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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.”

While the rest of Hollywood wonders when the strike will be over, I can’t stop wondering about what it’s going to be like to get back to work.

Maybe that’s because most shows are out of production. But Jay is doing shows, he just happens to be doing them without us. Feels weird now, and it seems like it’s going to get weirder once we get to write again.

I miss it. Why else would I be putting up jokes on this blog? Because I love writing them. Most people don’t go around saying how much they love their job, and for good reason: because they don’t. They’re lucky if they even like going to work. But I know how lucky I am and I can’t wait to get back to it.

Things are going to be different back at the show. I know it’s never going to be the same. While we (the writers) have no control over any of this situation, at least we belong to the union at its center. Our friends inside must feel like they are at the whims of someone else’s fight. That kind of uncertainty can wear on a person, to put it mildly.

Now that The Tonight Show is back in production, it is clear to the writers that the staff is working like mad to deliver a show every night. Everybody’s getting their direction straight from Jay, which must be intimidating and stressful, no matter how great he is. He’s under the gun, and everyone wants to perform for him. It can’t be easy.

I wish we could go back in, turn on our computers and carry on, business as usual, with the strike only looming as a distant, bad dream. I also wish I could spontaneously lose 30 pounds, but that ain’t going to happen either.

It’s going to be rough (going back, not losing the weight). Some folks will probably blame us for the actions of the Guild, because we’re the only writers they know. The rhythm of thinking of an idea on Monday, pitching it on Tuesday, shooting it on Wednesday, editing on Thursday and airing on Friday is going to be hard to get back. The writers have a lot of responsibilities that lay outside the strict act of writing, and our friends inside have all shouldered those tasks for the sake of putting on the show.

Before the strike, there were plenty of stressful days, late nights, and frustrations both petty and epic. I’ll take ‘em all and more just to get back to business as usual.

5000 Calories In Search of a Lipitor

The strike can go no further without my mentioning Drew Carey and the very decent thing he continues to do for striking writers in Hollywood.

From the first week last November, Mr. Carey (of “The Drew Carey Show,” “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and now taking over for Bob Barker on “The Price is Right”) has been picking up the tab for any writer who eats at Bob’s Big Boy in Toluca Lake, and Swingers in Hollywood next to Television City.

Not that the writers couldn’t have gotten by without it. In the first few weeks of the strike, restaurants, other unions and wonderful folks who just wanted to show their support would show up at the lines and give us food. The egg salad lady was notable in both her skill at making sandwiches and her ability to know exactly when to bring them, saving us from another purging visit to the Taco Bell in front of Warner Brothers.

But as this thing wears on, the roast beef sandwiches from French 75 have disappeared. Sure, we still get plenty of calories from the Guild’s own craft services at the sign-in desk, but the general consensus is that the Otis Spunkmeyer muffins were made while “Bewitched” was still in prime time.

So it’s a decent thing, feeding us. But more importantly, it’s a place to go. Something to do besides walking in circles.

You walk into Bob’s around lunchtime, and the place is filled with the red and grey shirts of picketing writers. We have trudged, and now we must reward ourselves by eating like Elvis: banana milkshakes and patty melts, turkey dinners and cokes, iceberg lettuce with a cup of ranch dressing.

Sure, you have to endure the occasional interstate trucker making out with a 50-year-old hooker, but that’s just America, right?

And while the strike takes months of paychecks off our tax returns, the diner food takes years off our lives. But, as my Granddad used to say, those are just the years at the end, which are usually the worst, so that’s a good thing.

I am worried about John Kennedy, the youngest writer on the staff who was just promoted before the strike. Not only has he spent five times the number of weeks striking than he did as a writer, he’s going after the Drew Carey Special for all it’s worth. I think he’s had every lunch and dinner at one or the other restaurant for weeks now, and the arterial plaque buildup is making him surly.

Here he is (counting to one on the right) this afternoon at 12:15:

That finger is for Peter, who actually managed to argue that he’s not an argumentative person today.

But it’s not for you, Drew. When this is over, John has vowed to go to the nearest Hallmark and get you the most bitchin’ thank-you card he can find.

Thanks!

An unidentified swimmer surveys the bleak surroundings at Miraleste Intermediate School

Since we go to swim meets all over Los Angeles, Orange and Ventura County, I thought I might start reviewing the pools for future families who might want a handy guide before spending the entry fees.

