The Ascot

 

asc

 

Rebecca negotiated the enormous cart full of plastic bins around the throngs of nervous travelers. She took them out to the start of the security check point and dropped them off for the travelers to load with metal and electronic items. She returned to her station and gazed dully at the x-rayed insides of carry on suitcases, pulling out the ones that contained aerosol sprays and water bottles.

She tried to ignore the two coworkers that stood behind her gossiping about the people in the crowd. The bald one complained about all the dirty underwear she had to touch that morning. The toothless coworker commented that Rebbeca’s shirt was wrinkled.

Rebecca was about to go to lunch when she saw him across the room. He was standing at the end of another agent’s X-ray belt, looking for his luggage with vaguely concealed panic. He was tall and sharply handsome with thick blond hair that had been carefully tousled to look as though he had just emerged from bed. He was wearing a smug smirk, torn jeans and a silk jacket over a white tee shirt. He was also wearing an ascot.

Rebecca noticed that the agent working his belt did not even pull his luggage or pull him aside for a search. She thought that this was a mistake. They were supposed to search anyone who looked suspicious and there was nothing more suspicious than an ascot. The man collected his luggage and began to head to his gate and Rebecca decided to follow him.

The man walked with a purposeful strut, until he stopped and went into a bookstore. Rebecca stood near a table of books, subtly following his gaze. His intense brown eyes surveyed the magazines. She watched carefully to see which one he would pick up. She was guessing he was either a classical musician, a movie producer or a mental patient. In any case, she thought it best that he was followed.

He reached for a copy of, Vanity Fair, he looked at it for a moment, but decided on Down Beat instead. She smiled to herself; she loved jazz.

He walked to the wine bar and went inside. Rebecca realized she was stuck as she couldn’t drink on the job. She headed for the pretzel stand and watched him from a distance. He ordered a wine and swished it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing it down. Brown mustard dribbled down Rebecca’s chin as she watched him drink and chat with the bar tender.

‘God, what a pretentious yutz,’ Rebecca thought.

All of a sudden, the man seemed upset. He seemed to be asking the bartender a frantic question. He paid his bill and walked out into the terminal. He looked at the departures and then took a cell phone out of his pocket and made a phone call. He walked right by Rebecca as she quietly gobbled the last bits of pretzel and pretended to read a safety poster.

“Hi, it’s me my flight was canceled….. I’m not sure, the next flight to LA isn’t until 7:00. It looks like it’s Southwest.”

He hung up and headed into the airports day spa. Rebecca returned to work. On her break she told her boss that she would need to take a few days off as she had to go to Los Angeles. She said her only living relative, her aunt was sick. She bought a ticket on the 7:00 p.m. Southwest flight via Travelocity.

She finished her shift and headed to Ross where she quickly obtained a large backpack two blouses and two pairs of jeans and a week’s supply of undies and a toiletry kit.

She headed back to the airport just in time to catch her flight. The man in the ascot was sitting right up front,  flirting with a pretty young stewardess.

She took her seat in back and tried to plan an exit strategy so she would not lose him when the flight ended. She could pull out her badge and tell the stewardess that she needed a passenger list then she could find out the man’s name.

She waited until after the drinks had been distributed. She went up to the stewardess and said she had overheard something in a conversation that might have been suspicious.

She found out the name was Timothy Parker, He lived in West Los Angeles. She said the address over and over again in her head as she went back to her seat.

“Timothy,” she whispered. She was disappointed she had hoped it would be Holden or possibly Miles. She thanked the stewardess and sat down again.

The plane landed and she went to baggage claim in the hopes that he was there, but he was not. She took the train to a Motel 6 in East Hollywood where she enjoyed a sleep and a shower. The next morning, she woke and went to the address that had appeared on Timothy’s driver’s license. It was a gas station.

She stood outside, looking in for a moment. She went inside and bought coffee. She asked the man at the counter if Timothy was around.

“He sets stand up at 10:00.”

She looked at her watch it was 9:55. She went for a short walk and returned to the gas station. She noticed a long line of men standing in front of a brightly colored cart. As she got closer she saw a sign that said, “Ascots $5.99 2 for $12.

She got in the line and waited to get to the window for an hour and a half. She glanced around at the men in the line and noticed that the business had reached a huge demographic.

