So, Twilight, man. What’s up with that? Here comes the most embarrassing confession I will ever make in this column: I went to see New Moon this weekend. Yes, opening weekend.

It’s not (quite) as bad as it sounds. It was a sociological experiment, of sorts. I went to observe me some tweens, and to see what this sexy glittering vampire business was all about. Also, for the lulz.

Only here’s the thing. The audience? It wasn’t all tweens. There were some grown ass people there, unabashedly wearing “Team Edward” shirts and shushing gigglers (me) like it was their job.

So that was pretty disturbing. But even more disturbing than the old ladies (and the horrible dialogue and the world’s slowest pacing) was the plot up in this piece. I’m sure this has already been written about extensively, but I have thus far steered pretty clear of the Twilight oeuvre, so it’s all used car new to me.

I knew that Stephanie Meyers was a repressed Mormon housewife going into this, and the “vampire biting you = sex” trope is as old as, well, Anne Rice, anyway, but oh my god. Edward, the vampire lover man, won’t “change” Bella, the shy, quiet human girl, until they’re married. And he won’t touch her at all, for fear he’ll lose control. Love me some weird Christian propaganda in my monster movies. [Insert your own zombie Jesus joke here.] (Wow, I can’t believe you just said that. Bad form, my friend.)

The most disturbing part of this whole movie, though, was realizing that bajillions of little girls idolize this Bella girl and want an Edward of their very own. I will admit to harboring some pathetic juvenile crushes in my day, but Edward is not a good guy. He is controlling and scary. Real life Edward would get slapped with a restraining order. Seriously, this relationship is more textbook abusive than any warning scenario you ever read about in health class. Also, man is 109 years old to Bella’s 18 or whatever. Just putting that out there.

At the beginning of the movie, Edward’s brother tries to eat Bella, so Edward leaves Bella “for her own sake,” of course, and she is, like, super depressed for awhile (a long, long while. Did I mention how slow this movie was? Damn). Then she starts hanging out with Jacob, who, coincidentally, turns out to be a werewolf. Putting aside the fact that they made that poor 17 year old actor pack on, like, 30 pounds of muscle, this seems like a better match for her. They’re actually friends, it seems like, instead of “deeply in love” a k a “he tells me where to go and what to wear and who to see.” Even this boy dads her a little bit, but that’s more because girl is dumb as fuck. She goes on this adrenaline junkie kick, because Edward made her promise to “keep safe” or something, so she sees him in her head when she disobeys. Ridiculous. So Jacob seems like the better guy until the movie gives us this little gem.

Jacob is a member of a werewolf pack, of course. And they all congregate at Sam’s girlfriend’s house. What’s this? She has a giant scar on half her face? Oh, it’s because he got mad and morphed too close to her? But it’s OK, because she forgave him, and they lived happily ever after, right? Oh, spousal abuse, ain’t no thang. Battered women should just forgive and forget. I am, of course, being sarcastic/please don’t kill me, Women’s Resource Center.

I just want to shake this Bella girl. Get her some therapy. And I want to shake the entire Twilight fan base. I get it, man. Bella’s all shy and quiet and she likes to read, and you totally identify with her, but c’mon. Maybe we read, I dunno, Jane Eyre? I mean, Mr. Rochester is also problematic, but at least that shit is well written.

Seriously, though. It frightens me that little girls are idealizing this kind of relationship. My little brother is 14 and got dragged to this movie by his “NOT my girlfriend.” Apparently, she’s like super into it. And while I’m always happy that the kids are reading or whatever, this just seems like an alarming trend. Our generation’s badly written fantasy series was empowering, at least. And Hermione was the smartest one!

The state of the yout (no h on purpose) today, man. Oy, I am so old.

So I was going to write another kitschy column about how I’ve morphed into a frat bro. It was going to be pretty great, too, replete with mid 90’s hip hop references and copious use of the phrases “legit,” “bro,” and “yo.” But I am experiencing a brief bout of self-righteousness, so please excuse this foray into the semiserious. Don’t worry, next time I will return to talking about myself.

I want to talk about food. Specifically, fresh fruits and vegetables. Fresh produce is great. It’s good for you, it tastes good, and it would be awesome if everyone and their mom could have fresh veggies for dinner every night. Community gardens are the shit, and Michelle Obama is super cool for starting one at the White House.

But here’s the deal, all you “slow food revolution,” Omnivore’s Dilemma worshipping dudes and dudettes out there: privilege. Recognize that you’ve got it. It’s awesome that you have the means and the will to eat locally grown food and to prepare meals from scratch with organic produce. Seriously, I’m not even being sarcastic. Much. I agree that industrial farming is pretty evil. And everything we eat has corn in it because the government subsidizes it like a motherfucker. And we should try to change that, no question.

The thing that really bugs me about books like Omnivore’s Dilemma, though, is that there’s no acknowledgement that living this way isn’t possible for a large portion of the American public. We’re talking socioeconomics, folks. The element of judgment that comes from these food attitudes (which I will refer to as “fooditudes” from now on, just for fun) just ain’t cool, guys. That’s right, Elana’s getting serious.

Organic food is really expensive (and organic farming is super inefficient, but that’s a rant for another day. You can email me if you really want to hear it, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s even less funny than this column). Also, just putting this out there, as far as evil corporations go, Whole Foods is pretty high on the list. Unless being Wal-Mart level anti-union is your bag, I guess. But you shop at a co-op, of course. Well, good for you, way to embrace those socialist ideals and whatnot. The food is still ridiculously overpriced.

