I WOULD HAVE THIS MAN'S BABY IN A HEARTBEAT

HARLAN ELLISON ON THE WRITERS STRIKE SETTLEMENT

YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO RE-POST THIS ANYWHERE:

Creds: got here in 1962, written for just about everybody, won the Writers Guild Award four times for solo work, sat on the WGAw Board twice, worked on negotiating committees, and was out on the picket lines with my NICK COUNTER SLEEPS WITH THE FISHE$$$ sign. You may have heard my name. I am a Union guy, I am a Guild guy, I am loyal. I fuckin’ LOVE the Guild.

And I voted NO on accepting this deal.

My reasons are good, and they are plentiful; Patric Verrone will be saddened by what I am about to say; long-time friends will shake their heads; but this I say without equivocation…

THEY BEAT US LIKE A YELLOW DOG. IT IS A SHIT DEAL. We finally got a timorous generation that has never had to strike, to get their asses out there, and we had to put up with the usual cowardly spineless babbling horse’s asses who kept mumbling “lessgo bac’ta work” over and over, as if it would make them one iota a better writer. But after months on the line, and them finally bouncing that pus-sucking dipthong Nick Counter, we rushed headlong into a shabby, scabrous, underfed shovelfulla shit clutched to the affections of toss-in-the-towel summer soldiers trembling before the Awe of the Alliance.

My Guild did what it did in 1988. It trembled and sold us out. It gave away the EXACT co-terminus expiration date with SAG for some bullshit short-line substitute; it got us no more control of our words; it sneak-abandoned the animator and reality beanfield hands before anyone even forced it on them; it made nice so no one would think we were meanies; it let the Alliance play us like the village idiot. The WGAw folded like a Texaco Road Map from back in the day.

And I am ashamed of this Guild, as I was when Shavelson was the prexy, and we wasted our efforts and lost out on technology that we had to strike for THIS time. 17 days of streaming tv!!!????? Geezus, you bleating wimps, why not just turn over your old granny for gang-rape?

You deserve all the opprobrium you get. While this nutty festschrift of demented pleasure at being allowed to go back to work in the rice paddy is filling your cowardly hearts with joy and relief that the grips and the staff at the Ivy and street sweepers won’t be saying nasty shit behind your back, remember this:

You are their bitches. They outslugged you, outthought you, outmaneuvered you; and in the end you ripped off your pants, painted yer asses blue, and said yes sir, may I have another.

Please excuse my temerity. I’m just a sad old man who has fallen among Quislings, Turncoats, Hacks and Cowards.

I must go now to whoops. My gorge has become buoyant.

Respectfully, Yr. Pal, Harlan Ellison

Toute Sweet

I just got a nice pass from a producer on my new spec. He said that while it was "very sweet", it just wasn't for them and wished me all the best of luck.

I know what you're thinking. A kind brush off, maybe even a backhanded not so nice brush off.

Very sweet.

Nudge, nudge. Look at her. She's sweet, poor thing.

My cat Kisses is very sweet...until she coughs up a hair ball.

Cotton candy is very sweet...until you eat too much of it.

Falling snow is very sweet...but's a hellish mess to drive in.

You get the picture.

Problem is, I am sweet. I can't help it.

I write sweet too. Can't help that either.

I have never done anything bad in my life. Never took drugs (took pot once, doesn't count).

Never drank to excess. Or much at all.

Haven't whored around. Haven't whored, period.

Never went around without any underwear. Okay, once, in kindergarten.

I have no dark, deep secrets.

Okay, so not only am I sweet, but I'm dull, dull, dull.

But is that such a bad thing?

Not the dull part. The sweet part.

I can be dirty. Really. I burp. I break wind. Doesn't everyone?

So I'm very sweet. Kill me. Put me out of my misery

But let me cut one first.

And yes, I know the strike is over. So why do I feel so bad?

TOP TEN THINGS I WANT TO SEE IN 2008

I want Bill Clinton back in the White House. The idea of him being "The First Husband" is simply too delicious to contemplate.

I want to lose 80lbs without really trying. All right, maybe 50. Less is more. Without trying. NO MORE COOKIES!!!

I'd like to see Britney get treated by House. He'd have her cured in 45 minutes or less, give a commercial break or two.

I would love it if Dave Letterman dropped his unfunny routines about the weather in New York. Enough, Dave! We know it's cold!

