Like most decisions I make when I'm drunk, my decision to go to Career Day was a bad one. It was about two months ago and I was getting looped at a bar on the Lower East side when I encountered an old college friend. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and when we arrived at the subject of our jobs, I told her I worked for RollingStone.com. Her eyebrows shot up. As I suspected, she was impressed. People always are.

"That must be cool," she said. I assured her that was the case, although it actually wasn't nearly as cool as I knew she was thinking it was. I explained I wasn't a writer for Rolling Stone, but merely sold advertising on the Web site.

"Yeah," she said. I could tell she was reconsidering her first impression. "But still, it's Rolling Stone, right?"

"Right."

She smiled, somehow relieved, somehow convinced my job was cool again. She thought it was so cool, in fact, that she asked me if I wanted to come to Career Day to talk to her class. She taught first grade in an elementary school in Queens.

Whenever I hear about people I know doing things like teaching children, I get a bad feeling. It's mostly a feeling of guilt that I'm not doing something as selfless and altruistic as being a teacher in Queens, but it's also a tiny bit of horror that someone I know is crazy enough to take a job as low paying as being a teacher in Queens -- not only low-paying, but difficult, too. Then, layered on top of that, there is another feeling of guilt because I am actually shallow enough to think like that.

So there I was at the bar, rendered vulnerable by guilt and two martinis. I agreed to go. Then I bought my friend another drink, hoping if she got drunk enough she would forget she saw me when she woke up the next morning.

No such luck. Several weeks later I received an email with instructions on how to get to PS166Q in Long Island City. I considered trying to back out of it, but I knew no matter how I tried to explain myself, my friend would think I was a lying, self-absorbed jerk. Even worse, she would tell all her students and then an entire generation of kids would grow up knowing what a jerk I was. There was no way around it. I had to protect my reputation. I was going to career day.

People thought I was crazy to do it.

"You're going to do what?" laughed my coworker. It was the night before my act of martyrdom and we were having after-work drinks. "What in the world are you going to talk about?"

"My job. Obviously."

My coworker was of the opinion the students would not find my job very interesting.

"They probably don't know what Rolling Stone is. And how are you going to explain to a bunch of first graders about advertising sales for an internet site? How old are first graders, anyways?"

I wasn't sure. Very young.

"I mean, what are you going to do? Are you going to ask for a volunteer and pretend to 'cold call' an seven-year-old?"

"Screw you," I said, annoyed because I had actually considered doing that.

"You know what I'd do if I were you? I'd lie. Lie and tell them you do something really cool."

I protested, "But I do have a cool job."

He snorted.

When I stepped off the N train in Long Island City at 8.30 a.m. the next morning, I was not in a good mood. I was tired and I had a bad hangover due to some half-baked plan that if I got drunk enough, I would sleep through my alarm and avoid the horror of Career Day altogether.

I was so nervous about talking to kids I thought I might vomit. Try as I might, I couldn't think of any way to describe my job to children. They didn't read Rolling Stone magazine and they definitely didn't read it online. And even if they did, what would first graders know about rich media and page views? What's more, what would they care? On the way out of my apartment that morning, I had grabbed a few issues of Rolling Stone from the stack of magazines beside my toilet. If push came to shove, I could always show them pictures.

PS166Q squats on an entire block, a massive gray and brown fortress with the aesthetic appeal of a lump of clay. On that particular morning, in the gray and rainy weather, it had the menacing look of a prison. The shriek of a child's laughter came from inside. It sent shivers down my spine. Standing before the entrance, my shoulders hunched against the light rain, I wondered if I would make it out of there alive.

Inside, a woman dressed in an unattractive beige suit greeted me and had me fill out a sticker with my name and career. Slapping the sticker on my jacket, I surveyed the other people in the room, curious to what types of professionals Career Day attracted. I wanted to see how I stacked up against them.

The woman sitting beside me was a nurse, judging by her white uniform. Whoop-dee- doo. That wasn't so special. Sitting beside her was a guy dressed in car-mechanic uniform, complete with authentic oil stains that I'm sure would fascinate the children to no end. To my right was a chubby woman with unfortunate looking hair who was holding a curling iron. Squinting to read her nametag, I almost laughed out loud when I saw she was a hairdresser. Behind her was a woman whose nametag said she worked for Con Edison. What was she going to do, demonstrate how to read a meter? And behind that was a school crossing guard....

I started to relax, feeling smug. I worked in pop-culture, man. I had my finger on the pulse of what was hip and cool. And these people . . . these people were living such simple lives. Their mundane jobs, their lack of dreams, their two-car garages and casserole dishes and PTA meetings -- my god, but I felt sorry for them.

