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Not much to report from the back gate at NBC. Just three of us, me, Beth and Marvin, showed up for the midday shift, and we found the gate empty. The only thing we could guess was that the Disney rally, just two blocks away, was probably pulling in the big numbers, so we flipped some peace signs at our coworkers in cars, and talked about the likelihood of going back to work this month.

Everything in the papers seems to point to our returning to work sooner than later. The New York Times ran a piece crediting the writer of “The Bionic Woman” with brokering a peace between the Guild and Peter Chernin of Fox, all of which sounds like the setup to a joke I can’t think of. The Los Angeles Times even has two pieces on the strike today, both of which have the tone of, “we’re sick of this, get back to work already.”

Sean Ryan, left, speaks to a small group of squinting fellow travelers.

The day before, on Wednesday, a few members of the negotiating committee came out to fill us in on the progress. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that filling, as all details of the proposed deal were still under wraps. But there were a lot of hints, and even though the guy talking to my group (Sean Ryan, creator and showrunner of “The Shield”) said that there were points that favored broadcast shows over cable, he was behind the deal.

Mr. Ryan expressed the negotiating committee’s desire for writers was to make a strong showing of force, and get out on that picket line. So, by 1:30 yesterday afternoon, with Marvin in the bathroom and Beth on her cell phone, I was getting a little worried. Then I remembered the gigantic rally at Disney.

As far as I can tell, there are the remaining hurdles to overcome for the deal to be ratified by the voting membership of the Writer’s Guild:

1. They have to finalize the language. That is supposed to happen by 5pm today.
2. An email has to go out, either with the deal proper or the Cliff Notes version.
3. Tomorrow (Saturday) the WGA East meets at 2pm Eastern in New York, to do their harrumphing and long applause breaks.
4. The WGA West meets at 7pm Pacific time at the Shrine Auditorium, former site of the Oscars, now home to a weekly flea market. I may show up early and buy tube socks.
5. After a great number of incredibly long applause breaks for the people who called the strike, we will review the details of the deal, then they’ll open up the microphones for the writers to give their opinion.
6. This could take hours. If the previous two general membership meetings are any indication, most of the speakers will be assiduously kissing ass (“I just want to thank you for all your hard work…”), or trying to crack jokes in search of their next job (“Can I still get free Bob’s Big Boy” looks like the go-to joke), or expressing their extreme displeasure over specific points in the deal.

Thus, Sean Ryan and other actual negotiating committee members (not that weird kid they sent last time who only spoke in the form of questions) came out to make sure that the voice of moderation — the hardest vote to come by in a discussion like this, made fewer by the fact that it’s on a Saturday Night in a shitty part of town — would be well-represented at the big meeting.

Because IF there seems to be a consensus to ratify the deal, and IF they take that consensus to the board tomorrow and recommend they move for a vote, and IF the board responds with a unanimous “yes”… why then, by Jiminy, we might be able to go back to work as soon as Monday morning.

But if the thousands of writers who want it to be over — some of whom never bothered to show up for the picket lines — don’t bother to show up for the meeting, the hard-liners, who hate the DGA deal and are afraid of a SAG walkout (among other things) could overwhelm the mood. Then we’d be back up the tree for who knows how long.

Looking around that back gate, it didn’t make a lot of sense that they would be delivering that message to the picketers, but then again, the throng at the Disney gate would get the word and then, boy howdy, we have something.

I post this message just hours before the 5pm deadline for step 1. For a large group of self-centered creative people with strong opinions, the plan detailed above seems to rely on a lot more Swiss timing than I’m comfortable with. But I’ll do my part.

Not too sure about those folks at the big Disney rally, however. Here’s a picture I took at around 2pm:

My only thought was that the two dozen or so picketers were merely lingering on after an exhausting, exhilarating and inspiring congregation had broken up just minutes before. They couldn’t bring themselves to leave the very site of the Last Great Rally of the Famous Writers Strike of ’07-‘08.

God willing, we’ll have a good turnout tomorrow night. If not, I’ve got a new bottle of sunblock, and it looks like fine weather all spring.

A representative from the Writers Guild slipped in and briefed a few of the writers at NBC today. I was told third-hand that the negotiating committee is planning on continuing with the lawyers all week, in hopes that the details of the proposed contract can be distributed to members before Saturday night’s general membership meeting at the Shrine Auditorium.

There are no details forthcoming (I wouldn’t put them up here, after all, since it might be perceived as somehow harmful to the strike effort), so it beats me why they couldn’t just send an email.

Anyhow, word on the street is that a lot of showrunners are telling their staffs to get ready to go back to work on Monday. If the hard-liners at Saturday night’s meeting manage to shout down the writers who are ready to live with the contract, the way they shouted down the guy at the last meeting (who asked why we’re not using professional negotiators), that’s not going to happen.

So go ahead and get your hopes up, if you want. But after being told not to talk to the press, not to ask questions of the leadership, not to write the guild with my opinion on how things were going, not to try to borrow money from the Strike Fund until my bank denied me credit, not to work for non-signatory companies, and finally, not to ratify the DGA contract (I’m in that Guild, too), even though the DGA leadership recommended it, I can think of one more thing not to do in this strike. Get my hopes up.

