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, October 01, 2004 Further Adventures in the Twilight Zone. Or. Back to Work.
And so once again, satisfied her mission was accomplished having worked, vacationed and made a fool of herself in front of a colleague and a very attractive, intelligent, witty, hetero, single man, Trillian returns to the place she lives.
She is greeted by a mailbox full catalogs and missing children photos and KMart adverts but not the tickets she ordered from TicketMaster a month ago, not the new credit card to replace the one expiring, oh, today, not the rebate checks she’s been expecting for weeks, not anything serving any purpose in her life causing her to wonder if perhaps her mail is being, ummm, "edited." She could call the her local branch of the US Postal Service, but she's tried that before and learned they do not answer their telephone. When she visited in person the nice US Postal workers lost their grasp and comprehension of the English language. She weighs her options and decides it will be easier to contact: Ticketmaster, her credit card company and the companies owing her rebates. She sighs and vows to leave this place. Soon.
Upstairs, however, she is greeted by a huge white and grey tiger striped furry creature who demands all of her attention. Under his spell, he obeys the command and pets, scratches, snuggles and plays with the furry creature. All is once again almost as it should be.
It’s as as it should be as it’s ever going to get, she concedes.
She thinks she is ready to face the office tomorrow.
Sleep well, oh foolish one. For you are blissfully naive to the full horrors which await you with tomorrow’s dawn and you will need to be well rested to refrain from going postal even though you are not normally a violent person.
She takes the train to the office. She hasn’t done this for a while. She is immediately thrown off balance by the new CTA guy working in her station. Yes. Working. He assists her when the fare card machine won’t accept her money. The CTA fare card machines don’t like crisp new pristine bills, the new CTA guy chidingly informs her. He rummages in his pocket and pulls two crumbled and worn bills and tries them in the fare card machine. It eagerly sucks them in with a sated slurping sound. He presses vend. The fare card is burped out of the machine. He hands her the card and smiles. She hands him her pristine bill. He tells her to have a nice Friday. She returns the greeting.
She is apprehensive but not scared. Yet. Right now she thinks this is probably just an isolated incident. “Speaks English. Working. Helpful. Friendly. He’ll be fired soon.” she dismisses.
On the inbound platform she does not recognize any of the faces or bodies. Ewwww Gross Woman isn’t there. Sports Stat Guys aren’t there. Nurse Lettie isn’t there. Pushy Obnoxious Jerk in Birks isn’t there. Uptight Gold Jacket Stock guy isn’t there. Poodle Perm and her sister aren’t there. Instead she spots what she is certain is Avril Lavigne. And a bunch of tall, cute boys. “Ohmygosh. I’m at the wrong station! Somehow I’ve ended up at the wrong station!” she thinks to herself. But wait, she thinks as she looks around her. The buildings, the landmarks, the streets below, everything indicates this is indeed her usual station. But the people...the people! They’re all so different! The train pulls into the station. She is engulfed by the crowed of tall, cute boys and Avril Lavigne. She rides a few stops and exits into the city, morning commuters hustling about their business. “Ahhhh. okay, Everything’s fine. I’m just tired. It always feels weird after being away for a while.” she comforts herself.
She strolls through the early morning streets, glad to be home. She waits at a corner for the light to change. She notices a monstrosity of twisted metal across the street. “Where’d that come from? I know that wasn’t there before. What the swut is it? A bike rack? A twisted ladder? Is that some odd interpretation of a ladder in tribute to firemen? Monkey bars? Why is it there?” Closer inspection revealed it is artwork entitled “Derailed, 2004 by Sydra Reyes.” “Ah. Train tracks. Mangled, twisted, bent train tracks. Well now. Isn’t that a pleasant theme for commuters to pass on their way to the el and Metra stations. Lovely. The title should be: Derailed: Talent. Attention artworld: Shock art is so 80’s. We’re not shocked anymore. We’re jaded and bored. Go photograph your shoes or something.”
She enters her office, everything seems normal here, she concludes. It is early. The halls are empty. Most people won’t arrive for at least another hour. She has planned it this way. She wants some quiet time to sort through everything that didn’t get done while she was gone. She is actually eager to get to work and finish a few projects. She is remarking to herself on how
nice it is to have a quiet office instead of the chaos and frenzy of the past few days. She is thinking maybe it’s time to find a job as a librarian.
“TRILLIAN!!!”
She jumps in fear. Someone is either being killed, calling pigs or trying to imitate Mr. Spacely.
