A SUMMER AT CHUCK E. CHEESE by Gregg Gethard

We join Philadelphia stand-up comic/writer/host of BEDTIME STORIES (July's show is the Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? extravaganza, more on that later) once again as he recounts his idyllic summer as an employee of Chuck E. Cheese.

PART 1

Dawn had her blonde hair teased as only a girl from North Jersey can tease her hair. I fucking hated her. She was a complete and total bitch to anyone she didn't like, which was everyone, except for the parade of older shithead guidos she dated, the types of guys whose idea of a good time was to throw Coors Light empties out of a speeding car at homeless people.

Dawn and I were co-workers at Chuck E. Cheese, America's foremost chain of birthday emporiums for germ-infected kids. My job duties were plentiful -- kidnap prevention, game repair, game maintenance, merchandise counter, waiter, bus boy, dishwasher, breadstick cook, bathroom custodian and, of course, costumed entertainment.

For one glorious, defining summer, my job was to pretty much get into a giant rat costume and dance around for immigrant children.

This is how I ended up, holding a mouse head in a filthy utility closet, getting yelled at by a girl whose only talent on earth was the ability to blindly flip the radio dial from KISS FM to HOT 97 while going down on a 28-year-old cement mixer/numbers runner in the front seat of his fire red Camaro.

The rest of the story after the jump...

"What the fuck do you think you're doing out there? Huh? I have to do the birthday dance while you're out there looking like a retard. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I guess I was a bit of a loose cannon as a dancer. You had to be if you wanted to compete with Jim. Jim ran the kitchen and never spoke more than a few words at a time. He'd just cast an empty stare into the pizza over and announce when an order was finished.

But Jim liked to leave the kitchen area on occasion to don the Chuck E. Cheese costume. And when he did, he was pure electricity. Jim would dance on chairs, do somersaults, run onto tables and lead large Congo lines throughout the facility. Jim was a genius. He was the best Chuck E. Cheese performer amongst the staff of the Route 10 East Hanover branch. He was untouchable.

But I wanted to make a case for number two. The other Chuck E. Cheese performers often gave tedious performances. I could understand mailing in a performance, especially after a long day of serving pizzas and redeeming plastic trinkets for prize tickets.

But I could only understand mailing it in. I never did. Not if I wanted to be number two.

At the very least, I could better than George. George was 26 and had a tube in the back of his head which kept his skull from expanding. He was about 40 pounds overweight and a heavy smoker. He was the first person, out of many, I would meet at a shitty job who would have the corporate rules and regulations handbook memorized.

“Black shirts go with brown belts, Gregg. White shirts get tucked in."

"There are only 18 pieces of pepperoni on this pie. Send it back to Kitchen and tell them to make sure there are 20."

“The plug for the Jurassic Park sit-down game does not go into that outlet.”

George also loved performing as Chuck E. Cheese. He would rigidly to the performance as per the training video. He would never stray from the "Birthday Dance." He would never throw in a macarena or a sexy hip wiggle.

It was a metaphor for my life -- would my individualism shine through in the face of such oppressive corporate attitudes? Would I be able to dance The Birthday Song as I saw fit, with my own impressions, or would the forces of management, at least through the eyes of a semi-retarded guy, make me do the standard swim dance followed by the watusi? Would I manage to trump a 26-year-old porn addict whose mom drove him to and from work, since he couldn't drive because of the tube in his head which kept his skull from expanding?

It would be a test of wills.

George loved Dawn. He called her about seven times a night. Once, his fat mother even came into the store to ensure her it would be okay if she wanted to come over for dinner.

She didn't.

After performing as Chuck E. Cheese, it was custom to go back to the kitchen for a drink and a few slices of pizza or breadsticks. This time, Dawn followed me, continuing to insult my dancing abilities. "I don't think you understand how much of an idiot I look like dancing when you're dancing like an asshole. Just do The Birthday Dance like you're supposed to."

Albert slammed down his pizza knife and looked over at us. He was a Christian convert from Nigeria. The only thing he hated more than loud arguments in the kitchen was Jews. He announced one day he would attack any Jews he met as they killed Christ. At least half the staff was Jewish.

Dawn continued to browbeat me. Finally, I lost it.

"Buh buh buh buh." I screamed in her face. "I'm a dumb guidette! I'm a dumb guidette!"

"WHAT did you just call me?"

"I called you a dumb, worthless guidette. And I barely, rarely give a deuce what the fuck you think about my dancing. Buh buh buh buh."

The whole kitchen just stopped to look at me. Everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing to watch my fit.

Arthur, the assistant manager who smoked pot with me back by the dumpster, looked at me.

"Did you just say that you 'barely, rarely give a deuce?’ What the fuck does that even mean? Why are you saying ‘buh buh buh’ so much? Is that even English?"

I looked at him. The entire staff was laughing at me.

I then clocked out for my lunch break.

PART 2

The only thing Ronnie ever talked about were cheat codes for whatever fantasy game for his Sega he just purchased. It was another day of toiling in silence with Ronnie, fixing games and cleaning up spilled soda and dropped pizza.

Pete, the manager, then came running to us. Pete was always intense. His job was to oversee the smooth operations of a Chuck E. Cheese outlet and he put all of his energy into doing just that. He'd always talk about his chronic headaches and discuss his marital strife with his teenage employees.

"We have an emergency in the ballpit. Code Brown. It’s a Code Brown. I need you two over there with garbage bags and shovels, pronto."

Ronnie and I went over to the ballpit. We saw two crying children, pointing inside the ballpit.

"Some other kid just went poopie in the ballpit. It wasn't me, though, it was some other kid." I looked at the rear of this kid’s pants. They seemed to be filled with diarrhea, hopefully his own.

Smeared across dozens of balls was, indeed, poopie. It was liquid in its nature. No doubt, the Chuck E. Cheese breadsticks did a number on this kid's intestinal tract.

Pete told me and Ronnie to go into the ball pit and shovel all of the balls into the plastic bags. And then we were to go and hose off the balls and return them when they were cleaned.

So there I was, shoveling shit-drenched balls out of a ballpit into plastic bags with a deaf-mute Final Fantasy addict.

Our only conversation would come when children would want to come into the ballpit. I'd have to tell them it was closed. They'd always inquire why.

"Poopie. There's a looooooot of poopie in there."

Finally, after about an hour, all the balls, and the fecal matter, were in plastic bags. We took them out to the parking lot behind the kitchen, conveniently located right in front of the lobby of the area’s most popular movie theater.

Ronnie held open a bag. And I then started to hose off shit-smeared balls for the Chuck E. Cheese ballpit. In a lifetime of lowly moments, this was definitely one of the worse.

But my public shaming was not complete. Now driving past the parking lot was a gang of dickheads who went to high school with me. Here I was, standing in a parking lot in the retarded Chuck E. Cheese outfit, complete with visor, hosing off balls, while these tanned, musclehead assholes in a convertible bought with Daddy's "construction" money driving by, yelling my name (“Faggot”), and throwing Coors Light empties at me.

I then told Ronnie we were done. No one was by the dishwasher. I took the fecal-infested balls and threw them in the dishwasher, along with the plates and cups and everything else a restaurant uses. Fortunately, I did not create an e coli scare.

PART 3

From one side of the crowded Chuck E. Cheese walked a white trash lady with all the needed acoutrements -- a big Jersey perm, swishy running pants, caked on make-up, the wide eyes of a coke binge and an ugly, overweight child. From the other side came this ghetto fabulous Newark girl -- neck tattoo, Cross Colour shirt w/ matching pants and an ugly, overweight child.

They both converged in front of the merchandise table I was sitting behind, hoping to join the masses who wanted to exchange their tickets for valuable plastic backscratchers, pencil erasers and neon green T-Shirts with stenciled cartoon frogs.

"Move, bitch, I was fuckin' here first."

"No, you move, you trashy-ass whore."

It was on. Punches were thrown, hair was pulled and bodies hit the floor. The string of obscenities were absurd in their violence and tone. Parents were watching and kids were screaming.

I couldn’t stop laughing; because, as per my custom when working merch, I was really high.

Pete, the manager, rushed the scene and pulled the ladies apart. They were STILL trying to get at each other.

Finally, after they left, Pete called me into the kitchen. He then proceeded to berate me for not doing more to stop the fight.

I couldn’t stop laughing; I was still really high when this guy was browbeating me for not hopping the merch counter to intervene in this brawl.

PART 4

My co-worker Nick and I had one thing in common -- an undying attraction for sexy, older women. Chuck E. Cheese. was filled with MILFs.

We devised a system, breaking Chuck E. Cheese into various quadrants.

"Nick, MILF red, Sector 4" meant for Nick to head to the skeeball racks to see 38-year-old woman wearing a very short skirt.

Nick or I would then get into the Chuck E. Cheese costume. Eventually, Chuck E. would mosey over to the sector and start to hug children. Then, Chuck E. would end up inappropriately hugging a mother of two, hoping to avoid a lawsuit.