I want the WGA to get the fair deal they deserve. No, not just a fair deal---a great deal.

I want more of Ted Levine on MONK. The OCD Guy is getting on my last nerve (as I run to wash my hands for the 68576 time today).

I want world peace, a cure for the common cold, and gas under a dollar. Oil too.

I want a bank error in my favor. A big bank error. Win Mega Millions?

I want another baby.

I want a script to sell. Lots of scripts. All my scripts. Okay, I'd settle for just one.

I'd like one of my kids to have a baby. Any baby. Kidnap a baby. Buy a baby doll?

I want a pair of French Bulldogs. Max and Maxine. And they can have babies.

And just once, I'd like those silly horoscope readings to come true.

No Place Like Home

So while I wait for feedback on my crazy little script that tore through me like a tornado, I return to my contemporary drama of a family in crisis, a real downer. I know I have to tackle it sooner or later, so it might as well be...tomorrow.

Now don't get me wrong. I love the story. I love the characters. It's personal. Maybe too personal. I've been carrying it around in my head for years: bad things happen to good people. And since I love these people, doing bad things to them is hard. I tell myself it's not a comedy, it's drama. Ya can't have a drama without...the drama. The tears. The implosions. The "fuck you" moment when it all goes to hell.

The only thing that keeps me going on it is that it has a happy ending. Somewhat. Really.

Heath Ledger RIP
Ten Things We Love About You
Great Daddy
Cool Actor
And my Stephanie was crushing on you
Sleep with the Angels

Does Anybody Know What Time It Is?

Boy, have we got off to a banging New Year!

Eddie Murphy got "spiritually married", now after two weeks, stick a fork in it. that's one way to save on lawyer fees.

Jamie Lynn is knocked up at sixteen and depending on which rag you read, she's on the verge of a miscarriage, on the way to the hospital, is unsure as to who the Baby Daddy is, or is being dumped by the Baby Daddy who already supposedly got another girl pregnant...and with a war going on, the economy in the tank, this inspires a national debate on birth control...NOT!

Big sis sis Brit Brit (ie Unfitney) outdoes lil sis sis by throwing a temper tantrum, getting locked up in the mental ward, only to wind up in Mexico with her married photographer BF and then refuse to appear at the courthouse to fight for custody of her babies yet has all the time in the world to stop in at gas stations, retail stores and pharmacies for photo opps in ragged fishnet stockings and no underwear.

Meanwhile, Lindsey traipses off to Italy to receive a dubious "career
achievement award" but the only achievement she apppears to have done while abroad was to fall off the wagon and hop, skimp and jump from one bed to another (with all the salacious details peddled by these nefarious Lotharios) to the tabloids for a lucrative lira.

Paris, after assuring the world she was going to live on a higher plane since her stint in the hokey, makes endless appearances in clubs where she told one lucky audience that she'd like to "fuck" them all. Makes you long for the days when celebs would do their jail time quietly and without fanfare--like Kiefer Sutherland is doing right now.

And Long Island natives Joey B and Amy F release competing sex tapes but swear they're not making any money off them. The only thing better would be a sex tape of Joey B and Amy F doing the nasty. Since when did getting yourself caught in the act suddenly become so profitable and respectable? I want my own sex tape!

And it's only January???

HEAVEN SENT

All Shelley wanted for her thirteenth birthday was to get her belly button pierced. Instead, she got wings. If there is a God, He is alive and well in Heaven, Vermont. Sometimes, a girl has to fly.

DoYou Know Where Your Mutt Is?

THE TALE OF THE FREE LOVESEAT OR HOW I GOT RIPPED OFF, MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS

On the first day Christmas, I got ripped off by Levitz Furniture.

Let me explain. Back in September, I bought a new sofa and love seat combo. After searching high and low, I found an incredible deal at the aforementioned furniture store. Buy the sofa get the love seat free!!! I also paid for a ten year warranty covering the fabric (with three cats,I figured, what the hey). At that rate, the warranty would probably outlive the stupid furniture. I even made it simple for the store. I paid cash.

Ha! I'm such a good customer.

However, Daughter #2 (more to the point, Big Tim Bronco, her fiance) warned me against it. Vehemently. He had his own miserable experience with Levitz. But did I listen?

