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

 
Thursday, May 04, 2006  
Dude, where’s my blog?

Gotta love the ironic timing in my life(?).

I'm working on a couple of major serious projects with a couple major serious clients. I'm once again repairing damage done by my boss. (no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose) Part of the damage control is customer service. Good customer service. My boss has a way of trivializing everything into condescending categories. Everything. Everything's "little" and everything falls into one of these four groups: "cute" or "fun" or "silly" or "boring." "Cute little," "fun little," "silly little," or "boring little." I hate fun used as an adjective to describe objects. Parties are fun. Concerts are fun. Shoe shopping is fun. Party hats, however, are not fun. Nor are lighters. Or shoes. "Fun little party hats." "Fun little lighters." "Fun little shoes." On rally day she remarked that there were "all these cute little immigrants on the street with fun little flags." Kill me. Please. Kill me. It's the only humane thing to do. I'm suffering and deserve to be put out of my misery.

Yes. My name is Trillian and I work in Hell.

As you can imagine this way of trivializing everything, (and yes, really, I do mean literally everything, yesterday she noted that my "cute little swelling" had gone down. Now will you kill me? Still don't believe me about her bogus credentials?) this way of trivializing doesn't always set well with the more intelligent and prestigious clients. In fact some of them find it as insulting and offensive as I do. Consequently I am called in to use concepts and a vocabulary beyond my boss' four little groups. I'm a shot at redemption but there's only one bullet in the gun and if I miss on my first shot I don't get another chance. And yes, sure, the obvious blame lies in my boss' original trivial condescension. But we're not about blame, are we? We're about solutions.

I'm an okay problem solver. I don't always hit upon the best solution, but it's usually appropriately creative or at the very least solid and respectable. So, you know, really, I don't mind the actual work. It's the damage control aspect that gets to me. I have to solve several problems at once, an all encompassing solution which solves the original problem while also smoothing over the problems caused by my boss' lack of gravitas.

Which means I have to be ultra professional and respectful.

Again, fine, not a problem. I'm generally not unprofessional or disrespectful.

I worked really late finishing a project for a client who was, shall we say, not amused or impressed by my boss' fun little vernacular. I had made arrangements to drop off the project at their office after hours because time was critical and I wanted them to have it first thing in the morning. Things had been going pretty smoothly to this point. Things seemed to be on a more even keel. I came up with a couple of ideas they really liked, so, things were turning around to a better direction.

And then I got stuck in their elevator.

You heard me.

Stuck in the elevator of their office building.

Alone. After hours. With a security guard on duty who was new on the job. He wasn't sure what to do, he said, over the elevator intercom, so maybe I should call 9-1-1. Yep. Problem solving, and customer service, I am starting to realize, doesn't come naturally to a lot of people. Apparently he couldn’t be bothered with my silly little predicament.

Getting stuck in elevators in Chicago happens. (and other skyscraper laden cities) A fact of life in tall buildings. It's not pleasant, but, it usually doesn't last long. It's usually just something minor. People don't go around plummeting to their deaths in elevator mishaps every day. This was hardly 9-1-1 worthy. I was more annoyed than concerned. And I had no mobile signal to call 9-1-1 anyway.

"I don't have a signal on my mobile. I'm in an elevator. In an interior bank of elevators. Stuck. In an elevator. Kind of impossible for me to call 9-1-1. Maybe you could call for me," I suggested over the elevator intercom, "or maybe ask the maintenance guy if he knows anything about the elevators."

I'd seen an older guy working on a light fixture in the lobby – the kind of older guy who looked like he’s been working in the building so long he’s got the wiring schematics and HVAC vent routes memorized like scripture. And he had a tattoo on his arm, an old tattoo back from the days when only certain types of men got tattoos. Not one of those new fangled wussy boy tats of oriental philosophy symbols or poseur boy barbed wire and dragons. Nope, his was the real deal: An almost naked woman with a US flag draped around her and, you guessed it: Semper Fi written above her. The real deal. My guess is back when he got that tattoo he flexed his lower arm and muscles rippled to wave the, um, “flag.” My observation in life is that guys “like that” are often the type of men who are really good at fixing things or at least coming up with solutions which may not be conventional but get the job done. I was pinning my hopes of rescue on him so yes, I was piling stereotypical qualities on him. Even though there was no trace of muscle on him now and the almost naked woman was sagging with age. But hey, our flag was still there, not gallantly streaming, but still there.

I thought, “Okay, the elevator’s stuck, no big deal, they’ll have me moving in a minute.”

So I just stood there in silence, waiting, expectantly. Musing about how the tattoo guy feels about La Vida National Anthem Loco. Figuring him to be of Viet Nam vet age or possibly Korea. Wondering if he saw any combat. Wondering if he has an inept moron for a boss, too. Wondering if, when he rescued me (now assuming he would be my rescuer) I should compliment him on his tattoo or if he would think coming from me that I was being condescending. Not that I would say, “What a fun little tattoo,” but, you know. I’m not a guy like him or even a guy and not of his generation, so any remark from me about his tattoo might sound sarcastic to his ears. I certainly didn’t want to offend him.

But first he needed to rescue me. And then I needed to drop off the project. And then I really needed to go home and try to get some sleep. So whether or not I should compliment him on his tattoo was nothing more than bored musing while stuck in an elevator. Which I decided is the name of the band I will form when I actually learn how to play guitar and am given a voice which can sing in tune and decide to do the coffee house girl rock folk singer thing. Hey. It could happen. It probably won’t, but it could. At least I’m prepared. At the very least it would make a good title for a book of bad poetry.

