Car Burgers & My Expanding Waistline

At a previous job, I had a co-worker who ate car burgers.

"What's a car burger?" you ask.

Well, my boy, come over here and sit down (as I pat on a chair) and let me tell you a story.

Back in the late 90's, I had a co-worker who, on a number of occasions, would toss his hat into the ring to get lunch at [insert hamburger joint of choice here] for he and his co-workers.

What a guy!

Then, out of the goodness of his heart, he'd take our orders, collect our money and proceed to hop into his car and head out to [insert hamburger joint of choice here].

Very nice guy, right? Yes. Yes. A very kind and generous person indeed. 

But wait, there's more!

For any other co-worker, a normal trip to Wendy's or McDonald's - which was only about a mile or two away - would take everyone around 10-15 minutes to complete. This particular co-worker, however, would take close to an hour.

"Where the hell is he??!!" my co-workers would scream as they impatiently glanced out the window with grumbling tummies. "Jesus Fucking Christ!" they would shout. And, about the time we would reach our breaking point, our rotund friend would swing open the office door with bags of food in hand and a giant smile on his face.

"Sorry, I'm late," he'd say nonchalantly. "There was a big line."

And, like a mom who had just given birth to a newborn baby, instead of getting pissed of and berating him, our subconscious minds would erase the entire pain process that we entailed in this past hour. Instead, we would focus on the task at hand, which was gobbling down our hamburgers and chicken sandwiches like a bunch of hungry raptors - and getting back to work.

That is, until...

One fine day in the spring, all of the above steps were repeated by our co-worker. He would fall on his proverbial sword, announce he was going to [insert hamburger joint of choice here], take orders, head out onto the road and then disappear for approximately one hour.

However, during this particular occasion, we asked another co-worker go on a little reconnaissance mission. After our little Hamburgler left on his one-hour journey, our spy exited the office and hid out in the parking lot behind a tree anxiously awaiting his return.

Time passed and he was almost going to through in the towel. When, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Hamburgler's Lincoln Continental roll into the parking lot, where he proceeded to park it really, really far away - out of eyeshot of our office window.

That's when it happened.

While sitting in the car, the dude rummaged through the various bags of food, pulled out his hamburger of choice and started to chomp away to his heart's content - all the while shoving fries into his mouth like Kobayashi. After about 20 minutes passed, he exited his car and walked up the steps.

"Sorry, I'm late," he said like clockwork. "There was a big line."

He handed out the sandwiches, then sat down, pulled out yet another hamburger. "Man, am I hungry," he said looking around the room going toe-to-toe for Daniel Day Lewis in the Best Actor Category.

"No you weren't," our co-worker operative screamed behind, as he slammed the door and pointed at his face. "You were eating a Car Burger!!!"

And that, my friends, was how the term "Car Burger" was born.

So, I bring up this story not to make fun of my former co-worker. Well, not entirely. However, I bring up this story, more so, because (and I'm ashamed to say this) I myself have been pulling the 'Car Burger' caper.

For the past couple months on my way home from work, I occasionally careen into a local Wendy's near Twinsburg, Ohio, and take advantage of their $1.29 Junior Cheeseburger Deluxe.

"It's got lettuce, tomato and onion," I always say to myself totally ignoring the calorie-ridden beef patty, cheese and mayonnaise. "So, it's got to be good for me, right?"

Wrong!

Then, like a husband who just cheated on his wife with a dime-store hooker, I drive home in a shameful funk. With my belly full and my hunger pangs a thing of the past, I trudge into my house with my head hung low, say hi to the kids and eat my 'real' dinner - all the while thinking about the tasty burger I sexually assaulted with my teeth a mere hours ago.

Simply pathetic.

Look, I'm a pretty fit guy. I try to run 2-3 miles a day. I try to eat right. I drink fruit and veggie smoothies every other day. And I force a V8 down my gullet almost every day - even though I still can't stomach the taste. Oh, and I eat salads. Lots, and lots of salads.

But, just like my little portly co-worker way, way back - not to mention my puffy friends - those car burgers can really put on the pounds - especially during the winter.

Two months ago, I visited the doctor and weighed in at a stealthy 189.5. Two months later, during Car Burger Gate, I hopped on our scale at work and am now looking at 197 pounds. The scale at home has also corroborated my bulging waistline.