The sofa was delivered, no problems. Due to the sale, so I was told, the love seat was on back order, but I'd get it around Thanksgiving. Uhm, okay.

Shortly thereafter, it was announced in the local paper that Levitz was filing Chapter 11. I was concerned, but not so much. After all, I had paid for my stuff and I had a delivery date. I mean, they wouldn't stiff people who had already paid, right?

Ahem.

When I called to confirm the delivery date, I was suddenly told that due to a "production problem" in the warehouse, the love seat would now be delivered on December 6th. The friendly and helpful customer service rep assured me that I would get my love seat on that day, and also insisted that their filing Chapter 11 had no bearing on my order.

Like a fool, I kept the faith, even after I learned that not only was Levitz filing Chapter 11, they were also shutting their doors forever due to the trickle down effects of the sub prime mortgage mess. If people can't afford their homes, they sure as hell aren't buying new furniture.

Of course you know what happened. I spend all day waiting for my love seat that never arrives (and a delivery that Levitz, in their infinite wisdom, called to confirm the week before).

Royally pissed, I call the 800 number. The helpful and friendly rep is now replaced by a recording.

In desperation, I call the store where I bought the stuff. The staff is about as friendly as a rabid pit bull. When I complain to the store manager, the asshole blows me off by whining that everyone is in a lousy mood because they are all losing their jobs and infers that the day I get my love seat will be a cold day in Tahiti.

Adding insult to my injury, the very next day Levitz runs a full page ad in the local rag touting their tremendous "Going Out Of Business Sale" ! I fume at the absurdity. I can't get my free fucking love seat but they are still trolling for customers.

After days of dialing, I finally get ahold of a real live person in customer disservice, fat lot of good that did me. Now the story is that they are still getting merchandise, but they don't know if they will be able to fill my order and won't know for a couple of days, maybe.

But they are not able to fulfill my order because they are in Chapter 11.

Oh no. They can't fill my order because they are going out of business.

So I ask the harried and downtrodden customer disservice rep what is my recourse if they can't deliver my free love seat for which I have already paid for in cash (including delivery and that goddamn worthless warranty) she says to me, no kidding....

That I have to file a claim in Bankruptcy Court along with all the other creditors (i.e. suckers).

On the second day of Christmas I lost my mind.

CATASTROPHE

So the Psycho Cat sauntered up me after she finished sipping her milk and wanted to know what was up with the WGA strike. (Although we are not WGA members, it is due to the WGA that I get measly but very appreciated foreign residual checks for MY HORRIBLE YEAR).

Psycho Cat: So how can I become a scat? I can write as good as any monkey. And I'm here in the good ole US of A. Then movie moguls don't have to go to England to get mongrel scats.

Me: What the hell did Granny put in your milk?

Psycho Cat: You know what I'm talking about, you asshole. Scats!

Me: Oh....you mean scabs. Trust me, you don't want to be a scab.

Psycho Cat: Why not?

Me: Because you can never join the WGA and get health benefits and all the other

nice perks if you do. Besides, it's not nice.

Psycho Cat: What do I care about health benefits? You took me to a cheap vet when I had worms. And who said I was nice? I'm the psycho cat. All I'm asking for is a chance. I can write better crap than CAVEMEN.

Me: So can I.

Psycho Cat: But you're not a cat. Hey, How about a remake of MICE AND MEN?

Change the men to cats, get Angelina and Clooney...I smell bling!

Me: I smell kitty litter.

SOLIDARITY

I'm not in the WGA, but I support the strike. I'd sooner cut off my right arm than be a scab.


www.theartfulwriter.com
www.unitedhollywood.com

Yeah I Know

Time slips away when you're having fun.

It's been a long, strange summer. Just starting to catch my breath and assimilate, meditate, hesitate and procrastinate.

Hopefully things will settle down soon and I can get back to doing what I love best.

Until then...Go, Red Sox, Go!

Independence Day

What, no aliens?

Alive and chugging away like the little engine that could. And waiting and writing and waiting and writing, not necessarily in that order.

Memorial Day

Cloudy. Blech. But tomorrow is supposed to be gorgeous.

I am very confused as to this new Blogger-Google thingie. It appears that I have two separate accounts, and I can never remember the e-mail/passwords to either of them. They couldn't have left well enough alone.

