Dear Bratty High School Kid, or "Your Outfit Is Stupid and So Are You"

Dear Little High School Snot-Nosed Brat Wearing Skinny Jeans and Vans,

Your outfit looks stupid. Not only is it stupid, it makes you look fat.

I'm sorry, but when I subbed for your English class today, I couldn't help but notice how inexcusably rude you were throughout the entire period. It's funny that in our modern world, where the advances of the Internet, and Wikipedia, and Books are all easily at your disposal, the simple task of watching a movie has somehow become impossible. School, if it escaped you, is a place where people go to learn things. All kinds of things. You'd really be surprised if you ever cared to put down your X-Box controller and crack open a book. Oh, I'm sorry. Books are the heavy things they give you at the library. They have words printed on them and they are made of paper.
I know it's difficult to last an entire period without the use of your iPhone, but it's not necessary to have in class. Your incessant use of technology has numbed your already undersized brain, leaving you incapable of producing a full sentence, much less a coherent thought. Granted, you've been on ADD medication since you were seven years old, but that's no excuse for shouting "WHAT?" when I called your name politely while taking roll this morning. The proper way to respond when the teacher, or substitute teacher, calls your name is to say, "Here," or "Present," audibly, but not so loud you hurt my ears or those of your peers.

Yes, I realize the movie we were assigned to watch was somewhat boring, and not something you'd chose to watch yourself. This does not matter. You are a student. That means, when you are asked to do something, like sit quietly and watch a movie for a couple of hours, you do it. You shut your ugly, pimply, dirty face, and you do it. Don't talk back to me when I ask you to be quiet. The first time when I asked you to please be quiet, I said "Please." Then, thirty seconds later, when you decided my request wasn't worth paying attention to, I told you to shut up. I find it quite entertaining that my use of the phrase "Shut up" comes as any kind of shock to you. You're being a little shit, isn't that your goal? My language could be harsher, you skinny fuck, but as a responsible adult, I chose to refrain. Unlike you. You are an over-indulged little bitch and I hope I never see you again.

But I digress. I meant to insult your outfit, and I got a little sidetracked. Forgive me. Where was I? Oh yes, your skinny jeans. They look terrible. When I was a child, we wore leggings, only to realize years later how unforgivably bad we looked. I still grimace at the days when my jeans fit me so tight my legs looked like suffocating pythons. If my pants fit me the way yours do, I'd cry. Let me remind you that you are a boy. Of course, it's hard for me to tell because your hair is so damn long. Don't get me wrong, long hair is all well and good. It's just that you look awful with long hair. Your mother should impose her female sense of style on you and insist that you cut that nappy, wannabe-surfer dust mop you have sitting on your head. Next to your friends, you do not stand out. Vans should send your generation thank-you cards for keeping their brand relevant. Without your lemming-like tendency to conform, their original style sneaker would have been fashionably obsolete years ago. I don't know who made up this new skinnnies/Vans combination, but they ought to be publicly humiliated and shamed into telling you that the postmodern, post-Punk, pre-pubescent militia you've joined is a consipiracy designed to get you to buy new back-to-school clothes.

I want to believe that you'll grow out of this nasty phase you're in to become a more productive, compassionate adult. I want to think that one day you'll look back on these years with a clearer perspective and realize what a shit you were. I want to believe in a better future for our nation, but you're making it really hard.

I hope you stop texting and start having normal human conversations with people. I hope you choose to learn something while you're in school instead of blindly try to impress your totally unimpressive friends. I hope you choose to use birth control.

As your sub, my hopes for you are many, and I pray you will heed the call when the challenges of the future are thrust toward you. I just hope you iPod doesn't get in the way.

I Used To Hate Guitar Hero But Now I Like It or, What Else Am I Missing Out On?

The kind of people who play video games in their spare time are usually not "my" kind of people.

