Yesterday was hopefully the last day of WGA picketing, a mass march at Disney. As soon as I reached the line a stranger asked if I would sign his picket sign. “It’s for my kid when he grows up. So he knows that I did something.” I signed, but also silently hoped that he would someday accomplish something more than walking in a circle for days on end.

I hated the picketing but others seemed to love it. For many was just a mobile writers’ room, with all the laughs and none of the work. And always followed by a delightful lunch. I especially had problems with the strike captains. Every TV show in production chose a strike captain, so at least those were actual working writers. Yes, working writers who agreed to to be Strike Captains, capitalized to emphasize the authority therein. I think most were disappointed the position didn’t come with handcuffs and license to kill. But the other strike captains were worse. They were volunteers. Yesterday I passed the strike captain who was always at Radford Studios, where I did most of my picketing. I overheard him telling someone, “I think I’m still going to be yelling, ‘Car coming!’ for weeks to come.” Yes, that’s what he did. As we walked back in forth in front of the Radford gate he would alert us that a car was turning in, because without that notice we would all surely walk directly in front of the car, get smashed by the heavy tires, tangled in the undercarriage, and within a week or so there would no writers left. Fucking idiot.

Even so, as cynical as I am. I will probably look back on this period with at least some fondness. If we achieve anything near what we hoped for in our negotiations then it will have all been worth it. Otherwise it was just a pain in the ass. Well, perhaps it wasn’t all bad. It was nice to run into a few old friends. I probably should have had them sign my picket sign.

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