HARLAN ELLISON ON THE WRITERS STRIKE SETTLEMENT
YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO RE-POST THIS ANYWHERE:
Creds: got here in 1962, written for just about everybody, won the
Writers Guild Award four times for solo work, sat on the WGAw Board
twice, worked on negotiating committees, and was out on the picket
lines with my NICK COUNTER SLEEPS WITH THE FISHE$$$ sign. You may have
heard my name. I am a Union guy, I am a Guild guy, I am loyal. I
fuckin’ LOVE the Guild.
And I voted NO on accepting this deal.
My reasons are good, and they are plentiful; Patric Verrone will be
saddened by what I am about to say; long-time friends will shake their
heads; but this I say without equivocation…
THEY BEAT US LIKE A YELLOW DOG. IT IS A SHIT DEAL. We finally got a
timorous generation that has never had to strike, to get their asses
out there, and we had to put up with the usual cowardly spineless
babbling horse’s asses who kept mumbling “lessgo bac’ta work” over and
over, as if it would make them one iota a better writer. But after
months on the line, and them finally bouncing that pus-sucking dipthong
Nick Counter, we rushed headlong into a shabby, scabrous, underfed
shovelfulla shit clutched to the affections of toss-in-the-towel summer
soldiers trembling before the Awe of the Alliance.
My Guild did what it did in 1988. It trembled and sold us out. It
gave away the EXACT co-terminus expiration date with SAG for some
bullshit short-line substitute; it got us no more control of our words;
it sneak-abandoned the animator and reality beanfield hands before
anyone even forced it on them; it made nice so no one would think we
were meanies; it let the Alliance play us like the village idiot. The
WGAw folded like a Texaco Road Map from back in the day.
And I am ashamed of this Guild, as I was when Shavelson was the
prexy, and we wasted our efforts and lost out on technology that we had
to strike for THIS time. 17 days of streaming tv!!!????? Geezus, you
bleating wimps, why not just turn over your old granny for gang-rape?
You deserve all the opprobrium you get. While this nutty festschrift
of demented pleasure at being allowed to go back to work in the rice
paddy is filling your cowardly hearts with joy and relief that the
grips and the staff at the Ivy and street sweepers won’t be saying
nasty shit behind your back, remember this:
You are their bitches. They outslugged you, outthought you,
outmaneuvered you; and in the end you ripped off your pants, painted
yer asses blue, and said yes sir, may I have another.
Please excuse my temerity. I’m just a sad old man who has fallen among Quislings, Turncoats, Hacks and Cowards.
I must go now to whoops. My gorge has become buoyant.
Respectfully, Yr. Pal, Harlan Ellison
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