Bringing Up the Rear

The Writers Guild strike grinds on, with no end in sight, which is more than you can say about the guy who cleans up after the elephants. I won't draw any parallels with the quality of the work dumped out by my fellow scribes, nor will I discuss the issues involved in the walkout. This homily has more to do with the overwhelming majority of the guild membership, those bartenders, substitute teachers, and attorneys who spend their free time at Starbucks holding down a table with their laptops, nursing a latte grande for hours, happy to be seen tapping out what they hope will be the next Stephen Spielberg megahit. They'll vote for a strike every time, because now they can be seen on the picket line, and maybe even be filmed by a TV news crew. Not strike? What? And quit show biz?