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Nov
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My first day on the picket line.
November 6, 2007 | 10 Comments
As a member of the Writers Guild of America, I took to the picket line this week to strike for residuals on internet downloads of programs I’ve written. Here is my strike diary:
9:00 a.m. I arrive at the Sony lot in Culver City to sign in and pick up my free t-shirt. There are no more t-shirts available. I feel stabbed in the back by my own union. I forgive, but I will never forget.
9: 05 a.m. I am assigned to picket Gate 1, the executive entrance. My guild has placed me at the front line, to be the public face of the strike in the eyes of the people who count the most. I consider this my second stab in the back.
9:10 a.m. I can’t remember how many laps of this gate I have made. Four, maybe five. I’ve lost track. There is a burning in my calves like I have never experienced before in my life.
9:15 a.m. The distinct taste of rust climbs up through my throat with every wheezing breath. I desperately check the headlines on my iPhone, hoping against hope that this madness will end. That the people who have signed up for the next shift will not have to endure one minute of the pain I have now been subjected to for over seven agonizing minutes.
9:25 a.m. The brain plays tricks on one who is under this much duress. I think I see my father, who has been dead for 15 years. He smiles and offers me a five-foot cone of cotton candy. But when I try to lick it, I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers.
9:32 a.m. An older man stops by to chat, telling us that he worked as a teamster for many years and supports our cause. He reaches out to shake my hand. I have never been so afraid.
10:00 a.m. Every muscle in my body screams for mercy with every step. I begin to marvel at my own naiveté. For years I believed in God. Now I know for a fact that he doesn’t exist. He can’t exist. No God would stand idly by, watching this happen to one of his own children.
10:01 a.m. My momentary panic subsides when I think of the people of Darfur. I feel humble, even grateful, to realize that somewhere in the world there are people who may understand what I’m going through.
10:45 a.m. I find a volleyball, which I decorate with the blood from my own hand. I name it Wilson. I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers again.
11:00 a.m. A strike captain arrives with news from the front. The strike is getting great coverage in the press. At the NBC lot in Burbank, Jay Leno has shown his support by dropping off Krispy Kreme doughnuts for the strikers. But where is our Jay Leno. Who will be our Jay Leno? Jay Leno can’t help us here.
11:12 a.m. The minutes blend into one another. I have lost all sense of day or night. A policeman stops by to remind us if we parked on the street, we’ll have to move our cars after two hours. I fall to my knees and confess to the 1996 Atlanta bombing.
11:21 a.m. I receive a supportive text message from my wife. I weep, just like a contestant on Survivor, who wins a reward challenge and is allowed a five-minute AOL video chat with her mother, who, just a week earlier, was told her cancer had recurred, but who, during the video chat, tells her daughter she was right to stay on the show, and that she’ll be proud of her no matter what the result, and then, because the producers are so moved by her story, they give her a Pontiac Sunbird.
12:00 p.m. I beg to have my legs amputated.
12:19 p.m. A rumor spreads like wildfire through the line. Late last night, in a back-channel negotiation, our union leaders were also offered a Pontiac Sunbird. They turned it down. What were they thinking?
12:45 p.m. Some of the replacements are beginning to arrive. I see in their young faces something that I once had, but that I will never regain: optimism.
Comments
10 Comments so far
Dude, you’re too funny not to update more.
In my country we have word for man like you. Word is wussy.
Although I’m not in the WGA, I ran down to Sony early and got a few t-shirts for me and the wife. And an extra one to use as a rag in the car. They smell so new!
I’m a strike captain and I’m writing you up for not toeing the party line. I bet you’ll even attend studio screenings and justify it as payback for your damn bunions.
Thanks for taking our dull suffering and polishing it into shiny mirth!
If I were a better writer, I would be a scab right now – only chance I would ever get against guys like you.
Man can I really just post anything I want here? A free forum for MY ideas? Well Ok then; Always discharge static before you touch any parts or install any components inside the computer. To avoid generating static electricity, do not walk around the room until you have finished working and closed the computer. Scarabs are still alive! Scarabs are still alive! Bring me the face of a cow on a platter! I am a GOD! KNEEL BEFORE ME! AND NEIL, BEFORE ME! AND AFTER ME, JOSH! DO NOT FORGET TO KNEEL BEFORE JOSH. HE IS VERY TOUCHEY ABOUT IT. MUCH MORE THEN I AM! (I have to say, writing doesn’t really seem so hard. I don’t know what you are all whining about. I’m not even thinking about this crap, and it’s GOLD! A lot of this came straight off of the internet. And that scarab thing? My kid said that when he was freaking 3 years old! So get your act together my friend and get back to work. You’re obviously replaceable.)
Johnny Two Shirts have inspire Yushi to be writer also…..Once was man who write words for money. This man very successful. He write story about old woman who join army, drive motorcycle into hot tub and lose leg. Then same man write story about rich virgin man who live with parents and want to nail Winnie Cooper. As result former successful man lose everything except wife who write funnier than him in first place. Now this same man on strike because he want more money for bad writing. The end….. See even Yushi is writer and I no have picket sign.
While you were on piket line I wuz writtng for the Jaye Lenno Show I maid a lotsa moneys
whisle u wuz on strik
Think U Vary Mutch and Pleze Go to Strik
agin az my unimploimint chekz hav stooped.
I have a muscle imbalance in my chest. Is it from masturbating?