Tartsy, you rock, mate. :) Thanks very much for the words of support.
Actually, my plan, (what little of it there is) currently stands as trying to get down onto paper, at least one-a-night, stories about stuff that’s happened to me, all over the world. Here’s one that I’m working on now, this very minute:
“One odd thing that happened to me was the amount of crashing Frenchmen that I have been party to, on an almost quarterly basis. All of which have happened in London, all of them, drunk as skunks. Now, bear with me. I’ve got nothing against the frogs. Hell, I think the French language is one of the most beautiful in the world. It’s quaint coloqualisims, it’s amazing range of expression. That and French gangster rap, well it just kicks ass in a poetically, gun-toting way.
So the first time, I’m somewhere around Oxford Circus with a few other friends of mine. I’m standing there and watching this guy run, and I mean RUN at a full clip, coming down the road. He’s pretty far off, so it’s not like I’m thinking he’s actually coming for us or anything, and it’s far enough away that we haven’t even made eye contact, but we can see him coming. We resume our street-corner conversation, (and knowing myself and my friends, it’s likely that I was arguing, `Let’s hit the `Intrepid Fox’ pub in Soho!’ and they’re going, `Oh fuck, not the goddamn `Intrepid Fox’ thing again, won’t he shut up about that fucking pub? I mean, for chrissake, it’s London, throw a stone and you’ll hit 5 pubs. ANYWHERE but THERE.’) So we’re talking and talking and talking and I see this guy, he’s coming closer. I actually envisioned using a protractor and ruler from 6th grade Geometry and drawing a line between point “A”, (which was us) and point “B”, (which was the London `Running Man’) and hearing a stern teacher’s voice saying, `Now class, as point `B’ approaches point `A’, we’ll measure, blah, blah.
By this time, I’m actually staring at him, because he’s crossed two streets and hasn’t looked once to see if there was a car approaching. This stuck me as sort of odd, but then again I was an American in the UK. Maybe they just did that here.
He closes to within a city block or so, and I tap my buddy Gene on the shoulder to give him a heads up. This causes him to step momentarily rearward, into the sidewalk, as he was looking down at the time and therefore surprised by my action. Now blatantly staring at Mr. Marathon heading directly towards us, I notice that he actually alters his course slightly to align himself on an intersecting plane. (See? I told you I was thinking of Geometry.) Then, suddenly, WHAM! He crashes full-on-tilt, directly into Gene.
Now, this isn’t an ordinary crash, nosiree, Bob. This is Gene getting blindsided like an unsuspecting little girl, hit by a 250lb junior tackle on a college football field, while she’s examining a flower on the green. The impact actually LIFTS him off of his feet and sends the two skidding along the sidewalk. Luckily there were few, if any, bystanders, so the carnage was relatively well-contained.
As the two are on their way down, I can hear the assailant saying something that sounds like, “It’s so wet-o!”
He rolls over and says something a little more clear.. But not quite. I hear again, “Eees METRO!”, (only with that accent, he sounds like he’s pronouncing it through a mouth full of brie chesse and it comes out more like, “arghleesMETROhh!”.)
Gene, having recovered the wind being knocked out of him, says, “Excuse me?”
“The (pant, pant) METRO! (big deep breath) WHERE, (pant, pant) metro?”
I vaguely point past us, in the direction he was running and without warning, he gets up and BAM! Off like a shot he goes. We’re left, two standing one reclining on the sidewalk, wondering exactly what the fuck he was in such a hurry to get to. Running to his pregnant English girlfriend? Away from her? An important dinner date? Was it a random act of French-on-American violence that had been planned out, days in advance?
We never found out.
About three months later, Gene, myself and another character who we were taking to London for his first time, were standing about five feet or so from the Charing Cross tube entrance in Trafalgar Square, when it happened again.
This time though, we never saw him coming. No, it wasn’t the same guy, (at least I don’t think so, although I’m sure he could have gotten a haircut by that time, or bought a new sweater or something) but we’re milling about, considering, (once again) which bar/pub to visit, (“Oh come on guys, we haven’t been to the Intrepid Fox in FOREVERRRRRR Come on guyyyyyyyyys!”, “For FUCKS sake, will you STOP going on about that place?”) when without warning, this smaller sort of fellow comes zipping around the corner and, KA-SLAM! Broadsides Gene without warning.
He actually…”
..Like I said, I’m actually in the process of writing and re-writing it now. It’s rough.. :)
