California’s film and TV industry is in crisis. What can be done to fix it? This is the maudlin headline alert from the L.A. Times (to which I no longer subscribe, but from whom I still get headline alerts) that popped up on my phone yesterday afternoon. “Oh wow,” I thought to myself. “I can’t believe they’re actually acknowledging it’s over.” For the past twenty-two years, I was a member of the throng of guest workers who had relocated to Los Angeles, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and hungry for a piece of real estate, with a freshly printed resume in one hand, and a college degree in the other, to justify my cutting to the front of the line over the less fortunate working class locals. Ever seen that silly movie starring Christina Aguilera and Cher entitled, Burlesque? Kudos to you if you haven’t, but if you have, then you might remember the scene in which a hopeful starlet-to-be, played by Xtina, cheerfully purchases a one-way ticket to Hollywood because not becoming a star is simply not an option. Much like the Dirrty girl herself, I believed that I was talented, hardworking and inventive enough to defy statistics, and achieve my dream of a successful career in Hollywood. However, unlike her character, my dream was decidedly more behind-the-scenes, but no less seemingly unattainable: I yearned to be a TV comedy writer. More specifically, I wanted to be a showrunner of my own hit comedy series on a major network. Crazy thing is, I do believe that after I had acquired my ten thousand hours of working in assistant positions, taking endless writing classes, tearing through script after script, performing improv live for audiences on a weekly basis, I probably had reached a point where, damn, I guess I had actually become overqualified for the job. But what I naively hadn’t realized for two whole decades was that literally none of my qualifications mattered. In fact, being overqualified, talented and in possession of way too much confidence and self-worth, I had all but guaranteed that I wouldn’t get picked. Because the truth about Hollywood, I learned finally and unequivocally in a very abbreviated amount of time post-October 7th of 2023, was that vampire rules applied. You must be invited inside, or you simply may not cross the threshold. They also really want you to do stuff that you don’t want to do. The entertainment industry has such a boner for nonconsensual nonsense, even for the lowest of stakes. It all takes place on a spectrum, of course. It’s not all Harvey Weinstein obvious shenanigans I’m referencing. In fact, I managed to obliviously stay pretty clear of all but some pretty tame misbehavior and abuse for most of my career. Nobody escapes trauma-free, of course, but I did get away quite unscathed compared to most of my peers. So, it’s here, from my safe vantage point of my family’s home far-far away where I have oh-so-recently relocated that I’m writing with a mix of both morbid curiosity and deep nostalgia about the only writing subject that has ever afforded me a living in Hollywood: Celebrity Gossip You see, prior to my “finally getting serious about my TV writing career” in the past decade and change, I had an entirely different career altogether. For about a decade or so (on and off for several years there, like any guilty pleasure relationship), I earned a living by writing for an entertainment gossip blog called: A Socialite’s Life (which was eventually branded to SocialiteLife.com because: brevity.) A lovely man named Michael Prieve—still the gentlest, kindest, fairest boss I have ever had—started the website from his home in the chilly Midwest. He created the character of Miu von Fuerstenberg (a fictional distant relative of Diane’s) who was fond of LBDs and dirty martinis. He started posting photos of celebrities and snarky commentary, and the site quickly grew in followers and ad revenue. By the time I found the ad Michael had placed on Craigslist, look
