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.
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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.
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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, January 18, 2010  
Okay then.

We've established that life is weird. The Universe has proved and reiterated that point over and over and over again. Do we really need another embarrassing situation to further prove the point that life, is, in fact: Weird.

Life is so weird that by now we should all understand that weird isn't actually weird at all. Weird is normal. Normal is weird.

I know, it takes a little stepping back and letting go to accept that. But I'm living proof that once you understand and accept that weird is normal, everything is a lot easier to accept and manage.

That's how I'm able to (usually) find a place of compassion for complete strangers and dole out those warm, glowy metaphoric Snuggies®.

There is such a thing as conventional wisdom, and it's generally a good rule of thumb, but, conventional wisdom is best used with the understanding that convention doesn't mean normal. Which means sometimes, most of the time, when you find yourself in a situation, a weird is the new normal situation, where you try to apply conventional wisdom you end up really confused.

For instance. Let's say you went to art school. Art school attracts a lot of different types of people. You are, and were then, an open-minded, tolerant, accepting person. So you got along with most of the other students and had a Jackson Pollock-esque canvas of friends and acquaintances. At first glance the associative array mapping the friends is a haphazard, random, uncontrolled, unfocused, drunken mess of people thrown together. But when you stand back a bit, take in the whole array, as a whole rather than its sum parts, voila! what a mind-blowing moment of awareness of rhythm and harmony.

Awesome.

Okay. So, there you were at art school with a lot of friends and acquaintances from all walks of life and lifestyles brought together by one common trait: The desire to create.

Woweee. It's like the '60s or something! Awesome!

The thing about art, creativity, is that it's wholly subjective. Which is what I love about it. The real beauty is in the process. Not that I don't admire and respect the end result Degas achieved. But, for me, the process is where I find the real beauty and genius.

Given that mindset, then, I was never "good" at class critique sessions where the end result was put on display and we were supposed to offer constructive criticism to our classmates. It pains me to admit this, but, I was the Paula Abdul of my art school. When it was my turn to offer an opinion or idea about my classmates' work even some of the worst looking pieces got positive feedback. I'd go on about the creative process being of true value, and then I'd turn it back to the classmate up for review and ask them what they discovered or learned in the process of creating this piece.

I know, I know. It was all that time spent on the Junior UN that made me so diplomatic. Art school is no place for diplomacy. Or so I was often told. But I dunno, it wasn't a matter of trying not to offend anyone, it was a matter of enjoying the process, learning, growing, discovering.

I know, I know, tell that to every dirt poor artistic genius who has Thomas Kinkade mocking them at every turn. I know. But. I'm just sayin'...the process is as important and holds the real, intrinsic value.

Okay. So. Every year most art schools have one or two students who are Thomas Kinkades (or Bob Rosses). Amidst the self-important angst and anger fueled classmates hungry to upset, jar, rebel and rally against society and conventional art, they are masters of the bucolic. They get dismissed and criticized by their more, um, "visionary" classmates.

And yet they happily go along in their world of kittens and landscapes, creating what they feel in their heart. And you know, I always thought, "Hey, if creating kittens and landscapes is in their heart, rock on to that. Will it hang at the MoMA or an au currant gallery? Probably not, but so what? They've got cute kittens and glorious landscapes in their hearts and that's not a bad thing."

The kittens and landscapes students are, unfortunately for their art school cred, usually a "type." Nice girls. (Girls who have hometown honeys they're going to marry and with whom they'll produce several adorable children before the age of 30 and do a lot of craft projects.) And Bob Ross kind of guys. (Super mellow stoners who live in the country.) Again, let me state for the record, I'm not judging now, nor did I then.

The truth that no one in art school wants to admit is that many times these people are truly talented. More talented, skilled, than their brash contemporaries with their lofty ambitions and abstract art. You paint a litter of kittens and tell me how easy it is to capture their innocence and playfulness without lapsing into a Disney-fied cliché. Go on, go ahead, try it. It's not as easy as presumed.

A subset of the kittens and landscapes art student group is: The Horsey Girls. You probably knew one of these girls in school. And they are almost always girls. Girls who are obsessed with horses. There are a lot of these girls, hence the undying popularity of My Little Pony. The Horsey Girls who have artistic talent become single-minded in their vision. They draw horses. And nothing else. They are singularly focused and compelled to draw horses. Horses grazing in the corral. Colts gingerly testing out their legs. Stallions charging with fury. A herd of wild white horses on a beach. These girls cannot get enough horse.