So that’s pretty obvious, right? A lot of people can’t afford to buy free range eggs or hand raised kale that’s been sung to every night or whatever the latest trend in yuppiedom is. But the problem runs deeper than that. See, a lot of low-income neighborhoods don’t even have grocery stores that sell fresh produce. At all. It’s pretty damn impossible to buy stuff you don’t have any access to. And if you’re working full time and you don’t have a car, it’s even harder. Which is why community gardens and efforts to bring fresh food into inner city areas are so cool and important. But it’s important to recognize that not everyone can make the choice to eat “the right way.”

It’s kind of like the argument I get in with Greenpeace whenever they try to stop me for signatures on the street (what? I really like to argue). We don’t have any proof that genetically modified foods cause cancer or health problems. We do, however, have proof that GM foods grow in areas where food wouldn’t otherwise grow, and thus feed people that wouldn’t otherwise have anything to eat. That strikes me as a little more important than vague, unfounded threats of future health problems.

Which I guess is the overall point I’m trying to make here: the agricultural-industrial complex is fucked up, definitely. But you know what’s really fucked up? The fact that there are people starving in our supposedly first world country, every day. The abundance of cheap, unhealthy foods leads to health problems and the paradoxically high cost of being poor in this country, and that’s why the system needs to change. Junk food is cheap, and vegetables are expensive. So by all means, continue to eat locally, but don’t dismiss those who can’t. Recognize how lucky you are to be able to make that choice.

Yo. Sweet. Bro. Legit.

99 problems

One of my facebook friends posted a status that was all, “Why can’t the Sun publish educated opinions?” So here goes nothing. David Foster Wallace is the poor man’s Thomas Pynchon. Pynchon is the pretentious man’s Vonnegut. Bam. Moving on.

Last weekend, my friend (who has recently found the man of his dreams) expressed his concern over my own lack of significant other. Heretofore, I’ve remained relatively indifferent on the subject. But then he told me that boyfriends buy you things. Suffice it to say, I’m down.

What followed was a Charlene Yi-like quest. Only without Michael Cera, thank baby Jesus. I can’t be the only person filled with rage at the mere sight of the former George Michael Bluth. I just want to kick him in the shins.

But I digress. We sat in the Target parking lot as he (loudly) lamented my situation (I giggled a little whilst turning an extremely attractive shade of tomato), when he was struck by genius.

“Hey you,” my friend called to a young man also awaiting the arrival of the number 30 bus. “Do you have any advice for this girl on how to get a boyfriend?” The boy looked at me, looked at my friend, and cocked an eyebrow. I was a little insulted. “No, don’t worry, not you. Just a boy, in general.” He put on a serious face. “Show ‘em your boobs. Walk up to someone and show him your boobs. If they’re not interested, they’re not worth your time.” Sounds like solid advice to me.

So yeah, I don’t have a boyf. I know, I’m as surprised as you are. I mean, I would date the shit out of me. I have half a head of hair, I wear my grandpa’s clothes, and once I had a dream that Chaim Potok and Philip Roth were best friends. Seriously. That was the whole dream. They talked about Davita’s Harp. What has two thumbs and is a great catch? This guy.

I told my mom that I was going to write this column, and she was like, “Oh, hilarious! You can talk about how the only boys you talk to are gay.” Thanks a lot, lady.

But that’s not entirely true. See, my friend Julie has this thing. Let’s call it the kavorka (what up Seinfeld). She is a dude magnet. Well, I too, have a kavorka. A very specific kavorka. Are you sort of weird and scruffy? Do you wear a lot of flannel? Do you hate ska but love Leftover Crack? (If you don’t get this reference, you will probably be able to resist my mysterious pull). I am not opposed to these things, for the record. On the contrary, most of them I rather enjoy. It’s this last part that’s the kicker: do you think it is acceptable to contact a girl you’ve never met before on facebook? And ask her on a date? For tea? At Stella’s?

It’s a full blown phenomenon. This has happened to me twice. And a half. And once in DC.

And I went, too. I drank awkward mochas and made awkward small talk. Mostly about punk bands. Which is pretty hilarious, since the last time somebody asked me what my favorite band was, I said “Mingus” (I have no excuse. I really said that).

Here comes my sweeping generalization of a point: dating, even friend making, is tricky business for the social networking generation (read: us). We know everyone before we meet them. You see someone on Ho Plaza that you vaguely recognize, but you can’t figure out why. Then you realize- so and so’s pictures on the good ol’ fb.

This poses a multitude of problems for the socially awkward (read: me). Do you wave at the kid you met once at a party, who pops up on your feed all the time? How about that girl who added you out of the blue? (No, and no, respectively. What if they don’t wave back?).

And my Stella’s dates? Poor boys were expecting some awesome chick ready to fuck shit up because I have a Crass sweatshirt and some old pictures with my stupid anarcho-primitivist friend Elliot. Instead they got me.

And then there are those freshman year friends that you meet up with because you both have Lou Reed and Dead Kennedys and Ghost World listed in your favorite whatevers. You sit in Appel and realize that you don’t actually have anything to talk about.

It’s like you don’t even have to be cool in real life. You just have to be charming on the internet.

Imagine with me here for a second. You’re a little girl, growing up in Minnesota. Your middle name is Max (I know, right? Like, gee, thanks a lot, parents), and your whole life you’ve been told you’re named after two things: your great grandpa (again, weird, I know), and Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. And then on your eighteenth birthday, you decide you’re going to get your first tattoo. And what do you decide on? A scene from that very same book, of course. Hey, I never said to imagine that you were smart, or anything.

So you have this tattoo, right. And you think it’s pretty cool, or whatever. And then, bam, they announce that they’re making a movie of this book. And, get this, the trailer looks pretty fucking good. All of a sudden, mad bitches are adding Where the Wild Things Are to their favorite books on Facebook. You can’t escape that Arcade Fire song. They start selling Maurice Sendak paraphernalia at Urban.

