One trick is to tell stories that don’t go anywhere. Like the time I caught the ferry to Shelbyville? I needed a new heel for m’shoe. So I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. “Gimme five bees for a quarter,” you’d say. Now where were we? Oh, yeah. The important thing was that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. They didn’t have any white onions, because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones…
Oddly enough I once got hit by a car driven by Mark Hammil.
We lived in the same neighborhood while I was doing Norm and I never actually saw him but my lady neighbors wouldn’t stop yammering about living near Mark and his red Porsche Carrera. I don’t drive. I’m not afraid of cars or anything, I just don’t care for ‘em. I was walking to grab eggs before the grocery store closed one night – this was back before everything was open 24/7 – and I saw a red Carrera coming in the right lane but he had a red light and no turn signal on so I figured I could cross the street at the light no problem. Then I remembered that ol’ Skywalker himself drove a red Porsche and I thought I should ask for an autograph when he stopped. My son was a huge fan and would have got a kick out of it. There was a problem though. Mark turned right and barely slowed down before his windshield broke my fall.
He got out and started apologizing and I couldn’t believe it was him. Living in the same neighborhood, working in the same circles, attending the same professional events, and I was to meet Mark after he nearly ran over me. When he got out of the car I was digging through my wallet for something he could sign for my son and he apologized and asked how much it would cost to keep the police out of the whole affair. I said I didn’t want any money, just a signed picture or something. He kind of looked at me weird and asked why I wanted his autograph and then it hit me: It wasn’t Mark. It didn’t even look like him. Not one day goes by that I don’t think about that old man and how much I want to punch him right in the fucking face.
One trick is to tell stories that don’t go anywhere. Like the time I caught the ferry to Shelbyville? I needed a new heel for m’shoe. So I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. “Gimme five bees for a quarter,” you’d say. Now where were we? Oh, yeah. The important thing was that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. They didn’t have any white onions, because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones…
Oddly enough I once got hit by a car driven by Mark Hammil.
We lived in the same neighborhood while I was doing Norm and I never actually saw him but my lady neighbors wouldn’t stop yammering about living near Mark and his red Porsche Carrera. I don’t drive. I’m not afraid of cars or anything, I just don’t care for ‘em. I was walking to grab eggs before the grocery store closed one night – this was back before everything was open 24/7 – and I saw a red Carrera coming in the right lane but he had a red light and no turn signal on so I figured I could cross the street at the light no problem. Then I remembered that ol’ Skywalker himself drove a red Porsche and I thought I should ask for an autograph when he stopped. My son was a huge fan and would have got a kick out of it. There was a problem though. Mark turned right and barely slowed down before his windshield broke my fall.
He got out and started apologizing and I couldn’t believe it was him. Living in the same neighborhood, working in the same circles, attending the same professional events, and I was to meet Mark after he nearly ran over me. When he got out of the car I was digging through my wallet for something he could sign for my son and he apologized and asked how much it would cost to keep the police out of the whole affair. I said I didn’t want any money, just a signed picture or something. He kind of looked at me weird and asked why I wanted his autograph and then it hit me: It wasn’t Mark. It didn’t even look like him. Not one day goes by that I don’t think about that old man and how much I want to punch him right in the fucking face.