When I was fourteen, fit, boxing, six feet tall, I must have had the cops called on me seventy times. You get to know all of them and most of them are somewhat cool. They just want you to stop blasting the music, to stop hanging out, etc. Basic cop bullshit and whatnot. But there was this one cop, I called him Officer Dickhead. What a dick he was, always wanted to fight, would say anything to try and piss you off so he could use the badge and the gun and the big, giant, badass cops that would come running when he started crying for help.

He was about five-four, maybe one-twenty. This dude was a featherweight at best. Shoot, I won 40 fights at welterweight and sparred with heavyweights—which no doubt sucked like all get out—but did teach one the salient lesson that size matters, bro! He had a chip on his shoulder as big as a TV set.

In the rearview mirror of life I would have to say this was a good experience for me. One: it gave me practice acting straight when I was stoned—because I was smoked up as hell when ever he knocked on the door. The other thing was just learning how to go along to get along when you're up against the wall—what's the point of giving them what they want. That must be the worst part about policing smart guys. You know, they still have that show Cops on and they don't even try making the cops look good anymore. It's just a video documentary on stupidity. Their one editorial guideline must be to never record an altercation with an intelligent suspect...