Otherwise, I've had a full plate this month: still working on my father's estate, Heather's graduation, Adrienne's strep throat, Stephanie's home for the summer, trusty little Neon finally died after years of loving abuse and was carted off to the junk yard, various other hassles and oh---still managed to work, write, work, write, sleep, bake, in no particular order.

Not a bad month. Now I just need to shake some more trees in June and hopefully resolve some long standing issues.

I Be A Bad Girl

I know, I know. Times flies and all that crapola.

I've been busy. Really. Writing, life, all that good stuff.

Otherwise, I'm still here, plugging away. Keeping up appearances.

Larry finally has the baby. I'm delighted.

Paris is going to jail. I'm devastated. No more TMZ updates?

Still not watching AMERICAN IDOL.

Waiting for HELL'S KITCHEN.

Hated TOP DESIGN.

Wondering why they didn't get Farrah for SHEAR GENIUS. What, she was too expensive?

No more BLOW OUT?

When is PROJECT RUNWAY coming back?

Fuck JERICHO.

Media Overload

I'm loathe to admit it, but yes, Anna Nicole got to me. How could it not? It had everything and then some: sex, money, mystery, drugs, and unending court battles. I haven't seen Greta have so much fun since the Natalie Holloway days.

Larry King (looking very cadaverous) played host to a vast array of characters and charlatans, but by the time of Anna's delayed burial, even Larry looked tired of the whole sordid affair.

Where was Maury when you needed him? He would've settled the paternity circus in one half hour show.

Now I am in Anna Nicole withdrawal, at least until the next court date.

We have a war going on and all the media can do is fall over itself to cover the funeral of a drug addicted, C-celebrity (and this doesn't even take into account Britney's woes).

Clearly, I've made a mess of my life. I never abused my kids. Hell, they even profess to like me. I'm not high on crack. One Bud Light puts me under the table. I'm still married to my first and only husband. Worse still, we sleep together.

I've never done anything in my life, not one single thing, that could even be remotely considered scandalous.

I'm a complete, abject failure.

Oscar Post Mortem

Boring and bloated. There, I said in three words what took almost four hours. I hate to admit it, but I was praying that the telecast would've been interrupted by something fantastic like Anna Nicole rising from the dead, just to break the monotony.

Ellen was "too" nice. Yeah, she had two nice bits with Marty and Clint, but otherwise, she was as bland as tapioca pudding.

What the fuck is up with Jack Nicholson? Is he auditioning for the title role of a biopic on Marlon Brando? He was almost unrecognizable, save for the sunglasses.

Jennifer Hudson's stylist (or whoever made her wear that silly metallic bolero) should be boiled in oil.

Anne Hathaway and Meryl Streep didn't take their Prada roles to heart, apparently. Meryl, it's okay to be size 14, however, you don't have to dress as if you were size 16.

How on earth did Cameron Diaz go to the bathroom in that gown? Maybe she didn't. Maybe she got her hands on some of those astronaut nappies.

Will somebody please take a microphone away from Ryan Seacrest? The only good thing was that Billy Bush was nowhere in sight.

Now onto the good stuff...

As for the awards itself, I'm of two minds. It was great and well deserved that Marty got his Oscar, but one gets the feeling that this year, he could have been nominated for directing traffic and he still would've gotten it. Plus, he was nominated for a film that was an adaptation of a Japanese film...does that carry the same weight as an original like RAGING BULL or GANGS OF NEW YORK? I'm not sure. And wasn't it a huge tip off on who was going to win with Spielberg, Lucas and Coppola presenting the award?

Hindsight has shown that often, the Academy bestows the little golden man for reasons other than who was the "best" that year. How else to explain AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS and THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH winning for Best Picture? Hell, Elizabeth Taylor admitted that her Oscar for BUTTERFIELD 8 was undeserved. She hated the role and did everything she could to get out of it, reportedly. But during the Oscar balloting she was gravely ill with pneumonia and nearly died.

I predicted pretty much all the major winners. Just before they announced Best Supporting Actor, I told my hubby that it was Eddie Murphy's to lose, and sure enough, he did. What a kick in the teeth. In retrospective, following his plum role in DREAM GIRLS with NORBIT now seems like a really dumb move.

As for Helen Mirren and Forest Whittaker, they basically won for impersonation. Whittaker seems to have mainly won for being a truly nice guy who turned into a beast on camera. Not taking anything from Whittaker, a marvelous actor, but you should see my husband when he discovers that raccoons have gotten into the trash or when somebody cuts him off in the Stop & Shop parking lot.

