Don't Think, Just Do It!

             

                 Dan pressed an eye to the camcorder's viewfinder, aimed the lens up at me, and flashed the thumbs up.  I vaulted each leg carefully over the railing of the rusty fire-escape, holding on for dear life, as I gazed down at the dumpster below.  Dan had thrown both lids open, and inside, it was stuffed to the brim with putrid bags of garbage. 

                "Hey, man" I called down, "I'm not so sure about this.  I didn't realize how high it was..."

                The distance between my feet and the concrete below was no less than 20-feet.  I ball-parked it closer to 25, but Dan maintained a casual insistence that I'd be perfectly safe jumping from a height of up to 30-feet.  Once I was up there, though, just the 20 was giving me vertigo.  Leaping off some guy's front porch into his shrubbery was simple enough, but if I missed my mark here, I was in real trouble. 

                Dan turned the camera off, annoyed with my hesitation. "Listen, man," he snapped. "I'm not trying to force you into anything here.  I mean, we agreed that it'll look hilarious on tape, and it's not even that high, but if you're not up to it, just get down here and take the camera, so I can jump.  We don't have all day." 

                Reverse psychology was the first tactic Dan resorted to the instant I expressed reluctance to perform some perilous stunt that he'd cooked up.  I could always tell when he was working the angle on me, but on the occasions I'd actually punk out, Dan always stepped to the plate.  The bit would turn out funnier than hell, and I'd spend the rest of the day full of regret for not mustering the gusto to perform the stunt myself.  

                I shook my head and waved him off.  Focus on the dumpster again, I calculated my trajectory, and squared up my intended landing zone.  It felt like staring into the jaws of some hungry beast, and there I was readying to fling myself right down its throat.
                Once again, Dan queued the camcorder and pointed it skyward.  Grinning, he flashed me the thumbs up, and I steadied myself.  Sweat beaded at my temples as I leaned further away from the railing.  I took a deep, meditative breath, and tried to clear my mind.
                Ready to let go in: 3...2...1...
               Without warning, the Exit door crashed open behind me, and I felt the wind as it whipped by and slammed heavily against the brick wall.  

                "HEY, KID! STOP!" demanded an angry voice. "WHAT THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" 

                As I whirled to face the voice, I lost my grip on the railing.  A sickening wave of horror washed over me, as gravity pulled me away from the fire-escape.  My world seemed to slow as I grasped for something to hold on to but managed only a fistful of air. Something like a yelp escaped my lips. Then, I was plummeting towards the pavement...

                I had really expected to die, but Lady Luck had designs on keeping me around awhile longer.  So, instead of in Hell, I came to neck deep in a mound of bulging Hefty bags.  The acrid aroma of hot garbage had never smelt so sweet. Buzzing flies and half-consumed food scraps and rotted organic refuse coalesced all around me and I was in no hurry to be anyplace else.  I was so relieved to be alive, I wanted to splash around in it, and make garbage-angels.  

                "CHRIS!" Dan screamed, rushing up to the lip of the dumpster.  "Are you OK?! Talk to me!"

                "I'm fine," I called.  "No worse for the wear.  Please tell me you got all that?"

                "Oh, you better believe it.  I got it alright."  He started laughing hysterically.  "Wait'll you see it, man.  You're gonna fucking die!"

                "I'm pretty sure I almost did."

                The owner of the restaurant on the first floor was coming for us down the alley.  Huge, red-faced, and enraged.

                Dan stuck the camera in his backpack, caught me under the armpits, and dragged me up to the lid of the dumpster.  My clothes were soaked in rancid garbage-juice.  Flies orbited.  Dan nearly retched and turned his face away.  "Let's fucking go!" he cried.  "That son-of-a-bitch looks pissed!"

                I swung my legs over the lip, and jumped to the ground just as the owner began racing toward us. 

                "Jesus, what the fuck does he want?!" I screamed.

                "I don't know, but I don't think we want to find out!  RUN!" 

                Dan turned and dashed off across the PNC Bank parking lot at the other end of the alley.  I was right with him; sucking wind, glancing over my shoulder as we distanced ourselves from the restaurant owner.  But he was already doubled over, panting in the alley not twenty paces past the dumpster.    

                A few blocks later, we passed a quaint little house with a shed in the backyard that looked like a miniature barn.  The shed had a slate-shingled roof and was painted a dark shade of red.  Surrounding it on three sides were voluminous hedgerows sheared into green cubes.  Dan and I spotted them at the same time, and moved toward the shed.  Dan was already unzipping his backpack and firing up the camera. 

                "You wanna take the honors, or should I?" he asked casually.

                "She's all yours, cowboy.  I'm still a bit tense from the dumpster-dive.  How're you gonna get on top of the shed, though?"

                We strolled right across the tidy lawn as if it were our own, and stood before the shed, sizing it up.  

