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From humble
beginnings. . .
"When
other kids were out climbing trees, he'd be in the
house humming," was a printable quote in the local
newspaper attributed to Bart's older brother,
Brett. Growing up as a product of the true
"Heartland Of America" (respectively, from Peoria,
Illinois to rural Bradford, then back to Peoria),
there was plenty for Bart to dream and sing about.
From his earliest days, Bart was somewhat notorious
for his seemingly preternatural obsession with
sitting in his own personal rocking chair, rocking
slowly to and fro, while humming quietly to himself
as bemused visitors and rather more blasé family
members looked on. Never quite sure if the gangly
youngster with the unruly shock of red hair was
"autistic" or merely being "artistic," visitors and
relatives alike left Bart to his rocking and
humming. Fortunately, as things turned out, Bart
was far more artistic than autistic and poured out
his proclivities to the world through artwork and
professional daydreaming. This isn't to say that
Bart wasn't interested in doing all of the normal
"kid" things like riding his bike, fussing out
interesting scenarios in the local woods, or waiting
impatiently for the arrival of the newest issue of
"MAD" magazine at the local emporium in the thriving
metropolis of Bradford (pop. 850 give or take a
couple). This all pretty much goes without saying,
as this was on the tail end of the post-war years of
the early 70s. In fact, you can pretty much be
assured that there wasn't a huge number of boys
Bart's age who were card carrying-members of the
Robert Redford Fan Club or had a "unique
fascination" with The Little Rascals. These quiet
and seemingly innocuous musings did nothing to
prepare Bart for his first real taste of fame and
notoriety. . .
With the
beautiful music of wild applause ringing in his
young ears, Bart smiled inwardly as he sped across
the stage as quickly as his 10-year old legs would
carry him. He fairly sprinted to the center of the
Bradford Grade School gymnasium to claim his prize,
the prestigious "Best Halloween Costume" award at
the school's annual All Hallows Eve celebration.
Inspired by the Spirit of Halloween, Bart's mother,
Sara, stuck a suitably sized length of two-by-four
lumber up Bart's back (not his backside, mind you),
clad him in bits and pieces of flannel, stuffed him
with straw, and topped the whole thing off with a
plastic scarecrow mask. Bart, a willing participant
(and not inconsequently the hapless protagonist in
our little play) spent a good 4-5 hours being
escorted around town by his sister. Hobbled by the
centerpiece of his award winning costume, Bart was
unable to walk a straight light without constant
assistance from his long-suffering sister, nor was
he able to turn without clocking unsuspecting
bystanders and fellow trick-or-treaters upside the
head with a length of well-seasoned Douglas fir.
Bart never knew the meaning of the old adage
"suffering for your art." To Bart, this was pure
bliss, a truly liberating, rewarding, completely
empowering experience - altogether different than a
painful, uncomfortable feeling, and most certainly
not a form of suffering by anyone's estimation. It
was at that moment that Bart had what is commonly
referred to as an "enlightenment" - a sudden
revelation of a previously hidden truth.
Instinctively, Bart knew that this was "acting," and
he knew, on a keenly visceral level, that this was
the one thing he wanted to pursue. As the applause
subsided in the sweat-soaked, faintly pungent
gymnasium, Bart was present the first of many
difficult choices in his life as a thespian. . .
Should he accept a plastic statuette or the Bradford
Panthers pennant is his reward for claiming a hard
fought victory in the costume competition? Bart
humbly accepted the pennant while trying to keep the
focus of attention off of himself. He still knows
taking the pennant over the statuette was the right
choice. That pennant would look cool next to his
'Star Wars' movie poster (you know, the one where
Princess Leia has that 'come hither' look? Yeah,
that one), and signify his "team spirit." By the
way, if you really want to see how much he looked
the part of the scarecrow that fateful day, he still
has photographic evidence.
Fortunately
for Bart, he was the youngest of four siblings. As
such his peculiarities went unnoticed, or perhaps
just tolerated, more so than those of the elder
family members. With Cary as the eldest of the
Shatto brood (and possessed of a name spelling that
people often confused with a boy - Cary's still not
happy about that little twist of fate to this day),
and Brett and Beth only 13 months apart, Bart
followed in their wake. The Shatto boys, named
after the two brothers in the 1950s hit television
series, "Maverick," Brett and Bart would be forever
immortalized in the pop culture milieu without ever
seeing even one damn episode. Bart's father, Player
"Tink" Shatto (himself obviously no stranger to odd
monikers) thought it would a clever idea. To this
day, Bart is still proud of the fact that he was
named after a pair of good-looking, pistol-wielding,
gambling wanderlust brothers who traveled the "Old
West" conning people out of their money and breaking
countless hearts along the way. Not a bad way to
dream.
Player Shatto
made beer. After 35 years in the industry, you
don't achieve the quotable "That ain't bad beer" by
sniffing corks from the finest vintage from Chile's
Maipo Valley. When the "sins of the city"
(escalating property taxes, crime, drugs, all of
that good stuff, etc.) began to encroach on the
Shatto family's way of life, Player packed up the
entire clan and relocated to the tranquil farming
hamlet of Bradford. That, in a nutshell, is how
Bart wound up in Stark County (odd how sometimes a
place name truly reflects an environment) for eight
years (1st - 8th grades). Once Bart's elder
siblings had graduated from high school, Player
decided it was time to move the family back to the
"big city" of Peoria. Bart wound up enrolled in a
private Catholic college prep school with the
unlikely name of 'Bergan' - which has long since
been renamed to the much more suitable and
Catholic-y sounding "Notre Dame." Bart's sister,
Beth, expressed extreme displeasure and
dissatisfaction with the upheaval in her young
brother's life. "He'll be hooked on drugs if you
move him back to Peoria," she protested. Luckily,
Bart was exposed to something much most
cost-efficient, yet every bit as addictive -
THEATRE. Bart's first ever speaking part was in his
sophomore year in a school production of 'The Mouse
That Roared.' Playing one of several "G-Men" who
appear at the end of the first act, Bart had exactly
one line, and that line was "Boss, they have a lot
of explosives down there to blow up an entire
city." Being a perfectionist even then, Bart
rehearsed his line endlessly - to friends, family
members, cashiers at drive-thru windows, supermarket
checkout girls, unsuspecting house pets - well, you
get the idea. His undying obsession to attain the
Zen-like state of verisimilitude (the quality or
appearance of being true or real) led Bart to pick
up the phone while his parents were at work and recite
his line passionately to unsuspecting telephone
operators. After several reported calls to innocent
and wholly unknowing operators, a random knock on
the door of the Shatto home revealed two local
police officers who were conducting a "trace" on a
calls concerning some alleged bomb threats. Oddly
enough, the trail of that "trace" wound up at this
particular address. Smiling knowingly to himself
and humming a contented ditty of his own
composition, Bart knew at that very moment that he
was truly an "actor."
To know Bart
is to be privileged to know a truly unique,
exceptionally talented, somewhat off-kilter force of
nature. Bart's a one-man tour de force, a dynamic
personality whose verve and boundless enthusiasm
affect everyone with whom he comes in contact.
Simply put, Bart is "just one of those people" you
can't help but be affected by, usually in a good
way. From childhood, Bart seemed destined to step
outside the boundaries of "normalcy" and pursue a
rather more stimulating and intriguing life, one
dictated by his own special Muse. . .
And, so the
story begins. . .
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