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
Thursday, April 02, 2009
I lost my voice.
Metaphorically.
And literally.
I've had various throat infections for a month. Yes. I was sick for the entire month of March. All 31 days.
I didn't lose my voice for the first ten days or so.
I just had a hellaciously sore throat.
Then I started going through the many stages of voice impediments that can come with throat infections.
First it was a quiet, low, grovel, Clint Eastwood-ish. "Strep throat? Go ahead. Make my day."
Then it was the low, we all know where this is going to end flame on velvet Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. This is my favorite stage because it's about this time I know I'm truly sick and go to the doctor and raspily say, "For the past few days my temperature runs a couple of degrees high, around a hundred."
Then it was the once-scotch-too-many last night Alannah Myles rasp. "The antibiotic and Sucrets aren't quite numbing the pain. Black Velvet, please."
Then it was the rough, almost whispery but strong GI Jane Demi Moore. (Yes, I've seen the movie. I know. Oh whatever. Like you've never watched a crappy movie.)
Then it was the whispery squeaky I'm-hurting-so-deep-within-my-soul-even-my-voice-is-effected Ghost Demi Moore. (And thus concludes my Demi Moore movie watching experience.)
Then there was not voice at all. Maybe a squeak or crack here and there, like Peter Brady when his voice changed right when The Brady Six were poised to bullet to #1 with "We Can Make the World a Little Brighter." "No sound will come out of my mouth. It's time to cha-a-ange..."
Now I'm in the Stan Ridgeway phase. It's this weird choked nasely noise. "I can't understand, just what did you say? I'm on Mexican radio. Radio. Radio. Ray deo."
I've been sick in the throat. My throat is my achilles heel. So, you know, I'm used to it. It still sucks, but I'm used to it.
The thing that's kind of weird is how this time around I lost my metaphoric voice and then I started losing my literal voice.
End March was metaphorically and literally awful.
So now I'm curious to see what happens as my physical health improves.
In a way I kind of hope my metaphoric voice was exorcised, expunged, with this illness. It's been a relief to have some relief from words. I love the irony of the words leaving me in the midst of a throat, voice dibillitating illness. In the art school film class movie project the throat illness, the laryngitis would be the poignant metaphor. It's cringe worthy in it's predictability but for me that just adds to the charm and adds a dose of irony.
So we'll see.
I'm finally feeling better, the voice is coming back little by squeaky little, and I'm cracking myself up wondering if, when I can speak again, if I'll have anything to say.
9:01 PM
