Matt Bower's Blog, page 9

Misjuding the Limits of Imagination

Too many people completely misjudge the limits of imagination. One overused phrase that bothers me is "Man, you can't make that stuff up." Normally this ridiculous observation is shared whenever a human interest story involving a far-fetched twist is highlighted by television news. Here's an actual news headline: GOOD SAMARITAN FINDS MISSING WEDDING RING IN BAG OF NURTOMAX DOG FOOD. 
If that unlikely story of the unwitting consumer finding the wedding ring buried in a bag of dry dog food was aired on the news (it probably was), somebody watching—if not the news anchor himself—would inevitably declare, "Man, you can't make that stuff up."
YES. Yes, you CAN make that stuff up.
Here's another news headline: FLYING GRIZZLY BEAR ATTACKS MONGOLIAN CARNIVAL BARKER ON SATURN.
Crazier than the wedding ring/dog food story, right? Guess what? I made that stuff up.

The same lack of confidence in the left hemisphere of the human brain is on display many times during pivotal moments of high stakes sporting events. When Eli Manning marched the underdog New York Giants down field for the winning drive against the seeming invincible New England Patriots in Super Bowl 42, I guarantee some nitwit said "Man, even Hollywood couldn't come up with an ending like that."
Comon'. Dr. Stranglelove!? There Will Be Blood!? Even Rocky 5, for what it's worth.
I'm not a Hollywood screenwriter but let's say I scripted the following: Eli Manning's throwing arm is dismembered in a freak on-field blimp crash midway through the fourth quarter, but his shoulder is retrofitted with a makeshift robotic football-throwing cannon during the commercial break before he orchestrates the game-winning drive. The ensuing Gatorade bath enchants Tom Coughlin with wizard-like powers, so he waves his playbook and conjures a portal to Narnia.
You might be willing to admit that my fabricated ending was more unlikely than Manning hitting Plaxico Burress on a fade route for the go-ahead score.
Come to think of it, a successful fade route is highly unlikely.

Upgrading

The year 2000 was the year the Bower family caught up with the Joneses. Incidentally, this was also the year the Bower family overcame the dreaded Y2K bug. Remember how harrowing of an experience that was for all of us?Until the year 2000 life for the Bower family could've been measured by whatever shitty vehicle was parked in the driveway at the time. Here's another way to think of it: if the Bowers’ lifespan were represented by a highway, the stalled on the highway's shoulder secondhand Ford Astro Vans and sputtering station wagons would've served as mile markers. Here's a third, even less necessary way to think of it: if the Bowers' lifespan were represented by the depth of planet Earth from crust to core and I drilled until I hit the year my Little League team won the District 12 championship I would've bored into the coughing-and-hissing, rusty bumper Geo Metro layer. Despite the succession of crummy vehicles adorning the driveway, the Bowers were not a penniless family. Far from it. But my father was the sole breadwinner and he had 3 children and a wife to support. Dad drove a jalopy to work Monday-Friday to preserve adequate money to put well-rounded meals on the table or stuff plenty of Christmas gifts under the tree or take the family to Rehoboth Beach each summer. I could go on and on. The bottom line is my father had always sacrificed a decent vehicle for himself, to provide for his family. That is, until the year 2000…***That year Dad was promoted to vice president of Sun Bank, a small bank in Central PA. Accompanying the promotion was a healthy raise. He celebrated by immediately trading-in his 89' Ford Tempo Continental for a 98' Chevy Blazer. A Chevy Blazer is an "American as Grandma's apple pie" sports utility vehicle. Now, parked in front of 768 Mosquito Valley Road, was an S-U-V, just like the neighbors' next door, and the neighbors' two doors down, and so on. Yes, the Bower Family had caught up with the Joneses. (Footnote: There were no Joneses in Mosquito Valley. We lived next to the Fries', who lived next to the Stiabbs', who lived next to the Fergusons'; who lived next to the …it doesn't really matter. The point is that every other family owned a vehicle that was not only roomy enough to transport a family of five, but tough enough to pull a Sherman Tank out of a muddy bog while a Sam Elliot voiceover touted words like "torque" and "horsepower".)My father was immediately proud of his Chevy Blazer. ***During this time—the start of the Chevy Blazer layer of crust if you will—my friends and me spent many warm weekend nights camping at various locations of the Tiadaghton state forest. By "camping" I'm not talking about the honest-to-goodness catch a heap of brook trout to cook over the campfire, pitch a sturdy tent, live like a mountain man variety of camping. I'm talking about the lug two cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon several miles into the woods, pass-out on a stump, live like a frat bro variety of camping.  There was one camping spot in particular we frequented called Sharp Point Vista. Sharp Point Vista is one of the highest points in Pennsylvania, and many miles from the nearest settlement, let alone law enforcement post. Plus, the view is absolutely beautiful. Sharp Point Vista was only accessible by traversing several miles of rugged dirt roads. We planned to camp there one Saturday night but my friend's pick-up truck was having engine problems so…I decided to ask Dad if I could borrow the Blazer. He was not pleased at the prospect but I was persistent. I really wanted to camp, and party. Eventually he relented. I almost required a pry bar to wrest the keys from his clenched fingers. The camping experience itself was not unlike other nights at Sharp Point Vista. We tossed empty Pabst cans from the mountaintop and turned our ears downward for several seconds until they clanked off the rocks below; we sang awfully to classic rock tunes on my battery-powered radio; we woke up with headaches that a Sam Elliot voiceover would've described using words like "torque" and "horsepower." Those were the days!Come morning, my friends and I "redded-up" the campsite and then packed ourselves into the Chevy Blazer and began the sustained winding trek down the vista and back to civilization. Along the way the dashboard's red "check engine" light ignited. Until this point in my licensed driving career I'd assumed that a lit "check engine" symbol was simply a reminder to tell the mechanic to peer under the hood the next time the vehicle was in for an oil change. And even then he'd probably just say something like "just a little electrical problem in the dash," or something else benign. My friends agreed danger was not imminent. No worries! So we soldiered on through the forest until we finally connected with Interstate 220 West. When the engine was suddenly pushed from 15 miles per hour to 55 miles per hour, it began making a faint, yet distinct, grinding noise. This was not an encouraging sign so I made the conscious choice to ignore it. (Footnote: If the check engine light was personified into, say, my dad, it would've reached over the steering wheel, snared me by the collar and shook like hell, screaming "Pull the hell over idiot!") I dropped my friends off one-by-one at their homes while a dreadful sense of a looming catastrophe gradually overcame me the longer I ignored the warning light and the still-faint grinding noise. All I wanted was to get home, give my dad back his keys and let him realize his Blazer was malfunctioning on his way to work Monday morning. I finally arrived at the Williamsport business district exit where I pulled off and stopped at the red traffic light above one of the cities’ busiest intersects. Only three miles from home now! The traffic light turned green and I pressed the gas pedal but…nothing happened. I tried again but the engine didn’t roar and the Blazer didn’t budge. That’s when the black smoke appeared from underneath the hood. What began as a few puffs quickly swelled to full-fledged plumes, my friends. And you know what they say: where there’s smoke, there’s…“Fire!” I yelled. I began freaking-out and happened to glance into my rearview mirror. Wouldn’t you believe it, a police car had been stopped at the light directly behind me. What good luck! (Footnote: This was the ONE time a police car in my rearview mirror signaled good luck. All the other times the cars’ lights and sirens were on, meaning my luck was indeed very bad.) The officer sprinted to my driver’s side window and instructed me to put the vehicle in neutral and steer while he and a bystander pushed it into the strip mall’s parking lot across the street. I obliged. The two pushed as nearby shoppers watched a mobile mushroom cloud schlep toward them. Soon I was parked between Petro’s Jewelers and a Dunkin Donut. I hopped from the Blazer (yeah, yeah, I know, I know…it’s actually named a Blazer) and onto the asphalt, and sprinted a safe distance away from the flames spewing out the front grill. The police officer swooped in with a fire extinguisher and blasted the front of the Blazer, but this just pissed the flames off. They intensified. I swore they even hawked a loogie on the cop’s badge in defiance. “How much gas do you have in the tank?” the cop asked as he back-peddled from the vehicle.“It’s nearly full,” I answered.“Oh my god, son! STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE.” He began jabbering into the little walkie talkie thing in his shoulder, saying things like “dangerous situation” and “need back-up.” I was simply flat-out mad at this point. I yanked the ball cap of my head and kicked it like a huffy little kid. By now, several shoppers and assorted bystanders had congregated along the walkway in front of the strip mall, watching as my father’s pride was gradually becoming engulfed in flames. I imagined he was among the spectators, glaring at his dimwit son with a look that would’ve compelled the flames to extinguish themselves out of pure fear. The police officer began directing the crowd. “Move back, people. Nothing to see here.”I watched helplessly as the flames had seized a real stranglehold on the front end of the Blazer—like a python gradually devouring hopeless prey larger than it. Luckily, reinforcements appeared in the form of a fully-capable fire truck carrying a crew of three. The fire fighters quickly disembarked and unwound the cumbersome hose from the truck's back, plugged one end into a nearby fire plug aimed it's formidable business end at the mounting inferno. I imagined the struggle between Blazer fire and fire fighter as a WWE wrestling match: “The fire is certainly in complete control now. The Blazer is as good as out cold. It's smoldering like…OH MY GOOD! IS THAT TANKER TRUCK #37'S MUSIC? IT IS! Out of seeming nowhere comes a triple threat tag team of City of Williamport fire fighters. And they're pulling out a foreign object: THE FIRE HOSE. IS THAT LEGAL? And they're unleashing it on the unsuspecting flames now, only seconds away from a tap-out by the Chevy Blazer. Oh, the humanity! The fire appears hobbled now, clearing favoring the driver's side wheel well but…God Almighty! Here comes another surge bursting out of the front grill! I think the fire was faking the injury all along? This causes the firemen to feverishly crank the hose up to 11. In 22 years of calling Blazer fires I've never seen the likes of this! The fire is wilting under the intense blast. The crowd is stirred to pandemonium at the spectacle. They want blood. The fire is shrinking still. "Soak. Soak. Soak." chants the capacity crowd. The fire is sputtering, sputtering…nozzle closes in on the Blazer and…"hiiissss" goes the dying breath of the flames. It's all over. The fire put up a helluva fight but in the end three city firefighters and a giant-ass fire hose was just too much. You're winner by knockout…Tanker Truck #37!”As the victors were high fiving and re-coiling the hose, and the onlookers filing back into their respective stores, I knew MY greatest challenge lie ahead—I needed to call my father. I didn’t own a cell phone then, and there were no pay phones in the area. I slogged over to Dunkin Donuts and up to the lady standing behind the register. Woman: "Welcome to Dunkin Donuts. What can I get for you?"Me: "See that out the window there?" I pointed to the smoldering hunk of debris. "That's my ride. I need to use your phone."Woman: "You gotta' purchase something if you want to use the phone. Store policy."Me: "Fine. I'll take a small Coca-Cola fountain drunk."Woman: "That'll be 89 cents."After the money exchange I was led behind the register to the push-bottom phone behind the wall of assorted glazed and frosted freshly baked donuts. The receiver was chilly on my ear. Each "beep" of a pressed button felt like another step toward innocent's cruel end. The phone rang. Luckily, my father never answers, but this time….Dad: "Hello."Me: "Dad?"Dad: "Yes."Me: "Dad, I got bad news."Dad: (long pause-breathing) "What?"Me: "Your Blazer caught on fire and the fire company had to come put it out. It’s in pretty bad shape. I'm at a Dunkin Donuts downtown. I had to buy a fountain drink to use their phone."Dad: (pause again-more breathing) Fuuuck! Fuuuck! Fuuuck! (Then he just went nuts, like if Frankenstein stubbed his foot). FUUUCK! FUUUCK! FUUUCK!
I expected my father to appear at the strip mall harboring a rage that would knock his previous rages 17 years out of fashion. (Although he was never a violent man I wouldn't mess with him if I was a VCR that needed programmed or a map that needed folded.) But when Dad arrived he was eerily calm. Even when I told him the red check engine light had been on he remained seemingly unruffled. Even after I'd confessed that I'd driven many, many miles while the engine grinded audibly he barely uttered a word.  Whatever words he did utter I can't recall. Regardless, he didn't chastise me or belittle me or even tell me what I should've done differently. He knew that I knew that I'd fucked up. Instead Dad and me just stood there together and watched as a couple of poor Department of Public Welfare workers loaded the charred 1998 Chevy Blazer unto a flatbed tow truck. Despite the confusion and chaos of that day what I recall most vividly was my father's unexpected tranquility.***(Footnote: I felt guilty about destroying Dad's 1998 Chevy Blazer for about a month until the insurance company paid-out above Kelly Blue Book value of the vehicle for damages. He immediately used the money to purchase a 1999 Chevy Blazer. Then I got to thinking: a few more vehicle fires and insurance claims and the Bowers might not just be keeping up with the Joneses, they'd be in the passing lane.)

