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
Friday, May 28, 2004
...and life continues to conspire against me...
I'm out of town June 5, the day of my one golden opportunity to grab at the brass ring I call my dream of working with Richard Branson. The day that I am swamped under with the Demanding Client's Big Event thousands of miles away from the casting call.
Swut. Double swut. Swutting BELGIUM! I know, I know, as if I stand a chance against all the pretty people FOX will cast on their show. Half a functioning brain, quick wit, creative streak of genius, an eye and ear for The Next Big Thing, sardonic smirk and being a generally nice person (hey. I am. really) don't get you anywhere on reality tv, let alone FOX reality tv. (you'd think my boobs would have gotten me more out of life than they've given me...seems to work for a lot of other girls....) And I suppose, really, I don't want to be on reality tv, I just want to work with Richard Branson. And it's just, well, you know. It would have been fun to try. And besides, it was my idea in the first place! I blogged about it all last Summer! I dream of working with Dick! It's all documented right here on this blog! It's so unfair! Life hates me. Which is okay because I hate life, but you'd think life would be ready for a little glasnost with me by now.
Because I am generally a nice person, I'm willing to let you all in on the chances to take a shot at my dream I have to miss because of the current job which is sucking the life (the life which hates me) out of me. Here's scoop for the casting calls in Atlanta, Denver, Dallas (NOW! MAY 29!! GO! RUN!) Washington, D.C. (you've got time, collect your thoughts, get a good night of sleep) or Chicago (have a blast, knock yourselves out, think of me and all the fun I'd be having RIGHT THERE with you on June 5). Maybe one of you will go, and make the show, and be all cool and in with Dick and I can live vicariously through one of you.
Sir Richard Branson, billionaire, global adventurer, world record-setter, entrepreneur and founder of the Virgin Group of companies is searching for an extraordinary individual who has the right stuff to follow in his footsteps. In this unscripted drama series, Branson will take a group of young would-be billionaires
on a whirlwind tour of the world to test their mettle by reliving some of his colorful adventures.
If you are 21 or older and an adventurer or entrepreneur who is ready for the opportunity of a lifetime, then come on down and don't forget to bring a recent photo of yourself!
Good luck!
Saturday, May 29th - From 10am to 5pm
Atlanta Denver
3 Dollar Cafe Virgin Megastore
3002 Peachtree Rd. 500 16th Street, space 184
Atlanta, GA 30305 Denver, CO 80202
(In Buckhead)
Dallas
Virgin Megastore
5307 East Mockingbird Lane
Dallas, TX 75206
Tuesday, June 1st - From 11am to 7pm
Washington, D.C.
Buffalo Billards
1330 19th Street NW
Washington, DC 20036
Saturday, June 5th - From 10am to 5pm
Chicago
Virgin Megastore
540 North Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL 60611
10:51 PM
Oh great. Women outnumber men something like 3:1, and in the US, every 75th man is incarcerated. And people wonder why I'm single?
I know, I know, I said I'd write more on 50 First Dates. I'm sorry, okay? Really. Believe me, I'd rather be telling all or at least some of the shocking secrets of the Men of Match than doing what I'm doing.
Work. 10 - 12 - 14 hour days, without a day off in the past 12 days and no end in sight for another few weeks.
M'kay? Busy girl.
Yes.
Even on the holiday Monday.
While those of you in the US are enjoying your Summer kick-off barbecues (Bar-B-Q's) I will be kicking off the Summer business travel season.
I was conspiratorially eyeing my crutches a few nights ago, thinking maybe that broken ankle and months on crutches wasn't without advantages.
I know, I know, read my own blog to remind myself of the agony, torture and annoyance of a broken ankle.
Still.
I got out of a lot of travel.
The agony, torture and annoyance that is O'Hare was eliminated from my life.
Right.
So.
I do promise, when I am not tired to a comatose level and am able to actually compose some of the highlights of the dates I will submit a full mid-term review. There have been some, erm, interesting moments.
Right now I:
have (needs a new nickname) boss squawking around and generally being annoying nuisance;
two travel agents trying to figure out why I have three different reservations on the same flight (yeah, the homeland security folks are gonna love me when I show up Monday morning all innocently trying to explain why I was booked in three seats on the same flight, "Uh, Ms. McMillian we're going to need you to come into the special room, we have a few questions we'd like to ask you..." as they snap on the latex gloves...);
have a constant stream of men interrupting me on their way in and/or out of the men's room (I've become the joke of the company, "Did you see where they stuck Trillian?! Har har har! Thought she'd stay behind in her old office. She loved that office. Everyone loved that office. Can't imagine her in a cube!" People, not just men, are coming from other floors just to get a look at me in a cube. A cube outside the men's room. Apparently I have reputation as being a bit of an eccentric in terms of my office. Apparently my old office had a life and reputation of its own. (my "real" office now has a book shelf and file cabinet. In a tired slap happy state a few nights ago, my friend and I put masking tape outlines of where the furniture will go, a la Less Nessman in WKRP. Eyeing my Red Wings logo magnet, one of the young and not terribly bright mover guys promised me he'd hang my Very Cool Art if I would say, "Red Wings suck." I did, but so far there is no art adorning the office walls. Still. Things are looking up.))
have a client who is so high maintenance they make Jennifer Lopez look like Rosie O'Donnell (slap me five for that one, cha ching! Two, two, two insults in one!)
