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

 
Monday, April 28, 2008  
Go back to college and earn (yet another) degree. Retrain. Retool. Redesign my life. I ask myself, daily, “Trill old girl, forget about what you want(ed) to be when you grow up, you did what you love, followed your calling, you’re living the dream, you’re good at it, one of the best, they say, and yet you’re broke and on the verge of bankruptcy. Contrary to conventional platitude, the money doesn’t follow when you do what you love. So. It’s not what do you want to do when you grow up, it’s what can you do which will earn a livable salary, pay your medical bills, mortgage, and tofu expenses and even allow you to take a vacation once a year?”


It’s been a long time coming,
but I knew one day it would arrive, I just knew it. And sure enough, like the Messiah foretold by prophets, or actually, more like a swig of Jack Daniels, it arrived smelling good, tasting awful and kicked me in the ass
so hard it knocked me out of bed.




Then I answer myself, “Well. When you put it that way, erm, I dunno. My aptitudes and natural abilities are in area which don't bring in a lot of money, or at least enough to support myself…”

“Think, girl, think! You’re going to be unemployed! This is crisis time, you’re not running around panicking and that’s good, but you have to figure out what you’re going to do!”

“I know, okay? I know! Sheesh, get off my back, will ya? I’m trying to figure out this thing which is my life(?), okay? I know, all right already! I know I have to figure out what I’m going to do. I know.”

“Going back to school is the easy option. Your personal coward's way out. You know that. You’re good at school. For you it’s a safe house. Going back to school is a cop out for you. Just so we’re clear on that point. You’re masking the problem by throwing another degree on the fire.

But. You know. Hey. Maybe this time, maybe in this case, taking a time out, racking up student loan debt, and going back to a comfortable environment for you would be good on a lot of levels. It’s still a cop-out, but maybe this time you can be allowed a cop-out. The recession-that-isn’t-a-recession is really bad, unemployment numbers are skyrocketing, there’s a lot of competition for a few jobs. Creative professionals aren't hired as full time staff anymore, it's turned to a consultant profession. You need health insurance and a steady paycheck so consulting isn't for you right now. Hmmmm. Maybe going back to college and riding out the recession-that-isn’t-a-recession behind the safe confines of student loans and academia is a 'good' option for you. Especially if you get a degree in an in-demand, high salary earning profession. And really, what is recession? A recess. You need a recess from life. Recess. School. Yeah, this means something. All signs point to going back to college. Or playing hopscotch and swinging upside down on the monkey bars. So think, girl, think! If you’re going to do this, you better do it right.”

“I know. Duh? Okay? I know. That’s the pressure point. What I like, the things I’d like to do, the things I might be good at doing are the things everyone else wants to do. So the competition will be tough even if the recession-that-isn’t ends in a few years a bunch of us will be competing for the same jobs.”

“Tut tut. Stop that. We’re brainstorming here, there are no bad ideas, everything’s viable at this point. Make a list.”

“Okay.”

Here are the possible degree study avenues:
Manuscript reader. Yes. I would need another college degree to procure a legit job in this highly competitive industry. My art/business/history degrees and the fact that I'm a voracious reader with fingers on the pulse of societal trends and how they effect intellectual property and consequently buying behavior, and that I have a good nose for The Good Stuff don't mean squat to big publishers who hire manuscript readers and literary agents. Heck, the fact that I can use the term intellectual property properly in a sentence doesn't mean squat to big publishers. I've looked into this. They want degreed professionals. Okay. Well, this is a no brainer for me. I already have half a literature degree. Find a college which will accept my already earned English lit credits and I'm on my way to a career in the fast paced world of publishing. Heck! I might even break into the literary agent racket! I'm not at all clear on why I need a degree or any further training for that profession, but publishing houses deem it so, and so it is written, so it is law.

