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, May 11, 2009  
A few months after my dad died my mother decided it was “time.”

Time to start going through years of possessions she and my dad accumulated.

So at least two weekends a month I travel to my parents' house to help my mother sort through their life. There's a limit to how much and how long we can keep working. Some days, some things, well, it's just hard. Emotionally draining. Other days we get in a zone, a place of "this is good, it feels good to let go of this stuff."

While not pack rats in the traditional sense, my parents have always selectively kept things. My mother is “in charge” of her family’s heirlooms so she has china, silver, crystal and various items from the old country that no one really wants but no one wants to part with, either. As the older relatives died off, my parents’ house became the repository for anything “of value” or that “should be kept in the family.”

“We,” my mother’s family, aren’t clinging to these things symbolically hanging onto our roots in the old country. We’re just weak, spineless cowards who don’t like feeling guilty. We have a sense of respect and hence a sense of duty to hang onto these things. They were important to our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles so they should be important to us, too, right? I mean, those people lugged that stuff thousands of miles to their new home in a new country. Obviously it was important to them.

When I talk to other children of immigrants I hear that my family isn’t unusual in this respect. We're very much like other children of immigrants when it comes to possessions. It tends to go one of two ways. 1) We don’t have the sentimental attachment to life in the old country, but we have sentimental attachments and respect for our elders. So we feel obligated to hang onto the things that were so important to them. Stories of people surviving perilous journeys of immigration arriving with nothing but the clothes on their back and player piano or trunk full of antimacassars. Or 2) We think our relatives were nuts for dragging certain objects from the old country and smirk at the thought of our family “treasures” and have no problem selling them to the highest bidder on eBay or giving them to a charity shop. (Seriously, anyone want a gross of antimacassars?)

One good thing about being the heir of immigrants who arrived with literally nothing is that there are no objects from the old country hanging around. My dad’s family was one of those families. Nothing. His parents had nothing in the old country so they traveled light on the journey to America. They had to start fresh.

Unfortunately, that resulted in a different kind of possession accrual. My dad never begrudged being a poor immigrant child and he never said or seemed like he felt deprived a happy childhood due to a lack of things. But, lemme tell ya, there is a psychology there. On the plus side, my dad was the most generous person I’ve ever known. The second he started working and earning a paycheck he started giving to people less fortunate. Children's charities, especially. He was all about donating not only money but also time, food, books, toys, clothes, shoes, summer camp, sports uniforms, pet food - anything a kid needs or wants - my dad gave. He never said this, but I know it was his humble childhood that compelled him to make things a little nicer for kids in similar situations to his. That’s the plus side of the poor immigrant child psychology. On the negative side once my dad had a little money in his pocket he splurged on stuff. Usually little presents for my mother or us kids, but, he indulged whims. Books. Toys. Tools. Records. And unfortunately my dad was “handy.” If something broke he’d fix it. If someone else had a broken something my dad would take it off their hands and fix it. If that doesn’t sound like a problem to you, perhaps you know of a use for a hi-fi that plays 33 RPM at 41 RPM? Or maybe you know what to do with a reconditioned outboard motor?

Then there’s the stuff that’s still “good” but not necessary or useful. 20 gallons of paint in various shades of cream and white. Snow chains for car tires. Carburetors. Transistor radios (AM only).

Welcome to my life. Some of the stuff gives my mother and I a good laugh as we lug it to the trash or to the charity collection center. Other stuff is just, well, hard. My dad did listen to those transistor radios. When he worded in the yard he’d have one of them blaring away a ball game.

I have to admit, much as those swutting transistor radios were the embodiment of my seething teenage angst over my very weird and square parents, there’s something about listening to a baseball game on a transistor radio on a cloudless summer afternoon as lawn mowers buzz in yards down the street and barbecues are fired up that’s, well, I dunno. Good, for lack of a better word. Several years ago I was shocked to discover one of my emotional happy places is a cloudless summer afternoon in my parents' backyard, complete with baseball game being announced from a tinny transistor radio.

But what really, really embodied my transistor radio discontentment* and embarrassment was when my dad listened to the marine and shipping report. Twice weekly the local AM station had a guy who read the shipping and marine reports. Perhaps you read The Shipping News or saw the movie. Perhaps you thought that was some made up thing or quirky Canadian thing. Guess again. I gave my dad the book after I read it and his reaction was, “Oh boy! Shipping reports!!!” He was disappointed that the book wasn’t comprised of lists of, well, actual shipping reports. I dunno. Don’t ask me. He seemed otherwise normal. At least to people who didn’t live with him.

My dad could strip down and repair a transistor radio in minutes flat. He had spare parts aplenty. All of us kids went through a rite of passage: At age 11 we were given a transistor radio kit. So we could build our own transistor radio. Even my sister, who somehow almost always escaped science toys, nerdy how-to kits, and helping with anything mechanical, even my sister was given a transistor radio kit.

When I turned 11 other kids at school were getting Walkmen. I got a transistor radio kit. Now do you see where all this psychosis and contempt for transistor radios comes from? Getting a clearer picture and some sympathy for me? Imagine an 11 year old kid now, today. All the kids have iPods. The 11 year old kid is looking forward to her birthday hoping, longing, knowing that her fervent desire, the one present she wants, the only present she’ll ever need for the rest of her life, is looming on the close horizon. She’s been getting straight As, doing extra chores, not arguing with her brother...it seems like all systems go for her birthday wish. She sees the box wrapped and waiting for the big day. The size and shape of boxes that hold iPods. She daydreams and fantasizes about all the songs she’ll download and how cool she’ll look with her iPod, like the other kids at school. The birthday finally arrives. The family gathers ‘round. She excitedly rips open the paper while her parents lovingly watch. He fingers, shaking with anticipation, pull out what she was sure was an iPod and finds...a portable CD player. And not just a CD player, not even a Sony® Discman, but a build-your-own discman.

