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:

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<

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Trillian McMillian
Trillian McMillian
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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
Enter ZIP Code:

or Search by State

Find State Officials
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or Search by State

Contact The Media
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or Search by State

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.)



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11/17/13 12/1/13 - 12/8/13 12/15/13 - 12/22/13 12/29/13 - 1/5/14 6/29/14 - 7/6/14 9/14/14 - 9/21/14 9/21/14 - 9/28/14 10/12/14 - 10/19/14 11/23/14 - 11/30/14 12/7/14 - 12/14/14 12/28/14 - 1/4/15 1/25/15 - 2/1/15 2/8/15 - 2/15/15 2/22/15 - 3/1/15 3/8/15 - 3/15/15 3/15/15 - 3/22/15 3/22/15 - 3/29/15 4/12/15 - 4/19/15 4/19/15 - 4/26/15 5/3/15 - 5/10/15 5/17/15 - 5/24/15 5/24/15 - 5/31/15 6/14/15 - 6/21/15 6/28/15 - 7/5/15 7/5/15 - 7/12/15 7/19/15 - 7/26/15 8/16/15 - 8/23/15 11/6/16 - 11/13/16

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


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?!)


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.


Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto


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

Monday, June 15, 2009  
Okay. So. Yes. I’m a spinster. (I’m hoping the more I use that word the less offensive it sounds) Yes, I am up on the shelf. Yes, my youth is fading. Yes, I am fighting that. Yes, I am aware it is futile to resist molecular decomposition. Yes, aging gracefully is the preferred goal. No, I am not trying to pass myself off as a 20-year-old. But. Every now and then I catch myself looking at something (or someone) and I have to remind myself: “Age inappropriate, Trillian, age inappropriate.” It’s a weird place to be in life. Sometimes I feel really, really old. Other times I feel young. But rarely do I feel the way I think I’m supposed to feel at my age. I’ve been that way for a long, time, though, this is not a new phenomenon. I’ve never been able to get my mentality in sync with my physical age.

Which brings up another issue I find odd: No one’s ever accused me of being immature. And I don’t think I’m immature. Even when I was a kid people used to tell my parents I was mature for my age. And yet…I was one of the goofiest kids I knew. Sure, some people link intelligence with maturity and because I did my homework and got good grades that could account for some of the “mature for her age” comments. But not all of them.

Since I’ve never been able to figure it out, age - how it correlates to me and my attitude - has always been an abstract concept to me. Since aging is a fundamental fact of life I guess I just accept it and don’t dwell on it. Just go along being me. Damn the consequences or appearances.

Except lately when that little voice says, “Back off, Trillian, age inappropriate, age inappropriate. Step away from the skirt/look away from the hot young guy before you wear or say something that will make you look really, really stupid.”

Then I think about age. Then I wonder how many times I have not heard that little voice and looked really stupid. And then I remember that I don’t give a toss what anyone else thinks of me. Especially now that I’m a spinster up on the shelf. Or, I guess it’s The Shelf.

That’s a good thing about being sincere and genuine, unable to play a role or put up a front. You have to be you because you don’t know how to act any differently.

But it’s a bad thing, too. I’ve never tried to pretend to be someone I’m not – younger, older, whatever – so I’ve never tried another persona or attitude on for size.

Well, I mean, when I was young, in school trying to fit in, I made a few disastrous attempts. And quickly discovered how horrible I am at pretending to be someone else and learned the best thing for me to do was accept myself and never, ever try to be something or someone I’m not.

I have friends and family to “blame” my spinsterhood on this trait. I don’t try to be someone, another type of woman, in order to impress and ensnare a man. I cannot even fathom why someone would do that, much less how they do it, because you end up living a lie or reaching a day of reckoning. Either way it’s way too disturbing for me to contemplate.

But. Apparently people do it. A lot. So much so that my friends “blame” my inability to find someone to date me on my inability to “fake it.” Yet when I ask them who or how I should be, what I should be faking, how I should behave or what I should do, or wear, or say…they have no advice to offer.

