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

 
Friday, December 30, 2011  
...but not all of my family are mean, immature, unaware, hypocritical, shallow, narrow-minded, judgmental jerks.

Some of my family are actually really nice, funny, intelligent people. Most of them are senior citizens, and unfortunately they're dying at a fast pace.

We lost another one right before Christmas.

The recent death was a sad one for me. She was one of my few remaining Canadian relatives, a tough old broad raised in the Highlands who fled to the "tropical paradise" of rural Ontario, Canada.

She didn't want a funeral or memorial service. Her husband died several years ago. But. Her kids wanted to do something for her, or, more appropriately, for us, the remaining living family. Celebrate her life and spirit. All that.

Yadda yadda yadda off we went to a memorial "get together" for "Lynne."

But we went with some trepidation. Not because the memorial being was being held against the deceased's wishes, but because of the venue.

The venue chosen for the memorial is infamous in our family's history. It was the scene of an intestinal massacre that nearly wiped out our entire extended family one fateful summer evening when I was a kid.

My parents (and most of the other adults in the family) were never crazy about the restaurant. It was one of those overly-adorned sea-themed restaurants. Entrance festooned with buoys and a rope railing along a planked walkway, walls adorned with dusty fake seagulls and pelicans perched around nets filled with dusty shells hanging from the ceiling, and lobster traps spilling out dusty, faded fake lobsters and crabs. Some brass portholes and a large ship's wheel, lots of driftwood, starfish and broken shells. The female staff dressed like wenches and the male staff dressed, oddly, like gondoliers. The menu  had sections like "Reel 'em In" "Shell Game" and "For Land lubbers" and featured entrees with quaint seafaring names like "Flounderin' Around," "Call Me Calamari," and "Feelin' Crabby."

When I was a really young kid there was a special children's menu. Kids who ordered special selections were given a plastic dubloon or piece of eight at the end of their meal. The fake coins were taken to the front of the restaurant where there was a treasure chest full of small toys and candy. The fake coins could be traded for one treasure from the treasure chest. It was the highlight of the night even though the candy was old and flavorless (I recall a lot of those rootbeer barrel candies so old that the plastic wrapper stuck to them so tightly you couldn't peel it off the candy) and the small toys were even weirder and cheaper than cereal box toys. My brother contends that many of the toys were cereal box toys that were repurposed by the owner for the treasure chest.

The last time we were dragged to my relatives took us to the restaurant I was only 6 but I had a bad feeling about the place as soon as we entered. The treasure chest was empty except for some ornamental life preservers and a couple of oars sticking out of it. When we were seated I was not given a special kid's menu. Our waitwench told my parents the children's menu was discontinued but there was a children's selection area on the regular menu. Yes. The "treasure for the wee tots" gimmick was abandoned. I was disappointed. Shiver me timbers indeed. Little did we know those ornamental life preservers in the treasure chest were a scary foreboding metaphor of what was to come later that evening.

The more enthusiastic members of my family happily partook of Clammy Chowder, Hush Those Puppies, Call Me Calamari, Shrimpy the Cocktail and various sea animal entrees. I was going through my era of food enlightenment - I was starting to connect the dots between the food on my plate and the living animals the food on my plate used to be. I was also enthralled with an ornately illustrated and heavily tamed-down children's version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea wherein the sea creatures were cute, friendly, talkative and helpful. There was no way I was going to ingest anything on that menu other than a grilled cheese sandwich.

Turns out my early anthropomorphism/vegetarian inclinations spared me the fate that befell the rest of my family.

In the car on the way back to my relatives' house my dad and brother's stomachs started making funny noises. My sister's face turned a strange shade of green. My mother was sweating profusely. By the time we got to my relatives' house another car full of relatives had already arrived and there was a waiting line for the two bathrooms in the house. You might think a "women and children first" mentality would prevail, what with the seafaring theme of the evening, but no. It was every man, woman and child from themselves. My brother and cousin couldn't wait and got sick in the bushes on the side of the house. The mothers tried to aid their ailing children and husbands, but in the end they, too, were too ill to help anyone. Eventually Pepto Bismuth and cold cloths were administered to one and all, and the entire family, all 8 adults and seven children, were bunked on various beds, couches, chairs and air mattresses.

I was the only one who didn't get sick. Except for being grossed out by what I witnessed, heard and smelled, I was fine. Which was the first clue that "it" was food poisoning.

Yes. Initially some of the adults tried to rationalize that it was just a coincidence that the entire family came down with stomach flu at the same time. "There's a nasty 24 hour bug going around the kids' school..."

My father and uncle kept squashing the flu theories. "No way. It was that [expletive] [expletiving] flounder/lobster/crab!" They groaned and turned odd colors as they said the name of the food. The evidence was mounting. Either I was the only one who was somehow freakishly immune to the alleged stomach flu strain or the seafood was tainted. Finally almost all the adults admitted that it was food poisoning.

