Gym remedy?

Yesterday I decided to buy a gym membership. I didn't buy the membership yesterday, I just decided that sometime in the near future I was going to buy one. I initially planned on fitting it into today's schedule. I was going to pick up my cousin from the high school at 10 (it's exam week), then I had plans to eat lunch at the coffeeshop where my friend works. From there, I would go to the North Haven Health and Racquet and purchase the cheapest and shortest-term membership that they offered. But that plan of action hasn't quite panned out. After lunch, instead of going to the H&R, I drove directly home (passing the gym along the way). I sat down, turned on my computer, and began to write about the fact that I had decided to get a gym membership.

There are a lot of things (other than getting a really good job) that I'd like to do. New Years resolution-type things. I'd like to establish an exercise routine. I'd like to finish unpacking my stuff from college. I'd like to stop biting my fingernails. I'd like to read more, and eat less. I'd like to subscribe to Netflix, and get a DVR. For the most part, I've been putting these things off because I've refused to view my current situation as permanent. Back in September, I was convinced that I would be living on my own (and working) by Thanksgiving. Why bother unpacking, or changing my routine, when I was just a few weeks away from a totally new life? Exercise, clean laundry, neat bookshelves and Netflix were all components of a satisfying adult life. Inactivity and a messy room were holdovers from adolescence. But I was never going to home for more than a couple of months so if I slipped into a few old habits it wouldn't be so bad. But so far that adult life has eluded me. And my bad habits are becoming a problem.

Stagnation is the name of my enemy. I should never have given my self a month to do nothing in August. I felt so fulfilled during the time I spent in Europe, and I understand now that it was because I was taking responsibility for myself. I kept a budget and managed money, I made itineraries and sought to occupy my time with meaningful activities. I was the model of self-reliance. Afterwards, I felt justified in slipping back into laziness and complaceny "for a while", and it's been a big mistake.

It's a little after 1 right now. There's still plenty of time to get to the gym. Could be a step in the right direction. To be continued...

Oscar nomination predictions

I kind of like movies. And I have a slight habit of attempting to predict the nominees (and eventual winners) of the Academy Awards each year.

The 2006 Oscar nominations will be announced this Tuesday, January 31 at 8 a.m. EST (any major network, news network or entertainment channel will most likely broadcast the announcement).

Here are my best guesses as to which actors, directors and pictures will receive one (or more) of the coveted nominations:

Best Picture
Brokeback Mountain
Capote
Crash
Good Night, and Good Luck
Walk the Line

Best Actor
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote
Terrence Howard, Hustle and Flow
Heath Ledger, Brokeback Mountain
Joaquin Phoenix, Walk the Line
David Strathairn, Good Night, and Good Luck

Best Actress
Judi Dench, Mrs. Henderson Presents
Felicity Huffman, Transamerica
Charlize Theron, North Country
Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line
Ziyi Zhang, Memoirs of a Geisha

Best Supporting Actor
George Clooney, Syriana
Matt Dillon, Crash
Paul Giamatti, Cinderalla Man
Jake Gyllenhaal, Brokeback Mountain
Donald Sutherland, Pride and Prejudice

Best Supporting Actress
Amy Adams, Junebug
Catherine Keener, Capote
Frances McDormand, North Country
Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener
Michelle Williams, Brokeback Mountain

Best Director
George Clooney, Good Night, and Good Luck
David Cronenberg, A History of Violence
Paul Haggis, Crash
Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain
Steven Spielberg, Munich

There are usually a few suprises in the line-up, but I'm genuinely confident with 80% of these predictions. Munich could squeak in for Best Picture (ousting Capote); Jeff Daniels (The Squid and the Whale) could bump Terrence Howard; and the supporting categories are usually good for a surprise or two. But after hours and hours of careful consideration, research, and prayer, these are my picks.

Private Call

I've had some bizarre job hunt-related experiences over the past few months, but the one I'm about to relate may very well top them all.