Oh Mr. Aging Marine,
My country, tis of thee I sing.

Who is that woman on your arm?
Why can’t I hear the emergency alarm?

Do you value your right to bear arms?

Rescue me from my solitary cell.
Move me, remove me, from this Hell.

Semper Fi. Wi Fi. Hi Fi. High Five!
Rock on, bring ‘em back alive.

I salute you, not persecute you,
When I say I like your tattoo.


I’ve been re-reading a lot of Kerouac lately. Can you tell? Does it show?

Anyway. Stuck. Stuck like gum in the tread of a shoe. Captive. Waiting. Wating for what? Waiting for the elevator to move, the short term solution to my current problem, or something bigger? Bigger. Like an epiphany. Other people have epiphanies in moments like these. Life changing epiphanies. It occurred to me I needed to be having an epiphany. The elevator would be moving soon and I needed an epiphany now! I’d wasted precious epiphany having time musing about the tattoo on the maintenance guy’s arm. I was piecing together his story when I should have been searching my soul.

That last paragraph is the metaphoric story of my life, by the way, and will undoubtedly be used as the pull quote on the side bar of my life.

That last sentence is the closest I came to an epiphany in the stuck elevator. Also a good band name or poetry book title. Epiphany in a Stuck Elevator. Yes. I like that. Shame I didn’t actually have an epiphany other than realizing I needed to stop worrying or caring about other people and have an epiphany. Which I suppose is a sort of micro-epiphany. It’s a start, maybe. But then, by definition epiphanies don’t have a progression, there’s not an arc or timeline. They’re jolts. They start and end all at once. You don’t really “start” to have an epiphany. They just kind of hit you, jolt you all at once, Blam! “I just had an epiphany!” It’s never, “Hmmmm, you know what, I think I’m coming down with an epiphany. Or the flu. Too soon to tell which right now, but I’ll be taking the next few days off work just in case I’m contagious or need to completely alter the course of my life.”

Right. Stuck in the elevator. Still. Stuck. Stuck like gum in the tread of a shoe. I pressed the alarm again. It was now almost twenty minutes since I first became stuck. No voice responded to the alarm. Hoping the elevator intercom might still be on I called out, “Hallloooo? Hello? Anyone? Someone? It’s me, the woman in the stuck elevator? I called down for help? Remember me? Hello?”

No response and now the alarm was buzzing.

Stuck in an elevator, a small 10’ x 10’ chamber of isolation and the loud buzz of an alarm. Could be worse, I thought. Really. It could be worse. It could be Zydeco.

Still. I realize they were probably scrambling to fix the problem and very aware than a woman was stuck in one of their elevators, but you know, as a common courtesy you might think they’d check in on me, say hello, try to pacify me with a “help is on the way” or something.

But no.

So I sat down. On the floor. In a skirt. Who cares, right? Not like anyone’s going to see me.

The buzzing was getting really annoying so I pulled out the Pod and turned the volume low so I could hear the intercom when someone bothered to talk to me from Down Below.

I clicked on my “Stuck in an Elevator Trying to Drown Out the Buzz of the Alarm” playlist, heretofore known as my “Bang Your Head” playlist.

And that it is how it came to happen that three firemen, the maintenance guy with the old tattoo, the doorman and my client found me sitting on the floor of the elevator in skirt with legs spread singing and enthusiastically air guitaring AC/DC’s Money Talks.

May God have mercy on her soul.

Apparently the elevator wasn’t stuck at all. The door on the client’s floor was simply locked. So when I pushed that floor’s button, the elevator whisked me there but the door wouldn’t open because it was in secure mode. As a security feature, the elevator goes into “locked” mode until someone on the outside presses the up or down button to summon it. Meaning, the doorman in the lobby would have merely had to push the lobby elevator button and the elevator would have returned me to the lobby. Or, if someone on the floor where I was locked happened to push the up or down button, the door would open. That’s what one of the firemen told me. The nice one who winked at me and said he always thought Razors Edge was better than Back in Black.

Apparently they didn’t figure out any of this until after the rescue party unlocked another elevator, rode to the floor where the main elevator board said I was stuck, met up with my client who decided to work late and wait for me to show up with the projects (and who had no idea I was there or stuck until the firemen showed up in the hall outside the office, thought they heard a buzzing down the hall but didn’t investigate), pushed the up button and discovered me impersonating Brian Johnson and Angus Young on the floor of the elevator. In a skirt. With my legs splayed all over the place.

Silly little Trill.

I had my epiphany. And that epiphany was: I’m an idiot. You were right. I’m an idiot.

You know, there’s just nowhere to go but down after that. Figuratively and literally. There’s not one possible solution to the problem which doesn’t involve turning in your resignation, selling everything you own and moving to Newfoundland.

“Heh heh. Hi guys. Heh, wow, right here on the floor all along. Imagine that. Huh. Har har. Thanks for the rescue. Hi client, um, here’s your project. We can take a minute to go over it if you’d like…”

Which we did, and I think they were pretty happy with it and maybe, possibly, they’ll take the unique circumstances of the situation into consideration before passing judgment and dismissing me with the same impression and accusations of unprofessionalism they voiced over my boss. Maybe they’ll forget it or at least never speak of it. Or maybe they’ll laugh about it or spread the story all over town. On the one hand I don’t really care, you know, for my sake. I don’t personally care that I was air guitaring and singing AC DC on the floor of a stuck elevator (in a skirt, don’t forget that) and got “caught.” Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Glass houses and all that, right? But. There I was running damage control to an already shaky reputation my boss earned and trying to be all professional and full of decorum and respect and everything and, well, yeah. You get the picture.

