please do not adjust your screens

this is merely a test.

The writers strike has come to an end. Some of you may have learned the perils of endless channel surfing on youtube, the sublime irony of Ron Paul campaign postings, or discovered that Quarterlife is a basket exactly one-fourth full. But fear not, The Daily Show will soon replace A Daily Show, the Oscars will go on, and the internet is here to stay. Here's to victory! HuZZah.

sub prime

Hollywood will be back to work next week which makes everyone in LA happy and lot's of other folks who are addicted to soap operas, melodramas, and awards shows. Over the course of the next few days, both the WGA and the AMPTP, will likely be spinning the strike as a victory for, you got it, the people. It's nothing of the sort.

Foremeost, having to strike for 4 months for a very, very, very small piece of the pie is not exactly victory. Most people call it a job and the portions keep getting smaller and the ingredients less natural and more saccharine. Secondly, the Hollywood moguls behind AMPTP could care less the quality of work delivered to you via the airways, which in case you have forgotten, the people own, and the corporations rent. Corporations care about the bottom line and the moguls that run them call that a job and fat-cat bonuses are growing, not shrinking.

And therein lies the problem. We've a warring culture where sides have to win or lose, so mostly everyone bloodies themselves senseless until it's time to call a temporary truce. Then everyone returns to work, but fundamentally very little changes. The internet, which by sheer volume alone of transmissions by THE PEOPLE, has the capacity to render such battles less relevant, is increasingly falling victim to assaults by the corporate media as well as the people's lack of due diligence in keeping themselves informed via content outside the mainstream or, as importantly, living a life devoid of celebrity. If the celebrities in your life aren't your friends and family then all victories are for naught because you'll never be able to contextualize them within the confines of your life.

Media giants have the resources, the brains, and the track record to recognize a good thing when they see it. This has the effect of bringing things back to the center and in most cases diluting them down to the lowest common denominator, which seems to suit many people's taste. This sounds a bit like politics because it is politics. To paraphrase an old saw, Money does as money sees.

the end of the world is near

Those of you who own a more sophisticated television set (are they still called that? or is flat screen the preferred term?) than moi, may be interested to know that come Saturday the Writer's Guild of America strike will surely end as the union management will go East Coast/West Coast and present a tentative agreement to the guild. It's taken 4 months for the WGA to wrest the details from the devil known as AMPTP or the Alliance Motion Picture and Television Producers. Oh yes, there's probably some good people in AMPTP if you could see through all the second-hand cigar smoke to find them. But back to the point. There are two. If the guild doesn't accept this agreement, then they need to get rid of their leadership because they entrusted them to call the strike and bring them an agreement and come Saturday this will have transpired.

On a more personal note for you dear reader, it means that you'll no longer have endure my satirization of the end of the world (48 days: a lot can happen in 7 weeks) as the folks who write the melodramic sit-com 24 will be back at the keyboard trying to uncover those hard-to-find weapons of mass destruction.

In order for us to backslide three things would again have to converge. There is an ongoing presidential primary race of historic proportions, Jack Bauer is in prison on a DUI, and the writer's are on strike.

Pray mercy.

nine pin to the king pin's head and off you go

The Oscar nominations were announced Monday, and leading the list of nominees is There Will Be Blood. Being loosely based on Upton Sinclair's novel, Oil (1927), dare we say the movie is "torn from yesterday's headlines"? or is today's? as the director, Paul Thomas Anderson, gives us plenty of headroom (literally) for reflecting on other bloody battles that consume the current world.

There Will Be Blood, might politely be described as a parable of how humans are wont to take advantage of each other, especially if money, fame, or religion are involved. In less polite company, you might summarize the plot as, the proper way to smash a skull - to bits. The movie works on many levels but life affirming it is not, unless you wish to come out on top, and really, don't we all? Some of the violent images in this movie will have you turning away in disgust. They made me cringe and fall into my seat gasping for air. The last scene could only be said to make a caring person angry enough to want to bash out the brains of the studio mogul who financed the damn thing. You won't leave the theater feeling good. Rather, you'll be lucky if you don't commit murder if someone dares step in front of you on the way out the door.

Movie goers have seen so much screen violence that there must be Hollywood consultants whose express purpose it is to dream up more and more inventive ways to surprise and shock our calloused souls. No Country For Old Men, which also garnered a lot of nominations, featured as a subplot, a novel way to kill humans. Lest we give the plot away and feel good about ourselves, let's just say it's nothing we haven't already perfected on cows and pigs. Only the vegans die old in Hollywood.

But really, what every one seems to want to know, after "why did he do it?" is "will there be a red-carpet Oscar gala event this year?". Of course there will be - why do you think There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men received so many nominations?