                "Ya know what, just gimme a boost," he said, "Pretty sure I can pull myself the rest of the way up, if ya gimme a boost."

                He placed the camcorder gently on top of his backpack, and I dropped to one knee and interlocked my fingers.  Dan stepped onto my palms, using them like a step-ladder, to grab hold of the edge of the roof.  He scrambled up onto the shingles and dusted off his hands.

                I wiped mine off on my shirt, and collected the camera. "Nicely done, Dude McGruder. Are you ready?"

                He nodded, steadied himself, and got into position.    

                I flashed him the thumbs up, aimed the camera at him, and zoomed in, while Dan stared into the lens with a dramatic intensity. 

                "DON'T THINK!" he yelled before he leapt, "JUST DO IT!" 

                He hung in the air for a moment before his entire body was swallowed up by the shrubbery. It looked like he had leapt into a giant, green Jell-O mold.  I could hear limbs snapping as he swam and thrashed to free himself, but he was trapped.  The shrubs held him tight, suspended about a foot from the ground. All I could see of him were his hands, which were just barely sticking out the top of the bushes. 

                He started to scream. "Help!  HELP!  I can't get out!  I'm trapped!  You gotta help me, man, I'm TRAPPED!"

                There was genuine alarm in his voice; it rose an octave, then cracked.  He was becoming hysterical.

                I kept the camera rolling; taking smooth steps around the shrubbery, capturing his struggle from a variety of angles and perspectives.  Occasionally, one of Dan's hands would burst through the wall of prickly, green limbs, and he'd unleash a torrent of scatological profanity.

                "Chris!  CHRIS!  HELP!  I'm not fucking joking anymore!  For the love of cock-sucking, cum-farting, shit-eating SHIT!  IT HURTS!  GET ME OUT!"

                This went on for nearly three minutes, before Dan was finally able to wriggle free of the shrubs' embrace.  He inched himself along; clawing his way to the surface, snapping branches the whole way.  First, his arms and hands came free.  Then, his massive noggin, followed by his scrawny torso.
                Dan was nearly out, when a man appeared suddenly on the back porch of the quaint little house.  It took him a few seconds to discern what was happening, but when he did, he was down the porch steps and coming for us.  "HEY!  BOTH'A YINZ HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! YA LIL BASTARDS!  LOOKIT MA FUCKIN BUSHES!  YA WRECKED EM, GODDAMMIT!"

                I turned the camera on the homeowner for a split second, just before I snatched up Dan's backpack, and bolted.  Dan was still tearing himself out of the bushes, leaving them bent and broken. Finally, he fell to the ground, rolled, and caught his feet.  We raced, side by side, down a gravel alley behind the shed, with the raging homeowner in hot pursuit.

                "STOP!!!!" he bellowed.  "GETCHER FUCKIN ASSES BACK HERE RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT!  YER GUNNA PAY FER MY SHRUBS!" 

                "He's still coming!" I screamed.  "Let's cut between those garages!" 

                We darted across a backyard, and busted ass down a narrow passage between two squat garages.  The passage emptied out between a pair of brownstones, and we kept on running.  Across another road, we hurtled a low fence, and dove underneath a towering, blue pine.  We sprawled onto the carpet of pine-needles, exhausted, gasping for breath. 

                "Where'd he go?" I whispered frantically.  "Do you see him anywhere?"

                Dan could barely breathe; he only shrugged and shook his head.

                The thud of heavy footsteps provided my answer.  The man had kept pace as far as the garages, but he'd lost track of us on the other side of them.  I spotted him across the street through slats in the pine.  He was padding across the lawn between the brownstones, head on a swivel, scanning for any movement.  Every fiber of being was bent on avenging his poor shrubs.  It looked like he was muttering to himself, possibly debating whether to search any longer.  But he'd lost the scent.  Kicking at a dandelion, he cursed us, before flouncing back the way he'd come. 

                "He's gone," I gasped. "We lost him."

                "Well, thank fuck for that." 

                I took a look at Dan and took out the camera.  "Here, look at me," I said.  "I have to get a shot of your face right now.  It seriously looks like you got in a fight with a fucking mountain lion."  I scanned over Dan's mangled flesh.  The jagged limbs had torn gashes in his forehead, cheeks, and chin.  Rivulets of blood streaked his face, massed in his eyebrows.  His arms were ripped and bleeding.  Twigs and debris clung to his pompadour hair-cut, dirt smeared in with the blood.
               He grinned wide, as I zoomed in on his filthy kisser.  "I knew I should have taken the damn dumpster, ya sonuvabitch!"

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A Trip Dahntahn

                 It was unseasonably warm and sunny when I woke up, so I called up my brother and proposed a scheme to urban-trip. "Instead of frittering around our apartments," I said,"we'll spend the Saturday afternoon zoned, wandering around the city." He was game.    

