There are lots of cute little phrases and rules of thumb (don’t look up the origins of that phrase, by the way) that apply to daily life. Little tidbits of usefulness, passed down via literature, folk wisdom and memes. However, certain mantras have actually manifested during my time as a strip club DJ, in literal form. Forget metaphors, this shit really happened...here are three such real-life, literal examples of folk-wisdom-turned-real.
When I was still in my career infancy as a DJ, I applied at a club that was (and, still is) very by-the-book, when it comes to professionalism. The head DJ explained to me, "Be on time, don’t fuck the dancers, don’t hound for tips, play a variety of music and get to know the bartender on each shift."
After acknowledging all of this, I asked, "What did the last DJ do to get fired? This seems like a pretty sweet gig."
The head DJ replied, "Oh, well, he kind of shot himself in the foot."
I attempted to clarify, asking, "Oh, did he sleep with a dancer or cop an attitude with an off-duty bartender?"
"No," the head DJ replied. "He literally shot himself in the foot. He was buying a gun from a customer, then he went to dry fire it for whatever reason and forgot to check the chamber. In fact, he and the bartender didn’t get along and he only played buttrock...pretty sure he was also dating Diamond. But, still, it was firing the gun off—in the DJ booth—into his own foot that got him fired."
I worked at this club for about a year and never once brought a firearm to work. But, I was eventually let go, because I was fucking a dancer who the head DJ had a crush on.
I have actually worked at no less than three clubs where I replaced a DJ that had used a loaded firearm inside the club. Aside from the first incident mentioned already, the second involved a DJ who was not able to control the crowd or the dancers. Instead of lowering his music volume and raising his microphone levels, this guy just pulled out a piece and shot it into the air. Apparently, this didn’t work, either—only a few customers noticed and the management waited until after the club had closed to ask him, "Hey, what was up with the whole ’waiving around a Glock’ thing we heard about?" I’m pretty sure he worked there for a week before I replaced him. The third incident isn’t as cool—a DJ simply dropped his gun while loading equipment into his car, the gun fired, cops were called, the club was roped off for hours and no one was hurt. Sure, this is a much better alternative than, say, someone actually getting capped on accident. But, in terms of stories involving strip clubs and guns, this one is pretty flaccid and softcore.
One of the clubs I worked at toward the end of my DJ run, had some of the best goddamn food in town. And, at the time, I was also working at the Acropolis, so I wasn’t exactly out-of-reach from a quality dinner. But, unlike the Acropolis, the other club I worked at ran two-to-three minute songs and wanted DJ announcements between each one. This means, that it was next to impossible to grab a bathroom break, should nature call for a deuce. So, the choice had to be made between eating a great dinner and holding it in, or starving all night (but being able to sit comfortably). Another night shift DJ taught me a good trick, though, which is pretty simple but also quite genius: "Just play Ted Nugent’s ’Stranglehold,’ if you have to use the restroom, because if you cut the song off before the guitar solo, at least two regulars will get pissed off and complain." Not only is "Stranglehold" a more-than-three-minute song, but it actually clocks in at around eight minutes. Thus, the term "taking a Stranglehold" was born and the DJs at this particular club all kept that song on the house computer desktop. It was, for a time, a great place to work and poop.
However, leave it to DJs to take a good thing for granted. You see, normally, like strippers, we tend to poop before work. But, when you’re lazy and stoned, you think, "Fuck it, I’ll just play ’Stranglehold’ when I get to the club." Oh, and those half-sized entrees that we used to save for last call? Forget it—we were eating full plates within an hour of our shift starting. I mean, why not, right? There’s always that Ted Nugent song...or, is there? Wait a minute. Who deleted every song over the length of four minutes from the house computer?!
"Oh, I did that while working the day shift. Dancers were complaining that longer songs kept getting mixed in," said...the cook.
Not the bartender. Not the bouncer. Not the manager. Not the head DJ...but the guy whose tips had nearly tripled, once DJs found out they were safe to eat bacon and cheesy mac at the club, safely, thanks to The Nuge and his fantastic riffs being impossible to skip. Because of this asshat, we were back to holding it in and snacking on cigarettes all shift.
Okay, this is more of a story about dancers and less about being a DJ. The current narrative in our oh-so-progressive culture is that men hate women. But, if you’ve worked in this industry (or, really, anywhere) for long enough, you learn that there is one group of people who hate women more than men do: other women. So, whenever a fight at a particular, now-closed downtown club broke out in the dressing room, the bouncers—all of whom were either off-duty MMA fighters or security for local motorcycle clubs—would play "paper, rock, scissors" to see who had to interrupt the chaos downstairs. "Gang fight? No problem. Crystal and Destiny are going at it again? Hmmm...I don’t know if this gig pays enough." That was the security’s point of view and I don’t blame them, considering the club.
One particular night, I was actually asked to help out, due to the sheer amount of damage surveyed, after "this one bitch" upset Keysha. I would have asked about it, but said "one bitch" was laying on the ground, unconscious, thanks to Keysha attacking her. What was the tool used to inflict such a harrow punishment, you ask? Literal sticks and stones. One Bitch had said something to Keysha about her hair. This, of course, caused Keysha to walk outside, obtain a rock and a large stick, then return to the dressing room to approach One Bitch with a branch and a chunk of granite, before using them to knock her out cold.
"So, what did she say to you?" I asked Keysha.
"I don’t remember," Keysha responded. "I don’t really like to get caught up in all the drama."