However, an Oscar holdout is the WGA ace-in-the-hole so they won't be offering any waivers for Valentines unless there's a done deal in the works. Right now, preventing the A-list and the studios from an updo is the only hand the union has to play, so play it they will. The studios will look to settle this soon, and if they don't then they won't play again for many months.

writer's strike fallout

The writer's strike has finally started to effect me. Last night I had a dream about, of all people, Johnny Carson. We were sitting at a lunch counter, having a burger, trading industry jabs, when the subject finally came around to money; who has it, who doesn't. I said to Johnny, "so with all your millions, people must constantly be harassing you about money." Johnny looked down, smiled, shook his head no, never. And I thought, should my company ever go public and we make a killing on the IPO, then my friends and family wouldn't ask me for money either, they'd DEMAND it. Lot's of it.


We attempted to determine the exact cause, meaning, and purpose of every single scene that played out in this dream but doing so led us down some very convoluted reasoning that had us trying to include Rev. Martin Luther King, father, Bush's tax rebates, my friend's inability to sleep, and a random side conversion at an art opening together into one coherent sentence. That being too much work, and rife with large error bars, we opted instead for the psychic services of ChiChi the Whispering Chihuahua.


ChiChi's response. It's simple. Don't drink coffee immediately before bed.

see also:
m.o.i.: chichi the whispering chihuahua

mike huckabee is a scab

Faith. Family. Freedom.

This is Mike Huckabee's campaign slogan.

Wednesday he's crossing a picket line to appear on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno. The Tonight Show is resuming despite not having writers and Leno (also a Writers Guild of America Member) is going back to work to save the jobs of those who work for him, otherwise they would be laid off by NBC. Mike Huckabee is appearing on the show because, in addition to being dumb-as-a-doornail and a cult member, he's a SCAB. In his world, Jesus loves everyone except the union rank-and-file.

The only production company to have reached an accord with the Writer's Guild of America is Worldwide Pants, David Letterman's company that produces the Late Show and the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. This means that Letterman and Ferguson will have a monologue and Leno will not. Leno's show is resuming without any written material. He can still do interviews, man-in-the-street skits, ad-lib on photos, but can't work up written jokes. The Daily Show and the Colbert Report are also in the same predicament, which could stretch the comic muscle of John Stewart and Stephen Colbert because these shows are heavily scripted. Comedy that appears spontaneous isn't. It, like public speaking, requires many rewrites to appear fluid and remain funny. Jokes are heavily vetted before appearing on air.

Mike Huckabee may be a preacher, a member of a rock band, but he's certainly no politcian.

48 days, week 2

Week 2
Sunday. 3:00 A.M.
Jack Bauer, imprisoned in the Glendale City Jail, tosses in the upper bunk, mutters what sounds like "chicken, watch out for the chicken" then bolts upright. "Jack?" his cellmate Vincent calls out. "You OK brother? It's been a week man, the feel for the hard stuff ought to be outta you."

"No, it's not that. I saw something last night that troubles me."

"You still ragging on that man-in-the-chicken-suit jazz? Give it up brother. Ain't nothing you can do about it here. And the warden, he thought you'd lost your mind, he was ready to put you in the padded room."

"Fuck the warden."

"Amen to that. But watch out, he likes to be on top."

"I'm telling you Vincent, that chicken suit is bad news. I've got to get out of here. Now!"

"Don't we all, Jack, don't we all."

Sunday. 14:00 PM.
"Yeah", Tony Almeda picks up the phone at this desk in CTU headquarters.

"Tony, shhh!it's me," he hears Nina on the other end. "Listen, I've got news from Jack."

"Jack? How? No one from CTY is supposed to talk to him."

"I didn't. Jeff Green, he got picked up last night near Malibu for being an ass, spent the night in the drunk tank, then got transferred to Glendale, before his Larry David kicked him free this morning."

"Green? the writer? the fat-fuck?"

"Yeah that's him. Apparently, when he's been drinking he's not so funny. And since the strike started that's all he's done. Last night, he and Nikki Finke got a little carried away at BooRah, Malibu's latest buzz restaurant. Apparently they were having a little too much fun at Brad Grey's expense who was across the room."

"What's this got to do with Jack?"

While Green was at Glendale, he overheard the desk sargeant going on and on about a stink that Jack was raising the night before; said Jack almost got committed he was acting so crazy."

"What about?"

"Apparently it had something to do with a man in a chicken suit."

Monday. 10:00 AM.
David Pouffe, aid to Senator Barack Obama, bangs on the door of the charter bus. The door opens, he steps inside, greets a few members of the volunteer staff, motions to Obama who listening to his iPod.
"
"Listen, Barack, we got word that the man-in-the-chicken-suit may be showing up at some more events later today."

"No, we're cool. I talked to HRC. It's an old joke between us. A dude in beaver coat and raccoon hat will be filming her today."