Burly men in construction hats and undershirts stood in the line sweating in the hot sun. Men who wore business suits over body hugging tee-shirts discussed the merits of this ascot stand verses the other in town. Pimply teen agers stood giggling at text messages and taking pictures of the cart. Rebecca found it odd that there were no hipsters in the line.

When she reached the window, Timothy poked his head out.

“May I help you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Charging $12 for 2 ascots is not a discount. If one ascot is $5.99, customers will actually pay two cents more for two.”

“I never said it was a discount,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” she said.

Rebecca got an Uber and went back to the airport. She flew back to Portland and shot herself in the head.

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In The Cell

pink

 

 

 

It was 2:00 a.m. and Marsha was just about to go home when her phone buzzed. There was a woman named Susan, just two blocks away, who was requesting an Uber. Marsha decided to do one more trip.  She arrived in front of a small brownstone to find a tall man of mixed race standing outside of the building. He walked towards the car and attempted to open the back door and knocked on it when he realized it was locked. She rolled down the window slightly.

“Hi, I don’t think this is your Uber, sir. I’m here for a woman.”

“Is her name Susan?”

“Yes.”

“That’s actually my girlfriend, I got a new phone and I don’t have Uber set up, so she just let me use hers.”

Marsha hesitantly unlocked the door. It seemed like a plausible story. It was very unlikely that a random stranger would be able to guess the name of the customer.

The man climbed into the backseat and confirmed that he was going to North Hollywood. Although it was late and she was tired she was grateful for the long trip and the large fare it promised.

They pulled out onto the street and drove in silence until they got to the freeway.

“I’m Marsha,” she said after a moment

“Okay,” he said with an uncomfortable glance out the window.

“Do you mind if I listen to some music.”

“No that’s fine.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“Anything is okay,” He said rather irritably.

She turned on a classic rock station and studied her charge in the rear-view mirror. He was very tall, nice looking and about thirty five. He was wearing a designer shirt and a nice pair of trousers that looked as though they were part of a suit.

She assumed the ride was some sort of a walk of shame situation. She smiled a bit to herself. Had the man met this Susan in a bar in Long Beach or had they met somewhere in Los Angeles and retired to her apartment? Maybe they knew each other and it was some kind of friends with benefits situation. Maybe they met on Tinder and it was just some random hook up. Maybe he was married and she was actually driving him back to his wife.

Marsha regarded her own flabby face in the mirror. She wondered if he was just in a bad mood or if she was simply not worthy of his attention.

She glanced back at the passenger and saw him reach into his pocket and pull out an iPhone. He began texting with someone. She noticed that the phone was pink. She had never seen a man with a pink cell phone before. He wasn’t gay. He said he had a girlfriend. He also said it was a brand-new phone. His gruff masculine demeaner made her wonder why he would have chosen pink.

“Are ya warm enough back there,” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said abruptly.

The man had a deep look of concern on his face as he texted. He seemed to be involved in a very serious conversation. His hands were even shaking a bit. She wondered if the woman he was with had just woken in the middle of the night to find him gone. Maybe it was his wife? She felt rather cozy watching the drama unfold.

It was then that she noticed the red stain on his shirt.  Her stomach knotted. It was a fairly small stain, but it really looked like blood. Then she noticed another stain on his sleeve. She told herself that it might be just sauce, or perhaps it came from a cut.

What if he’d murdered the woman he was with? What if he had killed her and used her phone to call the Uber? Maybe he killed her and hid the body and then used her phone to get an Uber. It would be the perfect get away. When people noticed that she was missing it would looks as though Susan had run off on her own volition in the middle of the night.

She looked in mirror again to see that he had gone on Facebook and was posting something. She had to hand it to him; he was clever. Maybe he was posting something to Susan’s page of her saying that she needed a change or a break or something.

It occurred to Marsha that she had Susan’s phone number. All she had to do was call the number and if the pink phone rang she would know that her suspicions were correct. Then she remembered that if her suspicions were correct, he would also have her number. She decided she would drop him off and then call the police.

She turned the car onto the exit ramp and began to drive to the address.

“We’re almost there,” she chirped nervously.

“Okay,” he said.

The man reached into his breast pocket and Marsha’s hands gripped the wheel. What if it was a gun? What if he had seen her looking at him in the rear view, figured out that she was suspicious and decided to kill her?

