REASON #11607

LETTERS TO HOLLYWOOD

Dear Hollywood,

Wowsers! Looks like someone's sense of humor was on strike yesterday, along with 12,000 writers and TV's Julia Louise-Dreyfus!

Just in case you were wondering, H.W., that handsome person's name was me. And I am handsome, Hollywood. So handsome that I've voluntarily put myself in a profession where I am seldom seen by the public, lest I drive them wild with lusty abandon.

Also, I don't generally like people, or being around them.

Which is probably why, H to the Ollywood, I was in dour spirits yesterday. Until they figure out a way for us to absentee strike (Look at the American voting process! It's a flawless model!), one can't really do this sort of thing without being around people. Angry people. Angry, bitter people who also don't like being around people...ARE THE UNLUCKIEST PEOPLE ...IN THE WORLD!

See, that was fun! That turned into a little song! It's like my grandmother never said, "When life gives you lemons in the form of a psyche-crushing strike that could linger on for months and months, you make lemonade. And then you drink the lemonade to combat the fatigue you will feel when you have to sell your blood to make rent and car payments."

Sharp as a tack, that fictionalized grandmother of mine.

Anyhoo, it was more of the same today, H-Wizzle. Spent a few hours stopping cars from getting in and out of a studio parking lot, that was a hoot. I really sensed that we were getting through to the commissary workers who passed through our particular gate. They'll spread our message to the fat-cats inside. I can see it now...

"Hum-dee-dum. I'm a big awesome Studio Guy! I drive a helicopter powered by the screams of the forlorn, and I wear a hat made out of 100% Lorax fur! I can't wait to eat my spotted owl sandwich, served to me on a plate made of TIME ITSELF! Mmm-mmm. I love my evil life. Let me just take a bite...What's this? Lordy, it's a FLIER! With THE WRITER'S DEMANDS! BOOM! MY MIND IS BLOWN! MISS MONEYPENNY? GIVE ALL OF THE WRITERS PLATINUM AND CAVIAR!"

And then everything will be all like:

STRIKE OVER! THE WRITERS WIN THE PENNANT! THE WRITERS WIN THE PENNANT! THE WRITERS WIN THE PENNANT!

Whee! Making up stories is fun, Hollywood! Even when I don't get paid!

Ah, well. Back to life, back to reality.

Eventually I found myself a sweet-ass picket line, with no car-blocking, no chanting, and for the most part, nobody telling us how well or how poorly we're walking in a circle. Because to a grown-ass man like myself, both of those things stick in my craw. Don't tell me I'm walking poorly, because, like, suck it. I could be home watching "Modern Marvels."

Conversely, don't cheer me on when I'm walking well, because, like, keep sucking it. It's condescending. "Oh, look at you! Look at you go! Walking in a cute ol' circle! Who's a great big awesome writer on strike? It's you! Ah-goo-goo-goo-goo!"

Here's an idea: Let's all just hold up our signs, walk in a circle, and get through this BS with our dignity intact. That way, we won't need dental records to identify our dignity when all of this is over, okay Cha-Cha?

Seriously? Six months from now, when you're back trying to figure out what kind of crazy medical scrapes House gets into this week, somethings gonna make you remember that six months ago, you were encouraging people to stand in front of MOVING CARS, and cheering them when their walking abilities lived up to your exacting standards. And you will feel like a douche. Because you are. And I will be watching "Modern Marvels." Because I am.

But there I go again, Hollywood, acting like King Frowny-Face of the Land of Bad Vibes. Today wasn't all bad. Today they had donuts.

And tomorrow? Who knows what that will bring?

Oh, yeah. Right.

Making Lemonade,

Josh A. Cagan