"Problem is, this FogHorn Leghorn wasn't Hillary's joke. The man she hired was found this morning at the Hampton Inn just off I-29 near Des Moines. He was hanging from shower rod, still in costume, his entrails going down the drain. This dude that greeted you, we're not real sure who he is, but we think he's dangerous."

"What's his beef?"

"He knows you don't eat chicken."

"I always knew Colonel Sanders was a racist."

Monday. 10:00 AM.
A car pulls into the Sonic in Dubuque, Iowa. Inside is a woman named Bridgit. She orders a Breakfast Toaster sandwich and a large coffee. Then asks if they have whole wheat bread and turbinado sugar. When her order comes she pays with a $20 dollar bill, says "Merry Christmas! Keep the change." to the young carhop, then rolls up the window. Her cells phone rings.

"You got it?"

Bridget opens the Sonic bag and looks inside. "Got it."

Tuesday. 11:00 A.M.
Hillary Clinton, wearing a green pantsuit stands on a makeshift stage constructed of hay bales and some old John Deere signs. There are combines parked strategically to her left and right and in the cabin of one sits a Secret Service agent and in the other, Tony Almeda. They are furtively scanning the crowd. It's a brisk fall day, perfect for football, so even though the man they are looking for stands out amid the Carharts and seed caps, most in the crowd don't bother to look his way. However, pay give much thought although one farmer nudges his wife when the man in the raccoon coat and coonskin hat brushes past them and says, "Look Merle, I bet that's one of those Times writers".

Tuesday. 11:02 P.M.
Tony Almeda says into his lapel. "Nina, he's behind you, 5-O'clock."
Nina turns and moves toward the man. He's approaching the stage both hands in his pockets. Nina abruptly slams into the side of him, knocking him to the ground. She falls on top of him. She pulls the man to his feet by the lapels holding them so he can't raise his arms. "I'm so sorry. Clumsy me." she says to the perplexed onlookers. To the man she whispers, "See those guys in the combines. One wrong move and they'll blow your fucking brains out. Now turn around and come with me."

The man opens his coat and tries to put his hand inside. Nina grabs his wrist, there is audible 'crack', the man winches but does not cry out.

Wednesday. 3:06 A.M.
Tony Almeda walks out of the interrogation room, sweat runs down his forehead. CTU Director George Mason confronts him, "anything?"

"Nothing yet."

"Keep it up. We've got to get something, and soon. Obama is scheduled to make another appearance in a few hours."

Wednesday, 10:45 A.M.
Mason looks over Nina's shoulder as she works on a computer, "what have you got on this guy we picked up yesterday?"

"Jason Park, former envoy to South Korea under the Carter Administration. Hasn't worked in politics since. Spent some time on K-street aftwards...pharmacueticals...tobacco industry...farm lobby, usual stuff. Grew up on a cattle ranch near Omaha. Disappeared for a few years in the early 90's though. That's all we got on him for now."

"Keep working. We've got to get something from him."

Wednesday, 5:15 P.M.
Jack Bauer, sits in the canteen with his cellmate Vincent, they are eating dinner. An greasy Mexican, tattoos covering his neck, walks behind them. Jack pushes back from the table, knocking the man, causing him to spill the contents of his tray.

"You're going to lick those eggs off my boots Pussy, and then you're going to bring me your food. I like 2 sugars in my coffee." He smiles at Jack.

"I'm sorry," Jack says, turns away briefly then wheels and clocks the man.

A huge melee ensues. Guards quickly surround them, pull them apart, restrain them, the drag Jack away. "You're a dead man, Bauer!" the Mexican spits at him. Jack stares back.

Wednesday, 6:45 P.M.
The door opens on a solitary cell. Jack Bauer, bruised and bleeding is drug into cell and dumped. He slowly opens his eyes, then reaches into his waistband and removes a cellphone.

Wednesday, 7:15 P.M.

Nina's cell phone rings.

"Nina, it's Jack."

"OH My God! Jack!"

Thursday, 9:45 A.M.
Nina, Tony, and Director Mason are looking through a see-through window onto an interrogation room. Inside a man, wearing a coonskin cap and raccoon coat is slumped over the desk.

Thursday, 10:00 A.M.
Mason looks at Tony. "Are you sure about this? Is this legal?"

"Doesn't matter." Almeda replies, "The future of the Presidency may hang in the balance."

"This man is the key." Nina says to them both. "You have to do it. That's what Jack said."

Thursday, 11:00 A.M.

The Obama entourage pulls into the parking lot of the Centerville High School. David Pouffe looks over at Obama. "You sure about this? We could cancel. Say you've got the flu."

Obama looks up from the latest issue of Maxim, "what, and have people say I'm black, AND a pussy? No way. I'm in this till the end."

A high school band begins to play, America the Beautiful, the bus doors open, and Obama smiling broadly steps into the crowd.