If you know me at all, you know I make this kind of sweeping generalization a lot, and I make no apologies for it. More often than not, gamers exhibit qualities that just don't jive with me. When I think of a "typical" video game playing dude-person, I think: Anti-social, pimply, over-mothered and under-sexed nerd. Video games aren't sexy. They aren't attractive. They don't score points with Lisa Zine. I find gaming extremely geeky, and not in a Rivers Cuomo circa The Blue Album kind of way. I'm (sorta) sorry for feeling this way, but mostly I'm not.

So why then, do I love Guitar Hero?


My sister got a Wii for Christmas, and ever since, I've been addicted to this stupidly awesome game, and it has me questioning my values. Why now, God? Why must you make me eat my words? Why let my addictive personality disprove years of firm belief?

I am drowning in my own hypocrisy.

As a kid, video games were the farthest thing from my mind. Young Lisa preferred embossing personalized stationery and constructing flimsy tables out of wood scraps. Young Lisa wove friendship bracelets (for herself), and learned how to sew pajama pants.* Young Lisa devoted her youth to practical skills. Life-enriching skills. Amish skills. Video games? Puh-leaze. Such activities provided nothing of any tangible value, and in my laughably small circle of childhood friends, Handset-Alacrity and Ability-to-sit-in-one-place-for-hours-at-a-time did not garner much esteem or respect. But then again, neither did doing extra-credit book reports. Shit.

In 1995, the same year I wrote three unassigned essays on The Earth's Layers, Sharks, and Frogs, I played Sonic the Hedgehog on my friends' Sega Genesis. This phase lasted perhaps 3 months. I can count the number of times I played on one hand. I was pathetic at this game.

At age 15 my mom thought it appropriate to buy my sister and me a Nintendo 64. She'd heard, no doubt on Oprah, that Nintendo 64s were very popular among kids our age. Apparently she had forgotten that she was the mother of two daughters. Daughters who had never before expressed any interest in video games. Mom threw in Mario Kart (which was OK I guess) and a game that accompanied "A Bug's Life." As in the Pixar movie. Just like you're thinking, it completely sucked. If I recall correctly, in order to beat a level, you had to find a golden seed or something. For the remainder of our Christmas vacation I searched and searched for the golden seed, arduously making it to Level 2. It frustrated the bejeezus out of me until one day, our 5 year old neighbor came over and beat the game within the span of an hour. Bullshit.

In college, I took a course that explored communicative elements of video games (I think?) and in it the professor described the habits of World of Warcraft players in China. There are kids out there who won't bathe or eat because they can't stand the thought of leaving Warcraftland. Actual jobs have been created by players who need to take breaks from their virtual world, but refuse to miss whatever cyber-battle might happen in their absence. They hire people to play for them. Avatar stand-ins. What the hell. People have even killed themselves over shit that happened in Second Life. The real world is hard enough, people. Why get suicidal over things that...aren't...real? I don't get it, and likely never will.

Such was the extent of my relationship with video games, until Guitar Hero. When the game first came out, I absolutely hated it when friends would interrupt a perfectly rousing conversation only to stare, zombie-like, at the television set and hit buttons on a fake, cheap looking virtual instrument. I'd storm out of the room like a little child, saying things like, "I hate Guitar Hero. Your guitar looks stupid. This party sucks, etc." But all that's changed now. Because I'm actually pretty good at Guitar Hero. I like music, and I've always liked buttons. And when it comes to new things, I'll usually get hooked on those with which I show an immediate proficiency. So lucky me. I have something to do on Friday nights.

I realize I'm very late in jumping on the bandwagon. I'm always late to the bandwagon. I was late for Sex and the City. Late for LOST. I only just now started playing with Pogs. But so what. Better late than never, I say. If anything, Guitar Hero has taught me a lesson to be less hateful and to realize that I'm probably good at a lot of things I haven't tried. Like cocaine.

It beats sewing pajama pants.

*I can prove it.