PART 5

Kid Check was one of the more annoying jobs I've ever had. I would stand at the front of the store and stamp a number onto the hands of children with their adult supervisor. Kids could not leave the store unless they had the same number as the adult trying to leave with them.

Essentially, I was The Wall between a child and his or her brutal rape and murder…all for minimum wage.

On top of my worries that my shameful photograph would be plastered on the evening news after I inadvertently let a 9-year-old leave with a man who would keep her chained in a tomb while he filmed her, this job could be painfully boring. During slow times, when there wasn't anyone in the store, all I did was just sit at the front like a complete and total asshole.

To counter the boredom, I would bring in a book to read. The first book was Camus' The Stranger. One soccer mom asked me what I was reading. She asked me what it was about.

"The existentialist quandry of everyday life, as seen through the prism of the murder of an Arab."

She walked away without saying anything.

One day, I didn't have a book to read. An African-American co-worker of mine lent me her copy of Waiting to Exhale.

Every African-American woman who walked past me would stop and talk my ear off about the book and explain to me about how it was just like their life.

Chuck E. Cheese helped me gain a better understanding of the life experiences of other races and genders, at least through Terry McMillan’s worldview.

PART 6

One day, I was at Kid Check. And who walks in, but none other than then-New York Giants head coach and football legend Dan Reeves.

It was his grandson's birthday. He sat down at a table and was then surrounded by every guy in the store -- a combination of big Giants' fans and dads insanely bored from being at Chuck E. Cheese.

I had to get in costume and do The Birthday Dance for Dan Reeves' grandson. I went up to Coach Reeves and made him get up and do the twist. He somehow did this and managed not to break his hip.

Later on in the day, Dan Reeves, football legend, put about $15 worth of quarters in The Who's Tommy pinball game ("Touch Me. Feel Me. Play Me."), not seeing the large "OUT OF ORDER" sign right on top of it.

“Thank you, son,” he said as I reimbursed him for his token loss.

No wonder he couldn't win a Super Bowl with John Elway.

PART 7

"Fuck. It's Dauber."

Those three words sent shivers down the spine of any and all of the East Hanover Chuck E. Cheese employees. Dauber was a regular customer at Chuck E. Cheese, always coming with his nephew, Robbie.

He was called Dauber because of his stunning resemblance to four time Oscar-award winning actor Bill Faggerblake, the man who portrayed the loveably dim-witted assistant Dauber on TV's Coach. Dauber also constantly wore a mesh blue football jersey for a team entitled "The Dusters" with the number 43.

He was also a complete and total asshole. Rude, pushy, degrading -- this guy was a nightmare. He would come into Chuck E. Cheese, condescendingly say the name on your nametag, and say something like: "I would like a bag of tokens now. Hurry up before I get your manager" or "Return this pizza, boy, it's cold."

We all longed for a way to get back at this dick. The unwritten "code" stated that you could do this by humiliating and/or assaulting the child of a patron. The resetting of a heated video game, a quick judo toss in the ball pit or taking a child's redemption tickets were always a good way to take out the deep rage of a crummy minimum wage job on an innocent.

But I was previously burned by the "code” in an attempt to strike back against a small child. A mother and a father were particularly bothersome to me when I served them their food. I sought justice by tripping their daughter in the game room as she ran by me. I was caught by her parents in the act. Pete, the over-the-top insane manager, was absolutely irate with me when they told him what I did.

At Pete’s order, I had to physically lower myself and squat and apologize to a nine-year-old girl in the middle of the store, as her parents and my boss hovered over me.

She didn’t accept my apology.

Thus, attacking Robbie was out of the question. We needed a strike directly at Dauber himself.

Dauber's biggest demands were for an employee to get in costume. Getting in costume had its moments; however, at the end of a hot, long day, it wasn't something anyone particularly wanted to do. Especially if George, the 26-year-old with the tube in the back of his head, was in costume earlier in the day, since you'd go home smelling like a 26-year-old Chuck E. Cheese employee with a tube in the back of his head.

Dauber, once again, demanded someone to get into costume. I gathered the troops in the kitchen. And I told them that I was going to fight back.

I got into costume. I went out on the floor, hugging kids while Dauber and his son watched. I waited. Nick served them their medium pie. And then I made my move.

I sat down with Dauber and Robbie, putting the oversized Chuck E. Cheese boots on the table.

"Wow, Robbie. Look! Chuck E. Cheese came to sit with you, Robbie."

I then took my feet off the table and stood up. And I pointed my fur-covered finger right in his big, fat face.

"Oh, no. I think he's here to see me, Robbie."

I shook my mouse helmet yes, swatting with my paw, swiping his Diet Coke away, spilling it on the floor. Then I grabbed a slice of his pizza and turned it upside down, squashing it on the table and then pointing in his face again.

Nick then came up behind me, with our co-workers in the background. He folded his arms.

"Chuck E. thinks you're a jerk. You come in here every weekend to boss around teenagers. And Chuck E. thinks you owe us all an apology."

Dauber paused, said he was sorry, and then left the store.

PART 8

My one goal in the summer of 1996 was to avoid having a TV camera stuck in my face as a reporter frantically asked me: “Don't you feel responsible for the fact that Little Jenni Myers was forced to live in a subterranean fortress until her head was eventually sawed off and her torso was discovered in luggage dropped out of a speeding windowless van off of I-287 in Far Hills?"

The genesis for this neurosis of mine came from my primary duty as an employee of Chuck E. Cheese -- tediously standing at the front of the store behind The Kid Check podium. My duty was to stamp the hands of parent and child with a day-glo number. Upon leaving the store, I would have to check the numbers of the parents and children to ensure no children were being lured to their brutal, prolonged death.

There were several aspects of the Kid Check job which did not work in my favor as I served as "the last wall" against child rape. First, the hand stamp tool we used was this broken piece of crap. Second, I was really high for a decent amount of my Kid Check duties. And third, during my sober moments, I really didn't care; the existential angst I gained from reading Camus at the workplace had yet to be scrubbed off.

There were only a few hours left in my final day of work. Hopefully, I would leave this job without being charged with an accessory crime.

-------------------

Earlier in the day, I gave my last performance as Chuck E. Cheese. I recruited two friends of mine to join me: Mark, who had sex with at least four co-workers, dressed as Jasper T. Jowls, a manchild/dog creation and Nick, who also had sex with as many as three co-workers, dressed as the freakish nightmare named Helen Henny. Nick's costume looked vaguely like a used HAZMAT suit. In addition to his beak mask, Nick also had to don tight blue spandex bike pants -- a comical sight to begin with, but considering he had thighs the size of a small office building due to his years as a mildly talented high school wrestler.

The birthday song began. I, as Chuck E. Cheese, charged out of the dressing room for one last time. And as soon as I did, Jasper T. Jowls struck me from behind with a devastating right paw swoop. I turned to witness Helen Henny kicking Jasper T. Jowls.

The brawl was on.

It lasted for several minutes, all three of us landing solid blows. At one point, I picked up a chair and hit Mark in the back. The fight ended with Mark hit Nick in the beak, thus causing the Helen Henny mask to do a complete 180.

Parents stood by, unsure of what to do. The children and our co-workers celebrated and gave us a rousing ovation.

------------------

Only two hours remained in my duties. Once again, I was left at Kid Check. And I absolutely needed to ensure that no child would be kidnapped while I stood at The Last Wall. A child was leaving the store with his mom. I looked at his hand. And then hers. His hand. and then he's. A panicked look fell on my face.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I can't let you go. I believe you are kidnapping this child."

Her mouth dropped. Then I smiled.

"Ma'am... I'm a big kidder! Go on out and have a nice day!"

Immediately behind her was a mother/daughter duo.

looked at the daughter's hand first. And then the mom's. Daughter's. Mom's. A panicked look fell on my face.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I can't let you go. I believe you are kidnapping this child."

She was more annoyed. Then I smiled.

"Ma'am... I'm a big kidder! Go on out and have a nice day!"

I did this for about the next two hours. Then I turned in my uniform.
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VALENTINE'S DAY by Gregg Gethard

Valentine’s Day is a day of love. It’s a day of flowers. It’s a day of candy. It’s a day of Vermont Teddy Bears.

It is also a day that I once ruined for thousands of people.

This happened in 2002. I was a reporter for the Verona-Cedar Grove Times, easily one of the five worst newspapers in the country. (I know what I speak of as I have worked at three of the five worst newspapers in the world.) My main duties consisted of reporting on local school board issues, local real estate issues and other topics that made me vaguely suicidal.

One day, in early February, I received a call from a lady by the name of Bernice. She told me that she had a “pitch” for me as she had a “very important” story.