“TRILLIAN IS THAT YOU?!!! COMMERE!!!!”
Oh. It's just Sadie.
What the swut is she doing here so early?
“TRRRIILLLLLLIIIIIIIANNNNNNNNNNNNNNN” (biggest drawn out crabby whine you can imagine)
“Hi Sadie. What’s up?” She greets the bitchy, gossipy, unqualified, lazy, stupid, whiny, Precious Moment collecting, TV loving woman.
“You haven’t been here for a week and I need your help!” (whiny three year old type inflection)
“I had that gig with Client X in California. What do you need?” she asks.
“That was only three days. You’ve been gone since last weeeeeeeeeeek.” (whine which would make a snake’s spine shatter)
Since when do I report to you? Since when is my schedule any concern of yours? If you needed something so badly why didn’t you leave a voice mail or email or, you know, get (needs a new nickname) boss to help you. “I took a few vacation days. What do you need?”
“OOOOOOHHHHHHH, how nice, a vacation on the company dime.” (not only whiny but implying embezzlement)
Not that I owe you an explanation you dumb, lazy, unqualified oaf, “I’ll give you a copy of my expense report before I turn it in so you can see how many of the company’s dimes I spent and where. What do you need?”
“Commere,” the dumb, lazy, unqualified oaf beckons her closer to her office. Trillian has been keeping a safe distance between herself and the offending coworker and the Precious Moments gang and the stench of breakfast burritos present and past lingering in the air.
Sadie thrusts her paw of a hand clutching photographs at her. Trillian recoils at the sight of the greasy fingerprints all over the photos caught and reflected under the florescent light. Accented by two beams of prisms being reflected off an enormous diamond engagement ring. She can’t help but notice the ring is so tight the band is obliterated by folds of flesh. She looks at her own boney fingers. She cannot figure out how the dumb, lazy, unqualified oaf got that ring on in the first place. It’s not like cinching in a belt, after all. Though that is exactly the effect the much too small ring has on Sadie. Santa with his belt cinched tightly, puffy folds of flesh rolling above and below. She thinks Sadie’s circulation is being cut off and surely it’s got to hurt and can you die from that? Should she say something? It looks painful. She remembers how her engagement ring was a little too big and how it used to slide around and how she used to play with it, twirling it around her finger, tenderly fondling it thinking of....
“I need an engagement party invitation and I wanna use these pitchers. (needs a new nickname) boss said you'll get me a deal on the printing with (print vendor) and design me somethin cool. They need to be in the mail next week. I wudda given them to you before but you weren’t here.” she whines as she jabs the photos at the hapless worker.
"Oh. Of course. And here I was worried you needed actual work done. This is clearly a crisis situation, I'll drop everything, beg every favor I can and get you a 'cool' engagement party invitation designed and printed by this afternoon." Trillian says, gingerly reaching for the greasy fingerprinted "pitchers" carefully avoiding any contact with the greasy fingers themselves. Not even fingers as much as finger colored sausages. Wait. That's mean. She's got a problem with water retention. She can't help it. Whatever.
"No, I don't want no Kinkos job, I want real printin. Monday's okay, Tuesday at the latest."
I'm not kidding.
"Look, Sadie, I could whip up something 'cool' for you, but 'real' printing takes time and money, regardless of the shop and their willingness to do me any favors. Even Kinkos couldn't get you anything this afternoon. I was joking. And I do have a ton of actual work to do, by the way."
"You redid the whole Client A campaign in four hours. Surely you can do this in less time than that." (whine, whine, whine, whine and lesson learned: Never, ever, never let anyone know there are times, times under enormous pressure or inspiration or sudden burst of creative energy, that artistic and production miracles happen in very short periods of time.)
"How many do you need and what's the maximum amount you can spend on these?" she asks the dumb, lazy, unqualified oaf.
"Lessseeeee, prolly a couple a hundred would be enough. I don't want to pay nuthin. Chortle chortle. But I could come up with $50," the dumb, lazy, unqualified oaf offered as if she had just handed over Donald Trump's checkbook.
"Uh, Sadie, $50 isn't enough to get you 200 of something 'cool' and printed 'real.' Sorry. It's just not enough money even with a favor. Paper and ink will cost more than that."
"But, but, but, but" (oh no! she's gonna blow!) "booo hooo hoooo, blubber blubber, blubber everything's so expensive and I want it to be nice and this is so important to us bwaaaa haaaaa haaaaaa sob sob sob snort snort snort." Sadie sat crying and whimpering.
