WE ARE NOR IN OFFICIAL MTV TERRITORY. WE ARE HERDED INTO A COVERED PAVILION WHERE WE ARE each handed manila envelope. Its contents: a sheet explaining the audition process (incidentally the first piece of hard evidence assuring us that we are actually in line to become VJs), a complicated and unwieldy set of release forms, an assortment of questionnaire survey-applications and a leaky Papermate pen. Written on our envelopes is our official audition number. Mine? 24601.

The crowd comes to life and so do we. It's show time, time to strut our stuff, to flex our creative genius. If we're going to win this thing, it's clearly not going to be on the basis of our rugged good lucks. We need to demonstrate some intellectual spark. We tear into the application.

After the usual background questions, I hit the first substantive query: "Why do you want to be an MTV VJ?" Pretty standard. I should have seen it coming. I have no idea what to write. I skip to the next one.

"What makes you different from all the other people on line today?" I survey the motley crew surrounding me. This should be easy. I wrack my brain for a witty response. I've got nothing.

"List the last five CDs you've purchased." All right, a factual question. I start writing.

"Van Morrison's Greatest Hits, Steve Winwood's Back in the High Life, Miles Davis' Round Midnight..." This doesn't exactly mirror the play-list on "Total Request Live." This isn't going well. I glance over at Aaron's app. He's cruising.

What makes him different? "I am the only guy here who has been kissed by Debbie Matenopolous."

What was the first record he ever bought? "The Aaron song by Captain Kangaroo." How hip, how irreverent. I'm very jealous. I check in with Josh.

"Josh, what are you writing?"

"I know what they're looking for," he assures me. I peruse his answers. The words "Puff Daddy" appear in every one.

While we work our magic, the ropes guide the line back-and-forth. I begin to fantasize that our ordeal will culminate in a ride on Space Mountain, but I am sorely disappointed. Instead, our reward for successfully navigating the rat maze and completing our applications is a good old-fashioned strip search. At the very front of the line, a team of security guards is closely inspecting each auditioner. Apparently MTV is concerned that someone may try to beat some humility into Carson Daly's smug noggin.

I show the guard the contents of my backpack and raise my arms. For the next minute I enjoy a rough fullbody massage as he pats me down looking for automatic weapons. Next to me, Aaron is not doing so well. I hear the familiar snap of latex and avert my eyes.