She had children who went to The Valley Educational Center, a private school for troubled kids from North Jersey. And, for Valentine’s Day, the kids at this school were going to put messages in puffy paint on t-shirts for folks who lived in a nearby nursing home.

Normally, I wouldn’t write about middle school students drawing hearts on t-shirts in puffy paint for a bunch of people waiting to die. But I decided to cover this story anyways. This was done for two primary reasons:

1. These kids were a bunch of juvenile delinquents. It was a collection of arsonists, thieves and rapists. And if there’s one rule I follow in life, it’s this: Always try to hang out with a group of pre-teen arsonists, thieves and rapists. Paricularly if there’s puffy paint involved.

2. This newspaper was a complete and total piece of shit. I covered stories way more retarded than this one. Earlier in my tenure at this paper, I wrote an article about a guy who grew a really big zucchini in his garden. It was the main story on the front page.

I went to the school, where I met Joel, the school’s executive principal and Robb, the school’s head principal. I have no clue what the difference between these two job titles exactly was. The only difference between them was Robb’s hair, which was straight out of the Jeff Ament collection.

“What you are doing for these kids… it’s just awesome and amazing. I mean, these kids have nothing positive in their lives at all,” Robb said. “So, for what you’re doing, we’re going to love you forever. After this article is written, we’re going to frame it for you.”

I told them that they didn’t have to do it. After all, I was a journalist, and I wasn’t allowed to accept gifts from people I was writing about. (However, I would have accepted the following: food, sporting event tickets, free passes to Loews’ cinema, free passes for Blockbuster videos, light drugs, a job reference, cash, and a new car, preferably a Lexus.)

Robb then told me that his brother was a reporter for the U.S. News and World Report. “He really misses writing these types of stories,” he said. “You know, the articles where you can really impact someone’s life.” I’m pretty sure his brother didn’t miss these types of stories. And I’m definitely sure he didn’t miss the $9.75 per hour wage.

Robb then asked me not to write anything that would “cause further harm” to these kids. I told him I would try my best not to, but that I would be writing down what Robb told me. He continued to talk about how fucked up these kids were.

“They’ve been damaged by life,” he said.

Finally, we made it to the art room. And there, as expected, were a bunch of messed up looking middle school kids – 8th graders with mustaches and/or wearing halter tops -- putting puffy paint on t-shirts. I wish I could be more descriptive than that. But that’s all it was.

I went back to work and wrote this article. It could not have been easier. It’s a story that tells itself. Messed up kids who are “damaged by life” put puffy paint on t-shirts for elderly people. I finished the job and went on with my life.

Two days article, our paper came out. My boss, Milo, called me into his office.

“It’s that guy Robb from the school,” he said. “He’s on the phone. He’s crying.”

I blinked.

“What, is he crying tears of joy?”

“No, he’s pissed as shit.”

I picked up Milo’s phone.

“Hello?” I asked.

“You are a fucking asshole,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You are a fucking piece of shit.”

I asked him what his problem was. He continued to flip out on me.

"Everything in here is a misquote. We went over the rules. I didn't want you to run anything that could hurt these kids," he told me.

"I wrote down what you told me," I said. "Plus, there's not anything in there which could hurt anyone."

"DAMAGED BY LIFE! YOU WROTE THAT THESE KIDS WERE DAMAGED BY LIFE!"

"Because that's what you--"

"Do you know what you did by writing that? DO YOU?"

"No. Please tell me."

"YOU RUINED VALENTINE'S DAY FOR THOUSANDS OF FAMILIES IN NORTH JERSEY. THOUSANDS OF FAMILIES. ALL OF WHOM WANTED TO READ THIS STORY. AND YOU RUINED VALENTINE’S DAY FOR THESE PEOPLE."

Rob and I eventually parted ways, but not before this granola-head cursed at me a few more times.

So, if you’re one the people whose Valentine’s Day I ruined all those years ago, I’m sorry. However, if you’re one of the kids I wrote about in the article, you’re probably in jail anyways.

Gregg Gethard is a Philadelphia writer and comedian. His monthly comedy show BEDTIME STORIES is next Wednesday the 18th at Connie's Ric Rac (1132 S. 9th) at 8PM.
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THIS WEEK: PHIT at the Shubin Theatre

It's time again for the Philly Improv Theater's week at the Shubin Theatre (407 Bainbridge St). The week actually kicked off Monday with our show, but the meat of the week is still yet to come. It promises to be an interesting week with a film screening, state of the organization address and comedians from New York City and Chicago.

Tuesday, December 2
8 p.m. - The State of PHIT: As the year closes upon us, it's time for the Philly Improv Theater to reflect on the accomplishments of 2008 and look forward to another great year of comedy. Thus the State of PHIT presentation with Artistic Director Alexis Simpson discussing the future content-wise, Founder Greg Maughan going over performer compensation and light snacks! EVERYONE is welcome to attend. You can read more about it here.

Wednesday, December 3
8 p.m. – Bedtime Stories: RICH PEOPLE, $10. Host Gregg Gethard presents the very last night of Bedtime Stories sketch, stories and other stuff at the Shubin Theatre.

10 p.m. - Why Am I Not Famous?!?: A Comedy Talk Show w/ Kent Haines, $5. Kent welcomes comedians sketch comedians Animosity Pierre and stand-up Brendan Kennedy.

Thursday, December 4
8 p.m. – The Throng & The Sketchy Players, $5. PHIT house team The Sketchy Players are joined by Haverford College's longform improv team The Throng.

10 p.m. - CAGEMATCH: Activity Book vs. reigning champ Illegal Refill. $5. CAGEMATCH pits two groups against each other for 25-minute sets that can only use one audience suggestion. The audience decides the winner by secret ballot.

Friday, December 5
8 p.m. – The Dave Hill Explosion, $10. He's back! NYC's Dave Hill brings his explosion to explode all over your exploded lap. Expect awesome explosions, guests and maybe music.

10 p.m. - Omelet with Cubed, $10. Chicago improv duo Omelet performs with local favorites Cubed.

Saturday, December 6
8 p.m. - Omelet with Cubed, $10.
10 p.m. - The Dave Hill Explosion, $10.

Sunday, December 7
3 & 7 p.m. - Film Screening: GOLD, $10. A strange relic of the 1960s counter-culture, featuring improv-guru Del Close, this movie shows what happens when hippies get their hands on a camera and waaay to much acid. A short Q&A with the people responsible for restoring the film will follow each screening.
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LOCAL COMEDY NEWS: Bedtime Stories leaving the Shubin Theatre

Folks, sometimes good things have to come to an end. And it with this in mind that we report that the monthly topical sketch/monologue show BEDTIME STORIES hosted by Gregg Gethard will no longer be seen at the Shubin Theatre after this Wednesday's show.

The reason for the departure is a positive one, however, as the show has simply outgrown the 50 or so seats of the Shubin. Over the past two years, Gethard's show has grown from an audience of just a few to a packed house. "I can't believe how the show has grown over the past two years," says Gregg. "It is easily the coolest thing I've ever done in my life. I'm not used to success (aside from marrying the coolest girl in the world) so the show taking off the way it has is so incredibly special to me."

"I just want to give a shout out to Greg Maughan and Alexis Simpson, the driving forces behind PHIT," Greg continues. "They both do an outstanding job with PHIT, which really has become, in my opinion, the center of the Philly alt-comedy community. But we all agree that it's best the show moves forward."

The plan is to setup the show at the recently re-opened Connie's Ric Rac on the Italian Market which is already the host of Corey Cohen's Steal This Show. If everything goes as planned, the first show will be in February with the topic of "An Evening At Applebee's".

In the meantime, be sure to check out the Bedtime Stories topic of "Rich People" this Wednesday at the Shubin Theatre, 8PM.
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THIS WEEK: PHIT at the Shubin Theatre

It's time again for the Philly Improv Theater's week at the Shubin Theatre (407 Bainbridge St). The week actually kicked off Monday with our show (we'll have video soon), but the meat of the week is still yet to come.

Wednesday, November 5
8 p.m. – Bedtime Stories: WORLD PH*CKING CHAMPIONS: A TRIBUTE TO THE PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES, $10. Host Gregg Gethard presents a night of sketch, stories and other stuff about the 2008 World Series Champion Philadelphia Phillies.

10 p.m. - Why Am I Not Famous?!?: A Comedy Talk Show w/ Kent Haines, $5. Kent welcomes comedians Chip Chantry and Johnny Goodtimes to the show.

Thursday, November 6
8 p.m. – Fletcher & Industrial, $10. PHIT house team Fletcher are joined by those pesky commies in the Philly improv group Industrial.

10 p.m. - CAGEMATCH: Two Guidos vs. reigning champ Illegal Refill. $5. CAGEMATCH pits two groups against each other for 25-minute sets that can only use one audience suggestion. The audience decides the winner by secret ballot.

Friday, November 7
8 p.m. – Bethany Asplundh and The Moops with Activity Book, $10. Check out our video from PHIT house team Activity Book's debut last month.