My smugness had just settled in and was starting to get comfy when I noticed the man in the suit, the one who looked like Agent Smith from The Matrix. His nametag read "Special Agent" and although I didn't think there were such things as special agents outside of movies, the guy looked so much like a special agent that I had to believe it was true. The kids were going to worship him. I knew this because I instantly worshipped him, myself.

Then I noticed a police man and a fireman, looking remarkably impressive in their uniforms, as did the guys from the Navy and the Coast Guard. I remembered I used to want to be a Navy pilot. Another man walked into the room, wheeling a cart with a box full of Yankee baseball hats to give to the kids. I had no idea what he did, but whatever it was, he was going to be a big hit when he handed out all those hats.

My smugness started to vanish. I was beginning to get that weird feeling I sometimes get when I realize I've walked into the girl's bathroom by accident. Like maybe I didn't belong there.

Career Day was organized very loosely. The format called for all the participants to wander the hallways of the school, looking for classrooms with open doors. An open door meant there was no one speaking and we were free to enter. The lady in the beige suit urged us to keep our presentations down to 15 minutes, including questions.

"I'm sorry to cut it so short," she said, "but we want you to visit as many classrooms as possible." Was she joking? What in the hell was I going to talk about for fifteen whole minutes? I should have made a wager with her that I could visit the most classrooms out of anybody.

And then it happened, the moment I had been dreading: I was standing in front of a classroom full of miniature people. Correction: I was looming, not standing. In there, I was a giant. The miniature people stared up at me eagerly, like baby birds in the nest waiting for their mother to feed them.

Petrified, I backed away from them, stopping only when the tray of the chalkboard pressed against the backs of my thighs. I took a deep breath. I let it out, then took another one. The teacher was staring at me with a worried look on her face.

It was 'go' time.

"Children," I announced, my voice booming in the small confines of the classroom, "my name is Trevor Thompson and I am an astronaut."

Don't ask me why I said it; I wouldn't be able to tell you. But it went over like a bag of free candy. The class erupted in cheers and hollers and several kids pumped their fists in the air. One of the boys jumped up from his chair and hopped up and down like he had to pee.

"Please," I said, motioning them to be quiet. "I'm only joking. I actually sell advertising for RollingStone.com"

There was silence. For a moment, their smiles remained on their faces, leftovers from a happier time when they thought they were in the presence of an astronaut. Then they began to fall, one by one, like a row of dominoes. The teacher was staring at me as if I'd just whipped off my pants and shook my willy at them.

It was time for Plan B. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out one of the magazines I'd brought from home and flourished it above my head. "How many of you have heard of this magazine?" I bellowed.

All of the kids leaned forward to get a better look, large smiles creasing their faces. Interesting, I thought. I hadn't expected them to be so easily impressed. Emboldened by their interest, I was about to continue when I noticed the teacher shaking her head at me and making a cutting motion with her right hand across her neck. Confused, I glanced at the cover of the magazine and saw a picture of Jessica Simpson, clad in a tiny t-shirt and sexy white panties. She was sticking her butt out in a provocative pose that suggested she might want a big spanking. It was a fantastic picture, totally hot, and totally unsuitable for children.

"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry," I mumbled, my cheeks feeling like someone had just pressed hot washrags against them. Quickly, I stuffed the magazine back into the bag and grabbing the other one. Thankfully, there was no half-naked girl on it, only a bare-chested picture of Eminem. At least he was wearing pants. It would have to do.

"How many of you know who this is?" I asked. Most of the class raised their hands.

"That's wonderful," I said, shooting a nervous glance at the teacher. I half-expected she would be pointing her index finger to her head like a gun, or perhaps making a motion as if to strangle me.

"And how many of you know what advertising is?" I inquired. No one raised their hands. I had been afraid of this.

"You guys watch T.V., right? You've seen commercials for Pepsi and Coke and stuff, right?" All the kids nodded. Ok, I was on the right track.

"How many of you have used the Internet?" About ten kids raised their hands. "Well," I continued. "I sell advertising on the Internet. It's like selling commercials on TV, only it's . . . uh . . .it's on the Internet. And instead of commercials I sell banners . . . little areas of space on the Internet that are kind of like . . . well, it's the same idea as a TV commercial . . ." As my explanation circled on itself like a dog chasing its own tail, I noticed a few of the kids were looking at their teacher with confused expressions. Nervous sweat began to bead on my forehead.

