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
Monday, November 01, 2010
Okay, I'm going to just say it. Come clean, just come right out and admit it, I've been living in the lie of silence, guilt by omission, for too long.
I'm going to let the truth set me free.
I like Cher.
So much so that I talked seven other people (and two accessories) to go as "The Stages of Cher" with me to a Halloween party.
And we won a prize. Money. Cash.
So, I want to say, "Thank you, Cher, for the $83 and 33¢ in my pocket."
Well, Cher can't get all the credit. Much credit also to MAF who, with a mere three cases of make-up and a lot of hairspray, artfully transformed all six of us regular schlumps (including two men) into the many glorious "Stages of Cher" (and two other men into accessories, Sonny and Greg Allman).
And I gotta say, the two men who became, and I do mean became 1986 Oscars Cher and "If I Could Turn Back Time" era Cher were startling doppelgangers. (None of us chicks had the confidence to attempt "If I Could Turn Back Time" era Cher - testament more to Cher's Cher-ness than to our self-esteem and body issues.)
My suburban mom friends channeled their inner Chers and slipped into their Cher eras, "Cheras" as they're known, to create their Cher-sonas: Moonstruck Cher, "Do You Believe in Life After Love" Cher, bio-hazard Silkwood Cher, Native-American/"Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" era Cher and Witches of Eastwick Cher became, you know, less suburban mom-ish and more, well, Cher-ish.
Because I have the boobs, legs and sense of humor to fill out a Bob Mackie-esque polyester halter jumpsuit (and already owned a pair of silver go-go sandals, don't ask) I was 1972 variety show era Cher. My friend's height-challenged husband was Sonny. (Ironically, his brother was Greg Allman, or All Man as he preferred to be called.)
What we immediately discovered is that people, almost everyone, likes Cher. We brought so many smiles to so many people it was like we were visual Prozac. Sure, it's funny, and Cher is funny, but she's also, you know, talented and aware and even, yes, a little vulnerable, so even in her most out-there get-ups there's still a tiny hint of, I swear it's true, humility, about her. Going out in public as the Stages of Cher (or Cheras) was liberating. Not only were we saying, "Yeah. We like Cher. You got a problem with that?" We were all more, well, happy. We liked being Cher, in any Chera, we liked pretending we had that kind of confidence, sense of fun and disregard for what anyone else thinks of us. I loved being Cher, even if for only a few hours. I loved being in the company of other Cheras. I love what it did to us, for us.
What this proves is that given enough alcohol, we all have an inner Cher, or at least the ability to attempt to find our inner Cher. And maybe we don't need Halloween and a costume and makeup to channel her. Maybe it would be good for all of us to say, "Today I am Cher. I have talent and a sense of humor. I will not take myself too seriously and I will succeed. And even if I fail, I will have tried, made the effort, put myself out there, which is a success in itself. It is more than most other people can say for themselves. The people who are not in touch with their inner-Cher."
Doubt me? Try it. Choose a Chera and pretend to have that attitude. See how it makes you feel. See how it transforms you.
So there it is. I feel good, better, to have this out in the open. I feel relieved and liberated to be out of the Cher closet.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
The Halloween Sunday "Dracula Brunch" at the local Hungarian/Romanian restaurant sounded like a fun way to celebrate Halloween. The special holiday-themed menu posted online offered plenty of options for the vegetarians and even the vegans. Eastern European food is not traditionally vegetarian but because of the promise of offerings for the non-animal-eating members of the group combined with Romanian wine tasting the group enthusiastically made a reservation.
Judgment blurred from the free and liberally flowing Carpathian-region wine offered by the proprietor, they didn't notice when one-by-one the vegetarians in the group didn't return from the pastry buffet.
They were unaware that vampires scoff at vegetarians and view them as cheap, disposable swill compared to the exquisite sweet nectar of meat-eaters' blood.
They were too drunk and too busy enjoying the Eastern European fare to realize the Halloween Dracula-themed brunch was nothing but an elaborate ruse to lure in trusting vegetarians so the vampire proprietors could ensnare the non-meat-eating patrons, let the young ones suck their blood as a holiday treat, then push their drained bodies into a cauldron and serve the up as an ironic Soylent Green ghoulash on the buffet for the meat eating patrons.
The next evening, when they gave accounts of their last sightings of their missing friends (all of whom happened to be vegetarian) to detectives, the Dracula Brunch diners wondered why the bloodhounds incessantly sniffed at their stomachs and lower GI regions.
