And Justice for Me

As told in a story that is disturbingly only three posts down even though it happened two months ago, a local asshole recently accosted me on the street, leaving me in a pool of my own blood and my own shattered ego. Fortunately, the gentleman didn't get away as he had the foresight to attack me right in front of a police officer and a paramedic. While criminal charges were not pressed against him (much to my regret after the fact), he was given a citation for disorderly conduct by the officer on the scene.

Since the incident, I've accrued almost $3,700 in medical bills thanks to what surely must have been a costly cat scan. Suffice it to say, I dearly wanted this asshole to pay for them. I managed to get in touch with the officer from that night, and he told me that I would be placed on the subpoena list for the gentleman's citation hearing should he plead not-guilty to the charges. He also told me to bring my medical bills to the hearing in the hopes that the judge would simply order him to pay my bills on the spot. I thanked him for his advice and waited to see what the asshole would do. I didn't have to wait long to find out that he was pleading not guilty.

So on Thursday morning, I traveled the sunny streets of the South Side to the district court. I'd dolled myself up to the nines - shirt, tie, black pants, gelled hair (like a felon with Magellan), and clean shoes. I was a classy motherfucker. As I walk into the waiting area, I immediately recognize the attacker sitting there. A look of panicked recognition flashes across his face that seems to say, "Oh shit! The bastard actually showed up. I'm so screwed." My attacker is dressed in an untucked gray dress shirt, green pants, and he has a mop of unkempt hair. He's also tubbier than I'd remembered. At least he shaved his beard from the last time I saw him (re: looking up from a bloody sidewalk).

We wait our turn for the judge, and we really don't have to wait long. About a dozen small cases are crammed into a single room as the judge cycles through them each in less than five minutes. Then our turn comes. My attacker looks dejected; I'm practically strutting.
JUDGE: "So we're dealing with a case of disorderly conduct. What happened here?"
The officer proceeds to provide a nicely detailed summary of the night's events (as outlined in my previous post on the matter). The judge looks at my attacker.
JUDGE: "So why did you attack this gentleman?"
ATTACKER: "Uhh... because he was holding hands with my girlfriend."
On the judge's face, a look of what I can only describe as incredulity makes an appearance.
JUDGE (with heavy sarcasm): "Oh, well that makes perfect sense. What a sane reason to beat someone on the street."
I obviously sense that the judge is on my side, and I start beaming noticeably.
OFFICER: "I believe Mr. P has medical bills here as well."
ME: "Yes I do, your honor." [Writer's Note: I didn't actually say "your honor," but in my mind, it makes me sound more like Jack McCoy]
So I hand the judge my medical bills, and he is, to say the least, appalled.
JUDGE: "Whoa! Look at these totals. Now I'm starting to think that some jail time is in order. I really don't think you've been punished accordingly."
At this stage, the judge begins a truly spectacular rant aimed at my attacker.
JUDGE: "Look, usually I understand some part of the crime. I understand a person's motives. But you just baffle me, sir! Who does this? I mean, Jesus! We live in a civilized society here. You can't just send a man to the hospital because you're jealous. Your girlfriend can hold hands with whoever she wants."
ME (butting in): "Actually it was his ex-girlfriend."
JUDGE: "Even worse!"
I was practically having a religious experience listening to this judge crush my enemy so thoroughly and righting the various wrongs of this experience. I don't know about God, but I do believe in the powers of this judge. At this point he turns to me.
JUDGE: "So what do you want out of this guy? You want his ass in jail, or you want him to pay the medical costs?"
ME: "The medical bills are most important, but the jail time would be a nice bonus."

At this point, the judge orders the attacker to pay my medical costs plus $300 for my inconvenience (a total of $4000), but he won't go to jail. His logic: if the guy goes to jail, he might lose his job. If he loses his job, he won't be able to pay the medical bills. The judge was dropping some straight Spock logic, so I couldn't disagree with that point. According to the terms laid out by Da Judge, my attacker has to pay me $500 by the end of May and then $150 every month until he pays it off. If he fails to make a payment, I contact the district office immediately, and his ass will be hauled in for contempt of court.