Some of the adults wistfully said, "Well, at least the child was spared..." 

Just to be safe, my mother isolated me from the rest of the family. Just in case it was stomach flu and I didn't catch it my mother wanted to spare me the pain and suffering. While the rest of the family was in gastrointestinal distress elsewhere in the house, I was camped out on an air mattress in the den, tucked in with a blanket and an old black and white television. Later that night, in the wee hours of the morning, my brother crept into the den. He was feeling a little better and feeling a lot dehydrated. He came into the den gingerly sipping water. I'm not sure what woke me - the creak of the door or my brother's stench. He dropped into the comfy chair and grabbed a blanket.

Even though he smelled really bad, I was excited that my brother was going to camp out with me. My relatives' house was old and kind of creepy, the den was on the first floor and the window didn't have curtains so the moon cast weird shadows and the black and white television didn't offer a lot of comfort. My 6-year-old imagination and too many reruns of the Twilight Zone were getting the best of me. I was glad my brother was there. Plus I was still young enough to idolize my brother and I delighted in any second of time that he chose to spend with me.

It's also an oddly pivotal moment in my life. It was the first time I remember feeling like I was legitimized by my brother, that I wasn't just some little pipsqueak, I actually had cerebral merit.

As only teenaged boys can, my brother, in a deadpan sardonic tone, started mocking through his misery, making fun of the entree names. "Flush Puppies," "Feelin' Crappy," "Caustic Calamari," "Dysentery Dungeoness Crab" "Lobster Shits." I joined in the fun, and soon we were making up grossed-out names for food that wasn't even on the menu. It was probably my brother's weakened physical state that lowered his resolve to ridicule me, but I thought I'd finally grown up enough to be taken seriously when it came to mockery.

Buoyed by my new found acceptance and gift of food mockery, I departed from entree names and started renaming restaurants. It was a risk, but it paid off. My brother joined in and we made up a legion of disgusting restaurant names. And then it happened. I attained the apex of mockery. I arrived. I was not a little kid anymore, I was a viable mocking entity. 

Because, in a moment of serendipitous symbiosis, we simultaneously blurted out the name the restaurant would henceforth be known as in my family. By the next afternoon, even the more genteel female members of the family, even my mother, started calling the restaurant by our nickname.

The name of the restaurant was Cap'n Pat's.

But after that night it was forever known as Crappin' Pants.

No subsequent family gathering was complete without a joke about Crappin' Pants. And every time someone said Crappin' Pants I felt a tingle of pride. I came up with that. All by myself. My brother came up with it, too, but we hit upon it independently at the same time. So I felt righteous for originating the name that would go down in family history. And at such a young and tender age, too.

After a few laughs about Crappin' Pants and some "oh, what a horrible night that was" comments, a couple of my relatives would try to defend it. "Lynne" (who recently died) was quick to admonish the jokes and say, "Oh, come now, it was just the one time..."

Others would say, "Just the one time? Botulism only needs the one time. 'Cap'n Pat,' if that is his real name, nearly killed the entire family and you're defending him?" 

"Lynne" would continue to defend Cap'n Pat, "You know how it is with seafood. It can turn on you like that. Can happen to anyone."

Almost everyone involved refused to ever step foot in Crappin' Pants again, but we were all pretty sure one couple returned to the scene of the crime and ate there on a regular basis.  We were all pretty sure "Lynne" and her husband continued to dine there.

So it was no real surprise that "Lynne's" memorial was held at Crappin' Pants.

But during the entire drive to the memorial my mother muttered and sputtered, "I cannot believe they're having the memorial at Crappin' Pants."  Every time she said Crappin' Pants I giggled. All these years later it's still funny to hear my mother say Crappin' Pants. And even funnier in the context of a memorial service.

Crappin' Pants was scarily untouched by time. The layer of dust was a lot thicker and the sea themed tchothckes were more faded, the waitstaff wears jeans and Cap'n Pat's emblazoned t-shirts instead of wench and gondolier outfits, but other than that it was mostly unchanged. The treasure chest with life preservers and oars was still there and the menu still has "cute" entree names.

We sent "Lynne" off with a memorial she didn't want. But I'm pretty sure she'd be okay with the low key affair in the Longboat Room of Crappin' Pants. Many of the survivors of the original Crappin' Pants massacre were in attendance. Once again, I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. Because I was the only one infamously unscathed in the original disaster, several people took my lead. Our waitperson was clearly displeased and confused by the preponderance of grilled cheese orders. Whatever. Dine at your own risk. The intestine you save may be your own. There were many comments along the lines of, "Go ahead! Order the Lobster Bisque and Hush Puppies! After all, it was just the one time the entire family was nearly wiped out from them!"

Poor old Cap'n Pat. With "Lynne" gone there's no one left to defend him, at least not mockingly. And poor us. "Lynne" was like that with everyone, not just Cap'n Pat. She never carried a grudge and always let bygones be bygones, and always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Even if it involved serving tainted food.

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