First, a little background: One of the more interesting gigs I've applied to in recent days has been a job I found on Craigslist New York labeled "Editorial/personal assistant." Here's the text of the ad:

Full-time or Part-time Editorial/personal assistant and amanuensis for professor and author of fiction/nonfiction books. Former staff writer on The New Yorker. Much detailed work on all stages of manuscript preparation with MS Word. Requires excellent grammar, proofreading. English degree preferred. Work mostly from home. Please send resume in body of email to Miltonsprogeny@aol.com

The description reminded me a little of one of Elaine's jobs on the show "Seinfeld." She worked for a fellow named Mr. Pitt, who was a big shot publisher. Her duties included purchasing tube socks for him and taking salt off of his pretzels. Menial, sure, but at least it was something.

I sent in my resume and a cover letter at the end of last week, and I sent a follow-up email yesterday afternoon.

Flash forward to a few minutes ago. I was playing Minesweeper and listening to the "Pippin" soundtrack on my computer when my phone started to buzz in my pocket. I took it out and saw that I was receiving a "Private Call." I don't know that I've ever received a call from a blocked number, and at first I thought the display said "Phoebe Cell" (Phoebe is a friend of mine). I hesitated for just a moment--long enough to register that the call was probably job-related but not long enough to consider what job it might be related to or what the purpose of the call might be--and then answered the phone.

On the other end was the slightly distorted voice of a man with an indistinguishable foreign accent. After stuttering for a moment, he asked me if I had sent my resume to Miltonsprogeny. I said yes and he said he wanted me to tell him a little bit about myself. I was rather affronted, because he hadn't yet given any indication of who he was or why he wanted to know more about me. But in one of those split-second decisions, I decided to go along with it. If this was the potential employer, I wanted to play by his rules so as not to put a dent in my chances of getting the job. I figured there'd be time for full disclosure in the near future.

So I told him a little bit about myself. I pulled out the big guns right away. "Well, I'm a recent graduate of Yale University, with a bachelor's degree in English literature." Pow! Zing!

"Did you do well as a student?" he asked without missing a beat.

With only the tiniest quiver in my voice, I replied, "Yes, I did quite well. I had a GPA of 3.? in the English major." I realized too late that giving an exact GPA was probably not the best idea because (1) I told him my actual GPA and (2) it's not actually that great.

He said something I couldn't understand about my academic performance and then asked me where I had gone to high school. I replied "North Haven High School in North Haven, Connecticut. It's a public school."

"And you live in New Haven now?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm currently living in the New Haven area, but I'm actively seeking employment and look forward to moving to a new location soon."

"Thank you," he said.

"And thank you, sir. May I ask..." The line was dead.

According to the received call log in my cell phone, the call lasted 59 seconds.

I'm not sure what to make of this bizarre conversation. My gut instinct is this: The "professor and author" instructed an employee or assistant to screen job applicants before moving on with interviews. That might explain the lack of a personal introduction and the structure of the questioning. I can picture the caller looking at my resume and verifying the information as I repeated it back to him.

Does this strange call mean I'll get any farther with this job? Again, my gut says probably not. The most glaring question was the one about where I went to high school. The query dripped with such detestable elitism, it almost makes me sick to think about it now. Who is this guy? Is he so high on himself that he needs a pedigreed cosmopolitan just to do his typing? Would the call have lasted longer if I had said I went to Andover? Better question: would I have gotten a call at all if I hadn't gone to Yale? It burns me up. (Of course, I'm sure the fire would easily be doused by another call or an offer for an interview.)

Worst of all is that I'll probably never really know what the call was all about. I can't call back, and I doubt I'd get a reply to any emails. I think I need a primal scream.

Sisyphus goes to Granville

When I got home from my job interview this past Friday, I stopped home for a few minutes to check email and get changed before going back out. While online, I noticed a comment on the blog from my old pal Liz. It said, "Not trying to burst your bubble, but Granville is one of the most depressing places in the universe--Don't Move There."

Having just returned from Granville, I was in a position to either object or concur with Liz's analysis. I wholeheartedly concur.

Granville, New York, and its environs, the home of the Whitehall Times and the Granville Daily Sentinel, is the last stop on a long trip to nowhere. I'd heard about towns like this one: one main street lined with boarded up shops and seedy bars, a flashing yellow light marking the sole intersection. I used to think that places like this only existed in South Dakota or Oklahoma, but since Friday my Yankee snobbishness has been deflated a bit.