Thursday, 11:10 A.M.
Eddie Salazaar stands beside his car on a gravel road, hood up, steam pouring from beneath the hood, talking into a cell phone. An elderly, farm couple driving a pick-up truck pulls up along side him asks if he needs help. The man goes into a long story, he's in town covering the primaries, has to be Centerville at 11 cover this event, he's already late, got lost, then his car overheats. Of all the luck. The couple says, "we're headed that way, we could give you a lift."

"Really? Folks in Iowa are so kind. Just let me get my camera gear." The man pops the trunk and pulls a heavy duffle bag and sets it on the ground. The farmer, steps from the truck, "here let me help you" and he moves toward the bag.

As the farmer approaches, Eddie Salazaar pulls a 45 with a silencer and shots the man in the forehead, then opens the passenger door and pulls the man's wife out. She screams at the sight of her husband laying face down, blood seeping into the gravel. "I'm not going to hurt you." Eddie says.

Eddie walks her to the shoulder. "Turn around. Get down on knees!" he shoves her toward the ditch.

She sobs, "don't shoot me. What do you want from us?"

The truck pulls away revealing two prone bodies.

Friday, 7:00 A.M.
A man is strapped to board, his hands and feet bound, his face covered with a cloth. The table is slanted so the man's feet are above his head. The tail of a coonskin cap can be seen trailing off the table. Water is dripping from the end of the tail. The man is gasping is air.

Tony Almeda emerges from the room. CTU Director Mason confronts him. "Well? Did he talk?"

"Yeah, he talked. After he shat himself."

Saturday 5:00 P.M.
A slot opens in the center of Jack Bauer's cell door. He slides his uneaten food back to the guard. "You gotta eat something" the guard says.

"Not hungry." Jack grunts. When the slot closes, Jack slides down into a fetal position, begins to sob. Then he takes out his cell phone, punches in some numbers. A woman answers.

"Kim?"

"Dad? is that you? Where are you?"

"Merry Christmas, baby, I love you."

see also:
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 1
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

red carpet massacre?

Jeez! Writer's Guild of America (WGA) has announced that they won't grant waivers to the Golden Globes and the Oscars and people are crying foul, foul, foul. "We want our stars! We demand our stars. You can have our homes, our dignity, our jobs, but our stars? NO! Not the Stars!" It's as though the whole economy can come crashing down like the twin towers if the stars don't show up on Hollywood Boulevard the last Monday in February. Well maybe it can, given that unless our feckless consumers feel good about themselves, well, then they can't shop. And shop they must. And feel good they must. Least they have dispense with their own dreams and star in their own reality show. Thank goodness I won last week's immunity challenge so that I have a brief respite from my own.

Warrior Ant Press offers this compromise. WGA gives the Oscars a waiver. The red carpet rolls, the glitterati descend from on high, the press and fans fawn alike over the costumes, the hair, the makeup, and Enertainment Tonight scores an interview or two. Even David Carr, the CarpetBagger, gets an interview with an A-lister. In return, actors who win awards have to come to the podium and remain speechless - for 90 seconds.

tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toctic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc..

Ninety seconds is a long time. That was only 60 secs.

Maestro! The music.

48 days, week 1

Week 1

Sunday. 17:00 P.M.
Two blue Suburbans, windows heavily tinted, screech to a halt in front of the Glendale City jail. Three men in dark clothes and even darker sunglasses emerge from the vehicle where they are met by three uniformed officers. The vehicle is quickly surrounded by a throng of onlookers, television reporters, and paparazzi. One of the men in dark clothes turns his back on the crowd and speaks quietly into a cell phone, then motions to the other two and they all move to the rear of the vehicle. When the crowd begins to surge forward, the uniformed officers push them back with a fierce intensity.

The rear doors are opened to reveal a cuffed and shrouded figure. The man is pulled from the vehicle, and because his feet are also shackled is forced to shuffle his way forward. Guards hold him upright, drag his feet when he lingers to sounds of "Jack, Jack, look this way!", and brusquely pull him up the steps. A young boy, no older than 15 rushes to get a close-up photo of the shrouded figure. One of the sun-glassed guards shoves the boy to the ground. "Get the fuck out of here!" he spits at the boy. Someone at the back of the crowd screams, "Hey, you can't do that to him." The man wheels, glares, and begins to move toward the voice. "Victor! Victor!" a voice shouts. The man stops. "Leave it." Victor turns away, moves to the boy, picks him up by the elbow, and leans in where only the boy can hear him. "Next time I break your fuckin' leg."

Within the hour TMZ has footage of the incidence on its web site. It becomes the lead story for Entertainment Tonight, even Katie Couric makes mention of it on the Nightly News.

