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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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

 
Wednesday, February 17, 2010  
It’s a story as old as time. As long as there are siblings, there will be arguments.

Those of you saying, “No, that’s not true, I love my siblings, we’re very close and we get along great, we never argue,” I say this: “Wait’ll your parent(s) start downsizing the family home and getting rid of their accumulated stuff.”

I’m not saying my siblings and I spent our lives in a blissful state of eternal camaraderie. But since we’ve become adults we’ve each worked out our own ways of dealing with each other so as to avoid serious arguments. I’m not saying my brother and sister don’t hurt my feelings. From time to time they say and do things that really hurt. That’s siblings for you – no one knows the places to hit that hurt the most like siblings. And to be fair, I can reduce my sister to a defensive, insecure teary-eyed shrew in two sentences and I can lay heavy layers of guilt on my brother that burden him under their weight for weeks, if not months. But I don’t do those things. I could, but I don’t. I don’t want to upset them because it serves no purpose. And generally they keep their hurtful daggers tucked away from me.

But every now and then a little cat fight breaks out and the word weaponry is brought out, dusted off and put to use. We’re all equally armed so it’s a “fair” fight. Generally the skirmish quiets down in a few minutes and we resume our regularly scheduled lives.

But the business of sorting and eliminating and doling out the stuff my parents amassed during their marriage and raising us kids has stirred up more than memories and dust.

My brother and sister have been MIA for much of the sorting and purging. A fact that really annoys the crap out of me. Sure, my brother lives thousands of miles away, I understand that. But, then, if he can’t or doesn’t want to make the time to come to help then does he have any right to be upset about not laying claim to the long forgotten things he didn’t know he wanted until they ended up in my possession?

Never in a million years could my imagination have conjured the drama that is unfolding over, get this, Firesign Theater albums. I kid you not. Firesign Theater albums.

Way back in the olden days before cable people didn’t have Comedy Central, The Simpsons, or the VH1 skanks to provide them with humorous entertainment. I have vague recollections of those days. They weren’t as bleak as they sound. But what did people do when they wanted a laugh? Well, they went to Las Vegas to see comedians, they watched variety shows on TV and…they listened to something known as “comedy albums.”

My parents liked a good comedy album. Over the years they amassed quite a collection from the golden heyday of the comedy album. You might think listening to the same comedy bits over and over would get, erm, boring. Why would anyone buy a comedy album? After you’ve heard it once it’s not new and funny anymore. Well, true in some cases but back then comedy was smarter, funnier, more layered, more nuanced. And let me answer that question with a question: How many times have you watched Seinfeld reruns? Monty Python? The good seasons of SNL?

When my parents had a party it was an inevitability that at some point (usually after a few rounds of cocktails) the jazz and swing music on the hi-fi was replaced by a comedy album or two.

We had a groovy rockin’ hi-fi with a long spindle that could accommodate a tall stack of albums. This was the early caveman rudimentary form of a playlist. You stacked up the albums you wanted to hear and the hi-fi would play through them one at a time. (Albums are 12” black vinyl discs with grooves cut into them, that, when a needle is dragged over them at 33 1/3 RPM melodious magic comes out of the speakers.) Though my dad was all for superfluous multi-functionality in appliances (the more buttons, knobs, speeds, lights, gauges and dials the better) he was not a proponent of stacking records and using the auto-play feature on the hi-fi. When more than one album was in the stack the top album, on-play, had a tendency to slide on the album below it, causing the on-play album to “slide” which set the album into a speed other than 33 1/3 RPM and creating audio distortion.

In our house audio distortion was the 11th Commandment Moses couldn’t fit on the tablets. “Thou shalt not knowingly commit audio distortion.” Every time my dad hankered over the latest in music technology he used audio distortion as an excuse to procure it. “The old turntable motor can’t be tweaked anymore, the best I can get out of it is 32 1/3, the audio distortion is getting worse, time to replace it.” We had a black and white television far longer than I will publicly admit. When my friends came over I made sure we only watched reruns of really old shows that were in black and white because I was mortified that we didn’t have a color television. But what we lacked in living Technicolor we made up for in the latest symphonic audio technology. I didn’t appreciate this when I was really young, but as I grew into an amps at 11 Clash blaring pre-teen I was silently grateful my dad spent money on stereos instead of televisions.