I'M THREE POUNDS SHY OF 200! GULP! HOW CAN I STOP THIS NONSENSE?

Well, reader, there is a way to stop this. And it's not going to be easy on my end.

The Car Burgers Must Stop. The after-work trips to McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, Dairy Queen, Arby's and Wendy's dollar-menu, drive-thrus must come to an end.

Sigh! Goodbye Car Burgers. It was a fun ride. And, I can totally see why my co-worker way, way back used to partake.

But, I need to lose these five pounds. I can feel my pants tightening and my shirt bulging. I can feel myself turning into Fat Axl Rose.


And, let's be honest, I'm not Fat Albert, The Nutty Professor or The Fat Guy from The Meaning of Life.

I think when the cold spell starts to break and I'm outside moving around in the warm sun mowing the lawn, doing yard work and chasing the kids around - it's not going to be a problem to lose those extra five+ pounds.

But, if there is anything to learn from this story it's BEWARE THE CAR BURGER! As tasty as they seem, they're going to bite you in the end - or in this case, they're going to bite you in the gut.

Also, while I'm at it, I guess I should probably cut back on some of the high-calorie beer I've been drinking.

And the pudding. Yes, the pudding needs to stop.

Oh, and the Double Stuf Oreos that my wife buys for the kids. I must stop eating those at night as well.

And the Hebrew Nation hot dogs. And bologna sandwiches. And the cookie dough from the refrigerator.

And the M&M's at my in-law's house...

Dick Clark's Book of Assholes

So, unless you live under a rock, you probably heard that Dick Clark passed away last week.

I didn't know the guy, but I liked the guy. I mean, New Year's Rockin' Eve, $25,000 Pyramid, American Bandstand.

Hell, I even liked his restaurant, which had a brief appearance in Columbus, Ohio, in the early 90's before closing up shop.

Truth, be told, and all stroke and Ryan Seacrest sex jokes aside - Dick Clark was a pretty cool guy.

But, what made Dick Clark even way cooler in my mind, might be something that's not even true.

So, I'm not sure where I heard this rumor (or truth). Maybe it was in journalism class at The Ohio State University. Maybe I read it in a book. Maybe I was smoking pot with some professor - a' la Donald Sutherland in Animal House but more female - and they whispered it into my ear. I'm not sure.

Whatever the situation, the rumor that I heard was that Dick Clark had a big book of assholes.

Now when I say assholes, I'm not saying that Dick Clark had a book of human sphincter's that he physically chiseled from the butts of both dead and alive human bodies (For a second, let's think about the movie Hostel 2).

No, if this book even exists, it was a different type of tome.

As the story goes, Dick Clark had a list of names of people who treated him like shit during his various trials and tribulations in the Hollywood trenches and during his eventual path to super stardom.

Think about it. It's a great idea.

Picture a young innocent Dick Clark knocking on various Hollywood doors asking for a job, money or advice in how to succeed in this tough-as-nails business. Only to have said person(s) on the other side hurl some sort of snarky insult, hock a loogie into his innocent, boyish face and slam the door.

Does this up-and-coming celebrity rest on his laurels and accept his fate? Hell no! Mr. Clark whips out his journal and jots down the name of said asshole (for all intensive purposes, let's call this producer person Jake the Snake) and proceeds to stride on down the street and knock on someone else's door.

Okay now, let's say 15 years goes by. Since that time, Dick Clark has achieved his millions of dollars and mounds of success. On this particular day, he's enjoying a day off at one of his mansions swimming in a pile of gold like Scrooge McDuck in DuckTales.

That's when the doorbell rings.

Dick wraps a towel around his boyish (did I say boyish twice?) frame and answers the door to find Jake the Snake with a big smile on his face.

"Haven't we met before?" Dick asks the older, puffier Snake.

"Oh, no, no, Mr. Clark," says Snake as a droplet of sweat rolls down the side of his face. "I'm sure we both would have remembered."

But Dick Clark, who has met so many different people in his mucho years in this business can't seem to place Mr. Snake. So, he invites this man into his humble abode and listens to his 'pitch'.

But something isn't right. This guy looks familiar to Dick. That's when Dick excuses himself, hops up the steps to his 15,000-square foot bedroom and opens up his hallowed book - which I'm picturing placed on some sort of wooden altar worthy of a Pope's sermon.

