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.
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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.
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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

 
Saturday, July 30, 2005  
Slanglish
There’s so much to be said for having no expectations of anything or anyone. Low expectations are not enough to get you through some of the stranger and more difficult situations in life. There’s even more to be said for not allowing a single emotion fill your head. It makes what could be difficult situations so much easier to tolerate.

So there’s this woman in my office who’s started talking “street” circa 1990. (or earlier)

You heard me.

Street. Urban slang. Ghetto.

Not that unusual in itself. I guess. But.

Why it's good I have no expectations: She’s in her mid 50s. She’s white. She’s from the suburbs. She shops at Talbots. She likes Culvers. She’s a living, breathing white suburban cliché. Nothing wrong with that, be who you are, embrace yourself and your circumstances. But now she's suddenly not embracing who she is or her circumstances. She's trying to speak like a young, urban kid from 15 years ago.

Trying. Because all she's doing is peppering her proper white suburban vernacular with a few cliché catch phrases. Fortunately, or not, so far, she is not affecting an accent as well. So far it's just her normal Midwestern white suburban woman accent saying an occasional street slang word or phrase. The result is comical to say the least. Kind of like Vanilla Ice. Ice Baby. The result is something I am calling slanglish.

Maybe she’s got some new friends she's hanging around who are influencing her sudden change in speech. Maybe she’s suddenly ashamed of being so white. Maybe she’s picking up BET transmissions from 15 years ago. Maybe she's been possessed by the spirit of Tupac. Anything’s possible given the odd change in her vocabulary.

In my past I would have found it difficult to not laugh at her or at least quietly mutter about her and the subsequent patheticness of my existence, job and life in the solitude of my office.

But now, with the no expectation stance and subsequent void of emotion, I can observe and report without laughing or feeling like an idiot for working with this sort of person and lamenting about the misery of being stuck in a job requiring working with the likes of her.

“Hi (B-Girl), here’s the disk with the art for your project,” I said to her one day.

“Straight up?! That was really fast, I owe you a solid!” she responded to me, straight faced, obviously not joking, obviously using this vernacular as if she’d been talking this way since, well, 1989.

See? Right there? That’s where I normally would have laughed. A lot.

But not now. Now I just said, nonplussed, “No biggie. You’re welcome.”

A few days later I was in the ladies room washing my hands. She entered and said, “Hooooeeee, Trill child, those shoes are the bomb!”  (yes, Trill child, no not Trill chile, and yes, the bomb, not da bomb. Apparently she either cannot or will not bastardize articles or mumble. She’s either set herself a baseline of grammar standards or hasn’t got to that chapter in the big book of street slang for white suburbanites.)

Because my shoes were, in fact, da bomb, I merely began drying my hands and said, “Thanks.” Nonplussed. Nevermind that both of us are really white, and only one of us has any remote potential for street cred. And it’s not her.

I no longer expect anything of her or from her. I don’t expect her to behave and talk like a very white middle aged Talbots wearing Wonder bread eating cliché of a woman from the suburbs. So I am not surprised, confused or disappointed when she doesn’t.

Nobody's saying anything to her about this. And, well, I mean, what do you say? "Stop trying to talk ghetto?" What would be the point in that? She's obviously reaching for a reaction or obviously trying really hard to be something she's not. In either case silence is probably the best way to make this whole thing go away. It's sort of like when someone goes out and gets a drastic new hair cut which doesn't suit them in the least. Their daring and desire to try something new is commendable. But the result is less than attractive. "Hey, wow, new haircut. Certainly a change! Change is good!" is probably the best and fairest way to handle that situation and hope they'll eventually realize all on their own that this is not the style for them. And I think that's how most people in the office are feeling about this influx of slanglish. Just ignore it and maybe it will go away.

But then the slang hit the fan in a meeting. We were going over schedules. A guy from another department said, “There’s a lot of work here. If we can pull off this schedule it will be a miracle.”

“Word.” Wonder White B-Girl said in a reverent and heavy tone, eyes big with the levity of what was ahead of us.

Again, this is where I would normally crack up in fits of teary laughter. Especially because the guy she was wording was not only young and cool, but he also happens to be black and  from the South side of Chicago. And how he didn’t either crack up in laughter or lose his temper is a mystery to me. Or maybe not. Maybe he, too, has discovered the zen of no expectation and void of emotion.

