie! No Leigh! Really having fun with the twin thing. Dorks. They're really dorks. God I love them.
Another prime example of what Americans can do to the British. Sure, England has the original ideas, but it takes good old Yankee ingenuity, marketing, exploitation and t and a to make it a phenomenon. All in the Family. Family Feud. American Idol. and now, finally, after 7 seasons, the Antiques Roadshow. Yep. Only in America, home of the free and the brave. (gotta admit I still really love the UK Roadshow...)
Hey, that Susan Frackelton bowl was a beauty, eh? Really lovely. I have a vague recollection of being pulled out of a really nice twins in car fantasy by a really gorgeous piece of pottery. (you'd think my attention span for twins in cars fantasies would be a bit longer...but it was some bowl...)
Okay. Check my local listings and be sure to tape the show when it's aired again this week. Twins. Blond Twins. Dorky Twins. Adorable Twins. Furniture. Cars. Casual wear. Pecks. Biceps. Oh my.
*Must see stops for car lovers on your travels through the Universe are the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn (outside of Detroit) AN ABSOLUTE MUST SEE, plan to spend at least an entire day; while in Michigan, if you have time, head up to Flint to the Alfred P. Sloane Museum; Auburn-Cord Museum in Auburn, Indiana; and in England, Haynes Museum, Somerset; Beaulieu, New Forest - something for everyone here, cars, stately home, gardens, a really grand day out for the whole family. For the motorcycle enthusiasts, be sure to make a stop at Craven Collection of Classic Bikes. A bit out of the way, but worth the trip. There are also a couple on the Isle of Man - Manx Museum and Murray's Motorcylce Museum. Yes, that's really it's name. And a bunch in Scotland. If anyone really wants info on car museums in Scotland, email Trillian and she'll give you some suggestions.
Good thing I have this to get me through the day, because, today is HWNMNBS's birthday.
I shouldn't care.
(I do.)
I shouldn't even remember.
(I do.)
I shouldn't have sent him a birthday card.
(I did.)
I shouldn't be wondering if he got it...
(I am.)
..and what response it provoked.
(Anger? Joy? Pathos? Fear?)
I shouldn't be thinking, "Call him just to wish him happy birthday."
(I probably will.)
Because we all know there's a lot more to it than that.
(So what?)
I shouldn't be playing these stupid games with myself at my age.
(I'm pathetic.)
But I hope he's having a happy birthday.
(I do.)
The first one without me in 6 years.
(Sad to admit.)
Will this have some tragic, yet life altering effect on his psyche? Will it cause him to take stock of his life and realize what a horrible mistake he's made and give himself the best birthday present he could ask for, Trillian?
(I doubt it.)
Will us being split up and apart on his birthday have a deeper effect and impact on me than it will him?
(Of course.)
Will I ever forget or not care about his birthday?
(Probably not.)
8:40 AM
Monday, September 29, 2003
Let's give a big 'ol Universe welcome to:
Kilgore Trout
Trillian's Guide says: A very worthy outpost in the Universe. Stop in if you're in the neighborhood. Natives are friendly, insightful, witty and intelligent. Nightlife is questionable: Unusual interest in Hamms* beer and the natives appear to be celibate, which concerns us here at the Guide. This friendly little outpost may become extinct. So visit now while you still have the chance. Secret password: Aardvark.
*Guide intoxicology note: Hamms is a beer so vile, so revolted in the Universe that our beer drinking reviewers feel this native fascination with Hamms may have a direct correlation to the celibacy dilemma facing the inhabitants at Chaotic Not Random. Trillian says, "Can it really be any worse than Old Style? And besides, they have that cute little bear trademark...and wasn't there a jingle?" To which the beer drinking reviewers told Trillian to shut up, forget about marketing for a minute, drink her bloody Old Style and leave the beer connoisseurship to them. Trillian happily obliged to all but drinking her bloody Old Style. Which she is putting off as long as possible.
9:17 AM
120 Channels of Cable, and No Remote
I spent the weekend with my parents. Yes, I am still disabled and on crutches and yes, the 5+ hour trip each way was daunting. But sometimes you just want your mom. And any inconvenience or adjustment becomes insignificant. You travel any distance through any condition just to be with your parents - it's like reaching Mecca. You know waiting at the end of the journey is unconditional acceptance and love that will make it all worth while.