Added bonus: the judge issued a restraining order. He's not allowed anywhere near me. If I enter a room/building that he's in, HE has to leave. I'm tempted to start hanging around his neighborhood just to utilize this.

I left the courtroom feeling more self-satisfied than I have in a long time. This was also the only real legal victory I've ever achieved in my life, counteracting the laughably pathetic incidents involving my speeding tickets. This incident restored my faith in the American legal system - or at least in the idea of karmic justice. I was wronged by a man, and I couldn't have gotten more justice if Jack McCoy and Matlock had forced it down my throat.

So the story has a happy ending folks. My enemy has been vanquished, justice has been served, and money dollars have been awarded to me. I'm mildly suspicious that all of this good fortune only portends some sort of major disaster in the near future to balance out the scales, but that's something to worry about later. For right now, I intend to bask in the glory of my success for as long as possible.

Maybe I should call my attacker's ex-girlfriend and sleep with her just to rub salt in his wound... Nah, she's probably got three other ex-boyfriends who enjoy stabbing, shooting, and bone-crushing in their free time. I'll rest on my laurels, thank you very much.

---------------------------------------
"Justice is a by-product of winning." -- Executive ADA Jack McCoy
(a bittersweet quote given the announcement that the original Law & Order has been canceled after 20 years on the air)

I Pity the April Fool

Go ahead, JP! You should hit on that girl at the bar. What's the worst that could happen?

Gather round, readers. I'm going to explain the definition of the term "worst case scenario."

April 1, 2010 - 6:30 pm
My Pitt class ended early on Thursday night, so my fellow English teachers in training grab a drink at a nearby bar. We're in high spirits (and enjoying spirits, as well) as we look forward to the brief holiday break.

April 1, 2010 - 8:00 pm
Most of the crowd leaves after an hour and a half, but one other guy and I decide to head off to a different bar for a little while. The week had been a long and difficult one, so I was happy to relax at a watering hole and enjoy myself. We spend a great deal of time discussing the trials of the single life and the various idiosyncrasies of our ex-girlfriends.

April 1, 2010 - 9:00 pm
As the night wears on, we start to chat it up with some cute girls sitting next to us at the bar. Because I'm not actually TRYING to impress this girl, I manage to impress her and we get along really well. The night seems very pleasant at this point, and I'm getting a nice drink on.

April 1, 2010 - 10:00 pm
The girl I'm hitting on (Let's call her Sue... not her real name) gets a text message. Sue appears visibly annoyed, and she says, "God! Why can't my ex-boyfriend take a hint." Having hacked my way through my own field of troubled women, I could understand her troubles. We joked about clingy exes for a few minutes.

April 1, 2010 - 11:00 pm
I come back from a bathroom break (remember, booze be tasty) to hear Sue finishing a conversation on the phone, "I'm in Oakland. I don't want to see you. Leave me alone." I should have sniffed out a possible bad situation brewing, but my mind was elsewhere. Booze be tasty... and her curves appealing.

April 2, 2010 - 12:00 am
My friend who I started the night with decides to call it a day. I don't think he was a huge fan of the other girl, so I understand. I decide I better stop drinking if I hope to do well with this woman tonight, and I do somehow need to get my car out of the parking garage.

April 2, 2010 - 1:00 am
The lady friend and I begin to discuss what we'll do once we leave the bar. Suggestive comments and knowing glances abound. In my mind, I'm thinking, "Shazaam!!!"

April 2, 2010 - 2:00 am
I offer the lady friend and her friend a ride home. I'm not pretty sober, feeling only that slight after-drunk that happens when you've only been drinking water for 2 hours. We almost make it back to the parking garage when I realize, "Oh crap! I left my bookbag back at the bar."

