I can remember the excitement of having my very first summer job when I was 15 years old, back in my tiny hometown in Colorado. I still recall the giddiness of going to work for the very first time (I think my mom dropped me off), wearing my new and untarnished uniform complete with the clip-on name tag and over-sized bubbah hat, not to mention the thrill of conceptualizing making my very own money at a whopping $5.00 per hour. That lasted for about 5 minutes, and then the dinner rush started and I couldn't shove fried chicken into boxes quickly enough to satisfy the insatiable appetites of white trash families with rancid screaming offspring who critiqued my performance at every turn. I realized that day that sometimes being employed can be more important than having dignity...

Since moving to New York, I have applied for at least 200 different jobs, everything from being a gallery assistant to working retail to dog walking for rich white people. After dozens of interviews and correspondences with potential employers, I have come to two conclusions: I've over-educated myself beyond any possibility of practical employment, and I'm too inexperienced for anything that I'd actually enjoy, or hope to enjoy doing. I've also learned that I'm horrible at interviews and I'm not convincing at improving the truth.

One morning I found myself in an area of Brooklyn called Dumbo, which rests cozily beneath the great stone arches supporting the Manhattan Bridge. I walked down some newly gentrified street lined with once productive old industrial buildings now converted into "lofts" and bourgey retail spaces, approaching a job interview with a company called Royale Concierge (yes, spelled with the "e"). I knew it was a bad sign when the first thing I saw upon exiting the elevator was a piece of paper taped to the wall that said "Royale Concierge applicants wait in elevator area, DO NOT sit in the guest seating area." So I waited, leaning against a brick wall, trying to muster all of my good job interview charisma (which was not much) until a thin abrupt-looking man came out and hastily prodded me over to a small glass room where he and his stern-faced associate proceeded to ask me a barrage of questions about why I felt like I deserved to exist, much less seek employment as a desk attendant in a luxury condominium complex. By the end of the interview, feeling a bit violated, it was surmised that I am a person with "ambition," and people with ambition do not make very good front desk attendants in luxury condominium complexes.

Being ambitious, and desperate, I decided one day to attend an "open interview session" with a very trendy and upscale hotel in Chelsea next to the High Line. I had sent in a resumé in advance, and the posting mentioned "headshots appreciated, but not required," which should have clued me in a bit on what I was getting myself into. When I got to the building where the interviews were to be held, I was corralled into a room full of at least 100 of the most beautiful people I had ever seen up close. I was suddenly very self-aware and very conscious of my thrift store shoes, vest and tie that I had worn to look "professional" amid a sea of very up to the minute designer fashions. They brought us in groups of 10 at a time to a room with a long re-claimed barnwood table and two very suave-looking gentlemen sitting at the head. After making polite introductions, they explained that they were looking for people with "personality" and a "unique look" to match the character of their hotel and its clientele. The next few minutes seemed like some sort of bizarre Real-World audition special when they asked us to go around the table and tell them "our stories." I found out that a lot of out of work models and actors seek employment in hospitality and that in many cases, everything you were taught in grade school about inner beauty and self worth is bullshit when trying to obtain employment in Chelsea. Needless to say, I am too short and have too much of a receding hairline to have ever been considered as a viable contender.

It is amazing to find the limit of the depths to which you are willing to stoop when trying to become "employed." You really learn the amount of abuse you're willing to take before you just snap and run out of a room crying and cursing the day that money came into being. You also, at least in my case, learn just how many people from New Jersey are willing to commute long distances into the city, just to say they work in Manhattan. All in all, my great struggle paid off. I've finally obtained the title of "employed." I'm now selling my soul, 7 days a week, split between 2 jobs, to make enough money to pay my rent and eat sparingly and occasionally, sometimes. Thus my New York cliché continues as I starve myself into a loosely-sustainable Manhattan lifestyle. Ah, isn't life grande....