I really have enjoyed the recent series of Calendar articles.
The one titled "The Buzz" (by Patrick Goldstein, Aug. 9) was a perfect Calendar prototype: an article about gossip with the startling conclusion that sometimes it's accurate and sometimes it's not. (Duh!)
And then there was the one about Hollywood agents ("Power Players," by Paul Rosenfield and Michael Cieply, July 26): What a beautiful homage to those brilliant geniuses who have figured out how to make a handsome living off other people's work.
And now the D-girls. Well, let me tell you something. In nine years as a working screenwriter (I've even been able to afford a house in Los Feliz, so I'm not just another angry, bitter washout, OK?), I've never once heard the expression "D-girl."
All the writers I know call them something much more derogatory. That's 'cause they'll hop into bed (figuratively, of course) with anyone who's hot--and they'll drop you and "sleep" with the next guy the second you're not. . . .
At least I know why I have an agent. Your average bitter angry working screenwriter,