In any event, Dick scans his book, which, by now, is etched with thousand and thousands of names and, Voila!, he comes across Jake the Snake's name - including the exact date and circumstances on how he became an official asshole in Mr. Clark's mind.

A pensive Dick Clark pushes a red button on the wooden altar and two metallic body guards appear. Then, they proceed to follow Mr. Clark down the steps, beat the living shit out of Jake the Snake and throw him to the curb.

Or something awesome like that.

Well, although I'm not powerful (yet) or have achieved any sort of literary super stardom (yet), I myself have a big book of assholes. Well, it's more like a smallish list.

This list is made up of people whom I've worked for that have pissed me off, people who have said nasty things to my wife and my family, company leaders that refused to hire me for one reason or another, and some people who are, quite frankly, just real arrogant dickheads.

And now, I would like to share that list with you:

(scroll down to see if you made the list!)


...


...


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Just kidding. This particular list will remain in my head for all eternity. Or, at the very least, until you want something from me. Then you'll know.

Money, Inflation and Mo' Money

By no means am I well versed in economics.

Here's what I know. Things cost money. In order to buy things, you must make money. In order to make money, you need to do some sort of job. Then, after you get your first paycheck, you realize the stuff you really want costs more money than you have.

So you want more money. So you work harder for more money. But things get more expensive, so the more money you make, the more money you spend on the same things that are increasing exponentially in price every single year, every single month.

Which brings me to Giant Eagle. Doesn't it seem like every item at Giant Eagle costs about $4.00. I know I'm being facetious, but maybe I'm not. To add to that thought, Why does a cart of groceries at Giant Eagle cost about $300, but you can go down the street to Marc's (or whatever your local cheap-o grocery mart is called) and get the exact same groceries, and more, for about $150?

But, I digress.

This past weekend I sat down with my Dad to discuss money, inflation and well, mo' money. Not the movie, the idea.

But first a little history lesson. I grew up in Martins Ferry, Ohio, which is a small little town near Wheeling, W.Va. The economy started to go belly up when the steel industry went kaput in the early 80's. As the steel and coal money dried up, so did the once-prosperous towns and villages along the Ohio River. Although a beautiful area with lots of rolling hils and historic landmarks, the area hasn't really been the same since.

"Dad," I asked my Dad. "How much were you making in the 80's."

My dad, who retired after 35 years as a delivery dude for United Parcel Service, gave me a number between $40,000 and $70,000. For that particular time, it was pretty decent money. In fact, I would consider my Dad's annual payload during the 80's above average for Belmont County.

We weren't starving, we could afford nice clothes, we could afford the latest video game systems (e.g. Colecovision, Atari 2600, Intellivision) and we could even afford a nice pair of $100 Air Jordans every time back-to-school season came around.

"So, you had two cars, two kids in school and a wife that was a homemaker, correct?" I continued.

My Dad nodded.

"You also had credit card payments, a mortgage, utility payments, gas to fill up both cars and cable bills, right?"

"We didn't have cable," he said.

"Oh, yeah, I almost forgot," I said, duly noting my faux paus. "Well, despite all of these payments and a one-income family, did you ever have any money left over after you paid the bills?"

"Oh yeah," My dad exclaimed. Then he thought about this for a moment and said, "We probably had an extra $100 to $200 to spare."

"Every month?" I asked.

"No," he said. "Every week."

I did a spittake of beer, which sprayed all over my mortgage, my utitity bills, my car payments and my gas payments...and my dad.

My dad's story just goes to prove my point...a little bit.

Back in the 80's, and even possibly the early 90's, money went a long way. And 'by a long way' I mean you could pay for all of your bills and even have some scratch left over to do something fun - like say going to the movies, or even heading out to Cedar Point....WORRY FREE!

Nowadays, more or less, we're making the same amount of money that people made back in the 80's and early 90's. However, we're paying out much, much more to the government, the gas station man, the utility man and, sadly,  the credit card man.

Okay, maybe we're making a teeny-tiny bit more. But, it doesn't make any difference. Show me a married couple with kids that's making $100,000 a year or less, and I'll show you a couple that's struggling to make ends meet.

Seriously. It's fucking expensive to live.

