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/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






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.
Find Federal Officials
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Contact The Media
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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.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

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

 
Wednesday, March 23, 2005  
I've got a favorite new place. I haven't had a favorite place in a while. Or at least not a favorite place which is easily accessible on a daily basis. I still have my Most Favorite Special Place in the World, so far that hasn't changed. But it's kind of a long distance from where I currently live, so, you know, not exactly the most convenient retreat.

My favorite new place probably won't stay that way for long - it's the sort of place people like to go when the weather is warm and the drinks are chilled. But I like it now, "off season." Icy wind, no one around...I find myself there almost every day. Sometimes just for a few minutes, other times I "zone out" when I'm there. Time doesn't stand still, but I lose all sense of time. Sometimes. Other times I am very aware. Crystallizingly aware. That's why this has become my favorite new place. It evokes things in me. Some good. Some bad. Some useful. Some stupid. Most inspirational. If I am ever going to find myself again, this is the sort of place, maybe even The place, that will happen. Well. There or My Most Favorite Special Place in the World. Which I must get to sometime very soon. Because I really need to find myself. I am lost. I know that. Horribly, confusingly, scarily lost. Took the wrong road. Got blown off course. That compass spinning like a broken clock kind of lost. Which is really unusual for me because I have an incredibly good sense of direction. (literally and metaphorically) Which has made being lost so much worse for me. It's very disorienting and confusing. I don't like it. Not one bit. It's not the kind of lost that ends up leading to a fun new adventure. It's the kind of lost that ends up turning into a B horror movie. The kind where you can put a victim number on the actors' heads based on the degree of stupidity in their actions and nubility. Yeah. Not a good lost. I know. I have to find myself. I'm trying. It's not easy you know. Discovering a favorite new place, and the discovery that I still have the ability to find a favorite new place is a start. I think. I guess. Maybe. Let's just leave it that for now I feel better knowing I have my favorite new place. Whenever the mood hits, I can just go there. So, you know, that's probably a good thing.

Except.

It keeps evoking things. Really poignant things. Flashes of scenes. Snippets of songs. Brilliant, yet not clear ideas. The kind of things which make you think, in a snap of reality, "Wow. Heavy. This means something. I have no idea what, but I know it's important because I feel gravitas. Yes. I feel it. I can't explain it, but I can feel it." And then you go off puzzling over what it all might mean and wishing you weren't so darned lost.

Like this morning. I was standing there, in the sleet, icy wind, not thinking about much of anything - yes, really, nearly void of thought, which for me is a really difficult thing to do, I just can't relax - when I swear, I absolutely swear, I heard someone singing:

It was kind of cold that night
She stood alone on her balcony
She could the cars roll by
Out on 441
Like waves crashin’ in the beach
And for one desperate moment there
He crept back in her memory
God it’s so painful
Something that’s so close
And still so far out of reach


Perhaps Tom Petty is truly dead and his ghost was singing to me from beyond the pale. But I doubt it. And it doesn't matter. Well. I mean, it matters in the sense that I am now not only being given words faster than I can sort them, I'm hearing voices. But you know, whatever. What matters is that verse was exactly perfect for that moment of my life. I mean as if it were written specifically for that moment of my life. I've heard the song thousands of times, but not for a while. And right now, today, that moment, it meant something. It meant a lot, actually. Not just the literal and obvious, but the between the lines of the obvious. It was important. It was the absolute most perfect song and verse for that exact moment. Okay, sure, yeah, that happens. But this was different from those times when you think of an appropriate song or phrase to fit the mood or place. This was bigger than poignant. I heard someone singing it. I looked around because I was certain someone else was there. No one. It was 5:00 AM for crying out loud. No one was within earshot of me. The wind could have been carrying someone's voice, but even so, that doesn't seem right. I don't know. Don't ask me to explain it. I can't. It just, you know, means something. That's all.

I know. That's stupid. That's crazy talk.

Hey. I never, not once, ever, said I was sane. I told you this would be the diary of one woman's descent into lunacy. This is what happens when the censors, erm, editors turn their backs on me.

And now I'm stuck trying to shake the whole thing. Ever try to concentrate on your job when you've had, you know, An Experience?

It's not easy. Images fade but don't completely vanish. That voice is gone but I can remember exactly how it sounded. Questions nag. How'd Tom Petty know I would need that exact verse when he penned it in 1976?* Why Tom Petty? Surely someone else has written a song or words which would fit just as well. Or maybe not. I've got some Tom Petty on my Pod, but not that song. I grabbed it off iTunes before I left for work.** I'm driving myself nuts with it, but I am sickly compelled to listen to it, you know, just one more time, so I can try to hear something in it, hear that voice or just, you know, stop thinking about it. I even snapped a few photos thinking it wise to try to capture some images, catch the visual mood because it might be useful later.

Oh yes. My particular brand of lunacy is the compile lots of data type of lunacy.

You wanted it, you got it.

It's Wednesday, and it's so real it's surreal.

*Just to show you how serious I am about this, I looked it up because I had no clue when that song was recorded, and got even more, well, even more whatever I am, when I discovered it was on the Heartbreakers debut album in 1976. I mean, 30 years ago Tom Petty wrote that song, and now, 30 years later here I am having a very strange moment with a verse of it. Tom, dude,what's up with that? Are you really dead?

**Fortunately my This Means Something soundtrack can so far be easily accessed. I'll be in trouble when The Screaming Blue Messiahs mean something to me because iTunes doesn't have them and all I've got is a cassette stored away somewhere at my parents' house.

12:43 PM

 
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