10 p.m. - Gentlemen's Rotary Auxiliary with Mr. Lizard, $10. New Jersey sketch group GRA (right) are joined by Philly improv group Mr. Lizard.

Saturday, November 8
8 p.m. – Bethany Asplundh and The Moops with Mr. Lizard, $10.
10 p.m. - Gentlemen's Rotary Auxiliary with Activity Book, $10.
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MEG & ROB: Fog Of Love

From the minds behind "Dan Henkle, Relationship Expert", "Love Over The Phone" and more comes "Fog Of Love", which was originally shown at the July edition of Bedtime Stories. Sez Meg of Meg & Rob:

We are pleased to present director Errol Morris's little-known short film "Fog of Love." As you might know, Morris is much more famous for creating the documentary Fog of War, which features former US Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara discussing the lessons he learned from the failure of the Vietnam War. What many people do not know, however, is that Mr. Morris only created Fog of War to hide the fact that he, Erroll Morris, actually himself caused the Vietnam War to fail through a combination of voodoo, bad eating habits, and the murder of a butterfly that was about to flap its wings in Africa.

After the Fog of War, Morris's sole desire was to put the war behind him and create a chick flick starring Julia Roberts or, at the very least, Hugh Grant in a Julia-Roberts-style wig. He was unable to find funding for the project, however. Broke, eating poorly, and considering performing voodoo again, Morris instead decided to use discarded footage from the Fog of War to create his opus "Fog of Love." Misunderstood by audiences who expected a chick flick and disdained by critics who were looking for a hard-hitting documentary "Fog of Love" has been mostly forgotten...until now. Enjoy.

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VIDEO: HISTORY'S MYSTERIES: Abe Lincoln

During last night's rowdy American history lesson at Bedtime Stories, your very own Comic Vs. Audience showed a video that we put together.

Written by Aaron Hertzog
Directed by Dave Walk
Starring (in order of appearance):
Kent Haines
Chip Chantry
Pat Barker
Aaron Hertzog
Doogie Horner

And of course, it's not a real video if there isn't a blooper reel!!!!


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MY TOP 5 PRESIDENTS by Gregg Gethard

Things just seem to happen to Gregg Gethard. After telling a few stories at comedy shows in New York City, he created his own monthly show in Philly, BEDTIME STORIES, to tell a few more. Over the past year the show has grown in audience and features some of the best comics in the city. The next installment of Bedtime Stories is TONIGHT, July 9th, 8PM, Shubin Theatre (407 Bainbridge).

History is my favorite academic subject. In college, I took nine history classes in my final two semesters in order to get a double major in Communication and History. Combined, this means that maybe one day I could intern for Ken Burns but mostly it means low-paying and little-rewarding jobs. At one point in time, I signed up to participate in a re-creation of Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg, only to withdraw when I realized it would make it even harder for me to get laid.

That is why I am incredibly excited for the next Bedtime Stories, where the topic will be American History. The best part about Bedtime Stories, I think, is that it gives all the performers a chance to get really specific regarding that month’s topic. If all goes well this month, I’ll keep doing American history topics and make them narrower and narrower. I think a show completely dedicated to the Kansas-Nebraska Act or the Gadsden Purchase would be pretty great.

As such, I will now list the American presidents I find the most fascinating:

1. Rutherford B. Hayes: He ran for president in 1876. Hayes, an Ohio Republican, campaigned against Democrat Samuel Tilden, who once confessed to a friend that he had never slept with a woman. (I find this fascinating. Not that a closeted homosexual nearly became president, but that a closeted gay man didn’t ever sleep with a woman.) Neither Hayes nor Tilden received enough electoral votes to clinch the presidency. And three states had contested ballots with no clear winner. No one knew what to do, so a backroom deal known as the “Compromise of 1877” was made. Southern electors would cast their votes behind Hayes who, in return, had to agree to pull federal troops out of the South, which led to Jim Crow laws and racial segregation until the 1960’s. But while he pulled out federal troops whom were protecting recently freed slaves, he later inserted federal troops into various American cities to prevent railroad workers from striking, killing more than 70 striking workers as a result. George Bush is a pretty awful president but Rutherford B. Hayes is possibly worse. He won an even more sleazy rigged election. He messed up the lives of African-Americans more than Bush did after Katrina. And Bush’s misuse of federal troops has at least been used to kill Iraqis and not his own citizenry. It’s debatable, but both of them have a strong case as the worst president in American history. America rules.

2. William Henry Harrison: Harrison is known primarily for two things; his inaugural address lasted for well over two hours in freezing cold weather and then 30 days later he died of pneumonia, which he most likely developed while reading a speech for over two hours in freezing cold weather. That kind of serves him right. Can you imagine if either Barack or McCain did that to us this January? Fuck that.

3. David Rice Atchison: President James K. Polk left office. His successor, Zachary Taylor, was supposed to be sworn in on a Sunday. But being a devout Christian, Taylor refused to be sworn in on a Sunday. However, the country still needed a president for the day. Atchison was the president-pro tempore of the Senate, which, via a loophole, allowed him to become president for a few hours. That would be pretty cool, I think. But one question: Why didn’t a foreign country invade us on the day this guy was president? They would have had such an advantage as the commander-in-chief couldn’t really make a decision since in a few hours his term was up. Also, there is a big debate amongst history scholars if Atchison actually was president or not due to various readings of the Constitution. These people are dorks.

4. Warren G. Harding: President during the early part of the 1920’s. Considered in his era to be a premier “DILF,” kind of like the dad from The OC. Had many, many mistresses. One of them, scorned by her love of Warren G. Harding’s deep dicking abilities, blackmailed the Republican Party into paying for a trip around the world and an annual check. Another of his mistresses, Nan Britton, was a teenager who was obsessed with him. When she turned 20, Harding popped her cherry and the two had a hot-and-heavy affair for the next few years. Harding allegedly banged her while the two were in an Oval Office closet, a little less degrading than Monica Lewinsky going down on Bill Clinton and then wearing his remains on her clothes. He also fathered an illegitimate child with her.In addition, his affair with Nan Britton has produced one of the most insane websites of all time, a collection of fan-fic written about their relationship. Also, his administration caused the Teapot Dome Scandal which was also pretty fucked up.

5. Gerald Ford: His birth name was actually Leslie Lynch King Junior. His mom’s first husband was a beater so she ditched him and eventually re-married a man named Gerald Ford. She then completely changed her son’s name to Gerald Ford Junior even though he was over three years old and probably slightly cognizant of what his name was. He didn’t legally change his name to Gerald Ford until he was 23 years old. Seriously, what the fuck? I get shit from certain people for spelling my name "Gregg" when my name is actually "Gregory" with one G. I changed it just because I like "Gregg" better and Gregg Jeffries was my favorite New York Met at the time. Why the hell did the members of his college fraternity, or his teammates on the U of Michigan football team, not beat the shit out of him for changing his name a little late in the game?
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DO IT ROCKAPELLA!: The Epic Tale of 'Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?' by Gregg Gethard

Things just seem to happen to Gregg Gethard. After telling a few stories at comedy shows in New York City, he created his own monthly show in Philly, BEDTIME STORIES, to tell a few more. Over the past year the show has grown in audience and features some of the best comics in the city.

Here, Gethard recounts his experience on the public television game show Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?. Stick around at the end of this epic tale as we've managed to upload the footage of his now infamous episode on Youtube. The next installment of Bedtime Stories is next Wednesday night at the Shubin Theatre (407 Bainbridge St.), 8PM, $10.

Ilan Goldberg must be destroyed.

That was the only thought going through my head. I was in eighth grade. Do you remember those kids in youth league soccer whose teams would kill yours by like 17 goals? And there was the one kid who scored nine goals already, and he’d try for one more goal, except the ref would call him offsides and he’d flip out and start cursing out everyone in sight and would start bawling hysterically? Or, at the tender age of 12, were you ever forced to be placed in a situation where you had to deal with someone who told you all the ways they were better than you (“I go to private school because education at public schools it terrible,” “I went on a tour of Europe last summer, where did you go on vacation?”)

Ilan Goldberg was that person. And I wanted to destroy him.

Hi. I’m Gregg Gethard. I’m the host of the wildly popular monthly comedy night entitled Bedtime Stories. I’m also the star and main draw of the wildly popular local sketch comedy group entitled The Sixth Borough. I’m also a known raconteur and political gadfly.

But before all of that, I was a 12-year-old boy. I was small, I was weird and, due to the fact we just got Comedy Central on our local cable system, I was starting to develop my sense of humor, which I would later refine to become one of the greatest comic minds of his generation.

I also had a major, repressed chip on my shoulder. Due to my small size and my weirdness, I was picked on a lot as a kid. It was a rare chance that I had to not just fight back, but to also win.

And against Ilan Goldberg... I had a chance to do it. On national television, nonetheless.

