Suspicious minds

"I don't want to touch you, mate."

I've had some knock-backs in my time, but that's just rude. I wasn't all that keen on this guy touching me either, but when someone accuses you of stealing Stanley knives the least they can do is have the courage of their convictions and bloody well search you.

It started with an average, acne-ridden, home superstore Sales boy asking if I need help. He's followed by a man I suspect is his boss. We have a conversation about cutting carpet with Stanley knives. The excitement! My suspicion is yet to be aroused. It's probably training. You know, a go out there and meet the customers kind of thing.

I thank them and turn to walk away when I notice another one behind me. That's three, and suddenly something's wrong. In an orgy of self-belief I wonder if I can take them all out with a Bourne-like flurry of kung-fu bad-assery.

Then it happens. Head guy asks me if I'm carrying any more of their products. He does it in that officious, smug way that means he thinks he's caught me on the hop. The kind where every sentence could potentially end in the word "sonny".
I don't really get what he means because I'm not a shoplifter by trade. (I dabbled. When I was small I stole some bubblegum from Tesco and a chocolate football from the local sweet shop. I've just about worked out the guilt.)

Then it hits: he wants to know if I'm stealing from them.

Apparently some sharp-eyed customer has seen me stuffing things up my shirt. I know this is a lie because there hasn't been anyone in this aisle but me.

And this, believe it or not, is where it gets embarrassing. Because I'm five minutes out of an eight mile run. How do you admit to Mr Homebase that eight mile runs aren't good for the nipples? That what passes for shoplifting craft knives is actually stemming the blood with a hankie? You can't. You keep quiet, empty your pockets and then offer to let them search you, in the nicest possible way a sweaty, innocent man can when surrounded by homebase staff in the stanley knife aisle.

But head guy doesn't want to.

I mutter something about running, though why I did is beyond me. I think I'm worried my sweatiness is a sign of guilt. But still none of them push it. They're convinced that I'm bristling with the kind of arsenal you find on an average council estate but none of them care so much that they want to pat down a man carrying his own weight in sweat. So they shuffle away, wittering about not being too careful, probably to check the CCTV so they can re-descend at the first indication that I'm making it up.

In a fit of high-mindedness I wonder whether I actually need wood glue and a stanley knife. But then carpet never gets cut, and the floorboard-sized lump of wood hanging off the living room door never gets glued.

They never came back to nail me, but they didn't apologise either. Maybe they were scarred for life by the sight of me blotching my nipples on CCTV.

The episode revealed three things:
1) When jogging, nipples must be covered.

2) Superstore staff don't care if you're not a shoplifter. They only care when you are.

3) Worst case scenario, I reckon I could have had the lot of 'em.

Bay - Faced Cheek

'scuse the punny, crappy title, I need to get to my point quickly.

"I've been writing Transformers 2. We've got our characters all designed. I always write all my scripts, my movies anyway so at least I've got something to give the writers. It's like a template. We have a really good outline so I worked on that." Michael Bay

And that, my friends, is why screenwriters went on strike. Not just because of money, but the generally disgusting way in which the craft (and it is a craft) is treated by those who cannot do it.
There are many, many bad screenwriters out there. Some of them are earning a living from it. But none of them deserve to be shit on by the likes of Bay. This is the man who was happy to give Joe Public the chance to write a line in his movie for an online promo competition. If someone had offered Joe a chance to direct just one fucking shot of Transformers he'd have been up at his DGA Rep's door quicker than you can say $100 million weekend.

Writers, however, even the staggeringly inept ones, take this shit for no other reason than that they do. That's it. They take the hits. They shrug their shoulders and resolve themselves to these realities. Because most of us don't feel like we should be at this party. We feel like interlopers, crashers at this grand occasion, when the truth is we should feel like the hosts.
We originate the work. Regardless of whether it's based on an existing property, whether it's good, bad or indifferent, original or derivative, writing leaves us vulnerable to crushing lows and soaring highs. The difference is that we take the flak for the lows and thank everybody else for the highs.

Bay is representative of corporate Hollywood and all that is wrong with it, all that has provoked the WGA's ire. The Director calls all the shots and the writers bow and scrape, kow-towing graciously when someone deems we can do our jobs and actually write something we might have thought up. Ourselves.
And it's wrong.

It's absolutely disgraceful that he should make comments like this. For one thing, if he's been writing, he's metaphorically crossed the picket line. I have no idea if he's a member of the guild or not (I really fucking hope not), but if the like of Tom Hanks can refuse to cross the line, what price a little solidarity from the likes of Bay?

But apparently writers are merely slaves to flesh out his own ideas.
Here's a suggestion, Mike; if you're such a writer, start, draft, redraft, redraft, redraft, take studio notes, redraft again, and then finally finish the goddamned thing yourself. Join the WGA if you haven't already.
Then, and this is the important bit, take the flak when it tanks. If Transformers 2 does business on a par with The Island, go tell it to the mountain. Remind everyone that you write all your movies... I don't remember a whisper of that post-The Island. Wasn't that also "written" by the two guys who helped you craft Transformers? It didn't make any money, did it? In fact, it sank like a brick. Transformers does stellar biz and suddenly you write all your movies. Way to go motivating Orci and Kurtzman for the sequel. I'm sure they'll be thrilled that you've told everyone they're essentially your bag men.

Let me reiterate something for you, Michael. Transformers stank, no matter how much money it made. And you're taking credit for it. The only point to the entire spectacle was seeing just how freaking awesome ILM are when they're doing their best work. Do you honestly think you can pull the same blindside on that many people a second time? It was vapid, puerile tripe of the first order. LARGE parts of it made no sense, and... ah hell, I'm gonna say it-
I enjoyed Premonition more.



Did I step over the line?

Good. On with the show.