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, September 21, 2009
WHEREAS I, Trillian, having reached the irrefutable conclusion that I am not of sound mind (or body) I hereby relinquish all claims or and responsibilities for my actions regarding anyone of the male gender. FURTHER, I, Trillian, due to my incapacity to use sound judgment regarding men, give all blog readers power to act as my agent in decisions regarding men. This power is not limited or restricted. All methods of reason, restraint and ridicule shall be accepted as legal.
Why this seemingly rash and extreme relinquishment of my personal rights and freedoms?
Because I hit a lower low. The inner circle of dating Hell is within sight. I'm too far gone for redemption of my own accord. I need salvation.
I need help.
A trained team of Swiss psychoanalysts.
Or a bunch of smart, sane, savvy blog readers.
"Trillian," you ask, "you have a long history of awful dates. How bad could it possibly be? Certainly no worse than getting in a drunk driving car accident on a first date? Certainly no worse than the creepy perfume guy?"
Oh, how I long for those halcyon days of yore.
Okay.
So.
I'm unemployed.
And if I don't get a job in the next few weeks I'll be on the fast track to foreclosure. So. Yeah. I'm a loser. Baby.
And I've been staying with, and hanging out with, my mother.
In my small home town.
In Michigan.
Where there are a lot of unemployed people.
And we all hang out at the local library using the free wi-fi, scouring business advice books and polishing our resumes.
I'm on friendly terms with some of the regulars. Such friendly terms that one of my job seeking library friends felt comfortable suggesting that I go out with her brother.
Why would she think that I might be interested in going out with her brother?
"He's kind of a geek, he's taller than you and (sucking in her breath in excited punctuation of the pièce de résistance), he has a JOB!!!"
She said this the way people might say, "...and he's RICH" or "...and he's NICE!!!" or "...and he's SINGLE!!!"
Yes. A job, any job, is the new black, the new hot car, the new standard of excellence in the Universal Benchmark Standards of Datability.
I was more interested in the fact that he's an alleged geek and that he's so geeky that it's a selling feature. I was also interested in what it is about me that would make this woman, a new acquaintance, assume that I would not only be open to dating a geek, but that geekiness would be of specific interest and attraction to me.
I mean, I do have a thing for geeks, you know, in general. I like curiosity of the world and intelligence in a man. I have nothing against geeks. I guess you could even say I'm into it.
But.
This woman doesn't know me that well. Obviously there's something about me that screams to the world, "I'll date geeks."
And you know, in the big picture, that's not a bad thing. I don't think it's a bad thing. But still...it's a big presumption to make about someone you don't know that well.
I hemmed and hawed. I said, "I dunno, maybe, I dunno. You know I'm just visiting my mother. I don't actually live here. I have to go back to Chicago in a few days. I don't want to lead your brother on or anything."
"I know, I know. But I think you'd get along great and why not just go out and have some fun?"
There it was again.
"Why not?"
"Why not??? I'll tell you why not. Because the answer to the question why not? is always a sound list of reasons regarding personal health and safety, that's why not. Besides, I'm a rebel, a loner."
"I'll give him your email address, you can chat. He likes to chat online."
Of course he does. Of course he does.
He's an employed, tall geek.
Yadda yadda yadda two days later I found myself at a local ice cream shop with the employed tall geek.
Turns out he's not actually that tall. My height, or thereabouts. Certainly not in the height range of my recent tall man fantasy men. But that's fantasy land, not reality, and, at least at this point, I am still sane enough to differentiate between the two states of being. One's a nice little imagined pleasant escape from reality. The other is, well, reality. Mean, big, real, unpleasant reality. So the height thing wasn't a big deal.
Besides, I'm not into looks so his height wasn't a selling feature. More like passenger-side airbags. Nice to have, something nice to offer would-be passengers in your car, but, not a selling feature nor a deal breaker. You wouldn't pay extra for them, but if they're there you feel like you're getting a nice bonus feature that will allow you an air of smug compassion at no extra charge. "I have passenger-side airbags. I care about the passengers in my car."
He is definitely employed. In a very geeky profession. Short-sleeved dress shirt and tie, pocket pencil protector and slide ruler geeky. "I've been laid twice in my life, once with a drunk girl at a dungeons and dragon tournament and once at StarTrekCon with a girl who had a Klingon fantasy."
Yes. That geeky. I know! I know!! Cool, right?!! Start choosing china patterns and honeymoon destinations, right?