The Circle Jerk of Life

Mufasa and Simba are sitting together, surveying the Pride Lands. 

Mufasa: Simba. Son. Everything you see exists together, in a delicate balance. As king, you need to understand that balance, and respect all the creatures—from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope.
Simba: But, Dad, don't we eat the antelope?
Mufasa: Yes, Simba, but let me explain. When we die, our bodies become the grass. And the antelope eat the grass. And so we are all connected in the great circle of life.
Simba: Hey! Don’t we share friendships with the antelope since we all live together in the Pride Lands?
Mufasa: Sure. I know many antelope quite personally. A fine species! But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t eat them.  You remember Herbert, the antelope who tells jokes down at the water hole?
Simba: I like him. He’s funny.
Mufasa: Not anymore. I ripped his throat out yesterday. In fact, you had him for dinner last night.
Simba: Jesus Christ.
Mufasa: That’s just how it goes, kiddo.
Simba: Don’t you feel bad about it? He had a family.  
Mufasa: The circle of life doesn’t care. 
Simba: So who is going to take care of his sons?
Mufasa: Ain’t our problem.
Simba: But now their daddy is dead. 
Mufasa: Listen, Tanner and Billy will be fine. If you were listening earlier, their father will eventually come back as grass, and they will eat the grass. So, he will be still helping them grow up, in a way.
Simba: But won’t they develop, like, childhood maturity issues?
Mufasa: Maybe. But only until we eat them too.
Simba: I don’t want to eat them.
Mufasa: You’ll have no choice. When you pin Tanner to the ground he’ll try to appeal to your emotions. He’ll beg.  He’ll tell you to think about HIS kids. He’ll tell you to remember the good times you two had goofing off in the elephant graveyard. Hey, Circle of Life pal—too bad, so sad. Let the disembowelment commence. You can’t be sympathetic when you tear rib cages open. By time you start pulling Tanner’s juicy meat from his mushy innards, you’ll know what I mean.
Simba: I think I’ll going to puke.
Mufasa: There’s something satisfying about crushing the skull of your kill, friend or no friend. Just thinking about it makes me salivate!
Simba vomits.
Mufasa: Great! Now you'll have little chunks of Herbert caked in your mane. Anyway, there is one more thing about the circle of life. Son, how many lions are there in Pride Rock?
Simba: (wiping evacuated food chunks from his chin) Just you, me, and Scar.
Mufasa: And how many lionesses are there in Pride Rock?
Simba: A whole bunch.
Mufasa: Three hundred and twenty one. There are three hundred and twenty one lionesses in Pride Rock. You know what I’m getting at, son?  Take a look around you.  Everyone you see, everyone in your kingdom—you will be able to either eat or screw.
Simba: What’s screw?
Mufasa laughs heartily.  He puts his paw around Simba.  The song Circle of Life plays.

