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, November 05, 2009
My mother laughed today.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Wouldn’t it be cool if we could hear our Greek Choruses? Think of all the crises averted, accidents avoided, hearts unbroken, and virtues left in tact if we could just hear our Greek Chorus.
I’m sure there are people who do hear their Greek Choruses. They may not realize they hear a Greek Chorus. They may not even know what a Greek Chorus is. But time and again they narrowly escape potentially horrible situations without any concrete explanation. The people who miss a flight that ends up crashing, for instance. They call it luck. Or intuition. Or a guardian angel.
I think they just have a better Greek Chorus than the rest of us. Or a louder Greek Chorus than the rest of us. Or they’re just tuned into the right frequency to pick up the parts of the songs that keep them out of trouble.
And then there are the people who go through life completely unscathed, not even a close call or narrow escape. Nothing bad ever happens to them, everything always falls right into perfect idyllic place, they’re happy and live long, happy, unscathed lives and quietly and without pain die in their sleep. We say they lead charmed lives. Or that they simply don’t take risks. Or maybe, maybe, they take their secret to their graves: They have really good Greek Choruses. They not only hear their Greek Chorus, they listen to it, heed the advice, steer clear, very clear, of trouble.
Wouldn’t it be great if we all had that option? Where are our Greek Choruses? Our harbingers of doom? Our musical warnings?
Sometimes I think I’m just not listening closely enough to hear my Greek Chorus. Sometimes I think I hear them, I just don’t like their songs. Sometimes I think I need to get out more.
Who would make a good Greek Chorus? Who would be my Greek Chorus? I have clung, for years, steadfastly to the opinion that my Greek Chorus is the Pixies. No basis in fact or proof. I just want, desperately, for them to be my Greek Chorus.
Although. There is some slight evidence that maybe they’ve at least filled in for my lame, inaudible Greek Chorus at least a few times. The first time I heard the Pixies I was inexplicably captivated. Utterly mesmerized. And kinda scared.
The guy at the record shop where I used to hang out gave me a copy of a tape, a band a friend of his in Boston knew. I was skeptical. I cynically (snobbishly) thought it would be some stupid college band inanity, some insipid three chord East Coast version of B-52s frat rock crap. The tape sat unplayed for almost a week. I was going to make my weekly haunt to the record shop and felt obligated to give it a perfunctory listen because the record store guy would surely ask and since he gave me the tape I felt guilted into listening to it.
Life: Forever changed.
All kinds of things went through my head. Did someone slip something narcotic into my pop? Is this a real tape or is this a tape made of an undiscovered alloy containing a message from a distant planet? Is the record store guy really an alien trying to subvert and abduct young humans? Is this really happening to me? Did I really let this record sit here for five days without playing it? Am I dead? Is this Heaven? Or Hell?
And for the first time in my life I experienced the Missing Time phenomenon. I remember thinking I’d listen to the tape, call a friend, take a shower and head out to the record store around noon. At 6:30 PM I noticed the long shadows and darkness falling. I was stunned. How did it get to be 6:30 PM? It was 10 AM just a few minutes ago. The tape was already showing signs of wear. I thought that was weird since I only listened to it a few times. Or maybe a five or six times. Or maybe more…
Oh yes, I was abducted, all right. I was abducted into the cult of the Pixies. Soul signed over, life no longer my own, happily and of my own accord.
Sure, they’re great, and they were such a welcome relief to the drek of the mid-‘80s music scene. But for me it was something more. Jarring yet soothing. Fun but disturbing. Brilliant yet idiotic. Those contradictions are what Pixies plebians and h8ers (yes, there are some) call upon as proof that the Pixies ain’t all that. For those of us who love them the contradictions are part of the beauty, the genius, the essence crucial to the intoxicant effect of the aural incense that is the Pixies. They’re one of us, but they’re messin’ with us, too. Sweet salvation delivered by messengers unlike any band we’d seen or heard.
Of course I want my Greek Chorus to be the Pixies. And I think that may be the case in a few instances. Where is My Mind and Is She Weird certainly spoke to and foretold impending doom in my life. Almost direct correlations to apt yet unfortunate incidents in my life, in fact. A very good case could be made for them being my own personal Greek Chorus.
But deep down I know I’m not worthy of a Greek Chorus as awesome as the Pixies. My Greek Chorus is more likely to be a Geek Chorus. A bunch of socially inept asthmatic dorks who’ve never been laid, never stepped outside of academia, spend their spare time rebuilding Ataris and who count Devo and Kraftwerk and Pink Floyd as their influences.
Or, if not a full Geek Chorus, a chorus comprised of a bunch of geeks and freaks and stoners who, while well-meaning, can’t really get the band off the ground. Not the serendipitous combination of geeks, freaks and stoners who sometimes collide and hit upon creative genius. The kind of geeks, freaks and stoners who can’t agree on rehearsal time, for a start, and when they do all happen to be at the same place at the same time the geeks get hung up on iambic meter and chord technicalities, the freaks get lost in their own weird songs that only make sense while watching a David Lynch movie backwards and the stoners giggle and eat Doritos and Ho-Hos and can’t remember the lyrics. (And yes I am well aware that the mere fact that I use the term “iambic meter” in a sentence explains more about my dating life than any psychologist could ever translate. And no, I haven’t mentioned the term “iambic meter” on a first date. That’s a little somethin’ somethin’ I save for the third date.)