Sunday. 17:05 PM.
A white 4-door Ford Escort with a dent in the front quarter-panel pulls into the underground parking lot of the jail and parks in the sole handicapped parking space. Jack Bauer, accompanied by his attorney, emerge from the car whereupon they enter the building and Jack surrenders himself to the desk sergeant who after taking his personal effects, asks him for an autograph. Jack's attorney produces a photo from his briefcase, which Jack signs and hands to the officer. "Let's go," the officer says.

Monday. 10:00 PM.
Jack Bauer plays chess with his cellmate, Vincent. Before going to bed, Vincent tells him that he’s glad he's back in the house. Jack gives a nod and a cold stare but says nothing.

Tuesday. 8:00 AM.
Senator Barack Obama, an African-American running for President, writes his speech for the following day’s Iowa campaign event.

Tuesday. 12:00 P.M.
Carl Rovner transmits from Charleston, South Carolina that a man in a chicken outfit is coming to Iowa to heckle Senator Obama at tomorrow's event. Agent Richard Walsh, a high ranking Counter Terrorist Unit (CTU) officer, is alerted.

Tuesday. 12:05 P.M.
Walsh tries to reach Agent Bauer on his cell phone to no avail.

Tuesday. 12:06 A.M.
Agent Walsh phones CTU headquarters and asks to speak to Agent Bauer. Je is informed that Bauer has been placed on administrative leave for 48 days and is not to be contacted by any member of the staff. Walsh asks to speak with District Director George Mason but is told that he's unavailable. Agent Nina Myers gets on the phone and tells Walsh that she can't divulge Jack's whereabouts, or when he will be back on duty, but that Jack is OK and recovering.

Wednesday, 10:45 A.M.
Outside of Post 10 of the Fraternal Order of the Exalted Woodsmen, a man in a chicken suit clucks at Senator Obama as he enters the hall to deliver a short campaign speech. The passing is captured on film by a Iowa farmer with a newly purchased digital camera. He sells the film for $12,000, more profit than he made all of last on his cow-calf operation. The film becomes the lead story that evening on Entertainment Tonight.

Thursday, 2:45 A.M.
Jamey Farrell, sitting in his parent's basement in his boxer shorts and smoking a joint, posts a copy of the man-in-the-chicken-suit clucks at Senator Obama on YouTube. The video is 32 seconds in it's entirety. He gets paid nothing.

Thursday, 9:45 A.M.
A guard bangs on the cell of Jack Bauer. "Bauer, let's go. You have a visitor."

Thursday, 10:00 A.M.
Bauer is lead into a room and told "10 minutes, no touching". Bauer looks around the room and recognizes no one.

Thursday, 10:01 A.M.
A young woman arises and walks toward Jack. When she reaches him, she pulls back her hooded sweater. "Kimberly! My god, you're alive!"

Friday, 10:00 P.M.
Vincent, Jack's cellmate says "Checkmate. Again. Damn, are you trying to set me up, motherfucker, because if you think I'm a sucker for that bullshit, you are wrong." "No," Jack says, "I'm just a little distracted". Vincent says, "I don't who that was that paid you a visit, but whoever it was sure fucked with your head." For the first time Jack is afraid and realizes that he may not be in control of the situation. Jack and Vincent have a heart-to-heart talk before turning in.

Saturday, 7:00 A.M.
A cell phone buzzes on a kitchen counter. Senator Clinton, still in her pajamas, picks up the phone. "Hillary," Barack greets her, "Good Morning. I gotta tell you, the chicken suit, wow, that was clever."

Saturday, 8:00 A.M.
Agent Walsh replays the phone conversation between Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton. Stops the tape. Rolls it again. Then picks up his phone and makes a call. "Tony Almeida please" he commands into the phone.

Saturday, 10:00 A.M.
District Director George Mason looks up from his desk, "What is it Tony?" Tony fills him in on the phone call between Obama and Clinton. "What do you think?" Mason asks Tony. Tony shakes his head. "Doesn't make sense."

Saturday 14:00 P.M.
Jack Bauer is walking through the common area of the jail. It is one of the few free moments the inmates have during the week. Jack walks past a man at a computer. The man is laughing out loud. "Wow. Check this shit out. Some dude in a chicken suit just dumped on that black dude Obama," the man guffaws. Jack stops. Grabs the mouse. Go back. Go back. He freezes the frame on a closeup of the man-in-a-chicken-suit's face. "Shit!" Jack exclaims, then yells "Guard! Guard! Guard! I have to speak to the warden. NOW!"

see also:
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

strike this post!

Happy endings? Those are for the movies.

Strikes. They are boring. Anyone who's walked a picket line for a week knows this. Strike pay? It's donuts and a refresher course in juvenile delinquency. That said, if one is reasonably assured that the strike won't carry on for a month or more, and that both sides are serious about negotiating, and if you got this months' rent covered along with pleny of food in the fridge and more in the pantry, then walking the picket line can elicit a certain sangfroid. This is especially true when the strikers are typically held more captive by a keyboard than the boardroom. Producing a couple of paragraphs of exquisite prose is enough for most writers to imagine they've been martyred in the process. It's rough business.