What follows is a tale unlike any which you have head before, unless, of course, I have already told it to you. This is a story of conflict, absurdity, hubris, triumph and love. This is the defining story of my life.

This is the story of my appearance on the early-90’s hit PBS game show entitled “Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?”

Read on and watch the footage after the jump...

The Beginning

Ilan, albeit a dick, was right about one thing. His private school was definitely better than the public middle school I went to. Our first history teacher that year, Mrs. Kaplan, quit after Chris Russamano pelted her in the face with an egg. We had a permanent sub the rest of the year who pretty much sat at the front of the room chomping on gum and asking girls who they wanted to date.

One day, we entered the classroom and were told to take a test. No reason was given. We assumed it was some bullshit prep exam for the statewide test we all had to take that year. It was a simple geography test – identifying states, countries, major rivers, oceans and the like. Being one of the handful of Edison Middle School students who could read at grade level, this thing was a piece of cake.

A week later, the people who finished in the Top 30 of this test were told to report to the library. There, we were told about a new television show in the works based off the popular computer game entitled “Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?” They would be casting students from our school to be contestants.

They asked us a series of interview questions about ourselves and about geography. A few days later, I learned that I was selected to be a contestant on the show.

The Time I Met Ilan

About a month later, I went in for the taping of the show, which was in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood. I had never taken either the PATH train nor a New York City subway before then. I had envisioned, from local news reports and the comments of my parents, that New York was a cesspool of crime, violence and despair. I didn’t see too much of that, but I did see a Muslim woman nearly dragged to her death as she threw her purse in the doors of the subway hoping to get on board.

We went into the green room, where we met our competitors. One I already new: Prema. (I won’t even bother to try and spell her last name. It’s long and she was born in India.) Prema went to school with me. She was a really shy, sweet braniac who would later go on to be one of my high school’s valedictorians. Then I met Ilan.

Ilan had the smug, awful tone of a pre-teen who feels completely entitled. No doubt, his parents drove a car that cost what my dad made in a year, the tuition of his private school cost more than my college tuition did, he bragged about his SAT-prep scores (“I already cracked 1100!”) and his prowess in both basketball and soccer. And he openly talked about how he was confident he would win the show because he won his school’s geography bee. I immediately wanted to punch him in the dick.

I didn’t study too much for the show. This is because I never studied for anything at that point in my life. (Seriously – I had awful grades in middle school. And in high school. And for the first three years of college.)

They taped two episodes at a time in the studio. However, the first episode went too long. Our episode would have to happen the next week.

And this gave me time to plot my public humiliation of Ilan.

The Episode

I found every atlas I could find and studied my ass off. I learned Canadian provinces, Australian states and Russian cities. Anytime I put the book down to watch TV or goof off with my brother, I immediately thought about Ilan. And I studied some more. I was on a quest.

We went into the studio the next week. And then the episode began.

We were introduced on the show (where I did the “Arsenio Dog Woop” gesture which, in 1990, had swept through the country like it was the HIV Virus), and then we had to answer our first question. I had a ton of nervous energy, and I got a pretty simple question completely wrong.

Then came a part of the show that will live on in personal infamy. Remember how earlier I said I had started to develop my “edgy” sense of humor? (This is what we expert comedians refer to as a “callback.”) During this part of the show, we were introduced to the audience. And we had to tell them our interests and what we wanted to be when we grew up. My answers: a baseball manager or a stand-up comedian.

We had to go over this earlier with a PA who was preparing us in the green room. I told him this and he flipped out. He asked me to tell him a joke. Being that I was 12, I did not exactly have any material actually planned and, plus, I’m more of an “observational” comedian anyways. He then wrote a joke for me.

And this is what I said on national television:

ME: Knock Knock

AUDIENCE: Who’s There?

ME: Humpty.

AUDIENCE: Humpty Who?

I then started wildly flailing my arms in a seizure-like gesture that I thought was dancing.

“My name is Humpty. Say it with an Umpty.”

The audience reaction was a mixture of shock, polite applause and a smattering of boos.

I had bombed. On national television. At the age of 12.

I was also repeatedly scolded both on and off the air for leaning into the microphone. Despite my C- average, I was the captain of the Edison Middle School academic quiz bowl team. (Where we finished second two years in a row, losing to our cross-town rivals Roosevelt both years. I still hate their captain, Jared Strauss, to this day.) In quiz bowl, we had to lean in the microphone to say our answers. If not, we would be penalized points. We drilled at length proper microphone technique. It was hard to break that.

But I soon settled in. And, as you can see in the video, I kicked ass. And then… then I got a little cocky.

Hubris

The final part of the first round on Carmen Sandiego was set up a little like Final Jeopardy. Host Greg Lee would run down a list of “clues” about what city he was talking about. And then, from three choices, we would have to pick that city. We would also have to select a number of points to wager. The top two after the first round then got to move to the second round of competition.

I was ahead. I could have played it “safe.” But I really wanted to rub it in Ilan’s face. I wanted him to walk away knowing I and my failing public school education had trumped his pansy rich kid ass. So I wagered more points than I needed to.

Ilan went first. His answer from the clues was Boston.

Fuck.

The answer I had selected was Newark. I now was going to lose to this shithead, all because I got too cocky.

There was only one thing I could do.

And that was to cheat.

I held up my placard that said Newark. And I loudly screamed BOSTON as loud as I could.

Production came to a screeching halt.

I asked what was wrong. They told me my card said Newark. I then started to freak out and made myself cry. “I’m so nervous. I’m so nervous being on TV,” I kept on blubbering.

My parents and Ilan’s parents were waiting together (and, no doubt, my parents were mortified of my earlier crash-and-burn attempt at humor) in the green room watching our episode unfold. Ilan’s mom flipped out and started calling me a little cheater. Naturally, my parents came to my defense. It was not until years later that I confessed to my parents that I actually did try to cheat.

They then asked Prema what her answer was. She, too, picked Newark. And she wagered a lot of points as well. She had finished in last place. I was in second.

We retaped the segment. This time, I hold my card and, in an incredibly sad tone of voice, I say “Newark.” Then, a little bit of a suppressed smirk appears on my face, as it started to sink in that this entire day had become a complete and total public fiasco.

But, alas, I was onto the second round.

The Next Part

The second round of the show was a simple guessing game. On a board were various attractions in the city of Boston. Behind the name of each attraction was either a blank space or The Loot, The Warrant or The Crook. We had to find The Loot, The Warrant and The Crook in that order.

We did battle and, eventually, The Loot and The Crook were found. But The Warrant still remained out there. Ilan had a guess to find the answer. He was wrong. There were only a few places left we did not guess. And, with a lot of anticipation in my voice, I guessed correctly. I had, finally, defeated Ilan.

Victory confetti fell from the sky. I took it all in. And then, I arrogantly turned around to Ilan and shook his hand and said a very condescending “Good Game.”

The camera closes in on his face as co-host Lynn Thigpen (aka the mysterious DJ lips in cult-classic “The Warriors”) told Ilan his numerous runner-up prizes. He is clearly welling up with tears.

To this day, whenever I watch the tape of the show, I still get a sense of satisfaction as I watch a pre-teen cry at my hands.

I then went on to the next round, where I had 45 seconds to identify seven African nations by placing a lighted pole on them. I missed the first one, but then was given two easy ones: South Africa and Madagascar. Then, I was given Burkina Faso. I had written a paper on the nation formerly known as Upper Volta the year before. I nailed it. Then, somehow, I guessed where Uganda and Central African Republic were. Then time ran out. I came really close to winning the grand prize, which was a trip to anywhere in the lower 48 states.

But I did, at the end of the show, get to point up to the crane camera and say the three words which would define our generation.

“Do It Rockapella!”

Epilogue

We taped the show that spring. That fall, the show debuted on PBS. My episode aired a few weeks into my first year in high school.

I was so incredibly nervous. Your fist weeks of high school are so incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. And here I was, on the air, showing the world what an incredible geek I was. And, not just that, but I also tell a spectacularly bad joke and make a complete ass of myself on national television. I could only hope that no one would actually watch this show.

But how wrong I was.

Being that is was a new show, a lot of kids did watch it. And not just that, but it was also on PBS. There’s a broadcasting rule that dictates all cable systems have to carry every local over-the-air channel within a certain radius. In New Jersey, there are an insane amount of PBS affiliates within broadcast range: Channel 13, a variety of New Jersey Network channels, another New York City based PBS channel, Long Island’s PBS channel and one from Westchester County.

And while the show was on PBS, it did not air every episode in order at a certain time. They could show whatever episode they wanted at whatever time they wanted. And my episode aired, seemingly, for every single day for three consecutive years. I would casually flip through the channels… and there I was, doing The Humpty Dance again. And every single person I went to high school with saw this. I would consistently get stopped at places like the supermarket with people asking me if I was the kid from Carmen Sandiego.