April 2, 2010 - 2:15 am
We trudge back to the bar and retrieve my stylish bookbag. We head back to the car once again. While strolling casually down Forbes Avenue, I'm holding the girl's hand and joking with her when I feel a jolt to the side of my head and I fall to the ground. Thoroughly confused, I look up to see this wild-eyed 20-something punching and kicking me. "This is a mistake!" I yell. "I didn't do anything to you." I hear the attacking lunatic yelling to the girl I was with, "Why are you holding hands with HIM!!??"

April 2, 2010 - 2:20 am
I rest my head on the concrete, and a few passersby help me sit up. In an instant, a police officer and paramedic are on the scene. In Oakland, they know better than to leave college students to their own devices. I look down at the sidewalk to see a surprisingly sizable pool of blood. "Oh wow!" I say, somewhat disoriented. "What the hell happened?"
"Dude! I saw the whole thing," says one of the Samaritans. "That asshole just stopped his car in the middle of the street, leaped out, and he punched you in the side of the head."
"Yeah," his friend chimes in, "The punch knocked you into that pillar there. I think it knocked you out for a second."
"The asshole kept hitting him and kicking him even when he was down," the first guy says, now speaking to the police officer. "That's just not cool."
Now from my perspective, I don't really think any of it is cool. Well, that's not entirely true. I did ask the bystanders, "Do the injuries at least make me look badass?" This apparently amuses them greatly. The paramedic checks me out for immediate injuries. He throws a bandage over my eyebrow (which was bleeding profusely) and puts me in a neck brace (which was soon reasoned to be unnecessary).

April 2, 2010 - 2:30 am
I start to get my bearings a bit, and I look up to see four bystanders, a police officer, a paramedic, and some bearded gentleman apologizing profusely to me. "I'm so sorry, man! I don't know why I did that. I was just so mad." I suddenly realize who this guy is. "Wait! You're the guy who attacked me!!??" All the pieces start to fall into place. Clearly, this guy is the girl's psycho ex-boyfriend. Someone is obviously the jealous type. I look around for the girl to get some confirmation on this, but she's nowhere to be found. I find out later that her friend dragged her away after the police told them to leave.

April 2, 2010 - 2:35 am
After the paramedic patches me up, the police officer takes me aside and asks, "Would you like to press formal charges against this guy?" I mull it over, but I'm still woozy and not in the best of moods. "I don't know," I honestly say. "Well," the officer explains, "If you press charges, you have to show up for trial and fill out the necessary paperwork. He'll most likely be charged with disorderly conduct." In retrospect, I don't think the cop wanted to do the paperwork. But all I want at this time is to get fixed up and go home, so I tell him that I don't want to press formal charges. He'll be taken in and given a citation. More on this point later.

April 2, 2010 - 2:45 am
Because I have an obvious head injury, the paramedic insists that I go to the emergency. The four guys who saw the incident offer to walk me to the ER (which is only a block away) so that my uninsured ass won't have to pay for an ambulance, but the paramedic offers to take me there for free since he's heading back there anyway.

April 2, 2010 - 3:00 am
For the next two and a half hours, I regale the emergency room staff with my tale, and I muse about the unfortunate nature of these circumstances. "My friends always tell me to hit on women. 'What's the worst that could happen?' they say. Well, now I have Exhibit A." I tell the ER doctor how much I was hoping to get my ass beaten down by a lunatic while on my way to a girl's house. The doctor agreed that this was about the worst cock block he'd ever heard of.