There is only ever one issue in a strike and that is MONEY, although there are several variations on the issue (i.e. salary, benefits, residuals). For some reason both sides frequently go to great lengths to insure us that "it's not about the money". Bathroom breaks may still be a problem in junior high and prison, but in the work place, money is more pressing. So after the issues have been discussed and with 7 hours and 45 minutes of picketing left in the day, it's easy to see why strikers develop novel ways to get even with the man. Besides, the MAN needs an occasional ass-whupping. If only we were better at it.

Back when KC was a union town, which is about as long ago as it was a jazz town, I was a member of the Retail Clerks Union which for those of you who live in a right-to-choose state or the 21-st century, means that when I belonged to this union and worked in a grocery store checking, bagging, unloading trucks, stocking shelves, working staggered shifts, nights, weekends, and most holidays, and generally providing you dear reader with the food and staples that you consume weekly, AT LEAST then as a union member I actually made ENOUGH money to rent a modest 1-bedroom efficiency apartment, pay my bills, take night classes at the local university, and plot my escape from said drudgery. My current status as a member of the Union of Concerned Scientists indicates that the plan did work, even if the execution was somewhat messy and interrupted by numerous work stoppages. After 6 months as a labor union member, I was allowed to obtain health insurance and after 1 full-year of working was entitled to a paid 2-week vacation, at which point I discovered that there was more to life than working. That was over 25 years ago. We've made so much progress since then.

In 4 years as a trade unionist, I walked 3 picket lines. Once as clerk. Once with the meat-cutters. Once with the teamsters. Before these unions, excepting the teamsters (who just had one of their balls and/or ovaries handed to them) were crushed by bar-code scanners, factory farms, and mindless Republicanism, the careful staggering of union contracts coupled with the duty-bound honor code of not crossing another union's picket line meant that a combined strike by the United Food and Commercial Workers and Teamsters could seriously jeopardize your ability to pick up a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk on your way home from work. Americans take bread and milk for granted, just as they do the nightly network offerings. The work around for the absence of all three is easy in theory and difficult in practice because it involves self-restraint from the American consumer, a curious creature so misinformed that it thinks beer shouldn't have carbs and that reality can be discovered in an island off the coast of Borneo.

So with energy to burn, members of the Writers Guild of America are throwing their creative efforts at the new (read, now old) media of the internet which is at the heart of the labor disagreement. And WGA is finding it simultaneously easy and excruciatingly difficult to mine the medium. It's easy because they tend to have the basic tool, intellect, that made the internet interesting in the first place and they are adept at stringing together cogent sentences, complex thoughts, and tweaking your emotions. As their web presence indicates,they do these things for a living .

They also know when to pull STAR POWER (as frequently as possible!) because most of America and this includes the media really think they might have a chance with Laura Linney (or Don Cheadle), if only they could just have a few minutes with her/him over a glass of wine and a nice dinner. They, if anyone, would see us for who we really are. If the opportunity doesn't arise this week, well then, perhaps a short video (shhh! no talking, I want focus on the physicality of it!) is the next best thing to sex with a movie star. Maybe it is sex with a movie star.

It's difficult for WGA because the worst foil in the world in one that does nothing in response. The silent ogre in the battle is AMPTP (Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers), which in reality stands for Giant Soul Sucking Machine. Unlike the military, but almost as powerful, Hollywood has never been good with acronyms. AMPTP has more people, world-wide, addicted to their products than Big Tobacco and Big PHarma combined and they are just as benevolent. They make twice the money and have ten times the global influence, and much of it is not in our best interest. None of this is the fault of the writers.

It's also difficult for the WGA because the internet is full of the same wildly addicted personalities that can't get enough of CSI, Access Hollywood, Dancing with the Stars, Lost, 24, and the NFL on CBS pre-game show. As long as there's product that's reasonably entertaining and less stale than yesterday's bagel, many viewers (and much of APMTA) are happy enough. Product sells. Salvation does not. Silky Kumar was a shill. For a while no one knew. Now it doesn't matter. He's a star!

In a few short weeks WGA has been able guide about 60,000 people a day to their website, United Hollywood, which might be described as a sort of multi-plex of strike-related blogs. Sixty-thousand unique hits sounds like a lot until you discover that some unicycle dude has had a quarter-of-a-million page hits, your daughter loves Phil DeFranco more than Raymond, and more than 5 million people have seen the greatest hockey fight ever. Like sex for most Americans, these experiences rarely last more than 10 minutes uninterrupted, but unless you're fond of Masterpiece Theatre or have Showtime, nothing on your tv does either.