Eventually, I grew to love how ridiculous the whole ting was and came to embrace it. It became a personal “party favorite” to tell people I am meeting for the first time.

And this led to something incredibly important to my life.

One of my best friends from high school, Kirsten, loved the entire story. In fact, I would venture to say the only way we became as close as we did was because she enjoyed my performance so much. She used to make me play her the tape pretty much every time we hung out. Kirsten went away to college in DC. I went to school in Philly.

Years later, we’d start to hang out again. And we were going to a party together with a bunch of her friends from college. One was her old roommate and best friend, Ilana. I heard about Ilana for a while from Kir but I had never met her.

I finally did. And the first thing she asked me was if I was the guy who was on Carmen Sandiego.

I was. And, four years later, we would get married.

The ultimate theme to the story: sometimes cheaters do prosper.

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5 QUESTIONS WITH: Dave Hill

Tonight, Bedtime Stories has a special guest in New York's Dave Hill, an accomplished writer, performer and musician. He's had his own TV show, 'King of Miami' on MOJO, hosts the live show the Dave Hill Explosion and has played in the rock bands Cobra Verde, Sons of Elvis, Uptown Sinclair, Valley Lodge and Children of the Unicorn. He's also written the Black Metal Dialogues and done about a million other things, including taking some time to answer our five questions by email.


1. Which do you enjoy more, comedy or music?

I like them both a lot. They’re probably my two favorite things to do, you know, other than banging and stuff. Comedy keeps me busier and pays my rent more than music at this point, but I’ll always love playing loud rock music and dragging big amps around town late at night too. I try to make sure to do a little shredding on the guitar at least a few times a day no matter what else I might be up to. It’s important to bring the rock heat whenever possible, even when you’re home alone and maybe haven’t even put on pants yet.

Anyway, without music I’m not sure I ever would have gotten into comedy. When I started singing in bands I realized that I liked talking in between songs almost as much as actually playing the songs. The other guys in the band would sometimes get impatient with me and would want to start the next song if I rambled for too long, but talking on stage at rock shows and was one of the things that led me to be comfortable with the idea of doing comedy. Now that I do comedy shows a lot though, I tend to just stare at my feet a lot more when I play rock shows. Sometimes it’s nice to just shut up for a change. Comedy is much scarier too. With music you can always just bury your head and start the next song no matter what’s going on with the crowd or even if there’s no crowd at all.

2. Do your comedy and music worlds ever meet?

They seem to more and more lately. People who know about my comedy stuff will end up checking out my music stuff and vice versa. Most of the music I’ve been involved with hasn’t been “comedy rock,” but just straight up rock and pop music. I’d like to keep doing more music at my comedy shows though. For a while I tended to keep the two separate, but eventually I’d like to mix it all into one big Dave Hill juggernaut complete with official Dave Hill lunchboxes and home taxidermy kits and everything.

3. You grew up in Cleveland. What was the extent of your comedy experience there?

I never did comedy in Cleveland. I mostly played in bands and did some writing and graphic design and painting stuff. I never really thought I’d end up performing comedy. I came to New York for a long weekend five years ago and never left. I got hired as a writer on a show for Spike TV. The producer of the show, my friend Katherine Dore, encouraged me to try performing comedy since I tended to act like an idiot around the office most of the time. Without her I’m not sure I would be doing the stuff I’m doing now.

4. How did you end up working with Little Michael Jackson on the 'Little Michael Jackson And Me' videos?

I was getting off the subway in Union Square in Manhattan and I heard the tail end of “Beat It” coming out of a CD player upstairs from the train. I assumed there must be a Michael Jackson impersonator up there or something, but I had no idea exactly how awesome of a Michael Jackson impersonator I was about to encounter. When I got to the top of the steps, I saw Little Michael Jackson (aka Alex Sotomayor) standing there. The rest is history. At the time he didn’t speak much English, so I actually hired a translator when we did the first video. Since then he’s gotten really good at English. I, however, remain unable to say much in Spanish other than telling people not to lean against the door, which I admittedly don’t have reason to do as often as I’d like.

5. Have you performed in Philadelphia before?

I’ve never done comedy in Philadelphia before, but I’ve played rock shows at the Khyber a couple times when I was in Cobra Verde and Uptown Sinclair. When Cobra Verde was on tour with Mike Watt a while back we also played at the Pontiac Grille once. I remember on the way to Philly we stopped at a truck stop and I bought some Whoppers, the popular chocolate-covered malted milk ball snack, not the popular Burger King hamburger of the same name. On the way back to the van I decided to throw one at the singer John’s head just to break up the trip a little bit. I thought it would amuse him but he ended up getting really mad at me and understandably so- it turns out those things are really hard when you get hit with them. I think it’s the chocolate coating that does it. And the ones I bought were probably in the machine for a while so they were especially deadly. Looking back on it, I probably should have thrown the Whopper at Frank the guitar player. I am bigger than him. For the record though, I am generally against the idea of trying to injure someone with candy. If there is one message I can get out to the young people through this interview, it would be that. Also, I smell nice and I am an excellent kisser. Ask anyone.
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THE WORLD'S WIDEST BRIDGE by Gregg Gethard

Things just seem to happen to Gregg Gethard. And after telling a few stories at comedy shows in New York City, he created his own monthly show in Philly, BEDTIME STORIES, to tell a few more. Over the past year the show has grown in audience and features some of the best comics in the city.

Here, Gethard recounts entertaining tourists with his own Philadelphia history. The next installment of Bedtime Stories is this Wednesday night at the Shubin Theatre (407 Bainbridge St.), 8PM, $10.

The best kinds of jobs are the ones that hire you without checking your references or making you pee in a cup. I speak from experience.

Last summer, I worked as a tour guide for The Big Bus Company, a group which specializes in taking tourists around Philadelphia's Center City on a double decker bus. This is not to be confused with Philadelphia Trolley Works, a company which specializes in taking tourists around Philadelphia's Center City on a red trolley.

"You're in a great spot," said Tony, the crooked-toothed Brit manager of The Big Bus upon my hiring. "You're working for a great company. Not like those assholes at the Trolley Works. They want to take away our livelihood. Our goal is to take away theirs!"

The other new employees were similar to me -- college/grad students looking for a summer job. Training was simple. We were handed a thich, black finder filled with pages upon pages of minutiae about Philadelphia -- information about how many steps there are in front of the Art Museum (where Rocky Balboa ran up in the first Rocky movie), about the exact date William Penn landed in Philadelphia, and how many rowhomes are located at Elphrath's Alley. We were told to memorize as many facts as possible while we sat on the bus, listening to the tour of veteran Big Bus employees, constantly looping around Center City, listening to the same tidbits of information over and over again.

Our group started out by touring with Brian, a 50-years-old PhD candidate in Early American History from Temple, complete with a greying pony tail and the wide eyes of a 'Nam vet who participated in My Lai. Which he did. Brian's tours were gritty, urban experience, as if Martin Scorcese was directing a film about Philadelphia tour guides. Brian recited the facts of various spots on the tour, but augmented this by revealing his paranoid distrust of all levels of government.

Brian loved debunking myths about American history, largely to a group of tourists who didn't even know what it was that was actually being debunked. "Everyone knows that John Hancock signed the Constitution the way he did so King George would get the message. Right? RIGHT? Well... THAT'S A MYTH," Brian said, with an angry sneer as he proceded to make eye contact with each and every single passenger on board. "Handwriting analysis reveals that John Hancock always signed his signature this way. Don't believe what they want you to."

Brian became most enthusiastic whenever the tour approach Penn's Landing, with its clear view of the USS Constitution docked across the Delaware in Camden. Again, he started to make eye contact to each and every single member of the tour, all of whom were doing their best to avoid looking at Brian in the eye: "That boat over there makes me tear up every time I see it. You see, I didn't run like some people did, like some presidents did. I served in 'Nam. And do you know where that got me? I ened up face down in a rice paddy taking fire from the Cong. They had us pinned down. Death surrounded me. My best friends were being killed. But that boat was in the distance, and it started to fire its guns, and I cried, because that meant I would live for one more day."

Ernie was another veteran tour guide. Ernie was an exceptionally off-the-cuff black guy, the Rudy Ray Moore of Philadelphia tour guides. He was completely unflappable -- one second giving us tips on how to handle conversation while stuck in city gridlock, the next being able to turn around and to get the phone number of a woman coming out of the Gallery Mall. Ernie relied less on history on his tour and more on pop culture, pointing out to bus passengers where different Philadelphia-area musicians lived and the sites of various TV and movie shoots. "You see that shop over there? Lord and Taylor? That used to be called Wannamaker's and that's where they filmed Mannequin! You see that bar? They filmed a scene in Philadelphia with Tom Hanks there. You know the scene I'm talking about! It's the scene where people make fun of AIDS. You know, the deadly HIV virus."

