REASON #11807

LETTERS TO HOLLYWOOD

Dear Hollywood,

Let's just open up with a little disclaimer, Hollywood. I'm just the teensiest bit scattered this evening, for reasons that will make themselves apparent as you read on.

Wednesday was the first day that I didn't feel like a 24 karat schvonce on the picket line. The powers that be decided, shock and wonder, that dashing out in front of MOVING G-D D-MNNED CARS may not be the best way to get our point across.

Those horse apples out of the way, the stage was set for peaceful walking back and forth, BS-ing with old and new friends, and a little stress relief technique I like to call, "Getting high in my buddy's* car." See, Hollywood, that entails getting high in- Right, I guess that pretty much explains itself.

My outlook on marching was also vastly improved by spending the best 13 dollars EVER on a pair of those gel insoles. That's right, the W of H, I was gellin'. Like a felon. Like Magellan. Like Aaron Spellin'. If he wasn't dead. Can one continue gellin' in the afterlife? Note to self: Call psychic.

Now, as much as I like to front that I hold my fellow man in low regard, Hollywood, it really is a hoot to meet other professional writers, even if it is under these goony circumstances. But in a way, the patently absurd act of walking around in matching shirts and holding up signs makes it a little easier to chat with folks.

And the more I talk to people on the line, the more I realize that there's a whole community out there marching and chanting, and a lot of them are putting far more on the line (as it were) than I. It's not just about me, and my cruddy little grievances. My aching feet. My refusal to take notes on how well or poorly I'm walking.

Maybe it doesn't make for award winning comic blogging, Hollywood, but, you know. This is a real thing. This is this. This is not something else.

Just so you think I haven't gone all Hallmark on you, I still don't see the intrinsic value in picketing. And I still think that we've made our point by putting our pencils down, as it were. But...It's not the worst thing we could be doing, I suppose. Get back to me in a few weeks.

So all in all Wednesday was a pleasant, dare I say, kicky day on the line. Sure, Mother Nature somehow confused "Southern California" with, "Omaha, Nebraska" (Holy CRUD it was cold!), and I was armed only with shorts, t-shirt, and my precious layers of subcutaneous fat to keep me warm...But a little nip in the bones builds character, right, Hollywood?

Right? It's not gonna do any lasting damage to run around in the cold and wind WOEFULLY under-dressed for such conditions, right? And even if one were to compound that with no sleep, crazy stress, eating donuts and pizza like it was my job, and topping it all off when I got home that night with a bowl of Ralph's Generic Brand Sirloin Burger Soup, what's the WORST that could happen?

As I laid with my head in the toilet at 5:30 Thursday morning, evacuating what seemed like a lifetime of meals, I thought to myself, "Oh, yeah. Right. This. This is pretty much worst case scenario, right here."

Note to self: Don't buy foodstuffs with the word "Ralph" on the label. That's just common sense.

So I didn't picket today, Hollywood. I spent the day catching up with my bathroom magazine reading, swilling Pedialyte, and driving my wife crazy with my fever-addled conspiracy theories. ("Nick Counter OBVIOUSLY poisoned the drinking water! It's so simple, why can't you see it!")

And...I really missed being there. Maybe because anywhere is better than being on my couch, laid up with stomach flu/food poisoning/Counter-terrorism/etc. Or maybe because being out there, while silly, and definitely a waste of time and resources, is kinda fun. Kinda.

Big rally tomorrow, Hollywood. Hope I'm up for it. Work your magic, broth and crackers.

Nauseously Yours,

Josh A. Cagan

*Speaking of my buddy, he decided to take it upon himself to write a new flier for all of us to pass out. Something a little less dry, a little less didactic, a little more, dare I say, funky. Enjoy.