Unmoved by the display of snorts and sobs, Trillian asks, "Does your finger hurt? It looks painful. I think you can lose a finger by cutting off circulation like that."
Yes. She is a bitch. She is an awful, mean, catty, jealous, horrible, sarcastic, bitter, malicious shrew. Spare her the emails. She knows all of this about herself.
"I'm just re re re re taining wa wa wa wa terrrrrrrrr."
"Still. (pause, meaningful cluck of tongue) Gotta dash. I'll design something for your invitation. You can take it down to the print room and have the guys print them on (the cheap digital copier). I'm sure you can find an account number to hide a few dollars like you did with that crapbook project of yours."
"Whimper whimper whimper whimper...here's the information about the party and our idea." handing over a grease stained piece of paper torn out of a spiral notebook with ball point scribbles on it.
She is reminded of grade 5 when Julie and Reneé had a boy-girl party and made "posters" to remind everyone in the class about the party. Even the kids who weren't invited. Like her. She was younger than the other kids and dorkier and was rumored to still play with Barbies. No boy-girl party invite for her. The bubbly outlined writing, the balloons, the groovy rainbow, the B There or B (outline of a square drawn) haunts her as she looks at the paper the dumb, lazy, unqualified oaf has handed her. She knows she really, really needs to get past this whole Julie thing. But those are very impressionable years for a girl. It still hurts. It can all come crashing back when you least expect it. The fact that Julie and all those other girls at school are older than her now gives her enormous satisfaction, but back then it was an all consuming issue. She knows she needs to get past this whole Julie thing. Okay? She knows.
She takes the paper and the "pitchers" and heads to her office.
Must. Find. Another. Job. Cannot. Go. On. Like. This. One. More. Day.
She checks her email. She checks production schedules. She assesses the work she needs to do. She looks at the "pitchers" and the spiral notebook paper. She produces a cool invitation which can be printed on (the cheap digital printer) for cool effect. She gives it to Sadie within two hours and forgets about it.
The rest of her day is similarly off kilter. She realizes she is the only one who realizes something's not right. That things are just slightly different. Important mail is not delivered. A helpful CTA guy. Tall cute boys on the train. A piece of bad sculpture where before there was none. Unreasonable demands for projects having nothing to do with work.
This is her life in: The Twilight Zone.
Sorry. This out of blog character and against the rules rant must be said: Michael Moore: Heal Thyself. Or: Just. Shut.Up. Free Speech
Apart from any messages, partisan alliances, opinions or edited "facts" the man spreads as The Truth, how can he or anyone signing the check justify $35,000 for an hour of him running his mouth? That’s what he does anyway. It’s his thing. His thing is running at the mouth. Why should he be paid $35,000 an hour for it? Does he get paid $35,000 an hour every hour of the day? If he’s placing a large order at the drive through and has to repeat himself a couple of times, does the kid at the window give him his McAnimals and McFriedcrap with $8,750 in change? What I really love about this is Michael’s self serving threat badly cloaked as a vow of altruism and poor downtrodden maligned breach of freedom of stance. Erm, Michael? I think the point here is the amount of tax money being spent. Not everything is about government conspiracy. Sometimes it's about tax payers getting angry enough to make their voices known. I think if you had offered to speak for free in the first place you wouldn’t have been canceled. You see Michael, there’s an irony here you might want to investigate for your next film: You’re charging $35,000 to allow students the privilege of hearing you rant. Now that they’ve assessed the funding and realized $35,000 is a lot of money which would fund, you know, a couple of scholarships or something trivial like that, you’re all “oooh, I have rights! They’re squelching my freedom of speech. weh weh weh.” Well Michael, $35,000 doesn’t sound like free speech to me. What say you show up, make your one sided argument rant, and donate $35,000 to a scholarship fund for democratic students maybe even from your own downtrodden and poor hometown? What a fine point that would make to the world and Republican party. I guess the theory of being part of the solution is too wide in scope for your narrow, egotistical mind. It's not always about you, Michael.
oops. How’d that get there?
Funny that made it past the editing board.
The fact that the death of the Haggar slacks guy, Edmond Haggar, is getting more press and higher hit ranking that Richard Avedon’s death frighten, confuses and concerns me. Nothing against slacks or Mr. Haggar, but what the...?
7:36 PM
Thursday, September 30, 2004 I'll Just be in the Darkest Corner of My Bedroom Closet if Anyone Needs Me
When was the last time you were so embarrassed you wanted to turn the world backwards on its axis to reverse time, be skilled in the art of hypnosis or just simply evaporate?