My son had a meet today, so we spent the afternoon in lovely Rancho Palos Verdes, an enclave south of town that seems to have been a presidio at some point. A couple of thousand feet in elevation, it overlooks the city to the Northeast, and the largest harbor in the Western Hemisphere to the south, with dense foliage hiding the fact that there’s only a few roads in and out. Hence the enclave.

But, the ethnically diverse swimming families made it up the long, snaking drive to the top of the mountain to the well-funded middle school, just as the weather cleared up. We discovered that on a clear day you could see halfway to Mexico from the parking lot, as a thin finger of high pressure had made its way to the Southland between last week’s storm and the deluge that is hammering my roof, even as I write this.

Unfortunately, you can’t see anything through the dirty, ten-foot fence that surrounds the pool. A few orange jumpsuits and the place would be Guantanamo Bay. One parent said it looked like Joliet State Prison, though how he knew remains a mystery. Maybe they’re taking the Presidio thing to too far.

Anyway, here’s the 10-point review:

1. While a small meet, parking was limited and it was a Sysiphean climb up the parking lot. Drop your kid off with the folding chairs if you want to live.

2. Bring some shade. I know it’s fun to hang out on a Middle School blacktop, but only on graduation night in the dark. It was a roasting pan with wind.

3. All the kids said the pool tasted salty, but it wasn’t a salt water pool. Eww.

4. The backstroke flags are at a weird distance from the wall, so all the kids were either smacking their wrists on the wall or gliding in like old ladies. There was a lot of sidestroke going on among the 10-and-unders.

5. Not much to buy. I know it’s not the focus of the meet, but it’s always good for keeping the kids happy. You know if the guy that sells Crocs and goggles doesn’t show up, you deserve a gold star for making the trek.

6. The boy’s bathroom hadn’t been cleaned since the Nixon administration. That ammonia smell was au naturel. Maybe it drained into the pool, hence the salty taste.

7. The Lane 7 starting block wobbled disconcertingly. I thought the fat kid from Downey was going to rip it out at the roots.

8. The food was pretty good, but they served it in a room that must be where they teach health classes, because there were unappetizing, student-made life-size figures on the wall that illustrated the dangers of drinking. There were a lot of misspellings – a little more grammar and a little less construction paper would be in order – one figure had the unfortunate label “dizyniss, alkolhol, and barfeing.” Maybe the kids were talking from experience and were still hungover when they got out their safety scissors.

9. They made the timers stay for the distant events. Usually, the judges let us go and make the parents of the swimmers do the timing. The distance swimmers were shocked and confused to see people when they finally finished.

10. There was an event and heat sign on constant display, a godsend for any coach, parent or timer who is otherwise under constant questioning by anyone in a Speedo.

Anyway, a lot of the dads found the asphalt comfortable enough to sleep on, so I guess I’d give the Miraleste Intermediate School Pool a 4 ½ out of 10.

Either this strike ends today, or I’m going to have to close my blinds.

After the “commando” post below, I kept my camera handy, and took photos of the people who stopped in front of my house from the hours of 3:30-4:30. Here they are:

In the space of an hour, I had people 1. Smoking; 2. Sleeping; 3. Eating; 4. Making out; and 5. Wrecking.

Who needs TV? I had the entire last act of American Graffitti take place right in front of me in the space of an hour! I’m shutting the blinds right now!

Here’s a new game I’d like to play called, “Look Who’s Taking Their Pants Off in Front of My House.”

There’s not much to the game. Somebody pulls up in front of my house; they take their pants off. Simple.

I had been toying with the idea of setting up a camera to catch the 4,000 people keep filling my garbage can with bags of dog poop. But those are my neighbors, and I don’t want to embarrass them until next week.

Then I noticed that there were plenty of people who pull up on our nice, quiet street, pick my roses, eat fast food and throw the trash onto my driveway, and fall asleep in their cars. So I opened the blinds in my office to catch some on film, and within minutes Dr. Do-Rag here showed up in his white pickup.

Here’s the sequence of events:

1. Exit car, loosen pants.
2. Slide pants to knees
3. Enter car, complete pants removal
4. Sleep for an hour

He’s sleeping there still, if you’re inclined to drop by and watch him put his pants back on. But that would be a different game.

Hey everybody, time once again to play every writer’s favorite game: PARSE THAT SENTENCE!

So take a machete and start cutting through the passive voice in this baby, as seen in the previous posting and the latest news from the Writers Guild to their constituency:

“In order to make absolutely clear our commitment to bringing a speedy conclusion to negotiations, we have decided to withdraw our proposals on reality and animation. Our organizing efforts to achieve Guild representation in these genres for writers will continue. You will hear more about this in the next two weeks.”