A few weeks ago I had brunch with a friend who had a rare day of no husband or kids. After conversation about their vacation plans, the new house they’re hoping to build and the kids (the kids, the kids, the kids) she actually asked me how things are with me. Specifically: Men. Or, well, whatever this question means: “What are you going to do about a man, Trillian?”

“Well, let's see. I'm fantasizing about tall men. Exclusively. That's new. What do you mean 'What am I doing about a man?' I’m not ‘doing’ anything. I gave up, remember? I sent an email memo. I’m through trying to meet a man, I’m through dating. I did have one abysmal 'date' a few weeks ago, but it was a fluke, I only went because I was trying to be nice to my neighbors.”

Weird look from my friend.

“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know. Just assume the worst.”

Long silence.

Finally she said, somewhat accusatorily, somewhat searching, “I know you’re lonely.”

“Yep. That’s the adjective.”

“It can’t help that all your friends are married, and even going on second marriages, and having kids. (as if this is just now occurring to her) If that doesn’t make you feel lonely you’re made of Teflon.”

“Yeah, well, yeah, it hurts sometimes.” It’s weird, I’ve been longing for some sort of acknowledgement from my friends, some sign that they at least realize that I’m left out, that I’m not “this way” by choice. And now there it was, she was giving me that acknowledgement and I didn’t now how to handle it. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say.

“You need a man. Really. I know what you’re thinking, but really, Trill, you need to be in a relationship. Life is too hard to go through it on your own. I hate how this sounds, but maybe it’s time to just settle for someone. Mr. Right isn’t going to come along so just find Mr. He’s Not Awful.”

“Ha! In case you hadn’t noticed I don’t exactly have high standards. I’d be content with Mr. I Don’t Drown Puppies.”

She didn’t miss a beat and launched into an attempt at dating intervention: “Look, Trillian, I love that you’re honest. Genuine. That’s why you’re my friend, there’s no bull shit with you, you’re real. That’s cool and I’m cool with that. I love that about you. But I’m not insecure. I’m comfortable being around someone who’s genuine. Other people, insecure, shallow, stupid people…and men…you know, they don’t always like to be around genuine people. It makes them uncomfortable. They think you can see through their façade (and, yes, usually I can spot a phony at 20 paces, or more) and it makes them nervous. And what’s worse is that you’re so nice. For someone trying to put up a front you’re one-two knock-out punch. You’re genuine and nice, it’s real with you. Then you’ve got that whole smart thing, it’s not like you’re some naïve little nice thing ripe for the picking. That’s a powerful combination. That’s really intimidating and scary for a lot of people. Especially guys. Have you ever thought about, well, being more mean? I mean, right up front, right from the start, unleash that sarcastic smart ass tongue of yours right from the start? Some men love a challenge or like the abuse.”

“Um. Okaaay. So. Is this your way of telling me you bought me a ticket to a ‘How to Fake It: Personality Chameleoning for Singles’ seminar?”

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea. You should market that. I bet you’d make a lot of money. And you might meet a guy, too. You know, actually. It is kind of like sex. Sometimes you fake it for the sake of his ego. ‘Oh baby, you’re the man, my biiig man, oh yeah, do it, big boy, yes, yes, oh sweet baby Jesus yes!’ just because you don’t want him to feel emasculated. And go to sleep. It’s dishonest but the ends justify the means. He feels like a stud and you get to go to sleep. Win-win. It’s the same thing with your personality. Just don’t be quite so genuine, quite so you.”

“Wait. You scream ‘sweet baby Jesus’?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Seriously? Even when you’re not faking it?”

“Yeah, I started it years ago because ‘oh God’ seemed so cliché.”

“And you found a man willing to marry you anyway?”

“I know. I’m very lucky. But you are not as lucky and we need to do something about that.”

“I don’t think ‘sweet baby Jesus, yes’ is going to roll off my tongue very naturally.”

“Trill, really, just try it. Just put a little effort into being less genuine, less real. Play games, be coy, be mean, be what men expect women to be. Men play games and pretend to be other people and they expect women to be the same way. Then you come along, all genuine and real and nice and they freak out.”