Wouldn’t you be a little conflicted? I mean, on the one hand, this book is legitimately one of the best books ever. Yeah, that’s right. I said it. Shit is visually arresting, bro. Maurice Sendak is one of the best illustrators of all time (yo, Dr. Seuss, I’m a let you finish but…). And Max is the greatest. The book is genius, and it deserves the exposure.

And then there’s this movie, which reads like an aging hipster’s wet dream. Spike Jonze? Dave Eggers? That twee ass soundtrack? I am not necessarily opposed to all of these elements. I liked Being John Malcovich a lot, for instance. And I love me some weird Bjork videos. Plus, did you know that Spike Jonze directed the Luda video with the giant arms? True fact.

And then there’s Dave Eggers. I will admit to having thoroughly enjoyed A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, despite myself. Shit is so self-referential and pretentious. But he’s kind of funny, I guess. He’s also turning my favity fave book into a novel for young adults. I really don’t think that I approve. I also have to be straight up with you: I hate the Arcade Fire. Hate hate hate them. But so does Wayne Coyne (from the Flaming Lips). So I got that going for me.

So yeah, I’m a little apprehensive. I mean, I’m fairly certain that the movie is going to be adorable and we’re all going to sob through it and walk out with a completely new outlook on life. But part of me would rather it bombed.

Why? Well, mostly because I don’t want to be the girl with the tattoo from that one movie. It sucks when you love something that is relatively obscure (or, you know, meant for babies), and then all of a sudden everyone else does, too. Like when my friend Maggie “discovered” Neutral Milk Hotel in ninth grade. Shit stings. It’s irrational, and more than a little bit petty, but I don’t care. I’ve accepted that, and moved on.

Or, what if someone thinks I got my tattoo BECAUSE of the movie? My poor friends have all heard me angst. I think, besides clowns, that is my number one biggest fear. Because I’m shallow. And kind of a pretentious asshole.

I’m also a little bit annoyed that they’ve turned a story about a little smartass into a tearjerker. Max wasn’t abused or neglected. He chased his dog around the house with a hammer, so his mom sent him to his room. And, get this, she still made him dinner afterward. Yeah, Maurice Sendak signed off on the script. And yeah, it’s a total reworking or whatever, but I reserve the right to have… well, reservations.

And it’s not just this movie. Everywhere you look, things from our collective childhoods are being remade and reworked. Granted, Wild Things is not really our generation’s, exactly, but what about that horrible Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs CGI mess? Or the Ten Things I Hate About You TV show? Is it some kind of postmodern thing that I’m not smart enough to understand?

I am not old enough to be this nostalgic.

Quarter Life Crisis

Junior year is some heavy stuff, man. Everywhere I look, the threat of Real Life looms. Mostly I just try not to think about it, but people tell me that now is the time that I should be figuring out what I want to do with my life (and by people, I mean my mother). I am not smart enough for academia (and by ‘smart’, I mean ‘pretentious’), I have no marketable skills, and I’m not interested in going to law school (zing!).

I know you are very concerned about me, but have no fear. I did some rull, rull deep introspectin’ and made the following list. I think it shows that I am serious about my future.

Rob’s Elana’s Top Five Dream Jobs

1. A Shirelle. I would really like to be a member of an all-girl doo wop group. Preferably from Detroit, but I don’t want to set the bar too high. One’s goals should be accessible. I’m not asking to be Diana Ross, either, I’d even be willing to be the Supreme that got kicked out of the band. I just want to wear a sparkly dress and a beehive and spin and snap while I sing harmony. Is that so strange? All right, singing is not my forte. Okay, neither is dancing. But I am a damn good snapper. That must count for something.

2. Kim Deal. I would settle, however, for being the chick bassist of a really great rock band. Or even a not so great rock band. I mean, I can almost play bass. I was in a crust punk band (like thrash metal only played very badly) for the longest (and loudest) five minute set in the history of high school talent shows. I am experienced.

3. A Surf Bum. Let’s get one thing straight: I am not talking about professional surf contest entering. No, my name will be Kahuna, and I will chase the surf all over the globe. Okay, so I’ve only seen the ocean three times in my life, and I can’t really swim (although I passed the shit out of my swim test freshman year, effectively silencing my doubters. Take that, mom!). I do know how to snowboard, kind of, and I have seen Gidget a billion times. Also, I have a really cool beach towel with Albert Einstein on it. So, totally viable.

4. A Conservative Taking Head. In high school I used to be all, “Up the punx!!!1! I love Emma Goldman!” Now that I can vote, I’m a little more “I will support the most progressive Democratic candidate,” but either way this probably seems like kind of a strange choice. At first blush, yes, but let us delve a little deeper. See, sometimes I like to pretend that Glenn Beck and his ilk are pulling some epic Andy Kaufman-esque subversive act on all of us. Dude weeps on the air. It helps me sleep better. Seriously, imagine with me here: Fox News, Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh- they’re all secret socialists, and their homophobic, xenophobic, racist nonsense is designed to wreak havoc on what little shreds of credibility the neocons have left. I mean, it could be true. I refuse to accept that they are taken seriously; that level of crazy is a parody of itself. Oh, what’s that you say? There are still people who believe that Barack Obama wasn’t born in America? Oy, my ulcer is acting up.

5. (Because I already ripped off this whole idea from High Fidelity anyway) An Architect. Seven years training? Wouldn’t I rather be, say, a Sun Columnist? Meh. I would rather be a member of the Wu Tang Clan, though. Or a writer for John Stewart. Or an ice cream taster, or a professional sleeper. Hey, a guy can dream (cue rimshot).

