Tuesday, December 10, 2013

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

Pic taken from the City Paper article about I-Factor's weekly show at the Funny Bone, HUMP. That's me kneeling. For just the parking fee at Station Square, the price of admission and a 2 drink minimum (for overpriced drinks) you could've been there too. Circa 2005.

One of my omnipresent fears is that when I eventually pass away 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 the forgettable joke-tellers 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 theater 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 necessarily 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 vengeance, 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 personalities I emulate most are atheists too: Roger Waters, George Carlin, Ricky Gervais, Christopher Hitchens, Bill Maher, Richard Dawkins, David Cross and David Gilmour. I'm not sure about Hunter S. Thompson.  

Many of my comedic undertakings have been somewhat disappointing on a creative level. The vast majority have fallen far short of what I experienced the night I moonlighted as Magnum Munts. Constantly striving for fulfillment drives creativity, does it not? However, that’s not to say I haven't had a hell of a lot of fun on-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.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Playing Chutes and Ladders

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 pockmarked mustard-colored bridge leading to a dark mile-looong tunnel. By time I got a chance to pull a three point turn I could see the US Steel Tower and One Mellon Center miles in the distance—like seeing the "home" square while being stuck at the start square at the bottom of the game board.

I conquered the Pittsburgh streets the old-fashioned way—trial and error. Well, I didn't conquer ALL the streets of Pittsburgh, rather the handful of routes I traveled almost daily: to work, to Giant Eagle, to the COGO gas station, and so forth. However, driving 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 mere thought of taking public transportation caused me to shutter. 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 in the midst of 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.

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 at a residential training facility in Lawrenceville.  Every week, Monday to Friday from 8 to 4, my job was to never linger outside of a 10 foot radius of Elliot. He was a major 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. And believe you me, the job wasn't easy. First of all, Elliot stood at 6’4’’ and hauled 190 pounds of solid muscle with each stride. He was a sleek bulldozer of a man. One time we took a day vacation to North Park Lake. Elliot was in an outhouse taking a whiz, supposedly. 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 by time I'd caught up with him, he had already stopped lakeside and hurled all his clothes in the water. After I released an exasperated gasp, he turned to me and laughed sinisterly, like a diabolical Ernie (yes, the Sesame Street Ernie). 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. Oh well, trial and error, trial and error.
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 Paul one Friday afternoon as the work week wound down. Paul also was an intimidating man. He looked like a cross between Don Corleone and Snidely Whiplash. I settled into the chair in front of his desk. This was one of those chairs with the wooden rungs that dig into your back when you sit up straight. Paul lounged in the cushy leather throne behind his desk.

Paul's moustache twitched when he spoke. "Mr. Bower, me and the boys at headquarters have been talking, and we've decided they want to try some new things with Elliot. They are adamant about getting him out in the community more."

Pandemonium ensued in my mind. Good Lord, you can't be serious. Elliot takes off his clothes and throws them middle of the street. However, I merely nodded in agreement.
“Now we know Elliot is a handful, taking off his clothes and throwing them into the street, and whatnot. But we think he's ready to get out of his comfort zone and travel to new places. It might be good for him.”
Good for him? What about me? I'll be stuck by myself with the master of hijinks? I'll be doomed. I simply nodded again like a bobble head doll lightly shaken.

“But me and the boys 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 bus. You know, just little rides around town. We think he'll really enjoy it."

I struggled to temper the internal disdain, and keep it from manifesting itself as a look of sheer desperation on my increasingly pale face. 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 might never see my family again. I'll be doomed. Of course, I told him I thought it was a good idea.

I swore the tips of Paul's moustache curled as he leaned further back in his chair. He sneered as thought he'd just tied me to the train tracks, and was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the 3:10 from Yuma. “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 after lunch. It'll be fun.” The wooden rungs were really digging into my back now, but the pain was numbed by the imagines of impending doom. “And I have good news, Mr. Bower. The boys and I have decided to give you an extra dollar an hour, and upgrade your title to community integration specialist.”

The promotions was of little consolation.

That Saturday afternoon 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 studied the maps and 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 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. It was a perfect afternoon to go for a bus ride: the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the only clouds were those wispy ones that look like jet exhaust. Even the prostitutes that normally inhabited Butler St. seemed particularly jaunty. (This was before the hipsters bought-out the whorehouses and turned them into record stores.) Elliot seemed excited too, 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 nearly empty outbound bus arrived 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 and prostitutes whoosh by. He seemed lulled by them. All was well! I was a community integration SPECIALIST now.

Uneasiness overcame me when the last cross –eyed hobo disembarked, leaving Elliot and I the only two left on the bus. Not only that, I noticed we were in a neighborhood recognizable from the route map on my lap. The further the bus rode into uncharted territory, the more the sinking feeling grabbed hold.

"Where ayou fella's 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?"

"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. 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 physically cut him off.  “No, no, no; we have to wait.” I said. This did not please Elliot. More vehicles, and another bus. Again, I nearly had to cut block a charging Elliot. “No, no, no; we still have to wait.” This time Elliot’s eyes became a bit shifty. His hands began to tremble. The fuse was shortening. A storm was approaching—not only a metaphorical storm, but an actual thunderstorm was approaching from down the Allegheny River.

More vehicles went by, and finally the third bus stopped. Phew!

Again, we boarded without incident. But this inbound bus was almost full. We were forced to sit about 5 seats behind the driver and across the aisle from the proverbial cross-eyed hobo. I kept an extremely close eye on Elliot as we rolled toward Lawrenceville, ready to pounce the second his eyes got a bit too shifty or his grin a bit too telltale. But Elliot remained a model passenger despite the rain pummeling the metal roof and the surrounding chatter of passengers.

When I saw Hambones approaching through the front window, I yanked the yellow cord and instructed Elliot to get up and walk with me to the front of the bus. He complied immediately and calmly. We stopped behind the yellow line—Elliot to my left, beside the driver. My heartbeat gradually began to slow as our stop approached—now just 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—glanced over at Elliot to flash an approving smile. Instead, 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. In what he surely believed were the dwindling moments of his life, he said "JESUS CHRIST!" I yanked Elliot's hand off the wheel. The woman screamed again. I spun Elliot around to face me and grabbed his collar. "What are you doing?" I asked. Elliot just looked at me and...cue the diabolical Ernie laugh.


The next day Paul invited me back into the chair on the other side of his desk. This time was chair was not just uncomfortable, it felt like the Iron Maiden.
Paul's 'stache bore down on me as he spoke."Mr. Bower, I heard about your bus incident yesterday. Me and the boys have 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."
I've never been so happy to be demoted.