It took about three and a half hours to traverse the 180 miles between New Haven and Granville. My route took me along I-91 north to I-90, and then westward toward Lee, Massachusetts. From there I followed US-7 (passing The Mount along the way) through Pittsfield and Williamstown, Mass. and Bennington, Vermont. In the outlet store mecca of Manchester, Vt., I turned onto US-30 which led me to the New York border near the southern tip of Lake Champlain and Granville. I think it was somewhere along that last stretch of Route 30 that I realized the hopelessness and pointlessness of coming all this way for an interview. As pleasant as it was to be snaking through a Green Mounain valley in the grey afternoon light, passing silos and clusters of cows and three-wheeled pickup trucks, I knew that this wasn't where it was going to happen. I tried to console myself, saying inwardly, "Well, at least you'll be getting another interview under your belt," but I wasn't really encouraged. Any last vestige of optimism vanished when I crossed the New York border into Granville and passed the first of many sagging clapboard houses with porches littered with old mattresses, plastic tricycles and perhaps a toothless grandparent in a lawn chair.

The cruel irony of the situation is that the actual interview went very well and I could probably have the job if I wanted it. At one point, the editor of the papers asked me what I had been doing since I graduated, and I was obliged to tell him that I've been looking for a job and not doing much else. To that he said, "Well, looking at your resume and reading your writing samples, I'm surprised you haven't found anything yet." It's the story of my life. There's no overlap between the jobs that I can get and the jobs that I want. It's not a Ven diagram, it's two totally separate circles.

After the 30-minute interview, I left Granville. It was 4:21, already getting on toward dusk. It was a long ride home, and a dark one.

Please forgive me for the title of this post. But by this point it should be obvious that I'm compelled to resort to awkwardly pretentious allusion whenever I don't have anything creative to say.

Deadlines/milestones

I have a bizarre habit of subdividing my existence. By that I mean that I tend to look at the future not as one vast unbroken line, but rather as a series of much smaller chunks linked together. If there's some event that I'm looking forward to (say, a vacation), I set up a mental countdown to the start of the event, and any unpleasant obligation that falls before it (a dentist appointment, for example) is an obstacle to overcome en route to the prize at the finish line. I suppose it makes life more manageable, and goals more achieveable. I have been noticing this mental tic over the past few months, and perhaps as a result it has been particularly pronounced.

I first became aware of this tendency on the first day of my trip in Europe. I remember standing in line at the Eiffel Tower, mere hours after landing in France, in a state of total desperation. Paris was making me extremely uncomfortable--it was hot, people spoke a strange language, my hotel room was tiny. And here I was with a month of travelling ahead of me. I was mortified. So as I waited in line for the Eiffel Tower elevator, I mentally distilled my travel itinerary into a set of manageable pieces. 7 days in Paris, 3 days in Belgium, 4 days in Amsterdam, 1 day in Munich, 1 day in Vienna, 2 days in Turin, 2 days in Genoa, 2 days in London, then home. The sequence became a mantra in my head, and I repeatedly counted out the days on my fingers (I must have looked to the tourists around me like a pianoless pianist limbering up before an imaginary concert). However it looked, the technique did the trick. I found it soothing to think of my trip as a series of sprints rather than as one long marathon. Gradually--by the time I got to Amsterdam, I'd say--I became much less neurotic. I grew accustomed to being unable to communicate, and the exhausting lifestyle of a shoestring backpacker became my reality. But every so often a particularly raw moment would come along and out would come my ten trusty digits to count out the days left until I'd be back in my own bed.

My current predicament is much different than my European adventure. Most obviously, there's no particular end in sight--no plane ticket hibernating in my billfold with a date of return stamped on it in bold black ink. Plus, it's harder to divide up my time now because my life is utterly without structure. For whatever reason, weeks are too short to be productive units. And it's hard to plan out an entire month.

