Hot on the heels of the Iceberg shoot, I was ready to cash in on high fashion. A few hours later, I met with friends in Little Italy for a much-needed non-svelte Italian meal. After devouring a pound of pasta and a half a pitcher of house red, I was game ready for my meeting at Calvin Klein. I was given my marching orders via my manager in Los Angeles, and all I knew of the meeting were two things. One, “Calvin Klein and his people” wanted to meet with me, and two, they were looking for a new face or…well, let's just stick with face for right now, for their men's underwear line. Seemed easy enough, after I showered, changed and put on some CK cologne, that's right, I was always one step ahead. I made my way to their headquarters to meet THE Calvin Klein and show my sweet-smelling, showered face to him and a few other good people there.

The meeting was unlike any other I'd experienced to this point in my life. A crisp, New York autumn night had fallen over the skyline of the city by the time I arrived. Once inside, I was warmly greeted in the lobby by someone's assistant. He could have been Calvin's assistant or for all I know, he could have been Andy's in accounting, I had no clue, but he knew who I was so I followed him upstairs to a waiting room that looked like what you would expect a waiting room to look like at Calvin Klein headquarters.

It was just a bit odd to me that there was no one else around. Maybe this is how the whole fashion industry worked—people only appeared when necessary. And apparently two minutes later, it once again became necessary, as the same assistant came back into the waiting room to let me know that “they” were ready for me. Not sure who “they” were and/or if I should be doing something to get “ready” as well, but before I could make any type of annoying prerequisite small talk, the power-walking assistant had reached a nondescript door and pointed me inside.

There I was greeted by two women who were standing in front of a rather large rack of what I would soon find out to be different styles of Calvin Klein underwear. The rack was situated in front of a massive room divider with Asian designs on it. The two women were very polite and much better at the prerequisite small talk than the assistant. After a few random questions about my hair and nationality, one of them looked me up and down, pulled a pair of basic black briefs from the rack and said, “Here, why don't you put these on, they'll want to see them first.” Then they turned to each other and started talking in a way that basically let me know they weren't planning on leaving the undie zone.

So, I slowly started to undress out of my best 90s grunge-era attire to gauge the privacy etiquette. I intentionally dropped the flannel that was strategically tied around my waist to the floor just to see if it would prompt them to exit, it didn't. So with that point taken, I proceeded to pile up my Pearl Jam wanna-be wear on the floor and changed into the skintight black briefs I was given. Seriously, if I would have applied them with super glue they would have been looser.

I stood there for a second, not sure what to do next, so I gave the courtesy clearing of the throat to let them know I was finished. The women turned and gave me a few surprised looks as if they hadn't even realized I'd been changing. Then one of them asked me if I was “ready.” Maybe this was the “ready” the assistant was talking about and if it was, I knew I wasn't.

She led me and my barely there black briefs out from behind the room divider. I was shocked to find that on the other side of it was a massive office with roughly 10 people situated on a large couch and chairs quizzically staring in my direction. After an awkward pause the woman presented me to the crowd with a rather monotoned rendition of “Dan Cortese.”

The people just looked at me in my underwear and I looked at them in their clothes wondering if I should be imagining them in their underwear. It worked for Jan Brady, so it was worth a shot. Unfortunately, all I was able to muster was a “What's up?” and I'm pretty sure my nerves caused me to swallow the “up,” so it probably sounded more like “whassuh.”

With that, someone from the couch said “Turn around, please.” I did as I was told, and as I looked toward the back of the room I remember hearing the rather audible sound of the pasta I inhaled for lunch rapidly making its way through my intestines. The same voice from the couch then said, “Thank you,” and the woman who announced me, quickly walked me back behind the divider.

This process repeated itself two more times, only with different styles and colors of underwear. To this day, I still have no idea if Calvin was even on the couch, or even Andy from accounting, for that matter. Needless to say, I didn't get the gig, but I was able to snag two pair of boxer briefs from the rack before I left, thanks to the fact that the two women didn't feel it was as necessary to watch me get dressed as it was to watch me undress.

Later that night, I was lying on the bed in my hotel room reflecting on my first day in the “fashion industry.” I came to the conclusion that as bizarre as the day may have seemed to me, I was grateful for it having happened. No matter how much of my circulation was restricted by the black briefs or how much of it was increased by my fluffed my lips, I was thankful for the opportunity. It was the type of day not too many people ever have a chance to experience. Plus, in my mind, free bagels and boxer briefs easily label any day as a success.