By Jennifer Topper

Darkish, twisted, and outrageous, 29 Jobs and one million Lies is a glimpse at counterculture's underbelly and makes an attempt to be successful inside that global. From demented B-movie, roach-infested movie creation places of work chock packed with freakish characters to the Cannes movie pageant; from beginning a punk rock checklist label to its demanding yet inevitable crash; from a filthy, Greenwich Village eating place kitchen to failed makes an attempt at becoming a member of the military, you gotta ask, what is a pleasant lady from the suburbs doing all of this soiled paintings for.

29 Jobs and 1000000 Lies is the gut-wrenching, self-deprecating account of the way ambition to face out used to be burnt up through clumsy offerings, immaturity and self-defeating righteousness. 29 Jobs is a post-GenX novel, other than it is real, and within the vein of Sarah Vowell, Chuck Klosterman, and Dave Eggers.

Jenn Topper is simply over the moon that she's published 29 Jobs and 1000000 Lies. Her first novel, Getting the previous Gang again jointly can be out quickly so please remain tuned. Jenn is a proud member of the 12 months 0 Writer's Collective the place there are lots of writers extra gifted than herself

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In retrospect, I suppose I realize why they were so surprised to hear from me a year after I left there as an intern. Maybe they didn’t know I was gone, because I don’t know if they knew I was there to begin with, or that I even left. In any event, they hired me immediately to be a casting so-and-so or a production-so-and-so for an infomercial that they were planning on producing. What? An infomercial? This is a bad, has-been, horror movie film company, home to Chopper Chicks in Zombietown, Class of Nuke ‘Em High, Sgt.

We packed into custom-designed coaches that drove up into the mountains to a castle on a private road overlooking the Mediterranean. The castle was virtually empty, except for a few huge couches. The entertainment was a troupe of nearly naked modern dancers, who pranced through the crowded rooms, whirling and writhing to blasting Euro-Electronica music piped in through invisible speakers. It was surreal. In a fleeting moment of compassion, my boss realized what an un-fun time I was having here in the temporary center of the world.

I had to buy a typewriter (ok, I didn’t buy it. I hocked a jacket that I borrowed from my roommate’s boyfriend in a trade for a typewriter) so I could learn to type some ridiculous amount of words per minutes in order to get a mailroom job. Actually, a mailroom job would have been more interesting. This job was like a sub-assistant of the lowest assistant in the agency. It wasn’t even as dignified as an assistant job, because at least that holds some responsibility. I forgot what they called it, a floater or something, but something just didn’t work out with me.

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