Like everybody, we've been enchanted with the Norma Rae-esque details of the WGA strike—catchy chants, oversize signs, shiftless teamsters, and blowup rats—it's just all so ... real.
And while we're getting somewhat jealous watching Hollywood's underclass shake their collective fists at corporate overlords (bringing back "scab" as a legitimate insult), we can't help but think that the constant care-package deliveries to the striking writers are hurting their attempts to turn Studio City into a West Coast version of Pennsylvania coal country.
Obviously, there's nothing wrong with food on the picket line, but ideally it should be a batch of tinfoil-wrapped cheese sandwiches delivered by the shift supervisor's stern-eyed, salt-of-the-earth-type wife. Coffee shouldn't be brought in from non-union places like Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf—it should be delivered in a thermos by the striking floor foreman's sad-eyed, conflicted blonde with dreams of breaking out of this one-horse town, who ultimately decides to walk the line with her husband, even though the factory owner's handsome young son wants to run away with her.
Sadly, these simple archetypes of American determination are absent from the WGA strike, replaced by an Arquette sister bearing Starbucks. With a tip of the hat to the reporting of L.A. Weekly's Nikki Finke, Defamer, and the L.A. Times, Radar runs down the picket line cuisine and swag deliveries ...