Yeah.

Insert a Walkman in place of the iPod and a build-your-own transistor radio kit for the CD player and welcome to my 11th birthday. In Hell.

You might think, given my traumatic pre-adolescent experience with transistor radios, that I would take special glee and joy at throwing away all my dad’s transistor radio parts. That the catharsis would be a sweet victory for me. Or, you might think that now, all these years later, I have developed an appreciation for the lessons my dad was trying to teach me. And that I’d be nostalgically attached to those transistor radio parts. But nope - neither. I’m somewhere in the middle. My brother and I keep discussing them, though. Every now and then he’ll send me an email. “I was thinking, don’t throw out all the parts, yet...”

The hardest possessions for me are the books and records. My mother and I just can’t go there, yet. Those were my dad’s favorite things. Hers, too. They shared a love of books and music. Their first real date was to dinner and, I kid you not, a library. And no, they weren't teenagers or college kids at the time. For their second date (yes, there was a second date, even after the first date was at a library, tell me these two weren't a match made in Heaven) my dad upped his game, packed a picnic and took my mother to a concert in a park. I know, awwwww. Together they enjoyed a lifetime of reading and music. And passed it along to us kids.

Over the years I’ve come into possession of a few of my favorite albums. My dad occasionally cleansed and purged his albume collection. I’d visit them and there’d be a stack of records waiting for me on my bed. That’s how I acquired this gem. I was honored and excited to see this waiting for me when I visited my parents a few years ago. I bought a special frame for it and everything. It's hanging in my entry hall, the first work of art people see when they enter my home.

This is one of my favorites for many reasons. Not the least of which is that it's recorded using the Dynagroove system. I recently discovered my dad didn't part with one of his treasured albums when he gave me this. He and my mother have three copies of it. (My parents are big Peter Sellers fans, ditto Henry Mancini.) I don't feel "bad," I'm just happy they gave me one of the coveted copies.

Last weekend, though, my mother said, “I was thinking. Maybe we could go through the holiday records.”

So we did.

Some we kept - Bing, The Chipmunks, Johnny Mathis, Elvis, The Beach Boys...I mean, those are sacred and they’re not going anywhere unless it’s over my dead body.

But then there are the lesser knowns. Let me back up for a minute. My dad was “bad” when it came to albums. At least once a week he’d spend his lunch hour at a record store. And typically he came home with at least one album. You do the math. Once/week for a lot of years = a ton of records. Adding to the fray was that back in the ‘60s and ‘70s records were a popular give-away or gift-with-purchase.

Yes.

Like many families we have the entire Firestone holiday album collection.

My dad didn’t like Firestone gas. He said it made the engine knock. He especially did not like our local Firestone station. He didn’t like the way the manager looked at my mother. (turns out my dad’s instincts were bang on, that Firestone manager was later arrested for lewd behavior with a minor, he groped two teenaged girls employed to work the cash register). But during the holidays he’d lower his principles, go to the Firestone station and fill ‘er up just so he could get the holiday album. (In the back seat a wee tot marvels at this phenomenon and voila! a marketing career is born.) I remember those Firestone holiday albums because until a few years ago (when the motor for the good hi-fi finally broke irreparably) those albums were played in the holiday music rotation. My dad would always complain about Firestone gas and engine knock and then a snide comment about the groping Firestone station manager.

However. When my mother and I went through the holiday albums we came upon a couple I don’t remember. Which is weird because, well, as you’ll see for yourself, they’re holiday classics.

We weren’t Kentucky Fried Chicken people. In fact we weren’t fast food people. But I’m guessing like the Firestone holiday albums the lure of a free album was too much for my dad to resist. I shudder to think what he had to eat to acquire this album. But it was so worth the clogged artery.





Note the issue date: 1968. Harland Sanders himself wrote a holiday greeting on the back of the album. I assume he’s alluding to Viet Nam in the greeting when he waxes sentimental and says, “I think of the world at large, hoping that some of the compassion we feel during this season will flow out into the rest of the year, not only for the sake of our country, but for friends and enemies.” Wow. Nice bit of diplomatic posturing there, Colonel. Thinking of future franchise opportunities in Viet Nam, I wonder?


And then there’s the album to end all holiday weirdness. I’m sure my dad got this at work (note the AC logo and sponsor lingo). I’m sure it was his inability to turn down a free record that caused this anomaly to appear in his record collection. I’ll let it speak for itself.





And no, my parents never displayed the album as if the Osmonds were our own personal family.

My parents didn’t like the Osmonds. My mother liked Andy Williams, though. And family lore has it that my parents would change the channel when the Osmonds appeared on the Andy Williams Show. My mother felt sorry for the kids, “Those poor boys aren’t getting to have a normal childhood.” She felt it was child labor and the parents were profiting from them. To wit, the album itself is pristine. Not a scratch on it - I'm guessing it was never played.


I plugged in and revved up the "bad" hi-fi**, taped an extra nickle on the needle arm and gave it a spin. Like my parents, but for additional reasons, I'm not a big fan of the Osmonds, young or old.

But playing their 33.3333 RPM recording on a hi-fi spinning at 41 RPM is comedy gold. Unfortunately one of my nieces took possession of my dad's portable tape recorders so I can't share this Very Special Holiday Moment with you in a manner befitting its station in life. You'll have to use your imagination and take my word for it.



*Transistor Radio Discontentment = awesome band name.

**Funny how the bad hi-fi, relegated to the basement because it turns too quickly and requires a stack of nickles on the needle arm to keep the needle in the grooves, became the only hi-fi once the good hi-fi broke beyond repair. There's a metaphoric lesson in there somewhere.

11:13 AM

 
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