Oh yes, I know - the world is moving on. Congress overrode a Bush veto (okay, it was the Lawn Sprinkler Bill. Still, I’ll take it), elections are coming to Pakistan (probably… maybe… “boom…”), and Iraq has become a bucolic, peaceable kingdom (nothing mends fences like being segregated and/or dead).

But here in Hollywood, we’re all about the strike.

Adam on strike!

That’s me on Day 2 of the strike, picketing my old workplace, CBS Television City. How do we know it’s not Day 1? Organizers added that duct tape to the bottoms of the signs, protecting hands that previously knew no hardships more rough and damaging than the “F” and “J” keys.

One of the toughest parts of this, for me, is knowing that my office AND my parking spot AND that little kitchenette with the chocolate covered pretzels are still in there, a hundred yards away. That’s hard. Oh, yeah, and also the fact that I only have enough money for a few months and a baby on the way. So, that too.

And then, Wednesday found me up in the Valley, protesting CBS’ other lot. No, I’m not especially angry at Les Moonves - I was just linking up with some of my ol’ “Talkshow” cronies.

The Dick Rossi Show

That’s Joe Furey, Jeff Cesario, and me. We spent our afternoon coming up with chants that were useless because A) the show in question is long dead, B) the person we’re protesting isn’t part of the problem, or C) the chant just makes no sense at all.

See, out at that particular gate, there was no foot traffic - we were more or less collecting car horn honks. So the content of the chant didn’t really matter much. Thus:

“Hey Steven Spielberg, howsabout a dealberg!”

“Here’s the story, here’s the scoop, say goodbye to your F-Troop!”

“Hey Patrick Warburton, prepare yourself for more hurtin’!”

After about 50 more variations on these themes, we started to wonder whether we’d deserved jobs in the first place. If the Rewriters Guild ever goes on strike, this town is in REAL trouble.