It’s been a while for me. Well. It’s been a while since I’ve been hiding in shame and embarrassment over stupid words which came out of my mouth. I try to watch what I say in uncharted company. I’ve learned to not trust my mouth. I am not a natural gossip so fortunately I don’t have to worry about that. But it’s easy to say the wrong thing when you have a cynical, sarcastic nature. I’ve learned to leash my mouth in potentially dangerous speaking situations. Other embarrassing situations happen to me so frequently they’re not really so much embarrassments as a way of life. I’m so accustomed to bumping into things, tripping over nothing and generally making a physical buffoon of myself that sort of thing has long since stopped embarrassing me. Fallen on a date? Done it. Three times in the past year. Skirt tucked into pantyhose? Done it. Lived to tell and laugh. Bumped into a display of crystal glasses and knocked them over in a crashing scene? Last holiday shopping season, Bloomingdales, Michigan Avenue.
Live long enough, make a fool of yourself enough, and eventually embarrassment doesn’t come as quickly or easily.
For me it now generally only happens in front of people who matter to me on either a professional or personal level. I would be embarrassed to give a client work which I know is inferior. I would be embarrassed to say something which would inadvertently hurt a friend’s feelings. I would be embarrassed for my parents to find out I...ahem.
Right.
You get the picture.
So there I was at a swanky, hip bar after wrapping up work. Out of town. I was with a colleague, whom I (fortunately) know quite well (and who does not work in my office), and two hangers on of our client, one of whom was very attractive and witty and seemingly in possession of half a brain, and oh, yeah, a hetero male in approximately my age range, and apparently single...
You get the picture.
Me, a coworker, a very interesting man and another woman were standing at a cool bar.
The Color Theory version of But Not Tonight began playing. (It’s San Francisco. Color Theory is cool in San Francisco. When in Rome...)
Colleague said, “Isn’t this a Depeche Mode song?” with a screwy face as if he knows something's not quite right about the song but can't figure out what.
I said, “It’s that Color Theory cover of But Not Tonight.” (Note the restraint and tact I used. I did not say, nor did I intend to imply, “It’s that crappy cover by lame airport motel lounge meets gay dance club darling Color Theory of the drippy Depeche Mode song But Not Tonight.” Which is exactly what I was thinking. See? I can be good at socializing and trying to fit in.)
Hanger on other woman said, “I love that song. I had a friend in college who had a serious drinking problem and this song saved her life.”
Attractive guy hanger on said, “(chuckle chuckle) Too bad it didn’t work the same magic for Depeche Mode.”
Yeah. I told you this guy had potential. A biting double entendre which could be sarcastic but passed off as friendly humor and conversation.
“Hmmmmmm,” thought I. “We’ve got a live one here.”
I laughed. Colleague laughed. Other woman laughed but then got all serious. “Yeah, those guys were into some serious trouble with drugs.”
Me, slightly confused, kept my mouth shut.
I was not confused about Depeche Mode’s collective substance problems. Or that I think attractive guy actually meant saving Depeche Mode’s career and musical sales life.
No, I was slightly confused because for all these years, until that very moment when she said the words “trouble with drugs,” it never once occurred to me the song could be about the freedom of breaking out of an addiction.
This was not exactly a startling, life changing revelation, however, it was an ill timed revelation.
Because all these years, all those dance clubs, all this time, I assumed it was about, um, you know...
...being the master of your domain...
Self, um, well...
...masturbation, okay?
No. I don’t have a dirty mind. I’m not one of those people who reads those things into lyrics. In my defense, let the evidence stand: The first words are "Oh God," there’s that “My pleasure at being So wet/Here on my own/All on my own/How good it feels to be alone/Tonight” “filling me up with new life” business and all the ooooooh oooooohs and ahhhhh ahhhhhs at the end, I mean, I know I’m not the only one who thinks this song is about finding pleasure within, um, yourself. Alone.
No. I didn’t share this with the group. But I wish this new But Not Tonight angle would have been revealed to me at some other time in my life.
I just stood there trying to hide my surprise at the revelation that the song could be about something other than well, that, and trying to be cool and fit in with the group. Something which obviously doesn’t come easily or naturally for me. eHarmony will point out all the ways in which I don’t fit in and am not cool.
Colleague said, “I used to secretly like Depeche Mode, I listened to them in my car and hid the cds because I didn’t want my rock and roll friends to know I liked them. (pause) I like this cover, (he would, roll of eyes implied) who is it again, Trillian?”
