Sometime last summer I decided to host a pity party and invite all my friends. Well, not all my friends, exactly. Only those whose livelihoods might have, like mine, been suffering from the downward slide of the economy. To make the guest list, invitees would have to possess the ability to grumble, gripe, groan, fuss, snarl, scream, fret, rant and complain -- preferably all at the same time. I wanted world-class whiners at my party. Optimists need not apply.

The idea for the party came about following several back-to-back conversations with different editors, all of whom relayed to me different versions of the same scenario: advertising sales are down, there are fewer magazines pages to fill, so we don't have as many assignments for contract writers like you. Almost overnight, or so it seemed, the regular work I'd come to count on disappeared. "Sorry," my editors said. "But do keep in touch."

But I didn