“So this isn’t about me and my inability to be someone I’m not. It’s about other people who are phony and not making them feel more insecure than they already are?”

“Well, yes.”

Trying to wrap my brain around this concept, exploring it, trying to glean some helpful advice, I said, “Let me get this straight. I should pretend to be someone I’m not in order to help people who are pretending to be someone they’re not feel less insecure?”

My friend sighed into her mimosa, “I know, Trillian, I know. Okay? I know. I get your point. It’s just that you’ve tried everything else, why not just, I don’t know, just try to be a little more, or a little less, something.”


“Yeah, just try to pretend to be a little less you and a little more someone else.”

“Who? Because I don’t think I can be the woman who screams ‘sweet baby Jesus’? Who else ya got?”

“I don’t know. Who do you want to be?”

“You mean literally or metaphorically?”

“Either. Both. It’s a literal metaphor.”

“Huh? There’s no such thing. It’s literal or it’s metaphoric.”

“See?!! See?!!! This is exactly what I’m talking about!!”

“What? I’m just trying to answer the question. A question I don’t fully understand because it’s oxymoronic. It does not compute.”

“Again. This is what I’m talking about. Let’s go with literal first.”

“Uhhh, literally? I want to be me. I don’t want to be anyone else, you know, literally. I just want to be a more together version of me. Me with a different job, me with money in the bank or at least without debt, me without a bum foot and ankle, me in a good relationship, me traveling, me unfettered by life.”

“Uh, Trillian? That’s you 10 years ago.”

“Yeah. So? What’s your point? I was pretty happy with me 10 years ago.”

“We all get older Trillian. Even you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just because you’re not doing the things the rest of us are doing, living the life the rest of us are living, doesn’t mean you’re immune to aging.”

“Let me not-so-gently remind you that I’m two years younger than you.”


“You’re welcome. Not only do I keep it real, I keep you real, too.”

“Thank you. Let’s get unreal. You’ve been granted the super power of being someone else – literally - someone else. Here’s the metaphoric part: for a week. You can choose anyone. You’ll literally be them, living their life, seeing it through their eyes with their body, their job, their home, their everything except you’ll get to have your personality and theirs at the same time and you’ll get to remember the experience when your trial week is over.”

“Hmmm, I dunno. I never really thought about stepping into someone else’s being. Okay, well, let’s see…the Holy Trinity, of course, Chrissie Hynde, Kim Deal and Shirley Manson. If I could experience everything…that opens a lot of possibilities…someone with an awesome job like a Blue Angels stunt fighter pilot, that would be cool. Or a marine biologist who gets to roam around undersea in one of those mini-submarines. Or an astronaut. Yeah, an astronaut on a deep space mission. And I suppose for the sake of understanding I should choose someone who really enjoys taking drugs, I mean, that’s something I’d never do so this would be a good opportunity to find out what all the fuss is about. And I’d like to be a woman who men like and see how it feels to be the object of desire, to have to shoo away men and to get to be as choosey and as slutty as I want. See what it’s like to be a normal girl just to see what it’s like to be desired, to have men want me, maybe try out the ‘sweet baby Jesus’ line. And for the same reason I’d want to be a guy. On a date. With me. I could see and feel what he sees and feels on a date with me, and I’d get to see me, and then I’d have a lot of insight. Probably scary insight, but, worth it. But how would that work? Because I’d have to be two places, and two people, at once, together, but separate. That’s a lot of quantum physics to calculate.”

“Stop! Stop right there. You’re getting all Trillian. Just stop. Let me get this straight. You want to be a hot slutty rock chick who travels under water and in space and does drugs. Or a guy on a date with you?”

“When you say it like that it sounds a lot more lame that it looked in my head. Crap. I’m lame. I knew it. Even on my own Fantasy Island I’m lame.Everyone wonders what serious narcotic drug trips are really like, and everyone wants to be a rock star or an astronaut or a sea explorer or the hot chick. Then again…not everyone wants to go on a date with me, so, you know, any points for originality?”

“Just be that person. Pretend to be a hot slutty rock chick who travels under water and in space.” Ah finally, eureka. My friend unlocked the door to my new dating universe.