Okay. So. One of the other reasons my dad didn’t like to stack records on the hi-fi spindle was because the albums kind of plopped down onto each other. My dad said this caused scuffs. Not scratches, scuffs. Those were the 12th and 13th commandments. “Thou shalt not scuff a record album,” and “Thou shalt not, ever, ever, scratch a record album.” Scuffs weren’t as bad as scratches, but to my dad a scuff was enough to banish an album to the “scuffed and scratched” area of the record shelf. Those records were taken out of regular rotation and usually banished to the basement after a year or so.

So stacking records was a no-no in our house. Unless my parents were having a party. That was the one time my dad would risk breaking some commandments and stack records. He’d spend all afternoon sorting through the albums and stacking them in what he thought was the perfect order for the party. (Like playlists or mix-tapes, the order of the album stack was crucial for setting the right mood at the right time.) About mid-way through the stack he’d place some comedy albums.

My dad was a huge fan of ‘60s and ‘70s comedy giants, the monsters of comedy albums: The Smothers Brothers, Bob Newhart, Mike Nichols and Elaine May, George Carlin and…Firesign Theater. Kids used to line up outside record shops the day a new album was going to be released by their favorite band. My dad used to be like one of those kids when a new Firesign Theater album was released.

I was far too young to understand the jokes or the type of humor, but, my parents used to sit around listening to those albums laughing so hard they’d cry or even beg for mercy because their stomachs hurt from laughing. I didn’t get the jokes, but I knew they were funny and I knew a measure of my maturity would be the day I “got” the jokes on those albums. I couldn’t wait for that day to arrive. I couldn’t wait for the day I was old enough to understand the jokes so that I could laugh as hard as my parents. Every now and then I’d come home from school and play one of those albums. “Funny yet? Nope. Okay, try again in a few months.”

Imagine my surprise when, in my junior high school years, I dragged out some of those albums and realized the jokes were about…drugs. Sex. Religion. Government. Topics “we” didn’t joke about in our house. Or so I thought up to that point. The albums that made my parents laugh so hard, the jokes that brought them to tears, were, gasp, naughty. Disrespectful. Insubordinate. And maybe even treasonous. I was shocked. And embarrassed. My parents understand drug jokes?! They’re laughing at jokes about God and Jesus? God and Jesus? They’re venerated, holy and should never, ever be deemed funny, right? And, oh God, no, please, no, not sex, not sex jokes, too!

I never thought of my parents as counter-culture types. Though looking back on it there were clues. They did refuse to accept the US news media spin on Viet Nam and watched only CBC and BBC news during the ‘Nam years, a habit that still remains. My mother wore a couple paisley halter dresses and tried yoga with one of my aunts back when yoga was viewed as too California and only for hash-imbibing hippies and kooks like Gomez Addams. They read banned books and allowed us kids to read them, too. My dad did grow out his curls one summer and affected a shorter, moderate version of the Robert Plant ‘do.

And the real proof of their antiestablishment leanings was laid out before me in the comedy albums they found side-splittingly funny. There in our living room on that fateful afternoon of my awareness there was a big, permanent shift in the paradigm of my parents. Everything I thought I knew about them was called into question. Everything they taught me, all the rules, the lessons, everything about them, was suspect and up for cross-examination.

Thank you, Firesign Theater, for making me realize my parents knew about drugs, sex and politics. And more than that, thank you, Firesign Theater, for educating me on the same topics.

So, obviously, I wanted those albums. They mean a lot to me. And my brother and sister didn’t express any interest in them and from what I recall they thought my parents were square and stupid for listening to them over and over.

Apparently I misread their opinions. Because when my mother mentioned to my brother that I came across all the Firesign Theater albums he immediately called me and accused me of absconding them before he and my sister had a chance to lay claim to them.

