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
Friday, June 18, 2004 Hate New York City
Really? Why? It's cold and it's damp
But at least it's not hot and steamy and dry and on fire half the year.
And all the people dressed like monkeys
If by monkey you mean dressed in suits and business appropriate attire, then what's wrong with that? You prefer Daisy Duke cut-offs and belly shirts? Let's leave Chicago to the Eskimos
Okay, call me an Eskimo.
That town's a little bit too rugged
For you and me you bad girl
Rugged? Maybe. But only the strong survive. It builds character.
Rollin' down the Imperial Highway
Rollin'? Really? More like crawlin' in traffic.
With a big nasty redhead at my side
What? No peroxide blondie?
Santa Ana winds blowin' hot from the north.
And spreading fires.
And we was born to ride
Good you were born to ride because you'll be spending a lot of time in that car. Roll down the window put down the top
Breathe in the smog, the smoke and exhaust from the thousands of other vehicles on the road with you.
Crank up the Beach Boys baby
Okay, fine, Pet Sounds is one of the best recordings. Ever. But. One great album does not a music "scene" make. Don't let the music stop
We're gonna ride it till we just can't ride it no more
Which is a good attitude because in California traffic you'll be spending a lot of time behind the wheel.
From the South Bay to the Valley From the West Side to the East Side
Everybody's very happy
'Cause the sun is shining all the time
Looks like another perfect day
I love L.A. (We love it)
(I hate it)
I love L.A. (We love it)
(I hate it)
Look at that mountain
It's right there, through the haze. Look at those trees
They're charred from the blaze.
Look at that bum over there, man
The homeless are so inspiring. He was a child actor.
He's down on his knees
Praying to find a place he can afford to live or his next big break.
Look at these women
There ain't nothin' like 'em nowhere
Because most of their body parts contain no human DNA.
Century Boulevard (We love it)
(I hate it) Victory Boulevard (We love it)
(I hate it) Santa Monica Boulevard (We love it)
Sixth Street (We love it, we love it)
I love L.A.
I love L.A.
(We love it)
(good for you)
LA LA LA LA LA
What amazes me most about Los Angeles is that there are people who really do love it. People you think would otherwise know better. Semi-sane, semi-reasonable, semi-intelligent people. People not affiliated with the entertainment biz. People who have regular jobs earning regular money live in near squalor and spend hours on their daily commutes just because they love LA.
"But anywhere else in the country you'd be able to afford a really nice house and would have to commute, at most, an hour..." I counter to their insistence that LA is the only place to live. They get defensive. I shut up.
I do not intend to start a debate (or arguments) about whether or not LA or New York or Chicago or London or wherever is the best place to live. I'm just saying, Los Angelesians, in fact most Californians are very defensive about their home city/state. Randy Newman even wrote that song. But why so defensive? If it's so great, shouldn't it be obvious to everyone who visits? Community pride is a great thing, and it's good the people who live there love it. They'd be miserable anywhere else, and they'd make the rest of us miserable with their whining about how nothing is as good as it is in California.
Those of us who prefer not to live in a cesspool of human indignity will stay away or visit only when absolutely necessary and get out as soon as possible.
However.
There are things to love about LA.
Primary among them: Food.
Or more to the point: Food obsession.
Vegetarian, a naughty, taboo word back in Chicago, the land of stockyards, chop houses, deep dish pizza and those hot dogs, is de rigueur here in LA. Vegan, a term few people know how to properly pronounce let alone define in other parts of the US, is not only understood but embraced in LA. That is if statements like: "I was vegan for a year a few years ago, but then I switched to Atkins. It's hard to not eat meat on Atkins, and I lost so much weight on Atkins, and it's so much easier than vegan, so, you know, I, like, can't be a vegan and do Atkins so now I do Atkins." qualifies as understanding. (People out here "do" things - everything. They "do" Atkins or South Beach, they "do" meetings, and yes, they "do" lunch except I've yet to see any actual food consumed while doing lunch.)
Anorexia is not only an accepted norm, but an admirable goal.
Complete buffoons, moronic, gray matter challenged people who are unable to complete a whole thought on any other topic can describe, in Hawking-esque detail, food theory, metabolic rate, the molecular decomposition of any food item and what it does once digested, and of course, their food intake history.
Part of me (sadly, I admit, an huge part of me) says, "I'm home."
A land where food issues are normal, expected and regaled.
I stupidly got involved in a conversation about the weight/appearance of a woman who called in sick and is unable to uphold her assignment on the project we are working on here. The conversation was with a client and two women (Californians) working on the project with us, on as a substitute for the absentee woman.
The client expressed concern for the health and well being of the absentee woman. The two women working with/for her bemoaned the absentee woman's family for putting her in "one of those food camps where they make you eat and do therapy." Yes. Apparently the woman has an eating disorder - which out here is not viewed as a disorder but as a regular way of life. The women insisted to the client and I that there is nothing "wrong" with her, she "totally has her diet in control" and that 600 calories a day is a lot of food if you do it right.