In my case I’m thinking it’s not a matter of hearing my Greek Chorus, and listening to them, it’s a matter of them producing the songs a Greek Chorus is supposed to sing. Yep. I'm blaming them, not myself.
Nonetheless, I like the idea of a Greek Chorus. I like the idea of a chorus following each of us around, singing out melodic warnings and doing their best to try to steer us clear of danger.
Even as an overused metaphoric plot device, I like a Greek Chorus. It’s fun to try to spot them in literature. I generally like authors who clandestinely, or obviously for that matter, sneak in a Greek Chorus moment or two. When done well it makes me laugh. A sort of joke within a joke.
Because to me Greek Choruses are funny. Even when they’re foretelling a major catastrophe there’s something deeply comedic about them. Typically because what they foretell seems utterly unfathomable in the moment – humorously unfathomable.
If my Greek Chorus would have sung a little louder when I met HWNMNBS I would have a) laughed at them, and b) been angry and shooed them away. The mere suggestion that our sublimely happy relationship could end horrifically would have sounded utterly impossible, ridiculously funny in its incredulousness.
If my Greek Chorus used their loud, outside voice when my dad was sick I would have a) scoffed at them and b) been angry and shooed them away. He was sick but it wasn’t that serious. They had medication for it. This was my dad. He rarely got sick and when he did he recovered and rallied, fast. Go away silly Greek Chorus, you’ve got the wrong guy. Someone else’s dad. Not mine. It’s not his time. He has loads to do. The doctors said this is treatable. And my dad’s strong and full of will-to-live. Crazy stupid Greek Chorus.
And I suppose ultimately that’s the whole desired tragic effect of a Greek Chorus. Their warnings come at the most inopportune times. Just when things are getting good, looking like fun is in store for the main character, along comes the Greek Chorus. “Uh-oh. That can’t be good. Look out, main character, the Greek Chorus is warning you…you better listen. Have you ever heard of a Greek Chorus being wrong? They’re never wrong. Take their advice, main character, run, flee, save yourself.” And yet main characters rarely listen to their Greek Chorus. Tragedy and folly make for better stories. Makes the characters more relatable. Tales of good advice not taken and resulting tragedy resonate with more people than tales of good advice taken and resulting in happiness.
I suppose that’s how it is in real life, too. Anyone with an ounce of regret will say, “I knew she was trouble when I met her…but I married her anyway.” or “I had a bad feeling about that company when I went for my first interview there…but I took the job anyway.” or “Something was just never quite right about that guy next door, couldn’t put my finger on it, just something not quite right…but I didn’t call the cops when I heard the table saw going all night.” Intuition or Greek Chorus?
Funny how we strain to hear our own Greek Choruses but it’s so easy to hear other peoples’ loud and clear. We can hear their tunes of doom from miles away. If we care about the person we may even join the Greek Chorus. “Seriously dude, that chick is psycho and that cold sore of hers looks nasty.” “The company has lost three major accounts in 8 months, the CEO was just indicted by the Feds, I know you need a job but this isn’t a good career move.” “I think I saw your neighbor’s photo at the Post Office.”
I have friends who I suspect have good Greek Choruses. They’re leading charmed lives that defy explanation. And that’s not just me looking at them from a distance. They admit they have great, worry-free lives. The only problem they have is that sometimes they feel guilty about having no problems when so many other people struggle. It kind of bothers me that they feel they need to hide the fact that they have a good, loud Greek Chorus steering them away from trouble. I mean, sure, I’m envious, but geeze, I’m happy for them. And knowing they’re merely tapped into a good Greek Chorus, as opposed to “just lucky, I guess!” would make their charmed lives easier for the rest of us to palate. “Ahhhh, a good, loud Greek Chorus. Well. That explains it.”
The challenge is tuning into our own Greek Choruses. Hearing them and heeding their warnings. That’s the hard part. If could actually hear my Greek Chorus I could make a more informed action plan. Instead, since my Greek Chorus is quiet, I can only suspect what might happen if I could hear them. I like to think I’d be smart and take their advice, no matter how ridiculous it might sound. But I doubt it. I suspect, like all stubborn tragic characters on journeys of doom, I'm guessing I'd ignore them and forge ahead into perilous danger. Though it would be nice to be given the option.
I'm trying harder to hear my Greek Chorus. I fear (and kind of hope) it may be too late. Like Oddysseus, I've already walked head on into battle. The time for Greek Choruses has passed. Unless, of course, things can get worse than being unemployed, injured without health insurance, chronically single and on the brink of foreclosure. Yes, things can always get worse. And that's why I'm trying very hard to hear that Greek Chorus. "Forewarned is forearmed" and all that.
Revelations experienced while watching This is It.
A) If you don't feel an urge to dance at least once during the two hour movie hear me now: Your ass is irrepairably broken.
Trill doesn't dance. Trill will bang her head or bob to the beat at a live show, strap on the old air guitar now and then, but, Trillian does not dance.
I saw This is It and danced in my seat for at least half of the movie. And went home and tried to moonwalk for three hours.
B) Michael Jackson was/is special. Truly. Not the complete freakshow we've come to know as Michael Jackson. Talented beyond belief. Special. And. Anyone who can wear orange jeans and a shiny silver lamé sportcoat and not look stupid is not of this world. Seriously. I didn't even realize how, um, loud, his practice garb was until I thought, "ooo, his jacket didn't even get caught when he did that move. Oh wait. His jacket. It's silver. Lamé. And oh yeah, he's wearing orange pants. Huh."
