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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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, April 20, 2011  
So, if you are (painfully) aware that you and your life have become sad clichés are you merely pathetically cliché or does your awareness grant you the right to be humorously ironic?

I think there's a very thin line between the two and I would caution everyone to stay far away from both. Avoid that area altogether.

I've been flirting dangerously close to that line for a few years. But heed my warning. I'm there, now. And even though there are moments of humor, mostly I'm depressed, embarrassed, frustrated and scared.

Oh sure, it's kind of funny when something cliché happens, the stuff of sitcoms and movies starring Seth Rogan or Owen Wilson. But trust me, it's funnier on screen than in real life.


My mother's having some health issues and has been bouncing between hospital and rehabilitation centers and will be doing so for the next few weeks.

Okay, well, one positive aspect of being unemployed is that I can help her. So, I'm staying at my parents house. Alone. This is the first time I've been in my parents' house alone, overnight, since college. So I have that teenaged sense of woohoo! home alone! crank Dad's stereo and eat Doritos in the living room feeling, a la pretty much every '80s teen movie.

Yes. I have lived on my own for a lot of years and I can crank my stereo and eat Doritos (and wash them down with booze) whenever and wherever I want.

But something about your parents' house prompts that giddy sense of freedom, that feeling of new, on the precipice of adulthood freedom, freedom to do whatever you want within a controlled environment.

I told you it's pathetic. 

I may have discovered why grown people, intelligent people, choose to live in their parents' basements. I always thought people who are capable of living on their own but choose to live with their parents are a) immature, b) lazy, c) spoiled, d) emotionally "off," e) controlled by domineering mothers, or f) all of the above. But now I'm starting to realize it might be a lot more complex than how it appears on the surface.

For me and a lot of other fortunate people, my parents' home has always been a safe, calm, happy place. Sure, there are rules and an expected modicum of behavior, but it's generally a comfortable, safe place. Nothing bad happens at your parents' house. I know, I'm lucky. Not everyone is raised in that kind of environment. But for those of us who were, it's a nice safe haven.

But I haven't spent more than a few hours alone in my parents' home since college and that is triggering some weird behaviors. See above, cranking the stereo and eating Doritos.

It's all fun and games until someone's pride gets wounded.

So, a couple nights ago I may have had the stereo volume a little louder than, you know, necessary. And I may have been jumping around a little more than necessary.

I realize that I am well past the crank the stereo and jump off the couch air guitaring age, and I realize that I am not, in fact, Pete Townshend. But. I had a long day with my mother and her doctors. I had a bunch of chores to do including a huge stack of laundry and I unearthed some of my brother's old LPs in a closet so I threw on a little music and I guess somehow I turned up the stereo a little louder than necessary and "We Won't Get Fooled Again" sort of got the best of me and for a moment, there, it was glorious and I guess I didn't hear the doorbell and yadda yadda yadda my parents' friends who were feeling sorry for me and dropping off a casserole and a cinnamon bundt cake looked through the front window and caught me jumping off the living room couch with a mid-air air guitar windmill.

Mid-air, half-splits and windmill on my phantom guitar I noticed two senior citizens looking into the the window, hands cupped at the window for a better, glare-free look to see if anyone was home or if the stereo was blaring the Who all on its own.

Oh. And. I wasn't wearing pants. Or underwear. Just a beat up Red Wings jersey and socks.

Yes. I shot my parents' friends a beaver. A mid-air beaver with accompanying windmill guitar shred. My mother has sheer curtains under the regular drapes so it's possible they didn't get a clear view of the beav through the sheer curtains...but we're splitting (pubic) hairs, here. 

No, there wasn't a bag of Doritos strewn about the coffee table, but there was a bag of veggie chips open on the counter in the kitchen. Which my parents' friends saw when I finally found some pants and let them in the house.

Embarrassing? Humiliating? Shameful? Degrading? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

My mother's in a physical rehabilitation "facility" and her unemployed financially destitute loser adult daughter is half naked jumping off couches with the stereo blasting the Who.

I know it's cliché and pathetic. I was very aware of that before I turned up the stereo. But I did it anyway.

And no, I am not harboring Risky Business fantasies. I was doing laundry and my jeans were in the dryer and my pjs were mid-spin cycle. Hence my lack of pants.

Fortunately I've known these friends of my parents for a long time and they thought it was funny, but, we can all presume there will be awkward pauses and awkward deflected looks the next time I see them.

If I were a teenager this behavior would be expected. But. I'm not a teenager. Not even close.

If booze were somehow involved it could be explained. But alcohol was not a factor.

If I had friends over and we were having a party it would still be a little weird, but explainable, dismissible. But I was alone. Painfully alone.  

If I had young children to entertain it could be explained. But. I don't have children. And my nearest niece was 75 miles away at the time.

If I had a job, any job, it would still be embarrassing, but the unemployed/financially destitute angle adds a disturbing element to the whole thing.

And the casserole and bundt cake...I mean, it just makes me feel even worse. Here these nice people were feeling so sorry for me that they made me food and packaged it all up in a cute basket festooned with a ribbon and handwritten cooking instructions for the casserole....and there I was jumping off couches without pants.

I think it's the bundt cake that makes it all the more degrading. There's something pure and innocent and nice about bundt cakes. A grown woman who cranks her parents' stereo and jumps off their living room couch without wearing pants does not deserve a bundt cake. A woman like that tarnishes - besmirches - a bundt cake.

And it was taking place in the living room! If it had been the family room...a bedroom... perhaps in the shower...but no. The living room. The most formal room in the house. How could I sully the living room's reputation like that?

I'm pretty sure the only way this could have been worse is if I had some stoner guy there splayed out on the floor with a bong. (Where's my head banger stoner neighbor when I really need him?) But then, that would give me an "excuse." In the retelling of the story, the boyfriend would be blamed. My parents' friends would say something like, "Trillian's going through a rough time...unemployed...and that fellow she's dating...she's vulnerable...he's no good for her...her self esteem is hurting what with the unemployment..."

But no. There's no stoner boyfriend. Just me and my brother's old scratched copy of Who's Next and my dad's stereo. And no pants.

And a cinnamon bundt cake.

Oh, and did I mention that this is an old stereo and there is a stack of quarters taped to the needle arm to prevent the needle from skipping across a 33 1/3 rpm vinyl LP?

Yeah. It gets more pathetic with each element.

Which is somehow fitting. I feel like this is what I deserve, this is exactly where I deserve to be and how pathetic my life deserves to be. I lost my financé, I lost my job, I'm losing my home, I've lost every tiny shred of pride I had left. I have failed in every aspect of my life. And failures live at home with their parents listening to old scratched records left behind by older siblings. The pantlessness is just a nice touch I apparently felt a need to add.

And that is my epiphany about people who live in their parents' basements. They're in the basement to spare their parents the embarrassment of their behavior. If I'd been hermitting away in my parents' basement my parents' friends would have heard the music but would have been spared the pantsless air guitar demonstration. And so, with that I guess I'll be joining the ranks of the "weird people" who live in their parents' basements. I suppose we all knew it was going to come to this sooner or later.

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