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)
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
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).
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.
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.
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