There’s the obvious ones ... working for the Sports Illustrated Photography Department on the beach one time a year ... in any capacity ... or taste testing Italian deli meats such as capocolla, prosciutto, pancetta and other varieties of salumi ... at the Deli you own. These jobs, however exciting and completely gratifying as they may be, could not sustain my lifestyle. So let me be serious for a moment.
I wouldn’t mind working for GM or Chrysler in their car naming department years ago. They would hire a guy like me because I’m not as dumb as they were. I would never burst into the decision making room and exclaim “I’ve got! We call it the Monza!”
Monza is a small town in Italy and they just as easily could have called it a “Bologna” (it’s no wonder that bail-out money was just a matter of time).
As long as we’re naming things, I want to hook up with the people that name all the legal marijuana strains. I have sources that tell me it’s getting pretty weird in their circles and they’re acting like a bunch of dopes when attempting creativity. “Super Silver Sour Diesel?” “Pre 98 Bubba Kush?” A retailer could spend an hour just trying to explain why it’s called what it’s called. Two hours if he or she is smoking it ... my sources tell me.
I always wanted to be a well respected caddy and in demand by all the golf pros. I could pick and choose the candidates and mold them on any given weekend. If Tiger’s wife tosses a 3 iron at him with intent to harm on Saturday night, then I tell him on Sunday, “That wife of yours is crazy, man, and your problems could be contagious. You’re on your own today, pal.” “Hey, Phil, need some help?”
The Beaver (or his attorney) worked up something I could deal with. Jerry Mathers played an innocent adolescent for a few years and got a whole lot more than Ward, June or Wally when it was over. (Personally, I believe the program would still be airing if the Beav’ hadn’t grown facial hair and grew into a 44 waist size.) I’m pretty sure the royalties have exhausted themselves by now, but he sure made out long after the last episode. In comparison, Gilligan, Skipper, the Professor, Maryanne, Ginger, Mr. Howell and Lovey got nothing in the afterlife. I don’t even think they ever got rescued.
I wouldn’t mind being one of the guys that takes care of the daily grind of the Pope or some such character. It could be Eric Clapton, or Jay Leno or one of those princes over there in England. I would have unlimited access to funds, parties and trinkets. I would be expected to only relate to others what they need to do for my boss on any given day. If the job duties were not performed properly, then I would simply remove that particular person from his or her responsibilities and explain to the chief the problem has been resolved.
I’m seeing a pattern here and not sure I’m ever going to find this niche in any lifetime.
Reading back on this, it’s clear I want to be in an old union guy that insists stupidity is part of the job requirements, while staying stoned and making profits without a whole lot of logical thought, all the time, using my athletic prowess to guide me around prestigious country clubs knowing full well I’m a trust funder on a free ride that is working a job that has a title with no responsibilities. It ain’t gonna happen.
Oh ... one more thought ... being Oprah’s husband wouldn’t be a bad gig, either.
Greg Ziccardi can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.