Yowza! They withdrew something to make something else absolutely clear, but who the hell knows what? I’ll hear more about it in the next two weeks, but I sure as hell won’t understand!

I have an idea, why not run these little missives by a couple of out-of-work writers before shipping them off to Nikki Finke? Until then, if you have a stereo manual that needs a punch-up, call the Guild! The prolix prosing will obfuscate, and boy will it hurt!

It was a wet day out there on the strike line.

Now, before you call me a baby for complaining about the rain, especially in light of the fact that the Writers Guild East members are striking in conditions approaching absolute zero, I will remind you that this was to be a very special strike day.

Okay, now stay with me: Yesterday was the holiday celebrating Martin Luther King’s birthday. The Guild said, “no picketing, except for [you guessed it] NBC Burbank.” Today, in honor of Martin Luther King’s birthday, they decided to focus the entire effort on Paramount Studios. Why Paramount would have the dubious distinction of being picketed in the name of MLK, I don’t know. So every striker was to report there, , except for, you guessed it again, the regulars at NBC Burbank. A writer spoke to reporters this morning in KNX, and he too was baffled. He also thought no picketing took place yesterday, forgetting the Guild’s standing order to picket Jay’s show no matter what.

Business as usual, right? Well, not exactly. By way of specially honoring Dr. King, writers were to march all the way around the Paramount lot. With an expected turnout of every voting writer in the guild, save the 100 or so in Burbank, this would result in a throng roughly equivalent to the final battle scene in the last Lord of the Rings movie.

But it was not to be. Maybe it was the rain, or maybe parking was a bear, but the turnout left something to be desired. I drove around the lot, and this was a typical view:

The girl in the middle there had just walked out of the building. I think she works in the cafeteria.

With the TV cameras arriving, the writers bunched up in front of the Paramount gates. Here’s a look at that, at around noon:

I couldn’t figure out where to sign in, so I got back on the scooter and went to my usual haunt, the back gate at NBC. I was greeted by these soggy folks:

That’s Rob, Beth, Mike, Dave and Dickie, all Tonight Show writers except for Dickie, who is Carson Daly’s head writer. The only reason they’re smiling is because they thought I was carrying a portable space heater, which turned out not to be the case. We tried in vain to use our strike signs as umbrellas, then swapped Angel Thompkins stories (well, there’s really only one) until the clock ran out on the shift.

After a $150 trip to Costco (you really can’t spend that much when you’re on a Vespa), I got home and was greeted with a new email from the Guild. Here’s the quote of interest:

“In order to make absolutely clear our commitment to bringing a speedy conclusion to negotiations, we have decided to withdraw our proposals on reality and animation. Our organizing efforts to achieve Guild representation in these genres for writers will continue. You will hear more about this in the next two weeks.”

You know what that means, don’t you? My “Here’s the Reality” T-shirt is going straight to eBay! No reserve! Burns my skin with shame to wear it! Happy Bidding!

Hopefully this won’t come as a disappointment to the tens of fans I have out there, but I only have time this morning to dash off a quick note before applying myself to a little work I’ve picked up.

Don’t worry, the strike police aren’t going to break down my front door and haul me up in front of the Star Chamber down at Guild headquarters. They do have very strict rules about working during the strike, but they only cover guild signatory companies, and companies owned by signatories.

In fact, I had to turn down work, or to be more precise, I was offered work, but once I called it into the Guild, and was given the specifics on just what I was allowed to do, my friend withdrew his offer. Here’s how it breaks down:

- My friend had asked me to direct some wraparound segments to be used as promos;

- The company is not a Guild signatory, but is owned by Viacom;

- They had a script already, and just wanted me to shoot it and post it with packaging.

This is not acceptable to the Guild, since I would have to go into a building that is owned by a Guild signatory, even though the company I would be working for was not. Also, while I would be allowed to edit the bits, I would not be allowed to make cuts for time, which is a weird distinction since, well, aren’t all cuts for time?

So, even though my friend had gone the extra mile to figure out something for me to do to tide me over during this mess, the Guild decided that they would rather have someone else make that money.