Bio-genetics. I love this stuff. Always have. Genetics, DNA, mitosis, Gregor Mendel...fascinating stuff. Makes me tingle with excitement. Oh sure, there's the whole stem cell debate and cloning paranoia causing a lot of trouble in bio-genetic research circles, but, if I were a gambling person I'd bet the mortgage on: bio-genetic research jobs are to 2014 as IT jobs were to 1995. The good thing about going back to college to study bio-genetics is that it will take me years to earn the required degrees which will land me a job actually researching genetics, DNA and the like. We're talking long term prospect, here. Cloister myself away in the research lab for several years and don't emerge until I land a job on a crack research team funded by ridiculous research grants from the government and voila! I'm one of those people doing a research study "proving" something obvious like: As a species humans are getting prettier because ugly people don't go on dates, marry and reproduce as much as their attractive fellow specites. (Like that word? Me, too. See? I've already coined a bio-genetic term! I am good at this!) The down side is that degrees in bio-genetics require college entrance exam math scores at a level higher than average. I was born without a left brain. So that math score on the entrance exam is problematic. Never say never. But. The good research grant money is given to the good colleges and the good students with the good math test scores. Genetics. See? Genetics are everywhere. I was dealt a crappy set of math genes. Green eyes. A weird nose. Freakishly high foot arches. No left brain. Recessive genes which manifested themselves when my parents' DNA got together. Still. It makes me want it that much more, work that much harder and study that much longer. Pea plants, anyone?


Vegetarian nutritionist. I'm already good at this, but I've learned everything I know on my own without the aid of traditional classes in nutrition. So I'd basically need to spend four years taking classes on how to eat a healthy, nutritious diet without ingesting an animal. Which I pretty much already know. Not to brag or presume, but, I do know a lot about it. Sure, I eat Mike and Ikes for lunch, but I do know it's wrong, I do know what I should eat. If I could afford healthy food, organic produce and the like, or, gasp, had a garden where I cold grow my own, I would eat healthy. But. $8 for a healthy meal made from fresh ingredients v. 75¢ for a bag of Mike and Ikes from the vending machine? You do the math. I have no left brain and even I know someone with my financial limitations doesn't really have a choice.


Marine biology – this is appealing to me on a lot of levels. I like the high seas and the life below the surface. And what with Antarctica falling apart more research and diving options are available (who says global warming is bad?!) and me liking cold weather, the idea of specializing in arctic marine biology is really appealing. And I like Sponge Bob and seahorses and narwhales and rays and I’m a strong swimmer and I’m always doodling sea creatures and I can sing Manta Ray really good so maybe it is my destiny. But. Then. There’s the lab aspect of the degree. You know. Cutting and dissecting animals. I dunno. That’s why I couldn’t be a veterinarian. I just couldn’t do it. So. I dunno. That one might not make it out of the gate. But, four – six years tucked away in marine biology school isn’t without appeal.

Art therapist. Oh stop rolling your eyes. This is an actual profession which isn't new agey and stupid. I'm talking about working with disabled children and adults as well as emotionally wounded children by using art and creative expression to reach them and help them communicate and express themselves. Why do I, the holder of art degrees, need to go to college for this? Because I have to train in psychology and physiology. It's not about pushing the art cart around to the school psychologist's office or taking construction paper and tempera paint and glitter to the psych ward. We're talking more significant and more intense use of art as a therapy tool. Yes. There are credible colleges which offer degrees in this and yes it is a viable career option - niche though it may be - first and foremost a degree in psychology is crucial.

And yes, I’m considering career possibilities which do not require another degree or four – 10 years in college.

For instance
Teaching. Aaack. Well. Actually. Warping young malleable minds is not without its appeal. But. Dealing with their parents is not something I could stomach. What about the collegiate level? Yeah, maybe. I dunno. It’s an “if all else fails” proposition. Along with prostitution and working at a record/art supply/book store. Sure, I could do it, and I might even be really good at it. But. There are issues beyond a paycheck which could work against me and the people I’m serving.


