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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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

 
Sunday, May 18, 2008  
So, my affair with LOST is on the rocks.

Oh, it was nothing it did or said. It's not LOST, it's me. I'm just not in a place in my life where I can give LOST what it needs.

It needs two more years of viewership and I no longer feel like I can commit.

It's been needy and trying my patience lately. I've been understanding and sympathetic. I've cut a lot of slack. I thought we were working toward an end goal, that all this work and effort would be worth it. I was there for LOST, really there, you know? But I'm starting to feel kind of used. At what point do my needs get some air time in this relationship? I give and give and give and what do I get in return? A lot of promises that it will all be worth it in the end. Well, those promises are starting to feel empty and meaningless.

And I'm not sure I have the stamina or compassion to deal with all this drama and volatility. I mean, the mood swings alone, geeze, take some Midol or Prozac, would ya?

Oh sure, LOST still looks great. I mean, really great. It's been working out, eating healthy, doing yoga to get limber. Hooo boy, you should have seen it the other night. Sweet mother of GQ, Sawyer fueled enough fantasies to keep me sated well beyond 2010. Thank you, Universe, for giving us Josh Holloway's DNA. The primordial ooze, the Neanderthal period...it was all worth it, all evolving to this one organism, a specimen of cells so artfully arranged that even a devout Darwinian screams out "Sweet blessed Jesus son of Mary, thank you God for what we are about to receive" when he's on screen.

But I mean, c'mon, if our relationship is reduced to just a physical thing, I mean, what kind of chance do we have? It's always been so much more than that, you know? Oh sure, there's always been a physical attraction, but what really mattered to me, what really turned me on, was that we had a deep cerebral connection. And now that that's waning I feel kind of, I dunno, cheap? bad? shallow? guilty? to stick around just for the sex. Sure, it's good sex, but without the cerebral connection it's starting to leave me feeling unfulfilled. I haven't strayed outside the relationship yet, but I got an Amazon gift card for my birthday and there are a lot of books on my wish list. The temptation to stray outside the relationship to fulfill some of my needs is there and I'm being seduced by a very alluring suitor.

I thought it was just the natural course of a relationship. The excitement and passion of a new relationship always wanes and you settle into a comfortable routine. I understand that. I'm cool with that. I need stability and prefer reliability over sporadic bursts of crazy excitement. But lately all I hear is a lot of whining and me, me, me and psychobabble. That's become what's reliable - the whining and complaining. I don't mean to be insensitive but sometimes I don't care about feelings or why, I just want to get off the island. Heck, we're all messed up. We all feel isolated and persecuted. We're all scared. We're all scarred. That's life, baby. And we're all yearning for an escape, a way out. We all need and yearn for some acceptance and validation that we matter. (And a pizza and a comfortable pair of jeans that make our ass look good also top the list of things longed for, and I gotta believe after all this time on the island people other than Hurley are longing for pizza and a comfortable pair of jeans.)

I've been in relationships like this in the past. Maybe that's the problem. I try really hard to learn and move on, take experiences, good and bad, as life lessons and apply them rather than keep repeating the same mistakes. I thought I was prepared for this relationship, thought I knew how to deal with it.

You may as well know the truth. My first relationship was with H.R. Pufnstuf. Week after week I plotted and hoped along with Jimmy. I wanted him and Freddy to get off that wacky, horrific mushroom laden island and home to his parents. I felt so sorry for him, this kid trapped on an island of weirdness and mean creatures with nothing but a magic flute and memories of home to call his own. The end came, but nothing was really resolved. Deep in my soul I carry a sadness and concern for little Jimmy still trying to escape Living Island.* Aren't we all trapped on Living Island? Jimmy is me and I am Jimmy and you are me and we are altogether. Ook koo ka choo.**

While I have good memories of that relationship, and I really grew, you know, as a person, from what I learned from that relationship, there was a lot of negativity and drama complicating things. It was my first experience, we were all so young... I finally put a lid on it and moved on with my life.

Then came re-runs of The Prisoner. Oh boy. Now that was a relationship that took me by surprise. I was young but more experienced thanks to Pufnstuf. Some time had passed, I thought I was ready to take on a more mature and deep relationship. And I was. But I was looking for something fun, carefree, too. I wanted something more mature, but I didn't want anything heavy or serious, you know, just a little fling...get back in the game...see where it leads. But I have this thing about intellectual, creative, slightly weird quirky types. I'm drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Always to my own detriment. I do resist, fluttering around, trying to fit in, smiling like I mean it with the normal, easy to understand, less broody types, trying to ignore the light. But in the end it beckons and I can't resist the seduction.

