The Shadow Store

Somewhere north of Bishop, California, on I-395 (that's East of the Sierra Nevadas) is The Shadow Store. Yes, its theme is shapes, cut out of wood and painted black, and designed to adorn your yard or home. The Shadow Store is filled with a multitude of shadows: rabbits, men hoeing, single flowers, dogs, women and men bent over, cats curled up in baskets. For a few miles in either direction before The Shadow Store, one can tell that the neighbors patronize this store all right. Like little billboards in yards leading up to the ultimate of purchasable umbras. I love the specificity of the store--picture the wreath-weaving neighbor, desperate to sell her wares in a local store. 'Nope,' The Shadow Store owner tells her, 'only shadows here. But I'd be glad to buy a wreath pattern from you and make a few wreath-shadows and see if they sell.' My favorite was the Amish horse and buggy shadow featured prominently in the yard (near the shadow rock and shadow chickens and chicks and rooster and weather vanes and flamingoes). One realizes, you don't need yard ornaments at all!

moral dilemmas all around

Last night, I was at a dinner party for the writers of Lipstick Jungle. We finished writing six episodes before the strike started, and now they're shooting them in New York. It felt like a scene from the Way We Were--some writers are much more adamant about the strike, others are more casual and have even visited the set (all while carefully not writing, I'm sure). The showrunner has been on set a lot; he is a hero in the network's eyes.

In February, we go on the air in E.R.'s timeslot. That should be great news for our target audience of powerful women balancing their careers and their personal lives. But the writers of E.R. are pissed. Their showrunner shut down production when the strike started. Because they're not producing fresh episodes, our show was able to step in.

Then I went to a fancy Depression-era theme party in an amazing house with a live jug band and fancy soup (in support of the strike, I guess). I talked to a guy who's run the Simpsons on and off for twenty years. He has one percent of the profits in the show. And Fox is still claiming the show isn't in profits! He was going to audit, but then it turned out the audit would have had to go through Jim Brooks, so then it went away. I feel something like that happened with him and Tracey Ullman years ago.

The shittiest working conditions of my life were directly due to a narcissistic writer/showrunner with a pathological need to control time by defying its very limits.

I hope we get everything we want out of the strike against management. But no one screws over writers like other writers.

Queens Gazette

This is a letter I've had sitting on my desk for quite some time. It's been there as a thing to send to Frank but I'll just type it here. Strangely the Queens Gazette website has a different version of the letter. Did they actually bother to edit it? Or did the author have 2 versions. I think the printed version is better.

Dear Editor:

Last week at my local supermarket, I ordered a half pound of Virginia ham on sale at the deli department. While the deli counter person cut my meat, I went to the bakery area to get a roll for the sandwich I was going to take to work for lunch the next day. I had already bought a half pound of macaroni salad to go along with my sandwich. Ok-I guess you can say I'm a big eater.
Anyway, when I got home, unwrapped the ham, and saw the way the deli person had carved my meat, I was nearly in a state of shock! It was cut ultra thin. Each slice was thinner than a sheet of one ply toilet paper. I picked up a slice of ham, barely able to grasp it. The ham was nearly translucent. I had to look at it twice to see it once. I didn't know if I was supposed to eat it or take a cross section and view it under a microscope.
I like a big thick slab of ham, or any cut of meat, something I can sink my teeth and crowns into. Well, the next time I order cold cuts, I will make sure to tell the deli person to cut me really thick slices. In fact, I will do it right now. I forgot to order the half pound of low sodium Swiss cheese to put on the other half of my sandwich!!!

Sincerely,
Mark Lane

Little Neck

"I'm Not There"

Best Bob Dylan: Cate Blanchett. Worth seeing just for her.

Worst Dylan: Richard Gere. He gets a big movie star entrance about halfway through, right when the movie needs something, but he is the last thing this movie needs. He's playing Dylan's outlaw Billy the Kiddish type incarnation, which, if I only had six Dylan incarnartions to work with, probably wouldn't even make my list. Especially because it leads us into a completely disposable fantasy world of outlaws, freaks, and carnies, but without the saving grace of songs from Blood on the Tracks (a rights issue?).

Julianne Moore is very funny as the passive aggressive Joan Baez type he leaves behind. David Cross is effectively vacant as Allen Ginsberg. Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams must go to the right parties--they're completely forgettable.

Geographic mismatch

The draw for the 2010 World Cup qualifiers was held the other day, and the US will get to play the winner of Dominica vs. Barbados. Combined, these countries are 1/50th of the size of Los Angeles and 1/1000th the size of the US.

At left is the very cartoonish Dominican coat of arms.

Terrorism: A Way Out?

Maybe those terrorists wouldn't be so effective if they didn't have such easy access to laptop computers, and if we could somehow redirect their aggressive energy toward sports.

meta-ing of the minds

While we're disappearing up our own assholes, I wanted to practice doing a link.

