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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or Search by State

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Contact The Media
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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

 
Tuesday, February 16, 2010  
Woohoo!! I survived Valentine's Day 2010!!! Rock on to that, eh?! AND, even better, I don't have to breathe in the stench of rotting roses in the office as the days after February 14 progress. See? Unemployment does have some advantages.

So, as you noticed, I'm full of Twit, now.

And since I'm trying to be all hip with the latest technology the cool kids are using I took a spin on the Rock Band wheel.

I know. It seems like I would have done this long before now. What with the air guitar shredding and all. But I haven't had access to an XBox and the game.

Well, everything's changed, now. One good thing about all my friends getting married, having kids and moving to the suburbs: All the expensive stupid junk the kids want (and their indulgent parents buy) is at my disposal.

Enter: Rock Band for XBox.

Oh rock on.

Rock. On.

Or not.

Unfortunately my Rock Band experience wasn't as mirthful as anticipated.

A little history of me and the guitar is necessary to fully grasp what happened on that fateful XBox Rock Band day.

When I was a very little girl my brother's bedroom was down the hall from mine and my sister's. I shared a common wall with my sister so I was constantly, and I do mean constantly, barraged by the Beatles. If my sister was home she was playing a Beatles record. Even when she slept. (Hence my deeply rooted loathing and contempt for the Beatles.) One day I heard the siren call from down the hall. It lured me toward my brother's room. His door was closed but I could hear it. I sat on the floor in front of his door, spellbound, seduced, by the intoxicating axe grinding emanating from my brother's room.

I thought his room was a portal to Heaven or Hell. I wanted to go either place. Wherever that music came from was where I was meant to be. I knew it. I just knew it. And if it was the sounds of Hell, then so be it. (Jesus was still my imaginary friend so I thought I was covered if it turned out to be Hell.) It spoke to me, deeply. It didn't touch my soul. It reached in, grabbed it, put it in a choke hold and has never let go.

The seducer, my salvation from the Beatles, my savior and demonic possessor? Jimi Hendrix. I'd sit outside my brother's door for hours in a wide-eyed, near drooling reverie. Occasionally my brother, who was learning to play guitar, would jam along with Jimi. That bothered me at first because my brother kind of sucked at guitar and his cacophonous guitaring interfered with the message my seducer was sending me through his music.

To his credit, my brother did improve and eventually I didn't mind so much. I honestly thought Hendrix was in my brother's room, teaching him how to play. The fact that Hendrix was dead alluded me. But when my brother scoffingly made me aware of that fact I simply assumed that Hendrix, like Jesus, was resurrected and giving guitar lessons behind closed doors of teenagers' bedrooms. Of course. Duh.

I patiently waited for my turn to learn to play guitar. I figured in the mean time I'd take in every note of every song so that when it was my turn to learn from Jimi I'd be ready. I'd know the songs so "all" I'd have to do was learn to play guitar and then I'd be a rock goddess. Of course. Duh. I was pretty sure when Jimi showed up in my bedroom he wouldn't be impressed with the Beatles (Jesus hated the Beatles so naturally I assumed Jimi did, too). When my brother cast off some of his boyhood ephemera I absconded some of it, especially the classic Hendrix poster. I put it on the back of my bedroom door. I thought that poster was some sort of sign to saintly Jimi. "Hendrix welcome here, Jimi, stop this way."

When Jimi didn't show up, guitar in hand and offering music lessons, I blamed my sister and her Beatles. I though Jimi came by to teach me guitar, heard the Beatles from my sister's room, mistook it as emanating from my room and thinking I was a lame Beatles fan, passed me by and went on his way to some other kids' room. (And you wonder where my contempt and loathing for the Beatles comes from? Issues? What issues?) So much for learning to play guitar from resurrected Jimi Hendrix.

Suffice it to say I have yet to learn to play guitar and I am not a legendary rock goddess. I play a mean air guitar, I shred air with the best of them. But put an actual guitar in my hands and it's disturbing and wrong on levels I can't articulate. I suck. (Flinching from the bitter pain of a broken dream. Lip-quivering whimpering, "but, but, but..." and a single, poignant tear makes its way down my cheek.)

My parents gently suggested a more age and eye-hand coordination neutral instrument so I opted to learn to play clarinet in the school band. Whatever. I knew it was lame then, I know it's lame now. But it turned out that I had a bit of natural aptitude for the darned thing and spent my formative years in first chair in various school bands and orchestras. Laugh all you want. Make the Kenny G jokes. Go ahead. I'm laughing with you. It's lame and only proved to enhance my reputation as a five-star geek in my already awkward teenaged years. Especially since I kicked it up a notch and learned the oboe and Kenny G's instrument, the soprano sax, too. Yes. I was very woodwindy. It doesn't salve the wound of my broken rock goddess dream, but hey, at least I can play something.