April 2, 2010 - 4:00 am
Injuries sustained: The blow to my forehead put a deep cut in my eyebrow, and I had a huge lump there. The doctors give me a stitch or two in my eyebrow. My knees were skinned VERY badly. My back and neck hurt, but there was no major damage there. The doctors were very concerned about a concussion or brain injury, so they performed a cat scan. Once again, I will stress that I am one of the uninsured masses, so none of this comes cheap. The cat scan, in particular, really racks up the cost.
April 2, 2010 - 5:30 am
I am released from the ER. It's now been 24 hours since I've had any sleep (aside from a few brief naps in the ER), my knees are oozing blood, my head is throbbing, and I've got stitches in my face. I didn't get laid, I have no jacket, and my shorts are stained with blood. I'm hobbling along the street like a distempered hobo. I'm feeling like absolute shit, and I want to go home. I make my way to the parking garage where I left my car the previous night only to discover.... THE GARAGE IS CLOSED!! There may, in fact, be a God. But if there is, he's certainly a malevolent being who is out to get me. I bang on the gate of the garage, and a guy comes out. He tells me that he can't open the garage until 6am. So I have to sit out in the dark for a half hour nursing my wounds. I have time to reflect on the night's events, and my reaction is one of surprising calm. More than anything, the entire incident seems so bizarre, unlikely, and brimming with irony that I start to laugh.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

This incident just completely cemented my place as the unluckiest man in love. I can't even pick up a random girl at a bar without inviting insanity to follow me home and introduce my face to a concrete pillar. Even a one night stand ends in disaster now. Instead of getting laid, I got laid out.

Now that a few days have passed, my wounds have mostly healed. My brother thought I looked rather badass with my eyebrow scar, though I thought it made me look like Quasimodo. My knees still hurt because of the scrapes, but at least the pain is relatively manageable.

I have no real desire to press criminal charges against this aggressive asshole because I don't need the headaches of trial dates, filing police forms, and possibly even hiring an attorney. What is very important to me is that I manage to get this jackass to pay my emergency room bills. I'm expecting my fees to rack up into the thousands, and I'll be damned if my family and me are going to shell out that kind of cash just because this lunatic can't understand when a relationship is over. So now I'm in the process of finding out what I need to do to file a civil case for the cost of my medical bills. Nothing allows me to channel the spirit of Jack McCoy quite like filing a lawsuit in small claims court.

The day after the incident, the girl from the bar texted me. I'd forgotten that she'd obtained my cell phone number that night. She apologized profusely for the incident, and she said that her ex-boyfriend had never done anything like that before. She told me what a great guy I am (not news to me), and that she really wants to see me again.

Now, I'm all about the easy pickings, but really, there are plenty of nice girls out there. I don't need to pursue the one that has a psychotic ex-boyfriend who may attempt to stab me in the kidney whenever we go out on a date. Really, with my history of women, I can usually expect the woman to be the one who's going to beat me up. Adding in deadly baggage is just pushing the limits of my pain threshold.

So there you have it, friends. The epic tale of my night of misfortune. And after all of these hardships and trials, I've learned my real lesson:
Never escort a woman down the street after 2am. Just have sex with her in the alley.

------------------------------------------
"You'd shoot a man in the back?"
"It's the safest way, isn't it?"

Portrait of the Psychartist as a Young Man

While out and about on the town celebrating my birthday, my drunken revelry brought me to a bar called Belvedere's down in Lawrenceville. It was a really different bar with a bizarre aesthetic. The front room looks like a very traditional bar, but the enormous back room features a ping pong table, two pool tables, two refrigerators, a big-screen TV from the 1980s, a big bookcase filled with old horror flicks on VHS, and about two dozen old rocking recliners of various styles and colors. I rather liked the place.

Sitting right in front of the TV was a black gentleman all by himself eating a giant pizza and quietly but rhythmically tapping his fingers on the table while watching what appeared to be one of the early Jason movies. One of the friends I was with went up to him in an attempt to bum some pizza off of him, but she ended up getting dragged into a rather lengthy conversation with him. Eventually, my other friend and I want to know what's going on, so we went to join them. Thus, I got to meet one of the more colorful characters in recent memory.