So I don’t really have any plans. I figure I’ve got two years to figure it out. Probably I will do something AmeriCorps related postgrad, which will buy me another year or two. Then maybe I will go to grad school. If I play my cards right, I bet I can put off becoming an Actual Adult until I’m pushing thirty. This is the 21^st century. Maturity is, like, so over. Unless one of you knows of a job that consists of reading comic books and celebrity gossip on the internet, in which case—Hook a brother up!

Thanks folks, you’ve been great. My name is Elana and I’ll be here all semester. Be sure to tip your waiter.

Get Thee to a Punnery

Ch-ch-check it out! Sample columns!

I got a spot on the paper. Freddy Mercury and I are singing "We Are the Champions" together, right now. I am going to tentatively posit that no one else submitted an application, given the weird shit that I submitted, but whatev, bro. I'm gonna have me some real published work.

So now I need a name for my column (I am assuming that I get to name it myself) (I hope) (I have no idea how this sort of thing works).

The first thing that popped into my head was the title of this post, which I think says a lot about me. Hilarious, right? Oy gevalt. And then I googled it, and guess what-- my terribly nerdy joke wasn't even original.

Right now, I'm leaning towards "Word is Bond" or maybe, like, "You Feel Shame."

I like to focus on inconsequential details, it's just how I do.

XOXO,
ELANA, MD
(like Doogie, but... not)

I Can't Drive or: How I Learned to Embrace My Failure and Love the Bus

My summer goal was to finally enter the adult world and become a licensed driver. I was twenty now, and it was time to grow up and take some responsibility. So I rolled my unemployed self out of bed (in my parent’s house) at about noon and biked myself down to the DMV to see about getting a learner’s permit. Again.

I really have no excuse for going so long without getting my license. I wasted about four weeks of the summer after tenth grade, two afternoons a week, sitting in a moldy classroom, learning how to text message discreetly whilst desensitizing myself to violence with ultra-gory videos of drunk drivers--after Only. One. Beer. BUH BUH BUH-- that could have been directed by Tarantino, recycled plotlines and all. Zing! (Just kidding, Mr. Tarantino, sir, please don’t hurt me). I got my permit, and almost crashed my dad’s car into a lamppost in the parking lot of the local minor league baseball stadium when I confused the accelerator and the brake pedal. In short, I completed all the prerequisites. So why didn’t I ever get my license?

That was the question I pondered as I sat in the unairconditioned lobby of the DMV with about six overeager fifteen year olds, my thighs sticking to the uncomfortable vinyl seats, waiting to take my knowledge test, which I passed with flying colors. Okay, eighty percent, but a pass is a pass. Who remembers exactly how many feet you’re supposed to follow behind a school bus, anyway? This license thing’ll be a piece of cake, I thought.

And then, as I sat paralyzed in the driver’s seat of my mother’s car, her harried words of encouragement unintelligible, I remembered. I hate driving. I am horribly, overwhelmingly afraid of exceeding speeds of about twenty miles an hour, and I panic when I encounter other moving vehicles. In other words, it was back to public transportation for me. But now I have a learner’s permit, so that’s a bonus, I guess.

My torrid affair with the bus began at the tender age of 12, when my parents decided that I was old enough to get to and from jazz band by myself (yes, I was a baby nerd). It was sort of thrilling to be able to get around, all on my own, without anybody’s help. Since then, our relationship has only grown. The number 67 route and I are practically soul mates, though we do have an open arrangement. See, my bike and I are also involved. Sometimes, all three of us do get together, but my bike mostly sits on the rack and watches.

As we mourn the long, slow death of that metaphor, let me expound on my love of public transportation. Firstly, the obvious: I never have to pay for gas, ever. Bus fare, while more expensive than it was in the good old days (ah, the early 2000’s, I remember them well), is still way cheaper than filling up the minivan that would be my golden chariot. Also, I am being a good global citizen. I am not contributing to global warming. My fellow passengers and I are mega carpooling! And, we have clean buses in this here crunchy granola haven of the upper Midwest. Al Gore loves me.

But the real reason I love the bus is the people watching. Why, just this morning, I saw a gentleman drinking Listerine and muttering about the Yankees. I’m not sure which I was more concerned about. I also saw a woman reading Ayn Rand sitting next to a man reading The Audacity of Hope. Sadly, I don’t think their interests are as divergent as I had once hoped. Last week I witnessed an epic baby daddy battle that belonged on the vaunted stage of the Maury Povich program (of whose audience I was once a member!), as well as a heated discussion about the pros and cons of instant run-off voting.

I volunteer at a drop-in shelter, and I sometimes get to see my buddies on the bus, which is a genuine treat. I’ve also had some great discussions about books and movies on the bus, and it’s where I get all my sports information. I’ve eavesdropped on some amazing phone conversations, and consequently had a few great story ideas. You see guys in business suits sitting next to students and mothers and homeless folks. The bus is a great place to think, and it also gives you the opportunity to just stop and take a look around. After all, you don’t always have to keep your eyes on the road.

And that is really why I don’t have my driver’s license. Plus the whole “paralyzed with fear” thing. (Sorry Mr. Kubrick, for the misappropriation of your title).

If You Can Drink Tap Water and Breathe the Air...

I am from Minnesota. Yeah, that’s right. I was playing hockey by the time I was four, I say “pop” instead of “soda,” and I still can’t pronounce words with long “o” sounds in them without making everyone around me giggle. Seriously, make me say “boat” sometime. The lulz will never cease. I can hear you now: “But Elana, you’re so urbane and cultured. We never would have guessed.” Okay, so maybe it’s more like, “Look, whoever you are, we’ve never noticed you before, so you must not be that weird.” Whatev. Both prove the point which I am meandering towards (patience is a virtue, or something). I am not Laura Ingalls, I did not grow up on a farm. I live in a (gasp) real city, with real diversity and culture. Take note, Cornellian upstate New Yorkers- if one more person from Buffalo or Rochester asks me how many cows my family owns, I will be forced to go off on an ill-advised rant about the merits of a town where the biggest attraction is a Wegman’s. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.