Her heart raced as she drove down the street. She sped up and reached for her phone to dial 911. She felt a sharp thunk and water began splashing all around the car. She realized she had hit a fire hydrant.

“What the fuck,” The passenger screamed.

He leaped out of the car and ran down the street. When the cops arrived, Marsha attempted to explain what happened. She was handed a ticket and some information about rehab.

Marsha was fired from Uber. She spent the next week on her cell phone looking for a job.

 

The Optimist

InterrogationRoom

 From Craigslist 

Acting Coach – One on One (Silverlake) 

Working producer and acting coach seeking new clients.
Reasonable rates.

Gretchen sat in the small room gulping down the water that she received  after much begging. Detective Puzzleman sat across from her staring at her like she was a bug under a glass.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a good cop,” she asked.

“That’s only in the movies. Besides, the only really bad guy in here is you.”

“I already told the other guy what happened.”

“Tell me, but don’t leave out the truth this time.”

“It was the truth,” she screamed, fighting back tears.

Puzzleman sat down and crossed his arms. Gretchen blew her nose and began to tell her story once again.

“I came to Los Angeles three years ago to pursue my dream of becoming an actress.”

Detective Puzzleman fought a smile. The woman was thirty-five if she was a day. Stringy brown hair framed a chubby pale face. He tried to imagine in what she thought she might be cast.

“I had been so busy working that I couldn’t go on many auditions,” she said looking down at the floor. I’d taken a couple of audition workshops, but the casting directors never noticed me.

I was forever looking at the Craigslist talent section. One day, I came across Tim’s ad.”

“What was the ad for?”

“For the umpteenth trillionth time it was for an acting coach.”

“What made you think an acting coach would work if everything else hadn’t?”

“It was a very convincing ad. It said that we would have three one hour sessions together and then he would put together a reel just for me. It said he’d worked as a casting director for 20 years.”

“I would have thought he was a scammer.”

“I did at first. But, I looked him up on IMDB. There was a Tim Harger who is a casting director. There was no picture of him, but everything there was consistent with what he said. He told me that he was in-between agencies and it just seemed like he knew what he was talking about.”

“What were the acting lessons like?”

“They were amazing. He  found the perfect parts for me. An ex stripper in a gritty story about a murder in the 1940’s, a married woman in love with her boss and then there was the scene he wrote just for me about a young lawyer defending an innocent man.”

Detective Puzzleman made a weird snorting noise.

“Continue please,” he said.

“So anyway, I felt a lot more confident when we started to make my reel. We filmed  the scene he wrote just for me. Then he said he wanted me to do a scene with another actor. He said the scene was set in a coffee shop. He said that there was no way we could really afford to have a shoot in a coffee shop as it would have cost thousands of dollars, so we were going to do it ghetto style,” she said making air quotes.”

“Ya, mean just go in there and shoot it without telling them that you are shooting it?”

“Right, so his sister Jill, my scene partner comes over to his house and we rehearsed the scene…”

“So he didn’t have a studio space or anything?”

“Well, no, I mean he was just using his house, right then.”

“Where was this house located?”

“Downtown.”

“He had a house in downtown Los Angeles?”

“Well, his apartment.”

“I see. Did he have a dedicated room for this?”

“Well, I mean he lived in just one room.”

“He was in a studio?”

“Yeah.”

“And you believed he was a successful casting director? Was it a toney building, at least?”

“Well, I mean it was the Rossyln.”

“Oh, the lofts?”

“No.”

“The Hotel Rossyln?”

“Yeah.”

He just stared at her for a long moment. She looked down at the floor.

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt your story. Please go ahead.”

“Well, We rehearsed this scene from a play in which this troubled woman is thinking about killing her husband. She caught him cheating with her best friend and she can’t forgive him. My character has most of the dialog. Jill only had two lines. She asks me why I want to do it and how I want to do it.”

“What play was it from?”

“It was called Man Slaughter.”

“Who wrote the play?”

“Dorothy Parker.”

The Detective Googled the play on his phone to see that it did not exist. Gretchen rolled her eyes.

“What exactly were your lines?”

“You want me to do the scene for you? “

“I got some time.”

“Okay, well do you want to just call action or what?”

“Action,” he said with a mean smile.

“Up could you que me too. I mean after you say action could you say, ‘How ya been doin’?’

