Confession Time

Bearing my soul after just one cup of coffee.

In high school, me and my buddy Sean had the dream of both going to the University of Hawaii. We were going to get an apartment there where the central fixture was a keg-o-lator. That was our dream but we were so lame that neither of us even applied to the U of Hawaii.

Right after college, me and my buddy Terry had another dream. We were going to quit our jobs and become strip club DJ's. We even used to practice our DJ voices, "Hey-da, how-da! Give it up for Brandi. Next up - China! And don't forget to tip your waitresses and bartenders."

What got me thinking about this was yesterday's article in the Dallas Observer about the life of a strip club DJ. It certainly deflated the fantasy:

The life of a strip club DJ is not the endless party people might expect. It's not illicit hand jobs and once-an-hour spins of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Despite the constant presence of women in various states of undress, it's not a very sexy gig. After a few hours on the job, the women all begin to look alike. Plus, there's too much work to do, between running the lights and keeping track of the order of dancers and making sure the computer is running properly and, oh yeah, playing a new song every three minutes or so. As for drinking and drugs? Well, you try making it through a 7 p.m.-to-4 a.m. shift while maintaining a buzz.

If you read the whoile article - the strip clb DJ's life doesn't sound too too bad. Hey-da, how-da!