He called himself "The Psychartist." Or "Firewolf." Or "Visionary 27." I guess it depends on what fan circle you run in. You can call him by his "birth name" Deion, but where's the fun in that. It turns out that the Psychartist fancies himself quite the slam poet, and he quickly regaled us with a rather impressive set of rhymes about the importance of following your dreams. We complimented his style. Apparently, the Psychartist works a day job down at the Bettis Grille and frequently entertains his patrons with these little diddies.

He continued with a lengthy and heartfelt monologue about the dangers of alocholism and the sins of the flesh. Monogamy is very important to the Psychartist. He spoke in great detail about how everyone should follow his or her dreams in order to find true happiness. There's nothing in this world more important than happiness, and if you simply pursue sex with every random girl, "then you'll get AIDS, and no one will be happy." The Psychartist be droppin some straight truth.

The best was yet to come. He asked if we wanted to hear his original CD compilation. Apparently the Psychartist has an amateur band and is trying to break into the big time with upbeat songs featuring uplifting messages. I was truly mesmerized by this man's bizarre hip hop after school special lifestyle, so I couldn't pass this up. He popped his personal CD (which he had on hand) into the DVD player....

It was AWFUL!!!

Imagine the most deranged and gutteral growls and wails from the devil being channeled into a microphone while singing lyrics about the importance of staying in school and monogamy. I remember one particlar track very well because the same lyrics were just repeated over and over again:
"If you cheat on your wife... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN
If you cheat on your girlfriend... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN
You think you're so bad but... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN"
It went on and on like this. The rest of the songs weren't any better, but I couldn't tell him that. He was beaming with pride and annotating every track, expressing the importance of each moral lesson as he went along.

He concluded our conversation with his hope for the future of psychartistry, a term and artistic movement that he apparently dreamed up (or so he says). What is psychartistry? As best as I could piece together, it's when you express your deepest psychological turmoil in artistic form while attempting to convey a strong personal message. I always thought that's what regular old "art" was, but maybe I didn't quite get it. I'll admit, I was drinking quite a bit, and he said a lot of things.

Still, he split a pizza with us, and he was one of the funnier and most interesting characters I've met in some time. You can bet your ass that the Psychartist is going to be incorporated into my novel in some way. He's just too good to pass up.

---------------------------
"If you cheat on your girlfriend... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN!"

Eating Out on the Town

Cooking for one is no easy feat. Most foodstuffs are not designed with the single novice cook in mind. For instance, the cheapest way to buy potatoes is by the bag, but do you know how long it takes for one person to eat a sack of potatoes? Unless you hear me crooning "Top o' the mornin, to ya!" one week, I'm not scarfing down two or three daily taters. But even ignoring the sizes of items, cooking for one person feels like a lot of wasted effort. It takes at least a half hour to cook a reasonable meal (some sort of meat and a side or two), and then you can always add on the nuisance of clean up.

The inefficiency and labor of old fashioned home cooking often leaves me longing for restaurants and take out shops to prepare my meals for me. What's more, Pittsburgh (and the area surrounding Pitt, in particular) aren't hurting for restaurants... good ones too. The Original Hot Dog Shoppe (affectionately called "The O") is right across the street from my department's building. Primanti Bros. is right down the street should I desire my cole slaw and fries directly on my tasty sandwich. I discovered a lovely place that serves gyros. There are pizza parlors out the wazoo, and a legendary chinese restaurant (for which I have a gift certificate) beckoning me at least twice fortnightly. This discounts the seemingly hundreds of little coffee and sandwich shops littering Oakland and Squirrel Hill.

And yet, despite the temptations of delicious meals placed in front of me with zero effort, I've been dedicated to my home cooking regimen. While my diet certainly plays a hefty part in my decision (most restaurant food doesn't skimp on the calories), the primary inhibitor to my restaurant carousing remains: abject poverty.