A model for dermatology students. I have a disgusting, huge scar on my ankle and foot. I could travel around the world showing it to first year dermo students so the professors could use a real-life example of just how disfiguring surgical scars can be. I don’t know what the starting salary is, but since it’s a finite niche I’m thinking I should command a decent amount of money per appearance. And eventually with enough treatments via educating the students the scar might fade. Or at least be less noticeable in its grotesqueness. That's a nice perk. Hey. I'm easily pacified. Really. I don't have expectations so I, well, don't expect anything. So an on the job perk of scar treatment is a big deal for me. I can't afford plastic surgery or weekly pedicure treatments, so the on the job perk could really add up to a lot of out of pocket cost savings for me. You go to your bargaining table, I'll go to mine.

But, I'm leaning heavily toward the most promising career possibility: writing country-western songs. A few people in my past told me I have a bizarre and unsuspected knack for it. Maybe it's time to explore that option. I’ve never pursued it because I couldn’t come up with the perfect country-western name.

Well, friends, I have finally been hit with a bolt of inspiration. An epiphany. I don’t mean to brag, but I think I’ve attained country-western marketing nirvana.

Delta-Dawn Coldspurs.

Or, as an ensemble, Delta Dawn and the Cold Spurs.

I know. I know. Sometimes I scare myself. It’s been a long time coming, but I knew one day it would arrive, I just knew it. And sure enough, like the Messiah foretold by prophets, or actually, more like a swig of Jack Daniels, it arrived smelling good, tasting awful and kicked me in the ass so hard it knocked me out of bed. (Or maybe that was the earthquake. Hard to tell. Epiphany, earthquake, tomato, tomahto.) I’m thinking about forging a new niche in the country music market: Urban Country. Songs about urban life with a country twang and whiney despair. You know, like a good old Hank Williams (Sr.) song, life sucks, my truck's broke and the ladies won't have nothin' to do with me type of thing, but with modern urban themes. The good thing about this niche is that there’s a never ending supply of subjects just waiting to be immortalized in song, and all I have to do is ride the bus or train and take in the rich source of material spread out like a smorgasboard before me.

Here are a couple little ditties I scribed. One while I was stuck in traffic for an hour on the bus with a woman slurping Coughuppalottabucks next to me and a woman talking non-stop on her cell phone and one written over a period of soul searching, odes to the professional working class.

Latte Lady on the Bus
Bus stop, wet day, she's there again
Her perfume is the flavor she drinks
Hazelnut? Cinnamon? Something odd like cayenne?
Doesn't really matter 'cuz it all stinks.

Oh lady with the stinky latte
Splashing and sloshing in a paper cup
Yakking on a cell phone you never shut up
Watch out latte lady, the kid behind you knows karate
He's fidgety in his white jammies and has to go potty.

Wearing an air of indifference, above the rest of us
She pays a premium price for her status grande hot beverage
But lady with the stinky latte: You're riding the bus
You don't fool me with your designer drink, you're merely average.

Oh lady with the stinky latte
Splashing and sloshing in a paper cup
Yakking on a cell phone you never shut up
Watch out latte lady, the kid behind you knows karate
He's fidgety in his white jammies and has to go potty.

Yak yak yakkity yak on your cell phone
Jenny. Britney. Tiffany and Kyle
You have a loud tinny ring tone
For every name on your speed dial

Oh lady with the stinky latte
Splashing and sloshing in a paper cup
Yakking on a cell phone you never shut up
Watch out latte lady, the kid behind you knows karate
He's fidgety in his white jammies and has to go potty.

Rules are not made for people like you
No eating, drinking or loud devices on the bus?
Pfft, roll of eyes, scoff of lip, you're not part of that zoo
Thing is, baby, you're no different, you're one of us.

Oh lady with the stinky latte
Splashing and sloshing in a paper cup
Yakking on a cell phone you never shut up
Watch out latte lady, the kid behind you knows karate
He's fidgety in his white jammies and has to go potty.

Big dark glasses, hair just so, fake Kate Spade tote
You've got the look boys love, coy and cloying
Your friends are jealous because you're so haute
But to those of us on the bus you're just annoying.