                We met at Pat's apartment atop Mt. Washington around noon, cruised over to cop two hits apiece from The Shaman of Pittsburgh, and were back at Pat's fifteen minutes later to ditch the car. At his front door, we dropped (Pat gobbled both his doses right off the bat and I took one) and started the march up to Grandview Ave, where we'd catch the Monongahela Incline down the mountain to Station Square.
                Six blocks later, we reached the summit and my body had already begun to process the Lucy.  I could faintly perceive swirling waves and flashes of white light dancing on the periphery of my sight line.  A slow, steady warmth was proceeding up from my toes to the tips of my ears.  Despite these mild symptoms, I was still very much in control, and Pat casually maintained that his hadn't even come on at all yet.  But when we arrived at the Incline station and I approached the turnstiles to pay for a ticket, my mask of composure was beginning to slip.
               I pulled out my wallet but couldn't seem to count out the three bills the cashier had requested; I just sort of stared into my wallet for a few seconds, mind racing with panic and confusion.  Finally, I plucked out three crumpled ones and forked them over. The cashier gave me the ticket with a disapproving look, but waved me through. Pat stood smirking at me when I caught up to him on the loading platform.  He gestured at something behind me, so I turned and saw our reflections leering back from a circular mirror fastened on the wall.  Pat quickly snapped a cell phone pic of us, mugging like a pair of tripping-billies. I demanded he send me a copy that I would forget about until weeks later when it appeared on Instagram.

                 The Incline car was a cramped wooden box attached to a frighteningly steep track running peak to foot of the mountain.  We rode shoulder to shoulder with a chipper family of five who chattered excitedly about their day's itinerary even as the drugs threatened to transform us into slobbering, rambling, acid-zombies right there in the compartment with them. We politely ignored them and just stared down at our shoes. The descent was agonizingly slow, but we finally reached the foot of Mt. Washington, and the doors whisked open. We fled the car and rushed out into the crisp March afternoon, gulping fresh air, and basking in the picturesque city skyline stretched before us. 

                We embarked across the Smithfield Street bridge; Pat scribbling tags on the railing with a blue Sharpie as we walked along.  The 'cid was really coming on strong, and the Allegheny river rushing beneath us was almost too much to bear. The water rippled and swirled and sparkled like a diamond kaleidoscope, and I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me as I watched it.   

                When we hit the corner of Grant and Smithfield St, Pat suddenly began to feel nauseous.  Hunched over, panting and perspiring, he contemplated whether or not he should pull the trigger.  I advised that vomiting would be the worst possible course of action, and he should try instead to trick his mind into ignoring the sickness entirely. Try to convince himself it wasn't real. He took a few meditative breaths, closed his eyes, and...smiled.  No hurling necessary. 

                Our first destination was Point State Park.  Drifting across the grassy knoll in the long shadows of sky-scrapers, we ridiculed a gaggle of crust punks doing yoga and cackled maniacally.  We whooped and squawked like wacked-out birds to hear our echoes bounce beneath the footbridge.  Some of the folks walking past or cruising by on bicycles eyed us suspiciously.  Even more kept a wide berth, eyes glued to the ground. It was clear we were emitting a sort of unpredictable vibe; a volatile energy.

                We strolled along beside the river a ways before stopping off at a bench to rest. The drugs were hijacking our consciousness. We marveled at the blue heavens and watched as the clouds twisted and transformed like they were just ribbons of steam.  The sky was reflecting the water in such a way that the waves seemed to lap in the sky itself.  Pat and I stood entranced, completely given over to the visions.  After awhile, we came to, and congratulated each other on following through with the day's plan. It was also in that moment that I decided it wasn't too late to pop my second dose, so I busted it out, and stuck it under my tongue.

                We followed the trail to the confluence of the three rivers. The Point State Park fountain wasn't turned on yet, but there were still flocks of people around it, enjoying the sunshine just as we were.  Families, lovers, joggers, bicyclists, tourists, and photographers had all converged.  Pat and I became hypnotized once again watching the water, staring into the clouds, then across the river at the spectacles of PNC Park, Heinz Field, and Rivers Casino; everything infused with such vibrant color and clarity. 

                I suggested we hike all the way across the Clemente bridge to visit the casino for a Fear and Loathing-style adventure, and Pat had immediately agreed.  But when I actually charted the route we'd walk to get there, I reconsidered.  Much too far.  Instead, we stayed perched at the edge of the water for another half hour, rhapsodizing and spouting utter nonsense, before I opined we ought to head back downtown.  Pat was in the zone and refused to budge.  I was only able to talk him into migrating by outlining a quest to the center of town, where we'd watch the city lights flick on one at a time as day turned night.    

                Cautiously, (our motor functions nearly debilitated by then), we picked our way through the busy streets, and finally posted up on a marble planter before a steaming sewer-grate. The frenetic buzz of the city was an assault on our super-charged senses. Huge buses rumbled past, kids on skateboards zipped by, horns honked, shouting and laughter rang out, while we sat watching the twilight unfold.  The denim sky began to fade lavender as office lights flickered on floor by floor until whole towers were lit like beacons.

