August 19, 2004 @ 1:19 a.m.
Finer Moments Part Two

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

At the age of twelve I naturally thought I was hot shit and true to my Catholic upbringing I tested God and his rules by starting my own version of a crime spree.

A crime spree that started and ended (aside from the LifeSavers incident) with the following episode:

It all began one day when I was overcome with the urge to steal a tricycle from a four year old. Why I decided on a tricycle is beyond me, especially since the tricycle I decided to steal was rusted out and missing the plastic safety handle bar covers with complimentary colored plastic fringes.

As I took off down the street, using my right foot to gain speed on the sidewalk and the left resting on the foot pad, the rusty handle bars suddenly detached from the frame of the bike and in some kind of freak accident flew into and imbedded in my thigh.

I didn�t realize the severity of my injury and according to my Grandmother; I walked up the steps, rang her door bell and waited patiently on the steps for her to come down, cool as a cucumber, holding the free end of the handlebars in one hand with the other end of the handlebars stuck in my leg. Bleeding all over the steps while I waited.

Twenty six stitches and three tetanus shots later I managed to recover. I sport a nifty scar on my thigh as proof as a result.

Contrary to Kinky�s and my heavy metal background, our musical taste fluctuated on occasion. During our dance music stage, Kinky and I often frequented a local dance club called the Bay Club. A Brooklyn dance club that boasted the fact that three quarters of the roof was glass.

According to local legend there were several air conditioning units installed in the building but due to the �dancing� room only size, the amount of sweaty bodies enclosed and the testosterone level (read: hairspray and cologne), the temperature in the club the glass roof created condensation and resulted in a weird hot-rain-effect from eleven o�clock until closing.

Anyway, Kinky and I were there one night, dancing our asses off and spending what little cash we had for a $4.00 soda every once and a while. Once we ran out of money, she and I walked to the bar and asked for a cup of water. We were both shocked to discover that tap water in a cup cost $2.00.

Broke and totally dying of thirst we plotted out next move.

Going to the bathroom and sucking water out of the faucet would have been a fine idea. That is if there were not nine hundred big haired women on line waiting to spray some more AquaNet on their big heads.

Kinky wasn�t coming up with any better ideas, so I decided that the best plan would be to fake an epileptic seizure in the middle of the dance floor and that I did.

Hell, I watched my sister have them all the time and that gave me creative license.

I forced myself to fall backward, flat on my back and proceeded to flail my arms and legs around with the hope that someone would react and arrive with water.

When I configured the plan I didn�t expect that everyone on the dance floor would react, which alerted the DJ that there was trouble and as a result he would contact the paramedics. And the local newspaper.

A week later, there I was on page thirteen of the local newspaper, being carried out of the Bay Club and according to the reports �suffering from dehydration.�

Obviously.

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