Silly little Trillian.

I had a job and some money coming in,
Trying to get ahead, but couldn't win.

Days were a struggle and nights were lonely,
But I toiled away hoping and thinking, "if only..."

Then one night stuck in elevation,
I pulled the plug on my own reputation.

"Come on, come on, love me for the money,"
If it weren't so ironic it would be funny.

Offended a client and work it did stop,
That's why I'm singing bad poetry in a coffee shop.

Labels: ,


1:03 PM

 
Hey! Guess what!

There are signs of intelligent and cool life in the Universe.

All together now, I - 2 - 3: "What's wrong with questioning the rhetoric and seeking clarification of the hypocrisy?"

Awesome. You so rock.

There for a minute I really thought I'd entered some other dimension, or Communist China.

Those of you who think I am wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot, well, yes, sometimes I am all of those things (read on, below, for confirmation). But. In re: The recent immigration questions: I am not alone. Just so you know. It's not just me. And while I don’t care, in fact I like that you insult and lecture me. I put myself “out there” on the net and expect and take the subsequent criticism. This isn’t oh poor me, nobody loves me, everybody hates me. I mean, well, yes, I do feel that way sometimes, but I’m not about self pity. The thing I found surprising was how many of you are so moved to hostility over questions and concerns which make you stare your ideals in the face. Good for you, defending them and everything, and maybe you’re just not able to articulate your ideas and plans in a way other than insults and lectures on everything other than facts and solid plans.

However. I found out there are a lot of people who have the same questions or concerns as I do. I do care that by insulting and lecturing me you’re doing the same to them. Use me as the scapegoat and whipping girl, really, I can take it. I’m already cynical, jaded and sarcastic. You’re not hurting me or disillusioning me. But, what I failed to recognize was how many people have questions and concerns, too, some of the same as mine and many more, and by attacking me you’re attacking them. Go ahead, offend me, ridicule, mock and taunt me. Do it publicly. Please.

But. Remember, it’s not just me.

For some bizarre and, well, I don’t know, for some reason, somehow, me, this blog, has become, well, I don’t know. Something I never anticipated and certainly not something I planned. I’m not joking or being modest when I say: These are just words I have to get out of my head or else I get kind of ill. There has never been a scheme, agenda or purpose other than the exorcism of the words which crowd my brain. I honestly do think it’s a form of mental illness. The only reason they ever went public in the first place was because of my stupidity – I never bothered to check the final setup of the template and didn’t realize I was publicly posting.

The fact that anyone reads them and, here’s weird part to me, the fact that people like them, is, well, no offense, a little scary. I mean, thank you, you’re all super swell, and I feel honored and humbled that you bring my words into your lives. (I raise a sarcastically dubious eyebrow over my drink at you and suggest a couple of books which might be more worth your reading while, but thank you.)

I’ve had the pleasure of “meeting” some really great people, I mean, just really terrific people as a result of this blog. That is rewarding. My days are crammed with a lot of not so great people who do some not so great things. It’s just life(?). But sometimes it’s really frustrating. Most of you understand what I mean. Sometimes you just think, “Okay, it must be me, no one else seems to have a problem with (insert ridiculous situation of the day here).” And thinking that you’re alone in your observations and questions and frustration can make for some long therapy sessions and/or too much alcohol consumption. What I’ve learned is that there are a lot of really swell people who understand or at least sympathize. So in a weird way, we’re not alone, we’re connected via this blog. Which is why I’ve continued to publicly post – albeit lately on a heavily edited scale out of respect for family and friends who might stumble across the words.

Right. So. For some bizarre and unexplainable to me reason, I represent a lot of really thoughtful, intelligent, nice, sincere, caring, funny, people.

So when the not so thoughtful, not so funny people attack me they are also attacking other people like me who are trying to sort out issues and bothering to think about several sides of the issues and in doing so ask some questions and question the contradictions. Consequently I’m leaving the customer service window open 24/7 and please stop by with any concerns or opinions. I might suggest that you come prepared with something other than personal insults and lectures based on shallow rhetoric, idealistic pandering and confusing contradictions and hypocrisy. Liberty, Justice, and Trillian for all. Or something like that.

That's not ruling out the possibility that we're all wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiots, but, my opinion is that they are not any of those things. My opinion is that they are intelligent, thoughtful, perceptive, inquisitive, open minded people who bothered to tell me their opinions without hurling insults and accusations or threats. (Yes. I had my first blog threat. I'm not going to go into it because I'm not going to dignify it or give the threatener satisfaction and glory they are so clearly seeking. But hey! A milestone! Blogging all these years and finally, my first threat! I'd just about given up hope, you know, I'm not usually controversial so I didn't think it could happen to me. Just goes to show, never assume anything.) Anyway. The other point of view is that there are many points of view and falling into insults and lectures and dividing up into us and them is already part of the problem. The outpouring of support is really incredible. Not because I want people on "my side" but because as a species people can really suck. And when other people not only don't suck, but also exhibit exemplary behavior befitting a species with the gift of reason, it's incredible.

You rock.

All of you rock.

There is no us and them. We all rock.

Some of you, however, rock harder and better and longer than some of the other, um hair band opening acts. Yes. Some of you are Hendrix some of you are Warrant.

We've got a long, long road ahead of us on the journey. I've got a good supply of Twizzlers and an iPod crammed with all kinds of music (except Zydeco) and I'm ready to share them with everyone on the road trip, but it's going to be a lot of togetherness so it's best for everyone if we all exhibit respectful behavior. Warrant, you're going to have try to be less accusatory and judgmental. Hendrix, you're going to have to be patient and try to keep a sense of humor.