Yes, I’m sipping on that haterade. Partially because I really do love Minneapolis (and my very own St. Paul, the oft- overlooked twin, the Ashley, if you will, to the bigger city’s Mary-Kate), but also because I found myself buying into some of the regionalism I encountered here in Ivory Tower world. Much like the “fat kid using self-deprecating humor to hide his/her pain” trope seen in, oh, every teen dramedy ever, I began to say some downright dismissive things about the homeland. Hey, if I say it, at least it’s a loving jab, right? So I should probably clear a few things up. I do not live in the middle of nowhere, Minnesota and North Dakota are, in fact, not the same thing (although I do have reciprocity at all Wisconsin public universities, so you know, there’s that). I do not live in an igloo, nor have I ever seen a polar bear. I am not the only Jew in Minnesota, I mean, my mom and brother live here too! (Whew, I slay me). I am, however, exactly fifty percent Scandinavian, and I really did have a great-grandpa named Karl. With a K.

“What is she rambling on about?” See, you doubted me before, but I really am psychic. I guess what I am trying to say is, I am sick of being embarrassed about where I come from. Which is more my problem than anyone else’s, when you think about it, but give a girl a soap box, and all of that. I realized that in perpetuating these stereotypes and mistruths about the Land o’ Lakes, the only person I was really hurting was me (melodramatic, I know. To quote X-Pac, of WWF fame, aka The Greatest Actor of Our Time, “suck it”). Truth time: most of you probably won’t ever set foot in my fine state. You don’t know anything about our progressive political environment (the only state not to go for Reagan either time! Also, um, hello, AL FRANKEN), or the fact that the metro area (St. Paul/Minneapolis, for the uninitiated) has the most theaters per capita of anywhere in the country (take that, NYC), or that the music scene is amazing (The Replacements, Husker Du, Rhymesayers, shall I go on?). So if I tell you that Minneapolis is boring and milquetoast-y and there’s nothing to do and blah blah blah, you’ll believe me. And that, my friends, just ain’t cool.

I am proud of where I’m from. And you should be too. That is, where you’re from, not my hometown (although if you really want to, I’m down. Whatever floats your boat, do what you love, this is a judgment free zone, etc). I retract my Wegman’s comment, and not just because I want you all to like me. Every community has eccentricities and cool stuff to do, not just cities. My all time favorite place in the world is about halfway between Madison and Chicago, deep in the wilds of Wisconsin. Do you know Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright’s house? Yeah, well, I’m not talking about that. About fifteen minutes away from that shack is a real piece of resplendent architectural wonderment. The House on the Rock is filled with theme rooms and carousels and scrimshaw and all manners of kitsch. Alex Jordan, the owner, decided that he was going to be the next F.Ll.W, so he designed his house and filled it to the brim with junk. It is, in a word, amazing.

All I’m saying is, don’t pretend to hate where you’re from just because it’s in flyover country (unless, of course, you really do hate it. Then it’s all good). Self-righteousness managed! Word is bond, Seacrest out.

LOL-abies

You know that movie Signs? Imagine how much cooler it would have been if, instead of a preachy horror (ish) movie about aliens, Mel Gibson found wallabies making the circles in his fields, just chilling out, playing some hacky sack, listening to Phish. Picture it with me now: maybe one of them has dreadlocks, they’re wearing a lot of tie-dye and hemp. Can anyone say Academy Award? Take that, M. Night. All right, I guess Mel would have to be growing opium poppies and living in Tasmania. But he is Australian, so there’s that. Call it creative license, or something.

“What is she rambling on about?” Yeah that’s right, I can hear your thoughts. Well, I’m getting there. Tasmania, home of Bugs Bunny’s nemesis (didn’t you know that Elmer Fudd was from Oceania? Man, I slay me), is also a huge producer of legal opium (used for painkillers like morphine). Australia produces about fifty percent of the world’s legally grown opium. Awesome.

Wallabies, which are like little kangaroos (that is the official scientific classification), have been wandering into fields of these poppies, ingesting a few, and making crop circles. In the words of Tasmania’s attorney general, Laura Giddings, these animals are “getting as high as a kite, and going around in circles. Then they crash.” Aw, sleepy little marsupials.

There are a few instances of other animals having a little “Dorothy Moment” in the poppy fields, like sheep, but wallabies are the most frequent offenders. Can you blame them? I mean, it’s Friday, they ain’t got no job …

(I wrote this for Science Buzz)

Evolution: ain't it grand?

When I think about evolution, I think about that beardy guy, you know, what’s his face, Chuck Darwin, and his Snoopy ship, studying finches or whatever at Easter Island. Or the Galapagos, whichever one has the giant super old turtles. Or I think about Lucy, or that picture where the guy gets increasingly better posture. Anywho, all that stuff happened like forever ago, right? And it takes a gazillion years for things to change perceptibly. That's what I thought, too. Turns out, we were wrong.

A new study shows that guppies (little fishies; not to be confused with yuppies, who are also evolving as they lose a little bit more relevance every single day), can adapt to new environments pretty quickly.

Scientists at the University of California, Riverside performed an experiment on 200 guppies in Trinidad. They removed the guppies from one river and introduced them to a river where no guppy population existed. They split the guppies into two groups, and placed one half in a predator-free area. They placed the other group in an area where fish who might consider the occasional guppy to be a tasty snack lived.

