/yesod

Tag: celebrities

  • the new office

    …and I’m surprised to find out that not only are each of us getting our own office in the new building, but we’ll have an attached bedroom as well. A few of my coworkers even have bunkbeds.

    The gossip around the office is that this is to allow for a more Mad Men like atmosphere.

    “Aren’t we way too busy for a bunch of womanizing?” I ask.

    No one answers. They’re all too busy getting ready for the big new photo shoot with our latest client, Versace.

    The office is full of art directors, make up artists, and celebrities called in for the shoot.

    I pass by an office where Christian Bale is getting his hair dyed a brilliant royal blue.

    I trade quips with George Clooney in the hall. He is wearing a two foot tall jet black fright wig and sports an impressive handlebar mustache — perfectly suited to go with his leather chaps and Village People bondage gear.

    It’s going to be an interesting day, I think to myself.

    (For what it’s worth, the tag line for the advertising agency where I work is “Exactly like nobody else.”)

  • a jar of mud and other fragments

    …gathered around the table, we trade anecdotes and witty replies . . . just a bunch of guys hanging out, who also happen to be famous — all except me, of course. I can’t believe I’m here, can’t believe that everyone just assumes I belong…

    …he’s lying in the shore, dozing in the early evening breeze. The surface of the lake stirs faintly, the ripples slowly moving toward us. He has his hat over his face, one leg resting on his upturned knee.

    A long dark thread is knotted around his big toe, stretching out over the water to a little rowboat bobbing ten or fifteen yards offshore…

    …I stand in the water, soaked to the knees, reaching out to pull the boat in. It’s small, maybe four feet long. Almost like a child’s toy. Antique. The rough wood stained by the water and by time,

    In the shallow bottom of the boat are mason jars, each filled with small stones or soil. A few have both. The soil is very dark, dark as coffee grounds. The stones, very pale.

    These are my jars and I am glad to see that none of them have been broken. As I lift one out, it slips through my fingers and spills stones and soil in the shallow water at the bottom of the boat.

    “Great,” I mutter. “Because that’s what I needed right now: A jar of mud,”