I dream, I dream.
Last night I spent most of eight hours dreaming I was being laid off again.
Somehow I landed a job at a pretty big newspaper housed in a building about two football fields long, where I was assistant managing editor.
My colleagues were all good people but the executive editor came to me and said the publisher told him he needed four positions for impending layoffs. That's what happens. It's not people. Not salary. It's positions.
Anyone in a leadership position in newspapers has been through this over the past 20 years.
As I followed him and others through the building, I lost my way numerous times. Instead of steps to the next floor, you had to grab a blue pole and climb up. Anyone who knows my girth knows that's not happening. Inevitably I was left to find my own way and when I made my way out of the building, I had no idea where I was.
That's not unusual for me.
But in the dream, I worked out at least three positions -- all of them labeled "non-content producers." But I couldn't find the fourth.
Then I realized I was the fourth. I wrote a column but that hardly constituted content these days.
I woke up at the end of the dream.
And then I'd have it again. It would go the same each time, about 10 times through the night.
Oddly, the night wasn't as bad as the night before where I had at least 12 repeated dreams, all of a performance of the old British singer Anthony Newley. It wasn't even really him so much as it was Rich Little doing an Anthony Newley impression. At least 12 times.
Later today, I talked with my boss on my phone and being I journalist, I bluntly told him about the dreams -- not the Anthony Newley/Rich Little dream. I don't want him to think I'm crazy.
"No one's getting laid off," he said.
If I have dreams tonight, I shall report them tomorrow.
Peace and sweet dreams unto all of you, my brothers and sisters.