A scab not even worth picking

By Bruce Watson

Published on February 15, 2008

IT'S a good thing the writer's strike ended because I wasn't having much luck as a scab.

Fact: a scab is a miserable lowlife, a guy who sells his own meager labor to take food from the mouths of hungry strikers. No, there's nothing worse, nothing scummier, no bottom feeder more loathsome than a scab.

That said, here was my plan. The writers who give meaning to our dreary lives with exciting TV shows and movies were on strike. Americans were desperate for a new Letterman joke, a new episode of "24," a fresh and insightful look at the world through the eyes of the "Desperate Housewives." The strike dragged on.

But wait! I'm a writer! I could just fly to Hollywood with a few ideas. Or fax them in and I wouldn't even have to cross a picket line.

Luckily, I used to watch the "Dick Van Dyke Show" so I know just how to write for TV. I gathered my kids and said, "Finally!" Finally, instead of scraping a lean existence out of writing the truth in the dried up media of books and newspapers, we were going to tap the money pipeline that is TV.

Aping Dick Van Dyke, I'd be Rob Petrie. Elena would be the sassy Sally Rogers. Nate would play the wisecracking Buddy and my wife would be the perky Mary Tyler Moore before the perkiness faded.

"What do we do first?" Elena/Sally asked.

"Easy," I/Rob replied. "We sit around and toss out ideas." So we got down to work.

"Hey," I said. "How about a show where... Mmmmmm, naaahhh."

Nate/Buddy chimed in: "What about if there was this... Never mind."

"I know," Elena/Sally said. "There's this guy and he has a daughter who goes to high school but she..."

After an hour of hard writing, the kids wanted to quit but I kept them at it. In TV, I explained, you get money every time they air your show. Every first showing, every rerun, every DVD rental, and now every time a show is streamed on the Web, the writer gets a cut. Take the "Dick Van Dyke Show." Hasn't been a new episode since the LBJ administration but Carl Reiner is still getting checks. "Now that's a contract!" I said. "That's the pipeline. That's the only chance at a college education you and Buddy here will ever get! So back to work!"

"Okay," Elena/Sally said. "There's this family in New York and the father is this comedy writer and -"

"Been done," I said. "How about...."

But I was interrupted by unreality. Imagine, I thought. Imagine if I had a contract like the writers who give meaning to our dreary lives with exciting TV shows and movies. Imagine if every time someone fished one of these columns out of recycling and tried to read it, I got a buck. And what about syndication? What if, like old Dick Van Dyke Shows, all my tired old columns were picked up by newspapers around the country. Ka-ching!

Man, that'd be sweet. Mary Tyler Moore and I would move to Malibu, get fat and tan and live off our "creative capital." And Americans everywhere would thank us for giving meaning to their dreary lives. All I needed was a few ideas. Ideas so silly they'd make millions laugh.

"Hey, how about this," I/Rob said. "A guy quits his job in newspapers and books and moves to Malibu and...."

But it was too late. While I was daydreaming, Elena/Sally had gone off to watch a DVD of "The Office." Nate/Buddy was at the computer downloading an old Dick Van Dyke Show to see what his next line might be. And my wife said she didn't know how long she could keep up the perkiness and could we please forget all this talk about reruns and residuals and the view from Malibu.

So it's a good thing the writer's strike is over. Even by scab standards, I was miserable.