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
Thursday, January 31, 2008
I openly admit I watch Lost. It came along at a time when (un)reality TV was at it’s peak of raging its war on American intelligence. It was different. Clever. Thought was given to the words in the script. Thought was given to the plot. Obvious thought was given to the characters…the casting…set…the camera angles…the production technique. And even the acting showed signs of actual trained actors with true talent. At the time of its debut those were rare qualities in a television show. Especially on network television.
ABC! ABC for crying out loud! Why I watched it and why I’ve hung in there (even through the abysmal and heavily repeated second season) is as much about supporting the creative effort involved as it is about my interest in the actual show.
And the marketing, o glorious happy day, the marketing. It’s genius. Truly brilliant. Sure, they’re using some of the oldest tricks in the book, but they’re putting their wacky Lost spin on them. Bravo, boys, bravo. Take that and shove up your phony faux reality formulaic formatted musical diarrhea ass, American Idol. One of the things I love about Lost is their “product placement.” They use the gimmick of product placement as clues, but I think, I hope, it’s also a bit of a joke. A wink wink joke about the overbranding so ubiquitous on “reality” television. I could make Orwellian parallels about the societal message behind the Dharma products and their placement shots all over The Island(s). The cult/communistic overtones of the Dharma products (Dharma food, Dharma shampoo, Dharma jumpsuits for the drones…) shown in reality television product placement format could be seen as a warning. It makes us flinch when we see it on Lost, we don’t know who or what this whole Dharma thing is, exactly, but we know it can’t be good. It has serious cult/communism benchmarks. But yet when we see Coca-Cola logo-ed cups strategically placed in front of the judges on American Idol most people don’t flinch. Scarier to me is that a lot of people don’t even “notice” the cups, or that the Coca-Cola logo on all the cups is always, always completely visible. It’s hardly subliminal, but it’s become such a normal and accepted occurrence that a lot of people don’t notice. Which is sad. They’re being accosted with marketing and they’re unaware, at least on a conscious level. Is it subversive? No. But it’s invasive. And it’s expensive. If even a small percentage of the money Coca-Cola has spent on making sure Simon, Randy and even Paula’s liquor spiked cups are front and center were given to charity the world would be a better place. I’d like to teach the world to sing that song. That’s the real thing.
But if I go off all "Lost is deep, socially significant, smart and relevant," that makes me one of Them. The people who spend a lot of time thinking and speculating about the show. The people who spend as much time as they can poring over every detail, freeze framing each second of every episode, and spending time on Lost themed message boards, blogs and chat rooms. You know, Lost geeks.
I’m not one of Them.
I’m just along for the ride. I tune in every week. Well. When possible. I admit, I’ve missed a few episodes, I’m not among the faithful who arrange their social and professional lives around Lost or any other television show for that matter. (Well, except for Flight of the Conchords equally brilliant for entirely different reasons.) I’ve only randomly looked at online forums, and then only because a reader or friend sends me a link to something I might find humorous or interesting. I like the parodies and jokes as much as I love the actual show. (Jim Meddick did a great Monty series, culminating with the Lost island being Gilligan’s Island. I think he was the first to make this joke. If not the first, certainly the best I’ve seen. Sorry, I can't find that particular story thread online. But in general Monty is pretty darned funny.)
And sure, the eye candy for the women is certainly a draw. Finally someone in casting realized nerdy girls like men, too. Sawyer, Desmond, Jin and lately, Sayid, have been “doing it” for me. I’m not hot for Jack or Charlie. Though, I was very sad to see Charlie (presumably) die. I liked his character and I thought Dominic Monaghan did a bang up acting job in making Charlie, the heroine addicted rock star has been desperately wanting a come-back, stupid enough to provide comic relief, smart enough to know he has some redemption to do (read: Liam Gallagher) believable. Shy of actually getting Liam Gallagher to "act" that role, Dominic Monaghan did the best job possible to make Charlie's character ring true. Yes, okay? Yes! It’s a weekly visual feast for us geeky girls whose libidos engage when our brains are tickled. Make us keep up and think about what’s happening on screen and throw in some really good looking men, and, well. It’s must see TV for us lonely single dork girls who can’t find dates or anything better to do with our evenings. And the chicks aren’t bad, either. The same nerd mentality applies to the men in the audience. There’s something for everyone.
I digress. My mind wanders a lot lately. Typically it wanders to men. Pent up frustration and loneliness for $500, please.
Right. So. The long awaited return of Lost is coming up and I’m glad. Not excited, not anxious, not in rapt anticipation, but glad. Glad to have a diversion from my weary life, glad to have an hour of watching a truly creative process. Glad that in spite of the writer’s strike several episodes will offer a respite from the ho hum tediousness and insult of “reality” television. (Seriously, do we really care about Brett Michaels "choosing" a date from a group of skanky women half his age? Really? Wasn't one round of this bad enough? Did we really need Rock of Love II? Haven't we suffered enough?) Do I expect to find out who’s in the coffin? No. Do I care? No. The thing with Lost is that almost everything means something, and eventually it becomes apparent. Tune in next week, or the week after, eventually a hint or clue becomes apparent. We will find out who’s in the coffin. Probably not in the first episode, probably not next week, and probably not even in this season. Does that bother me? No. It does not. Do I spend that time speculating about it? No, not really. Maybe a little when I’m watching the show, but not much of my cognitive time is spent on Lost when it’s not actually playing on the television screen in front of me.
I’m satisfied with the story arc thus far. I’m content knowing I don’t know. They’ve established trust and I feel secure in the knowledge that they’ll let us know when they want us to know. This is careful storytelling. Let ‘em craft their plot on their terms and just sit back and let it unfold in front of us. This is entertainment, after all. Sit back and enjoy the show. Then resume your regularly scheduled life. We’ve been promised the end will in fact come in 2010. (More brilliant planning and marketing.) All will probably not be revealed in the show finale. And I’m okay with that, too. Not all stories are wrapped up in a tidy package in the last chapter. In fact many great stories leave you asking questions, pondering, putting the whole thing together in your own mind, using your own intelligence to sort out what’s meaningful or significant to you.
