Not a Fan

SO FAR 2008 IS NOT WINNING ME OVER. And if this year wants to be my pal, it's got a lot of work to do. As if the ongoing (and apparently unending) Writers Strike wasn't bad enough, I had to put my cat Myrna to sleep yesterday. She was 16 years old (would have been 17 in May) and had been sick with Chronic Renal Failure since the summer. So it wasn't as if it was unexpected.

Which is not to say that it was any easier to say goodbye.



Surprisingly, the worst part of the whole experience wasn't being in the room while she was euthanized, even though that was awful and incredibly heartbreaking. The worst was watching her waste away, gradually and almost invisibly, for the last six months. It was the reverse of watching her grow from a kitten into a cat. Seeing her everyday made it difficult to register just how much she was shrinking away.

Several months ago, I happened to look back a photo I took of her last January, and only then did I realize how thin she had become. The regular weighings at the vet confirmed her dropping weight. She used to be a big cat. Not fat at all. But big and fluffy. By fall, she was down from ten pounds to about seven. And in her final weeks, the weight loss was even more dramatic. The last time she was weighed at the vet, she weighed barely over three and a half pounds.



So there is a little bit of relief that comes with the sadness of putting an ailing pet to sleep. She was suffering and had been for months. And as much as we wanted her to stick around forever, her body was not going to let that happen. Also, we will always outlive our pets, always. It's the heartbreak agreement we willingly enter into. And I will gladly do it again, considering what I received in return: 16 years of companionship with a really great pet.

So thanks a lot, 2008. So far you've been a real dick.

The Beards Go On

I AM ON STRIKE. I don't mean this in any hyperbolic way. I mean it literally. As a member of the Writers Guild of America, I have been on strike since the beginning of November. If you don't know exactly what we're striking for, just read the papers and believe what the producers and studio execs are saying. (Because why would they lie?)

We are striking to destroy Hollywood.

Once we have accomplished that, we'll go back to what we normally do. For me and more than half of the WGA members, that means going back to being an unemployed writer. Trust me, it's wayyyyy more dignified than "striking writer." Also, it requires far less exercise, but (luckily) the same amount of Xbox.


As it happens, I made a decision during the first week of the strike that I had no idea would be so popular. With people other than my mother, that is. That decision? To put my razor on strike as well, and to grow a "strike beard." More on this particular beard a little later. When I decided to stop shaving, in perhaps my bravest moment as an adult male, I had no idea just how popular my decision would be...until this very evening. The evening of the return of the late night talk show hosts.

Let us for a moment put aside Jay Leno and Craig Ferguson, and speak only of Conan and Dave. Actually, I will not speak. I will let the pictures speak.


Coincidence? That seems unlikely. It must have been design. I must have been in cahoots with Conan and Dave. Or, at the very least, as lazy and unwilling to shave as they were.

Conan even referred to his as a "strike beard," much as I did, mere moments ago in this very blog. So, I was ahead of the curve...or at least exactly in sync with the curve. Okay, I admit that Conan and Dave show an ability to grow a full and complete beard whereas I can't muster much more than a sad adolescent-seeming attempt at facial hair. I admit it. I will also admit that my nephew, who is 23, can grow a fuller more convincing beard, and has been able to do so since he was 17. In fact, he can do it in under a week.

My beard, on the other hand, the beard of a 41-year-old, is still patchy and thin, even after over two months. It is also much grayer than I'd hoped for. As a bonus, it inspired my mother to say, "You look like a terrorist!" So mission accomplished on that front.

All that aside, I feel I'm making my point, as a writer on strike. This beard is a threat, producers, and it's not going away until there's a fair deal on the table.

Yeah! Take THAT!

1-2-3-4, I Declare a Donut War!

AS MEMBERS OF THE WGA, the wife and I have been walking the picket lines since we got back from our New York vacation on November 6th. We normally picket in the mornings, since it’s been in the upper 80s in Los Angeles lately (just like mid-November oughta be!) and a couple of days ago we decided to bring some delicious donuts to our fellow strikers. Inadvertently, while choosing our two dozen donuts, I started a Donut War.

The wife and I were taking turns choosing donuts, and during one turn, she chose cake donuts with white icing sprinkled with coconut. In my estimation, a very unpopular donut choice. And I said as much, admittedly with a total lack of tact. I said, “No one’s going to eat those.”

Once on the picket line, I was called to task regarding my poo-pooing of the coconut donut, and also for the jerky way I poo-pooed.

“Well, come on, honey,” I said. “Let’s face it, coconut is not a popular donut flavor.”

“I like coconut donuts,” she replied, pointing out that one of my choices, the chocolate iced donut with chopped peanut sprinkles (third from the bottom in the accompanying photo), was an equally terrible donut.

“You’re crazy,” I said, again with an awesome amount of tact. “That’s a way better donut choice than a coconut donut. I guarantee you that at the end of the day there will be two donuts left: the two coconut donuts.”

And thus the war was on. It also prompted a $20 bet, with my wife insisting that no one would so much as sample the peanut-covered donuts. “Who wants a crunchy donut?” Whereas I was certain that the coconut donuts would be the fat kid in gym class, last in the box, totally neglected.

We marched and marched for a time, making small talk about other things, both of us stealing surreptitious glances into the donut box with each pass. Then my wife said, “You can’t just eat part of the peanut donut in order to win, you know.”

“Honestly, until you mentioned it, I hadn’t even considered that as an option.”

“Well, don’t do it,” she said.

Around and around we walked, watching the donuts in the box dwindle with each pass, until there were only four donuts were left: two coconut and two peanut-sprinkled.

Obviously, my penchant for the peanut-sprinkled donut was not shared by the masses, a surprise to me. And I said as much.

“It’s a terrible choice,” my wife replied.

“But I still insist that coconut is an even worse choice.”

“We’ll see.”

It is significant issues like this one that divide us. Only the most vital of international and social and moral topics demand this sort of tenacious loyalty, this level of passion. The mistreatment of political prisoners in our jails. The civil unrest in Pakistan. And whose donut choice will be least popular. These are the dynamic topics of discussion in our household.

A few minutes later, I heard my wife gasp, “Oh my god!” She was looking in the donut box. Someone in the picket line had taken half of the peanut-sprinkled donut. Conceding defeat, my wife tore off a bite of one of the coconut donuts. So, I was vindicated, if only barely. By the time we left, there was one coconut and three-quarters of a peanut-sprinkled donut left.

Two lessons were learned on this day. One: Peanut-sprinkled donuts are only barely more popular than coconut donuts. (Who knew?) And two: Nobody really wins a donut war. One can only hope to survive it and find a way to go on living.