 

                Eventually, I found myself convincing a very contented Pat that it was time to move again.  It was still early yet, the Lucy still running strong, and it wasn't time to head home, so I led us off in hopes of discovering something else worth seeing. We soon arrived at a crossroads, where Pat suggested we head one way, and I the other.  My decision won out, though, when I pointed out to him that my direction had lots of pretty lights. Like a couple hallucinating moths, we moved toward the light, which actually turned out to be Market Square. The direction was easily the best decision I'd made all day, short of hatching the trip itself.  Market Square was a glittering mirage of music and lights and life; an oasis to our distorted perception of reality.
                 Pat put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "I should never have doubted you, man.  I should just trust that you're always gonna make the right call for both of us. That's why you're my big bro."

                "Don't ever forget it," I replied, reciprocating the shoulder-squeeze. It was actually quite a tender moment between siblings, even if we were zonked half-way to Mars by then. 

                In a courtyard beside Market Square, however, we happened upon a scene that we were not mentally prepared for.  At first glance, it looked to be some bizarre mode of installation art; an enormous projector screen loomed roughly 30-feet in the air, displaying what seemed to be holographic representations of the people milling below via a sensor mounted above them. Concert speakers were piping this eerie, whimsical, ambient music that affected us both to such a degree, we were unable to comprehend anything we were seeing. 

                Pat began to panic as his mind reeled to deduce meaning in the exhibition. Then he was ranting at me, begging me to explain what he was looking at.  "Is it art?!  Is it some sort of coordinated attack?  I think this is it, man.  This is the end of the world.  We're gonna die right here, man.  Any second now.  I'm telling you."

                Truly, by that time, the second dose had effectively scrambled my speech function, and I found I was only able to assuage his terror by sputtering garbled sentences which mostly came out as inanity.

                "Nah, nooo. It's not the end of the world, man. It's just an exhibit...an art...uh, well, it's just for show... not gonna, like, hurt us or anything..."

                He refused to hear me, and went on wringing his hands while pacing in circles, muttering to himself.  Hoping he'd recalibrate his outrageous behavior, I slid a couple steps to my right, and jammed my hands into my pockets. I gazed blearily around at the wall of skyscrapers surrounding us, and the crimson curtain of sky behind them.  I contemplated the spectrum of facial expressions in the crowd; joy, wonder, but mostly, amusement.  Pat was still freaking out over nothing.  I took another run at convincing him as much, and he finally began to calm.  As we stood gathering our wits, a man approached suddenly, and seemed as if he were about to speak to me. I'd never seen him, or the frumpy, docile woman clutching his elbow.

                "Excuse me," he said.  "Hi, there.  Beg pardon, but could ya possibly tell me what this whole thing is all about?"

                Confusion set in and I fumbled with my response. "Um, well, it looks like there's some sort of projector...and, uh, there's, like, a sensor picking up the people...and...well, I guess I can't really explain it..."  Trailing off, I turned and looked up at the projector screen, then back at the man. He brought his thumb up to his chin and posed thoughtfully, nodding as though he understood my explanation perfectly.

                "So, maybe we're not supposed to understand it.  Is that what you're saying?"  he said, grinning.

                I chuckled nervously, hoping he'd just shove off, but he was obviously waiting on my reply.

                "That's definitely what I mean..."

                I glanced over at Pat and realized that he was pointing his phone at us.  He'd been filming the whole bumbling exchange. The man was still standing there smiling at me. His obedient wife was still clutching his arm, transfixed by the screen and music hanging in the air. 

                I forced a smile out of politeness, and said, "Welp...anyway..."

                Finally, the gentleman caught my drift. "Alrighty, then.  Have yourself a pleasant evening now."

                "You, too."

                With that, he disappeared into the teeming humanity in front of the installation. 

                I sighed and turned to Pat. "Why the fuck were you filming me?  I could barely form a cohesive sentence.  I don't think I'm even capable of rational thought right now. I think I might be more wrecked than I've ever been on this stuff. Two hits is nothing to fuck with, man. Shit's not for the faint of heart, I'll tell ya that much.  See that building over there?"  I pointed over at the PPG tower, and Pat's gaze followed. "No joke, it looks like it's leaning over me right now. It looks like it's folding in half, like that scene in Inception where Ellen Page learns to architect the city in half.  I think I might be freaking out..."

                Pat laughed.  His panic attack had passed and he was back to being almost inordinately giddy and introspective.  Irrational fear of the installation gone, he began to scour the audience, seeking someone involved with putting the thing together. 

                "SCUSE ME!" he yelled, "DOES ANYONE WORK HERE?  SCUSE ME!  IS THE ARTIST HERE?  DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE?" 

