Snakes on a Motherfucking Catwalk, Part 2

Don't think I've forgotten about you, Tyra.

You can pretend you're not part of what's going on down there at Santa Monica and Sepulveda, Tyra. You can pretend you're just "talent" and bear no responsibility for the strike. But that's what makes you all the more culpable, sweetheart. You're not legally required to get involved or take a stand or make things difficult for the rest of the sweatshop owners over there at the C/W. But that's what doing the right thing is all about. Doing it because you CAN AND YOU SHOULD not because you HAVE TO.

And you can. And you should. You're morally obligated to speak up. And you know what? I don't even care if you disagree with what they're doing. Stand up and SAY THAT. At least have the courage of your convictions.

I can't imagine the size of the Mrs. Beasley's muffin basket you sent to Mel Gibson thanking him for getting your name out of the trades for a little while. And yeah, sure, being a drunken bigot's a little rougher than being the postermodel for the Reality Sweatshop Movement, but at least that motherfucker knows how to make a strong choice and COMMIT TO THE MOMENT. He's like some fantastic Stanislavsky/Martin Boorman love child conjuring sense memories from his Holocaust-denying father while staggering Kurtz-like through Malibu waiting for Leni Refenstahl to yell cut and fix it all in post.

But I digress. The point is, at least Mel cares enough to call.

You, on the other hand, twiddle while the writers who make your show burn. I went down to the picket line. I walked with these people. They love their job. They're good at it. Some of them have been with the show for FIVE SEASONS. You know them. You like bringing your mom on the show? These people are your family, too.

And by the way? They're writers. Nobody working for the show has suggested they are not writers. And all that bullshit about making them go through the NLRB and doing a formal petition for a vote? Did that happen recently when your EDITORS became union?

Uh, no.

So you're swaddled in handlers and PR birds circle your head and sing in your ear and every day another celebrity gets drunk and pops off and ruins it for all the other drunk celebrities and God knows that's just another reason to hunker down in your hurricane shelter made of chinchilla, good intentions and leftover plywood walls from the season six top model house. Who can blame you for closing your eyes and clicking your Manolos and hoping that the whole thing blows over and you with nary a hair out of place?

But you're not really Dorothy in this story, are you? You're more like the Cowardly Lion.