The Possibilities Are Not Endless, or Recession Job Hunting is a Bitch

This goddamn recession is killing my spirit.

Lucky for me, I live at home. Actually, the 'luckiness' of this is questionable at this point, since I'm not quite sure if I'm happy about the situation, but at least my bills aren't as high. Anyway, lately I've realized that substitute teaching provides a pretty pathetic cash-flow, and even my really fancy private tutoring gig isn't leaving my pockets full. In a town saturated with over-eager high school kids and Post-Lay-Off Recessionites, the job pool is shallow. So what's a girl to do?


In just a few days into this New Year I have already exhausted the very short list of potential employers I could stand to work for and have moved on to much browner pastures. Yesterday when I stopped into Borders, the employees informed me that their store had recently laid off 5 employees. Pretty bad odds, I'd say. Of course it doesn't help that earlier that morning I'd heard on NPR* that Borders is in danger of falling off the NYSE. I wonder how long ago I would have been kicked off the NYSE. Clearly, I'm not the only one whose stock is low.

Basically I need a job and there isn't much out there. According to Careerbuilder and Craigslist, I've assembled a short list of possibilities, and they are laughable. I will tell you which one I eventually choose.

Here are my options (in no particular order):

1. Receptionist - Western Dental Services. Apparently in order to do this job, I must be a team-player. I didn't realize that answering phones in a pleasant dental-esque voice required me to have experience playing sports. I applied for this job today. I want to cry.

2. Waitress - Red Robin. Until yesterday, I had not set foot in a Red Robin since high school. This restaurant has been in operation for at least 15 years in the same Folsom location, which means people DO eat there. I don't know who these people are, but they are out there somewhere keeping this godawful place alive. Desperate in my search, I walked in yesterday hoping to talk to someone about getting a job. I had to psych myself up in the parking lot, repeating to myself quietly "You are not too good for this." When three minutes later no one had greeted me at the podium, I walked out. I am not sorry.

3. Store Manager - Home Consignments. I love used furniture, so this seems like a natural fit.

4. Burrito Maker - Chipotle. I'm frequently mistaken for being Mexican, so it's entirely likely that I'd be an excellent burrito maker. I love Chipotle, and could get free burritos while on the job. Of course, I prefer burrito bowls, but I'm sure I could also get those for free.

5. Food Service Worker - In-N-Out Burger. $10.00/hr plus benefits for full time employees. It sounds OK, until I imagine having to take orders for Double-Doubles and Animal Style Fries from local high school kids who I'll be tutoring later that day. Plus wearing that dorky hat makes me want to cringe. And I'd get really fat. I'm thinking this one won't work out.

6. Media Buyer Assistant - ExpressMedia. Sounds cool, right? It might even be cool. I did a little research, and it looks like the company buys airtime for Longform Media clients (a.k.a. Infomercials). What could be cooler than calling local news stations to book midnight time-slots for thirty minute Proactiv infomercials? The answer is nothing. Nothing is cooler than that.

So, friends, things aren't looking so good. It's a grim reality that I'm sure I'll come to terms with, even if I do end up deep frying potatoes, or selling used coffee tables. Money is money, and it's too bad we all need it so badly, because without it losing your job wouldn't really be an issue. I've had to come to grips with the fact that even with a college degree, I'm really not too good for anything. And that hurts.

If you have any suggestions, please send them my way. I'm open to persuasion, and at this point I'll consider almost anything - with the exception of sign spinning.

Happy Recession.


*Don't you hate it when people drop NPR into casual conversation? It's so snobby and elitist. I do it all the time.

Santa is a Native American or, "I Played a Slot and I Liked It"

Of all the many splendid things the holiday season brings, weight-gain and Seasonal-Affect Disorder included, I think the gifts of this particular Christmas season have far out-shined any of the past, and possibly the future.

This year, Santa brought me the Red Hawk Casino.