Soon. Hopefully. Eventually. The writers will get their 8 cents worth, that's all they're asking for and they deserve every penny of it and more, but this is Hollywood, not Disneyland. AMPTP doesn't give a damn dime when a nickel will do.

Once a deal is struck they'll be shouts and murmurs enough for wall-to-wall coverage for a week on all the networks. Star reaction to follow. Unless of course, it coincides with the onset of OJ's latest trial and we all know that story, ABSOLUTELY, will be the lead. Why? Because content providers don't own the medium. Content providers only have a tiny say in the medium. The one medium content providers do (or did?) own by proxy or sheer numbers, the internet, is quickly being purchased by those who want to sell it back to them. That rogue television channel, YouTube, now offers scrolling add bars. In the interest of truth-in-advertising can we change the tag line to Broadcast Someone Else or has that web site already been taken?

elsewhere:
united hollywood
speechless: the vlogs

and even farther away:
the greatest unedited fight in the history of motion pictures


an in another galaxy altogether:
Giant Soul Sucking Machine

m.o.i.:strike this post!

quiz answers

Here are the answers to yesterday's algebra quiz.

First. Indulge my confession. I'm not a substitute teacher and I don't write for television although I've been accused of doing both. Poorly, I might add. You know what they say. Those who don't teach....do. And those who don't write for television.....watch.

Except me. I gave them up. First the teaching. Then the television. The teaching was easier. You think you're reaching them, the rapt attention, those doleful looks, like a meeting with producers but then you realize it's all a feint. They just want to go back to the iPod, the re-runs, the dvds. You want to change the world.

I've quit them all - the smokes, the drink, the drugs. Losing tv was the most difficult. More painful than you can imagine but ultimately just another step in the recovery. And yes, the first step was the hardest.

The 27-inch monitor was wrestled from the mantle and somehow I managed to get it out the door without wrenching the back, dropped it just once on the way to the curb. The corner of the case cracked, but the guts held. Those analogs, they don't make em like that anymore. Once on the curb, I walked back inside and in 15 minutes, 15 MINUTES, it had disappeared from the curb and I stepped into a new life, a new medium.

Life's been simpler since then. The house rarely, if ever, quiet. The radio, always on. It's presence like your dog or the neighbor's child, interrupting only occasionally for a treat, content to be steadfast, inquisitive, and unobtrusive. None of that talk-radio-sports-junkie bullshit either. No. Music. Or NPR. Something that will hold a conversation together during dinner. "What's the true meaning of Lost?", works fine for a luncheon salad, but for the 3-course prix fixe dinner you'll need something with more substance, like deconstructing the New Pornographers latest effort or the solution to the Weekend Edition Puzzle.

True, I'd embraced the old medium WHOLE-HEARTED. So then, "how could I leave it?" Funny to hear that term, isn't it - the OLD medium. It still appears to be everywhere. The ads, the intimate chats. Our friends. We loved them like family. More so, they were less critical and better looking than family. Who can live with silence these days? Without stars? Without the season finale, the all-new episode? Life without hope. Without television. Please. Please. Don't make me read.

But I did. I turned to books for solace. And read. In reading, I found a bit of hope that had seemed to have gone from the world. I read everything. Pulp to history to poetry and back again. It was like going to the theater after a long absence. At first it seems a construct. Too many words. Too much space between them. Soon though, the words begin to spill into the room, past the coffee, turning Noah Adams into a songbird in the backyard. That life, remember it? It's out there. Just turn the page.

Key code to ALGEBRA: ALMOST LIKE AN EPISODE OF 24.
----------------------------------------
The answer is simple, just like the debates, like a reality show. You'll kick yourself when you realize how easy it is.

First. Hillary and Barack cross the stage.
Barack, in second, stays. Hillary, the front-runner returns. 3 minutes have passed.
Next. John Edwards and Kucinich cross. Ten minutes pass. Like an eternity.
Four minutes before the world ends. The tension rises. Cut to close-up of bomb. 13:00, 13:01, 13:02...Wolf can be seen smirking in the wings. He'll make himself a martyr to this cause.

Wait. Bararck seizes the moment, attempts to take the FLICKERING CANDLE OF HOPE from Edwards. They struggle. Kuncinich shouts, "Peace!". Hillary, "stop the in-fighting!" The struggle continues. The candle slips and begins it SLOW MOTION fall to the floor. Barack lunges and catches it midair. Looks down at his hand. The flame has gone out! the wick is smodering. No! NO! Slowly Barack begins to breath on it, gently at first, then deeper, and yes, YES, the FLICKERING CANDLE OF HOPE comes back to life. Again it burns.

