There was an eerie calm before the Strike hit, which made its arrival all the more terrifying. The sky darkened and the cruel November winds howled. Hell hath no fury like a Writer denied his appropriate Internet-participation formula. I was tossed about my quarters like a rag doll, gasping for air and struggling against the relentless tide of angry industry chatter. Then all was blackness...
I am alive, but there is no writing for television and motion pictures. I stumble about my apartment a stranger in a strange land. Gathering my wits, I take stock of my meager supplies: four original episodes of House, a handful of fresh 30 Rocks, and two Heroes, which I fear have gone bad. I cannot survive long panic sets in.
Using three coat hangers and an old T-shirt, I construct a crude device to collect potable water. I then realize that fresh drinking water will not be an issue during a Writers' Strike. I go to the refrigerator and fetch a Pomegranate Lychee Green Tea. It is my first triumph over the elements and I rejoice.
NEXT PAGE: DAY 23: I head to my roof to spell out ''Help-End Strike-Need New Shows-Make a Fair Deal for the Writers and End This!''