Crossing the Line

I’ve never been a big fan of unions. It could be because I was brought up by a capitalist who believes that unions are sucking the competitive edge out of America. It could be because of my early exposure to Ayn Rand and my resultant belief in meritocracy. It could be because when I worked for a major corporation creating a Times Square theme restaurant, I was appalled to see a 40-year old 7^th grade drop-out earn $40 an hour for pushing the construction elevator button up or down while I, a college grad, made $15 an hour running the office. The elevator operator was in the Union. I was a mere temp.

Whatever the genesis of my dislike, I am surprised to find myself now a huge union supporter. At least of one particular union. Though I am not yet a member of the Writers Guild of America, I hope to be. I imagine WGA membership is what separates the real writers from the wannabees in this town. I long for that validation that my membership will bring. Not only will that make me part of the club, it will mean I have sold a script. It will mean I have made money off my art.

As I drive around town during the strike, I honk in solidarity when I pass picketing writers. I am one of you, I long to shout. I get smiles and waves in return. I feel like I am part of something bigger – fighting the good fight against the greedy corporations. OK so I wouldn’t be Sally Field in “Norma Rae,” but I’d be one of the beleaguered farm workers cheering her on.

“Come by for lunch today!” my friend enthused. A great idea, as the friend in question is one of my best and we always have a good time talking over the ups and downs of our lives. The only problem: she works on a major studio lot – the same one where I used to work.

Up until this point, I’d always managed to schedule meetings and lunches with studio friends off the lot but the logistics of this day made it impossible. I didn’t like the idea of having to cross the picket line of my fellow writers but it’s not like it was for work. That made it OK, right?

I drove up to the main studio gates and waited for the light. The picketers slowed at my approach. No one cleared the way even as the light turned green. I inched across the sidewalk, conscious that I was now blocking the road and cars going straight were getting pissed. My fellow writers did not hurry their progress from my bumper. One guy adopted a slow, shuffle-step and paused to glare at me with each shuffle. It was every bit the uncomfortable, traitorous experience I had feared it would be.

“No, you guys!” I wanted to shout, “I’m one of you! I’m not working here. Just meeting a friend for lunch.” I willed the message out of my eyes at Shuffle Dude. On he glared. I think he even slowed down.

“We’re not even buying food from the studio, we brought from outside!” I eye-pleaded.

Nothing.

After about a year, the angry guy shuffled aside enough for me to pass to the security gate where I was warmly greeted by old friends. Even though my visit to the lot was completely un-work or money related, even though my presence on the lot would in no way impact the studio's business, I still felt like a horrible traitor.

These strikers saw me every day as I drove to one of my ends-meet part time jobs. I always honked. They would know my car. They would probably think I was selling them out; a scab. How would I repair this rift between myself and the members of my aspired-to union?

As my friend and I ate it began to rain. I was too queasy from the whole line crossing experience and could only nibble at my sandwich. By the time I left her office, it was raining in earnest. I got in my car and drove toward the gates. I prepared myself for the wall of anger and misunderstanding to hit me.

Maybe, I thought, the thing to do would be to park across the street and come back and explain everything to them. I could picture their rain splattered faces laughing as I got to the “We even got the sandwiches from off the lot” line. They would become new friends and we’d commiserate over the studios’ greed. I’d be brought back into the fold.

Confident in my plan, I idled my car up to security. It was late and wet. The picketers were gone.

Mr. Right

I love being wrong, don’t you? Really?

One of the funny things about the human animal is our absolute aversion to being wrong. About anything. Somewhere deep in our programming it says if you are wrong you are weak. I’ve grappled with detaching ego from being wrong – finding the opportunity in being wrong. Then, you are actually open to learning something new or seeing something from another angle previously beyond your scope of awareness. But it ain't easy.

Before I met Mr. Wonderful, I was on Match.com meeting other potential Mr. Wonderfuls. To be sure there were some great candidates that restored my faith in the elusive creature known as the “Nice Guy in LA.”