What was up with nominating BORAT for Best Adapted Screenplay? Was that some kind of inside joke?

Yay for President Al Gore!

Really, they should hand out all the special effect awards on a separate night. Just give the people what they want: the red carpet and Brad Pitt.

Soap Opera Overload

Anna Nicole Smith and Britney Spears. A match made in Celebrity Heaven. A paparazzi dream come true.

Anna Nicole was a train wreck in progress. While her death was shocking, given her age, it wasn't surprising, given her lifestyle. She wanted to be famous, well, she's more famous now in death than she was in life, the legal saga goes on, and we still don't know who fathered little Dannilynn. Is it Howard? Larry? The Prince? Elvis?

What was this cab driver turned Florida jurist auditioning for, his own half-hour sitcom on Spike TV? I thought it was a court proceeding, not a group therapy hug.

Then you have Britney's excruciatingly public breakdown. At first glance, this seemed to come out of blue, but there were signs all along. Her breakup with Justin, the sudden hookup with Kevin, getting pregnant back to back, then the failed marriage, those sans underwear photos, the constant partying with her new BFF. With two babies under two years of age, where does she get the energy? Maybe I shouldn't ask.

Beyonce vs. Jennifer H.

Am I the only one in the western world who thinks that Beyonce agreeing to appear as the cover model of this year's Sports Illustrated "swimsuit" issue is nothing more than a bitchslap to Jennifer Hudson?

Reality check: Beyonce is a star. Jennifer H was dumped from American Idol too soon. Beyonce is thin. Jennifer H is curvaceous and well-endowed.

DREAMGIRLS was supposed to be Beyonce's movie, but it's not, thanks to Jennifer stealing it from under her nose (what's next, Jay Z?).

Jennifer is getting all the accolades and the awards that by all rights should have gone to Beyonce. It's understandable that Beyonce might be jealous and resentful. Still, can't Beyonce's advisors think of a better way for their charge to upstage Jennifer than exposing Beyonce's Golden Globes?

Girlfriends, c'mon, why can't we all get along? Retract those claws. Meow! Meow!

I'M BAAACKKKKK!!!!!!

C'mon, you didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily?

After a couple of tumultuous months, I've regrouped, taken a deep breath, loaded up on high potency vitamins, flushed my meds down the toilet and decided that if not now, then when?

A new year brings new beginnings, new hopes, new dreams and desires. 2006 was an awful year and I'm more than ready to kick it to the dustbin of history. I figure, 2007 can't be any worse (well, yes, it can, but I'm going to remain optimistic). I feel like I've jumped out of an airplane without a parachute. It's exhilarating yet scary at the same time.

Okay, so I'm never going to win an Oscar. I'll never meet George Lucas. And maybe, just maybe, I'm a third rate writer who had her chance and blew it.

Then again...maybe not. Karma, if I ever needed you, it's now.

PROJECT WRONGWAY

That's it. I've had it. I invested three years into this show. No more, not after last night's nonsensical finale.

I was under the impression that the purpose of this show was to find the "next great fashion designer"...not an already is who has celebrity clients like Gwen Stefani and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Look, Jeffrey may be a great guy, a nice father, a former drug user, and he's good (I can't forget the milkmaid outfit) at what he does: punk star/rock and roll chic. But this is not new. It's not even fashion forward. It's fashion rewind---to the 1980's.

Note to Michael Kors: having a tat on your neck does not make you the next Martha Stewart.

There wasn't one outfit in Jeffrey's collection that I could wear. There wasn't one outfit in his collection that I would want to wear. And that long dress was hideous.

I'm also sick and tired of being manipulated by BRAVO with their judicious editit. Based on the judges comments, I thought for sure Laura and Ulie would be the final two.

Does Nina think she's oh so smart with her snarky remarks?

Granted, the show is a hit, but when it comes to launching a fashion career and/or a brand name, the show is a dud. Jay had health problems. Chloe seems to be quite content to remain in Texas. And now we have Jeffrey...I hear crickets chirping. Can anyone see him as the head of a fashion house?

I don't think so.

I hope Laura and Ulie go on to faboo careers and blow Jeffrey out of the water.

Heidi, you're out!!!!