When American society is given the chance to "speak pretty well for itself," as the editors intended it to, then what we Americans say about our jobs sounds an awful lot like the monologues of John C. Reilly's earnest but hopelessly dopey cop character, Jim Kurring, in the film Magnolia. That is to say, a chasm-wide discrepancy between talk and action and the neglect of direly needed context, particularly in a subject as multifaceted and potentially profound as work.
Inherent in the word work is obligation, but the editors here have changed "work" to "gig" in order to convey the casual approach to labor they believe workers have at the dawn of the millennium. Rarely in these just-between-you-and-me, on-the-job, water-cooler confessionals do we encounter a dissident rebelling against the invention of the cubicle, the power lunch, the laundry list of things they'd rather be doing or disrespect from co-workers and superiors. Although the subjects, speaking on behalf of such careers as CEO, mother, crime-scene cleaner and Elvis "interpreter," speak honestly about their professions, few admit to being exploited or taken for granted, not even the transvestite prostitute. American workers take their jobs personally, but get someone alone and talking about their station in life, and you will encounter a tale wiped clean of the intricacies of weakness and dissatisfaction.
But because few workers profess complex unhappiness doesn't entirely mean we get a boring, unsophisticated version of who they are or what they do. The voyeuristic pleasure of anonymously stepping inside someone else's world has its merits, and Gig succeeds in muting the white noise that comes symbiotically attached to every job and gleaning the slightly glamorized tidbits of purpose from the day-to-day. It is a useful handbook for someone considering a career change or exploring a curiosity about what it's like to be a porn star. But page after page of poor, lightly copy-edited grammar and unmediated interviewing jammed together under categories that make people and their work sound like elements on the periodic table leaves one wondering where the sociology comes in. Try to find it somewhere between the supermodel and illegal, poultry-factory worker.
