Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, December 25, 2003 Holy. Swutting. Belgium.
Me. Who only went through the whole St. Andrew Prayer-A-Thon thing out of guilt over not stopping the little joke/test.
Me who blogged blasphemous.
St. Andrew came through.
On Christmas Eve, no less.
Call it a Christmas miracle.
Call me...well, call me a little less agnostic for now.
Which is saying a lot. It represents a huge leap of faith for me.
Literally.
Don't worry. I am not going to start preaching on this blog (REPENT!). I leave that to the experts at NeoTheologue (rollest not thine eyes, it's an interesting blog). (SAVE YOURSELVES BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!)
Tuesday, December 23, 2003 Ghosts of Christmas Past
Mod Hair Ken
When I was a wee tot, I wanted a new, cool Ken for my Barbies. My Barbies and affiliated girlfriends were all very Malibu, very Mod, and very au currant.
But my few hand-me-down Kens were square. Four cornered. And don't get me started on Brad.
To put it bluntly, no self respecting Barbie would be seen with my Kens.
However, I was ahead of most of the other girls because I actually had Kens and a Brad.
So we made do. Our cool Barbies dated nerds with plastic molded hair.
I was younger than most of the girls in my class and in my various neighborhoods around the Universe. Which put me at an instant disadvantage with the in crowds of the lunch rooms and playgrounds.
But.
I possessed Kens and a Brad. Along with one of the best Barbie collections this side of the Mattel manufacturing facility.
So I had an in. It didn't get me far, but it opened a few doors.
Then it happened. Christmas. Which was always a doll-fest for me. Ooo-oooh that smell. That smell of newly injected plastic. I had asked Santa for a new Francie, which I knew was a risky proposition. There had been a Francine Incident earlier in the year, which left my fairly new Francie a paraplegic. My parents are of the school that dictates that you take care of your toys because they will not be replaced. Especially if it's broken under suspicious circumstances. I know what happened to Francie, but that case is in a sealed document. Protection of the innocent and all that. The sordid details will only be revealed when all parties are deceased.
But mustering all my courage, thinking news of the Francine Incident might not have reached the North Pole, I asked Santa for a new Francie.
I dared not ask for a Ken, too. And since none of the other girls had even one Ken, I figured I could coast until my birthday with my existing Kens and dorky Brad. Besides, asking for a male doll was, well, I mean, I just wasn't that sort of girl. Kens are to be given without solicitation. A nod from mother/aunt to the girl's prepubescent blossoming womanhood.
I held my breath from October to December 24th. I regretted my error in Santa judgment immediately. How could I have been so stupid to ask for a replacement toy? What was I thinking? I worried that Santa might get wind of the Francine Incident. (After all, he knows if you've been bad or good...) That he would be mad at me for asking for a replacement toy. That to teach me a lesson he might not even leave me anything. So I was extra good.
Christmas morning arrived. Long story short, not only did I get a new Francie, but, shock! Amazement! What to my wondering eyes should appear?!
GASP!
DON'T FAINT, GET A GRIP GIRL, GET A GRIP!!!
A BARBIE AIRPLANE!!! (scream at the top of your lungs)
And sitting in the plane, in First Class, of course, was:
MOD HAIR KEN!!!! With his Sun Luvin' companion, MALIBU P.J.!!! WITH TAN LINES!!!! OMG!!!!!!!
And they were being served by a REAL, CAN ONLY BUY ON THE PLANE FROM THE GOODS TROLLEY AIR FRANCE STEWARDESS DOLL!!!! IN A REAL OFFICIAL UNIFORM!!!!
To the uninitiated, Francie is Barbie's cousin. Sometimes really square, sometimes really mod. She hasn't been seen or heard from since about 1978. I suspect she's a Keds wearing soccer mom in Wilmette. P.J. was the very fast (slutty) friend of Barbie. She's come and gone over the years, my guess is in and out of re-hab. Last I heard she was living in Sedona selling crystals and aligning chakras.
But. Mod Hair Ken.