Check this out, according to the U.S. Census Bureau’s annual report on Income, Poverty and Health Insurance Coverage in the United States, real median household income in 2010 was $49,445, a 2.3 percent drop from 2009. Since 2007, real median household income has dropped 6.4 percent.

Forty-nine thousand four hundred and forty-five dollars? That's about $4,120 a month. About $950 a week. AND THAT'S BEFORE TAXES!!!!!!

Let me be the first to say, "That fucking sucks!"

I shared this newfound knowledge with my wife the other day. She took it in, thought about it for a couple minutes, than simply said

"That's terrible," she said. "How would you live? How could you live?"

She's right. Obviously people are living. They're eating and scraping by. Some may even be living relatively comfortable by budgeting the money that comes in, and working a second job.

But, there are many families living below that median income as well, which is scary.

Gone are the days when the wife (or husband) stays at home to raise the kids - all the while not making some sort of money (In-House Day Care perhaps?). It seems nowadays you need a two-person income to simply make ends meet in this high-inflation world.

And, speaking of inflation, if we're going by this article in the New York Times, food and gasoline prices are continuously on the rise in the United States, it ain't going to get any easier to pay for these things.

And I'm not going to even talk about peak oil or paying for my kids' college education or my (shudder) 401K.

Those are three little jokes that I'll have to save for another entry.

I'm not sure why I decided to write about this topic. Maybe it's been on my mind for a couple weeks, a couple years, a couple decades. No matter how hard you try to get out of 'owing the man', the man keeps pushing you back down.

Well, gotta go.

How to Make it In America is on HBO.

It's time to get schooled.

Field of Beans

I've talked about my many different jobs on this planet.

However, I forgot to bring up my short stint as a Children's Book Illustrator.

And, yep, I totally forgot about it until now. Can you believe that?

Waaaaayyy back in 1998, I illustrated a children's story called Field of Beans for a small start-up children's book publishing company in Columbus called Berry Books.

Take a gander at it right here.

The cool thing about this particular project was that I thought up the actual look and feel of the characters. In fact, the publisher (Curtis Paulson) liked my characters so much, he kept them around in other books.

Another cool thing: According to the website, a total of nine books have been printed and distributed in every state and several countries.

Eat your heart out J.K. Rowling.

Granted, I didn't make a ton of money off of this project (I think it was about $600 for about 70+ hours of work including meetings, revisions, sketches, etc) and the final product isn't that spectacular. But, this particular experience not only helped hone my illustrating/cartooning skills, but it introduced me to the wonderful world of Photoshop - and its endless possibilities.

In any event, when I talked about writing and illustrating my own book, I had totally forgotten that I already have one in the coffer. Cool!

So, in addition to this new copywriting job, and the book illustrator job, I now have had a grand total of 37 jobs - in almost 38 years.

Yay me!

Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Memory

When I arrived in Cleveland in 2006, I was running around like a bat out of hell looking for work. I had a kid on the way. And I was jobless.

I needed money. I needed a job.

I answered a help-wanted ad in the newspaper that was looking for bartenders for private parties.

I answered the ad and, within one day, I was dressed in my penguin outfit serving drinks to guitar playing burnouts and music nerds visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Don't get me wrong. It was a fun gig (heh, heh). One of the perks was I got to drink on the job. No, nobody knew I was doing this per se. But it made the hours fly by.

Two weeks into my Rock and Roll Hall of Fame bartending tour of duty, I was fortunate enough to work an event honoring the late, great singer Roy Orbison. I served drinks to his family and witnessed a pretty cool concert tribute to the Pretty Woman warbler.


All of a sudden this monster of a man approached the bar.

"Hey there buddy," said the 6 feet 2 inches tall, 350 pound man complete with handle-bar mustache, Metallica t-shirt, dirty jeans and black motorcyle boots. "Can you toss a little of that whiskey into this here coffee cup"

This guy was a shit kicker and, by the looks of him, you could tell he had stories to tell.

As I poured him copious amounts of free alcohol (myself included). We talked about drugs, sex and rock n' roll. (In that order).As it turned out he used to be a roadie for all the big name concerts. KISS. Monsters of Rock. Pantera. The Who. Grateful Dead. He had seen every band.

Every fucking one of 'em.