Just eight years later, the scientists found that the guppies had changed their reproductive habits. The guppies in the area where predators existed produced more eggs all at once, because they might only have the one chance to reproduce. The guppies in the less dangerous part of the river produced less embryos, in order to conserve energy and resources.

The scientists then wanted to see if these changes were actually making the guppies more successful at survival, so they took a new sample from the first river, marked them, and placed them in the second river with the population that had been there for eight years. The adapted guppies had a significantly higher rate of survival. The adolescents, especially, had a 54-59 percent increase in survival rate.

It’s pretty amazing that such a change was achieved after only eight years, but the scientists who conducted the study want to remind us that this time frame actually represents about 13-26 guppy generations. So such a rapid change in a longer lived species would be pretty unlikely.

(I wrote this for Science Buzz)

The Dinosaur Mystique

I was like you once, suffering under the misguided notion that sauropods, like Brachiosaurus or Apatosaurus, held their heads low to the ground and their necks horizontally. Turns out, that was just another body myth perpetuated by Hollywood and the mainstream media. And museums, and public television. Scientists now think that these giant creatures held their heads high. And rightly so. I would be proud if I weighed twenty tons. That is quite the feat.

New evidence suggests that these dinosaurs held their necks vertically like giraffes. That means that they would have been up to 49 feet tall. Which is really, really tall, in case you were wondering.

Scientists studied x-rays of vertebrae from ten different groups of vertebrates, or animals with backbones, and found that animals with the same upright leg posture as these dinosaurs, like mammals and birds, have vertical vertebrae.

This means that, in the words of Dr. Mike Taylor, who was instrumental to this research, “Unless sauropods carried their heads and necks differently from every living vertebrate, we have to assume that the base of their neck was curved strongly upwards. In some sauropods this would have meant a graceful swan-like S-curve to the neck, and a look quite different from the recreations we are used to seeing today.”

The research also showed that sauropods would have had a much greater range of movement than previously thought. By observing the structure of neck vertebrae in animals like ostriches and giraffes, researchers discovered that the ball and socket joint structure of sauropods was probably more flexible than scientists believed.

The next step in this research is to determine, through engineering studies, whether holding the neck vertically or horizontally is more efficient. Imagine having a thousand pound neck to support! Oy. I can't even bench press the bar! Of course, sauropods have a little bit of a weight advantage, I mean, I only weigh half a ton. But still.

(I wrote this for Science Buzz)

Mmm, fungus-y

I knew there was a reason not to eat mushrooms. I mean, they are rubbery and weirdly tasteless. And they are funguses. Fungi? Whatev. Me grammarian am not. Wanna hear a HILARIOUS joke? So a mushroom walks into a bar, and the bartender says, “We don’t serve your kind here,” and the mushroom says, “Why not? I’m a fungi!” Get it? It’s funny because mushrooms don’t talk! Whew, good one Elana. But anyway, besides the obvious fact that mushrooms are gross, scientists have figured out why ingesting Russula Subnigricans can lead to convulsions, nausea, impaired speech, and even death! BUM BUM BUMMMMM (That is ominous mood music, FYI).

Okay, so we already knew that you weren’t supposed to eat these mushrooms. And there are all sorts of poisonous mushrooms, but Russula Subnigricans mushrooms, which are found in China and North America, contain a toxin which leads to the breakdown of skeletal muscle tissue, called rhabdomyolysis, which is uncommon in poisonous mushrooms. So basically, they’ll kill you in a completely new way. Awesome.

The cause of this muscular breakdown was a little tricky for scientists to isolate. The compound likes to bind to other things, and previous research done on the toxin was actually done on misclassified mushrooms. Which, of course, was not helpful.

The discovery and isolation of this toxic compound, cycloprop-2-ene carboxylic acid, is pretty cool for two reasons. It’s never been found in the natural world before, although it is used for building other compounds synthetically. But perhaps more importantly, many mushrooms that produce toxic compounds also produce beneficial compounds. Which means that pretty soon, we could be reading about the wonderful new drug that comes from a compound in Russula Subnigricans. Or something.

So I guess you can keep eating those Shitake mushrooms (bonus: super fun to say), but watch out for skeletal muscle tissue breakdown. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.

(I wrote this for Science Buzz)

Jump around (word to your moms)

So I was searching YouTube for clips of Alex Trebek (what? I just love Canada. And knowledge. Is that so wrong?), and I clicked on one of the related videos, because I am a spontaneous and fun-loving person. I take big risks. Anyway, the video I found was of an animal called a pygmy jerboa. I watched it, and then I watched it again. Thing is mesmerizing. It hops!

So, being the good investigatory journalist that I am, (Zoolander? Anybody?) I decided to put the old Google-box to work. Lo and behold, I discovered that the pygmy jerboa is only the tip of the iceberg. There’s a whole bunch of different kinds of jerboas! They belong to the family Dipodidae, also known as the most awesome rodent family ever. Why? Two words: Bipedal jumping. Yup, that’s right. Cute little mouse-y things that can hop on two legs. Like kangaroos, but way smaller. And without that whole pouch thing, so not really like kangaroos at all.

Why did the Jerboa hop across the desert? To get away from the predator, of course. Or at least, that’s why scientists think that the animal moves the way it does. Jerboas live in deserts throughout Asia and northern Africa, and they have to cover a lot of ground to find food, the better to use long hind legs and big feet to hop with.

Jerboas, like many desert animals, are nocturnal. They burrow during the day to escape the hot sun. They actually create two different kinds of burrows: permanent, camouflaged burrows to hang out in during the day, and temporary ones to hide from predators in at night.