Oh lady with the stinky latte
Splashing and sloshing in a paper cup
Yakking on a cell phone you never shut up
Watch out latte lady, the kid behind you knows karate
He's fidgety in his white jammies and has to go potty.

Accidents happen but you disobeyed the rules
If one drop of that scalding hot stink lands on me
Or on the karate kid or that big guy's family jewels
We'll sue you and your dad for every last penny.

Oh lady with the stinky latte
Splashing and sloshing in a paper cup
Yakking on a cell phone you never shut up
Watch out latte lady, the kid behind you knows karate
He's fidgety in his white jammies and has to go potty.



Don't Have Much to Lose
The boss told me to pack up my desk
Took a long last look at the city views
HR man came ‘round with my last paycheck
Next stop: Unemployment queues

No job, no car, no fancy clothes and such,
No man, no cat, just a bottle of booze
Cold hard fact staring back:
When you don’t have much,
You don’t have much to lose.

All those years, gave it my best, my all
Late nights, weekends, I never refused
When the phone rang, I took every call
Now it’s over and, well, I just feel used.

No job, no car, no fancy clothes and such,
No man, no cat, just a bottle of booze
Cold hard fact staring back:
When you don’t have much,
You don’t have much to lose.

Never earned much money, just enough to get by,
In spite of excellent annual reviews
“Keep up the good work, glad you’re on our side,”
Inflation at 6 percent, but a two percent raise had to do

No job, no car, no fancy clothes and such,
No man, no cat, just a bottle of booze
Cold hard fact staring back:
When you don’t have much,
You don’t have much to lose.

No problems, just challenges and opportunities,
Went to the seminars and came back enthused
Lived by the mottos sold by Successories
Pride. Integrity. Diversity. Red, white and blue.

No job, no car, no fancy clothes and such,
No man, no cat, just a bottle of booze
Cold hard fact staring back:
When you don’t have much,
You don’t have much to lose.

Clients, deadlines, employee of the month
Gone in an instant, ended in a manager's lame ruse
Unemployed...a statistic...one billionth
Reduced to a faceless number on the nightly news

No job, no car, no fancy clothes and such,
No man, no cat, just a bottle of booze
Cold hard fact staring back:
When you don’t have much,
You don’t have much to lose.

Bitter? Not me, it was only a job
Someone had to go, the boss had to choose
Pour a tall drink, go home and have a sob
Count blessings and have a long drunken snooze.

No job, no car, no fancy clothes and such,
No man, no cat, just a bottle of booze
Cold hard fact staring back:
When you don’t have much,
You don’t have much to lose.

(repeat chorus to fade)


I'm working on my next big chart topping hit. Here's a teaser. It's titled:
I Sold My Ideas but I Wouldn't Sell My Soul



Oh. And. Add this to my list of things that make me mad: It's pissed me right off for a long time. I never correct anyone because that's just rude and show offy and nitpicky and annoying and serves no purpose other than to prove I know too many words, feel a need to prove that I am smarter and therefore better, and need to get out and socialize more. Only one of those things is true, so I don't correct people. But. This is one verbal idiom that really irritates me. Even intelligent, well traveled, otherwise well-spoken people get tripped up on this for some unexplainable reason. So I'm saying it here, now and for the public record: It's Belgian waffle, not Belgium waffle. Remember it this way: When you visit the country of Belgium you can eat Belgian waffles made by local Belgians. In the same way you do not ingest France fries, Italy sausage, Germany beer, Columbia coffee, England muffins, Mexico mole, Ireland oatmeal, Canada bacon or drop a Spain fly into someone's drink, you do not eat Belgium waffles.

Or, if you prefer HGTTG parlance: Belgium is the most shockingly rude swear word in the Universe. Belgian is merely a descriptive word for the Flemish and other inhabitants and ex-pats of the country of Belgium. And a variety of waffle.

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8:12 PM

 
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