When the writers walked

What did I do during the strike? Well, kids, I picketed Paramount. I marched and I chanted.

“When I say ‘union’ you say power ... . “

The iPhone rang. My agent. “Are you working on a spec script?”

“Can’t talk now.” I hung up -- they’d released the dogs. Phil Alden Robinson cried out: “Run!” We sprinted past the Windsor gate, heard them snapping at our heels. One lunged for Phil, but I beat it back with my WGA placard. Another block down Melrose, and we took refuge in Lucy’s El Adobe. We were scared, demoralized. Susannah Grant led us in a song. I think it came from the end credits of “Erin Brockovich.” We reemerged, formed an orderly line. Marched back en masse toward Bronson: “What are we doing at this gate? We got screwed in ’88.”

The iPhone rang again. My lawyer. “What about that project you’re just supposed to direct?”

“Can’t, I’m a hyphenate,” I said. They brought out the hoses then. High pressure. Tom Schulman nearly floated away, north on Gower. I held out my picket sign so he could grab it, pull himself upright.

Marching resumed. Four abreast. Proud. United. The iPhone rang. My wife, your mother. “Could you stop at Ralphs on the way home for milk and lettuce?”

I said I could, racing toward my parked Prius, enveloped in a tear-gas cloud.

And that was just day one, kids. I’ll tell you the rest when you’re older.