Wow. For somebody with a fear of heights, I can appreciate your bravery! What we won't do for a story!
Chelle Koster Walton said:
I fondly remember the time my editor for Carnival Currents asked me to do a Mocko Jumbie trial run. In case you're not familiar, these are the stiltwalking carnival characters you find throughout the Afro-Caribbean.
"The first time is always frightening," Willard John, my instructor in St. Croix, assured me as he fastened 11-foot stilts above and below my knees with cloth strips. "[Students] survive only when their desire is greater than their fear."
I had expected the two-footers on which other instructors begin their (noticeably younger) students, once they've learned the principals of balance and, heaven forbid, falling. But like Willard, I was to have my first experience on long sticks. He delivered a lesson on the psychological aspects, whereby you learn that you're going to be scared stiff, pardon the pun, but that you WILL learn if you persevere. I WOULD stand and walk myself around the Christiansted bandstand railing (in full sight of downtown traffic!), Willard asserted. This is how beginners learn, with something to hang onto. They naturally let go when they are ready.
With more desire than fear, and a lot more exertion than I expected, I pulled myself eye level with the bright red berries of a Christmas palm tree. Willard took my hands and held me away from the railing, to demonstrate my center of gravity, "the key concept to the art." I took my first step.
"Don't DRAG the stilt, LIFT it," he told me for the first of repeated times. Feeling nothing like the graceful, towering, carefree characters I've witnessed on the Mocko Jumbie stage, I hung up my stilts after a dozen or so steps, exhausted. And yes, frightened. Certainly awkward. Not in the least bit superhuman like the African religious figures the Mockos descend from.
I fondly remember the time my editor for Carnival Currents asked me to do a Mocko Jumbie trial run. In case you're not familiar, these are the stiltwalking carnival characters you find throughout the Afro-Caribbean.
"The first time is always frightening," Willard John, my instructor in St. Croix, assured me as he fastened 11-foot stilts above and below my knees with cloth strips. "[Students] survive only when their desire is greater than their fear."
I had expected the two-footers on which other instructors begin their (noticeably younger) students, once they've learned the principals of balance and, heaven forbid, falling. But like Willard, I was to have my first experience on long sticks. He delivered a lesson on the psychological aspects, whereby you learn that you're going to be scared stiff, pardon the pun, but that you WILL learn if you persevere. I WOULD stand and walk myself around the Christiansted bandstand railing (in full sight of downtown traffic!), Willard asserted. This is how beginners learn, with something to hang onto. They naturally let go when they are ready.
With more desire than fear, and a lot more exertion than I expected, I pulled myself eye level with the bright red berries of a Christmas palm tree. Willard took my hands and held me away from the railing, to demonstrate my center of gravity, "the key concept to the art." I took my first step.
"Don't DRAG the stilt, LIFT it," he told me for the first of repeated times. Feeling nothing like the graceful, towering, carefree characters I've witnessed on the Mocko Jumbie stage, I hung up my stilts after a dozen or so steps, exhausted. And yes, frightened. Certainly awkward. Not in the least bit superhuman like the African religious figures the Mockos descend from.
Don't you love when editorial is driven by advertisers!
Ed Wetschler said:
I was supposed to write about a Caribbean resort that was coming back from a hurricane, so I visited the resort and found that its reopening had been delayed. How long, asks I? Confidentially, says the p.r. rep, a year. My editor thanked me for the inside information and for not making the publication pay for a story that it couldn't/shouldn't run.
A few days later, the publisher insisted that I write up the resort anyway and make it seem as if the place would reopen soon, certain that this would result in an ad. The p.r. rep told me that this would be a bad thing to do, and when someone representing a property tells you that he/she doesn't want coverage, you should listen. So I told the publisher that we shouldn't do this, you don't need to pay me, and you sure as hell don't need to look bad.
The publisher still insisted that I write the story. I refused. This went back and forth for several weeks before he/she finally grokked that I wasn't going to write the story. In the end, it wasn't the assignment that was wacky, but the publisher. Now, I know what you're thinking: A pushy publisher? An unscrupulous publisher? Hard to believe.
Several years ago I was asked to help out with a travel guide for a major pharmaceutical corporation. You're wondering, "um, a travel guide for a drug company?" The pills in question were for bladder control, and the booklet Where to Stop, Where To Go was part of the company's marketing campaign, designed to provide touristic overviews and itineraries in top U.S. cities, interwoven with the best pit stops along the way. At first I was both amused and slightly mortified by the prospect, and couldn't help wondering, "To pee or not to pee? That is the question."
The answer turned out to be not so hard -- the pay was considerably better than average, and in a strange way I figured this was a worthy if someone unusual public service of sorts -- so I figured, what the heck, I'd go with the flow, so to speak. And thus it was that one summer I found myself tromping and driving around the tourist tracks of several U.S. cities, including Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Orlando, Seattle, and Chicago, seeking out bathrooms, restrooms, toilets, loos, johns, comfort stations, WCs, whatever fine moniker you wish to use. The fieldwork yielded nothing particularly amusing or outrageous, alas -- despite a run-in with an automated toilet near Pike Place Market and my feeling of disgust at the heartlessness of just about every single establishment along Millennium Park, posting stern signs reading "Rest rooms for customers only!"