Ah yes, the calorie numbers game. The scale by which women judge their worthiness as a human being. I know this game. I'm a retired champion. 600 calories is the long standing benchmark for anorexics. It's the equivalent to, "I'm not an alcoholic, I only have one or two beers after work."
One of the girls then took a page from my old notebook: " I try to keep mine around 500 so I can have a couple of drinks when I go to parties. (tee hee) And look at me! I'm not anorexic, my butt is huge!" (She was and it wasn't)
It's true. If you live long enough and meet enough people, your words will indeed come back to haunt you. And that's really scary. It wasn't that long ago I used the exact justification, word for word. (minus the tee hee and in a more "been around the block" and sardonic tone) Of course it's in the rule book, everyone who has food issues uses the same lines, it's just that I hadn't heard those exact words come from someone else's mouth until then. What's scary are two things: a) That anyone would think and believe that line of mentally disturbed crap, and b) that, apparently like an alcoholic, I know darned well if I hung around these girls for a few weeks the justification would seem reasonable and I'd be back in the game.
I haven't been confronted with my own past stupidity in such an alarming package. I've been able to see the error in my ways, the stupidity of my issues and the reasons they developed. I've been able to be proud of being healthy and proud of getting out of that trap with relative health and no looking back. But there she was, saying that line and now I am dealing with the duality of the confrontation. I pity her yet know I could conspire with her if I were to spend more time with her.
Well. Except. She also wants to have bypass surgery and breast implants. This is California, after all. No eating or psychological disorder is complete without some sort surgery, especially the cosmetic type.
Oops. Well. Sorry. There it is. I know I haven't blogged about that issue for a long time, because it hasn't been much of an issue until lately. And being out here has catalyzed me to the edge again. I won't kid anyone including myself, I've been walking to that edge for a few months. Dating, depression - all the usual - has put me in that frame of mind again. But being out here has shoved me to the edge. I leave Sunday, and as long as I am able to refrain from jumping over the cliff before then I think Little Miss 500 Calories scared me enough to go back to the straight and narrow of the food pyramid. I had a piece of bread with dinner last night just to defiantly prove to myself I am just fine, not as close to that edge as I fear I might be.
The thing about LA, and another reason why I love LA. The food itself. Since everyone has food issues, restaurants cater to every type of diet in the world. Organic Vegan? No problem. Here's a plate of organically grown (certified) fruit and vegetables. Grapefruit diet? (yes, apparently, there are people still ascribing to this plan of the '80s) Here's a bowl of grapefruit and a glass of pineapple grapefruit juice. Anorexic? Here's a plate of lettuce and one carrot stick. Special request? (Because everyone has a special request because no one follows one specific plan, diet plans are individualized to meet the distinctly individual molecular needs of each person) No problem!
For instance, in many places outside of California, being a vegetarian who does not eat mushrooms and is trying to avoid pasta and nuts is a problem at most restaurants. I don't make a big deal about it, I keep quiet and push aside any offending item which appears on the plate served to me. Out here, however, my obtuse dietary challenges are expected and embraced. Dining with friends, I looked over the menu which had lots of choices. The waiter arrived to take our order. One by one, my friends asked specific questions about several dishes on offer. Things I didn't realize were issues for my friends. Things I didn't know were issues for anyone. Things no waiter should have to know about the food he's serving. And yet my friends' questions were met with congenial and ready answers, and in one case an in depth discussion about the regional differences in fava beans. I'm not kidding.
When it was my turn to order I quickly ordered, "I'd like the mango mango salad, please."
The waiter stood there, poised to answer any questions or concerns I had about the mango mango salad.
"That's it, just the salad." I said.
He rather tritely said, "Okay." turned on a heel and was gone.
Apparently I offended him by not asking a litany of questions about the ingredients in the mango mango salad or asking for alterations and substitutions to said salad.
My friends, who apparently have developed some very odd dietary habits and the semi-rude and very tedious habit of belaboring the food ordering process, then began suggesting ways in which my mango mango salad could have been improved by deleting and substituting other items. Keep in mind these are people who rejoiced when Taco Bell extended their late night drive through window hours to 3 AM. People who took me aside as concerned friends and staged a food intervention when I was teetering on the brink of insanity and disaster. One of these people was known far and wide for his ability to consume record numbers of Wings of Fire at the Friday night complimentary buffet at a less than reputable establishment. But now they've apparently gone Hollywood. They talk the talk and walk the walk. Don't get me wrong, in their cases, some nutritional reform was long overdue. But, erm, well, it's just sort of one extreme to another and makes for a difficult adjustment when you knew them when they were living life at the other extreme.