“You make it sound so simple. Basically I just pretend to be Ziggy Stardust. And drugs? How do I fake that? And do guys honestly like women who do drugs? I mean, guys I’d actually want to date, that is. And would these guys be into Ziggy Stardust?”

“Did Ziggy go in a submarine?” my friend inquired, as if to qualify men’s desire for women who do drugs and are into dating Ziggy Stardust.

“Not that I recall. But given the opportunity I’m sure Ziggy would go in a submarine. (pause as we both mulled the plausibility of a submariner Ziggy Stardust) Ziggy played guitar.” The mimosas kicked in and we cracked up.

“Awww, Trill. I just don’t get it. I'd date you. You're exactly what guys say they want. I mean, okay, sure, you’re not most typical beauty, but lots of women are way uglier than you.”

“Aww, gee, thanks, buddy, you always know how to make me feel better.”

“You know what I mean, some really ugly chicks have men fighting over them. Seriously, watch Jerry Springer sometime. You’ll feel so much better about yourself and your life you won’t believe it.”

“Sweet baby Jesus you watch Jerry Springer?”

“Every now and then. It’s an ego boost.”

“You’re getting off on schadenfreude, now?! Maybe you need to consider making a few changes. Life in the suburbs is obviously taking a toll on you. An unnatural, unhealthy toll.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. Because working your ass off, selling every ounce of your talent to a company who couldn’t possibly care less about you, struggling to pay bills and never dating is sooooo much more admirable than getting an ego boost from Jerry Springer.”

“Touché. You are right about one thing, though. I am having a weird phase in terms of age. I know there are things, clothes and men mostly, who are off limits to me now, and generally I’m not that interested anyway, but, yet, the stuff for our peer group, the things, and men, I should be attracted to, just don’t, well, attract me. I’m not hung up on age, but maybe I should be.”

“You need a Jerry Springer. If not Jerry, something else, something to make you feel good about yourself. Something to make you feel smugly superior for a few minutes.”

Yadda yadda yadda I went to an Aerosmith concert.

And yes, I feel smugly superior.

And yes, I am, in fact, not ashamed to admit that I feel smugly superior.

I’ll start by stating for the record that I am not a fan of Aerosmith. Toys in the Attic has its moments. Especially compared to its peer group, the crap-strewn musical year it was released, 1975. But. Apart from a bi-annual itch for Sweet Emotion Aerosmith is not a band I enjoy, much less like enough to see live.

But the tickets were free. And my friend’s words were echoing in my head. I think she has a couple reasonable points to consider. If I could pretend better, play games, be disingenuous, it might be beneficial to me to do that more often or at least try it. And I dunno, maybe one day I’ll try it. I figured stepping out of my version of normal would be a good exercise in attempting to be someone other than me. And hey, why not? (I don't think I'll ever learn...)

But the schadenfreude thing. I mean, that’s just mean. And so not me. I’m too compassionate, to empathetic to derive real pleasure from other people’s misfortunes. It’s mainly why I hate the Three Stooges. I just sit there thinking, “ouch, watch it! Ow! Oh, ouch, poor guy! Stop picking on him!”

And then again…maybe I’m not as compassionate and empathetic as I think I am.

Aerosmith fans are, um, well, ya know, I mean, see, just trying to articulate this makes me feel uncomfortable. But I’ll just spit it out: What a sorry bunch of people.

Not exclusively. But. Ask yourself this question: What sort of person pays for Aerosmith tickets in the year 2009? BIG, die hard fans, that’s who. And who are big die hard Aerosmith fans? Skanky men who were 17 in 1975 and skanky girls who were 16 in 1989.

Interestingly, it appears that in spite of the 16 year age difference a lot of those men and women have found each other and formed relationships. Relationships built on their love of guitars, Jack Daniels, spandex, mullets and scarves. Or maybe the guys aren’t as old as they appear, maybe they’ve done a lot of drugs and hard livin’ and they’re the same age as the women.

I mock but it’s tinged with jealously. Not of looking old and haggard, but of the fact that in spite of their best efforts to repulse the opposite sex, these people have found someone to date and marry. And breed. They brought their young children to an Aeorsmith concert. Have I used up all my WTF passes for this year?

