It’s hard to imagine any job called “grip” being un-sexy, but when that job entails making minor adjustments to movie lighting as per the prima donna director’s whim, you have all the makings of an occupational nightmare.
“No, Mr. Spielberg, I don’t mind moving the light again.”
Factor in the lack of real movie production in the Portland metro area and the high likelihood that you would be moving heavy equipment around the next Ron Jeremy as he cavorts around nude in a Northeast apartment, and the “grip” in key grip seems much less attractive.
Where to look: shady gyms and the traveling Trauma Studios van.
Oh, the pleasures of the open road. Breezing past the green luscious fairway with a course set for the 9th hole. You’re a caddy, and you’re responsible for zipping the Rockefellers along the par 9. Sure it’s like a chauffer without the half-drunk bottle of champagne at the end of the night, but it’s also a sport-dashing, white-shorted sport.
Where to look: country clubs and golf courses. Try Persimmons.
This is the job that’s impossible to not find. Stuck in a cube, listening to people complain about how the company has wronged them while trying to improve your solitaire record on a Windows 3.1 PC. If you work for a more upscale retailer, maybe the perks will be better. Work for Journey’s and you might score a vintage Bill and Ted T-shirt, work for Martha Stewart and you’ll likely get nary a good thing.
Where to look: any classified job listing, including ours.
This is the job that’s impossible to explain. Stuck in a cube, listening to people complain about how the company has charged them $8.99 a minute to talk to a gruff housewife from the Midwest. Just be careful who you advertise your new position to.
“Well, Grandma, I’ve been supplementing your monthly checks by working as a phone-sex operator. My name is Delilah.”
Where to look: the back of any free paper in Portland, except ours.
Roadie for your friend’s band
Sure you can tune a guitar. You’ve cleaned up your friend’s vomit before. Washing your hair isn’t a necessity, and really, who can’t say the words “check one two” into a microphone? But being a roadie isn’t so much a job as it is a lifestyle. Sleeping in the back of Tom’s van and listening to Neil Young’s Zuma for the 300th time without stabbing yourself in the leg requires dedication, or at least borderline psychosis.
Where to look: Northeast Portland, your couch.
For those of you who’d rather be paid to clean up vomit, there’s custodial work. Spent condoms, dirty toilets, the science experiment known as the fridge in the staff lounge: these are all common acquaintances of the custodian. Keep in mind that to anyone who inhabits the locale that you’re cleaning, you’re just the janitor. What’s the difference? I don’t know, but if you’re going to take the job, you’d best find out – righteous indignation in response to the improper nomenclature is all part of the job.
Where to look: Portland Public Schools (or its new subcontractor).
If Gary Coleman can work security, anyone can. All it takes nowadays is a blue suit, a hard stick and a strong mistrust of anyone “foreign.” Don’t bother looking for work at the airport unless you’re willing to maintain a militaristic regimen or are already a member of the National Guard. But Safeway security seemingly requires only a fresh pack of cigarettes and the gift of gab. Invite your friends outside to chitchat about the latest Vin Diesel flick while you watch for people with lumpy jackets leaving the building.
Where to look: anywhere things are stolen.
Get out the Coppertone and the silicone floatation devices and head to the beach! Whether watching the kiddie pool at the local YMCA or watching a stretch of Malibu beachfront, you’re sure to attract attention atop the lifeguard tower. Keep in mind that lifeguarding indoors could result in chlorine-induced hairloss, and lifeguarding outdoors will most likely permanently imbed sand in every place on your person where it may collect.
Where to look: anywhere water is kept.