Hey, it's easy getting down in the dumps. Often times, after perusing the news, the fires, the current political scene, and the AMPTP’s current offer, I feel so bad I feel I need to visit my local McDonald’s to purchase an exclusive end times On the Beach Happy Meal. Each box, decorated in a startling black and white, and featuring a meal of Chicken McNuggets, fries or carrot sticks, fruit juice, and your choice between an Ava Gardner, Gregory Peck, Anthony Perkins, or Fred Astaire Action Figure. If so inclined, I'd purchase the small, child’s meal solely for the little white pill they include for when things become too much. Don’t freak out, I just want to get all the pills because I am a serious collector.

And I never would because:

     There is always something to live for! Happiness and joy can be found all around. And here's a little something that has given me great joy.

Having just spoken to the troops on the front lines and the mixer at a local brew pub, I can tell you that overall morale is good. The WGA and their partners at SAG/AFTA will win this battle. And I can tell you why:
 
They are right!
 
I arrived at Disney Studios in Burbank about an hour early and forded the first Rubicon quickly: Finding a place to park. 
 
Buoyed by my success, I promptly signed in at the table and had a quick chat with Jake.  100-plus days, and Jake’s mood remained friendly yet determined. Waiting for others, I grabbed a sign and stationed myself at one end of the entrance. Several supportive honks later, I received my first drive-by heckle. 
 
“Get back to work!”
 
I only wish it was that easy but appreciated the support. At five minutes till nine, I began my vigil, cocking my sign over my shoulder for my first trip around the studio. Like Joshua bringing down the walls of Jericho, I was going to bring the entire Mouse House down to its knees. 
 
Fifteen-plus minutes later, I had completed my first trip. I celebrated with some hydration and found that reinforcements had arrived. Now, I was part of something, and we headed around for a second time. 
 
Precisely halfway through the second trip, SAG/AFTRA had arrived at the south entrance, the LOTR elves to the WGA dwarves. Happy, singing, chanting, they it was like temporarily stepping into a fleeting Lothlorien that lasted less than a block. Still, the captains shouted their encouragement and showered me with gifts of boxes of water and candy. 
 
Completing my second trip, I hydrated again, stopping briefly in the shade to enjoy the antics of the skateboarding Mandalorian and the actor who voices Donald Duck before taking my third trip. 
 
Kids had arrived, along with dogs and bicyclists with sound systems. It was Ace in the Hole without a guy dying in the cave, and the overall atmosphere had risen along with the temperature. 
 
Team Captains from both unions urged hydration, and with the temperature rising above eighty degrees, I gladly took them up on the offer. Each half-lap was celebrated by more and more water, and as quickly it was consumed, seep out of my skin. 
 
“Pizza has arrived.” 
 
Like orange slices handed out to runners at a marathon, “za” was handed out to strikers. The other free goodies deployed soft-serve ice cream, iced coffee, and shaved ice.  
 
Before 11:30, I had closed all three rings on my Apple watch and had the pulsating sore feet to prove it. Thank goodness for orthopedic shoes. 
 
But seriously, folks:
 
Kudos to the men and women from both unions who do their part daily, weekly, and even monthly. We owe them a debt. These people all know what is at stake and are more than willing to do their part to ensure a fair agreement. 
 
A decent livelihood is at stake here. Both Unions know this and need you to know it as well.

​I will be gone this weekend, stopping in Los Angeles long enough to stick it to the man, I mean mouse, at the Walt Disney Studios. Rest assured, I will be whistling while I strike, and I swear I will give you a complete account upon my return.  

These are the words that strike fear into the heart of any relationship. Man, woman, writer, AMPTP. Doesn’t matter. It always means the same thing; whatever relationship there was is about to be over.
 
Yesterday, WGA leaders and AMPTP representatives got together somewhere in the Sherman Oaks Mall. The meeting’s itinerary was a simple one. Let’s gauge the water and see if the two of us can’t agree to sit down for further talks. Simple enough, right? Well, apparently not. Like an estranged man and his wife meeting for the first time in some lawyer’s overpriced conference room, the one-hour meeting quickly turned to angry finger-pointing and who would get custody of the family cat.
 
I do not pretend to know what went on behind closed doors. I do know this; it wasn’t an improvised quickie while the children were busy outside playing. Apparently, we still have a very long way to go. Writers need to have some very important issues addressed. Among them writer’s rooms, A.I., and who gets the children on Christmas and Thanksgiving. 
 
The writers, we are the children, huddling behind closed doors, listening to our parents verbally slug it out accusingly; Who’s cheated, who ran up the credit cards and who keeps piling their dirty laundry onto the bedroom chair. Pretty sordid stuff. Oh, we’ll survive. We always do. Perhaps our parents married too young. Apple, Netflix, Amazon, they weren’t really ready for the responsibility. But they have it now and I guess we, the children, are the ones to pay the price.