                People started to stare, pointing at him and giggling, while he shambled amongst them, hollering questions at no one in particular.  I shrunk from the pairs of accusing eyes landing on me simply for my association with the nut trying so intently to track down the artist. 

                "Pat! Shut up! Get over here!" I snapped, but he wasn't listening.  Maybe he couldn't hear me.  Maybe he didn't want to.

                Then I noticed a girl, tall, late-20's, smartly dressed, squeezing through the crowd toward Pat.
               "Yes! I work here! Hi! Yes, sir, I work here!," she shouted over the din, but my brother hadn't noticed her until she was standing in front of him. "Excuse me, sir?  Yes, I work here.  I can answer any questions you might have."
                More stares found their way over to Pat as he began jabbering her.  His first question, posed in complete seriousness, was this: "OK, so, first of all, should I be nervous?"

                The girl seemed confused at first, then broke out laughing. "No! Of course not! Nothing to be scared of! It's just art, that's all!"

                Pat laughed heartily, relieved. "Oh my God, I was scared to death! My brother and I seriously thought the world was ending tonight. I was losing my fuckin mind!"

                I'd heard enough and slipped off to the periphery of the masses to hide in shadow, hands buried in my pockets. From afar, I watched Pat geek out, flirt, and try to talk shop with her, but I had no interest in keeping up my end of a conversation. Pat was pointing over at me, and the girl had turned, smiled, and waved. She was surely growing antsy, tired of gabbing with this Joe Blow who'd obviously been into something psychedelic this evening.

                Finally, Pat strutted over to where I stood with a smarmy grin on his face. "That chick works for the artist," he declared. "She's his publicist. She said he's here in the crowd somewhere, just watching all these people react to his work. How fuckin rad is that?"

                I nodded. "Uh, yeah, that's actually pretty cool. It's kinda voyeuristic. I dig that. So, I guess that means the artist isn't a domestic terrorist then?  The installation isn't weaponized?  It's not just a bells-and-whistles diversion to lull us all to sleep before the hammer drops?"

                Pat chuckled sheepishly and lit a smoke. "OK, so maybe I was tweaking out a little bit. But, you were nervous, too!  Admit it!  This stuff is sooo strong. I'm still tripping sack really fuckin hard.  You?"

                "Oh, yeah. Still down the rabbit hole, for sure."

                I was actually feeling pangs of regret over popping the second dose when just one would have more than sufficed, but I stifled them as best I could. The visions were every bit as lucid and intense as they'd been several hours ago at sunset, and the bustle of the city and the scenes we kept stumbling upon were a lot to process. The escalating absurdity of each encounter had colored reality with a hazy, dream-like quality. 

                "Do you think today was special?" I asked Pat, casually.

                "Special how?"

                "I dunno...I mean, when I woke up this morning and saw how gorgeous it was outside, I decided that you and I were gonna do something interesting with the day.  Something unusual.  Maybe broaden our minds, maybe learn something about our city...or something about ourselves?  I don't know. Nevermind, I can't explain..."

                "No, no, I think I understand. Totally. Today was somethin else. I'm really glad we did this, man."

                "Me too. Maybe, now that the world's not ending, we can do it again some time?"

                It took a long time and some intense bargaining, but I managed to pry Pat away from Market Square and the art installation he was now so utterly obsessed with.  He argued passionately against leaving, insisting that we "stay where the people were, stay in the light, in life's chaos".  But I was over it, and played my trump card, which was simply to remind Pat of his own words spoken just an hour ago.

                "Pat...can I ask you something?  Do you recall saying that you should never doubt me?  That my decisions today were made strictly in our mutual best interests and the best interests of the trip?  Well, now I'm telling you that this spot is played out, and we need a change of scenery.  So, will you come with me, or should I leave you here by yourself, because I'm migrating."

                Pat relented with a sigh. "Fine. Have it your way. Lead on..."

                We only made it a block before we were waylaid again. This time, by the giant spotlights bathing the granite courtyard of PPG Place in rainbow-colored light. The beams splashed the whole expanse in surreal waves of color that absolutely boggled my perception. I recoiled at the intensity of the sudden head rushes I was experiencing; terrified the trip was spiraling out of my control. I shut my eyes tight, took some soothing breaths, then eased my eyes open again. The rushes gradually subsided, and I was driving again.              

                Suddenly, and for no good reason I could ascertain, a Pittsburgh police working traffic at the nearest intersection, was ordering us off the property immediately or face arrest for trespassing.  Pat was in la-la land, completely oblivious to the officer's warning, so I grabbed his arm and together we shuffled off up the sidewalk.  I didn't know where we were going next, but I had an inkling it was about time to start drifting back to where our journey began: the Mon Incline. 

                Creeping down ominous back streets, flanked by bloated dumpsters, rusty fire-escapes and Emergency Exits, we were delivered into a well-lit parking lot.

