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The Bravery @ the Wiltern 11/05/09
a writer's perspective
Walked the 5am beat this morning. One problem. There is no more 5am beat. Last week, the WGA shifted the shift times on me. These days, the morning crew is working 6-9. It’s a stupid mistake. I should have known better.
Is it possible that I screwed up the times because I’m dizzy from walking in a circle several hours a day? I wonder if anyone has every done a study on the long-term effects of relentless circle-walking. Could there be side effects? Residual brain damage? Does it cause people to forget their scarves and gloves when it’s 38 degrees out? Or leave their credit cards at the bar? Does it cause people to show up places at 5am when they should know to be there at 6am?
More likely, I’m just a little brain-dead from waking up before the newspapers get delivered.
At 6 on the nose, a WGA van pulls up and honks. I find this amusing considering that we’ve been asked repeatedly to discourage honking before 8. Me and another guy unload the van and set up the sign-in table.
By 6:15, there’s a pretty admirable crowd. Enough to divide the troops between two gates and still be an intimidating presence. Well, maybe not intimidating, but a visible presence nonetheless.
I start the day at Gate 3, where a couple of strike buddies are talking about how much they hate a specific TV show. They are completely unaware that a couple of writers for that show are walking right behind them.
One awkward moment later, we decide to make the trek to Gate 4. There, we are greeted by some friendly faces, plenty of fresh bagels, and some sweet, sweet coffee. My toes are so cold, I contemplate taking off my shoes and soaking my bare feet in the scalding java. One of the guys tells me how “this really awesome lady” pulled up with the bagels and gave him a big hug that made his day. (I wrote this before reading Elise’s post!)
I feel like we’re visiting a friendly tribe on the far side of the island. I wonder if there might be any other inhabitants lurking out there?
I imagine some poor soul who didn’t get the memo that we’re no longer picketing Gate 7, living in the brush off Forest Lawn. I picture him stranded alone in the wasteland – waiting for reinforcements, starving, unshaven, sleeping in the bushes. His lone companion is a volleyball named Captain Spaulding that he’s painted a face on to keep him company.
Who knows? Maybe there’s an entire lost tribe of scribes out there. Maybe they’ve crafted weapons out of their picket signs; sharpening the sticks to create spears to protect themselves from predators: skunks, rats, and studio heads.
Hopefully some awesome lady with bagels will find them before they resort to eating each other.
photo by Heath Biter for LAist
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Ahahah I'm so glad you got a bagel! I was driving around, trying to figure out which gate was yours, but as you said, it was dead til just before 6am.
I think you should make sure to change the direction of the circle regularly so you don't develop one, giant, manly leg and one little skinny leg.
As for those writers that have gone bamboo in the hills, they may still come stumbling down the mountain, dazed and filthy for years to come.
Stay tough - we're behind you! I don't know how you do it, you continue to amaze.