The passengers on the tours remind you of how big and diverse America is. This creates an interesting dichotomy. On one tour with Ernie, the tour consisted of two groups of people. Sitting in the front was a family of three from suburban Newton, Mass. -- the daughter was wearing a jacket with the insignia of her private school, Mom had a shopping bag in her hand, and Dad was wearing a cap for a country club. In the back of the bus, with their teacher, was a group of students from an "alternative education" school from the South Bronx -- inner city teenagers wearing the latest in urban fashion.

Ernie led the tour, trying to placate both audiences -- talking to the kids in the back one second about Beanie Siegel's favorite clothing store and then to the preppie Americans the next about the Federal Reserve building. The divergence between these two worlds came between our stop after the Philadelphia Zoo and our stop in West Philadelphia -- the part of the tour that took us through Mantua, one of the worst neighborhoods in Philadelphia. This part of the tour was always interesting: sneakers dangling from telephone wires, abandoned buildings, grafiti, homeless people smashing beer bottles, etc.

"Yo, it's like our neighborhood," one of the kids in the back said to laughter from his schoolmates, while the white family all had their hands cupped, staring down at the floor of the bus, the unmistakable look of white guilt. One of the kids in the bus then started yelling at a group of teenagers off the bus, until his teacher told him to sit down. "They was flashing gang signs at us," he explained. A really tough looking crew of teenagers was at a street corner, yelling threats and making gestures at us. Even Ernie, always cool under pressure, was nervous and told the driver to hightail it.

At the end of that tour, Ernie stood at the front of the bus. "Thank you all for coming out. This... this tour meant a lot to me. I hope you all learned something from me. Maybe, maybe all of you could go back to your own neighborhood and start doing tours there." Ernie then looked at the teenage daughter of the wealthy white famiy. "Even you, darling. You could even be a tour guide if you want." I had a feeling that Mom and Dad had different career plans for their daughter.

My least favorite trainer was Albert. Albert never stopped talking. It was like he had ADD, ate 55 pixie sticks and also did an 8-ball of cocaine. Albert's Asian, which he pointed out on his tour roughly 75 times, all in ways geared to make tourists as squeamish as possible. "Here is Roman Catholic High School. I didn't go there. You all must think I'm good at math. People think all Asians are good at math. This is SEPTA Headquarters. They run buses here in Philadelphia. And trains. No one likes them. You probably think I suck at driving."

After two weeks of riding around, non-stop, on the 4-mile loop, us newcomers were finally allowed to give tours. Donna went first. She was this heavyset woman with big bangs. The first day of work, before they handed us our uniform (purple sweater and yellow T-Shirt, all with The Big Bus logo), she came wearing a pair of skin-tight black Spandex leggings, paired with black socks and sandals. I'm not a fashion expert, but I recognized this as a bad choice.

There was a family of five on the tour. They sat quietly in the back, not paying any attention to the tour guides, looking out the side of the bus at the scenery of The City of Brotherly Love. We were stuck in Chinatown, parked in front of the Wawa at 10th and Arch. "That's Wawa. That's a conveeeeenience store," she said, her Philly-accent (with a "y" sound which shows up inexplicably with "oh" sounds -- so "home" is somehow "hyome") really noticeable and grating. "Wawa's pretty allright. I get cigarettes from the one up by my block. They also don't charge in the Mac machines, if you ever need to tap Mac." She then started looking around the bus and looked at Ernie. "I... I can't do this. I'm not any good at this," and she walked off the bus.

I finally got to do my first tour. I was by myself, with one woman, in her mid-50's, alone. She looked like the type of woman who would openly sob while watching Designing Women reruns she Tivo'd off of Oxygen. She sat right next to me while I spoke into a microphone, looking up at me as I told her about when the Liberty Bell was actually cracked and how the Girard Avenue Bridge was at one time the world's widest bridge. She then politely asked me stop. She had just moved to Philadelphia from Seattle, after a very painful divorce, and didn't know where anything was in the city. She asked if we would be driving past any supermarkets. Then she tenderly grabbed me on the wrist.

"Have you ever made a big change in your life?"

After spending two weeks on a bus, I came to a stunning conclusion: tour guides are complete and total whores. The veteran guys were completely shameless in their quest to receive tips. It's one thing to say "tipping is appreciated." It's another to stand in front of the exit and say things like, "I appreciate your tips, I'm going through a really tough time right now, my daughters are going through a lot and we need to think about their future." In addition, as part of our "training fee," we had to give the veteran tour guides half of our tip money, even though they largely just slept on the back of the bus.

On my second solo tour, our bus driver rear ended a Volkswagon right outside of the Greyhound Station in Chinatown. The bus drivers were a notoriously shady group of people. The bus driver today was Charles, this toothless guy who was built like a second string high school basketball center -- 6'7" and maybe weighing 115 pounds. Charles bragged about his body frame. He stopped eating so 40's of malt liquor would "work better." After we struck the car, Charles put the bus in park and got out.

"Hey, motherfucker, hey! Watch what the fuck you're doing, motherfucker," he yelled, even though we had rear ended a car stopped for a red light, the driver of the car spoke no English and this was in full view of 15 paying customers. This exchange lasted for about 15 minutes, with a group of people watching a grown man threaten an Asian woman until the police came.

It got pretty boring reciting facts about Philadelphia. People just seemed bored when I told them about the history of art deco condominium complexes. I decided to veer course from my training. My presentations became less factually based and more about my ability to entertain myself.

I began every tour by starting out strong. Our tours had to begin with a recitation of safety procedures, warning passengers to remain seated until we came to a complete stop. I told the audience this was done to preserve their good looks. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are by far the best looking group of people I have ever encountered on a bus. Especially you, ma'am. Your eyes sparkle with the intensity of 1,001 fireflies." I sometimes changed it from fireflies to candlelabras or tire fires.

The veteran tour guides all told the same lame joke on Ben Franklin Parkway. There, next to the future home of the Barnes Foundation art museum, stand to statues, one called The Good Teacher and the other The Good Mother. "People ask me where The Good Father is. I'll tell you. He's around the corner at The Good Tavern having The Good Drink watching The Good Game."

I made my own joke. "People ask me where The Good Father is. I'll tell you. He's unsupportive of my dreams."

I also loved driving down Spruce Street, a residential block downtown. We'd drive by one rowhome, where I announced to the patrons: "At this address and 955 Spruce Street lives my ex-girlfriend, Cindy. She is one of dozens of Philadelphia-area women who have filed restraining orders against me. Don't worry, Cindy. I'm 50 feet away! And I'll be back in exactly one hour!"

Asking for tips makes me feel really squeamish. The customers pay about $30 for a ticket. I made a decent hourly wage. I just felt like a total asshole asking for tip money, especially since my job pretty much became me just fucking around with strangers for a few hours a day. I was headed to the train station after the tour one day. One of our passengers, a well-to-do guy in his 60's, he wanted directions to his hotel. I told him I would walk with him, since I was headed that way anyways. We walked to where he was staying. He reached for his wallet. "Here's something for helping me out." I told him no thanks. "No, really, you didn't have to do that." I told him that I was doing it to be nice, that it wasn't any extra effort, and I would have done it even if I wasn't a tour guide. "No, I insist. Take this. The money isn't a problem for me." He then reached into my pocket and placed in a $5 bill, like I was a stripper.

I was getting really sick of The Big Bus. The tours were entertaining, but the company sucked. Our schedules would get changed without any notification. Imagine routinely showing up to work to find out that you didn't have to work. Or not showing up to work when you were supposed to. This happened to me every day for six straight days.

Modern American cities were not designed with shoddily built double decker busses in mind. Frequently, I had to get off the bus and help the driver navigate a tight turn. Or, I had to tell passengers to duck as tree branches came flying at their head. I turned this into a game. "1-2-3 DUCK," I'd say. "Did anyone get their scalps lopped off by that rail trestle?" Sometimes, when the tree branches were too low, I'd ask the bus driver to stop, so our passengers could get onto the lower deck and not risk decapitation. They would always grumble about this. "We got a schedule to keep, I can't be stopping the bus so you can get passengers downstairs. We gotta be on time, man. Fuck them bushes," Charles told me.

One group of passengers on my bus were a group of three lunkhead 30-somethings. They liked my offbeat tour a lot. So much so that, afterwards, they wanted to go get a drink with me. We headed to The Locust Bar, where they immediately bought me a shot of Bush Mills. They were medical sales associates in from San Diego for a convention.

"You're a great tour guide," their ringleader said. "You'd be great at medical sales. You could clear $75K a year, no problem. I'll tell you what. If you're ever out my way, you look me up. I can get you a job, no problem. $75K a year." He handed me his business card. "So, you know a place where we can score some blow?"