MOD HAIR KEN. MOD SWUTTING HAIR KEN!
Oh, I knew of him. I'd heard stories from some of the older girls. Girls named Tina. Linda. Julie. Cathy. Reneé. Janet. Cheryl. Karen. Patty. Cool girls with cool names. They'd talk in hushed, reverent tones about this Ken. They knew of girls who had actually seen Mod Hair Ken. Julie even had a cousin, Beth, who had played with Mod Hair Ken. Gasp, no, really? What was he like? Does he look as good as in the ads?
But never in my wildest dreams would I dare request such a being to grace my bedroom. Never could I ask for the likes of Mod Hair Ken to grace the family room after school and on Saturdays. To mingle with Barbie and Skipper and Francie and Midge.
No. Old fashioned Midge who was old and square when she arrived with my sister's discarded Kens and Brad would never tolerate Mod Hair Ken. She already didn't approve of all the Malibu gang. The sorority mother of the Barbie Dream Townhouse (with elevator), she'd oust Mod Hair Ken from the Townhouse faster than the neighbor's dog who loved to abduct fashion dolls.
Mod Hair Ken was out there. Mod Hair Ken was for older girls. Mod Hair Ken was expensive. Mod Hair Ken was a guy doll. Guy dolls could only be had if they were passed down from an older sister or cousin and terribly out of date (which is how I acquired mine). Or, as mentioned, given by a mother or aunt when it is deemed a young girl is "ready" for a new Ken.
But there he was. Under our Christmas tree. Looking smart in his brown and white plaid sport coat, white snap-on dickie and tan polyester slacks with attached belt. And real, synthetic hair. Luscious synthetic locks shining and waving in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. None of this injected molded and painted stuff.
No. This was Barbie worthy hair. His hair accessories were arranged on the pull down tray in front of him. Adhesive mutton chops, two different mustaches, and a beard/mustache combo, a brown ascot to wear instead of the dickie (for when Ken went to Monte Carlo) and a brush and comb. A Ken who arrived with a brush and comb!
His white Pepsodent teeth smiling at Malibu P.J. (with tan lines!) by his side.
After the Francine Incident I thought I'd be lucky to get a Skipper and few coloring books, maybe a puppy and kitten puzzle.
But all this?! A Barbie Airplane, with a real stewardess doll, a Malibu P.J. (with tan lines) AND A MOD HAIR KEN?! Was it all a dream?
I couldn't believe it. After the screams of delight subsided, I sat staring at the affair. I was afraid to touch any of it for fear it wasn't real or that I'd break it.
Then reality hit.
Maybe it wasn't for me. Maybe Santa had made a mistake. Maybe it was left at the wrong house. Yes, that's it, Julie up the street would get a set up like this. She had that cousin, Beth. Between them they had everything. Chrissy AND Velvet dolls. Mrs. Beasley dolls. A Barbie dunebuggy. Jewelry boxes with ballerinas that twirled around and played music when you opened them. Batons with glittery water in them. Those cool glass balls on strings you clicked together. Purses. Everything.
Yes, that's it. A big mistake, the North Pole people would show up any minute to rectify the situation and it would all be gone.
I cried.
All day.
Wouldn't go anywhere near any of it. I didn't want to get attached to it only to have it all taken away from me.
Even if there wasn't a mistake, even if it really was all for me, even if Santa had for some reason chosen to so generously gift me with all of this, my parents would never allow Mod Hair Ken to stay. P.J., scantily clad, with those tan lines and funky sunglasses, would probably not be welcome in our home, either.
I cried.
That night, my (much older) brother coerced the truth out of me, got to the bottom of the whole crying game. In more ways than one, now that I think about it.
He took Mod Hair Ken out of the airplane, proffered him to my parents and said, mocking me, "Trillian thinks Santa made a mistake and that none of this is for her. And she thinks you wouldn't let her keep Mod Hair Ken, anyway."
