They’ll always be known for their rock star antics, rock star status and rock star style. Here’s a look into some of History’s most notorious musicians who also rock a criminal record.

Jack White

Arrested in December of 2003, the front man and lead singer of the band, The White Stripes, found himself mugging for the Police when he was charged with Aggravated Assault for beating up fellow musician, Jason Stollsteimer, of the band, The Von Bondies.

Johhny Cash

The “Ring of Fire” crooner himself was taken into Police custody in El Paso, Texas in October of 1965 for possession of black-market amphetamines which he had tried to smuggle in through airport customs.

Marilyn Manson

Shock Rocker Marilyn Manson (Real name: Brian Hugh Warner) was slapped with a Criminal Sexual Conduct Charge of the Fourth Degree as well as Assault and Battery in 2001 for grinding up against a Security guard’s neck and head at an Oakland concert.

Sid Vicious

Sex Pistol bassist, Sid Vicious (Real name: Simon John Beverly) , was arrested in NYC and charged with the murder of his current girlfriend at the time, Nancy Spungen, in 1987.

Jimi Hendrix

In May of 1069, guitar legend Jimi Hendrix was pulled aside by airport customs in Toronto for the illegal possession of both heroin and hashish. He insisted that the drugs were slipped into his luggage by a fan but was still charged.

Scott Weiland

In 2001, Weiland,  frontman of the alternative 9o’s band, The Stone Temple Pilots, was charged with domestic violence after a scuffle at a Hard Rock Casino in Las Vegas.

Mick Jagger

In 1972, the Rolling Stone’s lead singer, Mick Jagger, was arrested alongside Keith Richards for both Assault and Obstructing the Police after a fight broke out involving a photographer in Rhode Island.

David Bowie

Legendary musician, David Bowie, mugged for the cops in March of 1976 alongside punk rocker Iggy Pop when they were both arrested at a hotel in Rochester, New York after a concert. Their crime? Considering these two are major music icons it seems a little lackluster that their crime was one involving a felony pot possession charge. Rock n’ Roll!

Kid Rock

Keeping in line with his trailer trash mentality, this western rock star (Real name: Robert James Ritchie) was busted in 2007 for Battery after he was caught brawling at a Waffle House in Georgia.

Billie Joe Armstrong

The “American Idiot” singer and front man of the band Green Day found himself pulled over by Po-Po in January of 2003 in Berkeley, CA for a DWI charge plus a speeding violation on top of that. Perhaps he should have tried the old, ” Do you know who I am?” line…

8:42 – Furry makes body-switch proposal to observer.

8:42 – Furry falsely invites friends into “his world”.

8:43 – Furry makes poetic observation about “pen buildup”.

8:58 – Furry makes homosexual recommendation.

9:08 – Furry fingers young Asian boy.

9:09 – Furry begins to warm his knuckles.

9:09 – Furry says, “you can get two in one sitting.”

9:14 – Furry gives co-worker “change” (asscial).

9:16 – Furry utters obscenities to self.

9:18 – Furry says, “I’m a basic man. I want it simple.”

9:19 – Furry utters obscenities to self.

9:22 – Furry utters obscenities to self (“leave me the fuck alone”).

9:48 – Furry gives observer “change” (asscial).

10:15 – Furry exclaims, “I remember this, motherfucker!”

10:47 – Furry loudly proclaims, “I am not an animal!”

10:49 – Furry begins to consume crackers and “valentines” [?].

11:46 – Furry says, “Everyone loves some Mr. Slave.”

1:09 – Furry laughs to himself with no one in particular.

• Furry or furry fandom is used to refer to the community of artists, writers, role players and general fans of the furry art forms who gather on the net and at conventions. [from wikipedia.com]

I spent one night earlier this week, drinking sangria and playing with my mind, inventing characters who are part me and part other people and all imagination. I gave them a setting, a scenario – “a guy and his lesbian friend walk into a strip club…” Then I let them roll around in the filth of my mind. When it’s done, I can’t decide a name for the piece nor am I really sure what it’s about – it’s just a scene. The man, he’s in love with the girl but the girl, who loves women but also loves him can’t follow through because he has a dick and she doesn’t want any of that.

I think of a friend who said that she once fell in love with a girl but considered herself straight. “You love who you love,” she said. She was with her girlfriend for a while and I admired that but this doesn’t come across in the story I wrote. The girl still says no but kisses him anyway because she loves him. I gave my poor character this wall because I know what it’s like but the wall also means something else. It means that we often don’t feel desperate enough to be truly free men and women.

