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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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

 
Thursday, March 09, 2006  
Are You There God? It’s Me Trillian
“So, let me be sure I understand what you’re saying, doctor. The procedure could help her tremendously or it could kill her.”

“Yes, there is a risk of complications and fatality.”

“But your recommendation is to take the risk?”

“Yes. Her current status and prognosis is not very good and this procedure could greatly improve her condition.”

“Or kill her.”

“If there are complications, yes.”

Family meeting.

Never in a million years could I have predicted I would have to vote on a decision which could kill anyone let alone my mother. And yet there I was with my family weighing the pros and cons and registering a vote for surgery which could kill her or render her as good as dead.

Life’s funny that way. One minute you’re sitting in your office contemplating Twizzlers v. pretzels from the vending machine, and the next minute you’re in a neurological department consultation room deciding on whether or not you think a potentially fatal surgery should be performed on your mother.

The pastor was called in, I thought to help guide us to a sound decision, or at least comfort us while we tried to make the right decision, but all he did was pray. Which, I mean, you know, thanks and everything, not that I’m ungrateful, but not exactly helpful in the decision making process. I mean, I could do that, I do know how to pray. What I was hoping for was some sort of “this is what God or Jesus would do” with some parable back-up information. Counseling. Help. Guidance. Assurance. Something. Anything. There we were in our hour of need, and what did we get for my parents’ years of devotion, service, fellowship and money at their church? A prayer. A short, simple, “O Heavenly Father, keep (Trillian’s mum) in your care, be with the doctors and her family, bless (Trillian’s mum) with your everlasting comfort and love, amen.” Seriously.Um. Okay. You know, I’m no man of the cloth, but, I already pretty much thought the exact thing several days prior. I think anyone would have. Is that it? The sum total of religion? When it comes down to life and death there’s a one sentence prayer that’s supposed to help and guide you to the right decisions?

And yes. There’s a point where even the most agnostic person in the room (in this case, me) realizes there’s nothing left but to trust and hope. First, trust in the doctors and specialists and hope they are at their peak performance and that the patient is strong enough to make it through the surgery. And then, yes, there’s nothing you can do but turn it over to the specialists and think, “Okay, well, I guess, you know, this is one of the times that it’s probably okay and even appropriate to test the God waters and hand up a prayer. I mean, it couldn’t hurt, and even though I’m not a regular pray-er, or even much of a believer, the person going through the ordeal is religious so it’s probably okay and even appropriate to pray to their God for their well being.”

Other members of my family have more religious faith than I do. They left the consultation room and went to the hospital chapel. I’ve been there a few times over the past months. (months, sheesh, it’s been two months) And no, nothing went up in flames, no lightening came down and struck anything (or me). Basically nothing happened. One of the nurses told me about the chapel when my mother went into her second Code Blue. “Why don’t you go to the chapel? It’s quiet and calm in there, a lot more peaceful than the waiting room.” It seemed like a sound, albeit potentially blasphemous or at least hypocritical idea. I timidly entered the chapel, which was empty, and took a look around. There were several pamphlets and prayer cards for various faiths. Business cards for local churches and church leaders. It’s a one chapel fits all place. A big Western European Jesus painting with a spotlight, an altar, and a book shelf with various religious texts. Oh. And an ornately carved Hindu sculpture. I tried, you know, I really tried to find some sort of spiritual, I dunno, something. Some spiritual something. Whatever it is other people find in religion. At that point, yes, I was honestly trying and hoping there’s a God and hoping (like Hell, har har) that He, She or It was not ready for my mother and would not let her die.

I prayed, the whole humble thing, “Hi, it’s me. Nice little chapel you’ve got here. Look, we both know I have a lot of unanswered questions and a lot of not so great experiences in my past, if you’re out there and you listen to people like me, could you please help my mother? She believes in you, she’s got a lot of faith and she’s a super nice person and a really good mother so can you please stop the suffering and help her recover from all of this? Because, well, because a lot of earthly mortal coil reasons, but mainly you know my dad? Yeah. He’s not doing so well with all of this and he really needs my mother to recover. But I guess you probably know that already. Actually, I guess if you’re the God they say you are, there’s nothing you don’t already know so I suppose there’s really no point in me trying to explain any of this. You supposedly have a plan for all of us so you already know how this is going to turn out so me praying for my mother is really kind of pointless, too. Which, as you would already know, is one of my issues with religion. If you have this big master plan all worked out for each of us, what’s the point in praying for something which may be the opposite of your plan? Isn’t is actually selfish and sacreligious to pray for something which may not be in accordance with your plan? If I sit here praying for my mother to recover, but your plan is for her to die, am I not being selfish and, well, bad by praying for something which goes against your plan? The problem is that I don’t know your plan. You don’t tell us anything about this big plan of yours. The closest we get to finding out is after a failure when the conventional solace is, ‘It just wasn’t meant to be.’ And as you would know, I’ve had a lot of those consolation lines thrown at me in my lifetime, so actually, if anyone’s close to knowing about God’s plan it’s me. I don’t know what it is, but I know a lot of what it is not. Anyway, you know all of this. I’ve gone over this with you many times in the past. So, yeah. Please look after my mother. Thanks.”