Basically, thanks everyone. All of you. Even those of you who believe me to be wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot. In fact, thank you especially. Were it not for you, the Hendrixes, I mean, other people, wouldn't have made their support and ideas known to me. We all have an important role, there's no I in team. Or Warrant.

12:15 PM

Wednesday, May 03, 2006  
Forgive me readers, for I have ranted.

People tell me I'm wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot.

Okay. Cool. I learned a lot in the last few days. Ask questions, express an opinion which is contrary to popular or hip opinions, share another point of view and what do I get? Insults and lectures. Which is cool, I love feedback and I love to learn and grow as a person. Seriously, I do. If I were afraid or upset by criticism I wouldn't blog. I mean, duh. So, I asked questions in an effort to clear up my confusion, expressed my own opinions, not those fed to me by the neato pundits, and I got feedback. I was told I'm wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot (among other things). The intended hurt and shock value in the feedback is kind of funny because I've known this for a long time and have never claimed to be, or intoned that I am right, passive, humble, happy or an intellectual. While helpful, the feedback is hardly shocking, hurtful, eye opening or anything I don't already know. Thanks and everything, and I'll learn and grow from this. I've learned a lot. No one actually answered any of my original questions, but nonetheless I learned a lot. I find it's always good to know where you stand amongst the crowd, how other people perceive you. Boy have I learned a lot.

Thanks, really. Thank you.

Please note that I am not apologizing for asking questions and having opinions. I'm not sorry for wondering about contradiction and hypocrisy and having a point of view or expressing it. Even if it is wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and idiotic. It's my right to be wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and idiotic. I'll listen with an open mind to advice and opinions on how and why I should change, but I won't apologize for having my own opinion and I certainly will not apologize for asking questions in an effort to understand and gain insight.

To those of you who think it’s great and even important to have a national anthem in Spanish, I love languages so I am in rapt anticipation of the versions in French, Marathi, Chinese, Vietnamese, German, Italian, Japanese, Gaeilge, Russian, Norwegian, Swedish, Welsh (that one will be fun), Korean, Polish, Arabic, Farsi, Hindi, Assyrian, Urdu, oh, and, heh heh, yeah, if there’s time, Lakhota. I’m thinking of investing in computer keyboards. I’m thinking the character sets required for all those languages is going to give way to a very different keyboard. Every keyboard in America will have to be replaced. Yep, stock tips from Trillian. How are those public signage revisions going? What’s that? There’s only room and need for Spanish and English on public signage? Let me seek clarification, then. You lectured me that Americans are free to speak and sing any language, and immigration is about all nations, yet we’re only going to post signs and sing the national anthem in English and Spanish? Oh. I see. So then, we’re giving preferential language help and encouragement to only the English and Spanish speaking immigrants. Yet this isn’t a Mexican issue, it’s a global immigration issue. We’ve established I’m stupid, so how about explaining the hypocrisy of that to me and all the non-Spanish/English speaking immigrants to America?

And. For those of you who offered kindly dating advice, no, I don't go spouting off about immigration reform, politics or religion on first dates. In real life I actually do have a basic concept of manners and decorum and how to behave in public and on a first date. (unlike many of the men I meet) And, okay, this one hit below the belt and really did hurt, thank you for bringing up that and twisting the knife in my heart, for the record, HWNMNBS did not dump me because I'm stupid and rude and didn't want to face a future with me ranting all over the place. So I think we can rule out my opinions and expression of them as a reason why I can't find a man. At least in the initial phases of the process of finding and keeping a man. (although, since I'm stupid, please explain and clarify this for me: if stating an opinion on immigration, politics or religion turns off men on dates, the hypocrisy of the argument that men find intelligence and confidence sexy is confusing to me. Forming and stating an opinion on those topics takes thought and confidence, so, given that I'm constantly told confidence and intelligence is sexy, I would think I'd be a smoldering sex pot of libidinous temptation by expressing an opinion. Help and clarification, please.) But yes, as it was so generously pointed out to me, being stupid might be causing problems on the dating front. ]

Thanks for the advice, I'm working on being more complacent and less stupid. Until now I thought the two were mutually exclusive. But now I know I’m supposed to be intelligent but only in the pre-approved ways based on other peoples’ opinions. Yes, Master. I'm reading a lot of popular books and magazines and blogs and studying other peoples' opinions and learning how to recite them as my own. It's fun, a lot like living under Chairman Mao or in A Clockwork Orange. Oops, darn it, there I go being sarcastic and expressing an opinion again. Millions of repressed Communists can't be wrong, right? I dunno, I'm stupid, remember? Darn it all, there I go again. Actually, once I learn to get past the whole synaptic response to develop and explore my own brain I can see where this is really a much, much easier way to live. Let everyone else do the thinking and just borrow their ideas and opinions. No having to ask questions, no controversy, no conflict, no worrying about right and wrong...just choose the pundit of the moment and memorize their opinions. Voila! Popularity! Intelligence! Confidence! Dates!

Gosh. And all these years I've been going at it the hard way. And have become a wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry idiot.

Well, no more!

Grace lies in admitting when you've made a mistake or are wrong. Apparently I'm wrong.

I think you wanted me to change my mind, I think that was the point of the insults and lectures. (Being stupid and arrogant might be clouding my judgment, so if I'm wrong about that, and I probably am because I'm stupid and defensive, I'm sorry for making assumptions.)