The Prisoner was demanding. Really demanding. At one point I recognized the themes of isolation, persecution, injustice and fear, saw the warning signs...I knew I was on familiar but unhealthy Pufnstuf ground. But at that point it was too late, I was already too far gone, too committed, and consequently too weak to leave the relationship. Even though deep down I knew it was Jimmy all over again.

I held out to the end and was "rewarded" with the break-up line: "We thought you would feel happier as yourself." What the...???? That's it??? I gave you everything, forsook all others, faced chastisement from my friends for being faithful to your weirdness, I turned over my mind, my soul and let you have your way with me, change me, forever alter my perspective on, well, everything and then you leave me with nothing but, "We thought you would feel happier as yourself????"

And now LOST is starting to behave a bit like that demanding Prisoner. It hit me the other night. I was just enjoying the physical moment, you know, enjoying "the show," (wink wink) when, for a moment, my brain kicked in. A lot of repressed memories swept over me and I realized: Sawyer is just a modern version of Number 6. He's bad but he's good. He wants to escape but there's this girl... crimony.

I've been had.

I was hit with a difficult realization, something that may take me a while to sort and get past. At least this time around I know when the end will arrive. 2010. I mean, I have grown, at least now I enter into relationships with set boundaries, finite time spans. I know what to expect, or at least when to expect the end.

Unlike Pufnstuf who left Jimmy, and me, (and apparently J.J. Abrams) hanging in limbo and needing closure, unlike the Prisoner who left me and Number 6 with more questions than answers, the promise on LOST is that it will make sense in the end and, more importantly, that there is an end.

The question I'm facing is whether to get out now, before resentment creeps into the relationship, or stick around for the sex.




*I want someone to fund me, give me a huge grant, to research and report on the affects of H.R. Pufnstuf on the kids who watched it. I've done a little preliminary research. Sure enough, J.J. Abrams (LOST) falls smack in the Pufnstuf zone. I suspected Wayne Coyne (Flaming Lips), Stephen Hillenburg (Spongebob Squarepants), and Kurt Cobain (Nirvana) were all influenced, rightly or wrongly, by H.R. Pufnstuf. Thanks to the internet (thanks to Al Gore) I learned that all three were of the impressionable age to be influenced, subliminally or overtly, by H.R. Pufnstuf. Coyne and Hillenburg seem obvious, but why Cobain? Isn't the longing, yearning, and ultimate disillusionment obviously rooted in the fact that he was left hanging with Jimmy and Freddy on Living Island? I mean, we all do it for Jimmy, in our own ways, but in Kurt's sensitive case, how can you go out there and be happy making great music when you know Jimmy is still stuck on that island being terrorized? Eventually it eats you up inside and you either get therapy, take mood enhancing drugs or form an awesome band and then kill yourself. Maybe someday I'll find peace with Kurt's final decision, but I can't help but wonder if Pufnstuf is somehow part of the equation that lead to the end. (As for a young Frank Black, well, the influences of one Sigmund Seamonster are obvious.)

** Oh. And. Speaking of innocent children sacrificed to drug induced weirdness of the ‘60s and ‘70s, you know the blog rules. I hate the Beatles and there’s to be no argument about it. It doesn’t make me a bad person, it doesn’t make me “wrong,” and there’s no point in firing off angry missives at me when I dare speak of the Beatles in less than reverent tones. I don’t hate people who like the Beatles, hey, whatever gets you through the night. It’s not a personal attack on Beatles fans or even against the Beatles. It’s most of their songs I hate, not them personally. As for their kids, whatever, okay? Whatever. I have nothing but sympathy for them unless/until they move to exploit or profit from their parents’ name. And yes, I actually like a lot of Lennon’s solo stuff, though I firmly believe Imagine has been overused and exploited to the point that it’s lost its power. It’s become a trite cliché, which is a shame because it was a good, powerful song until it was rammed down the world’s throat one too many times. It’s sad – Lennon gave us that one great song and it’s been reduced to an annoying, tired cliché and the guy’s not even around to defend himself or his song. (yes, me defending a Beatle and his song, shock, horror, the end of days must be nigh.)