“Action, How ya, been doin?”

“Last night I was layin’ in bed and I was thinkin’ about her.. just her, not him. I started thinking about all the times I confided in her….ya know like when I told her about intimate details of our relationship and stuff. Did she go right back to him and tell him what I said?”

Gretchen played with an imaginary napkin. She seemed to be attempting to cry.

Detective Puzzleman pushed the Twitter app on his phone.

“So, I realized that as long as she was alive I was always gonna… just..I was always gonna be haunted by memories of that…that I was never gonna sleep again. I think I’ve had like twenty hours of sleep in the last six weeks. I can’t eat. I drink and it just it makes me so sick. So I got so crazy that last night I went out and I bought a gun, a shotgun, like for hunting.

This is where my scene partner said would say, ‘are you kidding’ and then I would go on.

I’m not saying I’ll use it or anything. I’m just saying I have it; ya know. “

“So you rehearsed it and then went to a coffee shop to film it?

“Yeah we did.”

“The wait staff wasn’t suspicious when they saw you guys filming?”

“No, we used IPhones, not cameras. People film themselves doing everything now a days.”

“I would think it would be a bit different if someone was filming you.”

“Jill and I filmed each other. First from her side and then from mine.”

“You used your own phones?”

“no, his.”

“I see. How long were you there?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“Did he ever give you the actual reel?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“What happened when you asked him for it.”

“He just kept stalling. After a while he stopped answering the phone.”

“Three weeks after this conversation was tape recorded Samantha Hodgens was found murdered at the Alexandra. You were seen on camera going into the Alexandra.”

“I went to meet Jill.”

“What a coincidence.”

“It was a set up.”

“By who.”

“Tim and Jill.”

“Why would they do that?”

“He wanted to kill his ex girl friend and rob her.”

“Oh come on Gretchen, admit it. You were friends with Jill, you started going out with her brother. He told you about his crazy ex-girlfriend who lived at the Alexandria and had a stash of cash and jewelry. You caught him cheating with her, so you decided to help yourself to the goods and eliminate the competition in the process. Fortunately, his sister knew how nuts you were and tape recorded a conversation she had with you at lunch where you basically confessed to your motive.”

“No, I met him on Craigslist, he did the coaching and introduced me to his sister. We made the reel and then I didn’t hear from him for a while. I ran into his sister outside of my building one day and she told me that if I met her at her room at the Alexandria, we could go to Tim’s apartment and get the reel. “

“Then where is the video you made?”

“They must have erased the video. She must have been tape recording me with the recording app on her cell phone. “

“We found a sawed off shot gun in a locker at the Greyhound bus station, along with a pair of diamond earing belonging to one miss Samantha Hodgens.  We found the locker key in your bag How did it get there?”

“I have no idea.”

Detective Puzzleman got up and told her that he would be right back. Gretchen bust out into tears.  She tried to tell herself that everything would be okay.  She wondered if she would go to jail.  She had a vision of herself rotting away. She imagined being raped and beaten and locked in solitary confinement.

She cried until she couldn’t anymore. She wondered when the detective would return. She imagined that he was preparing for her arrest. She wondered if her parents would get her a lawyer; maybe they would get a good one. Maybe she would have to go to jail for a while and then she would be exonerated. She imagined going on “The View” and being interviewed by Oprah.   Maybe someone would see her and see something in her that would bring her opportunity. She began to brighten as she heard footsteps in the hallway.

Charlie Manson’s Greatest Hits Part I

manson

 

 

Oscar Tubington was a bastard: at least that was the general consensus. When he was 35 he impregnated his secretary Abigail and she had insisted that he leave his wife for her. He didn’t want to get a divorce, but Abigail threatened to go to the authorities about the cocaine that he often romanced his clients with.

His wife had been furious and attempted to sue him for fifty percent of his talent agency.  He hired a team of lawyers and she got a modest bungalow and child support until their ten-year-old daughter turned eighteen.

He and Abigail got married right after their baby was born and they had stayed married for some twenty years and had two more children together. Their marriage ended when Oscar’s car stalled out on the train track and he was killed by an oncoming Amtrak. He went to the afterlife and was sitting in the waiting room to see exactly what came next.