Classic Rockers' Childhood Warning Signs of Future Disagreeable Behavior

Ozzy Osbourne- Bit the head off Mr. Fuzz, the 3rd grade class hamster.
John Lennon- Shadowed daily by playground sweetheart resulting in lifetime ban from "Boy's Only" treehouse.
Roger Waters- Walled-in self using couch cushions from ages 7-9 and refused play dates with neighborhood children.
Pete Townshend- Smashed tin whistle after talent show rendition of When the Band Comes Marching In.
Gene Simmons- Got tongue stuck to frozen flag pole during recess. (No dare)
Robert Plant- Yelled "woot-woot" whenever Sunday school teacher mentioned Satan.
Axel Rose- Announced album Chinese Democracy would be released by first day of middle school.
Elton John- Wore Halloween costumes every day of year except Halloween. (see also David Bowie/Peter Gabriel)
Phil Collins- Born on 1/30/1951 in London, England.
Keith Richards- Used character band-aides to cover heroine track marks.

Email Exchange Between a Sick Child and His Favorite Minor League Baseball Player

To: DAndrews@Microbursts.comFrom: bigmircoburstfan21@aol.comSubject: WTF???Hey there Danny. It's me Elliot, the sick kid you visited in the Bentleyville Hospital last Thursday. You promised me you'd hit me a home run. Instead you bounced into a game ending 6-4-3 double play. What gives?
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re: WTF???Elliot, I'm so sorry. I gave it my best shot. I really wanted to smack one over the wall for you but the opposing pitcher had really good stuff. I will try again every game for you, pal. Just remember that the entire Bentleyville Microburst team is rooting for you.
To: DAndrews@Microbursts.comFrom: bigmircoburstfan21@aol.comSubject: re:re:WTF???You'll try every game, will you? That wasn't a part of the original deal. You promised me a home run. You didn't say you'll try and try until you finally hit one. I'm sorry, but this is bullshit.
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re: WTF???It's not that I didn't try my best to hit a homer, little dude. In fact, on the last at-bat that ended the game I intentionally swung at what I knew was ball-four just to have a shot at hitting you a homer. Some of my teammates were even mad at me and accused me of blowing a shot at a late inning rally because they knew I was trying to hit a home run for you, instead of drawing a walk.
To: DAndrews@Microbursts.comFrom: bigmircoburstfan21@aol.comSubject: re:re:re:re:WTF???I don't care. You shouldn't have promised a home run if you thought you might not hit one. What if I promised you that I'd beat my illness during your next game? But I'm not stupid enough to make such crazy promises. And I certainly wouldn't turn around and say "Ooops, I tried." Where does that leave me? Dead.
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re: WTF???Don't talk like that, buddy. Me and all the guys on the team have confidence that you will pull through and beat your illness. We're really pulling for you. In the meantime, I promise you I will hit a home run before the season is over.
To: DAndrews@Microbursts.com From: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re: WTF???There you go with the fake confidence again. You know my crummy chances of survival. Oh I'm sorry! I didn't know the whole active roster was suddenly full of magic doctors. And as for your promise to hit another home run, you’re just playing the odds. The season is only a quarter of the way done. If you don't manage to hit one until the Microbursts are already out of playoff contention then no one will give a crap anyway. I specifically asked for a home run last night against the Timmonsburg Lumberjacks. And you promised and failed. Case closed.  
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re WTF???Come one. I went 3-4 for Christ's sake, with two doubles and a triple. A triple is harder to hit than a home run.
To: DAndrews@Microbursts.comFrom: bigmircoburstfan21@aol.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re WTF???But I didn't ask for, and you didn't promise, two doubles and a triple. I don’t care if you went 99-100 with 99 triples. Maybe if I asked for 99 triples…??? YOU PROMISED A HOME RUN!!! So it's too late now. I've already torn up all my Danny Andrews giveaway baseball cards and posters. I told the nurse to toss my Danny Andrews bobblehead with the leftover gross pudding the hospital gives me. I hope you rip a tendon during batting practice.
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re;re:re: WTF???Hey, I had that bobblehead made specifically for you. You owe the only one.
To: DAndrews@Microbursts.comFrom: bigmircoburstfan21@aol.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re: WTF???Not anymore, asshole.
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re;re:re:re:re: WTF???Okay, that's it. Now I'm intentionally going to strike out every at bat. When the season goes down the tubes and they ask me why I suddenly got so awful I'm going to tell them that little sick Elliot asked me as a dying wish that I'd walk up to the plate and strike out every single at-bat and I promised him I would because I didn't want to disappoint a sick child. Then everyone will blame you.
 To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.com From: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re;re:re:re:re:re: WTF???Elliot. Did you get my last email? Why haven't you responded?
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re;re:re:re:re:re: WTF???Elliot? You okay? I didn't mean to write something so mean.
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re;re:re:re:re:re:re: WTF???Elliot???
To: DAndrews@Microbursts.comFrom: bigmircoburstfan21@aol.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re: WTF???Yeah, I'm still here moron. How does it feel to be left feeling so empty and cheated? I hope you cried yourself to sleep every night. By the way I see the Microbursts are on a four game losing streak despite your late-inning home run last night in mop-up time of another ugly blow-out. The doctors here are giving you a zero percent chance to make the big leagues. As for me, I'm feeling the best I have in months so EAT-IT, pal…buddy…little dude.    
To: bigmicroburstfan21@aol.comFrom: DAndrews@Microbursts.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re: WTF???If it makes you feel any better I tweaked my ankle walking to my car in the parking lot after the game. I'm out for 4-6 weeks.
To: DAndrews@Microbursts.comFrom: bigmircoburstfan21@aol.comSubject: re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re:re: WTF???Good. I consider us even.

The Andy Gibbs Guitar Story (The Abridged Version)