"You guys have seen banners and buttons, right? And . . . pop-ups. You guys know what pop-ups are? No? Well, they suck, anyway, so it's ok if you don't . . ." Now the sweat was streaming down the side of my face. It felt like it was a hundred degrees in the room and I wondered if it would be inappropriate of me to go over to the window and I stammered along for a few more seconds before the teacher, in an act of mercy, came to my rescue.

"Perhaps you have a few questions for Mr. Thompson," she suggested to the kids. Dozens of hands shot into the air. I wiped at my forehead with my sleeve and gave her a grateful smile. A little girl in the back of the room was waving her arm excitedly.

"How much money do you make?" she asked.

"Julie!" the teacher snapped. "I thought we talked about the kind of questions we ask our visitors."

I laughed, not minding the question at all, and said, "Let's just say I make more than a fireman or a policeman does."

The teacher glared at me, so I hastily amended my statement. "Let's just say I make enough to live."

A girl with red bows in her hair asked, "Do you mean if you didn't work, you'd die?"

"Well, not exactly."

"But that's what you just said," insisted the girl with bows. A few of her classmates nodded.

"Well, I didn't mean it literally. What are you trying to do, trick me?"

The girl grinned at me, pleased with herself. I was pleased, too. As long as they were laughing, it meant they weren't bored.

I called on a boy sitting beside her. "What do you do at your job?" he asked.

I suppressed a smile. In every class, there's always that one kid who doesn't pay attention. In my most patient tone, I said, "I told you, already. I sell advertising, remember?" He looked at me blankly. I looked at the other kids and rolled my eyes, expecting them to join me in ridiculing their stupid classmate. Much to my dismay, they didn't show any signs they knew what I was talking about, either. My confidence, which for a moment had been raised to an acceptable level, plummeted.

They didn't care, though. Now that the first questions had been asked, other questions followed rapidly.

"Do you work for Eminem?"

"How old are your kids?"

"What's your favorite part about your job?

"How old are you?"

"Who was the girl in the underwear?"

"Do you have a boss?"

"Why do you work?"

"Why do I work?" I repeated. "Why? So I can buy things. So I can pay rent, buy food, buy shoes and socks and underwear."

At the mention of underwear, all the children made gagging faces and said, "oooooooh grooosssss."

"What?" I chuckled. "You guys don't wear underwear?"

At this point the teacher stepped forward and said sternly, "They do wear underwear, Mr. Thompson. We just don't talk about it in the classroom."

"Oh, right."

It hadn't been fifteen minutes, yet, but I sensed it was time to wrap it up. "Alright, one more question...."

I bolted from the room, absolutely soaked with sweat, and headed to the bathroom, where I splashed water on my face and tried to regulate my breathing. Dark stains spread from under my arms like half-moons. Using a paper towel, I reached under my shirt and wiped my armpits. The paper towel was about as soft and absorbent as cardboard and did nothing to alleviate the dampness. Staring at myself in the mirror, feeling like Eminem in 8 Mile, I tried to work up the courage to go to the next class.

I was going to have to change my strategy if I was going to survive. It was time to take my coworkers advice: ... It was time to start lying.

In the second class I visited, I told the kids I used to be a cowboy. Having grown up on a horse ranch, I knew much more about equines than I did about space flight, and therefore found it much easier to play a convincing cowboy than an astronaut. Not that I stopped introducing myself as an astronaut. It was a great way to get the kids' attention. Also, I took a perverse pleasure in knowing I had the power to make children so happy or so sad with such little effort. First, I'd tell them I was an astronaut. After their cheering subsided, I'd tell them I was really an Internet Salesman, which would almost shatter then with disappointment. Then, while they were totally depressed and perplexed, I'd strike with my cowboy story.

For those of you have never tried it, it's really easy to lie to children. Much easier than lying to, say, your girlfriend about why you forgot her birthday, or to your boss about why you couldn't provide an itemized receipt for your $700 dollar dinner with "clients." Kids ask simple questions: Do I like horses? How many horses do I have? Do I have a white horse? What is my favorite horse's name?

I kept my answers simple. "Yes, I have seen a white horse" or "I have 15 horses" or "my favorite horse's name is Shooter." When one girl asked me why I wasn't a cowboy any longer, I replied that it was because I had lost my favorite pair of cowboy boots. While these answers would not be satisfactory to most people, they were enough for eight-year-olds. They especially liked it when -- in probably the most spectacular moment of any of my performances that day -- I demonstrated how I could whinny just like a horse.