Barack hurries back across the stage, Hillary throws her arms around him and they triumphantly march onto the stage and take their places just before the clock hits 17:00. The lights go up, Wolf, dejected, turns to the camera and says stoically, "Tonight's debate is coming to you live from....

elsewhere:
m.o.i.algebraic word problem spells world doom

algebraic word problem spells world doom

The Israeil cryptographer, Adi Shamir, has predicted that the end of world could be the result of an undetected algebra problem. Damm! Will al Queda stop at nothing? Must we now learn math? Vigilance forever or as I like to say:
which translated means that you have to pay the bank a whole shitload of money if you ever need to borrow some.

Anyway all this math stuff got me to thinking, with all the writer's on strike, who writes the word problems? This could be the saving grace for many who are flunking algebra and could provide you, gentle reader, respite from having to watch the same episode of Dexter for 5 nights running. So enjoy this problem, I like to call:

Alegbra: ALMOST LIKE AN EPISODE OF 24.
There are 4 politicians who want to go on stage and take their rightful place at the podium before the debate begins. They all begin in the audience (think young and diverse!) shaking hands and smoozing. You have 17 minutes to get all of the candidates on stage before the show goes live or else the terrorist (played by Wolf Blitzer) will set off a canister of nerve gas killing everyone inside, including the diverse, innocent (did I say beautiful and mostly blond?) college students invited by youtube to watch this disaster unfold.

The stage is completely dark and the candidates must cross the stage carrying a lighted candle (this represents ETERNAL HOPE and flickers constantly). There is but one FLICKERING CANDLE of HOPE. A maximum of two candidates can cross at one time. Any candidate who crosses, either 1 or 2 people, must have the FLICKERING CANDLE of HOPE with them. The FLICKERING CANDLE of HOPE must be walked back and forth, it cannot be thrown, or rolled on the ground. Each candidate walks at a different speed. A pair must walk together at the rate of the slower candidate's pace.

Hillary Clinton: takes 1 minute to cross
Barack Obama: takes 2 minutes to cross
John Edwards: takes 5 minutes to cross
Dennis Kucinich: takes 10 minutes to cross

For example, if Hillary Clinton and Dennis Kucinich walk across first, 10 minutes have elapsed when they get to the other side of the stage. If Dennis Kucinich then returns with the flashlight, a total of 20 minutes have passed and you have failed the mission and the once and future President is DEAD, as are many, many innocent, beautiful college students, and Anderson Cooper is covering the story 24/7/365.

What is the order required to get all candidates across in 17 minutes?

Answers tomorrow.
elsewhere:
m.o.i.quiz answers

BackRub

Whoa! The Hollywood writers strike hasn't even begun to take it's massive toll on the fragile psyche of Americans who struggle with the news - Benazir Bhutto or President Musharaff, "What's the proper choice?" Thankfully, today there's Church followed by the Game of the Century to keep our feeble minds occupied lest we begin to read magazines, or worst yet, novels, for entertainment. But tomorrow. What then?

With writers sidelined, tv executives are scrambling to replace the void on your plasma screens with something that can keep you entertained for at least as long as 'name this photo' (see below, BackRub).

Here's just some of what you can expect in the coming weeks:

H.S. The series
H.S. The Series is a one hour drama about an Executive Action Group or EAG within the Department of Homeland Security. Behind the politics, the press and the debate over how homeland security should be handled are the men and women who risk their lives every day to keep us safe. At the spearhead is the EAG who use whatever necessary to defend their homeland. The full extent of government and military resources at their fingertips, this team led by Agent Jack Callahan and Andrea Bacall, must identify, track and eliminate any potential danger.
Homeland, the series is said to be a huge favorite at the White House.

Camp Flickr. In this ground-breaking episode, Katy Clark, returns to Camp Xray only to find it overgrown with ghosts of the past and many former camp mates now exiled overseas. TV execs are said to be especially fond of this series because it tests an entirely new programming approach that eliminates writers altogether from television programming - something they've been trying to accomplish for decades. One critic said, "Camp Flickr has all the charm of home movies without the overcooked roast beef, dry potatoes, and mushy peas."
Camp Flickr

BackRub. Reality series about how the real new money relaxes at work (NOT AFTER). Set in the Googleplex, this zany, inside look at the 24/7/365 world of googleites (as they call themselves) treats viewers to the process of how new google products go from the game room to the board room to your cell phone. Some have called it Paradise Hotel meets Laguana Beach with amples doses of chai, organic mesclun (dressing on the side!), and free-ranging dogs. There's plenty of beach volleyball, heartbreak, and irreverence to keep the show moving forward. One favorite is when we get a sneak peek of the closet where a bank of computers continuously scrolls thousands of 'inappropriately' flagged images that google programmers have learned to pull off web sites and post for their own lubricious pleasures all while coaxing back rubs from one another during breaks. The door closes and we hear moans, sighs, and laughter, but we don't know if it's the programmers or the programmed.
BackRub.
Stay tuned.