CULTURE
Strikepocalypse: The Hot Labor Summer In Los Angeles
There’s no escaping the heat or the suffering
It’s 103 degrees. People file into the small sun filled backyard, music blares from hidden speakers. Middle aged men in cargo shorts and beer bellies carry cases of Bud or bottles of vodka. Best boys, key grips, camera operators. A few spray tanned actors with familiar faces mill about, beefy stunt doubles splash in the pool, costume designers in kaftans and wide brimmed hats sit on the side, their feet dangling in the cool water.
If I pretend hard enough, it’s a before-times party. A day-ger, a banger for the ages.
Except in the before times, the annual party was catered. This year it’s BYOB. In the before times, we talked about what show we were working on, what far-off location we just returned from or were heading to.
Today, we’re talking about how soon we’re going to lose our homes, how much we can withdraw from our Motion Picture Industry pension plans (if we have one), who’s driving Uber, who’s delivering for Postmates.
The hosts and guests are people in their 40’s and 50’s with storied careers — they’ve worked on the best television shows and films this town has produced — the crew who brings screenplays to life. They are the…