"Yep. Lots of memories," he bellowed slugging a shot of Jack Daniels and touching his finger to the cup for a refill. "I've seen if fucking all. Threesomes. Foursomes. Orgies. The best fucking cocaine you ever sniffed. And the best fucking rock and roll you would ever hear."

"You should write a book," I said nonchalantly.

"Sheeeeeeeeeiiiiiiit," he said cranking back another shot. "Nobody would believe half of it. They would think it was all some made up shit."

My mind started whirring. I had so many questions to ask this guy. But the concert was winding down and he was gearing up for tear down. He started to turn and get ready to do his thing. When I reached out and tapped his shoulder. He looked around.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm very curious..."

I had his complete, absolute attention.

"...what was the best concert you've ever seen?"

The big man let down his guard. Then it seemed like he was reliving his entire concert-going existence in the blink of an eye.

Then he stared at me. Eye-to-eye. Man-to-man. This big thug of a man. This solid piece of shit-kicking machinery. With arms bigger than my legs. He crossed his arms and said something that I never expected to come out of his mouth..

"Alicia Keys," he said. Then he turned towards the stage and walked away.

Stories from Kroger #5 - Jonas

During my tour of duty as a bagger at Ghetto Kroger, the store went through its fair share of baggers/cartgetters. Which, I could totally understand.

The hours were crummy. It really wasn’t that pretty to look at (the people and the store). And the pay wasn’t fantastic either.

But, it didn't bothered me. I was a happy, proud employee of Ghetto Kroger.

The hours were fine. I got a paycheck once a week, which was awesome.

Plus I was beginning to make some friends. Cute college-aged female cashier friends. Who, in turn, had parties where they would invite other cute college-aged female non-cashier friends. Which, to me and my friends, was even more important than making money.

And when the baggers would quit, they just wouldn't call in and say "I quit." More often than not, baggers would tell a manager to 'Fuck Off', then rant and rave, throw some sort of food product down the aisle. And then, finally, quit.

This one time, I was bagging groceries and this one bagger next to me, said "Fuck this shit", ripped off his Kroger smock, threw it to the ground and simply walked out of the store, mid-bag.

"Oh well," I thought. "More hours for me."

I was about four months into my bagging duties, when the store manager introduced me to a new bagger. His name was Jonas.

When I first met Jonas, my first impression was shock. (I’ll get to that in a minute.)

It wasn’t his size (He was fairly Hobbit-like.)

It wasn’t his facial hair. (He had a beard.)

It wasn’t even the big mole sticking out of the side of his cheek. (Big and hairy.)

No, none of those things particularly bothered me about Jonas. In fact, upon meeting him, I thought he was a very warm, very personable type of fellow.

But, the biggest thing that shocked me about Jonas was his age. He was 50.

Upon his hiring, Jonas set the median age of baggers forward about 10 years. Maybe more.

Now I can understand retirees and older people looking for jobs at a stores such as Wal-Mart, Target and the like. Absolutely nothing wrong with that. Hey, it passes the time, it gets your joints rolling and it also puts some prescription money in your wallet.

There's not even a lot wrong with an older person working at Kroger. Nothing at all. Especially if you worked in a great part of town.

But, as I stood there shaking Jonas’ hand, I couldn’t help but wonder, "What the fuck happened?"

How does a 50-year old man, in the prime moneymaking years of his life, become a bagger? At Ghetto Kroger? In Columbus, Ohio?

My curiosiy was piqued. As the weeks passed, I began to glean some information from my co-workers about the man we came to know as Jonas.

As it turns out he had a couple jobs. One was a Kroger bagger. Another was a landlord of this crappy one-bedroom tenement house on High Street (near the Wendy’s on South Campus). And third, he was a night janitor of some sort.

In any event, a couple more weeks passed. It was Thanksgiving weekend. There was a hustle and bustle that I had not seen in some time at the store save the first of the month.

The Salvation Army guy was jingling his bells. Silent Night was blaring on the Muzak. Even the bums had a little kick in their step during the holiday season. Which begs the question, "Was there an egg nog-flavored Mad Dog 20/20 for the holidays?"

In fact, on this particular day, it was so busy that the store needed two cartgetters to work outside. Unimaginable at the time.

As luck would have it, Jonas and I were working the same shift outside. The perfect opportunity to strike up a discussion with the man who I was determined to never become.