Change my mind. Wouldn't it be cool if we could change our minds, like, literally? Like, go to the mind store and walk in and like, say, "Hi, yeah, my name's Trillian. Some years back my parents gave me a mind, and you know what? Ohmygawd I just found out I'm a wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry idiot! Could I change my mind for another one?" How's that for a line to use on a first date? Dare me to try it?

Change my mind. People tell me I'm wrong. I really try to take advice because, you know, advice can be helpful.

What, surprisingly, no one has yet told me about myself is that I have a rather nasty stubborn streak. Or, as my mother prefers to politely call it in my defense: conviction and determination. Convictions and determination can be good. They can keep one focused and loyal. Steadfast and true. And a lot of other scouting merit badge/marriage characteristics. I notice many of you have “convictions.” See? We’re not so different…

Convictions and determination can also be bad. They can easily, and quickly, turn into blind one sided argumentative tirades. I try really hard to stay on the good side of convictions and determination. I know when I'm nearing the line and force myself to pull back, you know, explore other points of view, change my mind.

It's interesting that I don't feel like I'm anywhere near the line. It feels like I'm okay to steam ahead with conviction and determination. And yet, I'm told I'm wrong. And defensive, arrogant, angry and idiotic. It's so weird that the usual "you're pushing it Trill, back off, be quiet and reevaluate" warning indicators aren't flashing. I haven't been feeling well. I'm taking a lot of medication. I’m being forced to listen to Zydeco. Maybe that's causing a malfunction. So. Thanks for alerting me to the error of my opinions.

I won't do it again. Or at least I'll try not to do it again. If I do, please insult and lecture me so I can have another learning experience. Seriously, please do. It’s great to get something useful from blogging. Learn, grow as a person, I mean, that’s priceless intellectual property. I learned you prefer to read about my ridiculously woeful and pathetic love life and stress and trouble at my job and financial struggles and my critically ill mother. I’m your own personal schadenfreuden therapy, not your look at it from another perspective instigator. I'll try to stick to the rules of the blog and stay focused on what really matters.

I got a new hair cut and color. The adventure in highlighting is over. I'm all broody brunette and rock and roll shaggy again. Rock on, man, rock on. Funny how getting back to my roots (tee hee! har har, OMG! what a horrible pun! I'm soooo stupid) makes me feel so much more like me. I thought I liked the highlights. Everyone else liked them. Everyone else told me my hair looked great. I take advice so I kept up the expense and trips to the salon as long as I could. And then I couldn't. I can't justify the insane expense of highlights and highlight maintenance, and who the swut am I trying to impress with an expensive hair do anyway? But. Something had to be done about the color. So, off to the corner pharmacy with a coupon for $2 off over the counter hair color. (I know, I know, the shame of it, OTC hair color, my gawd, it's so, quaint.) Yep. For a final total of $2.99, an hour of my time and a bit of a mess in the bathroom I transformed from sunny sparkling smiley blonde highlights to brooding smirking dark brown monotone. A friend gave me a shaggy cut. I instantly felt better. I felt like me. Or. The me I used to be. You know. Before, um, all of it.

People are fickle. Because within like two seconds of walking into the office everyone was all like, OMG! your hair is amazing! That's sooo you! People made special trips to my office to see my new old hair. Yes. People were gossiping about my hair, talk was circulating around the office about it. So either it actually looks really, really bad and they're gawking and covering it up with polite overenthusiastic lies or it turns out they were wrong about the highlights and prefer this 'do. Maybe at the time they thought they liked the highlights because highlights are popular and conventionally "pretty" and au currant and the thing us girls are supposed to do with our hair. We're supposed to like highlights. Media images program us to like highlights so they liked them on me. Even though I am not conventionally "pretty" or au currant or popular. But. When they saw a different 'do they realized they were wrong. The old 'do was better all along. Sure, trying something new, changing one's mind, is a good thing to do. Sometimes. And sometimes it results in realizing you were right the first time, should have stuck to your opinions and convictions and not been caught up in popular trends. Oh sure, it was a learning experience all the same, a fun (albeit expensive) experiment, trying new things is always good. But so is being sincere and true to yourself.

9:13 AM

Tuesday, May 02, 2006  
"Immigrants Try to Extend Boycott Momentum”

Okay. Cool.

Let’s support that, shall we?

Oh yes, let’s.

They’re not backing down, they say.

Cool.

Me either.

This should be fun. (I told you, there are reasons why I have a rule about politics on the blog, I broke the rule, it's my fault, I take responsibility for it, apologies to those of you who would rather read about my joke of a love life or problems at work. Regularly scheduled episodes of Life(?) of Trillian will resume shortly.)

First, let me give huge kudos to the marketing of the rallies. Well done, really, well done. Bravo. I could go on about the genius in simplicity marketing tactics used to get the crowd numbers in attendance. But the numbers speak for themselves. Bravo.

As for whether or not it was a “success,” well, I’m not sure how to measure that. I guess that probably depends on who you are and your point of view. But for now there are no measurable quantities to assess the success other than the turnout numbers. To gauge success one needs to have a pre-established agenda, you know, goals. So. If the goal was merely to get millions of people together in cities all over America and get the media’s attention, then yes, the rallies were a success.