Okay. Now. They’re welcome to have them, there are enough of them that we can divide them between us and we’ll all have a hefty collection. But. The insinuation that I covertly absconded the albums really made me mad. And moreover, if he wanted them so badly why didn’t he make more of an effort to spend a few days helping sort and purge the contents of my parents’ house? Where was he when I was wearing my asthma inhaler like a SCUBA tank because of the dust and water damage to all the stuff in the basement and attic? Where was he when our mother came across something so sentimental that she lapsed into gasping crying jags? Where was he on all those schleps to the donation centers?

I know, I know. I’m up on a high horse. But here’s why. I was feeling bad, guilty, about not sending some of the albums to my brother (even though I had no idea he wanted them). And then he pulled the fatal kidney punch at me. After a heated discussion about the time and effort I've put into helping my mother sort through stuff, he said, “I don’t have the luxury of unemployment, I have to work, I can’t just spend days and weeks doing nothing but helping clean out the basement. I don’t have that luxury.”

Whoa. Wait a minute. He honestly used the words unemployment and luxury in the same sentence? Cleaning out our parents’ basement and attic are luxurious activities? Whoa. Whoa. Okay. Gloves are off, now. The first punch was thrown and even though I tried really hard to respond with a Snuggie® of compassion, ceci est mon frère and c’est la guerre.

Within an hour of the argument with my brother my sister sent me a scathing email. My brother wasted no time telling her about their dirty rotten little sister absconding the comedy albums.

“You weren’t even born when those albums were made. What do you want with them? You can’t possibly care about them. You can’t even understand the jokes.”

Whoa. Wait just a minute there, sis. True, many of those albums are older than me, but just how naïve and humorless do you think I am?

I’m not proud of what happened next.

You know in Harry Potter when there are spell-offs? Wands zapping as spells are hurled back and forth, lightening and thunder crashing around the wizards as they try to out-do each other with their spell prowess?

Yeah. Well. That was my sister and me hurling drug and sex knowledge back and forth at each other, trying to top each other with our knowledge of sex, drugs and what constitutes humor within those topics. Unfortunately for me my sister is older and did come of age in the late ‘60s. She does know a heck of a lot more about LSD than I do. Then again, is that really brag worthy? Fortunately for me, though, I’m a culture history buff and because I didn’t take LSD I’m clear headed with quick recall. Still. Not exactly brag worthy.

Taking a step back from all of this, I see the humor in the fact that we’re arguing over who gets the comedy albums. Other siblings argue over expensive jewelry, the heirloom silver, things of monetary and ancestral value. Us? We’re arguing over comedy albums that aren’t worth much, if they could even be hawked on eBay. Funniest of all is that what we deem of ancestral value is a stack of comedy albums from the ‘60s and ‘70s. The legacy we all cherish are my dad’s comedy albums.

Not a bad legacy to leave your children – laughter – but I gotta wonder if, upon review of his accomplishments in life, my dad would list, “Left a large collection of comedy albums for my children to fight over.”

And of course it’s not about the albums, it’s about what they represent. Laughter. Good times. Parties. Our parents spending an evening in fits of laughter in the living room. Our parents and their friends retelling the jokes and having yet more laughs. Our dad clandestinely elbow-nudging our mom and saying just a few key words of a joke rendering her weak in the knees laughing.

That’s why we all want those albums. And of course, taking another step back, it’s “easy” to rationalize that the albums aren’t important. It's the memories that matter. And us kids all have those memories.

I didn’t abscond the albums and I’m happily dividing them up and sharing them with my siblings. They’re not worth the low-blows and punches we've lobbed lately. The albums may not be the legacy my dad wanted to leave us, but I’m certain arguing and hurting each others’ feelings isn’t a legacy he wanted to create.

The idea that we could reach the point of not speaking to each other, starting a long standing feud, over comedy albums is not without an ironic twist of humor but it's not a path any of us want to take. I realized the real issue is that we're having to learn share. We're so different and so apart in ages that we never really had to share anything with each other. We weren't interested in each others' stuff. Very strange to realize that at this stage of our lives we're just now figuring out how to share with each other. The fact that what we all want, what we have to share, are laughs is a legacy worthy of our parents.

11:36 PM

 
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