It’s official: I’m not laid off.

The Journal Star is a rare newsroom governed by seniority when cuts are made, as stipulated in our Newspaper Guild contract. I’ve been there almost 6 years – an eternity in print time – but have been left at the bottom of the heap by the departures of younger coworkers.

I was saved on Good Friday in 2010. Today, I was saved on Friday the 13th. Each time, numerous senior colleagues stepped forward to voluntarily face the guillotine. These rolling heads have saved my own.

We’re all acutely aware of reality, that the blood runs freely at every newspaper. Mine is not unique. Each time the ax swings through our newsroom, I duck; I’m a tall man, after all. That swift execution can come on any day of any week of any year. I no longer know the meaning of future plans.

And yet I stay! I persist, much like this infamous cat. I’m not masochistic, but could I convince you otherwise? I will admit that there’s less celebration this second time around. I don’t want to become “good” at this. While my love for newspapers is eternal, we need to hug this out before someone gets hurt.

– No 30 –