Oh, good God. People, you need to seriously get lives and brains if you think your collective hissy fit is worthwhile or having any effect.
You want to know what a real strike is? Take it from me. My grandfather was a coal miner and a union organizer in Harlan County, Kentucky. My family's roots there go all the way back to the 1700s. Grandpa worked in nearly every coal camp there was, including Evarts, Totts, and High Splint. And every night when he came home, my grandmother took his union book and buried it in a fruit jar under the house steps.
Why did she do this?
So that if the company goons came into the house, they wouldn't find it and use it as an excuse to kill him or burn the house down with everyone in it.
My grandparents risked death to fight for economic justice in Harlan. My grandmother witnessed the brutal murder of another union worker, and testified at court to it, putting her life and that of her little daughter--my mother--in peril. My mother once recalled how my grandfather, terrified because Grandma refused to touch a gun, taught her to shoot at the age of eight. Imagine that--the only way you can think of to protect your little child is to put a gun in her hands, and show her how to use it.
Read up on the coal miners' attempts to unionize during the 1920s and 1930s. You want to talk about striking for support? How about striking so you could afford the rent for your two-room shack, built and owned by the company you worked for? Or so you could actually pay a doctor in something besides a few eggs or a pie, so that he'd treat your wife as she lay dying from a postpartum infection? How about striking for working conditions so that you had less of a chance of dying in a cave-in--or, like my grandfather, being trapped for several days in a mine, pressed in by fallen rock, standing on the corpse of his best friend?
A strike meant more to coal miners than just having their voices heard. It often meant losing their livelihood, as the companies had no compunction against hiring "scab" workers to take their place. Appalachia wasn't a place to get rich, not in the early 20th Century. Appalachia was and is a poor region. A strike wasn't a genteel thing, not there; a strike was a war for survival, a bloody, ugly thing that didn't quit until the United Mine Workers finally got the bastards to the table and won fair wages and safety regulations. And it still didn't quit. When I read about the mine collapse in Utah last year, I knew my grandfather would have been in a fury--he worked and fought so hard, and for so long, and still the greedy sons of bitches were sending workers to die in the hole.
And you people are getting pissy over Clinton taking heat on Kos, and declaring a "strike." Well, aren't you precious.
Come back and talk to me when you're discussing something to strike over--like the foul inequality of healthcare for American workers, the stagnant wages we've put up with for ten years or more, and the continuous shell game Wall Street is playing with the country's finances. This is a blog. Easy to set up, easy to run. You want to set up a pro-Hillary blogsite? Go for it. I wager you'll get plenty of traffic, because Hillary Clinton is still a smart, charismatic candidate. But if you're serious about taking your toys and going home? Damn well go and do it--and call it what it is.
A strike, it isn't.
ETA: My first recommended diary! :D Thanks, all of you! I appreciate it.