Basically, my tactic has been to measure my progress against the progress of others who have tread similar paths. For instance, a friend of mine who graduated college a year before I did moved to Washington, D.C. during the October following her graduation, but was unemployed in D.C. until February. Back in September, I figured I'd try to adhere to her schedule and move out in October. The deadline came and went. So I revised my plan to nail down a job by February. That milestone is now frighteningly close, and I shudder to think about what the next two weeks will be like.

But stop the presses! In the 11th hour, here came a sign that I might not be the only person on Earth to be jobless for so much time after graduation. I was speaking to a friend the other day, and he told me that a sibling of his was living at home without a job until the April after graduation day. That gives me at least two more months! Phew. (The day after talking to him, I read in article in Newsweek that stated that Howard Dean had taken 10 months off after graduating from Yale to ski and party in Aspen. I'm only in month 8.)

I've got an interview tomorrow. It's at a small newspaper in Granville, NY, which is about 4 hours away. I'm trying to go in with an open mind. At this point, there's nothing else on the horizon.

You know what, scratch that last line. If this interview tomorrow doesn't work out, next week will be go time. Bright and early Monday I'll hit the electronic pavement, and maybe even the actual pavement. If I need to set the sights a little lower, so be it. I'm going to make that goddam January 31 deadline if it...well, you know.

A day in the city

I'm going to try to jot this one off quickly because, once again, it's been several days since I've written, and, once again, I'm leaving shortly for a night at the bar to piss away another fraction of my modest savings.

Today I spent the day in New York City. I wasn't there for an interview. I was there with my aunt to have lunch and see a play (rather, a musical--"Hairspray") under the auspices of celebrating my 23rd birthday.

While I was in New York, I saw no fewer than two people from my college graduating class on the street and in the train station. These sightings didn't come as a surprise, but rather as confirmation of an entirely expected eventuality. I knew that I was likely to be in the presence of thousands of people today, and I don't know the first thing about statistics but I know that it'd be unusual if I didn't see someone I recognized. I was not a friend of either of these two (both male) former classmates, but knew their faces from classes or activities or facebook stalking.

Both were impeccably dressed--and moreover, they could have been wearing clothes from the same closet. They wore long wool coats, one black and one tan. The coats covered dark two-piece suits, which in turn covered crisp shirts in pink or purple or dark blue. They wore neckties that were probably paired with their shirts in the Brooks Brothers window. These guys weren't skimping on the accessories, either. One carried a black leather satchel, one a black umbrella with a curved wooden handle. Both had iPod earphones nestled in their ears. Two graduates of the Yale College Class of 2005, up-and-coming financiers or consultants, proudly displaying the plumage of yuppiedom.

As I said, I'm trying to jot this one off quickly (I'm already late). I don't know how the above paragraph is going to read, but I don't intend for it to convey cynicism. If there's one thing I got out of my day in New York (other than a stomachache from the pizza at lunch and an earful of campy showtunes) it was another healthy dose of bright green envy of my classmates who are already making their way in the world.

As I walked around midtown Manhattan, I imagined that I was there not as a tourist but as a professional. I hustled across the street before the white man even lit up; I silently disdained anyone who had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to gawk up at the neon lights; I slid my Metrocard through the slot like I was shaking hands with an old buddy. Names flashed through my head: Newsweek, Doubleday, The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, Random House, The New Yorker. Even in my fleece jacket and jeans, I slipped effortlessly into my fantasy existence.

We took the 5:16 train back to New Haven. It was after 7 when we got into our car in the Union Station parking lot. For a second, I thought "so this is what it's like to get home after a long day at work in the big city." Then I realized that I sounded like a 12-year-old. Full of hope, but hopelessly naive.

Boy, am I late.

One step forward, two steps back

Submitting my application to Newsweek was pretty much the last substantive thing I've done on the job front in days. What's happening to January? I had such high hopes. I made a promise to myself.

I had two interviews lined up for next week. Notice the past tense--one has been canceled. The job was a tutoring gig for an east coast-based company, and I was supposed to drive out to White Plains on Tuesday to give a mock lesson. But I got an email on Friday telling me that the company decided not to expand into the New Haven area. My invitation to interview was rescinded. So much for my back-up plan.

