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.