I think everyone knows how much I love television. Sometimes I wish I was one of those people that goes on long hikes, sits around in coffee houses with smart friends talking about novels and politics, takes classes in raw food cooking and hits new art shows at the local gallery. But, let's face it, that's not me and I'm pretty much OK with that. I have hay fever when hiking, I find people who talk novels or politics pretentious and humorless, art shows bore me and I like my carrots cooked, dammit. In fact, while you're at it, hold the carrots and make it fried chicken and french fries.
The person I am is someone who has most episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" memorized, who, as a child, wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer so much it hurt, who will leap into a passionate argument about the unfair cancellation of Andy Richter's last show "Andy Barker PI" with anyone even remotely interested (or, let's face it, not interested at all).
So I think you can imagine what the writer's strike is doing to me. I'm so desperate to be entertained that I've been watching marathon sessions of "What Not To Wear" on TLC and videos of puppies on "You Tube". I'm not upset with the writers, they are doing the right thing and I even teared up at the WGA head's speech on Letterman's first night back.
But I've found some new consolation, a new place to cry, laugh, etc... The striking writers and other sympathetic parties are all contributing essays about their work and the dark, crazy reasons they do it at a web site called "Why We Write". I can't recommend it enough, so check it out.
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