but...the first day of the strike happened to coincide with one of my days off. as i was sipping my morning cup, it occurred to me that the creators of my favorite shows, the authors of my favorite movies, the people i have looked up to for years were waiting at the other end of the 405; standing on the sidewalks, all exposed and shivering as the mysterious and impenetrable iron curtain of hollywood was ripped off of them.
would it be tacky to try to network and schmooze with my out-of-work idols? i decided to hop in my car and find out.
i decided that once i came in contact with them, i'd have to have my A-game primed and ready to go. and by 'A-game' i mean liquid personality in the form of eight shots of espresso in two americanos. after my quick detour i hopped on the freeway and sped towards destiny.
heavy traffic and an inaccurate google map meant that i was in the car for an hour and a half. which meant that my bladder had ample time to collect and pool over 40 oz of starbuck's finest and the dam was about to burst. i begin to squirm wildly in my seat, switch to a lamaze breathing style, and frantically search for a camode. nothing. there are no fast food restaurants, there are no gas stations. i drive for several more miles. no grocery stores, no restaurants. i'm getting desperate. i glance at the empty twin starbucks cups as they mockingly sit in my center console. i was desperate. i glance around to see if there are any cars next to me; i mean i did have tinted windows. wait! have some dignity! i zip up my pants and angrily speed through the next intersection.
finally, an oasis in the cement desert. i see a grocery store several blocks down; i crank the steering wheel hard right, cross three lanes of traffic without using a mirror, and slam my car into a parking spot. i hurriedly hobble into the store, find the nearest nametag and with wild desperation i blurt, "bathroom!". with a disgusted look on her face, she merely points to the far corner of the store and i shuffle in that direction.
salvation. i rush up to the door...it's locked. it requires a deposit of $0.50 to use the facility. was i suddenly in a third world country?! i thrust my hands into my pockets - lint. i can feel tears welling up in my eyes. i rush out to my car, snatch up two quarters, and run stiff-legged back to the far corner of the store. after the caffeine was evacuated from my system, i make my way to the front. i pass a stock-boy on aisle 4 and mention that he may want to grab a wet floor sign near the restrooms.
back to business! i hop in my car and locate Paramount Studios. a tingle of excitement runs down my spine when i come around the corner and see the picket signs. i'm really here. i park on a nearby street and give myself a little pep-talk in my head. "Be cool. Just blend in. Be personable without being persistent. Ask them about their work. Don't be overzealous. Show your support for the union. Don't piss your pants."
i take a few deep breaths and with faux confidence stride up to the closest picketer. i introduce myself and explain i'm not a member of the union, i'm an aspiring screenwriter, and would it be alright if i joined them. he (on the left) answered with a smile and a resounding 'yes'; shaking my hand and introducing himself as "Carl Ellsworth, the writer of Disturbia and Red Eye."
since most people don't recognize writers in the same way you would recognize George Clooney, I found that most of the writers introduced themselves with their full name along with a recognizable sample of their work.
i imagined people doing this in other industries.
"Hi. My name is Pete Smith. I changed an oil filter on a 1982 Honda Civic this afternoon."
i had a picket sign thrust into my hand. now what? i couldn't have felt more out of my place. i look to carl ellsworth for some help. his cell phone rings and he says it's his agent on the line. great. i look around and see about twenty writers milling around like bored zombies weakly chanting, "We are the union...the mighty mighty union" over and over and over. I could immediately see this was not going to be a social affair. several articles have since been written about the lack of creativity in the writer's chants.
the same people who bring you the snappy dialogue on Ugly Betty and the clever witticisms on Desperate Housewives are merely chanting, "What do we want? Fair contracts! When do we want it? Now!" for hours on end. but i don't blame them. the creative juices aren't exactly flowing then they're spending four hours a day pacing the same twenty feet of sidewalk, bored, cold, and wanting a latte.
plus, it was surprisingly loud on the street corner. with the heavy traffic, the chanting, and the car horns constantly being honked in support of the WGA, it wasn't easy to spark up casual dialogue without constantly having to say, "what was that? huh?". so everyone just stuck to chanting or checking their text messages every 15 seconds.
on chad gervich's blog is a very accurate description of the five types of writer's on the picket line:
http://www.writersdigest.com/scriptnotes/A+Guest+Perspective+Notes+From+The+Picket+Line.aspx
sporadically, we would all have to bunch up on one of the corners in order to let the occasional mercedes or lexus though the Paramount gate before resuming our pacing back and forth. i looked to my right recognized the woman next to me. the fact that i even recognized her face probably meant that she was an A-list writer and was most likely the creator of a major network show or written several huge blockbuster movies. my mind was racing trying to remember her name when we began to cross the street again when i heard a strange sound. she was now staring directly at me.the sound came from her dog. i was so preoccupied trying to recall who this woman was, that i inadvertently kicked her dog in the face as it was smelling my feet. i was petrified. i said i was so sorry and didn't see the dog and began sputtering apologies as she walked away without saying a word. to make matters worse, the dog looked exactly like Lassie. i kicked Lassie right in the face.
i got home at the end of the night and scoured the internet for photos or video of myself, since all the news-crews and photographers were on site all afternoon. i found several photographs where i was always just outside of the frame. after an hour i finally found this brief clip where i can be seen in the background.
if you don't want to watch the entire clip, i'm at 2:28 on the counter wearing a blue shirt, on my cell phone, crossing the street:
http://video.knbc.com/player/?id=179604
regarding the actual reason the writer's are on strike; the studio executives have said told the writers it's too early to know how much money is available for them to share from internet broadcasts and downloads. which is a lie. check out this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8a37uqd5vTw
http://www.latimes.com/media/acrobat/2007-11/33660605.pdf
http://www.wga.org/uploadedFiles/who_we_are/annual_reports/market06.pdf
1 comment:
I see you on the street bobo. I like this blog post very interesting. Hope you are doing well in LA...and you didn't get burned from the acid rain.
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