All jerboas have very long tails. African jerboas tend to have only three toes on their hind feet while Asian jerboas have five. They all have long, silky fur. Some jerboas have huge ears, like the Long-eared Jerboa, but some have regular ear-sized ears. Some jerboas are omnivores, but most are simply seed-and-nut-etarians.

Both the Five-toed Pygmy Jerboa and the Thick-tailed Pygmy Jerboa are considered to be at risk for extinction. And that is just not cool. Why, you ask? Because they are cute and weird and survive in the harshest climates in the world.

So what have we learned today? Nothing bad ever comes from Alex Trebek.

(I wrote this for Science Buzz)

A monkey's uncle

There you were, thinking that lemurs were barely your relatives. It’s okay, I understand. I mean, Prosimians? Really? Sure, we’re all members of the primate family, but, like, two steps removed, like those cousins in Kentucky your mom pretends don’t exist. Or something. Prosimians are the non-human evolutionary line, how primitive. Prosimians are like NASCAR, and Anthropoids, like apes and humans, are like the DAR.

But, just like every president has an embarrassing brother, so too are we related to those furry simple primates. Now, we have proof! Scientists have found a 47 million years old human ancestor, the link between these early primates and human evolutionary lineage.

“Ida,” or Darwinius masillae, was actually discovered in 1983 by a private collector, although the fossil now belongs to the Natural History Museum of Oslo. An international team of scientists has been secretly conducting an in-depth study of Ida for the past two years. Now her skeleton is 95 percent complete.The fossil is significantly older than most fossils that explain human evolution, and, unlike Lucy and other famous primate fossils, this fossil was not found in Africa’s Cradle of Mankind; Ida is a European fossil (someone call Guinness, I just set a world record for using the word “fossil” the most times in a sentence).

Ida was preserved with a full stomach, so we know that she was an herbivore. I hope that in 47 million years, scientists discover me and determine that humans subsisted mainly on a diet of Cheetos and grape soda. That would be pretty awesome. Her skeleton is pretty similar to that of modern-day lemurs, but she lacks a grooming claw and a row of teeth fused together called a “toothcomb.” She also has nails instead of claws, and teeth similar to small monkeys. She had forward facing eyes, like ours, and opposable thumbs.

What really links Ida to humans is a bone in her foot, called the talus. Her talus is nearly identical to your talus, only a lot smaller. Ida serves as a sort of “missing link,” a key part of the story of human evolution. So, you know, no big.

(I wrote this for Science Buzz)

Twitter: It's out of this world!

Twitter is, like, totes the new Myspace. Everybody’s using it. Your grandma, aunt Milly, that cute girl in your science class, John McCain. Thing is ubiquitous. You can’t escape it. So if you haven’t capitulated yet, now is the time. Pretty soon, we’ll all be communicating in 140 characters or less, haunted by dreams of that cutesy error message. “Not the whale. NOT THE WHALE!”

So you can follow Lil Wayne, and you can follow Shaquille O’Neil (seriously, do it. You will not be disappointed), and now you can follow Astro_Mike, a real live astronaut named Mike Massimino, currently a member of the space shuttle Atlantis crew, en route to the Hubble Space Telescope to make repairs. Yeah. That’s right. Tweeting from outer space.

Last Tuesday afternoon, Massimino made history. Yeah, he entered the earth’s orbit, and that’s pretty cool, or whatever, but more importantly, he sent an 139-character post to his Twitter account, the site’s first extraterrestrial activity. Well, maybe. I mean, Dennis Kucinich does have an account (cue rimshot). Thanks, folks, I’ll be here all summer.

I can hear you now: “Okay, Elana, that’s great and all, but why should I care?” Well, my dudes, the answer to that question is twofold. First off, you can read material straight from the mouth (or fingers) of a real person in Earth’s orbit. That is pretty awesome. Astro_Mike ’s Twitter is a record of the day-to-day life of an astronaut. Secondly, I think this story speaks pretty strongly to the power of the internet and social networking devices to learn and link the entire universe (literally!) together. Or maybe not. What do you think?

(I wrote this for Science Buzz)

God bless you, Mr. Rosewater

Yeah, this is more of my application to write for my school paper. Suck it.

This one was prompted:
500 words on why Kurt Vonnegut is better than Aristotle. Here it is:

Aristotle versus Kurt Vonnegut? Please. At least give Vonnegut someone a little more challenging. Jeez, Ayn Rand stands a better chance. Show me someone who prefers Aristotle to my man Kurt, and I will show you a pretentious, boring liar. Or a really depressing grad student.

Aristotle was a proto-fascist woman hater. Yeah, okay, he’s the father of modern science and medicine, or whatever, but he didn’t even believe in experimentation. Also, dude is boring. For real, that is some dry stuff. At least Plato threw an allegory in there every once in a while to keep things interesting. On Dreams is right. I mean, really, Ari baby, talk about an instant REM cycle. I can hear you now: “But Elana, most of western thought is based in the writings of Aristotle.” And? Do I look like I care? Waxing philosophic is so two millennia ago. Played out.

In all seriousness, though, I took a political philosophy class and a history of science class, and I still couldn’t tell you any specifics of Aristotelian philosophy. There are four causes, and ethics aren’t separate from politics. That’s pretty much all I got. What can I say? I am a philistine. Philosophy, it’s all Greek to me! (I apologize for that. I really could not help myself). Kurt Vonnegut, though. Now there is a guy I can get behind.

I am loath to admit how much I love Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. I am a literature major, and not a fifteen year old boy, but if you made me choose between Sirens of Titan, or even Timequake and, say, The Riverside Shakespeare, it’d be bye-bye Bill. And I don’t even like science fiction. So that’s really saying something. There’s just no beating that wry, stark language. Or thinly-veiled social critique. See, there’s some deep stuff in there. Take that, Aristotle. I mean, Vonnegut’s staunch humanism is pretty much the exact opposite of Aristotle’s super stratified, hierarchized political theory. So, you know. There’s that.