Sometimes good deeds lead to ugly fallouts.Years ago I was working in the hardware department at a Kmart. I received an in-coming customer call. The caller said "I need a favor. I'm a disabled war veteran. Could you buy me a doorknob and deliver it personally tonight? I'll pay gas money." I put him on hold and reminded myself I faced an opportunity to perform a good deed for a DISABLED VETERAN. Only an asshole would say no?  I asked my friend Dustin if he sought an adventure after punching-out at 10pm. He did. When I returned to the phone the caller said "First, you need to stop at my friend's place for the gas money. I live at the end of an unlit driveway in Trout Run (deep into no-man's-land). My house has no electricity. Look for a Meet The Parents movie poster in my window." I told him we'd be there by quarter 'til 11.We followed the caller's directions to his buddy's house. An envelope was taped to the door. "MATT-GAS MONEY" was written on it. I defeated Dustin in "paper, rock, scissors" so he scampered onto the porch and snatched the envelope. We followed lonely Route 14 North to Trout Run. We passed the one gas station to where a driveway split the hemlock trees. I recall the gravel popping under the tires. Then there it was—a Meet The Parents poster in the window of a house with peeling paint and sagging gutters. After knocking, the door creaked open revealing a man clothed in full military regalia, a bandana atop bushy white hair, and Rawlings batting gloves. If Ted Kaczynski and GI Joe were mixed in a blender, this guy would pour out. Furthermore, he appeared fully physically capable despite his handicap assertion. Behind him the kitchen was lit only by the moonlight. Everything was in boxes. Then, he closed the door behind us and LOOKED THE DOORKNOB. Finally, he spoke, "want to meet my daughter?" I expected him to open one of the boxes. Instead he turned a flashlight to a scrapbook and read aloud a newspaper article about a young lady who owned a pizza shop. "She's a good girl," he said. After that, he pointed the flashlight toward Dustin. "Wanna' see what's in my trunk?" Wide-eyed, Dustin followed him to a trunk in the kitchen's corner. I waited by the window, preparing to smash the glass and run. "Go ahead; open it." When Dustin reached down, the man grabbed a large wrench and slowly raised it above his head. "That's an Andy Gibbs guitar. He played it in concert." At this point it occurred to me this wacko assumed I would show up alone at his house, where he planned to crush my skull with that wrench and likely stuff me in the trunk alongside his precious Andy Gibbs guitar.Apparently reconsidering his murderous ambitions, realizing he was outnumbered, he lowered the wrench and proceeded to unlock the front door and bid us good-bye, but not before asking about Kmart's return policy.
The next day the "disabled war veteran" appeared in Kmart with his doorknob, seeking a refund. I said no. Then he stood nose-to-nose with me and cocked his fist, yelling "I gave you gas money. I showed you my daughter. I showed you my Andy Gibbs guitar. And you refuse me?"Another good deed that didn't go unpunished.

"NO,BUT"-The tenets of improv on the main compound wall; The moon in the daytime; Purging Magnum Munts

One of my omnipresent fears is, when I eventually pass away, will people be mistaken about whom I was. When I say “who I was” I’m not just talking about the fact that I was a guy who proudly owned two Maksutov Cassegrian telescopes, or that I’d spent hundreds of dollars on Pink Floyd bootlegged concert CDs before music became downloadable over the blasted interweb. I’m talking about who I was, as in the worldviews crocheted into my DNA, but perhaps partially unraveled by such life experiences such as intentionally being beaned three times in the District 12 Little League Championship Game by my own cousin.
When my friend and I snuck downstairs at midnight to watch George Carlin’s Jammin’ in New York when I was about 11 years old, I was floored. I’d watched such sitcoms as Perfect Strangers, and such stand-up routines as all the no-names on An Evening at the Improv, but nothing like this. Carlin was funny, of course, but what really perked me was his perceived authenticity; he was a pointed social critic who happened to be hysterical. Carlin was revealing something about himself whenever he threw a jab. He was not a character. Suddenly, Balki Bartokomous was shit.
Another instance that steered me towards comedy was during an open-mic night at a coffee house during my college days at LHU. I dressed up in a straggly wig and humongous dark sunglasses, and signed my name on the performers' sign-up sheet as Magnum Munts. Then I just sat  cross-legged on the floor and rocked, noticing all the cockeyed and worrisome glances beyond the gaudy rims of my glasses. When the MC introduced me and turned over the mic, I stated that I was going to read a deeply heartfelt poem (like so many of the bleeding hearts that attended those slams) but instead I read my version of 100 bottles of beer. The catch was, the math got screwier and screwier: "67 bottles of beer on the wall, 67 bottles of beer—take 34 down and divide that by 7 and multiple that by the tangent of 245.7 and add that to the distance between Chicago and Albuquerque…19.583  bottles of beer on the wall." It went on and on. The reception was overwhelming. I think it was as much a release of the audience's tension as much as anything, but I relished the reaction. I wanted the experience again and again.   
Two years after I graduated college, when I was 24 in 2003, I moved by myself to Pittsburgh—without much money, without knowing anyone in Western Pa, without any job prospects, without having truly visited the city before, without having been shown the 215 square foot one-room apartment I was about to move into (it was the cheapest I found on Apartments.com so I called and said I’d take it), without knowing anything about the neighborhood, without owning a collared dress shirt, etc. I did however bring a futon, a folding table and those Pink Floyd bootlegs. Hey, I liked Pittsburgh’s skyline from postcards and the city was only four and a half hours from my hometown of Williamsport.
Most of all, I wanted to start at square one. I wanted to see what the comedy scene in Pittsburgh had to offer, or what I had to offer it. My dad also thought I should seek a salaried job with a pension. (I chose wisely. Pittsburgh is a great city. At least, it's been exceedingly good to me.)
I dabbled in stand-up for a few months. Open-mic nights in smoky basements of dingy corner bars are not as glamorous as advertised. I have a tremendous amount of respect for stand-up comedians, if only because of boot camp. Anyway, after dropping more bombs than the Royal Air Force on Berlin in '45, (add another one to the list) I’d eventually developed a decent 10-minute set. The pinnacle of my stand-up career came when Gab Bonesso chose me as one of the performers in the final Club Café stand-up comedy show (Club Café had hosted a weekly Wednesday show). That was nearly ten years ago. Two months earlier I had bumped into improv comics David Fedor and Scott Whitehair (the very talented Near Professionals) by happenstance at Denny’s. They’d been performing two-man improvisation comedy show at a community theatre in Natrona Heights. Basically, they needed someone to run lights for their weekly show Show-and-Tell. A few weeks later, I was indeed running lights. A few weeks after that, I was hosting improv games for the duo. That was the start of my improv life, and the end of my stand-up one.
My involvement in the vaunted Natrona Heights improv scene provided many benefits by default. Besides beginning to learn what makes good improv—not that I was performing good improv, but I was learning it—I also forged my first friendships in my new home and found a support structure I hadn't encountered doing stand-up. This was very critical for me at the time. Like Pittsburgh itself, the improv scene has been exceedingly good to me. I've learned much about not only improv, but what makes good comedy in its many manifestations. I've also surrounded myself with talented and outstanding people, many of them now friends too. 
My acting professor in college told me once that I tend to "live in a bubble", both on stage and off. I took this as a compliment. I still feel this is the case to a large degree. As much fun as I have had performing improv, the main "rules" of improv are at odds with my intuition and instinctive sensibilities. For example, improv teachers will preach "Yes, And," and "Group Mind," and "Don't Ask Questions." These sound like highlighted tenets on the cult leader's wall at the main compound, or slogans fraternity brothers shout at pledges. (Matt fun fact: I was in the Kappa Delta Rho fraternity in college. I am proud to say I have been barred from fraternity property ever since my junior year when I realized I hated Greek life and severed myself from the frat completely. I liked a few of the guys as individuals—as a senior I even shared an apartment with the KDR president—but couldn't stand the "group mind." Rush KDR!)  
Recently, I've been quite reflective about my involvement in improv and comedy in general. Perhaps this is because I've recently become a father, or recently turned 35 or recently had to learn how attic ventilation works when moisture issues on roof joints strike. (I've never taken attic ventilation seriously until now.) My favorite comics and creative minds share something in common: Besides reflecting many of my own worldviews, they reveal a little bit about themselves upon every performance or product. I admire that component greatly.  
I've had so much fun performing improv over the years. Although I've always (mostly always) gave my best effort on-stage, I've never taken the craft too seriously. I couldn't if I wanted to. I look forward to performing in improv shows like most dudes look forward to poker night. I desire the camaraderie and boisterous shenanigans off-stage at least as much as the scheduled comedy show itself. That's not nesessarily fair to the craft.
I don't really have any comedic endeavors anymore. I have creative endeavors, but the comedy comes by default. Whatever I do creatively, I want to reveal myself bit by bit. Besides my Crooked Lullabies blog that I've maintained for the last few years, my novel has been my most hearty stride in that direction. I aimed to expose my viewpoints through the characters and the story. The character Marcy is essentially a mouthpiece for my own beliefs, and the novel's overall themes—the futility of alter egos and fantasies, and faith in "superheroes", for instance—are hopefully evident. Basically, the novel is my soul in disguise; the characters and story are window dressing.
I think I just described every novel ever written.  
The more I feel I learn about the world and about myself the more I want to share. Marcy (from the novel) is an atheist. Until about age 19 I was a Christian. Until about age 27 I believed that God was up there, watching the world like a devious child who watches an ant farm and occasionally shakes it for laughs, or like an amateur videographer who films a hobo fight.  But this viewpoint was extremely defeatist so I sat on a log and thought, hoping to justify God's perceived malevolence, or simple indifference. I thought "Why does God allow the tornado to obliterate a pious family's house, but swerve around the asshole's apartment? Why does God hide from humankind for 130,000 years, show up in person to a mostly illiterate nomadic population in the desert for a handful of years, and then completely disappear to this point in history? (And he's all vengefulness, comedic blunders and blood lust while he was around. He murders the entire world just a few pages into the Bible, for Pete's sake) Why is the universe so chaotic and destructive? Why does the God of the Bible advocate killing those who don't hold the Sabbath holy, or slavery? Why does the moon—the 'one light to guide the night'—come out in the day?" Then one day, while still sitting on that log, the solution occurred to me: God doesn't exist, duh. That answers all the paradoxical questions and assorted conumdrums absolutely perfectly. Occam's Razor, my friend. Since that day my atheistic views have had a major influence on many of my literary creative undertakings, let alone my worldviews. The creative celebrities I emulate most are atheists too: Roger Waters, George Carlin, Ricky Gervais, Christopher Hitchens, Bill Maher and Richard Dawkins. I'm not sure about Hunter S. Thompson.  
Most of my comedic undertakings have been disappointing on some level. The vast majority have fallen far short of what I experienced the night I dressed as Magnum Munts. But constantly striving for fulfillment drives creativity, does it not? That’s not to say I haven't had a hell of a lot of fun the many times I've taken the stage.
Recently, a fellow walked up to me on the streets of downtown and said "Hey, you're the guy from the Moth. Great story!" I acted cool, but my ego was nailing a two-handed windmill jam. I'd never been recognized and lauded during the course of daily life before. (Well, besides the time a few Blackhawk high school kids recognized me from F'N Improv while I was Christmas shopping at Robison Centre Mall years ago.) Weeks before, I told a true story about myself at the Moth StorySlam (I won). While I performed the audience response was tremendous. I had to stop and lean back from the mic a handful of times during unexpected laughter spats. I even got applause mid-story when I employed a callback joke (thanks improv training). Telling my story felt natural and authentic. I felt like Magnum Munts without the wig and sunglasses, when all those beers were off the wall.