The writers of The Twilight Zone knew this theory and consequently Twilight Zone stands up to the test of time. We all have a favorite episode. We all come away with our own ideas, wisdom, insight and intrigue from each episode. Why? Because more often then not we're left kind of hanging on the precipice of conclusion. Our intelligence (and sometimes morality) was given enough respect that we were left to sort it out on our own. Presumably we could handle that responsibility.
Life doesn’t get wrapped up in a tidy package. It usually ends abruptly with characters left to sort out their situations and some unanswered questions. So in that sense, Lostis reality television. Thankfully most of us don’t survive horrific plane crashes only to be stranded on a creepy island with a cult of inbred freaks with weapons. (Though there are days my workplace parallels that scenario…minus the eye candy) But we’re all lost in respect to the fact that we don’t know what’s going to happen next. Sure, some of us lead predictable lives, routines and all that, our lives have a formulaic story arc, but all it takes is one deviation from what we expect to happen and blam! we’re as lost as the survivors of Oceanic flight 815.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Hey! Here’s a reason to kick up the heels, or, well, heel, singular, and joyously exclaim life isn’t so bad, after all. In honor of the Heart Association’s Go Red day, I took the check-up. And guess what?! Ol’ Trill’s ticker is apparently in pretty good shape.
Or, as the results officially say: “Your estimated risk of having a heart attack or dying of coronary heart disease within 10 years is less than 1 percent.”
Apparently heartache and heartbreak are not factors in heart health. At least not by AHA standards, anyway. Well. I suppose it might factor in blood pressure in some people, but not in mine. So hey, at least I have less than 1% chance of having a heart attack. Yay me. All those apples, oatmeal, hours in the gym and non-smoking were worth it.
I don’t mean to be critical of the AHA. Keeping tabs on your heart health is very important. So do it. I highly recommend taking the AHA's check-up. If you don't know all your numbers the AHA gives you an easy to understand worksheet to print and take to your doctor. You just walk in to your appointment and say, "Doc, my heart is important to me. I would like to be tested for the numbers necessary on this AHA worksheet." It should be part of your yearly physical. Period.
I mean, I'm glad the next 10 years look to be coronary trouble free. I can't wait to get out there and shovel snow with impunity. It’s just kind of ironic that with all the beatings my metaphoric heart has taken my actual beating heart ranks in the heart healthy group.
"It's (loneliness) actually a greater risk for morbidity or mortality than cigarette smoking is. Being lonely is a bad thing for you."
For the non-link chasers, the overview of the research study is that lonely single people are more apt to be religious, believe in miracles, and/or anthropomorphize animals and inanimate objects than non-lonely, normally socialized (married/coupled) people.
Yes. We're nuts. Crazy. Insane. Koo koo for Coconuts. Overzealously passionate when it comes to religion, animals and staplers.
What would be really helpful is if these studies gave instructions on how to get the research grants for the studies. Why not give single, lonely people the money to spell out their lives, feelings and health? The results would be accurate and single lonely people would get something for their misery. Money doesn’t buy happiness but it would help buy groceries and pay the medical bills – the medical bills single lonely people pay more of because single lonely people have more physical ailments. Seems like the research grant people could throw us lonely single people a bone or two in the way of money for our real life research model.
I’m not sure why I read these things. No, I don’t seek them, people, my friends and family, send me links, typically with a note saying something like, “Hey, Trill, you better find a man!” or “Wow! Trill, this sounds exactly like you!” I’m not sure why they do this. They know they don’t need to point out the obvious to me. They know I read. They know I know I’d be better off not single and not lonely. Maybe they send them to me because they’ve given up trying to help me find a man but still feel like they should do something to help me. So they send me research studies of all the things that go wrong to a person who can’t land a boy/girlfriend much less a stable, long term relationship. As if I didn’t know that I spent a lot of years anthropomorphizing a cat. (But he was really funny and very affectionate. You know. For the record. Human traits be damned, he was really funny and he did give me lots of affection when I needed it most. Maybe I was projecting those traits onto him because I was a lonely single person with no long term human companionship, but, he did make me, and other people laugh and he did give me a lot of cuddles when I was feeling down or ill.)
The flip-side, the dehumanization aspect of people who are socialized, intrigues me, though. How ironic that those of us who are lonely are more compassionate and considerate than our socially accepted and “satisfied” counterparts.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that since my friend sent me this research study. She’s very happily married, very involved with her husband’s work and her kids’ school. She’s so busy being socially interactive that she doesn’t have a lot of time for her friends, her old pal Trill, for instance.
We’ve known each other a long time. A very, very long time. She’s my oldest friend and I’m hers. We’ve been through a lot together. When her dad died I was the first person she called and sobbed for three hours on the phone and begged me to meet her at the airport on her journey to the funeral which required a stopover in Chicago. I not only met her there I flew with her from Chicago to the funeral. With her clinging to me and crying in a daze the entire trip. Of course I was there for her, of course I was. Didn’t think twice about it, never occurred to me to say no. It never entered my mind that this was an inconvenience for me or that for the past few years she can hardly return a phone call or email because she’s too busy being happy with her husband and kids and like-lifed friends to take time for her old single lonely friend: me.
But what did occur to me when I read this article is that I am and always have been more compassionate than she is. No doubt about it. She can be quite cut throat, in fact. Dispassionate if not even a bit dehumanizing. And yet she has tons of friends and a very solid, secure, happy marriage to a great guy.
Which came first, I wonder? The intrinsic personality traits or the husband and active social life?
I love her, I accept her, but, she’s always been, well, a little bitchy. A little selfish. A little too competitive. A little lacking in the empathy and compassion areas. A little subjective. A little critical. A little inconsiderate.
Are those negative qualities actually attractive to a potential mate? Did some deeply rooted struggle for survival gene kick in endorphines and testosterone when her husband met her? Did those genes tell him she was someone who, in a time of war, would be good to have on his side?
