Let me tell you about the otherworldly luxury Costco runs I used to make.
Back in the day I was a Production Assistant for The Man Show on Comedy Central.
It was my first job out of college.
Overall, it was amazing.
Yes, the PA is the bottom of the Hollywood totem pole and there were certainly days where I’d spend 4 hours in LA traffic to get a taped segment to some executive producer’s house in Simi Valley or I’d have to fit 80 burritos, chips, tacos and drinks in my car for a lunch run or some A-hole producer would complain about the wrong coffee or their fruit being cold or whatever other nonsensical thing the occasional miserable upper-tier EP needed to get mad about to feel important…
But on the whole, for a 22-year-old kid who loved the show and considered Terminator 2 a pivotal part of my manhood experience, spending my days on set and learning from entertainers like Jimmy and Adam and all the other writers there was great. Also: Juggies.
As a second also, Andrew Dice Clay had a show on the lot at the same time and I loved me some Dice.
And yet, as I think back fondly on those days, one thing that I got to do seems to age in my memory better than anything else…and maybe it’s because it’s the one thing I still have to do now, only I do it now with far more limitations and far less fan fare.
What I’m talking about is a Costco run.
And not just any Costco run…
Not the average trip most parents make these days to grab giant boxes of fruit snacks, butt wipes and apple pouches and paper towels and Gold Fish packets. No, those runs are for mere mortals like you and me (now).
What I am talking about is walking into Costco with a credit card from a major Hollywood TV network (Comedy Central), getting two assistants from the store to help you, each of you grabbing a pallet (shopping carts are for wimps), and with no list and no assignment other than to fill a production studio kitchen that was used by about 100 people for two or three meals a day, absolutely go to town.
It was glorious.
I’d taste a sample of the new Chicken Pot Pie from some company. I’d like it. I’d buy five boxes.
I’d buy a stack of Red Bull and Gatorade and Root Beer and Ginger Beer and Diet Coke and Vitamin Water and Sprite and then more Gatorade.
I’d roll down the aisle with the cereal and buy one box – OF EVERYTHING.
I’d buy crates of bagel bites and frozen burritos and three square feet of hot pockets.
I’d buy enough oatmeal bags to feed actual horses.
I’d grab giant boxes filled with endless bags of Doritos and Tostitos and Cheetos and Cheese Puff and four huge tubs of Animal Crackers (and then a tub of those peanut butter-filled pretzels for good measure).
I’d say ‘yes’ to everything I saw.
‘Yes’ to ten pounds of lunch meat and 800 slices of Kraft Singles and eighteen loaves of bread.
‘Yes’ to the boxes of Twix and M&Ms and Snickers that are usually reserved for snack stands at Little League games.
‘Yes’ to cases of gum and blow pops and ring pops.
By the end I was like a roving 7-11… a caravan of candy and crackers and crap winding down the aisles with a giant smile on my face and a half-eaten warm chicken bake in my right hand.
It was gluttonous and it was awe-inspiring and nobody ever told me what my spending cap was and nobody ever said a word about how much I bought.
My mandate from the higher ups was simple: Full Kitchen, Happy Staff…so fill that sucker up…
It got to the point that the good Costco folks asked if I’d call ahead when I was coming so they’d have two people ready to help me when I got there.
I’d be in the store for three hours.
And then we’d spend another hour loading up the show production van.
My receipt would be six feet long and would total thousands and thousands of dollars.
When we had our company BBQs I’d top 10k easy.
On my ride back to the studio, I had this daydream that I’d get stuck on the 101 during an earthquake (terrible, I know) and that thousands of people would be stranded without food or water and we’d be on the brink of Armageddon and then, out of nowhere, like a hero riding into battle on a white horse, I would get out of the van, open the back door to blinding light, and I’d shout, BEHOLD, I HAVE SUSTENANCE!!!!!
And the people would cheer, for I had enough food to sustain my stretch of the highway for weeks.
And they’d rename the 101 Highway in my honor: JonBoy Road.
These days, I head to Costco once a month or so.
I spend a few hundred dollars. Of my own money. I get the basics. It’s not much fun…
My only solace is that I’ve experienced something in the store very few people have:
Luxury Costco.
And it is wonderful.