Wednesday, November 7
11:30p.m. "They're not exactly cookies," Marvin says. He is right. They are very much not cookies in any conventional sense.
"They are sort of like sugary bread," I suggest.
"Or chocolate chip pancakes," Marvin notes. "They're a lot like chocolate chip pancakes."
The right word for them is important and not just because we are quite drunk. The right word for these cookie-esque items is important because their hypothetical recipients are all writers. And writers care about words.
The writers in question are the ones who are striking against the networks right now. They are engaged in a battle against corporate titans and we completely sympathize with them in their struggle, but - honestly - that's not why we are bringing them pancakes née chocolate chip cookies. We are bringing them because we are shallow people.
Marvin and I are also writers. But we don't get paid for writing. We would like to change that. For us, the writers' strike is an unparalleled networking opportunity.
So we are making cookies.
"I think you are supposed to mix the ingredients in a certain order," Marvin suggests. "And there's no water in the recipe."
I should have thought of this. "Maybe," I say. "But I doubt it makes much difference."
Marvin takes control of the next batch, melting the butter, eggs and vanilla into a warm goo before adding any flour. They come out beautifully.
"It was probably the oven temperature," I say. "You turned it up."
Thursday, November 8
10 a.m. We have eaten a full breakfast of chocolate chip cookie pancakes. The real cookies - Marvin's batch - are untouched. We would both like some of the good cookies, but those are for writers... paid writers.
We both feel a little sick, but we line a brown paper bag with aluminum foil and fill it with cookies nonetheless.
10:45 a.m. I heard on the news last week that the writers' strike is at Rockefeller center. The Times had a picture of Tina Fey yelling. Maybe we'll meet Tina Fey. We leave my fifth-floor walk-up in Harlem and get off the subway at the '47-50 Street/Rockefeller Center' stop on the B train. We are both dressed in jeans and sweatshirts to look authentic. Marvin has glasses.
We wander through the subway tunnel and towards the exit. We expect to emerge from the depths to see the ice skating rink and a line of picketers beyond. They will be hungry and grateful of our arrival. We have cards with our websites ready marked. If someone asks to see our work, we will initially refuse and then give in after a little pressure.
Upon emerging, Rockefeller center is vacant of writers. Or else they are not very loud. There is supposed to be a giant inflatable rat. We see no rat. We are befuddled.
We stand in the sun for a moment and watch the ice skaters. A man passes by.
"Excuse me," I ask "Did the writers stop striking?"
"They were here Monday," he says. "I think they might be somewhere in Queens now."
"Did they have a giant inflatable rat?" I ask.
"Yeah, probably," he says.
We offer him a cookie and he leaves. We each eat a cookie.
2 p.m. Having failed to find the writers, I hop on a bus to Washington, DC for a long weekend.
Sunday, November 11
11 a.m. Paydirt! The Sunday Times has a long piece by Rachel Axler, a Daily Show writer, about the strike. She says they move every day. We should have thought of this. I ponder my next move as I watch television reruns.
Wednesday, November 14
3:30 p.m. Home at last, I track down Marvin. He is in my apartment, eating cookies.
"Did you see the Sunday Times?" I ask. "The writers move every day."
"How will we find them?" Marvin asks.
"How many giant inflatable rats can there be in Manhattan?" I ask.
It's a rhetorical question with force behind it. "Nice dialogue," I think to myself, "the writers will love that." In celebration, we each have a cookie.
Thursday, November 15
11 a.m. At 6th avenue and 31st street, I see a giant inflatable rat. I ask a woman on the corner why there is a giant inflatable rat in the street.
"The laborer's union is on strike," she says. "So, they put up a rat."
"Wait, which union?"
"The laborers."
I pause a moment. The giant inflatable rat is apparently a universal symbol of a strike or solidarity or something. It appears rat-tracking won't work.
"Well, good for them," I say. I have a spare cookie in my bag, but I don't particularly want to be a laborer, so I keep it for myself.
11:45 a.m. Marvin is home when I get there.
"Apparently there is more than one inflatable rat in Manhattan," I say.
"I've found a website," Marvin says. "The writers post where they are going to strike. It's on Wall street today."
Of course there was a website. We should have realized. "I was thinking of using the internet too," I say. "Maybe we can catch them."
"We've run out of cookies," Marvin says. "We ate them all."
Marvin and I sit confounded, then - because we are hungry - we each eat some chocolate chip pancakes.
Read more about the strike on the Huffington Post's writers' strike page.