The tenets of improv on the main compound wall; The moon in the daytime; Purging Magnum Munts

One of my omnipresent fears is, when I eventually pass away, will people be mistaken about whom I was. When I say “who I was” I’m not just talking about the fact that I was a guy who proudly owned two Maksutov Cassegrian telescopes, or that I’d spent hundreds of dollars on Pink Floyd bootlegged concert CDs before music became downloadable over the blasted interweb. I’m talking about who I was, as in the worldviews crocheted into my DNA, but perhaps partially unraveled by such life experiences such as intentionally being beaned three times in the District 12 Little League Championship Game by my own cousin.
When my friend and I snuck downstairs at midnight to watch George Carlin’s Jammin’ in New York when I was about 11 years old, I was floored. I’d watched such sitcoms as Perfect Strangers, and such stand-up routines as all the no-names on An Evening at the Improv, but nothing like this. Carlin was funny, of course, but what really perked me was his cynicism; he was a pointed social critic who happened to be hysterical. Carlin was revealing something about himself whenever he threw a jab. He was not a character. Suddenly, Balki Bartokomous was shit.
Another instance that steered me towards comedy was during an open-mic night at a coffee house during my college days at LHU. I dressed up in a straggly wig and humongous dark sunglasses, and signed my name on the performers' sign-up sheet as Magnum Munts. Then I just sat  cross-legged on the floor and rocked, noticing all the cockeyed and worrisome glances beyond the gaudy rims of my glasses. When the MC introduced me and turned over the mic, I stated that I was going to read a deeply heartfelt poem (like so many of the bleeding hearts that attended those slams) but instead I read my version of 100 bottles of beer. The catch was, the math got screwier and screwier: "67 bottles of beer on the wall, 67 bottles of beer—take 34 down and divide that by 7 and multiple that by the tangent of 245.7 and add that to the distance between Chicago and Albuquerque…19.583  bottles of beer on the wall." It went on and on. The reception was overwhelming. I think it was as much a release of tension as much as anything, but I relished the reaction. I wanted the experience again and again.   
Two years after I graduated college, when I was 24 in 2003, I moved by myself to Pittsburgh—without much money, without knowing anyone in Western Pa, without any job prospects, without having truly visited the city before, without having been shown the 215 square foot one-room apartment I was about to move into (it was the cheapest I found on Apartments.com so I called and said I’d take it), without knowing anything about the neighborhood, without owning a collared dress shirt, etc. I did however bring a futon, a folding table and those Pink Floyd bootlegs. Hey, I liked Pittsburgh’s skyline from postcards and the city was only four and a half hours from my hometown of Williamsport.
Most of all, I wanted to start at square one. I wanted to see what the comedy scene in Pittsburgh had to offer, or what I had to offer it. My dad also thought I should seek a salaried job with a pension. (I chose wisely. Pittsburgh is a great city. At least, it's been exceedingly good to me.)
I dabbled in stand-up for a few months. Open-mic nights in smoky basements of dingy corner bars are not as glamorous as advertised. I have a tremendous amount of respect for stand-up comedians, if only because of boot camp. Anyway, after dropping more bombs than the Royal Air Force on Berlin in '45, (add another one to the list) I’d eventually developed a decent 10-minute set. The pinnacle of my stand-up career came when Gab Bonesso chose me as one of the performers in the final Club Café stand-up comedy show (Club Café had hosted a weekly Wednesday show). That was nearly ten years ago. Two months earlier I had bumped into improv comics David Fedor and Scott Whitehair (the very talented Near Professionals) by happenstance at Denny’s. They’d been performing two-man improvisation comedy show at a community theatre in Natrona Heights. Basically, they needed someone to run lights for their weekly show Show-and-Tell. A few weeks later, I was indeed running lights. A few weeks after that, I was hosting improv games for the duo. That was the start of my improv life, and the end of my stand-up one.
My involvement in the vaunted Natrona Heights improv scene provided many benefits by default. Besides beginning to learn what makes good improv—not that I was performing good improv, but I was learning it—I also made my first true friends and found a support structure I hadn't encountered doing stand-up. This was very critical for me at the time. Like Pittsburgh itself, the improv scene has been exceedingly good to me. I've learned much about not only improv, but what makes good comedy in its many manifestations. I've also surrounded myself with talented and outstanding people, many of them friends.
My acting professor in college told me once that I tend to "live in a bubble", both on stage and off. I took this as a compliment. I still feel this is the case to a large degree. As much fun as I have had performing improv, the main "rules" of improv are at odds with my intuition and instinctive sensibilities. For example, improv teachers will preach "Yes, And," and "Group Mind," and "Don't Ask Questions." These sound like highlighted tenets on the cult leader's wall at the main compound, or slogans fraternity brothers shout at pledges. (Matt fun fact: I was in the Kappa Delta Rho fraternity in college. I am proud to say I have been barred from fraternity property ever since my junior year when I realized I hated Greek life and severed myself from the frat completely. I liked a few of the guys as individuals—as a senior I even shared an apartment with the KDR president—but couldn't stand the "group mind." Rush KDR!)  
Recently, I've been quite reflective about my involvement in improv and comedy in general. Perhaps this is because I've recently become a father, or recently turned 35 or recently had to learn how attic ventilation works when moisture issues on roof joints strike. (I've never taken attic ventilation seriously until now.) My favorite comics and creative minds share something in common: Besides reflecting many of my own worldviews, they reveal a little bit about themselves upon every performance or product. I admire that component greatly.  
I've had so fun performing improv over the years. Although I've (mostly) always gave my best effort on-stage, I've never taken the craft too seriously. I couldn't if I wanted to. I look forward to performing in improv shows like most dudes look forward to poker night. I crave the camaraderie and boisterous shenanigans off-stage that I don't get elsewhere. Improv performance has become secondary. That's not fair to the craft. Also, that is why I don't deserve to be an active member of a regularly performing troupe.
I don't really have any comedic endeavors anymore. I have creative endeavors, but the comedy comes by default. Whatever I do creatively, I want to reveal myself bit by bit. Besides my Crooked Lullabies blog that I've maintained for the last few years, my novel has been my most hearty stride in that direction. I aimed to expose my viewpoints through the characters and the story. The character Marcy is essentially a mouthpiece for my own beliefs, and the novel's overall themes—the futility of alter egos and faith in "superheroes", for instance—are hopefully evident. Basically, the novel is my soul in disguise; the characters and story are window dressing.
I think I just described every novel ever written.  
The more I feel I learn about the world and about myself the more I want to share. Marcy (from the novel) is an atheist. Until about age 19 I was a Christian. Until about age 30 I believed that God was up there, watching the world like a devious child who watches an ant farm and occasionally shakes it for laughs, or like an amateur videographer who films a hobo fight.  But this viewpoint was extremely defeatist so I sat on a log and thought, hoping to justify God's perceived malevolence, or simple indifference. I thought "Why does the tornado obliterate a family's house, but swerves around the asshole's apartment? Why does God hide from humankind for 6 million years, show up in person to a mostly illiterate nomadic population in the desert for a handful of years, and then completely disappear to this point in history? (And he's all vengefulness, comedic blunders and blood lust while he was around. He murders the entire world just a few pages into the Bible, for Pete's sake) Why is the universe so chaotic? Why does the God of the Bible advocate killing those who don't hold the Sabbath holy, or slavery? Why does the moon—the 'one light to guide the night'—come out in the day?" Then one day, while still sitting on that log, the solution occurred to me: God doesn't exist, duh. That answers all the questions absolutely perfectly. And since that day my atheistic views have had a major influence on many of my literary creative undertakings, let alone my worldviews. The creative celebrities I emulate most are atheists too: Roger Waters, George Carlin, Ricky Gervais, Christopher Hitchens, and Richard Dawkins. I'm not sure about Hunter S. Thompson.  
Most of my comedic undertakings have been disappointing on some level. The vast majority have fallen far short of what I experienced the night I dressed as Magnum Munts. Constantly striving for fulfillment drives creativity, does it not?   That’s not to say I haven't had a hell of a lot of fun many times I've taken the stage.
Recently, a fellow walked up to me on the streets of downtown and said "Hey, you're the guy from the Moth. Great story!" I acted cool, but my ego was flippin' shit. That had never happened before. Sure, a few Blackhawk high school kids recognized me from F'N Improv while I was Christmas shopping at Robison Centre Mall years ago, but this felt different. Weeks before, I told a true story about myself at the Moth StorySlam (I won), and received a tremendous response from the audience. I had to stop and lean back from the mic a handful of times during laughter spats I hadn't expected. I even got applause mid-story when I employed a callback joke (thanks improv training). Telling my story felt natural and authentic. I felt like Magnum Munts without the wig and sunglasses, when all those beers were off the wall.

