So I’m thinking this way: Susanna Kaysen takes 50 aspirin, washes them down with Vodka, speaks with a shrink, gets committed to a mental hospital for two years, writes a book about it, which is made into a movie, and now she’s living in Cambridge, financially secure for the rest of her life. Hmmm. I’m breaking this down in my head, and the more I think about it the more viable it seems. Okay, eliminate the aspirin thing – too derivative, plus who needs the stomach problems? I can bypass the shrink since each of them have their own interpretation of mental illness and who wants to be shuttled back and forth between Jungians and Freudians at God knows what cost? The plan was to behave unconventionally, get arrested, evaluated at the state’s expense, placed in a mental health facility, observe and scribble down everything just as Kaysen did, impress the doctors with how quickly I’m responding to treatment, get released in six or eight weeks, and start looking for an agent. I want to kiss myself, so impressive is this plan. I begin one Friday night downtown by leaving my house, walking to the fountain at Pier A park and attempting to urinate. After several minutes, nothing came. I’ve always been pee-shy. A woman called me a pervert and hopefully rushed off to contact police. Okay, public urination/indecent exposure, same deal. While I’m waiting for a cop to appear, another guy staggers up to the fountain ready to do the same, which unnerves me. We make brief eye contact. “I have borderline personality disorder,” I inform him. “I had six beers,” he replies. No cop. No pee. No dice. I leave annoyed but undaunted. The next few days go by in this fashion: I scream obscenities at commuters leaving the Path at rush hour, standing in front of the bank. Most ignore me. Some scream back. Several toss loose change at me. One guy asks if CD interest rates have dropped again. “Go short term, stay away from those 36 and 48 month deals.” “I’m borderline psychotic!” I retort. “And who hasn’t Allen Greenspan made nuts?” he asks, walking away. I frequent laundries mixing whites and colored, splashing so much bleach the owners need Lysol to counteract the smell. I use my Shoprite Plus card in the A&P and vice versa only to be scolded by tired cashiers. I tried swallowing an entire can of Metamucil in a public restroom, gagged and vomited, got billed a cleanup fee. I burst into Johnny Rockets singing old show tunes, got offered a job. I talk to myself on the Path and on local buses, loudly, find most around me too busy talking to themselves to care. I run backwards while training with our local Harrier club only to inspire others to do the same, calling me brilliant for inventing an effective way to “work the hamstrings.” I crash a ski club meeting at McBride’s brandishing a hockey stick, yelling. I wind up somehow being convinced to put a down payment on a ski trip to Mt. Kenya. I interrupt a Hoboken High hoops game by striding on court, gesticulating and shouting. The refs think I’m an assistant coach and hit me with a technical. I converse with ATM machines, rub myself with pastry, wear sneakers on the wrong feet, throw myself at inanimate objects, perform improvised jigs, recite obscure zoning laws in line at Starbucks, scream gibberish in front of City Hall while doing handstands in my pajamas until cultural affairs director Geri Fallo emerges. “Interesting,” she says. “We need performance art at our next outdoor fest. Give me your number.” Right now, I’m rethinking my approach. Perhaps if I wore a Forbes button . . .