But there was one guy who gave new meaning to the term Mr. Right. He was (and is) an AM radio talk show host on a fairly right-leaning station. He seemed surprised I’d never listened. Considered himself a minor celebrity.

I’d prepared for our date by trying to listen to his show the night before. I made it for a good half hour before a woman called in.

“I want you to know you’re my hero,” she gushed to my would-be suitor. “And I know what’s wrong with this country. It all started to go down hill with the women’s movement when women stared to feel equal to men.” First I was appalled that any woman would make such a statement but then I am equally surprised that any women voted for Bush so go figure. Second I was frightened to hear that humans who thought this way considered my date as their hero. What was I getting myself into?

We met at a tony little eatery on Ventura and after he praised me for having posted somewhat accurate photos on Match, he opened with: “I’m sure you know about my whole debacle in Atlanta. I just think you should hear from me that her lawyer skewed everything.”

I hadn’t heard of said Atlanta debacle but a messy story about an Ex seemed like an interesting first date conversation to me. We then proceeded to talk religion and politics, thus hitting the Big Three of first date conversation No Nos inside an hour.

I confessed that I’d been a tad alarmed by parts of his show.

He laughed and explained that he liked some opposition in his dates. “A woman who thinks for herself. Even if she’s wrong.” I sputtered my iced tea and he laughed again. “Seriously. Most of my girlfriends have been liberals. I think a relationship is good if it has a little fire to it.”

I studied him carefully over my Lipton. I could see his point. Fire keeps things from stagnating. I could see a vaguely possible future of sitting by the fire in a Cape Cod house and engaging in lively, mutually respectful debates while our Irish Wolfhound snoozed by the hearth. But as a child of two divorces, I’m more into domestic bliss than domestic battle. In fact when an argument or disagreement starts, ancient bells sound in my psyche chiming “This is it! It’s over! He’s leaving now!” Not something I think I could live with on a daily basis over breakfast and the New York Times.

Wait, he wouldn’t read the Times because it’s biased. And I’m silly for depending on NPR for my news in case you were wondering. What about the ridiculous NeoCon spin Fox News puts on everything? He countered that it was less extreme than the bleeding heartism of NPR.

Instead of running for the hills right then and there, I decided to see for myself just how unbiased I could be. I spent a week comparing news items from a variety of sources, each time listening for an angle or an agenda. Were they trying to lead me to a specific conclusion or were they reporting strictly facts? In the end, I came back to my trusted sources, NPR and BBC. To me they seemed to use less adjectives and adverbs to subtly lead opinion. And they didn’t engage in ordering stories in such a way to build up fear or hate before a fluff piece designed to make the casual listener go from worry to “But see how everything is great as long as we agree with W’s policies?”

This seemed like kind of an obvious conclusion for me to reach. So I questioned myself again. Was I just believing in the lesser bias of NPR and BBC because I wanted to? Was I really being fair or were my news outlets just as guilty of leading me by the nose?

I wrestled with this question for a week before I stopped to wonder “Wait, is my date bothering to look outside his news media box like this? Why am I the only one here concerned about being labeled close-minded? Why am I not standing up to this opinion maker for what I believe is right?”

Just then a friend sent me a link to a film positing what I thought were some interesting questions about 9/11. Since we were in an ongoing political discussion, I sent the link to my date and asked what he thought. Instead of opening a dialog as I imagined, he responded with “You don’t seriously believe that crap, do you?” Hmmm, way to consider both sides, buddy.

I responded that I didn’t know one way or the other but I thought it posed interesting questions and I wondered what he thought. Obviously the film’s creator had a reason for coming to the conclusions he did. Valid or not, I thought it was worth considering.

His response was that only stupid people would believe such drivel.

And then I got it.

Huzzah for the stupid! Last time I checked, looking at all sides of an issue made mine an inquisitive mind, and a humanitarian one. Isn’t it the responsibility of the citizen to question her government? The believer, her religion? I told him that if a willingness to consider other people’s points of view – if being open to understand the world of my fellow man, friend or foe, makes me stupid, then so be it. Send the little yellow bus on over. And lose my email while you’re at it.

