What We Do Is Secret
I know from both experience and example that it's an extremely bad idea to blog about one's job, particularly when one expresses negative comments about their place of employment. The quote-unquote anonymity of the web is worth about as much as the paper that promise is printed on.
So, not to be a cocktease, but I must be a cocktease and simply say, oh the stories I could tell. All I can promise you, gentle reader, is that one day the true story will be told, full of ghost pirates and hobgoblins, witchcraft and skullduggery, and a prominent role for Mischa Barton.
One thing I can say: my celebrity knowledge has increased ten-fold since I began this job. Hell, last month I woulda guessed Mischa Barton was a imported Dutch beer. Now the cadences of certain celebrity names dance in my head like Latinate tattoos. It's similar to the sensation you get when you learn the definition of a word for the first time, and then suddenly you see the word everywhere. Now, everywhere I look I see the cast of One Tree Hill. Last month, if the entire creative team behind Desperate Housewives killed my whole family, I still wouldn't have been able to tell you anyone involved with that show. Now, the mellifluous name Eva Longoria will not exit my brain without the aid of a large mallet.
My last job was extremely--well, I won't say manly, but it did possess the pungent, sweaty stench of a 'boys club' atmosphere. Wandering over to someone's cube and saying 'See the game last night?' was not considered a time-wasting diversion, but part of the job. My cube was not far from the sales guys, and they could be heard all day, every day discussing hypothetical trades and judging who was overrated as enthusiastically and in as shrill volumes as Mike and the Mad Dog.
The new gig has decidedly less testosterone, but one good thing is an abundance of TVs that have DirecTV. Right now, thanks to bullshit legal reasons, I can't watch any of the Mets games on cable--thanks, Time Warner! Here's to more ivory back scratchers! DirecTV is not affected by these bullshit legal reasons, and so when I work late, I often turn the nearest TV to MSG or FSN, occasionally switching over to YES for the Yankees, or ESPN for one of the late games. A small coterie of production/prepress guys gather in fitful groups, watching small patches of half-innings, before descending quietly back into the high octane world of celebrity gossip and intrigue. They're like a small political resistance, meeting in secret, hanging on to small shreds of masculinity amid the designer bags and lip gloss.