“Jerking off.”
Yes.
I said “Jerking off” loudly and clearly and assuredly as if that were in fact the name of the band.
I was trying so hard to not say anything to do with that, naturally the only words which would come out of my mouth were “jerking off.” That, or now along with all my other problems I have Tourette Syndrome.
The really bizarre part of this? I don’t use the term jerking off or jacking off. Those words have left my mouth no more than six or seven times in my entire life. (I don’t even like Prince’s Jack Off song) I’m not the sort of person who is able to throw vulgarities or slang into my vocabulary and have it sound anything other than stupid. Unless I’m really, really angry or very, very dead pan sarcastic. But even then I sound stupid and out of character. For the record, I’m not offended by vulgarities or slang, it’s just not my milieux.
Fortunately, other woman thought I was making a joke, referencing a joke meaning to the song. She gave me a sympathetic and condescending, “Ha Ha Ha, yeah, The Jerk Offs. Here on my own, all on my own! Ha ha ha.” ("Oh grow up, will you?" implied)
I, now wanting to reverse time, stop time, something, anything to just make this all stop, stood there trying to figure out if the best course of action was to go along as if I meant it as a joke or try to climb out of the flaming pit of my cheeks and say something about Color Theory to try to put this all back on course and maybe everyone would just forget it.
But no.
Attractive guy said, either thoughtfully or disgustedly, I’m not sure which because there was no inflection, no emotion in his tone, “I never thought of that.”
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Everyone looking at me.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Everyone still looking at me.
“Color Theory.” were the words my mouth chose to use to break the silence.
Momentarily.
Everyone looking at me with rapt anticipation.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Me wondering what everyone else is thinking.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re thinking about jerking off.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re wondering if I’m thinking about them jerking off.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re wondering if I jerk off.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re wondering if I go around thinking about jerking off all the time.
Silence.
Me wanting to desperately think of something other than jerking off.
Silence.
Me hating the term jerking off and wondering why I said it.
Silence.
Me worrying that I have Tourette’s Syndrome.
Silence.
Me realizing attractive guy has very nice hair.
Silence.
Me realizing there is a speck of lint on my blouse which I must pick at now.
Silence.
Me wondering just how red I am in this light.
Silence.
Me wondering if I can use the “oh would you look at the time” excuse to get away from here.
Silence.
“Anyone want another drink?” I said to the group who all had full glasses. “No? I think I’m going to try the Cabernet. Excuse me.”
And that my friends is how I have managed to stay single all these years.
Well, that and I’m ugly.
And why I write all these words instead of trusting my mouth to do the work for me.
If you turn your browser to eHarmony, login: trilliansweird, password guide42, and refer to the overview section, you will see, there, in the first bullet point, the reason why this happened to me.
During times of stress or tension, you may withdraw inside yourself and appear as somewhat cool and aloof. You need to be alone when thinking through projects, problems or solutions.
That’s one of my characteristics eHarmony nailed perfectly. I know this about myself. But what eHarmony doesn’t offer is a solution for overcoming this when it’s not possible to be alone during times of stress or tension. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe the only solution for me is the one I have perfected: Make the first excuse I can and get the swut out of there, run to the first safe, dark, quiet place I can find to sit rocking in a fetal position, withdrawn inside myself and alone. Because I cannot be trusted in public.
This is Tomorrow Callin' Yesterday I got an email from Tomorrow.
Yes.
Tomorrow sent me an email. Yesterday.
Thinking it may be a message from my future sent to my present, (now past) to warn me about something or someone, you know, as all lame space adventure/time travel stories use as their convenient way to end the show on time and under budget, I thought I better open it, take the Quantum Leap, as it were. (is? will be?)
Hey. When Tomorrow writes with the subject: "Be ready," I read it. Nonplussedly, mind you, but I read it before trashing it.
wavy dream like effect and big echo chamber voice over
“Theorizing that one could time travel within her own lifetime, Trillian stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator, otherwise known as a Mac G4 PowerBook, and vanished...She woke to find herself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not her own and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. Her only guide on this journey is Tomorrow, an observer from her own time or past or future or something which will be hinted at on season cliffhangers and revealed on the show finale that only Trillian can see, hear or read. And so Trillian finds herself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong and hoping each time that her next leap will be the leap home and that she doesn’t wake up with Patrick Duffy in her bed or shower.”
I was hoping for something like that. Alarming clarity jolt. Instead I got the ominous message from Tomorrow:
Subject: Be ready.