If so, it could be that lonely single people are born, not made. At least based on my real life case study. No, I don't believe in miracles or angels and religion and I don't always see eye to eye. But I do get excited about certain inanimate objects. I do love my iPod. I truly do. Not more than say, my parents, but more than certain people I call friends. Let's face it, sad as it is to admit, my iPod is more entertaining and more reliable than some of my friends. And I do love and respect the animal kingdom. And I’ve always been compassionate. Empathetic even to my own detriment. Considerate. Polite. Unselfishly supportive. Objective. Understanding. Sympathetic. Non-competitive and non-combative.
Not exactly the sort of person you want on your side in a battle zone. “I know they’re charging at us with uzies, bayonets and those spiky helmets, but you have to feel sorry for them, they didn’t have the opportunities we had, and just because they want to kill us isn’t any reason we should stoop to their level and shoot first. I don’t want to hurt them, I don’t want to hurt anyone…”
See what I mean? The question may not be one of lonely people developing into social outcasts in bad physical health, but of us being born, doomed by evolution, to be alone and consequently, lonely, because we're too considerate and empathetic.
If they were to use this research (ha! that’s a joke, do they ever actually use this kind of research?) if they did use this research, what would be the outcome? A different way of preparing children for adult life? A generation of selfish, dispassionate, subjective but highly socially successful and fulfilled people? Would it be worth it to put an end to loneliness for all but the renegades who are so compassionate they can’t conform?
See? This is what happens when you’re single and lonely. You think about this stuff. And therein probably lies the bigger research data. My friend is too busy, too wrapped up in her husband and kids, too socially involved to take the time think about anyone else or at least any other way of life. It's not that she doesn't care about atrocities happening to people (and animals) around the globe, but she’s too busy and too happy to be compassionate enough to think about lonely people and how they live their lives.
But fortunately for her and others like her, the second she needs compassion she has an empathetic lonely single friend there ready with a sturdy shoulder and understanding sympathy. Every now and then a little acknowledgment of the necessity of lonely single people and their compassion and consideration for others would be nice. A sort of consolation prize for not winning the romance game.
Valentine's Day is coming up in a few weeks. I hate Valentine's Day. And not just because I'm a single/zero. I hate it because it's marketing at its worst. People have been (literally) buying into this scam for years, cripes, centuries. I hate it because at its roots is the Catholic Church and their oppression and degradation of women. I hate it because no one should be forced, or need to be forced, to buy or show any emotion, especially on a specific day. Oh sure, there's a cute innocent side to it, I like those tooth breaking candy conversation hearts and cherry gummy heart candy, and there are some really cute cards, and heck, Cupid, as an icon, is funny and cute. Sure, I mean, I can get on board with it if it's good natured and innocent. But that's rare. There's usually a lot of perceived, or actual, pressure for men to shower their intended with gifts and I love yous and grand sweeping gestures of affection and the pressure is on women to reciprocate with uncomfortable tacky lingerie and her kinkiest bedroom antics. (oh, and, for the record. Guys, giving your sweetheart uncomfortable tacky lingerie does not count as a gift for her. That's a present to yourself. If instead of giving you the "I cannot believe you gave this to me" look and throwing it at you, she dons the garments: thank her, kiss the ground she walks on and consider yourself a lucky man to have such an obliging woman who is either stupid enough or so in love with you that she will play along with your scheme to get her into "sexy" lingerie. You owe her. Big time.)
Right. Valentine's Day is unavoidable. Most of us, single or coupled up, hate it. But it's unavoidable. Offices turn into over-ripe smelling flower shops as the bouquets march in to squeals of delights from all the coworkers with significant others, marriage engagements are made, heart shaped cards and candy accost us at the grocery and pharmacy, tacky underwear is flaunted at us...Valentine's Day is everywhere, a constant reminder to single people that we are: Single and alone. (Albeit presumably wearing more comfortable undies than coupled up people.)
A few years ago I went to an unValentine's Day party. That's one solution for single people weathering the storm of Valentine's Day on their own. Everyone unattached gets together on Valentine's Day for a party. I guess the idea is that there's safety in numbers. And it might be a great idea for some people. But it just made me feel more lonely, more singled out (literally), more down on romance. "I'm such a lonely pathetic loser I'm at an unValentine's Day party..." And for all the planning and effort on the hostess' part, let's just say the party was not exactly a huge lively success. Instead of embracing and reveling in our singleness everyone just faked smiles and laughter. The crowd thinned early. People just moped around because it was, after all, Valentine's Day, and we were all at a party for lonely single people trying to put a brave and defiant face on our lack of a romance. The very fact that we could (and did) go to such a party was depressing. If Valentine's Day were truly being mocked and/or ignored there wouldn't have been a party at all. It would have been just another evening, like February 13th or 15th. But it wasn't. The purpose was to band together in our loneliness and singleness on a day marketed to happy couples. So ultimately it just gave more attention and validation to Valentine's Day. It was counter productive. Turns out this is a case where misery doesn't love company.
But as long as there is marketing and a consumer economy, there will be Valentine's Day.
So I have a suggestion. You probably know someone like me. A single person who's lonely and without a significant other. Since Valentine's Day is a stupid non-holiday anyway instead of, or in addition to, showering your sweetheart with all your affections and gifts, how about sending a lonely friend or relative something they like. No flowers or pithy cards or anything heart related. Just let them know you realize that Valentine's Day can make a single person feel really lonely or at least very alone, or most likely, conspicuous by the absence of token gifts of affection from a sweetheart. And even though you can't do anything about their lack of romance or their conspicuousness, let them know they aren't alone, they have a friend who's thinking about them and cares enough about them to take the time to be understanding and compassionate about their loneliness.
