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
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
We’re all friends here, right? We can talk openly and maturely about adult topics, right? The conventional taboos don’t apply to us, right? We can speak openly and freely without fear of retribution or judgment, right?
I was talking with a friend the other night, you know, just chatting, when she said something which concerned me. It was just an offhand remark, not aimed at me, just a comment in passing sort of thing. I thought she and I were, you know, pretty similar in most ways, fairly evenly matched in adult experiences. I’m sure she assumed the same about me. So when the subject of “numbers” came up I didn’t feel, you know, ashamed or worried. I kind of thought her number was probably higher than mine. But then she scoffed at people who have really high “numbers” and she started throwing out what she deemed as high “numbers” for people our age, implying some sort of failing on the part of those with high “numbers” and what it says about their lives and inadequacies and that they should do something about it rather than let it to continue to increase to what she deemed staggering numbers.
What concerned me was the numbers she was throwing around as high were in the range, mostly lower, than my number.
I honestly didn’t think I was, you know, well, you know.
I always thought that I’m on the low end, I mean, there’ve been some pretty long, lean years without much activity.
But of course the number is debatable depending on what you consider “real” activity. There are gray areas. In some instances you don’t really have to do much of anything to accumulate points. Heck, one really good, long holiday weekend can add a lot of digits to the tally if you count everything from flirting seductively over cocktails to nights in hotel rooms.
I used to be embarrassed because I thought my number was low to the point of significance compared to other people my age. Suddenly I’m now embarrassed to admit my number because it’s apparently quite high for someone my age. What’s normal? What’s acceptable? Is there a point, a limit, where you just stop because of the social implications? If you give it away, you know, for “charity” does that count?
I timidly approached the subject with a different friend, one with whom I’ve discussed more intimate issue. She was surprised at my number. “Wow, Trill. Wow. I mean, I kind of figured you had a lot, but not that many. That’s up there with my husband’s number. Before we were married he used to go to Thailand a lot for work.”
“Great. So I’m up there with your husband.”
“You’ve always been like one of the guys, Trill. (har har) There’s nothing to be ashamed of but you’re not getting any younger…”
I thought the sexual revolution was years ago, I thought the differences and double standards were a thing of the past. But on the rare occasions I go to our special club, I’m always surprised to see very few women. Surely I’m not the only woman with elite status. Surely the Boys’ Club mentality is joke from a bygone era.
I have a ton of frequent flyer miles. A ton. Apparently a staggeringly high number. Apparently most people don’t let them accumulate to this point without cashing them in and taking a vacation. (which I believe is the point of frequent flyer programs)
And it’s not just on one airline. Yes.
I’ve been indiscriminant. I’m so experienced with so many different airlines that it’s reached the point that I’m embarrassed to admit my number.
Gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming. Seems like just yesterday I was just flying on whatever flight I could get or afford, not paying attention to the miles I was putting on the old Trill odometer.
Ah, youth.
Then I started traveling a lot for work. We had two preferred airlines so I was always on one airline or the other. After a couple of long distance trips schlepping all over the country it just made sense to “get something” in return. My company let me “keep” “my” air miles so I thought, you know, why not?
Yadda yadda yadda, one thing led to another credit card with mile rewards and then a long term, transAtlantic long distance relationship and then a grocery store seduced me with miles bonuses on my purchases… and now I’ve got a bazillion air miles on two major and two minor airlines.
This isn’t exactly a problem, right? Right. And wrong. I’m on the verge of bankruptcy, living week to week in limbo about whether or not I have a job, and here I sit with a bazillion air miles.
Metaphorically all dressed up with nowhere to go.
Don’t get me wrong – I’ve got a five page list of places I’d like to visit. And I have the air miles to take me to almost all of those places.
But.
Then. I’d get there and then what? I’m guessing it’s kind of difficult to buy dinner with air miles in Katmandu.
So I’m thinking about donating them for charity. Or just letting them accumulate to an ever higher number. But then there’s the embarrassment of having a bazillion unused air miles. What’s the shame in that, you ask?
My friend’s right: People accumulate air miles for a reason. To use them to travel, to go on vacations, to fund some fun. There’s a point where a high mileage total is just kind of weird and a huge indication of a very sad life full of promise but apparently no hope. It’s like having a ton of money in the bank and never doing anything fun, just letting the balance increase and never enjoying it or even sharing it. What’s the point of that? I don’t want to be that sad, pathetic uncharitable person.
Funny, it’s not something I ever gave much thought until my dad had a heart attack. Stupid American Airlines tried to rape me by charging me 50K miles + $150 for a 30 minute flight. I didn’t really care about the miles, “whatever, I have plenty to spare” was my thought at the time, but the principle of them taking advantage of me in a time of personal crisis bothered me. Apparently that’s why they call their frequent flyer program American Advantage. I paid for the ticket. And earned more air miles.
There’s an irony in this. My dad used to travel a lot for work. His company did not allow him to “keep” his air miles. His “number” would have been ridiculously high, too. His number was high just from personal travel. He and my mother both had elite status on a few airlines. For a while there they were in this funny range where they’d use miles for a trip, then turn around and go somewhere and have another earned ticket so they’d go somewhere on their air miles, then go somewhere else, then have another earned ticket. See? That’s how you’re supposed to do it. That’s the point. That’s making the program work for you.
I’m sure my parents have no idea what my number is. And I don’t want them to know. It would embarrass them. It would make them feel sad for me. They’d worry about their parenting skills. Where did they go wrong? What did they do to me that made me end up with such a staggeringly high number? Surely no daughter of theirs’ would end up like this. They’d implore me to do something about it, take control and stop the insanity.
I’m still really angry at the way American treated me when my dad was in a major health crisis. (Did I ever tell you that we had to make a decision about letting him go peacefully or using heroic measures? Yeah. That was a rough, rough couple of days.) So I’m thinking about donating all my American air miles to a charity. Sure, it absolves them of giving me flights, but it puts pressure on them to pony up and do my bidding. Because of me they’ll have to help someone else. I don’t like to force altruism, but since American doesn’t give a rat’s whisker about compassion and customer service forcing altruism on them seems like an apt lesson. Score one for universal karma wheel.
4:02 PM
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.