Plus, the Vonnster attended our very own Cornell! And, he worked for the Sun. (Did you know that both UChicago and Cornell brag about Vonnegut even though he dropped out of both places? Fun fact). Most importantly, he drops the ol’ alma mater name bomb more often than Andy on “The Office.” When’s the last time Aristotle mentioned Cornell? Oh, that's right. Never.

What I’m really trying to say is, Kurt Vonnegut would pwn Aristotle in a “Celebrity Death Match” so hard. Harder than, well, a very hard thing.

mmm, a dying medium

I am applying to be a columnist for my school's newspaper. I know, right? What an exciting life I do lead. Anyhow, you have to fill out a short application before you submit your sample columns, to ascertain that you can read, or whatever. So I am going to post my answers here. For posterity's sake, of course. Also, I am a narcissist. Don't worry, you'll be getting those sample columns too. I know you are all (dad) sitting on the edges of your seats, on pins and needles, waiting with baited breath.

Without further ado, Elana Max's application to write an editorial column:

• Extracurricular activities, membership and leadership positions (please list): I play on the club hockey team, I am a member of the Campus Antiwar Network, I was a cofounder of the now-defunct Guilty Pleasures club (which is not what it sounds like. It was pop culure appreciation. Mostly we just watched movies like Fifth Element and listened to Devo). I went to a Fanclub meeting, once. [Ed. Note: Fanclub is a "music collective" that brings noise-electronica shows to campus, essentially. I talk a lot of smack, but really I am just jealous because I will never, ever be as hip as they are]

• Hobbies/Interests: Comix, mostly. Short stories, writing and reading them. Fixing up old bikes, playing soccer. Snowboarding. Tenor saxophone, bass guitar. Sustainable affordable housing. 1960’s Atlantic Stax Records (Otis Redding, Sam and Dave), surf, doo wop, Emma Goldman, punk shows. Minneapolis, the upper Midwest. I really like to read and write and listen to music, and be outside when it’s nice out.

• If you could interview one person who would it be? What five questions would you ask them?
I would like to preface my answer to this question by saying that it was really, really hard. The first person I thought of was Kim Deal, the bassist for the Pixies. Because I am a sad fangirl at heart, really, and I never matured past that late 80’s early 90’s “post punk punk/ pre grunge grunge” sound. That is a genre that I just made up, but I think it suits that sort of raw, unfinished sound; you know, bands you could imagine playing in dive bars. I would also like to interview Craig Finn, Paul Westerberg, and Bob Mould, if that helps.

Then I thought of Richard Hell. Because I love Television and the Voidoids and protopunk. Also, he is from Kentucky, which is pretty weird. I just learned that right now from Wikipedia. But I decided that I don’t really want to interview a musician, and if I did I should probably pick Miles Davis or something.

So then I thought of Daniel Clowes, who is a graphic novelist (yeah, whatever). He wrote the comic Ghost World, and the screenplay for the Scarlett Johanssen movie. So that’s pretty awesome. He is also a seriously deranged dude, which is also, you know, interesting. Then I thought of a lot of other comic type people, because that is really all I do with my life. Sit around and read comix, and not even the cool kinds about superheroes.

Basically this was all a big lead up to the fact that I would interview John Kennedy Toole, even though I should probably be interviewing WB Yeats or Langston Hughes or Bach or Henry the VIII. Because Confederacy of Dunces is the funniest, weirdest book I have ever read, and the only one he ever wrote, and he committed suicide. So he probably has (had?) a lot of things to say (I just Wikipedia-d him, and he wrote another book called Neon Bible. Oops. What an amazing thing, this Google box). Anyway, here are the five questions I would ask him:

1) Let’s just get this out of the way: Suicide, what’s up with that? Why did you choose to inhale gaseous fumes from your car? Aren’t there many more glamorous ways to go? (A little morbid, but we were all thinking it, right? Right? Ok, I am just a sick person. It’s all right, I have accepted it and moved on)

2) What’s your favorite spot in the city of New Orleans? (That’s where he was from, see, and what he wrote about. But it’s kind of a good question to ask anybody, when you think about it)

3) If you could pick anyone in the world to read your novel and give you feedback, who would it be? Why?

4) Who’s the hottest Disney princess? Ok, not really. If you could only read one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?

5) Who would you choose to play Ignatius in the movie version of Dunces?

• How would your column differ and what would it contribute to the current Opinion section?

For starters, sometimes I use pretty weird syntax. So that’s kind of cool. I still feel like kind of an outsider here; I’m from the Midwest and my parents are ex-hippies who work for nonprofits, and I think that that in itself lends me a perspective that’s a little different than a lot of the people at this school. I really like pop culture, all aspects, unabashedly, and I feel like I have some pretty amusing things to say. I am really good at writing bad puns, and I think your opinion page is lacking in self-aware nerdy word play. So there’s that.

• What question would you ask a potential columnist on an application?

If you could choose anyone in the entire scope of history to be your parent, who would it be?

And that, as they say, is that.

Let's go get sushi and not pay

I'm Elana Max, and this is my blog. Because everybody's gotta have clips somewhere, right? Hopefully, if I figure out how to get this up and running correctly (I'm a bit of a Luddite), you should be able to see links to other stuff I've worked on right over there in the "About Me" section. Check out my silly little daily blurbs about birthdays and historic events at celebrationexcuse.blogspot.com, and keep watching this space (technical terminology. Who's a real blogger now? Take that, mom).

Cheers!