                "Holy shit!" cried Pat, eyes wide. "Check that out!"  

                I pivoted, and there, plastered up on the crumbling brick wall, was an original, authentic Shepard Fairey OBEY mural, nearly 20-feet wide by 20-feet tall, staring down at us like a deity.

                "Whoa. That's fuckin rad! Shepard must have thrown that up when he was in town for his exhibition at the Warhol last year. His Street Team hid Andre the Giant stickers on buildings and telephone poles and billboards all over town like Easter eggs. There are a couple sick pieces over in Southside, too."

                We took out our phones and snapped some pics for posterity.

                I smiled inwardly as I grasped the irony in stumbling across this final gem on our way back home. Before Pat had agreed to the walkabout, he had first rejected my proposal to hit the Carnegie Museum of Art.  As it turned out, the universe would present us a gallery of equally stunning beauty, without even charging the price of admission.

                "I just realized something," I began. "You didn't want to go to the museum, right? But we still wound up seeing some uncanny works of art.  First, the sky and the clouds and the water at the Point. Then, we watched the sun go down and saw the city light up right in front of us. Then, Market Square, the End-of-the-World installation, and the LED rainbow in the courtyard. Now, we find this incredible Shepard original in some dreary back alley parking lot?  Honestly, I'm not a big believer in fate or what-have-you, but today was pretty damn fateful. Like it was all just meant to be..."

                Pat nodded thoughtfully, allowing the notion sink in. "Yeah, it was pretty perfect, wasn't it?  Fuckin great trip, man. Good times..."

                We were pretty fatigued when we reached the Smithfield Street bridge en route to the Incline.  Beads of sweat massed at my hairline.  My feet were so sore I couldn't wait to get off them.  We plodded along in silence, regarding the great Steel City in all its incandescent splendor.  Every few yards, Pat would linger to scribble more graffiti with his blue Sharpie, in plain view of passing pedestrians.

                When, at last, we approached the incline station it was almost 9PM, but seemed much later.  We fished out our return-tickets and presented them to the man stationed at the turnstile. We climbed all the way to the uppermost loading platform, where we figured on getting a compartment to ourselves given the scarcity of other passengers waiting around.  The incline car was making its final descent down the mountain; the end to our long, strange trip was in sight.

                Then, below us, the station door banged open, and we saw a host of teenage girls sashay through the turnstiles with parents in tow.  The girls clambered all the way up the stairs until they were standing beside us. I shot a concerned glance at Pat who rolled his eyes.  The car docked and the doors slid open. We climbed into the compartment first, and took a couple jump-seats fastened to one wall. The seats were barely wide enough for our asses to fit on, so we had to sort of squat; supporting most of our weight with our knees and ankles to keep from falling on our faces. The girls piled in behind us, squeezing onto the bench opposite us.  They giggled and snapped their gum and whispered to each other the whole way to the top.  A few compartments below, I could see the parents watching like hawks, poised to swoop into action should we delinquents go and decide to get fresh with their helpless babes. But they had nothing to worry about whatsoever.

                We only sat in dazed silence; Pat staring down at his shoe tops, and I out the window at the pitch-dark mountainside.  The dwindling LSD wrought a hellish sensation of claustrophobia, and my legs twitched, aching to kick out and run.  I forced myself to meditate; to detach mind from body for a few minutes until we could reach the summit.

                "Oh my god," squeaked one of the girls, "these poor guys are like, 'get me outta here!'"

                She didn't know the half of it, but we chuckled out of politeness.

                "Noooo," I croaked, "It's not you guys.  It's us, honestly.  We've just had a really long day, that's all. You guys are fine." 

                They tittered again, and I turned my attention back out the window. The ascent lasted an eternity, but at long last, the car doors whisked open.  Pat and I bounded out of the compartment, through the station doors, and burst into the cool night air. 

                "Shit, man," I gasped, as we moved up Grandview Ave. toward Pat's apartment. "What the hell was that all about?"

                Pat shook his head but said nothing. He was through trying to explain the inexplicable.

                I shrugged and lit a smoke.  I was done, too. 

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Some Things Can't Be Unread

Some things can't be unseen.

Sometimes, we stumble upon these five simple words when surfing the net, and understand that they sound a warning.  A warning that might precede a mildly shocking or heart-breaking image, or perhaps a vulgar video that might make your sweet ol' gran cringe, or a squeamish co-worker lose his appetite.  It's a caveat thrown around so lightly these days, that sometimes one can't really be sure, as your cursor lingers over that mysterious link, whether you should heed it and back off, or just proceed, full-speed-ahead, to the potentially "mind-blowing" content waiting for you on the other side...

But then what if that unseen image or video truly had the power to forever alter your perception of the world around you, and in a decidedly dismal way?  Would you let your curiosity get the best of you?  Would you throw caution to the wind and see for yourself just what kind of madness lurks in the darkest corners of the web?