A woman’s voice called his name and he was lead to a small office that contained a woman who was so fat she resembled a lounge chair with a head sticking out of it.  She was sitting on a reinforced loveseat. There was a beanbag chair directly across from her and she motioned for Oscar to sit down. He fell gracelessly into the beanbag chair and introduced himself.

“I know who you are, Mr. Tubington. I’m your judge.”

“My judge? What do you mean exactly, my judge?”

“I get to decide if you go to Heaven or Hell.”

“What, are you fucking kidding me? You’re God?

“I didn’t say that. I said I get to decide where you go.”

“And who might you be?”

“I’m Karen Kraft. We went to Jr. High together. You called me fat and made fun of me because I had a learning disability. I was like ten pounds overweight at the time. As you can see, I developed a horrible eating disorder.”

“This is my fault?”

“You and your friends.”

“I was like twelve.”

“Yes, I know, but so was I. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, but you were a complete schmuck. You cheated on both of your wives. You emotionally abused your children and you ran a dishonest business.

“I gave to charity.”

“For a tax shelter.”

“I patronized the arts. I owned a gallery.”

“In Portland. You opened it there because you knew you could get artist and buyers to come from California and buy and sell art in Portland, because there is no state tax there.”

“So obviously. I’m going to Hell.”

“Not necessarily, you may be able to redeem yourself.”

“How?”

“Well, were running a little social experiment up here. You may be able to assist us.”

“What kind of social experiment?”

“Well, we’ve been doing a little study of history’s greatest monsters. We’re trying to find a common thread. We are particularly interested in the cases of Hitler and Charles Manson. “

“Why them?”

“They were both failed artist.”

“Oh yeah, I remember hearing that Charles Manson tried to get into the Monkees.”

“Well, that’s an urban legend, he was in jail at the time. But he did try to make it as a singer and songwriter! If fact that has to do with your assignment. In the world you were a talent agent, yes?

“”Yes! And a good one.”

“Well, we believe that if Charles Manson had been a successful artist, the whole Manson Family Murders may never have happened.”

“So what do you want me to do?

“We want you to travel back in time and make sure that Charles Manson gets signed to a record deal.

“And if I am successful.”

“You’ll jump through that hole and right into the delivery room where you will be reborn,” She said pointing to a hole in the corner of the office.

“And if I fail?”

“Hell.”

Oscar sighed. He signed the paperwork and agreed to go back in to me and see what he could do. He was dressed in an enormous aluminum suit. He leaped off what appeared to be a cliff.

Oscar awoke to the sound of an old fashion alarm clock. The room he was in was pitch black. He turned on the light to find himself in a cheap motel room. He took a shower and dressed in a wide lapel suit that had been laid out for him.

A delivery boy knocked on the door and handed him a San Francisco Chronical, coffee and a bagel. He looked at the date on the newspaper, it was March 22, 1967. He thumbed through the paper and saw that there had been a coup in Sierra Leone and that there had been an oil spill in Europe. He finally landed on the want ads and saw that an ad had been circled for a talent scout in the music industry.

Oscar picked up the rotary phone and dialed the number.

Why Do I Make Less Money Than Jennifer Lawrence?

jlaw

In 2014 North Korea hacked into Sony’s computer system and it was revealed that Jennifer Lawrence and other female actors made less money than many of their male counterparts. Recently, superstar Ms. Lawrence wrote an article for Lena Dunham’s  Lenny newsletter  entitled, “Why Do I Make Less Than My Male Co-stars.”  In the article she says that she has kept her mouth shut about the revelation for so long because she didn’t want to appear difficult or spoiled.

Ms. Lawrence mostly blames herself for the fact that she didn’t get paid as much as her co-stars.  She acknowledges the fact her problems are not relatable to most woman and says that, when negotiating salaries for “American Hustle” she, gave up early.

“I didn’t want to keep fighting over millions of dollars that, frankly, due to two franchises, I don’t need,”  she said.

She also acknowledges that she is not sure if it was her sex or her age that caused the inequity.

She writes that although her financial situation may not be relatable, she does think that many women can relate to letting their desire to be liked get in the way of expressing their opinion and getting something that they want for fear of being perceived a brat.

In spite of the fact that Ms. Dunham gave Ms. Lawrence the opportunity to be heard by a large audience, Ms. Lawrence confesses to an unwillingness to do even one single solitary bit of research for the article.

