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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or Search by State

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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

 
Sunday, April 03, 2005  
I got a new pair of boots.

You can see them here.

Yeah, so, you've got lots of boots and shoes. Too many. We've been meaning to talk to you about this...

Leave me alone. I'm a pathetic, lonely, desperate woman. Let me have my shoes and my cat in peace.

Besides, these boots are magic boots.

These are the third pair of magic boots I've owned.

The two prior pair were worn to beyond wearable condition. I still had one pair of them before I moved. I would take them out on special occasions but they were old and tired and didn't really enjoy themselves that much. But I couldn't bring myself to throw them away because I didn't have another pair waiting in the wings. And more to the point, I didn't want to just throw away that part of my life. The part of my life when I had a life.

Those boots had the dust and dirt and beer and drinks from some of the best times of my life. The tread on those boots was worn thin from walking in far flung countries. Oh, if those boots could have talked. The stories they could tell you would paint a picture of a very different girl you know from this blog. The girl who wore those boots was someone. She was clever and witty and kind and hopeful and hip and yes, sarcastic, sardonic and wry. But. She was young. Youth is wasted on those who are free of sarcasm, sardonicism and a wry remark now and then.

I did not waste my youth. And a lot of it was done in those boots. Those boots took me to life changing events. They took me to my first Pixies concert. And my musical life was forever changed.

They took me to many Pixies and affiliated shows after than one. At a Breeders show a cute broody boy sloshed beer on my boots. They didn't mind. They're tough and known to pound a few themselves. That broody boy lifted his shaggy head and mumbled, "sorry. cool boots. wanna go out sometime?" I dated that broody boy, briefly, and in those boots, with that boy, I learned I had grown up and beyond broody boys. If it weren't for those boots, that beer and that boy, I might still be in the deadly trap of crushing on broody boys. Okay, I still crush on them, they still hold that unexplainable appeal, but after that broody boy, The Last Broody Boy, I can turn and walk away confident that as much as I WANT that broody boy then, in a few days or next week, the full impact of what it means to date a broody boy will hit and the blush will be off that broody and thorny rose. See? Those boots were paramount in my maturity.

Those boots were the only shoes I had (other than a pair of work shoes) when I went through the Big Huge Change of moving my life to Chicago. The rest of my shoes were packed in boxes, stored and waiting for me to find a place to live. Those boots took me all over the city looking for apartments. They took me to that window, on that fateful day when Triillian met Furry Creature. They took me out with friends. I was wearing them the day I met Benjy. And the day I met Frankie saw my feet firmly planted in them. And the day I introduced Benjy to Frankie I was wearing them. And the day they told me they were getting married I was coincidentally wearing them. And at that point I had tons of other shoes I was wearing, so my feet in those boots was not a regular occurrence.

See? They are magic boots.

If I'd been wearing them the day I met HWNMNBS things probably would have been a lot, lot different.

Those boots took me through countless customs desks. They took me shopping. And to bars. And to museums. The first time I saw Dali's Hallucinogenic Toreador in person I was wearing those boots. Ditto Modigliani's Antonia. And Maplethorpe's controversial photos. And Keith Haring's Keith Haring's Sex Show. Where I rebuffed the broody mumble advances of a very fetching Eastern European broody boy. Because my Magic boots had taught me that lesson and now they were protecting me.

It comes down to this: They may not actually be magic, but nothing bad has ever happened in them. So how I could I cast them out like garbage? Okay. because they look horrible, no longer offered any support, and with that broken ankle and subsequent recovery. they were a) not supportive enough for my healing ankle and foot and b) (more to the real point) I couldn't flex my foot in the way required to gain entry to the boots. When I eventually healed enough that I could wear them, I realized just how bad they were. How old and tired. The kindest thing was to put them down. But I couldn't just throw them in the dumpster with my neighbors' pizza and beer cartons. Could I?

The days before the move were horrible. I still can't get into just how bad they were. But. I reached the point all movers reach: "Just throw it away! I don't need it or I'll buy a new one later!" Things you never, ever would have been able to part with are suddenly seen for what they are: Objects which are a pain to move/no space for in the new place. The midnight dumpster salvage brigade in my old hood had a great few weeks when I moved. They are probably the only ones who miss me now that I'm gone.

And so it was, with a box of other old or other shoes which didn't make the move cut, that my magic boots landed in the dumpster. At the time I rationalized it with all the callous determination I could summon: That part of my life's over anyway.

It turned out to be a rather fitting end: It was on a weekend and there were several spent beer cartons in the dumpster. Had I been able to find my camera I would have taken a photo. Or maybe not. It would have been like taking a photo at a funeral. Which is something I don't do and don't condone.

That part of my life is over. That girl is gone. I have no idea who this new person is. I don't like her very much. She's broody (in both senses of the term) and sad and lonely and pathetic and desperate and scared and basically not a lot of fun to be around. She seems, you know, okay. It's obvious there's a story there, a tragic tale. She puts up a good front but I can tell she's wounded. I cut her a lot of slack. But sometimes I want to shake her, throw a cold drink on her and say, "Get over it! Deal with it. It's life. It sucks. No one ever said any of this was going to be easy. People lie. People break promises. That's what people do. Accept it and get over being so wounded and hurt. You think you're the only person left at the altar? You think you're the only one with a broken heart? Look out that window. That one, there. There's a world full of hurt, wounded people out there. It's sad and it's tragic but that's life. Swutting deal with it. You were somebody before you knew him. You did stuff. Go do stuff again. Get some new boots."

So I took my own advice and got some new magic boots. Fortunately my magic boots are of a classic design and manufacturer.

But magic boots don't come cheap.

And between the move, Furry Creature's vet bills and extended care, and my usual lack of funds because I'm grossly underpaid, boots, expensive boots, magic or otherwise, haven't been at the top of my list.

But then I realized: I need them.

Those boots were me. I was them. I was right, I was somebody before HWNMNBS. I was somebody who had a cool pair of boots.

So I got them. (Thank you Zappos. thank you.)

And now I'm breaking them in. Because real serious boots need breaking in. It's a painful process, but worth it in the end.

The interesting thing is that as soon as I put them on, I felt the magic. Well. Maybe not magic. I just felt like me again. For the first time in ages, I felt like me. I caught a brief glint, more of just a hint really, of my old self. It might have been nostalgia for the old days. Or it might have been the magic of the boots. Time will tell. But for now we're in that awkward just getting to know each other phase. Testing our limits. Pushing each other just a bit too far and then hastily apologizing.

I already made a new friend while wearing my boots. He's short and walks on all fours, but he was attached to a woman who is about my age, single and lives a few blocks away from me. She liked my boots. She used to have a pair like them. I said, "Me, too. But they wore out beyond repair. So I got some new ones." She wanted new ones, too. I told her about Zappos. She was excited. I was having a cup of tea from Gschwendner. She asked about it. I told her about the new outpost. We talked tea. We're going to meet there next Saturday morning for tea. Then we might go shoe shopping.

She's no Frankie, but then, I'm no Trillian right now, either. And I'm not in a position to be particular. Single, childless or unpregnant women in my age range are hard to find. It's not just dates and men I can't find, I'm having difficulty with friends, too. So, you know, given that she at least once owned a pair of magic boots, I have to think we might have enough in common to try to be friends.

9:22 AM

 
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