(Christian Science/Dianetics type graphic.)
“You won’t believe what might happen to you tomorrow!” (emphasis added)
“Oh yeah,” I said out loud to no one, “try me. I bet I can see your unbelievable happenstance and raise you an end of days revelation.” And took the challenge.
Hey. I’m on the road. I’m lonely and bored. Besides, this is tomorrow calling, and not being one to resist the lure of possible humor in a prophecy of doom, I took the spam bait.
I didn't think I should ignore Tomorrow. That is unless there’s a download involved. There was. Of course. Because there is always a download or credit card involved. I also read the fine print. Because there’s always fine print. Tomorrow apparently works at or channels through Coastal Vibe’s server.
I get a lot of spam from Coastal Vibe. I do not like the folks at Coastal Vibe. I don’t even like the name Coastal Vibe. Their "About Us", should you choose to not venture to their site (I wouldn't), reads, "Coastal Vibe is an industry leader in performance based online marketing. We work with product marketers and acquisition specialists to ensure maximum return on your advertising dollar. For high CPM returns and targeted campaign deployment contact Coastal Vibe today." Yes. They are spammers. They can pretty up their mission statement any way they want, but they are still spammers.
Delete.
"Sorry Tomorrow," thought I, "I’ll just have to be surprised and wait like everyone else to find out what frightening thing I need to be ready for tomorrow. Erm. Today."
Of course Tomorrow left me muzaking in my mind one of my all time favorite Ferry songs, This is Tomorrow Calling. And realizing there was a poignancy and irony to the timing of Tomorrow’s email.
Because I am laying in a hotel room. Feelin’ ceilin’ blues.
What would Tomorrow tell me I don’t already know? What would tomorrow warn me to not do, or do? Remember, I’ve lost my inner voice and HWNMNBS, my parents are on holiday and I’m miles away from home and Furry Creature. I’m rudderless here. That’s another way of saying mindless and meandering aimlessly. Loitering without intent. And maybe I’ve had a bit more alcohol than would be advisable. Maybe I haven’t had enough.
I would like Tomorrow to tell me it's just another day and not HWNMNBS's birthday. I would like Tomorrow to tell me what the swut I’m supposed to do with my life and if there’s any reason for me to bother with tomorrow or the next day or next month. But I’m sure Tomorrow could only refer me to another department. Tomorrow probably only handles tomorrow. Not the day after tomorrow or next month. Tomorrow would tell me to wait for an email from October. Or The Day After Tomorrow. Whichever comes first. I suspect Tomorrow is a short term thinker, doesn’t really grasp or care about the big picture or, well, anything beyond tomorrow. Because anything beyond tomorrow is of no concern to Tomorrow. What a lovely place that must be to live.
I soon found out what Tomorrow was trying to tell me. Sooner than tomorrow, in fact. Not so much tomorrow as a few hours later. From now. Then. Whatever. Had I downloaded and installed the software Tomorrow told me to use, I would have been told: Get out. Leave San Francisco. Get out of the state of California. Drive. Run. Fly. Swim. No wait, don’t swim. The End of Days is near and the Apocalypse will commence shortly. Last Saturday when your iPod slid 6 inches across the floor and your ankle felt unsteady? Yeah. That was me trying to warn you. Well. It was actually a tectonic plate trying to warn you and everyone else to Get Out. What? Do I have to spell it out in dripping blood on a mirror before you’ll pay attention? (Tomorrow’s got a bitter sarcastic and impatient streak, by the way.) Get out. You’re not going to like what happens next. You’ve seen fire and you’ve seen rain. You’ve seen lonely times when you could not find a friend. But baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. (Tomorrow apparently listens to a lot of 70s music. Which is odd. I would have pegged Tomorrow as more of the Fischerspooner or at least Tangerine Dream sort.)
This was not my first earthquake. But. It was my first on my own sitting in a hotel room feverishly trying to get some work done on a break from work. Things didn’t rattle and shake like they do in movies. But then they tell me the area felt only mild tremors, nothing to worry about here. Um. Okay. But, see, the thing is, all my stuff fell off the bathroom vanity and my suitcase is now on the other side of the closet from where it was before the “mild tremor.” And is that a crack in the wall? Built to strict standards and specifications, you say? From where I’m sitting, 11 floors up, looking out at the tall buildings around me, I’m wondering just how strict those standards and specifications are. And do they have better building inspectors enforcing these standards than they do in Chicago? Are there any Daleys in San Francisco?