“We’ve only been able to vote for what, 90 years? I’m seriously asking — my phone is on the counter and I’m on the couch, so a calculator is obviously out of the question.”

Her unwillingness to do research results in the devaluation of her own argument. She writes that one thing the Sony hack revealed was a producer referring to a fellow lead actress in a negotiation as a “spoiled brat.” She says that she does not think a man would be referred to as a spoiled brat. If she had just employed Google she would have seen that this was not accurate. Justin Beiber and Chris Brown are called brats all the time.

I am not sure why Jennifer Lawrence was considered the best person to write about this topic, as she has contributed to sexism in our culture by participating in the long establish practice of Hollywood ageism against woman.

In the movie, “American Hustle” she plays a character based on Cynthia Marie Weinberg who was many years her senior. The real Weinberg was not the ditz portrayed by Lawrence if the film, but a key witness in the Abscam case. She was also not an exceptionally glamourous looking person. The role should have gone to a more mature plainer looking woman, but Hollywood is sexist ageist and looksist, so Ms. Lawrence got the part and financially benefited. One might think she was the best actress for the role, but she spend the film going in and out of an overdone Brooklyn accent.

She was also cast in the role of Tiffany in David O. Russell’s  “Silver Lining Playbook.” Other people considered for the role were Angelina Jolie and Elizabeth Banks both of whom are closer in age to the leading man in the film, Bradley Cooper. Mr. O’Russell said that in spite of the fact that she was too young, she got the part because her audition was exceptional.

Although she gives a good performance in that movie, I can’t help but think box office draw had something to do with her getting the part. Some of it also has to do with gender, they never would have cast a 21-year old to play the male lead, no matter how good he was.

Much of Ms. Lawrence’s popularity comes from the fact that she fulfills a male fantasy. She is beautiful with a symmetrical face and a perfect figure. Her public persona is of a woman that doesn’t worry about ruining that figure because she drinks, eats and smokes with the best of them. She isn’t overly sensitive like other chicks. She even says fucking several times in the lennyletter.com article. How very ballsy it is to say fucking.  Men see this and believe that she is actually like that and hence the perfect woman for them.

To be fair the male answer to this is Robert Downey Jr. Mr. Downey’s public persona is that of a tall, dark handsome man who is also witty and sensitive. Woman want to believe he is like this in real life and there is someone out there just like that for them. (There isn’t)

The notion that Ms. Lawrence or any of her co stars male or female negotiate their own deals  is preposterous. Any celebrity is like a small corporation and a team of lawyers agents and managers negotiate on their behalf.

Lennyletter.com espouses itself to be a feminist website, it features interviews and articles with prominent woman from around the country. Although Ms. Dunham has been accused of racism there are women of color on the blog.

If you are going to have an article about pay inequity in America there are millions of women who are more effected by this than Ms. Lawrence. There are many women who make less than their male counterparts and some of them may want for food, shelter child support and medicine.

Some of these woman may have been discriminated against and some, like Ms. Lawrence may be afraid to assert themselves for fear of being perceived as difficult. When this fear results in actually financial jeopardy then it is a real tragedy and one worth writing about.

When she decided that she wanted to run a piece on pay inequity Ms. Dunham did not reach out to any of the many working class women around the country. She could have done a little research and found many blogs on the subject.  Instead she specify reached out to Ms. Lawrence; one must ask why she would do this?

Mr. Dunham’s screen persona is that of a delusional, self-absorbed and neurotic young woman who fails at much of what she tries. In actuality she is a shrewd and astute Hollywood power player who is as brilliant a business woman as she is a writer. She knew that by featuring Ms. Lawrence she would get more hits on her website than if she featured some nobody. In fact most of the woman who write for the site are famous.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am.  I am homely, lower middle class woman who works in a call center and experiences looksism and sexism on a daily basis. I want my voice heard and it won’t be. I am more of an expert on this stuff then Jennifer Lawrence. Ms. Lawrence’s article got much press attention and many hits. Only a tiny handful of people will read this post.

If it sounds like I have something against Ms. Lawrence or Ms. Dunham I do not. I am a huge fan of Ms. Dunham’s work.  I think she is another Woody Allen which is the biggest complement I can give to anyone. I actually think Ms. Lawrence is a good actor most of the time, I just don’t think she should have been the first choice to write about this subject.

Now, if you will excuse me, I am late for the graveyard shift.