Junior Spooks

When not busy pirating movies, eagle-eyed Roger Friedman is paying attention to the ads placed on the New York Times’ home page, particularly the one for the CIA, of which he seems a little perplexed.  Whatever, at least they are HIRING. (Though “Clandestine Service” also sounds like code for prostitution.)

Friedman does rightly note if you click through there is a Kids’ Page and it is all kinds of wonderful, as indoctrination tools go.  There are games.  And links to oh man the Kids’ pages of all other intelligence agencies.  Just so that options may be weighed. It is Spy Kids IRL.

Tips On Hacky Travel Writing

Oh, there are so many ways in which to make travel writing a tedious, cliché-laden affair.  World Hum has published a how-not-to for those aspiring to the trade.  A select tip:

Try not to have much of a point. In some travel magazines and newspaper travel sections editors like articles to have something called an angle—a perspective—and normally it should be as fresh and unique as possible. The “nut graph,” an oddly named anatomical literary part, comes toward the end of an article’s intro and states the focus of the article. It tells the reader where this article is going and it helps you, the writer, craft a piece that stays focused. But in this case, you don’t need a nut graph. Instead, craft a narrative that involves a play-by-play of everything that happened on your trip.

And on the helpful tips go.  Bon Voyage! [via Utne/Great Writing]

Water Park Follies

Have you been looking for an amateur video that somehow combines the  infectious fun of a Bollywood dance number with  the collegial, Spring Break shenanigans of a wet t-shirt contest?  But with dudes?   Boom!  Here’s your YouTube clip.

You may be tempted to mock these guys.  (Oh, it seems some of that brave band of anthropological scholars collectively known as YouTube commenters did!  Oof.)   Think fast:  what was the last party at your company like?  Did the boss deign to pick up the happy hour tab at O’Drinksies off Route 8, and maybe throw in a lukewarm, greasy plate of chicken wings?  Or maybe just sparkling wine  and a wan crudite platter in the boardroom?  Water Park wins it every time.

[via Uncoached]

Dreams Deferred: The Lips and Assholes Across America Tour

Sometime shortly after I graduated college with a BFA in Theatre and no foreseeable job prospects I devised “the plan.”  Instead of attempting to start a “career” as a “working actor” I’d apply to drive the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. An interim measure that would surely give me “life experience.”  I’d be able to see the country.  I’d earn a decent wage.  Best of all, I’d be driving a physical embodiment of pop culture.  Americana.  My adoration for kitsch had no bounds so the idea seemed perfect.  It would be, at the very least, a memorable adventure.  I had given the scheme a title in my mind:  The Lips and Assholes Across America Tour™.

I requested an application and did some research.  The actual title of the position, should I get it, was “Hotdogger.”  I’d be paired up with another “Hotdogger” and given a specific region of the country to cover, doling out Wienerwhistles while the gratingly perky theme song — “Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener…” — lured young and old to us like veritable Pied Pipers of pork by-products.  But before a Hotdogger is set loose on the highways and byways of America, they must attend “Hot Dog High” in Madison, Wisconsin.  Besides learning the mechanics of piloting the unwieldy vehicle, it would also be a sort of indoctrination program into all things Oscar Mayer.  Brand ambassadorship.  How to give good press and pose for photos with the masses. Which was the duty of a Hotdogger.  To represent at football games and grocery store openings.  Main street parades. It was a position of, not exactly status, but there was a cache of sorts.  Not that I envisioned Wienermobile groupies.  Still, it was a hot dog-shaped pedestal on which to place myself.

The irony is that, growing up, I never ate hot dogs.  I detested them as a kid.  And as they were a staple of most children’s birthday parties, I either feigned that I wasn’t hungry or would accept the proffered dog, then find an opportune time to chuck it in the trash, subsisting on the bun and condiments alone. (Well, till the cake was cut and served.)  But Oscar Mayer needn’t know that.

My Lies Made the Children Cry

“What was that story about you at the zoo, where you made the kid cry?” my sister asked casually, while we were sipping cocktails on our hotel deck. “They made you a button.”

“Huh? Oh, right: My lies make the children cry.”

“That’s it!”

Yes, that was it. But for context: It was the second summer I was working as an actor at the Central Park Zoo, as part of Wildlife Theater. We performed short, informative audience participation shows for kids in both the children’s and main zoo. I’ve mentioned the gig before. As part of our zoo duties we were called on to narrate the three daily sea lion feedings. This was, in retrospect, one of the best parts of the job. It beat sitting cross-legged in the children’s zoo, hand up a puppet’s ass, singing a patter song. During most of the year the volunteers had the honor narrating of the feeds, but come summer our little troupe would take the mic and explain all the behaviors the sea lions engaged in during the feeds. This caused some friction between the volunteers and the actors, see, because we were allowed in the habitat. Up on the ladder. While the volunteers, mostly retired or semi-retired ladies and a few men, would be stationed on the ground, lest they fall and break a thing. I guess they weren’t insured? I suppose we were.

Anyway, the day in question I was up on the ladder, sun blazing down on me mercilessly, dressed in the oh-so-appealing khaki shorts and embroidered polo that was our uniform. The girls — meaning the sea lions, the three in Central Park are female– were in their various positions, going through their learned behaviors with the keepers and snarfing down fish. Doing the feed is not as easy as it sounds. Not only do you have to keep an eye on each individual sea lion and explicate the individual behavior to the audience from a set of memorized notes, but sometimes the feeds go long and when you run out of the ancillary facts, none of which I’ve managed to retain or I’d dole them out now, you just, well, have to vamp. In this instance, I’m midway through the spiel, sweat dripping down my brow, when I look down to my left and see this Hispanic woman frantically flapping her arms at me. Here’s the thing, on a good day the crowds can number between the mid-hundreds to the low-thousands. A sea of watchers completely encircling the pool. And the sound system is often futzy. Inevitably people in the crowd shout questions at you, imloring you to repeat something, flinging requests, what have you. All you really can do is to smile, nod, and keep plowing on, ignoring the patrons, or the whole feed will devolve into an utter train wreck. Still, this particular woman was insistent. I think I even gave her the “I’ll be happy to talk to you after but not now” palm-out hand signal.