These characters, who will go nameless, they’re free with themselves. They drink, they smoke, they do drugs, are promiscuous. they’re like the raging gremlins from the movie who destroy a sleepy little conservative town. I get the message. The gremlins are depraved and without conscience. I guess being an outsider inevitably comes with limitations – society will never accept you until you adhere to their rules regardless how inane those rules can be. It’s a social contract.

My imaginary boy and girl stand on opposite sides of the same issue. The dregs that they are can never conform to society just as their love can never be consummated. No one will ever see how special this story is to me and many will not get past the drugs and debauchery to understand the eventual colliosn that will occur between two people with real emotions…well, the characters aren’t really real.

The story sits on my desk and there is no place to sell it. Maybe Penthouse but it’s not pornographic enough. Not really pornographic at all. There’s only one home and that’s the Whiskey Dregs. How it will pay is the deep question but there is satisfaction in knowing that there is a home no matter how small the profit it may procure. The chance to push something I believe in with my own hands pays me plenty. It should anyway. Unfortunately, the landlord doesn’t accept passion as payment.

It’s easy to see that I’m playing God but really all I want to do is express a moment. If God really does exist, and I don’t know because I’ve never seen him, then maybe we’re an expression of his own creation. He’s published a whole universe with all of us in it, praying for a happy ending. Juxtapose my snuff story and what does that say about me? What does it say about God?

A writer said to me once – “Creative people need to do their own shit, and go where they need to go, regardless of market trends. It’s okay to be alone in your quest sometimes..”

Life goes full circle.

I saw an old friend tonight. It was during a dinner to celebrate a mutual friend’s birthday. We were really happy to greet eachother after two years of disconnect. The familiar messy, slobbery scene of the Brooklyn underground came along with him and it was refreshing. There are people that I know (their names go unmentioned) who would throw up if they knew we were hanging out again. That’s how nuts it was back then.

“How’s so-and-so?” He asked. My ex, he meant.

“That’s been over for a little while now.” I said.

“Wasn’t she suppose to be a fling?”

His eyebrows furrowed and I looked at him and said, “Yeah, that’s right.” I had forgotten but he was right. She was a fling until we fell in love. “Dude, I’ve been domesticated.”

“I know what you mean. I was domesticated too.” My nameless friend said.

But he stayed in the scene. Even became more renown for his parties. I left during the transition when the number of attendees went from hundreds to thousands. Crowds, ice sculptures, burgeoning DJs, artists, press. It was all in the package that goes with him everywhere.

I really did become domesticated and all of those things my nameless friend and I thought were so cool dropped out and became real conversations about…realness. Who were we then, my friend and I? Who are we now?

When my nameless friend and I spoke, it was like two war veterens exchanging the thousand yard stare that only people who grew up on the Brooklyn scene could understand. Maybe not even them but those who partied with us. We lost our shit back then.

The Whiskey Dregs is based on those days. “Orgy” was a common four letter word. Sex was nothing but communication and party was synonymous with life – a loose life for loose livers. We were damaged but in a good way. Old broken hearts, sad lustful eyes, dance ’til dawn and chewing the amber waves of grain. It was the cusp of an unforgiving movement, dredged from the experiences of 2004 – the year that America almost changed.

The parties weren’t exclusively for partying. Some were fundraisers – routes to organize movements or collectives to express our resentment of the current administration and the desire for change. Everyone was involved until things got messy and the party took precedence over the movement. John Kerry lost the election that year. I cried while sitting at my desk at work. I didn’t let anyone see the silent punishment for being an idealistic American.

“Last we talked, you were going to brand your name,” my nameless friend said. He meant my big DJing marketing plan. I couldn’t remember what it was.

“Yeah, I know but I quit.” I said. “I became domesticated.” That was the first time I admitted that I quit DJing to settle down with someone. I couldn’t lie to him about how much I loved to DJ. He was there. I loved the crowds. The smiles. The great drug-less high. Adrenalin. Power. The raw and relentless bass from the drums of the House music I played. The draw of hundreds that converged into one great and infectious tsunami of exhileration. It was sex but better and I gave it up to prosper with a woman and create some stability – went against my nature. Took up my second love of writing and then she was gone.

Another promoter came and joined us at our table. My nameless friend introduced me as a DJ. I had just told him that I quit. She sat down next to us and her vibration was addictive. It reminded me of every one of those people I did parties for and the revelers who joined in the festivity.

My nameless friend was there when I had to explain to a Dutch girl’s chaperones that I didn’t know their foreign import was only 17. He even went down on an ex-girlfriend during an early morning orgy. He knew me before when the mayhem of a lifestyle caused moral questions to surface. Then there he was, sitting across from me, dragging that dark and joyous scene with him.

He got older but then so did I and the question still lingers like a fly that won’t go away when you’re trying to sleep. To DJ or not DJ – again.