Life at TJ's Place
Saturday, April 17, 2004
This is a note to all wedding DJs: one song that will get people on the dance floor is Dion’s Runaround Sue. It is impossible to listen to this song without wanting to dance. If you play Runaround Sue and everyone is still standing around scratching their nuts, pack up your shit and go home because it ain’t happening. I had 150 drunk guys last night clapping their hands above their heads and shouting the lyrics. This with five beautiful mostly-naked women dancing around the room.
I always thought the Gordon Lightfoot song was called Every Highway until my friend Kyle told me one of his favorite songs was Carefree Highway by Gordon Lightfoot. In the words of Dan Tobin, now I feel like a moron.
Is it wrong that I’m writing this sitting in my underwear with my dog in my lap? Yes. Time to get down, boy.
Just one note on the Blogger notice and it will be the last time I mention it in the blog. The last couple days have been really exciting. Thanks to everyone who has viewed the site and made comments. I’ve only been doing this (blog) for a little over a month and I’ve seen so many great blogs out there, it kind of baffles me too. But I’m definitely not complaining.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Last night Danielle, a road girl from Ohio, was sitting next to me in the DJ booth (road girls are visiting dancers from other clubs around the Midwest who spend a week or two as guest dancers—our girls are often road girls at other clubs). Danielle and I are friends and she spends a lot of time in the booth between her sets, especially on slow nights, mostly talking about movies. Danielle is one of those dancers who always complains about how she never gets laid. She was seated on the back counter with her legs stretched straight across the DJ booth and her feet pressing against the front of the shelf where the stereo equipment is, her legs like a gate across the entrance to the booth. Late in the night I dropped a CD on the floor and bent down to retrieve it. Danielle looked down and said, “Oh, Kev, I thought you’d never ask.” She was wearing a thong and a tiny red skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her ass. I found the CD and stood back up, only I pretended I lost my bearings and came up trying to nuzzle the top of my head between her thighs from below. I kept saying, “Wait, where I am? I can’t see! What is this?” I thought she would laugh and squeeze her legs together and try to push my head away, but she instead spread her legs and put her hand on top of my head and said something obscene, about me being a bad boy because I was late for dinner. I chickened out, of course. That will be the last time I try to out-shock her.
Earlier this week, she came up in the booth and bent over in front of me and started bumping her nearly-naked butt against me. She said, “Kev, just grab my hair and slam me a couple times like you’re banging me in the ass.” Kev gets really embarrassed by this kind of shit. She said, “Please! I just want to remember what it feels like.”
Speaking of that, the dancers and waitresses have been doing this thing lately where whenever one of them bends over, someone standing close by will come up from behind and thrust into them with their hips and say, “Anal Assault!” The last two weeks, I’ve seen waitresses and dancers flying all over the barroom, waving their arms and trying not to fall down. Rest assured, this little sport will end soon when we’re all hovering over a waitress or dancer laid out on the floor with a big bloody gash in her forehead from the corner of a table or one of the beer coolers.
Monday, April 12, 2004
Spent Easter Sunday at Mom’s with my brother, his wife and my niece and nephew, who are both teenagers and really cool. We all ignore the subject of Kev’s job, which is the big pink elephant in the living room, making fart sounds. In the afternoon, I had the thankful distraction of Phil Mickelson and Ernie Els’s shootout on the back-9 at The Masters. I jumped out of my chair when Phil curled in his putt on 18, but I also realized I probably won’t have a reason to root for him anymore.
I am blogging this from the office at TJ’s. Mondays are long and agonizing and this is my dinner break. We had our manager’s meeting this afternoon. Our owner, Charlie, who is old and clueless, comes down from another city and meets with Mike and me. Charlie likes me because I am clean-cut and have short hair. He wants to know if we’ve found out which dancer is giving handjobs in the VIP Room. We tell him that, whoever it is, she’s stopped. Charlie is disappointed because he wants to be a detective and plant spies, which he does all the time in the bar, trying to catch bartenders stealing. I think Charlie is beginning to lose his mind, but I’m thankful he isn’t an old perv like you would think the 74-year-old owner of a strip club would be required to be.
On Mondays, two of the dancers and one waitress also work double-shifts like me, so we usually have a pow-wow about 7:00 and decide where we’ll be getting carryout from. The four of us enjoy being in this little Monday dinner club and we exclude other “single-shifters” who are just hungry and jealous. I drive and pick up. Tonight, we eat Italian from Biaggi’s. There is Rigatoni alla Toscana in my mouth right now.