My little heart wasn't going pitter pat, but, you know, the guy was single. And he seemed to like me. Therefore he had "potential." I am not in a position to have any standards whatsoever. If he's single, not incarcerated and not a serial killer there's no legitimate reason for me to deem him "not right" for me.
So what if his method of getting a girl into bed is by literally boring her pants off? He's intelligent, intelligent doesn't always mean interesting, sometimes intelligence in boring, you have to take the grain with the chaff. So what if I have to dress up as Uhura and call him Captain? A little role play never hurt anyone and can spice up the dull bedroom routine. So what if I have to learn to like Dungeons and Dragons and Renaissance Festivals? What else would I do with my spare time?
So, I was sitting there listening to him explain why he prefers pistachio over butter pecan (Don't ask. suffice it to say there's a scientific reason involving the ice cream manufacturing process.) when all of a sudden, right out of the blue, right there in the middle of my small hometown ice cream shop, he dropped a bombshell. The mother of all dating bombshells which catapulted me to a closer circle of dating Hell.
"I was thinking we could go to Laser Floyd."
You heard me.
Laser. Floyd.
As in lasers and Pink Floyd. As in a planetarium, a laser light show and Pink Floyd.
For the blissfully uninitiated, Laser Floyd is a strange phenomenon that swept the free world (and possibly the soviet blocked world, for that matter) in the mid-'80s. Possibly earlier, but my research indicates the phenomenon peeked in 1983. This makes marketing sense. The Wall was released in 1980. The Wall (the) movie came out in 1982. By 1983 the fervor was dying down and a laser light show would breathe some new cash into the The Wall franchise.
If you're sensing some cynicism your intuition is in fine working order. I don't hate Pink Floyd, and, if forced, I could sing along with most of the songs on The Wall. But. I don't love Pink Floyd. I have to go for long, long, long spans of time between hearing one of their songs. Months, years, have to pass between listenings. Why, you ask? Why would I, an astute rock lover, be so cynical about Pink Floyd? Because of overkill. Overkill in the form of The Wall (the) movie, and Laser Floyd. Too. Much. Marketing. ("Ta-dah!" strongly implied.)
The mere mention of the words laser and Floyd cause a Pavlovian reaction in me. Well. More of an acid reflux reaction. Okay, sure, it's jumping-the-shark gimmicky, but on the jumping the shark gimmick scale it ranks several places below an actual jumping of a shark. So why such seething hatred over Laser Floyd?
I have seen Laser Floyd.
Yes.
Once, when I was young and trying really hard to fit in I saw Laser Floyd. I hated myself for it. When it was over, in the parking lot as all the stoners were high fiving and giggling and struggling to discern which car was theirs, I was embarrassed to fit in with them. I felt dirty and not in a good way.
So there I was with the employed tall geek in the ice cream shop of my home town. And he was asking me to go to Laser Floyd with him. He commenced the long history of laser shows and many, too many, trivia facts about the (alleged) longest running laser and music show, Laser Floyd. (I cannot verify that fact but Mr. Slide Ruler seemed pretty darned certain it is the longest running laser and music show. And I can't think of any other laser and music shows so my guess is that it's the longest running laser and music show.)
I had the Pavlovian reaction. Then I thought, "Wait. Laser Floyd is still showing?" And then I thought, "Wait. Laser Floyd is still showing and this guy thinks that's cool and not in an ironic zeitgeist is funny kind of way?" And then I thought, "Wait. This guy thinks Laser Floyd is cool and not in an ironic zeitgeist is funny kind of way and I'm on a date with him so that makes me...oh crap. I am desperate and sad."
I know. I know. There are Laser Floyd enthusiasts out there shaking a finger at their monitors and saying, "Laser Floyd is cool and besides who are you to judge anyone? You don't have a job, you're going to lose your home and have to move in with your mother and you haven't had a stable relationship in 8 years so just back off on the harsh judgment of the employed (not-so) tall geek, missy. You are not all that."
I know. You're right. Which is why I agreed to make the 45 minute pilgrimage to the planetarium with him.
One circle closer to the depths of dating Hell.
So, we arrive at the planetarium, and, surprise surprise, the parking lot is only half full but it's half full of late model Camaros, Monte Carlos and LeBarons. No. I'm not casting aspersions at Camaro, Monte Carlo and LeBaron drivers. I'm just reporting what I observed in the parking lot. You can draw your own conclusions and cast whatever aspersions you desire in the comfort of your own home. But since most of the cars rolled off the assembly line no later than 1989 and we were going to see Laser Floyd it felt like we time traveled back to the '80s. Adding to the effect were several bemulleted attendees who had that just baked aroma and red eyes. Niiiice.
