(Play music video at the bottom of post before reading for full soundtrack experience.)

Even though I have a mild crush on the cop up the street, I know it can never be. First off, he reminds me of Father Karras from The Exorcist and I refuse to pursue someone based on my love of a possessed priest in one of my favorite movies.

Secondly, no matter how “chummy” (as my Mom would say) we become, I know he’s packing heat and could slap a pair of handcuffs on me…and not in the good way. In short, cops will always make me just a little uneasy.

This is because I’m an outlaw. A bandito. A troublemaker. If a sign reads, “No Trespassing” I consider it a playful dare. If a light is red and no one is around, of course I go...of course. If a bottle of pills says, “Don’t mix with alcohol,” I think the establishment is trying to deny me of a perfectly good high.

Growing up in South Jersey, I shoplifted during most of my teen years, as a hobby. My friend Vicki Franceschini and I worked as a team and were pretty damn good. (Well, frankly, I considered myself a far better thief than Vicki. Vicki was always so obvious – looking this way and that, acting cagey.)

(Vicky and I being troublemakers in NYC circa 1988, right
before we snuck into 40th anniversary of Atlantic Records
concert at Madison Square Garden and had one of the
best nights of our lives.)


I preferred the casual technique. I’d steal earrings while talking to the woman behind the jewelry counter, sometimes even gesturing with the earrings before I’d slip them into my “never-ending sleeve.” I figured the obvious approach would always win out. I mean, who is bold enough to steal from under your nose, right?

My never-ending sleeve was attached to my favorite London Fog trench coat. It was too big for me so my sleeve acted as a vacuum cleaner, sucking up lipstick, underwear, hats, scarves, toiletries…I could even fit a few books up there.

Stealing books led me to my first bust, by my mother. She picked up my coat from the living room couch one afternoon and it unloaded itself, mainly with brand new books. It was tough to explain away. (Go ahead. Think of something, quick.) Oh, the look my Catholic mother gave me. That moment of utter silence. God-awful. (Though you’d think someone would give me some credit for stealing books but nooo.)

The second bust was pure carelessness on my behalf. I stole a pair of shoes from a little shoe store in a mini-mall, the old fashioned way: put on the new shoes, place your old ones in the box then back on the shelf. Slither out the door. (This was before the days of sensors, etc.)

Well, I made it out just fine but made one tragic mistake. Because I was high at the time, I had the munchies. I saw a Little Caesar’s a few doors down and just had to get me some of that Crazy Bread (damn, I loved that magical, mystical bread.) Waiting in line, I turned around and saw two of the shoe store managers walking up and down in the sidewalk, peering in the windows.

I dropped to the floor, which made the Little Caesar’s staff a little suspicious. I mumbled something about “feeling faint” but it was no use. The shoe store managers marched into Little Caesar’s and took me back to the scene of the crime. Again, that moment of silence. What do you say? Some things in life are hard to explain away.

(Vicky and I being proper Jersey burnouts circa 1987)

I don’t steal anymore…and I never stole from people, per se. I was always the “she could steal but she could not rob” type. But ah, what a good, ol’ fashioned high! After a fruitful session, Vicky and I would toss the booty on her waterbed and just lay on it all, like happy, overfed animals.

Now, I try to do something rule-breaking or trouble-making at least once a week, just to satisfy the punk in me. But it’s so much tamer. Sure, I’ll still make a prank phone call, for some late-night kicks. And just a few months ago, I knocked on my friend’s door and ran away, simply because I could. I’ll proclaim loudly, “You sir, are a jackass!” to a friend or stranger (works best with British accent), just to see the look of surprise in their eyes. And I've been known to lift up my shirt on occasions, for no particular reason except shock value.

And if I’m ever around a sign where you can rearrange letters, I’m like a kid in a candy store.

The sign at the restaurant up the street last summer read:

Breaking rules is fun and good for you. We should break as many as possible. Say outrageous things in crowded places. Make a public nuisance of yourself. Get naked, whenever. While you’re on the phone with someone annoying, do a blowjob gesture. They’ll never see it. Stop being so good. What are you trying win, some good contest?

This world and the people in it are meant to be toyed with. Why would God have invented water balloons or thumbtacks? The next time someone says, “You can’t sit there” sit there anyway, grind your ass repeatedly into the seat and gleefully sing, “Oh I can, I can! Look at me! I can do anything!”

(Vicky and I breaking into her parent's "liquor room." They put a padlock on the door because of our previous break-ins but they forgot about the window. Their mistake. That's Amaretto we're drinking. Blech.)

Because you can do anything. Don’t let them tell you differently.

You too can get the rush Vicky and I did, back in the day, when she’d jump in my car, new jeans sticking out of her coat, yelling “Drive! Now!” Screeeeech…

When my good friend Scott leaves his grandparents house, they always say, “Drive fast, take chances.” Now, that’s a little wrong. I realize that. But "wrong" is just another way of keeping you from a good time. Don’t you forget it. Don’t let them rob you of all the cheap highs out there. There's nothing but your own standards holding you back from real freedom.