That doesn't mean calling attention to their singleness or loneliness. Don't make them feel like a pathetic loser (trust me, they already feel like a pathetic loser) and don't flaunt your good deed like a badge of honor. Just send them an "I'm glad you're my friend" or funny friend card, or take them to lunch or dinner or send them a bottle of wine they like. Not your favorite, their favorite. Take the time to think about them and what they like. Be it a bottle of wine, a Star Wars action figure or lapidary supplies, make sure it's a personal gift. This will let them know you pay attention and that you do care about them. Even if they're suddenly turning overly religious, seeing the Virgin Mary in bridge underpases, taking in every stray animal in town, or spending a lot of time telling you how sincere, eager and cute their stapler is,let them know you still like them and care about them.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008 Yo Michelle! Where you at?
Sexism, racism, fascism…whatever. Ism ism this, ism ism that. Enter into a political forum and mud will sling and it will sling in your general ism direction. The candidate for change! Woo hoo. Politics as usual. Blah. Blah. Blah. Wake me when it’s over.
All we are saying is give peace (and quiet) a chance.
Or at the very least can we please stop the intentionally bad grammarism?
Oh sure, it’s “just” politicking, but it’s also a form of pandering and it’s really reached an irritating and intolerable level of ingratiating condescension for me. Or, maybe I should say something like, “sticks in my craw.”
"Ain't no black people in Iowa ," [Michelle Obama] said during a speech at the Trumpet Awards, an event celebrating black achievement. "Something big, something new is happening. Let's build the future we all know is possible.”
Excuuuse me? “Ain’t no” and “Ain’t no black people in Iowa?” What the…? “Ain’t?” Is Boost Mobile a big Obama contributor? "Mobile phones for this campaign provided by Boost Mobile. Where you at? You at your polling place?"
I realize Michelle's just plain ol folks grammar was a crafted intentional grammatical move intended to make Michelle seem more “of the people,” more folksy, more one of us. Or them. Or someone. Or someone else. Or some group.
But I’ve lost track. I don’t know who’s who, who they’re for or against or with our without, cripes I’m not even sure who I am anymore or with which groups I’m supposed to identify. I’ve lost my demographic way. The mud started flinging and I stopped paying attention because even the small shred of issues to which I was clinging fell by the wayside somewhere in Iowa. Or was it New Hampshire? I can’t remember. I’m like a kid caught in the middle of a fight between parents, parents who will soon be divorced. Rocking in a corner, hands over ears singing la la la la la to block out the noise and insults being hurled around the room. Nothing yelled by either parent really matters, because it's all hurtful words of self righteousness. And in the end one or the other will get custody of the kids, the house and the flat screen television. And the kids will get pandered to – both parents will claim to have the kids’ best interests in mind while working on their own agenda. If the kids fit into that agenda, great, if not, oh well. And there will be big disagreements and fights and isms bandied about over that topic. Blah blah blah. Politics as usual from the candidates for change.
However.
I’m not sure I can listen to four or eight years of the First Lady, or the president, dropping ain’t bombs at a rally on the South side while speaking Queen’s English in the rose garden. It's confusing, disorienting, like trying to point out a chameleon to someone. "Ooooo look at that cool lizard!" "Where?" "Right there! There he is, oh wait, no, that's a leaf, oh, there he is! No, wait, that's a rock. There, there he is, there! I think. No. Wait. That's a stick." "Oh whatever, I didn't want to see a cool lizard anyway." "I did, but I lost interest. Wanna order Chinese?"
What some people call charisma, I calling acting. What some people call acting, I call lying. What some people call lying, I call hypocrisy. So this one minute all educated and intelligent and articulate, the next minute all down home normal folk who don't talk so good is leaving me confused and wondering what's real. "Ain't no bad grammar in the Ivy League." (actually, double negative implication aside, I'm guesing there is bad grammar in the Ivy League, stemming from ignorance as well as for contrived affect.)
I thought I would welcome anyone, anyone at all in the White House after Dub. The bizarre speech and grammar patterns (patterns? I don’t know what else to call them…) used to make me cringe. But I cringed so much that I developed a permanent wince and then I started getting headaches so I learned to hear only every third word. It helps. Kind of like Morse Code. Really. It’s a lot more tolerable when you trick yourself into thinking he’s speaking in code.
I mean, I didn’t think it was possible for it to get any worse than Dub. And hey, at least Laura speaks (usually) grammatically correct.
Dub is stupid. Lacking fully functioning gray matter.
What’s Michelle Obama’s excuse?
Oh. Right. Campaigning. Out there in the trenches with the people. She’s one of us. Or one of them. Or someone else, maybe those people over there. I dunno. I don’t say “ain’t” or “ain’t no” or “ain’t no black people in Iowa.” So I guess I’m not one of them, whoever they are. I guess she’s not talking to me. Odd, though, because I'm one of her senator husband's constituents. If she's talking to anyone it should be me, and if she's representing a group while she's "out there," I should be part of that group. For the record: Not everyone in Illinois, in particular Senator Obama's jurisdiction, says things like "ain't no." But then not everyone is out on a presidential campaign trail.
See, that’s what you get with a Princeton and Harvard education. You learn how and when to speak your native language improperly so as to not seem too high falootin’ when it’s not to your social or political advantage to be talkin’ all Booji. Still, it seems fickle and a little ill advised to alienate a bunch of people, especially when some of those people are from your home state and there’s a primary coming up in a few weeks. But then I didn’t graduate from Princeton or Harvard so it’s probably way over my head. But then, in that case, shouldn’t I be all “right on, Michelle” with the “ain’t no” comment? See? I’m confused. I lost the plot. And apparently my demographic identity. Sheesh, no wonder I've been feeling so off my game lately.
I know I was taught to speak my native tongue properly. I know I’m lucky in that regard. I know I had advantages. But. So did Michelle. She made it into Princeton and Harvard, clearly she had some kind of advantage somewhere along the line to make it into the Ivy League not once but twice. And I’m guessing proper grammar was required. So why the just plain ol po folk who use ain't and double negatives schtick?
Oh right. It’s politically advantageous.
The thing is, though, it’s fickle. I just scratch my head confused and think, “Michelle, Michelle, where you at?”