I never used to like casinos until Red Hawk came along. The only time in my life I had ever gambled before was once when I was 18. Some friends and I took a late-summer sojourn to the Jackson Rancheria where I immediately lost $11.50 on some quarter slots. After the shocking blow to my already unstable confidence in the art of frittering money away, I vowed to never gamble again. Multiple trips to Vegas during college were moderately expensive, and the few dollars I had in my piddly bank account were spent on hotel rooms, trashy outfits, and lots of booze. My lavish lifestyle left me rich in memories, but close to penniless, so of course I wasn't going to lose the meager leftovers playing Keno next to a geriatric chain-smoker at the Barbary Coast.

But things have changed now. Old people don't bother me as much, and I've discovered that Keno is actually fun. The vow I once made has been broken, because friends, you're reading the words of a winner.

On my first visit to the Hawk (ca-caw!), I won $115 on some two-cent machines called "Hot Shot." I love Hot Shot. Yes, it's mindless, and most of the time you don't really win much more than maybe 60 cents, but if you're lucky like me you'll hit what they call a Double-Money, or Triple-Money, or Extra-Money bonus round. Getting a bonus round is like taking a giant hit of heroin. Now, I've never taken a hit of heroin, but I'd imagine this is as close as I'll ever come. The game console lights up, the tone of the music rises, reaches a climax, and Woo-Hoo!! You've won!! When I saw that little cash counter going up and up and up, well, I just about peed.

On my second visit to my new favorite place, I won $54 playing Caveman Keno. This otherwise obscure game would have gone unplayed had it not been for the sage advice of my mother, who knowingly indulges my unhealthy behavior. Caveman Keno only costs a quarter per play, which makes it somewhat more affordable than other games, and it keeps you playing for a good long time. In other words, it's an Endurance Game. Endurance Game is a term I just coined, so you can all thank me for that.

Oh! And there are free self-serve soda machines! (Sorry, no free booze. Yes, I too was disappointed). So if you're sorta down on your luck, just think, you're paying yourself back with every Pepsi you drink. MSRP on a medium Pepsi is roughly $2.00, so if you need to justify losing any significant part of your savings, just think, it's money you would have spent on drinks anyway. Perfectly sound logic if you ask me.

I'm sure that had my first two visits to this Native American paradise had resulted in losses, this blog would have never happened. But the reality is that I did win, and I might have a gambling addiction. I get high just talking about it. Just this morning I had the idea to create a gambling jar where I can put spare change, and then when it fills I'll reward myself for being a diligent change-saver and I'll use the money to feed my addiction at Red Hawk. What else am I going to do with my spare change? Probably nothing. I love this plan!

Naturally, it's best to manage all vices with care and moderation. But it's really hard when you reach that moment, just before placing another bet, and the room becomes latent with possibility. You press your finger to the button, and Hope is palpable. The music plays in a celebration of potential wealth and prosperity. The Future is calling.

Anyway, if you're in the foothill area, call me and I'll show you what I mean. Visualize the win, embrace the poor-odds, and drink the ambrosia of the soda machine.

Just don't get pissed at me if you lose.

In a time where things are looking grim for a lot of people, the Red Hawk Casino is like a shiny, neon, blinking beacon of hope, lighting the thick economic darkness. Not only does it offer the chance of coming home a winner, it's also a local employer. So gambling can't be all that bad. I love it there, and until I lose money, I will keep returning.

It is so damn scary how close that place is.

"So, I've Had A Few Beers," or When Will America Stop Sucking?

I hope you like reading my blog. I'm pretty sure if you're reading this now that you do, but there's always a chance that any blog entry could be the first blog entry and I'd hate for it to be a crumby one, and I want so badly for it to be a good one, so I hope I can perform. 

You see, I've been drinking.

I've even had the idea before to have a blog that is written exclusively in the drunk condition. What fun that would be! But so easy to fake, and you should know by now that authenticity is my number one goal.

