...My Own Bed, 10 p.m. NY, NY.

The first time I stole anything, I was in third grade. It wasn't a Playboy.

The object in question, if I remember correctly, was a chocolate bar, you know... big time larceny. My friend Martin and I walked into the corner store, having walked the mile from our houses along the main drag in our stretch of a town that seemed many miles wider at 9 years old. I remember the place was the sort of brown that encourages distraction. Everything looks better than that brown... the Klondike bars in the freezer that rattled like an overstuffed birdcage in the back, even the beers, which I knew were disgusting even at such a young age, looked great against the graveyard dirt brown of that place.

I think Martin actually did the getting... I made small talk with the man at the counter, really small... as I knew how to talk back then but not really how to make sense under any sort of pressure. That comes with time. Anyway, we stepped out of the place, our minor melting victory in Martin's back pocket, and just as we walked out, who came rolling around the corner? My Grandfather, in his rusty-since-it-was-new Grey Oldsmobile. I look at it now and it strikes me how bad a poker face I must have had back then. Somehow, he figured out we'd taken something... but couldn't quite figure what it was. He new figured it out. To this day, the way the story goes in my family is that when I was in third grade I tried to go to the corner store to steal Playboys. So maybe I was better under pressure than I give myself credit for. I had already learned the lesson that if you're going to get in trouble when you're young, if you can make your parents laugh, they won't ground you for nearly as long.

That's all for now.