Tag Archives: Disc jockey

The Dawn of the Millenium

Jana: Look everyone, it’s New Year’s Eve again! Or I’m sorry, the eve of New Year’s Eve, again. It just keeps happening.

You may remember that last year I told you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s best to STAY HOME on NYE. And I absolutely was not wrong. Odds are good that, if you do something, it will suck. Or, if it doesn’t suck, it will at best be entirely mediocre. Chances that you’ll meet someone you might fall in love with ON new year’s eve are shockingly small. Chances that you’ll just find someone to kiss who isn’t really gross or horrible are ALSO small. If you already have someone who you love and who loves you, it’s likely that you’ll get in a fight. I’m just saying. These are just the cold, hard, facts.

However, this year on NYEE, I wanted to provide you with a happy memory. I know that’s not characteristic of what we do here at DWDSTDT – and is, in fact, unprecedented –  but as I thought about New Year’s Eve’s past, I couldn’t help but remember this really nice one, and it seemed worth sharing.

It was NYE, 1999. The previous year, ’98, had been so brutally awful and sad for me that my parents were determined to make this one good. Plus, it was a big deal: the millenium, and all, and the excitement of a likely Y2K disaster. With these things in my mind, my parents organized a party for my entire 8th grade class. The parents would come too, and they would hang out in the kitchen while we, the teens, partied in the living room. We posed this to the class and people LOVED it because parents knew they’d be in the same house as their kids and everyone would be safe, and the kids were all nerdy like me and just wanted to soberly slow dance anyway. We were doing this!

My best friend Molly and I were elated. We weren’t exactly the “cool kids” in the class (we were weird, dirty, and generally left alone), but here we were, about to host the NYE MILLENNIUM party! We got right to work. First of all, I got my hair straightened, so I looked roughly 1000 times more attractive than usual. Also, I bought a sparkly sweater. Molly put her hair in pigtails. Our other nerdy friend agreed to “DJ.” Molly’s mom showed up early with the largest platter of deli meats that has probably ever existed. IT WAS ON.

Oh, and one other thing. Another friends’ mom happened to own a local toy store. As a surprise, she brought us party favors: little black journals that you had to write in with special day-glo pens. Everyone got one. EVERYONE GOT ONE. Has anything ever been better?

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We ALSO had one of those mini polaroid cameras, which were HUGE and not yet defunct. We pasted the mini pictures in the journals. GENIUS.

We partied away; drinking soda, listening to Smashmouth, hugging each other. Everyone used the journals as little “yearbooks” for the night, having everyone else sign theirs. The class HOT GUY, who I will call Jim, wrote in mine: “Thanks for having this party Jana, we really needed something like this.” I read it over and over. He knew my name; I was somebody at last.

There were slight hiccups, like the DJ friend breaking the stereo (see my list of party high points and low points, below). But mostly, I was in heaven.

At midnight, we all gathered on the back porch to watch Boston turn black from the Y2K power outage (my parents’ house has a view of the boston skyline. It’s a “grand view,” which is also the name of the street, which you are not the first one to point out). I will admit that when the lights stayed on I was pretty disappointed – what now, if not the apocalypse?, I thought. Well, life went on. Molly and I spent ALL of new year’s day in our pajamas, listening to Smashmouth’s hit CD on repeat and eating just SO MUCH deli meat. We rode our NYE2000 high straight into January: we were the 8th graders, and it was a new millenium, and anything (read: just high school, more sadness) could happen.

I will leave you with these excerpts from my “Millennium Journal.” Read them, and go forth into your NYE with full hearts and low expectations.

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Catherine: Unusual though it may be, yes, this post has been about a happy memory. One of the very few Jana has, so YOU’RE ALL WELCOME. As someone in Jana’s house, right now, I can gladly report that yes, the journal is as wonderful as it looks and oh-so-exquisite.

As Jana and I prepare to spend NYE together tomorrow, I think we can both assuredly say that it will not be any more fun than that party she threw that time in 8th grade. The party we are going to SOUNDS REALLY COOL (it’s in a WOOD SHOP – RIGHT?), but I know that we won’t have anyone to make out with, something unforeseen and tragic will happen, and maybe we’ll kill ourselves. And then it’ll be 2013 and we’ll begin making a new year of shitty memories.

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Celebrity DJs, Strip Clubs, and Jason: A Love Story

Hey Guys! Cathy and I are going to a wedding this weekend, so we’ve spent most of the week being anxious about that and anticipating being embarrassed there. As a result, we haven’t had time to write any blog posts… but luckily, WE KNOW JASON! So, on this Friday in June, we present him again, here, for you. Enjoy!

Jason: When I was in the second grade there was a pretty girl that I liked, so I poked her with a pencil because I was too scared to talk to her. Well, eventually I learned how to talk to girls, but what I still haven’t learned how to do is talk to celebrities.

“Why can’t you talk to celebrities?” you’re probably saying to yourself, “they’re just like us! I read US Weekly, they take to the beach in unflattering bathing suits, they shop for groceries, they pump their own gas, they chew food.” These are the things we like to tell ourselves about celebrities, and my question to you is this: do you actually believe that stuff? I mean, when you’re being honest with yourself do you REALLY think that Brad Pitt is “just like you” because he (allegedly) chews his food? Maybe you do, and if so then good for you, because I sure don’t. Celebrities are better than us, dammit. They eat for free at restaurants that they don’t have to wait in line at, they fly to the shopping center in their private jets and they’re paid exuberant amounts of money to prance around for our amusement. Maybe they’re not better than you, I didn’t mean to insult your fragile pride, but they’re damn sure better than me.

