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/.
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.
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.)
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
Friday, June 16, 2006
Okay. I can move my body without causing crippling pain again. That's kind of a nice feeling. So hi, how's it going? I'm okay. Ish. I want to move to Canada. Really bad. Canada's good to me. Canada's good for me.
I have to find a job or come up with the immigration money. I'd prefer to get a job. I desperately need a new job anyway so I might as well get a new job in Canada. Canada's cool, they like it when educated professional people want to become Canadian. America can have the unskilled immigrants who will do the jobs "no Americans want to do," you know, the low wage, usually short term jobs which can't sustain a person or their family for a lifetime. Canada will take the immigrants who can contribute something viable for long term employment and value to the country. Canada thinks I'm just the sort of person they want to populate the New Canada.
Except I'm going to have to have some sort of psychological reconditioning over the Red Wings thing. I did okay when the seemingly innocent questions about hockey came up, because, you know, I like hockey in general, as a sport. I even made some favorable comments about the Oilers. But then, well, Canada's subtle, lures you in with that friendly thing and then kills you with kindness and the next thing you know you're incriminating yourself. I was lulled into a false sense of security and slipped up and let on that I'm a Red Wings fan and, well, yeah, that's going to be a slight problem. Apparently it would be better if I didn't know anything about hockey. I would be a blank hockey canvas on which they could paint their teams. But unfortunately I'm tainted with the smell of Red Wings. I made a nice save, though, I made a negative comment about Celios. "ha ha, I mean, what could a Chicagoan know about hockey?! ha!" Canada raised a hopeful eyebrow. But even so, I'm still a Red Wings fan. Canada said they'll "have to do something about that." But everything else looks to be in order and promising for immigration.
I was thinking maybe I could stage a burning of my Red Wings jersey, you know, to prove my loyalty and seriousness about becoming Canadian. If it comes down to that or clubbing a baby seal I'll burn the jersey and buy season tickets to the Canucks without hesitation.
It's disconcerting that, joking aside, I'm having a more difficult time about the possibility of renouncing my allegiance to a hockey team than my country. America? Pfft. Who needs it? What's America ever done for me? See ya, I'm outta here without hesitation or backwards glance. But suggest that I support a team other than the Red Wings and, I'm not kidding, I get a little defensive, panicky and hesitant. I know that's not right. I'm not proud that I have more allegiance to a stupid sports team than I do my country. It bothers me. I know there are a lot of things wrong with me, but this new discovery disturbs me. Ultimately it's just a hockey team. I don't really care that much. But the fact that I care even less about my country is alarming.
Sometimes learning insight into yourself is scary.
I thought I cared about American stuff. I really did. I want to care about America and about being American. I want it to matter to me. I want to like America and be proud of it and all that. But now I realize obviously I don't. I care about Americans, I don't want anything bad to happen to Americans. I want good things for Americans. No ill will to the people, but it's obvious I'm not one of them. I don't fit in here. Never have. I've never been able to find a niche. I have friends and a job, I make my way here, but even though I walk among them I'm not like them. I try to fit in, get on board with the whole thing, but it's obvious I'm too different to fully become one of them. I care about American stuff, language, politics, freedom of religion or lack thereof, the national anthem. But I realize I care about this stuff on a bigger level - I care as much about other country's language, politics, religions and national anthems.
Here's my latest theory: Everything melted in the pot, which is good, but, it's left me confused, conflicted and tired of always trying to understand.
There's no single American culture. We're all about celebrating our differences, and that's swell, that's really great. I'm down with that in a big way. But. We're all unique and special and a culture to ourselves. America is a nation of personalized cultures. We allowed to have individual cultures as specific as our personal DNA. My culture is unique, I share it only with my siblings. And while that's really, um, special, it does create a bit of a challenge when trying to fit in and be part of American culture. Basically: I can't embrace a culture which doesn't exist. This is more than post war generation malaise and indifference. This is complete and utter confusion. How can I be American when I have no clue what it means to be American?
