The Writers’ Strike – Emma Brand’s Take

Welcome back to the blog.  After a long day at work, I look forward to sitting my butt on the couch, and watching some amazing television.  I know that I write a lot about reality shows, hell, I watch a ton of reality shows.  The truth is, though, I watch a lot of television period.  Probably too much, I will grant that premise.

But this week, instead of surfing the internet and downloading shows I love, or getting news about how much more fake the Hills really is.  Seriously, apparently Lauren and Heidi are secret friends? I have also spent a fair amount of time trying to understand why the writers that write my favorite shows have walked out…

Here is how it boils down:  Basically, the production companies and the networks give no residual payments (zero) for any  of the downloads or online streaming of the shows or movies.  What are residuals?  Well, they are payments based on percentage for every time that shows are re-run or bought on DVD.  The percentage given to writers are pretty low.  For instance, apparently every time you buy a DVD for $19.99, the writer gets a whoppin four cents.  You read that correctly.  I will grant you that this adds up, but let’s face it, it ain’t much.  However, the term “residual” and what rates are paid for what happens with the show or the movie script that the writers have penned themselves don’t apply to a lot of how we are all now receiving our television.  Now, the writers are paid for re-runs that show up on late night television and the small percentage of DVD sales.  That hasn’t always been the case.  Writers used to get absolutely nothing for anytime their show was put into syndication.  The best example I have seen was related to I Love Lucy.  That show has been on television for fifty straight years – it has entertained the viewing audience (some more than others) for that long.  The only thing those writers were paid was for their original script – and that’s it.

The change in how television is viewed is clear.  In the last 3-5 years, networks have been streaming full episodes of their shows for free online.  Also, services like Apple’s Itunes and Amazon’s Unbox, and most recently NBC’s Hulu have begun to sell those same episodes for download.  When you watch the episode for free online, there are often several 30 second commercial breaks.  Even though you watch for free, the network gets ad revenue from you watching (most likely based on the number of views).  When you pay $1.99 for an episode of Lost on iTunes, ABC turns a profit.  The writers, as of their current contract, receive NOTHING from any of that.  The networks are calling these electronic views “promotions.”  I think we all know that doesn’t pass “the smell test.”  It smells pretty bad, in fact.  So the writers’ contract is up, and the networks don’t want to give the writers squat.  And so now they strike.

Actors are joining them on the picket line even though they are members of the Screen Actors’ Guild, because their contract is up in June of next year, and they will also want similar residuals.  It will make a difference.  Think about a writer who writes a brilliant movie and sells a script to a studio.  They may write 10 more before a studio buys another one.  They may need those residuals from DVD sales or online downloads to bring in small checks to get them by until their next project is frutiful.  As of now, they would be getting four stinkin’ cents per DVD and not a dime off of the downloads.

It boils down to this: Disney’s doing fine.  Viacom is okay.  It’s the people that actually entertain us each week, with their imagination and humor and creativity that need a few extra dollars to insure they have time to write or act or produce these shows and movies instead of having to pay the bills by digging ditches or waiting tables.  They’re asking for a fair share.  And I think they deserve it.  So in the next month or so, when CBS has to air Ultimate Fighting Specials instead of the new CSI season, or ABC is showing you re-runs of Disney classics instead of the new season of Lost, I will probably cry a little, watch more of my Netflix queue than usual, or even (gasp!) read that growing pile of books on my shelf.  But I will support the writers…They deserve their fair share for their work and their gifts.

Here are some more links for your education…

•  The Los Angeles Times is keeping up with the latest news from the picket lines.

• Anyway, that’s all I got.  Long live these strikes.  This thing is affecting so many of the people like the crews and the production people and the actors too.  In a couple of weeks, more people will be laid off because they are “expendable.”

  In the next few weeks, a lot more shows will be going to re-runs instead of original episodes, and all of the late night talk shows as well as my favorites like The Daily Show and The Colbert Report have already gone dark.  I just hope the networks and production companies will come to the bargaining table and do the right thing…Until then, I am sad, but I get it.

Murphy’s Law In Action

I am back with tales from the road…Yeah people!  So sit back and get ready, or, if you’re at work and don’t want your boss to see that you aren’t steadily entering meaningless statistics into your Excel spread sheet,  position your mouse over that minimize button and get ready for a story that I will now place in the “I can laugh about it now” file folder.

So, last week I went and hung out with Jake in San Diego.  Nice place, good people, tons of laughs, and an all-around perfect vacation.  I got to see a lot of the sites, including the World Famous San Diego Zoo.  A word of advice for those of you who want to see this landmark: Go in the morning, not at lunchtime.  We got there just in time to see all the animals napping.  I can spot and identify the ass of just about any of God’s creatures now.  Of course, Jake’s boy Chad has an expensive camera and a remarkable amount of patience for someone who has taken two idiots to the zoo, so pictures will be coming soon.  I am excited to see them, because like the true supermodels we are, Jake and I took some sweet ass pictures.