Playing Chutes and Ladders (My WORDPLAY Story)

I've always said that navigating the streets of Pittsburgh is like playing the board game Chutes and Ladders—or in Pittsburghese: Bridges and Tunnels. I came to this conclusion about 3 days after moving to the city back in the summer of 2003. During my first attempt to drive downtown, I took a wrong left-hand turn and found myself on a mustard-colored bridge leading to a dark mile-long tunnel. By time I got a chance to pull a three point turn I could see my destination miles in the distance—like seeing the "home" square while being stuck at the bottom of the game board.Since I didn't own a GPS, I had to conquer the Pittsburgh streets the old-fashioned way—trial and error. Well, I didn't conquer ALL the streets of Pittsburgh, rather a mere handful of routes I traveled consistently: to work, to Target, to the gas station, etc. Having to go any place for the first time was a gamble that typically involved misadventures and missteps—trial and error, trial and error. But as aggravating it was to drive to, say, Oakland, and wind up in, say, Brookline, at least I was in control of my own vehicle. Once I realized I had driven astray, I could hang a U-turn or take the next exit. In my early days as a Pittsburgher the thought of taking public transportation frightened me. I wasn't worried so much about the prospects of getting stampeded by a gaggle of boarding children, or sharing a seat with a cross-eyed hobo spouting end-times rhetoric. I was more concerned with, while riding, realizing the bus wasn't going where I thought it would go. I'd be left to peer out the dirty windows at all the driveways I would normally turn around in, or exits I'd take had I been driving. In other words, I didn't want stuck on a chute with no way to jam my feet on the sides of the board and stop the downward plunge. I vowed to avoid public transportation at all costs. But soon enough, my boss at my first Pittsburgh job called me into his office and told me that riding a PAT bus would be a job requirement. Oh shit!