Some will say, "But Trill, that's the point! We're free to be you and me! You are American culture! Every one of us is American culture. Everybody wins, no one loses, we all get a trophy and ice cream." Okay, well, then, if I'm supposed to feel so good about being me in America, why am I so at a loss for national identity? I know why I feel apart and different from Americans: It's because we're all apart and different. There's no national glue. We pay taxes at different rates based on our unique circumstances. We get healthcare based on our unique circumstances. We go to church (or not) based on our unique circumstances. We're educated based on our unique circumstances. We retire (or not) based on our unique circumstances. We choose our television entertainment from thousands of channels based on our unique circumstances. I mean, you know, thankfully we have choices, choice is good. Freedom is good. I'm not advocating Communism. But the extreme alternative had brought me to the point of confusion and apathy over my national identity. Because my national identity is the freedom to make my personal identity my national identity I see myself as disposable or at least portable.
Move to Canada? Be Canadian? Sure, why not? I have no idea what it means to pledge my allegiance to the United States beyond support and respect for the Constitution. But what about the "republic for which it stands?" I'm supposed to pledge my allegiance to millions of individual cultures? Yeah, I have a problem with that. I'm sure most Americans are swell people. But I also know there are some bad apples. I've encountered more than my share of those. I'd rather not have my assailant's personal culture in the melting pot and I certainly do not pledge my allegiance to his republic. But in America we make a lot of excuses for people "like" him. Bad childhood. Absentee father. Poverty. Gangs. Drugs. It's not his fault he attacks women, beats them up and robs them, maybe rape them if he has the time and inclination. I'm supposed to feel sorry for his situation. I'm supposed to forgive and excuse what he did to me because it's not his fault. His rights are as valuable as mine. We live in the same country with the same court system and he has the same rights I do. Our differences are only cultural.
Ahhh. Culture. Our unique, individual cultures swirling in the melting pot. His culture condones and encourages violence and thievery. He's American. So am I. But we do not share any cultural similarities or identity. We can't be expected to respect or understand each others' cultures. And yet we're both American. His culture carries the burden of poverty and lack of education. Mine carries the burden of guilt and forgiveness when his culture makes him lash out and violate mine.
See where I'm going with this? This whole individual identity as cultural identity thing has spawned a society of people who are disrespectful and selfish. How can we respect each other as Americans we have no unifying cultural benchmarks? Why should we? We're all free to be ourselves, we're all supposed to march to our own beat and we're each a thread woven into the colorful fabric of America. Gosh, doesn't that sound nice? Like something you'd needlepoint on a pillow for your living room. But everyone's so busy and preoccupied with being themselves, creating their own special cultural identity that all we've got are huge spools of thread and no weaving of a fabric.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's my unique circumstances, increasingly isolated and lonely circumstances, which are making me feel this way, this isolated, lonely nationally apathetic way. Maybe I'm just the sort of person who needs rules or at least benchmarks. Maybe I'm the sort of person who needs national identity and culture spelled out for me. Maybe I need to feel like I'm a part of my country, that I belong there, that I fit in with my co-citizens. Yeah. I know. That sounds like one step away from Communism. Careful Trill, you'll be rolling cigars in Cuba if you keep thinking this way. They probably take a dim view of your Red Wings in Cuba and it's doubtful they'd let you listen to The Piixies in North Korea. Games and music of the infidels. And you know how you've always liked being an infidel.
Yeah. I know. I do like the idea of being an infidel. It makes me feel bad in a good way. Wild. Reckless. Naughty.
Hang on. Wait a minute. That's it. To a lot of the rest of the world our cultural identity is: Infidel. Um. Yeah. That should tell us something.
Canada is just known as nice. Polite. Respectful. Sure, they club baby seals, but the rest of the time they're really nice and polite. So I can stay here and be an infidel, get some pleasure from feeling good about being bad, or, try to find a job in Canada.
The TITCEF pledge drive has now officially begun.
You'll note the fund thermometer on the side bar. This will help you keep tabs on my progress.
And in the grand tradition of pledge drives I'll offer the first of many useless bribes to get you to just shut up about the greater public good, conscience, Suze Orman and just make it stop and get back to the regularly scheduled programing. This bribe is in the grandest of grand pledge drive traditions: An encore performance of something you didn't want to see the first time.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006 Ooo wooo koo koo koo koo kooo koooooooo Me and this guy I met in Canada.
