This was a repetitive fantasy of mine in my teenage years. Did I mention that my teenage years were also bereft of dates?
Lounging around all day in a stone tower, wearing a fancy robe and crunching logarithms and predicting eclipses for an erudite, worthy ruler. Watching with glee as the rabble scurry around during said eclipse with fear-stricken faces; then hanging out at court and bantering with the likes of Gauss and Bach; flirting with the Princesses.
The current rep has lost the fancy garb, and with it, some of the appeal.
I think AR circa 1750 would have done the trick for me.
Showing posts with label dream jobs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dream jobs. Show all posts
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Dream Job #4
Of my dream jobs, this is the first real one I could actually do with little or no training: Vermont Teddy Bear Counselor - specializing in Latino Bears. All I'd have to do is move to Vermont, muchacho, and brush up on my Espanol.
Here's a thought: if you are going to call them Latino, why not use the Spanish word for bears: "osos"?
There have quite an assortment of osos....here are a few:
the Latin Lover bear: "suave, debonnaire, and as romantic as they come, our Latin Lover will make her weak in the knees. Wearing a silky white shirt with gold chain and faux black leather pants, and holding a Bear-sized, red velvet rose "between his teeth," this is one Bear that will really sweep her off her feet." Um, right.
the Mamacita: a bear in a "sexy little black dress and a red velvet rose in her hair." Bonus selling point: the dress has the word "mamacita" embroidered into it.
the Papi Chulo: a bear wearing a "black shirt and pants with a red velvet rose boutonniere." Kinda gangsterish.
the "¡Te Amo!" bear: a white bear with a big ole red Liberace bowtie. Tough sell, I think.
the Amor tattoo bear: "His heart-shaped "Amor" tattoo shows the one you love just how much you really care. Wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and dark shades, he may look tough on the outside, but he's a real softie on the inside." What, no bears with piercings?
I'd have to specialize: being a generic Bear Counselor seems rough - there are way too many bears. Keeping to the ethnic ones makes the job enjoyable, mamacita.
Here's a thought: if you are going to call them Latino, why not use the Spanish word for bears: "osos"?
There have quite an assortment of osos....here are a few:
the Latin Lover bear: "suave, debonnaire, and as romantic as they come, our Latin Lover will make her weak in the knees. Wearing a silky white shirt with gold chain and faux black leather pants, and holding a Bear-sized, red velvet rose "between his teeth," this is one Bear that will really sweep her off her feet." Um, right.
the Mamacita: a bear in a "sexy little black dress and a red velvet rose in her hair." Bonus selling point: the dress has the word "mamacita" embroidered into it.
the Papi Chulo: a bear wearing a "black shirt and pants with a red velvet rose boutonniere." Kinda gangsterish.
the "¡Te Amo!" bear: a white bear with a big ole red Liberace bowtie. Tough sell, I think.
the Amor tattoo bear: "His heart-shaped "Amor" tattoo shows the one you love just how much you really care. Wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and dark shades, he may look tough on the outside, but he's a real softie on the inside." What, no bears with piercings?
I'd have to specialize: being a generic Bear Counselor seems rough - there are way too many bears. Keeping to the ethnic ones makes the job enjoyable, mamacita.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Dream job #3
Thinking about my next dream job on the way into Boston today. Today's dream job: Musician who plays the same note over and over again.
I had my daughter Jacqueline in the car with me, and we listened to music - the Cape and Islands station, 101.9 on your radio dial.
An old lite rock song was playing, heavy and steady on the cowbell. I mentioned to her I thought that might be an easy/desirable job for someone who isn't musically inclined (that is, me).
Jacq, a former violinist and high school band member, straightened me out. "Oh, no Dad....you gotta keep rhythm."
"I can keep rhythm," I said. "I may be mostly white, but I think I can bang a cowbell for 30 seconds straight."
"No, Dad...actually, percussion is very difficult, and all the other members of the band depend on you to do it just right." So I stand corrected.
Maybe I'll be the guy who bangs the same note on the piano for what seems like a minute in the Doobies Brothers song "Take me in your arms (rock me)". That dude aint percussion, and he seems to just hit that same note over and over and over again, as regular as the lies that shoot out of Dick Cheney's mouth.
I had my daughter Jacqueline in the car with me, and we listened to music - the Cape and Islands station, 101.9 on your radio dial.
An old lite rock song was playing, heavy and steady on the cowbell. I mentioned to her I thought that might be an easy/desirable job for someone who isn't musically inclined (that is, me).
Jacq, a former violinist and high school band member, straightened me out. "Oh, no Dad....you gotta keep rhythm."
"I can keep rhythm," I said. "I may be mostly white, but I think I can bang a cowbell for 30 seconds straight."
"No, Dad...actually, percussion is very difficult, and all the other members of the band depend on you to do it just right." So I stand corrected.
Maybe I'll be the guy who bangs the same note on the piano for what seems like a minute in the Doobies Brothers song "Take me in your arms (rock me)". That dude aint percussion, and he seems to just hit that same note over and over and over again, as regular as the lies that shoot out of Dick Cheney's mouth.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Dream job #2
Dismal rain-soaked ride in this morning. When I wasn't being tailgated by one-headlight contractor vans, I peered through the mist to get my daily bolus of gruesome signage.
Billboards for Cardi's, a local furniture store in Rhode Island, pepper I-95 around Providence. Man, am I tired of looking at the chubby mugs of the 3 owners...
A little further down the road I was stuck behind a large brown trash hauler. On the back of the truck, in large, white sans serif lettering:
AMERICAN
WASTE
617-555-5555
There’s probably a President of AMERICAN WASTE.
I would LOVE to be able to tell folks that I’m the President of AMERICAN WASTE.
Then I could say “I’m not just the President, I’m a member.”
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Dream job #1
How sweet would it be to be the GM of an all-robot sports franchise?
No player salaries. No uniforms. No free agency. No strikes.
No first class charters…you could Fed-Ex your entire team and teach ‘em how to self-assemble.
All you need are electricity, batteries, spare parts, and a little WD-40.
And there’d be little of that tabloid junk…children out-of-wedlock, spousal abuse, club shootings, dog-fighting and gambling scandals, etc.
Probably have to keep guns/weapons out their shiny metal hands, though…there’s always the potential of developing a RoboCop ED-209-type software malfunction, or an inadvertent SkyNet-like superconsciousness.
No player salaries. No uniforms. No free agency. No strikes.
No first class charters…you could Fed-Ex your entire team and teach ‘em how to self-assemble.
All you need are electricity, batteries, spare parts, and a little WD-40.
And there’d be little of that tabloid junk…children out-of-wedlock, spousal abuse, club shootings, dog-fighting and gambling scandals, etc.
Probably have to keep guns/weapons out their shiny metal hands, though…there’s always the potential of developing a RoboCop ED-209-type software malfunction, or an inadvertent SkyNet-like superconsciousness.
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