I know, I know, I’m picking on poor Michelle and there’s a wealth of material laid out before us from candidates.
Can’t we all just get along?
Yeah, sure, okay. I’ll pick on someone else. Eventually.
But I have a pressing issue for my senator who just happens to be campaigning for a spot on the presidential election ballot. I, along with thousand of other Chicagoans, many of whom are in Obama's senatorial turf, have a potentially serious problem. An immediate problem. A problem we have to face next week, not next November. The bus routes (yes, plural) we rely on to get to and from work are slated to be cut next week.
Senator? Yoo hoo?! Senator Obama? One of your constituents would like to ask a few questions.
What have you done for your Illinois constituents? I’m trying to remember, grasping, trying to come up with something. Um, have you heard about the, heh heh, little issue with public transit here in Illinois? Whooooeeee, the debates are getting hotter than a New Hampshire presidential primary in January! Senator, what, in exact terms, ideas do you have? Or, if you don’t have any good ideas, and really, I understand, public transportation isn’t exactly a forte of yours, so, forget ideas, what do you think about the state of public transportation in Chicago? What are your thoughts on the budget, the proposed cuts, the increased fares and the CTA in general? Have you ever ridden a CTA bus or train, and I don’t mean a campaign trek around the Loop, I mean have you ever, really, truly, ridden the CTA? Have you ever had to depend on it to get to work?
And finally, dude, where you at on the clean energy issue? I notice you didn’t vote on the Renewable Fuels, Consumer Protection, and Energy Efficiency Act of 2007 in December. Yeah. Uh-oh. Guess you didn't know I knew about that, huh? Well, I actually do try to keep on top of what's going on in the world and how my elected officials are voting and not voting to change or not change the world. Or at least the country. Or at least where "we" live.* Maybe you knew it would pass and your vote wouldn't be missed. Still, there were only six of you who didn't deem it necessary to vote on this Act. Everyone else, all 94 of 'em showed up to vote. Interesting to note you have something in common with Ms. Clinton and Mr. McCain: They didn't vote on this Act, either. What's that saying about birds of a feather? See? You candidates are not so different after all.
Maybe you don’t want to get involved with those kinds of issues, energy, fuel sources, conservation, whooooo boy, that's mighty close to Al Gore's turf. Maybe you thought he had global warming and pollution under control what with the Oscar and the Nobel and all. Maybe that’s why public transportation and its impact on your constituents (and the environment) isn’t of any concern to you. Ain’t no bus commuters in your jurisdiction? Maybe you don’t see a problem with all of us buying cars and driving to work due to the CTA cuts. “More cars on the roads, so what? Cars are more fuel efficient now, people can buy hybrids, or ride a bike to work if they care about air pollution and what not,” eh, Barack? Har har. It was a yes or no vote. These are yes or no questions. Where you at?
*You can do this, too! It's easy! You can receive emails telling you how your elected officials vote! Cool, huh? It totally rocks. I know! I know! You didn't realize ol Trill was so political. Yeah, well, shucks. I try to keep it off the blog. I assume all of you are politically capable and aware, too, so there's no need to discuss it here.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Oh yeah. My dad. Sorry to leave those of you playing along at home hanging.
He spent Christmas, and rang in ’08, in a hospital room. It sucked. I think you can paint the picture yourself. I’m going to presume you’ve been in a hospital. I’m going to presume you’ve been in an intensive care ward.
Hopefully you haven’t had to be in a critical care ward on Christmas morning.
I thought I learned a lot from my mother’s extended stays in critical care wards. I did learn a lot. I know what Code Blue means. I know which rooms are strategically placed for the most serious and critical care patients. And I know that more often than not patients do not leave those rooms breathing.
I know, at my parents’ hospital, the local morticians make their pick-ups in the morning. I know they usually travel as a two man team, father and son, father and nephew, in the case of one local mortician. Undertaker. Funeral Director. Mortuary Specialist. Whatever it is they like to be called these days.
My parents live in a very, very, very small town. By a fluke of geography their town is home to the “new” regional hospital. It’s large, really large. The area had several very small and two very, very antiquated larger hospitals. Most people who had the luxury of time to plan surgery or hospital visits took the extra time to drive to mega gleaming hospitals in Ann Arbor or Detroit. The local hospitals were for delivering babies, setting bones broken on the football field and stitching up accident victims tight enough to get them ambulated to: Ann Arbor or Detroit.
A few years ago someone had the bright idea consolidate the small hospitals and phase out the antiquated hospitals into one large, gleaming regional hospital. (The school districts used the very same logic about 50 years ago to great success and above average SAT scores, so I’m not sure why the medical community took so long to grasp the concept.) My parents’ very small town just happens to be smack in the middle of a region of far flung small towns so they won the lottery with the gleeming new regional hospital.
Consequently, many of their friends and neighbors work or volunteer at the hospital.
I promise this is leading somewhere.
Christmas morning the family loaded up some presents, took a collective deep breath, squared our shoulders and headed off to cardiac intensive care.
Oh. Wait. I think I forgot to mention that somewhere during the process of several surgeries and treatments my dad had a “mild” heart attack. Oh yeah. That. Cancer. Heart attack. Neurotrauma. Whatever.
I explained what happened to my father to my parents’ pastor thusly, and verily I relay it unto you: Cancer surgery begot pathology which begot another surgery which begot a heart attack which begot a neuro episode which begot a lot of running around by hospital staff which begot some tests which begot another cancer surgery which begot a room filled with tubes and beeping monitors. And so it was that my father (lower case f) came upon the condition whence he now lays.
I was just trying to sayeth unto the pastor in the language from whence he speaketh from the pulpiteth. And verily, he was not amusedeth. He is generally not amused. God is serious business and there’s no room for levity. Especially levity which makes fun of that from whence one begets one’s salary.