My parents were, understandably, confused. I can see that now. But at the time I thought they were shocked by this revelation my brother had presented. I thought the shock on their faces was the dawn of realization. That any minute now the call would be placed to Santa's hotline. In that split second it all flashed before me. The call would go like this: "Santa? Yes, this is Mrs. McMillian. Seems you left a lot of toys for our daughter Trillian. Yes. Trillian. Right. Two l's. Yes, I know about Francie. That's why I'm calling. I think there's been a mistake. There's a Barbie plane, a P.J. with tan lines, no less, an Air France Stewardess doll. Yes, that's right, Air France. From the airplane. And this Mod Hair Ken fellow...."
"Is that Santa on the line?" my father would interject, "Let me talk to him. Santa? Mr. McMillian here. Just what are you getting up to with this Mod Hair Ken? Trillian doesn't deserve one as mod and expensive as him. Besides, she's already got Kens and some Brad chap, and Santa, I don't think I have to tell you, they're, ah, they're boy dolls. Trillian's not really old enough. Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes. We didn't realize until our son brought it to our attention. I see. Yes. You'll have someone pick it up tonight. Box it up? Sure. We'll just leave it there on the hearth. I'll have my wife call Julie's mother and explain what happened. Yes. Merry Christmas to you, too!"
I don't think I've ever hated my brother more than I did at that moment.
Once my parents knew about the mistake, they'd be in touch with the North Pole. It was all over.
The jig was up.
The minute I saw the glorious display that early Christmas morning, I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it would come to this sooner or later, but I was holding out hope that if we got through all of Christmas day people might forget, time would pass, and I might be able to keep some of it.
Of course if that did happen, I could never expect another thing from Santa again in my life. Toward the end of the day I convinced myself it would be a fair trade off. That I'd never want another thing from Santa anyway, that my life would be complete.
I stood there utterly frozen in the moment of discovery. Trying to discern the looks on my parents' faces. Trying to kill my brother with an evil gaze of death.
Then my brother made it worse.
He "investigated" Mod Hair Ken.
In front of my parents.
"Is this guy 'correct'?!" I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew it wasn't good. I knew he should not be talking about whatever it was in front of my parents.
So all that schoolyard talk was true. He had facial hair and something else. Down there. In his polyester slacks with attached belt.
"And he's wearing a dickie?! You wouldn't let me keep Secret Agent Man, but you let her have a correct doll wearing a dickie?!" For some reason the dickie really got to him. I didn't understand why.
At this my parents burst out in fits of laughter the likes of which I had never witnessed.
Through fits of hysterics, my mother said, "And...he's....got...ha ha...stick on...titter titter...facial...hair!" HA HA HA
My dad was turning purple trying to contain his laughter in front of me.
My brother, past the injustice of it all, was laughing, too.
And then uttered the infamous words, "Is he hairy all over? Does he come with a chest wig?"
At the thought of this my parents were beside themselves. You hear that expression a lot, but my parents were actually beside themselves over this. My dad was bursting in fits..."chest..guffaw guffaw...wig...HA HA HA!"
My mother, trying to regain composure and sensing my distress, said, "Trillian, it's all for you, dear, it's yours. Santa left it all for you. Now fetch Ken's facial hair and bring it here. Let's see how he looks with a beard."
This sent Dad and brother, who were now weak in the knees, holding each other up, all but rolling on the floor into further fits of laughter.
I did as I was told. Very somberly and reverently. This was all very grown-up stuff. And I was just a kid. And somehow, for some reason, I was being invited into this grown-up world of Mod Hair and boy dolls. By my mother. I was never allowed in the grown-up stuff. Until that day.
The Christmas day my mother and I put facial hair on Mod Hair Ken.
Who ended up looking exactly like Matt Clement.
Mod Hair Ken, it turned out, also had a "bump" in his polyester slacks with attached belt. A sort of athletic cup shaped area. Which sent the older girls, Tina. Linda. Julie. Cathy. Reneé. Janet. Cheryl. Karen. Patty. into wide eyed awe when they saw him. Turned out Julie also got a Malibu P.J. (with tan lines) that year, but my real stewardess trumped her Malibu P.J.