My favorite tourists were foreigners. All the foreigners, no matter what repressive regime they are from, always celebrate when they drive under the flag of their country on the Parkway. My favorite group was a family of seven from South Korea. They were the warmest, friendliest people, asking me about how to say things like "sandwich" or "truck." They taught me the South Korean national anthem. First, you clap your hands rhythmically. Then you chant "TAAAAY MAHHH HIIINNN GUA." Then you clap some more. Then you chant "TAAAAAY MAHHHHH HIIINNN GOOOOO."

In exchange, I taught them the closest thing we have to a national anthem in Philadelphia. "E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES." We drove by a statue of Frank Rizzo. They asked me who he was. "He is Philadelphia's version of Kim Jong Il." After the tour, they thanked me, gave me hugs and kisses and took my photograph.

They were my last tour for the day. My friend Pat from college was having a party that night to celebrate his completion from medical school. I forgot to bring a change of clothes, so I was stuck in my Big Bus uniform. Most of the people at the party were all med school students, a lot from UPenn or other Ivy League schools. They all just nodded at me, no one wanting to introduce themselves to me.

I congratulated Pat for his getting through med school. "Thanks, man. It's great that we're all doing so well with everything." I then waited for a beat. "Pat, I'm a fucking tour guide."

I knew I had to quit. I just needed the right demeaning situation to justify walking out of another crummy job.

My salvation came at the corner of Broad and Walnut. Here, a middle-aged woman pointed something out on the sidewalk to me. It was a homeless man, laid out on the sidewalk, dead. A businessman in a suit stood over him, trying to flag down a car.

I walked downstairs. I asked Charles if he could call 9-1-1 on his cell phone or if he could contact base and tell them to do so.

"I can't do that, man. We on a schedule. He's just a homeless dude. Don't worry, someone will find him. If he's already dead, who cares?"

He then stopped at our next stop, where our ticket sales woman, the mother of his child, asleep on the lower tier of the bus, got on, and sold him a dimebag of pot. I got off the bus when we returned and left. Never again would I tell people that City Hall was 565 feet high or how many murals have been painted in Philadelphia.
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THIS WEEK: PHIT at the Shubin Theatre

It's time again for the Philly Improv Theater's week at the Shubin Theatre, 407 Bainbridge St., Philadelphia, PA 19147. For tickets, visit the Philly Improv Theater's website.




Wednesday, May 7
8 p.m. – Bedtime Stories: Crash Into You, True Stories Of An American College, $10. All material will deal with life at St. Beyonce State University. Sez the host Gregg Gethard:

Formed in 2003, St. Beyonce State University is an all-encompassing liberal arts/online university located in the deepest recesses of the human spirit. Contrary to the rumors, Rusted Root will NOT be performing at Spring Fling.

Set to perform are:

Secret Pants
The Sixth Borough
Doogie Horner
Brendan Kennedy
Anton Shuford
Kent Haines
Aaron Hertzog
Roger Weaver

with a commencement address by world famous comedian Dave Hill!

Thursday, May 8
8 p.m. - TROIKA 2008 ROUND ONE Presented by PhillyImprov.com, in cooperation with the Philly Improv Theater, TROIKA pits three groups of three improvisers against each other. The groups choose their own format and the audience determines the winner. The winner of each of the three preliminary rounds goes on to battle in the Grand Championship in August. $10.
10 p.m. - CAGEMATCH: Angry People Building Things vs. Industrial hosted by Brandon Libby. CAGEMATCH brings more competitive improv by pitting two groups against each other for 25-minute sets that can only use one audience suggestion. The audience decides the winner by secret ballot. $5.

Friday, May 9
8 p.m. – Animosity Pierre with Men About Town, $10
10 p.m. – Boston's Code Duello with locals Rare Bird Show. Code Duello (right) perform improv as Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr who, in 1804, fought in the most infamous duel in American history. The reason for the duel is still hazy to this day, but Code Duello dares to solve the mystery that biographers cannot! Each night, Boston comedians Neil Reynolds & Matt Tucker don the wigs and waistcoats of Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, improvising the lives of our two angriest founding fathers. $10.

Saturday, May 10
8 p.m. – Code Duello with Men About Town, $10.
10 p.m. – Animosity Pierre with Rare Bird Show, $10. The local duo of David Terruso and Matt Lally that make up Animosity Pierre (left) have been performing comedy in the area for a few years now and are regulars at Die, Actor, Die (where they were runners-up in the 2007 Dirtiest Sketch in Philadelphia Contest) and Bedtime Stories.

Sunday, May 11
7 p.m. - As we mentioned earlier, come back to finish out the week with a FREE screening of Doug Benson's new film 'Super High Me'. In the film, Benson explores the current situation with medical marijuana in California and the United States, specifically focusing on the conflict between federal and state law and the explosive growth in medical marijuana dispensaries in Los Angeles over the past two years. He goes thirty consecutive days without smoking pot and then thirty eating and vaporizing medical marijuana taking the same tests each time in an effort to find out what marijuana does and how it really affects people. You have to make a reservation at boxoffice@phillyimprovtheater.com to get in and seating is limited so get on that already.

RELATED:
Our past Bedtime Stories coverage
Two videos of Animosity Pierre
COMIC VS. AUDIENCE & THE PHILLY IMPROV THEATER PRESENT: A Screening of 'Super High Me'
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VIDEO: Kent Haines and Aaron Hertzog

Kent Haines (left) and Aaron Hertzog (right) talk about life on the street at Bedtime Stories' "Way Down in the Hole: A Comedy Tribute to 'The Wire'".

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TONIGHT: Bedtime Stories – "Way Down in the Hole: A Comedy Tribute To ‘THE WIRE’"

The time has finally come. Tonight at the Shubin Theatre, the Philly Improv Theater presents the Bedtime Stories tribute to ‘The Wire’, which is a benefit for Project H.O.M.E. And then, four days later, ‘The Wire’, the greatest artistic achievement in the history of mankind, ends its five season run.

UPDATE: The show is sold out.

Count us in to the growing group of people that are completely obsessed with the show and prioritize it over more than we probably should in our lives. So to help celebrate this event tonight and the conclusion of this great show, we’ve collected an extensive list of articles, interviews, videos and other stuff to help you get caught up or perhaps to delve deeper into its Baltimore world. NOTE: There are some slight spoilers here depending on how many episodes of this season you’ve seen.

RELATED:
- Our interview with Bedtime Stories’ host Gregg Gethard Part I and II
- Our Bedtime Stories archive

PHILLY CONNECTION
- Is Bill Marimow Playing Jedi Mind Games With The Wire Creator? Or Does He Simply Have No Sense Of Irony?
- New Mayor Mike Nutter loves the show and he wants some Philly citizens to watch the finale with him at City Hall. And Bunk is going to be there!
- Bodie listening to ‘A Prairie Home Companion’ in Philadelphia

ARTICLES
- The first scene of every season encapsulates the themes for that year. Remember how this season began? “The bigger the lie, the more they believe.”
- Series creator David Simon loves newspapers and it’s the reason why he’s slamming them now.
- A very in-depth profile in The New Yorker
- Clark Johnson’s been a great director and really great as Gus this year
- FREAKONOMICS: What Do Real Thugs think of The Wire?
- A real life story that influenced the show: “I don’t have many heroes left,” said David Simon, a former reporter for The Baltimore Sun who co-wrote ‘The Corner’ and created ‘The Wire.’ “Woody Guthrie and Fran, I guess — and I’m not so sure about Woody.”
- The Wire as a movie?
- The Wire’s Suppressed Final Scene
- Can you really wiretap a reporter’s phone?
- Heaven and Here has had some great analysis throughout the season.
- ‘The Wire’ is Barack Obama’s favorite TV show!

INTERVIEWS
- Sportswriters Bill Simmons and Jason Whitlock discuss the show
- The infamous "Fuck The Average Reader" interview with Nick Hornsby for The Believer
- A Wire podcast series!
- Michael K. Williams on, well, some things about Omar
- David Simon explains the homeless murders angle and a few other things
- Amy Ryan briefly discusses her role on the show.
- Andre Royo and Wendell Pierce in The Sound of Young America’s Jesse Thorn’s house!
- Michael Ian Black guest hosted Fair Game and interviewed Andre Royo
- Terry Gross, the host of Fresh Air, is a big fan of the show and has interviewed Michael K. Williams, Clark Johnson and Ed Burns
- Will Rawls Find Love? - the “kinky shit” line in episode 9 was pure gold.

VIDEOS

- The Wire with a Laugh Track
- The Real Colicchio (Baltimore’s Finest) - “Are you from the County or sumthin?”
- A radio interview with a certain young man that does something to a certain well-loved character

COMEDY
- Michael K. Williams on the second season of Human Giant!
- Roommating: Episode 6 – The Wire
- Fan of HBO's 'The Wire' Drops Dead After Forced To Stop Talking About Show by Aaron Hertzog
- Something doesn't matter until The Onion writes about it: TV Critics Admit To Never Having Watched 'The Wire'
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