My first job in Pittsburgh was for a company called Community Passages, who aided the MH/MR community. My assignment was to work one-on-one with an autistic gentleman named Elliot. Every week, Monday to Friday from 8 to 4, I was not supposed to be any more than 10 feet from Elliot. He was a prankster. Every waking hour he was scanning the environment in hopes of causing havoc and reveling in the dumbfounded or incensed reactions of his victims. My job was essentially to keep Elliot from pulling shit. A tireless and thankless task! And I didn't always succeed. Once we planned to go swimming at North Park Lake. Elliot was instructed to go into the outhouse and change into his swim trunks. After a minute or so inside the outhouse, he burst out the door like a sprinter hearing the starting gun. Elliot was stark naked! I ran after him but I was too slow. He had already stopped lakeside and hurled all his clothes in the water. By time I had caught up to him he was already mocking me with his hallmark laugh, which sounded a lot like Ernie's from Sesame Street (do laugh). That wasn't the last time Elliot tossed all his clothes into a large body of water, or into the back yard, or into the middle of a busy intersection—(do the laugh). See why I always had to be within ten feet of him? Oh well, trial and error, trial and error.I should say that, regardless of the enormous loads of stress Elliot heaped on me almost every single day, I came to care for him in a big brother type of way.***"Come into my office and have seat, Mr. Bower," said Community Passages director Michael Myers as I was about to punch-out for work one day. (This is off the topic but I've known three people name Michael Myers since moving to Pittsburgh. Kinda' creepy, I think. I'm waiting to meet a Jason Voorhees or a Chuck Leatherface.) I settled my butt into the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of his desk; he lounged in the cushy leather chair behind it. The conversation when something like this.Michael Myers: "I've been talking to the home office in Philly and they've decided they want to try some new things with Elliot. They are adamant about getting him out in the community more."Me: (Good Lord, you can't be serious. Elliot takes off his clothes and throws them middle of the street). “Yes sir.”Michael Myers: “Now we know Elliot is a handful, taking off his clothes and throwing them into the street, and whatnot. But they think he's ready to get out of his comfort zone and travel to new places. It might be good for him.”Me: (Good for him? What about me? I'm going to be stuck by myself with the master of hijinks? I'll be doomed.) “Yes sir.”Michael Myers: “But the guys in Philly and I have decided it's best to ease him into these new outings. We want you to just start by taking him on rides on the PAT bus. Just ride around town a bit and see how he responds. I think he'll really enjoy it."Me: (What? No! I can't take the bus! Not only will I and the other passengers be trapped inside the belly of a high-speed moving object with Elliot, we could end up stranded alone in Timbuktu if we board the wrong bus. I can't break the sacred bond I made with myself. No public transportation!) “Yes sir.”Michael Myers: “So, this weekend, I want you to familiarize yourself with the buses that run near his training facility in Lawrenceville. Monday morning I want you two to catch a bus and ride a bit before lunch—get him accustomed to public transportation. It'll be fun.” Me: (No it won't!) “Yes sir.”Michael Myers: “And, Philly has decided to give you an extra dollar an hour, and upgrade your title to community integration specialist.”Me: (Fuck you). “Thank you sir.” ***That weekend I visited the Port Authority headquarters downtown and snatched a copy of all the Lawrenceville bus schedules. This was before the bus routes were slashed 103 times so I'd gathered a lot of literature. I quickly set about identifying the simplest bus route that navigated through Lawrenceville. I settled on a route that simply went back and forth from downtown, through Lawrenceville, to Harmarville, and then back downtown again. How simple! Elliot and I could just hop on the bus right outside the Allegheny East training facility on Butler Street, ride it back and forth between downtown and Harmarville a couple of times, and then get right back off at the facility. No chutes, no ladders—no bridges and no tunnels. Monday morning came soon enough and Elliot and I were waiting patiently at a street corner near Lawrenceville staples the Thunderbird Cafe and Hambones. The day was warm and the sky was cloudless—a perfect day to go for a ride. Elliot seemed excited, and yet, very much at ease. I detected none of the telltale signs that he was about to pull any shenanigans, like the shifty eyes or the scheming half-grin that warned "these clothes will end up in this intersection." When the bus came we boarded without incident, and settled near the back where I figured Elliot would be less likely to try anything funny. Plus, I'd have him cornered if he did. We rode through Lawrenceville, and by Highland Park, past the zoo and so forth. Elliot simply stared out the window and watched the houses and trees whoosh by. He seemed lulled by them. All was well! I was a community integration SPECIALIST now. But pretty soon we were in a neighborhood that I did not recognize from the route map, and I noticed that Elliot and I were the only two left on the bus. The further the bus rode into uncharted territory, the more the sinking feeling grabbed hold. "Where are you guys headed," shouted the bus driver to the two stragglers several rows back."Lawrenceville. I thought this bus looped back," I said."Normally. But my shift is over. I'm heading back to the Harmar Garage." I was on a chute, one that just went down…down…down."Tell you what," he said. "I'll let you off at this stop up here next to the ice cream stand. Catch the third bus that comes by. That one will take you back to Lawrenceville.""Is it the same as this bus?" I asked."Oh no, you're way off course now. Good luck." He stopped at the ice cream stand and let us out.***Elliot doesn't like to wait. He gets anxious. I get anxious too, especially when I have to wait with an even more anxious Elliot. Vehicle after vehicle drove by the ice cream stand before the first bus stopped at the light. Elliot began to move toward it, but I had to cut him off. Two buses to go. More vehicles, and another bus—I recognized those shifty eyes and devious grin. A storm was approaching from down the Allegheny River. No, this was not a metaphorical storm—rather a literal thunderstorm was approaching quickly. So was a metaphorical storm, I suppose. More vehicles, and finally the third bus. Thank god! Again, we boarded without incident. But this bus was almost full, and we were forced to sit about 5 seats behind the driver. Rain began to pummel the metal roof as we rolled back to the training facility. I kept an extremely close eye on Elliot, ready to pounce the second his eyes got a bit too shifty. But Elliot remained a model passenger. The metaphorical storm never transpired. When I saw Hambones approaching through the front window, I yanked the cord and began to walk Elliot to the front of the bus a few blocks before our stop—just in case he decided to be a wisenheimer and refuse to get up. We stopped behind the yellow line—Elliot to my left, beside the driver. My heartbeat gradually began to slow as the stop approached—now one block away. As the bus gained speed after leaving a stop sign, I—now a proud big brother and a grizzled community integration specialist—looked over at Elliot. I caught one mighty shift of his eyes. In tandem with a lightning flash outside, Elliot reached down with one hand and grabbed the steering wheel. A woman right behind us screamed. "Elliot, no." I yelled, as I caught a glance of the bus driver in the giant rearview mirror above his head. His eyes bulged like cue balls. "JESUS CHRIST!" was all he could muster in what he surely believed were the dwindling moments of his life. I yanked Elliot's hand off the wheel. The woman screamed again. Elliot just looked at me, and he went…(do Elliot laugh). And then, we got off. ***The next day Michael Myers invited me back unto the plastic seat on the other side of his desk. The seat was even more uncomfortable this time.Michael Myers: "Mr. Bower, I heard about your bus incident yesterday. I talked to the guys in Philly and we've decided that Elliot will no longer be taking public transportation. Furthermore, we're taking away your extra dollar an hour. You are no longer a community integration specialist."Me: (Halle-lujah) “Yes sir.”