But. On the other hand. Do I want to date/marry/take our children to Aerosmith concerts with one of those guys? Well….I mean, see, here’s the thing, I’m not saying I’m too good or better. I’m just different than them. I have a different set of priorities. Mesh tank tops, snake print spandex leggings and bullet-case studded belts are not a high priority for me. I mean, you know, hey, if that’s your thing rock on. But at 51+ years old you might want to consider modifying the look. You know, tweak it a bit to accommodate the march of time and ravages of drugs and beer on your body. Then again, they’re the ones with the girlfriends, they’re doing something right. And I am very single, so maybe I need to learn from them.


If these people are so happy why are they such heavy drinkers? And drug users? Seriously, I’ve been to a lot of concerts. I’ve been in some really dingy bars. I’ve known some hard livin’ people. I saw Sid and Nancy. But sweet baby Jesus these people, en masse, were by far the most drunk and stoned group of people I’ve ever shared a concert venue with.

The term “strung out on drugs” usually makes me giggle. It sounds so Dragnet. Or something my dad would say. I dunno, it’s just one of those terms that strikes me funny because of the people who usually use it and their earnestness and depth of gravity.

Well. Apparently I am old. Apparently I’m turning into my father. Because all I could think about for most of the evening was, “Sheesh, this is just sad. I’ve never seen so many people strung out on drugs in one place.” And worse, I think they thought I was an undercover narc because they all kept their distance from me. I realize I must have looked slightly out of place, what with my lack of mesh, spandex and bullets casings, but I did rock up my hair a little, I did wear black and cool boots even though my foot was killing me in them. And I have black eye liner and I know how to use it. I wasn’t a fish totally out of the water. I was flapping around a lot trying to breathe but I wasn’t totally out of water. Nonetheless, in spite of my black eye liner, I clearly do not have the aura of an Aerosmith chick. Whatever I’m lacking, I apparently repel Aerosmith fans.

Which is fine with me. It would be more difficult for me to feel superior if they were nice to me. No, they weren’t mean, but they weren’t exactly buddying up to me, either. A few disdainful looks were shot at me when I dared to make eye contact. Some women in the bathroom steered their 6 - 7 year old daughters away from me as if I was oozing puss. Yes, women who took their young daughters to an Aerosmith show gave me snide looks. I kid you not.

Usually at concerts a few people will buddy up to me, share the experience, if only for a song or two. But nope, not at this show, not Aerosmith fans. Nope. I repelled them like a 9-to-5 job.

I’m proud to say I survived the experience with a renewed sense of dignity. Not because in comparison I’m sooooo much better or younger than them. (Although...)

My dignity got a shove up because they reminded me that I’m okay with being me, being genuine. I have been to rock and punk shows where Aerosmith-esque fans show up and get a full set into the gig before they realize the band on stage isn’t actually Aerosmith. Funnily enough, in that situation the Aerosmith-esque guys make a bee-line for me. Not so repelled by me in that situation, they seek me out like a safe harbor. And usually I’m nice to them in spite of our differences in age and music preferences. I acknowledge them and buddy up for a song or two, just as if they weren’t sticking out like a sore thumb and strung out on drugs.

But there I was, in their natural habitat, and they shot me looks of disdain and kept their distance. I suppose some of them assumed since I'm younger than they are I'm a fan of the "new" Aerosmith, the '80s-'90s era Aerosmith. (Really, Aerosmith snobs???!!) But the vibe I got was that since I looked younger and wasn't wearing spandex, mesh and bullet casings I wasn't real, I wasn't good enough. Or, just unworthy of anything other than a smirk or look of disdain.

I don’t do that to them when they’re not among their kind. I don’t change my attitude about people depending on who else is around. I’m not fickle.

Thank you, Aerosmith fans, for giving my dignity and self esteem a nice boost. And don’t worry, the next time you mistakenly show up on the wrong night at a punk show I’ll still be nice to you. Just don't bring your 6-year-old daughters.

3:47 PM

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