By the way, you can still get a copy of this little gem at outlets such as the National Association for Continence Web site (www.nafc.org). Enjoy.
So anyway, if memory serves, I never did manage to make it over to Europe that summer as I'd intended, but instead of Euro-travel, at least I got in plenty of uro-travel...
I was supposed to write about a Caribbean resort that was coming back from a hurricane, so I visited the resort and found that its reopening had been delayed. How long, asks I? Confidentially, says the p.r. rep, a year. My editor thanked me for the inside information and for not making the publication pay for a story that it couldn't/shouldn't run.
A few days later, the publisher insisted that I write up the resort anyway and make it seem as if the place would reopen soon, certain that this would result in an ad. The p.r. rep told me that this would be a bad thing to do, and when someone representing a property tells you that he/she doesn't want coverage, you should listen. So I told the publisher that we shouldn't do this, you don't need to pay me, and you sure as hell don't need to look bad.
The publisher still insisted that I write the story. I refused. This went back and forth for several weeks before he/she finally grokked that I wasn't going to write the story. In the end, it wasn't the assignment that was wacky, but the publisher. Now, I know what you're thinking: A pushy publisher? An unscrupulous publisher? Hard to believe.
I've twice gone iceberg watching, but both times I sold the editor on the idea.
On my last trip when the cruise I was to go on was cancelled because of bad weather, I found a lobster fisherman who loaned his boat - and a friend to handle it. I was five miles out in the North Atlantic, bouncing off white caps, unable to tell if the water was coming from the blinding rain or the waves, when the guy handling the boat started to tell me all the ways we could be killed by the iceberg: if it tipped, if it suddenly broke up, if part fell off, if, if, if ... I started to think I wasn't being paid enough for the feature.
Replies
Chelle Koster Walton said:
"The first time is always frightening," Willard John, my instructor in St. Croix, assured me as he fastened 11-foot stilts above and below my knees with cloth strips. "[Students] survive only when their desire is greater than their fear."
I had expected the two-footers on which other instructors begin their (noticeably younger) students, once they've learned the principals of balance and, heaven forbid, falling. But like Willard, I was to have my first experience on long sticks. He delivered a lesson on the psychological aspects, whereby you learn that you're going to be scared stiff, pardon the pun, but that you WILL learn if you persevere. I WOULD stand and walk myself around the Christiansted bandstand railing (in full sight of downtown traffic!), Willard asserted. This is how beginners learn, with something to hang onto. They naturally let go when they are ready.
With more desire than fear, and a lot more exertion than I expected, I pulled myself eye level with the bright red berries of a Christmas palm tree. Willard took my hands and held me away from the railing, to demonstrate my center of gravity, "the key concept to the art." I took my first step.
"Don't DRAG the stilt, LIFT it," he told me for the first of repeated times. Feeling nothing like the graceful, towering, carefree characters I've witnessed on the Mocko Jumbie stage, I hung up my stilts after a dozen or so steps, exhausted. And yes, frightened. Certainly awkward. Not in the least bit superhuman like the African religious figures the Mockos descend from.
Ed Wetschler said:
The answer turned out to be not so hard -- the pay was considerably better than average, and in a strange way I figured this was a worthy if someone unusual public service of sorts -- so I figured, what the heck, I'd go with the flow, so to speak. And thus it was that one summer I found myself tromping and driving around the tourist tracks of several U.S. cities, including Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Orlando, Seattle, and Chicago, seeking out bathrooms, restrooms, toilets, loos, johns, comfort stations, WCs, whatever fine moniker you wish to use. The fieldwork yielded nothing particularly amusing or outrageous, alas -- despite a run-in with an automated toilet near Pike Place Market and my feeling of disgust at the heartlessness of just about every single establishment along Millennium Park, posting stern signs reading "Rest rooms for customers only!"
By the way, you can still get a copy of this little gem at outlets such as the National Association for Continence Web site (www.nafc.org). Enjoy.
So anyway, if memory serves, I never did manage to make it over to Europe that summer as I'd intended, but instead of Euro-travel, at least I got in plenty of uro-travel...
A few days later, the publisher insisted that I write up the resort anyway and make it seem as if the place would reopen soon, certain that this would result in an ad. The p.r. rep told me that this would be a bad thing to do, and when someone representing a property tells you that he/she doesn't want coverage, you should listen. So I told the publisher that we shouldn't do this, you don't need to pay me, and you sure as hell don't need to look bad.
The publisher still insisted that I write the story. I refused. This went back and forth for several weeks before he/she finally grokked that I wasn't going to write the story. In the end, it wasn't the assignment that was wacky, but the publisher. Now, I know what you're thinking: A pushy publisher? An unscrupulous publisher? Hard to believe.
On my last trip when the cruise I was to go on was cancelled because of bad weather, I found a lobster fisherman who loaned his boat - and a friend to handle it. I was five miles out in the North Atlantic, bouncing off white caps, unable to tell if the water was coming from the blinding rain or the waves, when the guy handling the boat started to tell me all the ways we could be killed by the iceberg: if it tipped, if it suddenly broke up, if part fell off, if, if, if ... I started to think I wasn't being paid enough for the feature.
Allan Lynch
Nova Scotia
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