So I should be packing for my whirlwind three-day vacay, but instead have decided to check out Maureen Dowd's column, which then lead me back to Gawker's coverage of K-Fed's Teen Choice Awards "performance," which then lead me to literary hot-or-not, and the Penguin UK blog (this is totally not a good idea, people are supposed to think publishing is mysterious, not realize the boring reality of it).
So all of these tangents got me thinking, how would Maureen Dowd ever know about K-Fed (or even his nickname) if not for her assistant--whom I'm sure is a constant checker of Gawker like the rest of us minions. That's the thing about assistants, we are the inside man, we know it all. My brain has always been constantly tapped for useless information gathered from all over. I'm beyond jeopardy into well into the realm of the obscure. Would our employer counterparts ever be able to function, let alone create, without our useful knowledge of...well, everything? Inspiration comes from nature, muses, lovers, whatever metaphor Keats chose to tap, but what about assistants? We deserve our own category of kudos. Could you picture Shakespeare, Scott, or Rossetti sitting back, musing on their assistant as a source of poetic inspiration? That will be the day.
To my fellow assistants, we all know what lies beneath. Now back to work.
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