No, I'm not Canadian. Yet. A few weeks closer to defecting to Canada, but back in America and pretty much hating it. Well. I mean. Hate's kind of strong, especially for someone who has worked so hard to void all emotion from her life. Let's just say I "felt" good in Canada and "feel" bad being back here. I'd expound on that but at the moment I can barely move any part of my body without causing a lot of pain. Blinking my eyes hurts because my eyelashes hurt. No, I'm not hungover. I opted for torture by new advanced spinning class. I thought I was in, you know, okay shape, I mean, I have been working out, riding my bike, walking, doing some crunches, taking a spinning class now and then...you know, not crazy in shape, but not total veg, either. So I thought I was ready for the challenge of the advanced spinning class.
I was once again proved to be an idiot. (Someday I'll learn and accept this fact.) I don't know why my eyelashes hurt from a spinning class, but they do. Everything hurts. Bad. Der Fuhrer of Den Fahrrad as I now call him, otherwise known as the spinning class leader, kicked my ass all the way to New Foundland. He called me names. Said I needed to show the bike I mean business, that I needed to dominate the bike or it would dominate me. (yes, he really said that) He said I have the ability for greatness but the desire for mediocrity. Well. That's a paraphrase. He said it in a lot more rude and incriminating way. He used to be so nice, back when I was in the medium level class. Apparently advanced spinning class means: work yourself to a near heart attack all the while having verbal abuse hurled at you by an East German coach. (He considers himself to be East German. Still. Always. Just so you have an idea of what I'm dealing with here.)
So yeah. Kind of ironic it’s bike to work week. Woo hoo. Every week is bike to work week for me, so, you know, not really a big deal. Except that this week I can barely move because of what I did to myself on a stationary bike. I pulled this from the archive. Maybe someday I’ll be able to move and type again and I’ll share all that profound insight you’ve come to expect from this blog.
Dear Bicycle Thief, How are you? I’m okay, I miss my bike but other than that things are okay. I hope you are enjoying my bike. I really liked it so I hope you do, too. Doesn’t it shift great?! So smooth and quick. Do you like the color? I love the green - I’m a huge fan of green so I was really pleased to have a great bike in a color I love. You don’t see a lot of them around, especially in that frame size. I’ll keep my eye out for it, should be easy to spot. You must be taller, too. Wouldn’t it be cool if we got to finally meet in person?! We can share stories about our bike.
I bought it mainly to ride to work. I really couldn’t afford the bike, a new bike, a new “nice” bike. But I ran the numbers and scrimped and saved, sold my old bike to a friend going back to grad school and finally had enough to buy the bike. I put off paying a few bills thinking I’d pay them with the money I’d be saving on public transit in the coming months. So without my bike and me needing to ride the CTA to work I’m really having a rough go financially. My mistake, I shouldn’t have gambled with my money like that, there are no sure things and allocating commuting money for other bills was a foolish plan. After all, dis is Chicago, kid, leave a bike unattended and expect it to be gone when you return. Dat’s just da way we do tings in dis town.
The mayor has all those bike incentives and everything, he even had a few photo ops of him riding a bike to work! Wasn’t that cool?! He’s so cool, so hip, so health conscious, so fiscally responsible, so environmentally aware. I wonder if he’s ever had a bike stolen. Maybe you could try stealing his bike. That would be really funny. Almost a justifiable crime. Poetic justice and all that. “You want us to ride our bikes to work, mayor? Okay, I’m all for it, but what are you going to do about bike thievery? What are you going to do to enforce the bike lane traffic laws? What are you going to do to make this a bike friendly city?” Maybe if he had a daily near fatal sideswiping while riding in a bike lane or got a bike stolen he’d put his money where his mouth is.
What do you think, bicycle thief? Do you like the mayor? Do you think more can and should be done to catch and punish thieves and people who disobey bike lane traffic laws? I’d like to hear your take on all of this.
