REASON #11307

LETTERS TO HOLLYWOOD

Dear Hollywood,

Hollywood, how did we ever let it come to this? Why, just yesterday, we were running though the park holding hands, sharing an ice cream soda while that sinister looking soda jerk looked on, and getting hot and heavy in the backseat of your dad's Prius.

But that's all ancient history now, HW. I knew that it would be as I observed the WGA meeting on Thursday night, at the decidedly un-Hollywood Los Angeles Convention Center. The LACC, by the way, is sort of a theme park based in equal parts on the cities of Worcester, MA, and Hartford, CT. In other words, even if you went to an event there that DIDN'T involve your entire way of life being put on indefinite hiatus, it would still be the most depressing event of your life.

Plath-matching sadness aside, I was nonetheless swept up by the passion that can only be ignited by a room full of 3000 mostly unemployed people wearing "Who Farted?" t-shirts. "Finally," I thought to myself, "The country, nay, the world will see what happens when a bunch of pasty white guys raise up, and demand to get what's coming to them! From this day on, pasty white guys have a voice!"

I'm not being fair, Hollywood. Some of the white guys had tans.

So there I sat, Hollywood. Hanging on the speakers every word. Well, most of their words. I was texting to a friend of mine sitting next to me, checking my e-mail, and confirming on ESPN that the Sox won the series. You know how it is with the Sox. Even though the series ended a week ago, it could still go either way. So I heard most of what the speakers said. But as the palest ink is better than the freshest memory, let's just go to my notes:




So there you have it, Hollywood. The struggle in a nutshell.

And now if you excuse me, I'm off to Sunset Tan.

Yours,

Josh A. Cagan