Wow. I had to edit that so many times.

Ok, so anyway. The economy sucks. Such fucking bullshit. 

If you have a job, you're lucky. Don't try subbing, it sucks. 

Bye

Wal-Mart: Rolling Back Prices, Splattering Heads, or The Hazards of Bargain Hunting

Ok, you need to read this:

• "(CBS/AP) A worker died after being trampled by a throng of unruly shoppers when a suburban Wal-Mart opened for the holiday sales rush Friday, authorities said. Nassau County polie said the 34- year-old worker was taken to a hospital where he was pronounced dead at about 6 a.m., an hour after the store opened. The cause of death was not immediately known."

This is a report from November 28th, 2008. And my friends, this is fucked up.

I love the holidays. I mean, I guess I do. They are great in a lot of ways. Time to reconnect with friends and family. Time to eat cookies in excessive quantities. Lots of time to lament having gotten suddenly and inexplicably fat.* Oh yeah, and people give presents.

I like getting presents. Like, who doesn't? The Great American Gift Exchange is an expensive tradition that allows us to show the people who mean the most to us just how little we actually know them. Sure I love my Aunt, but I don't want another jar of Vermont maple syrup. If it's the thought that's supposed to count, Hey relatives, start using your effing brains.

Despite the more enjoyable aspects of the season, "the most wonderful time of the year" has its drawbacks (e.g. Holiday Muffin Top, or Family Reunions). And one of the biggest bummers of the holidays is shopping for gifts. Stop in at any store between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, and odds are good that the lines will be out the friggin door. Even major retailers seem to always run out of the one awesome thing you wanted to buy your dad, leaving the poor guy to settle with another shitty tie. There are only so many great gift ideas to go around. I wonder if my dad would like a Bidet...

Now that we're all just coming off the whole post-Thanksgiving "Black Friday" thing, let's pause to think about that news story I showed you. Sure the holiday shopping rush is stressful and not all that fun, but just think: it could be your last.

Guys, a dude died at Wal-Mart. He DIED, because people are fucking nuts about getting a deal. I just... I just can't wrap my mind around wanting ANYTHING at Wal-Mart so badly that I'd:

1. Line up outside Wal-Mart at 9 p.m. the night before the store opened. Yes, people did that.
2. Stampede through the doors when they opened at 5 in the g-damned morning.
   
3. See a worker in my path and actually physically push him to the floor in a selfish, mob-induced frenzy for blocking the cheap-o DVD rack.
4. Proceed to step on his head/stomach/wiener/etc., so as to effect his death.

Talk about bargain hunting! They're rolling back prices, and the people are out for blood.

Thanks Wal-Mart for opening all those extra check-out lanes so my food-stamp-munching, death-trample friends and I can more easily waste our hard-earned factory wages on toys no longer made within the borders of the great nation we claim to love with magnetic ribbon-shaped bumper stickers. So much tacky shit to buy, (apparently) so little time. I like America, but I fuckin' LOVE a deal, man! And I'll kill you to get it.

In fact, according to that article, the Wal-Mart bum-rush wouldn't even stop to allow paramedics to resuscitate the poor, dying man. And in the midst of the unimaginable, hellish chaos, at least three other people were injured.

Seriously. What is wrong with these people. Would Mary and Joseph have tried to kill the Wal-Mart staff on Jesus' 1st birthday to get a better price on swaddling cloth? Me thinketh not.

Everyone, the moral of this story is simple: Let's keep holiday manslaughter to a minimum. Let re-gifting tube socks be the extent of your yuletide misdemeanors. Deals are great, but killing other human beings at Wal-Mart to get them is unforgivable.


*It was those damn delicious cookies.

My Two-Day Vacation From Facebook, or "Let's Cut The Small Talk"

I know more about you than you think.