I was thinking you might want the original receipt for insurance purposes. I’m guessing the guy you bought it from in that alley didn’t give you a receipt. I know you only paid $15 or $20 for the bike from the guy in the alley, but it’s worth a lot more than that. You want to make sure you’ve got paperwork backing up the value of the bike in case it gets stolen. That would be a pretty sweet deal for you. Pay $15 - $20 cash for a bike from a stranger in a back alley, then file an insurance claim for five times that much when the bike stolen again.
I know you try to justify your thievery by saying you paid for the bike. But I also know that even if you were naive and “innocent” at the time of purchase, you surely realized the bike is worth a lot more than the $15 - $20 you paid for it. Surely you wondered why there wasn’t a scratch on the almost new bike except for right over the serial number. Surely at some point you thought, “Wow, this is a really nice bike, I can’t believe that guy in the alley was almost giving it away.”
Maybe it never occurred to you that you are just as much of a thief as the guy who cleverly compromised the Kryptonite lock and snatched my bike from a “secure” parking area. But I’m guessing, you being a shrewd consumer and bike rider, you realize that you “bought” a stolen bike. I’m guessing you might even feel a little guilty about it. I’m guessing you have a list of justifications for buying a stolen bike. I don’t care about the list of justifications. They’re merely shallow and lame excuses, attempts to ease your guilty conscious.
I know, I know, you paid for the bike, you didn’t “steal” it. Which is why that receipt could come in handy. I bothered to file a police report. And if that bike should ever turn up in a stolen property raid, you’ll need the receipt to claim the bike. Shame, though, because I’m the one who registered the bike and I’m the one they’ll contact. I’m guessing you’re not as stupid as the person who “bought” my friend’s bike from a kid in a back alley. His was a really nice bike, even nicer than mine. It was stolen when he left it for 15 minutes, locked with two locks and no seat. A month later the thief who bought it in an alley registered the stolen bike with the city police department. I have to give credit to the city’s finest on this one, they bothered to do a number trace on the partial serial number and nabbed the guy who bought it. My friend was just happy to have his bike back so he didn’t press charges on the guy who “innocently” “bought” the bike in an alley for $10. I wouldn’t be as kind as my friend. I would press charges.
Because you are every much a thief as the guys who originally stole the bike.
If you, and people like you, stop “buying” suspicious merchandise, in this town especially bikes, from guys in back alleys, warehouses, flea markets or elsewhere, from a complete stranger selling at a ridiculously low price without a receipt, the bike thieves won’t have a need to steal bikes and voila! the bike thievery epidemic is kept at bay and the police department can focus on other crimes and the underlying issue: Drugs and gangs.
That’s who’s stealing the bikes. People, kids, who are looking for a quick way to earn a little bit of money. If they were trying to make a real profit on these bikes they’d sell them for closer to their actual value. They sell them at $10 - $20 because they’re not thinking about value or long term financial plans. They’re thinking about getting enough money to buy their daily fix or to pay into their gang. This is a short term, fast cash deal for them. Bikes are easy prey and easy money, especially with a buying public apparently eager and willing (and yes, possibly naive in a few cases) to snatch up a great deal on a bike from a complete stranger.
So you, bike thief, enabled someone to buy drugs for a day and disabled me for several months. I can’t afford another bike. I could file an insurance claim but I have a high deductible and my premium would increase so it’s not “worth” filing an insurance claim. Kryptonite is making me jump through a lot of hoops to prove the bike was stolen before they’ll live up to their guarantee. So here’s how you can help me: If you could just send me a photo of you on the bike with a letter saying you stole it, I can get enough money from Kryptonite to buy a new bike. Until then I am without transportation. See, I don’t have a car. And as I mentioned, I sold my old bike to add to the funds for the new bike you stole. I’m completely immobile without it. It might not mean much to you, a little toy for the weekends. But for me it was my freedom, my sole form of transportation, my way of getting to work and around the city.
Maybe you’re just riding it on weekends. Maybe we could work out a time share deal with it.
Maybe you could just give me back my bike and vow to never buy obvious stolen goods from anyone ever again.
9:40 AM
