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The New York Times
November 11, 2007
Picketing but Still Punchy
By RACHEL AXLER
THE writers of “The Daily Show With Jon Stewart” are some of the newest members of the Writers Guild of America - just over a year old. Developmentally, we’re babies - still in the oral stage. When we finally get a new contract, the first thing we’re doing is sticking it in our mouths.
So it came as something of a shock to us when, so shortly after joining the union, our contract expired, negotiations with the studios broke down and the rumored strike became a reality.
Lacking any other site to express myself (for money), I am forced to record my thoughts in my diary: The New York Times Sunday Styles section. It all began ...
FRIDAY, NOV. 2
1 p.m. We’re in our offices writing the script for a show that might not happen. But it’s cool. After all, isn’t every show a show that might not happen? We are laid-back. We are Zen. We are completely in denial.
6 p.m. Before I leave, I take care not to tidy my desk too much. I even leave a cup of water by the keyboard. Not like it’ll have time to evaporate! Monday morning I’ll be back here and we’ll all laugh at our paranoia. Laugh and laugh and laugh.
MONDAY, NOV. 5
9 a.m. I arrive at the picket line on the street outside Rockefeller Plaza. They’ve warned us to bundle up, so I’m wearing two long-sleeve shirts, a sweater and my Writer’s Guild T-shirt. I quickly realize that this isn’t enough for the 40-degree weather and put on a scarf, draping it carefully so as not to block the word “Writer” on my back.
I am handed a two-sided sign that says “WGAE,” which is not English, and also “On Strike,” which is. Actually one side of the sign says “On Strike!” which is nice because I can flip it around depending on my level of excitement.
9:45 a.m. The picket line has a delicate, unique ecosystem. Outside, it is sunny and brisk. Inside, any exposed skin immediately turns black and falls off. I put on another sweater.
10 a.m. Let me tell you, if you’ve never participated in a strike, you haven’t lived. And by lived, I mean walked in an ovoid pattern next to a giant, inflatable rat. I hand out brightly colored leaflets to real, engaged New Yorkers, like the tourist from Italy and another tourist, also from Italy. I worry that these people are wasting precious vacation time that could be better spent not understanding bagels or a Broadway show.
10:50 a.m. I think I see Bob Novak pass the line. He doesn’t say a word. At least we know nobody here is C.I.A.
11 a.m. A guy hands me a fresh stack of leaflets. They are warm. So warm. I put half the stack inside my third shirt. Nobody will notice.
12:15 p.m. A man in a suit passes by. He yells, “I hope you all get fired!”
Look - this is weird for us, too, you know. Writers are not a naturally combative species. We’re used to sitting in front of our computers and crying. Fresh air is like poison to us. If protocol didn’t dictate otherwise, it’s very likely we would never wear pants. But we’ve given up our salaries and our jobs - easily the only jobs we’re qualified for - to stand outside and yell at people. So, for the sake of decency, could you please not yell back?
1 p.m. My shift is over. I stumble off, still walking in vague ovals, dazed at the possibilities that this early freedom holds. Should I go to a museum? Maybe get a much-needed haircut? Who knew there were so many hours in the afternoon? Who knew there was so much sunlight during the day? Overwhelmed by my options, I go home and fall asleep.
TUESDAY, NOV. 6
8:15 a.m. I know what to do with my newfound freedom. Also, with my medical insurance that may well run out! I go to the doctor. She greets me warmly by jabbing a needle into my eye. Yep. This is what I’ve been missing.
A glance in her office mirror (with my good eye) reveals something interesting: my red nose from yesterday? Not from the cold. It’s a sunburn. Seriously. This is how often I get outside.
1 p.m. Back on the walkin’ oval. I wear four sweaters on my torso and one wrapped around my head. If I were at work today, what would I be doing? Probably working on a headline about Musharraf. Watching videotape of Bush urging another leader to rethink martial law. Ingesting vile amounts of Boo Berry cereal to stimulate the joke-writing process.
Do I actually miss that? Yeah, I actually miss that.
3:30 p.m. One writer suggests that we walk counter-clockwise. A minor fracas occurs between those who think this is a great idea and those who believe it might undo all our work for the past two and a half hours.
4:55 p.m. What do we want? A sudden tilt in the Earth’s axis resulting in a shallower angle of sunlight. When do we want it? Cold.
WEDNESDAY, NOV. 7
11 a.m. I don my entire wardrobe for the third time in three days. I feel like I’ve put my boots on backward. I’m on my way to my friend Rob’s apartment, where he, another writer and I are going to record audio for a comedy piece Rob has written about the small change (literally) that the Guild is asking for. We record on Rob’s computer, basking in the familiar, maternal glow of the screen. We were supposed to stop writing jokes. It took us under 72 hours to crack.
2:16 p.m. Walking. Oval. Freezing. Put on fourth sweater, fifth shirt and small tarp. Seriously consider deflating the rat and wearing it as a cape.
Someone has left a Spanish language newspaper on the ground. Two fellow writers and I grab it. There’s a picture on the front page: President Nicolas Sarkozy of France kissing Laura Bush’s hand. We can’t even read the article, but all we need is the picture. The next five minutes are gloriously full of dumb French jokes. How can we resist? Can a leopard change its spots? Sure, but only with a very expensive brand of leopard Wite-Out.
You see my point. We strike to achieve fair compensation for our work. But we work to maintain our sanity. Sí, se puede!
THURSDAY, NOV. 8
10 a.m. After 13 hours of walking in our tiny oval tundra, I no longer fear hypothermia. Sunlight and I have developed an acquaintance that may yet blossom into friendship (or more?). But somewhere from the depths of my denial - from that secret place where I’m still trying to convince myself that this is just a very weird vacation - worries begin to emerge. How long can the networks drag this out? Might this actually take weeks? Months?
With no brilliant new lines from “30 Rock” or “The Office,” will we be reduced to quoting F. Scott Fitzgerald? What if we’re not back on the air for some huge, important new story? Or even something minor, like the presidential primaries?
FRIDAY, NOV. 9
9 a.m. Last night I walked a weary oval to bed. Today, we will chant faster, stretch out our picket signs farther. And one fine morning ...
For now, you can find me on the picket line. I’m the one in the blue coat. Over the black coat. Over the overcoat.