True crime connoisseurs are familiar with the date, December 8, 1963, as this is the day that nineteen year old Frank Sinatra, Jr. was abducted and held for ransom.  The three perps were amateur kidnappers, and even though Frank Jr. was returned unharmed, the kidnappers were lucky they didn't wind up at the bottom of the river wearing cement boots (more about boots later).

According to police reports, the "mastermind" behind the kidnapping, Barry Keenan, decided that the ransom amount should be $240,000 dollars.  When Frank Sinatra, Sr. offered Keenan one million dollars, Keenan cleverly bargained him down back to his original asking price.

There is another crime connected to the Sinatra family that was kept secret until today.  I had to wait until the statute of limitations and my library card had expired before disclosing the sordid details.

My best friend in high school was Chris Wolfbanger.  Chris and I were very competetive about grades.  I earned the honor of "anti-valedicktorian", the student with the lowest possible grade point average that still managed to graduate.  Chris was distraught when he found out that he was the "anti-salutatorian", the student with the second lowest GPA.

Chris did not speak to me for a week, but when he ran out of pot, he had to call me.  We both knew that the future offered endless opportunities for men with our intellect, family background, and lack of character.  Chris and I confidently waited for the lucrative job offers to pour in.

Three years later, Chris and I figured that you can bring a horse to water, but you can't force the horse to wear a swimsuit.  We needed to take the bull by the balls and squeeze out our destiny.  Just then one of my favorite songs, "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'" by Nancy Sinatra, started playing on my transistor radio.

Chris and I tried to look each other in the eye (this was hard to do because Chris was cross-eyed), and we both knew what we had to do - steal Nancy Sinatra's go-go boots and hold them for ransom.  The amazing thing was that Chris and I thought of the idea at the same time, and neither of us was high.

I pulled out my map, "Guide To Hollywood Celebrity Homes" and Chris and I could not find Nancy's house listed.

"They have some dude named Arthur Godfrey and they don't have Nancy Sinatra.  Who the fuck is Arthur Godrey?"

"Not to worry Chris.  I know a guy who knows someone who once delivered a pizza to Nancy Sinatra's house.  Those boots will be ours!"

TO BE CONTINUED...(maybe)