For a few blessed weeks, I was cool. Word got out and spread quickly. I was the talk of the school. Kids wanted to sit with me at lunch. Even with my totally uncool red plaid lunch box (which my mother insisted on using during the holiday season). Girls who never visited my house made excuses to stop by after school to see the airplane, the stewardess, and mainly to inspect Mod Hair Ken. They'd timidly ask to brush his hair. Then they'd inquire about the various stick-on amenities. The bravest (sluttiest) among them would lift the brown and white plaid jacket to see the bump.
My moment of popularity was short lived. It all came to grinding halt when Patty's mother found out I brought Mod Hair Ken to play at their house. She made me leave and take "that horrible doll" with me.
Rumors spread. Kids stopped coming by after school. I sat alone at lunch. Even with my Snoopy lunchbox.
My brother would offer cans of shaving cream and razors, a relentless joke that got really old, really quick. I played with Mod Hair Ken alone. We had many adventures around the globe together. That plane took us places we'd only dreamed about. I loved him. I still do.
All these years later I am longing for another man who is out of my reach. More suited to Julie down the street. But I've been very good. Come to think of it, he sort of looks like Mod Hair Ken. Huh. Just thought of that. No. He doesn't wear dickies. Or attached belt slacks. So I'm hoping maybe Santa will make a mistake and leave that man under my parents' tree for me.
Apparently I haven't lost the ability to hope against all odds that maybe Santa will come through for me.
There's a thin line between hope and delusion.
Happy Holidays everyone. I hope everyone gets their Mod Hair Ken or Malibu P.J. with tan lines. Much happiness, new beginnings and happy endings to everyone hurting this season.
Ghosts of Christmas Geeze, I'm out of the office two and a half days and I can barely find my desk under all the work that's been piled there for me. I'm hoping it's because everyone left for a week or two out of the office and wanted to get all this off their desks before leaving. That none of it requires much, if any, action from me today or tomorrow. I'm taking some time off, too, you know! I may be alone, single, sad and broken hearted but it's the holidays for me, too!
Add to that the surreality of coming back to work after a job interview. Or in my case, three job interviews. It's amazing what interviewing for another job does for your perspective on your current job and co-workers.
I'm feeling very odd today. Untethered. Unhinged. Unbound.
I saw great stage production of A Christmas Carol last night. I'm an A Christmas Carol - o - phile. I need and crave it the way addicts need their drugs. I know it's not good for me, I know it will hurt me, but it's so good I have to have it. This story never ceases to reach out, grab my heart and soul and touch me deeply on many levels.
I vividly remember the first time my father read me the story. I remember it well because it was the first time I remember being conscious of the fact that I was deeply touched. I was about five, maybe four - not in school - I remember thinking that I was thinking big thoughts. That I was experiencing grown-up emotions. (yeah, I was kind of a sensitive kid. Okay. A very sensitive kid.) That I was "getting" something beyond and deeper than the surface level.
I was moved.
I was really scared.
Not of the ghosts (yeah, I was kind of a weird kid, too) but of the fact that I knew I was experiencing grown-up emotions. I knew not too many, if any, of my friends had experienced these feelings. Especially over a story. I was scared that I was dabbling in a grown-up place where I had no business being. I instinctively kept all of this completely to myself.
A few years later, after attending a community production of the play, I cautiously asked my best friend if she believed in redemption (I think I actually asked her if she thought second chances were real and if they could make things right) and made a few remarks about some of the deeper points. (what a geek - a Lit Wit even then) Fortunately (Bless you Friend, bless you always) she didn't laugh at me and we actually had a conversation about it. If you think your 7-year-olds are incapable of thinking beyond Barbie dresses and soccer balls, think again. I knew she "got it" on a few levels, but I still felt like I had been given some deeper meaning and insight long before I should have understood any of it. I never said another word about it to anyone.