The nurse was right, though, the chapel is a much more peaceful and calm place than the waiting room. So when things have been particularly tense I’ve retreated to the chapel instead of the waiting room. Every time I go in there I am humbled and open and truly hoping for something, some new awareness, some enlightenment, something. but so far: Nothing. I keep praying for my mother, she’s still alive, but she keeps having set backs and traumas which is pretty much the exact opposite of what I’ve prayed for her. What’d she ever do to deserve any of this? Nothing. Nothing at all.

So much for an epiphany.

So much for finding solace. Reconciliation. Comfort. Anything. I’m open to it, you know, really, especially lately. Sitting in an ICU room for weeks, when you’re not the one who’s sick, really puts things in perspective. People die. Most of the time people die when it’s least expected. Life is fleeting. I’ve seen countless gurneys headed to the morgue. My mother has stopped breathing several times. This is it, you know, the real stuff, the heavy stuff, the meaning of life stuff. I want something spiritual to awaken or be reborn or somehow be found, I’m sitting there trying to find it, reaching out for help and, as ever: Nothing.

Not a swutting thing.

So off some of my family trotted to the chapel. I couldn’t make myself go with them. It’s weird. I’ve been going there for some weeks now seeking a calm and quiet place, and yet now, in the real defining moment of my mother’s ordeal, it was the last place I wanted to be. Probably because I would feel hypocritical and weird in there with my much more faithful and pious family members. It’s easier to be blasphemous and hypocritical and confrontational about God when no one else is around. And I’ve never really been much of a group religious experience person. My religion or lack thereof is a personal experience.

And so it was that I found myself in the coffee shop staring blankly at the zillion types of coffee menu that I realized: I resent my family because of their ability to have faith. Their ability to find comfort in that faith. These are people who are, pretty much, like me. My parents raised me for crying out loud, taught me stuff, showed me the way, and yet we differ so greatly on this fundamental issue. Why aren’t I like them? Why can’t I find the spiritual enlightenment they have? Why do I find the pastor’s one sentence prayer so inadequate and unhelpful while they find comfort and wisdom in it? I think I’m trying, I feel like I’m trying, I have made sincere and humble efforts, and yet: Nothing but a lot of questions.

Anyway, yadda yadda yadda.

That one sentence prayer apparently worked because my mother came through the surgery really well and she’s doing a lot better. There’s healing now, for the first time since this all began, there are signs of healing. When she’s awake the fear and paranoia is mostly gone, and she’s even sat in a chair a few times. She made a joke to a doctor the other day, and she asks me to fill in blanks she has regarding what’s happened to her over the past two months.

So I’m all thankful to the doctors and nurses, and especially the surgeon. But certain members of my family are giving all the credit to God and saying how great and helpful the pastor was. And while I am hopeful that maybe, finally, God did step in and do something about my mother’s situation, the fact is that it was a few mere mortal surgeons and specialists who actually came up with the idea and did the work. Some would say God’s working through them, and you know, maybe that’s true. I’m certainly not the person to make any sort of comment about that. But. Still.

A rather unspecific one sentence prayer from a pastor is all it took to save my mother? Somehow I don’t think so.

Nor did I find any comfort in that prayer regarding the difficult decision. Which makes me think I am a complete and total atheist after all. That it’s not questions and confusion, but outright doubt and cynical disbelief that’s keeping me from embracing religion and having that faith and spirituality other people have and get from religion.

That scares me.

Because, you know, as much as I question and raise an eyebrow at certain, um, aspects of religion, particularly organized churches, I generally think, “Well, okay, sure, what do I know about any of this? Oh yeah, nothing. Maybe there is some supreme being. That would be kind of cool. And for the most part my personal outlook and philosophy goes along with the principles laid out in many religions. So, hey, be open to it, be a good person, try to get along with other people, don’t hurt anyone, be polite, raise your hand and ask questions, respect people, cultures, ideas and religions, learn as much as you can and accept whatever happens or doesn’t happen with grace and hope for the best.”

But now I wonder if that’s just a total cop out, my way of justifying a complete lack of faith.

I am thrilled that my mother is doing better. I don’t mean to downplay that. And ultimately that’s the only thing that matters.

What concerns me is that I don’t really care how she got better. Surgeons, God, whomever, whatever, I don’t care. She’s alive and she’s starting to improve. She’s not suffering like she was. That's my only care or concern.

I thanked the surgeon and the doctors. Profusely. Repeatedly.

And then I went to the chapel and thanked God. You know, because everyone said He did it, it was all Him, so I thought, “Okay, I should go thank him.”

I didn’t expect anything, and I got nothing. I didn’t feel better or worse, I didn’t feel like I did the right thing or that I did the wrong thing. I felt: Nothing.

So. Now I’m all wondering and a little worried that I am a soulless, faithless, hopeless lump of flesh. Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with that concept, I pretty much feel that way about myself most of the time anyway.

But that little, “Hey, do the right thing, be a good person, be open to the idea of religion and God” synapse isn’t firing like it usually does.

I feel nothing. And yes, for me, that is good. I’ve been trying to feel nothing for several months. But what’s a little disconcerting is that I seem to be losing my conscience. I think I might have lost a big portion of it in that hospital chapel.

As much as I don’t want to feel anything, as much as I want to void emotions from my life, I really do not want to lose my conscience. I’m not out to be a bad person, I just don’t want to feel anything.

But. Maybe. That, like my heretofore agnosticism, is a cop out. It’s an all or nothing situation.

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11:10 AM

 
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