It’s been a while, friends — some might say too long, though who are we to put words in your mouth? Paying Dues is back from hiatus to bring you an interview with our pal, cartoonist Julia Wertz, who joins us to talk tending bar, vacuuming and not vacuuming for a Buddhist, and getting sprayed in the face with hobo blood.
TBTL host Luke Burbank joins us to discuss a failed plumbing career, the mystery of frozen yogurt, and how a severed thumb in a bowl of Wendy’s chili led to a fruitful career at National Public Radio.
Sean Nelson has had his fair share of jobs–and continues to do so. Actor, writer, singer, burger flipper, Nelson is best known first his work as the lead singer of 90s indie-poppers, Harvey Danger. Nelson joins us to talk McDonald’s, not going to law school, and fear and loathing in the record industry.
Jon Wurster is the drummer of Superchunk and pretty much every other band you like. He’s also one half of The Best Show on WFMU’s resident comedy duo Scharpling & Wurster. Before he did all of those awesome things, he was a working schlub, just like you and me!
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Joe Garden is real trooper. The Onion Features Editor puts up some of the worst podcast sound quality of all time to help inaugurate the first-ever Paying Dues. We discuss dishwashing, corn de-tasseling, and why no one will sit next to Joe in the cafeteria.
Welcome to Paying Dues, a wonderful (no, really) new podcast about the things people had to go through to get where they are.
We’ll be interviewing luminaries of sorts from the worlds of comedy, music, comic books, letters, and more about bad jobs, terrible roommates, and all of the other stuff they’d most likely just assume forget about.
Come laugh, cry, and generally feel better about your station in life with co-hosts Brian Heater (@bheater) and Alex Scordelis (@alexscordelis).
The amazing piece of art you see at the top of this post was created Susie Cagle. She makes comic books that you can look at here.
It’s a bit strange to say, I suppose, but looking back on my life up to this point, it seems that my goals have grown all the more outlandish as I’ve grown older. Logically, I think, the opposite should more often be the case. After all, I’m of that age when it’s no longer fully possible to effectively ignore the weight of the world steadily crushing down upon me. I’m of that age when I’m required to think about things with like tax returns and Roth IRAs and sub-prime lending—even if I’m not entirely sure about what any of these things actually mean.
As a youth, aged four or five, my life’s goals were of the modest variety. I had no desire to be an astronaut or a pro ball player, or even a reasonably well-paid fireman. At four or five, high off having watched Popeye for the eight millionth time, much to the chagrin of my patient but tired mother, I’d have liked nothing more than to have been a moderately successful, one-eyed sailor. Hell, I’m likely giving the man a bit too much credit here, regarding the man’s nautical skills. There’s nothing in the record so far as I can recall to suggest that he achieved any manner of success in his chosen field, moderate or otherwise.