But when I witnessed Scrooge-like behavior, I thought I understood there were deeper reasons for the behavior. While the other kids would tease or mock or be afraid of certain mean teachers or weirdoes in the community, I would quietly hope they would have their own Scrooge experience and be happier before they died and It Was Too Late.
Thus began a (so far) lifelong compulsion for Dickens. Could I find deeper meaning in other works? Did Dickens hold the keys to the answers for every life issue? Was I somehow channeling Dickens himself by reading his works? Was I to be a Dickensian scholar? Was this my calling? Scary as it sounds, I nearly did devote my life and career to literature, with a specialty in Dickens. Swear it's true. I devoured every Dickens work. I studied all the criticism and praise. The essays. The inspirations. I studied Charles himself. I developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the man and his work. All by the age of 16.
One of my life's biggest ironies is that I am now literally Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. Life imitating art.
In spite of me now living out Miss Havisham's life, it's still A Christmas Carol above all others that sends me deep within myself, brings tears to my eyes and gives me hope for state of humanity. (Though I can argue a good point that Miss Havisham and Scrooge are actually the same character, that Dickens just dressed Scrooge up in a wedding dress and girl's name, fleshed out the broken heart and disappointment issues to further push his point about growing old, bitter and jaded with love lost, and hence, very little hope for certain members of humanity.)
This year in particular, I am left even more full of emotion over A Christmas Carol, sensing that I am experiencing feelings I am too young to experience. As we streamed out of the theatre I could barely hold my head up. I was sad. I was touched. I was alone in a crowd. I was trying to hide my tears and hoping my mascara wasn't running Alice Cooper-ish down my face. Being visited by one too many ghosts of my own Christmases past. Everyone else was happy and jovial. No one else seemed to be having emotional issues after viewing this stage production.
It was a good production, I was there man, I was there. I hope others in the audience "felt" it too. Otherwise it's just kind of freaky or I'm being way too sensitive. Again.
God bless us, everyone.
I will watch any version of A Christmas Carol at least once. I think I've seen all of them. Including Very Special Episodes of television shows I'd otherwise never watch. And so, I present:
Top Ten List of My Favorite A Christmas Carols.
1. A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott as Scrooge (1984) This is the best production of the story, bar none.
2. A Christmas Carol with Alistair Sim (1951) Until George C. Scott's performance, this was the best.
3. Scrooged with Bill Murray (1988) Fantastic comedic and touching adaptation.
4. A Muppet Christmas Carol with Michael Cain (1992) This is really funny and extremely well done. Trust me. This is very, very good.
5. Black Adder's A Christmas Carol with Rowen Atkinson (1988) Black Adder. Dickens. Together at last.
6. Mr. Magoo's A Christmas Carol with Jim Backus (1962) Really. This is good. I'm not kidding.
7. A Christmas Carol with Patrick Stewart (1999) Good if you can forget Star Trek long enough to believe Stewart isn't going to go galactic.
8. A Christmas Carol with Reginald Owen (1938) The acting is not so great, the effects are cheesy, but hey, it was 1938. Good piece of film history.
9. A Christmas Carol with Whoppi Goldberg (1997) Animated with all star voice cast.
10. Flintstones/Jetsons Christmas Carol(s) These two are actually not too bad. Fred and Mr. Spacely, respectively are Scrooge. Musts for Hannah Barbara fans.
Bonus! 11. A Christmas Carol live stage production (1982) This is good, especially if you're a live theatre fan.
Don't go there: All Dogs Christmas Carol Walt Disney's Mickey's Christmas Carol (Sorry Disney fans, this is just a really annoying adaptation. Admit it. You know I'm right.)
Rich Little's A Christmas Carol (I know people who like this...I've watched it several times trying to see what I'm missing. All I get is creeped out and not in a Christmas Spirits kind of way.)
A Diva's Christmas Carol A Christmas Carol animated with Simon Callow and Kate Winslet (there's no excuse for this, it's bad with a capital Phoning in the Performance)
8:50 AM
