Moving Things Around Just Doesn't Pay What it Used To
While the writer's strike has ground all of Hollywood to a halt and rendered all televisions blank and featureless save reruns of Good Times, another, perhaps less glamorous strike is plaguing the Big Apple some three thousand miles and several levels of national interest away. Brace yourselves:
The stagehands have struck.
They're striked. It’s stricken.
There are no more people in New York City willing to move objects from point A to point B, haul flats from point B to point C, or preset the Grinch’s Mazzila-mazoo. Need that prop moved from that table to that other table, Mr. Director? TOO BAD. There is literally no one who is willing to do this for money.
And judging from the fact that there are currently only eight shows still running on Broadway, they’ve basically got the theatres by the balls. After all, they are one of the industry’s most powerful unions. You know how most unions are called “Local Seven Hundred Eighty-Three?” The stagehands’ union is called Local
One.
That’s right; they are the FIRST UNION, the one union to rule them all. Remove their dental plan at the risk of plunging us all into an era of darkness and orc-warfare.
As the strike wears on, we must face a grim possibility: doing things outside. Conan and The Daily Show are on hiatus, and Wicked and The Lion King promise no salvation. And honestly, how long can you read internet blogs before your eyes eat themselves?
In the interest of pre-eminently alleviating such an epidemic of ocular auto-consumption, here are three fun things you can do outside with your whole family:
Go to the beach.
Oh, Jesus. Uh…I don’t know. Fly kites? People do that, right?
Wow, I’ve got nothing. What kind of a hollow digital shell has my life become? This is sobering. This is really going to make me re-evaluate some of my life choices. God, I hope no one’s reading this far. Wait, who am I kidding? Anyone who reads this blog is probably still jacking off to the topless octopus video Ross posted. What a bunch of dumb S.O.B.’s.
While the writer's strike has ground all of Hollywood to a halt and rendered all televisions blank and featureless save reruns of Good Times, another, perhaps less glamorous strike is plaguing the Big Apple some three thousand miles and several levels of national interest away. Brace yourselves:
The stagehands have struck.
They're striked. It’s stricken.
There are no more people in New York City willing to move objects from point A to point B, haul flats from point B to point C, or preset the Grinch’s Mazzila-mazoo. Need that prop moved from that table to that other table, Mr. Director? TOO BAD. There is literally no one who is willing to do this for money.
And judging from the fact that there are currently only eight shows still running on Broadway, they’ve basically got the theatres by the balls. After all, they are one of the industry’s most powerful unions. You know how most unions are called “Local Seven Hundred Eighty-Three?” The stagehands’ union is called Local 