I should note here that I have supported the strike from the day the Guild called it. Even though it’s embarrassing to get screamed at by below-the-line workers, dangerous to stand at that gate (between the cars and the fumes), irritating to watch “strike teams” with real team names and matching hats have a cookout party every morning, damaging to my career to be one of the 15% who bothers to picket at all, and demoralizing to watch my coworkers going in and out of work every day. I still picket, because that’s what you do when you’re in a Union and you’re on strike. At least, that’s what other unions do.

So let me go pack my lunch (I’m down to not being able to afford the tip at Bob’s Big Boy), and go walk in a circle at the one permanent picket location — made so, because the Guild has singled out Jay Leno, of all the shows back on air, to make an example out of him — and listen to another SAG member tell me what a dick I am for not wanting to stay on strike until July, so they can close their deal quickly.

Plus, there’s no goddam Red Vines.

I’ll see you at the Shrine Auditorium on Saturday night. I’m not sure where it is, but I figure I can just drive downtown and follow the torches and pitchforks. Here’s hopin’!

Good times out there on the line. It was “Bring Your Strike Metaphor To The Picket” day, and Dave and Beth sure went above and beyond the strict call of fun. Here they are with their crashed jumbo jet fuselage float, the “S.S. Dashed Hopes.” To complete the picture, we resorted to cannibalism at the back gate, which was only fitting as the Guild has run out of Red Vines.

A step-by-step approach to going to Six Flags Magic Mountain, in the rain, on Superbowl Sunday:

Start by doing 80 up the I-5 in the pouring rain. The park opens in 15 minutes, we have to get there on time or we somehow lose the entire value of a full day’s admission by not squeezing every last ounce of enjoyment out of the park.

Add your 11-year-old son in the back seat, about to turn 12, and his friend, both alternating their concern between the park being completely packed, or being closed due to the rain.

Ask, “Well, which is it?” a couple of times. Receive blank stares in the rearview mirror.

Arrive at the park, learn that 9 rides are closed. Get worried, until you see one closed ride is called “Déjà Vu.” Ask ticket clerk about that ride. She responds, “It like a lot of other rides.” Look around to see of that’s some kind of a setup.

Buy tickets. Learn they are year-long passes. Same price as one day. Now you must drag the boys into the Year Pass building to get their picture taken. They act like you’re asking them to go swimming in sulphuric acid. It takes 3 minutes.

Enter the park. A lot of rides are based on movies, but you feel like the park could be based on “I Am Legend,” due to utter lack of patrons. The image is reinforced when pale group huddles together like mutants from that movie. They turn out to be (actor and “Robot Chicken” genius) Seth Green and friends.

Climb hill. Learn why they call it “Magic Mountian:” even though it’s only a hill, it magically feels like you’ve climbed K2 when you get to the top.

Get on “Tatsu” ride. Stare down at gum, spit and earrings that form in patterns on the sheet metal below you every place you stop. Feel pockets for keys, electronics. Repeat 9 times. Wonder if the ride is gradually centrifuging the blood to the back of your head.

Try to keep up with the boys as they run the length of the park to get on the farthest ride next: “Goliath.” Notice the park is sparsely populated with nerds and Oakland Raider fans. The only gang members in attendance actually work there.

Ride Goliath. Black out. Confirm that the blood is being centrifuged to the back of your head. The pounding in your forehead tells you it’s not coming back.

Have a breakthrough: let the boys ride the rides without you. Learn this only works for one ride. Walk a half-mile to the Batman ride. Contemplate writing “Do Not Resuscitate” on the skin of your chest with a Sharpie.

Ride Collossus ride 3 times. Note with mild alarm you cannot recall all 4 members of the Beatles, the 2nd Grade, or whose idea it was to come to this damned place. Stare at the back of Seth Green’s head while you pull 3 g’s in the drizzle, and realize you would rather be watching this all on TV.

Spend most of your remaining cash on ring-toss, Skee-Ball and T-shirts. Note that the only bargain here is the dollar refills on the souvenir cups. Buy the cups, but feel too sick to refill them. Wonder if the nerve damage to your tongue from the Dippin’ Dots, served at 7 degrees Kelvin, will be permanent. Wish that was the only souvenir you’re taking home.

Ride Goliath for the fourth time. Wonder if Fabio’s neck felt as bad as yours after he was hit in the face with a duck at Six Flags Busch Gardens. Try to look nonchalant doing 90 mph for souvenir photo. Buy the photo. Note how bad you look.

Exit park, 2 minutes before closing. Stagger to car as son, friend ask, “Are you all right?” Note that turkey legs have the same reverb characteristics as a Slim Jim.

Get to car. Look back at park, silhouetted against a beautiful California sunset. Marvel: partly at the beauty, but mostly because, when you squint just right, it looks like the whole damned place is burning to the ground.

Resign yourself that it is not burning, that you have a new annual pass in your pocket, and that suicide is a mortal sin.

Point car towards home. Feel relief nibble at the edges of your frayed nerves: the radio plays something you like, not just Danny Elfman incidental music. In with the good feelings, out with the bad.

Your son, happy, wind-burned and smiling, pipes up from the back seat, completely spooking the timid sense of serenity you were trying to coax into your mind: “Dad, that was great. We have to do this every year on Superbowl Sunday!”

“Of course!” you immediately holler. You look into the rearview mirror at the boys, exhausted, staring into their goody bags. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror: that same grinning idiot from the ride snapshot, but now the face has a little blood back, and is grinning from ear to ear.

“Of course.”