Playing Chutes and Ladders: My WordPlay Story

I've always said that navigating the streets of Pittsburgh is like playing the board game Chutes and Ladders—or in Pittsburghese: Bridges and Tunnels. I came to this conclusion about 3 days after moving to the city back in the summer of 2003. During my first attempt to drive downtown, I took a wrong left-hand turn and found myself on a mustard-colored bridge leading to a dark mile-long tunnel. By time I got a chance to pull a three point turn I could see my destination miles in the distance—like seeing the "home" square while being stuck at the bottom of the game board.
Since I didn't own a GPS, I had to conquer the Pittsburgh streets the old-fashioned way—trial and error. Well, I didn't conquer ALL the streets of Pittsburgh, rather a mere handful of routes I traveled consistently: to work, to Target, to the gas station, etc. Having to go any place for the first time was a gamble that typically involved misadventures and missteps—trial and error, trial and error. But as aggravating it was to drive to, say, Oakland, and wind up in, say, Brookline, at least I was in control of my own vehicle. Once I realized I had driven astray, I could hang a U-turn or take the next exit.
In my early days as a Pittsburgher the thought of taking public transportation frightened me. I wasn't worried so much about the prospects of getting stampeded by a gaggle of boarding children, or sharing a seat with a cross-eyed hobo spouting end-times rhetoric. I was more concerned with, while riding, realizing the bus wasn't going where I thought it would go. I'd be left to peer out the dirty windows at all the driveways I would normally turn around in, or exits I'd take had I been driving. In other words, I didn't want stuck on a chute with no way to jam my feet on the sides of the board and stop the downward plunge. I vowed to avoid public transportation at all costs.
But soon enough, my boss at my first Pittsburgh job called me into his office and told me that riding a PAT bus would be a job requirement. Oh shit! My first job in Pittsburgh was for a company called Community Passages, who aided the MH/MR community. My assignment was to work one-on-one with an autistic gentleman named Elliot. Every week, Monday to Friday from 8 to 4, I was not supposed to be any more than 10 feet from Elliot. He was a prankster. Every waking hour he was scanning the environment in hopes of causing havoc and reveling in the dumbfounded or incensed reactions of his victims. My job was essentially to keep Elliot from pulling shit. A tireless and thankless task! And I didn't always succeed. Once we planned to go swimming at North Park Lake. Elliot was instructed to go into the outhouse and change into his swim trunks. After a minute or so inside the outhouse, he burst out the door like a sprinter hearing the starting gun. Elliot was stark naked! I ran after him but I was too slow. He had already stopped lakeside and hurled all his clothes in the water. By time I had caught up to him he was already mocking me with his hallmark laugh, which sounded a lot like Ernie's from Sesame Street (do laugh). That wasn't the last time Elliot tossed all his clothes into a large body of water, or into the back yard, or into the middle of a busy intersection—(do the laugh). See why I always had to be within ten feet of him? Oh well, trial and error, trial and error.
I should say that, regardless of the enormous loads of stress Elliot heaped on me almost every single day, I came to care for him in a big brother type of way.
***
"Come into my office and have seat, Mr. Bower," said Community Passages director Michael Myers as I was about to punch-out for work one day. (This is off the topic but I've known three people name Michael Myers since moving to Pittsburgh. Kinda' creepy, I think. I'm waiting to meet a Jason Voorhees or a Chuck Leatherface.) I settled my butt into the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of his desk; he lounged in the cushy leather chair behind it. The conversation when something like this.
Michael Myers: "I've been talking to the home office in Philly and they've decided they want to try some new things with Elliot. They are adamant about getting him out in the community more."
Me: (Good Lord, you can't be serious. Elliot takes off his clothes and throws them middle of the street). “Yes sir.”
Michael Myers: “Now we know Elliot is a handful, taking off his clothes and throwing them into the street, and whatnot. But they think he's ready to get out of his comfort zone and travel to new places. It might be good for him.”
Me: (Good for him? What about me? I'm going to be stuck by myself with the master of hijinks? I'll be doomed.) “Yes sir.”
Michael Myers: “But the guys in Philly and I have decided it's best to ease him into these new outings. We want you to just start by taking him on rides on the PAT bus. Just ride around town a bit and see how he responds. I think he'll really enjoy it."
Me: (What? No! I can't take the bus! Not only will I and the other passengers be trapped inside the belly of a high-speed moving object with Elliot, we could end up stranded alone in Timbuktu if we board the wrong bus. I can't break the sacred bond I made with myself. No public transportation!) “Yes sir.”
Michael Myers: “So, this weekend, I want you to familiarize yourself with the buses that run near his training facility in Lawrenceville. Monday morning I want you two to catch a bus and ride a bit before lunch—get him accustomed to public transportation. It'll be fun.”
Me: (No it won't!) “Yes sir.”
Michael Myers: “And, Philly has decided to give you an extra dollar an hour, and upgrade your title to community integration specialist.”
Me: (Fuck you). “Thank you sir.”
***
That weekend I visited the Port Authority headquarters downtown and snatched a copy of all the Lawrenceville bus schedules. This was before the bus routes were slashed 103 times so I'd gathered a lot of literature. I quickly set about identifying the simplest bus route that navigated through Lawrenceville. I settled on a route that simply went back and forth from downtown, through Lawrenceville, to Harmarville, and then back downtown again. How simple! Elliot and I could just hop on the bus right outside the Allegheny East training facility on Butler Street, ride it back and forth between downtown and Harmarville a couple of times, and then get right back off at the facility. No chutes, no ladders—no bridges and no tunnels.
Monday morning came soon enough and Elliot and I were waiting patiently at a street corner near Lawrenceville staples the Thunderbird Cafe and Hambones. The day was warm and the sky was cloudless—a perfect day to go for a ride. Elliot seemed excited, and yet, very much at ease. I detected none of the telltale signs that he was about to pull any shenanigans, like the shifty eyes or the scheming half-grin that warned "these clothes will end up in this intersection."
When the bus came we boarded without incident, and settled near the back where I figured Elliot would be less likely to try anything funny. Plus, I'd have him cornered if he did. We rode through Lawrenceville, and by Highland Park, past the zoo and so forth. Elliot simply stared out the window and watched the houses and trees whoosh by. He seemed lulled by them. All was well! I was a community integration SPECIALIST now.
But pretty soon we were in a neighborhood that I did not recognize from the route map, and I noticed that Elliot and I were the only two left on the bus. The further the bus rode into uncharted territory, the more the sinking feeling grabbed hold.
"Where are you guys headed," shouted the bus driver to the two stragglers several rows back.
"Lawrenceville. I thought this bus looped back," I said.
"Normally. But my shift is over. I'm heading back to the Harmar Garage."
I was on a chute, one that just went down…down…down.
"Tell you what," he said. "I'll let you off at this stop up here next to the ice cream stand. Catch the third bus that comes by. That one will take you back to Lawrenceville."
"Is it the same as this bus?" I asked.
"Oh no, you're way off course now. Good luck." He stopped at the ice cream stand and let us out.
***
Elliot doesn't like to wait. He gets anxious. I get anxious too, especially when I have to wait with an even more anxious Elliot. Vehicle after vehicle drove by the ice cream stand before the first bus stopped at the light. Elliot began to move toward it, but I had to cut him off. Two buses to go. More vehicles, and another bus—I recognized those shifty eyes and devious grin. A storm was approaching from down the Allegheny River. No, this was not a metaphorical storm—rather a literal thunderstorm was approaching quickly. So was a metaphorical storm, I suppose.
More vehicles, and finally the third bus. Thank god!
Again, we boarded without incident. But this bus was almost full, and we were forced to sit about 5 seats behind the driver. Rain began to pummel the metal roof as we rolled back to the training facility. I kept an extremely close eye on Elliot, ready to pounce the second his eyes got a bit too shifty. But Elliot remained a model passenger. The metaphorical storm never transpired.
When I saw Hambones approaching through the front window, I yanked the cord and began to walk Elliot to the front of the bus a few blocks before our stop—just in case he decided to be a wisenheimer and refuse to get up. We stopped behind the yellow line—Elliot to my left, beside the driver. My heartbeat gradually began to slow as the stop approached—now one block away. As the bus gained speed after leaving a stop sign, I—now a proud big brother and a grizzled community integration specialist—looked over at Elliot. I caught one mighty shift of his eyes. In tandem with a lightning flash outside, Elliot reached down with one hand and grabbed the steering wheel. A woman right behind us screamed. "Elliot, no." I yelled, as I caught a glance of the bus driver in the giant rearview mirror above his head. His eyes bulged like cue balls. "JESUS CHRIST!" was all he could muster in what he surely believed were the dwindling moments of his life. I yanked Elliot's hand off the wheel. The woman screamed again. Elliot just looked at me, and he went…(do Elliot laugh).
And then, we got off.
***
The next day Michael Myers invited me back unto the plastic seat on the other side of his desk. The seat was even more uncomfortable this time.
Michael Myers: "Mr. Bower, I heard about your bus incident yesterday. I talked to the guys in Philly and we've decided that Elliot will no longer be taking public transportation. Furthermore, we're taking away your extra dollar an hour. You are no longer a community integration specialist."
Me: (Hallelujah) “Yes sir.”