Right. Christmas morning. We loaded up the presents and the family and headed up to a festive Christmas morning in ICU. At this point my dad was conscious but not eating solid food and not at all pleased about the begotten events which led up to this bizarre Christmas morning. We tried to get there as early as possible so it would “seem” like Christmas morning for him. He was, considering the begotten situation, in pretty good spirits. Well. You know. For a guy who hadn’t eaten in six days and in those same six days had: Cancer surgery, a heart attack, a neuro episode, and another cancer surgery. I don’t know it might be a lie, Marine Corp men are too stubborn to die…hhhleft, hhhleft, llleft right hhhleft.
Okay. So. Small town. Big regional hospital. Intensive cardiac care wing. Early Christmas morning.
There weren’t many visitors yet, in fact it was technically before official visiting hours. But there were a surprisingly large number of nurses and doctors on duty. I cynically wondered: Milking the system for triple time holiday pay?
And then came the morning death march. The parade of morticians. Undertakers. Funeral Directors. “Mortuary Specialists.”
The night before, Christmas Eve, must have been one crazy night in the cardiac unit. Gurney after body bagged gurney rolled by, steered by dark suited, brisk businessmen with clipboards and permanent slight head cock and patient look of somber understanding and sympathy.
Okay. So. Our Christmas could have been a lot worse. Okay. I get it, okay? I get it. My dad is alive and for that I am grateful. We all are. None of us needed a poignant reminder of how lucky we were to have my dad still breathing in that bed in front of us.
And then, as if on cue, one of the dark suited brisk businessmen walked by, did a double take, turned on his heel and peeked into the room.
“Well, merry Christmas!” he exclaimed, all jovial and friendly.
A bit too jovial and friendly if you know what I mean.
My mother and father’s eyes lit up and they happily greeted the moritician. Undertaker. Funderal director. “Mortuary Specialist.”
Small town. Very, very small town.
This particular mortician is the son of the elder mortician who has been a family friend, neighbor and co-parishoner for many years. I didn’t recognize him because the last time I saw him he was sporting a permed mullet, wearing acid wash jeans with an acid wash jean jacket and driving a ’78 Camaro with a feather roach clip hanging from the rear view mirror.
A few seconds later, the elder mortician, the father of “…and son, Mortuary Specialists” appeared, also convivial and jolly. All that was missing was his red suit with white trim, big white beard, a shaking jelly-esque belly and a bag of toys.
Him I recognized. The sponsor of one of a little league teams, the donator of many gallons of ice cream at the annual church ice cream social, the leader in the community and: Mortician everyone knows. The thing about this guy is that if you didn’t know he was a mortician you’d think he was the local hardware store owner. He reminds me of the guy who played the part of the father in the movie Breaking Away. But. It’s a small town. Everyone knows he’s the mortician. For years he and his father owned the only funeral home in town which also happened to be the largest and nicest funeral home for miles. Apart from the town’s above average SAT scores, for a long time it was known primarily for it’s lovely funeral home.
Anyway, this guy never creeped me out too badly, though I’ve always thought there’s something not quite normal about him, even factoring in his profession. But not creepy. After all, he’s the father of the town mullet-head doofus, how creepy could he be? His father, though, an elderly man when I came on the scene, always scared the bejeezus out of me. Part Lurch, part Vincent Price, part Ricardo Montalban, the guy would catch my eye at church on Sunday. “Just you wait, missy, just you wait. You’re young, but death knows no age. I’ve buried ‘em a lot younger than you. So just you sit there and behave, girly, and pay attention to the preacher, you listen up real good because I’m the one who deals with the dead. In the end you answer to me.” Okay, he never actually said that and he was really old and I was really young and had a very, very overactive imagination and watched a lot of B movies from the ‘50s with my brother. But still. It seemed like that’s what he was saying to me with those looks. I showed him, though, I’m still alive and he died a long time ago.
Right. So, there we were on Christmas morning in the cardiac intensive care wing with my dad in perilous health and the local mortician, and son, take a break from their work to stop and make a social call. Or was it social call? Were they trolling for info, scouting the situation, making an assessment, sizing up my dad’s health...and coffin size?
Christmas at your control freak sister- in-laws’ isn’t sounding so bad now, is it?
Mullet-head doofus apparently grew up, got a decent haircut, traded in the acid washed jean suit for a dark grey wool business suit and assumed the role of “and son” at the family’s funeral home. They have competition, now. One of those fancy schmancy national chain mortuary specialist places came on the scene a few years ago. He had to step up his game to keep up with the competition. He’s got the slight head cock, patient somber understanding and sympathetic gaze and: His grandfather’s creepiness. Oh, it’s not full blown, yet. But I can see it, I can tell he’s cut of that mold. It must skip a generation.
He was pleasant to everyone, but he caught my eye and flashed me the very same look his grandfather used to give me at church. Maybe he just knows I know he used to have a permed mullet and wear acid wash jeans with an acid wash jean jacket. Or maybe that's all the reason he needs to personally escort me to the gates of Hell.
Is it hot in here? What is it with these guys?
I never did anything to them. I didn't even laugh at the mullet-head doofus even though everyone else did. I'm younger than him, we weren't in school together, but...people, kids, used to laugh at him because he had a permed mullet and acid wash jeans with an acid wash jean jacket. But not me. I was indifferent at worst, polite at best. His parents and my parents were friends. But, like his grandfather before him, he's got it in for me.
I used to think they were the ones who escorted you to Heaven or Hell. My parents straightened out that misunderstanding when I was very young, but still, there’s always been a part of me that’s not quite sure I believe my parents. At the time I didn’t know about Charon, Hades or Styx (the river to death or the crappy band), my knowledge of What God Says Happens When We Die was sketchy and evolution was not a concept yet being taught in kindergarten. All I knew was that the creepy old guy ran, and lived in, a home where funerals happened. I did the pre-school math and came up with: Creepy and questionable. I did further calculations factoring in the looks he used to give me at church and came up with: Fate decider and escort to the gates of Hell. I'm older and wiser now. I studied mythology and know about and believe in evolution. But. Still. There's something really creepy about that old mortician and now the "...and son."