Still reading?  Good.  Then, let's just get this out of the way now:  When I say, "can't be unseen", I'm not harkening back to the dial-up internet gag-pics and gross-out files like "Tubgirl", or Goatse.cx, or Lemonparty.org.  Sure, they were fun to trick your buddies into clicking on in middle school computer class, but today, they're on the harmless end of the mind-fuck scale.  I'm not even talking about the fetishistic depravity of "2 Girls 1 Cup", or really, anything from that gut-wrenching school of Bizarro-porn.  I can't even imagine deriving some vague satisfaction watching Dr. Pimple Popper explode infected black-heads and lance bulging cysts, as so many of those that enjoy those videos gleefully report.  I don't understand or appreciate the "comedy" in Internet Challenge videos like "Rainbow Milk", "Bananas & Sprite", or "Capri Sun", where the whole idea is to gorge oneself, hurl all over the place, and sick your viewers out for laughs.  Though, I can't argue, each undoubtedly comes tagged with a "cannot be unseen" warning label aimed to potentially deter your click.

Now, is that stuff sick?  Of course.  Does it tend to stay with you for hours, maybe even days, after viewing?  In the vast majority of cases, absolutely.  But, the content I'm referring to when I say "can't be unseen", very distinctly delineates itself from the preceding examples by the utter, unimaginable horror contained therein.

I want to offer another warning right now: the assortment of videos described below are simply the most egregious digital manifestations of evil, madness, macabre, and nature's unflinching savagery, that I've yet stumbled across in my short life.  They should not even exist at all, let alone be viewed by another living being.  But, in this "miraculous" day and age, even films recorded fifty years ago on a VHS camcorder find themselves alive and well in their binary archives and viewed by millions.

So, to answer my own question posed above -- No, I wasn't able to reign in my morbid curiosity enough to bypass these brutal spectacles.  I watched them, in full, and I am forever changed as a result.

Final warning...some things can't be unseen.

"Goodbye to all of you on the count of 3."  - R. Budd Dwyer, January 1987

5.  R. Budd Dwyer Suicide Tape

On a frigid, winter afternoon in Harrisburg, PA, disgraced politician, R. Budd Dwyer, assembled a press conference at the Capital building to officially resign as Treasurer of Pennsylvania. Staring down the barrel of severe bribery allegations, Dwyer, who maintained innocence to his last, had resolved to die rather than answer the charges in court.

The video picks up with Dwyer at the podium having just concluded his rambling, mostly incoherent resignation speech.  He then summons three aides, hands each a letter-sized envelope (which turned out to contain a suicide note, an organ donor card, and a letter to PA Governor, Robert Casey), before muttering some indiscernible instruction. 

Then, suddenly, Dwyer seizes a manila envelope he'd hidden behind the dais, and yanks from it a .357 Magnum.  The sense of bewilderment in the crowded chamber is palpable as hardly a reaction is registered at first.  But, in the span of three seconds, confusion becomes alarm, panic escalates to terror.  A chorus of, "No! Don't! Please! Budd, NO!", erupts from the audience.  Unmoved, Dwyer clutches the pistol in one hand, and shoves away any who move to confront him with the other. 

The gun cradled against his chest, he raises his free hand in the air, before calmly warning, "Please, please, leave the room if this will...if this will affect you."  His admonition is met with pleading and chaos, so once again, he warns everyone to stay back.  "Don't, don't, don't! This will hurt someone." 

Then, grasping the weapon in both hands, Dwyer presses the barrel to the roof of his mouth and pulls the trigger.  There's pandemonium and tortured shrieking as his body slumps lifeless against the wall.  The top of his head shredded by the bullet, the camera zooms closer, unsympathetic, as blood cascades from his nose like a faucet for the next ten seconds. 

A shockingly cavalier gentleman in the gallery pleads with his frenzied peers, "Don't panic.  Don't panic.  Don't panic, now."   Umm, k?

    

4.  The Brick Video

If I learned one thing from watching this video, it's that graphic imagery isn't always what lingers in your memory when it's over.  Sometimes, a bit of context and a few seconds of audio proves more than disturbing enough to soak you in a cold sweat. This clip, clocking a mere 30-odd seconds in length, packed as visceral a punch as my battle-tested mind has ever absorbed. 

A single play-through still haunts me with guilt and regret to this day.

In a scene ported straight from Final Destination, the dash-cam recording opens on a two-lane highway in Syktyvkar, Russia.  The horizon is a soft blue, the sun is shining, the surrounding fields are lush and green.  Conspicuously, though, there are no medians separating the traffic speeding past in opposite directions.  Inside the car, a man and his wife are up front, while another couple and their young child ride in back.  Only the steady hum of the engine and occasional rattle of passing cars can be heard as the unsuspecting families glide up the highway.