There was a Horsey Girl in my class in art school. We'll call her Melinda. I wasn't overly friendly with Melinda. Not because I didn't like her, or found her work cliché and pedestrian. Horsey Girls have always scared me. I mean, I like horses, I even took riding lessons, but I was never a Horsey Girl. Horsey Girls...they're just...you know...so intense.

Week after week, semester after semester, Melinda churned out horse sketches, horse drawings, horse paintings, horse sculptures, in lettering class she created a font comprised of horses. Every now and then a prof would insist that she break out of the corral and do something other than horses. She'd come back with a unicorn or pegasus. Some of my less mature, meaner classmates called her Mrs. Ed. At critiques I was often the lone voice of support. "What did you learn in the process of creating that mustang rearing up on hind legs?" "What is the color mix ratio for the water droplets on your dewy morning mother with colt piece?" (Junior UN, man, Junior UN.)

I guess she perceived my diplomacy as friendship because Melinda often sought me out at parties. Lemme tell you something about Melinda. The girl could drink. I mean to tell you what, that girl could throw back the Jack better than any of the angry anarchy screaming, abstract painting hardcore punk classmates. For some reason that fact alluded most of our classmates. They were under the assumption she was sipping a single Bartles and James all night. Meanwhile Melinda was downing fifths of Jack and telling me about horse husbandry and how her boyfriend was hung like a horse and she rode him like a wild stallion. And that she found it so freeing, so liberating, so natural. Scary but thrilling at the same time. The more Jack she drank, the more graphic the details about her wild, freeing, scary encounters with her painfully huge boyfriend. She told me he took her to the places where her horses run free. Way more information that I cared to know about Melinda. Or anyone, really.

The boyfriend went to another school four hours away. He visited every other weekend or so. One night some friends and I went to see a ska punk band at a pretty rough club in a not-so-great part of town. There was Melinda with her boyfriend, apparently this was a conjugal weekend. While my friends were shocked to see Melinda at that club, in that part of town, with that band, I was in the throes of a seriously awkward situation. All I could think about was Melinda's boyfriend being hung like a horse and all the things he did with it - in graphic detail. I didn't want to think about, you know, "it." But the harder I tried not to think about "it" the more I thought about "it" and Melinda riding on "it" and the choppy, aggressive ska punk beat that caused Melinda to gyrate and grind on her boyfriend only made it more impossible to not think about "it." She did, indeed, look very free.

That's pretty much the sum total of my experience and recollection of Melinda. We graduated, went separate ways and that was that. At some point I heard from a friend of a friend that she married the hung-like-a-horse boyfriend.

So. That was a long time ago. Last Summer, when I was laid off, word spread from friend to friend and consequently I've been in touch with some far-flung friends. Yadda yadda yadda I got an email from Melinda.

Turns out she and hung-like-a-horse got a divorce. There was a long custody battle over their two children. She had a friend in Chicago so she moved here a few years ago in an effort to move on from her marriage. She told me she's been going through a rebirth, digging deeper into her creativity. She sent me a scan of an illustration of her children. She was putting together a show for a small gallery.

Naturally I assumed the show would contain portrayals of children...and horses.

She invited me to the show opening. Cool. I haven't seen her, or even spoken to her since college. We've been completely out of touch until the past few months and that was only a few polite email exchanges.

So, I went to the show opening, stag. The gallery is a very small space. A converted half of a storefront. There's a gyro shop in the other half of the conversion. So the smell of gyro permeates the gallery. That was my first impression. Feeling ill from the smell of gyros. Gag.

Then I got a look at the art.

Huh.

Okay.

Well.

Melinda has certainly experienced a rebirth. She wasn't kidding about that. Not a horse to be found.

Nope, no horses. No unicorns or pegasuses, either.

Melinda's still singularly focused, though. I'll give her that. She really explores her subject matter with zeal and devoted passion.

Now her passion is vaginas. Well, okay, the vulva region. Nothing but vaginas and clitorises.