I'm on a date, a first date mind you, in the year 2009 at Laser Floyd with a bunch of stoners.
And there we have it, folks, the precise moment when I realized that if something doesn't change in my life, soon, like, now, there's no point in continuing the charade of living. Because my life has officially begun to move in reverse.
You might think this is the end of the story.
But it's not.
Nope.
It gets better.
The "best" is yet to come. Little did I know it but as we made our way into the planetarium I was actually buying a ticket to: The Worst Date of My Life, Ever.
As we headed to the ticket booth I noticed a poster for the show. Laser Floyd. In 3-D.
I kid you not. Lasers. Pink Floyd. And 3-D.
What wonders will the Universe unfold next?!!!! 3-D Laser Floyd???!!! Holy digital revolution, I LOVE this century!!!!
And you know, nothing says "fun first date" like 3-D glasses. And Pink Floyd.
I'm sure there are women out there who would think that combination makes for a fun first date.
But I'm not one of them.
And by the demographic of the audience I am not alone in that opinion. There were ~60 people in the planetarium that night. 8 of us were women. Single ladies? Want to know where the men are? Forget sports bars and car shows. Get yourself to a planetarium or laserarium on Pink Floyd night. Oh sure, the men are stoners and/or geeks, but, from where I was sitting most of them appeared to be very single. (And, sadder than that, some of them appear to have had sex at some point in their past because they had teenaged sons with them and they were taking their sons to share in the Laser Floyd experience. I dunno. Call me uptight, but I think the sanctity of a boy's first Laser Floyd experience should be reserved for a Saturday afternoon with his stoner and geek friends from school.)
But you know, hey, I was there, on a date, with an employed guy, so who was I to judge? Just live in the moment and enjoy it for what it is, right? Right. I settled in, got nice and relaxed, comfortably numb, if you will, as Mr. Slide Ruler explained the inner workings of the star projector to me. (which I already knew but politely let him feel important by explaining it to me - I didn't want to emasculate him by telling him I know how a star projector works) And then the announcer told us the show was about to begin, don our glasses. The anticipation in the auditorium was palpable. You know how it feels when you get into a roller coaster and the safety harness falls into place and you're about to take off? That was how the crowd was acting. All giddy and excited but a little scared, too.
Here we go! Rock on.
I'd love to give a review of the show. But I can't.
Because I didn't see most of it.
You were thinking something naughty, weren't you? You were thinking Mr. Slide Ruler calculated some moves on me.
Turns out Mr. Slide Ruler probably shouldn't have had pistachio ice cream before the 3-D Laser Floyd show. Especially on a first date. Mr. Slide Ruler is really, really, really, really lucky that I don't use real names on this blog because he'd have to join a witness protection program and move to a base camp station at the South Pole if I did.
10 minutes into the show he started fidgeting. Crossing and uncrossing his legs. Clearing his throat. Rubbing his head. Clenching his fists.
And then he stood up. The people seated behind us made some "outta the way, buddy" remarks. So he bent over at the waist as he attempted to pass in front of me to the aisle. As I moved my knees to one side so he could pass easier, he lunged forward, grabbed my arm rest and...threw up on my legs, feet and purse. And I don't mean just a little spittle. I mean copious amounts of barf. Barf like in the gross Meaning of Life puke scene.
And remember the pistachio ice cream? Yeah. I think you can use your imagination as to the color and consistency.
Okay. I know. I shouldn't be harsh. Judge not lest I be judged. It could happen to anyone. He didn't mean to get sick.
But he did. And he's boring. And I had to drive home while he hung his head out the window.
And at this stage of my life, after all I've been through, good and bad, in relationships and dating, I deserve swutting better than that.
Yes. There. I said it. Okay? Yes. I deserve better than that. I am not 17.
I am forgiving, though, and I certainly don't "blame" the guy for getting sick. And if I'd felt any connection whatsoever I'd give him another chance. But I didn't. The harsh fact was that I felt nothing for the guy. Nothing. Zip. Nadda. I didn't not like him but I didn't like him, either.
But a lap and purse full of pistachio flavored vomit made me realize: This has to stop. There are decent, not-vomiting men out there who have normal social skills and and interests and can carry on normal conversations. I just don't meet or attract them. Because I'm journeying through circles of Hell, I suppose. Whatever the reason, the day you find yourself with a lap and purse full of vomit spewed from a guy on a first date at Laser Floyd, 3-D, no less is the day it's time to relinquish all responsibility for your dating life to people who have better judgment than yourself.
10:09 PM
