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)