When animals in the zoo go crazy, they begin to pace. Eyes glazed, they neurotically trace and retrace their steps, back and forth, back and forth, stopping only due to hunger or exhaustion. I had a small taste of what that was like today as I met up with my assigned Strike Team and CBS Television City, grabbed a sign, and walked the picket line.
I joked with a friend on Sunday that people who crossed the picket line didn't have much to worry about physically, but they'd better be prepared to take an ego bruising. However things have already turned ugly. One picketer was hit by a car yesterday at Sunset Gower and suffered a broken leg. Some sympathetic Teamsters are refusing to cross the lines, and UPS drivers are refusing to make deliveries, leaving their supervisors to drive their trucks.
I didn't really know or recognize anyone at my assigned gate. Most everyone has started to picket on Monday, and when I plead work I got the stinkeye. After explaining that work was certainly not writing-related, I was handed a sign and started the long, slow, circular walk. I felt a little bit like the new kid in school, but eventually I met a few people. I spent most of the trek chatting with H., who it turns out lives around the corner from me and knows my pink car. We discussed living in Chicago, the feast or famine nature of the business, the Mets, and later he saved me from a kind but kinda lecherous older gentleman who kept telling me that I looked nice in pink and wanted to impress me with his vast strike history. I couldn't tell if he was trying to teach me about the West Virginia Coal Miner's Strike or the Haymarket Strike in Chicago or he had actually been in them, but finally managed to get away - quite the feat when you're walking ten or so yards in either direction.
While there were near-misses with cars - including one who literally tried to just plow through the crowd - most honked and waved. And unlike I imagine the West Virginia or Chicago strikes, people brought us cookies, coffee, and Ice Blendeds.
Apparently I missed the pizzas delivered by Drew Carey yesterday.
While I have vented my frustrations about the WGA, I do believe in what we're doing. And it's not just for the free food or the free shirt.
So tomorrow I'll get up at the asscrack of dawn to meet my friend and mentor S. over at Fox to walk the picket line over there. But I secretly hope they have lattes.
...
In schmoopier news, one year ago today I met my husband for a drink. Of course, he wasn't my husband at the time. In fact, I had already told him that I couldn't date him, although after chatting for thirty minutes I slipped off into the bathroom and sent a quick text to my friend Urban Mermaid, which read he's cute and funny, I think I could really like him. But I left him sans kiss, because, y'know, I didn't want to move too fast. Happy Anniversary, baby!