The other interview (which has yet to be canceled) is in upstate New York, at a small newspaper. I don't know what to make of it. [In truth, I'm trying really hard not to admit the fact that it really isn't what I'm looking for.]

Maybe I should just start the damn novel. I haven't even attempted to write fiction in more than two years. (The last occasion was during my sophomore year creative writing course, which turned out to be a pretty soul-sucking experience. My designated tutor was an incredibly aloof thirty-something guy who commuted from New York City. Through a combination of disinterested comments and restless body language he almost succeeded in destroying every ounce of confidence and creativity in my body.) I've got a truckload of ideas floating around in my head and scribbled into pocket-sized notebooks. Stagnation is the only thing keeping me from getting to work on my first grand creative work, and that's hardly an excuse.

I'm tempted now to go down the familiar road of "what have these past months been about" with perhaps a detour into the land of "facing reality and navigating the intersection of one's potential and one's desires." But I'll put off that trip until another day. It's late, and I'm in no shape for philosophizing.

Dunzo

I submitted my Newsweek application. Whatever. My feelings about this situation are pretty clear at this point. Below you'll find the text of my cover letter. I haven't altered it, so if there are any grammatical or syntactical errors it's just that much less likely that I'll get an interview for this job. (Stay tuned after the letter or scroll down below for a sad/funny appendix to this post.)

It is a great privilege for me to have the opportunity to apply to work as an editorial assistant at Newsweek Magazine. Newsweek has played a formative role in my life: plainly, it has taught me what news is and ignited in me a passion for the pursuit of information that I am sure will never burn out. I grew up in a household that subscribed to the magazine, and my earliest memories of major events and news stories come from the covers and pages of Newsweek. It would be the fulfillment of an almost lifelong ambition to be chosen to join the ranks of Newsweek’s dedicated staff.

I was 15 years old in January of 1998, and by that time I was reading Newsweek from cover to cover on a weekly basis. But when Monica Lewinsky’s beaming headshot appeared on the cover of the magazine, I felt the thrill of being aware of and able to analyze major historical events as they happened for the first time in my life. Newsweek was my guide through this complicated, and often treacherous, chain of events. I wished that the Clinton impeachment scandal would never end because I couldn’t imagine that anything so captivating would happen again. Of course, there have many indelible historical occasions since then: the presidential election of 2000; the terrorist attacks of 9/11; war in Afghanistan and Iraq; Hurricane Katrina; and so much in between. I have come to rely on an array of diverse news sources since 1998, but Newsweek Magazine continues to be the first place I turn to for thorough and intelligent reporting. I can only hope to be given the opportunity to make my own small contribution to this great publication, and thereby pay it back for its service to me over the years.

I am fully confident that I would make an excellent addition to the staff of Newsweek Magazine. As an English major at Yale University, I developed an appreciation for good writing, and I strive to write well at all times. As an editorial assistant, I will handle each story list, piece of correspondence and any other written task with great care and great efficiency. In addition to my writing abilities, I would bring to this position a significant amount of practical experience in journalism. I served for four years as a member of the editorial board of the weekly newspaper at Yale University. At various points during that period I was responsible for nearly every aspect of newspaper production—from conducting story meetings to copyediting, and everything in between. I have also gained experience working in a major daily newsroom, as an intern on the City Desk of the Toledo Blade, the daily newspaper in Toledo, Ohio. It was at The Blade that I gained real world experience juggling multiple assignments and deadlines without ever sacrificing quality. In sum, I have managed every aspect of the production of a small-scale publication, witnessed the publication process in action from the inside of a mid-sized publication, and am now ready to take the final step to a publication with a global readership.

I can say without hesitation that my enthusiasm for this editorial assistant position is unmatched. I hope that I have adequately conveyed to you my eagerness to join the staff of Newsweek, and convinced you of my ability to meet the demands of this position. If I am hired, I can assure you that my commitment to excellence will be evident from the moment I set foot on the newsroom floor, and will remain undiminished for as long as I am employed by the magazine.

In regards to my salary requirements, I believe this position warrants between $25,000 and $30,000 annually, but I would certainly be flexible on this point as I wouldn’t want a number alone to exclude me from further consideration.

Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon to schedule an interview.

It's a little heavy on the Newsweek nostalgia, I know. But I couldn't for the life of me think of a decent hook (I didn't want this to be just another cut-and-pasted form letter), and I think the letter reads well enough. So that's that.

About 10 seconds after I electronically submitted my application, I received the following response:

From: Newsweek Resume

We have received your resume regarding employment opportunities at Newsweek. We will review your information and will contact you directly if further information or interviews are needed.

Thank you for your interest in Newsweek.

The Human Resources Department

I'm always harping about how all I really want is an acknowledgement that someone has received my application. But now I find that this email has sentenced my righteousness to death. Those smug bastards have the upper hand and there's nothing I can do about it! Any attempt at a follow-up on my part would constitute a direct violation of Newsweek's code of conduct.

So I'm left to assume that this will be the last I'll hear about this job. If it's not...well, I'll eat my hat.

Manic Monday

I finally got around to downloading iTunes the other day (2 years ago called, I know). My first order of business was to fulfill my longtime desire to create a Days of the Week mix. One song about every day, and a few other thematically appropriate tunes (Smashing Pumpkins' "Today," The Beatles' "8 Days a Week," etc.).

There is one unfortunate obstacle to fully realizing the mix: Thursday. I've known for a while that Thursday was going to be a problem. Almost every other day was a cinch. I didn't even need to research Monday, Tuesday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday. Wednesday took a little effort, but I was eventually able to dig up a cutesy Lisa Loeb ditty that did the trick. I was depending on iTunes to solve the Thursday problem, but my hopes were dashed after nearly an hour of furtive but ultimately futile searching. I found nothing usable, mostly because the few Thursday-titled songs weren't thematically about Thursday and they often didn't even include the word in their lyrics. It's sad, because the rest of the mix works so well (I think):

The Bangles, "Manic Monday"
The Rolling Stones, "Ruby Tuesday"
Lisa Loeb, "Waiting for Wednesday"
-----------------------
The Cure, "It's Friday I'm in Love"
Elton John, "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting"
U2, "Sunday Bloody Sunday"

My mixological ambitions thwarted, I took to listening to the six other songs repeatedly as consolation. I think Friday is my favorite. But "Manic Monday" got me thinking: I'm probably one of few people in the country right now who actually looks forward to Monday. For most, Monday means getting up early, missing the bus, getting yelled at by a cruel boss or teacher--back to the grind. For me, every Monday is a rebirth. The previous week's failings and inactions have faded over the course of the weekend, and on Monday morning five whole days worth of possibilities stretch out in front of me. This, I find my self thinking, will be the week that it will happen (whatever "it" is). I always get up early on Mondays just to get a head start.

Is it obvious that I'm getting bored with myself? How could it not be?

Back to music, I bought two albums today: Fiona Apple, "Extraordinary Machine" and Bloc Party, "Silent Alarm." Both purchased after a combination of iTunes research and consultation from a few music aficionado friends.

It's January 9. January 31 is...[calculating]...about three weeks away. Can I do it? I want to do it. I want this phase of my life to be over so badly. So badly. So. Badly.

Lethargy as usual

For whatever reason, and in spite of the fact that the days of January are already starting to streak by, I don't have much to say about getting a job today. I'd much rather be talking about which movies/actors I think will get Oscar nominations.

It's that old familiar ennui creeping back again. It's like pulling on a favorite wool sweater once the cool fall weather sets in.

I've lined up two interviews since I've been up this morning (all of 15 minutes). One is with the Manchester Newspaper Group in upstate New York (near the Vermont border). The other is with a tutoring company with operations throughout the entire Northeast. It's been a veritable deluge of job activity, relatively speaking.

On deck, I have a couple of applications in to literary agencies for editorial assistant-type jobs. I'd say that those would be my most-preferred options at this point. I was almost going to decline the interview in upstate New York because...well, I can't really say. It's that same old story about how I don't really want to be writing about city council meetings and cats being rescued from trees for the next however long. That's not the track that'll get me to where I want to be, I think. Publishing, to me, has come to seem like a better springboard into writing/editing. But getting in on the ground floor is more of a challenge. Still, I've got high hopes for the two places I applied to. Fingers crossed.

