This week, due to the WGA strike, Los Angeles is in a greater turmoil than when half of the homes in Malibu were covered in ashes. I have yet to encounter a single person who is unaffected by the strike, which is only going to get worse. What on the surface seems like such a frivolous remonstration – miners, nurses, cab drivers go on strike, not bourgeois writers – is in fact completely warranted. The writers should get paid for their work, all of it; to me it’s that simple. And every time I pass by Paramount on Melrose, I honk to the picketers to show my support, simultaneously kicking myself for picking the crummiest possible time to move to Hollywood.