Eating out is fucking expensive, and I'm trying to live on my own while unemployed. Oh sure, that five dollar footlong from Subway sounds like a good deal, but I can go to the store and get a loaf of bread, a pound of lunch meat, and some good cheese for less than ten bucks, and that will make me at least five lunches. When you get right down to the numbers (and when on a budget, that's exactly what you do), there's no comparison. Eating out will rape your wallet every time. A box of cereal and a gallon milk gives me breakfast for a week. Two donuts and a cup of coffee one morning costs almost the same. A bag of five frozen chicken breasts cost me $6 at the store today. A buffalo chicken sandwich (with a single chicken breast on it) set me back $8 when I was out at the bar last week.

I wish I'd had this economic revelation during my tenure in Morgantown. Batmite and I ate out constantly due to laziness and insatiable cravings for food of the deep fried variety (or tacos... deep fried tacos were but a dream). I'd wish I had kept track of how much I spent on restaurants during that time... I bet I'd have a lot more money now if I'd channeled my inner Paula Deen back then.

I've found a few cheats for cooking at home. First, I have a few regular standbys that are always easy to make. Pasta is a no-brainer, so there's always some whole wheat rotini in the cupboard and a bag of frozen ravioli in the freezer. Frozen chicken breasts are also a lifesaver because you just toss one in the oven and let it cook. And grilled cheese with tomato soup can be whipped up in a jiffy (I can make the Kessel Run in less than 12 jiffies). I still need to get in the habit of cooking larger meals and leaving leftovers for myself. That would be mighty convenient.

The better I get at cooking, the less likely I am to eat out. With more practice, my food becomes more and more edible, which was often a problem during Grad School Phase I. Every once in awhile, I still crave something from around town, so I eat out occassionally. But I try to limit myself. I'm honestly amazed that since moving to Pittsburgh, I have yet to eat at Primanti Bros. or The O. That's practically Oakland sacrilege. I may have to rectify those oversights simply to satisfy my inner completist.

I do wonder what would happen if I had a lot more money. I suspect my resolve to avoid restaurants would crumble like my hopes and dreams.

------------------------------
"Homemade [at a restaurant] is a myth. You want to know some things that are homemade? Crystal meth. Crack cocaine. A pipe bomb full of nails. Now we're talkin' homemade!"

The Bus Stops Here

Okay, so public transportation hasn't really been a lifestyle choice for me so far in my life. Whenever I needed to get somewhere, I've had a totally boss ride of my own and very few parking problems up until now. However, traveling into Oakland from Swissvale every day reveals some inherent traffic and parking problems in driving my own car. Most noticably, I just don't have the money to pay their exorbitant parking fees. So for the last month, I've been taking the Pittsburgh buses to go to class. That's right, those filthy, inefficient, poverty-packed public transportation monstrosities that you've heard so much about. And you know what?

I fucking love it!

Not only do I get to avoid all the traffic of the east side of Pittsburgh, but I don't have to pay a cent for parking or gas. My bus (the one from my actual route pictured above incidentally) stops relatively close to my apartment and comes just about every half hour. As an added bonus, all Pitt students can ride all Allegheny county buses for free!! Epic win!

But the savings and convenience only scratch the surface of explaining the awesome sweetness of the bus. The cast of characters littering the buses on any given day truly makes for an inspirational ride. I could write ten books based around the colorful collection of city travelers that I've witnessed.

A Small Sampling:

The Helpful Talkative Jew: On my second day of riding the bus, I witnessed the first of many eccentric folks: a tubby, bearded Jewish man who spent the entire trip chatting it up with the bus driver. His conversation was innocent enough until he decided that the Port Authority of Pittsburgh buses use inefficient routes, and he adamantly explained to the driver how their route system could be more efficient. "Please stay behind the yellow line, sir," said the patient bus driver. "Don't be such a shmuck. If you'd just cut across 5th Avenue to the Boulevard of the Allies, you'd make it to Centre Ave..." "Sir... please sit down." It went back and forth like this the whole way into campus. He never did get the hint. When I disembarked, the Rabbi Magellan was still extoling the virtues of his directions.

