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August 7-13, 2008
editorial@boulderweekly.com
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Survey says...
by Ben Corbett
Americans are infatuated with their Best-of lists, and from “Top Cities to Live In” or “Hottest Party Colleges” to something as penetrating as “Flashiest iPhone Skins to Attract that Ultimate Guy,” they’re the guiding light for a nation of trendies on a neurotic binge of pseudo-individualism. At this point in life, safe to say, there are two kinds of people in the world: those who are comfortable with themselves and those who are uncomfortable. The comfortable ones ooze with this natural sexiness, this sparkling aura of confidence. Their faces can even be covered in bizarre growths and acne and yet, with some unseen force, still seem to inspire envy from even a roomful of well-heeled fashion junkies. Likewise, those who are uncomfortable tend to exude this perpetual awkwardness, like someone wearing clothes about eight sizes too small. Without warning, feeling trapped, these types will flail spontaneously in bed, as if trying to shed some imaginary skin. And mid-conversation, no matter the occasion, apropos of nothing, they’ll throw out a random thought: “Do you ever feel like life is one big Jose Cuervo commercial and the camera is panning on you and this song is the soundtrack?”
You either respond, “Um, no...,” as you scour your memory for this sensation you’ve never known. Or else you say, “Wow! I can’t believe somebody else feels that way, too! Except mine is a Miller Light commercial and not Jose Cuervo!” and you become immediate best friends, almost soul mates, like the dharma just pole-axed you between the eyes. But after about two weeks the Nirvana wears off, and you and your new shake-n-pour friend fall into the rut of bitching about ex-partners that ruined your lives. Forever after, the rest of your conversations pivot on finding flaws in Penelope Cruz and people who write “OMG!” in their texts, or else comparing notes about the latest Best-of lists, where clues to guaranteed happiness fester like bedsores on the ass of existence.
The best of the Best-of lists is by far the “Top Ten Sexiest Jobs.” Both Salary.com and CareerBuilders do the annual surveys, and each year the choices are polar opposites of the year prior, and of each other. How both websites can poll the same number of people and come up with completely different results is incomprehensible. Last year, “Model/Actor” took the No. 1 slot on CareerBuilders, while on Salary.com “Firefighter” once again topped the list as it does every year, and understandably so, as America still suffers from its 9/11 hangover. But rather than calling it “Top Ten Sexiest Jobs,” it should be “Top Ten Professions that Miserable Americans Think Are Sexy Because They Hate Their Current Jobs and Are Uncomfortable with Their Lives.”
As a self-described Social Scientist with a license to generalize, I watch this Sexiest Job survey religiously. No matter the venue, it’s a good odometer to feel the pulse of the national head space. One year, the sexiest jobs are all escapist: movie star, CEO, lawyer (fame and fortune). The following year it’s adventure: athlete, soldier, photographer (action and excitement) Then the next year it’s humanitarian: nurse, environmentalist, teacher (social martyr). It’s an endless, repetitive cycle as predictable as the generational swings in politics from right to left.
However, I was baffled a few years ago when “reporter” snagged the No. 4 slot. It’s remained in the survey since then, only now they’re calling it “Newsperson/Anchor.” Catsup, ketchup, call it what you please. Reporters are lowly, amphibious aberrations in the neural food chain, a rung up from blue-green algae. When I saw that we made the Sexiest Job list, my first thought, like many, if not most of my colleagues, was, “I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth and get shamelessly laid.” Then my next thought: “Who on earth would think being a reporter is sexy? Could they be polling the same backwater clusters of degenerates who voted for Bush?”
Being a reporter is unarguably the most overrated, unappreciated, worst-paid profession in the world. It’s the Hot Carl of career choices. Only masochists (and university seniors with open majors who need to squeeze all of those fun liberal arts classes into some degree to graduate) choose journalism. Hey, it looked like high adventure in Oliver Stone’s Salvador, after all. Might be cool.
But then they find themselves in a cube tapping out news ticker blurbs with some whip-cracking production manager lecturing them on the rules of hyphenation, and that’s when the alcoholism begins. The average job turnaround for reporters is one year now, and so they hop from cube to cube, city to city, caught in the throes of a perpetual job search and upward mobility measured in thousand-dollar increments. Eventually they make it to that big cube at the top, where they spend their days tapping out Best-of lists for Americans who, uncomfortable with their lives, think that fighting fires is sexier than what they currently do.
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