have a car salesman holding on line three (I'm toying with him (because he's a jerk and because I can and because I thought, "This moron rang me at work after I explicitly told him to only ring unless he had the car I want for $XX yet of course he rang me at work to tell me about a
completely different car, a car which I never expressed any interest in whatsoever, for $XXX. So I thought, "I should tell him I am going to put him on hold while I look at it online but instead go write a blog...bwa ha ha...revenge is sweet. And evil because our new hold muzak is really
horrid.))
am in an intense bidding war for a highly delectable piece of art on eBay (It will be mine. Oh yes. It will be mine.);
have an enormous television at home collecting dust;
am still crushing on Chris Briggs;
have absolutely no time, not one minute for a speed date, to meet or date any men;
Monday, May 24, 2004 Oh, Oh, Here She Comes... Now that I've got this guy sized stereo flat screen television, my friends and family keep ringing to ask "So what are you watching?"
The answer is same as ever, "Nothing."
Oh, I've watched a few movies, and you should see Wallace and Gromit! They're cracking!
But television still holds no thrill for me.
I have a few friends who now see it as their duty to stupefy me, further numb my brain and douse whatever remaining synapses are still firing in my brain.
"Turn on your television right now!" they'll ring and yell down the phone as if my life and theirs depended on it.
Let's hope our lives don't depend on what I've seen on television.
Except.
One of my friends, if we can still call her that after what she's done to me, rang to tell me of a show on The WB. Yes. The frog network. WGN locally and nationally on cable.
"Trillian! I thought we were friends! Why didn't you tell me you finally wrote a reality show!"
"Huh?" I said. (Confused, flummoxed, worried that a friend finally read my blog and figured out it was me)
"You came up with this idea two years ago! You wrote it, got it produced and didn't say a word to any of us! So that's where you got the money for your new television!"
"Huh?" I said (I'm tired these days, I'm prone to uttering monosyllabic monozygoted responses)
"Trillian, turn that gigantic television of yours to WB - that's channel 9."
"Why?"
"There's a something you need to see."
It's a parody of American Idol called SuperstarUSA.
Tone Loc. Vitamin C and this guy named Chris Briggs are imitating Randy, Paula and Simon. There's even a Ryan Seacrest impersonator. I know, it should be scary but that part's pretty funny. And I'm going to stop right there. There are things about this show, things I have learned, that I don't like. Not one little bit.
However.
I think I'm in love.
Chris Briggs. Trillian. Separated at birth. Born to smirk as one.
Real sarcasm. Real sardonicism. Real off the cuff remarks.
None of this scripted and poorly regurgitated mock banter and criticism that's so popular on American Idol.
I like Tone, so it was he who got me to stay past a 30 second look-see. And then Chris uttered the exact, I mean the exact thought that was going through my head: Man perm.
Hmmmm.
Camera pans to a sardonically, wry smirking guy.
He made a less than flattering, powerfully subtle, brilliant in it's simplicity remark about Kenny G.
Things tingled. Girl things.
A heart in Chicago doubled beated.
(Cut to an ER room with doctors looking at one of those heart monitor bleepy things. "She's alive after all! We'd written her off for dead! We didn't think she was capable of sexual arousal anymore! We thought she could only cling to distant memories of HWNMNBS! We'd written her off completely! But look! She's back, baby, she's BACK!")
He's really cute. Or at least he's my kind of really cute. He looks to be taller than the average TV guy, too.
I did a little research.
Not much is readily available on Chris Briggs apart from marketing press releases. Even the WB site doesn't give him a bio.
I found out more about the SuperstarUSA, enough to know I don't like it. Enough to think they had a really good idea but blew it. There were parts (man perm, for instance - oh please, give me a break, any man with a perm deserves all the public ridicule he gets) that were very, very good. But the bigger concept (which I will not get into) is as lame, pathetic and just plain wrong as the show it set out to mock. It's not wrong for the copy-cat or mock reasons (those a the good reasons for this show to exist), it's wrong for a list of reasons which will be obvious to any person with half a functioning brain who tunes in for more than a few minutes of the show.
But.
The fact remains, Chris Briggs set my libido into action and for that I am thankful. HWNMNBS and a certain Mr. Depp can have a break, take a few nights off.
I know, I know, he's blonde. I'm surprised by that, too. But he's got that almost-but-not-quite handsome, kind of geeky-but-not-Bill Gates look that just drives me mad.
Oh. And. A genuine sardonic smirk.
I like that in a guy.
Heck, I like that in a girl.
My best friends have sardonic smirks.
Yes. Sardonic smirk required.
I haven't met a guy with a good sardonic smirk in a long time. (yes. HWNMNBS has one, a very good one. The epitome of sardonicism. He defines sardonic.)
And Chris Briggs has one.
So he's my new crush.
I'm back, baby.
Yes. I am well aware he slightly resembles Daryl Hall. And yes, I am even more well aware he's probably gay.
If there were an encounter, it could be a problem. (the Darryl Hall thing, that is)
But. It's not as if I have any real chance with the guy, or as if he's a participant in 50 First Dates, so let me fixate, okay? Things tingled. Heartbeats doubled. Hair was coyly flipped. Giggles were released. Guffaws were chortled.
And I'm really glad I have an enormous television.
Trillian Briggs. Hmmmm. Has a nice ring to it. Until he says something stupid or badly scripted, shows himself to be the network pawn he really is, or styles his hair like this:
he's my crush, he's my guy, he will be servicing me in ways he could never imagine.
8:21 AM
