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Saturday, 30 December 2006, 1:28 AM

This is a placeholder for the electrocution story. Actual humans shouldn't see it.

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One Tall Hurdle Cleared!

Tuesday, 27 June 2006, 0:10 AM

For those of you not keeping track, I've been posting excerpts from my old journals. The entire series of posts about my job as a DJ is from many, many years ago. I'm going to keep posting entries, in order, until I catch up with current time.

The next few entries are from my first jobs in publishing.

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Teh Best Harassment Story Ev4r!!!

Saturday, 24 June 2006, 23:35 PM

So I guess Mr. Falconi found out about my complaint to the owner. And I guess it didn't go over very well. And by that I mean, it went terribly, terribly wrong. Here is the final, humiliating 5 minutes.

I was on the DJ stand, and someone came up into my booth. I couldn't see who it was, because I was on the microphone with my back to the door. Sound familiar?

I was talking the crowd through a game, so I couldn't really stop what I was doing. Then I felt a tug on my pants. This was not a playful tug. And this was not a sexy tug that might lead a DJ to think he's got a fan. No, this was hard, aggressive, and masculine. I heard a low voice behind me mutter, "You know you want it."

Yep. Vinny.

I grabbed a belt loop with my free hand and tried to keep my pants up, but I was still on the mike! The evil bastard behind me was so strong that I could feel the belt loop starting to tear away. Then I felt a quick jab at the back of my knees, and with all that downward force, my legs gave out.

Now, I consider myself a professional DJ, so as this was happening, I felt it was my job to properly finish the game and start some music before I dealt with the problem. Pathetic and sad. I know.

I'm not sure how ridiculous it looked, but picture this: a stereotypical long-haired DJ down on his knees, looking like he's praying up to the microphone. Behind him, a hunched-over madman tries to whip out his poker with one hand, and pull off the scrawny DJ's pants with his other hand. To summarize: not good.

I could feel Vinny's stubble on the back of my neck. I caught the slightest whiff of alcohol as he half-slobbered, half-spoke into my ear, "Jealous of the attention I give the ladies? Don't worry, I have something for you." I'm pretty sure the microphone picked that up.

About the time the belt loop tore off and my pants came down, I lost all sense of composure. The manager's son was going postal, and he was going to use his "gun" on me. I gave up on whatever ridiculous graceful exit I was hoping for. I shouted into the microphone, "Could I get someone up into the DJ booth? I'm being molested!" The manager's son fled.

Slowly, and with a great sense of relief that my ass had not been violated, I checked my parts. My body? OK, but I was shaking. Boxers OK. Pants not so OK. They were shredded, and down around my knees. I would have to stand up to get them back on properly. But the windows in the booth were too low for that. So I wobbled back and forth on my knees, trying to pull up my pants and turn to the door -- only to see a dozen parents and every other employee in the place standing at the booth entrance, looking in.

So yeah, I quit the job.

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Things look bad in there ladies, let me join you.

Saturday, 10 June 2006, 23:39 PM

I know that my female coworkers aren't going to complain to management about Vinny. What would they say to Mr. Falconi? Please fire your son?

And I know the economy isn't the greatest ever. They need the jobs. But I don't. So yesterday I went to the source: I pulled the skating rink owner aside and talked to him about Vinny. At the very least, I thought he might be worried about losing business when customers are exposed to this stuff, or maybe he might care about sexual harassment laws.

But it seemed like the owner didn't care. Of course, the owner acted like he cared, but I think he's a bad actor. I got the vibe that eventually Mr. Falconi would find out. That's not good.

Whatever. Today, things were OK.

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No Redeeming Qualities

Saturday, 03 June 2006, 23:39 PM

One of the managers at the skating rink is an old grump. I'll call him Mr. Falconi. He has a son, whom I have nicknamed Vinny. And Vinny got hired by his dad. We all know he'll never be fired. But we had hoped that he didn't know that.

Well, tonight Vinny made it clear: he knows. I was up in the DJ booth doing my best "piss & vinegar" imitation.<sup>1</sup> While I was on the microphone, someone came into my booth. With my back to the door, I couldn't see who it was, and I couldn't stop talking and turn around. So out of the side of my mouth I whispered in a harsh tone, "get out!"

Whoever it was that had entered the booth replied, "I can't. He's chasing me."

I frantically made some lame excuse to end my rant early, and slammed on some music. I looked back just in time to see Vinny, standing at the door to my DJ booth, leering at our female co-worker. He was making a "come here" gesture with his finger. But she wouldn't leave, and the ensuing argument got too vulgar and went too long.

