The following story was shared by Linda Epstein.
I was driving around Nyack, New York one sunny afternoon with a very opinionated friend. We were chatting about Saturday Night Live because my dad had been the manager of guest relations at NBC and I was lucky enough to see many performances during the first several years of the show.
My friend vehemently announced “I HATE Bill Murray.” I said “What? How can you possibly ‘hate’ him? You don’t know him; he’s not controversial, he’s not offensive in any way. I don’t get it.”
This began a lively ‘disagreement’, which lasted at least ten annoying minutes, as we continued driving along the Hudson River in Piermont. I was aiming towards a winding road past Tallman Mountain Park that would lead us down toward the river. We changed subjects and slowly fell into silence, enjoying the ride.
The road I was on tapered completely until it became a one-lane gravel mess with a convertible approaching us at a very slow speed. As in a game of ‘chicken’, one of us had to stop completely in order to allow the other to come through. I stopped. The car came toward us. Blind as I am, it took a few moments for my friend and I to focus and then realize the driver of the oncoming car was Bill Murray.
Header image courtesy of juliarowe on Flickr.
We’d like to thank Colleen for sharing this story.
I had only lived in New York for a couple of months in the Fall of 2009. I was so happy to be here and, having made the decision on a whim, surprised at myself that I even made the move.
Because I recently quit my job, I was trying to limit my spending… but I needed a haircut. I went on Craig’s List and found one of those free haircuts offered at salons looking for “hair models”. The salon I went to on the Upper East Side was actually way nicer than I could’ve afforded even with a job. I left the salon right at dusk, feeling like I was looking a little cute.
I was headed to the subway when I walked under some well-lit scaffolding. Someone driving a late-model Mercedes station wagon slowed down and wolf whistled as they pulled up alongside me. I thought this person needed some directions — directions that I would be unable to give.
The driver rolled down the window and it’s BILL. FUCKING. MURRAY. I stare at him with my mouth open. In my head, I tell myself “Just say ANYTHING!” I say nothing. He gives me a look like, “Yep, I’m Bill Murray” and shouts “Sue!” to a middle-aged woman who had been walking behind me. She acknowledged him, walked around to the passenger side of his car, and got in. They drove away.
Best moment of my life.
We’d like to thank Justin Gish for the following story.
I was driving up Red Arrow Highway, on my way to the Stray Dog Bar and Grill, when a silver Beetle came up fast behind me. The car followed me close for a mile, so I sped up, cursing the bastard who would tailgate me on a two-lane highway. As my speed increased, the Beetle fell back, so my anger ebbed as I pulled into town and idled at a stoplight. But as I waited for permission to turn left, that damn Beetle pulled up beside me and I got worked up again.
I wanted to get a look at the cat who got my blood pressure up a few miles back and boy was I surprised when the driver turned out to be Bill Murray. I no longer wanted to tell him what I thought of his driving; I was sure he didn’t mean anything by it. But, seeing as it was Bill Murray, I had to say something.
His window was down, so I rolled mine down as well and leaned across my empty passenger seat. He was still looking dead ahead, not even a glance in my direction, so I yelled “FORE!” and he dropped like a prairie dog about to be leveled by a Jeep. After he popped back up, he looked my way and I told him that The Razor’s Edge was my favorite movie. He just smiled, shook his head, and said, “Nobody will ever believe you.”
We’d like to thank Mark for sharing today’s story.
I had just moved to LA when I was pulled over by a police officer. My offense? Somebody took the registration tag off my license plate before I moved. My car was registered, though, so the officer let me go on my way, but told me I had to go to the DMV for a new tag. A few days later, I had an appointment at the local DMV in Santa Monica.
When called to the designated numbered stall to hand in my paperwork, I was met with a charge of 18 dollars. Sure, $18 doesn’t seem like a lot, but my feeling was “Why should I have to pay for someone stealing from me”. Giving my money to the DMV would be like being burglarized twice, except, for the second time, I just hand the thief cash. Continue reading