Back to Tomorrow. Because this was only a “mild tremor” apparently Tomorrow was not sending a message for me to tidy up my affairs and say my good-byes. Which is a little disappointing. You know. After the fact.
I don’t mind dying as part of a statistic. eHarmony can’t find a statistical niche for me, but in death like a plane crash or fire or earthquake, being part of the final fatality tally doesn’t bother me. It bothers other people. I know several people who have made comments about not wanting to be remembered for dying with a bunch of other people. It’s ironic because every one of these people are outgoing, social, group loving sorts. Seems like since they enjoy the company of others so much they would rather go with a group than on their own. The irony continues with my own outlook on this: I’m a bit of a loner. Okay, a lot of a loner. One would think I would be adverse to dying as part of a group since I eschewed groups and crowds while I was alive. But it doesn’t bother me to be just one of a group in death. Funny, that.
Last year I ruled out plane crash as a preferred method of death. Not because of, well, the crash, but because I do not want the last thing I see on this mortal coil to be the terrified faces of strangers knowing they are going to die. Based on that, again, one might think I wouldn’t want to go in group. But as long as I don’t have to see their terror stricken faces, I don’t mind going with a bunch of otherpeople.
I can feel the editorial board breathing over my shoulder.
Telephone is ringin’. Maybe it’s Tomorrow calling. Reminding me it's HWNMNBS's birthday. As if I need reminding. Miss. Him. So. Much. Want. To. Die.
Tune your Pod's to radio Ferry:
Here in the hush of evenin´
On a night in June
Overhearin´ conversations
Bayin´ at the moon
Suddenly a voice i´m hearin´s
Sweet to my ear
This is tomorrow´s callin´
Wishin` you were here
Layin´ in my hotel bedroom
Feelin´ ceilin´ blues
Wall to wall a tv´s twitchin´
Clearly not a muse
Then flashin´ through the interference
Beams a thousand tunes
This is tomorrow callin´
What have I to lose?
Truckin´ by the railway station
I´m on the road again
Steerin´ clear of all temptation
Unto the point of pain
When steamin´ through on cue
I hear that wailin´ whistle blow
If this is tomorrow callin´
Oh what a way to go!
Day to day you live old fashioned
Hi-toned, fancy free
A double take, an image-spittin´
Tailored to a t
While history is tellin´ you
The same old thing
This is tomorrow callin´
Let´s stick a new oar in
This is tomorrow callin´
Y´all ´n
Come on in 8:56 AM
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Press conference at the Ramada Inn. At the front of the room, Life(?) of Trillian representative giving a statement to the press corps.
Let's join the session in progress.
If you have landed here for the first time by way of search engine hit, there's a site search over there on the left, in the sidebar. Type in what you're looking for and you'll find the scintillating post to which it pertains.
What you, and some long time readers have before you is, well. Trillian's Life. It's a blog. Its intention was never to be a diary or journal blog, or a rant blog, or well, anything. It's a blog about nothing. Well. That's not quite right, either. It's words she has to get out of her head. It's everything Trillian would say if she had the courage, nerve, time, or opportunity to say it out loud.
Which apparently has become a lot of unresolved feelings about her ex fiancé and loathing and contempt for the people with whom she works.
Trillian never meant for anyone to read this blog. She first posted it publicly, way back when, in the early days of Blogspot, because she just plain didn't pay attention to the privacy settings. She's kind of dumb that way sometimes. We spoke to her manager about it. But by then it was too late. For some unknowable, unexplainable, stand back and scratch your head and wonder why reason, people were reading this swutting thing.
People Trillian didn't know. People who also have a proclivity for observing and reporting and relaxing and enjoying their shoes and have been known to hoist a gargle blaster or two.
What to do, what to do.
Trillian, brave, sarcastic, cynical, stupid Trillian, kept on publicly posting. Observing and reporting.
H8ers discovered her.
Things got ugly.
The blog evolved.
And moved hosts a few times.
Trillian and all those words just wouldn't go away.
She landed back at Blogger, here at Life (?) of Trillian and found it to be a mostly friendly stop in the Universe.
The Guide gives it high marks for it's signs of intelligent, witty, caring life and community spirit.
She got very comfy. She let a few things slip she shouldn't have. She didn't care. She was among mostly friends. Middle management and marketing department were alerted to her deviances but because they were mostly harmless they let them them stand with stern reprimand about such things in the future to Ms. McMillian.