I needed to get back on the microphone, but Vinny was still spewing some pretty foul, perverted stuff, although he said it as romantically as any wife-beater can. I ended up physically pushing both of them out of the booth. That wasn't easy. Vinny is much bigger than I am.

After we closed up for the night, I pulled on my backpack and headed to the back room for employees. There, in the far corner of the room, one of my more attactive co-workers was getting completely felt-up by Vinny. But it was clearly not voluntary -- she had squirmed up the wall toward the top corner of the ceiling, and the manager's jerk of a son was actually on tip-toes so his hands could reach up under her shirt. When I showed up, she fled.

Vinny gave me a sub-zero glare and stormed after the girl. I realized that he might actually catch her. I mentally lurched from thinking, "I'm no cock-blocker, don't get mad at me" to thinking, "Oh crap, how the Hell do I cock-block?" So I stammered out this horrible, horrible line:

Me: "Hey, uh, two girls in one night, that's pretty good."

Vinny kept walking.

Me: "Maybe you could give me some pointers some time."

Vinny stopped and looked at me funny.

Me: "I mean, you've scored more tonight than I have all week."

Vinny: "Yeah, well, you have no game."

I'm not sure what was more shocking: that it worked; or that I was willing to stoop that low.

1: The skating rink owner swears that the best DJs have voices that sound like "piss and vinegar." I find this repulsive -- not because of the crudeness of the phrase, but because it means he wants me to sound like Wolfman Jack.

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Miss Confused Gains Clarity

Saturday, 27 May 2006, 23:41 PM

Let's get it right out of of the way: "skating rink DJ" is about as cool as "substitute teacher" or "rent-a-cop." I know. My coworkers there aspire to one day have a job at McDonald's. It's pathetic and sad.

But then again, I make almost double the minimum wage, and any time I have a better-paying gig, it's no problem to take the time off. Plus, I get to chat with Miss Confused every now and then. That's always fun. I worked most of today, and near the end, she started asking about jealousy and infidelity. Here is how our conversation ended.

Manager: "Doesn't it bother you if your wife gets all hot about another guy?"

Me: "Well, I get jealous. But it doesn't bother me."

Manager: "You must be joking."

Me: "I take jealousy as a clue that I still want my wife all for myself. It's a sign that I still care about her. I look at it as overall good, and I just toss out the petty selfish feelings. I don't act on them."

Manager: "You are not real."

Me: "Sometimes it's even enjoyable. I like to watch attractive people get butterflies and go a little crazy with infatuation."

Manager: "Oh. You're a pervert. Now I understand."

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Miss Confused

Saturday, 20 May 2006, 23:42 PM

Last night was bizarre. I was working as a DJ at the local skating rink. I was talking to the manager on duty, who I have dubbed Miss Confused. I told her the story about blackmail girl. Eventually, we started talking about oral sex.

I was fine with this. I knew I wouldn't land in jail for talking dirty to a woman in her late twenties. But she didn't seem to know what she was talking about. I got the impression that she might not even know how her own body works. Here is how the conversation ended.

Manager: "I don't understand how you can want to stick your tongue into a woman's pee-hole."

Me: "Huh? My tongue is not a catheter."

Manager: "Then why put it there?"

Me: "I don't. That's a different hole."

Manager: "No, women pee and have sex from the same hole."

Me: "No you don't."

Manager: "Yes, we do."

Me: "Have you ever even looked at your own body in a mirror?"

Manager: "Of course. There is one hole."

Me: "Are you kidding?!? Look, you must have had a period in your lifetime, right?"

Manager: "Duh."

Me: "Well if there is only one hole for sex and piss, then HOW THE HELL DO YOU PEE WITH A TAMPON INSIDE OF YOU?!?"

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Miss Unreal

Sunday, 14 May 2006, 23:43 PM

I was the DJ for a high school dance last night. It was fairly dead, not a lot of people showed up. But one interesting thing did happen.

A girl showed up wearing a sweater with nothing underneath. No shirt, no bra. And the sweater had a wide, loose weave. How loose? Her nipples were peeking out.

And not one adult stopped her. Maybe they didn't notice. Maybe they're all pervs. But she got in, and started sweating it up on the dance floor.

To make matters worse, she was stunningly beautiful. She was engaging, friendly, interacting with everyone. Guys were acting stupid. Not date-rape stupid, just showing off and trying to get her attention.

