Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes

When I was small my father began to feed me a steady diet of science fiction — Asimov, Heinlein, Tolkein, Le Guin. I read the greats (and great I found them). But the book that unquestionably struck me most on a visceral level, on an intellectual level, on a "bring it to your creative writing class on share-an-author day" level, was Harlan Ellison's collection of short stories, I Have No Mouth But I Must Scream. The name alone is the stuff that most writers would sacrifice a limb to have invented, but the short story by the same name is one of the most wretchedly fantastic dystopian tales I have ever read. That story made me feel like my brain had been transformed into violin strings upon which something angry and Bach-ish was being furiously bowed.

So, you know, I know he's kind of an ass (he was expelled from Ohio State for allegedly hitting a professor who criticized his writing; he has sent said professor a copy of every story he's published for the past 40 years), but I can't help but harbor a soft spot for Harlan Ellison.

This is why I found his essay criticizing the WGA (of which he is a longtime member) writers' contract so utterly delightful. Highlights include, "My gorge has become buoyant," and "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."

Regarding Scabs

As most of you who read this blog are doubtless aware, the Writers Guild of America is currently on strike due to the unwillingness of the major Hollywood production studios to give the writers a fair contract. While I will most likely be writing more about the various components of the strike in future entries, today's post is devoted to that most repugnant of creatures — the scab.

In order to understand the full wretchedness of the scab, we must begin with the fundament premise that unions raise the standard of living across the board. When a union wins a major victory, it places pressure on employers of non-union workers to increase pay and benefits for their employees as well, lest they leave for union jobs. Do you enjoy your weekends? Your forty-hour work weeks? They are two of an infinite number of protections secured for workers - union or not - by organized labor movements.

Scabs are union-breakers, pure and simple. Their willingness to work more for less damages the ability of all workers (including scabs) to earn a living wage. The greatest irony is that in their shortsighted attempts at personal gain these milquetoasts are working against their own self-interest. Parallel to his namesake, the scab is a transitory, odious thing temporarily covering the bloody corporate underpinnings that cause labor disputes. Like a physical scab, the labor scab will be sloughed off once the body to which it is attached heals.

I could go on, but I'd doubtlessly devolve into sputtering and the excessive use of exclamation points. Instead I'll link a speech written by Jack London in which he analyzes motivational factors inherent in human nature to assert that while scabbing and the smashing in of said scab's head with a tire iron are equally valid animal behaviors, ultimately, the scab deserves it: The Scab.

Regarding the current strike situation, I conclude with the fact that it truly astounds me how people are ready to cast their sympathies alongside the wealthy CEOs who could give a fig's ass about them, proffering the cheap rationale that Hollywood writers are already rich and overpaid (they're not). As if Les Moonves and Nick Counter are just poor working schmucks barely making ends meet!

Complicit in your own oppression much?