Scene: An abandoned street, replete with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls. Empty bottles and drug paraphernalia litter the pavement. A streetlight flickers. The camera settles on a dented trashcan, toppled over, garbage spilling onto the sidewalk. We hear footsteps approaching, and see two spiky-haired silhouettes enter the frame.

I read the contract. Among other things, it says the theater will own all of my work product once the show is done. Lighting plot, cue sheet, notes, whatever. And if they decide to change the date or the location, I’m still on the hook. And I need to let them know my location at all times prior to the show. And come to meetings whenever and wherever they are called. And if they cancel the show for any reason, I’m out of luck. And contractually, I can’t tell anyone about any of it. Seriously.

Los Angeles has announced that it will increase its minimum wage from $9 per hour to $15 per hour by 2020. I once had a fat boss who griped that it wasn’t right that the cleaning staff was eligible for the same health insurance he was. Three other bosses had me over to their homes, to fix their personal computers, which weren’t used for business at all (unless you count looking at porn.) They didn’t tip.

Awesome use of superlatives; also, wisely differentiates between “opinion” and “official” pronouncements. The writer clearly has anger issues but apologizes, a welcome folksy touch. Concludes with hope, something too many critics neglect (although said hope might arguably be more clearly communicated with the interrogative possessive pronoun “whose;” still, it is unlikely the target audience will be confused.)