And it wasn't' that awful. I have to give kudos to the Amtrak people, they were surprisingly very nice and helpful in re my mobility issues.
My mother is the sort of mother who is honestly not happy unless she is fussing over one of her children (including my father). Which is nice... But over the years this has bothered me from time to time because I don't need fussing over and frankly, I'd like her to just sit down and relax. But she can't and won't, at least, not as long as there is a child or grandchild who needs fussing over. I've learned that to her, "taking care of us" is relaxing to her.
So when I arrived at their house, I was led to the family room couch where my mother had prepared a very comfortable sick bed for me. Pillows for my ankle, pillows for my head, blankets, the coffee table rearranged for my convenience, festooned with magazines, books, and every treat imaginable within arms reach.
My father's contribution in all of this were ramps he had fashioned out of wood (Why do dads have miscellaneous wood hanging around?) so that I could more easily traverse the few steps from the garage to the family room and from the deck to the yard. Nevermind that I've been managing four flights of stairs from and to my apartment every day, as long as I was at their house, under their care, I would not climb one stair. Which caused a bit of a problem when I needed/wanted to go upstairs, which my mother insisted I did not need to do. She hadn't considered that at least once over the course of the weekend I might actually want to shower or bathe.
My father's other contribution was the re-angling of the television so that I would have optimum viewing comfort.
Let me say this before I go any further: I adore my father. Love him. Wouldn't change a thing about him. He is a prince among men and you couldn't ask to be born to a better father and kinder person.
However, he has developed the male remote control obsession.
He re-arranged the television so that I could view it comfortably from the couch, helped me get situated in my weekend nest, turned on the television to The History Channel, and left me. Without the remote control.
I like The History Channel. BUT, there's a limit to how much History Channel, in fact, how much television, I can stomach. I waited for my mother to tend to an errand - I didn't want her to be at my beck and call over the remote and more to the point, I didn't want to drag her into what is obviously an ongoing issue of my father's dominance over the family room television. Then I hobbled over to his chair and side table to retrieve the remote.
Couldn't find it. My father HID the remote control.
He later meekly claimed "it must of fallen" behind his chair, but my mother and I know better. Even though he wasn't even in the house, he felt some Neanderthalic need to maintain dominance over the remote control.
Who leaves a person with broken leg on a couch with the television on, 120 channels of cable, hides the remote and leaves???!!!
Answer? A man.
I am able to laugh at this because I don't care about television and ended up turning it off. And because my father has never proved himself to be anything but a kind, generous, giving, considerate human being.
What this proves is that even the most wonderful man, father of the year, kind, generous to a fault, becomes a Paleolithic boob when it comes to the remote control.
To all the women out there who are citing "The Remote Control Issue" as a reason to break-up with (even divorce or kill) otherwise perfectly acceptable men: Stop it. Accept it and get over it.
If my dear father is powerless under its spell, I dare say there is no man who can resist its lure.
Tonight Trillian shall drink beer. Not just any beer, Old Style. Because so certain was I that the Cubs would mess something up somewhere this season, that I promised to drink an Old Style if they actually ended in first place.
And the Universe said Ha! Let's make Trillian drink beer. Really awful beer.
I cannot even begin to imagine the scene in Wrigleyville last night. Kind of sorry I missed it.
Greetings from the land of mullets ("not just a haircut, a way of life"), The Nuge and the worst baseball team in the country ever.
I had to get away for a few days, Friday's little incident angered me more than I initially realized.
And sometimes you just want your mom.
It's weird blogging from my dad's pc.
It makes me feel kind of dirty.
So I'm not going to do it anymore.
I will be keeping my word, I will be ceremoniously drinking an Old Style upon my return home.
Procure and put one in the fridge Arthur, I'll be back soon to make good on my promise.
And to further ensure the Cubs will go all the way and that I will do something I never in my life thought I would do, I am right now formally promising to drink not one bottle, but an entire case of Old Style if the Cubs win the Series this year. So Northsiders, get ready, the Universe loves nothing better than to mock Trillian, it will not be able to resist the temptation of making Trillian drink a case of Old Style. Sammy? Kerry? This one's for you.
.
