Laid off, Lain off

I recently got laid off at work and then promptly went and spent a week lounging around the beaches of Puerto Rico (thus the lain part of this post). The vacation was planned pre-lay offs and happened two days before I was set to begin my week off. Upon my return, I signed up for unemployment. I could have done it while I was gone, but somehow that seemed very wrong.

Among the things I did for the newspaper as it's assistant local editor (what is known to the rest of the non-Gannett universe as an assistant city editor) was write a monthly column, which ran on Saturdays. My Saturday was up the week I got laid off. Because I had an idea it was coming, I actually wrote two columns: one, which would have run if by some miracle I was not laid off, and one, which was meant to be my last column. Neither ran.

But now, since I have time on my hand and no outlet for my creativity, I've decided to post my last two columns here and then maybe write up some other ones, which I had kicking around in my head, but didn't have the time to write. I will post the final column now. This will probably make no sense to most of you since you've never heard of these people. But some of it will still be funny, I think.

I'm beginning to think that getting laid off is a right of passage for people my age. As if Generation X should be renamed Generation Ex.

The number of people I know who have been laid off now seems roughly equal to the number of those who have not. And I have a feeling that the un- column will end up much longer than the employed one. We long ago gave up on the antiquated notion of "pensions" and "job security" and are starting to do the same with the numbers 401.

And so, as I prepare to join the un- column above, I thought, in this column, I'd share with you the Top Ten things you didn't know about the Poughkeepsie Journal.

10. We have the largest collection of captive monkeys in the entire world. Granted, they are monkeys of the plastic and stuffed variety (some also exist in plate and potato peeler form), but still it's one for the record books. And they all live on the desk of a certain local editor who shall remain nameless. (OK, it's Kevin Lenihan. Please send him all the monkeys you can, c/o the Poughkeepsie Journal, because he's going to need them to stave off loneliness once I'm gone... and he's going to have plenty of extra desk space to keep them on.)

9. The Culinary Institute of America wishes it had the cooking talent of the PoJo staff. All I can tell you is, people will attend the most mind numbingly dull meetings detailing the ins and outs of the new paper shredder if it means there will be brownies from Kevin, zucchini chocolate cake from Barbara or the crack known as rum cake from Kathleen. Seriously, people have come to blows over that rum cake.

8. We sometimes have bats in the newsroom. No. Really. Actual bats. The flying kind. And they are never, ever accompanied by Christian Bale — sadly. John Davis and I had to capture one in a box one Saturday because the entire staff was hold up in the men's bathroom and refused to come out. And since neither of us knew how to paginate, it was either gonna be the bat or a crash course in QuarkXpress. And the bat lost.

7. If you have watched the movies, "Sleepless in Seattle," "The Ring," "Message in a Bottle," "State of Play," or "All the President's Men" you have no idea what the modern American newsroom is like. (Though we do have a blonde on staff.)

6. If you have watched "The Paper," or the third season of "The Wire," ore read Dilbert, you do.

5. I have worked in a college cafeteria, a Wendy's in Baton Rouge, for the Maryland-National Capital Park Police and The Washington Times and never, NEVER in all that time have I seen a more disgusting refrigerator than the one on the third floor of the Journal. Last week I threw out some yogurt from 2006 and something that I believe began its life as a hot dog, but ended it all white and fuzzy. Someone should call Entergy. I think they could heat all of New York City on what's in that fridge.

4. Michael Valkys is the best reporter I've ever worked with. Period. (He's so good, I would have put an expletive between best and reporter, but this is a family paper.) For the last three years I've come in every day marveling at the fact he's still here, covering the town and city of Poughkeepsie — along with the occasional car show and gala — instead of working at the New York Times, where he belongs. Consider yourself lucky, Poughkeepsie. You and we don't deserve him.

3. The Advice Goddess, Kim Commando and that woman who writes the horoscopes do not work in our building. Please stop calling and asking for them.

2. Just because you own a bottle of Tabasco sauce and you dump it on some chicken or red beans or whatever, this does not make it "Cajun." (That actually has nothing at all to do with the Journal. It's just a pet peeve of mine and I thought I'd take advantage of the soap box before I have to pack it full of my books and leave.)

1. The most common second professions for laid off journalists are: teacher and lawyer. And we all know there are enough teachers and lawyers in the world. So, please, PLEASE, do us all a favor and buy a newspaper every day. If you keep a journalist employed, you might just prevent us all from living through a third-grade production of "Les Miserables" done completely in mime and the subsequent lawsuits from those forced to watch it that ensues. Trust me. No one wants that.