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

 
Wednesday, May 05, 2010  
Moment of silence for Ernie Harwell. If you're not a baseball fan or you're a non-Detroiter ignore this post.

The problem with good guys, strong voices that can be trusted and respected, is that they are, in fact mortal. And they die. They leave great memories, but their voices are silenced and somehow that doesn't seem, well, right. The world seems quieter, but not in a good way. A "something's missing" way.

Ernie Harwell.

Synonymous with the Tigers and Summer. The first thing that comes to mind when I hear the words The Tigers or Summer is Ernie's voice coming from a small portable radio in the garage. Or car radio or transistor radios on boats and beaches. He's so woven into the fabric of summer it's an instantaneous reaction.

My dad always turned on that old, beat up portable radio in the garage as he worked in the yard and puttered around the garage in summer. If he was in the back yard, he'd make periodic treks to the garage to catch up with the game. My dad grew up a Norwegian immigrant in Minnesota. Hockey, skiing and football were the only sports that mattered up there, but he was curious about baseball, he wanted to love it because it's so American. My dad loved anything that screamed American. When GM called my dad to Detroit (also because it didn't get any more American than General Motors) he never let go of his allegiance to the Vikings, but, he latched onto the Red Wings and Tigers like a newborn baby. He was a Tigers' fan, loyal and proud. And that was due, in large part, to Ernie Harwell. When he and my mother moved to Detroit they tuned their radios into WJR. There was Ernie, announcing the games. They used to go to the games with friends. Both my parents were enthusiastic about having a home team. It fed their craving to be just like any other American. And Ernie, the voice of the Tigers, was so enthusiastic and seemed like such a nice guy...how could you not be a Tigers fan? How could you not love baseball?

Ernie's voice drifted from the radio in the garage through the screen doors and throughout the house. Other dads in the neighborhood did the same thing. So as you rode your bike around the neighborhood on a sunny early Summer afternoon, drifting on the warm breeze were the prisms of water drops spewed from sprinklers spinning in spirals, the smell of barbecues and lilacs, the sound of lawn mowers...and Ernie's voice calling the Tigers' game. As you rode between houses Ernie would fade in and out, in a sort of Doppler effect. Bucolic. It's the definition of modern bucolic.

I think of Ernie as the narrator of my childhood summers. Even though he only called Tigers' games, in my memory, in my imagination, he called my entire Summer vacation. It's his voice I hear when I think about anything related to The Tigers or Summer. "And she's off, Trillian takes to the sand, it's a lovely day here on Lake Huron, it looks like Trillian's ready for a big day, oh yes, here she goes, she's winding up, going for a third pail of water, yes, yes, that's it, she's done it! She has a moat! She made a sand castle fit for the highest nobility! Right there on the banks of Lake Huron, oh my goodness the stands are going wild!"

You know the song, "Boys of Summer?" Of course you do. I like that song. Maybe I'm weird (no comment necessary) but whenever I hear it, in the faint, distant background of the melody I swear I hear Ernie Harwell calling a Tigers' game. Logically I know it's just my imagination captured by the aural incense of a well crafted song, but still...when I mention that phenomenon to anyone from Michigan they get a faraway look in their eye and agree with me. "You're right, Trill, I do hear Ernie!" (I wonder if Glenn Frey, also a suburban Detroit native, feels the same way about his band mate's solo hit...)

One of my earliest memories is riding home from a Tigers' game in the backseat of the family Pontiac. It was a hot mid-Summer night. We'd been to a Tigers' game, possibly my first, I was probably four-years-old. The game must have gone extra innings because it was really late. I fell asleep at the game, I vaguely remember my dad carrying me out of the old Tigers' stadium and my brother protesting that I ruined everything, it wasn't fair that we had to leave early because I was tired. (As an adult I can see his point - it wasn't fair to him that his tired little sister couldn't hack an extra inning game.)

As we drove on I-75 there was a moment of sensual serendipity that has stayed with me ever since. It is my happy place. When I can't sleep, when I'm stressed (which is a lot, these days) I take a second to go to my happy place, and this is it, this is the one safe, beautiful, happy place I rely on to calm me.