This great authoritative man, this paper tiger, whose roar is followed by thousands daily on the AM dial is one of the most emotionally shut down, fearful people I’d ever encountered. His obsessive drive to be right had just cost him any second date with me. No loss to him, I’m sure. In fact I’m sure in his world he’s right about the fact I’m just one more crazy LA bitch he had the misfortune of meeting.

But a wise man once told me when you point the finger of blame at someone else, three other fingers point back at you. A concept I’m sure that would be far too frightening for Mr. Right to consider. Besides the drama of his very public entanglements in Atlanta, those walls of rightness cost him love and human closeness. He can subsist on the adulation his status as a public figure allows him. But how satisfying is that at the end of a hard day?

On a personal level, being right kills love. On a larger level, it kills people. Think about it. Every war that’s ever fought has been fought because one or both parties were absolutely convinced they were right and the other side was wrong. What would happen if we all sat down and considered the other guy’s side?

I recognize that this too is an exercise in my being right about what happened and how one should behave but then, I’m a writer. The point of writing is to share a point of view. The important thing is to use your powers of persuasion for good. Or at least make people laugh.

As usual, I don’t regret a thing. That Match.com misstep reminded me of a very important lesson I learned all too recently: you can either be committed to being right or being love, but not both. I’ll take love.

Oh yeah, and Mr. Right didn’t think much of his mother. Never trust a guy who doesn’t like his mother. You might end up watching Fox News.

Development: Released

We have nothing to complain about. I mean as a TV watching nation. Everything on the air is just fine.

Isn’t it?

I’ve grown up as a TV viewer to the popular refrain: There’s nothing on. I assumed that to mean nothing of wit, originality or substance. But now I am confused. America, to which nothing are you referring?

You see, we (Hollywood) gave you Arrested Development. This show has to be the best network comedy since Seinfeld. It’s well-crafted, witty, dark, silly, timely, self-deprecating, award-winning, critically acclaimed…And no one’s watching.

I hate to underestimate our collective national intelligence but you do need to pay attention to get it. I’ll give you that if you just tune in out of the blue you might not know what’s going on, how these people are related or why it’s hilarious that a character just pulled a bizarre chicken dance to tease another character. It’s a self-referential show that is continuously building. You need to pay attention. And if you do you are vastly rewarded.

I occasionally try to watch the big network shows these days. I honestly can’t. Well I can but it’s more of a train wreck fascination. As I watch the “characters” spell things out for the viewers along the lines of:
Husband: I’m mad at you.
Wife: Why?
Husband: Because you ruined my car.
Wife: Well you were driving me crazy.
Cue laugh track.

What? I have to turn it off and stare at a plant just to reclaim my eyes and purge my brain.

I understand that humor, like everything else, it subjective. But America, come on!

My father and I had a political debate recently where I got up on my liberal high horse and spouted on about why W should not have been reelected.

“It makes no sense, I know no one that voted for him. How did it happen?”

He proceeded to inform me that the bubble of Hollywood does not represent the country and who did a bunch of actors think they were deciding how things should be run. Maybe he’s right. We must be seriously out of touch. We assume the nation wants television with intelligence, a biting wit, interesting stories and original, off-the-wall yet strangely relatable characters. We give that to the nation and the nation splats it back in our face like a baby flinging the finest stewed organic carrots.

Well don’t worry, America. Here’s your pabulum. Here is more of the programming that makes the rest of the world think we’re a pack of idiots. When I lived in Italy, our top exports there were Baywatch and Small Wonder. The only small wonder is that they haven’t all invaded us already crying “How did you Wal Mart shoppers become the World Super Power?!”

As George Clooney noted in his Oscar speech Hollywood may be out of touch. Like George, I’m fine with this. At least we can imagine a better world, and a better TV show even if the rest of the country would prefer to ignore it. All I can say is if anyone gets voted off the island, I hope it’s us. We can amuse ourselves on the life raft with many more tales involving a stair-car, a banana stand and a hand-eating loose seal.