My dad, in his heavily drugged state, seemed to forget, or not care, that a) these guys are morticians, b) they’re in their business attire and here on business, and c) he was in the critical cardiac care wing of a hospital. Those points seemed to escape my mother, too. And the rest of my family except for one of my nieces who noticed the same creepy, “Watch it, girly,” look the former mullet-head doofus and now “…and Son” gave me. He flashed it at her, too. My niece is not crazy. She is in fact very intelligent and very observant and perceptive. She noticed it. She saw it. Ergo, I’m not crazy. Someone else, someone sane, intelligent, observant and perceptive noticed it.
Yep, it was just one big Christmas morning party in ICU with the family and the local mortician and son. Life in a small town.
They made a nice visit and then had to be on their way. Business, you know. Death doesn’t take a holiday.
A few minutes later I saw them rolling out a new client.
My mother told me the former mullet-head doofus is recently divorced. She said this with an air of, “…and so he’s available…” I gave her that, “MOTH-ER! Are you kidding me?” look. She gave me the, "Fine, stay single, be a spinster, see if I care" look.
The elder mortician stopped in a few times after Christmas, too, to “check in and say hi” to my dad. Yeah. I’ll just bet he was “checking in.” More like wanting to see if my dad had checked out, I bet.
My mother said the former mullet-head "...and Son" stopped in one day and in the course of conversation asked about me. I screamed, "MOTH-ER!!! GROSSSSS! Are you KIDDING ME?! He lives in a FUNERAL HOME!!! He hangs out with DEAD people. He used to wear ACID WASH JEANS WITH AN ACID WASH JEAN JACKET!!!!" To which my mother replied, curtly, "Well. It is a very lovely funeral home." "and a girl could do a lot worse" strongly implied.
Things are looking up, though. Finally, after 18 days, 13 of them in various intensive and critical care units, my dad went home.
Oh sure, he’s tethered to a bunch of tubes and bags which handle some of his, um, bodily functions, and sure, he’s pretty much stuck in a recliner acting as a hospital bed, but he’s home.
Oh sure, the professional nurse only visits for about 15 – 20 minutes each day. And my mother, who is older than him and handicapped and generally not in great health,and isn’t really capable of acting as a nurse to care for him, is struggling to handle this latest chapter in their marriage and limitation testing, is but he’s home.
Oh sure, their kids and in particular their unmarried, childless daughter who chooses to live a five hour drive from them and has no vacation days left is racing through her work days trying to accomplish her job tasks early so she can sneak out a few hours early on Friday to catch the train to her parents for the weekend so she can relieve her mother and look after her recliner-bound father for the weekend and sneak in a few hours late on Monday so she can take the train back to work, but still she lays gripped with fear and anxiety, eyes wide and staring upward at the ceiling as the hours of the night drag into the early hours of the morning and wondering if it would really be so awful to move to a small town and take up with the recently divorced mortuary specialist.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Dear Ron (Huberman), Hi! How’s it going?! I’m okay, getting better. Boy, the ol’ foot and ankle surgery sure has been a pain (literally!) but I’m on the mend. One step at a time! Har har!
I know how busy you and your staff have been since September, so no hard feelings about the lack of response to my calls and emails requesting information on the paratransit program. As it turns out taxis and friends were able to get me to and from work the past few months. Oh sure, they don’t have handicap vehicles and it cost me a lot of money in taxi fares, but hey, it’s temporary and what with everything going on at the CTA I understand the transportation needs of a handicapped commuter are low on the priority list. I was thinking maybe since you’re so short staffed that you can’t even return phone calls and emails requesting information about the paratransit program, perhaps you could just eliminate it altogether. That would probably save the CTA some money. Besides, if all the bus routes slated to be cut on January 20 are actually cut, a lot of handicapped bus riders are going to be SOL because most of the train stations are a) inconvenient, b) not handicap accessible or c) as is the case with the nearest "handicap accessible" train station to me, inoperative (the nearest handicap station to me is three stops away and the elevator has not been "in service" since the beginning of October. And yes, Ron, yes, I did as your website instructs and called to report the problem.) You and PACE should probably just go ahead and eliminate the paratransit program before they start squawking about ADA laws and compliance and generally tying up the apparently already overworked and understaffed CTA paratransit reps. You know, a little pre-emptive defense.
I took the CTA website’s advice and tried to plan my route based on handicap accessible buses and trains. Whoooo boy! That was quite a challenge! Gotta hand it to you, using the CTA while handicapped is more fun than watching The Amazing Race! Which made me wonder, have you thought about generating some extra revenue by having a network reality show where handicapped contestants try to navigate their way around Chicago using CTA?! That would be great television. Even better than American Idol. What’s funnier than watching handicapped people struggle to manage in a city full of barriers?! OMG, soooo funny. Simon Cowell making fun of fat and ugly people is nowhere near as funny as watching handicapped people and laughing at them from the cozy privacy and comfort of the living room couch. It would be like America’s Funniest Videos. Based on that show's longevity and popularity, people love watching other people get hurt!
Boy am I glad my handicap was only temporary! Guess what?! The doctor told me I can try walking with a cane! OMG! I’m so excited! Just in time, too! After January 20 all the buses which travel from my neighborhood to anywhere near my office are going to be cut. Whew! That was close! Oh sure, hobbling up and down two wet and slippery steep flights of stairs with an ankle brace and a cane to get to the train platforms won’t be a lot of fun, but hey, it beats the $30 (one way) cab fare to get to work! And now that I’m out of the full leg cast and off the wheels, I love to test my physical limits! Oh sure, the surgery isn’t quite healed yet, and those huge and deep puddles in the station and on the stairs are a bit problematic, but no pain, no gain, right?!
But this isn’t just a social call! I’m writing to let you know how I would like the CTA to spend the $163 they got from me the past few months. Yep, I donated $163 (so far) to the CTA. I love you all that much. Big hug.
