What I'd Rather Be Doing

Boston TV Weather Forecaster: I’d hone a faux-New England accent, drop obscure suburban town names with a hometown familiarity, and sarcastically put down newsbunny anchors that dare to direct nonsensical weather banter at me. Best of all, I would use perfectly ordinary weather events to out fear-monger Dick Cheney. Six to twelve inches of snow in January used to be ho-hum before television came to be. But in the capable hands of the local weatherman, it’s transformed into NOR’EASTER ATTACKS! 2008. Watch how the right mix of certainty, controlled panic, and a sufficiently scary backdrop (a live remote from Gloucester would do nicely) will have the masses tearing down the local Stop & Shop in search of canned goods. Terrorism comes in many forms, and some of it’s perfectly legal.

One-hit Presidential Interviewer: Give me an hour with the President, and I could effectively demonstrate the degree to which your favorite hard-hitting anchor transforms himself into the First Sycophant to maintain his access to power. “Why are you surprised when your clarion call for freedom rings hollow to those that observe our unwavering support of the dictatorial regimes in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Kuwait?” I’d sweetly ask. I’d follow-up probingly. I wouldn’t let a single distortion of fact get by me. I’d conclusively demonstrate that respect for the Office doesn’t equate to respect for the Message. And I’m sure that I’d never be invited to the White House again.

Backup Vocals for a Multi-Platinum Hip-Hop Artist: I’d get to hang out with the Steve Jobs of American popular culture, my street cred would go through the roof and grunting two or three word refrains isn’t hard work. I’d choose a stage name that was deferential yet legit (12 Cent? The Hobby?). The risks are slight—how often do the late-night bullets fly, anyway? In any case, if the police ask, I never saw nuthin’.

New York Mets Starting Pitcher: I’d win the Cy Young with a 95 mph fastball and 80 mph change-up, sign a nine-figure extension, and hold the requisite press conference to declare that it’s all about “taking care of my family.” But rather than descend into the depths of drugs, alcohol, and ego, I’d build a nice house in the hills of North Jersey, start a charitable foundation, and give lectures at local high schools. I wouldn’t kill dogs, carry illegal weapons, or tearfully declare that I’m entering rehab. Doesn’t my way seem like the path of least resistance?

Delta 777 Captain: I’d command aircraft to and from exotic ports of call, not the least of which would be Atlanta. A slight southern drawl would infect my voice as I kept my passengers continually abreast of every nuance behind delays or as we passed over landmarks, to the point where they’d be begging for less information. I’d never forget to turn the seat belt sign off. I’d dismiss some particularly rough turbulence as “light chop,” calming hundreds of people instantly. I’d insist that my co-pilot call me Maverick, and ask for permission to buzz the JFK control tower. Permission denied, I’d chuckle to myself and execute a perfect landing on 22R accompanied by only the gentlest of bumps.