I was pulled out of my drowsy backseat slumber by my mother gently saying to my dad, "Oh look, the Northern Lights are spectacular tonight." I vaguely remember seeing her gently reach over and touch my dad's elbow, her arm silhouetted against the dashboard lights. Back then (which makes me sound really old, "Back then...") once you got a few miles out of the city there wasn't much light pollution. Anyone from Michigan knows - night is dark in Michigan, really dark. The Michigan night sky is uniquely dark, though. Deep blue velvety hues, not a solid color, there are subtle variations to the deep blues. And dotted with stars of all sizes and luminosity. I presume it has something to do with the lakes, being surrounded by huge bodies of water must have some effect on the color of the sky. I dunno. It's different, it's pretty, who cares why? But, back then, especially when the heat index was at its peak and the Northern sky was especially clear, you could see the Northern Lights. Sometimes brilliant, sometimes faint, sometimes really colorful, sometimes just soft shades of white, but for a few magical nights you could see them flickering in the Northern sky. We'd all go out into the backyard, all the neighbors would, too, and just stand there in the silent, hot Summer night looking at them.

Okay, so there we were driving home from a Tigers' game, heading North on I-75.  My mother spotted the Northern Lights, the excitement of which woke me. I was in a sleepy cotton candy/Cracker Jack/Vernor's daze. I remember this vividly: I turned my head from my left shoulder to the right, to rest it on the car door (this was before car seats or even seat belt laws). My head felt like lead but I wanted to see the Northern Lights, so I managed to rest my head on the car door, positioned so that I could look up and out the car window at the Northern Lights. My eyes were at sleepy half mast but the sky was so beautiful I couldn't close them, I couldn't stop looking at the Northern Lights. The Pontiac's tires on the pavement made a gentle hum in my ear resting on the car door. And from the other side of the back seat my brother, with his mitt in his lap, was practicing his Ernie Harwell impersonation, re-calling the game we'd just seen, word-for-word, inning by inning. My brother was replaying the Tigers' game, impersonating Ernie Harwell's narration. Driving through the night on I-75, the Northern Lights flickering so bright and so close you could almost touch them, the hum of the Pontiac's tires steady and strong, my parents in the front seat, a belly full of cotton candy, Cracker Jacks and Vernor's, and my brother impersonating Ernie Harwell. Even then, even as a young kid, I knew this was a special kind of bliss. Everything, right then, at that moment, was perfect. And it's Ernie's voice I hear narrating that perfect moment.

And oh, the beauty of AM radio. Sometimes you can pick up an AM signal from a freakishly far distance. On car trips, family vacations, my dad tried to tune in WJR to keep up with the Tigers. No matter where we were, all over the country, I'd prod him to tune in WJR to see if we could hear Ernie (or J.P. McCarthy) in far flung places. Once my dad was able to tune in WJR as we drove through Kansas City (must have been a clear day with good trade winds). That was the thrill of that vacation. I even wrote about it as a highlight to my summer vacation when I returned to school in the fall.

When my parents had friends over for barbecues, if the Tigers were playing, the radio was tuned into WJR and Ernie Harwell was a guest at the party. It wasn't just the men who were interested in the game. The women would cheer and raise a glass in toast when there was a score. The sound of the crack of a ball on bat made everyone listening at the barbecue go silent and hold their breath, listening to Ernie calling the subsequent play, hoping for a jubilant Ernie proclaiming a home run. All across the neighborhoods all across the city and state, this backyard scenario was played out  - the question might not be how many games did Ernie call, but how many barbecues did Ernie entertain? Millions, I'm certain of it.

And so many boys, not just my brother, grew up impersonating Ernie. My brother still does this - play-by-play commentary of everything, anything,  while impersonating Ernie, "Mum opens the oven door, and ahhh, yes, there we have it, it's, it's PIE!!! The fans are going crazy tonight!"

Some things are so special, so unique to Detroit, that unless you grew up there, lived it, it's probably difficult to understand the romance, fondness and affection those of privileged to live have for the sounds of Detroit. It's because Detroit had such strong voices, such distinct sounds. J.P. McCarthy's Music Hall and Focus, Sir Graves Ghastly's laugh, Bill Bonds' alcoholic on-air rants, Olly Fretter tempting with five pounds of coffee, the rev of engines on Woodward or Eight Mile, local musicians getting played on the radio and getting national fame, music drifting into the night from Pine Knob...but Ernie Harwell, his voice is the one we hear as the steady, sure, reliable voice of Detroit.

Thanks, Ernie.

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