A Meta-post

Three things that bug me about blogger, our blog editor/host:

Forced Astrological signs. Take a look at this guys profile. See how it lists his sign(s)? This isn't because the guy believes in astrology, it's because if you want to list your age on your profile, Blogger forces the star sign on you too. So if you see an age in a profile, you'll see the astrological sign too.

What do all the hardcore skeptics do? I haven't searched for a skeptic tag yet, but I'd bet you don't find a single person listing themself as a skeptic who also displays their age. The forced Zodiac sign is why.

No automatic email notification when comments are added to a post. Blogger, if I ask you to, you will automatically send me email when someone else makes a comment to a post after I've made a comment to the same post. Why can't you extend the same privilege to me when I'm the poster? After all, I'm hosting that party. I'm a big boy, Blogger. What is it you're trying to protect me from?

(This isn't about blogger specifically, but still...) The word blog. It's a little better than tofurkey jerkey but way worse than even chunnel, which is saying something. Every time I use it I think it's more suited to a context like I got so drunk last night that I blogged all over Nancy's floor. I hated this word from the start; for a long time I insisted on using the longer, and way more pleasing weblog instead. But I lost that war. Now I use the word, of course, but it still grates.

Feel my red-hot fury.

why i need to get out of this town

Matthew Perry and Zac Efron are starring in a movie together. Hard hitting reporting from today's Hollywood Reporter:

"In a scenario that turns the concept of "Big" on its head, the Jason Filardi-penned script follows a middle-age father who wakes up to find he's 17 again. In order to be close to his children, he enrolls in the same school as them."

Not only does it turn the concept of "Big" on its head, but it takes the concept of "Vice, Versa," "Like Father, Like Son" and "18 Again!" and cleverly cuts it in half.

My trip to DC

(I know this is a canned and copyrighted image, but it does relate to the story ahead)

On my last trip to DC (a one hour flight that was four hours late, and rerouted through Philadelphia - top that, John) the flight was empty enough that they had to move people to the back to meet weight distribution requirements. I ended up in the very last row, and was joined in my row by a large-framed British man who had a completely inflexible left leg that stuck out awkwardly into the aisle.

Most of the trip was uneventful. When the flight attendant went to take her seat at the very, very back of the plane in preparation for landing, the British man made some bitter remarks about having to sit in the back row with his wrecked knee and how he had specifically purchased a seat with more legroom. (Did he mean the exit row? I thought those people had to be able-bodied). One of the other passengers asked what happened to his leg, and he started talking about an old rugby injury or something, then the flight attendant called from her back seat, "Sir, that is a security issue". He said that yes, he understood why he had to sit in the last row, then resumed his story. Once again: "Sir, that is a security issue". After one more round of this, it became clear: the security issue was not where he was sitting, but his discussion of his injury, which I suppose could be construed as...what? A critique of the airline safety policies? Other passengers started chiming in: "It's a free country!" "Let him speak!"

I was not among the chimers. Instead, I adopted my best living-in-East-Germany-in-the-1970s blank expression and waited for the plane to land. The British man's tone had progressed from arch to genteel to obsequious, and I had a feeling what that meant. Sure enough, three uniformed policemen were there to greet our plane. They also asked the man who yelled "Let him speak!" to step aside.

On a positive note, earlier when I was stuck in Philadelphia I heard an announcement for Flight 1492 to Columbus, and thought that was a very nice touch.

Previously Unuttered Sentences

I was at a friend's for Thanksgiving. Georgie, a ten year old girl, had some problem with her nose that she didn't seem to want to talk about. Her brother Patrick started to tell us what was wrong with her nose and Georgie told him "Patrick, it's not your nose to explain."

I love that because a) it's funny, and b) that sentence has probably never been said before.

home

I flew into LAX from Newark last night on American Airlines. I arrived at the airport two hours early for a flight that was two hours late (information that they sold us fifteen minutes at a time, no more than we could handle). I had a jangly stomach and I'd rather shit my pants than go on a plane. Don't get me started on Newark airport.

I bought an imodium at the airport store. I went to get a drink and realized it was the kind of individual packet you need to open with scissors. I'm not allowed to have scissors in an airport. I go back to the store to see if they can open it, there's now a long line. I'm afraid if I bite the package, my teeth will lose badly. Ultimately, someone from the TSA opened it for me. After some consultation.

When we finally landed, after eight hours and nineteen hundred miles, they told us we could use our cell phones. We all eagerly dialed our families, as piped in music blared in the cabin, so none of us could hear anything. We had twelve channels of music to choose from during the flight. No one had been deprived of music.

Speaking of music, the movie on the flight was High School Musical 2. Are we meant to believe that, along with being a talented singer and dancer, Zac Efron's character is also some sort of basketball star? Are even the young girls who love him buying this?