And as for spinning the media, woo hoo, boy oh boy, now, that was marketing genius. Again, in it’s simplicity. For those of you not in marketing, here’s a brief rundown of the fundamental components of political marketing, a primer on media spin:


  • In cities where a large number of ralliers is expected, make sure the mayor of that city is out of town. (Let's play "Where's Richard?" Can you find Richard M. Daley in the crowd of immigration reform ralliers? Look for his bulging red vein striped forehead in the crowd. Still can't find him? Huh. Oh yeah, he's in the Middle East learning about terrorism. Connect your own dots. Crack your own jokes. You might think the mayor of a large city where a projected crowd of 500,000 ralliers is expected would, you know, bother to make room in his schedule for at least a brief appearance. You might think it would be good politics to show up at the event, maybe say a few words. Dis is Chicago, kid. Mayor Daley has really good media advisors. They've learned to keep him away from national newsworthy events. Good marketing lesson in there, study it, young Jedi Marketers. Observe and learn from the master.)

  • Get the cute kids in front of the camera waving an American flag and saying, “I just want my daddy to be able to work hard so we can stay here and go to school.” (For best results get an “ethnic” looking child, but a cute “ethnic” looking child. You know, not “too” ethnic. Kind of like the ethnic Barbies - not quite Barbie with blonde hair and blue eyes, but still...no mistaking it’s a Barbie, an anglo representation of ethnic. Like the Jesus image we’ve all come to know, probably not at all ethnically accurate, but appealing.)

  • Get everyone’s favorite minority senator with the funny name on the podium telling “the rest of us” to not be afraid of immigrants. (Um, I actually like you, for now anyway, so no disrespect, but, please give me the same curtesy - don’t dis me, either. I am not “afraid” of immigrants. Your public presumption and accusation of me and everyone else with questions or hesitancy to jump on any hasty immigration plan band wagon offended a lot of us. One more time with feeling: “We” are not afraid of immigrants or immigration. The problem you’ve encountered, Mr. Obama, is that in spinning your agenda to earn potential future votes you offended a huge home viewing audience who have heretofore supported you. You’re going to have to do some back pedaling to re-package that media spin misstep. Then again, maybe not. Based on the numbers in attendance at the rallies the white nonimmigrant vote doesn’t really count for much. Of course that’s assuming the immigrant populous will actually bother to vote - the legals there can already vote, the illegals will one day be able to vote, so, good captive audience for you. I’ve always thought you to be a bit above average intelligence for a politician, so maybe you really have figured this out, crunched the numbers and know where to best cast your nets. Maybe you figured you could sacrifice a few nonimmigrant votes for the sake of thousands of potential immigrant votes.)

  • Get the Irish tenor to sing Danny Boy. Classic. White. Immigrant. Harkening from shore to shore. Not a dry eye in the crowd. Marketing 101. The genius here is the representation of white immigrants to make sure the home viewing audience knows this isn’t just Mexicans. Because apparently “they” thought “we” think that only Mexicans are here illegally. So they pulled out the Irish and got their tenor and boy, did they show “us.” I’m not Irish so maybe I’ve got it all wrong. But. My impression was: Irish: The other white meat. Maybe Irish people didn’t see it that way. Maybe they don’t feel used. Maybe they honestly do not feel used as white pawns in yesterday’s rallies. But I, a white girl, sat there thinking, “great, more insults to ‘our’ intelligence! Showcasing Irish, white people, with immigration woes as a means to make ‘us’ understand.” Woo hoo! Boy, I’m really ready to go to the next immigration rally, now! I wasn’t before because, you know, I didn’t think this was about white people. But now that you’ve shown me how many Irish people are suffering I realize white people are immigrants, too. I dunno. Maybe there are some stupid white people who think that way, who believe immigration to America is easy for white people. So, you know, the Irish spin might wake them up to that fact, which is, of course, good. But for those of us who realize being white does not guarantee a green card, the Irish play was insulting. Good job, marketers, good job. Insulting white people by using other white people is risky, but well played. Now that was courageous. Bravo.

  • Get religious leaders, especially the big guys in the Catholic church, to say prayers in three languages and, here's the really important bit, the big finish with doves. White doves. Symbols of hope and peace and purity. Makes a great visual statement packed with significant symbolic punch. Really swells a lot of hearts with joy and hope. Especially in the re-edit to be shown later in media clips. Put the releasing of the doves in slow motion with the Liberty Bell and Constitution graphic in a transparent overlay and you've got a heavy hitting powerful bit of propaganda. Never mind that the doves are being released into The Wild and may not get back to their trainer or know how to survive in The Wild. This is an immigration rally not an animals rights and welfare rally. (Just be sure PeTA's not around at the dove release portion of the rally.)

  • Get the old granny out in her shawl. Be sure to get a close-up of her wrinkled, aged and arthritic hand. It makes a great segue to healthcare issues on the 10:00 news.


I was at first awed by the basic simplicity of it. “Surely they’re not going to pull out the kids with the flag,” I thought, “Surely they’re not going to use those kids to insult our intelligence with that pathetic age worn manipulation tactic...” But they did. And then I realized, that’s the beauty of the plan. Make it appear that they’re not slick or genius, that they’re just plain old folks. Seriously brilliant. Bravo, boys, bravo.

Proponents of the rallies have in their arsenal the weapon of legal immigrants. They say “hey, there were lots of legal immigrants showing support.” Yes. I’m sure there were. Yay them. They rock.

But. I have a question, though: If there were so many legal immigrants there why then are we supposed to laud and admire the bravery and courage of the “millions who came out of the shadows to be heard?” I’m thinking legal immigrants aren’t hiding in shadows and that it wouldn’t take bravery or courage for them to show up at a public immigration rally. I’m just asking. I don’t understand the conflicting statements, so I’m having difficulty figuring out how, or what, I’m supposed to feel and about whom. If it’s a bunch of legal immigrants, tax paying, law abiding immigrants, what’s the big deal about them getting together in a public place? What’s brave or courageous about that?

