5000 Calories In Search of a Lipitor
The strike can go no further without my mentioning Drew Carey and the very decent thing he continues to do for striking writers in Hollywood.
From the first week last November, Mr. Carey (of “The Drew Carey Show,” “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and now taking over for Bob Barker on “The Price is Right”) has been picking up the tab for any writer who eats at Bob’s Big Boy in Toluca Lake, and Swingers in Hollywood next to Television City.
Not that the writers couldn’t have gotten by without it. In the first few weeks of the strike, restaurants, other unions and wonderful folks who just wanted to show their support would show up at the lines and give us food. The egg salad lady was notable in both her skill at making sandwiches and her ability to know exactly when to bring them, saving us from another purging visit to the Taco Bell in front of Warner Brothers.
But as this thing wears on, the roast beef sandwiches from French 75 have disappeared. Sure, we still get plenty of calories from the Guild’s own craft services at the sign-in desk, but the general consensus is that the Otis Spunkmeyer muffins were made while “Bewitched” was still in prime time.
So it’s a decent thing, feeding us. But more importantly, it’s a place to go. Something to do besides walking in circles.
You walk into Bob’s around lunchtime, and the place is filled with the red and grey shirts of picketing writers. We have trudged, and now we must reward ourselves by eating like Elvis: banana milkshakes and patty melts, turkey dinners and cokes, iceberg lettuce with a cup of ranch dressing.
Sure, you have to endure the occasional interstate trucker making out with a 50-year-old hooker, but that’s just America, right?
And while the strike takes months of paychecks off our tax returns, the diner food takes years off our lives. But, as my Granddad used to say, those are just the years at the end, which are usually the worst, so that’s a good thing.
I am worried about John Kennedy, the youngest writer on the staff who was just promoted before the strike. Not only has he spent five times the number of weeks striking than he did as a writer, he’s going after the Drew Carey Special for all it’s worth. I think he’s had every lunch and dinner at one or the other restaurant for weeks now, and the arterial plaque buildup is making him surly.
Here he is (counting to one on the right) this afternoon at 12:15:
That finger is for Peter, who actually managed to argue that he’s not an argumentative person today.
But it’s not for you, Drew. When this is over, John has vowed to go to the nearest Hallmark and get you the most bitchin’ thank-you card he can find.
Thanks!