The Senile Babbler: Public buses have a well deserved reputation for featuring some of the mental cases from around the city, and my route is no different. On one occassion, I had the misfortune (or good luck perhaps) to sit across from one such character. This old gentleman swayed back and forth in his seat while muttering to the railing next to him. For all intents and purposes, this guy looked to be completely detached from reality, except when the bus would make a turn onto a new street, then he would point forward in a dramatic fashion (think Captain Picard ordering warp speed) and demand, "Full speed, that-a-way!" before returning to his usual ramblings. This continued the entire way home; however, in one moment of perfect lucidity, he suddenly turned to the poor woman sitting right next to him and said, "Bus is running a bit late today."

The Bubbly Chatter: Bus etiquette is no mystery. I picked up on most of it on just a few trips. The most important thing is to sit down, don't take up two seats, and don't talk to anyone else. Nobody wants to chat; everyone would prefer to travel in peace. But one afternoon, the bus stops at Carnegie Mellon, and the most enthusiastic traveler ever to ride the bus bounded aboard. This spritely young lady decked out in pink (not kidding) hops up the stairs and announces, "HI EVERYONE!" (cue uncomfortable shifting of eyes from passengers) The girl makes her way past me, saying hello to everyone she passes. She finally stops next to a middle aged woman who, as far as I could tell, had no prior relationship with her. She proceeds to tell this unlucky soul about her entire personal history: "You know, I don't normally take the bus home on Mondays, because I normally go to the library on Mondays to study. But today I wanted to go home to study because there's a marathon of Gossip Girl on tonight, and I need to catch up on last season. There's just no time to study and catch on your shows, you know? I'm studying psychology but I just don't know if I can handle the advanced classes that deal with social disorders. Can you believe that there are people out there you can't understand basic social mores?"

The Mad Bomber: This seedy passenger comes aboard wearing a gray hoodie pulled up over his balding head. His remaining hair is matted and stringy. He's wearing sunglasses at dusk and sporting a long black trenchcoat. He's carrying a tattered and very full bookbag. He sits down and stares blankly out the front window. To say that the collective mood of the passengers shifted to "unnerved" would be an understatement. Fortunately, the suspicious gentleman traveled to his destination without incident.

The Comic Book Pedophile: Another instance of criminal profiling. Young children are hardly rare on the bus, and most people pay them no mind even if they're being noisy and unpleasant. This particular young boy was happily absorbed in some sort of nondescript comic book (I didn't recognize the title anyway). Everyone ignored him except for one bespectacled bearded man in his thirties wearing sweatpants and a windbreaker. He comes over and sits down next to the young lad and proceeds to inform him of his sizable comic book collection and explains that he has a rare issue of Spiderman encased in glass "at my mom's house." The man embodied his own trope. The mother eyed him suspiciously, but he seemed so genuinely interested in the boy's comic book that no one could be sure of any questionable intentions. Still, what kind of grown man has engaging conversations with random six-year-olds about comic books while riding a bus (you know... aside from Batmite)?

And on a related note:

I also go jogging/walking in nearby Frick Park from time to time, and the oddballs creep through there as well. Last Monday, I encountered two such yahoos. The first was a carbon copy of the Comic Book Pedophile, complete with beard and thick glasses. Except this guy was wearing a black shirt with the words "HAN SHOT FIRST" emblazoned on the front. If you don't know what that means, you probably get laid on a regular basis.

On the SAME TRIP, I'm jogging back toward my car, and I see a man wandering off the main trail carrying a spade shovel and a very large cumbersome white sack. He sets down the sack about fifty yards into the woods and proceeds to dig into the ground. I wanted no part of witnessing whatever this fellow was trying so unsuccessfully to hide, so I continued on my way. I have no desire to be a helpful informant.

Pittsburgh's got a colorful cast of characters. No wonder my family's from this city.

--------------------------------
"So these people live here?"
"This is a bus. People use it to get places that they need to go."