"Word?" I mean, what the...? Why the...?

Unfortunately, my (needs a new nickname) boss has not learned the no expectation trick. Unfortunately, she’s not down with 15 year old street slang. And after a slight silence, she, apparently expecting Wonder White B-Girl to continue with more words, said, “What word? Are there text changes? I thought this was completely edited.”

To be fair, given the context of the project and the bizarre choice of slang response, that was an almost logical assumption on my (needs a new nickname) boss’ part.

I have to give Wonder Bread Woman credit, she didn't get flustered or even embarrassed. She merely replied, “No, it’s edited. Ready to go. But making this deadline will be slippy tricky.” She said without a hint of humor or irony in her voice.

I’m not sure that "slippy tricky" is official street slang. But I don’t care. Maybe somewhere, somehow she’s heard Underworld's Born Slippy and somehow got it all confused with Tricky and come up with this phrase all on her own or someone else has it confused and she doesn’t know better (why would she) or maybe it really is official street slang for accomplishing a difficult task. Whatever the case, we’re now working on the slippy tricky project.

We all hightailed it out of that conference room as quickly as possible. Shake it off, shake it off. Pretend it didn't happen.

But for me, the ultimate test of my lack of expectation came when we were both working late on the slippy tricky project. I was getting ready to leave the office. B-Girl Fly walked by my office and saw that I was preparing to leave. “Going to chill in the crib, Trill?”

“Yeah. I’m beat for the day. I’ll be in early for a fresh start.” I responded, completely nonplussed, as if “going to chill in the crib” is a normal, natural thing for me to do and to be asked about doing.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Nearly 7.” I answered.

“Holy shit, is it really? I have to bust a move to catch my train!” she exclaimed. Yes, I have to bust a move, not I gotta busta move. “Wait up, I’ll walk out with you.”

“Okay.”

Just. Okay. No laughter. No mockery. No hostility. Nothing.

Just. “Okay.”

I felt nothing over her ridiculous slanglish. I just said, “okay” and waited for her. Success! Yes, sweet, sweet, success! I felt nothing. Nothing! No need to make a sarcastic remark. No urge to laugh. No anger at her ridiculous presumption that speaking her slanglish will make her less white.

We walked in silence to the elevator. We waited. She broke the silence. “That bag is so dope. Where’d you find it?”

“Detroit.” I answered without thinking, regretting it the second the word left my mouth. I forced myself to not expect her to make some sort of Detroit slang comment.

“Oh, of course, Deeee troit. So fly. How’s your mother?” of course is what she said. I owed it to myself to expect that from her. Maybe this is a case where expecting a particular response would have been good. Because one area I am still in full emotional regalia is my mother.

And because she hit that weakness, I lost it for a minute. I felt an emotion or two. Maybe three.

“My mother in Duhtroit is doing okay, and yes, in fact, I am going to fly over to see her next week.”

Oh swut. There were a lot of emotions packed in that sentence. Anger. Irony. Cynicism. And sarcasm. Lots and lots and lots of sarcasm. Swutting Wonder White Wilmette Woman. Made me crack my nice placid void of emotions state.

But. It might have been ultimately a good thing. B-Girl Wonder Fly White responded with two entire sentences in normal white suburban English.

"Good for you. You need a break. You should visit her as much as possible while you still have the chance." she said, without a hint of slang or even meek patheticness. I know she was just giving sage, honest advice from one who doesn't have parents to visit anymore. I felt sorry for her, even though, and probably because, she wasn't fishing for pity or attention. She said it very matter of fact and very much without the stupid mockery the swutting slang gives to all her spoken thoughts.

And now, because of those few unslanglish sentences which were neither expected or unexpected, I was feeling, yes, feeling, sorry for her and whatever's causing this recent attempt at reinventing herself.

So at Lollapalooza I bought a book of Saul Williams poetry, had him sign it to her, and gave it to B-Girl. She wasn't familiar with his work, but seemed grateful and excited to read it.

Other people in my office are now even more afraid. Very afraid.

But I have no expectations.

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6:22 PM

 
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