I take advantage of the CTA Chicago Plus card. I pay for it via pretax! payroll deduction at work. This costs me $75/month. A real bargain considering I get unlimited rides on the buses and trains! Okay, sure, I only use the CTA for commuting to work and I’m only saving about $5/month, but hey, still a bargain! Okay. So. I didn’t ride for a week in October, and I only rode two buses in November and four buses in December.
I planned on riding buses more during my handicap adventure, but a) nobody returned my calls or emails with information about paratransit programs and more to the pertinent point, b) the handicap accessibility on my bus routes was marred by the overcrowding on the buses. I would have loved to have taken advantage of the handicap accessible buses, but they’re so crowded that my handicap scooter and prone leg in cast couldn’t get on the buses. Even when I tried playing the “oh, poor handicapped girl” shtick, and even when other passengers were nice and tried to help me, there was simply not enough room due to overcrowded buses. On several occasions I waited for, and tried to get on, five different consecutive buses to no avail due to already overstuffed aisles and seats. Because I have a job and I am expected to be at that job at a certain time every day, waiting more than an hour for a bus which might possibly not be so crowded that me and my leg caddy could fit on it isn't an option. I learned to leave early, extra early, but even so, typically after 45 minutes of waiting for a bus I could squeeze onto I gave up and got a cab or made a panicked call pleading to a friend's mercy to help me. Funny that the CTA is planning on cutting these packed bus routes since they seem to be so popular…kind of weird they’re eliminating routes which are cash cows…but hey, I’m not the president or treasurer of public transportation in Chicago so what would I know?!
Right. So. Because I rode at least once in October, November and December, my Chicago Plus fare card was activated. My $75/month was deducted from my paycheck. Now, as you know, with the Chicago Plus fare cards the fee is $75/month, no matter how often or infrequently you ride the CTA and there is no “balance.” No excess or "balance" to carry over into the next month or accrue on the card. It’s $75/month, period. If you don’t ride $75 worth, well, you’ve just donated the excess to the city of Chicago. (Thank you from the bottom of Mayor Daley’s coffers, tourists and infrequent riders who pay for more than they ride! Mayor Daley welcomes you! And your unused CTA fares!) Since I was only able to ride six rides in November and December, the CTA netted a profit of $138 from me. Add the $20 excess from October and you get a $158 donation to the city of Chicago.
Boy, am I feeling like a good citizen right about now!
But wait, there’s more! So, so much more.
Along came January, and the new year. And a new me! I can now hobble up and down wet and slippery L station stairs and even crowd onto packed buses and stand leaning on my cane on the packed buses! Woo hoo! ’08 is great! So I started using my fare card again! Woo hoo! But then, darn it, last night my fare card wouldn’t give me access to the train station. The nice and oh so helpful station agent looked at the card, tried it several times, said a bunch of stuff at me that I didn't understand in what I believe was Puerto Rican Spanglish and finally thrust the card in my face and said, punctuated with jabbing the card at my nose, “No WORK!!! NO WORK!!!” Whoooo boy was she mad! She must really sympathize with my situation! Such sincere empathy! Such compassion! Such passion for my "no work" card. Other commuters passing by thought she was mad at me, and I can see where it could have appeared that way, what with her jabbing my card in my face and yelling in my direction and all, but I smiled apologetically, because of course this is all my fault, and explained to the other commuters, "no work" with a meek and apologetic shrug. I mean, after all, the station agent has so many more pressing and urgent duties, I know helping a customer is a low priority and not something station agents are accustomed to doing. It's a big interruption to their demanding schedule. And clearly she was channeling my frustration and confusion and letting it out, letting it all out, for both of us, with her Spanglish yelling at me. The end result: Apparently my fully charged and loaded Chicago Plus fare card, in pristine condition thanks to a fancy holder they gave us at work, has a problem. It "no work."
But! Lucky us! There’s a phone number right on the back of the card! Such amazing service. Really, you guys think of everything.
Oh sure, I had to wait on hold for 75 minutes, but it was sooooooo worth it to talk to a CTA Chicago Card Plus rep! OMG! Seriously, it was the most amazing customer service experience of my life. Waaaaay better than the Big Blue Colored Health Insurance reps. Until now, my all time favorite customer service experience was the fraud department of my local bank by way of Bombay. But you guys, the CTA, found a way to top even that incredible customer service phone line. Big hug.
Since it was ascertained that my card was not working, "no work," a replacement card will be issued. At a cost of $5. In five to ten business days. Since I already “activated” the fare card this month, and because it’s a Chicago PLUS fare card, not only do I have to pay a $5 replacement fee, I have to pay for all the CTA rides I need before the new card arrives. So far I’ve paid $6, and I assume the new card won’t arrive until next week, so let’s just go ahead and call it an even $24. In addition to the $75 monthly fee on the card.
So, actually, now that I think about it, it’s not $163. It’s more like a donation of $187.
Here’s how I’d like you to spend the money. Take yourself to lunch! Figure a nice meal, with a good tip, what, $50? $75? Oh, and take someone with you, of course, I mean, it’s just lonely to eat lunch alone. So let’s say $100 for lunch for you and a guest. Might I suggest Dick Daley as a dining companion? Boy would I love to see the look on his face when you reach for the check for a change! Ha!
Now, as for the remaining $87, I’ve given this a lot of thought.
English as a second language classes for my local station agent? Bucket of molten tar and a ladder to help patch a few of the leaks in my local station roof so the stairs aren’t wet, puddled and slippery? Safety flares for the #147 buses which habitually break down on Lake Shore Drive? Business Communication Etiquette training (or maybe a relaxation spa day) for the Chicago Card Plus phone rep?
So many choices, so little money. What to do, what to do…
You know what? How about donuts for the next budget meeting? You all work so hard to make public transportation and commuting in Chicago such an easy and pleasant experience for us citizens, go on, go ahead, splurge, get the bear claws and jelly filleds. They’re on me. Big hug.
Sincerely, and I mean that, sincerely, Trillian
cc: Carole L. Brown, CTA Chairman, Dennis Anosike, CTA Treasurer bcc: Dick the 'Tater Daley, Mayor