I’m asking because I truly want to understand. And right now I’m confused. Were the rallies legal or illegal immigrants? Both? And what was the agenda? Was the agenda better conditions for immigrants who are already here, legally, or amnesty/rights for illegal immigrants who are already in America, or easier immigration processes for future immigrants? All three? None? Help me understand the plight of the modern American immigrant. Because I’m told my perspective on immigration is archaic, simplistic, naive, bigoted and, shudder, Republican.

I hear a lot of talk about The Children. I love children. Absolutely love kids. If I had a husband I would love to have as many children as we could afford to feed, shelter, clothe and educate. I don’t have a husband and I can barely afford to feed, shelter and clothe myself, so, I don’t have children. Period. I am not a bitter spinster resentful of anyone with children. I spend a lot of time with kids. I volunteer in several child oriented charities. That’s a disclaimer to set the record and prevent the email backlash for what you’re about to read.

I’m asking more questions. Because I don’t understand what’s being presented (shoved in my face and tugging at my heart) to me as the ultimate reason for immigration reform: The Children.

The Children. The children of people suffering and struggling, trying to make a better life for The Children.

Of course I worry about The Children. Of course I don’t want The Children to suffer. Cripes, I’m not evil incarnate. But apparently their own parents didn’t share those concerns before they created The Children.

Here’s a story problem. (Oh goody! I love story problems!) Please fill in the blanks or correct the mistakes.

Mark is an 18-year-old young man born and raised in an impoverished country. He hasn’t had any opportunities for personal enrichment or education. He’s been working horrible jobs in fields and sweat shops since he was 12. Just like his brothers, sisters and cousins who share a small shack they call home. Mark really wants a better life. But he’s stuck in the middle of nowhere with no viable way out. Yes. Mark’s situation sucks. Bad. Sucks like a hooker working for a $100 tip. So what does Mark do? Has sex with Liz up the road and creates a child. Mark and Liz now have little money, little hope, and: A baby. Their situation was bad and it just got worse. Given that Mark was aware of how bad his circumstances were, how bad things were for him when he was a kid, how things haven’t changed (in fact, are worse than just a few years ago) and how badly he wanted to get out of those circumstances, why would Mark and Liz bring a child, an innocent child, into those circumstances?

For the record I’m not for genetic or social engineering.

Nor am I for passing judgment on life choices other people make.

But. I’m being asked to put aside all my concerns about a slap dash immigration reform plan for the sake of The Children. Okay. Fine. You wanna bring the kids into it, fine, go ahead, spin that manipulation. But. Keep in mind you’re consequently putting a magnifying glass to their parents and forcing me to make observations and ask questions about life choices and reproduction of other people. You want me to care about their kids? Then you have to expect me to question their parents. I resent being put in the position of questioning other peoples' reproduction choices. It's none of my business. But The Children, the poor children, think of the children is hurled at me and forces me to take a closer and bigger look at the problems of The Children and thus the source and cause of those problems. You want me to help with a solution for the sake of The Children? Well, then, I'm going to have to look at the causes. Mom and dad, this means you. And your government. And your church. And your schools. And your culture. It takes a village...

Maybe I’ve got a very old fashioned, outmoded, protestant conservative view of things. Probably true in some respects I openly admit. But, hear me out and tell me where I’m wrong. I’d like to understand.

When people create a child, a human being, they commit to the responsibility of feeding, sheltering, clothing and educating that child. If they cannot provide those fundamental requirements, why, why, WHY would anyone endeavor to create a child? And if that child was “an accident” then, why, why WHY would these people not love and care about that child enough to give it a better life with parents who can provide food, shelter, clothing and education?

I’m not advocating ripping babies away from their mother’s wombs, but, why wouldn’t parents in bad situations want to give their child better opportunities in established families?

I hear you. You’re saying, “Sheesh, Trill, you know what it’s like to want children, you of all people should be understanding about this. And it’s a human right, a biological need, we’re supposed to reproduce, you know, as a species. Sheesh, Trill, sheesh.”

Okay. Sure. I get that. But. As an adult, or at least as the person of child bearing age, you have a responsibility to any child you create. If your situation is bad, why bring a child into that bad situation? Misery loves company? Um, not exactly a responsible or compassionate attitude.

“No, sillly Trill,” you say, “some people have religious and cultural reasons for not using birth control.”

Oh yeah. Right. Funny how it always comes back to the Catholic church.

Ireland. Mexico. Poland...the big three immigrant groups at the recent rallies. Catholic dominated countries. Huh. Probably just a coincidence.

Just an observation, that’s all.

Historically the Catholic church has always been big on flooding the globe with The Good Word. Especially bleak, impoverished areas of the globe. The first things they build in an impoverished village is a church and a school. All the while telling the impoverished villagers “There’s hope in Jesus! Jesus died for your sins! You owe him a debt of gratitude. You owe us because we built you a church and a school and taught you about Jesus and sin. You owe the Catholic church more children so we can sustain our long term marketing goals! We gave you a school, now give us children, souls. More souls. We need souls.” The hope of a better afterlife is dangled in front of them. “Sure, you struggle here on Earth, but just wait! The payoff’s gonna be great in the afterlife because now you’re Catholic!”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Literally.

Yes. The Vatican’s really good at marketing, too. They know the way to a person’s heart and subsequent pocket is via hope for a better afterlife and The Children. And what a great marketing ploy that is. Because meanwhile, back home, in the First World, they can laud their good deeds in the impoverished Third World. “We’re saving lives and educating children! We’re holier than thou! Give money to support these impoverished people!” It’s self serving marketing genius at its best.