After business finally died down, Jonas and I were hanging out on the poles…

Did I ever mention that the Ghetto Kroger had these immense concrete poles surrounding the entrance?

Oh yeah, in order to prevent cart thefts from bums and other hooligans, the Kroger management decided to put in these concrete poles, two feet apart, which prohibited carts from ever making it out to the parking lot.

When people would bring their loaded carts out of the store, it was our job to stay with the cart while the person pulled their car around and we loaded it up. Making it another plus of working at Ghetto Kroger. We never, ever had to run around and grab carts out of the parking lot. Plus, we made an occasional tip.
Anyhow, back to Jonas.

He lit up a cigarette. We were chilling out and enjoying our view of the parking light on Saturday night.

"So," I asked. "How was your Thanksgiving."

"Oh, it was nice," he said. "This year's helicopter ride was great."

I gave Jonas a queer stare. I couldn't resist.

"Oh, you were in a helicopter?"

"Oh yeah," he said as he took a drag from his cigarette. "Picked me and my wife up right here in the parking lot."

"Really?" I said. "That’s pretty interesting. I've never been in a helicopter."

"Oh, you'd love it," he said. "You can see everything for miles and miles."

After a moment of silence.

"So, where where'd you go?"

"Oh, we went to my father-in-law’s property," he said non-chalantly. "Yeah, he’s got a 300-acre spread up there in Powell."

Then he told me a fantastical story.

After being picked up by a helicopter in the Ghetto Kroger parking lot on Thanksgiving day, he and his wife were whisked away to Powell, Ohio, where they landed in a grassy field next to a choo-choo train. (Yes, he used the word choo-choo train).

They hopped on the train, they we're taken on a ride through this scenic land filled with elephants, lions and zebras.

Finally, they arrived at his father-in-law’s mansion, which Jonas said was "about 50 rooms, 35 baths, with two indoor pools and a basketball court."

That's when I thought of the popular kid's comic book Richie Rich. I pictured the young poor little rich boy, the robot maid Irona, the perfect butler Cadbury and Professor Keenbean welcoming Jonas, the Hobbit-like bagger, at the doorsteps of Rich mansion.

"After we ate dinner, those guys would go and watch football on the big-screen TV," Jonas continued. "But you know what I like to do when I go out there?"

I shook my head.

"I like to go to the tiger den and roll around with the bengal tigers."

(I don't think I'll ever hear that sentence uttered again in my entire life.)

"Bengal tigers?" I asked.

"White bengal tigers," he added.

"White bengal tigers?" I asked.

"Oh sure, he's got a pen of three white bengal tigers."

"Like Siegfried and Roy?"

"Yeah," he said. "Matter of fact, I think they used to be Siggerd and Rays."

Just a brief footnote. The thing that surprised me about this lie was that Jonas was so intense and so colorful in his story that I began to think that he actually believed all of this happened in his mind.

Because, and just for the record, I knew exactly were Jonas was on Thanksgiving Day. He was working an eight-hour shift at the Ghetto Kroger. How did I know? I checked the schedule before I left and there it was, marked in red:

Jonas 9 a.m. - 5 p.m.
To be certain, I also asked the manager if any helicopters landed in the parking lot on Thanksgiving Day. His answer: "Not that I know of".

But, I didn’t call him out on his lie. What was the point? To me, it was more fun and interesting listening the lying ramblings of a 50-year old crazy bagger then freezing my ass off alone in a half-empty parking lot on Saturday night.

But, I couldn't just let Jonas off the hook.

"So, what are you doing here?"

He took another drag then exhaled. Then he pulled off his ball cap, scratched his head then looked my way and squinted.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well," I said. "I’m curious what you’re doing here? At Kroger. When your father-in-law could probably get you a great job doing something for him."

After a couple seconds passed. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, stepped on the butt and looked me straight in the eye.

"Pride," he said.

He must have noticed my unenthused look.

"Listen, when you quit or get another job somewhere, I’ll be head bagger," he said. "Then, I’ll move up to cashier. And, in a couple years, I’ll be store manager. The skies the limit after that."

Ironically, right at that moment, the store manager came out. "Jonas, we're getting backed up in here," he yelled. "We need you to bag some groceries. Eimer you stay out here."

"Sure thing boss," Jonas yelled as he pulled off his yellow, cartgetting smock and headed back into the store. But, before entering, he turned around to face me.

