Definitely one of the more surreal moments of the strike was marching with a sign outside the Melrose Gate, through which I’d driven for the first decade of my career.  The sidewalk was so crowded and jammed with writers, actors, fans, and press yesterday that the biggest problem faced by many of us was finding a place to stand when the light turned red and we were expected to politely get back on the curb and let traffic go through the gate.  A Trek-themed blues band, fronted by longtime Trek actor Vaughn Armstrong provided music and there were fans scattered here and there in TOS (that’s The Original Series for those non-Trekkers among you) uniforms.

But the thing that stuck with me the most was encountering random clutches of writers from my days in the 23rd and 24th centuries in this context.  We were all older and grayer, to be sure, except for Ira Behr (above) who is bluer.  But there was this common bond we all shared, this underlying sense of we’re all in the same club that I hadn’t really expected, perhaps because I hadn’t thought about it that much.  I knew I’d be seeing friends and colleagues from days gone by, but I didn’t expect the sort of strong, immediate chord of recognition between us all and a sense that we were bound together by something that was both far in the past and yet still vital and alive there standing in the perpetual Hollywood sun.  In between exchanging email addresses and catching up in small bursts of talk of family and friends, I found myself wishing that there were semi-regular gatherings -- reunions, really -- for those of us who worked on The Franchise. 

We were family once, and it’s a shame that the kin never get together anymore.