That pretty much sums up my experience.

There must be something funny in the air on Sixth Ave….because, late at night, while walking down the block that ultimately becomes ghetto at around 4th St., I always seem to meet the strangest creatures.

It’s true.
I did see a man on stilts.
I started walking behind him on 6th Ave. around 10th street, and probably wouldn’t have talked to him if he had not almost tripped and fell over, or down, to what would have amounted to at least a one story drop. I was simply enjoying watching the tourists and the not tourists as they glanced upward at this strange dark man dressed in dark colors on high silver stilts, and I was playing a game with myself, a betting game, to see who would strain their neck highest for a glance at the stilted freak. It was all in good fun, at least that’s how I saw it. So, I followed him two blocks to watch people’s expressions

and that’s when he almost fell.

I decided it was time to open my mouth.

Are you okay? I inquired.

The scary dark clown replied, I am just fine, but thank you for being so sweet.

The coversation went on much longer than that, as we walked over 4 more blocks together. That’s when the stilted man, whose name was also Lionel (pronounced Lie-uh-nel, like from the thundercats) had to leave, he was doing some tricks or whatever you do on stilts, at a bar in the West Village. He was a stilt man for hire, and tonight he was in his Matrix uniform, a dark, black, shiny cape and long pants to match, and they smelled pretty badly, the scent of which I can recall because even before I spoke to him I could smell the hazardous plastic that was wrapped around his body.

He also does a chicken, well, not does a chicken as in hey baby, how about you and me and a little kissy, kissy, sucky, sucky, but he wears a chicken uniform, at least that’s how I interpret what he told me. Something with a large face mask and fluffy yellow feathers. It’s one of his many persona’s. Lionel is a jack of some weird trades.

Then Lionel asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a writer, and he asked me to write about him. So I stopped for a moment, pondered his request and said;

Maybe I will Lionel, Maybe I will.