It's all a profit game

I live in Brooklyn, NY (well, sort of), but I have no idea where Canarsie is. Where the hell is Canarsie? What the hell is Canarsie? Sounds like some sort of skin condition. Oh, great. Now I feel itchy. I've got the Canarsie. It's kind of like being stuck on an elevator with Harvey Fierstein, Barney Frank, and Yanni. There's no treatment for that.

Anyway, during a brief moment of clarity this morning, I remembered a few more jobs to add to my original list of positions I've held since graduating from college in 1992. Yes, this is an absurdly long list (and I'm still forgetting -- or repressing the memory of -- some). Now, mind you, I was never fired from any of these gigs. Actually, I did well in [almost] all of them; so well in fact that I was meant to take on real responsibility at nearly every stop. But who needed that? So I'd quit and move on. I mean, I always tried to do well, but really I was holding out for my big Hollywood break. Nah, that's bunk. I just couldn't commit to being a career stockbroker or corporate suit or animal caretaker. So I'd beat feet. In hindsight, it's clear that I never had viable exit strategies; hence, for example, I went from a sound-as-a-pound (if boring as hell) situation with Ford of Europe to working as a two-quid-per-hour "lounge boy" at a pub in Dublin, Ireland. This probably explains why I'm now a 36-year-old fact-checker. At least I don't live in Canarsie, I guess.

Anyway, for those keeping score at home, add the following to the list.

PIZZA COOK
PIZZERIA SHIFT MANAGER
GIFT SHOP SALES CLERK (@ the Seattle Zoo)
TEMP GIFTWRAPPER (@ University Bookstore, Seattle; this did NOT go well; I didn't/don't know how to wrap gifts. I also can't fold clothes. I had to quit a job at a department store when I was in high school because a woman told me that I folded clothes like her three-year-old son -- she was right.)