Okay, I'm no prude. I appreciate the human body and it's wonders, beauties and imperfections. I'm not ashamed or embarrassed about sexual areas of the body, male and female. But. A little advance notice of the subject of the show would have been...appreciated. Though I guess I can understand how that might be difficult to say. "I'd love it if you'd stop by my gallery show opening Saturday night. I've been working really hard on my vagina series and I'd love your feedback on my clitoris studies."

The thing is, the drawings and paintings were all, well, harsh. Gritty. Not that women need to be handled with sensitivity, soft focus lenses and trite "beauty of womanhood" overtones. But. The garish, thrashed strokes of paint and chalk that formed the artworks were a kind of, well, violent. My feedback? The art looks as if it was created by a man who hates women and has violent, controlling urges to lash out at women; or by a woman who is angry at her womanhood and is raging against her sexuality.

There were a few portrayals of her children, though. And they were, to my eye, the most disturbing.

I didn't recognize her children at first. The illustration she sent me showed two cute little boys looking all cherubic and full of life. The drawings in the gallery showed hyper-close-ups of penises coming out of vaginas - thrashing and beating their way out, (penis)head first, of vaginas. That's why it wasn't immediately obvious (to me, anyway) that these were portrayals of her children. It wasn't until I looked at the titles of the paintings that I realized they were her sons. The paintings were titled simply, "Jack" and "Tyler."

It seems that Melinda's friend in Chicago is more than a friend. Melinda's more than a friend in Chicago is her partner. Melinda prefers to be called by her less gender identifying nickname, Mel. Mel, who used to find riding her hung-like-a-horse boyfriend like a wild stallion so freeing is now a lesbian. Apparently once she tamed the stallion the rides became boring. And then she met her new partner who opened Mel up to a new liberation she finds freeing on new levels.

I resisted the urge to ask if her ex-husband is still single. It didn't seem like Mel or her partner, a raging feminazi, would appreciate the humor.

Mel's partner is her new muse. Mel told me Liz reached into her soul and pulled out feelings and ideas she didn't know were there. Awesome. Ain't love grand? Mel used terms like "journey of enlightenment" and "transcendent awareness" and "the oneness of sharing fulfillment" and "speaking the art of identity."

I mused how hung-like-a-horse ex-husband feels about Mel's journey of enlightenment. And how they speak the art of her new identity to their young sons.

I'm not knocking Mel for being a lesbian. I hate oppression and repression on any level and if Mel was feeling controlled by sexual convention and she's happier in the oneness with women, if Liz sets Mel's horses free, rock on.

But this was a woman who seemed to really, really, really like having sex with her hung-like-a-horse boyfriend. So much so that she married him and had two children with him. And those paintings and drawings aren't exactly joyous. So pardon my confusion at the conflict of art school Melinda and the now Mel. And my sympathy for her ex-husband and children.

I found the "Jack" and "Tyler" paintings particularly troubling. Mel told me she knew "something wasn't right" when she had her sons. After both their births she felt angry and sickened when she thought about the fact that she'd been harboring a penis inside her womb for nine months. "Men control everything, Trill, everything. Right down to the gender of children. They put their chromosomes in our wombs and we have to host whatever gender the male chromosomes dictate. It's oppression, Trillian. Women will never be free from men, never. It's their game, their world. And I helped create two more of them. I let my husband take over my womb and put two more penises into the world. I can't undo that, Trillian, and it makes me feel sick and ashamed."

Whoa.

Whoa.

Seriously.

Whoa.

It was like in college when she was throwing back the Jack and divulging very intimate and graphic details about her boyfriend. Except back then she liked penises. Big penises. My reaction now was the same as back then, "Why is she telling me all of this? We're not really friends. I'm just nice to her in class because I'm nice to everyone in class." The feeling was the same: Waaaaaay too much information.

All I could think about were those two little boys in the illustration she emailed me a few weeks prior. They didn't look like domineering oppressors out to control and dictate women. They looked like cute little kids. Maybe that's part of the sinister plan. Look all cute and innocent, lull the woman into a loving reverie which numbs the woman's pride and intelligence. Yeah, yeah, that's it, men are inherently evil. I knew it!!!

I mean, geeze, point taken Mel, but c'mon. This is just biology. Yes, men "dictate" the gender of the offspring, but sheesh, we get the power to host, nourish and bring that offspring into the world. In evolutionary terms men are screwed without us. And as for having a penis inside her for nine months, what the...???

