When Ed Burns was in the ninth grade, he and two of his mischievous friends traveled from their idyllic suburban Long Island homes to Times Square (then a magnet for drugs and prostitution) to get ahold of some fake ID. No sooner had they arrived than the boys were approached by a shady stranger who offered to help with their little "problem."

First he led the boys into an office, where, for $20 apiece, he typed up their addresses and helped them with their age calculations; another $60 got them an escort to a photo booth in a local arcade (actual cost $3). "And," the man added, "I assume you want these laminated?"

Of course they did. Another $10. The man then popped into a nearby photo shop and, a few minutes later, reappeared holding a paper bag. "There are a lot of cops around so I want you to walk toward 8th avenue and I'll walk the other way," he said, handing over the goods. "Don't even look in the bag until you get to 8th." The boys excitedly agreed.

So what was in the bag? "You know when you buy a wallet and you get one of those cards that says 'Your ID'?" Burns sheepishly recalled. "There was one of those in it."