So the trip itself was perfect until I got to my layover in Phoenix.  I learned that my flight would be “slightly delayed” putting me back into Birmingham at about 12:30 a.m. which is a great, secure feeling for a skinny girl in flip flops who parked her car about 5 miles from the terminal.  So I was nervous about getting to my car without having to pull out some ninja moves. 

We landed in Birmingham after a 3 hour flight that seemed like it took 7.  I was sitting by the window, wishing I was already in my bed, or that I didn’t have to go to work in the morning, or just anything that would make me less tired.  The lady in the aisle seat in my row was about 78 years old and 5′3″ tall.  She apparently also has amazing persuasive abilities because she had managed to smuggle a carry-on bag whose size made it so it could have doubled as her coffin.  So after we land, this poor old woman (who looked like a Velma) was tugging on that bag so hard, and of course it was stuck in the overhead compartment.  So Velma is pretty much parallel with the floor at this point struggling with her bag, and I decided that if any of us want to get off that metal contraption any time soon, I would need to help.  So I said, “Ma’am, hold on a second, and I’ll help you.” 

It was at this point that I struggled to put my backpack down (without smashing all of the honey-roasted peanuts that I had collected throughout the day) and get over to Velma who was now red-faced and saying words that no old woman should ever say.  And I said again, “Hold on, I am coming.”

As I get over to where she was and I stick my head out from under the overhead compartment, Velma springs her bag loose and the 600-pound Samsonite with wheels came hurtling at my head.  My life flashed before my eyes.  There were all of my precious memories: all of my charity work, my Nobel-prize winning system for growing wheat where there is little water, and that time that I had to tell George Clooney that I couldn’t because Brad Pitt was coming by later.  Okay, so someone else’s life flashed before my eyes.  But as I came back to the present, I was struck so hard in the face that my eyes were watering like no other.  Oh holy smoking Rosie!  That big, huge bag hit me square in the cheek, and it did NOT feel good.  It felt like a bowling ball had just hit me in the face!

So I am now standing in a Southwest airplane, my eyes are watering, and I am jealous of the flashbacks I just had.  And then little old Velma breaks her silence.  I know that she is going to apologize, to ask if I am okay and possibly pull out some sort of wrapped hard candy out of her instrument of destruction to make up for her clocking me in the head.  Velma says, “I got it.”  And then looked at me like I had just spray painted on one of her hand-stitched cat pillows.  If ever there has been an acceptable time to hit a woman who actually witnessed the invention of fire, that would have been the time, but I held back, got my stuff together and got off the plane.

When I got to baggage claim, I found out that they had lost my luggage.  A very nice woman named Jackie helped me, but while I think we could have had a very special friendship under other circumstances, it was clear that we were both tired.  So she graciously takes my ID and my claim check and tries to find out where my bag has gone off to.  In the interim, the system crashes about 3 times and I was sure that my prized collection of ripped up jeans and ironic t-shirts along with my grey New Balance shoes were gone forever.  But ol’ Jackie just kept working and after a half hour I was on my way to my car in the dark parking garage with a FedEx tracking number, and a tired smile from my new friend. 

I have never been so happy to see my old beater in my life, by the time I got all the way out to it.  But as I put my key into the lock, I noticed that my power lock didn’t kick in.  Yep, my car was absolutely dead.  And it’s after 1 in the morning, and everything here in the Birmingham International Airport is being shut down.  So I started hauling my ass back toward the terminal.  First, I thought I could get one of the rental car guys to help me jump my car but the counters were all closed.  There were no cabs at the curb, and by that time even the cops had abandoned their cars there.  I jogged into the airport at a sprint just as poor Jackie had helped her final person with lost luggage.  She was NOT happy to see me and that is when I realized that Jackie and I would not be pen pals. 

I told Jackie my situation and she was able to find the one airport security person left in the airport who has one of those cool flashing yellow lights.  His name was Silas and he met me at my car, looking all smug with his “you left your lights on, idiot!” look.  He got my car running and told me “just let that baby ride!”  So me and the clunker headed on back to T-town, with no music because my anti-theft device had kicked in, but on our way just the same.  As I pulled into the driveway, I have never been so happy to see my carport light up and my dogs barking at me.  Knowing that work was a scant 5 hours away, I managed to get myself into my bed pretty quickly, and thus ended the vacation that was perfect- all the way up until the last 6 hours.  And since I also had such a good time, I was still in a good mood today at work.  Eat that, Mr. Murphy and your law.