Back to the story problem, Part II for extra credit: Mark and Liz now have a baby. They’re poor, young, uneducated and relatively unskilled. But they’re willing and eager to work hard. Awesome. But. There’s no work to be found.

They created a child they cannot feed, shelter, clothe and educate. They created the child because their religion and culture prevent them from using birth control. So, the first question I have to ask is: Where’s the Catholic church once that child is born? Why aren’t they feeding, clothing, sheltering and educating these children which they, the Catholic church, tell parishioners they must produce? I know, I know, the Catholic church does try. I know. There are good works and good people to be found in the Catholic church. But not enough to sustain the population they're creating. Obviously not enough because people like Mark and Liz are desperate. And when the church and their culture can’t help them with their child(ren), they naturally think, “Let’s leave, let’s make a better life for our child(ren) in America.”

Which is, you know, cool. Huddled masses, yadda yadda yadda

But.

Um.

Let’s go back to how their child came to be in the first place: Irresponsibility and religious pressure.

And why is this America’s problem? Do we not have enough American children suffering in America? The answer to that is: One child suffering is one too many. If you don’t live in a large city you might not have witnessed the poverty and despair in housing projects. Mark and Liz have it bad, real bad, but crimony, you should see the deplorable conditions thousands of American children face. Food, shelter, clothing and education are daily struggles. I’d like for Mark and Liz to take a walk through Cabrini Green and give me a compare and contrast report based on their life of poverty back home v. Cabrini. Is that the America they want for themselves and their child(ren)? Do they even realize that America exists? And what is their answer to the question: How would you feel if your government was helping other families in other countries while you lived in your shack with no work and no education and no healthcare? Why should Americans put Mark and Liz’s child(ren)’s needs in front of people in places like Cabrini? Or Flint, Michigan? You wanna see poverty and despair? Take a road trip to Flint or Saginaw, Michigan. This, immigrants, is what you’re coming to in America. It ain’t all SUVs and barbecues. And surprise, surprise, it’s white people who are struggling! Wow! Finally!

In spite of how this sounds, I honestly am pro immigration. I just don't want a slap dash Band-aid that will end up causing more problems. I want a well thought, well planned, well written, well funded long term reform to the crime against humanity which is currently known as the US INS.

Seriously. I cannot wait for all the immigrants to rush the borders, get social security numbers and start paying taxes! I cannot wait for that day. Seriously. I can't. For a lot of reasons. Life's going to be better for all of us. Especially me. A) Even though there are lots of white immigrant hopefuls, there are more Mexicans. And more Mexicans in America lowers their minority rate. Which means one day very soon I, a white female, will be a statistic minority and entitled to minority status for all sorts of neato government programs reserved for minorities, and B) American coffers should be overflowing with money once wide open immigration reform kicks in, the tax pay off is gonna be huge. And the first place that money should go is education and healthcare reform.

Oh wait. We already have the lottery and citizen taxes for education and private insurance companies for health care. Silly me. I always forget about that. America’s all set. Gambling and tithing to fund education and private corporations providing health care. Good plan. I ♥ America. No hypocrisy here, nope, not a trace.

I’m totally sympathetic to the child(ren) and even to Mark and Liz. I know how horrible their situation is. But why, why, why? bring a child into that situation in the first place? You want me to worry and care for the sake of The Children? Fine. I will. I already do. I can’t sleep a lot of nights because of what I see, firsthand, happening to The Children here and abroad. But I have to ask, out of curiosity and hope for a solution in the future, why didn’t other adults, for instance, the adults who created them, lose sleep and worry about them before they created them? I’m seriously asking because I seriously don’t get it.

Too late to ask that now, right? The Children are already here. Closing the gate after the cows are gone and all that.

True enough.

But.

Putting aside immigration issues for a minute: What about personal responsibility? What about using that (God given, if you choose bring God into it) brain and not making a bad situation worse? What about putting aside your personal (and selfish) desire to procreate for minute and think about why you are creating these children and how you intend to care for them? What about being a responsible adult? What about getting yourself and your life sorted out first and then procreating?

The Children.

Unbelievable. The Children are pawns not only in the immigration nightmare, but now, pawns in the immigration marketing campaign.

Do I care about The Children? Oh yes, I care very much about their safety, health, welfare and future. For a lot of reasons I care about them. Mainly because they're innocent children. But also because they are children of people who are not above using The Children to manipulate their agenda.

11:56 AM

Monday, May 01, 2006  
Happy Law Day
What with all the protests and rallies and La Vida National Anthem Loco, Law Day has kind of got lost in the shuffle. So, you know, happy Law Day. If you're a legal American why not take a few minutes to celebrate one or all of your Constitutional rights so many millions of nonAmericans so desperately want and are breaking laws to have?

Millions of noncitizens, illegal residents, are taking the entire day (Law Day, coincidentally) to celebrate freedoms (First Amendment: Free Speech, Assembly, Petition, to name a few) which are not even legally theirs to celebrate. So really, if you are are a legal citizen or resident, the least you could do is take a few minutes to enjoy some of your legal rights. Even Anna Nicole Smith is using her legal Constitutional rights (Article III, Section 1), if Anna can do it, surely you can, too. Why not read some of the US Constitution? One of my favorites is Section 1 of Amendment XXI.

There are a lot of things to hate about America. A lot. But. On the other hand, Amendment XXI grants us a Constitutional right to drink booze. It’s our right and therefore our responsibility. Go on, go ahead, go celebrate your freedom, your right, your Constitutional responsibility to drink booze and own a gun.

9:39 AM

 
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