Creepy, huh? I know, it is. It's creepy that I know you got married three months ago. It's creepy that I've never in fact met your baby, but if I wanted to kidnap her I'd know exactly who to look for. I also know what your apartment looks like, and your beer of choice. I know who's potentially got a crush on you, the names of all your favorite books, and where you're going on vacation. It's fucking creepy, but I know.

I know, because Facebook told me.


Four years ago when Facebook launched, I was staunchly opposed. Why do I need a website to keep in touch with my friends? How does this change any thing. What a dumb idea... A dumb I idea I wish I had thought of.

Of course, back then there wasn't much to do on Facebook. At the beginning, there was no real reason to spend countless hours browsing friends profiles. No deep, insightful, emotional status updates. In fact, when Facebook started friends from high school who wanted to keep in touch did it the old fashioned way: through e-mail. Wasn't that impersonal enough? Sending messages to people on the internets? Anything less than hand-written mail, or a face-to-face encounter seemed entirely too newfangled to me. But, I guess I was wrong. Again. Seems to be a pattern.

Anyway. In light of all the time-sucking Facebook can do, I took a break. Having had quite literally nothing to do for the last few weeks besides walk my dog, go to spin class, and tutor Geometry (oh, the thrilling life I lead!), I found myself spending far too much time on the 'book. Like a drug, or better yet, a cancer, Facebook had encroached on my time, and was eating away at the very embers of my being. I was losing my life to Facebook. When checking an empty email inbox and a pathetically short-changed checking account trickles into 'The Mundane,' Facebook seemed to offer a sort of voeuyristic repreive. A chance to see how my life stacked up to those of my friends. A chance to feel... normal.

Yeah, it didn't work.

Every damn day, someone new got engaged. And then someone else was having another kid. And someone started learning a lot in grad school, or was travelling Europe. And then someone else was working at some super-sweet job, or just bought a house, or worse... was getting married! Good God, was no one sane anymore? Had no one else moved home out of boredom or financial need? AM I THE ONLY ONE ON THIS GODDAMNED JOURNEY TOWARD HAPPINESS?

According to Facebook, I was. So I quit. But as you can see, it didn't last.

Yes, I'm a little disappointed with myself. I thought I was stronger. I thought I had what it took to say NO to Facebook. But my will to take a stand has waned, and my desire to poke people and write wall comments expressing my sheer delight at seeing them last night in Folsom took over. Guys, if you thought Lisa Zine was a strong woman, you thought wrong. I may not really keep in touch with you that well, but dammit, I know whats going on in your life. That party you went to last weekend looked like a lot of fun, but you should lay off the booze for awhile. And your baby is growing up so fast! Also, you looked awesome in your wedding dress. Thanks for the invitation. (Bitch). Omg! Just kidding.... Poke!

Granted, I may love poking, but I don't necessarily love Facebook. Some days it makes me feel like I'm on the wrong path, or that my life is a giant bore, or that I should be going to Vegas more often. Other days I'm just glad to know my friends are still alive. But if there's anything to actually love about Facebook is that it really cuts down on the need for small talk at bars.

Let's take last night, for example. We're out at a local bar. We're "catching up," as they used to say in the olden days. The beer's flowing, the chicks are pretty fugly. Life is good. And best of all, as stated above, I already know what's going on with you. Chances are either one of us could spout off a few unimportant details about where we are and what we're doing, and it wouldn't be news to either of us. And isn't that awesome? In so many instances I was able to cut through the bullshit and right to the good stuff: "So ___ has gained weight, huh? Awesome."

So if Facebook has done this for me, the least I can do is stay loyal to it. It kills me a little bit to know that my sobatical didn't last longer than a few hours (about 48-ish). I'm merely human. And frankly I'm a bored human. But it's Thanksgiving, and the holidays always make me feel warm inside. And so does Facebook, with or without all its demons.

So get ready. Next time I see you, I'll know exactly what you've been up to. And I won't even ask.

Happy Thanksgiving, Facebook Friends.

Poke!