Further, I was informed by the Guild that I did not have access to the Strike Fund until I was completely out of funds and could borrow no more money from the bank. Here’s the relevant excerpt from the anonymous Strike Loan Assistance Guy:

It means that, since I started preparing for this strike in April and actually thought it would happen, I get to spend my savings and borrow from the bank. Now, if I had blown it off and been broke right away, thenthe Strike Fund would have been there for me. I wonder if the Letterman writers know that their “special contributions” they are making as the only (shall we say, “legally”) working writers out there are going to writers who probably needed it before the strike even started.

Hey wait a second, Letterman is on CBS, and CBS is owned by Viacom, and Viacom is… oh, forget it.

Lucky for me, I’m now involved with writing some marketing documents for a company that has absolutely no ties with any broadcast entity whatever. And I get to work from home, so even though I would be allowed to set foot on their property, I ain’t gonna. And who knows, if Jay’s ability to win the night without writers prompts NBC to fire me when the strike is over, maybe I’ll have a job…

But not unless I start working. Gotta go.

A number of years ago, I got to study some of the psychological methods the Army uses to motivate, bond, and ultimately find leaders and rogues within their ranks. We applied these methods in a game among reality show contestants, to great effect. It turns out that thousands of years of military tradition has created some pretty optimized — and scary — predictive behavior scenarios.

The bonding part is easy. Make them work together. Make them dress alike. Make them go through physical exercise so they share common experiences of privation. Threaten severe punishment if anyone gets out of line.

Single out the screw-up as the “squid,” or the one whose mistakes cause the rest of the squad to be punished. They either work together to help him, or bond in their common hatred of this guy.

But who wants to watch a game full of contestants who love each other? We remedied that problem by stepping up the activities to the next level, borrowing from some of the many effective mindfuck strategies used in Special Forces training. 100 men may jump today, but only 2 will be Green Berets because they are the only ones who can separate the exercises from the real game: make friends, find weaknesses, start eliminating the competition.

Of all the different methods, one stands out for its overwhelming effectiveness, and its elegant simplicity. First, let the group know that not everyone can win. Next, set them on an extremely challenging path, and let them know that mental energy is what’s going to separate the winners from the losers. And third, keep moving the finish line.

Move it enough times, and the participants stop believing in the rules. Their spirit breaks down. Then a few things happen: a desire begins to build within most of them to be told what to do. The urge to follow becomes a craving. Give them an order to throw themselves out the window, fine – finally, a light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, the finish line is the pavement below, but it’s better than living in a world without rules.

The select few, however, learn they are the alphas. And the way they deal with it is to make their own rules. If the world is a mess, there’s going to be a new order at some point and these guys want to be the ones who create it.

None of this stuff is any secret. Negotiators have been using these methods for years, especially in labor struggles. In the case of the AMPTP and the Writers Guild, it has come together very well. On the Guild side, you have a constituency of individualists who are used to living on their wits. The Guild tries to create a bond: big rallies, famous faces, everybody marching in identical T-shirts.

I’m not saying they did this stuff well. Their selection of Jay Leno as the Squid, for example. When you let a bunch of writers go back to work for Letterman, you’re creating an underdog, not a bad guy to blame for the continuation of the strike. But hey, you only know if a ploy has worked when it works, right? Eesh.

Meanwhile, all the AMPTP has to do is keep moving the finish line. Suddenly, the rules we’ve been striking under don’t seem to make much sense. Alpha dogs like Dick Wolf jump up and attempt to control the situation. What is the active ingredient in his LA Times quote? “This town should be back to work in three weeks.” What’s he doing here? Defining his own finish line..

And the rank and file Guild members just want to be led (Unfortunately, the only things we’re hearing from our leadership are quotations like “We’re in a negotiating mood” [Pat Verrone] in articles about the impending fracture of the Guild). A note from the top to the rest of us would be a good thing at this point.

In any event, whether they make the deal now or in July, I think that the Writers Guild is going to come through this intact. There may be a few dissenters, but I don’t think there’s going to be a massive walkout of the highest-paid writers. Based on the showrunners’ actions at the beginning of the strike, I think that, by and large, they are going to hang tough with the rest of us, even though so many of them are discouraged by Monday’s mass firings under force majeure.

The important thing right now is that we don’t pay attention to any finish lines, anymore. We have played into this strategy so many times over past few months we ought to know better by now. The desire to stop striking, no matter how strong, has no influence on anything. And the alternatives to waiting this thing out are too dire to consider.

So pick your end date to the strike, write it down and mail it to yourself. If you’re right, you might win the office pool. But for now that’s all it’s going to do for you. Otherwise, settle back and break that finish line tape with the rest of us.