#55 - Don't Believe the Hyperbole

Don't Believe the Hyperbole

2/20/05 (#55)

Richard Branson, President of the massive and diverse Virgin industries (Virgin Records, Virgin Mobile, Virgin Megatores, etc) recently hosted a "reality" TV show. Rebel Billionaire claimed that the contestants would have an opportunity to win "a prize beyond their wildest dreams."

The prize was purported to be Richard Branson's job. Logical minds immediately wondered how important his position was if he was willing to give it up to someone who was able to sell ice to Eskimos, beef to vegans, or whatever hair-brained scheme was concocted to make so-called riveting television. Viewers spent a dozen or so weeks wondering whether the bean-bag salesman or the pantyhose entrepreneur would become the president of a massive international conglomerate. When the finale finally arrived, the truth was revealed: they did get "Richard Branson's job"---sort of. They actually became co-President of Virgin, and for the term of 3 months. That amounts to a 65 day internship. What a gyp.

What stuck in my head was the phrase, "a prize beyond their wildest dreams." Beyond their wildest dreams? How could such a thing be determined---was there a question on the application, "What is your wildest dream"? (If so, I think the hosiery lady was likely name-dropped in the bean-bag man's response.) Here's why I'm suspicious---this is just one of my wildest dreams:

I will own Cuba. That's right, the entire island. (A greedy man might say Australia, but I can't imagine what a landscaper would charge to maintain Australia. Cuba is plenty.)

Needless to say, I will have the finest house in Cuba, built in the architectural style of early-20th-cetury Havana, on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It will be expansive enough that guests will miss their flights because they didn't account for the travel time between their room and the front door. The pool will be amazing---Minnesota will be jealous.

My home will house the largest known collection of reference books---texts from every era, every generation. I could plot the development of any word all the way back to Gutenberg. The library will be open to the public, but there will be an entry fee---you'll have to write a haiku.

I will speak Spanish, because I hate when people travel to foreign places and expect to be able to get by speaking English.

I will have a staff of 50 people, all of whom will be well paid and will work only 4 days per week. (Well-paid, well-rested employees do the best work, wouldn't you agree?) I will have one staffer who has only one task: following my wife and I around so that we could have cafe cubanos (intense, sugary espresso) at any moment. The barista could read, do crosswords, anything they want, but when the craving for coffee came, they'd be on call. Each evening the family would have dinner on the deck overlooking the blue Atlantic. Dinner will be Cuban food (duh), my plate always devoid of mushrooms, my wife's plate always stocked with those funky black thai mushrooms. The chefs will work 4 hours a day. They will be encouraged to make the most unusual empanadas that they can dream up.

There will be a massage therapist in our employ, with doctorates in marine biology, astronomy, and economics. During the massage they will fill our heads with random, fascinating information. My daughter will be the smartest, most relaxed young woman on the planet.

Cuba will be home to the world's only "Guitar lending library", so friends can check out a Martin and play it for a couple of weeks, then bring it back and try out a Gibson J200. There will be no late fees. If a guitar isn't returned, I'll send my librarian Steven Davis over with another guitar, they'll puff the local greenery, play together for awhile, then Steven will say, "Keep this Les Paul for a while, but we've had a request for that J200."

All of my friends will live in Cuba, in houses of their liking. The Cubans will live in houses of their liking, too. (If the population is poor, no one is ever going to return the guitars.) The island will have an incredibly efficient monorail system, eliminating the need for cars. (It's the only way I can imagine getting Mike Burch to stop working.)

Wes Anderson will film Sage's birthday parties. American Music Club will provide the entertainment. There will be a petting zoo featuring a herd of giraffes. The giraffes will be well paid, too.

Zeth Lundy, Cuba's Minister of Entertainment, will sift through hundreds of records a month so that I won't have to. (So not much change for Zeth, except he'll be living in Cuba.)

On the island there will be a resort community that hosts only children's book authors, and only good ones. John Lithgow will be welcome to come. Jay Leno will have to vacation in St. Thomas, because rules are rules. On the bright side, Jay will get to vacation with Madonna.

Olympian Shadow Farm will have an actual office. Despite an enormous, overpaid staff (including every guest who has played with Brindle) very little work will get done, mostly because the office will be next to the guitar library.

Beyond my wildest dreams? Sorry, Mr. Branson. Put the above scenario on one side of the scale, and on the other side, your offer requiring me to shave every day for 3 months so that I can hear you repeatedly say, "Where's the profit in a guitar lending library?" and I think it's fairly clear which arm will have gravity on its side. (Heck, that's not even one of the "wild" ones---you should hear my plans for Canada.)

©2005 wpreagan