Ahhhhh, but...Rock Band! Perhaps salvation? Bwa ha ha. Exzcellent.

Or not.

Straight onto the stage there was a problem. The same problem I encountered when I attempted to learn to play a real guitar: Discrimination. Bias from the right majority. And I don't get that. There are left handed guitar players. Even a few good ones. Jimi, my lord and savior, of course, and one of my latter day saints, Kurt Cobain, are left-handed players of note.

With real guitars there are workarounds for left handed would-be guitarists. Learn to play right handed. Or. Buy and learn to play a guitar specifically made to be played left handed. Or re-string a right-handed guitar (not as simple as it sounds since guitar strings are different diameters). Or, just flip over a right-handed guitar and play it upside-down and backwards.

Unfortunately my forays into legendary guitar rock goddessing were all thwarted by issues resulting from all of those methods. I can tell you from painful experience that none of those alternatives is a "good" solution. Even a left-handed guitar is only as good as the instruction you receive. Having a right-handed guitarist teaching a left-handed student is fraught with complications.

Oh. And apparently I have no natural ability to play an actual guitar. (Oh yeah, that.) I made several attempts that ended in frustration, tears and depression. And in one case, a huge fight with my brother that he still uses to lord over me. Whenever it's apparent I can do something better than him and he feels threatened by his little sister he turns to me (his little sister) and says, "So, did you ever learn to play guitar?" Translation: "Remember all the times I tried to teach you how to play guitar and you were too stupid to figure out how to play right-handed or upside-down and backwards? Ha ha. You suck and I don't because I can play a guitar."

The realization in my late teens that I might have to get a real job because my plans to be a legendary rock guitar goddess might not work out as I hoped was a crushing blow. (Little did I know there would be a willing audience for Kenny G, even if it is the dentist office Lite FM audience, Kenny G is a God among that crowd.) Lessons with real guitar instructors and my learn-on-my-own sessions all ended with me in a lip-quivering moment of disappointment, a poignant tear rolling down my cheek, and me meekly whimpering "but, but, but, Hendrix...he's left-handed...but, but, but, I was going to be a legendary rock goddess..."

Shudder.

The frustration and disappointment took a heavy emotional toll on me. I put the dream on hold for a while, thinking one day I'd find a good left-handed guitarist to teach me and then I could be a legendary rock goddess. I continued with my clarinet lessons, picked up oboe and sax, and had a band teacher who had a restrung cello lying around (doesn't everyone?) and I sated my rock goddess dreams through those orchestral instruments. I wasn't great at cello but I rocked the clarinet, oboe and soprano sax. And no, I don't sit around listening to Kenny G shaking my fist in the air screaming, "It could have been me!" (Squidward, though...Squidward rocks his clarinet.)

But every now and then I'd make another attempt at guitar. There were some lessons from alleged "great teachers." There were boyfriends who tried to teach me. There were books read and a learn-at-home video. Which was more humorous than instructional. Imagine Bob Ross teaching guitar instead of painting. But the end-result always included disparaging remarks about my left-handed proclivities and inability to play a right-handed guitar.

So, this Rock Band thing. I assumed the guitars used for Rock Band were right/left oriented and I assumed there would be a few issues. I knew my friends wouldn't have a left-handed console guitar but since actual strings aren't involved I thought this might be the perfect compromise for my chord challenged hands.

Yeah.

Not so much.

My friends' 5-year-old who's never had a music lesson and probably has never even heard Jimi Hendrix kicked my ass. Okay, that's to be expected. Kids today. Pfft.

And then...it happened. My friends and their 5-year-old fired up their latest Rock Band component. The Beatles. The swutting Beatles.

"Hey, Trill!!! You can be McCartney, he's left handed!" my friend jubilantly proclaimed.

"But without a left-handed guitar it's literally a moot point," I countered.

"Just play it upside-down," he enthusiastically counter-countered.

And so it came to pass that on a dark night in the suburbs I was standing in front of a 6 foot wide screen with an upside down guitar console strapped around me, accompanied by two of my friends and their five-year-old attempting to play "Come Together."

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

And I suck. I can't even play a fake guitar. And there was McCartney staring back at me, taunting me, mocking me.

The five-year-old called a band meeting and I was kicked out of the band faster than Pete Best.

Whatever.

On the up side, though, the Lego game for Rock Band is pretty darned funny. That provided me with hours of sophomoric entertainment and the Super-Easy mode allowed me to play a song beginning to end.

Here's the thing. McCartney is left-handed. I assume he's making gazillions of dollars off the Rock Band game. And yet...my friend informed me there's not a left-handed guitar console available for Rock Band. Huh? Seriously? "Just flip it upside down and change the strap," is the workaround.

On principle I'm now officially mad at XBox.

When, when will the discrimination end??? When will our public shame turn to peaceful coexistence?

But wait. Just you wait. When Kenny G for Rock Band comes out I'm going to kick ass.

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