We Write! They Wrong!

I said it before, I'll say it again: If you're in L.A. and you want to be a professional writer, get yourself down to a picket line. The most fun you can have without actually having a job.

And if you do go, don't worry about networking or picking the brains of your favorite writers. Just grab a sign, get in line and learn the chants.

After a few minutes, LIKE MAGIC the folks around you will ask: "So, you working on your writing samples?" or "Have you met my colleague, (insert name of person you've admired for years here)?" It's awesome.

Of course, all good protests begin at home, and we're no different. Willa is looking for any possible opportunity to scab that might present itself. She's got one production company calling the house a couple times a day, but every time they ask for Willa, I say "Willa the cat?" Then they hang up.

(Confidential to all you folks scanning the L.A. Craigslist for non-union writers. There's a reason why Willa69's posts are so full of typos. On the Internet, no one knows you're a cat.)

Fifi, not clear on the concept, is striking for more petting. But she doesn't chant so much as run around the apartment making frantic little meows. This afternoon, she staged a sit in under my chair. I admit, I caved. The meowing was too much! I couldn't think! Damn her and her anarchist techniques!

Anna remains, as ever, committed to civil disobedience. Her protests take the form of continuing to drop tiny poops all around the litter box, but never actually inside the litter box. What does she want? I dunno, but clearly she wants it right now. Maybe yesterday.

All I can say is thank god Gandhi wasn't a cat.