"See there," he said pointing toward the store manager. "That’s why I’m not asking my father-in-law for a job. Pride."

As Jonas sauntered back into the Kroger store and began bagging groceries, the only thing that crossed my mind was:

"Wow! I’m head bagger!"

JONAS UPDATE:
Jonas' stories were legendary to some people around the store. He would lie to anyone about anything on any given day. I wish I had some more examples. Alas, the beer and drugs have erased some of my memory.

Perhaps someone reading this post can give us another Jonas story to enjoy.

However, a couple years after I left Ghetto Kroger, one of my buddies told me that Jonas was bagging groceries during a busy Saturday morning, when this pretty sorority girl walked into his bagging lane.

As she was organizing her purse and getting ready to leave, Jonas suddenly blurted out, "I can’t help it. I just gotta give you a kiss."

He proceeded to grab her and plant a big, wet sloppy kiss on her lips. I heard he even stuck out his tongue.

(Hey, if you're going out on a limb, why not jump?)

Sadly, it was the kiss of death for old Jonas. He was immediately fired from his two-year job as head bagger.

Which leads me to wonder who's the head bagger of Ghetto Kroger right now?

Other Stories from Ghetto Kroger:
Story #1: Intro
Story #2: Magic
Story #3: Big Head
Story #4: Goldilocks

35 jobs in 35 years.

I was driving to work today and thinking about the many different jobs I've had.

I thought I'd write them down and share them with the world (or, at least, the 15 people that check this site out every so often).

Then I got to thinking that it would be fun to share a couple crazy stories about each job I've had. Then I really got to thinking that each job could be a chapter which, in turn, could turn into a book.

What fun! Maybe I'll tackle this idea sometime down the line.

In any event, here are my 35 jobs. Keep in mind, that if I worked for someone in turn for payment it was a job. So, even if I didn't pay taxes on it, I still consider it a job.

1. Flower Delivery – 10 years old
2. Lawn-Mowing – 12-14 years old
3. House Painting Jobs - 10 - 16 years old
4. Back Cook at Hardee’s - 16-years old
5. Bagger, Buggy Getter, Cashier at Big Bear - 17-18 years old
6. Dishwasher/Busboy - 18 years old
7. Busboy - 18 years old
8. Factory Worker at Budget Gourmet - 19 years old
9. Construction Work for my Grandpa – 19 years old
10. Popsicle Boxer - 19 years old
11. Bagger & Meat Department – 19-21 years old
12. OSU Scoreboard Operator – 21 - 24 years old
13. Mowing/Landscaping Crew - 22-23 years old
14. Animator - 24 -27 years old
15. Painting Prices on Car Windows - 25years old
16. House Painting - 25-26 years old
17. Window Washer - 26 years old
18. Reseter (i.e. shelf re-arranger) - 26 - 30 years old
19. Cookie Stocker - 27 years old
20. Marketing Rep/Manager - 27-30
21. Reseter (another company) - 28 years old
22. Freelance Cartoonist - 28 -present
23. Sports Reporter/Photographer – 28 - 31-years old
24. Freelance Reporter/Photographer - 28-31 years old
25. Valet - 30 -33 years old
26. Bartender/Server - 30 -33 years old
27. Copywriter Job #1 - 31-33 years old
28. Paper Sorter, Boxer, Printing Work - 34-years old
29. Bartender/Server - 34-years old
30. Freelance Copywriter - 33-present
31. Copywriter Job #2 - 34 years old
32. Copywriter Job #3- 34 years old
33. Copywriter Job #4 - 34 years old
34. Landscaping work - 34 years old
35. Copywriter Job #5 - 34-present

Whew! There you go - 35 jobs in 35 years. Either the economy sucks or I'm just not that hard of a worker. Eh? Maybe it's both.

The crazy time was when I was 34 years old. I had a total of EIGHT different jobs (not counting freelance clients) due to my move from Columbus to Cleveland. That's seven different tax forms.

Below are some BONUS JOBS that I included. Technically, they're not really jobs, but it was required work to pay off some sort of debt to society or make some extra money:

* 100 hours of community service (destruction of private property)
* 24 hours of community service (underage drinking)
* Sold stuff on E-bay
* Sold DVDs and CDs back to CD companies in college

Now I'm curious, how many jobs have you had?