As a result of a comment I made about my irritation with the Beatles, I was sent a link to a “news” article about a recent court fight over some home video footage of John Lennon, Yoko and their kids back in the ‘60s. (did you know Yoko had a kid other than whatshisname? Did we care?) That home movie must contain some kind of crazy ‘60s kookiness because big sums of money, court injunctions and an apparent united fight from the Lennon and Ono camps is raging. My mind does wander to what could possibly be so shocking, horrific, disturbing or salacious that 40 years later everyone involved is fighting mad over its release rather than just dismissively laughing it off with, “Eh, it was the ‘60s” - like everyone else who has some ‘60s skeletons in their closets and scrapbooks. If it is disturbing, well, the true tragedy is that there were children involved. And that really sucks. The ‘60s and ‘70s were really sucky times to be a kid. Just. Freakin’. Weird. Confusing and weird. (See above, H.R. Pufnstuf, magic flutes, et al) Add the Beatle/Ono component to these spawn of the '60s kids’ lives and I have nothing but pity and sadness for them.

What strikes me as particularly and especially sad and disturbing about this, and why I'm mentioning it, is that the film came to light when a teacher wanted to present it to a class of kids as a way to teach them about the ’60s.

Um.

Huh?

Lessee. The ‘60s. We had a presidential assassination, a civil rights movement and assassination, a manned space trip to the moon, an horrific war in Viet Nam, a cold war raging with a détente with the Soviet Union, birth control, psychotropic drugs, and there’s a teacher who felt a great way to teach youngsters about the ‘60s was a home movie of John and Yoko? Seriously, people, seriously? Pardon my incredulity, but things other than the Beatles happened in the ‘60s, and perspectives other than the Beatles might actually contain some historic validity.

You wonder why I hate the Beatles? Okay, okay, you’re right. It’s not just the irritating songs. It’s because people like this teacher feel everything can be explained by, for, or because of the Beatles. Unless what’s so important and sacred about that home video is that Lennon is single handedly ratifying a peace treaty for Viet Nam and soothing tensions with the Soviet Union while the kids launch themselves on a space mission to the Moon and Yoko single handedly brings about a plan for women’s rights to birth control and equal pay for equal work and the potential negative aspects including fatal overdoses of LSD, I fail to see the significance of this home movie in a classroom as a way to “understand” the ‘60s.

Face it: No one really understands the ‘60s. Some Lennon/Ono home movie is not going to explain it any more than a home movie of my dad and uncles, cocktails in hand, attempting to surf in the backyard swimming pool, while their wives, two of them very pregnant, sit puffing away on cigarettes and drinking cocktails or Tab in their mod Summer outfits and big, flippy hair and false eyelashes. (Though. Actually. That does kind of explain a lot about the ’60 in the suburbs and explains even more about two of my cousins who’ve never been, um, “quite right.”)

What got to me about this "news" article is the way it was written. Reverent and all important sounding, as if it was a legal battle over the Zapruder film, complete with footage of a grassy knoll which will explain everything about the '60s.

Once again, as always, it’s the children who suffer. The kids in that classroom who were almost “taught” about the ‘60s via a Lennon home movie, and the Lennon/Ono kids innocently involved. My hope for them is that whatever’s in this home video stays private.

Yes. Twice in one day I not only defended a Beatle, but the spawn of a Beatle. The end of days must truly be nigh.

Back to my typical cynical stance, the article sent to me had links to other "Lennon News." (News? This is news? Really?) One of the links was too rife with comedic potential to not check it out. Apparently John Lennon is sending signs to people from beyond the grave. I would leave this alone, these sorts of things are very personal and I'm not going to judge something that personal to his friends and family. We all yearn for signs or hope (see above, LOST) particularly after losing a loved one. I have a friend who is sane, sound, logical and very anti-mystic who had an extremely strange experience after her father died. She knows it can't have really happened, yet it was very real to her. So, you know, once again, we don't know what we don't know and gray matter is a very, very complex and complicated substance.

BUT.

Apparently along with son Julian as well as McCartney/Harrison/Starr during their reunion, Lennon's been in contact with Liam Gallagher. In Gallagher's bed.

Okay. See. That's just funny. Sorry Beatle's people, but really, that's just ridiculously funny and I sooooo want SNL to do a skit about it.

Let's just say for the sake of discussion we suspend our disbelief in all things mystic for a second or two. Lennon (senior) has somehow been given the power to reach out from death to contact people.

Liam effing Gallagher? Seriously? Lennon's been given the power to reach out to people from beyond the grave and he's bothering to show up in Liam Gallagher's bed??? I dunno, I realize I'm the last person who should speculate on this, but it seems to me John Lennon's got bigger fish to fry in the way of haunting and sending signs, and if he's going to drop in on someone in bed I kinda doubt it would be Liam Gallagher. Kids: Just say no. Drugs are bad.

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