Upon spotting a celebrity my blood pressure rises. My mouth goes dry, I can hear the violent thumping of my heart, I feel like a lion staring at a particularly haughty zebra or a young lover about to touch his first supple breast. Usually my juvenile reaction to seeing a celebrity is pretty benign. There was the time that I saw Kevin from the office in line at a Los Angeles deli: I stood six inches away from him staring awkwardly as he bought his sandwiches until, putting his arms protectively around his children, he gave me a dirty look and headed for the door. Sometimes though, my internal second grader takes over and I just can’t control myself, like the time I pulled over and double-parked in Boston traffic in front of the old House of Blues to scream “Sipowicz! Hey! Sipowicz!” at Dennis Franz until he eventually flipped me off and, giggling, I jumped back in my car and drove away.

These stories are all innocent enough when compared to my greatest showdown. You may not know this about me, but I used to enjoy frequenting strip clubs. A lot. There are probably another ten or so entries that I can devote solely to this aspect of my life, but it’s not really relevant here. What IS relevant is that there was one club in particular that I would frequent regularly, where all the bouncers and bartenders knew me pretty well (because I was so awesome…) and I would spend the majority of my time and paycheck there.

Here it is: The Cabaret Lounge (maybe. I don’t know if this is the same place. Here is a picture of a place called the Cabaret Lounge that may or may not be relevant).

Well, I walked in one night and took my usual seat at the stage (I know, I know…) and across from me I happened to see Nick Carter. No, not the Backstreet Boy Nick Carter – I’m referring to the popular Boston disc jockey from the late 90’s early 2000’s Nick Carter. Here’s the thing, you can debate the “celebrity” of a local DJ all you want, but the guy had millions of listeners, and the most important thing to keep in mind is that I was one of them. I would listen to his station, WBCN, every time I was in the car and I genuinely enjoyed listening to him. Now, I’m sitting there, in my seat at my favorite place ever and I’m staring directly at a man who has entertained me for hours upon countless hours as I sat in traffic. How did I handle this situation? Well, I waited until he made eye contact with me and then at the top of my lungs I began to shout, across the stage, “Rocco rules! Rocco! Rocco! Rocco!” Rocco being Nick Carter’s rival drive-time disc jockey on a radio station that I had literally never tuned into. The only reason I knew Rocco’s name is because Nick used to make fun of him on the air. So I continue doing this for probably about five minutes, chanting his rival’s name and screaming out the call letters to a rival station that I had never even listened to, until I see Nick get up from his seat to go, presumably, to the bathroom. About one minute later every bouncer in the club surrounded my seat.

“Was that you that was screaming ‘Rocco’ over and over again?” asked Kenny, a mammoth of a man I happened to know fairly well due to all the quality time we spent together looking at boobies.

“Probably,” I sheepishly replied, ready to be beaten to death.

“Come with me.” He said and led me, escorted by an entourage of terrifying Sons of Anarchy extra types, to the club’s back room.

“Do you know why Nick Carter is here?” Kenny asked me.

“Tits?” I said, still trying to be charming.

“He’s here because Joey here is trying to get his demo tape on the air. How would you feel, Joey, if Nick didn’t want to do that for you now?”

“Bad.” Said Joey, who was approximately 5 feet tall, 200 pounds, and had a face that looked like it had been beaten with an iron in the delivery room.

“I’d feel bad too.” I said.

Joey said nothing, he just stood there being ugly and scary. This was followed by probably 30 seconds of silence in which I was pretty sure were going to be followed by horrible pain, followed by death.

“You spend a lot of money here.” Said Kenny, finally. “And I like talking to you too. Man, if you were someone we didn’t know you’d already be gone. Fuck. Joey, if he apologizes to Nick do you think he can stay?”

“I guess so.” Said Joey, who I was starting to realize maybe wasn’t so ugly after all.

So we all headed back out to the main floor of the club. I walked around to the side of the stage that Nick Carter and his friends were sitting at and I saw Nick look from me to Kenny, who nodded at him.

“Hey, man.” I said.

“What’s up?” said Nick.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m a really big fan and I listen to you every day.”

Then we kind of just stared at each other for awhile before he asked me, “If you’re a fan of MINE then why the fuck were you screaming ‘Rocco’ over and over again?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know what else to do, I thought it would be funny, right?”

“No.”

“Okay, well I’m really sorry. Rocco sucks. Next time I see you I’ll just come say ‘hi’.”

“Cool.”

“Enjoy your night.”

“You too,” he said, “thanks for coming over.”

“You’re welcome.”

I then went back to my seat and drank a lot of beer and saw a lot of boobs. The next day on the air Nick Carter recanted this story and referred to me as a jackass.

This has been my story about how I can’t talk to celebrities and how one time being a regular at a strip club probably saved my face from being beaten in. Dreams can come true. Thanks for reading.

Jana: I think my favorite character in this story is Joey, who would I would like to write a movie about. Like, what kind of music did Joey play? Why was he playing at a strip club? Do strip clubs also sometimes double as concert venues? The fact that he is 5 feet tall is also, of course, excellent. JOEY. WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

Catherine: I too share an affinity for Joey, who was not unlike Nick Carter (the real one, from Backstreet Boys.) Nobody really cared about him. It was a sad thing. All those poor guys didn’t grow up to be Justin Timberlake, and I think that’s something for everyone to feel bad about.

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