She then suffered temporarily crippling incident and had to spend a lot of time off her feet. Boy did she have a lot of words then. She suffered with that broken ankle more than she let on. And she let on quite a bit so you can imagine what you didn't hear about must have been pretty bad. She found a lot of support and kindness via the blog through those months. She posted updates on her condition and travails because people wanted to know about them.
The blog took on a diary feel.
Trillian was at sixes and sevens about this as was middle management and the marketing department. Trillian is not a diarist and doesn't want to become one. Her life is not an open book for anyone to just drop in on whenever they want.
Now just quiet down a minute. I know that sounds like a bold faced lie put out by the marketing department in accordance to Homeland Security Policy.
But believe us. Trillian is a very keep to herself kind of person.
Yes really.
You don't know her like we do. You would never believe the things she does and which happen to her which she doesn't post on the blog.
She is not comfortable laying her soul to bear, especially in front of complete strangers. She's the sort of person people know for years and never have a clue about certain hobbies and habits she keeps. (Very much like serial killers and postal workers.)
She let a big nasty cat out of her life's bag. Quality control didn't catch it until it was too late (again with that too late thing...we did speak to her manager)
Recently, a certain someone hurt Trillian very, very badly.
Someone she let into her life and heart. Someone, the only someone, she let see all her hobbies, habits and quirks. The only someone she wasn't inhibited or shy around. The only one who got her. The one who was responsible for the blog in the first place. (He was the one who suggested she write, put all those words somewhere. Yes, blame him. We'll give you his email address.) He went on to do a bad, bad thing. She forgave him.
He did it again.
And now Trillian finds herself knowing she has to do the one and only thing she doesn't want to do. She knows she cannot let him hurt her again. She knows that, okay? So stop writing to tell her she was a fool to let him into her life again and that she deserves everything she gets. She's not answering her phones or emails from him, okay?
Brave Trillian. Strong Trillian. Wracked with sorrow Trillian. Suicidal Trillian.
Trillian is no Eleanor Roosevelt. (Nor does she want to be, you know, really. Truth be told.)
However. Trillian feels herself changing. For the first time in her life, Trillian isn't hearing her inner voice. And while Trillian is very relieved to stop hearing at least one of the voices in her head, she is a bit lost without her guide. The only voices Trillian has ever fully trusted are: Her parents, HWNMNBS and her inner voice. Okay, she's got a few issues. You read this blog, you know that by now.
The point is that Trillian can't hear her inner voice and she's losing her way and she doesn't want to have a nervous breakdown in public.
She'd like to keep her psychosis to herself, thank you very much.
What's that? Speak up, I can't quite hear you.
What the tall, honey blonde highlighted, large breasted, tearful woman in nice shoes in the back asked is, "Is this good-bye?"
Much as it may sound like good-bye, much as you may all wish it were, it's probably not.
But until Ms. McMillian can get herself sorted and hears her inner voice again, we think it's best that she try to work out her personal issues privately. Her words will be reviewed by a full board before being publicly posted. This is for her own good. We know many of you care about Trillian and want her to get back on track. Any track. So do we. Censorship may seem a harsh and, well, drastic measure, and we really don't like to use that word around here, we prefer to think of it as editing, it really is the best thing for Trillian right now. She has some very difficult days ahead of her. Things will get worse before they get better. It's for her own good. It's not you, it's her.
Trillian insisted that we alert the public that if things seem a bit off at Life (?) of Trillian it's because of the review board.
Trillian appreciates your support and kind words more than she can express without sounding like she's giving an Academy Award speech. She would like to extend her deepest gratitude and thanks to everyone who has given her support, advice, an email to cry on and a lot of laughs. You can never know how much it means to her to have complete strangers reach out and show sincere concern for her. She considers each and every one of you a dear friend, even though it weirds her out a little to think she is very close to people whom she has never met face to face. She promises to try to observe and report enough to get through the censorship, erm, editing board.
We regret any inconvenience this may cause. Trillian reads a lot of blogs. Drop her an email outlining a few interests and why you like her blog and she'll promptly send you a list of blogs she thinks you might enjoy more than hers now that she's being censored, erm, edited. She would also like to note that she is filling the voids in her life with shoes and will attempt to keep CHIWTSYS updated. Devout Trillian followers (yes, we regret to inform you there are a few) should find relevant clues to what she's up to, where she is and what her mood is by the photos on CHIWTSYS. Please check in at Life (?) of Trillian, as it is our sincere hope she will be posting her many (censored, erm, edited) words.