A red, semi-truck lurches into view, advancing on them fast in the opposite lane.  Its shadow swallows up theirs as it thunders past.  Trailing the semi is a white Audi sedan, which is followed closely by a rickety-looking box-truck loaded with bricks.  Though the dash-cam footage gets a bit grainy, one can clearly make out a clatter of loose bricks spilling out of the box-truck onto the highway ahead.  One can also discern the silhouette of a single brick as it's catapulted up into the air and hurtles toward the dash-cam...   

In a sickening instant, the brick has torn through the windshield and crushed the skull of 29-year-old Olga Gaikovich, who occupied the passenger seat.  Nothing graphic or gory is shown in the subsequent moments as the car's occupants' stunned disbelief gives way to unflinching reality.  

Olga's husband's frantic sobs are heard as he yanks the car onto the shoulder.  The couple in back begin to wail and scream.  Their baby starts to bawl.  Indifferent motorists coast by them, completely oblivious to the tragedy in their midst.  

Suddenly, the video cuts off, and the viewer is left numb and with agony still echoing in their ears.

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Angels in the Outfield?

"YOU PLAY BALL LIKE A GIRL!"

Slow your roll, Ham.  It's been 23 years since "The Sandlot" coined the end-all burn little bros the world over grew up spouting off in dugouts since Little League, but it doesn't bring quite the same heat these days.  In fact, it hardly qualifies as a burn in 2016.

That's because girls across the globe are proving with talent and opportunity, baseball ain't just for boys anymore.

This week, Independent Professional ballclub, the Sonoma Stompers, signed not one, but two, female players to contracts, offering fresh evidence that women are indeed inching the needle, however slightly, towards "Long Hurr, Don't Curr" in The Big Show.   

17-year-old outfielder/pitcher Kelsie Whitmore from Temecula, CA, and 25-year-old pitcher/infielder Stacy Piagno from St. Augustine, FL, were recruited by the Stompers, (in association with business partner Francis Ford Coppola’s Virginia Dare Winery) to bring some much-needed national attention to the fact that there are chicks out there who can do more than just hold their own against the dudes on the diamond.
 

I like to imagine the recruitment process played out JUST like this.

But, while Kelsie and Stacy might be the most recent examples of ladies in baseball, they're hardly the first.

We millennials got a taste of what kind of damage they can do back in 2014, when a plucky little scamp named Mo'ne Davis started mowing down the boys like Catfish Hunter at the Little League World Series. 

With a fastball that touched 70mph (equal to 93mph on a full-sized diamond) and a deuce that could buckle knees like Kershaw, Mo'ne became the first girl in history to earn a win for her team in the LWS,  a shut-out, no less, which was another first. 

In 1972, Maria Pepe became the first girl to start in a Little League game, but she was removed when an opposing team demanded her removal.  

Mo'ne's poise and dominance against the hapless bros, especially under the glare of the national spotlight, proved a massive shot in the arm for public perception in terms of what girls could accomplish in our national pastime.  Girlfriend just flashed onto the scene like a bolt of lightning and for awhile, at least, people were abuzz about her, and the possibilities she symbolized.

Sure, it was only Little League, but Mo'ne Davis's shooting-star performance  had people suddenly wondering whether women could achieve that sort of success in advanced levels of the game.  

Well, we're only two years removed from that LWS and we've already got some answers to that question.  

Scholastic, Collegiate, Olympic?  Check, check, check.  

To be fair, only a handful of examples isn't enough to imply we'll see one in the highest echelons of MLB in the next 20, or even 30 years.  But, I do believe there's been enough progress made to one day imagine some badass chick trotting out of the bullpen, spurting a big glot of Redman-juice in the dirt, and toeing up the rubber at PNC Park. 

But, don't take my word for it.  

Just this year, Clint Hurdle, manager of my favorite ball-club and yours, the Pittsburgh Pirates, was quoted in the Beaver County Times declaring, "I still believe firmly there is going to be a day where there is a female player in the big leagues. I got that. Where it goes, I don't know. I don't believe I'll be in the dugout to see it."   

Ehhh, not exactly a rosy timeline offered by The Gipper, I guess, but the guy is easily one of the most progressive, cerebral managers in all of baseball.  So, I tend to listen if Clint says he truly believes that one day there's more than just a chance. 

And as a wise man named Lloyd Christmas has taught all of us: A chance, even one in a million, is enough to keep up hope.

So, three cheers for fearless ballers like Mo'ne Davis, Kelsie Whitmore, Stacy Piagno, and idealistic organizations like the Sonoma Stompers, for continuing to give hope to every little girl in the world that dreams of patrolling center-field like Andrew McCutchen, lighting up the gun like Arrieta, or tearing the cover off the ball like Bryce Harper.  

Keep kicking ass.  

Keep sending the Ham Porters of the world back to the bench with tears of embarrassment after three straight whiffs.

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