But this went even beyond the guys. This girl was so unreal that even the other girls started acting funny. The first time I noticed something, Miss Unreal was standing away from the guys. Another cute girl was hugging her from behind. The two of them stood there, swaying a little bit, watching the scene. About 10 other girls stood between the guys and Miss Unreal. They were telling the guys to take a hike. There were many dejected and annoyed looks, but eventually everyone wandered off.

A little later, the girls seemed to be having a whole lot of fun, probably too much for a high school dance. There was a lot of hugging that looked just way too enthusiastic and grabby. One girl had her hands under Miss Unreal's sweater. None of the adult chaperones took any notice at all. I have no idea why the chaperones even bothered to show up. So I exited my little DJ stand and went down into the small crowd. I got next to Miss Unreal and asked, "Are you OK? Do you need help?"

She gave me the most stunning look. She had a calm smile, and she looked at me as if I was just another boy trying to impress her. Her eyes were so persuasive that I immediately felt as though I had done something hugely wanton and inappropriate. I stepped back and literally stumbled backwards up a few steps to my DJ stand. She never said one word to me.

Near the end of the night, the guys got into some kind of disagreement with the girls. It's was fairly peaceful, although there was a bit of pawing on Miss Unreal. I couldn't hear the conversation over the music, but for a while, she went to dance with a guy. Then, as a song was ending, one of the girls marched over and pulled Miss Unreal away. I could barely hear the girl say, "I want her for myself." Miss Unreal was smiling.

I just tried not to notice.

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Miss Blackmail

Sunday, 07 May 2006, 23:49 PM

While I was working at the club last night, Miss Blackmail started chatting me up. She looked young, but since the club is meant for ages 18 and over, she fit in with the other pimply-faced teens. But she didn't fit in with me. I'm still a newlywed, and happy to be far past high-school. So I tried to be dismissive in the usual slick DJ way. I asked her if she wanted to make a request, and I kept the headphones over my ears. But she wouldn't stop talking about "boys" and "school" and actually pulled the headphones off one ear at a certain point. She shouted over the music, "Can you hear me?"

When she began to talk about her period, I freaked out a little bit and offered her two tickets to a rave. "This is from me and my wife, for you and your boyfriend," I said. She didn't take the hint.

She launched into a long, one-sided gabfest about how she doesn't have a boyfriend and doesn't understand what's taking boys so long to warm up to her. "Get out there and mingle," I hinted again. I gestured towards the dance floor. And then things went from uncomfortable to insane.

Miss Blackmail dropped all her gabby pretenses and asked, "What is sex like? With your wife, I mean?" It was like a thousand lightbulbs crashing down on my head. Bing! She's a virgin. Bing! She is too young for this club. Bing! She is using fake ID. Bing! Her parents probably think she's at a "sleepover."

I told her "my sex life is completely none of your business," and I got ready to give her the boot. But then she hit me with the trump card.

"Tell me about sex, or I will tell my parents that you raped me."

I can't possibly describe all the thoughts that screamed through my brain in that single instant. An underage girl accusing a sleazy-looking DJ of rape? It wouldn't make any difference that she would be lying. I pictured her father shooting me before the trial. I imagined everyone in my small town shunning me as a pariah. I could practically see my wife leaving me.

Of course, I also pictured her ass getting kicked right out of the club. For half a second, I relished the thought of police ordering her parents to have her examined by a doctor, to clear my name. I must have had some kind of shocking look in my eyes. She took a step away from me. I totally wanted to fight her on this.

But in the end, I knew that even if I won, I'd lose. I'd be hated regardless of any verdict a judge might make. And did I mention her father? Shooting me? So I did what any self-preserving man does. Not more than 2 seconds after she made her threat, I put on an 11-minute extended remix, sat down, forced a smile, and asked, "What would you like to know?"

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Moving on

Saturday, 06 May 2006, 23:49 PM

The next set of entries are from my days as a DJ.

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Truth is stranger than fiction.

I was reading a review at The Weblog Review and I noticed they were fairly skeptical of any blog entries that seemed embellished. If it wasn't mundane, it was assumed to be fiction.

For my part, I am writing true stories. I have an advantage I've given myself: I'm starting from 15 years ago and working my way up to now. So I get to cull out the dull stuff and keep the highlights. Of course, writing true stories tends to make it obvious who is who, especially in small communities. So I've changed the names of everyone, and sometimes locations too.

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Friday, 15 April 2005, 18:06 PM



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