Not all my lies were successful. For example, when I told them I could go to any rock concert in the world for free, they were not impressed because none of them had been to a concert and most of them didn't know what a concert was. They were impressed, however, when I told them that I would often take naps while at my desk. Truthfully, I have never done this, but I have fantasized about it so often that when the kids asked me if I could show them my technique, I had no problem doing so. With an air of expertise, I pulled out a chair, sat with my back to them, and pretended to read a magazine on my lap (in actual practice, I explained, the magazine would be substituted for a legal document or some other formal, work-related piece of paper). I came up with the napping skit while visiting my friend's class, the one who invited me to Career Day. I don't think she was terribly impressed, but her kids loved it. They also loved it when I boasted I had a television on my desk and could watch it whenever I wanted.

I began to treat Career Day like a stand-up comedy show. Like a comic, I experimented with various material, keeping the lines that won a good reaction from the crowd and discarding the ones that didn't. The cowboy lie and the napping on the job demonstration were keepers; the crack about the children wearing underwear was not.

Nor was my line about how to make a horse gallop.

"You make a kissing noise and kick them with your heels," I said. To illustrate, I made a kissing noise. The kids giggled.

"Why does that make them run?" asked one girl.

"Well, wouldn't you run if I tried to kiss and kick you?" I asked. Even as I said it, I winced, wishing I could take it back. It didn't take the teacher looking like she had crapped her pants to let me know it was an inappropriate thing to say.

My downfall was the teachers, who did not find my stories about riding broncs and my horse noises as fascinating as their students did. If they had just let me alone and allowed me to entertain the children, I would have been fine. But no, they felt they had to take charge. After ten or fifteen questions and answers about horses, the teachers would usually interject with some inane question in an effort to steer me back on track.

"So, can you describe a typical day at your job?" they might ask. Or, "Did you always know you wanted to be in advertising sales?" Or, "How do you feel your job contributes to society?" I found these questions annoying, not only because my answers to them invariable bored both the kids and myself, but because they reminded me that I wasn't a Special Agent and probably didn't contribute to society in any useful way.

At first, I tried to answer cordially, but after over an hour of stressful performing while simultaneously dealing with an unending stream of stupid questions in six different classes, I finally broke down when a teacher had the nerve to ask, "Do you love your job?"

"No, I don't love my job," I retorted. "I love my paycheck, but that's about it."

The teacher was taken aback by my tone. After a moment of stunned silence, one kid -- probably the teacher's pet -- raised his hand and asked, "Why do you work at your job if you don't like it."

"Because I need money to pay my ridiculously high rent, that's why! Because the Nasdaq is below 1800 and there aren't any other jobs out there, despite what the misleading reports from the government say!" I yelled. The little brown-noser cowered in his chair. "You kids wait until you're out there on the market. Then you'll see."

The teacher did not appreciate my unsolicited lesson on the woes of economic recession. She coldly informed me the children would not be 'on the market' for another fourteen years.

"Thank you for visiting with us," she said, gesturing towards the door.

That was when I left, not just the classroom, but Career Day as a whole. Theoretically, I was supposed to stay around for another hour, but the thought of spending one more second trying to describe Internet advertising or, worse, lying to children, was more than I could bear. As I slinked through the empty hallways, I couldn't help but feel like I was cutting class. I began to pray I'd get out of the school without running into the principal of the school or any of the organizers of Career Day. Happening to glance in a classroom window I was ducking under, I noticed a police officer inside. He was grinning and gesturing wildly, no doubt re-enacting some dare-devil escapade involving car-chases and gunfire, while the children stared up at him with blind adoration. I bet he didn't have any doubts about whether or not his job contributed positively to society.

It was with a heavy heart I left PS166Q and headed back to Manhattan. Once free of the awful confines of the school, I thought I'd feel better. But I didn't. I felt ashamed -- not just for lying to kids and skipping out on the rest of Career Day, but because I couldn't shake the horrible feeling that I led a vapid, purposeless existence. I should be doing something more with my life than selling pixels. I should be doing something I would be proud to tell kids about.

So there I was, deep in a bout of self-pity on a train packed with a bunch of smelly people from Queens, when we pulled into the 59th street station. Never one to indulge too long in self-pity unless I thought it would win me attention, I recalled that Bloomingdale's was just above the station, so I jumped off and went inside the store and bought $400 dollars worth of clothes. After that, I felt a lot better. I mean, my job may be meaningless, but let's just see a fireman or a policeman spend $400 dollars and not even blink.

With two shopping bags clutched in my hands, I squared my shoulders, lifted my head, and headed back to my office for another day of cold calling.