Carson Daly

was completely unwatchable with writers. And now?http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071127/ap_en_tv/hollywood_labor_carson_daly

a rare revival

My grandfather was a famous playwright whose work is rarely revived. A North Dakota farm boy who grew up to write plays in blank verse about kings and queens (and the common man!), he was occasionally guilty of overreaching.

When I was eight, my mother told me to tell my teacher that my grandfather was Maxwell Anderson. I regarded her, dubious; even to my untrained ears, this sounded like a bit of a nonsequitur. But Mom was uncharacteristically confident; she knew we were sitting on a great hand. The next day, I dutifully told my teacher, expecting a prize of some sort, maybe an announcement to the class, something low key obviously--I mean, it's not like I wrote the plays.

She cocked her head oddly, phoned in a few vague words of approval that could have just as easily applied to Elmer Rice or Robert Sherwood. I backed away, deflated. And yet somehow I never lost confidence in the nugget. Mom wouldn't send me on a suicide mission, would she?

Forty years later...

Homeland Security Advisor Frances Fragos Townsend quits her job. From her three-page handwritten letter of resignation to the President:

"In 1937, the playwright Maxwell Anderson wrote of President George Washington: There are some men who lift the age they inhabit, til all men walk on higher ground in their lifetime.

Mr. President, you are such a man."

Bishop is the end of the line

Bishop marks the end of Route 6, the other end being Provincetown MA. Road afficionados should read this if they want to take the 6. Route 2 is also a good one.

on the road

Bishop, California

a reasonable template

In 1988, Carsey-Werner made a deal with the WGA during the strike and went back into production. I've been asking incessantly on the picket line why something like that doesn't happen today. A recent Wall Street Journal article poses the same question:

http://online.wsj.com/public/article/SB119482950368089597-qZSQTKZ51Qd7BNpglPdeNNbPDDo_20071211.html?mod=tff_main_tff_top

It would be nice if some of the few remaining independents stepped up and made deals, even if they were mainly symbolic. Why couldn't a company like Act III, or even Werner himself, come to an agreement with the WGA right now, favored nations, landing where we all think this is going to go anyway.

But what's more baffling to me is that someone like Peter Chernin or Les Moonves doesn't do it. If one of those guys had the balls to break off from the alliance, the potential increase in market share would be huge. Any one of the networks could take over prime time by being the only one with new shows. And deep down, I think these guys want to destroy each other even more than they want to destroy us. So what's stopping them?

Bethlehem Steel

In keeping with the labor theme, John requested something related to Bethlehem Steel. A mere 50 years ago this was one of the largest companies in the world. And now it's about to be converted into a casino:



http://sandsbethworks.com/



For decades a diverse coalition of legislators was able to keep the forces of gambling at bay, but I guess no more. If you've never lived in Pennsylvania, you cannot believe how extreme this is. Producing random numbers instead of railroad cars!

St. Crispin's Day

In 1988, most of the meetings were held at the Hollywood Palladium. Our debonair executive director Brian Walton would get the crowd whipped into a reliable frenzy. Even in defeat, he gave the St. Crispin's Day speech from Henry V: "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers..." Standing O!

At the meetings, there was a microphone on one side for those in favor of whatever was being discussed, a microphone on the other for those opposed, and one in the middle for people with something to say that wasn't exactly pro or con. This being a roomful of writers, no one wanted to take a simple yes or no stance. The middle microphone, or what I came to call the pet peeve microphone, had a line out the door.

This is my pet peeve microphone. My issues with the guild are very narrowly drawn. I want to picket because I want to, not because I have to. I believe freedom of assembly includes the right to not be forced to assemble. I think there's a difference between striking and picketing, with striking being the more effective of the two. I think my commute from Topanga Canyon should count against my picketing hours. And I think if we don't get a piece of the internet now, we never will.

And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Marc Cherry's face

writer's guild v.i.p.?

I heard there was a sign with those weird words pointing upstairs at the strike meeting at the Convention Center. I haven't been able to confirm the report, but issues of status have crept onto the picket line, and in ways that cut deeper than John Stamos and unavailable tee shirts. There was a strategic meeting of showrunners last week, and yet it included lots of people who aren't currently running shows. It makes me wonder who chose these people and on what basis (obviously I wasn't chosen). There is a particular fascination with the powerful personal narrative of Marc Cherry. It's a favorite WGA talking point: he wouldn't have been able to write Desperate Housewives if he hadn't been living off of residuals. Does anyone give a shit? Why the Guild thinks the best spokespeople to put front and center are the well-fed faces of millionaire showrunners is beyond me. It's not always better to put a face on the message. It depends on the face.

this is why there are no shirts

Strike!

Whenever you see pictures of celebrities on the picket line, they're wearing strike tee shirts. Every day I picket, and every day, I ask for a shirt. They are absolutely unavailable. I can't get a fucking tee shirt. But John Stamos shows up, and somehow they manage to find him a shirt.

Strike!