I was standing there talking to Mel, trying to understand, trying to be diplomatic (nothing like this ever came up at Junior UN debates), trying to get brought up to speed and sort out the meaning and take-away from her art, trying to find the beauty in the creative process rather than the end result ("The chalk technique on the pubic hair is effective, is that conté?"), when Liz (the new partner) came over and gripped Mel's elbow so tightly I could see the veins popping in her hand.

"I hope you're not trying to move in on my girl!" Liz said, trying to be jocular and friendly, but trying so hard the jealousy and insecurity were obvious.

"Har har, well, no, she's all yours," I said.

"Trillian is still slaving to the penis," Mel said, apologetically, to Liz.

Wait a minute. I need an instant replay on that. What just happened? How did this go from me trying to understand Mel's angry vagina art to me being made to feel wrong for being heterosexual?

I didn't want to come across as defensive or holier than thou, but, I am not a slave to the penis. And, honestly? If there's a man out there who wants me to be a slave to his penis, you know what? From where I'm sitting that doesn't sound all bad. I will not apologize or feel ashamed for being heterosexual. I don't care what anyone else does or who they do it with. I really do not care. I respect their desires and choices and hope they're happy, fulfilled and content. I wish that for everyone. And, in return, I do deserve and expect the same respect for my desires and choices. And I'm not the one painting and drawing angry vaginas and being repulsed by my children because they have penises. Who's really the slave here, Mel? The single hetero woman or the divorced woman who resents her husband's ability to dictate the gender their children so much that she left them to be with a hostile, domineering faminazi? Sounds like you're still a slave to the penis, Mel. Still being held hostage by hate and resentment.

That's what I wanted to say.

Instead I just smiled and said, "Yeah, you know, men, har har, what are you gonna do?" exaggerated shrug.

"You've been waiting a long time for Mr. Right, Trillian. Maybe it's time to consider other possibilities. My life has changed in every way since I opened my mind and heart to Liz," Mel said, way too condescendingly for someone who spent four years of art school drawing horses, unicorns and pegasuses and now had her arm locked in the vise-grip of her girlfriend.

What if I said that to her, now "Gee, Mel, your art is very angry and disturbed. Your feelings of oppression and hostility about your sons is troubling. And clearly it's not about gender - you just like being controlled and dominated because Liz here is obviously controlling and dominating you. Maybe it's time to consider other possibilities, like psychotherapy."

All Hell would break loose, that's what would happen. It's perfectly okay for a lesbian to suggest someone change their sexual orientation simply because they're still single. But it's tabboo, wrong, ignorant, judgmental for a heterosexual to suggest a lesbian has some obvious issues that need addressing, if not for her own good, for the sake of her children. Weird is normal, normal is weird. Conventional wisdom dictates decorum and tact, and so, that's what I used. Even in this very weird situation.

I just smiled. "That's great, Mel, I'm so glad you're so happy. I hope your show is a huge success."

I took one more pass around the room and left. The smell of the gyros meat was making me ill. The irony of that pervading stench of meat wafting around the angry vaginas sent me into poignant sensory overload.


Before the opening I was kind of excited to reconnect with Mel(inda). She lives in the city and I thought, you know, hey, someone to hang out with, a friend! So I'm equally kind of disappointed that it doesn't look like we reconnected.

Then again, we were never really connected in the first place. I was nice to her in classes when no one else was because I was nice to everyone and I felt sorry for her. She drank, heavily, and told me about sex with her boyfriend. That's not really a connection. That's a drunk girl at a party where she has no friends except for the one classmate who doesn't call her Mrs. Ed.

I haven't written her off entirely, but I have difficulty getting past her issues with her children. Not in the "what kind of mother leaves her children to be a lesbian?" disgusted kind of way. In the, "These are your children, you're supposed to love them unconditionally, even if they have penises" kind of way. I feel horrible for her sons. They're way too young to understand any of what their mother is feeling. Heck, I can't understand what their mother is feeling. The two little boys in the illustration she sent me keep nagging at me. The same woman who painted them as sweet, cherubic little boys also painted them as giant, jabbing, marauding penises stabbing their way out of their mother's vagina. Weird is normal, but there's only so much conventional wisdom I can apply to a weird situation.

11:11 AM

 
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