After many words of encouragement, I've decided to submit an application to the Newsweek job. That'll be today's major task (after lunch). I really could stand to be spared another puncture wound to my pride and my soul, but other than that there's really nothing to lose. I definitely won't get the job if I don't apply, and even if my chances of getting it are microscopic, at least I can say I didn't wimp out. And when I make it really big I can publicly scoff at Newsweek for not even bothering to interview me back in the day.

I guess I did have a lot to say today, though it's not as taut as I might have liked. Here's one last anecdote: my friend Dave, who works in his dad's collectibles shop in town, said that the mother and father of an old friend of ours came in to buy a few things the other day. They told Dave that their son, our old friend, has a job working as an IT guy for some company in the area, and that he's the proud owner of a brand new BMW. They asked after several people that they hadn't seen in a while, and Dave provided updates where he could. When they got around to asking about me, the father said, "So, is Mike still waiting around for the perfect job to come along?"

In answer to your question, sir, I'd say yes, I am.

What's the point?

I've recently been faced with a decision that basically epitomizes the anguish I've been going through for the past four months.

Yesterday on Craigslist New York (in the writing/editing section), I came across the following posting:

Newsweek Magazine seeks an Editorial Assistant. As the Editorial Assistant, you will attend story meetings; write and edit story lists; field story list questions. You will also work with editors to obtain information; send out story lists on time; process guest agreements and contact guest writers. Other responsibilities as assigned.

The ideal candidate will have excellent writing skills preferably with an interest in journalism, international affairs or literature. Excellent editing skills and the ability to meet deadlines is a must. Proficiency in MS Word and Excel is required. College degree preferred.

Please email a resume and cover letter including salary requirements to resumes@newsweek.com. Please put "Editorial Assistant" in the subject line of your email.

Only those candidates to be interviewed will be contacted. Equal Opportunity Employer M/F/D/V.

I can't conceive of a more plum opportunity. This is exactly what I want to do: learn the ropes of writing and editing by being a fly on the wall of a major publication. I've got the skill set: Menial administrative stuff, get coffee for editors, juggle twenty different things at once, type-- no problems there! As for the requirements--interest in journalism and literature: check; editing and writing skills: check; ability to meet deadlines: check; profiency in Word and Excel: check; college degree: check plus.

And yet, I know without a doubt that there's a snowball's chance in Hell that I'll even be considered for this job. No way. Not a chance. Every job application-related experience that I've had since September is evidence in support of this belief. I've been ignored by far lesser operations than Newsweek Magazine. Plus, this job was posted on Craigslist! Every Tom, Dick and Jayson Blair will be applying. Spending the time to put together a cover letter and resume is an exercise in futility if ever there was one.

What I want to know is what it takes to get noticed by a place like Newsweek (or Entertainment Weekly, or The Chronicle of Philanthropy, or even goddam Points North Magazine in Atlanta, Georgia). Is it in the cover letter? Do I have to write a Greek tragedy about how failing to hire me will lead to the complete unravelling of the publication? Do I have to exploit everything I've ever done and insist that there has never been, and never will be again, a candidate as extraordinary as myself? Perhaps a Shakespearean sonnet would do. Or, is it in the resume? All this time, I've assumed that my six favorite letters--YALE B.A.--would unlock any doorknob I tried to turn. Talk about a fallacy. What does a winning resume look like? Does Newsweek only hire editorial assistants who have already worked as editorial assistants at Time and U.S. News & World Report?

As if I needed any extra incentive to not apply to this job, they've included my favorite line of all: "Only those candidates to be interviewed will be contacted." To me, that phrase translates into: "Don't even bother, we're not going to call you."

I'd be more than willing to sell out to get a job like this. I'll work for peanuts, I'll tell you exactly what you want to hear, I'll work 60 hours a week in a broom closet. If I can't hack it, if I'm not cut out for it, if I just plain suck, fine! I just wish that somebody somewhere would give me a chance to give it a shot. Then at least I'd be able to bring this farce to an end and put on my McDonald's visor with a sliver of my self-respect still intact.