Maybe it's something in the air. Something which blows in on the Santa Ana winds. It makes normal, intelligent people with concerns and original thoughts beyond their diet become all consumed in what they are putting into their bodies.
Until it comes to alcohol. Which is a free for all fest of calories and nutritional blindness. Of course because everyone is either anorexic, on the post gastro bypass plan or aspiring to one of those, it only takes a drink and a half for most people to become completely intoxicated. Still, the people who loudly espouse the merits of pure and organic foods think nothing of downing martini after martini. Oh sure, vodka or gin is distilled and should be fairly pure and organic (I'm trying to help them justify it) but ask your liver whether it cares about the purity or origin of the alcohol. Of course no one out here gets that logic or sees the hypocrisy of their booze consumption. Or, like my 500 calorie friend, they use their strict diet as a means to an alcohol end.
Yeah. I love LA.
But no, really, there are things I like about LA. Like the fact that everyone knows someone who can help whatever is troubling you.
The sunburn I acquired in Florida has turned rather nasty, in spite of my best efforts with aloe, moisturizer and exfoliation. Several women have offered me, unsolicited mind you, advice and referral to various spas, clinics and dermatologists. Yes. Everyone is so helpful and friendly in California! After the third unsolicited offer I decided to book an appointment in the hotel spa. I explained the issue with my skin to the nice, discreet and indefinably accented woman who took down my details and arranged for a two hour session. I'll say only this: A team of trained dermal professionals worked on me and did things to me I didn't know could be done without advanced medical degrees or outside the confines of a burn unit in hospital. That was two days ago and my skin is still tingling in a very odd and slightly painful yet arousing way. I'm kind of worried about what is going to happen when I need to shave my legs. Then again, the possibility exists that won't be an issue. Between the burn and the "treatments" I may not have functioning follicles anyway.
I love LA.
I wore a pair of strappy little sandals to a function. (Yes! Heels! Woo hoo!) I had given myself a pedicure and thought my feet looked, you know, okay. Ish. They weren't embarrassing. They didn't shame the strappy little sandals. And yet a woman whom I have never met told me she could get me into her "place" where they do not accept any clients except those referred by existing clients. (another phenomenon out here: The "We Don't Accept Anyone Without a Reference" rule followed by spas, hair salons, restaurants and nearly any other establishment you can mention. I fully expected to be turned away from Target the other day because no one had given me a reference or booked ahead for me.) In the spirit of observing and reporting, I took her up on her offer, wondering just what sort of pedicure one gets at a "place" where they only accept clients referred by an existing client. I hate to admit that I am actually kind of excited about it. Not because it's at one of those places, but because it will be my first real pedicure since The Incident. My foot, ankle and toes have been too sensitive to even consider anyone other than me touching them. (Apart from my doctor or Kimmie or Beelzebub, and even then with all the emotional and physical fortitude I could muster)
The other thing which is kind of cool about LA are the cars. Sure there are loads of really expensive exotic cars, lots of them. And they're cool and it's cool to see them. But what I really love are the old ones. It is the eternal Summer of Love out here, after all, and the proliferation of 1972 VW vans will attest to that. I saw a Vega yesterday. I added it to my growing list of cars I thought I'd never see again anywhere. So far I have seen:
Loads of Chevy El Caminos (very popular out here)
5 (yes, count them, five) Chevy Citations (they have to be the only 5 left in existence)
2 AMC pacers
1 Ford Maverick
1 AMC Eagle (that blew my mind, I'd forgotten about this gem of fine automotive genius)
1 Ford Pinto (I know, it takes guts, a lot of guts, to drive this. A young boy was driving it, I think (hope) he was out on a fraternity dare)
1 Chevy Vega
I have not seen but am on the lookout for:
Le Car
Opel (any Opel, any Opel at all. I thought I caught a glimpse of a GT, but it turned out to be the Ford Maverick)
AMC Gremlin
Renault Fuego
Another reason I could love LA: Boobs. Women pay a lot of money to have what I was given by DNA. I usually rein them in, hide them as much as possible, minimize them and certainly do not flaunt them unless some flat chested soppy tart needs a lesson in humility. (I do try to reserve that for air hostesses and sales associates at Saks and Harvey Nichols, though.) But out here everyone's got 'em. They pay good money for them and naturally they want to show them off. So I've let the girls out to play a few times. Hey. When in Rome. One of my colleagues was visibly shaken (impressed?) when he saw me turn up at a dinner function in a low cut top and the girls out and proud with nothing but a regular bra keeping them aloft and preventing them from falling out of said low cut top. Hey. When in Rome. I can hardly wait to return to work and hear what gossip is circulating about that. Maybe it will finally end the talk about the state of my ass in a pair of jeans.
Right. So. There you have it. Reasons to love LA after all: Eating disorders, strange and nonstop conversations about food, alcohol, unsolicited advice and referrals for spa treatments, old cars and boobs.
